Antiques to Die For (21 page)

When I walked into the living room, I saw that Ty had closed the drapes and was sitting on the sofa just as I’d envisioned, a bottle of Smuttynose in hand. He muted the TV.

“Hey,” he said. He placed his beer on a copy of
Architectural Digest
and stood up.

“Hey,” I said, approaching him.

He tucked my hair behind my ear, leaned down, and kissed me.

“Would you make me a drink?” I asked.

“Sure. What’s your pleasure?” he asked as he led the way into the kitchen.

I thought for a moment. “A guavatini.”

I sat at the table and watched as he mixed the guava nectar with vodka and swirled the shaker.

“I’ve got some information,” I said.

He handed me the glass filled to the brim with the frothy orange-pink mixture, and I repeated Cara’s story about the desk, then handed him stapled copies of the letter and attachments documenting Cooper’s alleged plagiarism and Rosalie’s storage unit.

“What’s all this?”

“Paperwork suggesting a humdinger of a motive for Cooper Bennington to have killed Rosalie and evidence that she maintained a storage unit in Rocky Point.”

He read through everything, nodding periodically, then called Officer Brownley and filled her in. From what I gathered, listening to their brief conversation, there was some reference to Cooper in Rosalie’s diary that was related to the lawsuit and they decided that Officer Brownley would reinterview him in the morning. My curiosity was fired up.

“There’s a storage unit, too,” he told her. “Yeah . . . Josie found it in her papers . . . Tim’s, you know the place, off Madison. . . . I don’t know, let me ask her.” He turned to me. “How long has she had the unit, do you know?”

“No.”

“I assume you want to check out the storage unit tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.”

“I want Officer Brownley to accompany you.”

“Sure. I already spoke to Mr. Bolton about it.”

He nodded and arranged for Officer Brownley to pick me up at my house at noon. I’d ride with her to Tim’s Storage.

“I want to tell you something that Rosalie wrote in her diary,” he said when he was off the phone, “because it might be relevant to items you find—or, more to the point, items that
should be
there. About two months before she died, Rosalie wrote that she caught Cooper nosing around her office. She saw him sitting at her desk with drawers and files open. What seemed to really gall her was catching him red-handed with a photocopy of her journal pages.”

“Her diary?”

He shrugged. “That’s all we know. What do you think? When she wrote ‘journal,’ did she mean ‘diary’?”

“I don’t know. In some contexts, the words are synonyms. I know she referred to her entries as ‘journaling,’ so maybe. It might help if I could read the actual entry.”

He shook his head. “That’s all it said. Have you found any photocopied journal pages?”

“Not that I’m aware of. I’ll ask Fred.” I shook my head, dismayed. I looked at him, and as always, his striking brown eyes revealed nothing. “Cooper going through Rosalie’s desk is unbelievable! Trying to steal her work is . . . is . . . wicked!”

“Yeah. I don’t mind admitting that we’re looking forward to talking to him about it.”

His matter-of-fact words sent shivers up my spine.
Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,
I thought spitefully.

I finished my drink and at ten to seven, I ran upstairs and knocked on the guest room door. “Ten-minute warning, okay?”

“Okay. Can I wear jeans?” she asked through the door.

“Jeans will be fancy. I’m wearing sweats.”

“I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Downstairs, I discovered Ty leaning against the wall, grinning.

“What is it?” I asked. “You’re smiling.”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he came to me, set down his beer, and enveloped me in his arms, hugging me for a long time, rocking just a little.

“Wow!” I said when he let me go. “What’s that about?”

“I love you.”

“Hot damn!” I said, and standing on tippy toes to reach, I kissed him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T

hree-year-old Emma tugged on my arm. “Josie!” she screeched, jumping up and down. “Want to see what monkey bear did?”

“Sure, sweetie. In a sec. First, meet Paige. She’s staying with me for a couple of days.”

“Hi,” Paige said, smiling.

“Want to meet monkey bear?” Emma asked her.

“Okay.”

“Monkey bear climbed a chair. Come.”

“And this is Jake,” I said, waving to Zoë’s six-year-old son.

“Come look at monkey bear!” Emma insisted, tugging the hem of Paige’s sweater.

“Sure,” she said, extending her index finger. Emma gripped it in her pudgy little hand. “Do you want to come, too, Jake?”

“Not to see monkey bear. He’s stupid. I have a truck that can back up.”

“Really? Show me.”

“Monkey bear! Monkey bear!” Emma sang.

“We can do both,” Paige said diplomatically.

Zoë chuckled. “Nice to see you, Paige. Welcome! Throw your coats over the banister—you know the routine. And you haven’t met my cousin Frankie. Frankie, this is Josie, Paige, and Ty.”

We all said hi, but he didn’t speak.

Frankie had slicked-back black hair and acne and he looked surly. When he turned to walk away, I saw the back of his T-shirt. It read:

Ass
Grass or
You Pay the Gas
Nobody Rides for Free

Jake was clamoring for attention, and I told Paige that she could follow the kids into the front room. Emma tugged her finger and laughed. Jake insisted that she watch his truck back up first.

“Oh, God, Frankie, change your shirt,” Zoë said.

“Me?” Frankie protested, whipping around. “What the fuck’s the matter with my shirt? Haven’t you ever heard of free fuckin’ speech?”

“Frankie, please,” she said, then half smiled, trying to take the sting away, and repeated her request. “Please?”

“Fuck you.”

“Ty?” Zoë asked, turning to face him, her hands on her hips. “Help.”

Ty met her troubled gaze and nodded.

“Frankie,” Ty said in a restrained, rational tone, “no one’s looking for any trouble here.”

“Better fuckin’ not be.”

Ty stared at him for a five-count. “Would you do me a favor, Frankie? Go up and change your shirt, okay?” he said, his tone deeper and more menacing.

“Who the fuck you think you are?” Frankie asked ferociously, his ugly little button eyes blazing a warning.

Ty placed his arm on Frankie’s shoulders, an apparent gesture of camaraderie, then slid his hand back and pincer-gripped his neck. “Let’s talk about it, just you and me, okay?” Ty said, and hustled Frankie up the steps to the second floor.

“Zowie! I’ve never seen Ty like that,” Zoë whispered, big-eyed.

“You’ve never worn a disrespectful T-shirt,” I countered.

“I guess not. But I’m plenty disrespectful all the same.”

“No, you’re not. You’re irreverent and outrageous, but you’re always respectful about it.”

She laughed and shook her head.

I waggled the bottle of guava nectar I’d brought, and she said, “Excellent! Let’s make a pitcherful.” She poked her head into the living room. “Hey, Paige! Are you a Coke girl? Ginger ale? Apple juice?”

“Ginger ale, please,” Paige replied.

“Apple juice for me!” Jake called. “I can help!”

“Thanks, Jake. How about Emma?”

“She’s with monkey bear,” Jake explained, as if that was responsive.

Jake dashed ahead into the kitchen. Five minutes later, after Jake and I delivered their drinks, including an apple juice for Emma, I asked Zoë about dinner. She stopped shaking the cocktail mixer and looked over my shoulder. I turned around. Frankie was wearing Ty’s sweatshirt.

“Frankie here agreed with me that with women and kids around, he really shouldn’t be wearing shirts with sayings like that, right, Frankie?” Ty said, entering the kitchen in his corduroy shirt, the cuffs rolled up.

Frankie looked shell-shocked. I looked carefully at his neck, but didn’t see any marks.

“Sure,” he said.

“He’s going to get some more appropriate duds tomorrow.”

“Right,” Frankie agreed.

“And he’s going to watch his language.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, tell me, Frankie, you’re from Boston, right?” Ty asked as if the altercation had never occurred. He accepted the beer I handed him.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“You a Bruins fan?”

“Sorta.”

“So what do you think of their chances against the Penguins?” Ty asked, leading Frankie to the small table off to the side of the kitchen.

Frankie started to answer, and Zoë resumed shaking the guavatinis. “Wow!” she whispered. “Way to go, Ty!”

“See if it lasts,” I replied in an undervoice.

“It’s got to. Forget that
I
don’t want to see that BS, but I don’t want him near the kids unless he cleans up his act.” She poured our drinks, cocked her head, listening, then said, “I think I’ll go check on them. They’re awfully quiet.”

Guavatini in hand, I joined Ty and Frankie at the table. The transformation seemed incredible. Frankie was almost animated talking about hat tricks and penalties, and he didn’t curse once.

Zoë entered, Emma on her hip. “The natives are getting restless. Time for food!”

“What can I do to help?” I asked.

“Nothing! You’re a queen to me. Paige agreed to babysit tomorrow. You know what that means?”

“What?”

“I get to go to the mall without my darlins’. Woo-hoo! Hot time in the old town tonight! Zoë’s going shopping!”

“That’ll work out for Frankie, too,” Ty said.

Frankie looked down at his hands. I noticed he chewed his nails.

Zoë shifted Emma to a new position and gently rubbed her back. She looked over at Frankie, then back at Ty, and her expressive face revealed her thoughts. She understood that Ty wanted to be certain that Frankie got to go shopping.

“Right. You can do your thing, Frankie, and I’ll do mine. We can hook up later for some pizza or a burger. Sound good?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Later, after we were home again, with Paige upstairs in bed, Ty came to me and tilted my chin up so our eyes met full-on, and then he hugged me. I shut my eyes and buried my head in his chest, feeling cherished and protected. After a long while, I opened my eyes and turned my head, and among the dozen or so vases I kept on top of my kitchen cabinets, I saw one made of etched glass. “Oh, my God,” I said.

“What?” he asked, pulling back to see my face.

I pointed to it. “Look. An etched-glass vase.”

“What about it?”

“The roses that were delivered today—they were in an etched-glass vase.”

“Officer Brownley mentioned it. She’s checking it out.”

“I just remembered something,” I said.

“What?”

“Una, the receptionist at Heyer’s. Last month, Edie gave her an etched-glass vase for Christmas. She was upset and I can’t say I blame her. She needs money, you know, not glassware.”

Ty nodded, thinking about what I said. “Did you see it?”

“No, she just told me about it. When I was signing in, you know? We often chat. I don’t remember what I said, exactly. Something neutral, I think, about how I liked etched glass as well as cut glass.” I shrugged. “I was trying to make her feel better about a gift she didn’t want.

“There’s something else that may be relevant. I don’t know.” I looked at him. “You know how Mr. Bolton told me to track down every place Rosalie might have kept things?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I identified a coaster from Rosalie’s scrapbook as coming from The Miller House restaurant,” I explained. I met his eyes and hoped mine revealed as little as his did. “I went there.”

“Why?”

“Paige insists that Rosalie had something of great value, and I haven’t found it—and I have two extra keys, one of which Rosalie hid away as if it were valuable. I figure the key’s got to go somewhere.”

His eyes hardened. “What would a key fit at The Miller House?”

“Those wine-storage units, maybe. Also, I thought that maybe I’d learn about other people Rosalie was friends with.” I shrugged again.

“So did you learn anything?”

“Well, Gerry has a wine-storage unit. And customers don’t get keys or store anything there except wine they buy from the restaurant, but I learned something else. Gerry took Una to dinner there a few times, I’m guessing until Rosalie came into the picture.”

“What?” he asked, his tone so brusque, I winced.

“Betty, the hostess, said that Una had been a dinner guest of his more than once last summer.”

“Last summer? And Una has an etched-glass vase,” he said, thinking.

“Yes.”

“Given to her by Gerry’s wife, Edie.”

“Apparently.”

“And you don’t know who else has one?”

“I don’t know, but if that was this year’s gift to Gerry’s employees, maybe a lot of people.”
If so, did she keep one for herself?
A memory came to me. “Rosalie has one. I saw it in the kitchen, next to a book on making cheese. It wasn’t an antique, but it was nice. I’m pretty sure it’s the same style.”

He nodded again. “What else did Betty say?”

“She said that Rosalie went there a lot with whatever guy she was dating.” I thought for a moment, then shrugged. “That’s all, I think.”

He reached for his phone and he gave Officer Brownley a long list of questions to ask of and about Una, Edie, Gerry, and The Miller House. After he was off the phone, he said, “Besides going to Tim’s Storage, what are your plans tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. I told Paige I’d teach her to make Jerry’s Chicken, so I need to go to the grocery store.”

“I’ll tell Officer Brownley to take you.”

“Really? Are you saying that running around town is a risk?”

He shrugged. “No. I don’t think there’s any danger. But there’s no sense taking chances.”

My heart started beating at his carefully measured words. “Well, I won’t be going out to the jetty after dark, I can tell you that,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

Ty smiled. “I always knew you were a sharp cookie.”

“Seriously, Ty . . . that last message was pretty darn creepy—‘I know where you live. I know where you work.’ ” I shivered as I remembered the dark sedan that had followed me more than once. “Do you think you’ll ever catch him—or her—whoever’s been following me? And the secret admirer?”

“Yes,” he replied, his tone reassuringly confident. “I’m waiting for some forensic test results.”

“Like what?”

“Like various things.” He smiled again. “Come here.”

And I walked into his arms and closed my eyes and felt completely safe. After a short reprieve from worry, I leaned back and touched his face. “I love you,” I whispered.

“Me, too,” he murmured.

I tucked my hand inside his left arm and walked him to the door. “You gave Frankie money for clothes.”

“He’s just a kid,” he said.

“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown.”

“Aw, shucks.”

“Are you going to miss me while you’re away?” I asked in a sleepy soft voice, suddenly exhausted.

“More than you know.”

“Want to know if I’m going to miss you?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“If I ask, you might tell me you’re not going to.”

“I am,” I said, yawning.

“You are what?”

“Going to miss you.”

He kissed the top of my head, and left. I stood by the door watching until his SUV rounded the corner and then I stood some more, wondering if the fear that held me in its grip was based on fact. It felt as if someone was out there, after me, threatening, powerful, hidden, and yet inching ever closer. I checked that all the doors and windows were locked, then hurried up the stairs to bed.