Look Both Ways (2 page)

If the news of the two flights of stairs bothered them, neither one showed it.

“Want to lead the way, miss?” The tall mover had “Bob” embroidered on his shirt pocket.

I hurried upstairs, with O'Ryan racing ahead of me, opened the door to my apartment, and waited for the men to catch up. After carefully removing and folding the quilt, one man taped the drawers shut, while the other ran a piece of tape across the top, securing a center panel that, if I remembered correctly, lifted to reveal a small mirror. Then, without the slightest grunt or groan, they started up the stairs, one man at the base of the bureau and the other at the upper end.

It took the men only a few minutes to wrestle my bureau up the stairs, through the almost empty kitchen, and into my bedroom, where they placed it carefully in the spot I'd reserved. Tape removed, it looked even better than I'd expected. The movers and I stood there for a brief moment, admiring it.

“Nice,” commented the one named Bob.

“Sturdy,” said the other man. “They don't make 'em like that one anymore.”

“It's a beauty,” I agreed, watching as O'Ryan judged the bureau's height, then leaped and made a perfect soft landing on top of it.

“Big cat,” said Bob.

“Nice,” said the other mover. They turned and headed down the stairs, O'Ryan and I tagging along behind. I slipped Bob a generous tip, while O'Ryan sniffed at the folded quilt, then watched as the men headed back to the truck.

Aunt Ibby appeared in the bedroom doorway. “It's even more beautiful than I remembered. The lines are so classic, and the raised panels between the drawers are so delicately carved. They look like tiny flowers, don't they?”

“They do,” I agreed. “It looks perfect up there, and nobody would ever guess there are hiding places all over it. Shea Tolliver said she thought the person she bought it from didn't even know they were there.”

“They're well hidden,” she said. “If Grandmother Forbes hadn't shown them to you when you were a little girl, you might never have found them, either.”

“Shea put the directions in the top drawer, in case I forget.”

“That was thoughtful,” she said. “Pete will get a kick out of the secret spaces.”

“I know. And I promised to cook him dinner, too.”

“You don't have dishes yet,” she said. “Maybe you should have looked for some when you bought the nice mugs.”

“You're right.” I looked at my watch. “It's not too late. I think I'll go do a little china shopping.”

“Good idea.”

“Oh, Aunt Ibby, remind me when I get back to ask you about a murder that happened while I was in Florida.”

“A murder? What murder?”

“Somebody named Trent. Shea mentioned it. I'll tell you what she said later.”

It occurred to me as I backed out of the driveway that I'd much rather have vintage dishes than new ones. Maybe Shea Tolliver would have some nice old Fiestaware. Within minutes I was once again headed for Bridge Street. I parked the Corvette in the same space I'd used earlier, and headed for the purple door. I stepped aside quickly when the door burst open and a tall blond man rushed past, jostling my arm.

“Watch where you're going!” I exclaimed, my redhead's temper flaring for a moment.

“Sorry,” he said and broke into a run.

The bell over the door tinkled a welcome as I stepped inside.

“Shea? You here?” I called.

No reply, but I saw her.

At least, I saw her feet. Sensibly shod toes pointing up, they stuck out from behind the counter. I had a very bad feeling as I slowly rounded the corner. Sightless eyes stared upward, and a trickle of blood issued from her mouth.

It was Shea Tolliver, all right, and I didn't need to touch her to know that she was dead.

I backed away, thoughts jumbled.
Call 911.

Yes. Calling 911 was what people did in a case like this. With my eyes still focused on Shea's feet, I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.

Right. That's important.
I punched in the numbers.

A calm, unemotional voice answered. “What is your emergency?”

I glanced around, avoiding looking at those still feet. The cash register drawer stood open. It looked empty. “Emergency,” I repeated, hardly recognizing my own voice. “I found a dead woman. On the floor.”

“What's your location please?”

“I'm . . . I'm on Bridge Street. It's an antique shop. Tolliver's Antiques and Uniques. There's a purple door. The owner, Shea Tolliver, she's the one who's dead. On the floor.”

“Are you sure she's dead? Did you check?”

“No. I didn't touch anything. She . . . she looks dead.”

“All right. Help is on the way. What's your name?”

“Lee Barrett. I'm a . . . customer.”

“All right, Ms. Barrett. Are you safe where you are now? Is there anyone else in the building?”

I looked around the room. I hadn't thought about that. Could anyone else be here? Was someone hiding behind the beaded curtains?

“I . . . I don't know, but I think I'll get out of here.” As I moved quickly toward the entrance, I heard the wail of sirens. “The police are already here. Thank you.” I pushed the door open and stepped gratefully into the sunlight. In seconds there were three police cars, red, white, and blue lights flashing, in front of the building, along with an ambulance.

Two uniformed officers, guns drawn, ran toward me, shouting, “Police!”

I didn't know what I was supposed to do, so I put my hands up.

“Did you call 911?” asked one of the cops, while the other, gun still drawn, approached the shop. “Reporting a body?”

I dropped my hands, stepped aside, and pointed wordlessly to the purple door. Three more uniforms, followed by two EMTs, crowded into the place. One officer remained beside me, eyes watchful.

“Just wait right here, ma'am,” he said, his tone courteous but firm. I leaned against the rough clapboards of the shop. The gaily painted window boxes with their bright blossoms seemed out of place as the horror of what I'd just seen behind the counter crowded my senses.

I didn't have to think about it for long. Pete's unmarked Crown Vic pulled up right onto the sidewalk. Tall, broad shouldered, his dark hair curling just a little in Salem's early summer humidity, his suit coat unbuttoned, Pete strode toward me.

“You okay, Lee?” he asked.

I gave a weak smile and nodded. Then, with what I always called his “cop face” firmly in place, he proceeded to take control of the situation.

“Escort Ms. Barrett to my car,” he told the officer. “The ME and the CSI team are right behind me.” The purple door stood open, and Pete went into the shop, barking orders as he entered. “Let's get the crime-scene tape up while a couple of you search the building.”

Once inside the cruiser, I couldn't hear his voice anymore. The officer stood respectfully, watchfully, beside the vehicle. Soon the EMTs left, and the ambulance pulled away—empty, confirming my certainty that Shea was dead. By then yards of yellow plastic tape announced that Tolliver's Antiques and Uniques was officially the scene of a crime. Before long two men carrying a folded stretcher went inside, followed by the medical examiner, with his ever-present black bag. I recognized him. We'd met less than a year ago, when I was the one who'd discovered a body floating in Salem Harbor. It was the same day I'd met Pete Mondello.

More sirens. The CSI team arrived, strangely alien looking, masked and booted in shiny white jumpsuits. It seemed like hours before Pete emerged from the place, notebook and pen in hand, dismissed my vigilant guardian officer, and climbed into the backseat next to me.

“You discovered the body, Lee?” he asked, cop face still in place.

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“I don't know exactly. I called 911 as soon as I saw her.”

“Okay. Was anyone else in the room?”

“No. But I saw a man leaving. He was in a hurry. Bumped into me before I opened the door.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I think so.” I searched my memory, trying to picture the man.

“Good. Begin with when you arrived at the store, and tell me exactly what happened. Don't leave anything out.”

I closed my eyes. “I parked the Corvette in the driveway next to the shop,” I said. “I walked to the door. I'd just started to reach for the doorknob when a man came rushing out.” I frowned, remembering my annoyance when he bumped my arm. “I said something like ‘Watch it,' and he said, ‘Sorry,' and ran away.”

“Did you see where he went? Did he get into a car?”

“I don't know,” I said, opening my eyes. “But he ran that way.” I pointed west. “Maybe toward the parking lot over there.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. A couple of inches taller than you,” I said. “Around forty, I'd guess. Thin. Dark blond hair. Receding hairline.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Jeans,” I said, eyes closed once more. “Faded jeans and a short-sleeved tan shirt. No hat. Sneakers, I think.”

“Carrying anything?”

“Not that I could see.”

“You know anything about this Shea Tolliver?” he asked. “Family? Enemies or anything like that?”

“Pete,” I said. “I just met her this morning. We spoke for a few minutes. That's all. Mostly about the bureau I bought.”

“I understand,” he said. “But think about it. Did she say anything at all that might help us out?”

“Wait a minute. She said she had a partner who'd ripped off some money.”

“Any name mentioned?”

“No.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, the bureau's already been delivered. Maybe the deliveryman saw something. The truck said Bob's Moving and Delivery.”

Pete scribbled in the notebook. “Good observation, Lee,” he said.

I smiled at the compliment.

A wheeled gurney rolled past, and the techs lifted their stretchered burden onto it. Shea was mercifully encased in a blue body bag. I bowed my head as the men maneuvered the gurney past my window, followed by the ME.

“Excuse me, Lee,” Pete said, putting the notebook in his pocket. “I need to speak to the doc.” He climbed out of the car, leaving the door open, and spoke in low tones to the doctor, then turned to me. “Can you follow me down to the station in your car? We'll finish up the official stuff, and then you can go along home.” He smiled. “Are we still on for dinner?”

I was glad to see that familiar smile. “Of course we are. How do you feel about paper plates?”

I followed Pete's car, driving extra carefully, gripping the wheel more tightly than necessary. After all, it isn't every day that I get summoned to the police station to talk about a dead body. I was entitled to be a little nervous about it.

Pete parked next to the Corvette and opened my door. “You might want to put the top up and lock it,” he said. “You never know who might be hanging around here.”

“Okay,” I said. The laguna-blue Corvette Stingray had been my dream car for years. My late husband, Johnny Barrett, had been a rising star on the NASCAR circuit, and during our too-short time together, I'd learned to love fast cars. Now that I finally had one, I sure didn't want anybody messing with it. I put the top up, locked the car, then followed Pete into the station. We headed for the glass cubicle that served as his office.

“If you don't mind,” he said, offering me a seat opposite his scarred desk, “I'm asking a stenographer and a sketch artist to join us.”

“Fine with me,” I said. “I guess you'll be looking for that guy who bumped into me.”

“Right.” Pete stood as a pretty brunette stenographer, pushing a wheeled stenotype machine, entered the cubicle. A man carrying a laptop sat next to me. “If everybody's ready, let's get started.” Pete resumed his seat. “Lee, I've already asked you a few questions, but let's go over it again. From the beginning.”

I repeated everything I'd told him earlier—how I'd approached the shop and encountered the man who'd bumped into me, how I'd seen Shea's feet and then her face. I said that the cash register drawer had been open and had looked empty. The stenographer clicked away on the machine as I tried to recount those terrifying moments before help arrived. Then it was the sketch artist's turn to ask questions.

“How about the man's age?”

“Older than me,” I answered, recalling his face. “Maybe in his forties.”

“The shape of his face? Round? Square jawed?” He turned his laptop so that I could see a variety of featureless face shapes on the screen. “Like any of these?”

I selected a narrow outline. He continued his questions, and while I searched my memory, a face emerged on the screen. After about thirty minutes, and several changes, a clean-shaven man with receding hair, sparse eyebrows, and slightly protruding ears stared back at me.

“That's him,” I said. “I think that's him.”

Pete had another question for me. “You said the man spoke to you. Can you describe the voice?”

“Hmmm. A voice is much harder to describe than a face,” I said. “He spoke only the one word. ‘Sorry.'”

“A gruff voice? Hoarse? High pitched? Deep?” Pete prompted.

I thought about it for a long moment. “His voice was soft,” I said finally. “Soft and serious. I felt as though he meant it when he said he was sorry he'd bumped into me.”

Pete raised one eyebrow, the way he does when he's doubtful about something, but said nothing. He thanked the stenographer and the sketch artist. I thanked them, too, and after they left the room, Pete leaned across the desk.

“Are you thinking that the guy might have walked in and seen the body, the same way you did, then just beat it out of there?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Yes, I guess that's the way it could have happened.”

“Things aren't always the way they seem,” Pete said as we walked toward the parking lot. “You should know that as well as anybody.”

I knew he was right. Pete and I had been involved with unexplained deaths before, and no one knew better than I did that sometimes the very people you think you know best have a dark side you'd never dreamed existed. Once we were outside, away from that intimidating building, with all its trappings of suspicion and questions and doubts, I felt a little better.

“Guess I'll put the top down again,” I said and unlocked the car door. “Some fresh air might help clear away this feeling of sadness. I didn't know her, but . . . poor Shea.” I blinked away a sudden rush of tears.

“I understand. Wish I could help,” he said, leaning in for a quick kiss. “I'll be at your place around six. I'm looking forward to trying your cooking.”

I'd learned enough from Aunt Ibby to be pretty confident about my talent as a cook. I climbed into the car, put the top down, fastened my seat belt, and headed for the grocery store. I didn't actually have to pass by Shea's building to get to the nearest supermarket, but I did it, anyway. The yellow police tape gave the front of the place a sinister look, and the CSI van was still there. One officer stood outside the purple door. I slowed down and tried to peek into the windows of the place, past the pink petunias, past the sparkling colored bottles and china teapots on the glass shelves.

Maybe I was hoping I'd see Shea Tolliver, alive and smiling, waving to me, inviting me inside. Maybe I was wishing none of the horror of the morning had really happened.

I shook my head and stepped on the gas, passed the municipal parking lot where I'd told Pete the blond man might have gone, took Highland Avenue to Shaw's Market, and began some serious food shopping. Twenty minutes and a couple of shopping bags later, I was headed home. When I turned into our driveway, I felt my whole body relax. It was almost as though I'd been holding my breath for hours.

I hurried past the garden, where tall sunflowers nodded their cheerful greeting. As usual, O'Ryan was waiting right inside the back door to greet me. Knowing when someone is coming to the door is the least of the big cat's talents. He'd once belonged to a practicing witch—some say he was her familiar—and in Salem a witch's familiar is to be respected, and sometimes feared. At any rate, he's surely not your ordinary house cat, and he'd proven that many times since coming to live with Aunt Ibby and me.

I hadn't stopped to call my aunt about the morning's sad happenings. No point in worrying her unnecessarily. I'd ignored the fact that my very tech-savvy aunt would probably know all about it between Facebook, Twitter, and possibly the noon news.

She did.

She rushed to greet me. “Maralee, you've been gone for such a long time. Did you hear about that Shea Tolliver woman being killed? They think it was a robbery.”

“I know,” I said, putting my grocery bags on the kitchen counter. “Actually, I was the one who called the police.”

She sat abruptly on a tall stool next to the counter. “What do you mean?”

I explained, as gently as I could, what had happened. “Afterward, I had to go to the police department and help an artist sketch the man I saw leaving the shop.”

“My dear child, how frightening for you. Why didn't you call me?”

“Pete was with me almost the whole time. I was perfectly safe. I didn't want you to worry.”

“Well, you're right. I would have. Did you tell Pete what Shea told you about the bureau and the Trent murder?”

“Why, no. I didn't even think of it. But that couldn't have anything to do with what happened today.”

“I guess it doesn't. It's just interesting,” she said. “I remember the whole tragedy, of course, but I looked up the facts on the Helena Trent case while you were gone.”

“I'm going to run upstairs and put these groceries away,” I said. “Want to come up and tell me all about my bureau's mysterious past?”

“Of course I do,” she said. “I've printed out a few old newspaper articles for you. I'll get them and meet you upstairs in a few minutes.”

O'Ryan was ahead of me on the stairs and raced into the apartment as soon as I opened the door. He jumped onto the beach chair, turned around a couple of times, and fixed golden eyes on the wooden stool.

“You're right,” I told him. “Not only don't I have proper dishes, but I also don't have any place for us to sit while we eat dinner, do I?”

The cat closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. While I arranged the groceries in my almost empty refrigerator and totally bare cabinets, I thought of the card table and the folding chairs Aunt Ibby used for her mah-jongg group. I asked for permission to use the furniture and was offered my choice of tablecloths, as well. That problem solved, and with the makeshift dining arrangement quickly in place in my kitchen, my aunt and I adjourned to the bedroom and sat on the bed, facing the bureau.

“It looks just perfect there, Maralee,” she said. “Now, with some bedside tables and lamps and maybe a chaise longue, this could be quite a pleasant room.”

“Maybe its previous home wasn't so pleasant,” I said. “Tell me about Helena Trent and how she came to be murdered.”

“Poor Helena,” my aunt began. “Her husband was quite an unsavory character, it turns out. Everyone thought he married her for her money in the first place.”

“Money? She was wealthy, then?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Helena came from a prominent North Shore family. Then she married into an even wealthier Salem family. United two old fortunes, so to speak. Her first husband, John David Hampton, Jr., died.... He was quite a bit older than she was. But everyone said they were a truly devoted couple.”

“So she married Mr. Trent after that?”

“Not right away, of course. But Helena was quite beautiful, and nobody expected that she'd stay single for long. She had no children of her own, just her husband's grown son from his first marriage.”

“A confusing family tree.”

“It is. And it got even more so after she married Tommy Trent. Tommy brought a woman named Daphne—who, he
said,
was his sister—to live with them, and Helena befriended her. Bought her expensive clothes, included her on trips. But it turned out that Daphne was really Tommy's girlfriend.”

“What a rat!”

“I know. Anyway, Tommy was really the only suspect in Helena's death. He copped some kind of a plea, and a judge found him guilty of voluntary manslaughter. Ten years in prison. I think that means he can get out in five or six, if he behaves himself in jail.” She shook her head. “Of course, he still claims he's innocent. Says some intruder did it.”

“Sure. Don't they all say something like that?”

She spread several sheets of copier paper across the bedspread. “Look. Here are a few articles about the trial from the
Salem News.
I'll make us a pot of coffee while you read them.”

I chose one of the articles at random. The headline read
SOCIALITE DIED FROM SINGLE GUNSHOT WOUND
. The accompanying photo showed a pretty woman in jeans and a turtleneck, standing in what looked like a vegetable garden. According to the paper, Helena Trent's body was discovered by her stepson, John David Hampton III, known to his associates at one of Salem's most prestigious investment firms as Tripp Hampton. The article said that he found his stepmother dead in her bedroom when she didn't appear as usual for lunch. She'd been shot in the back of the head at a fairly close range with a nine-millimeter projectile. I shuddered at the thought. When her stepson found her, Helena surely wasn't pretty anymore. Burglary was given as a possible motive. Her jewelry box was found open and empty, and her bureau drawers and her closet had been ransacked.

I put the article down when Aunt Ibby reappeared, a new ironstone coffee mug in each hand. “Here you go,” she said, handing me one. “Did you get to the part about the girlfriend yet?”

“Nope. Sill trying to get past the gunshot wound in her head.”

My aunt nodded and sat next to me. “I know. Messy business, wasn't it? Poor Tripp must have had nightmares for months.”

“You know him?”

“Oh, yes. He's on the board of directors of the library. So was Helena. Very civic minded, the whole family. Helena was president of the garden club, too, and one of the founders of Friends of Strays. The list goes on and on.”

“What about the husband? Tommy?”

“Not so much, although he was somewhat involved in Helena's fund-raising efforts for her various charities.”

I took a sip of coffee. The handle of the white mug fit perfectly in my hand, and the thick rim was smooth against my lips. “Mmm. Good,” I murmured, picking up another article
. MURDER WEAPON FOUND IN HUSBAND'S MERCEDES
. The photo on that page was of Tommy Trent—a handsome, smiling man in tennis wear, holding a trophy. “Guess finding the gun in his car must have been pretty convincing to the jury.” I looked again at Helena's photo, then back at Tommy's. “They must have been a beautiful couple. I wonder what went wrong. Seems as if they had it all.”

“Everybody wondered that at first. A gorgeous home, fine cars, a yacht, the best country clubs, fabulous jewelry.”

“So why did he kill her? Why not just a divorce if they were having trouble?”

She pulled a sheet of paper from those scattered on the bed. “Here. Read this one.”

The headline read
MONEY PROBLEMS BESET “GOLDEN COUPLE
.” The article went on to detail unpaid taxes, maxed-out credit cards, canceled club memberships because of unpaid dues, a repossessed automobile.... The list went on.

“Wow. What a mess.” I put the paper down. “‘Follow the money,' they always say. Guess that's true in this case. But still, how would Tommy benefit from Helena's death?”

She shrugged. “That's a puzzle. Helena's stepson had control of whatever's left of the family fortune, and there was a prenup, so it doesn't seem as though Tommy would actually benefit financially from her death.” She lowered her voice and looked around the sparsely furnished room, as though someone might be listening. “But, of course, there's the pink diamond.”