Evidently, Wes’s police source wasn’t revealing everything. I considered whether to tell him what I suspected. I was in a quandary again, experiencing the same rippling discomfort I’d felt just before I’d told Ty what I knew. Since I’ve told the police, it’s no longer secret, I rationalized. Ty will be mad as all get-out if I tell—but I want to know things, and in order to get information, I have to provide information. Wes and I had our own sort of quid pro quo.
Plus, I knew that Wes had contacts and tactics that the police couldn’t match. Charge card records, for example. The police couldn’t access them without a search warrant, but from past experience, I knew that Wes could—and would. Curiosity won out. “Well,” I said, “actually, there are a few people for whom jealousy might apply.”
“Who?”
“Promise me we’re off the record.”
“Josie!” he protested.
“Promise.”
“All right. Same as always.” He sighed. “Who?”
I nodded, satisfied. “Her boss at Heyer’s, Gerry Fine, and his wife, Edie. A guy I heard she was dating for a while named Paul Greeley. Another guy in her department at school named Cooper Bennington. And maybe someone else.”
“Tell me.”
Taking a deep breath to soothe myself, I stared through the windshield into the night to avoid Wes’s penetrating gaze. I explained what I speculated about her affair with Gerry, what I’d observed of Edie’s anger, what I’d heard about Paul Greeley’s possessiveness, what I’d experienced of Cooper’s sanctimony, what I knew about the book deal, what I inferred about her secret admirer, and how I’d seen her diary and tote bag in her office. I stuck to the facts, but I suspected my opinions came through loud and clear. Gerry was lower than pond scum; Edie was pathetic, explosive, and unpredictable; Paul was too smooth; Cooper was cutthroat; having a secret admirer was beyond scary; and Rosalie wouldn’t have voluntarily let that tote bag out of her sight.
Wes was a good listener. As I spoke, I could feel the force of his attention. When I finished, he cleared his throat. “I get the jealousy thing with Gerry and Edie, and with Paul. But why would this Cooper guy want to kill Rosalie?”
“She was becoming well known in her field, a pretty rapid ascent for a newbie. But because she didn’t have her Ph.D. yet, she was vulnerable to attack, so she was playing things pretty close to her vest. And if he got wind of her book contract, forget about it. It would be ugly for sure.”
“You think he got angry enough to kill?” Wes asked incredulously.
“Clearly you’ve never been around academic types,” I remarked, thinking of the several betrayals I’d witnessed during my tenure at Frisco’s. Top scholars at the height of their careers had backstabbed their colleagues without hesitation and, sometimes, even without significant cause or benefit. I shook my head to dispel the depressing memory.
“Why didn’t you tell me all this before now?” he said, sounding simultaneously impressed and peeved.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you at all.”
“Yes, you should,” he replied confidently. “This is what I was hoping for—some dirt to get me started.”
The thought that Wes took what I’d told him as dirt made me feel ashamed. “I didn’t tell you as gossip, Wes.”
“I know. You meant it as a good thing.”
He’s impossible, I thought. He’ll never understand my ambivalence. I kept my eyes toward the front, knowing that second-guessing myself was useless. I could only hope that I’d done the right thing.
Wes scanned his notes. “Do you think Edie Fine could have done it? A woman?” he asked.
“Sure. She had a weapon. A woman can swing a baseball bat or something like that with no problem. And those rocks are slick, so it wouldn’t have taken much for Rosalie to topple.”
“My source tells me Rosalie was struck by someone taller.”
“How can they tell?”
“The blow aimed down.”
I thought about what Wes said, trying to picture the attack. “I bet they referred to the angle of the blow, not the height of the perpetrator, right?”
“How’d you know?”
I shrugged. “Logic—maybe Rosalie was squatting or leaning over when she was struck. They wouldn’t be able to determine height—at least I shouldn’t think they could.”
“Fair enough,” Wes acknowledged. “What else?”
I thought some more. “Maybe you could see if any of those people have an alibi.”
“I’ll check everyone out.” He paused, then asked, “You have a funny look on your face. What are you thinking?”
“I don’t understand how Rosalie’s tote bag got into her office at Heyer’s.”
“She must have gone back to the office.”
“She didn’t. Apparently her key card wasn’t used and she couldn’t have got in without it.”
“All security can be breached,” he said dismissively. He slipped the paper back in his pocket and began to button up his jacket, preparing to leave. “I have a little news. Rosalie hung out with her sister for a while at their house, and then she left, driving herself. That was about six-thirty. According to my police source, Rosalie told the sister that she was meeting a friend, she didn’t say who.” He opened the door and a blast of wind-whipped cold jolted me. As he stepped out, he turned back to face me. “I betcha it was Gerry.” He gave a sprightly wave good-bye.
I wondered what Rosalie thought about in the seven or so hours before she died. A lifetime can occur in seven hours, I told myself. You could fly across the country. As soon as the thought came to me, I wondered whether Paige’s despised cousin Rodney had done just that. If he’d known of Rosalie’s treasure, maybe he would have thought that the trip was worth the effort.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I
was put through to Mr. Bolton right away.
“Any news?” Paige’s lawyer asked.
“Nothing so far,” I replied. “There’s a nice American flag that might have some value.”
“Valuable enough to be Rosalie’s treasure?”
“Probably not.”
“Hmmm,” he ruminated.
“Paige called me,” I said, changing the subject. “She’s going to stay with me for the weekend.”
“What? Why?”
I explained about the Reilly family’s weekend plans, and Mr. Bolton grudgingly allowed that it was all right that she stay with me. “I conducted a background check on you, of course, before authorizing the appraisal. I’ll call them.”
“What about Rodney?” I asked, swallowing my consternation. Background checks were common enough in the antiques appraisal business, but I’d never gotten used to what felt like an unwarranted intrusion.
“We’re still looking into things.”
“That sounds ominous,” I remarked, thinking that since Mr. Bolton’s check of me had taken less than an hour, the multiday check of Rodney didn’t bode well.
“No news is no news,” he responded.
“Paige isn’t going to want to live with him.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Certainly nothing will happen until Monday in any event. Speaking of which, I need to talk to Paige about her sister’s funeral. I expect the body to be released next week.”
I shook my head. Life is just so damn unfair, I thought. “I can bring her to your office on Monday.”
“That makes sense. I assume she won’t be going to school. How is two?”
“We haven’t discussed it, but I’m guessing she wouldn’t want to go back at least until after the funeral. Two’s fine. There’s another thing,” I added.
“Yes?”
“The police took Rosalie’s computer. Sometimes people keep asset listings in a word processing or spreadsheet program. Plus there might be an electronic address book that would lead me to places she might have stored things. I asked Officer Brownley if she’d check, but I thought I ought to follow up with you, too.”
“Good
thinking. I’ll get you an answer.”
Mr. Bolton gave me his home phone number and told me to call if I needed him. I promised that I would. To try to dispel my growing discontent, I slipped in an old Linda Ronstat CD and drove the rest of the way to the Reilly house singing along with her heart-melting rendition of “Blue Bayou.”
Paige must have been on the lookout for me because as soon as I slowed to a stop in front of the house, she was out the door, loaded down. She had a backpack slung over one shoulder and wobbled under the heft of a duffel bag. She was so small.
I popped the trunk and helped her wrestle the heavy duffel bag inside.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I patted her shoulder through her puffy parka. As we drove, I kept trying to think of innocuous questions I could ask to put her at ease, but nothing came to me, and we rode in silence for the fifteen minutes or so it took to get to my house. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the engine, and pressed the button that opened the trunk.
“Frankie, give me a break, okay?” I heard Zoë say as I stepped out of my car. I turned to look.
She was half inside her house, talking to someone on the porch. Under the golden gleam of the overhead bulb, I recognized trouble in the rigid stance and grim demeanor of an angry young man. He was maybe eighteen. He wore jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Stenciled on the back in a Gothic font was BITCHES STAY CLEAR.
“Yeah, right,” he snarled, spun around, leaped off the porch, and charged down the street, disappearing into the darkness.
“You okay?” I called to Zoë.
“As okay as I can be with a loser cousin in residence.”
“Since when?”
“Since this afternoon. His mother, my aunt, threw him out—no surprise since he’s a complete bum. He has nowhere else to go, so he shows up on my doorstep. Lucky me.”
“Poor Zoë,” I commiserated.
“Another day, another problem. You okay?” she asked, squinting in the darkness.
“I’m good. This is Paige Chaffee, come to stay with me for the weekend.”
“Hey, Paige. Do you like kids?”
“Sure,” Paige replied, confused.
“Wonderful! You’re hired!”
“Huh?”
“As a babysitter! Let’s talk tomorrow. We’re still on for dinner, okay?”
“You’re a one-and-only, my friend,” I said, laughing. “Yes. Paige and I will be there.”
“And Ty?”
“I think so,” I said, embarrassed because I’d forgotten to ask him. “I’ll let you know.”
“Okey dokey. See ya!” Zoë said, and I heard the storm door click home as she stepped back inside.
I let us in, shed my coat in the entryway, hanging it on a hook I’d mounted near the door, and held out my hand for Paige’s. It was iceberg cold inside, a disadvantage of being the first person home, which since I live alone, I always am. I turned up the thermostat, then removed my boots, snuggling my feet into my pink fuzzy slippers, told Paige to leave her things in the hall and to follow me, and headed into the living room.
“Come on in. Have a seat.” I pointed toward one of the two club chairs in the room. When she was settled, I sat too.
“Are you hungry?” I asked her.
“Not really. But I know I should eat something.”
“When do you normally eat?”
She shrugged. “Whenever.”
I nodded. “I’ll rustle something up in a while. But you should feel free to raid the fridge anytime, okay? Then what do you want to do tonight? Do you like TV? Movies?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes. And reading. I like music, too. I’ve got an iPod in my bag.”
After an awkward moment of extended silence, Paige said, “If it’s all right, I’d like to go to my room.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Follow me!”
I led the way to the underdecorated guest room and got her settled, finding towels, showing her where the bathroom was and telling her I’d call her to dinner probably in about an hour. She thanked me with a tremulous smile as she closed the door.
As I walked down the steps, I felt like crying.
I sipped Bombay Sapphire on the rocks as I stirred leftover egg noodles to keep them from burning. Chicken Dijon was in the oven on low, reheating.
I called Ty to tell him about Paige and to ask him about his schedule.
“I’m running late,” he said. “You and Paige should go ahead and eat dinner.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you when I’m leaving.”
“Excellent! But probably you should go home,” I said. “With Paige here and all. Assuming your electricity is back. ’Cause if it’s not, of course you can stay here.”
“From what I hear, it is. I’ll call you anyway, just to say hey.”
“Okay. Good. And tomorrow, Zoë’s asked us for dinner.”
“Great. I shouldn’t have to work too late.” He cleared his throat. “So . . . are you okay?”
I paused, listening for sounds that Paige was out of her room before answering. All was quiet.
“I’m okay. Kind of blue, but okay. I’m glad Paige is here. I’m glad there was something I can do for her.”
Ty asked how she was holding up, and I talked a little about how vulnerable she seemed to me. He listened to my description, then said, “Don’t magnify it, Josie. Considering what she’s going through, it sounds to me like she’s doing fine.”
“Projection,” I commented, laughing a little. “I’m projecting my angst onto her. Jeez. You’re some smart fella, aren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t know about that. But I’ve seen more people who’ve lost someone they loved to a violent or unexpected death than you have, that’s for sure.”
“I’m going to tell her about my dad.”
He paused for a minute, thinking. “So she’ll know you understand?”
“Exactly.”
“It’ll probably do you good to talk about it, too.”
When we were done, I refilled my drink and called Paige to dinner. Hearing Ty’s perspective helped me feel less upset about Paige’s depression. His point was well taken—of course she was depressed.
We ate in companionable semisilence, sitting in my comfortable, warm kitchen. I asked her questions about her classes and favorite subjects and her taste in music, food, clothes, and movies. Poor Paige did her best. Throughout the ordeal she answered every question put to her calmly, smiled politely when appropriate, and at the end, nearly knocked over her chair in her rush to help me clean up, her brown eyes moist, yet distant. Her sadness was manifest, and the entire experience left me feeling excruciatingly powerless, but because of Ty’s observation, less worried about her than I might otherwise have felt.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, screwing up my courage to tell her why I could empathize so completely. “Paige?”
“Yes.”
“My dad was murdered.”
She placed the dish she’d been rinsing in the sink and looked at me. I nodded. “It’s been seven years,” I said.
“What happened?”
I shook my head. “It’s too tough for me to talk about the gory details. Isn’t that something? After seven years, it still hurts. I can share my feelings, and I love telling people about him, but I just don’t seem able to describe the events surrounding his death.”
She nodded and turned back to the sink. “I can understand that. The facts are beside the point.”
“Exactly. Does it matter whether he was shot or poisoned or run over? No. What matters is that he’s gone.”
“And no matter how he died, you’ve got a hole left inside of you.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“Does that mean the hole stays with you forever?”
I shrugged. “Some days are harder than others. It’s like a wound that’s healed except for a tender spot or two.”
Paige finishing rinsing a pan. As she dried her hands
, she said, “Everyone wants me to talk about Rosalie.”
“Do you want to?”
“Not really.”
“How come?”
“It makes me cry.”
I nodded. “Maybe you’ll feel differently someday.”
“Did you want to tell those stories right away when your dad died?”
I recalled my zombielike demeanor in the immediate aftermath of his death. I’d gone through the motion of living for weeks, ignoring questions and people I hadn’t wanted to interact with or even to acknowledge.
“No, not right away. At first, I developed stock answers to unwanted questions. If someone asked what happened to him, like you just did, for instance, I’d reply that I was certain that they understood that it was just too awful for me to talk about.” I shrugged. “Almost no one asked a follow-up question after that.”
“Some people did?” she asked, appalled.
“Some did, yes. People are curious and some people are just plain rude.”
“What did you do?”
“I remember one person I worked with. She said, ‘Wow, if you can’t talk about it, it must be just horrible. What happened?’ ” I smiled. “Isn’t that funny? Sort of, anyway.” I shrugged again. “I told her, ‘Thanks for understanding.’ Believe it or not she tried rephrasing the question a couple of more times before she gave up.”
Paige averted her gaze. “I’ve been worrying about what I should say to people when I’m back at school. If they ask, I mean.”
I wondered if Paige would be joining Rodney in California. Maybe it would be better for her, I thought, to start fresh in a new location, a place where she could heal at her own pace and not be forced to respond to unwanted questions.
“I think it depends on how much you’re comfortable revealing. Just because people are curious doesn’t mean you’re obligated to answer their questions.”
She shrugged. “I’ve got to think about it.”
“When you’re ready, you can practice on me. I’ll pretend to ask you impertinent questions so you’ll be ready to field them.” I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts. “Talking is good, Paige. It helps you clarify your thoughts and feelings. But it’s also important that you get to decide if and when and to whom you talk.”
Antiques to Die For Page 14
