“Are you still interested in NASCAR races?” Pete asked, looking up from the empty plate. “I mean, if that brings back sad memories, forget that I asked.”
“No sad memories,” I said. “Just good ones. I still love automobile races. Why?”
“Chief scored a couple of tickets to the Sprint Cup at the raceway in New Hampshire. He says I can have them. Want to go with me?”
“You bet. Love to,” I said. “Just let me know when.”
I was interrupted by a sudden motion under the table. I reached down to pat the cat and felt the muscles tense beneath his fur. He streaked toward the cat door, pushed it open, and disappeared into the hall.
I followed and opened the door a crack. I motioned to Pete to join me. “He’s heading down to the front door,” I whispered. “Someone must be coming.”
“He always does that, doesn’t he? And why are we whispering?”
I shook my head, laughing. “I don’t know. Come on. Let’s see who it is. I don’t think Aunt Ibby is home yet.”
Together we walked down to the second-floor landing and looked over the railing. O’Ryan was poised, ears alert, with hind legs on the floor and front paws against one of the narrow windows on either side of the front door. I waited for the doorbell to ring.
Instead, I heard a key scraping in the lock and Aunt Ibby’s voice. “Thanks so much for the ride. Do come inside and have a cup of tea. It’s early yet.” She appeared in the doorway, stooped and patted O’Ryan, and then stepped aside as a tall, slender man wearing white slacks and a navy-blue blazer entered the hall. I knew that my aunt had left to go to a concert with my boss, the director of the Tabby—and this man was definitely not Rupert Pennington.
CHAPTER 17
Aunt Ibby looked up and saw us standing there. “Oh, Maralee. And, Pete. Come meet an old friend. He rescued me when Rupert had to leave suddenly.”
We hurried down the stairs.
“Is Mr. Pennington all right?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, he’s fine. Had to rush over to the school. Some sort of plumbing problem. He may stop by later.” She linked arms with the man beside her. “This dear fellow is Tripp Hampton. Tripp, my niece, Lee Barrett, and her friend Peter Mondello.”
Tripp Hampton extended his hand first to me and then to Pete. “How do you do? I’m so very pleased to meet you, Ms. Barrett. Your aunt speaks of you often. And, Detective Mondello, we met many years ago. Perhaps you don’t remember. It was under such sad circumstances.”
“I do remember you,” Pete said, grasping the man’s hand. “Tragic circumstances. You’d just lost your mom. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you. Life goes on. Although I still miss her every day.”
Hampton. Tripp Hampton. This tall, handsome guy with Aunt Ibby is Helena Trent’s stepson?
That annoying “It’s a Small World” song from Walt Disney World started playing in my head. Helena’s bureau was in my bedroom. The lead detective on her murder case was standing beside me. A sheaf of newspaper articles about a woman I’d never met was in my top drawer, along with some of her belongings, and now her stepson was in my house. Small world indeed.
“Come along, ever ybody,” my aunt said. “Into the dining room. I’ll make some tea while you all get acquainted.”
Dutifully, we followed her into the pretty hexagonal-shaped room and sat at the round mahogany table. There was a moment’s awkward silence while we just looked at each other. Then we all spoke at once.
“Miss Russell is such a delightful person,” said Tripp Hampton.
“How was the concert?” I asked. “Did you have to leave early?”
“Where’d the cat go?” Pete looked around the room and under the table.
Our laughter relieved the tension of the moment, and before long we were chatting easily, making small talk about the weather—perfect for the tourists; the concert series, Tripp had season tickets—and my new job as the Tabby’s property manager, since Tripp had some old furniture he’d be glad to donate.
Aunt Ibby reappeared with a tea tray, O’Ryan following along behind her. After she placed the tray on the table, I stood to help with the cups and saucers, while Pete put the plate of cookies in the center of the table. Tripp pulled out a chair for my aunt and stood until she was seated.
“Well, then, isn’t this nice?” she said, pouring tea for each of us from her best Reed & Barton silver teapot. “Maralee, I told Tripp how pleased you were to find the duplicate to your own childhood bureau. He’s interested to know what you found in the secret compartments. Aren’t you, Tripp?”
“Of course I’m curious.” His smile was gorgeous, testifying to either great genes or a talented orthodontist. “I never even knew the compartments were there. When I learned about them, I felt rather like Monsieur G——, the prefect of the Parisian police in Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Purloined Letter.’”
It took a moment for the reference to register. Of course, it was Poe’s master detective C. Auguste Dupin who found the missing letter in a cabinet’s secret compartment.
No wonder Aunt Ibby likes this guy. He’s a fellow bibliophile.
“No compromising letters, I’m afraid,” I said. “The things we found were more on the sentimental side.”
Pete nodded his agreement. “That’s right. An old dog license, a kid’s school notebook, things like that.”
“Yes. I called Ms. Tolliver as soon as I heard about the bureau she’d bought from me having secret compartments,” Tripp said. “She told me the same thing. The insurance company had already checked with her, too.”
“The insurance company?” Aunt Ibby asked. “Was that about Helena’s diamond necklace?”
Tripp Hampton sipped his tea slowly. “They’re still looking for it. It’s probably worth well over twice what it was insured for.”
“No kidding. If they find it, then the insurance company gets all the money?” I asked.
“That’s the way it works,” Pete said. “If the insurance company has compensated the owner and then they find the item, it belongs to the insurance company, right, Mr. Hampton?”
“Right, Detective.”
I wondered whether Tripp Hampton had accepted the compensation or had held out for full value, in case the missing diamond turned up. I didn’t voice the question—none of my business—and neither did anyone else at the table. Aunt Ibby deftly changed the subject.
“I remember going to some delightful events at your home, Tripp. Helena was a remarkably inventive hostess. Do you recall the spider web party?”
“I do indeed! It took the whole day to set that one up. I was home from college, and Helena let me help spin the web,” he said, a little wistfully.
“A spider web party?” I asked. “What is it?”
“It was elaborate,” Aunt Ibby said. “I think it involved every room in that huge estate, didn’t it, Tripp?”
“It did. Forty rooms and eleven bathrooms.” Tripp leaned toward me. “There were big piles of red silk cord, the thick, soft kind, one for each guest. Helena attached a gift to the end of each length of cord and hid it somewhere in the house. Then we wandered around, tangling the cords from room to room, weaving them around furniture and lamps. We did one for every guest, of course—I think there were around twenty or so—and the result was an enormous spiderweb. You were handed the other end of your cord, with a name tag attached, as soon as you entered the front door, and you had to follow it all the way to the end to get your gift.” His perfect smile was blazing full blast.
Aunt Ibby nodded. “And that involved a lot of bumping into other guests, crawling around on the carpet, or reaching up over someone’s head. It was a fabulous icebreaker!”
“Yes, that was a good one, all right,” Tripp said. “Helena loved that kind of thing. Even my birthday parties always involved some kind of puzzle or riddle or treasure hunt. She was a trickster, Helena was.” He looked in Pete’s direction. “Did you ever meet my stepmother, Detective? She liked mysteries. You two
would have gotten along swimmingly.”
“I met her once,” Pete said. “A generous lady. She used to donate to the Police Athletic League every year. She came out to the hockey rink to present a check to the kids on the team I was coaching. Paid for new uniforms for every kid there.”
“She was an angel,” Tripp said, looking down, smile gone. “An angel.”
An awkward silence was broken by O’Ryan streaking toward the front hall.
“Rupert must be here.” My aunt hurriedly pushed her chair back and stood. “Excuse me.”
“I didn’t hear the bell,” Tripp said. “Did you?”
“They don’t need a doorbell here,” Pete said. “The cat always knows when someone’s coming. I didn’t believe it, either, at first. But I’ve seen him do it so many times, I’m convinced. Lee says it’s because he used to be a witch’s cat.”
Tripp chuckled. “A witch’s cat, hmmm? Thought they were always black.”
Aunt Ibby and O’Ryan were right, of course, and Mr. Pennington joined us in the dining room. “Good evening, all,” he said, taking a seat beside my aunt. “Sorr y I had to be called away like that.”
“Is everything all right at the school?” I asked.
“Yes indeed. All is well, my dear. Thank you for asking.”
“What was the problem?” Pete asked.
“Someone phoned in a false alarm, Detective. Nothing of concern at all.”
“I’m so pleased to hear that, Rupert.” Aunt Ibby poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of him. “I’m sorry you had to leave us, but Tripp and I had a nice chat on the way home. Renewing an old acquaintance is always pleasant.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to be leaving now, Miss Russell.” Tripp stood and bowed slightly toward my aunt. “Thank you so much for the tea. Enjoyed meeting you, Ms. Barrett.” Another bow in my direction. “Please let me know if I can help with any of the props for the plays. There’s plenty of furniture and odds and ends at my place. Here’s my card. Call me anytime.” He handed me a card.
“Pete, would you see Tripp out, please?” Aunt Ibby said. “You know how to set the alarm after he leaves, don’t you?”
“Sure do.” Pete and Tripp left the room together, and I turned toward Mr. Pennington. “I did a little prop shopping today,” I said. “I’ll be using the truck tomorrow.”
“Good for you, and do take young Hampton up on his offer of furniture and such. I’m sure that old mansion must be full of interesting artifacts. The more things we can get donated, the better.”
“I will,” I said, “and to tell the truth, I’m looking forward to seeing inside a house that has forty rooms and eleven bathrooms!”
“Of course, it’s been many years since I was in there,” my aunt said, “but it’s a beautiful old building, and quite homelike for such a huge place. Helena had exquisite taste in furnishings, too. I understand, though, that Tripp has had to sell quite a few things. The upkeep on a place like that must be an enormous expense.”
“That must be why he sold my bureau,” I said, looking at the card Tripp had given me. “Jenny said that Shea had bought several antiques from him, things that were too expensive for Jenny to bid on.”
“Do you know Jenny? The antiques dealer with the shop over near the Tabby?” Pete asked, resuming his seat at the table.
“I wouldn’t say I really know her,” I said. “But I bought the Lucite kitchen set and my new dishes from her shop.”
“No kidding. Jenny’s going to be doing the appraisal of all the things in Shea’s shop, once we get through in there,” Pete said.
“What’s going to become of Shea’s merchandise, Pete?” my aunt asked. “Did she have family?”
“She had a sister, but there’s a problem with the merchandise—and with the business, for that matter.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
Pete reached for another cookie. “It’ll be in the papers soon enough. The problem is Gar y Campbell. Seems that he and Shea had a reciprocal will. If one dies, the other one inherits the whole works.”
“Oh dear. That makes things messy, doesn’t it?” Aunt Ibby poured more tea into Pete’s cup. “Quite messy.”
“Business should be transacted in a businesslike manner,” Mr. Pennington intoned.
“Sydney Greenstreet to Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon,” Aunt Ibby recited. “That one was too e asy.”
Aunt Ibby, looking pleased with her quick response to Mr. Pennington’s quote, turned her attention back to Pete. “It would appear, then, that Mr. Campbell would benefit substantially from Shea Tolliver’s death, wouldn’t it?”
CHAPTER 18
I knew Pete wasn’t about to answer any more questions about Shea Tolliver’s murder. With his cop face in place, Pete politely thanked Aunt Ibby for the tea and cookies and said good night to Mr. Pennington. “Lee, we both have busy days tomorrow. I’d better be going along. Want to walk upstairs with me so I can get my jacket?”
“Of course,” I said. “Good night, Mr. Pennington. See you in the morning. Talk to you later, Aunt Ibby.” I followed Pete toward the front hall.
We started up the stairs together. “Looks like O’Ryan’s been waiting for us,” Pete said, pointing to where the cat sat in the middle of the second-floor landing. “He looks impatient.”
“Funny how that cat has real facial expressions,” I said. “And you’re right. He does look impatient. I bet he’d be tapping his foot if he knew how.”
When we reached the landing, O’Ryan trotted along between us up to the third floor, then darted inside the apartment via the new cat door. By the time Pete and I entered, the cat was sitting, alert, with ears straight up, in front of my bedroom.
Pete put an arm around my shoulders. “Look at that. I think your cat is planning to keep an eye on you just the same as I am.”
“Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?” I said, snuggling into his embrace. I felt his muscles tense, and he pulled me closer. “Do I?”
He relaxed his grip then. “No. Of course not. I guess I’m a little overprotective where you’re concerned. Just . . . be careful, okay?”
“You sound like River,” I said. “Always warning me about something or other. And you don’t even read cards. Really, Pete, is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Yeah. Maybe. Okay, here it is. Sit down for a minute.”
I sat at the table, and he took the chair opposite me. “Remember when I told you on the phone that something had come up?”
“Sure. Why? What was it?”
“There was a break-in over in South Salem. In one of those warehouse districts.”
“Uh-huh. That’s nothing new, is it?”
“I was especially interested in this one, because it was in a place I’d heard you mention. Bob’s Moving and Deliver y.”
“Really? That’s the company that delivered the bureau. And the kitchen set, too.”
“I know. And, Lee, the strange thing was, it looked at first as though nothing had been stolen, even though there were computers and fax machines and printers all out in plain sight. Besides that, there was plenty of stuff to be delivered. Furniture and stereos and even TVs.”
“You said ‘at first.’ That means you found something missing, after all.”
“Right. Bob noticed it. It was a manila file folder that held all the bills of lading, the work orders, for the week, including the day Shea was murdered. He said he’d left it on his desk, and it was gone.”
“Then that means . . .”
Pete reached across the table and took my hand. “Right. That means that your name and address was on one of them.”
“But mine wasn’t the only one. I mean, there must have been plenty of other deliveries that day.” I squeezed his hand. “Jenny told me that Bob delivers for just about ever yone.”
“True. And maybe I’m just being a little paranoid. But, please. Be careful. Keep your doors locked. Be aware of your surroundings. If anything, anything at al
l, looks strange, call me. Promise?”
“Yes, of course, I’ll be careful,” I said. “You’re scaring me.”
“Maybe I’m the one who should be worried,” Pete said, smiling. “Maybe I should be jealous.”
“Jealous? About what?”
“About the big, good-looking blond guy with the five-hundred-dollar sport coat hitting on you tonight.”
“Hitting on me! You’re nuts! He was not.”
“Come on. He didn’t take those big blue eyes off you for a minute.”
Blond man. Blue eyes. River’s warning. Tripp Hampton and Gar y Campbell. That’s two.
I stood up, walked around the table, tugged on Pete’s hand, and pulled him toward me. The good night kiss I gave him should have convinced him that he had nothing to worry about concerning Tripp Hampton.
Pete was right about each of us having a busy day ahead. Otherwise, that evening might have stretched far into the night. Or who knows? Maybe into the morning. But it didn’t. We said good night at around eleven, and I reluctantly locked the living-room door and slid the dead bolt into place behind him, listening to his footsteps as he hurried down the stairs and out into the backyard. I thought about what he’d said about locking doors. Would Aunt Ibby remember to lock the back door and the door to her kitchen? Of course she would.
Wouldn’t she?
I felt as though I had to check, just to be sure. The fact that somebody had stolen my name and address from Bob’s worried me more than I’d wanted to admit to Pete. I couldn’t very well go back downstairs and cut through the dining room to the kitchen without intruding on Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington. After all, it had occurred to me that my sixty-something aunt and my seventyish boss might have something more than a platonic friendship going on . . . the idea of which sort of creeped me out a little . . . but, hey, they say sixty is the new forty.
O’Ryan had followed us and sat in the center of the empty room, grooming his whiskers. “Okay, boy,” I said. “We’ll go down the back stairs, check and see if the kitchen is locked up, dead bolt the back door, and set the alarm. Come on.”
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