by Mark McNease
He nodded, maybe in thanks, maybe in agreement she should go. He did not speak again.
Maggie headed upstairs, still burning with guilt—but not enough to forget the new hammer in the toolbox, or Chip’s claim to have given the duplicate key back to David.
Once in her bedroom, she went to the jewelry box David had used as a catchall drawer, his place to put things he didn’t want to lose—including spare keys. He’d believed in having an extra set of everything. She stood at the dresser, reflecting on how long it had been since she’d opened this box. Since just after his death? Before it? Had she ever opened it?
She reached out slowly, as if the lid would burn her fingers. She gently lifted it up, and there it was: the spare key to the house, in a small compartment on top of other spare keys, some that she recognized and some she’d never known existed. What did they unlock? she wondered. My sorrow? My loss?
Leaving the key where she’d found it, she closed the jewelry box and left the room.
If you can have one key made, you can have two.
The thought struck her as she headed downstairs. If her discoveries about Alice had taught her anything, it was to remember that appearances can be deceiving. Just as her neighbor had been more complicated than she had ever imagined, so, too, might Chip McGill be.
She glanced at him, still working on the fireplace, as she left the house.
CHAPTER Twenty-Five
SERGEANT HOYT DID NOT INVITE Maggie to the conference room this time. He met her in the lobby when she arrived unannounced and sat beside her in the waiting area, his impatience evident.
“The first thing we examined was the hammer,” he explained. “It’s called a murder weapon.”
Maggie had told him about Chip McGill’s new hammer, speculating that the one it replaced had been used to kill Alice.
Hoyt sighed loudly. “Did you think that wouldn’t occur to us? There were no fingerprints on the handle, which is none of your business, by the way, but I’m telling you anyway.”
“So it could be Chip’s!”
“It could be anyone’s, Mrs. Dahl. A murderer clever enough to get a body back into a house without anyone seeing him is probably going to make sure he doesn’t leave incriminating evidence. We’ve spoken to Chip. He replaces hammers now and then, he’s a handyman. Again, this is none of your business, but he’s not a person of interest in this. Did you want him to be?”
Maggie glanced out the window, wishing she hadn’t come here. She’d managed to make a nuisance of herself while accomplishing nothing in the process. If the police didn’t consider Chip a suspect, why should she?
Maggie said, “I don’t know what I want or think, Sergeant. I only know people are often not who we think they are.”
She turned back to see Hoyt looking at her.
“Could you be more specific?” he asked.
“I thought Alice was just a distracted, sweet woman with a bunch of cats and too much time on her hands. I had no idea she had gambling debts—”
“Gambling debts?”
“—debts she couldn’t repay without help.”
Maggie did not tell him Alice got that help from a loan shark named Dahlia Getty, or that Getty sold the note to Heather McGill.
Continuing, Maggie said, “Or that she’d done something terrible to Chip McGill.”
This time Hoyt took notice.
Seeing his expression, Maggie said, “You knew about Alice and her whisper campaign against Chip?”
“Yes, I knew about it. I was a rookie when Lilly Stapley disappeared. As a matter of fact, I was the first officer who showed up when Melissa Stapley called to say her daughter had vanished off the street.”
Maggie could tell it was a sensitive subject for him and wondered if she’d made a mistake bringing it up.
“If Chip McGill was going to kill Alice Drapier for ruining his life, I don’t think he would wait ten years to do it. I told you, he’s not a person of interest. He has an alibi, which, like too much I’ve said, is none of your business and will remain that way.”
Hoyt stood up, ending a conversation he’d clearly not wanted to have.
“I really have things to do, Mrs. Dahl.”
Maggie got up from her chair, flustered and unsure what to do. “I’m sorry for wasting your time,” she said.
Hoyt softened slightly. She had not spoken with any bitterness, her apology sincere.
He took her hand in more of a clasp than a shake and said, “We will find who did this, I’m sure of it.”
“But you’re not promising.”
“I learned long ago in this profession not to make many promises. I once promised a mother we would find her daughter, and you see how that turned out.”
Maggie nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. I won’t bother you again …”
“Unnecessarily,” he said, finishing her sentence. He smiled.
Maggie let his hand go and headed out to her car.
CHAPTER Twenty-Six
SHE’D ONLY MEANT TO STOP at Davies Hardware for a lightbulb. When Maggie left the police station after another fruitless conversation with Sergeant Hoyt, she’d felt dispirited. He wasn’t humoring her anymore and he had made it clear the hammer that killed Alice did not belong to Chip McGill. She asked herself how stupid could she be not to assume the police—the police!—would examine the hammer first. If the killer had left fingerprints on it, they would have made an arrest by now. And Hoyt, of all people, would have thought immediately of McGill. He knew the history the handyman shared with Alice Drapier. He may not have known about the affair, but he certainly knew about the damage Alice had done with her deliberate rumors and veiled accusations.
Maggie was processing it all, wondering how long she could keep this up, with the store opening just days away and a business to run, when she reached the hardware store. Situated on Bridge Street between a beloved neighborhood bookstore called the Booketeria and Beverly Jewelers, Davies Hardware had been a fixture in town for decades. Cal Davies, the owner, took the business over from his late father and had worked there since he was a teenager. Everyone knew Cal, and Cal knew everyone.
The place smelled like a hardware store. Maggie had loved that smell since she was a child and her father had taken her with him to the local hardware store in their Brooklyn Heights neighborhood. It was hard to define, an intoxicating mix of plastic, chemicals, tools, wood … all blended into a fragrance unique to this type of business. You wouldn’t smell it anywhere else.
She heard a distinctive whistling that reminded her of a tune she couldn’t name. Light, cheerful, but unfamiliar.
“Morning, Mrs. Dahl,” Cal said, glancing up from the front counter. The whistling had come from him, and stopped when he greeted her. He wore half-glasses and was examining a piece of paper a man had given him. It looked to be a list of supplies. The customer, his back to Maggie, glanced around briefly and nodded hello.
“Good morning,” Maggie replied.
“I’ll be right with you.”
Maggie said, “Take your time,” and walked past the counter. She figured she could browse while she waited for Cal. She might even find the light bulb on her own.
She heard Cal talking softly to the man at the counter. She walked slowly down a row of painting supplies—brushes, painter’s tape, plastic tarps and rolling pans. She turned at the end of the aisle, headed back toward the front of the store and found herself looking at a section of hammers. She’d never known hammers came in such a variety: ball-peen hammers, framing hammers, upholstery hammers … and claw hammers. Right there in front of her. Not only the same type of hammer that had killed Alice, but the same brand.
Maggie reached out and took the hammer off the wall rack. She hadn’t touched the hammer in Alice’s kitchen, but she had seen it up close and she would swear the one in her hand was exactly the same. It had a price sticker and a Davies Hardware decal on the handle, but it was identical to both the hammer resting next to Alice’s head and the one she’d see
n in Chip McGill’s toolbox that morning.
“May I help you?”
Maggie almost dropped the hammer on the floor. She had not heard Cal walk up to her, and the sound of his voice startled her. She turned to see him smiling at her. It was the first time she noticed his blue smock, with the store’s name stitched over one breast and his own over the other. It made her wonder if there were any other employees, any other names stitched onto Davies Hardware smocks.
Putting the hammer back on the wall, Maggie said, “I was just looking for a lightbulb.”
“In the hammer section?”
That smile again, which Maggie observed did not extend to his eyes.
“I was thinking of getting one for Chip McGill. He’s working on our house—my house.”
His expression changed to one of feigned compassion. “It’s okay, Mrs. Dahl. I lost my wife fifteen years ago and I still say ‘our.’ People say it takes time. I say time has nothing to do with it.”
“Right. Well, I was looking for a replacement light bulb for one of my bathrooms.”
“I’m sure I have what you’re looking for,” said Cal. “Two aisles over.”
Leading the way, Cal walked Maggie to an aisle that held any lightbulb she might need. And, as Cal told her, “If I don’t have it, I’ll order it. That’s the Davies Hardware way.”
She imagined him having a Davies Hardware mission statement somewhere, with a set of Davies Hardware principles and Davies Hardware promises. The more she was alone with the man in his store, the more she wanted to position herself near the door.
As she was paying for her lightbulb, she saw a key-making machine behind the counter. She knew most people had keys made at hardware stores, especially in places like Lambertville. The local hardware store, like the barbershop, diner, and, once upon a time, Post Office, was a community center as well. Women kept up with each other at the salon, and men gossiped at the hardware store, even if they didn’t call it gossiping.
“By the way,” Maggie said, sliding her credit card back into her wallet. “Chip had a key made for my husband. It’s been over six months so I don’t expect you to remember this, but …”
“Oh, I remember,” Cal said, surprising her. “It was unusual for Chip to have a house key made. He hadn’t done that for some time.”
Maggie remembered the handyman’s words, that he had no interest in having a key to anyone’s home. It would be noticeable for him to make an exception. She was relieved when Davies used the singular. She also felt silly and a little ashamed.
“I assumed the keys were spares for you and Mr. Dahl.”
The keys. Plural. More than one.
Maggie stared at him. “Keys?” she asked.
“Yes. He had two made, as I recall. Like I said, it’s not something I’ve seen Chip do in a long time. He lives upstairs here, you know, in one of the apartments.”
Maggie glanced at the ceiling, as if she could see through it into Chip’s living room.
“Yes, I know. I was there once to pay him.”
“What really made me remember it, though, was the receipt.”
Maggie looked at him. “What about the receipt?”
“He wanted two, one for each of the duplicate keys. But Chip’s a funny man, I assumed it had something to do with his bookkeeping.”
“Yes,” said Maggie, “I would assume that, too. I’m sure it did. I’ll have to look at home and see if my husband kept both receipts.”
She knew already there would not be two receipts.
“Anything else for you, Mrs. Dahl?” asked Cal.
Another customer came in, sparing Maggie any further awkward conversation.
“No,” she said. “I’m good for today. Thanks for your help.”
“It’s the Davies Hardware way,” he said, waving past her at the man who’d just entered.
“Of course it is,” said Maggie.
She picked up the bag holding her new lightbulb, gave Cal Davies a final smile, and hurried out of the store.
CHAPTER Twenty-Seven
“WHY WOULD HE WANT A key to your house?”
Gerri asked her sister the obvious question. They were at Dahl House Jams and Specialties stringing crepe along the ceiling and putting up decorations for the opening. Maggie had recounted her trip to the hardware store and what Cal Davies had told her. She had to admit it made no sense—at least not immediately.
“I’ve been asking myself that for the past hour,” said Maggie, standing on a ladder. “Help me with the streamers, will you?”
“Don’t overdo it. It’s a specialty shop, not a toy store.”
Maggie had never opened a business before. She’d been fretting for weeks about how to do it. She’d asked around, talking to other shop owners, each of whom had their own ideas. She concluded it was mostly trial and error, though the error could be ruinous. Free food, tasteful party decorations, samples of her Dahl House Jams, and endless schmoozing—those would make up her recipe for success. Flyers had gone up around town, handed out by Janice and the factory crew. Invitations had been sent to select invitees who were encouraged to spread the word and bring as many friends as would come along. And an article was scheduled to run in the Hunterdon County Democrat, complete with an interview. The young reporter from the paper, a man named Dan Higgins, had set up an appointment with Maggie for two weeks after the opening. By then she hoped to have good news about the store’s smashing launch.
Gerri stood by the ladder, handing Maggie another streamer to tape up.
Maggie said, “It could be a fetish.”
“The streamers?”
“The key!”
“You mean, like he collects them? Has sex with them?”
“Not that kind of fetish. How would you have sex with a key, anyway? Where would you put it? Don’t answer that! No. I mean maybe he secretly has keys made to people’s homes …”
“While denying he has keys to anyone’s home! Very clever.”
“Then he sneaks into houses in the middle of the night for the thrill of it.”
Shaking her head, Gerri said, “I don’t believe in coincidence. This intruder came into the house just when you’re sticking your nose where it could get broken.”
“Into Alice Drapier’s murder.”
“Yes. I don’t think it’s an accident of timing.”
“Neither do I.”
Maggie descended the ladder. She stood and looked around at the room. They’d done about as much decorating as they could without turning a tasteful opening into something cheap and gaudy. On the other hand, she knew kids liked balloons, streamers, and especially jam. She wanted the store to appeal to people’s children as well. Nobody says no to their kids—it was a strategic decision.
“I think I need to have another conversation,” said Maggie.
“With Chip McGill? Again? He’s lying. He’s not going to suddenly admit it.”
“You’re right. That’s why I’m not going to talk to him. I’m going to talk to his daughter. She was very forthcoming.”
“Blithely so. Have you considered she might be lying, too?”
“Maybe. She doesn’t seem to care who knows what. I like that about her. If she’d killed Alice, she’d just admit it and shrug.”
Gerri folded the ladder and leaned it against the wall.
“And you think she knows about her father’s secret key making.”
“Probably not, but she could find out more easily than I could.”
“She has absolutely no reason to help you.”
“Oh, I disagree. She has every reason to help me. If her father is an innocent man, she’ll want to prove that.”
“I’ll go with you,” Gerri said.
“No, not this time. I think Heather might be more comfortable if I go alone.”
“Have it your way. But you might stop at home and get that gun.”
“Very funny,” said Maggie. “I’m not shooting anyone in an art gallery.”
She would not get the gun
, even if it had been a serious suggestion. She hoped a time never came when she really needed it.
CHAPTER Twenty-Eight
MAGGIE LEFT HER CAR IN front of Dahl House Jams and walked to the Valley Visions gallery. The walk was less than ten minutes but it would give her time to think. She could not imagine why Chip would secretly copy a key to their house. If it wasn’t something he was in the habit of doing, a sort of perverse hobby, then it was specific to their house. But that was absurd, she thought. Why on earth would he want secret entry to her home?
There was nothing of particular interest in the house’s history. David had noticed it for sale when they’d taken their first long stroll through town. He’d wanted to see the side streets, believing that was how you got to know the real character of a place. The main thoroughfares were nice enough with their art galleries, shops and restaurants. But the people who inhabited communities like Lambertville lived, for the most part, off to the side. So they’d walked casually down one side street and back on another, noting the street names and marveling at many of the houses. Even small houses here have a sense of belonging to them, of comfort, as if they, too, are longtime residents in a place they call home.
Then they came to Delevan Street. As they headed back toward their car four blocks away, David noticed the old house for sale. It looked as if it had been unoccupied for some time, and in need of repair even longer.
“What do you think?” he’d asked, stopping in front of the house.
“What do I think about what?”
“This house.”
“I think it looks like it needs a lot of work. And how do you keep something that big warm in the winter? The heating bills must be enormous!”
Maggie was not initially impressed with the house and had wanted to forget it. They hadn’t really discussed this part of any move. She’d seen them buying a condo, not a hundred-fifty-year-old structure with warped floors and a crumbling fireplace.
