Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Not exactly. I have a question, and it’s important.” He looked at me as if gauging whether I might fire up again, or whether it was safe to proceed.

  “What?” I asked, resigned.

  “I understand from my sources that the police have found no record of anyone involved in the case purchasing potassium cyanide. Not a surprise when you think about it, since only a fool would openly buy poison he or she intended to use for murder, and there’s no reason to think that the killer is a fool.”

  “True,” I agreed.

  There are other ways to get cyanide, I thought, besides buying it. Do photographers still use cyanide? I knew they used to years ago. Images of Trevor supervising photographers came to me. One photographer in particular, Lewis somebody. Old-school, temperamental, talented.

  I remembered walking into Lewis’s photography studio in the Chelsea section of New York City for the first time. Trevor had introduced me as his bright new star. Despite all that had passed, recalling the moment when Trevor spoke those words brought a flush of pride, just as it had when I first received the tribute.

  Some photographers probably still used the old way of developing, the one that called for cyanide. I bet Lewis was one of them. Is Trevor still in touch with Lewis? I wondered.

  “What are you thinking about?” Wes asked, watching me with hawklike intensity.

  “Nothing.” No way was I sharing information with Wes. “What’s your question?”

  “If you wanted to get your hands on cyanide, how would you go about it?”

  “I wouldn’t!” I responded, outraged. “What a question!”

  “No, no,” he said. “I meant theoretically.”

  “What do you want to ask me, Wes? Stop being cagey.”

  He sighed, disappointed that I wouldn’t allow him his dramatic lead-in. “Okay, okay. Here’s the point. Since the police still don’t know whether you or Maisy was the intended victim, it got me thinking. Potassium cyanide has many industrial applications. For instance, it’s frequently used in the jewelry business. You know, gold plating. So I was wondering—do you have a relationship with anyone who does any gold plating?”

  The wind off the pond was biting and I flipped my cape’s hood up. “No, no one. I don’t know any jewelers,” I said.

  “How about jewelry designers? Anyone you know do amateur designing? Anything of that nature?”

  “No. Not that I know of.”

  “What about for your work? Don’t you ever have things plated? You know, restoration stuff.”

  “No. What are you doing? Trying to see if you can find evidence that I’m a murderer?”

  “Of course not!” he assured me, sounding shocked. “I’m thinking maybe someone set you up. If I can trace the poison, then we can find out who has it in for you.”

  I was appalled at his calmly expressed suggestion of a diabolical plot against me. “That’s outrageous, Wes.”

  “Maybe. It’s just one line of thinking I’m investigating.”

  “It’ll be a waste of time.”

  “Probably. So, how come you don’t use any gold platers in your business?”

  I stared at him for a long moment. His idea about seeking out people who used industrial cyanide had merit. His thought that I was being framed did not. It was absurd even to think about.

  “That’s just not what we do—we don’t restore things. We sell things as is. If they’re in rough shape, they go to the tag sale. The better items go to auction. But we don’t do restoration.”

  “Think, Josie,” Wes insisted. “It’s important. Any source of metal plating?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “No neighbors who are jewelers?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Former neighbors?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Do you know Frank Connors?”

  “No, why?”

  “How about Michelle Piper?”

  “No. Who are they?”

  “Gold platers in the area. Maybe you know someone and just don’t know what they do for a living. The last one is named Labelle Brown. Do you know her?”

  “No. Truly, I have no idea of anyone who has access to cyanide,” I stated firmly, pushing thoughts of Lewis aside.

  “Except that someone did, in fact, acquire and use cyanide.”

  “Good point,” I acknowledged.

  And if I can identify the source of the cyanide, I might get a clue about who obtained it—but I can’t believe someone got cyanide, and used it to kill Maisy, in order to frame me.

  “How’s your research coming?” I asked him, changing the subject.

  “Pretty good,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “I’m trying to follow the same logic as the police. That’s the foundation of the article I’m writing—you know, ‘Anatomy of a Homicide Investigation.’ ”

  “Uh-huh. And?”

  “So I’ve gone back to the basics, just like they have.”

  “Wes, it’s cold. Do you have anything else to tell me or ask me?”

  He looked hurt, as if he would be happy to spend hours standing in the dark on a cold October night discussing the ways and means of conducting journalistic research. He sighed. “I was hoping to fill you in and solicit your opinion about what I’ve learned. Not because you’re involved,” he added quickly, “but because you know the situation from a close-up perspective.”

  I wasn’t flattered. Plain and simple, Wes was an opportunist and I represented access to information he wanted. But I decided to play along both because I was curious and because I thought there was a good chance I might learn something that would help me cope with my increasingly frightening situation. “Okay,” I said, resigned to the inevitable. “Talk to me.”

  “So,” Wes said, putting his notebook away and clearing his throat. “You told the police about Trevor Woodleigh. How come?”

  I nodded and pulled the cape close as a gust of wind whipped off the water. Wes hunched his shoulders as it hit.

  “I had to tell them.”

  “I figured it was you. You should have talked to me first.”

  “Why? So you could argue with me about it?”

  “No, so I’d know what was going on. I wasted time trying to track how they found out about him.”

  I nodded, acknowledging his point. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I understand why you told them. You were scared.”

  He made it sound like I was a sissy. “It’s reasonable for me to be scared, Wes. There’d be something wrong with me if I wasn’t.”

  “So you’re now thinking that you were the target after all?” he asked, poised to strike.

  “No. I’m saying it was only prudent to learn more. You should have reported it to the police yourself.”

  “I didn’t have any reason to think he was a suspect,” he responded, sounding righteous.

  “Whatever,” I said, dismissing the discussion as pointless.

  “What did they tell you about Woodleigh?”

  I thought for a moment about how much I should reveal, and decided to tell him nothing. I would use Wes to help me find answers to specific questions, but I’d confide in him not at all. “Nothing. Just that they were investigating.”

  “I hear he has no alibi,” Wes said.

  “That’s not what I hear,” I responded, my curiosity piqued.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently, Trevor can account for all of his time on Saturday.”

  “Right, but nothing is verifiable.”

  “I guess,” I acknowledged, not wanting it to be true.

  Wes nodded. “I’m thinking of going to New York and talking to him.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “If I do, I’ll let you know what he says, okay?”

  “No, don’t. He hates me and I don’t need to hear about it again.”

  “I’ll keep you posted in a big-picture way, okay?”

  I shrugged acquiescence and we said good-bye. I
hurried toward my car, anxious to get out of the cold and to get away from Wes. He was thorough, I thought as I drove, and very good about following up every lead. He was also good about staying in touch and making me feel important. Which, considering my uncontrollable rage at seeing his damnable article plastered across the front page of the Seacoast Star, was quite an accomplishment.

  I turned the heat on high. A raw dampness had gotten into my bones from standing outside so long. From the feel of it, I knew there’d be rain before long. I was looking forward to the crackling fire I knew would be burning in the old fieldstone fireplace in the Blue Dolphin’s lounge.

  I turned onto Market Street and began the search for a parking space, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Wes followed me, eager to learn more about my plans.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  T

  he Blue Dolphin was located at the intersection of Bow and Ceres streets, in the heart of town and about two blocks away from where I parked on Market Street, the closest spot I could find. Its position at the end of a gentrified little road added to its charm. Ceres Street was filled with trendy restaurants, ocean-themed bars, and froufrou gift shops.

  Shivering, I sped up as much as my boots—whose heels were made for strutting, not running—allowed.

  I rushed past a row of old wooden and stone four-story buildings with shops and stores at street level and offices and apartments on the upper floors. Everything was closed—the beauty parlor with wigs on faceless white foam heads in the window; the hardware store with signage from the forties; two women’s clothing stores; a shop that sold hand-dipped candles and aromatic oils; and a tanning salon with part of its neon lighting on the blink.

  I crossed a narrow driveway that gave access to the backs of the buildings, and then the Blue Dolphin came into view. A copper overhang shielded the entrance and bow windows gave an unobstructed view of Portsmouth Harbor.

  Eager to get there and warm up, I increased my pace a little. I passed another block of shops, including a real estate broker with listings taped to the front window; a café; a bookstore with pyramids of books on display; and a gift shop offering goods as varied as picture frames and Christmas ornaments, linen napkins and teapots, and pewter vases and wooden trunks.

  There was no foot traffic, and all at once I became extra aware of the darkened stores and shops around me. A quiver of fear flew up my spine. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing. I didn’t understand what had startled me. Maybe it was just being alone on such a dark night. I heard faint bursts of laughter and the hint of music from the establishments on Ceres and farther up Market, but on this section of the street, there was no sign of life.

  Reaching the restaurant, I pushed open the heavy wooden door and gave a sigh of relief as heat enveloped me. I told Karla, the hostess who offered to take my cape, that I’d keep it, then entered the lounge just after eight o’clock.

  Pam Field looked just like her picture. She sat at a window seat with what looked to be a Cosmopolitan on the copper-topped table in front of her, facing the fire. I had trouble picturing her and Maisy as friends. They were about the same age, I guessed, somewhere in their forties, but whereas Maisy had looked like a dowdy matron most of the time, Pam seemed way more hip. Her dark hair hung in angular layers to her chin, her jewelry was big and shiny, and she wore all black.

  “Hi,” I said, introducing myself. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  “Hi,” she replied.

  I ordered my usual—Bombay Sapphire on the rocks, with a twist—and settled into an armchair across from her.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.

  She nodded and gazed at the fire. “Maisy spoke about you a lot.”

  “Really? I’m surprised.”

  “How come?”

  I shrugged. “We didn’t know each other all that well. What did she say?”

  “She admired you. She thought you worked really hard.”

  “That’s nice to hear. I admired her dedication to the Guild, too.”

  We ran out of small talk. Suddenly, I felt awkward and silly being there, being in this place with this woman I didn’t know, preparing to ask questions I hadn’t framed, trying to learn I couldn’t imagine what.

  “Anything I can do to help,” she said, sparing me the necessity of finding a way to start. “I want to. I want to help find my friend’s killer.”

  “I understand that and I appreciate it.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “It’s complicated. I don’t know—no one, it seems, knows whether Maisy was killed by misadventure and whether, well, I was the intended victim. If whoever poisoned Maisy wanted her dead—then that’s a tragedy and the police can work to find the murderer. But if not, well, I need to do something to protect myself—although I’m not sure what.”

  Pam nodded but didn’t speak.

  “So I was hoping you’d tell me about her . . . give me some insight into her life, so maybe I can figure out what’s going on,” I explained.

  She leaned in and picked up her drink, her hair swooping forward. “It’s pretty hard to imagine someone killing Maisy on purpose.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Pam finished her drink and signaled Jimmy, the bartender, for another.

  “Maisy was awfully self-contained, you know? Not so easy to get to know. Pretty reserved. It’s hard to picture anyone hating her enough to kill her.”

  “It doesn’t need to be hate,” I said. “It could be envy. Fear. Money. Love.”

  Pam grunted a little, a disdainful sound. “No envy. No fear. Money? No. Love? Did you know Walter?”

  “Not really,” I replied. “I met him only once, at the Gala.”

  “Once is enough.”

  “Yeah,” I acknowledged, recalling his unpleasant attitude. “Were they happy?”

  Pam sipped the drink that Jimmy slid across the table. She met my gaze, but I couldn’t read her expression.

  “Maisy expected Walter to walk out on her,” she said after a long pause. “She was planning on leaving him first.”

  “Really?” I asked, stunned. “I had no idea. Why would Walter leave her?”

  “ ’Cause he’d fallen like a ton of bricks for a bookkeeper in his office.”

  I couldn’t see how his infidelity provided a motive—unless Walter wasn’t going to leave Maisy. That would provide a pretty solid reason for the bookkeeper girlfriend to want Maisy dead.

  “What are the chances he was stringing the bookkeeper along?”

  Pam shook her head. “Not according to Maisy. She told me it was for real. He had a lawyer’s appointment and everything.”

  “What was Maisy’s attitude toward her marriage ending? Was she going to contest the divorce?”

  Pam half-smiled and said, “No, she was okay with it. She was a little hurt, but she was prideful, too.”

  “What was Walter doing at the Gala?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “Maisy asked him to show up to put a good face on things. They intended to file for divorce right after the Gala.”

  I nodded. Envy. Fear. Money. Love. What I had originally perceived as Maisy’s over-the-top enthusiasm was, it seemed, a studied reaction to her troubles with Walter. I’m fine, she was signaling the Gala crowd. Maybe her euphoria hadn’t been a sign of insipidity, but a mark of bravado.

  Perception can be wrong, and often is.

  If that was what had been going on. I had only Pam’s word for it, and I wondered how deep in Maisy’s confidence she’d really been. Maybe Maisy had been seeing someone herself. Hard to imagine, but she wouldn’t have been the first middle-aged woman to succumb to the lure of illicit love. That also might explain her giddiness. Maybe her animation hadn’t been intended to camouflage her hurt. Perhaps the answer was one of cause and effect—if she had been caught in a tidal wave of passion, it was possible that she simply could no longer keep her exhilaration under wraps. Would Pam know? And if she knew, would she tell me?


  “I hope you don’t mind my asking . . . but is there any chance that Maisy was having an affair?”

  “No way.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “You didn’t know her or you wouldn’t ask. That kind of deception just wasn’t in Maisy’s makeup.”

  I nodded, noting that Pam didn’t say that Maisy wouldn’t have an affair, just that she wouldn’t lie about it. Which could be true—or Maisy could have been a better liar than her good friend Pam knew. I felt utterly out of my depth. I was gathering miscellaneous information, but I didn’t know what was meaningful and what wasn’t. I began to feel frustrated.

  “How about money? Were she and Walter comfortable?” I asked, thinking that it might have been cheaper for Walter to kill Maisy than to divorce her.

  “Yeah, I guess. But they weren’t more than comfortable, if you know what I mean. She told me once that she needed to work.”

  I nodded. “If she’d gotten divorced, what would she have done? Do you think she planned to stay in the area? Keep working at the Guild?”

  “She talked about taking a trip. She was so excited when her passport arrived! Her first one ever. She described it to me. You know, telling me it was dark blue with pretty gold printing.” Pam looked away, shaking her head a little, a sad smile on her face.

  “Where was she going? Did she say?”

  “A cruise. One of those around-the-world cruises.”

  “That isn’t cheap,” I commented.

  “No,” Pam agreed.

  “How could she afford it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I figured she was going to take part of her divorce settlement and kick up her heels a little. She asked me to join her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “ ‘No can do, I’m afraid.’ ” She half-laughed. “I told her I didn’t have the money and couldn’t take the time. We toyed around with my joining her somewhere at one of her ports of call.”

  “That sounds good,” I said, smiling. “Where were you thinking?”

  “We were debating between Cannes and Hong Kong.”