Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Do you have a minute?”

  I smiled. “Sure. Kimberly, right?”

  “Yes.” She turned around slowly, taking in the path to the tag sale entrance, the building, the half-full parking lot. “What made you decide to open your own business?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Kimberly met my eyes. “Envious, I guess. You’re so accomplished. Was it a long-term dream?”

  “Not really. I moved to New Hampshire for a fresh start. I worked in antiques before, so I knew something about the business. Are you thinking of starting a company?”

  She stared at her feet for a moment. Worry lines wrinkled her brow. “No … but I’m thinking I might need a fresh start. Did you get divorced? Is that why you moved?”

  I twirled my engagement ring. “I’ve never been married.”

  “What, then?”

  I didn’t want to talk about that horrible year, my last living in New York City, especially to a stranger. You always hear how whistle-blowers endure contempt and mistrust, and that’s what happened to me after I reported my boss’s collusion with the competition in a price-fixing scheme. Then my dad died. Two weeks later, my boyfriend at the time, Rick the Cretin, announced I was getting to be a downer, his word, and left me cold. My dad always said when you’re at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on, and if you can’t hang on, move on. I lasted a year before moving to New Hampshire to start a new life. I could no longer recall the details of what those miserable people had said about me in my hearing or even the specifics of what they’d done to make me feel so isolated, but the feelings their shunning had engendered were seared into my soul and would stay with me forever. Living well was the best revenge, and I was living well indeed. I had a thriving business and employees I cared about and trusted; I was engaged to a man I adored who adored me; I was involved with New Hampshire Children First!, work that added meaning to my life; and I had good friends, real friends, friends who wouldn’t toss me in a Dumpster like yesterday’s trash, no matter what. I couldn’t imagine why Kimberly was asking about such old news.

  I smiled again, hoping she’d let it go and change the subject. “A bunch of things. It worked. I love my life here in New Hampshire. Where are you thinking of going?”

  “I don’t know. I have a son, and that makes moving tougher.” She dismissed the topic with a wave of her hand. “Never mind. What I really wanted was to ask you about Steve Jullison. Mo’s ex. What do you know about him?”

  I let my astonishment show. “Me? Why on earth would you ask me that?”

  “You two seemed close.”

  “We’re not.”

  “I don’t want to make another mistake.” She looked around again. “I’m not doing a good job of asking, but I was hoping you would advise me.”

  Gretchen advanced toward us from the tag sale entrance, stopping twenty feet away, waiting for my signal.

  I raised a finger, indicating I’d be with her in a minute. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Kimberly.” I glanced at Gretchen, then smiled at Kimberly. “Duty calls.”

  I left Kimberly standing there, her pretty face framed by the yellow-gold willow leaves.

  “Problem?” I asked Gretchen in a whisper.

  “Not exactly. It’s Wes Smith. He’s on line one. He says it can’t wait.”

  “Thanks.”

  I trotted to the front office. I felt bad for Kimberly, and sad, too. Maybe it was because her relationship with Steve was secret that she had no one she could talk to, no one she could trust to tell her the truth: Be careful. If a man cheats on one woman, it’s not a stretch to think he might cheat on you, too. Steve is a world-class liar. I could hear the platitudes most people would dump on her: You’ve invested so much time in the relationship, what’s a little more? Love is always worth fighting for. Don’t give up—Ryan needs a dad. As I entered the building, I glanced back. Kimberly hadn’t moved. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground in front of her.

  “Kimberly!” I called.

  She looked up.

  “Come on in—let’s talk some more.”

  She took a step in my direction. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  I smiled. “I’ve got pizza!”

  She came on the run.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I asked Gretchen to make Kimberly comfortable, told them I’d be back in a flash, and dashed to my office to take Wes’s call.

  “Hey, Wes. It’s me. What’s going on?”

  “You should have called me.” Wes sounded huffy. “What do you know about this Pat Durand person?”

  “Nothing other than what I told you—Cal is using that name. I’m not holding back on you, Wes. What about the PO box?”

  “It’s real, and they have security cameras—except they only store the images for ninety days, and guess what? No one’s checked the box for the last three months.”

  “When was the box opened?”

  “June eleventh, this year.”

  Pat Durand opened the post office box three days before he bought the first print from Anita. “No doubt the clerk doesn’t remember a thing about him.”

  “The clerk has trouble remembering his own name. It gets worse. You need two IDs to open a box. One of them was a lease for an apartment at 965 Ocean View Lane. Duh! There is no Ocean View Lane in Rocky Point. The other ID was for a nonexistent Hitchens employee. That one included a picture, but it’s still a bust, because all you can see is that the person is white. The photocopy is in black-and-white and pixelated. Between the short hair, long bangs, and bad lighting, you can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman. The police are stymied. There are nine full- and part-time workers at Hitchens who have rights to create IDs. They issue thousands of them—all the students, faculty, staff, authorized researchers, visiting professors, select vendors, etcetera, etcetera, but that’s not relevant anyway because this one isn’t real. Someone jury-rigged the design in Photoshop, adding a photo they probably got off the Internet, printed it out, and laminated it. It’s a dead end. Plus which, using a fake name isn’t against the law unless you intend to commit a crime like fraud, and the police are a mile away from proving that, even if they can confirm who Pat Durand is or was, which they can’t.”

  “Cal may not be the only person using the name.”

  “Who else?”

  “Someone helping him.”

  Wes’s voice lowered conspiratorially. “Like Nora.”

  “It’s possible. I’m convinced that she knows where Cal is. Do you think she’s aware the police are onto her?”

  “No. If she has any suspicions, she probably just thinks she’s paranoid. When you’re having an affair, you’re always looking over your shoulder.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I read a lot. Same as you.”

  “What about Nora’s husband?”

  “Kevin. I hear rumors he’s the jealous type. Lots of innuendo, nothing specific.”

  “Who said what?”

  “You’re asking for my sources?” Wes asked, outraged.

  “As if.” I laughed. “I’m asking whether people are actually saying things or whether you’re reading between the lines.”

  “Two people told me he keeps her on a short leash, but they both have an ax to grind. One is an ex-girlfriend with a grudge. Kevin dumped her years ago, and she’s as bitter now as she was then. The other is one of Nora’s co-workers who was hot on her a few years ago and resents her brush-off.”

  “Are Nora and Kevin happy?”

  “I guess. Why?”

  “Because if she’s happy, it’s hard to see why she’d be sleeping with Cal.”

  “I figure that’s just sex, you know? I mean after a few years, sex is just same old, same old, so if you’re that kind of person, you go sniffing around. Kevin isn’t. Nora is.”

  “Do you think that’s right, Wes? Romance only lasts a few years?”

  “Like I said, it depends on the person. For most people, it only lasts a f
ew months.”

  “That’s pretty cynical.”

  “Nah, I’m not cynical. I’m realistic. I’m a reporter, so I see more of the dark side than you do. You’re all about the froufrou.”

  I started to argue the point, then decided to let it go. “Never mind. Kevin is in construction. Is that right?”

  “He’s a project manager for Calidale Vista. Do you know them? They’re huge.”

  “Really? I got the impression from Nora that he was one of the guys pounding the nails, not that he was running the show. She told me being an accountant was really tough, that sometimes she wished she was in construction like her husband because nails don’t talk back.”

  “Good one, Joz!”

  “Good one, Nora. I’m just repeating what she said. What else have you learned?”

  Wes hadn’t dug up any dirt. Neither Nora nor Kevin had financial troubles, pending lawsuits, or criminal records. Which didn’t mean Nora wasn’t having an affair with Cal and helping him commit art fraud any more than it proved Kevin wasn’t controlling.

  “Have the police talked to that neighbor?” I asked. “The one who was on a business trip to Brazil?”

  “Yup. His name is Walter Greene, and he saw two cars parked in front of the Shannons’ the day Mo died. One was there when he got home from work about four thirty. He didn’t recognize the car, and he didn’t see the driver. He can’t even say what model or color it was. The second car drove up as he was getting his mail, about quarter to five. That was Cal. Walter knows him by sight. Cal walked onto the Shannons’ property. Walter went inside to drop off the mail. He figures the first car drove away while he was inside, because when he went outside again to look around his garden, it was gone. Then a minute or two later, here comes Cal, hustling to his car and leaving. He saw you and Chief Hunter drive up about five to five.”

  “This is incredible, Wes! We have Cal at the murder scene at the right time.”

  “I know—it’s a definite hot patootie! Cal kills Mo and runs for it. Now we just have to find him.”

  “I’m stunned. We knew it was possible—and it is.”

  “It’s more than possible. It’s likely.”

  Sadness washed over me. “Cal killed Mo.”

  “It looks that way. What else ya got?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll catch ya later.”

  I replaced the receiver, then stood, staring at it.

  Cal and Nora and Lydia—three such different personalities. Cal was arrogant and narcissistic, with morals so elastic anyone following his play risked whiplash. Nora was smart and methodical, with an unexpected party-girl edge. Lydia was guarded and suspicious, wrapped in a melancholic fog.

  I called downstairs and asked Gretchen to load up a tray with pizza and bring Kimberly up.

  Gretchen placed the tray on the butler’s table. I asked her to tell Fred I was sorry for not coming back to finish my shift, and to let him know I’d try to fill in later in the afternoon.

  After Gretchen left, Kimberly reached for a slice of pepperoni. “Thank you for this. And for inviting me in to talk. I’ve been reading about you and your company for years. I’m a real fan.”

  “Thank you. I know a little about how hard you work from Mo.”

  “I’m crushed about her death. That’s part of what has me reeling.”

  “Crushed is a good word for how I’m feeling, too. She was a good friend.”

  “And a wonderful teacher.”

  “I know she loved her work. How about you … Do you like teaching?”

  She patted her lips with a napkin. “Yes.”

  “I hear some hesitation in your voice.”

  “You know how it is … you can love the work and the schedule … but it sure would be nice to make more money. Sometimes I think I should just drive away, to do what you did, to start over.”

  “Drive away where?”

  “That’s part of the problem. I love Rocky Point, and I don’t want to live anywhere else. I love Steve, too. But if our relationship isn’t going to work, I want to know now, not a year or five years from now.”

  “What does he say?”

  “Give it time. Which isn’t helpful. It’s also hard because I have no one to talk to. Almost no one knows we live together.”

  “It’s hard to make decisions in a vacuum.”

  “Exactly. What do you think I should do?”

  “I don’t know.” I took a slice of mushroom pizza. “Did you grow up in Rocky Point? Is this home?”

  “Sort of. My mom and I spent summers here starting when I was in grade school. We had a cottage on the beach. My dad came up weekends. We lived just outside Boston, so it wasn’t that far for him. Then he got transferred to Dayton. That was about five years ago, and everything changed. They sold the cottage last spring. I tried to buy it, but I couldn’t afford the fair market value, and they couldn’t afford to let me have it for less.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “Nothing’s easy, right? Rocky Point is a great place to be a kid, and I wanted Ryan to have that same experience.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “Not really. It’s different when you live in a single-family house on the water.” Kimberly smiled, a memory coming to her. “The girl who lived in the cottage next door to us … her name was Chelsea … she and I did everything together, all summer, every summer. We played beach volleyball. We went spelunking in the salt caves at the end of the beach. We even went clamming right in front of our houses. Ryan doesn’t have any of that. We live in a condo a mile from the shore, without a private lawn or anything.”

  “Those summers sound heavenly. No wonder you want that for Ryan.”

  “God, I remember it all like it was yesterday. The lock on one of my bedroom windows was broken, so I never had to worry about getting locked out.” She laughed. “That was when we were older. We’d go to the beach late at night to smoke and drink beer. All I had to do was shimmy down a tree.”

  “Does Chelsea still live in Rocky Point?”

  “No. You know how it goes. People move away. They change. Chelsea lives in Colorado Springs now, with her husband and three kids. I emailed her about buying the cottage—I thought it would be fun to go in together—but she wasn’t interested. She hasn’t been back east since she left for college. If she didn’t send Christmas cards, I’d never hear from her.”

  “It’s hard when orbits no longer overlap.”

  “Is it inevitable?”

  “That you lose touch with friends? I think each situation is different. I’m not friends with anyone from Welton, where I grew up. I have one good friend from my years in New York. Regardless, it sounds like you’re ready for some stability.”

  “Desperate is closer to the mark. And I’m not sure Steve can handle that.” She stood up. “Thanks for the pizza and for letting me vent. I’m sure it will all work out.”

  I carried the tray downstairs and led the way to the front office.

  Cara was on the phone and raised her hand, catching my attention. I placed the tray on the guest table.

  She punched the HOLD button. “I’m sorry to bother you, Josie, but this woman bought a pair of bronze bookends at last week’s tag sale. Lincoln. She wants more. I checked the computer. We don’t have any more in stock. She’s asking where we got them so she can see if more are available. What should I tell her?”

  “Find out exactly what she’s looking for. Bronze bookends? Only bronze bookends featuring Lincoln? Anything Lincoln? Presidential bronze bookends? Tell her we’ll let her know when something she wants comes available, but that we never reveal sources. If she pushes, I’ll take the call.”

  Cara smiled broadly. “I can do it.”

  “Good—but if you need help, that’s okay, too!”

  I walked Kimberly out. She paused with one hand on her car door handle to thank me again for the pizza and conversation.

  “I don’t know that I was any help, but you’re always welcome to run th
ings by me. I know how hard it is to be on your own.”

  She thanked me for the offer and drove away.

  Kimberly seemed to have a good heart, but it was clear that she was struggling to juggle her own needs with Ryan’s and Steve’s. I hoped she’d figure it out.

  As soon as I walked back inside, I stopped thinking about Kimberly and started thinking about Marianne Dowler, who’d sold a guitar in 1971.

  If Marianne paid taxes, the Mississippi Department of Revenue would know it, and if it was public information, Fred’s contact would tell us, but that call would have to wait until Monday. I sent Fred a quick email with the suggestion.

  I returned to the tag sale venue, thanked Fred for covering for me, and took over for him at the instant appraisal booth. Afterward, I texted Ty that I wanted to go to the Colonial Twist for dinner. I asked him to make a reservation. I added that he’d need to wear a tie and jacket. Then I got back to work.

  Davy Morse, our guitar expert, called around four, saying he was leaving for New York, had some details to confirm, and hoped to get us his report by midweek. I told him that was fine and resisted asking for an interim update.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ty and I got to the Colonial Twist about seven thirty. We were all buffed up. I wore a short-sleeved cherry-red dress. It had a fitted top and a swirly skirt, and when I wore it, I felt pretty. Ty wore a brown suit with an off-white shirt and a green-and-brown-striped tie. He didn’t react to the white-helmeted doorman or the heavy wooden door, but two steps into the lounge, he stopped short.

  Every chair in the lounge was taken. A couple stood by the mantel, laughing.

  Ty turned to look at me. “Can you believe we didn’t know this place existed?”

  “Can you believe it’s this successful without Chester promoting it?”

  “How did he do it?”

  “He found himself some well-heeled gamblers, and word of mouth did the rest.”

  “Too bad. I thought maybe he’d found an elixir and we could help him bottle it. We’d make a million dollars before morning.”