Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  I nearly bounced out of my seat, but I spoke with calm composure. “Thank you. When is good for you?”

  “Friday. I don’t come to campus on Fridays.”

  I walked beside her to the door. “What time?”

  She suggested ten, and I agreed. I wrote down her street address, email address, and home phone number, thanked her again, and left.

  I was in my car, backing out of the space at 12:02 P.M.

  I was thrilled that Dr. Sanford agreed to let me search for documents about the guitar, but I didn’t much feel like celebrating. Instead, I rehearsed my eulogy the whole way back to Rocky Point.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I stopped at home to change from my chinos into something more appropriate for a funeral, settling on a black-and-dark-green tweed pleated skirt with a dark green blouse, a black blazer, and low-heeled black pumps. I drove myself to the church, arriving about ten minutes early, and parked in a spot near the front.

  A representative from the funeral home handed me a program. I stepped aside to read it. After Pastor Ted spoke and we sang some hymns, those of us scheduled to deliver eulogies would be brought up to the stage one at a time. I was delivering the third eulogy, after Helena, the director of New Hampshire Children First!, and Edna, Mo’s principal.

  The usher led me to an aisle seat near the front. Helena sat on the aisle across from me. We nodded, acknowledging one another. Frank, Trish, and Lydia sat alone in the front pew on the right.

  The service started shortly after two when Willa Como, a classically trained pianist, stepped onto the stage and sat at the organ. She played the prelude, Bach’s Cantata BWV 147, “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” Ted came up next, then Willa played three hymns. I joined in the singing. Helene spoke about Mo’s core goodness. Edna spoke about her work ethic and the lives she’d touched through her teaching. Then it was my turn.

  The church was about three-quarters full. Trish held a lace-edged white handkerchief to her eyes. Her shoulders shook. Frank sat next to her, holding her hand. Lydia’s eyes were fixed on her thighs. She’d lost weight, and she looked frail. Nora and her husband, Kevin, were seated about halfway back on the right, next to the other book club members. Ellis sat in the last row on the left. Detective Brownley sat two rows in front of him on the right. Wes was seated at about the midpoint, on an outside aisle.

  My heart rate doubled and my mouth went dry as I climbed the stairs. I thanked my escort and took my notes from my jacket pocket. I swept my eyes across the church. Steve, Mo’s ex-husband, stood at the back, half hidden by a stone column.

  “Mo Shannon was my friend.”

  Kimberly, Steve’s girlfriend, stepped into the church. The funeral director approached her. She shook her head and waved him away.

  “Which makes me one of the luckiest people in the world, because when Mo was your friend, you were set for life.”

  Kimberly crept forward, her eyes on the crowd, angling her head to see around people.

  “Mo only saw the good in people, the potential. She believed that people were essentially decent. She didn’t merely mouth the words, she lived the life.”

  Kimberly sidestepped toward the right. Steve kept his eyes on my face.

  “She worked with children, both in her job as a teacher and as a volunteer. You’ve heard of those successes. I witnessed some awe-inspiring moments, like the time she knelt beside a little boy so scared and hurt after enduring years of abuse, he could barely communicate. She whispered to him, always smiling, a portrait of tenderness and devotion. She comforted him enough to trust her, and he let her place him on a horse, his first time. I watched his frozen expression, the face of silent suffering, soften into a smile of wonder and delight. They set off, Mo leading the pony around the indoor ring, an image of an angel. Mo loved children, and children loved her.”

  My eyes filled, and I paused. Kimberly turned her head and spotted Steve, pinning him with her eyes. She walked slowly, deliberately, toward him. Steve leaned against the column. As far as I could see, Steve had no idea Kimberly was in the nave.

  “Mo loved Japanese woodblock prints. I asked her what it was about them that spoke to her. She said it was the duality. Muted colors that communicate vibrancy. Isolated settings packed with life. Two dimensions communicating a three-dimensional narrative. This duality could be seen in Mo herself. Mo was reserved and introspective, yet when she walked into a room, people gravitated toward her, wanting to know her. Mo was quiet yet lively. She delved into the dark corners of children’s lives, yet all she saw was potential.” I paused and looked out into the congregation for a moment. “Mo will stay in my heart forever, a reminder that when we’re patient and kind, we bring out the best in one another.”

  As I descended the steps, I took one last glance at the back. Neither Steve nor Kimberly was in sight.

  * * *

  I waited in line to pay my respects to Mo’s family. The temperature had dropped during the service into the fifties, and the cold got inside me.

  Frank embraced me, a bear hug. “Thank you, Josie.”

  “Frank … my condolences.”

  He gave me a final squeeze, and I moved on to Trish. Her face was gaunt. Her eyes were swollen and moist.

  “I’m so sorry, Trish.”

  “Thank you for those beautiful remarks, Josie. It helps a bit.”

  I touched her forearm. Lydia stood two paces away, alone despite the crowd, as rigid as a fence post. She stared at me.

  “Lydia, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Pastor Ted walked up in time to hear my comment and Lydia’s reply.

  “I know.”

  Before I could formulate a response, Pastor Ted nodded at me and touched Lydia’s shoulder. “I’ll stand here beside you, Lydia.”

  I acknowledged Ted’s kindness with a brief smile and walked slowly to my car, trying to account for Lydia’s apparent malice, but I couldn’t. She was as sharp as a porcupine needle and just as cuddly, and that was simply who she was, at a garden party, viewing art, or at her sister’s funeral. It felt personal, but it wasn’t.

  “So what did you think?”

  I spun toward the voice. It was Wes.

  “Hi, Wes. I thought it was a lovely service.”

  “You got anything for me?”

  “No. You?”

  He glanced over both his shoulders, then lowered his voice. “I think Lydia’s involved.”

  Incredulity froze my words.

  “I know. It’s a super-shockeroonie.”

  “My God, Wes—what do you know?”

  He grinned. “Nothing. I’m just thinking aloud.” He turned around to face the receiving line. “I mean, jeesh! Look at her. She looks like she’s made of stone.”

  “She’s grieving, Wes.”

  “If your sister was murdered, wouldn’t you show a little emotion at the funeral?”

  “We shouldn’t judge.”

  “That’s what you always say because you’re so nice.”

  I smiled at his backhanded compliment.

  Kevin Burke walked Nora to her car. Her eyes were red, and her blond hair was in disarray. She clutched a wadded-up tissue in her hand. Kevin turned her to face him and said something. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing her cheek into his chest. After a moment, he pulled back and kissed her. She touched his cheek. They looked like a couple in love. Kevin stood beside her car until she belted herself in. As she pulled out of her spot, they waved to one another, and he walked to a pickup truck two rows away. Presumably, they’d driven separately because they came from work. I was about to ask Wes if he had any other news when I noticed Chester’s black sedan on the street. With all the traffic, it was easy to miss.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I’ll call you.”

  I jumped into my car and got it started. To distract Wes, I waited for a minute, fiddling with the radio setting, then checking my phone for messages. I g
ave a quick finger flutter and pulled out, turning left, toward my company. I was six cars behind Nora, and three behind Chester. Vehicles peeled off, and others joined the flow. Soon only one car separated Chester from Nora, and two separated me from him.

  A half mile farther on, just after we turned onto Main, Nora sailed through a yellow light. The car ahead of Chester stopped for the red, trapping him. I spun right, turning quickly onto Milo Street, then zipped left onto Lister Road, a residential street that ran parallel to Main. I sped up. At Tapson, I turned left, rejoining Main, only two cars back of Nora. Chester wasn’t in sight.

  Nora made a right onto Islington. Three miles down, she parked in front of Anthony’s Shoe Repair. I drove past her, pulled a quick U-turn, and parked diagonally across the street. I had an unobstructed view of the entrance. Nora leaned her head against her steering wheel, clutching it as if it were a life ring, and wept. After a minute, she sat up and wiped away the wetness with a tissue. Her chest heaved as she inhaled deeply, trying to pull herself together. Another minute passed before she opened her car door.

  I slunk down, holding my arm up to block my face while allowing myself a clear view, but it wasn’t necessary. Nora was so wrapped up in whatever was going on within herself, she didn’t even glance around. She dragged herself into the shoe repair shop as if she were facing the gallows. I agreed with Chester. That Nora used this cobbler made no sense.

  The sun slanted off the plate glass window, so I couldn’t see inside, but from the steady foot traffic, I could see that the shop was busy.

  I waited.

  After about ten minutes, I called my office. Cara told me everything was fine and asked about the funeral. Fred, she said, was out meeting with a curator about an unsigned Impressionist-style painting we’d acquired in an estate sale. Eric was outside, overseeing a crew he’d hired to clean the gutters. Cara passed me on to Sasha. Sasha read me catalogue copy for some marbles we’d bought about two years earlier‡ that were going to be featured in an antique toy auction next spring. I approved it. I spoke to Gretchen next, who gave Melissa Sayers, our new part-time employee, a glowing review. When I was done, I checked the time. Nora had been inside the store for nearly thirty minutes.

  I called the Rocky Point Police Department, and Cathy, a civilian admin, told me Ellis wasn’t available. She transferred me to his voice mail. “Ellis, I’m at Anthony’s Shoe Repair.” I gave him the address. “I know how odd this might sound, but Nora Burke went in more than half an hour ago, and she hasn’t come out. It’s possible she’s meeting Cal. Anyway, I thought I should let you know.”

  I texted Wes: Can you find out about Anthony’s Shoe Repair on Islington?

  Ten minutes later, phone in hand so I wouldn’t miss a response from either of them, I got out and looked around. The neighborhood was just as Chester had described it, solidly middle class, decent but uninteresting. Harvey’s Market, a discount grocery store, was two blocks down on Islington. Anthony’s Shoe Repair was one of a series of small shops that ran for a block. An Italian deli was on one side, and a small convenience store was on the other. Across the street, two-family houses shared driveways and minuscule front yards. Every house was freshly painted, though. There were curtains on the windows and flowers in the gardens. I locked my car, waited for the traffic to slow, and crossed the street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Anthony’s Shoe Repair looked like every other cobbler’s storefront I’d ever been in. Cubbyholes lined the left wall, displaying everything from shoe dye, shoe polish, and shoelaces to umbrellas, rain boots, and plastic ponchos. A cash register sat on the counter toward the rear alongside an old-fashioned cast-iron receipt spike, half filled with pink slips. A short old man with rounded shoulders, wrinkles on wrinkles, and a thick white mustache stood behind the counter. I wondered if he was Anthony.

  I eased a red umbrella from the stack and pretended to read the label, half turning toward the rear so I could continue my assessment.

  Two raised shoeshine chairs abutted the wall to my right, both empty. Next to them was a door bearing a gold-and-black paper sign, the corners curled with age, that read PRIVATE. In back of the old man, a chest-high counter allowed him to pass items back and forth to a man in the rear. That man was taller and broader than the man in front, and about half his age. He stood in profile, hammering something on a worktable I couldn’t see.

  Nora was nowhere in sight.

  A woman hurried in and placed a pink receipt on the counter. The old man held it close to his eyes, then turned to a shelf behind him and found her bag. She paid in cash, and he added the paper to the stack on the spike. The transaction took about a minute.

  Where was Nora?

  A man in a gray suit that could have used pressing entered the shop and plodded to the door marked PRIVATE. Without saying a word, he opened it and passed through. I had enough time before the door swung closed to see a flight of steps leading down.

  I slipped the umbrella back into place and smiled as I approached the counter. “Hi. I’m looking for Nora Burke.”

  “Who?”

  “Nora Burke.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know a Nora Burke.”

  “I saw her come in here about forty minutes ago.”

  “A customer, maybe. She left.”

  “No. She didn’t come out. Her car is here.”

  He shrugged and turned his back on me.

  “I need to talk to her. It’s important.”

  He didn’t turn around.

  I looked past him. The man in the back was working a wheel, spinning it forward, then backward. It made a grinding noise, louder when he rolled forward than when he rolled back.

  I sidled to the door marked PRIVATE, and with my eyes on the back of the old man’s head, I patted the air in back of me until I found the doorknob. I turned it slowly and tugged gently. It opened soundlessly. I crossed the threshold and eased the door closed. To my ears, the latch clicking home sounded as loud as a jackhammer. I was standing in a windowless whitewashed stairwell under a single lightbulb covered by a white glass globe. Muted sounds drifted up from the basement, a chair being dragged across a concrete floor, perhaps, followed by a man’s rumbling laughter and rustling papers.

  I took a step down, and the wood creaked. I froze for three seconds, then continued, leaning heavily on the railing to mitigate the squeals of old wood. Eight steps down, I reached a half-landing. The staircase turned to the left. I counted six additional steps. At the bottom, I stood on a square landing facing a closed door. I placed my ear against the door, and sounds resolved into words.

  Two men were talking, one a baritone, the other a tenor.

  “You know anyone who’s been to Lake Worth, Florida?” the baritone asked.

  “Sure. It’s a nice residential area, you know, a little suburban, quiet. My aunt is down there and likes it.”

  “Then my wife won’t.” He laughed, the same rumble I’d heard at the top of the stairwell. “My Bea likes a little pizzazz.”

  “Take her to Miami. South Beach.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  I took a to-my-toes calming breath and exhaled slowly through my mouth, opened the door, and stepped into a big room with narrow frosted-glass windows running along the front of the building. A stack of metal pipes lined the floor underneath the windows. The room was as large as a basketball court. The two men I’d heard talking were sitting at a battered round table. One held a copy of today’s Seacoast Star; the other was busy with a crossword puzzle. The table was the kind used at banquets, set for eight or ten. Without a tablecloth, all its nicks and chips showed.

  I counted five doors. The one opposite the windows, to my right, was labeled with the same kind of sign as the door I walked through: PRIVATE. Two doors opposite from where I stood read MEN and LADIES, a nonamusing misalignment—men are men, but women better be ladies. To my immediate left were two more doors, both unlabeled.

  The man holding the newspaper l
owered it to the table and stood. He was big and burly, and nearly bald. “Can I help you?”

  “Where am I?”

  His forehead creased. “Downstairs.”

  “I know that, but what is this place?”

  “A social club. Who are you?”

  “Josie Prescott. Who are you?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Nora Burke.” I sent my eyes around. “Where is she?”

  He took two steps toward me. “You’re in the wrong place, lady. This is a members-only club. You need to leave.”

  I turned to the door marked PRIVATE. “What’s in there?”

  “Nothing for you.”

  I walked toward it.

  “Stop!” he bellowed.

  I stopped and met his eyes, and shivers ran up my spine like a spider. “Sorry.” I back-stepped to the staircase door.

  “Who are you again?”

  “Josie Prescott, an antiques appraiser. I don’t want any trouble. I just need to talk to Nora. I thought she was here.”

  The tenor stood and watched our interaction as if it were a tennis match. My phone vibrated, and the baritone’s gaze shifted to my hand. It was Wes, calling from his office at the Seacoast Star.

  The man stomped toward me and grasped my arm, rotating my hand palm up so he could see the phone display. “Are you kidding me? You’re a reporter?”

  “No. I told you. I’m an antiques appraiser. This call is about advertising my company’s weekly tag sale.”

  The baritone snatched the phone. I reached to grab it back, but he kept me at bay with one outstretched arm. I stopped trying to recover it, and he pushed me backward, not too hard or far.

  “What’s your password?”

  “Come on. You want me to go … I’ll go. No harm. No foul.”

  “That ship sailed by. What’s your password?”

  “Six eight two eight.”

  He tapped the numbers in, brought up my text log, and raised his eyes to mine. “This ain’t no ad. You asked a reporter to check out Anthony’s.” He opened the telephone window. “Are you kidding me? Your last call was to the police?” He turned to the other man. “Tell ’em.” As the tenor ran for the door marked PRIVATE, the man holding my phone wrenched my tote bag from my hand. He dumped the contents onto the table. He flipped open my wallet and thumbed my license out. “Well, at least you gave your right name.” He tossed my phone onto the pile.