Guidebook to Murder (15 page)

I swatted him with my notebook. I couldn't believe him. “I'm trying to build a business here. Online might be a little cheaper, but you can't replace real expertise.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It's just that once I get off shift, the last thing I want to do is go shopping.”

“And yet, here you are, driving me to the furniture store. Is it all stores you target for destruction or just mine?” I turned my head, staring out the window at the ocean. Seagulls played in the gentle breeze, and I could hear their calls.

“If I'd realized what I'd been missing, I would have been your best customer.”

The tone of his voice made me stop watching the birds hunt for a quick fish dinner and turn. He stared straight ahead. Had I imagined the words or at least the feeling behind them?

“You'd better stock up your history section,” he said quietly. “I'm not going to make that mistake again.”

I didn't know how to answer, so I didn't. The rest of the ride to Country Collections, we listened to the country ballads coming out of the radio. Greg had turned the volume up after the first five miles of silence. Thoughts kept flying through my head, but by the time I sorted through something to say that wouldn't make me sound like a schoolgirl or worse, desperate, Greg had pulled the truck into the parking lot.

“Here we are.” All I could come up with.

“Yep,” came the response from the other side of the truck.

I opened my door and slid to the ground, knowing if I just sat there, I'd wind up kissing him. And once I tasted those solid, totally soft lips, I wouldn't stop.

 

My cell phone rang as soon as we walked in the door back home. Greg followed right behind me, carrying the shaggy rug I'd picked out to go under the love seat being delivered tomorrow. I shifted the potted fern I held into one hand and pulled the cell out of my purse.

“Hello?” I hadn't had time to check caller ID. At the worse it was a telemarketer or another threat. Either way, I had Greg for backup today.

“Jill Gardner?”

Telemarketer. “This is Jill.” Half-listening, I followed Greg into the study and set the plant down on a chair.

“Miss Gardner, this is Henry Williams. Crystal told me that you were asking about Mary.”

I sat down at the desk, pulling out a notebook. “I'm glad you called. Did Crystal fill you in on everything?”

“She said that you were trying to settle an estate. So, Bob's mom passed?” The man didn't say anything for a few seconds, then added, “She was a great lady.”

Shock went through my body. “You knew Miss Emily?”

“Bob and I were on the football team together. Then, when he shipped out to Vietnam, I followed three months later. We were assigned to the same platoon once we were in country. What a coincidence, huh? Two boys from the same small town together in that hellhole.”

Greg glanced at me as he unwrapped the rug. “Mr. Williams, I guess I don't know how to ask this delicately.”

“You want to know if Joshua is my son or Bob's.” The voice on the line seemed to pause.

“That about sums it up, yes.” I paused, waiting for the answer. This man must have been an actor during some part of his life, because he knew all about the dramatic pause.

“See that's the thing. I don't know. Mary and I were dating after Bob left, but we both got leave at the same time. As soon as we got off the plane, I knew where her heart belonged, but I made her go out that night just one more time. I'm not proud of what I did, but I played the pity card. It had been a while and we weren't going to be home long.”

“And you had sex.”

“Now don't you go labeling Mary a bad girl or anything. She was nice and kind and sweet. I pushed that night. And I spent the rest of my life making up for it.”

“But you broke up?”

“Mary confessed she was still in love with Bob. After that night, I didn't see either of them again until we boarded the plane to go back. Bob told me he'd asked her to marry him.”

“So Joshua could have been your son.” I put the pen down.

“I always hoped so. Bob stepped on a land mine out on patrol a few months later. I kept seeing that grin on his face when he got on that plane. Sometimes I saw the same grin on Joshua's face.”

The phone line went silent. I thought I'd lost the connection when I heard, “I've mailed you a package. I found them when I went through Mary's things.” His voice cracked. “I guess she kept them all these years. I couldn't read them, but maybe they can help you.”

“What can help me, Mr. Williams?” But this time the line had gone dead. He had hung up on me. Greg had unwrapped the rug and sat on the floor, running his hands through the light blue shag.

“Did you get your answers?” He didn't look up as he continued to finger the soft cotton fibers.

I sighed. “I think I just got more questions.” I leaned back into the chair and took in the office that would be filled with new furniture tomorrow, marking my territory. The paint smell still lingered, giving me a headache. “He's not sure if he's Joshua's dad or not. But he's sending something over that could explain.”

Or not, I thought. He hadn't been able to read whatever he found. A journal? Letters? Either way, I hoped it helped settle the uneasy feeling I had that all the work I'd done on my house would be enjoyed by a new family.

“Some women cheat.” Greg's voice sounded muffled, his head tilted downward.

“It's more complicated than that. It sounds like Henry had always been Mary's second choice.” I paused. I wasn't helping Mary's cause out here.

Greg raised his head and stared at me. “It's always complicated,” he said with a sarcastic tone. His eyes were tight.

“I guess I'll have to see what he sends me and wait for the DNA tests before I do anything or make any decisions.” The room felt chilly, like the temperature had dropped ten degrees.

Greg walked the few steps to my chair. He reached for my hand and pulled me to a standing position. “Let's head to Lille's and get some dinner. You look beat.”

I was too tired to fight, and my stomach was growling at the thought of a plate covered with mashed potatoes and gravy. I didn't even care what meat came with it. Maybe some food would help knock me out of the slump that my conversation with Henry Williams had caused. I hadn't asked Greg what he had found out about the art gallery selling Miss Emily's paintings. Which reminded me, I had never got to the shed for the ocean seascape I wanted for the office. “Can you help me with something first?”

“As long as it's not more shopping. I'm starving.”

“I need you to come out to the shed with me. I'll just be a minute, but I'd feel better if we moved the rest of Miss Emily's paintings into the house where I can keep an eye on them.”

“Not a bad idea.” Greg pointed to the door. “After you.”

We headed out the kitchen door. The backyard was quiet; the setting sun had sent the chirping birds in search of their nests. Plenty of light played in the open areas but the shed would be dark and gloomy. I'd grabbed a couple of flashlights and the shed keys from the kitchen cabinet. I handed a flashlight to Greg.

“How many paintings are still out there?” Greg played with the flashlight, twirling it in his hands.

“Maybe twenty? I haven't ventured up into the loft yet.”

“Did I mention I was hungry?” Greg growled.

“It shouldn't take very long.” I glanced over at him. Ever since the phone call, Greg had seemed distant. “I'll buy dinner?”

“Let's just get this done.” Greg grabbed the keys from me and unlocked the door. He turned on the flashlight and slowly lit up the entire room, moving from one side to the other. “You head up to the loft and make sure there's no more canvases stuffed up there. I'll stack these together and start taking them up to the porch.”

I walked through the shed room to the loft ladder. I switched on my flashlight and started to climb up the steps, my hands gripping the straight ladder rungs tightly, or as tightly as I could with the flashlight in one hand. “A gentleman would have offered to do this for me . . .” I mumbled under my breath. It was official—heights scared the crap out of me. I didn't even like riding the little roller coasters at the pier.

One step, both feet, two steps, both feet, this would take a while. I was about halfway up when Greg came back into the shed after his first trip back to the porch with an arm full of paintings.

“You still haven't gotten up there yet?” Now I heard humor in his voice, which just ticked me off.

“Nothing wrong with taking things slow,” I called back, taking another step up as proof I would make it.

“Again, I say, I'm hungry,” Greg called out as he picked up more paintings and headed back out the door.

“Whatever,” I mumbled and took another step. Two more and I'd be able to see the loft's content. I took the stairs quicker and stopped. I could see. I shone the flashlight over the dusty floor to check for more paintings. No reason to keep going if the loft was empty.

Dust and, ugh, a dead mouse, littered the floor. Then the light found a trunk tucked in the back under the small spyglass window straight ahead. I scanned the rest of the loft, but there was nothing there except the trunk. I could have stopped and gone back down to the safe floor, putting
Check the trunk out
on my list, but then I'd have to climb this stupid ladder again. I might as well finish the job now.

I put the flashlight down on the floor and pulled my body up the last few steps. I sat down on the floor and swung my legs around, scooting away from the edge. My legs were going to be filthy from this dust. Grabbing the flashlight, I headed to the trunk. It was one of those old steamer trunks that I saw at the local antiques stores for hundreds of dollars, but this one seemed to be in better shape. I'd have to have Greg bring it down. I'd put the antique dealer off from his original appointment. Maybe he'd be interested in this, too.

I opened the trunk. Brightly colored clothes, a children's pirate hat, plastic swords—this must have been Bob's dress-up trunk. I wondered if Miss Emily had even remembered it was here. She would have gotten a kick out of the old toys. I pulled out one of the vests, gold and purple. I jumped as I heard a footstep on the floor behind me.

“What's that?” Greg's voice came from behind the gleam of the flashlight.

“Bob's pirate chest. Miss Emily told me how he loved to play pirate.” I thought back to our conversation late last summer on the front porch, sipping a glass of tea and watching the sunset over the ocean. Somehow going through the junk in the pirate dress-up chest made me miss her even more. There would be no more peaceful evenings sipping tea and chatting about the day's activities. My chest hurt as I held the child's vest that Miss Emily had sewn for her son.

Greg knelt beside me. “This is cool. I would have loved to have had a pirate's chest as a kid.” He dug through the chest. “Look, there are even fake gold coins for your buried treasure.” He pulled out a coin and shone the flashlight toward it. “This is pretty heavy.”

“Toys were better made in the sixties.” I dusted off my pants. “Any chance I could get you to move the chest down to the shed floor?”

“Planning on getting on your pirate groove?”

“No, I'm planning on getting an antiques dealer over here to look at some of this stuff I don't need.” I thought about the ladder. “I'd rather not have to come up here again.”

“Chicken.” He closed the trunk, lifting it to test the weight. “I should be able to move this down if you help me.”

“Maybe I can get a couple of the construction guys to move it tomorrow.” I didn't know how I would get down the ladder myself. How would I help him move a trunk?

“Don't freak out, it will be easy. I just need you to slide the trunk down to me when I get farther down the ladder.” He picked the trunk up and moved it to the side of the ladder. “Now let me get down and you'll just slide the trunk over the edge.”

This was not going to turn out well. I knew it. But Greg had been forewarned. If he thought he was strong enough to move the trunk with what little help I would provide, let the man prove it. I watched as he disappeared down to the bottom floor.

“Okay, now just slide the trunk over the edge a few inches.”

I pushed the trunk slowly over the edge, holding on to the handle. I hoped it wouldn't drag me over the side with it.

“Stop right there,” Greg called from below.

The trunk teetered halfway over the edge. I leaned over and could see Greg standing below, reaching up his arms, but the chest remained just out of reach. He stepped over to the ladder and went up a step. This time his fingers just brushed the edge of the trunk.

“Now tilt it up on your end so I can grab this end.”

Really a bad idea
, I thought but I followed directions, leaning back so I could counter the trunk's slide with my weight. Or so I thought. I tilted the trunk up and heard Greg's whispered “Gotcha,” before the trunk started sliding.

I tried to hold it back and fell backward on my butt. The trunk's handle slipped through my fingers. I hoped Greg wouldn't be flat on the ground under the trunk when I made my slow descent from the loft.

“I lost it,” I called down, leaning forward to see what damage I'd caused. I heard the trunk hit the floor with a bang. “Greg, are you okay?” No answer.

I scooted forward to see over the edge, my heart beating hard in my chest. He had to be dead, I'd killed him, and I knew it. Peeking over the edge, Greg kneeled by the trunk, very much alive.