This frightening thought process was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. I grabbed it and yelled, “Help!”
CHAPTER 25
Running feet, loud voices, slamming doors. In an instant my office was full of people and noise.
“What’s going on?”
“Are you all right?”
“Who’s this guy?”
Tommy Trent, his expression changing from anger to surprise, held his hands over his head—probably a reflex action from years in jail, since no one was aiming a gun at him. Mr. Pennington was at my side, murmuring comforting words. My elevator friend, Herb Wilkins, and one of the very large stagehands had positioned themselves on either side of Tommy, while Daphne, on tiptoe, resplendent in Autumn Haze mink, reached up and grabbed the index card from his upraised hand and then shook a finger at him.
“Tommy, you big jerk! I told you she doesn’t know how that thing got there. I figured maybe you were fooling around with her. Now look what you’ve done. You probably scared poor Lee to death!”
“You want me to call the cops, Ms. Barrett?” Herb Wilkins asked. “Did this guy hurt you?”
“No,” I croaked. “I’m okay. He just . . . startled me. He was in here when I got off the elevator.”
“No cops,” Daphne said. “He’s on probation, and he didn’t do nothing wrong. Mr. Pennington, don’t let them call the cops, okay?”
“Anything. It’s ‘anything wrong,’ my dear,” Mr. Pennington replied, correcting her gently. “And if Ms. Barrett has suffered no ill effects from this unfortunate encounter . . .”
“I’m fine. No problem.” My voice had returned by then, along with a certain amount of reason. Either Tommy Trent was as surprised to find the card in his bureau as he seemed or he was an even better actor than Daphne. Either way, he hadn’t actually threatened me or attempted to harm me. “I was just frightened, seeing him standing there when I got off the elevator,” I said.
Daphne came around to my side of the desk. “I’m sorry, Lee,” she said. “He’s such a big jerk. I tried to talk him into staying away from you. But he wouldn’t hurt a flea. Honest.” She handed me the index card.
I wasn’t sure about the safety of fleas or anything else around the convicted murderer, who had lowered his hands and now looked cocky and sure of himself, but I agreed that the situation didn’t merit a call to the police. I had the damned card back. I’d give it to Pete, and he could take it from there.
One by one the people who’d crowded into my office, who’d answered my cr y for help, and who’d each assured me that it was no trouble at all returned to the rehearsal area. Tommy Trent left with them, but not without a backward, unsmiling glare in my direction. It was clear that he didn’t like me one bit, and I was sure my returning look told him that the feeling was mutual.
Mr. Pennington popped back into the room. “We’re about ready for rehearsal. Do you still want to watch?”
“I certainly do,” I said. “I’ll be there in just a minute.”
I called Pete and was surprised when he answered on the first ring. “Lee? You okay? I was just going to call you. Tommy Trent’s been spotted hanging around the Trumbull building.”
“Yes, I know. We’ve already met.”
“He’s there?”
“Not now. Don’t worry. I’m fine. He’d found the card with my name and address on it and wanted to know what it meant. Says he caught Daphne sneaking it into his drawer,” I said, trying hard to sound calm. “I have the card now.”
Long pause on Pete’s end of the phone. I waited.
“So Tommy claims he didn’t put the card in the drawer?”
“Not in so many words. He just wanted to know what was going on and who had put Daphne up to planting the card there.”
“Did you believe him?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. I was really scared, Pete. I was just getting out of the freight elevator, and there he was, waving the card around. He sounded so angry. Maybe he really didn’t know anything about it.” Another thought popped into my head. “If he didn’t have the card in the first place, where did Daphne get it?”
“I don’t know. Looks like it may be time for another long talk with Miss Daphne. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m good. Really. You don’t have to worry. Tommy’s gone, and I promised Mr. Pennington I’d watch a rehearsal. Gotta go. Talk to you later.”
“Okay. If you’re sure you’re all right. I’ll call you tonight.”
“I’m sure. Bye.”
I wasn’t sure at all, and Pete, good cop that he is, probably knew it. But I put on a happy face, pushed open the office door, and walked—head up, shoulders back—to the darkened area in front of the rehearsal stage where Mr. Pennington waited.
“Ah, Ms. Barrett. I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised by the progress we’ve made so far.” He motioned to one of the stagehands. “Lights, please.” The stage was instantly illuminated. Not all the furniture I’d bought for suite 67D was in place yet, but the general effect, from the blue velvet chair to the chrome and white-leather bar to the gilded telephone, was offensive good taste, no question.
The male lead entered first, inspecting the room. “Not bad, huh?” he said.
Daphne followed, looking absolutely gorgeous. She wore the mink coat and carried the stole, a large box of chocolates, and an armful of movie magazines. She walked around the blue chair without enthusiasm and gave a pretty shrug. “It’s all right.”
Some of the players still peeked at their scripts as they spoke. It was, after all, still quite early in the rehearsal schedule. But Daphne moved through the scene with ease, taking suggestions from the director, even helping other actors with a whispered prompt on occasion. I could see why Mr. Pennington was so enthused about her. She was, indeed, a natural.
At the close of the first scene, when the director called for a lunch break, I was surprised to hear a burst of applause and a shrill whistle from the darkened recesses of the performance area.
“Good job, honey! You’ll knock ’em dead!” I turned and saw a beaming Tommy Trent rushing toward the stage. Daphne ran into his waiting arms.
“Don’t mess up my make-up,” she warned, lifting her face for a long kiss. “Did you really like it?”
“You’re fabulous, doll,” he told her. “I always told you, you can do anything!”
This from the man who’d just said, ‘She’s too friggin’ dumb to think anything up by herself’?
The pair headed, arm in arm, for the stairs.
This was a much different Tommy Trent from the glowering, threatening man I’d encountered less than an hour earlier. As they passed me, the stage light blinked off, just glinting for an instant on the two blond heads, hers against his broad shoulder.
What a beautiful couple, I thought. Then I remembered saying the same thing about a photo of Tommy and Helena. That hadn’t worked out well for Helena, and I felt a momentary chill of fear for Daphne.
“Well, what do you think of your discovery, Ms. Barrett? Is she not a gifted actress?” Mr. Pennington watched as the elevator door closed behind the couple. “Of course, we’re just at the beginning of the production. It will continue to improve.”
“She’s your discovery, Mr. Pennington,” I said. “I just made the introductions. But yes, she’s a wonderful Billie Dawn.”
“Have you quite recovered from this morning’s unpleasantness, Ms. Barrett?” he asked, concern evident in his expression. “You appeared quite distraught. Perhaps you should take the afternoon off.”
“Thank you, sir. I think I’ll take you up on that.”
“You go right ahead,” he said. “By the way, any progress on finding a cash register for Hobson’s?”
“Still working on that,” I told him. “I haven’t given up hope.”
“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.” Mr. Pennington paused and gave me one of those quizzical looks he gets when he expects someone t
o identify one of his old movie quotes. I’m afraid I responded with a blank look and a helpless gesture.
“Oh, my dear, your aunt would have had that one in a second! Morgan Freeman in The Shawshank Redemption, 1994.”
“Of course,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I should have had it. I’ll be leaving now. Thanks so much for inviting me to the rehearsal. Enjoyed it.”
I hurried out to the parking lot, stopping in the doorway for a moment to look around for Tommy Trent’s Mercedes. I didn’t see it, or him, and climbed quickly into the comfort of my beloved Corvette. I snapped the locks down, pulled out onto Washington Street, and headed for home.
I found a blue sticky note pasted onto the door of my apartment. Aunt Ibby’s neat, round-lettered handwriting informed me that she’d received a tweet from Tripp Hampton offering a cobbler’s bench coffee table, if I still needed one for the play. She’d jotted down his telephone number. I pulled the note from the door and carried it into the apartment, where O’Ryan sat looking up at me, head cocked, golden eyes bright.
“What do you think of that, cat?” I asked. “Should I call Mr. Hampton the Third and take him up on his kind offer?”
O’Ryan moved his head from side to side, which could mean “No” or “I don’t care” or “A flea is biting the side of my neck.” I chose to interpret it as “I don’t care,” tossed my handbag onto the new living-room couch, sat down, and called the number on the blue square. It rang several times, and I was about to hang up when Tripp answered.
“Hampton residence. Tripp Hampton speaking.”
“Hello. Tripp? This is Lee Barrett. You left a message for me with my aunt? Isobel Russell?”
“Of course, Ms. Barrett. Lee. I understand you have a need for an old cobbler’s bench coffee table.”
“Sure do,” I said. “My aunt says you have one we could borrow.”
“That’s right, and you’re most welcome to it. I’d happily deliver it to you, but I don’t have an appropriate vehicle at the moment.”
“No problem. The school has provided me with a truck. It’s not a pretty thing, but it’ll do the job. When would be a convenient time for me to pick it up?”
“I have quite a busy schedule,” he said. “Let me check my calendar.” There was a short pause before he returned to the line. “Could you possibly make it tomorrow evening? Around seven o’clock? I have meetings with investment clients all week, but most evenings are free.”
“I’m sure Mr. Pennington won’t mind if I use the truck after business hours. Yes. Sure. I can do that.”
“Excellent. Do you know where I live?”
Oops. Do I admit that I was there very recently, when I gave Daphne a ride home? Or would she rather he didn’t know about that?
I sidestepped the question. “I have your address. My GPS will get me there. Never fails.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening. Sevenish?”
“See you then,” I said. “Thanks again for the offer.”
O’Ryan jumped up onto the couch and sat beside me. With a large yellow paw, he batted at my handbag, then finally worked his head into the unzipped side pocket that held the dream book. I laughed at his antics.
“O’Ryan, you big silly. Do you know how goofy you look doing that? Get your head out of there. What do you want? The dream book?” I reached into my bag and pulled out the copy of 999 Dream Symbols. “Okay. There it is. What about it?”
He prodded the book with his nose, pushing it against the armrest. Then, with one delicate flip of his paw, he popped it open to a page headed with a capital D.
“You want me to look at the dream symbols that begin with D, I guess. We’ve already looked up dog and diamond. What else is there?”
He did a cat flop onto the open book, and his pink nose came to rest on the paragraph headed Dog Growling. “If the dog is growling,” I read aloud, “it indicates some conflict within yourself. It may indicate betrayal or untrustworthiness.”
“How did you know the dream dog was growling?” I asked the cat. “And what am I supposed to do with this information, anyway? I already know I’m loaded with inner conflict. Besides that, how do I know who’s a betrayer? Who’s untrustworthy?”
And why am I holding a conversation with a cat?
I hastily stuck the book on top of the new bookcase, picked up my handbag, and nudged the cat off of the couch. “Come on, O’Ryan. Between River’s tarot cards and the damned dream book, pretty soon I’m not going to trust anybody. Let’s have some lunch, and then I’m going to change clothes and do some more shopping.”
I’d kept my word to Pete about having groceries in the house, and I was pretty pleased with the way the inside of my refrigerator and cabinets looked. I felt that I was prepared for anything, from a quick snack to a sit-down dinner. I opted for a ham sandwich on r ye bread with a glass of milk and served O’Ryan a tiny can of what the label claimed was “a grilled seafood feast in cream gravy.”
A cooling shower helped to wash away the stress of the morning’s encounter with Tommy Trent. I tossed the jeans and the yellow Tabby shirt into the hamper and put on khaki shorts, a green silk blouse, and a pair of brand-new leather sandals. My damp too-curly hair was unruly, but I took a cue from Daphne and messed it up a little more. It was a new look for me, and my reflection in the bathroom mirror told me it wasn’t a bad one. I still didn’t have a full-length mirror for the bedroom, so I couldn’t get the overall effect, but what did it matter? I was only going shopping, and a mirror would be the first thing I’d look for.
I put the top down on the Corvette. The sun felt good on my face, and it didn’t matter what the wind did to my hair. I popped in a CD, and with Aerosmith’s Music from Another Dimension! blasting from the ten-speaker audio system with a bass box and subwoofers, I shook away thoughts of betrayal and growling dogs and untrustworthy blue-eyed blondes. I had the afternoon off, and I fully intended to have the proverbial “good day.”
My first stop was at one of Salem’s old, established furniture stores where I knew Aunt Ibby often shopped. The full-length mirrors they offered were of good quality, and several of them seemed as though they’d blend with my other pieces, but nothing really appealed to me. I decided to stop at Jenny’s to see if she had any mirrors I hadn’t already seen. I pushed the front door of the shop open, noting that she was no longer locking it between customers.
“Jenny? You here?” I looked around the shop. Nobody there. I had a moment’s discomfort, remembering the last time I’d entered an antique shop and called out the proprietor’s name. Relief washed over me when I heard voices coming from the next room. I followed the sound and saw Jenny and a tall man standing together at the back of the room, almost in the spot where I’d found my Lucite kitchen set. Not wanting to interrupt a potential sale in progress, I stepped back, intending to wait in the front room, where there were more than enough antiques to hold my attention for a while.
“Lee? That you? Come on back,” Jenny called. “Someone here you should meet.”
I walked toward the two. Sunshine streaming through the window behind them made it difficult to see, and I shaded my eyes with one hand. It wasn’t until I was standing right in front of them that I recognized the man. He recognized me, too, no doubt.
“Lee, this is my old friend Gar y Campbell. Gar y, Lee Barrett. She’s a new friend and, I might add, a darn good customer.”
If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t let on. He smiled, held out his hand, and said, “Always happy to meet a good customer. How do you do, Ms. Barrett?”
I went along with the charade and shook his hand. “How do you do, Mr. Campbell?” I turned to Jenny. “I don’t want to interrupt you two. I was just checking to see if you have any new full-length mirrors. I can come back later.” I was already backing up, heading for the exit sign.
“Oh, you don’t have to hurry away,” Jenny said. “We’re almost finished with our business here.”
“I’ll come back late
r,” I said again. “No problem. Nice to meet you, Mr. Campbell.” And with that, I was out the door. It was a pretty chicken departure, I knew, but of all the people I didn’t want to hang around with in a social situation, Gar y Campbell probably topped the list.
I climbed back into the ’Vette, abandoned Aerosmith for some soothing Michael Bublé, and headed for Antique Row in Essex. I’d surely find a mirror there and might even pick up some fried clams at Woodman’s to share with Aunt Ibby and O’Ryan.
It took a couple of hours of shopping, but I was right about finding a mirror. It was a gorgeous full-length oval one on a swivel-tilt cherrywood stand. I was pretty sure it would pass River’s feng shui test, and I could tilt it so I wouldn’t see my reflection when I was in bed. It reminded me of one that had been destroyed in our attic fire, so I knew Aunt Ibby would like it, too. I arranged to have it delivered, wondering if it would arrive in one of Bob’s trucks. Feeling good about furniture, and not bad about life in general, at Woodman’s I splurged on two quarts of fried clams and a large order of onion rings, then called Aunt Ibby and told her I was bringing home dinner. She promised to whip up some homemade coleslaw, and I drove home along the pretty shore road, looking forward to a pleasant evening.
I was about halfway back to Salem when my phone buzzed. I don’t like to answer the phone when I ‘m driving, so I pulled over and looked at the caller ID. It read John Hampton, Jr. Tripp Hampton. What did he want?
“Hello. This is Lee Barrett. May I help you?”
“Lee? Tripp Hampton here. I’ve had a cancellation, and I wonder if you could come over about that coffee table tonight instead of tomorrow.”
I wanted that cobbler’s bench. But I looked over at the hot, Styrofoam-insulated fried clam dinner on the seat next to me and turned him down cold. “Sorr y, Tripp. I have plans for the evening. Anyway, I don’t have the truck. Tomorrow will be much better for me. All right?”
Look Both Ways Page 16
