Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  “You’re a ball of fire. Sure—I can wait for ten minutes.”

  I asked Sasha to come on the fly, then offered Ellis a cup of coffee, which he declined.

  I refilled my glass and said, “I’ve had another thought.”

  “You’ve done enough. Paying for the yacht is above and beyond—a stellar wedding gift.”

  “I’m not talking about another gift. My idea is for Zoë, but it involves you, too. It’s the empty nest thing. Zoë is worried that once Emma leaves, she’ll be lonely and bored. I don’t know whether that’s realistic or not, but I do know that Zoë is scared that life as she knows it is over. I also know she has plenty of love to give.” I smiled. “And she’s nuts about dogs.”

  “You think we should get a dog?”

  “I think you should volunteer to help train service dogs. They place puppies with volunteer families for a year or so. You teach them the basics, manners and so on. You bring them to what they call ‘puppy club’ meetings, which is such an adorable name, I can’t stand it. Etcetera. Doesn’t it sound perfect for her? For you?”

  A grin slowly crossed his face. “It does. It really does.”

  “I’ll email you the link to the volunteer application. It’s quite a process to get approved. I calculated that if you start now, you’ll be able to accept your first puppy just after Emma leaves. Your first endeavor as a married couple.”

  He raised his fist for a bump, and I tapped it with my own.

  We chatted about dogs and the Bahamas until Sasha arrived. She set a black velvet tray containing five ruby-and-diamond rings on the table.

  Ellis’s eye was immediately drawn to the largest one. “I like this one.”

  “That’s my favorite, too. The center stone is a ruby. The shape is called a step-cut oblong, and it’s surrounded by narrow rectangular diamonds, set in platinum.”

  He looked at each ring, turning them this way and that to catch the light, then smiled and handed me the one he’d first selected. “This is the one.”

  Ellis asked the price—$2,100—and he said he’d take it. Sasha commended his choice as she returned it to the tray, then headed back to Prescott’s. I told him that we’d package it in a special box.

  “Thanks, Josie. I’ll stop by tomorrow, pay for it, and pick it up.” He smiled. “The timing is perfect. I was going to propose and let Zoë pick her own ring, but this is better.”

  “And needless to say, if she doesn’t love it, you can return it. When’s the big moment?”

  “Thursday night. Emma’s going to stay with Jake in Boston for a couple of days.”

  I applauded softly. “I’m thrilled, Ellis, totally ecstatic! For both of you.”

  “You’re a good friend, Josie. I wish I hadn’t needed the nudge, but since I did, I’m glad you were comfortable nudging. Now I’m going to go see how Zoë’s doing.”

  “If she wants to come over, tell her to bring her bathing suit—my next stop is the hot tub.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Before I changed into my bathing suit, I called Tom. I explained Maudie’s situation and passed along her request that he stand by to help her move out of Belle Vista, if needed.

  “Maudie’s safe! That’s great news, Josie! Julie and I have been so worried about her.”

  “I know. I agree. She’s going to need a lot of support when she gets back. She’s had a lot of bad news rain down on her.”

  We chatted a minute longer; then Tom ended the call. I could tell from his clipped good-bye that he couldn’t wait to get off the phone with me and pass along the news. I would have been willing to bet that Stacy would be his first call.

  I decided to take a peek at Wes’s latest post on the Seacoast Star website.

  I was pleased. He could have shared the news about my failed effort to find a hidden compartment in Maudie’s trunk as if he were revealing a crack in a hegemony, implying my previously infallible powers had waned. Instead, he positioned the information as an example of complexity, adding that I remained convinced the presentation box and cat were hidden somewhere in the apartment.

  I texted him. Nice post.

  He texted back almost immediately. Thx. What else ya got?

  Give Wes an inch and he’ll take a foot and try for a yard.

  * * *

  I was about to climb into the tub when Zoë appeared at the back door, carrying a big pot of soup. I held open the door and she placed it on the stove to simmer. It smelled scrumptious, rich tomatoes mixed with pungent basil.

  The ibuprofen had done its job, and I was feeling far less rickety and beat-up.

  I took a spoonful of soup. “Oh, wow. You should bottle this, Zoë—no joke. You’d make a million dollars.”

  “I’ll tell you my secret.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “Select the best tomatoes, the most aromatic basil, the crispest celery, the sweetest onions … are you noticing a theme?” She resumed her normal tone. “I’m glad to take credit, but the truth is that if you use only the best ingredients, everything tastes good.”

  Zoë was doing her best to be the happy, peppy girl, yet from the haunted look in her eyes, I knew she was still fearful, still depressed. While I could admire her effort and intention, it was painful to watch. I hoped that Ellis’s Thursday surprise would lighten her emotional burden.

  “You’re too modest,” I said. “I’ve tried lots of recipes over the years using only the finest ingredients, and I’ve had as many failures as successes. You, my friend, have a gift.” I started for the back door. “I’m getting into the hot tub. Coming?”

  “Try to stop me!” Zoë whipped her terry cloth cover-up over her head and tossed it on a chair.

  Outside, I eased myself into the steamy water, leaned back against the built-in bolster, and semifloated, the heat and pulsing soothing more than my sore muscles. I drifted into relaxation mode, and soon my thoughts turned to Maudie, to the missing presentation box and cat sculpture, and to my attack.

  I knew from experience the dramatic shift in perception that occurs when you leave a tunnel and look back, but it hadn’t happened to me yet, not this time. I could see only the pinprick of light far ahead of me, not the bigger picture that would be revealed once I was out in the open. I kept thinking, assessing, conjecturing, waiting to emerge, to escape, to see the tunnel as merely a slender tube in the wider landscape, but so far, the same scenarios kept playing in my head, over and over again, like a broken video. All I could do was invite the images in and hope they rearranged themselves into a different picture.

  When I had arrived at Maudie’s unit, the door wasn’t completely closed, and the window was wide open. The screen had been raised an inch. Whoever struck me had been hiding behind the wall divider or in the bathroom.

  Who?

  Someone who needed money.

  Someone who wore boots.

  Someone with a key or the ability to raise the screen from outside, not impossible, but not the easiest of tasks. Whoever it was probably unlatched the door to facilitate a quick departure and lifted the screen in case an alternate exit was needed.

  Stacy needed money, she wore boots, and she had a key and plenty of chutzpah.

  I sat forward, my mouth falling open.

  My initial dislike of Stacy had limited my vision like blinders on a horse, but the truth was that she wasn’t the only person with a key to Maudie’s unit. Doug could have copied Celia’s key.

  Doug lacked Stacy’s chutzpah, but he was, if anything, more determined than Stacy to get his hands on some money. Stacy wanted to save her business; Doug wanted to save his children.

  Doug had worn boots the first time I saw him.

  So had Tom. Tom didn’t have a key, but he was more than handy enough to jury-rig access through the window.

  “What is it?” Zoë asked, reacting to my expression.

  “I just realized…” I stopped, my voice trailing off, my brain firing on all cylinders.

  Zoë leaned toward me, the water bubbling under her chin
. “Josie? Are you all right?”

  I blinked myself back to reality and slapped the water. “I’m missing something.”

  “What?”

  “Someone stole the presentation box and cat sculpture, probably the killer. Whoever attacked me must have been in Maudie’s apartment to steal them—why else would anybody be there? That means the person who attacked me didn’t know the box and cat had been stolen. There were two separate crimes and two separate criminals.”

  “That’s logical.”

  “Take them one at a time. If Stacy intended to kill Celia, surely she would have prepared an alibi.”

  Zoë leaned back. “Maybe the murder wasn’t planned.”

  “If she and Celia were there to steal the presentation box and cat sculpture, she’d still have needed an alibi.”

  “So she’s not the killer. Why do you think she won’t say where she was?”

  “It could be anything,” I said, thinking aloud. “People lie all the time, for all sorts of reasons. To protect themselves, or someone else, or something else. Or for fun, to see if they can pull it off. Or to cover something up.”

  “Like what?”

  “A crime or a sin. Or something that might be embarrassing or that you fear might hurt your business. You and I might think it’s fine for someone to consult a psychotherapist, but maybe Stacy was worried her investors would be put off by it. Or maybe she’s having an affair with a married man.”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I have no leverage.”

  “If you had to guess where she was, where would it be?”

  “I don’t know … but if I had to guess what she was feeling after her latest investor pitch failed, I’d say despondent.” I met Zoë’s eyes. “And if she was feeling despondent, I can, in fact, guess where she went.”

  I scrabbled out of the hot tub, thanked Zoë, ran for the house, grabbing a towel as I darted through the mudroom, and dashed upstairs to change.

  * * *

  At four fifteen, the lounge at the Blue Dolphin was just beginning to get busy with the after-work crowd. I chose a barstool near the far end. The bartender, Jimmy, was a longtime acquaintance, one of the first people I’d met when I moved to Rocky Point. He was routinely cheerful and always competent.

  “Hey, Josie!” He spun a cocktail napkin toward me with a flick of his wrist, as if he were skipping a stone on the ocean’s surface. “What’s your pleasure today?”

  “Ginger ale, please.”

  “You got it.” He opened an old-fashioned small bottle, poured the effervescent amber liquid over ice, and placed the glass on the napkin. “I heard about what happened to you on the news. How are you feeling?”

  “Good, thanks.” I smiled. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Fire away!”

  “Do you know Stacy Collins?”

  A subtle change in his expression told me that he did. He wasn’t exactly wary, but neither was he his usual happy-go-lucky self.

  “I’ve known Stacy for years. She stops in every time she visits her aunt.”

  “Was she here last Friday? Around lunchtime?”

  “Her sister was killed that day.”

  “I know … it’s so horrible … but I’m asking because it might help me find a missing antique.”

  “You know me, Josie. I’m the soul of discretion.”

  He was, and usually I admired his ability to look the other way. “Under normal circumstances, a wonderful quality.”

  “But not now?”

  I lowered my voice, hoping my tone would communicate both significance and urgency and preclude follow-up questions. “It’s crucial.”

  “Will you keep it on the down low?”

  “If I can—but I can’t promise.”

  “I guess I should have said something.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He wrung out a dishrag and wiped down a section of bar, avoiding my eyes. “I assumed someone else had already told the cops. She was here for hours, seen by lots of people. And, you know, customers don’t want to think you’re keeping track of their movements.” He tossed the rag onto the counter below the bar.

  “That makes sense,” I said. I had a different view of civic duty, but that was me. “Stacy was here all afternoon?”

  “In and out.”

  “From when to when?”

  “From around noon to sometime after five.”

  “What do you mean by ‘in and out’?”

  “When she first got here, she ordered a lobster roll and her regular drink, an old-fashioned. She skipped most of the sandwich, but finished a second drink, and left just after one, returning close to three, when she ordered another drink. She received a phone call shortly after she got back, maybe three fifteen, that upset her enough that she moved from the bar to a table, where she downed two more cocktails before leaving at five something.”

  “Do you know where she went from one to three?”

  “No. She just held up crossed fingers and said to wish her luck.”

  Jimmy walked to the other end of the bar to serve a customer. I sipped some ginger ale. I was certain the phone call Stacy had received was from the police informing her of Celia’s murder. She’d refused to reveal her whereabouts because she didn’t want anyone to know she’d spent so many daytime hours at a bar drinking whisky, two of them after she’d learned of her sister’s death.

  I walked around to the back alley, a lovely enclave overlooking the Piscataqua River, bordered by an old fieldstone wall. The river was nearly black and running fast.

  I called Ellis to tell him what I’d learned. I got his voicemail and left a message.

  I watched the savage current for a few more minutes as I planned my next move.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I called Stacy and invited her for a drink. “How’s the Blue Dolphin?” I asked.

  “Perfect. Give me ten minutes.”

  I went back inside and sat at my favorite table in a corner by the window. “I’m back,” I told Jimmy. “Stacy will be joining me. I won’t repeat what you told me.”

  “I appreciate that. Another ginger ale?”

  “Club soda, please. With lemon.”

  Ten minutes later, Stacy threaded her way through the tables to join me.

  “Hi, Jimmy! Bring me an old-fashioned, hon!” She sat with her back to the window and scanned the room. “I’m glad you called. Talking to the police is thirsty work.”

  “You’ve been with them again today?”

  “And every day. I’ve never answered so many questions in my life. Did Celia have any enemies? No. How would I describe Celia’s relationship with Doug? Tense. Tell us about her financial situation. Bad.”

  “Did they ask you where you were this morning?”

  “Yes, but they wouldn’t say why.”

  Jimmy brought her drink, and she took two big gulps.

  “What was your answer?” I asked.

  “I was on a call to London with a team of hedge fund analysts.”

  “How’d it go?”

  She smiled and raised crossed fingers. “What happened this morning?”

  “I was in your aunt’s apartment and someone attacked me.”

  She leaned back, studying my face, her eyes communicating her surprise, then her concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thanks. The police think the attacker was after the presentation box and cat, and I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “So the killer didn’t find it.”

  Stacy downed her drink and raised her glass, catching Jimmy’s attention, silently asking for a refill.

  “I guess not.” I drank some club soda. “You heard your aunt has been located.”

  “Yes! What a relief! I spoke to her a couple of hours ago, just for a minute.”

  “And she’ll be home tomorrow. There is something I’m a bit confused about. I know from the Seacoast Star’s news reports that you’ve refused to tell the police where you were when Cel
ia was killed. But you didn’t hesitate to share your whereabouts during the time I was attacked today. What’s the difference?”

  She thanked Jimmy when he placed her drink in front of her and took a sip before she spoke. “I didn’t kill my sister. It’s an insult that they’re treating me like a suspect. When you asked, when they asked, I didn’t know I was providing an alibi. I thought I was chatting. If I’d known, I might have answered differently.”

  “I suspect I’d feel the same.”

  “I think a lot of people would.” She shook her glass gently, sending the ice spinning. “Let me take a turn with the questions … Why did you ask me to join you today?”

  “I feel for you. Your life is in New York. Here you are without a support system, with your business in flux. I wanted to help, if I could.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but pointless.” She took another sip. “The truth is that I’m beyond help.”

  “You’re having a little setback, that’s all. I don’t know if you were aware, but I lived in New York City for years. The point is that I get what the city can mean to a person. Everything you need or want is right there. When you’re not there, you feel, well, all at sea.”

  “You do get it … Why did you leave?”

  “A business opportunity. We’re both entrepreneurs, so you know what I mean. It was a good decision for me. I’m very happy in New Hampshire, and”—I opened my arm to the lounge—“the Blue Dolphin is my favorite hangout.”

  “Oh, me, too. Jimmy’s a doll. A complete peach!”

  I continued leading the conversation onto neutral, pleasant topics. Soon Stacy was telling me about her dreams for her business—to celebrate her clients’ individuality as an antidote to oppressive conventionality—and I found myself warming to her. Her communication style might often be brusque to the point of rudeness, but as she’d said, her heart was in the right place, and there was no denying that her ideas were inventive and her observations thought-provoking.

  When she was almost done with her third drink, I asked, “You said you wouldn’t tell the police where you were on Friday because you don’t appreciate being suspected of killing your sister, but isn’t it understandable that the police want to know where you were? It isn’t personal to you. They’ve asked everyone.”