Look Both Ways (11 page)

I knew Pete wasn't about to answer any more questions about Shea Tolliver's murder. With his cop face in place, Pete politely thanked Aunt Ibby for the tea and cookies and said good night to Mr. Pennington. “Lee, we both have busy days tomorrow. I'd better be going along. Want to walk upstairs with me so I can get my jacket?”

“Of course,” I said. “Good night, Mr. Pennington. See you in the morning. Talk to you later, Aunt Ibby.” I followed Pete toward the front hall.

We started up the stairs together. “Looks like O'Ryan's been waiting for us,” Pete said, pointing to where the cat sat in the middle of the second-floor landing. “He looks impatient.”

“Funny how that cat has real facial expressions,” I said. “And you're right. He does look impatient. I bet he'd be tapping his foot if he knew how.”

When we reached the landing, O'Ryan trotted along between us up to the third floor, then darted inside the apartment via the new cat door. By the time Pete and I entered, the cat was sitting, alert, with ears straight up, in front of my bedroom.

Pete put an arm around my shoulders. “Look at that. I think your cat is planning to keep an eye on you just the same as I am.”

“Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?” I said, snuggling into his embrace. I felt his muscles tense, and he pulled me closer. “Do I?”

He relaxed his grip then. “No. Of course not. I guess I'm a little overprotective where you're concerned. Just . . . be careful, okay?”

“You sound like River,” I said. “Always warning me about something or other. And you don't even read cards. Really, Pete, is there something you're not telling me?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Okay, here it is. Sit down for a minute.”

I sat at the table, and he took the chair opposite me. “Remember when I told you on the phone that something had come up?”

“Sure. Why? What was it?”

“There was a break-in over in South Salem. In one of those warehouse districts.”

“Uh-huh. That's nothing new, is it?”

“I was especially interested in this one, because it was in a place I'd heard you mention. Bob's Moving and Deliver y.”

“Really? That's the company that delivered the bureau. And the kitchen set, too.”

“I know. And, Lee, the strange thing was, it looked at first as though nothing had been stolen, even though there were computers and fax machines and printers all out in plain sight. Besides that, there was plenty of stuff to be delivered. Furniture and stereos and even TVs.”

“You said ‘at first.' That means you found something missing, after all.”

“Right. Bob noticed it. It was a manila file folder that held all the bills of lading, the work orders, for the week, including the day Shea was murdered. He said he'd left it on his desk, and it was gone.”

“Then that means . . .”

Pete reached across the table and took my hand. “Right. That means that your name and address was on one of them.”

“But mine wasn't the only one. I mean, there must have been plenty of other deliveries that day.” I squeezed his hand. “Jenny told me that Bob delivers for just about ever yone.”

“True. And maybe I'm just being a little paranoid. But, please. Be careful. Keep your doors locked. Be aware of your surroundings. If anything, anything at all, looks strange, call me. Promise?”

“Yes, of course, I'll be careful,” I said. “You're scaring me.”

“Maybe I'm the one who should be worried,” Pete said, smiling. “Maybe I should be jealous.”

“Jealous? About what?”

“About the big, good-looking blond guy with the five-hundred-dollar sport coat hitting on you tonight.”

“Hitting on me! You're nuts! He was not.”

“Come on. He didn't take those big blue eyes off you for a minute.”

I stood up, walked around the table, tugged on Pete's hand, and pulled him toward me. The good night kiss I gave him should have convinced him that he had nothing to worry about concerning Tripp Hampton.

Pete was right about each of us having a busy day ahead. Otherwise, that evening might have stretched far into the night. Or who knows? Maybe into the morning. But it didn't. We said good night at around eleven, and I reluctantly locked the living-room door and slid the dead bolt into place behind him, listening to his footsteps as he hurried down the stairs and out into the backyard. I thought about what he'd said about locking doors. Would Aunt Ibby remember to lock the back door and the door to her kitchen? Of course she would.

Wouldn't she?

I felt as though I had to check, just to be sure. The fact that somebody had stolen my name and address from Bob's worried me more than I'd wanted to admit to Pete. I couldn't very well go back downstairs and cut through the dining room to the kitchen without intruding on Aunt Ibby and Mr. Pennington. After all, it had occurred to me that my sixty-something aunt and my seventyish boss might have something more than a platonic friendship going on . . . the idea of which sort of creeped me out a little . . . but, hey, they say sixty is the new forty.

O'Ryan had followed us and sat in the center of the empty room, grooming his whiskers. “Okay, boy,” I said. “We'll go down the back stairs, check and see if the kitchen is locked up, dead bolt the back door, and set the alarm. Come on.”

I unlocked my door, tiptoed into the hall, and headed down the narrow staircase. “Never noticed before how creaky these stairs are,” I told the cat, who said, “Mrow,” which I guessed meant something like “Uh-huh” in O'Ryanese. We rounded the corner onto the second floor, and I looked down into the dimly lit entry hall. O'Ryan looked up at me, then moved ahead and started down the final flight. “Dear cat,” I said, “thanks for leading the way.”

Making a mental note to replace all the lightbulbs with a lot more wattage, I pulled on the kitchen door, determined that it was secure, then opened the one leading to the yard. Pete had pressed the button in the doorknob, locking it, but the dead bolt and the alarm weren't engaged. The streetlights from Oliver Street cast long shadows across our garden, making the tall row of sunflowers, bowing silently in the breeze, look like alien things, while the leaves of the maple tree whispered against the side of the garage. The cat stepped outside, looked from left to right, then up at me. Apparently satisfied that all was well, he returned to the hall and started up the stairs. I clicked the dead bolt into place, set the alarm, and followed him, hurrying back to my apartment.

I put on my pajamas, turned on the TV, and sat at the kitchen table, mentally adding “buy TV for the bedroom” to my to-do list. I caught the last half of the late news, tuning in just in time to see a close-up shot of Tommy Trent emerging from the courthouse. The news anchor, sounding just a tad surprised, announced that Trent had engaged an attorney and was attempting to regain “certain personal possessions” that had been left in his rooms in the Hampton mansion at the time of his arrest for the murder of his wife.

“Wow. What a nerve,” I said aloud, assuming that O'Ryan was listening, even though his eyes were closed. I peered more closely at the image of the man, who'd somehow acquired a tan since his release from prison. He was handsome, no question. I could see why Helena had been attracted to him. Sun-streaked blond hair and the tan made his confident smile very white.

The camera moved in.
Yep. Blue, no doubt.

The next day, I got an early start for the Tabby and decided to have breakfast in the diner. I parked the 'Vette, picked up a copy of the
Salem News
from the vending machine outside the restaurant, and chose a seat at the counter. I'd just ordered coffee and a bagel and started to read page one when I heard my name called.

“Ms. Barrett? Lee?”

I turned and saw the smiling face of Jenny, the antiques dealer. “I thought that was you,” she said. “Did you get everything okay?”

“Sure did, Jenny. Thanks. I'm enjoying them already. Here. Won't you join me?”

“Love to.” She slid onto the stool beside me and ordered coffee. “I read about the break-in at Bob's and just wanted to be sure all my stuff got to where it was going all right.”

“I heard that nothing was taken except some paperwork,” I said. “Kind of strange, isn't it?”

“Is that right? The paper just said nothing of value was missing.”

“Well, I know my delivery was on time and intact. I'm sure your others were, too.”

“Hope so. Listen, I got some good news yesterday.”

“Really?” I was pretty sure I knew what her good news was, too, but I was careful not to blurt out any more information Pete had shared. “Tell me about it.”

“You know I'm a licensed appraiser. No? Didn't I tell you that? Well, I am. And I got picked to do the appraisal of the contents of Shea Tolliver's shop.” She bobbed her head briefly and took a sip of coffee. “May she rest in peace. Anyway, I guess I told you business was slow, but this job will pay enough to keep everything afloat for quite a while.”

“That is good news,” I said. “It looked to me as though there's an awful lot of inventory in that little shop.”

“There is,” she agreed with a smile. “Should keep me busy all summer.”

“What will become of it all?” I asked. “Do you know?”

She looked from side to side and lowered her voice. “Keep this under your hat, but I heard that Gary Campbell is planning to take it over, lock, stock, and Wedgwood. He's even going to move into Shea's little apartment up over the shop.”

“Really? Makes it kind of awkward for him, doesn't it? I mean with him being a ‘person of interest' in her death, and then being the one person to benefit from it.”

“I know. But, like I told you before, I'm sure he didn't do it. The cops will figure it out.” She left a tip on the counter and stood up. “Got to go open my place now. Nice to see you. Stop in and see me sometime.”

“I will,” I promised. “I need a lot more furniture.”

“That's what I like to hear.” She waved and headed out into the sunshine.

I finished my breakfast and took the side exit into the main lobby of the Tabby. Since the school had once been a major department store, there was a wide-open feeling to it. High ceilings and a broad staircase leading to the second floor gave the place a sense of luxur y, and assorted plaques, banners, and trophy cases testified to its current academic status.

I took the elevator up to the third floor and walked through the colorful Theater Arts Department to the drab little domain that had been assigned to me.

The dusty, sheet-covered ghost blob in the corner containing the items Mr. Pennington had selected for
Hobson's Choice
needed attention. I decided to make a list of exactly what was there and then to finish the list I'd started yesterday of the things I'd need to complete the stage setting. I could tell from the collection of shoe store–related props Mr. Pennington had already assembled that he wanted a realistic setting for that play. I pulled the sheets from the pile and began my list.

I examined each chair for condition, unwrapped each of the signs and the black pump. At first I tried not to look directly at the big patent-leather shoe, still afraid of what I might see there.

Holding my breath, I glanced, then looked, then stared. There were no swirling colors, no pinpoints of light, no visions. That hurdle overcome, I relaxed, put a check mark next to the words
chairs, signs and shoe
on my list and covered the pile once more with the sheets. I'd need a few more things to create the illusion of an old time cobbler's shop. I added an antique cash register, and some more worn-out old shoes to the list. I was pretty sure from what I'd observed in the costume department that plenty of appropriate clothing for all three casts was already on hand.

I skipped
Our Town
and moved on to
Born Yesterday.
The only thing I'd found so far for that production was one blue velvet chair. I started a new list. Hotel suite 67D would need a 1940s-type bar, couches, tables, bookcases, lamps, an old-style telephone—just about everything mentioned in the script. This could take a while. If I was going to get all this with my slim budget, I'd better get started.

I pulled the
Born Yesterday
script from my handbag and returned it to the top of the desk, then replaced it with the
999 Dream Symbols
book, promising myself I'd take the time to consult it later.

Turning to the classified section of the newspaper, I looked under
antiques, yard sales, estate sales, vintage clothing,
and
used furniture.
I circled a couple of possible addresses and headed down to the warehouse, shopping lists in hand.

The Ford coughed and wheezed a couple of times, then started. I let it run for a minute and pulled slowly into the big, empty lot behind the school. I was just about to move out into traffic when my phone buzzed. I stopped, put the truck in park, pulled out my phone, and looked at the caller ID. I had to look twice to be sure I was reading correctly. My early morning caller was Daphne Trent.

I offered my usual business salutation. “Hello. This is Lee Barrett. May I help you?”

The answering voice was breathy, almost childlike. “Ms. Barrett, you don't know me, but I really need to talk to you. I mean, maybe you need to talk to me. What I really mean is, well, I'm kind of worried about you. Oh. I'm Daphne, Daphne Trent.” A nervous giggle. “Will you meet me someplace?”

“Well, um, Ms. Trent,” I stammered. “I'm at work right now—or rather, I'm, uh, kind of on the road. Out of the office. What do you want? I mean, can you be more specific?”

“No. I don't want to say anything about it on the phone. Just pick someplace where we can talk. I don't have a car, but I can take a cab. I'll meet you wherever you say.” A sharp intake of breath. “Oh, oh. I have to hang up now. I'll call you back.”

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the phone in my hand.

What the hell was that all about?

My first instinct was to call Pete. Why was a murderer's girlfriend calling me? The same murderer's girlfriend who was riding around with Pete just yesterday. And why was this particular murderer's girlfriend worried about
me?
So I called him.

Pete's phone rang several times. Then it dumped me into his voice mail.

“Pete, it's Lee. Listen. Daphne Trent just called me, wanting to meet up. She hung up before I could get any more information. She says she's going to call back. What should I do? Oh. And she says she's worried about me.”

I didn't see what else I could do at the moment, so I put the truck in gear, rolled out onto Washington Street, and headed for a neighborhood garage sale over in North Salem. The sale on Dearborn Street looked like a big one, with nearly a whole block full of driveways crowded with tables and hanging racks. I put the phone in my pocket, my handbag over one shoulder, and one of Aunt Ibby's canvas grocery shopping bags over the other and set out on a hunt for bargains. I hadn't really expected to find a shoe last among the baby clothes, books, and mismatched glassware, but at the third house I went to, I spotted half a dozen old shoe forms made of wood, marked five dollars each. Excited by such a find, I gathered them all up in my arms and approached the woman who seemed to be in charge.

“I'll take these,” I said. “Do you have any more?”

“Nope. That's it,” she said. “My dad used to collect them. He said cobblers in the old days used them to make handmade shoes.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Just what I needed.” I fished in my handbag for cash. I'd forgotten that yard sales didn't usually take credit cards. I'd have to stop at an ATM pretty soon. Another driveway yielded a great pair of men's black-and-white wing tips, and before long I was headed to the next stop on my list, encouraged by the morning's yield so far.

The first classified ad under the “estate sale” heading directed me to an address on North Street. It promised “two rooms full of Grandma's furniture. Old stuff, but clean.” If I was going to buy furniture, I'd surely need more cash, so I pulled up to the ATM at the next bank I saw. I was still in the bank parking lot, putting cash in my wallet, when the phone buzzed. It was Pete.

“Lee? Glad I caught you. What's all this about Daphne Trent?”

I repeated the brief conversation I'd had with the woman. “What do you want me to do? Should I meet her? I don't even know her.”

Long pause. “If she calls you back, arrange to meet her in a public place. Maybe the diner at the school.”

“All right. If you think I should. But why would she be worried about me? That bothers me.”

“Bothers me, too,” he said. “And I need to tell you that Bob from the delivery service called me right after you did. Seems he's found that missing manila file with the bills of lading in it. It was in his Dumpster out back.”

“That's good,” I said.

“Not exactly. There was one sheet missing.”

I knew what he was going to say.

“It's the one with your name and address on it.” His voice was ragged with concern. “I don't like it.”

“That's not good,” I said. “I suppose somebody thinks something special is in the bureau.”

“Looks that way. I turned the jewelry box over to the chief. It's possible that whoever it is thinks the missing diamond was in that little velvet case.”

“Maybe it was at some point,” I said, reasoning it out. “But when?”

“I think it was there, too. So does Chief Whaley. But did it disappear after Shea bought the bureau? Or has it been missing since Helena died? That's the question. That's why I want to know what Daphne has to say.”

“You said that the chief thinks Daphne and Tommy Trent know where it is. That they'll go and get it now that's he's free.”

“He does. And nine out of ten times he's right about stuff like that.”

“You know her, too, don't you? What do you think?”

“Sure. I know Daphne—”

A brief ringing sound interrupted that thought. Call waiting. I peeked at the screen. “Daphne's calling back, Pete,” I said. “I'll call and tell you what she says.”

“Good girl. Let her do all the talking. You just set up the meet.”

I clicked off with Pete and waited for the phone to ring again. “Hello. Lee Barrett speaking.”

“Ms. Barrett, this is Daphne again. You know, Daphne Trent?”

“Yes, Ms. Trent,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“I think maybe I can help you. That's why I called. Will you meet me someplace where we can talk?”

“Do you know the diner beside the Trumbull building on Essex Street?”

“Sure.”

“I'd planned to have lunch there around twelve thirty,” I said. “Will that be convenient for you?”

“I can grab a cab and be there easy,” she said. “But how will I know you?”

“Look for a tall redhead in a yellow T-shirt,” I said. “Or would you rather I picked you up?”

She dropped her voice and spoke quickly. “Oh, no. You can't. He might see you. I'll be there. At the diner.” The line went dead.

As I'd promised, I called Pete. “We're going to meet at the diner at twelve thirty,” I told him. “I offered to pick her up so she wouldn't have to take a cab. She sounded almost frightened. She said that ‘he' might see me. I suppose she's talking about Tommy Trent.”

“Probably,” he said. “Just listen carefully to what she has to say. Okay? I'll check with you later.”

I looked at the clock on the dashboard. I'd probably have time to take a quick peek at the estate sale with two rooms full of Grandma's furniture before my lunch date. I turned the truck around and headed for North Street.

It turned out to be a good move. Grandma had been a veritable pack rat. She could easily have been featured on one of those hoarders' shows on cable TV, except that this hoard was remarkably clean and well preserved. The two rooms referenced in the ad were overflowing with offensive 1940s good taste. A chrome and white-leather bar with a blue-mirrored top was the first thing I spotted. There were a dozen or more Heywood-Wakefield honey-blond pieces and cabinets full of chrome cocktail shakers and ice buckets.

I left with a truckload of Grandma's castoffs. The estate-sale dealer happily accepted my school-issued credit card, and I headed back to the Tabby, having spent more than half of my budget on the bar, an atom-shaped clock, an armchair with a base shaped like the Eiffel Tower, a blond end table, and a carton full of barware. I pulled the truck inside the warehouse, backed it up to the freight elevator, and closed and locked the warehouse doors. I'd need some help with the unloading from the Tabby's burly crew of stagehands, but I figured that could wait until the afternoon. I walked around the back of the building to the street beside the diner and punched Mr. Pennington's number into my phone.