by Mark McNease
“No, please, come in.”
She stepped aside and let Chip enter just as Gerri came back from her bathroom duty.
Chip looked up at the stranger.
“This is my sister, Gerri,” Maggie said. “Gerri, this is Chip McGill.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. He was used to people hesitating before shaking, as if he might be dirty, but Gerri smiled and took his hand warmly.
She’s sizing him up, Maggie thought. The local handyman with a drinking problem. Which one of them should I warn?
“Chip’s here to work on the fireplace. I’m having it redone.” She was pleased with herself for not saying “we” this time. “He’s a chimney sweep, too.”
“That I am,” said Chip. “I’ll get my tools.”
He headed back out to his beat-up blue truck, parked on the street in front of the house.
“Time to get started on the rest of my day,” Maggie said, leaving the door open for Chip. “I have to go to the factory. You’re welcome to come.”
“No,” replied Gerri. “I think today is a good time for me to explore this town. I never really saw much on my last visit. It’s home now. We should get to know each other.”
The words were not comforting to Maggie. She wasn’t sure she wanted her sister living with her for more than a few weeks.
“You do that,” said Maggie. “If you need any suggestions …”
“I like to explore, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
Gerri headed upstairs to get ready for a day of sightseeing while Maggie waited for Chip to return with his toolbox.
The fireplace in the Dahl’s house was original, dating back to the house’s construction sometime in the early 1920s. The brick had once been red but had turned black with soot around the opening. Then, at some point, occupants of the house decided not to use it at all and had painted it brown—a hideous brown, in Maggie’s opinion. She only knew about the soot after Chip had started stripping the paint. He said it was the only way to get it back to its original feel and look. Once the paint was completely stripped off he would set about restoring it as best he could, and replacing any damaged bricks.
Chip had started helping David with the house two weeks after they’d moved in. They’d been referred to him by their neighbors, who had used him to fix up their kitchen.
“He drinks a lot,” Alice had told them disapprovingly, in the only negative reaction they’d had to hiring Chip. Maggie wondered at the time if Chip and Alice had a history, but she wrote it off as Alice being judgmental.
Maggie knew very little about Chip or his story, except that he had been in Lambertville his entire life. He’d had a wife at one point but something had caused them to part—he didn’t talk about it—and he had a daughter, Heather, who ran an art gallery in town. He lived above Davies’ Hardware, which Maggie knew because she had gone there once to pay him. (He’d called the house sounding in no condition to drive, asking if they could please pay him in cash this time, so Maggie had walked over to his apartment and given him $100 for the previous day’s work.) Contrary to Alice’s impression of Chip, they had both liked him and trusted him, to the point David had given him a key to the house so he could come and go as he needed to work on the renovation.
Gerri had left for her neighborhood exploration twenty minutes earlier. Maggie was watching Chip strip paint off the bricks, hoping the smell of the solvent would not make them sick. Checks was curled on a chair, disinterested.
Chip had acknowledged the cat without commenting on him. She knew he was a very private man who extended that sense of privacy to everyone else: if Maggie wanted him to know anything about Checks, she would tell him. Otherwise it was none of his business.
“Say, Chip,” Maggie said, after thinking for several minutes about how to approach this particular subject.
“Yeah, Mrs. Dahl …” he said, less a question than a statement. He didn’t seem to be paying her much attention.
“I was wondering … if somebody needed to borrow some money …”
He stopped what he was doing but did not turn around. He’d been hunched down with his back to her.
“Yeah?”
“Well, if someone needed, say, cash in a hurry …”
He swiveled on his haunches and looked up at her. “Are you having troubles, Mrs. Dahl? With the business?”
Horrified, Maggie quickly said, “Oh no, I’m not talking about me.”
He peered at her. “Who, then?”
Here we go, thought Maggie. I hate lying. But she did it anyway.
“I have a friend … I can’t say who, he would be so embarrassed.”
She glanced toward the stairs, deliberately hinting that her friend was in fact her sister.
“But he can’t get a loan at the bank, and it’s not even that much money. Just a few thousand dollars. I’m not in a position to help her … him … with the store opening and all. And you know pretty much everyone in town. I was just wondering if there was anyone who made … off the books loans, that sort of thing.”
“A loan shark, you mean.”
“Is that what they call them?” She knew very well that’s what they were called.
His expression darkened. “Why would you think I might know such a thing?”
“I … I didn’t, not necessarily, I just thought …”
“Old Chip, he’s got that criminal feel to him, kind of a derelict.”
“Chip, please, that’s not what I meant at all. I just thought, with all your connections …”
“I’m connected well enough to pay my rent and that’s about it, Mrs. Dahl. And I do appreciate the work you give me—everyone gives me—but that doesn’t mean I’m familiar with the shady side of things.”
“You know, Chip, you’re right, forget I said anything, please. I apologize.”
He turned back away from her and started stripping the bricks again. Maggie was about to leave the room when he spoke.
“I’ve got a number you can call, but that’s all I’ve got.”
“A number?”
“A telephone number. Get a pencil and write it down. What you do with it and who you meet on the other end is not my business.”
Maggie hurried to the coffee table and took a small writing pad and pencil from its bottom shelf.
With his back still to her, Chip said, “I’ve never called this number, as far as anyone is concerned. You understand?”
“Completely,” Maggie said.
“And I sure hope your friend doesn’t regret it. Please don’t say where you got it.”
“Not a word.”
Chip proceeded to recite a phone number while Maggie wrote it down. She had no idea if this was the person Alice owed money to, or if it was in any way connected to her murder, but it was more to go on than she’d had before Chip arrived, which had been nothing at all.
CHAPTER Fourteen
MAGGIE DROVE TO THE FACTORY after her talk with Chip, the phone number he’d given her safely tucked into a sleeve of her wallet. It was a Pennsylvania number—she knew that from the area code—and she wondered if it was someone in Philadelphia. That would make sense, given its proximity to Lambertville. You could get to Philly in an hour.
Gerri was somewhere in town, probably having cappuccino and a scone at one of the popular coffee places on Bridge Street. Maggie remembered how much pleasure she and David had taken in sitting by a window watching the locals and tourists walk by on a Saturday morning. They were at a table at one of the coffee shops when David first said he could see them living there.
Wherever Gerri was, she had not felt a need to call or text her sister. This was a good sign: maybe Gerri’s presence in her home was something Maggie could adjust to after all. As long as they had their own lives and devoted themselves to separate activities, it might work out. She knew Gerri wanted to help with Dahl House Jams. She wasn’t sure she could take being around her sister as much as that would entail, but she needed help running the st
ore once it opened. She would have to give it careful thought.
She’d expected to see everyone at the factory—Gloria, Sybil, Peter and Janice. Their big shipment had gone out, giving them a little room to breathe, relax and celebrate. Assuming all went well with the order for Hearth and Home, they could find themselves busier than ever within weeks. Maggie tried not to think of the alternative—that their jams could flop in a chain store that size. They had all told themselves failure was not an option. They’d already found their jams and jellies in local restaurants and people were talking: When will the store open? How can I get some for my grandparents? Can we order them online? Maggie made a note to herself to check with Cathy Ashby, the young web wizard who had designed their site. It was up and running but Maggie had requested some changes and she hadn’t had time to see if they’d been done.
She parked in her front spot and headed into the factory. They had several smaller orders to get out, plus what she needed to stock the store for the opening. She walked inside, suddenly aware she hadn’t thought about Alice Drapier or her tragic death for the past twenty minutes. She was thinking how quickly it had consumed her attention when she saw Sybil and Gloria in the front office, whispering.
“Morning, ladies,” Maggie said. “Where’s Janice?”
They stopped talking, turning worried gazes to Maggie.
“Is something wrong?” asked Maggie. “Is Janice okay?”
“She’s fine, Mrs. Dahl,” said Gloria. The younger of the two cousins, she was a slim 40-something with a long reddish ponytail that draped to the middle of her back. Maggie knew she had two sons and a husband, Jim, who worked for the post office. She had been the Dahls’ first hire, and she had recommended both Sybil, her maternal cousin, and Peter Stapley. “She’s running late, she called.”
Janice was as reliable as anyone Maggie knew so she wasn’t alarmed by that, but something was troubling the women.
“It’s Peter,” Sybil said, glancing nervously at the door that led into the factory proper.
Maggie slipped her purse into a bottom file drawer. “Is he sick? Did something happen?”
Sybil was in her fifties. Her daughter had left home some years ago and now lived in Arizona with twin sons Sybil often bragged about. She’d been a widow much longer than Maggie, and working at the factory had given a new chapter to her life.
“Something happened,” said Gloria, her voice low, “ten years ago today.”
“Oh my gosh,” Maggie said, knowing immediately what they were talking about. Peter’s daughter Lilly had vanished, never to be found, and apparently today was the ten year anniversary. “Poor Peter. Has he said anything about it?”
“He never talks about it, Mrs. Dahl,” Gloria said.
“He can’t,” added Sybil.
While the whole town knew the story of Lilly Stapley disappearing at the age of twelve, it was not something Peter ever discussed. His life had been shattered by it. His wife had left him, and for a number of years he had been unable to work—unable to function—beyond a bare minimum that kept him alive. Maggie knew from what the cousins had told her that Peter had sold his house and his belongings, whatever would provide enough money to keep a roof over his head. He’d worked subsistence-level jobs since then, living in a converted garage, and Maggie had been grateful she could offer him a decent wage and a place to go every day.
“Let me say good morning to him,” Maggie said. The women started to protest, but said nothing. They knew Maggie would not pressure Peter. She would be gentle with him, and if he didn’t want to talk—which they knew he wouldn’t—she would leave it alone.
Maggie walked past them, back into the factory. David had installed a wall between front and back to provide privacy in the main office. It also helped keep out the sounds of jam making on a modest scale.
Peter was at one of the vats, checking the gauges. He jumped when Maggie came up beside him.
“Morning,” he said, his back to her.
“Good morning, Peter,” she said. “How’s it going?”
He remained turned away from her. “Fine, we’re doing the mixberry for the store opening.”
Mixberry was one of their signature and most popular flavors. David had come up with it. Remembering it made Maggie wince
“Excellent.” Using the vat as an excuse, Maggie walked up to it and peered in. It positioned her in front of Peter. “David loved that smell,” she said, turning to face him.
She was shocked by what she saw. His eyes were bloodshot from crying and his face was drawn. He quickly looked down at the floor.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said. “I know today is an anniversary …”
“We need another word,” he said. “‘Anniversary’ is a celebration, something you’re happy about.”
He was right. Anniversary was the wrong word when it came to something so horrific as the abduction of a child.
“I won’t press you, Peter, but if you ever want to talk about it …”
“Don’t wait for that,” he said. “It won’t happen.”
Maggie stood there a moment, letting his sorrow hang in the air. There was nothing she or anyone else could do about it. It was his grief, his despair. She knew something about that, having dealt the last six months with friends wanting her to talk about her feelings. She knew the implicit message was that she should move on, that grief makes people uncomfortable and there was some timeline beyond which it felt like an imposition on others. She had not done as they’d hoped, but she had stopped talking about it to most people. She guarded her grief, just as Peter Stapley guarded his.
She was relieved to hear Janice coming in the front door. It provided her a graceful exit from an awkward situation.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, “but you know I’m here.” She gently put her hand on Peter’s arm.
“I know that, thank you.”
She nodded and left him alone.
The rest of the morning was surprisingly uneventful, given how much Maggie needed to get done and how little time there was to do it. She’d been consumed by the order for Hearth and Home for the past three weeks, from the time it first came in and sent them all into a state of delirium, to the moment it got shipped out and they were able to breathe—and pray. It was as close to a make-or-break order as they would ever have, given how precarious the birth of a business can be.
If you make it a year you can make it ten, Maggie thought. It was hard to go on without David, but one thing she did not allow herself in his absence was the possibility of not succeeding. Thinking that Dahl House Jams & Specialties might not be around in a year caused her to chasten herself—stop that, right now … David is listening. It wasn’t the first time she’d imagined such a thing; losing someone so much a part of yourself does strange things to you after the damage has been done. It leaves you with ghost limbs, phantom caresses, and fanciful ideas like being listened to by the departed.
She shook it off and told Janice she needed to go to her car, she’d forgotten something in the glove compartment. Janice had been sitting at the front desk going over invoices. Maggie had not forgotten anything, she just wanted to make a very private phone call.
She left the factory and got into her car, leaning over and pretending to rummage through the glove compartment while she used her cell phone to dial the number Chip had given. It rang several times and she was sure it would go into voicemail, when someone picked up.
“What?” said a man’s voice.
That’s how you answer the phone? Maggie thought. ‘What’?
“Hello?” the man said. “What’s this call about?”
Sitting up now, visible to Janice through the front window, Maggie waved and smiled, as if she’d just happened to take a call from someone while she was in the car. Janice waved back.
“I was wondering …” Maggie said, faltering.
“Where’d you get this number?”
“From a mutual friend,” Maggie lied.
“We do
n’t have mutual friends,” said the man. “You’ve got five seconds to stop lying and tell me why you called this number.”
“I need a loan!” Maggie blurted.
There was silence on the other end. “I’ll ask you one more time, lady, where did you get this number?”
Maggie sighed. She could not keep lying to this man and expect him not to hang up on here. “Chip,” she said, convinced he could hear her guilt over the phone. “Chip McGill. But he was only taking pity on me, please leave him out of it. I don’t want to get him in any trouble.”
“You think I’m trouble?”
Maggie could swear the man was amused. It annoyed her.
“No, Sir,” she said. “I don’t think anything at the moment. I was just hoping you could help me.”
“It’s possible. What did this Chip McGill say?”
“Pardon?”
“Did he tell you who you were calling?”
“No,” said Maggie. “He just gave me the phone number, and I had to push him for that. He wasn’t going to. This is entirely my idea.”
More silence. “What kind of idea is that?”
“To borrow money. I’m opening a store, you see …”
“Do you have a name?”
“Maggie Dahl.”
“Doll? Like the kid’s toy?”
“No, D-A-H-L.”
“Like the jams,” he said.
Maggie was surprised. “So you’ve heard about us.”
“They have your stuff at the breakfast place I go to.”
He sounded less guarded now and Maggie hoped it meant he would meet her.
“Listen, lady, we don’t discuss these things on the phone.”
We? Was there more than one? Maggie wondered. Or was it ‘we’ as in some kind of crime syndicate?
“I’m happy to meet you somewhere,” she said.
“I’ll think about it and call you back if the answer is yes.”
“Don’t you want my number?”
“It’s called ‘caller ID’” the man said, as if Maggie were a not-too-bright child. “I can see it right here on my phone. You’re in Jersey.”
