CHAPTER TEN
W
here is he now?” I whispered.
“At his sister’s house in Manhattan.” He extracted a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and turned it over. “On East Sixty-fifth Street. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” I replied, looking at the ocean. The tanker had passed out of sight.
East Sixty-fifth Street was a world away from New Hampshire, but less than six hours by car.
“Do you suspect that he . . . I mean, are you saying that he . . .” I left the thought unspoken.
Wes shrugged. “I’m checking further.”
“What are you checking?”
“I’m looking into his whereabouts the night of the Gala.”
My heart skipped a beat.
Can it be?
Images of working with Trevor, of being with him, flooded into my head. Horrible courtroom moments and exhilarating work experiences came together in a confusing mix. On some level, I missed him, and that was sick. According to Wes, there was a chance he wanted to kill me.
“How?” I asked, trying to hide my fear from Wes.
“I have sources working on it,” he said, sounding important.
I nodded, knowing enough not to ask for details. It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t want to tell me; it was also that I didn’t want to know. I maintained a calm exterior, but the truth was that I was seriously shaken.
Until Wes put a name to the threat, it had seemed absurd to think that someone wanted me dead. But now I wasn’t so sure. Sitting on a seaweed-strewn beach in New Hampshire, I’d assumed that I was safe. According to Wes, there was a good chance that I’d been wrong.
I kicked myself for not tracking Trevor’s status, shaking my head in mute astonishment—it seemed that denial was a more powerful force than I’d realized. Despite Detective Rowcliff raising the potential that I, not Maisy, had been the target, it hadn’t occurred to me that Trevor might be behind the murder.
Still, Trevor as cold-blooded murderer seemed incredible. Trevor was a thief, not a killer. But considering what I knew about Trevor Woodleigh, I began to question my automatic denial that he would plan and execute murder. My heart began to race.
Trevor was a man of impressive intellect, guided more by passion than reason. And he loathed me. If the anger that had simmered just below the surface throughout his trial had boiled over while he was in prison, I had no doubt that he’d have both the impulse to kill me and the smarts to pull it off. It was a terrifying realization.
“So what now?” I asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.
Wes stood up and stretched, preparing to leave. “Now I keep digging,” he said.
Me, too
, I thought.
I’ve got to know where Trevor is and what he’s up to—and I’ve got to find out quickly
.
“You’ll keep me posted?” I asked.
“Give me an exclusive.”
“Who else would I talk to, Wes?”
“Deal.”
He flashed a quick V for victory and lumbered through the sand to his car.
Whose victory is he hoping to inspire?
I wondered.
Mine for my survival? Or his for writing a Pulitzer Prize–winning feature?
I sat for several minutes trying to decide what to do first—follow up on Trevor or try to learn more about Maisy—but I reached no conclusion.
And
, I wondered,
is Trevor an immediate threat? Do I need a bodyguard?
I shook out the blanket, folded it up, and made my way across the sand to my car, all the while considering my options.
My father once told me that no matter what, it was always better to know the truth than not. He never said it wasn’t frightening, just that it was better than the alternative.
Ignorance
, he said,
is never bliss
.
Leaves crunched under my tires as I drove through my parking lot.
The sound was evocative, bringing forth happy childhood memories of jumping into towering piles of raked leaves before my dad and I stuffed them into oversized trash bags. Life was easy then.
I saw that Gretchen, my assistant, was just getting out of her car, her ginger-colored hair hanging in gentle waves almost to her waist.
“You’re here bright and early,” I called. “It’s not even eight thirty!”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I finally gave up and decided to come in. It was either that or do laundry,” she said, making a funny face.
I laughed, appreciating her lighthearted take on the world, even in the face of strife.
“Well, Prescott’s appreciates being the beneficiary of your insomnia, even if you rank us just slightly above laundry.” I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The chimes tinkled as I punched the code to turn off the alarm.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” she responded with a giggle. “Laundry is way more important than work, but I finished it as a result of
yesterday’s
insomnia, so I had no choice but to come in.”
I smiled, signaling that I got the joke. “Why are you having trouble sleeping?” I asked.
Gretchen’s normally luminous green eyes clouded over. She shrugged and turned toward her computer, her upbeat mood gone, as if she’d thrown a switch. “Maisy, I guess. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t seem to stop thinking about her.”
“It’s not stupid at all. I’m having a hard time, too.”
“I don’t know what to do to stop my mind from replaying everything like a movie, you know?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Have you heard anything? Do they have any leads?”
I paused, considering how much to reveal.
Gretchen was an enigma. She’d arrived on my doorstep the day I’d started in business, begging for a job, yet refusing to give me any information about her background or qualifications. She’d looked at me straight on, her expressive eyes revealing nothing, and promised that she’d work hard and help my company grow. In a strangely impulsive act for a methodical and research-oriented sort like me, I hired her on the spot, and have thanked my lucky stars ever since. She was a treasure, as much for her office skills as for her caretaking personality and upbeat attitude.
But she wasn’t a friend, and outside of work, we had little in common. I liked her but felt no particular rapport with her. And knowing her fondness for gossip, I found it hard to imagine that she’d keep my secrets private.
“Nothing official,” I said.
She sighed and nodded. “What do you do to turn off the replay?” she asked.
That one was easy to answer truthfully. “I work,” I said.
She tried for a smile and almost made it. “You mean you don’t do laundry first?”
I patted her shoulder as I started for the warehouse door. “Almost never. I’ve been known to buy new clothes rather than do laundry.”
She laughed, and as I picked up the preliminary tag-sale financial report, a memory came to me.
Rick, my ex-boyfriend, had burst into my New York City apartment one evening about eight or nine years ago, excitement radiating from every pore.
“I got the assignment!” he exclaimed, pulling me away from the stove to do a fancy pirouette, spin, and dip.
“Oh, that’s great, Rick! Congratulations!”
“Come with me!”
“Where?” I asked, thrilled that he’d want me to join him anywhere.
“Rome.”
“They’re sending you to Rome? For how long?”
“Just for meetings tomorrow and Monday. Which means I get the weekend in Italy—company-paid! Our flight is at eleven.”
“
Our
flight? Tonight? You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
From his lopsided grin and eyes blazing with anticipation, I could tell that he was serious.
“But tomorrow’s Friday. I have work,” I objected.
“Call in sick,” he said, his eyes promising fun and, I thought with a jolt, something deeper and more intimate, as well.
I felt my pulse race and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He pushed me gently backward until I reached the wall. His eyes seared into mine with passionate intensity. He leaned down and kissed me. My heart thudded and I pushed my hips against him in response. I lost myself in the moment, surrendering to his embrace.
“So, will you come to Rome with me tonight?”
“Yes,” I whispered, my eyes still closed, smiling.
He did a quick jig. “Fantastic! Let’s go!”
“But . . . I need to pack, and everything I own is dirty. I was going to do laundry tonight.”
“Who cares? While I’m working tomorrow, you can go clothes shopping.”
And so I went to Italy with a toothbrush and my makeup case, and nothing else.
“I’ll be upstairs,” I called to Gretchen now, shaking off the memory.
I didn’t miss Rick at all, but thinking of him made me miss Ty a lot.
Is Aunt Trina okay? Is he?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T
he phone rang. Listening to Gretchen’s side of the conversation, I could tell that it was Eddie, the caterer, letting her know he was on his way.
“Once Eddie’s finished, call Macon Cleaners, will you? Tell them about the wine stains and see what they can do.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll let Eddie in.”
I left Gretchen to her work and walked through the morning-chilled warehouse toward my private office. Except for the clomping of my work boots, the quiet was absolute.
I decided to greet Eddie myself instead of sending Gretchen, so I could reassure him that I still wanted him to cater our upcoming auction dates. Maybe it wasn’t a necessary gesture, but I was a little worried about him. Saturday night, after Detective Rowcliff had supervised the removal of Maisy’s body, I’d spotted Eddie sitting alone in a far corner of the room, silent and morose. He’d put a lot of eggs in the Gala basket, and from his demeanor, I concluded that his situation was bleak. Catering my monthly receptions probably didn’t represent enough business to save his company if things were as dismal as his manner Saturday night had suggested, but knowing that he hadn’t lost an account might help him muster the energy to persevere.
As I walked across the shadowy warehouse en route to my office, I could see the outlines of hundreds of items in various stages of preparation. While Fred or Sasha worked on the appraisals, Eric cleaned and polished the pieces, readying them for sale. Lesser-quality goods went to the weekly tag sale, while better items were sent to auction. Except that sometimes I tucked a low-priced special piece into the tag-sale mix to encourage regulars to seek out bargains week after week.
The warehouse was a little more than half-f, and that was great news. Half-f meant business was good. A little more than half-f meant business was growing. As I passed by stacked shelves and roped-off areas filled with furniture, I smiled, proud of my accomplishment.
I sat at my desk and turned on my computer. While it booted up, I gazed at the old maple outside my window. Its branches swayed gently in the soft morning breeze and orange leaves fluttered to the ground.
I wondered what people in New York were saying about Trevor’s release. I reached for my old Rolodex and found the entry for a former colleague named Shelley. We’d worked together at Frisco’s for years—and she was still there. We’d never been close friends, but we’d always gotten along, and during my last days with the firm, she’d remained neutral. She hadn’t rushed to my defense, but neither had she participated in the witch-hunt. I got her on her cell phone as she walked to work.
“Josie!” she exclaimed. “How ya doing?”
“Good. Really good. Business is strong up here. All is well.”
“That’s great to hear. Do you have snow yet?”
“Shelley, it’s only October!” I chided, laughing at her chauvinistic view of the world outside New York City.
“Well, all I know is that you left us and moved to the frozen tundra or something.”
“ ‘Or something’ is closer than ‘frozen tundra.’ Listen,” I said, trying for a casual tone, “I heard that Trevor got out of prison.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much. I haven’t seen him or anything.”
“Have you heard what he’s up to?”
“Just rumors that he’s determined to clear his name and regain his, ahem, proper place in the antiques world.”
Clear his name?
I protested silently.
He confessed, for God’s sake!
I closed my eyes in an effort to steady my rage-fueled shaking hands. “Really?” I asked, aiming to convey playful disbelief. “How does he plan to do that?”
“Probably by trashing you,” she said with an embarrassed giggle.
“Jeez,” I whispered, stunned at the thought. Her answer was logical, but I couldn’t help wondering if Shelley knew more than she was telling.
“Especially since you’re not here to defend yourself,” she added.
“Did you hear something in particular?” I asked as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.
“No. I just know Trevor.”
So do
I, I thought. “You’re so right, Shelley. Well, I guess it’s another reason I’m glad to be out of the City. If I’m not in his face, maybe he’ll ignore me.”
“Maybe,” she said, sounding unconvinced.
“So, how are you?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
We chatted about the new man she was dating and politics at Frisco’s, the weather in New York and when it really started snowing in New Hampshire, and who was up for a promotion and who’d been passed over, and by the end of the conversation, I realized that I was truly thankful to be out of the corporate fray and on my own.
A truck rumbled into the lot.
Making my way down the spiral stairs, across the warehouse, and into the desolate auction venue, I turned on lights while avoiding looking at the spot where Maisy had stood. The vision of her tumbling forward, shrieking, “Ahhh . . . al . . . alahaaa . . . dah . . .” in a panicked screech was forever branded in my memory. I didn’t want to remind myself of the scene. There’d be time enough to look at the platform again after the place was cleaned up.
I unbolted the double doors and swung them wide, enjoying the rush of autumn air. Eddie was opening his truck’s back doors. I spotted two helpers.
Eddie was tall, maybe six three or more, and he was big all over, with thick arms and powerful thighs. His short red hair was turning gray.
“Hi, Eddie. How are you doing?”
“Hey, Josie,” he replied. “I’m holding up pretty well, all things considered. How about you?”
“Good.” I grimaced. “So-so, if the truth be known.”
“Yeah. It’s a helluva situation.”
“Yeah. Listen, you have our auction schedule, right? We’re still on for those dates.”
He flashed a grateful grin. “Yeah. Thanks, Josie.”
We weren’t friends exactly, but he was chatty and open. Whenever he set out the wine and snacks for our monthly auction preview receptions and I was around, he told me more about himself.
“You never know, Josie, how things work out,” he’d told me with a chuckle as he set up for the Gala. “Never say never.”
He recounted how, last year, at forty-eight, he had, on a whim, quit his boring corporate job and signed up for a fancy cooking course. Three months later, with his certificate of completion in hand, he opened his catering business.
“With my contacts,” he confided to me, “it should have been a snap. But I wasn’t prepared for the competition.”
We chatted briefly now and I watched as he directed his staff. After a minute, I said, “I’ll be up in my office if you need me. Okay?”
“You bet. Thanks, Josie,” he said, and though his eyes looked worried, he waved a cheerful good-bye.
I looked back as I reached the door to the warehouse. He stood between two of the display cases, overseeing his workers.
To one side was a Plexiglas case containing a nineteenth-century “Theatre Gringalet” clock entitled “This Evening Grand Representation.” The elaborate scene showed a man playing a drum and a woman playing cymbals. Both figures stood on a stage, dressed in period costumes. Above them, a monkey looked down, observing their performance. Fabricated of metal, the clock measured fifteen by twelve inches and featured a French eight-day movement. The design was both practical and witty, and for someone who liked its style or who collected rare timepieces, it was a real find. We estimated that it would sell for around $2,300.
To Eddie’s other side, also under clear Plexiglas, was the gorgeous faience pottery set I’d described to Detective Rowcliff.
As I stepped into the warehouse, I heard Eddie shouting directions to someone named Randy. He sounded so in charge, I thought that maybe I was wrong to worry about him. Perhaps the depression I’d observed on Saturday night was a natural reaction to the shock and sadness of Maisy’s death, not, as I’d feared, from worry about his catering business.
Upstairs, as ways and means of discovering information about Trevor and Maisy simmered on my mental back burner, I reviewed the preliminary tag-sale numbers. Dolls and dollhouses continued to sell well, which meant I needed more inventory. Tea sets and porcelain figures were down. So were wooden tools. Quilts were holding steady. The pursuit of quality goods was unending.
I brought up a search engine and, with some trepidation, entered “Trevor Woodleigh” and “probation.” Four seconds later, eighty-one links appeared.
The first one took me to the
East Side Trumpet
, a neighborhood newsletter serving the area where Trevor lived. The article confirmed what Wes had told me—Trevor had been released last week and was living with his sister.
A longer article appeared in
New York Monthly
. I winced as I noted that the author was Bertie Rose. She’d been one of a dozen reporters who’d made my life hell during Trevor’s trial, following my every move, posing provocative questions, and trying hard to find a damning motive to account for my whistle-blowing. She still called me periodically looking for a quote, and I still refused to take her calls. I realized, stunned, that Trevor’s imminent release must have been why she’d called within the last month and left an urgent message.
The phone startled me. It was Gretchen relaying the news that Dora and Britt would arrive at ten to discuss what to do about notifying the winning bidders. I glanced at the clock on my computer monitor. I had more than half an hour before they’d arrive. I turned my attention back to the on-line article.
The so-called exposé alleged that Trevor was determined to salvage his reputation as the world’s premier expert on authenticating and appraising Impressionist art by writing a book on the subject. I was skeptical. Trevor’s gift was his people skills. From what I’d seen over the years I’d worked with him, neither his scholarship nor his writing ability were in any way remarkable. But as Shelley had made clear, his actual talent notwithstanding, all that mattered was whether he could create the
perception
that he was an expert.
The story was probably colored by Trevor’s wishful thinking—he was promoting the image he hoped to create. Pretty slick, if he could pull it off. To me, it seemed a pathetic effort to redeem himself, to reclaim his place in the art world. Surely he realized that we who knew him would recognize his efforts for what they were: disingenuous at best and specious at worst, a cynical attempt to sway opinion for his own ends. Did he think that we were stupid? It galled me beyond words that Trevor would try to fake his redemption.
I felt my throat tighten as I stifled an unwanted emotional display and I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes in an effort to suppress my too-easy tears. I stepped away from my desk and walked to the nearest window. The maple’s orange and yellow leaves shimmied in the light breeze.
Why
, I wondered,
am I so irritated at Trevor?
I knew the answer. He was trying to get what I sought, but without the work. I’d moved to New Hampshire to start anew, to build a business. He had no such intentions—he was manipulating the media to boost his status. My efforts at rejuvenation were sincere—I worked hard; Trevor’s were false—he wasn’t working at all.
If redeeming himself was his intention, however, why would he try to kill me? I quaked at the thought. I knew that answer, too. Killing me would allow him to feel vindicated. It was irrational—and completely in keeping with what I knew of his character.