Past Tense

by Samantha Hunter

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” he said impatiently. “Why did you tell the police she was asking about a divorce? Of course that was untrue. I don’t know why you would have said such a thing.”

  Now the gloves were off. “I said it because it’s what Patrice told me.”

  Alan Bledsoe’s sensual lips tightened into an unpleasant line.

  “I don’t appreciate you spreading toxic rumors that have no basis in reality. Why do you want to smear our marriage in the face of her death? Are you looking for money? How could you do such a thing after the way she helped you? How we took you in, cared for you?”

  Heat rushed into her face, and she stood, though even at full height she was still shorter than he was. “Patrice did those things, not you. I wish I could tell you something more comforting, but it’s the truth. Patrice was unhappy, and she wanted out. She called your marriage a charade. You know it, and I know it.”

  Alan was red in the face and not nearly as attractive as he had been before, but he stayed behind the desk. Sophie wondered how loud she’d have to scream for the secretary to hear her. Or anyone, and if they would even bother.

  “I would never have hurt Patrice,” he said huffily. “I didn’t, however, agree with her going down there, to that part of the city, seeing people like you. I tried to discourage her, but she found some kind of comfort from those ridiculous readings and forecasts. I think she found some comfort in you after losing our daughter, so I tried to understand.”

  He said down there like a child talking about genitalia.

  “She was an intelligent, open-minded person,” Sophie said. Unlike her husband, who was obviously a poser and a sleazy one at that—not even his fancy suit could hide his lack of character. As he raised his arm to point at her, she noticed a shine near his wrist. He wore cufflinks very much like the ones that she saw on her ghost.

  “You wear cufflinks,” she said randomly, interrupting him before he could set into her again.

  “Yes. So?”

  “You bought them here?”

  “No, they were a gift from my department for twenty years of service,” he said haughtily. “They’re platinum.”

  “Do they only give those out for awards?”

  Alan looked consternated and confused at her sudden shift in questions, and shook his head. “I don’t know. I imagine anyone could buy them if they wanted to. What does this have to do with anything?”

  Sophie wasn’t sure. Maybe nothing. It was strange to see the jewelry pop up in front of her again.

  “I didn’t kill her, and you know it,” she said, again out of nowhere, setting him off balance and leaving him gaping. “There was a lot for you to lose, though, wasn’t there, if Patrice divorced you and donated most of her money to charities? Like she was planning to do with her necklaces and other items,” she said with satisfaction, seeing the surprised look on his face.

  Not a happy surprise.

  “That means nothing. You know nothing.”

  “It means you have more motive than I do. I know it also means there were others who’d be unhappy with Patrice. Others who might have found themselves suddenly cut off?”

  The possibility shocked him out of his anger and into realization. Or maybe it was relief that he could push the blame in a different direction.

  “I’d warned her about that, actually. She had funded several projects and such for decades. . .people come to depend on that kind of thing, free money.”

  “And what about you?” Sophie said, thinking about how Matt Pereski had pushed until she pushed back and tried the same technique. “Were you used to free money, too? Would be hard to give up this lifestyle. Now you don’t have to.”

  Alan Bledsoe drew himself up. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “Sure. Just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When are Patrice’s services?”

  “You have a lot of nerve, showing up and accusing me of hurting my own wife and then asking permission to come to her funeral.”

  Sophie looked at him, unimpressed. Jerk. Poor Patrice, having stuck with him for as long as she did.

  “You have a lot of nerve, playing the part of the grieving widower and asking me to come all the way across town so you could harass me. And lying about the divorce – why would you do that?” She paused and held his gaze. “And I’m not asking your permission to come to the services. I’ll be there.”

  Turning her back, she left, shutting the door quietly. She even smiled at the dour secretary. If the poor woman had to work for that ass, no wonder she looked like she sucked on lemons all day.

  Though tension held her spine tight the entire way down to the ground floor, Sophie’s mind wouldn’t stop working over the conversation. When she stepped out, looking up toward the offices she had left, she spotted Alan Bledsoe in the floor to ceiling window, watching. She shared a long look back, before turning away.

  Maybe she could imagine him getting dirty after all.

  * * *

  Noble’s Fine Jewelry Store was closing early that afternoon so that Antoine Noble could conduct a private meeting with some very promising Brazilian distributors who were interested in providing pink diamonds for a special collection. The specimens were largely the “fancy intense” grade, and Antoine would be the apple of his dying grandfather’s eye if he could land the deal. Papa Noble still owned Noble’s, and Antoine had learned the art of gemology at his grandfather’s knee.

  Still, it was possible the old man would split interests in the store or give it to Antoine’s father, who rarely bothered with the place though he didn’t mind spending its profits. Excellent natural pink diamonds were difficult to come by, and Antoine didn’t mind losing a half day of business to increase his chances of becoming the sole proprietor.

  He was flipping the closed sign when a customer showed up in the doorway, pulling the door open. Closing his eyes, he realized he should have locked the door first. “I’m sorry. We’re closing at two-thirty today for a three o’clock event. If you want to come back tomorrow-”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize, but this is very important. I need to pick something up. It would only take a minute?”

  Antoine fought the urge to frown. Never let a customer think you don’t have time for them, that you aren’t happy to see them. Customer service was in his blood, and he smiled gracefully as he had been taught to do.

  “Of course. What may I get for you?” If it was a pick-up, hopefully it would be quick and he could hustle the customer back out the door.

  “I have this receipt – it’s for some necklaces that belonged to Patrice Bledsoe. Alan Bledsoe sent me to pick them up for him. He’s simply too upset to do such things himself, you understand.”

  The customer handing him the receipt looked tearful, as if holding back too much emotion, and Antoine forgot his momentary irk. Mrs. Bledsoe had always been a good customer, and was always pleasant, never picky and bitchy about every little thing, like her peers.

  “I don’t know. . .we have a policy of only returning items to the person who-”

  “Well, obviously that’s not possible. Alan is simply is not up to it. You may call him if you like, though he’s in mourning, but if you need confirmation, I completely understand.”

  Antoine sighed. He needed to get on with his day, to set things up for his Brazilian visitors, and shook his head. This was obviously an associate or friend of Mr. Bledsoe, not some street person trying to steal from him. “No, that won’t be necessary. I can get them for you.”

  It didn’t much matter, he realized, remembering the appraisal. The necklaces were paste duplicates – very good duplicates, but duplicates nonetheless. The pieces were worthless. He retrieved them from a locked drawer and slid them across the counter.

  “I’m sorry to say Mrs. Bledsoe must have been given the wrong necklaces by her mother, or terribly duped, as these are simply duplicates of no value at all.”

  “That is surprising. Are you sure?” />
  “We are the foremost jewelry store in the area. I am sure of a dupe when I see one. Still, if you would just sign the receipts, they are yours to take.”

  “I see, well. . .thank you.” The customer smiled, scrawling out a quick signature, and Antoine gave back the receipt and the necklaces.

  “Please extend sympathies on the part of Nobles to Mr. Bledsoe. It’s a terrible loss.”

  “I’ll be happy to.”

  Relieved to walk his customer to the door, Antoine walked quickly, trying to hustle the customer out, but discreetly. He didn’t know what was going on when an arm reached around from behind, grabbing him and pulling him around.

  “What are-” he didn’t make it all the way through his question when something sharp burnt the words away in a searing cascade of pain at his midsection. He looked down to see blood pouring over his hand where he absently had pressed it to his stomach.

  He tried to speak again, terrified, confused, but this time the sight of the sharp, silver blade thrusting toward him, aiming for his throat, stole his breath and his life. Antoine Noble didn’t remember being dragged to the back or anything that happened after that.

  For fun, his killer hit the silent alarm behind the counter before heading out the back.

  * * *

  Roger was poking around into Patrice’s case, even though he had at least eight active cases he should be focusing on. Still, Margaret was right. He wasn’t on the case, but Sophie was the love of his life, and he should try to help more, use his resources. Besides, it kept his mind off of knowing Sophie was talking with that weirdo professor and potentially getting herself in God knows what kind of trouble.

  In the course of things, he took a few detours and found something interesting.

  Since Margaret’s alibi had held up for Patrice’s murder, no one had really looked into her, but Roger decided to do some surface investigation. What he found was interesting, to say the least.

  Such as that the oh-so-magical Margaret Dalton didn’t exist five years ago—not in any records he could find anyway. The same Margaret who was taking over Sophie’s store, fostering her friendship, and who happened to show up as Sophie awoke to find Patrice dead? Sure, her receipt from the restaurant where she’d stopped for soup was her alibi, the waitress confirming that she was there at the approximate time of the murder, but Roger’s instincts itched. He called up a buddy of his, Ted White, an ex-cop who could do some deeper poking around with no one knowing.

  “Hey Roger – what’s up?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. My fianceé, Sophie, she’s in a bind.”

  “I see that in the paper. It’s bullshit.”

  “Thanks, it is. But she has a business partner, and I can’t find any records on her with the name she’s using before five years ago.”

  “That’s not a good quality in a partner.”

  “No. She’s buying Talismans, so she has credit records, credit cards, something, but nothing that goes back that far. I have a feeling. . .can you check it out for me?”

  “Sure. What’s not paying my two-fifty a day between friends?”

  “That’s the spirit. Beer’s on me next time.”

  “You bet your ass. What do you have so far?”

  Roger filled him in, and hung up, running a hand across his beard, forgetting to shave. He’d hit the bar for a few beers after leaving Sophie’s the night before, and overslept. Things between them had never been this tense, and he didn’t know how to be other than he was. She’d always been okay with that.

  Checking his cell phone, he saw he had no messages. Well, he’d been the one to walk out the door, but he was also determined to look out for her whether she liked it or not.

  * * *

  Sophie sat at a computer at a local internet café, doing a search on Harvard cufflinks and finding nothing, or rather, too much. They were a common item, though the ones Alan Bledsoe had sported looked like they were top of the line, around fourteen hundred dollars, not the two-hundred dollar pair that could be purchased at the university bookstore. The only thing she could spot in common with the one she’d found on the floor was that Bledsoe’s and the ghost’s had both been monogrammed on the smaller link, which told her nothing.

  They came in all kinds of metals and could be customized in various ways, but her search for vintage jewelry took her back only the early nineteen hundreds. It wasn’t much, but she’d go with what she had. She had her friend Google ™ to help her out. What more did she need?

  The guy’s suit had reminded her of what they wore in old period films or gangster movies. She furthered her search to vintage men’s suits as she drank her coffee and finally whispered a quiet yes when she saw the exact image of the suit emerge on the screen.

  It was called a “sack suit” because of its baggy style, lacking shape around the shoulders and waist. The ghost’s had been a lighter brown with a pale stripe spaced about an inch apart. Apparently they were made by Brooks Brothers, especially popular with students on Ivy League campuses in the twenties and later.

  Her heart did a little skip as she searched again for men’s hairstyles, hoping to narrow down the time period. It didn’t take long to pull up several hair style galleries, and she found the slicked back look she was searching for – there were far fewer men’s styles than women’s over time. The part in the middle and the slicked back hair was very common in the twenties and thirties, especially among upper class or educated men.

  “What about the college newspaper?” she said to herself, and found the Crimson had archives online back to 1873, fully searchable, but what to search for? What did she know that could lead her anywhere? She had no name, no clues to go by.

  So, he might have been a teacher, or a student. If so, wouldn’t he have been recorded in the yearbooks?

  On a lark, she looked the archives up online and found that all she had to do was walk over to Pusey Library and make a request. Clearing her table, she ditched her coffee and made her way to the library. With the help of some very friendly staff, she registered for the day and the yearbooks were at her fingertips a half hour later.

  Sophie had to admit, their resources were impressive and the atmosphere intoxicating. While she was happy with her program at Northeastern, she soaked in the allure of the Ivy League environment, momentarily regretting that she’d never had the nerve to apply to Harvard. Her dad would have gotten a charge out of that.

  Settling in, she took the Harvard Album published in 1920 and started paging forward. Two hours later, her eyes ached and her fingers were sore and dirty from turning thin pages. She’d gotten caught up a few times in the sheer history, recognizing some famous names, old Boston names, and reading comments and details. She’d made it to 1934, with no sign of her ghost. Was it even worth searching through more?

  Looking at her watch, she sighed in disgust. She was looking for a needle in a haystack, but she didn’t even know if it was the right haystack. She needed to get back across town to make her appointment with Dr. Mason. One thing that was clear was that anyone could order Harvard accessories or jewelry—how did she know her ghost was even a student and not someone who’d simply liked Harvard items? Anyone could buy them. How did she know her ghost was even a ghost? So many questions.

  That cufflink had been left for her, and it was a message. She knew it in her gut. He had some association with Harvard, and she had to find out what it was. Bledsoe was the only other link to Harvard, but what possible relationship could he have to the ghost? A relative? An ancestor?

  Making her way to the train, she caught sight of a man entering the train a few cars down. Something sparked in her memory. She’d seen him before, earlier, when she was walking across campus.

  He’d bumped into her, though she’d only seen the back of his head as he kept moving, not even apologizing. Now, the hairs were standing on her arms as she sat and peered down the aisle, and she couldn’t help but react. She could see his face we
ll enough, though he looked out the window as if he didn’t know she was there. It was the pale, dark-haired man from the shop, the one who’d been looking for books on black magic.

  When she exited the train, she walked more quickly than she had before, standing among a crowd of people waiting for her connection, the man from the train nowhere in sight. She pushed out a relieved breath and was glad to see her next train approaching.

  As she zipped toward her school, her cell phone rang, and she checked – Margaret.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “You sound fuzzy.”

  “I’m on my way to campus, on the train.”

  “Ah. Listen, do you have time to stop back here for a minute?”

  Sophie checked her watch. “Is it important?”

  “The bank sent some papers you need to sign, and I’d like to get them in the mail before five.”

  “I’ll try, but no guarantees. I have to make my next appointment,” Sophie said. Campus was close to the store, she’d have time, but she’d have to move fast.

  She exited the train at the Hynes Station. Crossing the street to head toward Tarot Alley, she saw the pale man again. Her heart started slamming in her chest and she tried not to give herself up, moving steadily forward toward the store.

  Could it be coincidence? Was her imagination getting the better of her? Roger’s warnings about a killer still being at large rang loud in her mind. She touched her cell phone in her bag, but it would be useless to call him at the moment. Maybe she’d pushed Bledsoe too hard, and he’d sent out a goon. That sparked a possibility—what if he hadn’t killed Patrice, but hired someone to do it? Perhaps the man following her?

  She spotted the news van a moment hovering around Talismans a moment too late. Unfortunately, they saw her first.

  Unable to go in the opposite direction toward the man who was following her, she had no choice but to run toward the reporters, and hope she could get by them, or that she would, in desperation, use them as cover. She could hear their shouted questions already: