by Delia James
The inside of the Thompson house was a match for the outside—small, plain and straining at the edges of its resources. I walked past the small but tidy living room and through the kitchen, which opened into the family room that was clearly the center of the Thompson life.
As I came in, Laurie was flipping her cell phone closed.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward the worn leather sofa. She also cleared a slanting stack of mail off the coffee table, in that self-conscious way you do when unexpected visitors show up. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” I sat and pulled my purse onto my knees. “Are you sure this is an okay time?”
“Oh, yes. It’s all fine,” she answered as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ears.
“I actually was hoping I might get a look at some more of your paintings,” I said. “The one you showed me the other day was really lovely.”
“Oh. Oh. Well. That’s very nice of you. I . . . just a moment . . .” She got up and went into a side room that I suspected served as her studio space. I waited, looking around, not sure what I was looking for exactly. Books, papers, toys and game systems were scattered across the various surfaces. The walls were decorated with family photographs down several generations: weddings; graduations; smiling young men in the uniforms of at least three different branches and eras of service; boys and girls grinning and hoisting sports trophies into the air. It all looked breathtakingly normal, and it should have been happy, except it wasn’t.
Footsteps thumped down the stairs. A girl, maybe ten years old, darted around the corner into the kitchen, a book clutched in one hand. She stopped dead when she saw me.
“Hi,” I said, demonstrating the full extent of my way with children.
“Hi,” she said back. “Mom?” she called.
“Yes, honey?” Laurie answered from her studio.
“Can I go over to Margot’s?”
“Oh, yes. Go ahead, but nowhere else, okay? I . . . just, you stay with Margot.”
“Okay.” The girl gave me another point-blank stare and then slammed out the door.
Kids these days. They hadn’t changed much.
Laurie came back out; she was carrying a portfolio. “This is really nice of you,” she said, laying it on the coffee table. “I mean, I’m mostly self-taught, and, well . . .”
She undid the tie and opened the portfolio.
I looked through the pages. Laurie’s work was heavy on the local landscapes, but not panoramas. She did mostly small studies: a single stone on the riverbank, one gull on a broken piling, a man in his overalls and waders sitting and staring out across the waters, his tired face rendered simply but with individuality. I would recognize this person if I met him on the street.
“These are really good,” I said. “I mean that.”
“Thank you.” She rubbed her hands together as if she was cold, even though it was warm in the room. I sympathized. It’s always nerve-racking to watch someone looking over your work. “I’ve tried to sell some,” she said. “But, honestly, it’s so hard to know how to start. I mean, my daughter Jeannie wants me to set up an online store, and there are art fairs and everything, but . . .”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “I might be able to help.” I told her about Nadia and her gallery. “Would you mind if I took some snaps of these to send her?”
“I . . . that would be wonderful! Thank you!”
“I can’t promise anything, but . . . well, there’s a possibility.” I pulled my phone out. The snaps wouldn’t be great, but they’d be enough to give Nadia an idea of Laurie’s range.
“I really can’t thank you enough for this, Anna,” said Laurie when I tucked my phone away. “Are you sure I can’t get you something? Some coffee?”
“No, no, really. I just stopped by for a minute.” I hesitated again. There really was no good way to work around to this. “Listen, Laurie, you’re sure everything’s okay?”
“Yes. Fine. Especially now.” She wasn’t looking at me as she said it, though. She was picking up her paintings and sliding them carefully into her portfolio.
“I’m really glad. Because I was up talking to Elizabeth Maitland and . . .”
“Mrs. Maitland!” A sketch of the pier slid out of her fingers and fluttered to the floor. We both bent down to grab it, but Laurie got to it first. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“She was a friend of my grandmother Blessingsound, back when Gran still lived in Portsmouth.”
Laurie closed the portfolio. When she looked up again, her expression, which had been so welcoming and hopeful a minute before, was closed off and cool. “You’re a Blessingsound? I didn’t realize.”
“My father’s mother is Annabelle Mercy Blessingsound,” I told her. “She and Mrs. Maitland grew up together. And Mrs. Maitland seemed to think there might be a problem, between Brad and Frank.”
Laurie picked up the portfolio and turned away. The speed of her movement sent another stray lock of hair drifting down from her braid. “Is this what Brad wanted to talk with you about at the restaurant the other day?”
Now it was my turn to be distinctly uncomfortable. “Oh. You heard about that?”
“I heard Brad ran into you. I didn’t hear what you talked about.”
I hesitated. I really hadn’t planned this far ahead. “We talked about the house, and how I liked it.”
Laurie wasn’t buying it. “And Dorothy?” she prompted.
“A little. I didn’t know her, of course.”
“Of course,” she answered. “She really was a wonderful person. She recommended Brad for his job with Maitland and Associates.”
“Yeah, Mrs. Maitland mentioned that.” I paused again. Maybe there was a community college course I could take in asking leading questions. Until then, I was just going to have to shove my way through this. “Laurie, I need to ask you something, and it’s not a good question. It’s also probably not my business.”
“Okay.” She attempted a smile. “Now I’m concerned.”
“Is it possible Dorothy was blackmailing Brad?”
My brief acquaintance with Laurie Thompson had gotten me thinking of her as an essentially nervous person. Now her head snapped up and her spine stiffened. “Who told you that?”
“Somebody showed me a letter. They said it had come from you and that it was a blackmail note.”
Laurie was silent for a long moment. I watched her expression shift as she tried to get hold of her anger and failed. “Was it Frank Hawthorne?” she asked at last.
“Laurie, I can’t . . .”
“But it was, wasn’t it? I swear, he’s never going to let go!”
Well, she was talking. She wasn’t happy about it, but you can’t have everything. “What happened between them? I thought they were friends.”
“The newspaper, that’s what happened. Frank lost his mind over it. Completely obsessed with the idea. Who opens a paper nowadays?” Laurie threw out her hands, looking around the family room and the world at large for an answer. “At least, not without really deep pockets.”
I nodded in agreement. There’s an old joke I’d heard from a friend of mine who illustrates kids’ books: How do you make a small fortune in publishing? Answer: Start with a large fortune.
“Brad tried to get Frank to see some sense,” Laurie went on. “He thought maybe Frank should start small and work his way up. When he heard about how short the money really was, he got worried enough that he tried to talk to Dorothy about it.”
“And that didn’t go well?”
“Frank accused Brad of trying to take advantage of Dorothy.”
“What? How?”
She shook her head. “At the time, Brad was coming home late some nights. He was very tired. He didn’t want to tell me w
hat was wrong, but eventually he did. He told me Dorothy was looking to sell the house, to raise money for Frank and his business. He tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t budge. Oh, she was a good woman, but she could be absolutely blind where her nephew was concerned. If anyone was taking advantage . . .” Laurie’s clamped her mouth shut, but I didn’t need to hear her say it. In her considered opinion, if anyone was taking advantage of Dorothy, it was Frank.
“Anyway. Dorothy didn’t want Frank to find out she was thinking of selling. They’d already starting arguing about her finances, so whatever she did had to be done very, very quietly, or Frank would never accept the money. Brad told me he’d agreed to help, although it was difficult. They couldn’t put anything online, because Frank publishes the real estate deals in the paper, so he watches the sites for interesting bids and buyers.”
“So, I guess Brad and Dorothy were spending a lot of time together.”
“And even though they were being careful, Frank found out, and he jumped to the conclusion that Brad was badgering Dorothy about the house. They argued. In fact, they argued the night Dorothy died.”
I bit my lip and ran my hand over my purse. I felt the wand underneath. A low prickling ran up my palm. I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know what to do with any of it. Because this story Laurie was telling me was so very different from what I’d been hearing from other people.
“This must all be really hard for you,” I said.
“Well, it hasn’t been easy. Still.” She shrugged and brushed her straggling hair back. “Maybe now . . .”
She was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming open. “Hey, Mom!” shouted Colin. “You here?”
Laurie shot to her feet. “Colin!” she called back. “Did you . . .”
Colin loped into the kitchen. He saw me and he stopped dead. I seemed to have that affect on the Thompsons.
“What’s she doing here?” he demanded.
If ever there was a cue to exit stage left, that was it. “Thank you for your time, Laurie.” I shook her hand. It really was cold. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”
“Thank you, Anna,” she murmured.
“Well. Gosh. Since you’re going, I’ll walk you out.” Colin stepped aside to make it easy for me to head for the front door, all the while making it very clear that this was exactly what I should be doing right now.
Of course his mom noticed this.
“Colin,” said Laurie sternly. “This is not a problem.”
“Course not,” he answered. “Didn’t say it was.”
I didn’t say anything at all. I just smiled politely and headed out the Thompson’s front door, very aware of the young man who followed me down the driveway to make extra sure I didn’t turn around and bother his mother anymore.
I didn’t. But when I reached my Jeep, I did turn around and bother Colin. “I’m not here to make trouble,” I said. No points for originality there, but at least I meant it.
“Suuurrre,” Colin drawled. “Why would I think that? Especially since you’re going away now, and you’re not coming back.”
“I was here to help. I might have a gig for your mom, for her art.”
That startled him, but he was not at all ready to back down. “We’ve had enough help.”
“What do you mean, Colin?” I laid my hand over my wand. My palm prickled. Julia said magic was about focus and concentration. I tried to concentrate on what I meant. I meant to help. I meant to be a friend. I meant to get to the bottom of what had gone wrong.
Colin shifted his weight and looked away. “I mean since Dorothy Hawthorne ‘helped’ Dad, he’s been acting all crazy. It was bad enough when he was out of work, but this . . .” He folded his arms and stared out across the street.
“What’s ‘this’?” I took a step closer and did my best to focus. Tell me. I can help. Please, tell me.
“He’s supposed to be at work today, but he’s not,” whispered Colin. “Nobody knows where he is.” He slapped his palm over his mouth and for a second he looked panicked. “Don’t tell Mom, okay? Please?” The hostility was gone. This was just a worried kid who was having to grow up a lot faster than he should.
Personally, given how she was acting when I showed up, I figured Laurie already knew. But I nodded anyway. “I won’t say anything to her, I promise.”
“Thanks. Look, I’m supposed to be going to work now. Just . . . leave Mom alone, okay? She’s got enough problems.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” I told him. “But if there’s anything I can do . . .”
But Colin had already turned away and headed back toward the house.
I climbed into the Jeep, started the engine and drove. When I was two blocks away and around the corner, I pulled over and hit Kenisha’s number.
“Freeman,” she answered. “What’s going on, Anna?”
“I’ve just been over at the Thompsons’. Brad Thompson’s missing.”
“Missing?” she repeated in her calm, controlled, cop voice. “How long?”
“Just since this morning, but he’s not at work, and Colin is really worried. I think Laurie is too. It’s got to be twenty-four hours before they can make out a report, right?” Kenisha made an affirmative noise. “I know you don’t like to do anything without proof, Kenisha, but I’m sure something’s going on here.”
“You’ve been talking to Val too much.”
“No, that’s not it. I swear.”
Kenisha sighed. “All right, all right.” All at once, her voice dropped. “I can’t talk now.” I pictured her glancing over her shoulder and wondered if that lieutenant everybody kept muttering about had come within earshot. “But I can keep an eye out for Brad. Is Colin home with Laurie?”
“For now. He says he’s got to go to work soon.”
“Okay. Maybe I can phone later . . . thanks for the heads-up.”
We said good-bye again and hung up, and I sat there for a while, both hands on the wheel, not going anywhere. I’d done what I could, for the moment. I had just a few problems:
1) Brad Thompson was probably lying to his wife about why he’d been spending so much time with Dorothy Hawthorne.
2) Elizabeth Maitland was probably lying to me about how she got her hands on that blackmail letter.
3) Julia Parris was definitely lying to me about the little yellow spy bird.
4) How in the heck was I supposed to make small talk with Frank Thompson with items one, two and three hanging over my head?
33
DESPITE THE LIST of lies and worries that I seemed to be accumulating, the day brought some good news too. Nadia loved Laurie’s work. Capital L, italics, exclamation points and blinky smiley faces loved.
“Do you have her e-mail?” Nadia demanded. “I showed her stuff to a couple of my clients who do high-end office decor, and they want to see her originals, like, yesterday!”
At this time, I was curled up on the living room window seat with Alistair purring in my lap, and looking proud enough that you’d think the whole thing had been his idea.
After I hung up with Nadia, it felt a whole lot easier to believe that everything could be cleared up with a few phone calls and a few pointed questions. I was singing old Beatles tunes as I showered and changed to go meet Frank.
Alistair did not stick around for the second chorus of “A Hard Day’s Night.” Smart cat.
Frank and I had agreed to meet in front of the North Church, and he was already sitting on one of the tourist benches when I arrived.
“You look like you want to change your mind,” he said as he got to his feet. Apparently, I hadn’t been able to keep all my worries and doubts out of my expression.
“No, no. I’m sorry. I just . . .” I glanced around, searching for an excuse. I couldn’t tell Frank straight-out about all the things I’d heard today, not if
I wanted him to keep talking to me. Which I did. Kind of a lot, all things considered. “I was just wondering where we should go.” From where I stood, I could count at least five busy restaurants between the clothing and souvenir shops.
“How about the Pale Ale?” he said. “I know you like the place, and the new chef is really terrific . . . And you’ve got that look on your face again.”
I laughed. “Sorry. It’s just that the new chef is my best friend, Martine Devereux, and if we go to dinner there, she might see . . . us.”
Frank raised both eyebrows. “And Best Friend Martine would care because . . . ?”
“Because she’d think we’re . . . that this is a . . . you know . . .”
“Oh.” Frank nodded sagely. “Is she pro or anti you know . . . ?”
“Oh, pro, but I’m taking a break from . . . you know.”
“And she doesn’t get it, and she’s going to give you all kinds of best-girlfriend grief if you walk in with some random guy, especially if he just happens to be your new landlord.”
“Hey, you’re good at this.”
Frank grinned. “It’s those killer journalistic instincts. Okay, Pale Ale probably not the best idea. How do you feel about chowder?”
“I feel that chowder is nature’s perfect food.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Come on, Anna Blessingsound Britton. It’s time you were introduced to Joe King’s Chowder Shack.”
• • •
JOE KING’S CHOWDER Shack proved to be just that—a shack. It was a little white clapboard building by the river sandwiched between a Circle K quickie mart and a gas station. Across the street, a fake tiki bar blasted techno dance music from the roof patio. It was early yet, but the bar’s parking lot was packed and clearly the party was in full swing.
Inside the shack, there was barely room for me and Frank, the battered counter, and the smiling man who tended the pair of steaming kettles.
“Hey, Manny!” called Frank as he held the screen door open for me. “How’s it going?”
“Hey-yah, Frank. Cahn’t complain. Cahn’t complain.”
