A Novel Death (14 page)

I didn't go down to The Old Frigate. How could I? Instead I reminded myself that it was more likely that Margaret would hide something valuable in her house. She would have remembered that I had a house key from the times I had watered her plants when she and Lily were traveling. Leaving something in a public place like the bookshop was just too risky.

Rather than park outside her house, I drove to the residents' lot and got the last parking space. Or, rather, I created it. A car was waiting, signal on, as a motorcycle backed out of the only vacancy. Although the car pulling in had a New York license plate, I could see that it did not have a village sticker.

As the family started unloading, I slid out of my van and approached them. "If you don't have a permit to park here, it's a hundred-dollar fine."

The father, pale behind blue sunglasses, gave me a doubtful stare. "They really ticket you?"

I thought of Randolph MacWharton. "All the time. I bet some of these cars already have fines."

He didn't stop to look. I heard some expletive about my town as he climbed back in the driver's side and slammed the door. Understandable. But he would just have to look harder.

I parked and walked the several blocks up the hill to Margaret's house. It was one of Port Lewis' original Victorians and had been on the annual house tour several times. Rising behind an ornate wrought-iron fence, it would have been equally at home in San Francisco. Margaret and Lily had turned it into a Painted Lady, with the body a light coffee, and the gingerbread trim painted a deep pink, sky blue, and mauve. Unlike many of the Port Lewis Victorians, it had not been built by a sea captain but by the town doctor.

As I reached the walkway, I saw that the ancient tin bathtub planter was bursting with red Everblooming begonias. Several days' worth of the New York Times in blue plastic wrappers crowded the door, a bad signal to give. I would try to call and have delivery suspended. Unlocking the beveled glass door, I scooped up the newspapers, and stepped in. The ornate hall, a perfect recreation of a Victorian entrance with a large armoire of mirrors and brass hooks, had not had time to develop any stale odors. But there was an eerie stillness, as if the house had sensed what happened to its owners.

The hallway was a bit of whimsy. You expected to enter a parlor of carved oak, marble-topped tables, and stuffed pheasants behind convex glass. Instead you found yourself in the living room of a sophisticated collector of art and artifacts, a room in which the off-white furniture seemed to disappear as the walls of glass cases sparkled instead. But today something was wrong. Several of the cases that at Christmas had held exquisite masks, antique Balinese puppets and the eighteenth-century stoneware that Margaret loved were now empty. It looked like a museum where the display was being changed. Had they had to sell some of their collection? Had someone broken in? I was relieved to see that the more traditional dining room with its cabinets of early Wedgwood and Staffordshire looked complete.

At the back of the first floor was Margaret's office. Books that she would never keep in the shop, her personal collection, were shelved here. Surely the lock that fit the key would be there.

Pushing open the white-painted door, I reared back in shock. Like the keys on a derelict piano, books had been pulled from the shelves, and then stuffed unevenly back. A precarious stack tilted on the cherry coffee table. Two wooden file drawers stood open.

I was too late! I cursed myself for not paying attention to the mail. If I had opened the package Saturday, I could have gotten here first. But by now, Wednesday, everyone knew that Margaret was in the hospital. Someone had searched the bookshop-of course they would look here!

Disheartened, I moved over to the beautiful cherrywood desk, noting a disarray of papers that Margaret would never have left. Then I stared into the hanging files. They had been pushed back and forth, but not pulled out. The lock to one side, a silver oval, was unscratched. Experimentally, I removed the key from the coin section of my wallet and brought it to the lock. Wrong color, wrong brand. The cabinet had probably not even been locked.

Rapidly, I checked the desk drawers and opened a closet. I looked for another piece of furniture with a keyhole, and anywhere a locked box might be hidden. Nothing. Maybe I wasn't too late after all.

There was still the upstairs. I had never been anywhere but on the ground floor, and felt hesitant about invading Margaret's privacy. Would she have even left me a key to somewhere in her bedroom? But as I was debating it, I heard the creaking of steps on the porch outside. The mailman? No, Margaret had a post office box. Then I froze at the brisk tapping of metal against metal. I pictured the brass door knocker in the shape of a woman's hand being lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped.

Finally the rapping stopped and there were more creaking sounds from the steps. Edging into the living room I looked out and saw with relief that a brown truck was pulling away. Sometimes an intruder is only the UPS man.

But it made me conscious of where I was and what I was doing. I would run up the wide staircase, scan the rooms for anything with a lock, and then get out.

At first I wasn't sure that Margaret's bedroom was hers. There was a brass bed with a crazy quilt made of dark velvet pieces that I could imagine her sleeping in. But the rest of the furniture was haphazard, the kind of modern wooden dressers that companies like IKEA sold and lamps that could have come from any thrift store. Still, the room held the now-muffled fruity scent of Shalimar, her perfume. I opened the narrow closet and, reassured, saw her silk blouses and long, old-fashioned skirts. Of course this was Margaret's room, Margaret my friend!

And yet-I was surprised by the paintings on the walls. The most striking, over the brass bed, was of a younger Margaret in a checked western shirt, with flowing chestnut hair and an enigmatic smile. She looked beautiful and wild. I checked to see if it was a self-portrait, but the artist was a W. Weston. Two small seascapes next to the door had rocky cliffs that reminded me of the Pacific coastline; both had been done by an artist named Becca Pym. I was disappointed not to see any of Margaret's own artwork, but she had said she knew a lot of artists.

Quickly I checked the back of the closet, under the bed, and anywhere else a box using a key might be stored. A large jewelry box stood on one of the dressers. It was beautifully handcrafted of walnut and looked expensive, but it didn't have a lock.

I looked into the other rooms on my way out. Except for Lily's, they had the impersonal hospitality of bedrooms created for overnight guests. But Lily's room troubled me. It was decorated the way I would have expected, with heavy dark green velvet drapes, a matching lustrous bedspread and heavy brass candle sconces. But when I pulled open the closet door, it was completely bare inside. A scent of cedar lingered, but not one piece of clothing, not one purse or shoe, remained.

It made my head spin. Had Margaret spent Friday afternoon packing up every single thing Lily owned? Was she that upset by her death? And if she had, where were the cartons?

I made a very quick tour of the basement-not a happy experience-and found a padlocked shed out near the garage. But the key did not come close to fitting the lock. I realized reluctantly that the answer to my search must lay in the bookshop after all.

Walking back down into the village, I tried to think how I could search inside The Old Frigate without disobeying Detective Marselli's directive. Perhaps when he told me the shop was closed to me, he meant I could not work there anymore. Maybe I could use the excuse of putting a sign, CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, on the inside of the door, and have a rapid look around while I was installing it. Then I remembered that the yellow crime scene tape was all the message people would need. Some days I wasn't the coldest beer in the fridge.

When I reached The Old Frigate, the tape still hung across the door, but it had a morning-after-the-party droop; one of its corners was even trailing to the sidewalk. There was no guard posted outside.

I glanced through the glass of the front door, just as any curious tourist might. No lights were on and no one was moving around inside. Looking up and down the street, I could not see any police cars. Evidently their investigation was finished. While watching the street, I pushed down on the front door lever with my thumb. The shop was locked.

Still trying to seem nonchalant, I walked away from the door until I was facing the narrow alley. I had vowed never to go through it again. But at least the sun was out, I reminded myself, and I could see the sky.

After another check for watching eyes, I slipped into the passage sideways and began edging my way down. By now I was used to the scrapes and bruises the alley liked to inflict, and I was reassured by the tiny ribbon of blue sky above me. But I was relieved to stumble onto the tiny cement square.

There was no tape around the back door, nothing to indicate that this was a crime scene. Still, what was I thinking? No way was I going to defy Detective Marselli's order and go inside, and then have to face those angry slitted eyes. After all, he was a police officer. Even if all I wanted to do was run in and check for a lockbox or file cabinet, and run right out again. Even if Margaret had asked me to do it.

Rotating casually, I scanned the patios behind the back doors of several other shops and examined the parking lot below the evergreens. No one was looking back at me, and yet I had the sense that I was being watched.

Well, fine. I was not going to do anything anyway.

I just have to check one thing, I informed the watcher. I'm not here to steal anything. After all, if I hadn't told the police about Amil, I'd still be working here. I'm doing this for Margaret. Reaching behind me, I tried the handle. It gave easily and a second later I was turning around and slipping inside, not closing the door completely. My heart banged like a fire alarm. Then it stopped dead. For several seconds I felt nothing at all. Finally there was a feeble blip. If I was having a heart attack and Detective Marselli found me, I hoped by then I would be dead.

I pushed on despite my arrhythmia. But when I passed the slightly ajar basement door, I thought I heard someone talking. A trace of the sauerbraten smell remained, and now the trouble was lodged in my stomach and was creeping up my throat. I wasn't made for this.

The front room had enough light coming in from the windows to see where I was going, but the side room office was dim. I felt my way clumsily over to the metal file cabinets, past the plain oak teacher's desk, and stacks of unassembled shipping cartons. Somewhere in here, there was an old wooden box with a brass keyhole. The key did not fit the newer file cabinets or the oak desk's center drawer. There had to be something else.

But I did not find it.

Could there be a box I never noticed stashed on the shelf below the sales counter? I retraced my steps to look. Crouching down, I had just swept my arm across its expanse when I heard the creak of the back door being opened and rapid footsteps.

No! This couldn't be happening! My heart, which had returned to normal, began lurching against my chest like a drunken dancer. I pressed my palm against it, and made myself breath deeply. It was too late to dart around the counter and run out the door without being recognized. All I could do was pray that it was a technician headed for the basement. Even if it were someone else, they might just walk through here and not search the area where I was hiding.

How could this happen? I hated scenes in mysteries where the protagonist was illegally searching someone's home or office and heard them coming back. Even though I knew I was reading a story someone had written, even though I knew they would get out without being discovered, I always skipped ahead to where they were safely somewhere else. And now it was happening to me. Be sure your sin will find you out. Hunching down further, I knew I would be caught. Because the footsteps had continued past the basement door and were now entering the middle room.

If I were caught, could I actually be arrested? Would Colin put up money for bail? Perhaps he would, but only after a lot of lectures and a promise that I would get a day job where I could be closely watched.

The creaking footsteps kept coming. It was not exactly the assertive tread of a person who had a right to be there, the sure steps of a cop. But it was someone moving rapidly nevertheless, someone with a purpose.

And then I could feel the pressure of another person in the room with me.

"Delhi?"

The voice was soft, but when I heard my name my whole body twanged.

"Delhi, are you in here?"

The footsteps approached the counter and were moving around behind it as if to get to the glassed-in cases... I gave a soft scream as someone stumbled over me and yelped too. He had me pinned to the floor.

"God! This is how people die!" he croaked.

Twisting my head, I stared into the large liquid eyes of Roger Morris. The Bookie.

For a moment, pressed together, we did not move. It felt like an embrace and perhaps it was. Then he righted himself awkwardly, pulling up by the counter and then putting out his hand to me. Getting up was a slow process; I had stiffened with terror. Finally we were eye to eye.