by Anne Canadeo
“I’m sorry, Mag. He snuck out today. I didn’t even realize it.”
“That’s all right. I’m happy to see him. This time,” she said. She laughed and headed to the front of the store; a customer had come in.
“I think there’s some tuna in the fridge. Just get him upstairs again,” she whispered, “before anyone with an allergy comes in?”
Maggie’s one firm rule was no cat in the shop; Phoebe could keep him provided he stayed in her apartment. But Van Gogh was certainly a welcome sight downstairs today, considering the possible alternatives.
* * *
Lucy had intended to search the Internet for tidbits about Cassandra as soon she got home, but a note with attached files from a new client, Bleckman Paper Products, had appreared in her in-box. She’d been hired to design their company directory, an extremely mundane project. But it paid well. Checking the files and formatting the document was her first priority.
But, quickly bored with the work, Lucy decided to take a break and poke around the Internet for information about Cassandra Waters.
She typed in a search to find several references to that name in Cape Ann—a child psychologist in Newburyport, an insurance broker in Rockport, and an exotic dancer (at least that’s what she called herself) available for bachelor parties and private performances.
None of those photos matched the Cassandra Waters she had known, though she did come across two online listings for the psychic’s services, the text a verbatim copy of her advertising card. There was also a fluff piece about her in the Lifestyle section of the Plum Harbor Times, dated a few months back, when she’d come to town, buffed up her crystal ball, and set up shop on Ivy Lane.
Lucy had hoped for more and felt frustrated enough to request a simple search of the psychic’s name on a background check website, at the cost of a mere ten dollars. Only to receive the two bits of information she’d already found, spit back at her.
She returned to designing the directory, which included photos of all the employees. Staring at names, titles, and phone numbers inspired her to try the reverse look-up site.
She found the window and tapped in Cassandra’s phone number, then the cell phone service was quickly located—a red dot on a map of Plum Harbor. When Lucy paid the fee to receive more information on the user—under ten dollars, which seemed worth it—she found the service was billed to someone named Jane Mullens. Lucy wondered if she’d made some mistake with the street name or house number.
But of course, Cassandra Waters was an alias . . . Duh.
Otherwise, what luck to have been given the perfect name for a psychic and then turn out to be one. Unless Cassandra’s mother had been graced with the powers of predicting the future as well?
Lucy’s fingers itched to turn her considerable research skills on Jane Mullens. But she heard the thunder of dog paws downstairs. Tink and Wally, galloping to the front door to greet Matt with happy barks and whines as he walked in from work.
Matt called up to her from the foyer. “I’m home, Lu. It’s so nice out. Want to take the dogs to the beach?”
Lucy went to the top of the stairs and peered down at him. “I had the same idea. I’ll just change my clothes.”
The hot day had cooled off, and it would be cooler still on the beach once the sun went down. Lucy was ready to get some circulation back in her legs. The background check of Ms. Mullens—aka Cassandra Waters—would have to wait.
As she tugged on her running sneakers and a sweatshirt, she guessed the police had already unearthed this choice tidbit about Cassandra’s real name. Probably their first order of business was a check to see if the victim had any criminal record or other identities.
Still, it didn’t hurt to have some interesting information to report at the next knitting meeting. Even if Dana arrived with something juicier—passed on from Jack—stashed in her knitting bag, too.
* * *
“Did the police get in touch yet, about an interview?” Lucy asked Maggie.
“Not yet. How about you?”
“Someone left a message on the home phone last night, while we were out. I’m supposed to call back before noon.”
Lucy felt a little nervous about the interview. But she was sure Maggie had already guessed that and knew why.
She sat on the porch steps in front of the shop, watching Maggie hover over the flower boxes with a watering can, occasionally picking off a shriveled bloom or two. The sun was still low in the sky but it promised to be another hot, sunny day. She was glad she’d gotten her bike ride in early, but did not look forward to pedaling back to the cottage.
Lucy did not know much about gardening but had learned from Maggie it was important to dead-head the flowering plants—pick off the spent blooms—so they would make more flowers even faster. Maggie’s petunias flourished, no matter the scalding weather. She clearly knew something about it.
“Charles stopped by yesterday for a few minutes. He asked me some questions, nothing too intense. I told him what I thought might help. I don’t think you could count that as an official interview.”
Maggie set down the can and straightened up, rubbing the bottom of her back with one hand. “I guess we’re not high on the list.”
“Guess not. I wonder if they have any ideas yet. It’s barely twenty-four hours since the body was found.”
“They don’t have a clue,” Dana said, coming up the walk. Lucy hadn’t even noticed her there. “Well, maybe a clue. But no solid leads yet. Not that Jack has heard of.”
“Did the police contact you yet?” Maggie asked.
“Nope, not yet.” Dana carefully stepped around Lucy and gently patted her head hello. “You went riding without me.”
“I was going to call you, but figured sweaty spandex was not ideal attire for appointments with patients.”
“Very true. We’ll go out this weekend, though, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
Dana smiled. She chose a wicker chair in the shade and took her knitting out. “What’s up, ladies? Are we chatting about the Cassandra Waters case yet?”
“Not yet,” Lucy said, “but since you mentioned it, the police left a message for me last night. They would like me to call back before noon, for an interview.”
“We knew they’d probably call soon,” Maggie said. “I didn’t hear from anyone yet, though. Did you, Dana?”
Dana shook her head. “Maybe they called Lucy first because her name begins with B? Alphabetical order?”
“Or because I booked the appointment with Cassandra?” Lucy said.
“That could be.” Maggie nodded. “I guess they’ll catch up with the rest of us soon enough.”
“I found out something about Cassandra yesterday. I guess I’ll tell the police later.” Lucy’s friends both turned to look at her. “I think her real name is Jane Mullens.”
“Good work. Jack thought her name was an obvious alias, but he didn’t hear that yet.” Dana turned back to her knitting; she was also making a tote, but on a smaller scale, beige nubby yarn with brown stripes. Neutral tones that would harmonize with most of Dana’s wardrobe, Lucy noticed. “I think we all had the feeling that Cassandra Waters was a stage name, so to speak.”
“It definitely sets the right tone for her work. Much better than Plain Jane. And the Mullens part . . . well, that doesn’t sound psychic at all,” Lucy said.
“True. But how did you find her real name?” Maggie tugged off her gloves and sat in a chair near Dana.
Lucy explained about the reverse look-up site, where she’d typed in Cassandra’s address.
“I’m assuming it was her service. She’s the only person who lived at that address, right? I guess it’s possible that the last person who lived there was named Mullens and never changed the address on her account,” she added. “But I’m going to run a check of that name and see if I can find a photo.”
“You could freelance for private detective agencies now, too, if you get bored with your usual projects,” Maggie sug
gested.
“I’m thinking about it,” Lucy said.
“You’re keeping pretty good pace with the police department,” Dana said. “Though they have the advantage of all her client lists and investigation software that just spits this stuff out. I do wonder why they didn’t call us yet. You’d think they’d check on the clients she’d seen closest to her death.”
“We were pretty close . . . but Nora was probably the last to see her. She had a session on Sunday night,” Maggie recalled. “She said so in the diner. Remember, Lucy?”
“Yes, I do. She didn’t say what time it was,” Lucy said. “So maybe she wasn’t the very last. But I bet the police spoke to her by now. She was such a frequent visitor with Cassandra.”
“Yes, they must have,” Dana agreed.
“I’m sort of dreading my interview. I still feel uneasy about telling them that I saw Richard Gordon leaving Cassandra’s house Friday night.”
“You have to tell them. It could come back to bite you later. No need for that.” Dana’s tone wasn’t scolding, just matter-of-fact.
“Yes, I know.” Lucy glanced at Maggie. They’d been through this the other day.
“They may have already spoken to both Nora and Richard and he may have told them himself he was there on Friday night,” Maggie reminded them.
“I thought of that, too.” Lucy nodded. “I just feel like if he didn’t, it’s sort of a bombshell. I just don’t want to get him into any trouble. . . . I’d feel so responsible.”
“I understand,” Dana said. “But if he was up to something, he’s the only one who can be held to account for his actions. Not you. Not in any way.”
“And now the police have two murders to figure out. They need all the help they can get,” Maggie said.
“Yes, they must be overwhelmed with this case, on top of Jimmy Hubbard. Did Charles mention any progress with that?” Lucy asked Maggie.
“Only that the police have no idea yet if the two murders are connected. They’re hoping Cassandra’s client list lends a clue in that direction.”
Dana suddenly looked up from her knitting. “I did hear something more about Jimmy. Turns out he went to jail for possession of narcotics and intent to sell. He was found guilty and sentenced to fifteen years. But he gave testimony in another case not too long ago, and got out early.”
“Jimmy Hubbard? The guy who made balloon animals at kid’s birthday parties? A drug dealer?” Lucy could not get her mind around the revelation.
“He went to jail for that offense. But that doesn’t mean he was dealing drugs around here,” Maggie reminded them. She suddenly looked over at Dana. “Was he?”
Dana nodded and picked off a thread from the bottom of her project. “They searched the theater soon after he died and found bags of meth in a film canister, hidden in the projection room.”
“I saw the police going in and out for a few days,” Maggie recalled. “I didn’t think much of it.”
“Why wasn’t any of this in the newspaper, or on the local news?” Lucy asked.
“They want to keep this line of the investigation quiet. They still haven’t abandoned the possibility of some former criminal connection tracking Jimmy down. For one thing, he did supply testimony that put other guys behind bars,” Dana reminded them.
Maggie looked shocked. “He seemed so nice. I don’t know . . . gray and bland? A shy man. No hardened criminal, I’d say. But that must have been an act. Or maybe he had a split personality?”
Dana shrugged. “It could have been an act. Or he may have just been a bland, shy drug dealer. An amoral, criminal personality who was good at compartmentalizing and found a way to be a nice guy by day and make easy money by night. Or whenever opportunity presented itself.”
Dana looked down at her knitting and shook her head. She looked sincerely upset by the subject. “I see so many adolescent patients with addiction issues, even in this town. Which we all know couldn’t be a nicer, more wholesome environment. The families are torn apart. Our boys are grown now, thank goodness. But I worried all the time about them navigating that high school quicksand. I don’t know if any kid is really immune.”
“I’ve seen it myself at the high school. The art room draws those troubled, out-of-sync types who are often at risk,” Maggie said. “It’s such a waste. Kids just don’t realize what they’re getting into. Even with all the drug education now in the schools.”
Maggie sighed and offered her friends more cold water from an icy pitcher out on the porch.
Dana took a glass and sipped quickly. “This tastes good. Nothing like cold water on a hot day. The simple pleasures of life are always the best.”
She set the glass down and carefully rolled up her knitting, then slipped it into her tote. “Maybe the police will never call the rest of us for interviews. Maybe the investigation is already focusing on a hot lead. They’ve been pretty tight-lipped about Jimmy all this time.”
“Speaking of tight-lipped . . .” Lucy turned to Maggie. “I’m sure Charles hasn’t told you anything about either case.”
“You know Charles. He’s an original Sphinx.”
The image of Charles’s face superimposed on the Egyptian icon made Lucy smile. “I hope you don’t feel uneasy talking about Cassandra with us. I don’t want you to have another argument with him because we can’t stop gossiping.”
“Trying to prevent gossip in a knitting shop is like . . . well, trying to prevent people from salivating in a bakery. It’s pure reflex. The autonomic nervous system and all that, right Dana?” Dana nodded and smiled as Maggie glanced her way. “No way could I ever control that. Charles can’t possibly expect me to, either.”
Dana laughed. “You’re right, Maggie. Knitting and tongue-wagging go together like peanut butter and jelly.”
“More like wine and cheese, in our case,” Lucy noted.
Maggie laughed. “Very true. All I can control is my own behavior. Such as, no Internet searches for alias names or criminal records. Not that I’d be able to manage such a thing anyway,” she added, laughing at her own lack of tech savvy. “Gossip away, my friends. Don’t hold back on my account.”
“Good to know. But I’ve had my daily dose for today. Time to go up to the office,” Dana said.
“Me, too.” Lucy stood up and put her bike helmet on. “Time to get back to the thrilling employee phone directory for Bleckman Paper Products.”
“Which I hope isn’t so taxing that you have no energy left for more Internet investigation.” Dana prodded with a sly smile. “Maybe you’ll find something juicy to relate about Cassandra on Thursday night?” Dana asked as they walked down to the sidewalk together.
“Maybe.” Lucy thought she might but didn’t want to say for sure, in case the next search turned out to be a dud.
She walked Dana a couple of blocks farther down Main Street, pushing her bike along as they chatted. She had a small package to mail at the post office and stopped to cross the street.
“Have a good day. I’ve got to run across and mail this,” she explained to Dana. “I missed my mom’s birthday back in May. It’s just a card and a little gift. I’ll give her a real one next time I see her.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it anytime. How is your mom? What’s she up to this summer? More world travels?”
“Of course,” Lucy replied. “Though I have to check the big map I set up in my office, dotted with pins.”
A joke, of course. But just barely. Isabel Binger, a professor of political science at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst, was a legend among Lucy’s friends, owing to her adventurous spirit. Just about any spare time from her college schedule was spent traveling the globe—teaching, studying, or taking part in service work in far-off countries.
Dana laughed. “I think it’s great that she’s so active. She’s such an inspiration.”
“She’s in Africa now. Researching a book about water use, and the political impact a water shortage could have in the world someday.”
/> “Really? I’d be interested to read that.” Lucy knew that if any of her friends did read it, Dana would be the one. Her taste in books ranged from light mysteries and women’s fiction to heavier scientific topics. “You must be proud of her,” Dana remarked.
“I am,” Lucy said honestly. “I just wished we visited more often. She was supposed to come this summer, for my birthday. But she won’t be back from her trip by then. But maybe I’ll go up to Amherst at the end of August, before the term starts.”
“Good plan.” Dana touched Lucy’s arm. “We’ll all do something fun for your birthday. A party at a knitting night meeting, right? Cake, champagne . . . the works.”
Dana was so sweet and perceptive, Lucy realized she’d easily noticed that Lucy did feel glum about her mom canceling their visit.
“Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it. Though champagne and knitting doesn’t mix well for me.”
“Oh, I don’t know if anyone will get much knitting done that night.” Dana smiled, gave Lucy a quick hug, and started on her way again.
Lucy crossed to the post office, secured her bike to a parking meter, and went inside to mail the package. When she came out, the Gilded Age Antique Shop, just across the street, caught her eye.
Richard was outside, tugging on one side of the green and gold canvas awning. He checked it a moment, then disappeared into the shop.
Lucy guessed that Nora was not in the shop today, still too upset over Cassandra to leave her house. She wondered if Nora was sedated, or had seen her psychiatrist yesterday, as they’d planned. She crossed and locked her bike to a wrought-iron bench that decorated the shop entrance alongside a large antique urn of petunias and vines.
The shop was cool and dark, and the rich smell of freshly varnished wood and lemon oil filled her head. The air conditioner hummed, her footsteps muffled on rich red carpeting. She didn’t see Richard and wandered around, looking for him and at all the beautiful items for sale there.
She hadn’t been inside the shop for a long time. She’d forgotten the atmosphere of abundant elegance. Everywhere she looked, the satiny sheen of mahogany, cherrywood, and tiger oak met her gaze. The curves and carvings, the tufted velvet cushions, and elaborate brass handles and knobs were a feast for any eye, and especially for antiques lovers, she was sure, who must mark this place on their treasure hunting tours.
