The table looked pretty good with Aunt Ibby’s white linen tablecloth, and a small bunch of lilies of the valley in an ironstone mug added a summery touch. I’d brought my wedding gift sterling silverware with me from Florida, and it looked nice with the ivy pattern Franciscan Ware. I wished I’d taken those candlesticks I saw when I bought the bureau.
I’d told Pete he could use the entrance at the back of the house and come upstairs that way instead of coming to the front door, as usual. Aunt Ibby had thoughtfully provided me with a separate entrance from that side. “So you can come and go as you please,” she’d said, handing me a pair of bright new keys.
I left the pie cooling on the counter, passed by the bedroom, and entered the totally empty space designated to be my living room. I checked to be sure the door to the back stairway was locked. I’d come in that way only a couple of times, still in the habit of using the downstairs backyard entrance to Aunt Ibby’s kitchen or the familiar front door on the Winter Street side.
At exactly six o’clock the vintage chimes over my apartment’s living room door played “Bless This House,” and I hurried to let Pete into my sparsely furnished new space. O’Ryan was already waiting by the door, sniffing along the sill and purring a resonant welcome. Pete stood grinning in the narrow hall, balancing a vase of yellow roses and daisies, a bottle of wine, and a gift bag with CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR GRADUATION in sparkly letters.
“It smells great in here,” he said, leaning forward for a quick but awkward kiss, which landed on my forehead. He glanced around the empty room. “Where can I put this stuff down so I can try that again?”
“Follow me,” I said and led the way to the kitchen.
Pete put his predinner offerings on the counter, next to the still-hot pie, pulled me close, and delivered a lovely, slow, satisfying toe-tingling kiss, followed by another with a lot more urgency behind it than usual.
Note to self. Inviting a man to dinner at your own apartment may turn out to be quite different from inviting the same man to dinner at your aunt’s house.
I think we were both surprised by the intensity of that moment. Holding my breath, looking up into those dark eyes, I took a tiny step backward. “Pete,” I said, my voice ragged, “I think . . .” I wasn’t sure what I was going to tell him, because O’Ryan chose that instant to scratch on the door leading to the front hall.
“Cat wants to go out,” Pete said, his lips still close to my ear.
“I’m going to buy him a cat door tomorrow,” I murmured as I reluctantly, and maybe wisely, stepped out of that mind-altering embrace. I let O’Ryan out and watched as he trotted toward the stairway, a cat smirk on his fuzzy face.
Pete had moved next to the counter and held the bottle of merlot in one hand and the gift bag in the other. “Here,” he said, offering me the bag decorated with mortarboards and rolled diplomas. “They didn’t have any that said ‘Congratulations on Your New Apartment.’”
“Graduation is close enough,” I said, laughing as I reached into a nest of gold tissue paper. “And June is the right month for it.” I pulled a corkscrew from the bag, followed by a pair of crystal wineglasses. “Perfect,” I said. “How did you know that I didn’t have either one?”
He smiled, looked around the sparsely furnished kitchen, reached for the corkscrew, and began opening the bottle. “Just a wild guess.” He filled one glass and handed it to me. “Cheers,” he said and filled his own. We clinked our glasses in the traditional way and sipped the fruity crimson liquid.
“Going to show me the famous new bureau?” he asked.
I was about to say, “Sure,” then thought about where the thing was situated, right across from the big, soft bed I’d so recently described to River. “Later,” I told him. “Here. Sit down, and I’ll tell you about it first.” We sat opposite one another at the card table, where my simple bouquet of lilies of the valley shared space with the roses-and-daisies creation.
I began with, “Aunt Ibby was watching television this morning. . . .” I described how she’d recognized the bureau as the exact one that my grandmother Forbes had given me when I was a little girl. “The cool thing about it was, it looked like a regular antique bureau, but it had secret compartments,” I said. “And so does the one I bought today.”
“Is there anything in them?” I could see the interest in his face.
Of course he’s interested. He’s a detective.
“Yes. And it’s all still there. I haven’t opened them yet. I was waiting for you.”
“Really? You have no idea what might be in them?”
“Well, Shea told me a little about it. ‘Nothing valuable, ’ she said. But it’ll still be fun to open them.”
“I wasn’t going to mention Shea Tolliver tonight,” he said. “But since you brought her up, I want to say how well you handled . . . well, everything that went down today.” He reached across the table and took my hand. “It couldn’t have been easy for you.”
“No. Not easy.”
Understatement of the year. Those sad feet sticking out from behind the counter. And Shea’s dead face. Dear God. Her face.
I shook away the thoughts. “But I still want to tell you what else she said about my bureau. It came from a house where there was a murder. A really famous one.”
He picked up his glass and took a sip. “Let me guess. Helena Trent, right?”
“Right. How did you know?”
“The ‘really famous’ part. Chief Whaley said he hadn’t seen that much ink and airtime used on one murder around here since the Beryl Atherton case back in the fifties. How did Shea get the bureau, anyway?”
I shrugged. “Estate sale, I guess. She said the owner didn’t even know about the secret compartments.”
“So the missing pink diamond wasn’t in it? Bummer.”
“Afraid not. But after dinner I’ll show you how to open all the secret compartments. Want to watch TV while I start cooking?”
“No thanks. I’d rather watch you.”
That was just what he did, too. Chin on his fists, elbows on the table, he watched quietly as I put the steak under the broiler, dumped the plastic bag of mixed greens into a Franciscan Ware bowl, and sliced tomatoes on top. Sour cream with fresh chives went into another ironstone mug. I popped the potatoes into the microwave, and miraculously, everything was done at the same time. Steak, medium rare. Salad, crisp and pretty. Potatoes, white and fluffy with golden skins. I served my first dinner in my new apartment proudly.
The pie was still warm enough to melt the vanilla ice cream; the after-dinner coffee with a tiny dash of Baileys was hot and delicious. Pete leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly, as I put the silverware, the dishes, and the bowl in the dishwasher and rinsed our coffee mugs.
“Ready to see my prize purchase? Even if there’s no treasure hidden in it?”
Pete patted absolutely flat abs. “Don’t know if I can move. That was a perfect dinner, babe. And the apple pie was just as good as your Aunt Ibby’s.”
I refrained from giving credit to Sara Lee, glad that the telltale box had already gone into the recycling bin . . . and silently vowing never, ever to repeat his remark to my aunt.
“Thanks,” I said, with all the modesty I could muster. “Glad you liked it.”
Pete stood, gave me a quick kiss—on the cheek, nothing like the earlier version—and, with one arm around my waist, said, “Lead me to this fine piece of furniture.”
“Okay. Come on.” I pushed the bedroom door open and clicked on the overhead light. With a dramatic Vanna White gesture, I indicated the bureau. “Ta-da! The furnishing du jour.”
Pete switched his attention from me to the bureau. He moved from one side to the other, not speaking, not touching it, just looking. He crouched, sitting on his heels, studying the graceful embellishments on each of the bureau drawers, peering closely at the triangular frames around the keyholes. He stood up again. “May I touch it?” he asked.
I sat at the foot of the bed, watching him. �
�Of course. It’s not delicate. It’s lasted over two hundred years.”
“Remarkable,” he said and ran his hand down the paneled right side of the bureau. He looked at me, smiled, and gently tapped a spot close to the back edge. “Is one of the hidden compartments right about here?”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s amazing. You’re right. If you press it slightly, it will move sideways.” I stood closer, watching him. “Go ahead. There are two tiny pockets behind there.”
“Do you know what’s in them?”
“Nope. I told you. I haven’t even peeked. Waited for you.”
He put his arm around my waist again and pulled me close. “Thank you,” he said, then, following my directions, pressed the spot he’d selected.
Nothing happened.
He frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”
“I don’t think so. Let me try.” He stepped behind me, still holding me close, but with both arms around my waist now.
I’m pretty sure he’s not totally focused on the bureau anymore.
I pressed the panel, just the way Grandmother Forbes had taught me to so many years ago. The wood, which had appeared seamless, gave under my pressure, and a section that was about two inches by four inches slid aside. “See?” I said. “It’s easy. Shall I close it again so you can do it?”
“Are you kidding? No. Let’s see what’s in there.”
I laughed as Pete’s concentration returned to the bureau. A compartment with two shallow square pockets, side by side, had been revealed. Each one contained a tissue-wrapped object. “Shall we each take one?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said. “You go first.”
“All right.” I stuck my index finger into the space on the left and pried the article carefully from its hiding place. “Your turn.”
“My fingers might be too big,” he said, letting go of me completely and poking at the tiny shape in the remaining pocket. “This is fun. Like a treasure hunt at a kid’s birthday party.”
After a few stabs at it, the little parce fell into his hand. We looked at one another, each holding a slim tissue-wrapped package. “Shall we open them together?” He smiled broadly.
I had to laugh. “You look as though you really are at a kid’s birthday party. Okay. One, two, three . . . open ’em!”
Mine was a shiny 1951 Benjamin Franklin half-dollar. His was a tarnished brass Salem, Massachusetts, dog license.
“Cool,” he said. “But yours is more valuable. Real silver.”
“I like yours better. It’s a remembrance of a pet somebody loved.”
“True. Shall we do another one?” he asked, still smiling.
“Did you figure out any more of them?” I asked. “The panel you found is one of the most difficult.”
“It’s the only one I spotted. A tiny indentation in the wood. Did you say you have directions?”
“I do. I left them in the top drawer where Shea put them. Want to get them out while I pour us another cup of coffee?”
“Okay.”
I headed for the kitchen, while Pete spread one of the pieces of tissue paper on the bed and carefully arranged our treasures on it. When I returned with the coffee, Pete was facing the bureau, his back to me.
“I don’t see them, babe,” he said. “You sure this is where you left them?”
He stepped aside, and I saw that instead of opening the top drawer, he’d removed the lace runner and lifted the hinged center panel, exposing the black mirror. I wanted to scream, “No!” and race across the room and slam it shut, but instead I managed to place the mugs calmly on the floor and walk over to where he stood. I reached out and closed the thing—but not before I saw the little cloud, then the flashing lights and swirling colors that always preceded the damned visions.
Not now. Not tonight. Not in front of Pete.
“N-n-no,” I stuttered. “Not that one.” My hand shook as I tugged at the half-moon–shaped wooden drawer pulls. “In here.”
“Lee. Shhh. Come here. Sit down.” He led me to the bed. “You’re as pale as a ghost. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Really. I’m fine.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not. I shouldn’t have come tonight. You’ve been through so much today, finding Shea . . . the way she was, and going through all that questioning.” He sat beside me and held both of my hands. “Listen. Why don’t we finish going through your bureau another time, okay? Now, you just get ready for bed. I’ll let myself out.” He kissed my forehead. “Dinner was great. You get some rest now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 6
Pete picked up the abandoned coffee mugs from the floor and carried them to the kitchen. I heard water running and knew he was rinsing them out. Probably would put them in the dishwasher, too.
What a guy.
I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep when he walked past the bedroom and headed for the back door. I lay there, unmoving, until I heard his car start. I got up, retrieved the lace runner, and plopped it back on the bureau. Then I went into the kitchen, grabbed the new vase of flowers, carried it into the bedroom, and put it right in the middle of the center panel, trusting that would deter anyone, including me, from lifting the thing up and revealing the damned mirror.
Hoping that Aunt Ibby would be at home—she’d been dating lately—I went out my kitchen door and down the stairs to the first floor. “Aunt Ibby? You here?” I called.
She answered from the den. “I’m here, Maralee. Has Pete left already?”
I walked into the room and sat beside my aunt on the couch as she hit the mute button on the TV. “He’s left,” I said, surprised by my own dejected tone of voice. I tried to sound more upbeat. “Oh, the dinner went just fine. It was after dinner that didn’t quite work out as planned.”
She leaned forward and patted my knee. “Oh dear. You didn’t quarrel, did you?”
“Nothing like that,” I reassured her. “Not at all. It was the darned mirror.”
She frowned. “Mirror? What mirror?”
“I guess I didn’t tell you. Remember the mirror inside the top section of the bureau that used to be in my room?”
“Of course. There’s one in the new bureau, too, isn’t there?”
“Yes. But this one is discolored. Tarnished so badly, it’s actually black.”
She smiled. “We can get it repaired. Don’t worry. I know a furniture restorer. . . .” She stopped in mid-sentence, and her smile disappeared. “A black mirror. Oh dear. You mean you saw something . . . unpleasant in it?”
“No, thank God, I didn’t. Pete picked up the panel, and as soon as he did, I saw the flashing lights and the colors.” I shook my head. “I guess I kind of panicked. I hurried across the room and banged it shut. Probably scared the poor guy.”
“What did he say? You didn’t tell him about that . . . thing you do, did you?”
“Of course not. But he knew something was wrong. He thinks it’s because of my finding Shea and having to go down to the police station and all.”
“Well, my dear,” she said, “that’s enough to upset anybody.”
“Anyway, he was so nice about it. Told me to get some rest and he’d call tomorrow.”
“Fine then. It’ll be all right. No need to upset him with all that gazing foolishness.”
“Do you really think so? That it’s okay to keep all that from him?”
She cocked her head to one side, the way she does when she’s weighing a problem. “Hmmm. Not forever, of course. Maybe just for now. He’s got this new case on his mind, and you’re justifiably upset about it, too.” Again, the confident smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll know when it’s the right time.”
I hoped she was right, and turned my attention to the still-silent TV screen. I sat up straight, pointing. “It’s him. That’s the man who bumped into me in front of the antique store.” I grabbed the remote and quickly hit the volume button.
We listened to the announcer’s voice as we watched the man, still wearing t
he faded jeans and the tan shirt I’d described for Pete, being assisted into a police car.
“Gary Campbell is described as a ‘person of interest’ by Salem police in their investigation into the death of antique shop proprietor Shea Tolliver. Mr. Campbell was at one time Ms. Tolliver’s business partner, but reports say that the two became alienated more than a year ago.” The picture on the screen changed to Campbell’s mug shot. The announcer continued. “A police spokesperson emphasized that Campbell is not at this time being detained in connection with the death and is cooperating with authorities. He was arrested this morning for a violation of a court order, but he has posted bond and has since been released.”
“What does Pete think about all that?” my aunt asked.
“I have no idea,” I said. “We haven’t talked about it since he called this afternoon to tell me that my description of that man had been good enough to get him picked up. You know Pete hardly ever discusses police business with anybody.”
“That’s as it should be.” She nodded affirmatively. “He’s a good man, Lee. Your, uh, friendship seems to be developing nicely.” She raised one eyebrow with an expectant look. I chose to ignore the unspoken question.
Is it developing “nicely?” Where is it leading? I don’t know.
I changed the subject. “Talked to River today.”
“Oh, how is she? I like that girl.”
“She’s fine. Read my cards, as usual. Nothing dire there, apparently. We talked mostly about furniture.”
“That seems to be the topic of the day. Did you and Pete get to open the secret compartments?”
“Just one,” I said.
“What was in it?” She leaned forward, eyes sparkling.
“It was the double-pocket compartment,” I reported. “Two little tissue-wrapped items in it.”
“Well? Don’t tease. What did you find?”
I laughed. “You sound like a little kid. Okay. I’ll tell you. We each picked one. Mine was a nineteen fifty-one Benjamin Franklin silver half-dollar.”
“That was nice. What did Pete find?”
“Pete’s was an old Salem dog license tag.”
Look Both Ways Page 4
