by Cate Price
Dottie’s daughter, Kathleen, seemed to be in charge in the kitchen, bossing everyone around and organizing the care and feeding of the guests. She commandeered Joe to fetch more cases of water from her van, and Martha, Eleanor, and I made ourselves useful by bringing platters to the dining room and unwrapping them.
“It’s really a blessing he’s gone, you know,” one woman near me whispered to another as they helped themselves to large quantities of smoked salmon.
“Oh, yes, can I tell you? Poor Ruth was at the very end of her rope,” murmured her friend. “I don’t know how much longer she could have coped.”
I frowned as I stared at the array of bagels, hard-boiled eggs, tuna salad, cookies, and cakes galore. How desperate was Ruth to be free of her demanding and frustrating patient?
“So much food,” Martha murmured.
Eleanor and I dragged her away from the buffet and back to the living room.
The mass of people seemed to have swelled even more. Frank and Nancy Fowler were doing their civic duty and greeting Ruth as we joined the end of the line. I watched her carefully through the gaps in the crowd, cursing myself as I did so.
“She seems to be in shock, poor thing,” Martha said as we waited for our turn to approach. “The doctor must have given her something to get her through this.”
When we finally made it through a gap in the crowd, I could see what Martha meant. We each hugged Ruth in turn, but her eyes were glassy and it was as though she could hardly stand up under her own power. The frailty of her thin frame seemed even more pronounced in black attire, and she wore a torn black ribbon over her heart.
“I’m so sorry, Ruth,” I said. She didn’t speak, just nodded. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promised, not knowing what else to say.
“She’ll need us more later on,” Martha declared once we were all outside the house again. “Days from now, when this crowd has gone home and the shivah is over, she’ll be feeling lonely, and that’s when we’ll show up with a casserole and a bottle of wine.”
Beau Cassell stepped out of a metallic brown Mercedes and came striding up the driveway. I caught a whiff of fresh cigar smoke as he gave a curt nod in our direction and walked inside without washing his hands.
At the bottom of the hill, the carriage house was dark.
“So where the heck are Cyril and Alex?” Eleanor said. “I can’t believe they’d be shooting this late. The light’s gone.”
I stared at Eleanor in admiration. She was braver than me. I wasn’t about to bring up the elephant in the room. I suspected that Martha was embarrassed at having to justify Cyril’s absence, which only added to her fury.
Her eyes blazed and her freckled hands fisted into knots. “When I get hold of that man, he’s going to feel the sharp edge of my tongue, let me tell you.”
I winced and glanced at Joe, who closed his eyes briefly in dismay.
Cyril was probably enjoying a whiskey at the pub right now with Roos, but he was playing with fire in his quest to break loose. I didn’t envy him the reception he’d receive when he finally did decide to show up.
Martha was going to kill him.
Chapter Four
As I hurried down Main Street the next morning, frost mottled the car windshields and a covering of white blanketed the sidewalks. A bitter wind tossed the light snow into swirling flurries and made me run the last few yards from our house to Sometimes a Great Notion.
Winter was early this year. I hated these dark mornings and brief afternoons before the dark descended again. My favorite season, fall, had been late to arrive and quick to leave, like a boorish dinner guest.
On the porch in front of the shop, a merry arrangement of holly branches sat in an oversize tin watering can. Red berries on the vine wreath I’d hung on the door peeked through the recent powdering. Once inside, I cranked up the heat, set a pot of coffee on to brew, and plugged in the string of white lights that were arranged like a three-strand necklace on Alice, the mannequin. I dressed her according to the season, and today she was sporting a 1960s holiday dress with a velvet top and a plaid taffeta skirt. I would have loved to put a fur muff on her hands, but didn’t want to catch any flak from Eleanor.
The store was full of extra-special merchandise now that would be appropriate for holiday gifts, like linen dish towels bundled with red rickrack trim and Belgian linen pillows stitched with crewel wool in a holly pattern. There were lots of affordable stocking stuffers, too, like wax seals, potpourri sachets, holiday postcards, or sweet antique Christmas ornaments in the shapes of a pine cone, trolley car, or owl.
I walked back to the ten-drawer seed counter with glass-fronted loading bins that housed all kinds of magical sewing notions. On top was an ornate National cash register, and next to it was a bowl full of handmade bookmarks for sale at a dollar each. My clever assistant, Laura Grayling, who usually watched the store on Fridays so I could attend some auctions, had taken strips of wide satin ribbons, studded them with a row of vintage buttons, and added a knotted fringe at one end. A simple design, really, but so appealing.
The bookmarks made me think of Stanley, and I leaned against the counter, allowing my mind to flood with memories. The way I wanted to remember him.
He was a fast and voracious reader and had introduced me to so many of my favorite authors. He bought the latest hardcovers the instant they came out because he couldn’t wait for the paperback editions, and I’d been the lucky recipient of many of his top literary picks. He loved nothing better than to discuss the book with me after I’d read it, while Joe and Ruth chatted about gardening or the weather.
The last of the coffee dripped into the pot, and the front door opened. Eleanor had impeccable timing, always seeming to appear just as it finished brewing.
I poured coffee into two mugs. We wrapped our cold fingers around the hot pottery and shivered.
“Wonder what Martha’s bringing today?” Eleanor said. “I could really go for some of her shortbread lemon bars. Ooh, or maybe the orange-scented mocha truffles? It is the season, after all.”
But when our redheaded friend arrived a few moments later, her arms were empty. Eleanor and I glanced at each other in dismay.
“No cakes today. I could barely drag myself out of bed as it is.” Martha heaved a sigh so deep, it seemed to suck all the breath from her body. “Let me tell you, I am completely exhausted. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, wondering what on earth that man is playing at.” She slammed a hand down on the counter. “Where the hell is he? Is he trying to drive me insane, or what?”
Before we could come up with an appropriately comforting response, the shop door banged open, flung wide by the wind. Detective Serrano strode into the store, grabbed the wayward door, and shut it firmly behind him.
“Detective, Officer, sir. I need to speak to you!”
Serrano came up to us and laid a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Hold on, Martha. Listen, ladies, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. The photographer’s missing, and his studio in the carriage house was trashed.”
“Do you think something’s happened to him?” I whispered.
Eleanor arched an eyebrow as if that went without saying. “I thought it was weird that he never showed for the shivah. I mean, Roos was a flake, but not that much. And he definitely knew about Stanley’s death.”
Serrano adjusted the bowl of bookmarks one millimeter to the left, so the design on the bowl was facing directly forward. “Mrs. Bornstein wasn’t up to answering too many questions. I wondered if you ladies could help me.”
“Of course.” I poured another mug of coffee.
“Kathleen Brown discovered the mess when she went in to clean this morning. All the equipment’s gone, too. Cameras, lights, film, the whole shebang.”
“Oh, no.” I stared at him. “The calendar!”
“This is a disaster,” Eleanor said glumly. “We’l
l need to reshoot the whole thing, assuming we can convince the guys to go through the process again. The printer was already freaking out as it was about the tight deadline to get it into the stores before Christmas.”
“Oh, good God, Cyril!” Martha pressed a hand to her mouth as she sank into a nearby boudoir chair.
Serrano looked at me for an explanation.
“Alex Roos and Cyril were doing the modeling shoot together yesterday.”
“Don’t panic, Martha,” Eleanor said. “Maybe they took a trip to Atlantic City together or something. Or maybe Roos ended up at some woman’s house like he did the night before. There’s lots of possible explanations.”
I poured a glass of water for Martha. “When did the break-in happen, Serrano?”
“Tough to say—last night, maybe. Coulda even been during the shivah. People were coming and going, making enough commotion to cover up the noise. It looks like a professional job. Nothing else in the house was taken. All the artwork and antiques are still there. Trust me, Roos was targeted, and more specifically, his stuff.”
“Was there any blood in the studio?” Eleanor asked.
I elbowed her as Martha picked up an antique postcard and started fanning herself.
“Not that I could see, but our guys are going over everything now.” Serrano scanned the empty counter where there were no plates piled high with the usual baked goodies. He sighed. “So. How did Ruth find this photographer?”
“I think she has contacts in California. Somebody in the fashion industry?” Eleanor wrinkled her nose.
“I called Cyril this morning,” Martha said, still fixated on the subject of her missing love. “He didn’t answer, but then he often doesn’t, so I didn’t think much of it. Honestly, I can call that man ten times and he won’t pick up.”
Was I the only one who detected the whisper on the wind of Serrano’s slightly indrawn breath?
“But what if something’s really wrong? What if something’s happened to him?” She tossed the postcard back into the basket and stood up. “That’s it. I’m going over to that godforsaken junkyard right now to see what’s going on.”
As far as I knew, Martha had never set foot in Cyril’s kingdom of rusty delights.
“Um, I still have a key to his place from when I fed his cat the last time you and he went on vacation.” I turned to Eleanor. “Could you watch the store for me for half an hour? Please?”
Serrano helped Martha into her copious red coat. “I’ll go, too.”
Eleanor crossed her arms. “Sure, sure, leave me out of all the fun.”
* * *
Afew minutes later, we stepped out of Serrano’s Dodge Challenger into a wintry wasteland. It was impossible to drive all the way up to the trailer that was Cyril Mackey’s home because towering piles of junk barred our way.
The snowfall had softened the sharp edges of car doors, old radiators, and gasoline signs, which were now bumpy, indefinable piles of white. As Martha glanced dubiously around the salvage yard, I fancied that Mother Nature had wanted to make this as gentle an introduction for her first time here as possible.
We trudged across a smooth, untouched crust of snow, heads bowed against the cruel cold that seemed to sink its talons deep into our skulls.
Serrano rapped on the trailer door, but there was no answer. He stuck a hand in my direction. “Give me the key.”
I placed the key obediently into his outstretched palm.
“Stand back, ladies. Do not enter until I give the all clear.”
I did a mental eye roll as he disappeared inside the trailer. Serrano was in his bossy mode today.
About thirty seconds later, he came back to the top step and motioned for us to enter.
Martha gasped and grabbed my arm as she stepped into the bright kitchen. Ahead of us was a double doorway to the living room.
“Good God, he’s been robbed! Call the police!”
“Martha, it’s okay,” I said. “Serrano’s already here, and besides, it always looks like this. You know, sort of, um, minimalist. Cyril doesn’t have very much furniture.”
Cyril and I had formed an odd acquaintance before he and Martha ever embarked on their romantic journey. He was surly, cantankerous, and rude, even, but somehow I’d seen beyond the bite of the junkyard dog to the sweet soul beneath.
True, steady, loyal, and ready to lay down his life for those he loved.
The spare décor was clean and neat, in complete contrast to the exterior yard. In the kitchen, near the window, there was a white Formica round table covered with a lace tablecloth, and a vibrant Boston fern hung in the corner. There wasn’t much in the living room except a recliner covered in an afghan, a china cabinet, and a grandfather clock.
“Well at least the inside is somewhat respectable.” Martha sniffed and ran a finger over the spotless kitchen counter.
While Serrano inspected the latches on the windows, I picked up the cat’s food and water bowls and refilled both.
“So where’s this cat?” Serrano asked.
I took a quick look around for the black feline who had a habit of hiding on top of cabinets and ninja-diving past unsuspecting humans. I wasn’t sure Martha’s nerves would survive the shock in her present condition.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’ll show himself with this many people around.”
Serrano was busy opening the kitchen cabinets. I glimpsed some Liquorice Allsorts, a box of English teabags, and a jar of Marmite.
I shifted uneasily. If Cyril came home now, he would be royally pissed at this invasion of his privacy, and especially peeved at the person who had helpfully offered the key to gain access. He’d have my guts for garters, as he would say.
“Look, Serrano, it’s obvious he’s not here and no one has ransacked the place,” I said. “We should get going.”
He gave no sign of listening to me and strode off to Cyril’s bedroom. Martha and I scurried after him. He opened the sliding doors of the closet, which hardly had any clothes hanging inside, but probably usually didn’t anyway.
He shook his head. “Can’t tell if he packed for a trip or not.”
Next came the bathroom, and Martha and I crowded in behind him as he opened the medicine cabinet. No medicine inside, just an old-fashioned shaving brush and mug and a plastic bottle of store-brand mouthwash.
Serrano shut the cabinet, and we headed into the living room. There were a few framed photographs scattered around, including one of a much younger Cyril with a rugby team.
Martha picked it up and ran her fingers over the edge of the frame. “Detective Serrano, sir, I wish to file a missing persons report,” she murmured.
“Don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a bit?” he said.
Martha shuddered, and I gave Serrano the most chiding look I could muster.
“Okay, okay. Well, we’re gonna need some more recent photos than this. Do you have any?”
“Oh, I have a million. From the Walnut Street Theatre, the Horticultural Society luncheon, the Pennsylvania Ballet, the fashion show fund-raiser. And that’s just from last week.”
“Cyril Mackey went to all of those events?” Serrano asked faintly.
Again, I gave him the hairy eyeball.
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure he’s not just lying low for a bit, Martha? Didn’t you say it’s customary for him not to answer calls?”
She bit her lip.
I’d been in this trailer before when Cyril let the phone ring, not even bothering to see who was calling. Cyril was his own man, and as much as Martha bossed around her friends and anyone else she came in contact with, she’d never really been able to do the same with him.
“When I find that man, I am going to commit grievous bodily harm to his person for worrying me like this.” Her words were harsh, but I could hear the catch of tears in her throat.<
br />
“You know, sometimes guys just need to get away,” Serrano said. “It’s nothing personal. They don’t think about the consequences or who’s at home worrying about them.”
I had to agree. Even though I had been married for thirty-four years, men were still a mystery to me. I appreciated the fact that Serrano was downplaying things for Martha’s sake. Sometimes there was a real kindness that glimmered through the tightly controlled persona. He was even convincing me until I glanced toward the kitchen and the cat’s bowl.
As much as Cyril might be feeling suffocated by his high society schedule, he wouldn’t have left without asking me to take care of His Nibs.
“I’m sure there’s a very good explanation,” I said firmly.
Serrano followed my gaze, never missing a thing. “Will the cat be all right here by himself, Daisy?”
“It’s warm enough inside this trailer, and he can come and go as he pleases through the cat flap.” The little feline was an independent spirit, just like his owner. “I’ll come by every day and make sure he has food and fresh water.”
The detective walked through to the kitchen and I followed, leaving Martha still gazing at the rugby photo. I moved closer and grabbed his sleeve. “What the hell’s going on, Serrano?” I hissed. Up close, I could finally read the concern in his eyes.
“I don’t know, Daisy,” he murmured, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole situation.”
* * *
That night, there was a Board of Supervisors’ meeting where one of the topics on the agenda would be the proposed zoning change that Beau Cassell would require to develop the land for his townhomes.
Before the meeting, and what promised to be a contentious public hearing, Martha, Eleanor, and I went over to see Ruth. I picked them up in my old Subaru, because for one thing, Eleanor didn’t own a car, only a red Vespa, and for another, Martha was the worst driver in the world, and I was an even worse passenger.
But when we got there, Kathleen Brown said that Ruth was not up to seeing anyone. We reluctantly handed over our chicken enchilada casserole, green salad, and bottle of wine.
