Fatal Fixer-Upper (14 page)

'Of course not,' I said, giggling. 'It's an all-terrain bike. Looks new.'

'Interesting,' Kate said.

'Why? Has somebody reported a missing mountain bike?'

'Not exactly, but a man riding a mountain bike went missing a couple of weeks ago. Professor Wentworth, remember?'

'A bike-riding professor? How quaint.' A picture formed in my head of Sean Connery as Indiana Jones's dad, riding an oversized three-wheeler.

'I think you may have gotten the wrong idea,' Kate said.

'Professor Wentworth was young. Not much older than you. Fresh out of school, healthy, in good shape. He kept a car for the winter months, but when the weather was good, he liked to ride his bike. He rode it the morning he disappeared.'

'Why would Professor Wentworth leave his bike in my aunt's shed?' I asked.

Kate shrugged lightly.

'I don't suppose there's any news?'

'None I've heard,' Kate said. 'Although if that's his bike outside, that might be a break in the case.'

'How is your daughter holding up? You know, I wouldn't mind meeting her sometime. If she knew Professor Wentworth, maybe she'd be able to tell me what he and my aunt had in common.'

Kate sighed and shook her head. 'She's spending more and more time down at the college. I hardly saw her at all last week. If Barnham wasn't such an upstanding place, and her friends such nice kids, I'd worry. Thankfully, she's too smart to get in the sort of trouble I was in at her age.'

I arched my brows inquiringly—she had brought it up, after all, so it wasn't like I was prying—and she added, 'I got pregnant at eighteen. By the time I was Shannon's age, I was juggling classes and diapers and a part-time job I needed to make ends meet. I dropped out of college after a year, although I did go back and finish up later. With a different major, of course.'

'Why ‘of course'?'

Kate grinned. 'Shannon's father was French. I was going to study business, but then I met him and decided to study French instead. All it took was being called
mon petit
chou
once.' Her pronunciation was totally different from what I was used to hearing.

'His name wouldn't happen to be Philippe, would it?'

Philippe had called me his little cabbage (
chou
), his little flea (
puce
), and his little rabbit (
lapin
), as well as just plain his little one (
ma petite
). You'll notice the common denomi nator. Amazingly, the condescension had never occurred to me before. Guess I never made it past the sexy accent. Kate shook her head. 'Gerard Labadie. Why do you ask? Who's Philippe?'

'Ex-boyfriend. Recent breakup. What happened to Gerard?'

She waved a vague hand. 'Oh, he's around. Somewhere. Last time I saw him was when Shannon was three, and I came home and found him in bed with my roommate.' She said it like it didn't matter, although at the time, I imagined it must have mattered quite a bit. Which just goes to show that in sixteen years, I will probably be able to hear Philippe's name without wanting to strangle him, too.

'Men,' I said.

'Can't live with them,' Kate agreed, without finishing the classic saying. I smiled.

Although I have to admit that some men aren't so bad. When Wayne came back inside, he had Derek with him. Derek had a couple of long pieces of wood over his shoulder—two-by-fours, I hazarded a guess—and Wayne was carrying several smaller pieces of wood under one arm, and a plastic bag from the local hardware store in his other hand. They dumped it all on the floor in the hallway and came into the parlor. Wayne sat down next to Kate again, and Derek leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and looked at me.

'How are you feeling?'

I told him I was feeling OK, and he added, 'I brought you a present.'

'From the hardware store? How sweet of you!' I wondered what it might be. A pound of nails? A hammer? Some new PVC pipe for the bathroom?

Kate and Wayne exchanged a glance, and Derek sent me a jaundiced look. 'Don't overdo it, Tinkerbell,' he warned.

'I was trying to be sarcastic,' I explained.

'I should have guessed. Here.' He tossed me a plasticwrapped package, and I managed to get my hands up in time to catch it.

'A knee brace? Wow, that's . . . That really
is
sweet!'

He shrugged. 'Dad said you should have one, and I figured you didn't feel like going out and buying one yourself.'

'You're right about that. I appreciate it.'

I had changed into a pair of shorts, so ripping open the package and sliding the brace up over my calf and knee was a simple matter. It had a hole in the front to circle the kneecap, so it didn't even bother my scratches. I glanced up. The dark blue T-shirt made Derek's eyes appear even more vivid than usual, and that damn lock of hair was hanging over his forehead. 'Thank you,' I said demurely.

'My pleasure.' He had a hint of color in his cheeks, and the suggestion of a grin in the curve of his mouth. It occurred to me to wonder if he'd been looking at, maybe even admiring, my legs.

Derek turned to Wayne. 'Can I start working on the stairs now?'

Wayne nodded. 'The wood is too rough to take fingerprints, so there's no sense in even testing it. Stay away from the breaker panel, though. I'll send Brandon out to dust it on Monday. Just in case we get lucky.'

Derek grimaced. 'I probably ruined any luck you were likely to have when I reset the breakers this morning.'

'It's worth a try,' Wayne said. 'And it keeps him busy. I'm always worried that he'll leave us and sign on with the Boston PD if I don't give him enough to do.' He smiled.

'I'll get to work, then.' Derek swung on his heel. We heard him walk down the hall and open the basement door. After a minute, hammering and sawing started down there.

'What about the bike?' Kate wanted to know. Wayne turned his attention to her. 'Bikes aren't like cars, Kate. They don't have to be registered, and they don't have VIN numbers we can run. I'll have to talk to witnesses who saw Wentworth on his bike frequently and see if they can identify it. I'll have Brandon dust it for fingerprints, too. Avery,' he turned to me, 'tell me about it.'

'The bike? There's nothing more to tell. I found it in the shed the other night. I was looking for a lawn mower, and there it was. I hadn't been in the shed before, so I don't know how long it's been there. Didn't you look for it when Professor Wentworth went missing?'

'In your aunt's shed?' Wayne said. 'Of course not. Why would we?'

No reason, I guessed.

He added, 'We looked for the professor, as well as the bike, in all the logical places: parking lots, all around campus, along the road, in the woods, at the bus and train stations. But we didn't go door to door or check private property. We can't do that, not without some kind of solid connection between the missing person and a particular place. It would take too long, for one thing, and we have to respect people's privacy, for another.'

I nodded. 'So is this a solid connection? Do you want to search the house now?'

'I've already been over the house,' Wayne reminded me.

'When your aunt died, remember? We didn't go over it with a fine-tooth comb, but we looked well enough to make sure no one else was here. Professor Wentworth was already missing then, although I don't think we'd started searching for him; it all happened at much the same time. The last time anyone saw him was the day before Mr. Rodgers found your aunt dead.' He paused, looking pensive. I felt a frisson down my back. 'Let me see if I understand this. Professor Wentworth left home on his bike one morning, and no one's seen him since. The next day, Mr. Rodgers found my aunt dead. My aunt had Professor Wentworth's business card in her desk, and now I've found his bike in her shed? Have you ever thought that maybe he had something to do with her death—and now he's on the run?'

Wayne said, 'I know what you're thinking, Avery. And it's suggestive, I'll admit, but we can't assume that Professor Wentworth pushed your aunt down the stairs and then ran.'

'It makes sense to me,' I said.

Kate hid a smile.

'Of course it does,' Wayne answered. 'But that's because we don't have enough information yet. We're not go ing to rule it out, OK? But we're not going to ride off in all directions with the assumption that that's what happened, either. First I'm going to take the bike with me downtown and try to confirm that it is, indeed, Martin Wentworth's bike. After that, we'll know a little more. And if it is his bike, then we can start looking for a connection between your aunt and the professor. You can help with that.'

'I'll keep an eye out for anything around here that might connect to the professor,' I promised. 'You'll let me know what you find out about the bicycle, right?'

Wayne told me he would, and then he and Kate left, taking the mountain bike with them. I shuffled along the hall to the cellar door and peered down into the basement. Derek looked up at me. 'Go lie down,' he ordered. 'There are a couple of DIY magazines in one of those bags on the floor. They'll keep you busy. I don't want to hear your feet touch the floor again until I'm finished down here.' His voice was stern. I resisted the urge to ask, smartly, if these were doctor's orders, but only because the thought of lying down sounded really, really good.

11

––After rebuilding the cellar stairs, Derek spent the rest of the afternoon replacing the locks on the back and front doors, while I lay on Aunt Inga's bed flipping through the magazines he had brought me. One of them had detailed step-bystep directions for how to mosaic a tabletop, and I couldn't help but wonder if Derek had picked it up on purpose to give me a crash course in the technique of decorative tiling. The more I looked at the photo spread, the more I liked the idea I'd come up with, of using the broken pieces of Aunt Inga's Blue Willow china to create a one-of-a-kind kitchen counter. It seemed fitting somehow, and it would probably look pretty good, too, especially if I did something funky, like coloring the grout cobalt blue to match the pattern on the china. If that was even possible. Any grout I'd ever seen came in boring colors, like white and sand and gray, but surely there was a way to make it a little more exciting? Derek would know. I decided to ask him when I was feeling better. Until then, there wasn't much I could do about the counter, anyway.

He finished what he was doing in the midafternoon and stopped at the foot of Aunt Inga's bed to ask if there was anything I needed before he left. When I said no, he said good-bye and sauntered out. 'I'll lock up,' he tossed over his shoulder. 'The new keys are on the desk in the parlor. Minus the one in my pocket.'

I stuck my tongue out at his back, but I didn't complain. If he was willing to lock the door so I wouldn't have to get up, more power to him. It wasn't like I was concerned that he was planning to abuse the privilege of having a key. He wouldn't be walking in on me in the bathtub anytime soon, more's the pity.

After I'd read the DIY magazines cover to cover, I cracked open Aunt Inga's book about Marie Antoinette. I'd finished the novels I'd brought along, and it was the only other book in the house, or at least the only one I'd found, and although it isn't the sort of thing I usually enjoy, it kept my attention.

By bedtime, I knew more about the doomed queen of France than I had ever wanted to. Some of it was information I'd actually heard before. Philippe had been enamored with the dead queen and had made me sit through many of the movies made about Marie Antoinette. He'd argued vehemently against Hollywood's accusations of selfishness and greed. Until Philippe set me straight, so to speak, I'd always been under the impression that Marie Antoinette exclaimed gaily, 'Let them eat cake!' when the citizens of Paris were starving. Not so. According to Philippe, that was Maria Theresa of Spain, and brioche— the French word she used—isn't properly cake, it's a sweet roll that is sometimes used as a basis for desserts and meat dishes.

As I read, the evening ebbed away, and before I knew it, I was three-quarters done with the book. Chapter ten described the French Revolution's beginning. First, the royal family was moved from the fabulous palace of Versailles to the old, dilapidated Palace de Tuileries in Paris. By , Marie Antoinette and King Louis-Auguste had seen the writing on the wall and decided to take their children and their valuables and flee abroad. With the dauphin's governess taking on the role of a Russian baroness, the queen playing her maid, the king her butler, and the royal children her offspring, the family made their escape. But when they stopped for a change of horses in Varennes, someone recognized the king's profile from a coin, and they were sent back to Paris under guard and reinterred in the Tuileries.

I sipped a cup of hot chocolate as I read about how Louis was beheaded in January , and in August, Marie Antoinette was placed in the Conciergerie prison to await trial. There was a failed rescue attempt later in August, called the Affair of the Carnation because the plan for the rescue was hidden among the petals of a flower smuggled into the prison for the queen, and in October, Marie Antoinette was tried for treason against the new Republic. The trial was a mockery and the verdict a foregone conclusion; the queen was executed on October , two days after the trial started. Not too long after that—just about the time it would take a fast ship to make it across the Atlantic—a schooner by the name of
Sally
, captained by one Samuel Clough, arrived in Wiscasset, Maine, just a few miles up the road from Waterfield. Ostensibly,
Sally
was engaged in the lumber trade, but instead of lumber, below her decks were fabulous clothes, French furniture, and other expensive treasures, and—as Kate had mentioned—six long-haired cats, the French queen's pride and joy. Well, what do you know, I mused to myself as I closed the book, said good night to Jemmy, who was making an unusual appearance in the doorway, and drifted off to sleep.

. . .

'I owe you an apology,' I told Kate the next afternoon.

'You do? Why?' She glanced over at me. We were in her car, headed toward Barnham College, where at my request I was going to talk to Kate's daughter, Shannon, about Professor Wentworth. I wasn't quite sure what I was hoping to learn, but I thought it worth a try. If Shannon had known the professor well enough to work with him on 'special projects,' maybe she'd know what the connection was between him and my aunt.

'Remember when you told me that Jemmy and Inky could be descended from Marie Antoinette's cats?' I said.

'I thought you were pulling my leg.' I repeated what I'd read in Aunt Inga's book the night before. Kate giggled. 'If I'm going to try to be funny, I'll try a little harder than that. Some people really do believe it. I'm not so sure. It seems to me that when Marie Antoinette's things were being loaded on board the
Sally
, her cats would have been history.'

'So maybe the whole thing is a fairy tale,' I said. Kate shook her head. 'I don't think so. Or if it is, at least it has some basis in fact. Captain Clough did work for Colonel Swan, ferrying lumber to Paris, and the
Sally
did come back to Maine in full of French furniture and other expensive things. The Swan family still has some items. There's even a chair down at the historical society. You should go take a look at it.'

'Where is the historical society? Are they open today?'

'I doubt that very much,' Kate said. 'Old Miss Barnes is quite active in her church. She wouldn't open the museum on a Sunday.'

'Seems to me Sunday would be an excellent day to open the museum. It's when most people are off from work and have the time to do things like visit museums and galleries.'

'Tell that to Miss Barnes,' Kate said and turned the car through the open wrought-iron gates of Barnham College. I had passed Barnham on my way into town the first time I was here, but I'd been too preoccupied with finding my way to take a good look at the college as I flew past. Now I did, and I found it to be almost too picture-perfect, the kind of small private school you see in the movies. A half dozen redbrick buildings with tall, gothic windows, clay-tiled roofs, and gargoyles hunched on the corners were ranged around a central quad, where small groups of students were hanging out on this warm Sunday afternoon. They were the one incongruous note, dressed in faded, ripped jeans or frayed shorts, with their ratty T-shirts advertising anything from beer to the virtues of education.

Kate zeroed in on a young couple standing toe to toe on the far end of the quad, their noses a scant few inches apart. A few feet away, another girl—petite and blonde—was looking from one to the other of them. She had her back to me, so I couldn't see her face, but her posture expressed concern.

'There they are,' Kate said.

'The couple?'

She nodded. 'They're not really a couple, though. That's Josh, Wayne's son. Between you and me, I think he'd like for them to be, but she's not biting.' Kate shrugged. The closer we got to Josh and Shannon, the more heated their argument seemed. Josh had his dad's lanky height and dark, curly hair, and he was scowling down at Shannon through wire-rimmed glasses, his lean cheeks flushed. She, meanwhile, was glaring up at him, her gestures emphatic. She had inherited her mother's red hair and centerfold figure but had yet to develop the heaviness of hip and thigh that twenty years and childbirth had given Kate. Shannon's hair was a deep mahogany, vivid against her milky white skin, and her eyes were blazing green fire at Josh.

'Who's the other girl?' I asked.

'The little blonde? That's Paige. She and Josh have always been close, and when Shannon came into the picture, the two of them pretty much adopted her.'

I wasn't entirely sure whether she meant that Josh and Paige had adopted Shannon or that Shannon and Josh had adopted Paige. From the way it looked right now, the latter was true: Shannon and Josh looked like the parents, arguing, while tiny Paige stood in the background, all but wringing her hands.

We were still a few yards away, too far to hear what was being said, when Josh became aware of our approach. He said something to Shannon and straightened. She swung on her heel, her smile bright, but not sincere enough to reach her eyes. 'Hi, Mom.'

'Hi, baby,' Kate said, her eyes on Josh. 'Hi, Josh. Paige.'

'Afternoon, Kate,' Josh said politely.

Paige murmured something.

'We'd better get going. Have fun with your mom, Shannon. You ready, Paige?'

Paige nodded, and he flung a long arm around her shoulders to lead her away across the grass, his dark head bent to her fair one. Just before they turned the nearest corner, Paige looked back at us.

'What's going on?' Kate wanted to know, her attention on her daughter now. 'What were you two arguing about?'

'Who says we were arguing?' Shannon said. 'You know Josh. Always such a worrywart.' She smiled at me. 'You must be Avery. My mom's told me about you.'

'Likewise,' I said. 'Nice to finally meet you.'

'I hear you're renovating your aunt's house. With Derek.'

Her eyes were dancing.

'Shannon likes Derek,' Kate explained. 'If he were ten years younger, I'd worry.'

'If he were ten years younger, there'd be no reason to worry,' Shannon pointed out cheekily. 'So, Avery, what can I do for you? My mom said you wanted to ask me some questions about Professor Wentworth.'

'If you don't mind.' I explained about finding the professor's business card in my aunt's desk last week, and his bicycle—or at least what I suspected was his bicycle—in her garden shed a few days ago. 'I'm trying to figure out what the connection is,' I said. 'Especially since she died and he disappeared at the same time.'

'Really?' Shannon glanced over her shoulder in the direction where Josh and Paige had vanished. I nodded. 'I don't suppose you know whether Professor Wentworth was doing anything that might involve my aunt? Researching something, perhaps?'

Shannon shook her head, throwing another glance after Josh and Paige. I got the impression that she really, really wished she was with them instead of here with us. 'I didn't really know him very well,' she offered.

'I see. I thought maybe, since your mom told me you'd been working on a special project with him over the winter . . .'

For a second, Shannon looked like she had no idea what I was talking about. Then she flushed. 'Oh, right. No, that had nothing to do with your aunt.'

'I know it's a lot to ask,' I said, 'but I don't suppose you'd show me his office? Just in case there's something there that ties in to my aunt's death?'

Shannon hesitated.

'Wayne and his crew have already been over the professor's office,' Kate reminded her, 'so I don't think it would do any harm to let Avery have a look.'

'I'm not sure Wayne would agree with you,' Shannon muttered, but she started moving. 'It's in this building over here. And he's not dead—not that we know of—so the dean's kept it the same, just in case he comes back. If he doesn't, the college will have to give the office to the history professor they're bringing in after the summer, but for now, everything's still there.' She drew her dark brows together.

'Wayne wouldn't even tell Josh whether they were treating the disappearance as suspicious. Although if they've found his bicycle, then I'd think that'd be suspicious, don't you, Mom? It's not like he'd be able to get anywhere without it, and his car's still parked at the condo.'

While she talked, she walked us across the quad and into the building she had indicated. Like all school buildings everywhere, it was high-ceilinged and dark, permeated by an odor of glue, paper, and dust from old books. A central hall ran down the middle of it, with doors coming off it on either side. They were made of heavy, dark wood and had textured glass panels in the uhalf.

'This is it.' She stopped outside a door on the right. Kate and I bunched up behind her.

'Aren't you going to open it?' Kate said after a moment.

'Nuh-uh.' Shannon shook her head. 'You open it. I'm in enough trouble already.'

'What kind of trouble?' Kate asked.

Shannon shrugged. 'I'm gonna go find Josh and Paige. Bye, Avery. It was nice to meet you.' She turned on her heel and walked off.

'Huh,' Kate said. She turned a questioning glance on me.

I nodded. 'Go ahead. I'll meet you at the car.'

Kate took off down the hall after her daughter. 'Shannon, wait!'

Shannon peered back over her shoulder and increased her pace. Kate did the same. In a matter of seconds, mother and daughter were both gone, down the stairs and out of the building. I heard the heavy front door slam shut behind them.