Look Both Ways (5 page)

Finding the perfect set of dishes was a lot easier than I thought it was going to be. I stopped at the first antique store I found after leaving the Tabby. Although an
OPEN
sign was in the window, the door was locked. I shook the knob a couple of times and was ready to walk away when a smiling woman appeared, threw the door open, and said, “Welcome to Jenny's Antiques! Sorry about the lock, but, well, we've all been kind of nervous ever since Shea Tolliver . . . you know . . . died.”

“Understandable,” I said. “That was a terrible thing. Are you Jenny?”

“I am,” she said, locking the door again. “I peek out to see who it is before I open up. I know it sounds paranoid, but I can't help it.”

“Glad I passed inspection,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. I didn't want to talk about or even think about Shea Tolliver.

She smiled and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you did. Anybody can see that you're honest!”

I thought about the times I'd been wrong about people in the not too distant past. Looks can be deceiving. I didn't comment on that, just returned her smile.

“How can I help you today? Something special or just browsing?”

“I'm looking for a set of dishes,” I said. “Something vintage, on the casual side.”

“Sure. Come on back here. I'll show you what I have.” I followed her into a long sunny room where a dozen or so tables each displayed various place settings of china, along with serving pieces, flatware, and coordinated crystal.

“Just look around. Take your time.” Jenny lowered her voice. “I need to get back and see if anyone's at the door. Can't be too careful these days.” She turned back toward me. “Did you know Shea?”

The question caught me off guard. “Me? No, not really. I bought a piece of furniture from her recently. Seemed like a very nice person.”

“Shea was a peach.” She nodded vigorously. “I always kind of liked Gary, too.”

“Gary?”

“Shea's partner. The guy they arrested. Ever run into him?”

I gave a kind of noncommittal “uh-uh” and picked up the closest teacup, barely looking at it, hoping to change the subject. “This is pretty.”

“Noritake. Azalea pattern,” she said. “I don't think he killed her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Gary. I don't think he killed her.”

We clearly weren't going to avoid the topic of Shea Tolliver, so I figured I might as well listen to what this woman had to say about Shea's erstwhile partner. “Why is that?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral and picking up a beige plate with a shell on it.

“Franciscan Ware. Sea sculptures,” she said. “Because he was trying to get back together with her. She told me so.”

I remembered what Shea had said about a partner taking off with a chunk of their money, and I remembered, too, what Pete had told me about a judge granting a restraining order against Gary Campbell because of threats he'd made. That didn't add up to the partners “getting back together” in my book.

“Seems to me I heard somewhere that he'd threatened her.” I replaced the plate on the table.

She nodded and handed me a pale green cereal bowl. “Russel Wright. Iroquois. Nineteen fifties. Gary owed somebody a lot of money. He was desperate to get cash. But he wouldn't have hurt her. Not him.”

I started to put the bowl back, then turned it over and looked at it more closely. “This is nice. What makes you think he wouldn't hurt her?”

“I have it in four colors. I've known Gary for years. A real pussycat. He got in with a rough crowd, though, a while back. Drinking heavily, too, I guess. But he's straightened out. I'm sure of it.”

“Hmm. People can change, I guess. Can I see the other colors?”

“Sure. Come on over here by the window.”

She led the way to a small bay window where a square table of clear Lucite sparkled in the sunlight. Four varicolored place settings of the fifties-style piece I still held in my hand were arranged on the glass top. Four Lucite chairs with padded tan leather seats completed the picture.

“Wow,” I said. “Are the table and chairs for sale, too?”

“Sure,” she said. “Mid-century modern. Nineteen seventies. You want the whole works? Dishes too?”

“Oh, yes,” I breathed. “I surely do. It's perfect. Do you deliver?”

“I use Bob's Delivery,” she said. “Most of us dealers do. He's good.”

“Yes,” I said. “He delivered the bureau I bought from Shea.” I ran my hand across the curvy back of one of the chairs. “I suppose I should ask how much this is going to cost.”

She mentioned a price in the four-figure range, and I nodded my agreement. “Was that the bureau she got from the Hampton estate?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, surprised. “How did you guess?”

“I was with her when she bid on it. She bought several things from there. Kinda high price she paid for that bureau, I thought. I mean, I thought so until I found out about the secret compartments.” She shook her head. “Shea and Gary were both high rollers when it came to getting good merchandise. Too rich for my blood. I guess you paid a pretty price for it?”

I nodded. “I did. But I wanted it because I had one just like it when I was a little girl.”

I followed her to the cash register and made out a check. She cocked her head to one side and, with a half-smile, asked, “So, was Helena's pink diamond inside?”

That made me laugh. “I'm afraid not. Shea looked in all the compartments before I got it. No diamonds.”

Delivery of my table, chairs, and dishes was promised for the following day, and as I shook hands with Jenny and left the shop, I mentally checked off number one on my to-do list.
Not bad. Two down. Two to go. Enough shopping for one day.
I headed for home.

I parked the 'Vette in the garage, noting that Aunt Ibby's Buick was missing. That wasn't surprising. Although she's semiretired from Salem's main library, she still put in several hours a week there, helping out and training staff. O'Ryan greeted me at the back door entrance with happy “mmrupps” and playful claw-sheathed taps on my ankles.

“Well, you're in a good mood,” I told him. “Me too.” The big cat scampered up the stairs ahead of me and sat patiently beside the door to my apartment while I fished the key from my purse.

Once inside, O'Ryan and I hurried through the empty expanse of my living room, my heels and O'Ryan's claws tap-tapping on the new hardwood floors, and emerged in the kitchen.

“Guess I can return the borrowed table and chairs and make room for my new ones,” I told the cat. “Wait till you see them. Clear Lucite. You won't be able to hide underneath. We can see right through it.”

O'Ryan stuck out a pink tongue and strolled into the bedroom, then looked back at me from the doorway. I knew what he was thinking. As soon as I said “see right through it” out loud, I'd thought of the same thing—the blackened mirror glass under the center section of the bureau. The swirling colors and the pinpoints of light were waiting beneath the hinged panel, and I knew there was a message there that I was supposed to see—whether I wanted to or not.

I followed the cat.

The roses in the bouquet Pete had given me were just beginning to open. I inhaled their fragrance as, with O'Ryan walking behind me, I carried the vase to the kitchen and put it on the counter. Then together the cat and I returned to the bedroom and faced the bureau. I tossed the lace runner onto the bed.

“Here goes,” I said and lifted the panel.

The colors and the lights swirled, then quickly faded. I saw a long sandy beach. Waves lapped gently at the shore, and in the distance I saw a crumbling stone wall. Beyond that, far down the beach, I could make out the figure of a woman. Her back was to me as she picked up a stick and tossed it. A small gray dog ran ahead of her and retrieved it. She knelt in the sand, patted the dog, and tossed the stick again. The action was repeated several times, until the woman and the dog were reduced to tiny, faraway dots.

“Is that all?” I said aloud. The image disappeared abruptly, and I found myself looking once again at the ruined mirror.

I closed the panel and sat on the foot of the bed, staring blankly at the bureau and wondering about what I'd just seen. What had I just seen? It certainly was by far the most pleasant scene my gazing “gift” had ever presented. But what did it mean? Who was the woman? She was too far away for me to tell if she was anyone I knew. Where was the beach? It could be anywhere. Here in Salem? Back in Florida? Maybe not Florida. No palm trees. But then again, I hadn't seen any trees—just sand, water, a crumbling wall, and a woman and a dog.

At that moment I wished there was someone with me . . . someone I could share this experience with, but I was alone in the big house, except for the cat. Actually, I knew there were just two people in the whole world I
could
share it with. Aunt Ibby and River were the only ones who knew about the gazing thing. Aunt Ibby was at the library, and it was still too early in the day to call River.

I wandered into the kitchen and heated a mug of leftover coffee in the microwave. The refrigerator yielded only a wilted salad and half of the apple pie. I chose a slice of pie, gave it the microwave treatment, added a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and told myself that the combination of fruit and dairy equaled a healthy snack. Hours of the day stretched ahead of me. I didn't feel like watching TV and hadn't brought any books upstairs yet. I wasn't in the mood to tackle any more items on my list, so what to do? I could do some grocery shopping, but that didn't hold much appeal at the moment, either.

Newspaper clippings! The articles from the
Salem News
that Aunt Ibby had given me were in the top drawer of the bureau. I'd spend my time learning more about the former owners of my bureau.

O'Ryan was already heading for the bedroom by the time I swallowed the last bite of pie.
How does that cat know what I'm going to do before I do it?
I retrieved the sheaf of articles from the bureau and returned to the kitchen. After heating up another mug of coffee, I sat at the table and began to read the first article in the pile, dated five years earlier.

The headline read
POLICE SEEK TRENT'S GIRLFRIEND
.
A
woman known as Daphne Trent, alleged to be the girlfriend of accused murderer Tommy Trent, is wanted for questioning by Salem police. Lead detective Pete Mondello announced this morning that Daphne Trent, who for several years had been accepted as Tommy Trent's sister, may have information relevant to the murder of Helena Trent. Mondello emphasized that Ms. Trent is not suspected of wrongdoing relative to the death of Mrs. Trent. Ms. Trent, whose last known address was the Trent family estate, is believed to still be in the Greater Salem area.

So Pete was lead detective on the case. He didn't tell me that. Did they find Daphne? What did she know about Helena's death?

“This is like reading a mystery novel,” I told the cat. “Except it all really happened, right here in Salem.”

O'Ryan, with a warning “mrrow,” leapt into my lap and, putting his front paws on the edge of the card table, seemed to study the paper in front of us. One paw shot out, and he moved the top page aside and revealed the next article. This one had a color photo of Helena and Daphne standing together at a Junior League fashion show where the two had modeled evening wear.

“What pretty women,” I murmured, looking from one to the other. Helena wore a low-cut, formfitting pink sequined gown. On a gold chain around her neck was what I guessed must be the famous pink diamond. Daphne wore a similar sparkling blue dress, which complemented her blond good looks.

My gaze wandered to the headline—
ALLEGED KILLER'S GIRLFRIEND CLAIMS FRIENDSHIP WITH VICTIM.
Daphne Trent responded this morning to a request by the Salem Police Department to answer questions regarding the death of Helena Trent. According to sources, Ms. Trent denied any knowledge of the circumstances leading to the death of Helena Trent, or of the murder itself. She claimed that she and Helena Trent were the best of friends, despite her secret relationship with Trent's husband. ‘I loved Helena,' she said, ‘and I hated that Tommy and I were always lying to her. She was so kind to me. Even after she found out about Tommy and me, she said she didn't hate me.' Salem police reiterated that Daphne Trent is not suspected of any wrongdoing in the matter. Several witnesses have verified that on the evening of the murder Ms. Trent was at a charity fund-raiser, in the company of Mrs. Helena Trent's stepson, John David Hampton III.

I put my coffee mug down beside the stack of papers. “I wonder if Pete was the one who questioned her.” I spoke aloud to the cat on my lap. Sometimes it seemed as though he understood every word, and sometimes, in his own way, he
did
answer questions.

This was one of those times.

Out shot the paw again. This time he flipped a couple of pieces of paper onto the floor, seemed to study the one he'd revealed, then curled up on my lap and began to purr. It took me a moment to find the short paragraph near the bottom of the page.

I read the headline—
AIRTIGHT ALIBIS FOR ALLEGED KILLER'S GIRLFRIEND AND HAMPTON HEIR
—before glancing down the page.
According to Salem police detective Pete Mondello, Daphne Trent and John David Hampton III were present at a charity auction sponsored by the North Shore Patrons of the Arts on the evening of the death of Mr. Hampton's stepmother, Helena Trent. Numerous witnesses have verified the presence of the couple at the event. Tommy Trent, the husband of the deceased, is at present the only suspect in the case and remains in police custody on suspicion of murder. Trent is being held on one million dollars bail.