Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  CHAPTER THREE

  P

  ulling into my driveway about twenty minutes later, I turned off the engine and sat. The shimmering moon cast streaks of gray-white light on the meadow and pale shadows penetrated the stand of trees on the property’s edge. Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, my father’s favorite toast came to mind: To silver light in the dark of night. How I wished he’d be inside waiting for me, martini in hand.

  When I allowed the memories in, my grief was as piercing and debilitating as the day he’d died six years ago. I moved my head a little, trying to ease the knotted muscles in my neck and shoulders. “Oh, Dad,” I whispered, “tell me what to do.”

  Our relationship ran deeper than just loving daughter and father because of my mother’s early death. I was only thirteen when she died of cancer, and as our way of coping, my father and I had circled the wagons. For the next sixteen years, until he died, we were a team, a rock-solid unit of two. He’d been the buttress on which I leaned, my biggest fan, and always, no matter what, a loyal ally. Neither time nor my move from New York to New Hampshire had eased the anguish of my loss. I’d endured, but I hadn’t healed.

  He would have agreed, I was certain, that leaving New York to start my own business, Prescott’s Antiques: Auctions and Appraisals, was a smart move. But it had been terrifying to make the decision alone. And as exhilarating as it was to see my business grow, my success would have been far sweeter if I’d been able to share it with him.

  Dad, I’d say, our monthly auctions are increasingly well attended and profitable, the weekly tag sales are filled with repeat customers, and our newest promotional venture, Prescott’s Instant Appraisals, has received participant acclaim and loads of positive media exposure. Plus, we’ve landed some good buys. Everything is going well, Dad. And I could hear his reply as clearly as if he were seated beside me in the car. Way to go, Josie. Way to go.

  Until tonight. I’d set out to help the Portsmouth Women’s Guild by sponsoring their annual autumn fund-raiser and I’d looked forward to receiving a kindly worded public thank-you for my company’s efforts. Instead, a woman had died a horrible death in front of everyone. And as a result, not one of the 128 people in attendance would remember what a great job we’d done. What they’d remember was the murder at Prescott’s.

  I raised my head, reached my hand back and massaged my neck, trying to release the tension, and scanned the area around my house. Nothing stirred. It was so quiet, the world seemed vacant, maybe even dead. Yet when I cracked the window for air, life was apparent. Little clicks signaled that the engine was cooling off, an unseen animal skittered across the wooded path on the far side of the road, leaves crinkled as they were blown aside by a light breeze, and occasional squeaks and chirps alerted me that nocturnal birds were communicating among themselves. The sounds of night were loud and constant once I focused on them. Perception is all, I reminded myself.

  I hate walking into dark places, especially a rental house that doesn’t really feel like home, so I always leave a lamp on upstairs, in my bedroom. The small golden glow welcomed me, but tonight, it wasn’t enough. As I went through the downstairs rooms turning on lights, I debated whether to take a shower and then have a martini, or whether I should have the martini first. I decided to take the shower, wrap myself in my favorite pink chenille robe, and then relax with the drink.

  I was exhausted. My entire staff and I had worked long hours in the days leading up to the Gala. But it wasn’t only a lack of sleep that had worn me down. It was a combination of fatigue, stress, and angst. Not only had I been on edge making certain every detail at the Gala was perfect, but I’d watched, shocked, as Maisy’d died in my auction room, and I couldn’t stop reliving it. The memories played over and over again in an unending loop.

  To make matters worse, Ty, my sort-of boyfriend and scheduled date for the evening, was unavailable to help me cope. I knew it was irrational, but his absence felt more like abandonment than an understandable reaction to a family emergency. When he told me that he needed to go to Los Angeles to care for his much-loved, ill aunt Trina, I’d said all the right things: “Go, Ty . . . Can I do anything? . . . Give Aunt Trina my best. . . . I’ll send my good wishes west. . . . I’ll be fine.” While I felt sad for Ty and concerned for Aunt Trina, I also felt sad for me. I wanted Ty nearby. I sighed, trying to shake off my melancholy.

  As I headed upstairs, aching with loneliness and tension, I again wondered why Detective Rowcliff had concluded that Maisy’s death was murder. If Ty hadn’t left, I could have asked him and he might have known. Or he could have found out. He could have called Rowcliff, one police official to another. Even though they were of different ranks and worked for different cities, as police chief of Rocky Point, Ty would have known the questions to ask the Portsmouth homicide detective to get the answers I wanted.

  I thought back, trying to pinpoint an event that had led Detective Rowcliff to that startling conclusion, pausing as I relived the fatal moment.

  An image of Maisy, her face contorted with horror as she fell, came to me. I forced the memory aside. But that vision was replaced with one that was worse—the cold practicality of the uniformed officials who’d loaded Maisy’s body on a gurney and carted it away. Their businesslike “all in a day’s work” attitude had left me feeling shaken.

  I couldn’t imagine why Detective Rowcliff thought Maisy had been murdered, and with Ty unavailable, I had no one to ask. I used to have my father and several good friends. Then, in a matter of months, everything changed, and now I was alone.

  In New York, while still working at Frisco’s, the famous auction house, I’d had to testify against my boss about the price-fixing scandal that had rocked the high-end antiques world. Despite the fact that I had done the right thing, even my best buddies shunned me, and it wasn’t long before I was forced out of the company. A month later, my father’s unexpected death shattered my world, and only weeks after that, my then boyfriend, Rick, decided that he couldn’t handle my unremitting grief, and we’d parted company.

  Since arriving in New Hampshire, my focus had been on work. That is, until I met Ty last spring. I still work hard, but now I make sure there’s time for pleasure, too. I smiled, recalling the recent evening when Ty and I snuggled under an afghan to watch a Shark Week special on cable and flirted with the idea of taking a winter vacation to the Bahamas.

  I climbed the last few steps and headed into my bedroom. The clock that rested on my bedside table read 12:31. I was surprised. It felt later. According to the red blinking light on my answering machine, I had three messages. Please God, I prayed silently, let there be one from Ty.

  I pushed the button.

  “Josie, it’s Ty. I’m in Atlanta and had a sec before I get on the next flight, so I thought I’d leave you a good-luck message. I’m sure the Gala will go well. Thinking of you. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  He’d left the message at six. I wondered if he’d heard about Maisy’s death yet. Probably not. I bet he hadn’t even landed in L.A. yet.

  I pushed the button for call two.

  “Josie, it’s Wes. We need to talk.”

  Wes Smith, the young reporter from the Seacoast Star. He left his cell phone number and added, “Call me, Josie. You probably want to comment on something I plan to write.”

  Ominous, I thought. Wes had a gift for creating a sense of urgency. I jotted his number down, then braced myself for message number three.

  “Josie, it’s Wes again. Let’s talk. Call me. Now.”

  The date and time marker revealed that his first call had been around ten, and the second one had occurred less than thirty minutes ago, just after midnight.

  I felt out of control and upset. I’d done nothing, yet it was as if my world had tilted. I turned the shower up as hot as I could stand it, stood under the pounding water, and cried.

  All at once, I felt dizzy, as if the shower stall were askew, just a little. I pushed against the steaming tiles and forced myself to breat
he. A memory came to me, and I shut my eyes. When I was about eight, my mother and I entered a hall of mirrors at a fair, and I froze, unable to move, barely able to breathe. Not knowing what was real or which way to turn, I became paralyzed with panic.

  “Come on, Josie,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “Follow me.”

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. Fright held me fast and my eyes stayed fixed on the shimmering mirror in front of me.

  “Close your eyes and take a deep breath,” my mother told me calmly.

  I followed her instructions, but the uncontrollable terror remained intact. I felt myself begin to hyperventilate.

  She took my hand and squeezed reassuringly. “Let’s go. I’ll lead us out.”

  A similar feeling of discombobulation came over me now, a sense that despite appearances, what was in front of me wasn’t real. It was as if I’d tumbled into an unseen chasm through ground that appeared solid but suddenly no longer supported my weight.

  Apprehension merged with a primitive and hopeless confusion. Just as I had endured skin-crawling anxiety that day when I was eight, overwhelming dread took hold of me now. I concentrated on my breathing, trying to find my way back to solid ground. Water streamed over my face and neck. I felt utterly alone and completely vulnerable. I wished Ty was with me to hold me, stroke my hair, and kiss the back of my neck. And to reassure me that everything would be all right, that Detective Rowcliff didn’t really think I’d killed Maisy, that I wasn’t the intended victim, and that Maisy’s death was a tragedy but not a crime. “Please, God,” I whispered, “let us all be safe.”

  I didn’t know which was worse—to be unable to trust my perceptions or to recognize that there were things I couldn’t understand or control. I’d had recurring bad dreams in the days following the hall of mirrors experience, and today, everything felt like a nightmare come true.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A

  fter two martinis, I crawled into bed, unable to think because I was so tired, yet so tense that I was certain I wouldn’t be able to rest. But after reading only a few pages of a favorite Rex Stout mystery I’d read a dozen times before, Plot It Yourself, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  I jerked upright with a start, like a slice of bread popping out of a toaster. The phone rang. The clock told me it was nine thirty in the morning. I grabbed the receiver before it could ring a third time. “Hello,” I said, agitated.

  “Josie,” Wes said. I recognized the Seacoast Star reporter’s voice and could picture him hunched over the dirty steering wheel in his old car, pen poised in case I uttered a printable gem.

  “Wes, why are you calling me so early?”

  “What are you talking about? It’s not so early. It’s midmorning.”

  “It’s not midmorning. It’s early morning. And I was asleep.”

  “That’s right, I forgot. You’re always grumpy in the morning.”

  I slapped the sheet away and stood up, wriggling my feet into pink fuzzy slippers. “I’m not grumpy in the morning,” I protested. I sighed loudly, resigned to the inevitability of talking to him. “What do you want, Wes?”

  “A quote.”

  “Figures.”

  “Well, it’s not every day you have a murder at your business.”

  “Do I now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do you know it’s murder?”

  “I have sources,” he said mysteriously. I’d heard that before. Wes always had sources. I snuggled into my robe and tied the sash tightly. It was cold. I reminded myself grimly that his sources were usually right.

  “So,” he continued, “what do you say about the theory that Maisy Gaylor wasn’t the intended victim.”

  “Nothing. I say nothing.”

  “I’m going to quote multiple sources saying that there’s confusion about the circumstances of Maisy’s death and that you might have been the intended target. Do you want to comment?”

  “No,” I said, pushing aside the drapes that covered the side window. I shivered despite the warm robe and bright morning sun. Silvery white sparkles from sun-touched hoarfrost glistened on the lawn.

  “I’m going to report that you’re going to be reinterviewed by Detective Rowcliff this morning. Don’t you want to comment?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to add anything?” he asked ironically.

  “Wes?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What did Maisy die from?” I found myself almost whispering.

  “No official word yet. They’re pretty sure it was poison, though.”

  “Oh God. That’s awful. That’s just horrible.”

  “That’s kind of a skimpy quote.”

  “Don’t you dare publish a word I spoke. Not one word, do you hear me, Wes?”

  “I’ll promise if you give me an exclusive.”

  “I have nothing to say to you. I’m hanging up now.”

  I heard righteous sputtering as I gently replaced the receiver.

  Memories of relentless media pressing in on me during the price-fixing scandal that had helped drive me out of New York stopped me as I headed downstairs to start coffee. I grasped the railing. “Not again,” I whispered. “Please don’t let them stalk me again.” Then as now, I was innocent, the whistle-blower in New York and the cooperative bystander here.

  The doorbell rang, startling me as I scooped coffee into the filter, and grounds sprinkled on the counter. “Damn,” I said, sweeping the bits of coffee into the sink.

  I peeked through the window on the front door but didn’t recognize the dark-haired woman standing on the stoop. She was younger than I was by a few years, wore low-cut jeans with an orange turtleneck and an oversized orange-and-black flannel shirt, and had two children with her. A boy of four or five stood next to her, holding her hand. A girl of about two was cradled in her right arm, the little girl’s head tucked into the woman’s shoulder, her bottom resting on her hip.

  “Hi,” I said, opening the door wide.

  “Oh my God, here I go again with lousy timing. You’re still in your robe. Sorry.”

  “It’s not a problem. How can I help you?” A missionary proselytizing, maybe, I thought, or a single mom selling cosmetics door-to-door.

  She smiled. “I’m Zoe Dwyer. You’re Josie Prescott?”

  “Yes,” I said. I didn’t recognize the name.

  “And this is Jake, and this little doll is Emma.”

  I smiled at each child. Jake pulled away from her and ran down the steps and into the field on the far side of the house, laughing and shrieking as he tried to catch a squirrel. Emma was drowsing, her face in soft repose.

  “Jake, stay in sight!” Zoe called, watching him for a moment.

  “Okay!” he called back.

  “ ‘Quicksilver Jake,’ that’s what I call him.” She turned back to me, smiling, and said, “Well, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought I ought to introduce myself.”

  “Sure.”

  Confusion must have shown on my face, because she said, “Sorry. I don’t mean to be mysterious. I’m your new landlady.”

  “What? What happened to Mr. Winterelli?”

  “My uncle. Wow, you didn’t hear? Sorry to be the one to tell you, but he died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. He was a nice man. I can’t believe it. When did it happen?”

  “Three weeks ago. He had a heart attack.”

  “Three weeks ago!” I did a mental calculation. We were in the final rush of Gala preparations back then. “I know I was busy at work,” I said, “but I didn’t know I was that busy. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks. Anyway, I was out in Colorado with my good-for-nothing husband, may God punish the f’ing bum—excuse my French.” She hoisted Emma up higher on her hip and gave a short laugh. “I can’t control my temper. I’m Italian. Sorry about that.” She glanced at Emma. “Anyway, I said to him, ‘You know what? I like New England. I grew up there, and I’m sure as shooting not happy here, so bye by
e.’” She shrugged. “I packed up, picked up, and here we are. Anyway, I’ve moved in next door, so I thought I ought to come over and say hello.”

  Jake squealed as he ran toward the woods, and we both turned toward him. Two weeks past peak, the old maples that fringed the meadow still blazed with color. Most of the leaves were orange, but some shone with a yellow glint, and one entire tree glowed a pinkish red.

  “Jake, stay close!” Zoe called.

  “Wow, I’m just shocked,” I responded. “Mr. Winterelli was so pleasant. Helpful and everything.”

  “Yeah. He always said nice things about you, too.”

  “Do you want to come in and have some coffee?”

  “Thanks, I’d love to, but I can’t. I loved my uncle to death, but he wasn’t the best housekeeper, you know? There’s a lot to do.”

  A collie came running full-tilt around the corner of the house, bearing a thick stick, which it dropped at Zoe’s feet.

  “This is Lassie. I know, not an original name, right?” She shrugged again. “What a great dog Lassie was. Do you remember that show? I must have watched a gazillion reruns growing up.” She dipped down, keeping Emma in place, picked up the stick, and tossed it toward the back. Lassie dashed after it. Jake screeched a greeting to the dog and ran to meet her. “I better go. If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Listen, if I can help you get settled, give a shout.”

  She waved as she headed down the steps, calling for Jake to come inside now. I watched as they made their way toward the big white house next door. The little house I rented was a smaller version, built a hundred years earlier as an in-law residence, an American version of a traditional British dower house.

  As I shut the door, I felt sad and a little lost. It didn’t matter that Zoe seemed like a lot of fun. All I could focus on was the unanticipated and unwanted change—nothing against Zoe, but I had liked Mr. Winterelli! Just when I get used to something, I thought, feeling fussy and allowing the door to slam, it changes.