Look Both Ways (15 page)

We had our coffee, I packed up the Chinese leftovers for him to take with him, and once again, we parted early. Pete had promised to pick up his young nephews for hockey practice. He'd invited me to come along, but I'd declined, with a promise to attend one of their games soon. We shared a prolonged good-night kiss and walked, single file, down the two narrow flights of stairs. I waved a reluctant good-bye as he crossed the yard to his car. I double-checked the lock, secured the dead bolt, then crossed the foyer and knocked on Aunt Ibby's kitchen door. She opened it immediately.

“Come in, come in. I'm dying to hear how your day went. Did you find some good props? Rupert says he's delighted with what you've done so far. Have you eaten yet? That was Pete leaving, wasn't it? Is everything going well between you?”

“Whoa. Slow down.” I laughed. “You're full of questions. Yes, I found some good stuff today. Pete and I had Chinese for dinner, and everything is fine in that department.”

“I'm pleased. Let's go into the living room and have a nice chat. I just made some iced tea. Want some?”

“Sure. Sounds good.” I waited while she poured sweet tea from a frosty pitcher, and then, carrying my tall glass, I followed her to the living room. O'Ryan was already there, curled up on his favorite needlepoint cushion on the window seat.

“Now then,” my aunt said, leaning forward in her chair expectantly. “Tell me all about your day.”

“It's been a busy one, that's for sure. I hardly know where to begin.”

“At the beginning,” she said. “Go on.”

“The first thing that happened was I found out that that old black shoe display piece at the Tabby still works.”

She frowned. “What do you mean, it works? It showed you a . . . vision?”

I nodded. “It did. Just a brief picture. Nothing scary. Just a woman's face. And, Aunt Ibby, I'm sure the woman on the beach is Helena Trent. I recognized her from the newspaper pictures.”

She leaned back in her chair. “I thought it might be. I'm glad she didn't frighten you. What else?”

I thought back, trying to put things in order. “I needed two fur coats for
Born Yesterday.
I had two leads, and both of them paid off.” I described the mink coat and the stole. “Oh, and I learned to operate the freight elevator today. I'll take you down in it sometime, but I warn you, it's going to be a bumpy ride.”

“Bette Davis,” said my aunt.
“All About Eve.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, my dear. I'm so used to trading movie quotes with Rupert, it's becoming automatic whenever I hear one. The ‘bumpy ride' line is from a nineteen fifty film.”

“Now that you mention it, I think I knew that. But speaking of nineteen fifties movies, do you have
Born Yesterday?
I promised Mr. Pennington I'd watch it.”

“I do. I'll give it to you tonight, and you and O'Ryan can watch it on your new TV.”

“The props for that play are coming along nicely, but I still need a couple of things for
Hobson's Choice.
A cobbler's bench and an antique brass cash register.”

“Cobbler's benches were quite the fad as coffee tables at one time,” she said. “Shouldn't be too hard to find one of those. But the cash register might be tricky. And probably expensive.”

“I know where there's a beauty I'd like to borrow,” I said. “With the pop-up numbers and a bell that rings when you pull the handle. That's what I wanted to talk to Pete about tonight.” I explained about the one in Shea's shop and that Gar y Campbell would probably be the person who wound up owning it.

“That Campbell person doesn't seem very nice,” she said. “Perhaps you should avoid contacting him—cash register or not.”

“That's what Pete thinks, too. I'm going to ask Jenny to see about our getting it for the play.”

“Good idea. You listen to Pete.”

“I will,” I promised. “Something else pretty interesting happened today, too. I gave Daphne a ride home. Guess where she lives.”

“I have no idea. But I do know that Rupert is delighted with her portrayal of Billie Dawn.”

“She lives in the Hampton guesthouse. She's been there since before Helena died. Without ever paying any rent.”

“That's an odd arrangement, isn't it? Whatever is Tripp thinking?” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. You mean Daphne and Tripp Hampton . . . may have some sort of relationship?”

“Could be, I guess. None of my business. But, anyway, Daphne told me that Helena had a little gray dog named Nicky. Did you know that?”

“Now that you mention it, I do remember seeing a small dog when I went to that spider web party. Helena had dressed him up as a spider in a gray sweater with little gray velvet legs sticking out. So cute.”

“I think Nicky is the dog in my vision,” I told her, “and Pete thinks the dog license we found in the bureau belonged to him. Pete copied the numbers from the tag tonight, but he wouldn't tell me why they might be important. What do you think?”

“There are several things he can learn from those numbers.” She put down her glass of tea and counted on her fingers. “The license bureau will tell him what kind of dog it was, the dog's name and age, if he'd had all his shots, and in what year he died.” She shrugged and picked up her glass. “Of course, I have no idea why any of that would be important now.”

“I don't, either. Well, if you'll lend me that movie, I'll do my homework and watch it. Thanks for the tea.” I stood up. “Come on, O'Ryan. Let's go home.”

“I'm so glad you're thinking of the apartment as home,” she said. “It's beginning to take shape nicely. A few more books, some pictures on the walls, some lamps and plants, and a few little tchotchkes, and it'll be a perfect reflection of you.”

“Speaking of reflections, River says that for proper feng shui, I need a large mirror in the bedroom, placed so that I can't see myself in it from the bed. I know I need a full-length mirror in there, anyway, but I'm getting kind of skittish about mirrors in general.”

“There are mirrors everywhere, dear. I doubt that very many of them are . . . special.” She stood and crossed over to the long bookshelf under one of the bay windows where her collection of DVDs was filed alphabetically. “Here you go.
Born Yesterday.
A great film. Enjoy.”

 

 

O'Ryan and I did enjoy the movie. At least I did. O'Ryan stayed awake through the whole thing, which I took to mean he liked it. I was glad I'd kept my word to Mr. Pennington about watching it, and when I saw him at the Tabby the next morning, I was able to sound a lot more knowledgeable about the production. After seeing the movie set, I was happy about my prop selections so far, and I could definitely see why Daphne Trent was a natural for the Judy Holliday part.

“Would you like to watch Daphne in rehearsal, Ms. Barrett?” the director asked. “We've moved the
Hobson's Choice
set downstairs to the theater, and the
Born Yesterday
set is ready up here.”

“I'd love to watch. Thank you.”

“Bear in mind, though, that she's just in the process of learning her lines, so don't expect perfection . . . yet. With a little more practice, her performance will be smooth as silk.” He looked at his watch. “She'll be here in an hour or so. I'll let you know when to come over to the rehearsal stage.”

“I'll be in my office,” I said. “My aunt is contacting some of her Twitter friends, in search of a cobbler's bench for
Hobson's,
and I'm still working on getting an authentic cash register.”

“I have every confidence in you, Ms. Barrett,” he said, with one of his courtly little bows. “Ever y confidence.”

I'd left a few small items in the truck overnight, nothing too heavy for me to carry by myself, so I took my first solo trip down to the warehouse in the freight elevator. It was, as I'd told my aunt, a bumpy ride. I wondered if, with a little more practice, to quote Mr. Pennington, my elevator performance would be “smooth as silk.” The ride back up to the third floor wasn't much better than the ride down, and I had to steady a couple of cartons with one hand while pushing buttons with the other. I was relieved when the wooden cage shuddered to a stop at the far end of my office space. I picked up one of the cartons and stepped out onto the floor. My relief at landing there safely was short lived.

Over the top of the corrugated brown box, I looked straight into the flushed and angry face of Tommy Trent. I looked around the room. Nobody else there. I was alone with a convicted murderer—and from the look on his face, I was alone with a very angry convicted murderer.

“What do you want?” My voice came out as a squeak. I took a deep breath and tried again. “Please leave!” That sounded stronger, but pretty stupid under the circumstances.

“What the hell is this all about?” He waved a wrinkled index card close to my face. I was glad to have the carton between us and clutched it more tightly to my chest. I recognized the card, of course. It was the one with my name and address on it. The one that was supposed to be safely reposing in the murderer's sock drawer.

“Where did you get that?” I tried to match his angry tone. Shifting the carton to one arm, I reached for the card with the other. “I gave that card to Shea Tolliver. It's none of your business. Give it to me!”

He pulled the card away and took a step back. “Look, lady, I don't know what your game is, but I caught my girlfriend sneaking this into my bureau last night. Who the hell are you, and what does Shea Tolliver have to do with it? Who put Daphne up to this? She's too friggin' dumb to think anything up all by herself.”

I took a chance and turned away from him, walked as steadily as I could manage to my desk, put the carton down, and sat in my chair, back to the wall. At least now the desk was between us, and my phone was right next to my hand. He had followed close behind me and now stood on the opposite side of the desk, jaw thrust forward, blue eyes narrowed.

I tried to remember exactly what I'd packed in the carton that now formed a flimsy barrier between me and Tommy Trent. Was there anything in it, near the top, that would serve as a weapon if this scene turned really ugly? If I risked a quick glance down at the box, would he guess what I was thinking? I was pretty sure he wouldn't have a gun. A convict so recently out of jail wouldn't have one, would he? What about a knife? They were easy enough to come by. There was a chrome cocktail shaker in there. I was sure of that. A pretty heavy one. Could I reach it in time to disable a murderer?

This frightening thought process was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. I grabbed it and yelled, “Help!”

Running feet, loud voices, slamming doors. In an instant my office was full of people and noise.

“What's going on?”

“Are you all right?”

“Who's this guy?”

Tommy Trent, his expression changing from anger to surprise, held his hands over his head—probably a reflex action from years in jail, since no one was aiming a gun at him. Mr. Pennington was at my side, murmuring comforting words. My elevator friend, Herb Wilkins, and one of the very large stagehands had positioned themselves on either side of Tommy, while Daphne, on tiptoe, resplendent in Autumn Haze mink, reached up and grabbed the index card from his upraised hand and then shook a finger at him.

“Tommy, you big jerk! I told you she doesn't know how that thing got there. I figured maybe you were fooling around with her. Now look what you've done. You probably scared poor Lee to death!”

“You want me to call the cops, Ms. Barrett?” Herb Wilkins asked. “Did this guy hurt you?”

“No,” I croaked. “I'm okay. He just . . . startled me. He was in here when I got off the elevator.”

“No cops,” Daphne said. “He's on probation, and he didn't do nothing wrong. Mr. Pennington, don't let them call the cops, okay?”

“Anything. It's ‘anything wrong,' my dear,” Mr. Pennington replied, correcting her gently. “And if Ms. Barrett has suffered no ill effects from this unfortunate encounter . . .”

“I'm fine. No problem.” My voice had returned by then, along with a certain amount of reason. Either Tommy Trent was as surprised to find the card in his bureau as he seemed or he was an even better actor than Daphne. Either way, he hadn't actually threatened me or attempted to harm me. “I was just frightened, seeing him standing there when I got off the elevator,” I said.

Daphne came around to my side of the desk. “I'm sorry, Lee,” she said. “He's such a big jerk. I tried to talk him into staying away from you. But he wouldn't hurt a flea. Honest.” She handed me the index card.

I wasn't sure about the safety of fleas or anything else around the convicted murderer, who had lowered his hands and now looked cocky and sure of himself, but I agreed that the situation didn't merit a call to the police. I had the damned card back. I'd give it to Pete, and he could take it from there.

One by one the people who'd crowded into my office, who'd answered my cr y for help, and who'd each assured me that it was no trouble at all returned to the rehearsal area. Tommy Trent left with them, but not without a backward, unsmiling glare in my direction. It was clear that he didn't like me one bit, and I was sure my returning look told him that the feeling was mutual.

Mr. Pennington popped back into the room. “We're about ready for rehearsal. Do you still want to watch?”

“I certainly do,” I said. “I'll be there in just a minute.”

I called Pete and was surprised when he answered on the first ring. “Lee? You okay? I was just going to call you. Tommy Trent's been spotted hanging around the Trumbull building.”

“Yes, I know. We've already met.”

“He's there?”

“Not now. Don't worry. I'm fine. He'd found the card with my name and address on it and wanted to know what it meant. Says he caught Daphne sneaking it into his drawer,” I said, trying hard to sound calm. “I have the card now.”

Long pause on Pete's end of the phone. I waited.

“So Tommy claims he didn't put the card in the drawer?”

“Not in so many words. He just wanted to know what was going on and who had put Daphne up to planting the card there.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. I'm not sure. I was really scared, Pete. I was just getting out of the freight elevator, and there he was, waving the card around. He sounded so angry. Maybe he really didn't know anything about it.” Another thought popped into my head. “If he didn't have the card in the first place, where did Daphne get it?”

“I don't know. Looks like it may be time for another long talk with Miss Daphne. You sure you're all right?”

“I'm good. Really. You don't have to worry. Tommy's gone, and I promised Mr. Pennington I'd watch a rehearsal. Gotta go. Talk to you later.”

“Okay. If you're sure you're all right. I'll call you tonight.”

“I'm sure. Bye.”

I wasn't sure at all, and Pete, good cop that he is, probably knew it. But I put on a happy face, pushed open the office door, and walked—head up, shoulders back—to the darkened area in front of the rehearsal stage where Mr. Pennington waited.

“Ah, Ms. Barrett. I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised by the progress we've made so far.” He motioned to one of the stagehands. “Lights, please.” The stage was instantly illuminated. Not all the furniture I'd bought for suite 67D was in place yet, but the general effect, from the blue velvet chair to the chrome and white-leather bar to the gilded telephone, was offensive good taste, no question.

The male lead entered first, inspecting the room. “Not bad, huh?” he said.

Daphne followed, looking absolutely gorgeous. She wore the mink coat and carried the stole, a large box of chocolates, and an armful of movie magazines. She walked around the blue chair without enthusiasm and gave a pretty shrug. “It's all right.”

Some of the players still peeked at their scripts as they spoke. It was, after all, still quite early in the rehearsal schedule. But Daphne moved through the scene with ease, taking suggestions from the director, even helping other actors with a whispered prompt on occasion. I could see why Mr. Pennington was so enthused about her. She was, indeed, a natural.

At the close of the first scene, when the director called for a lunch break, I was surprised to hear a burst of applause and a shrill whistle from the darkened recesses of the performance area.

“Good job, honey! You'll knock 'em dead!” I turned and saw a beaming Tommy Trent rushing toward the stage. Daphne ran into his waiting arms.

“Don't mess up my make-up,” she warned, lifting her face for a long kiss. “Did you really like it?”

“You're fabulous, doll,” he told her. “I always told you, you can do anything!”

The pair headed, arm in arm, for the stairs.

This was a much different Tommy Trent from the glowering, threatening man I'd encountered less than an hour earlier. As they passed me, the stage light blinked off, just glinting for an instant on the two blond heads, hers against his broad shoulder.

What a beautiful couple,
I thought. Then I remembered saying the same thing about a photo of Tommy and Helena. That hadn't worked out well for Helena, and I felt a momentary chill of fear for Daphne.

“Well, what do you think of your discovery, Ms. Barrett? Is she not a gifted actress?” Mr. Pennington watched as the elevator door closed behind the couple. “Of course, we're just at the beginning of the production. It will continue to improve.”

“She's your discovery, Mr. Pennington,” I said. “I just made the introductions. But yes, she's a wonderful Billie Dawn.”

“Have you quite recovered from this morning's unpleasantness, Ms. Barrett?” he asked, concern evident in his expression. “You appeared quite distraught. Perhaps you should take the afternoon off.”

“Thank you, sir. I think I'll take you up on that.”

“You go right ahead,” he said. “By the way, any progress on finding a cash register for
Hobson's?
”

“Still working on that,” I told him. “I haven't given up hope.”

“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.” Mr. Pennington paused and gave me one of those quizzical looks he gets when he expects someone to identify one of his old movie quotes. I'm afraid I responded with a blank look and a helpless gesture.

“Oh, my dear, your aunt would have had that one in a second! Morgan Freeman in
The Shawshank Redemption,
1994.”

“Of course,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I should have had it. I'll be leaving now. Thanks so much for inviting me to the rehearsal. Enjoyed it.”

I hurried out to the parking lot, stopping in the doorway for a moment to look around for Tommy Trent's Mercedes. I didn't see it, or him, and climbed quickly into the comfort of my beloved Corvette. I snapped the locks down, pulled out onto Washington Street, and headed for home.

I found a blue sticky note pasted onto the door of my apartment. Aunt Ibby's neat, round-lettered handwriting informed me that she'd received a tweet from Tripp Hampton offering a cobbler's bench coffee table, if I still needed one for the play. She'd jotted down his telephone number. I pulled the note from the door and carried it into the apartment, where O'Ryan sat looking up at me, head cocked, golden eyes bright.

“What do you think of that, cat?” I asked. “Should I call Mr. Hampton the Third and take him up on his kind offer?”

O'Ryan moved his head from side to side, which could mean “No” or “I don't care” or “A flea is biting the side of my neck.” I chose to interpret it as “I don't care,” tossed my handbag onto the new living-room couch, sat down, and called the number on the blue square. It rang several times, and I was about to hang up when Tripp answered.

“Hampton residence. Tripp Hampton speaking.”

“Hello. Tripp? This is Lee Barrett. You left a message for me with my aunt? Isobel Russell?”

“Of course, Ms. Barrett. Lee. I understand you have a need for an old cobbler's bench coffee table.”

“Sure do,” I said. “My aunt says you have one we could borrow.”

“That's right, and you're most welcome to it. I'd happily deliver it to you, but I don't have an appropriate vehicle at the moment.”

“No problem. The school has provided me with a truck. It's not a pretty thing, but it'll do the job. When would be a convenient time for me to pick it up?”

“I have quite a busy schedule,” he said. “Let me check my calendar.” There was a short pause before he returned to the line. “Could you possibly make it tomorrow evening? Around seven o'clock? I have meetings with investment clients all week, but most evenings are free.”

“I'm sure Mr. Pennington won't mind if I use the truck after business hours. Yes. Sure. I can do that.”

“Excellent. Do you know where I live?”

I sidestepped the question. “I have your address. My GPS will get me there. Never fails.”

“Good. I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow evening. Sevenish?”

“See you then,” I said. “Thanks again for the offer.”

O'Ryan jumped up onto the couch and sat beside me. With a large yellow paw, he batted at my handbag, then finally worked his head into the unzipped side pocket that held the dream book. I laughed at his antics.

“O'Ryan, you big silly. Do you know how goofy you look doing that? Get your head out of there. What do you want? The dream book?” I reached into my bag and pulled out the copy of
999 Dream Symbols.
“Okay. There it is. What about it?”

He prodded the book with his nose, pushing it against the armrest. Then, with one delicate flip of his paw, he popped it open to a page headed with a capital
D.

“You want me to look at the dream symbols that begin with
D,
I guess. We've already looked up
dog
and
diamond.
What else is there?”

He did a cat flop onto the open book, and his pink nose came to rest on the paragraph headed
Dog Growling.
“If the dog is growling,” I read aloud, “it indicates some conflict within yourself. It may indicate betrayal or untrustworthiness.”

“How did you know the dream dog was growling?” I asked the cat. “And what am I supposed to do with this information, anyway? I already know I'm loaded with inner conflict. Besides that, how do I know who's a betrayer? Who's untrustworthy?”

I hastily stuck the book on top of the new bookcase, picked up my handbag, and nudged the cat off of the couch. “Come on, O'Ryan. Between River's tarot cards and the damned dream book, pretty soon I'm not going to trust anybody. Let's have some lunch, and then I'm going to change clothes and do some more shopping.”

I'd kept my word to Pete about having groceries in the house, and I was pretty pleased with the way the inside of my refrigerator and cabinets looked. I felt that I was prepared for anything, from a quick snack to a sit-down dinner. I opted for a ham sandwich on r ye bread with a glass of milk and served O'Ryan a tiny can of what the label claimed was “a grilled seafood feast in cream gravy.”

A cooling shower helped to wash away the stress of the morning's encounter with Tommy Trent. I tossed the jeans and the yellow Tabby shirt into the hamper and put on khaki shorts, a green silk blouse, and a pair of brand-new leather sandals. My damp too-curly hair was unruly, but I took a cue from Daphne and messed it up a little more. It was a new look for me, and my reflection in the bathroom mirror told me it wasn't a bad one. I still didn't have a full-length mirror for the bedroom, so I couldn't get the overall effect, but what did it matter? I was only going shopping, and a mirror would be the first thing I'd look for.