by Cate Price
I grabbed the newspaper again, held it up to the light, and scrutinized it. Both Cyril and I were crossword fanatics, and I was sure I recognized his spidery capital letters.
Seeing as I’d already solved the puzzle at home, I suddenly saw that one clue was deliberately filled out incorrectly to say canary instead of yellow. Why did he fill it in that way? Was there some kind of clue in the clue?
Was Roos a whistleblower, like a canary signaling the presence of methane in a mine, for something unsavory that was going on in Millbury?
I was relieved to think that Cyril was alive, but why was he hiding?
* * *
On Monday morning, when I set out with Jasper for our walk, it was still cold, but it was a bracing, energizing cold, not the biting chill of the past week.
Jasper and I walked down the length of Main Street and then headed south on Grist Mill Road, past the church, toward Glory Farm. I tried to imagine what this road approaching Millbury would look like with the fields gone, the country lane widened, the earth churned up, and a slew of ugly Cassell townhomes replacing the unspoiled vista.
I paused while he peed against a pile of snow pushed to the side of the road by the plows, the wavy yellow slash looking a bit like the mark of Zorro.
He was experiencing snow for the first time this winter. Earlier this week, I’d laughed at his look of surprise when he took his usual launch from the back step and landed in the unfamiliar stuff. He recovered quickly, though, burying his face in it and eating it.
I’d slept well last night. Catching a glimpse of Cyril had helped ratchet the pressure down a notch. I was still worried, but there was hope. I hadn’t told Martha that I thought I’d seen Cyril in town, though. Perhaps Serrano’s mantra of verifying cold, hard facts had worn off on me, but before I toyed with Martha’s emotions, I wanted to be absolutely sure.
A red fox ran onto the road in front of us, and I held my breath at the unexpected sight. Jasper nearly choked himself to death on his leash trying to pull me closer, but the fox paused for a moment, staring at me.
“Go! Go! Don’t get run over,” I urged.
He disappeared through the undergrowth into the unmown fields. I kept him in sight as we walked along the side of the road, watching as he leapt, almost rabbitlike, as he toyed with some small prey in the grass.
After we passed the farm, we veered off the road onto a path that led toward the woods. The landscape was a rusty patchwork of orange and brown splashed with yellow, and sunlight falling on the leaves of trees made them almost glow.
I let Jasper off the leash and threw snowballs that he dove for and came up puzzled at their disappearance, his nose covered in snow. Blood surged through my muscles, and I almost felt like I was a teenager again, tramping over the fields, cheeks flushed, strong and confident, my whole life ahead of me. When I got home, the aches and pains of an older body would set in, but for right now I didn’t care.
“Let’s go, boy!” I yelled and broke into a run, laughing with the sheer joy of being alive. Jasper danced alongside me, catching my mood, his eyes bright and mouth open in delight
We passed a waterfall and I stopped to catch my breath, watching the water rushing around and over the stones. Like the ebb and flow of life.
Memories flooded in of me with my childhood dog. What a great dog he was, so smart and well-trained. I wasn’t sure I could say exactly the same of Jasper, but he was sheer unadulterated fun and pure endless love. I bent down and hugged him tightly.
* * *
Later that morning, as I hung another antique sampler on the wall at Sometimes a Great Notion, I reflected that my business was about selling memories. The handmade samplers, folk art, quilts, books, furniture, and linens all told a story of past lives. I was simply the caretaker of these treasures to pass along to another generation.
What would my daughter’s generation hand down to their children? People didn’t even print photos anymore. Everything was on their phones. How would they ever preserve the past? I smiled as I thought about Sarah, who, as a kid, never liked having her picture taken. Now one of her favorite things to do when she came home was to go through the old albums.
I read again the verse so carefully stitched by a young girl over a hundred and twenty years ago:
Let them see the error of their ways
Confess their sins to heaven
Accept the light of holy truth
All wouldst be forgiven
Let me not wail and weep
’Tis clear where my path must lie
Now with eyes that see
I follow humbly the heavenly light
Eyes that see. The eyes of a child. The eyes of God.
There was also the eye of a camera. I was sure Alex Roos had captured something on film that someone wanted to keep quiet, but without his cameras, how would we ever know what it was?
I walked over to the counter where I was putting together a couple of glass jars filled with notions for an interior designer who had requested accent pieces for a shelf in her client’s study. I slipped some wooden bobbins into each, together with rolled pieces of tatting lace and spools of white and cream thread.
“I’ll tell you what, Alice; I’m still wondering about Ruth and what her story is.”
I pictured standing on the driveway that night in the falling snow and looking back up at the main house and the master bedroom window. Did Roos see something incriminating the night Stanley died? Threaten to expose her affair? Who knows what he might have seen. After all, he was living in her carriage house, and with a powerful telephoto lens . . .
Thought that Roos said he hadn’t slept at home that night.
I stared at Alice. “Darn it, you’re right. He couldn’t have seen what happened.”
Some customers came in then, and for the next few hours it was a steady stream of business. For a favorite customer, I gift wrapped a lacemakers’ box, which was a workbox fitted with essential tools—a pillow, patterns, scissors, pins, and bobbins. Another woman purchased a rare tatting shuttle case of mother-of-pearl with an abalone inset, made in England in the 1850s.
When I had time to catch a breath, I filled in some spaces in the display in the center of the store with a selection of crochet hooks and darning eggs, made of silver, wood, and Bakelite. I set an emery in the shape of a tomato next to them. It was like a small pincushion containing polishing powder. Pins and needles could be thrust through to remove rust and rough patches. Actually, I thought it would make a nice little thank-you gift to Althea for her help with the sampler pricing, so I set it aside.
It was almost five o’clock when the phone rang.
“I have some intel,” a hoarse voice whispered. “Can you meet me at the pub? Don’t wanna discuss over the phone.”
“Okay, PJ,” I said, smiling. She was taking this investigative reporting thing very seriously. “Be there in a few.”
I called Joe and told him I’d be home in about an hour. He said he was still busy with a furniture piece he was working on, so I promised I’d pick up dinner from Pop’s Pizza.
The Sheepville Pub was about half a mile past Backstead’s Auction House, and another half mile before the center of town. There was usually a startlingly eclectic collection of cars outside, and tonight was no exception. From BMWs, to a plate glass truck, to a Harley. I parked next to PJ’s light green Fiat, the only thing she’d splurged on since her windfall.
She was sitting at the bar, nursing a bottle of Rolling Rock and chatting with Vikki, the bartender. The pub wasn’t a fancy place, with its dark wood paneling and ancient jukebox in the corner, but the burgers were tasty and the beer was cold. There were multicolored lights hanging above the rows of bottles, although not in honor of the upcoming holiday. It looked like this year-round.
Vikki grinned at me. “Hi, Daisy, what can I get you?”
“Glas
s of chardonnay, please.” I slid onto the stool next to PJ and ran my fingers over the scarred oak top worn smooth as shellac. “So? What’s up?”
“I’ve uncovered more information about the night of the photographer’s disappearance.” She nodded toward Vikki, who was uncorking a fresh bottle. “According to Vikki here, Roos stopped at the pub after the shoot.”
“On his way to the funeral?”
Vikki shook her head as she set the drink in front of me. “I think his exact words were, ‘I don’t really do funerals, man.’ But he was planning on going to the shivah. Said he needed a stiff one before he went, pardon the pun.” She chuckled. “Sorry. Just can’t get those damn leather pants of his out of my mind.”
She hurried down to the other end of the bar to wait on someone else, and PJ pointed the tip of her bottle at me. “And get this. Cyril was here with him.”
I choked on my wine. “Really?”
“Yeah. But he suddenly rushed off to the bathroom and never came back, leaving Roos without a ride.”
“That doesn’t sound like Cyril. Why on earth would he do that?”
She shrugged. “No idea, but sounds like Roos had to walk the rest of the way home.” Suddenly PJ nudged my elbow. “Yowza. Check it out.”
I glanced over to where Nancy Fowler was dancing to the jukebox music, surrounded by a crowd of interested men. She wore a red dress with a handkerchief hem that flounced up as she moved, showing her long legs. Her milquetoast husband, Frank, hung back with a benevolent look on his face.
“Look at her. Shakin’ the moneymaker.” PJ snickered. “She knows how to move her hips, that’s for sure.”
Vikki came back over to us and stuffed some dollar bills into her tip jar.
“I didn’t know the pub had live entertainment,” I said, nodding toward Nancy Fowler.
Vikki smiled as she poured tortilla chips into a couple of plastic bowls. The pub handed out free chips and a salsa so fiery that it made for some substantial beer consumption. “She acts like a party girl, but she doesn’t even drink. Natural endorphins, I guess.”
“And her husband doesn’t mind that she dances with other guys?”
“He seems okay with it. A lot of men wouldn’t be, though.”
Did Nancy Fowler have a fling with Roos, and Mr. Meek and Mild over there had finally had enough? Or had Alex snapped a photo of her in a compromising situation? For a politician, the wrong picture at the wrong time could destroy a career.
PJ consulted her notepad. “Oh, and one of the regulars saw Roos taking shots along Grist Mill Road that day.”
“Before he met up with Cyril? I wonder if he was using the vintage camera that he got from my store.”
Vikki shrugged. “Beats me. But you know, it’s strange. The guy always seemed stone-cold broke whenever he came in here. Women were buying him drinks.”
I turned to PJ. “We should tell Serrano all of this.”
“Oh, I already did, honey,” Vikki said. “By the way, what’s going to happen with your calendar now?”
I took a swallow of my wine, as if it could wash my frustration away. Obviously Detective Serrano had not seen fit to share this news with me. Guess our information-sharing was a one-way street. What the hell was the matter with him lately?
“Eleanor’s trying to talk the guys into reshooting, but we’ll also need a photographer to work for free, and time is running out to get it done before Christmas.” I gave a heavy sigh. “Think I might go have a chat with Mr. Cassell. See if I can get him to listen to reason.”
Vikki grinned as she wiped down the bar. “Good luck with that, honey.”
* * *
The next morning, I drove over to Sheepville to the development where Beau Cassell was still building, hoping to present the case of the Historical Society and our village in a calm fashion, away from the overheated atmosphere of the zoning meeting.
It was a peaceful drive along curving River Road, where it ran parallel to the Delaware River. In the summer, the trees would form a green canopy, but now leaves were falling, exposing the view of the water and the Victorian and Tudor houses perched along its banks. Bucks County was idyllic, with its narrow country roads, creeks running through quiet woods, covered bridges, old mills, and stone barns.
When I neared the town, open fields appeared, bordered by thick forests in the distance. Farms that had been worked for centuries had crops that came right up to the road with hand-lettered signs that offered eggs and milk for sale.
As I passed the bakery on Sheepville Pike, I suddenly recognized Stanley’s old nurse, Jo Ellen, coming out of the shop.
Seeing her reminded me that I was also supposed to be on the lookout for evidence on Stanley Bornstein’s death. Most people thought it was a blessing that he was gone, but I still clung to the memories of my cultured, intelligent friend and I felt I owed it to him to make sure justice was done.
I drove past her for a half a block or so, swung the car into the first space I could find, hopped out, and then nonchalantly strolled back in her direction.
“Hey, Jo Ellen! What a surprise. How are you doing?”
She frowned, a wary look in her eyes.
“I’m Ruth’s friend. I met you the night that, well, you know . . .”
Finally her broad face cleared. “Oh, that’s right. Now I remember you.”
“I—ah—didn’t see you at the funeral last week. I must have missed you in the crowd.”
She stared at me for a moment, her dark gaze assessing me. “I didn’t go. I’m not comfortable with all them high society folks.” She pursed her full lips, made fuller by a mahogany lip gloss. “I had a long, long time to say good-bye to that man. I figured I can honor him in my own way.”
I swallowed. I wasn’t a particularly consistent churchgoer myself. Like Eleanor said, it was more important how you lived your life day in and day out. This woman had cared for him through the most difficult period of his existence.
“It must be hard for you, though, being out of a job all of a sudden.”
“Miz Bornstein gave me a nice severance. I’m doing fine.”
“It was such a shock. I mean, I talked to him that night, and the next day he was gone.”
Jo Ellen shifted the large white box she carried to one hand and wrapped her orange scarf tighter around her neck with the other. “I seen it before. I knew he was near the end. The body just starts shutting down and there ain’t nuthin’ anyone can do.”
“It seems as though Ruth tried to provide all the latest medicine and treatments for him.”
“Miz Bornstein did everything she could. Drove me crazy sometime, but you had to admire her devotion to that man. I never seen anyone more devoted.”
And with that, she walked away, apparently done with me and our conversation.
I continued my fake stroll toward the bakery, but when I glanced over my shoulder and saw her getting on a bus, I hurried back to my car.
Cassell’s current development was off Sheepville Pike, which ran parallel to Grist Mill Road. It was a huge sprawling conglomeration that covered a couple of hundred acres. As things stood now, there was no way for the residents of Millbury to get to Sheepville other than go the long way around. North on Grist Mill, across on River Road, and south on Sheepville Pike, for a five-mile trip. If the builder won the parcel on Grist Mill abutting the top end of his development, it would provide access for people to cut through to Sheepville. I could see why some people were for his proposal, and if I was completely truthful, I had to admit it would be convenient, especially in the winter months, but it would destroy the dreamy old-world approach to our village.
I found Beau Cassell standing next to a construction trailer, smoking a cigar. He wore jeans and work boots, but the jeans were a pristine dark blue and his gold watch glittered in the sunlight. Sort of like a gentleman farmer from days gone by.
When I suggested that he step out of the bidding on Glory Farm for the sake of historic preservation, he laughed so hard, he choked on his cigar smoke.
“You’ve got to be kidding, lady. That farmland in Millbury is prime real estate. Not only that, do you have any idea of how much money I’ve spent already on engineering? On plats and surveys, and now for a goddamn traffic study? This is business.”
I bit my lip. To invest his own funds to that extent, he must have a reasonable assurance he would get the variance approved.
A crane swung a roof-truss system into place over one new home. Down the block were units in various stages of development, some with their frames of prebuilt wall panels already standing, some with poured basements waiting for their wooden skeletons. Workers were yelling indistinguishable instructions to one another over the cacophony of the pop of a nail gun, the beeping of a truck in reverse, the clang of metal meeting metal.
“And what are you bleeding hearts going to use it for?” He held up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, it’s a waste of good ground.”
“A community center for the children,” I said, raising my voice above the din while struggling to hold on to my temper. “Perhaps a battered women’s shelter, too.”
“Oh, that’s just great. Bringing in delinquents who’ll cause no end of trouble? That’ll go over big with the Board of Supervisors.”
“Those women are trying to get away from trouble! They’re not delinquents, they’re victims.” I took a deep breath. “Look, what about all the beautiful open land in Bucks County that’s disappearing with this type of development? Don’t you care about the environment?”
Cassell pointed the glowing stub of his cigar at me. “People always blame the builder, but these townships only have themselves to blame. They’re the ones who mandate huge lots and frontage. Buyers these days insist on having their one acre, or more, for their custom builds. I’m proposing a cluster of townhomes that not only provides affordable housing, but also makes the most efficient use of the land.”
