Fatal Fixer-Upper (19 page)

14

––'That's Mr. Rodgers's house right there,' Derek said on the way home, pointing to a Federal-style home about halfway between the restaurant and Waterfield proper. It was situated at the end of a long drive overlooking the ocean. The house was big and white and perfectly symmetrical, with eight tall windows on either side of the green front door and with two matching chimneys, one in each half of the house.

'Wow,' I said, 'you painted all that?!'

'Just the inside. By the time I was done, it was too late in the year to start on the exterior.' He shrugged. I felt a pang of guilt. 'I'm not keeping you from taking on other work, am I? If you need to work for other people, too, I don't mind.'

Actually, I did mind. I had come to think of Derek as my own personal handyman, but of course I didn't say so.

He glanced at me. 'You're paying me, aren't you? No, I don't need to work for anyone else. I suggested painting the outside to Mr. Rodgers a few weeks ago, as a matter of fact, and he put me off. Unless there's an emergency of some kind, I just tell everyone that I have to finish Miss Morton's house first, before I can get to theirs. They don't mind waiting.'

'Must be nice to be so popular,' I remarked. He grinned. 'You have no idea. Most of what I do is one offs—clean this stained glass window; refinish this floor; paint this room—and getting to redo a whole house is a treat. The little stuff pays the bills, but seeing a house turn from abused and neglected and run-down to beautiful is priceless. Sorry if I sound like a commercial.'

'No,' I said, 'that's nice, actually. So how come you're not renovating full time?'

'On my own dime, you mean? Can't afford it. Being a full-time renovator takes money, and I'm not getting rich laying tile and hanging drywall. That's why . . .' He stopped abruptly, and flushed. I looked confused for a moment before I realized what he'd been about to say.

'That's why Melissa divorced you and took up with Ray instead. Because of the money.'

Derek hesitated, but I guess he didn't see the sense in denying it. 'He's raking it in with his construction company and their shoddy condos. She wanted to be married to a rich doctor, but once I wasn't gonna be a doctor anymore, let alone rich, it was all over.'

'Sorry,' I said. And in an effort to change the subject, I added, 'So there are tunnels under Mr. Rodgers's house?' I gave it one last glance over my shoulder before it disappeared behind the pine trees. All the lights were off, save for the one in the entry, its yellow glow streaming out through the arched fanlight above the green door.

Derek nodded. 'Alexander Cooper, the man who built the house two hundred years ago or so, was a smuggler. He'd tie up below the cliffs at night and take his contraband into the house through the tunnels, and then he'd take the legitimate cargo to the harbor in the morning. Smuggling was a way of life along the coast back then, and nobody but the officials thought there was anything wrong with it. Have you ever heard of William King?'

I shook my head.

'He was Maine's first governor, elected in . In , when he was up for reelection, his opponent decided to try to discredit him by publishing a pamphlet about how King had traded with both the British and the Americans during the War of .'

'That's treason, isn't it?'

'Of course it is. There's a fine line between free enterprise and selling goods to the enemy, though, and people sometimes step across it. Especially in a place like this, where half the population had relatives across the border. Anyway, the plan backfired, because nobody cared. Everyone was involved in smuggling back then, and the people who weren't wished they were. So King got reelected anyway.'

'Interesting,' I said. 'You weren't joking when you said you liked history, were you?'

'Guess not. I'm not much for sitting around reading, though. I'd rather be doing something useful. Restoration scratches both itches for me.'

'I'd rather be doing something useful, too,' I said. He glanced at me. 'Your backsplash is looking good. Tomorrow we'll seal it and make sure it's nice and smooth. Then we'll get on with the cabinets.'

'Right. About the cabinets. I had this idea . . .'

'Here we go again,' Derek said, rolling his eyes. I grinned.

. . .

'I'll check the house,' he said when I opened the front door of Aunt Inga's house. 'You get busy looking through the file.'

'You don't want me to walk through the house with you?'

He grinned. 'Are you offering to hold my hand in case I get scared, Tinkerbell? Or are you afraid of being alone, and you want to hold mine?'

'Neither. Knock yourself out.'

'Suit yourself.' He sauntered down the hallway. I turned into the parlor. And stopped with an outraged shriek just inside the pocket doors.

'What?' Derek appeared in the doorway behind me, looking around wildly. 'What?!'

'Look!' I pointed.

'Where? There's nothing there.'

'Exactly! The fainting couch was there when we left!'

'Damn,' Derek breathed. 'What the hell . . . ?' He examined the room, as if maybe the couch had decided to move over to stand in front of another wall instead.

'Someone took it!' I said.

'How can someone have taken it? The door was locked.'

'I don't know. But it didn't walk out on its own.'

He didn't answer.

'Maybe someone swiped one of the new keys. They're over there, on the desk.'

'Bet you it was Phil,' Derek said.

'My money's on Melissa. What was she even doing here? Like you said, it was a little late to bring flowers; it's been three days since I fell.'

'Yeah, but why would Melissa want an ugly chaise longue? It's not her style, believe me.'

'I don't know, and I don't care. She was here, so she had opportunity. Who else could have done it?'

'I'll say it again,' Derek said. 'Phil. You know he wanted it. He was practically wiping drool off his chin. He probably stuffed it in the back of that fancy car he drove up in, and he's halfway to New York by now.'

I shrugged. Maybe, maybe not.

'Call Wayne,' Derek added. 'I'm going to have a look around.'

'I'll come with you. What if whoever is still here?'

'You planning to take a bullet for me?' But he didn't stop me from following him out the door and down the hallway. And when I fumbled for his hand, it was right there. Maybe he wasn't as unaffected as he seemed. We walked through the house holding hands, looking into every room and behind every door. Nothing was out of place, and with the notable exception of the fainting couch, nothing was missing.

'Call Wayne,' Derek repeated when we were once again standing in the front parlor, looking at the empty space where the couch had stood. 'Or better yet, I'll do it.'

He pulled his cell phone off his belt and punched in the number. I could tell by the way he jabbed the buttons that he was angrier than he looked.

'He's on his way,' he announced when the terse conversation was over. 'Along with Dudley Do-Right and—unless I miss my guess—Kate.'

'Dudley Do-Right?'

'The kid who does the fingerprinting and collects the cigarette butts.'

'Officer Thomas,' I said. The young forensics cop who had dusted my kitchen for fingerprints after the first breakin, and the breaker box after the second. 'Right.'

'Excuse me a minute, won't you? I need to hit some thing, and I don't want it to be you.' Derek strode out the front door. A few moments later I heard a muffled curse. I deduced that one of Aunt Inga's trees had taken a fist, but Derek had gotten the worst of it.

. . .

Wayne and company made excellent time; it was no more than ten minutes later when they pulled up outside, blue lights flashing. Derek met them at the gate and walked them in, hands in his pockets. Kate immediately started fussing, first over me, then—when she got a good look at Derek's hand—over him. She led him into the bathroom, and I watched from the doorway as she cleaned and bandaged his knuckles. Meanwhile, Wayne and Officer Thomas busied themselves in the front parlor, with their fingerprint powder and forensic equipment. I didn't expect their efforts to yield any results. The only people who could have taken one of the spare keys were Derek or Melissa, Philippe or Mr. Rodgers. All had been here earlier, so any forensic evidence would be useless. But at least Derek and I had been together all evening, so he couldn't possibly have stolen my couch. And if the same person had stolen the couch as had sabotaged my stairs, then he was off the hook for that, too. Not that I'd ever seriously suspected him.

'Melissa James,' I said firmly when Wayne asked me if I suspected anyone in particular.

Kate hid a smile.

Derek shook his head. 'No way.'

'He wasn't asking you,' I said.

'Melissa isn't interested in antique furniture.'

'She's interested in money, though. You said so yourself. The couch is potentially valuable. And I'm sure the Stenhams would be happy to have it, as well.'

'Who do you suspect, then?' Wayne addressed Derek. I snorted. 'Who do you think he suspects? Who else was here?'

Derek nodded. 'That's right. The boyfriend.'

'Phil,' Wayne said. 'Or Philippe.'

Derek started ticking off damning coincidences on the fingers of his injured hand. 'He drove all the way from New York, just to see the couch. And the way he acted when we were carrying it, I thought he was going to punch me when I let it fall. Avery refused to let him take it back to New York so someone he knows at Christie's could authenticate it. And we already know he's a lying, cheating bastard, so what's a little theft between friends? Yeah, I think he grabbed one of the keys from the desk when we weren't looking and decided to come back for it later. We told them we had plans for dinner, so he knew nobody would be here.'

I whipped out my cell phone and dialed Philippe's number, hoping he would pick up and then show up to exonerate himself. But there was no answer. I left a message demanding that he call me.

'What kind of car does he drive?' Wayne asked, tiny notebook and pencil at the ready.

'He owns a black Porsche. I assume he's driving that.' I glanced at Derek, who shook his head.

'I saw him in a Range Rover. Red.'

'Probably a rental,' I muttered. 'So he'd have something to put the fainting couch in.'

'Not a lot of red Range Rovers in Waterfield,' Wayne said. 'Should be fairly easy to find. And while I'm at it, I'll tell everyone to keep an eye out for Melissa James's Mercedes, as well. Excuse me.' He nodded politely before he turned away, fumbling for his phone.

'What are you planning to do tonight, Avery?' Kate wanted to know.

I had been watching Wayne, and now I turned back to her.

She added, 'You're not going to stay here alone, are you?'

'Of course she's not,' Derek said.

'I'm not?'

He shook his head. 'In case it's escaped your notice, someone has a key to the house. So you're not spending the night alone.'

'I suppose you're planning to spend it with her?' Kate inquired, arms folded across her chest. She was watching our exchange with indulgent amusement.

I blushed.

'If I have to,' Derek answered without enthusiasm.

'Though I was hoping she could go home with you. You've got room, right?'

'I guess,' Kate said. I opened my mouth to say that under no circumstances should she feel obligated to put me up, that I was an adult and could take care of myself, but before I had a chance to, she had continued. 'Shannon is home tonight, but Derek's right. It's the middle of the week, and I've got rooms available. You're always welcome, Avery.'

'I don't want to intrude on your time with your daughter . . .' I began.

Kate smiled. 'She goes to school less than ten miles away. I see her plenty. I'd rather have you come home with me than worry about you being here by yourself. Of course, if Derek was to volunteer to stay . . .' She arched a brow at him.

'I'd rather go home with you,' I said.

'I'd rather you went home with Kate, too,' Derek added.

'That way I can get a good night's sleep and be ready to re-key all the locks tomorrow. Damn, but this is getting monotonous!' He turned on his heel and stalked out. Kate and I looked at each other and giggled weakly.

. . .

'So what's going on with you and Derek?' she asked an hour later, as we were sitting across the table from each other in her streamlined, modern kitchen, sharing a pint of ice cream. I had rescued a robe from Aunt Inga's house, along with my toiletries, and was comfortably attired in terrycloth and with my hair straggling down my back.

'Didn't you ask me that question just a couple of days ago?' I retorted.

'I did. But it seems there's been progress since then.'

I shrugged. 'He's growing on me. He talks to me now. He's even told me a few personal things about himself.'

'Really?'

'Really. Like the fact that you two used to date.'

'Oh, God.' She started laughing. 'We went out a couple of times when he was working on the house, that's all. No chemistry. He's a sweet guy but not my type.'

'Not mine either, really.' Or at least not the type I'd always thought was my type. Then again, look where getting mixed up with Philippe had gotten me.