by Scott, D. D.
“We sold most of the other stuff at auction and got a decent price for it all,” Ricky said. “I used the money to buy the land this house rests on.”
“Swampland, cheap,” Tara said. “And Penelope’s sitting pretty in the old house on Sweetwater Lake.”
“Like I said, daddy’s money was all gone. He’d spent it on medical treatments and stuff.”
“Bogus treatments that didn’t stop him from dying in the end, anyway,” Tara said.
I nodded. “Did you want the Ice Queen vase?”
Ricky shook his head.
“What about your other sister, Olivia?”
Ricky shrugged. “She was upset about the vase and about a few other items that were mysteriously missing from the house after our daddy’s death—items that since have miraculously shown up—a couple paintings, an antique brass ship plate, and some jewelry.”
“We were upset, too,” Tara said.
“Then,” I said, “can you see how Penelope might think you stole the vase?”
“I didn’t steal no vase,” Tara said.
“I hear you,” I said. “But can you see that maybe Penelope knew how you felt about her possession of the vase?”
Tara shook her head.
“Okay,” I said. “When you left last night, you had that big bag with you, and it seemed like it was about to burst. But you wouldn’t let Penelope look inside.”
“I didn’t want her to see inside.”
“If you didn’t take the vase, you could have given her a glimpse.”
“My purse contains personal supplies, and there’s no way I was letting her look into my private business, especially after she accused me of stealing that vase.”
“But why not just give her a quick look, resolve the disagreement easily?”
“You want to know why?” Tara raised her voice. Ricky wrapped his arms around her.
“Yes,” I said.
“You want to know?” Tara was almost screaming now.
“Yes.”
“Well, come here.” Tara exploded out of Ricky’s arms and pounded into the kitchen toward the bag, her stomps sending vibrations through the flooring and rattling the dishes on the countertops.
I followed. Tara yanked open the fridge. Inside were clear, plastic bags—at least a dozen, maybe more—filled with food from the party. Meaty slabs of turkey and ham joined a few helpings of mixed vegetables. Tara had even packaged a cake slice and had taken an unopened bottle of champagne. The bottle displayed the exact specialty label that was served at the party.
“Here’s why!” Tara snatched her purse off the floor and began chucking the party food into it.
Ricky tried to grab her arms, but he missed.
“I had all this in my bag,” Tara said. Tears streamed down her face. “I didn’t want Penelope to see it. I was embarrassed. But now you know. So—”
“Tara,” Ricky said, failing at another attempt to catch her arms.
“You can take it back to her, if she wants to see it so badly. She’s got all this party food,” Tara said, hiccupping as she continued to cry and stuff the bag. “And we’re going hungry during the week. Eating Spaghettios and hot dogs and ramen noodles. Penelope and all her food. She’d just throw out the leftovers. We’d eat it! But if Penelope wants it back, here!” She shoved the bag at me. “You can take it back to her! Take back her pineapple spears and her pasta salad and her crackers and cheese!”
I held up my hands, amazed at how much planning—or desperation—Tara’s party food nabbing must have taken.
“Keep the food,” I said. “I believe you.”
And I did. With Tara’s purse now holding all the food I recognized from the party, and with the addition of the champagne bottle, which Tara had left in the refrigerator, the bag would appear as jam-packed it had last night. And the bottle would have explained the clanging noise the purse made as it collided with Penelope’s door.
“So tell my sister to back off and go cry about her vase to her shrink,” Ricky said over Tara’s sobs.
“I’m sorry,” I said, wondering how to soothe Tara. “I believe you,” I repeated. “I’ll tell Penelope it wasn’t you.”
“She won’t be convinced,” Ricky said.
“I’ll convince her.”
“Right,” Ricky said. “It’ll take more than a PI license, Irish charm, and those big, brown doe eyes of yours to pull off that one.”
**
“I spoke with Ricky and Tara,” I said, as Penelope seated me in a deliciously warm sunroom with surprisingly comfortable wicker furniture. The sun’s strong rays reminded me how much I missed the heat and light of summer. I felt as if I could recline on the couch, take a nap, and wake up with a tan.
“Did you get the Ice Queen back from Tara and Ricky?” she asked.
A phone in a neighboring room began ringing.
“I might need to take that,” Penelope said. “Can you wait?”
Penelope walked into the adjoining room, the metallic threads in her formfitting sweater glittering in the light. Fighting the urge to close my eyes, I stood up and walked to the window. The lake beckoned, the sunlight twinkling off the blue water like sparkles off the gems on the Ice Queen.
Sweetwater Lake was a Carolina bay, oval, and fed by water from a nearby swamp and underground springs. About a quarter of the shoreline remained undeveloped. Across the three miles of lake water, downtown Sweetwater sat. The downtown grid strung along another quarter of the lakeshore and held a couple historic buildings and a stately brick courthouse. But most of the structures were newer, built to accommodate residents who began to migrate to this corner of the South in the 70s and 80s when Sweetwater became a vacation town, thanks to the lake. In time, it grew into a largely residential town of about 5,000 people—big enough for a couple fast food restaurants and a tiny mall but small enough still to depend on neighboring communities for jobs and business. Luxury homes and neighborhoods with smaller houses lined the remainder of the shoreline; piers with hydraulic boat lifts stuck out over the water, marking each property.
Three stories down, on a swath of manicured lawn near the lakeshore, Gregory crouched next to Sadie, rubbing her back. The Vizsla’s tail blurred in its fervent wagging as it beat against her master’s leg. Gregory’s brown and yellow-green camouflage jacket blended in with the cattails that bordered the water. As if he sensed my gaze, he looked toward the house. I quickly averted my eyes, glancing at a nearby table with framed photos of the Bouleneau-Bakers’ college-age daughters. Behind the table, a magazine basket held copies of Southern women’s magazines, a hunting catalogue, and a book entitled When Marriage Counseling Doesn’t Matter.
“Sorry about that,” Penelope said, joining me at the window. “I assume you have news.”
“Not exactly the news you’re looking for,” I said. “I’ve determined that Ricky and Tara did not steal the vase.”
Penelope raised her eyebrows.
“When Tara left your party with that bulging purse, I also would have assumed that it concealed the vase.”
“She wouldn’t let me look inside. Why—”
“Tara had crammed that purse full of food from your party,” I said. “When I visited Tara earlier today, she showed me the food she’d stolen in plastic baggies stuffed inside her purse. She also stole an unopened champagne bottle.”
Penelope looked out her window. I stepped closer to the window and followed her gaze down to the lakefront where Gregory had Sadie seated at his side. Gregory threw two white bumpers across the yard and then released Sadie. She dashed away, but when Gregory whistled, Sadie stopped, mid-retrieve, and looked back at him. Gregory waved an arm, signaling her to retrieve the bumper nearest the water. As she galloped smoothly toward the bumper, she reminded me of a thoroughbred horse—sleek, muscular, and graceful. She snatched up the bumper, but a bird suddenly jumped up in flight from the nearby cattails. Sadie ran toward the bird, into the water. Gregory yelled and waved his arms and Sadie, drenched and speckled
with mud, climbed out of the lake, shook off the water, and ran back to his side.
Penelope walked away from the window. “Tara and Ricky were sitting in a back corner during the party, the perfect spot for thieving.”
“They only took food that would go to waste anyway.”
“And champagne. Are you certain the bottle was from the party?”
I nodded. “Same label, same year. I know that Sarah ordered the champagne especially for your party from a supplier in New York. It’s not a brand that you can pick up at the local grocery store.”
Penelope tapped her fingernails against a wicker chair.
The glass door beside me opened, and Gregory came in, face flushed from the cold weather and bringing with him the acrid sting of sweat and cold and metal shot.
“Didn’t get enough family fun last night?” he said, patting my shoulder.
I half smiled, not sure what to do or say—should I laugh? Offer a demure protest? Sadie saved me from answering as she scrambled inside, tail wagging wildly and spattering wet mud onto the walls, furniture, and floor.
“Gregory! Get that dog and her mess out of here!”
“Sadie,” Gregory said. “Out!”
The dog obeyed.
Gregory pushed the door shut behind her. “I was just coming in to get a towel to dry her off.”
“Use one from the garage,” Penelope said. “And then you can clean up the mess you’ve brought in with you.” She pointed at the floor where water and droplets of dark lake mud that appeared to be mixed with blood pooled. “Don’t tell me she cut herself again.”
Gregory frowned at me. “Excuse me,” he said, grabbing his wife’s elbow and leading her into the hallway and out of sight.
“What do you want?” she hissed.
“How about some respect?” he said in a deep whisper that carried his voice to me.
Penelope heaved out a loud sigh. “Is bringing a wet, muddy, bloody dog into my sunroom showing me respect?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t know Sadie cut herself.”
“She cuts herself every time you let her run into the cattails. Regardless, she’s wet!”
“I told you it was an accident, letting her inside. Now about that girl—”
“Her name is Jade O’Reilly,” Penelope said. “You don’t go around calling young women girls. And stop trying to change the subject.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“No, you didn’t,” Penelope said. “You never say you’re sorry.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got Miss O’Reilly on the hunt for your vase.”
“Why not?”
“Do you honestly want her digging into your family? Just file a claim and let insurance pay out.”
“That vase is a family heirloom. I have dreams of one day passing it on to one of my daughters.”
“Our daughters.”
“The Ice Queen is important to me. I don’t just give up when there’s something I want. I fight for it.”
“You’ll fight for an ice-cold vase, all right,” Gregory said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you could give me a break. Fight for me and our marriage for a change. Now let me handle this.” Gregory charged into the room toward me, stopping a few feet away and crossing his arms. “What have you found so far?” He used a low, rumbling voice, which I supposed worked well at intimating girls. But, like Penelope said, I wasn’t a girl, so the woman in me stood firm.
Penelope reentered the room. “Ignore him,” she said. “Jade has determined that Ricky and Tara didn’t steal the vase.”
“I never thought they did,” Gregory said.
Penelope clasped her hands. “So, Jade, where are you going next with your search for my vase?”
“Unless you have another lead,” I said, “I’m looking into Olivia.”
“No,” Gregory said, sweeping his arms out wide. “Olivia would not steal the vase.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Penelope said. “You’re always taking her side.”
“That’s because she’s innocent.”
“How do you know?”
“Olivia is not a thief.” Gregory looked at me. “I’ve known her longer than I’ve known Penny.”
“Known her,” Penelope said. Wrinkles appeared on either side of her nose, making her look like a dragon about to breathe fire. “Preferred her. Bedded her.”
“Stop bringing up history that happened before I even met you!”
“Oh, I’m talking history much more recent than that.”
“Do you need medication? Are you insane?”
“Olivia can do no wrong, can she?”
“Did I say that?” Gregory asked me. “I’ve known Olivia a long time, and I know her character. She wouldn’t—”
“You slimy, two-timing—” Penelope paused for a breath.
“Hold on,” I said, trying to quell the marriage arguing. “Gregory, if you don’t’ think Olivia would take the vase, and if we know Ricky and Tara didn’t take the vase, who does that leave?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t see how you jumped to suspecting Olivia.”
Penelope balled one hand into a fist.
“A valid concern,” I said. “The only party guests we know of who passed out the front door near the vase were Ricky and Tara, and Olivia.”
“I passed through there, too,” Gregory boomed. “Do you think I stole the vase?”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Penelope said. “Both you and I know that loose little Olivia has hard feelings, even today, about me inheriting the vase.”
“No,” Gregory said. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re so close to Olivia that you know her innermost thoughts.”
“Actually,” I said, “Ricky mentioned Olivia’s feelings, also.”
They both looked at me, frowning. For once, I thought, they complimented each other, if only in their disagreeable expression.
“What about the catering staff?” Gregory said. “Have you checked out your sister-in-law? Sarah’s employees? Maybe one of them was tempted—”
“Ignore him,” Penelope repeated. “Sarah is a professional.”
Gregory shook his head.
“Before he died, I took care of Daddy,” Penelope said. “I’d visit with him, bring him lunch and dinner, go buy him something he needed. Olivia and Ricky? They didn’t even bother to drop by once a month, did they, Gregory?”
Gregory shook his head again. “Olivia would never steal from you.”
“Daddy appreciated me,” Penelope said. “And toward the end, when he knew he was losing his grip on life, on the good days, Daddy gave me things when I came over. The vase was one of them.”
“Why didn’t Ricky and Olivia visit?” I asked.
“Ricky was—”
“A lazy freeloader,” Gregory said. “Only time he’d stop by was to whine about how hard his life was and ask for money.”
“And Olivia lived in Morehead City back then,” Penelope said. “But an hour-long drive—at most—isn’t too far away to visit a couple times a month, if you ask me. I was left with the burden of taking care of my aging father. And Daddy recognized my efforts. He wanted to make sure I got the special things I wanted, like the vase.”
“Okay,” I said. “But Ricky said you didn’t let on that you had the vase until long after your father was dead.”
“I thought Ricky and Olivia would be mad at me,” Penelope said.
“And they were,” Gregory said, “probably more so because you hid the vase from them rather than being angry at your actual possession of the thing.”
“They didn’t understand,” Penelope said, “how it was, how lonely Daddy was, how needy. And Olivia was particularly mad about the Ice Queen. She said she had some kind of deal with Mama about the vase; that she was going to get it. But Mama died first.”
“That’s motive,” I said. “But why would she steal it now?”
>
“She was waiting for an opportunity,” Penelope said. She cut her eyes to her husband. “Olivia is sly like that.”
**
“I was wondering when Penelope would direct you to me,” Olivia said, by way of greeting. She opened her door and waved me through. “Ricky called to say that you got to Tara and him first.”
Olivia’s home was a modest stone cottage a few blocks away from the lake and walking distance from downtown Sweetwater. I guessed it had been constructed in the mid-1900s—old enough to ooze character but not old enough to be crowned with an official historic landmark sign like Penelope’s house. But the cottage fit Olivia. Homey knickknacks like hand-sewn quilts and antique tools augmented the cozy feel as much as the old wooden furniture.
In the room where Olivia directed me, a flannel jacket was draped over a high-backed chair and Olivia’s artwork—mostly pottery but also some sculptures and blown glass vases—added an eccentric flair to the country-style decor. As I settled into a deep brown leather couch next to an antique drop-front desk elaborately ornamented with hand-carved magnolias, I examined the vase nearest me. A smooth, teardrop shape, the glass was layered with a multitude of colors—from the ochre outside layer to sea greens and bright blues toward the center. Behind it, another vase caught my eye. While its color was a plain, light pink, its shape reminded me of the Ice Queen—a rounded top squeezing shallow before ballooning out and tapering down.
“Your work is amazing,” I said, “especially these hand-blown vases. That vase reminds me of—”
“It’s not the Ice Queen,” she said, lifting the multi-colored vase nearest me and twirling it around, showing me how the angle of my view affected how the layered colors appeared. “But it’ll sell for a nice price, regardless, when I’m ready to get rid of it.”
“I was also talking about the one behind it, which to me seems to match the size and shape of your sister’s Ice Queen vase.”
“That was my thought when I made it,” she said, “although my version is much humbler by far.”
She returned the vase to the desktop and joined me on the couch, sinking into a corner and draping her arm across the back. I noticed that she’d pulled her brown curls back from her face with a bandana and that flecks of dried clay speckled the jeans that hugged her thin legs.
