“Yes, that sounds like it might have happened that way. Everywhere you went in town, rain or snow or sun, you’d see him out walking. He never took a bus and always said no if you offered to give him a ride in your car.”
“Did you ever offer?” Betsy asked.
“Me? No, he was kind of strange, you know?”
“Poor fellow.”
“Yes, poor fellow.”
“But back to his house,” Betsy said, trying gently to steer the conversation back to its original subject. “You saw Georgie upstairs looking at the mailbag?”
“Sure. You know what was even more amazing than that lost mail? Those pieces of jewelry. Phil took them out of his pocket to show Doris, and Georgie said, ‘Let me see that,’ and said they were real gemstones. Phil wrapped them in tissues and put them in his shirt pocket. Then Jill said Connor should take the mailbag over to the post office right away, and while he was about it, he said he’d buy lunch for everyone, so we all went out into the backyard and washed our hands and recited limericks.”
“Who went back into the house?” Betsy asked. “Anyone?”
“Jill went back into the kitchen and brought out a dirty old bottle of Palmolive dish soap for us to use to wash up.”
“How about Godwin, or Georgine?”
“No, only Jill.”
They talked awhile longer, then Betsy called Jill.
“When everyone was in the backyard around noon that first day at Tom’s house, you went back into the house to get that bottle of dish soap, right?”
“Yes, why?”
“Was everyone else in the backyard at that point?”
“Everyone but Connor, who went to take the mailbag to the post office and buy lunch for us.”
“Did Georgie go back in the house, too?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t, for example, see her coming through the dining room on her way into the kitchen?”
“No. What’s this about?”
“Connor says he saw Georgie going through the dining room into the kitchen when he was bringing the mailbag down the front stairs.”
“Oh, that’s impossible! We were all in the backyard and stayed in the backyard while we ate our lunch—thank you, by the way, for paying for it. I can’t believe that Connor is saying it—except it’s Connor, and he’s not often mistaken. What’s the explanation?”
“He saw Gracie.”
“No, Gracie didn’t work in the house.”
“Nevertheless, she was there,” Betsy insisted.
“How could he mistake Gracie for Georgie?” Jill asked. “Did Gracie say she was there?”
“No.”
“Well, then, who says she was there?”
“Connor.”
“Come on, Betsy,” Jill said, “they don’t look all that much alike.”
“If you take Gracie’s wig off, they do.”
“Wig?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh,” said Jill. Then, “Oh, for goodness sake! Is that what you’re thinking? Have you called Mike about this?”
“No, not yet, but I will.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
BETSY called the Pickerings’ rented house.
“So?” one of the two answered—mocking the current fad for starting every conversation with that very word.
Betsy laughed. “Which Pickering am I talking to?” she asked.
“Me, Gracie. Is this Betsy?”
“Yes. Are the both of you there?”
“Right now, yes. But we’re packing to leave. Why?”
“I want to pay a call on you, to talk about auctions. Connor’s been going to a lot of them, and I think he’s starting to think about getting into your line of work, buying and selling. I want to be able to talk intelligently to him about the process.”
“Just the thing we need, more competition,” she laughed. “But okay, sure. And when you come over, I can show you the progress I’m making on that lace edging. I can mail you the pattern.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Knowing better than to go to a suspect’s house without telling someone where she was going, Betsy called Connor.
“I’m not going to make an accusation,” she said. “I’m just going to ‘take the temperature,’ so to speak.”
“Why don’t you call Malloy?” he said in a worried voice.
“I did. He won’t act without more evidence. But they’re packing to leave. Maybe all I can learn is where they’re going in case it’s not home.”
“Let him go take their temperatures. If they’re guilty, what? They’ll be running a fever?”
“More likely they’ll be below normal, if they’re the cold-blooded killers I think they are.”
“If you seriously think they are a pair of murderers, then I seriously think you are behaving very foolishly. Can’t you at least talk to Malloy?”
“I did talk to Malloy. He says I was wrong about Teesdale, so I must be wrong about the Pickerings. He says I’m flailing about, trying to cast suspicion on someone—anyone—other than Valentina. He says you’re mistaken about seeing Gracie but because you’re my boyfriend I have to stick up for you.” Betsy gave a little sniff, whether of annoyance or sorrow, Connor couldn’t tell. But she was determined to go.
He insisted on driving her over there. “I’ll sit in the car, if you like, but I’m going.”
“All right. In fact, I’m glad to have you along. Bring something to read.”
The day was sunny, but the puddle near the curb by Connor’s car was frozen. Betsy huddled deeper into her winter coat until the passenger cabin warmed up.
“It’s been years since I lived in San Diego,” she said. “You’d think by now I’d be used to this.”
“You could sell that shop and move somewhere warmer,” Connor said.
“Oh, who’d buy it?” she grumbled.
“Godwin would, in a heartbeat.”
She would have disagreed with him, but a second’s thought told her he was right. “Of course, he’d close up for two weeks every winter while he soaked up the sun in Mexico,” she said.
“You could do that, too, machree.”
She thought about that the rest of the trip, which didn’t take long.
Connor parked up the street from the Pickerings’ house, so a casual look out the window wouldn’t show him sitting in the car. He took out his Kindle and was already settling down with it when she left the car.
She shook her head at him affectionately, although he didn’t see her do so, and walked back to the house. It was an attractive single-family dwelling with a bay window in front and a sunporch on the second floor filled with mullioned windows, the architecture a happy if eccentric cross between Craftsman and English Country Cottage.
Betsy found the front door set deep under the sunporch and rang the doorbell. It was opened very promptly by Grace, who grinned and invited her in for a hug, her dark auburn hair sweeping lightly onto Betsy’s cheek.
“Georgie, she’s here!” Grace called. “Pour the tea into the pot!”
The living room was small and cozy, with comfortably padded chintz-covered furniture and a few too many little tables. The walls were papered in a small pattern of flowers.
Georgine brought in a wooden tray, put it on the coffee table in front of the couch, and they all sat down.
Georgine was wearing a pale blue jumpsuit and thick-soled blue clogs. Grace was in a long skirt checkered in lavender and white and a big-sleeved white blouse with a little stand-up collar. Both looked elegant and successful.
Georgine said, “Betsy, I just love you in purple. It’s your color!”
Betsy smiled at the compliment. She did like the outfit she was wearing, a purple shirt with silver buttons and matching purple slacks. “Thank you,” she sai
d. And then, “I hope I’m not keeping you from something important.”
“No, we’re almost finished. We’ve been moving around so long we’ve gotten very efficient.”
“How do you ship your finds?” Betsy asked, and soon they were engaged in a lively discussion of USPS, FedEx, and UPS—Betsy was venturing into mail order via her web site and not altogether happy about how much time it took to process orders for shipping.
Gracie poured more tea. “Shall I be mother?” she asked archly, a reference to a British custom. There was a selection of little cookies to go with the tea, served on a pretty plate.
“You’re probably going to have to hire someone to run that end of your business for you,” said Georgine. “We have someone who helps us back home. He works three days a week. Marvelous fellow!”
Betsy picked up a third cookie. It was as delicious as the other two. “Did one of you bake these?” she asked.
“Oh no, they’re from Byerly’s,” said Grace, naming an upscale grocery.
“I understand you wanted to talk to us about auctions,” said Georgine.
“Yes. Connor’s been going to them, and he took me to one at Luther’s—we saw you there, remember?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Grace. “Did you buy something?”
“No, and neither did Connor—everything he liked, he got outbid on.”
“If he still wants that peacoat, we’ll sell it to him,” said Georgine with a little smirk.
Betsy laughed. “Was it you two who got it? Maybe I’ll buy it for him for Christmas—what size is it?”
“No, no,” said Grace, laughing. “You don’t want it. The lining is so badly torn it will need to be replaced. We have a tailor back home who does that sort of thing for us.”
“Sounds as if you have quite an organization, a shipper and a tailor. Do you do restorations and repairs, too?”
“We have lots of contacts and know lots of people who can do things for us,” said Georgine. “If Connor is serious, he’ll find himself getting an organization, too. It’s the only way to make a profit in this business.”
“Do you sell things at auctions, as well as buy from them?” Betsy asked.
“Oh yes.”
“I want to ask you how that works,” said Betsy. “But first I want to visit your powder room.”
“There’s a half bath down the hallway off the dining room,” said Georgine, pointing.
Shouldn’t have drunk so much tea, Betsy thought to herself, walking down the short hallway.
There was a fresh roll of toilet paper in the holder, and Betsy, in a bit of a hurry, pulled sharply on the end. To her dismay, the entire roll flew out of the holder—whoever had replaced the roll hadn’t made sure the spring-loaded roller was in place. The toilet paper uncoiled itself out of reach.
Betsy made a tsk sound of annoyance and reached for her purse, balanced on the edge of the sink, and pulled out a few tissues.
Then she adjusted her trousers and stooped to retrieve the toilet paper roll. The roller had disappeared and she, growing more annoyed by the second, got down on her knees to see where it had gone. Behind the stool? No. There it was, under the overhang of the sink’s cabinet.
She got hold of it and was about to straighten up when she noticed that the quarter round molding running across the bottom of the setback under the sink cabinet had slid sideways, extending beyond the end of the cabinet.
She reached to slide it back in place, and instead it caught on something and came loose. She picked it up, and the thin facing board fell forward.
Beginning to mutter serious imprecations to herself, she saw that the thin board had been concealing a rough-cut rectangle cut in the drywall that the builder had used to face the foot of the cabinet.
And tucked inside the opening was a red box. Betsy reached for it, then yanked her hand back. The box was the exact size and color of the box taken from Tom Riordan’s house.
She got up, washed her hands, and dipped into her purse for her cell phone.
“Connor,” she said quietly, “I’ve found the cinnabar box. It’s in an opening at the base of the sink in the downstairs powder room. Call 911, I’ll stall them till they get here.” She broke the connection.
She opened the door to the powder room and was startled to see the two Pickering sisters waiting for her. “We wondered what was taking you so long,” said Georgine.
“That door is unfortunately—for you—very thin,” said Gracie. “We heard things rattling around and then you on your cell phone.”
“We’re going out the back way, and you’re coming with us,” said Georgine.
“No, I don’t think so,” said Betsy, taking a step sideways, thinking to slide past them toward the front door. “Why did you keep it? Why didn’t you mail it somewhere? Why did you have to kill poor Tom over it?”
The two women were moving to a place between Betsy and the front door. “Now, don’t be afraid,” said Grace in a tone of voice that sent a chill down Betsy’s spine. “We aren’t going to hurt you. But we have to move quickly. Come here. Now.” She reached out a hand toward Betsy.
“Seriously,” said Georgine, in the same tone.
“Stop,” said Betsy. “Stay away from me.”
“Or what, honey?” growled Gracie in a whole new voice, taking another step toward her.
Betsy made a dash to get around them. Her sudden move surprised them. She fled into the living room. The pair whipped after her. Grace slammed into her, knocking her off her path toward the door. Betsy ran behind the couch and the two separated, blocking her escape.
Betsy turned toward the pretty little bay window at the front of the house. She picked up a cut-glass lamp from a table and flung it into the window.
The windowpane exploded outward.
“What’d you do that for?” shouted Grace.
“Get ’er!” shouted Georgine. The two sisters rushed to take Betsy by the arms and drag her to the floor.
Betsy screamed in fright and kicked at them. One of them—Was it Gracie? In her panic Betsy couldn’t tell—hit Betsy in the face and shouted “Stop fighting!”
“Let go of me!” yelled Betsy. She twisted an arm free and yanked at Gracie’s hair—which came off in her hand. Betsy threw the wig away and cocked her arm to strike, but her wrist was taken by Georgine and pulled backward.
Things very quickly became confused. There was a lot of yelling and panting and struggling. Betsy was hit again, twice, in the face, and she kicked someone on the knee.
“That’s enough!” shouted a man’s loud voice.
It was Connor. He waded into the melee and pulled the two women off Betsy. “I said that’s enough!” He shook them, hard, and held each of them at arm’s length.
“Oh, Connor, oh, Connor, thank God!” gasped Betsy, breathless and panicked.
“She attacked us for no reason at all!” said Gracie, starting to cry. She began pushing at Connor’s arm. “Let go, let go! You’re hurting me!”
“She scared us!” said Georgine, trying to twist out of Connor’s grip. “She threw the lamp at us and broke the window!”
Betsy got to her feet. Her shirt was torn, her hands were scratched, and she was pretty sure her nose was bleeding.
“Look!” said Betsy, pointing first at one, then the other. “They are twins!”
The sound of an approaching siren made everyone fall silent.
“Go out and wave them down, machree,” he said. “I’ll hold these two meanwhile.”
* * *
“THEY were serial thieves,” said Betsy the next day at a special gathering of the Monday Bunch. “They traveled all over the country, buying antiques and collectibles wherever they went. And stealing from galleries and auctions. Then they’d sell whatever they got hold of on eBay or on consignment at other auctions, in newspaper ads, or even on crai
gslist.
“They had a clever ploy, using the fact that they were actually identical twins. They’d dress very differently and tell people they were sisters two, three, or more years apart. The blond sister, Georgie, would make her presence known in a room where witnesses were present, while Gracie without her auburn wig and dressed exactly like her sister, would commit the theft. If anyone noted something was missing and remembered Gracie being in the place where and when the theft took place, Georgie would supply an alibi. Gracie would change into her auburn-haired persona and join her sister in bidding on auctioned items or negotiating a price in a gallery.
“For variety, they’d do it the other way around, both starting out as auburn haired.
“They pulled a stunt like that on you, Emily.”
“They did? When?”
“That day you found the cinnabar box. They knew it was there. Georgie, remember, was in the house for the walk-through the day before. She must have been surprised to spot it, because it had been stolen from her weeks earlier—except of course she didn’t know that Tom was the person who stole it. But that day, there were others around and she wasn’t wearing one of those shoplifters’ trousers or coats or skirts with the pockets on the inside to hide things in. So she dropped some magazines on top of it. The next day Gracie took her place, without her auburn wig and dressing in Georgine-style clothing—this time with the magic pockets—and waiting for the perfect moment to get you out of that dining room.
“They were probably thinking to make the switch at noon. But their chance came earlier, when Connor yelled from upstairs that he’d made a spectacular find. Jill and Valentina were in the kitchen. Georgie waited for them to leave, then went out the back door, came around the house, and signaled Gracie who was lurking by the big Dumpster. Then Gracie came in the front door and went upstairs to see what Connor had found. By then you were gone, and Gracie came in and went directly to the dining room. She must have been surprised not to find the box where she had left it. But she did eventually find it on the table, hid it in her clothing, and left the house.”
Darned if You Do Page 23
