Look Both Ways (18 page)

I made my way slowly along the center walkway of the nearly empty theater, aided by the tiny, downward-focused lamps at the end of each row of seats. Ahead, stage lights illuminated what looked remarkably like an early twentieth-century cobbler's shop. Onstage, the action had ceased while the cash register was being carefully, almost reverently, put into place on one of Trumbull's Department Store's old oak counters. As my eyes adjusted to the darkened interior, I spotted the blond head in aisle ten. The man knew how to choose a good seat, I thought as I slid in beside him.

“It's going to look perfect, don't you think?” I whispered.

“Huh? What's going to look perfect?” The low tone was gruff, and I knew even before I turned to look at him that I wasn't sitting beside Gar y Campbell. I started to get up, but Tommy Trent grasped my wrist. “Wait a minute. I've been looking for you.”

“Me? Why?” I squeaked.

His whisper was harsh. “The old man said I should apologize. So I apologize. Didn't mean to scare you.”

I snatched my wrist away and stood up. “Apology accepted,” I muttered and hurried toward the comparative safety of the stage, where I could at least see lights and people.

Gar y Campbell was in the aisle seat in the first row, his attention riveted on the placement of his cash register. It took a moment for him to notice me standing there, but he quickly moved over one seat and motioned for me to join him. He pointed to the stage. “You were so right. It really completes the set, doesn't it?”

“It looks perfect,” I said for the second time—but this time to the right blond.

The actors resumed their places, and the rehearsal continued. After a few minutes I told the antiques dealer that I had to get back to work, invited him to stay and watch the performance, thanked him again, and then hurried out via the student entrance. I didn't want to encounter Tommy Trent again if I could help it.

I went straight up to my office, this time leaving the door that separated me from the rest of the Theater Arts Department wide open. It was a little bit noisy out there, but I was content to sacrifice silence for security.

I didn't like this feeling of—might as well call it what it was—fear. I'd almost always felt safe at the Tabby—even when some pretty creepy things were going on. But now I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder, avoiding the old store's still-vacant stockrooms, and trying to stay within sight of other people. I wanted to tell somebody about Tommy Trent. But what could I say? That I'd sat next to the man by mistake and he'd apologized for frightening me the day before? Big deal.

I tried to concentrate on my bookkeeping project. It wasn't all that complicated. I added up the credit card slips and made out an invoice for the things I'd paid for with cash. Amazingly, I still had nearly a hundred dollars left in my budget. I tucked the copy of
Our Town
into my purse and headed for Mr. Pennington's office. His door was always open, but I knocked, anyway.

“Just checking on what we'll need for the Thornton Wilder play,” I said after entering. “As I remember it from college, the set consisted of mostly boards and sawhorses, some artificial flowers, and a couple of tables and chairs. I think you said you viewed it that way too. I'm planning to take a spin down to the Home Depot to see what I can find.”

“I see it as a simple set, just as you do,” Mr. Pennington said. “You might check with Scenery and see if they have measurements for you.”

I did as he suggested, and although the Scenery people hadn't prepared any useful measurements, they had raided the old store's window-display department and had come up with a couple of arched trellises, complete with plastic vines and flowers. I was sure I could round up some tables and chairs, including the ones I'd recently borrowed from my aunt. Herb Wilkins had scrounged some weathered-looking boards and a Roman pillar of sorts, all of which might work for the Tabby's version of Grover's Corners, New Hampshire.

I drove the truck to the Home Depot on Traders Way and picked up a few likely looking pine boards and a couple of closeout wooden window frames, which might come in handy, and, amazingly, returned to the Tabby with a small balance still remaining on the credit card.

I off-loaded my day's gatherings, pulled the Corvette into the warehouse, and headed for Winter Street in the Ford. I planned to check in with my aunt to see if my mirror had arrived, change into something more presentable, and get to Tripp Hampton's before it got dark. The mirror was in Aunt Ibby's front hall, looking as beautiful as I remembered it. We carried it upstairs, one of us on each side, and positioned it in the bedroom. I tilted the mirror so that it reflected the kitchen door instead of the bed, hoping River would deem it proper
bagua,
and pulled on clean jeans and a white cotton sweater.

“I'm off to get the cobbler's bench,” I called to my aunt as I headed out the back way to the truck. “I'll be right back. Want me to pick up something for supper?”

“No. You brought the food last night. My turn,” she said.

As I backed out of the driveway, I heard a soft meowing coming from the garden. The two cats were back, and this time they'd brought along a friend—a black cat wearing a collar. They looked cute, sitting there on the fence all in a row.

Looks like O'R yan has himself a little fan club going on
.

I followed the route Daphne had shown me earlier and arrived at the mansion at about 6:45. A tad early, but I took a chance that Tripp wouldn't mind. I figured I had a couple of hours before sunset, and I'd already decided that I didn't want to be there after dark. The gray-stone mansion—Rockport granite probably—loomed ahead as I drove slowly along the curving driveway. I parked the truck in front of a massive dark brown door, its hinges, doorknob, and shield-shaped knocker of bright polished brass. That sounds as though the place was intimidating or even scar y, but it wasn't at all. Lilac bushes, heavy with fragrant blossoms, crowded around tall, narrow windows, and yellow forsythia vied for attention with puffy pussy willows surrounding an artfully constructed koi pond, complete with waterfall. The whole effect was totally charming.

I pushed the doorbell, expecting to hear some chiming melody similar to those at the house on Winter Street. Instead, a sound something like a Chinese gong issued from inside the mansion, and within a minute or so, Tripp Hampton opened the door. He wore swim trunks and had a striped towel slung across his shoulders. His blond hair was wet, and he was barefoot.

“Lee. You're early.” He smiled, but the tone was vaguely accusator y. “Daphne and I were just taking a swim. Come on back to the pool, and she can entertain you while I change.”

He turned and walked swiftly along a maroon carpeted hall that led past several beautifully furnished rooms. I followed his wet footprints on the soft, deep-piled rug until we emerged in a glass-enclosed room with an Olympic-sized pool at its center. I felt my hair frizzing in the steamy, chlorine-scented humidity, and the long-sleeved cotton sweater began sticking to my skin.

“Hey, Daph,” he called to the girl in the pool. “Lee's here early. Get her a glass of wine or something while I change!”

Daphne swam with strong, easy strokes from the far end of the pool and lifted her bikini-clad self onto the edge closest to me. “Hi, Lee. Tripp should have told you to bring a bathing suit. Great pool, isn't it?”

“Great pool,” I echoed.

“Helena had it built. Takes up the whole back of the house. This used to be some kind of a ballroom, but she had them make it all out of glass.” She pointed upward. “Even the ceiling.”

“It's amazing,” I said. “But, Daphne, I've got to get out of here. My clothes are sticking to me.”

“Oh yeah. Come on. I'll get you a glass of wine, like Tripp said.”

I followed her small wet footprints into an adjoining room that looked like an ice cream parlor. White hairpin-backed metal chairs with pink- and white-striped cushions surrounded small pink tables. I sat, glad of the air-conditioning, while Daphne positioned herself behind a long white counter, a wine bottle in each hand.

“What kind of wine do you like? We've got all kinds.”

“I don't really care for any. Thanks,” I said. “I'll take a Pepsi, if you have it. What a cute room this is.”

She popped the cap from a Pepsi bottle and carried it to the table, then took the seat opposite me. “We used to have all kinds of ice cream and syrups and cherries and whipped cream and all that good stuff in here. But ever since Helena died, it's just booze and mixers.” She gestured toward a long shelf laden with liquor bottles. I thought it was a shame to repurpose such a charming space that way, but didn't say so.

I sipped from the bottle and turned toward the glass wall overlooking the pool. “Guests with kids must have loved this place. A pool and ice cream cones, too.”

“They did. And Helena loved the little kids, even though she never had any of her own. The first husband was too old, and Tommy sure didn't want any. So Tripp was her only child. Him and that little dog, Nicky.” She smiled. “That dog. She used to dress him up. He even had a tiny orange life preserver of his own for when she used to take him out in that boat of hers.”

“Helena had a boat?” I'd become more and more interested in this woman, who had once owned my bureau . . . and had lately been appearing to me in shiny surfaces. “I hadn't heard that about her.”

“Yeah. A neat little speedboat. She used to take me for rides in it sometimes.” She paused, eyes downcast. “Before . . . well, before she caught me and Tommy doing things brothers and sisters don't usually do.”

I didn't know how to respond to that bombshell, so I didn't say anything. But she wasn't through with what River called TMI—too much information.

“She saw us through this glass wall,” she said, pointing toward the pool. “One day—”

Tripp chose that minute to reappear, interrupting Daphne's narrative, thank God. He'd changed into chinos and a blue chambray shirt with rolled-up sleeves. “Ready to see the cobbler's bench now, Lee? Just follow me. It's in one of the small TV rooms.” He looked at the bottle of Pepsi in my hand. “Jesus, Daph, don't you know enough to give our guest a glass?”

“This is fine,” I said. “I like the bottle. Nice and cold.”

I hoped to save Daphne from more criticism, but Tripp's words didn't seem to bother her at all. She just smiled, said, “Sorr y,” wiped down the bar and the table, and headed back to the pool. “Next time bring a bathing suit, Lee. See you tomorrow at work.”

Tripp opened a side door, and I followed behind him. “That Daphne,” he muttered. “Cute as hell, but dumb as a brick. I've made it kind of a project—almost a hobby—to tr y to make a lady out of her.” He laughed. “My Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle.”

“She's doing awfully well in the play,” I said, feeling as though I should come to her defense. “Everyone loves her in the part.”

“Really? I haven't been to any of the rehearsals, although she's invited me. I don't want to run into that murdering son of a bitch she's sleeping with. You met him yet?”

“Mr. Trent? Yes. We've met.”

This house seemed to be full of corridors and side rooms. As I followed Tripp, I realized that without a map I'd never be able to find my way back to the pool, or to the front door, for that matter. I quickened my step to keep up with him. “I feel as though I should be dropping bread crumbs,” I said, “like Hansel and Gretel in the woods.”

“Didn't do them much good,” he said. “They wound up at the witch's house, anyway, remember? Come on. I won't let you get lost.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him. I began to wish I hadn't come here, cobbler's bench be damned.

I pulled my hand away. “Just lead on,” I said, getting behind him again. “I can keep up with you.”

He gave me a long look with those narrow blue eyes. “You think so?”

We arrived at what Tripp had described as “one of the small TV rooms.” By most anybody's standards, the room wouldn't be called small, and neither would the very large wall-hung television set. The furniture was large in scale, too, with a long and very comfortable-looking couch flanked by two matching chairs. In front of the couch was the object of my visit—the cobbler's bench coffee table.

“It's absolutely perfect,” I said. And it was. It was larger than I'd expected, and it had the slight depression where the cobbler could sit, the separated sections for tools and nails, and just the right amount of wear. “It's so kind of you to let us borrow it. I promise we'll take good care of it and I'll return it just as soon as the play is over.”

“No problem,” he said. “Do you think between us we can carry it out to your truck? It's fairly heavy.”

I put both hands under one end and lifted it a couple of inches. “Not too bad,” I said. “I'm sure we can manage.”

“I used to have servants for this kind of thing,” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “No more. Had to let them all go.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, let's head for the truck, shall we?”

“All right.” He positioned himself at one end, and I took the other. “One, two, three, lift!”

I picked up my end, and with Tripp walking backward and me facing forward, we moved crab-like into a long corridor.

“We can stop and put it down every so often, you know,” he said. “Just say when.”

The corridor walls were lined with framed photographs. Some were of men and women in old-fashioned clothing and formal poses. Others were of a more recent vintage. “This is quite a portrait galler y,” I said. “Are these people all your relatives?”

“They're mostly Hamptons, but there are some of Helena and her folks, too. Want to stop for a sec? My hands are starting to hurt. This thing is heavier than it looks.”

I was glad for the break. My hands hurt, too. We put the table down, and I turned to study the nearby pictures. I found myself eye to eye with a black-and-white likeness of a pleasant-looking old gentleman. I moved a little closer. It was the same man I'd seen in the mirror, the same man whose picture, marked GRANDPA, I'd found in my bureau. I was sure of it.

“Who's this?” I asked. “He's quite friendly looking.”

“That's Helena's grandfather,” he said. “I never met the old gent. Helena told me she used to spend her summers with him when she was a little girl. Ready to get moving again? We're almost there.”

I picked up my end of the table, and we resumed our slow and awkward pace through this seeming maze of corridors, past doorway after door way, most of them with doors closed. “We don't use this part of the house much anymore,” Tripp said. “Lucky I remembered which room the table was in.” Again the frown. “It's hard to maintain a place this size without ser vants.” He gave a genteel shrug. “Daphne does most of the dusting and vacuuming. She's a good kid.”

“Yes, she is,” I agreed. “I like her, too.”

We rounded a corner, and I recognized the entry hall and the front door. “Back where we started,” I said. “The truck is parked right out front, and I'm sure this will fit nicely in the truck bed. I brought some big quilted furniture covers, so I'm sure it will ride safely enough back there.”

Once outside, I dropped the tailgate, and together we lifted the table into the Ford, wrapped it tightly with quilts and bungee cords. I offered Tripp my hand.

“Thanks again, Tripp,” I said. “You don't know how much I appreciate this. I'll see that you get tickets to the play, and if you like, we'll include a mention in the program.”

He held my hand a moment longer than necessary and flashed the perfect smile. “If you really want to show your appreciation, you'll invite me over to your place sometime soon. I'm dying to get a look at what you found inside Helena's bureau. Did you say there was a notebook?”

I withdrew my hand from his and closed the tailgate. “There is,” I said. “I guess she wrote it when she was quite young. I haven't had a chance to read it yet, but it appears to be some essays of the ‘what I did on my summer vacation' variety, along with a few poems.”

“Oh.” The smile faded a bit. “Anyway, it would be interesting to see what she thought was worth hiding in all those secret compartments.”

“Sure. As soon as all this play business gets over with, Aunt Ibby and I will be happy to have you come over to our house again soon.”

“Just let me know when. By the way, your hair looks great that way.”

“Thanks,” I said, self-consciously running a hand through the tousled mess on my head, and climbed into my truck.

Daylight was fading fast, and a pale moon peeked through the trees beyond the gray mansion. I turned on the headlights and started for the Tabby. I drove slowly, trying to avoid shifting the table around while I navigated the curving driveway. As I passed the narrow road leading to Daphne's cottage, I wondered if she was there or at Tommy Trent's apartment or still in the mansion, swimming or dusting or vacuuming. Maybe those innocent pursuits were what she'd meant when she'd told me that Tripp liked having her around. I felt a little embarrassed about what I'd thought. I wondered, too, if she'd met with Pete and answered his questions about the index card.

The lot behind the Tabby's warehouse was empty when I arrived. I opened the wide doors, backed the Corvette out, and pulled the truck inside. I planned to get a couple of the stagehands to move the cobbler's bench onto the set in the morning. I'd left my handbag in the truck, along with my phone, when I went inside the Hampton estate, so I grabbed them, closed the warehouse doors, and climbed into my own car. I checked for missed calls and found two. River North and Pete Mondello had each called. River's call was first, so I called her back.

“Hi, River. You called?”

“I did. Nothing important. I was just wondering if Pete found anything interesting in the velvet jewelry box.”

“If he did, he hasn't told me about it,” I said. “But guess where I've just been.”

“I give up. I don't do psychic, just tarot.”

“I was at the Hampton mansion, picking up a cobbler's bench for one of the plays from Tripp Hampton.”

“Isn't he one of your blue-eyed blonds?”

“Please! None of them are
my
blue-eyed blonds. But, yes. He is. And now that you mention it, I've run into all three of them today!”

“That's too weird! Tell me about it.”

I told her about Gar y Campbell agreeing to lend the cash register, and how I'd sat down right next to Tommy Trent by mistake, then kept my appointment with Tripp Hampton.

“Hmmm. Three blond men,” River said.

“Don't tell me you're going to sing it.”

“Huh? Sing what?”

I laughed. “Aunt Ibby sings, ‘Three blond men,' to the tune of ‘Three Blind Mice.' I thought you might be about to do the same thing.”

“I would have if I'd thought of it. What do you think of them? The three?”

I thought about that for a moment. “You know, I don't really care for any of them.”

I told her about the swimming pool and the maze of rooms in the mansion, and about the picture gallery where I'd recognized the man called “Grandpa.”

“There's some other stuff I'll talk to you about later,” I said, “but I'm on my way home right now.”

“You be careful,” she said. “Talk to you soon.”

I was going to return Pete's call, but I was all alone in the empty lot, except for a cat sitting on top of the Dumpster, and I decided to wait until I was safely home.