Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Yeah. I stayed simple because she wasn’t going to be doing heavy retouching or anything fancy. She just wanted to be able to crop photos and do some minor adjustments, you know, exposure, color saturation, the basics. She picked it up real quick. I showed her how to email photos from her phone to herself so she could download them easily, but the quality wasn’t good enough for the kind of photos she needed, you know, for publication. She has an iPhone 5, for God’s sake.”

  “What was your solution? A camera or a new phone?”

  She laughed. “I tried hard to sell her on a new phone, but she wasn’t having any of it. She loves that old dog. She bought a Fujifilm camera. It’s perfect for her: high quality, intuitive, small, and lightweight.” Lara tossed her cigarette butt onto the ground and rubbed it out. “She practiced using it and downloading the photos. By the time she left, she felt pretty comfortable.”

  “It sounds like she was here for a long time.”

  “Three hours. That’s what she signed up for when she called for the appointment, and we used every minute of the time.”

  “Something tells me you’re patient.”

  She laughed again. “I didn’t need to be, not with Maudie. She was fearless.”

  “Did she tell you her plans?”

  “About the travel writing? Not much. She wanted to go somewhere she could snorkel from the shore. She was going to talk to someone, a girlfriend, she said. I asked whether she wanted a waterproof camera since she was going snorkeling, but she said no, that she was going underwater, not the camera.”

  “Did she mention her girlfriend’s name?”

  “Nessie. I remember because it’s the same as the nickname for the Loch Ness monster, which you definitely don’t want to see when you’re snorkeling. She said her friend Nessie was as adventurous as she was.”

  “Did she mention Nessie’s last name?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Did she say where she and Nessie were planning to go?”

  Lara tucked her hair behind her ear as she thought about it, reviewing their conversation, trying to dredge up more specifics. “If she told me, it didn’t stick.”

  “That’s okay.” I stood up. “You’ve been really helpful, Lara. Thank you.”

  “Did you get what you needed?”

  “Maybe. I wish I knew where to find Nessie.”

  “Try the Rocky Point Women’s Club.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Lara shook another cigarette from her pack and lit it. “We’re not supposed to discuss anything strategic or tactical with clients. We’re here to train them on computers and whatever software they want to learn to use. We don’t make suggestions. Can you hear my boss? We’re not proactive. We’re reactive. Proactive gets you in hot water. Reactive gets you repeat business. What a crock.” Her shoulders lifted an inch, then fell. “I helped Maudie set up a website. Just a rudimentary placeholder, but if she’s going to get travel writing assignments like she said she wanted, she has to have a place to showcase her portfolio.”

  “That’s terrific of you, Lara. Really.”

  “I don’t know. If she gets pissed off about something, and reports me, I’m toast.”

  “Maudie’s not like that. What does the Rocky Point Women’s Club have to do with anything?”

  “I wanted to post a headshot, and I offered to take one with her new camera.”

  “And she told you she had a nice headshot on the Rocky Point Women’s Club’s site.”

  “Exactly. She felt uncomfortable just having her photo snapped. I get that, so I scooped that one up. Maudie was in a bunch of photos, groups and duos and so on, but this one was a pro shot, you know?”

  “Some of the photos on their site included Nessie.”

  “You didn’t hear this from me.”

  “Hear what?” I asked, smiling and extending my hand for a shake.

  * * *

  I was glad to sit in my air-conditioned car for a while to get out of the humidity and still, thick air.

  I brought up the Rocky Point Women’s Club website on my phone and navigated to what they called the “Photo Gallery.” In addition to the formal headshots, Maudie was in a half dozen photos, and in every one she looked like she was having a blast. I read the captions. There was a Nancy, a Naomi, and a Natalie, but nary a Nessie.

  I called Cara and told her I wouldn’t be back, called Ty and said I’d be home in about an hour, and then drove to the Rocky Point Women’s Club.

  * * *

  I turned onto Lynden Street, not far from Old Mill Pond, and spotted the gilt-and-black ROCKY POINT WOMEN’S CLUB sign. The club was housed in a well-maintained Edwardian mansion surrounded by mature trees and lush gardens. The front door was open. Through the screen door, I could see a short young man wearing a white collared shirt standing behind a mahogany bar polishing wineglasses with a dishcloth.

  I knocked on the doorframe, and he looked up and smiled. “Come on in. It’s open.”

  I walked into an entry hall with alcoves on both sides, passed under a high archway, and stepped into a large square room. Dark wood paneling covered the bottom half of the walls. The top half was painted a creamy white. Mini tent cards were laid out in a chevron pattern on a round cherrywood table. A podium stood at the end of the room near a window. A dozen paintings dotted the walls, all portraits from a bygone era in gilt frames. Ten tables set for eight were covered with crisp white linen tablecloths. Silver flatware glistened.

  I walked to the bar and introduced myself. “I’m hoping you can help me … I have a quick question about one of the members: Nessie.”

  “Sorry. I’m only here for special occasions. I don’t know anyone’s name except Leesa.” He grinned. “And I only know her name because she’s the one who hires me.”

  I smiled. “Fair enough. Where’s Leesa now?”

  He jerked his head toward a set of swinging doors to his right. “In the kitchen.”

  “I’m guessing she’s meeting with the staff about tonight’s gala.”

  “Which begins at six thirty. Early birds will arrive around six.”

  “Which means I’m in the way.”

  “Not to me. I’m a man of many talents. I can shine up these glasses and talk at the same time.”

  A nicely dressed middle-aged woman came through the swinging door, pausing for a second to look back through the small window at the top. She started walking toward the bar, stopped short when she saw me, then continued on, smiling with professional warmth.

  “Hi,” I said.

  I introduced myself, and so did she. She was the program manager, Leesa Tobin.

  I smiled, glancing around the room. “This place looks gorgeous. I know you’re busy, so I’ll only take a minute of your time. It’s about Maudie Wilson.”

  Leesa’s smile faded. “Have you heard anything?”

  “No. I’m hoping you can tell me if you’re expecting her tonight.”

  “I’m sorry … what did you say your name was?”

  “Josie Prescott. I own Prescott’s Antiques and Auctions, here in Rocky Point. Maudie is a friend.”

  “Sorry … I’m upset about the situation. Yes, we expect Maudie tonight. I called her, but I didn’t reach her.”

  “Does she have a friend named Nessie?”

  “Yes—Agnes, but everyone calls her Nessie.”

  “I’d like to talk to her. How can I reach her?”

  “I’m sorry, we never release member information.”

  “I understand, but this is an emergency.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  “Please … I’m sorry.”

  “Would you call her for me and ask if she’ll talk to me?”

  “That wouldn’t be appropriate. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We’re getting close to the event start time, and I have a lot to do.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  I headed o
ut, but when I reached the entryway, I tucked myself into the alcove on the left side of the arch. I might understand Leesa’s refusal, but I didn’t have to accept it as the final word on the subject.

  Leesa spoke to the bartender for a minute, then walked out of my line of vision. A few seconds later I heard a loud, resonating tap-tap. Leesa was confirming the sound system was working. A moment later, she spoke into the mic. “Testing one, two, three. How does it sound?”

  I peeked out in time to see the bartender give a thumbs-up.

  Leesa walked to the swinging doors. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  “Got it,” he said.

  As soon as I heard the soft whoosh of the door swinging closed behind her, I stepped into the large room and beelined my way to the table holding the tent cards.

  The bartender continued his work. He didn’t speak to me, and I didn’t speak to him.

  The attendees’ names were organized in alphabetical order. Maudie Wilson was near the end of the arrangement. I started at the beginning seeking out an Agnes.

  It was taking too long. Leesa was going to reappear any minute. I kept an eye on the swinging doors. The bartender, now cutting limes, continued to ignore me. When I reached the T’s, he left. Probably he figured that discretion was the better part of valor—it wasn’t his job to chase me away, but he didn’t want any guff from Leesa in case I got caught.

  Footsteps sounded from inside the kitchen, close to the door. I looked up in time to see the back of Leesa’s head through the window in the door. She was speaking to someone, her voice audible, the words unclear.

  I turned back to the tent cards. Maudie Wilson. George Willis. Marie Willis.

  A whoosh sounded as the kitchen door swung open.

  Trevor Winslow. Charlie Wynn. And there it was: Agnes Wynn.

  I darted out the door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I drove around the corner, zipped left, then right, and rolled to a stop at Old Mill Pond. It was twenty to six, and I wanted to get to Nessie before she left for the club, but I needed to alert Ellis about the possibility that Maudie would also be at the gala before I did anything else. I called his cell phone, and it went directly to voicemail.

  “Ellis, it’s Josie. I just learned that Maudie Wilson is scheduled to attend a gala tonight at Rocky Point Women’s Club. My hope is that she spent a night at a fancy resort somewhere and she’ll sweep into the club wearing a new gown she bought at some chichi boutique. I know, I know, it’s not likely. No one goes to a fancy resort for one night. Anyway, I wanted to let you know she’s on the guest list, and as far as I can tell, she hasn’t canceled. Bye.”

  I hung up, then brought up a search engine and typed in “Charles Wynn,” hoping I could find their address easily. I did. Unlike the more than forty percent of people who’d jettisoned their landlines, Charles Wynn still had one registered in his name, and the number and corresponding address were publicly available. The Wynns lived on Chestnut Lane, around the corner from the Rocky Point Women’s Club.

  I dropped my phone into my bag and drove to their house. I parked in front, ran up the paved walkway, and rang the bell.

  An older man opened the door with a warm and welcoming smile. He was tall and lean, with a glisten of perspiration on his brow. He wore old-school tennis whites and carried a racquet.

  He smiled. “Howdy.”

  “You’re Mr. Wynn.”

  “Charlie, that’s me.”

  “I’ve interrupted your game.”

  “Nothing interrupts my game. We just finished. I won. Big.”

  “Congratulations. I’m Josie Prescott, a friend of Maudie Wilson’s. I was wondering if Nessie is here?”

  “Any news about Maudie? If it’s bad news, tell me first.”

  “No news.”

  He turned toward an open door at the rear of the hall and shouted Nessie’s name, then invited me in.

  The two-story hall was as big as my bedroom. The floor was tiled in black and white marble squares to form a checkerboard pattern. A stairway to the right curled around a fluted column. The chandelier featured a series of brass rods with asymmetrically positioned circular openings that sent dots of light crisscrossing through the room. The artwork was all abstract, slashes and dollops of purple and gold.

  Moments later, a woman appeared in the doorway. She was a little younger than her husband, midsixties or so. She had curly white hair that highlighted her blue eyes. She was of medium height, thin and wiry, like an athlete. She wore a short pleated gold skirt with a white cowl-neck short-sleeved blouse, a more contemporary tennis outfit than Charlie’s. I wondered if their apparel reflected their personalities. If so, I’d bet big money that Nessie had decorated the hall.

  I introduced myself. Charlie called out a friendly “Nice to meet you!” and disappeared through a door on the left.

  “Did Charlie tell you he won our match?”

  “He did.”

  “Braggart. He can’t resist.”

  “You have a tennis court out back?”

  “And a pool.” She gently knocked her skull twice. “You better believe I know how fortunate we are, and I never take it for granted. I know your name. Maudie loves your tag sale. She told me she was going to ask you to help her decide how to sell that old box and cat.”

  “You’ve spoken to her recently, then.”

  “Thursday, the day before Celia died. Have you heard anything?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Her shoulders drooped, and her eyes moistened. “I’m shattered about Celia, just crushed. To say nothing of Maudie. I’m so worried. We’ve been friends for more than thirty years, ever since Charlie and I moved to Rocky Point.”

  “You don’t know where she is?”

  “I don’t, but I can make a good guess. I told the police the same thing. She wanted to go snorkeling. She asked me to join her, to blow off everything we had planned this week and just go, but I couldn’t. Charlie and I are walking the Appalachian Trail, one leg at a time. We leave tomorrow for Virginia to tackle another chunk.”

  “Snorkeling … where?”

  “She didn’t say, but she’s gotten so much more adventurous as she’s gotten older, I’m betting it’s somewhere exotic.”

  “Do you think she’d go alone?”

  “Absolutely. She’s one of the lucky ones—she enjoys her own company. Now that I think of it, Gerard would know where she is. Gerard Martin, our travel agent.”

  “Where is the agency located?”

  “On Route One, next to the Betty’s Flooring.”

  “I know just where that is.” I rooted around in my tote bag for my business card case, a sterling silver beauty Ty had given me years ago. I handed her a card. “Thank you. If you think of anything that might help me find Maudie, please let me know.”

  “I’ve left Maudie three messages. I keep telling myself not to worry that she hasn’t called back … Maudie’s not very good at remembering to check messages.” She rubbed her fingertip over the surface of my card. “Why are you looking for her?”

  “I’ve only known her for a few days, but I’d like to think I’m her friend, too.”

  She nodded. “She’s about as special as they come.”

  I didn’t comment further because I didn’t think I could keep the prickly fear that was driving me to act from showing in my voice. Instead, I thanked her and left.

  * * *

  I drove by Martin’s Travel Agency. It was closed, and the sign on the door indicated it wouldn’t be open until nine on Monday. I headed home.

  The rain started just as I pulled into the driveway. I retrieved the spare umbrella I keep on the front passenger-side floor and dashed for the porch. I shook off the wetness and wiped my shoes on the coir mat before I went inside.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Ty called from the kitchen.

  “It’s wet out.”

  “That’s called rain.”

  “Ha ha.” I slid the umbrella into the blue-and-w
hite Chinese-patterned stand and kicked off my shoes. “What’s the point of having a mudroom in the back if you park in the front?”

  “That’s one of those pesky conundrums that bear careful consideration.”

  I walked into the kitchen and slipped my arms around his torso, leaning my head against his chest. “I love you. What’s for dinner?”

  He leaned back a bit, cupped my chin, and kissed me. “The chicken you’ve had marinating.”

  Rain slashed the windows, sending waves of water sweeping across the glass.

  “We can grill inside.”

  “Being known for my prescient thinking, I moved the grill under the overhang.”

  “No wonder I married you. On top of everything else, you’re brilliant.”

  He kissed me again.

  We sat at our picnic table, dry and safe, protected from the driving rain. I made a tarragon Dijon sauce for the chicken, a familiar recipe I’d mastered years ago by following my mother’s careful directions. In the weeks before she’d died, when I was only thirteen and utterly unprepared for the loss, even though I knew it was coming, she’d written a cookbook by hand, complete with side notes and little drawings. It was one of my most cherished possessions.

  After we finished eating, Ty went upstairs to his closet-sized home office to respond to an urgent email from his Canadian counterpart, and I cleaned up. I was placing the last of the flatware in the dishwasher when someone knocked on the back door.

  It was Zoë, wearing a bright yellow hooded slicker. She took it off in the mudroom and hung it from a peg, stepped out of her dripping sandals, and fluffed her hair.

  “Nice weather for ducks,” I said as she entered the kitchen.

  “Quack, quack. Do you have a minute? Or ten?”

  “Always. Here or private?”

  “Private.”

  Zoë looked thin, thinner even than yesterday, reed thin. Anxiety rippled up my spine. She didn’t want a martini, or coffee or tea, so I poured us glasses of water and led the way to my study.

  Zoë sat on the love seat, her arms resting on her thighs, her eyes on the red-and-blue-patterned Oriental rug. I turned the desk chair to face the couch and sat across from her.