The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  I gawked, frozen like a mime.

  It looked like I’d discovered the reason for Edwin’s sudden disappearance—he was hiding out with a beautiful woman named Coco.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  My paralysis was short-lived. I was way out of my depth, no matter why Ava’s car was in the Towson Company guesthouse garage. I backed away from the garage, raced all the way to Mallery, caroming off the wall as I took the corner. My chest heaving, I somehow got myself into my car. Leaning my head against the cool hard plastic steering wheel, I took a few moments to breathe, to think. Three minutes later, when I was able to hold out my hand without trembling, I started the engine and brought up the photos on my phone.

  Coco Tully, assuming that was the woman I’d seen, was lovely, ethereal, and a little bohemian. Her features were delicate, her skin rosy. In addition to the flowy dress and delicate sweater, she wore turquoise strappy sandals, turquoise and silver dangling earrings, and three strands of turquoise beads.

  I slid my phone into my bag and pulled a U-turn. I drove along Mallery to the intersection of Main, then turned into a strip-mall parking lot. To avoid the awkward questions I was certain Ellis would ask, I e-mailed him instead of calling. I wrote:

  Hi Ellis,

  I happened to see Ava’s Mercedes at the Towson Company guesthouse at One Ocean Ave. Maybe Edwin didn’t disappear so much as relocate. Photos attached.

  Josie

  I selected two images to send, one a profile, the other full face.

  While I thought about how much I should tell Wes, I Googled “Coco Tully.” None of the images matched the woman I’d seen at the Towson cottage. There was no Coco Tully in New Hampshire that I could find. My abilities to research people paled in comparison to Wes’s. It was time to call in the big gun. My dash clock read 7:20. Early, but that wouldn’t bother Wes.

  “Did you get my e-mail?” I asked as soon as he was on the line.

  “Yeah. I was about to call you. Whatcha got?”

  I reported my findings, that Sonny Russo lived on the same street as Cal Miller, that I’d seen him at the Grey Gull complex, which meant he might know Jean, and that I’d spoken to him.

  “You’re certain he’s not the fake Edwin.”

  “A hundred percent. But he could still be the killer. Does he have an alibi?”

  “I’ll check. This idea is better than that Lara Reisch lead you gave me. What a bust.”

  “She wouldn’t talk, or she had nothing to say?”

  “She wouldn’t even admit she worked for Towson’s. Win some, lose some.”

  “I have other news,” I said, and recounted what I knew about Coco Tully. “I’ll send you photos, but you can’t publish them yet. I sent them to Ellis, too, and if he sees them in print, he’ll know you got them from me.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he said as if he were doing me a favor.

  “Forget it, Wes. If you want them, you have to promise. I’m sending them to help you learn who she is and what’s she’s doing here—that’s all.”

  He sighed and agreed. I e-mailed him the same two photos I sent Ellis.

  “Got them. Holy hottie! She’s a babe. Do you think Edwin’s getting a little nookie with this hot tomato?”

  I shook my head. Wes had his own way of expressing himself.

  “That’s what I’m hoping you’ll find out.”

  “Wicked cool, Joz!”

  “We didn’t find the avocado crate among the Towson property,” I said. “Did you hear anything about it?”

  “Yup—it’s nothing. According to the police, that neighbor, Sylvia, uses old crates to carry stuff. She pickles her own cucumbers and brought some jars over to the Towsons.”

  “Did the police find the crate?”

  “Nope, but they found the pickles.”

  “Another dead end.”

  “Maybe this Coco gal is a live one. Anything else?”

  “No.

  “Catch ya later.”

  I was relieved Sylvia was out of it. She hadn’t mentioned that she’d been one of the people who’d entered the Towson house, but that was natural. When you try to recall what other people did, you forget all about yourself. She might be eliminated as a suspect, but Sonny wasn’t.

  * * *

  I cruised past the Towson house in Garnet Cove. It looked empty, as if the building itself had a soul.

  Sylvia was watering the tomatoes. I waved and parked in front of her house. I reached around to the backseat and found her basket.

  “Those tomatoes were among the best I’ve ever had,” I said, handing her the basket. “Thanks again.”

  “You didn’t need to bring the basket back! How about if I refill it for you?”

  “Do you have enough?”

  She laughed. “I could go into business, I have so many.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “I put up sauce, make tomato relish, and freeze individual portions of ratatouille, which I must say tastes pretty darn good come January.”

  “I bet it does.”

  Sylvia assessed each tomato to ensure it was ready to be picked before plucking it from the vine and placing it in the basket. There was love in every move.

  “Do you drink, Sylvia?”

  She laughed again. “You bet! I love a good gin and tonic.”

  “Do you have a favorite brand?”

  “I’m not that knowledgeable. I just know enough to not buy the cheapest ones. Headache city, my husband used to say, may he rest in peace.”

  She handed me the basket.

  “You’re a wonderful woman, Sylvia.”

  “It takes one to know one.”

  I thanked her again and placed the basket on the front seat, protected from jiggling by my tote bag.

  As I pulled away, I saw Sylvia back at work, weeding.

  I drove out the Hastings exit and parked at the dead end of the short street.

  It was cooler today, and hazy, but the sun was fighting through the clouds, burning the gloom away as it rose. I felt pretty gloomy, too, frightened and perplexed.

  I stood on the precipice watching the ocean surge toward shore. Waves broke fifty feet out, leaving bubbly white foam in their wake. The water rolled toward land with frothy ripples until it hit the boulders that lay against the sheer granite wall. Jets of swirling water shot twenty feet into the air, spraying everything in sight with a soft, sea-scented rain.

  * * *

  I stopped at Sweet Treats Bakery & Tea Shoppe in downtown Rocky Point and picked up a pair of cinnamon lattes, then walked the four blocks to Max’s office.

  Max Bixby, who knew about the law, was a rock and a comfort. He never pushed. He explained, then waited for me to make decisions.

  I pushed open the bright red door and stepped into what used to be the entry hall of a sprawling four-story mansion on the Piscataqua River. Max owned the building and rented out one- and two-room office suites to therapists, insurance agents, financial advisers, and the like. His small law firm was located on the ground floor.

  Max was standing in the center of the hall staring at a radiator grate. He was approaching forty and had thickened a bit around the waist since the last time I saw him. He wore a 1940s-style blue and white striped seersucker suit, a pale blue shirt, and a dark blue bow tie. My eyes followed his gaze.

  “You’re thinking of replacing steam heat with electric and wondering what to do about the radiators,” I said.

  “Josie!” he said, extending his hand for a shake. “No, there’s something rattling around in there, and I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t even like the sound of it. What do you think it is? A mouse?”

  “Or a rattler.”

  My eyes opened wide. “There aren’t rattlesnakes in New Hampshire.”

  “Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but the timber rattlesnake is native around these parts. They’re rare nowadays, but I don’t like the sound I’m hearing.”

  I lowered my eyes to the grate as a
low-pitched, tinny rattle sounded. It was loud and echoed throughout the open hallway.

  “Are they dangerous?” I asked.

  “Extremely.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m waiting on the snake man. You have to get a special service because the snakes are a protected species. You can’t kill them.”

  “Fancy that.” I handed over a paper cup. “Have a latte.”

  “Thanks. I will. Is this a business call?”

  “Yes. Hopefully a brief one.”

  “Come on in and tell me what’s going on.”

  “How’s Babs?” I asked, following him down a short hall.

  “My better half is fabulous. Gorgeous, smart, and sensible.”

  I laughed. “That’s quite a tribute.”

  “And well deserved. I love my wife.”

  Max’s office was as big as Edwin’s, yet in style and tone, it was as different as the two men themselves. Max’s office was contemporary. Edwin’s was traditional. Max was warm and personable. Edwin was cold and cerebral. It would be an interesting study, I thought, to try to correlate taste in interior design to personality. I followed Max across the cushy charcoal gray carpet to the glass-topped conference table positioned near the windows. The sun had broken through, and glints of gold dotted the fast-moving river. The walls were pale gray with a blue tint. Bursts of color came from the paintings, abstracts featuring explosions of red and purple.

  I asked if he was familiar with the double murder case, and he said he was. He’d also heard a little about the stolen Tiffany lamp, so I didn’t need to spend any time bringing him up to date about the basic facts of the case. Instead I told him about my sending Eric for the lamp, which meant we hadn’t properly video-recorded it; my asking Fred the same questions Ellis asked me, my concern that Eric would feel intimidated by a police interrogation, and Ellis’s outrageous implications about me and my company.

  “When Ty heard that Ellis asked if I needed money, he thought I ought to touch base with you. I understand why Ellis had to ask, but I’m still hot as a firecracker about it.”

  “I don’t blame you. Ty was right. It sounds like a routine question, but I recommend that you don’t talk to the police without me.”

  “I want to cover Eric and Fred’s lawyers, too. Can you represent all three of us, or will that be a conflict of interest?”

  “As it stands now, I can represent you all in my role as your corporate attorney. If a conflict arises, I’ll make sure you know about it before it becomes an issue. Tell Eric and Fred to call me pronto. And not to talk to the police without me.”

  I extracted two business cards from the Plexiglas stand in the center of the table. “One for each of them.” I stood up. “Thank you, Max.”

  When we stepped back out into the hall, the rattling sound started up again, loud and persistent.

  “I hope that’s not an omen,” I said.

  “You mean you hope it’s not a bad omen.”

  “True.”

  “Great news. Rattlers are good luck symbols.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Am not.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right. You can use some of that good luck getting rid of it.”

  “Relocating it—if it’s a rattler.” We shook again, and he added, “Thanks for the latte.”

  “You’re welcome.” I paused with my hand on the doorknob and looked back at him. “I’m kind of scared, Max.”

  “Don’t be. You’re on solid ground. So are Eric and Fred. Ellis is just casting a wide net.”

  His words lightened my load a little. “Really?”

  “Truly.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Fred was at work when I arrived just before nine. “You’re in at the crack of dawn,” I said.

  “I know, and it’s painful. But duty calls. I have a nine thirty call with a curator from the Philadelphia Museum of Art, nine thirty P.M., his time. He’s in Hong Kong.” Fred grinned and pushed up his glasses. “He thinks he has information about Aunt Louise’s desk.”

  “Get out of town! How did you connect with him?”

  “I sent out photos of the globe desk to museums with important colonial furniture collections, and he responded. He thinks it was loaned to the museum as part of an exhibit in 1973.”

  “Well done, Fred! Anything from the remaining News and Views names?”

  “It’s slow going, but it’s going. Three more say they have no information. I’m still tracking the other four.”

  “It’s amazing that you’ve had as much success as you’ve—” I broke off as Gretchen’s chimes sounded.

  We all turned toward the door. Sasha came in followed by a stranger, a man. I stood up.

  Sasha was flushed, almost smiling. Knowing her as I did, I could tell she was nonplussed.

  The man who followed her in looked like Santa Claus. He was about five-eight and tubby, with a well-groomed full white beard and neatly trimmed short white hair. His complexion was ruddy, his eyes twinkled, and his smile was broad. I half expected him to call out, “Ho, ho, ho!” He wore a light tan summer-weight suit, a white shirt, and a green and tan striped tie.

  “This is Franklin Colby,” Sasha said, “our marble expert, in from Oklahoma to help us out with the O’Hara collection.”

  “Howdy!” he said, raising his arm and slightly rocking his palm like a king greeting an adoring crowd.

  I glanced around. Everyone was smiling. I was charmed, but I understood why Sasha felt awkward—Frank was as gregarious as Sasha was reserved. I stepped forward and extended my hand.

  “How do you do, Mr. Colby. I’m Josie Prescott. Thanks for coming all this way.”

  “My pleasure, my pleasure. Please, call me Frank.” He smiled at Sasha. “I was just telling this young lady that this is my first trip to the East Coast, and only my second east of the Mississippi. That one took me to Akron. That’s a town in Ohio. Have you ever been to Akron?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How about you, young lady?” he asked Sasha.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear. “No, but I bet I know why you went. The toy marble museum.”

  “A magnificent place! What a week that was!”

  “There’s a toy marble museum?” Cara asked.

  “It’s a wondrous thing.”

  Fred stood, introduced himself, and leaned back against his desk. “Do you blow glass, too?”

  “Now that’s an interesting question, young man. I tried it once when I first got the glass-collecting bug. I learned that making things requires a different skill set than collecting them. Have you ever tried it?”

  “Yes—I took a class in college, actually.”

  “You did?” Sasha asked.

  “My thesis was on the fifteenth-century artist Paolo Uccello. There’s some speculation that he designed one of the first stained glass windows.”

  Sasha nodded. “For the Florence Cathedral.”

  “Exactly. His thing was perspective. He used the concept of a vanishing point to add depth to his designs, unlike other artists of his day, who used perspective to tell multiple stories.” He pushed up his glasses. “Anyway, I got interested in the process. I dabble.”

  “What kind of things have you done, Fred?” Gretchen asked.

  “I replaced a small piece of cobalt glass in one of the Congregational church’s windows. It got chipped somehow.” He grinned. “Matching the color, texture, size … now that was a challenge.”

  “I’m so impressed!” Cara said.

  “Thanks. What it comes down to is that Frank and I share an admiration for glasswork.”

  “There’s nothing to equal it,” Frank said. He turned to face Sasha. “I’ll tell you one thing, young lady—I can’t wait to get a gander at those marbles.”

  “Frank, we’re going to do everything we can to make sure you’re comfortable while you’re here,” I said. “Can we get you a cup of coffee or tea?”<
br />
  “That’s most kind of you. I would like some coffee.”

  I nodded at Cara, and she stood up. “I’ll bring some gingersnaps, too. Fresh made.”

  “Good.” To Frank, I said, “Cara is famous for her gingersnaps. Let’s get you checked in. As you know, our insurance company requires a background check, which you passed with flying colors. All we need to do now is check your ID and scan in your fingerprints to confirm you are who you said you are.”

  “Very sensible, very smart. You never know who may be prevaricating, for reasons sly or mighty.”

  I pointed to a chair at the guest table. “Have a seat. Sasha will take it from here.”

  Out of Frank’s line of vision, I gave Sasha a thumbs-up, then turned toward Fred. “Can I have a minute, Fred?” He stood up. I turned to Gretchen. “Would you ask Eric to meet me by Hank’s area?” I laughed. “Hank and Angela’s area.”

  She smiled and reached for the phone.

  Fred and I walked side by side across the warehouse. Neither of us spoke until we reached a worktable near where Hank and Angela were playing with a mouse, the purple one with the green feathery tail. Angela batted it toward Hank. He used his teeth to pick up the mouse and shook it as if he wanted it dead. As soon as Hank got the mouse, Angela lost interest; instead, she focused on Hank’s tail. She went low to the ground and circled to his rear. Pausing to line herself up, she gave a little wiggle-bum and pounced. Hank dropped the mouse and looked over his shoulder. She pounced again, and he lashed his tail aside.

  “I’ve seen cats chase their own tails, but never someone else’s,” I said.

  “Hank has a very attractive tail.”

  “Obviously.”

  “He’s pretty patient. Some guys would have a different attitude.”

  “Hank is a perfect boy, aren’t you, darling?”

  He mewed, his tail flicking, as Angela continued to stalk it.

  We watched them play for a minute, until Angela got tired. She yawned and climbed into Hank’s basket. He went for water.