Antiques to Die For (27 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

O

fficer Brownley called just as I was about to step inside my office.

“Nothing yet about Cooper. A team is at his office now. And his storage unit.” She cleared her throat. “Also, I’m afraid that the man who ordered the flowers didn’t recognize any of the photos.”

Darn!
I thought.
Nothing’s easy.
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “So now what?”

“Now we continue to investigate and you continue to be careful. Any other appointments today?”

Thinking of the trip to take Paige to ballet that I wasn’t making, I fought unexpected sadness. “No, none,” I said.

“When will you be ready to go home?”

“About six.”

“Officer Griffin will escort you.”

“Thanks.”

I wanted to say more, to thank her more effusively, to confess how fearful the situation made me and how reassuring it was to have the police nearby, but I couldn’t frame my thoughts quickly enough. Instead, I scanned the parking lot and the forest that surrounded it, seeking out, once again, the source of my anxiety, and as before, I saw nothing odd or out of place.

“It’s pretty scary,” I said finally.

“Yeah.”

She paused, maybe waiting for me to speak, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Okay, then,” she said.

Inside, Gretchen greeted me with her usual welcoming smile. “How did it go?” she asked, empathy evident in her tone.

“It was tough. The funeral will be in Los Angeles a week from today, next Monday. A couple of people may be calling to ask about it, so you should call Mr. Bolton’s office and get the particulars. Also, I’ll need them. I’m going.”

She nodded. “After we know the when and where, you can tell me how long you want to go for.”

“Yeah. I was thinking I might set up some appointments while I was out there, but then I changed my mind.” I shrugged. “I want this to be just about Paige and Rosalie.”

Tears sparkled on Gretchen’s long lashes. “You’re amazing.”

“No. No, I’m not. I’m just doing my best.”

Words my father spoke came to me:
People often say they’re doing their best when what they really mean is that they don’t want to change what they’re doing.
I thought about my statement for a moment.
No,
I thought,
my father’s comment doesn’t apply. I
am,
in fact, doing my best. I just wish my best was better
.

Upstairs, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I was exhausted. I wondered how Paige was doing, and what she was doing, and then I realized that I hadn’t checked my voice mail in a long time.

There was one message, from a number I didn’t recognize with a 207 area code. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t swallow. I coughed and finally I opened a bottle of water from the supply stashed near my desk; after several sips, I could breathe again.

Maybe it’s a potential client,
I told myself sternly,
a “real” call.
Biting my lip, I took a deep breath, and pushed the button.

“You didn’t listen to me,” the husky voice warned. “You’ll be sorry.” In the background, I heard clanging, an oraclelike sound of impending doom. “Last warning. Back off.”

I slammed the receiver into the cradle and stared at it, hyperventilating.
Calm down,
I instructed myself.

Three deep breaths later, I redialed and listened to the message again. The second time, I heard more than the threatening words—I heard tension in the low-pitched voice and I felt more frightened, not less. My hand was shaking as I replaced the receiver, gently this time. Inchoate thoughts and vague forebodings shrieked in my brain, rattling my aplomb, and I spun my chair half around to stare at my maple tree, trying to ground myself and quiet my roiling agitation.

Several moments later, after focusing on my breathing and watching the gently swaying snow-covered branches, the noisy terror in my head stilled and I listened to the silence.
Think,
I told myself. No phones rang, no cars or trucks passed by, not even a bird called, and suddenly, I realized who my secret admirer was. I gasped, clutched the chair arms, and said, “Oh, my God!”

I considered the ramifications, and in an instant I realized with petrifying lucidity a question I
hadn’t
asked Betty, the hostess at The Miller House.

I called Officer Brownley, and got her voice mail. “I know who did it,” I said in a rush, then stopped to gather my thoughts. “I for sure know the secret admirer’s identity and I think I know who killed Rosalie. I need to check one thing. What I need is to talk to you—never mind, I’ll call the station.”

Cathy, the administrative professional, answered the Rocky Point police station main number.

“I’m sorry,” she said in response to my inquiry. “Officer Brownley is unavailable.”

“When will she be free?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. Do you want to leave a message?”

“This is Josie. Josie Prescott. It’s urgent that I speak to her.”

“I’m sorry, Josie. She’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. Can someone else help you? Griff is here.”

A meeting?
I wondered.
Or an interrogation?
I could envision Cooper sitting in one of the interrogation rooms answering unwanted questions about whether he’d appropriated Rosalie’s research and sources. He’d be belligerent and argumentative, sarcastic and contemptuous, and he would deny everything with supercilious confidence. I hoped the police found the journal copy soon—they’d need it.

I thought of Griff’s stolid demeanor and by-the-book attitude. He’d have endless questions and then I’d be told to back off and let the police do their job. “Thanks, but that’s okay. Would you please tell Officer Brownley that I got another phone call from a two-oh-seven area code and I’m going to check out one thing.”

I turned to my computer, easily found a usable photo, and reassured myself that I wasn’t being stupid. I couldn’t not act. Years of frustration, trusting others to take care of problems, had taught me that passivity was harder to endure than fear.
A quick drive to a public place
—
how dangerous could that be?

I took the stairs two at a time.

“I’ll be back,” I told Gretchen as I grabbed my coat and dashed out the door.

I locked myself in my car and surveyed the parking lot.
Nothing.
I headed down the secondary road that led to the interstate. It was only three-thirty, yet dusk was falling. Trees and stone walls cast ghostly shadows along the road.

I looked in my side and rearview mirrors. As I pulled onto the near-empty interstate, all at once, there it was: a boxy, dark-colored car streaked with salt. It was too close, hovering, sliding from one lane to the next, almost passing me, then slowing and skirting to the other side.

I snapped into crisis mode and got ready to cope.

By touch, I found my phone, got my earpiece situated, and pushed the green button twice to redial. I got Cathy.

“Please tell Officer Brownley I’m being followed. She’ll want to know.”

“Who’s following you?”

“The same car. Dark. Salt-covered. No license plate in front. The driver is wearing a hat. Tell her it’s the same car and the occupant is wearing the same disguise.”

“I’m connecting to emergency response. . . .” After a moment, she asked, “Josie? Are you still with me?”

“Yes.”

My heart was in my throat choking me again. The car was tailgating so closely his vehicle appeared to be an extension of mine. If I slowed down, we’d crash. I speeded up, but the other driver paced me.

“Emergency is on the line. Go ahead, emergency.”

“Where are you, ma’am?”

“I’m on Route Ninety-five, heading toward the bridge to Maine,” I said. “I’m going to The Miller House.”

“Police are on the way,” the emergency responder said.

The car could hit me,
I realized,
little nudges to force me off the road,
and then I wondered why it didn’t. I slowed down gradually until I was going only about forty, and at the last moment, with only yards to spare, I spun the steering wheel hard to the right and took the downtown Portsmouth exit.

The boxy car mimicked my maneuver, cutting off a sedan. The sedan’s horn blared and kept on sounding, echoing long after I left the highway. I raced along the service road until I came to the next entrance back onto the interstate and swerved on, the dark car close behind.

Think,
I told myself.
Damn it. Think. He
—
or she
—
isn’t trying to kill me. The other car is bigger and faster than mine, so if that was the driver’s intention I’d already be dead. Therefore he must want something else. What? To scare me off?
I nodded.
Or,
I realized, more frightened than before,
the driver wants to trap me for some reason
.

I skidded as I sped onto the highway, then, when the car stabilized, remembered the police were still on the line. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“This is emergency response. You okay?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your current location?”

“I’m on the bridge. I’ll get off onto Route One-oh-three.”

I heard her relay my location to someone, her mike crackling with static.

The car tailed me the entire way to The Miller House. I snap-turned into the parking lot, parked any which way under a bright light, the boxy car blocking me in.

I grabbed the phone and my bag, tore out of my car leaving the door ajar, and ran up the path toward the restaurant. At a curve in the walkway, I ducked behind a dense growth of rhododendron to catch my breath and watch what would happen next. I clutched the phone to my chest, afraid my voice would carry, revealing my position, if I spoke.

The driver backed out, sending pebbles flying, and turned north, heading deeper into Maine.

“I’m at The Miller House. The car’s gone. It’s heading north on One-oh-three.”

“Copy that,” the voice said.

Within seconds, a state police patrol car, its red lights spinning, roared into the lot. I hurried back down the path to meet it, but before I’d taken more than a half a dozen steps, it backed out and went north. The police were in pursuit. The immediate crisis over, I felt suddenly overheated and I began to shake. I thought I might faint. I realized that I’d somehow lost the headset and put the phone to my ear.

“Josie?” Cathy said, sounding concerned, and I understood that she had remained on the line the entire time. “Josie? Josie, can you hear me?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Officer Brownley is standing by. Hold, please.”

A moment later, Officer Brownley said, “Emergency is off the line. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, and I realized that I was trembling. “It was pretty scary.”

“What are you doing? I thought you were in for the afternoon.”

She sounded confused, not angry, and I appreciated her restraint. I had expected to be reproached.

“It was stupid of me. I thought I’d be fine—a quick drive during the day. I’m sorry.”

“You’re all right and that’s the main thing. What are you doing at The Miller House?”

“I know . . . I mean . . . I’m just really sure—” I broke off, my words tangled in my tongue. I needed to show her, not tell her. “I need to show you something. Can you meet me here?”

“Yeah, okay. Half an hour.”

I hung up and paused, trying to still my throbbing pulse. As always when a crisis passed, I felt weak and ill, and anxious.

I reparked the car properly and headed inside. Betty, the hostess, was chatting with a waitress.

“I remember you,” she said. “How you doing?”

“Glad to be here. How are you?”

I wondered if my voice was quivering. I was breathing hard, standing with my back to the entryway wall for support.

“Same old, same old.” She paused and looked at me. “You okay?”

The waitress smiled at me, picked up an empty tray, and left. “See ya, Betty,” she said.

“More or less,” I replied, forcing a smile.

“So, what can I do for you today?”

“I forgot to ask you a question.” I took a deep breath for focus, dug the photo out of my tote bag, and handed it over. “Did you ever see this person with Rosalie?”

“Oh, sure,” she said, nodding. “They had dinner here lots of times.”

“When? Do you remember?”

She pursed her lips, thinking, then tapped the photo as she remembered. “Yup. That’s right. Last summer.”

I knew it!
I thought, elated. The final piece of the jigsaw puzzle snapped into place. “When did they stop coming together?”

“Let me think.” She paused, still staring at the photograph. “It was an unusually cold day. They had a kind of fight. It was right around Labor Day. Mid-September, maybe.”

“Nothing lately?”

“No, not that I know of.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, and extended a hand.

We shook, then Betty tilted her head and grinned. “You’re as persistent as a cat tracking a mouse. Bet it makes you one hell of an antiques appraiser—am I right?”

I smiled back. “My dad always called me stubborn. I guess that’s the same quality as persistence, just wearing jeans instead of a dress, huh?”

She laughed and told me to come back for dinner sometime. I promised that I would.

I was jump-out-of-my-skin excited. I’d wanted to check with Betty before reporting my conclusion to the police for the same reason that I’d wanted to call Aaron before reporting that Lesha might have committed fraud. Going into any situation ill prepared when you don’t have to, when relevant information is available for the asking, is just plain stupid. Except that someone in a dirty car had been waiting for me outside—maybe—so my effort to avoid one stupid event exposed me to another. I walked into the lounge, inordinately relieved that the end was in sight.

I ordered hot tea, and settled in to wait for Officer Brownley. Just after four, the first wave of after-work revelers started arriving, and their presence was reassuring.
There’s safety in numbers,
I thought.
If not safety, at least there’s comfort
.