by Sofie Ryan
“I know that.” There was just a touch of teenage snark in her voice.
“So where are the extra twenty glasses coming from?”
“The garage,” she said as though the answer was obvious. “There are two boxes out there full of wineglasses and beer mugs. I bet there’s more than twenty glasses.”
“They haven’t been washed. They’re covered with dirt and cobwebs and there are dead bugs and who knows what inside at least half of them.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m going to wash them. There’s a sink in the workroom and Mac says he has some of that dish detergent that has the ad for the dancing bubbles I can use and there’s vinegar for the rinse water and three dish towels upstairs that I can use to dry them.” She finally took a breath. “And I’m not afraid of dead bugs. I can get everything ready before the guy comes back.”
“When did he say he’d be back?”
Avery pulled her cell out of the pocket of her black skinny jeans. She checked the time on her screen. “An hour and eight minutes and just so you know I did get a deposit.”
“You thought of everything.” I smiled. “Good job.”
She smiled. “Really?”
“Really,” I said. “If I can help with anything let me know.”
“Is it okay for me to bring in a few more of those big glass vases? I noticed him looking at the two I used on the table. I thought maybe I might be able to sell him one or two . . . or six.” The smile turned into a grin.
I grinned back at her. “Let me know what happens,” I said.
I walked over to join Mr. P. and his friend.
Elliot Casey smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Sarah,” he said.
I nodded. “It’s good to see you as well.”
“Elliot found several photographs of the two of us back in our Scouting days,” Mr. P. said. He handed me a black-and-white snapshot of a boy in the traditional Scout uniform complete with short pants and knee-socks.
“That’s you!” I exclaimed. Mr. P. had the same smile back then, the same intelligent look in his eyes, the same little tilt of his head.
“Yes, it is,” he said. He looked at Elliot. “There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since those days.”
“Do you remember the time we got the canoe stuck on those rocks under that covered bridge?” Elliot asked.
“I remember that somehow you talked me into getting out and pushing and then when the canoe came loose you paddled off without me,” Mr. P. said.
“The current pulled me away.” There was a mischievous gleam in Elliot’s eyes as he put his hand over his heart. “I swear.”
“It sounds like you two had a lot of fun,” I said, smiling at them.
Mr. P. nodded. “We did.”
“Scouting was the best thing that could have happened to me,” Elliot said. “I ended up there because of some, well, let’s say youthful mishaps. The principal gave me the choice: Scouts or the authorities.” He glanced at his friend. “And then I met Alfred, which is a very good thing. He probably kept me from a life of too much wine, women and song.”
His expression grew serious then, his smile fading. “Sarah, I already said this to Alfred, but I want to say it to you, too. Thank you for all you’re doing to find out what happened to Christopher. I had no idea that the last time that Nora and I saw him truly would be the last time.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“The same day he died. Christopher always kept a change of clothes, a toothbrush and a shaving kit at our apartment. Occasionally he’d stay the night. This time he stopped by to change his shirt. He mentioned he had plans for dinner, but he didn’t say what they were.”
He looked at his watch then. I recognized it as a classic Longines wristwatch. The band was sleek stainless steel and it had elegant Roman numerals against a deep blue watch face. Just another way he was different from Mr. P., whose Timex watch had probably cost less than fifty dollars.
“I need to get back,” Elliot said. “I don’t like to leave Nora alone too long.”
Mr. P. held up the photos. “Thank you for these. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Elliot nodded. He raised a hand in good-bye. “Take care,” he said and he was gone.
“May I see the other pictures?” I asked Mr. P.
“Of course,” he said, handing them to me. “That one”—he indicated the top photo—“is Elliot and me outside the first tent we ever pitched.” The boys, arms over each other’s shoulder, wore ear-to-ear grins. “Unfortunately, the tent listed a little to the left.”
“You can’t really tell,” I said.
He smiled. “Thank you for not noticing.”
I looked at the other photo. Once again it was of Mr. P. and Elliot captured in midjump off the end of a dock. Again I thought how happy they looked.
“I’m glad the two of you reconnected,” I said.
“So am I,” Mr. P. said.
I went upstairs, put my coat and bag away and spent a couple of minutes with Elvis, who seemed to think the top of my desk was his designated napping spot. When I went back downstairs again, Charlotte was arranging the chairs around the square table I had brought in to fill the spot where Mac’s sorting table had been.
“Did you sell the stool?” I asked.
She smiled. “I’m sorry. I did. I know you were hoping to take it up to your office.”
“I’ll get Cleveland to watch for another one for me,” I said. I eyed the table. “And you sold one of those chairs.”
Charlotte held up two fingers. “I sold two—the navy blue one with the woven seat and the pale green one.”
I gave a nod of satisfaction. “We’re finally making a dent in our collection.”
Charlotte passed behind me and patted me on the shoulder. “Given your overall weakness for orphaned chairs, I don’t think that will last long.”
I decided I’d go out to the old garage to check in with Mac. Avery was at the sink, carefully rinsing wineglasses in a mix of hot water and white vinegar. Her earbuds were in and she was singing along almost under her breath. Rose and Mr. P. were in their office, looking at a map on Mr. P.’s laptop.
I found Mac in a paint-spattered T-shirt putting a coat of black paint on a large arched window. We had decided to repurpose the old window into a frame for a mirror. I was looking forward to seeing the final project. If it worked we had several other vintage windows we could repurpose in the same way.
Mac set his brush down and wiped his hands with a rag as he got to his feet. “How’d it go with Joe Roswell?”
“Not the way I’d hoped,” I said. I explained about the scratches on the builder’s arm and why Liz thought they were significant. “If he’s not hiding something, why try to make us think they were caused by the broken light fixture when anyone who looked closely could see that’s not what happened?”
“I’m sorry,” Mac said. “I know Liam is friends with the guy.”
“That’s the problem. Liam’s not going to believe the worst about someone he thinks of as a friend.”
Mac smiled. “I know someone like that.”
For a moment I forgot what I was going to say next. Then the words came back to me. “It’s uh, Thursday. Why don’t you come down to Sam’s tonight? Jess will be there and Nick, as far as I know.”
He shook his head. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m going to Rockport right after we close.”
“Oh,” I said. There was an awkward silence.
“Do you remember that auction we went to this summer?” Mac asked.
I thought for a moment. “In that big barn.”
“Do you remember the stove?”
I nodded slowly. “It was yellow.” I remembered how Mac had walked around the 1950s vintage range looking for dents and scratches. It had been in excellent shape, but the asking price was way to
o high for us to make any money and the owner hadn’t been interested in negotiating.
“It’s for sale again. The price is a lot more reasonable now and I want to see if I can get it. I mean, unless you have any objections.”
Mac and I acquired items for the store all the time without checking with each other, although we did try to touch base on the big things. I trusted his judgment.
“Do you have a potential home for it?” I asked.
“I have three.”
“Then have a good time.” I turned to go.
“Sarah,” he said. I turned around.
“I really would have liked to join you.”
I nodded. “Maybe next time.” I headed back across the parking lot, remembering what Liz had said about Mac and I dancing around each other. Decide what you want, Sarah, she’d said. And go after it. Before someone else does. Why couldn’t I seem to do that?
Chapter 17
I went home after work and shared a bowl of fried rice—with extra vegetables—with Elvis. He had some of the chicken while I had all of the extra vegetables. I showered and changed and headed down to The Black Bear. Jess, as usual, had already gotten us a table. Nick showed up about five minutes after I did.
He dropped onto the chair next to Jess, ran a hand over his stubbled chin and turned his head to look at me. “Can you take me home?”
“Right now?” I said. “Gee, I don’t know.”
He made a face. “No. After I drink a couple of beers and likely publicly humiliate myself by getting up and singing harmony with Sam.”
Jess poked me with her elbow. “Say yes. That public humiliation part sounds like it could be fun.”
This time it was Jess who got the face.
“Yes, I can give you a ride home. Bad day?”
He nodded. “I spent the afternoon in court trying to make complicated evidence sound simple. I don’t want to even think about anything related to work.” He leaned forward, grabbed a couple of chips and slouched back in his seat again.
“How was your day?” I said to Jess.
She smiled. “It was pretty good. I have a new wedding dress client and she has to be the most reasonable person I’ve ever worked with. We’re redoing her grandmother’s dress. It’s going to be beautiful.”
I looked over my shoulder toward the door. “Is your boyfriend joining us?” I asked.
“Liam’s at a meeting,” Nick said.
Jess reached for a chip. “I’m starting to think your brother isn’t taking this fake relationship seriously enough.”
I was about to tell her that all the people Liam was trying to fool were on to him when Sam came from the kitchen, looked around, spotted Nick and beckoned to him.
“You’re up,” I said.
Nick picked up Jess’s beer, drained the last inch in the glass and headed toward Sam.
Jess leaned toward me. “We need to find him a woman. A girlfriend.”
“A real girlfriend?” I asked. “Or a you-and-Liam kind of girlfriend?”
“The first kind,” she said.
“And how are we going to do that? All Nick does is work.” I pulled the basket of chips closer and snagged one.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a dating app?”
I had a chip in my mouth and I almost choked. I coughed and hacked and Jess thumped me on the back.
“Bad idea?” she asked.
“Very bad idea,” I said when I could breathe again. “You know how Nick is. He’s surprisingly old-fashioned about some things.”
“I just hate the thought that he’s all by himself.”
“Because you and Liam have each other and I have Elvis?”
Jess laughed. “Okay, when you put it that way Nick doesn’t sound so bad off.”
People started to clap then as the guys took to the stage and that was the end of the conversation, but I couldn’t push away the thought that while being alone didn’t sound that bad, living that way didn’t always feel that good.
* * *
* * *
Friday morning Rose knocked on my door about seven thirty. She was carrying a plate with two apple-spice muffins.
“Hello dear,” she said. “I just wanted to bring you these.”
“Thank you,” I said. “They smell delicious.” The muffins were still slightly warm from the oven and smelled like cinnamon. “Come in for a minute. I can make tea.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m getting the slow cooker ready.”
“All right,” I said. “I was going to leave in about forty-five minutes.” Mac had texted me when I was at the pub to let me know he’d bought the stove. I was eager to see it. “Are you coming in early?”
“I’d like to, if you don’t mind.”
“Elvis and I are always happy to have your company.” The cat meowed his agreement from his stool at the counter.
“I’ll be ready,” Rose said. She paused in the doorway. “What’s your day look like today?”
“Sanding, sanding and then probably some sanding,” I said. “Is there something you need? I’d be happy to put down my sanding block for pretty much anything.”
She smiled. “Alfred and I are going to talk to Mr. Gorham this morning. Would you like to come along with us?”
I’d heard so much about Robb Gorham that I actually was intrigued to meet him. “I would. Do you have an appointment or are we going to try Liz’s approach and just surprise the man?”
“I have an appointment,” she said. “Liam got me the man’s cell phone number and I called him. There’s a lot to be said for the direct approach. I told him that we’re investigating Christopher Healy’s death and that we wanted to talk to him about the lawsuit.”
“And he said yes, just like that?” The muffins smelled so good I was having a hard time not to pick one up off the plate and take a bite.
“How could he say no? It would have made it look like he has something to hide. Which he may have, by the way.” She brushed some flour off the front of her apron. “Alfred found a reference on Robb Gorham’s social media about a visit to see his sister two weekends ago.”
“That’s interesting,” I said.
Rose nodded. “I thought so.” She studied my face for a moment. “You don’t seem sold on the possibility of Mr. Gorham being our killer.”
I sighed. “I guess I’m not. Both Stella and Charlotte have said the same thing about Robb Gorham: He’s the kind of person who takes the easy way out. They’re both pretty good judges of character. I keep thinking that murder was not the easy way out.”
“All the more reason to talk to the man then.” She reached over and plucked a bit of cat hair from my shirt. “If we can eliminate him, we can concentrate our efforts somewhere else.”
“I really want to give Mr. P. some answers,” I said. “And Elliot and his wife.”
“We will,” Rose said.
“Did you see the photos of the two of them? And the one of Mr. P. in his Boy Scout uniform? He was so cute in those short pants.”
Rose smiled. “Yes he was. Alfred had great legs. He still does.” She winked at me and was gone.
* * *
* * *
Our appointment with Robb Gorham was for quarter to ten. It turned out we were meeting him at McNamara’s. Rose had tea, Mr. P. and I had coffee and he convinced me to split a lemon tart with him.
“A whole lemon tart would be a bit of an indulgence,” he explained. “This, however, is just sharing with a friend.”
I smiled. “I like the way you think.”
Robb Gorham was five minutes late. He walked in, looked around and came directly toward our table. “Mrs. Jackson, it’s good to see you again,” he said.
“Thank you for meeting us,” Rose said. She made the introductions and he sat down.
Robb Gorham was a goo
d-looking man; not movie-star handsome, but he had deep blue eyes, thick, dark wavy hair a little overdue for a haircut and a warm smile. I could see his appeal. He put all of his attention on the person he was talking to. It would be very easy to get swept away by that kind of focus.
“Okay, first thing,” he said, holding up both hands. “I didn’t kill Christopher Healy. I’m not saying the way he stole that piece of land out from under Joe wasn’t a pain in the”—he paused for a moment—“neck, but a judge was going to fix that.”
“You have as big a stake in all of this as Joe Roswell does,” Mr. P. said.
“You bet I do,” Gorham said with an easy smile. “This project is the perfect way to show how well my ground stabilization system will work. It’s going to change the construction business.”
“And possibly make you rich,” Rose added.
He laughed. “I sure hope so. I’ve put a lot of my time and money into this project. I’m planning on it paying off.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what makes you so sure this technique will work?” Mr. P. asked. “I mean no offense, but you’re not an engineer.”
Gorham took a sip of his coffee and set the mug on the table again. “I don’t mind you asking and no offense taken. You’re right. I’m not an engineer, and given the way the fibers work with the soil the best person to evaluate the technique would be a geologist not an engineer. I’ve been consulting with one. The system will work and without doing any long-term damage to the environment.”
Except it wouldn’t. I had faith in Tom Harris’s analysis of the science. Did Robb Gorham know his system probably would not do what he was promising or was he in the dark as well? When Gorham had arrived he’d set his keys on the table next to the cup of coffee Glenn had brought him. The overhead light glinted off the key chain and caught my eye. Its oval-shaped tag featured an anchor with something written underneath. An anchor, just like the charm his former wife had given to Stella Hall. I couldn’t make out the writing but I was certain the words would turn out to be “Seabed 2030.”
“The problem is, that geologist is your ex-wife,” I said.
