Look Both Ways (20 page)

I didn't want to touch it, but I did as he asked, holding it by its base, upright in my lap, trying not to look at it. “Are we going to take it right down to the station?” I asked.

“I called the chief, and he's anxious to see it. I'll just take it in, and then I'll drive you back to the Tabby. Will they mind if you're a little late?”

“Not at all. I'm just making lists, figuring out what else I need to find for the plays. Does the chief think this . . .” I lifted the candlestick a couple of inches. It was heavier than it looked. “This thing really could kill somebody?”

“I never know what Chief Whaley is thinking.” He smiled. “But I think you could be right about it. Did I ever tell you you'd make a good cop?”

I laughed. “Yes, you have. Many times. But I don't want your job, thank you. If the mate to this one really
is
what killed Shea, now you have to find that one, don't you?”

His serious cop face returned. “It would be a big help, that's for sure.”

He lapsed into silence, and I looked out the window, watching the familiar Salem scenery pass by. We passed the new commuter rail station and turned onto Washington Street, headed for the police station. I glanced down at the candlestick as we passed the Tabernacle Church. Sunshine glinted on the polished brass surface. I tried to look away, but already the tiny cloud and the pinpoints of light had appeared. I saw Shea Tolliver then, her face distorted because of the candlestick's curved surface, but recognizable all the same. She smiled, almost laughing, and held her hand toward me, a gold chain dangling from her outstretched fingers. At the end of the chain, the beautiful pink diamond sparkled.

I closed my eyes, willing the vision to go away. What did it mean? Had Shea found the necklace, after all? Was that why she'd been killed? If that was true, then somebody else had it now. But who?

I felt the car pull to a stop and opened my eyes. We'd arrived at the police station. I dared to glance at the candlestick as I handed it to Pete. Only a candlestick. No vision.

“I'll just run in with this,” he said, taking it from me. “Be right back.”

I nodded, attempted a smile, but didn't say anything as he walked away. What could I say? “Oh, Pete, by the way, Shea found the necklace, and somebody else has it now. I know because I saw a vision in a candlestick.”

The necklace must have been in Helena's bureau all along, I thought. Probably in the blue velvet jewelry box. But why would Shea take the necklace and leave the jewelry box? It didn't make sense. And did the vision in the brass candlestick mean that I was apt to see things in just any random reflective surface? That could become a problem. A big one. The thoughts buzzing around in my head became more and more disturbing. I was relieved when Pete opened the driver's side door and climbed in.

“How'd it go?” I asked, as we drove in the direction of the Tabby “Did Chief Whaley think it might be important?”

“Sure did. He said to tell you, ‘Thanks.'”

“Wow. Kind words from the chief. That makes my day.” I meant it. I'd made a really bad impression on Pete's boss the very first time we met, and there'd been little improvement since. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“Far as I know, I still have the night off. What would you like to do?”

“Want to see a play? It's opening night, and I've got free tickets.”

“If that's what you'd like to do. It's the one about shoes, right?”

I had to laugh at his casual summation of the Harold Brighouse comedy. “It is. It's about shoes and people and love and life. I think you'll like it.”

“Okay.” He sounded doubtful. “If you say so, but I warn you, I'm not much for plays. The last time I saw one, I was in high school. Our English class went to Boston to see
Julius Caesar.
Didn't like it.”

“This one's nothing like that, I promise. Oh, oh! Tickets. That reminds me. I promised Tripp Hampton tickets because he loaned us the cobbler's bench. I'd better call him right now.”

Pete raised one eyebrow but didn't say anything as I took out my phone and punched in Tripp's number.

“Hampton residence. Tripp Hampton speaking.”

“Good morning, Tripp. This is Lee Barrett. I just remembered that I'd promised you tickets to
Hobson's Choice.
Tonight's opening night. I'll leave a pair of tickets for you at the box office. Of course, if you prefer another performance, just let me know. The show runs for seven nights.”

“Thank you, Lee. I don't happen to have other plans for this evening, so I'll be delighted to attend.” He sounded pleased. “I trust the cobbler's bench worked out for you?”

“It looks great. Completes the set nicely. You'll see. Bye now.”

“Oh, Ms. Barrett? Lee? I trust you'll be there tonight?”

“Yes, I will.” We were just pulling into the Tabby's parking lot. “It's time for me to get back to work now, Tripp. Enjoy the play. Bye.”

“I hope to see you there,” he said. “Really looking forward to it.”

“Is the Hampton heir going to be there?” Pete asked after I'd hung up.

“He says he will. You don't like him much, do you?”

“Can't say I do. Do you?”

“Not crazy about any of them.”

“What do you mean, ‘them'?”

I realized that I hadn't told Pete about River's tarot warning to be wary of a blue-eyed, blond man. I gave him the condensed version, leaving out the “cruel or brutal” part. “The problem with the warning,” I told him, “is that I've met three blue-eyed blonds lately.”

“Three of them? Let's see. Gar y Campbell for one. And Hampton has blue eyes, too, doesn't he?”

“Yep. He sure does.”

“Who else? Somebody at work I haven't met yet?”

“Tommy Trent is the third one.” I was surprised that Pete hadn't figured that out.

“You can't count him,” Pete said. “He's not really blond. Daphne colors it for him. Didn't you notice that his hair was brown when he got out of prison?”

“No. But now that you mention it, he was wearing a hat. But he's blond now. I wonder if that counts. I'll ask River.”

Pete shook his head and smiled. “You do that. I'll see you tonight. What time?”

“Curtain's at eight,” I said. “How about six thirty? I'll fix us a quick dinner at my place.”

He leaned in for a fast kiss. “Sounds good. See you then. And, Lee, be careful. Of everyone, blond or not.”

I went directly to my office. It would be relatively quiet there, and I needed to think about what I'd seen in the candlestick. I'd had enough of these visions to know that even if I didn't understand them at first, they'd turn out to be spot on. I was pretty sure—no, I was convinced—that Shea Tolliver had found the pink diamond. And I was just as sure that someone had taken it away from her. But how could I tell Pete that?

I sat at my desk, trying to concentrate. I was still nervous about being alone in there, so I'd left the door to the Theater Arts Department ajar. I could hear the cast of
Our Town
going over their lines. Because the set for that play was so minimal, they could rehearse just about anywhere in the building, and sometimes they even used my nearly empty second-floor TV Production classroom to go over their lines. I was glad they'd chosen to work right next door to me on this particular day, though, and the barely audible hum of stage conversation was comforting.

I tried hard to think of some way to tell Pete that Shea had found the diamond and probably had been killed for it, without revealing the secret of how I knew about it. I spent nearly an hour plotting, then discarding, schemes that would put him on the right track without confessing that I was a scr yer.

The ringing of the office phone jarred me out of my fruitless contemplation. It was Jenny.

“Hi, Lee. Sorry to bother you, but I'm dying to know. Is the other candlestick the murder weapon or not? Did Pete tell you?”

“I don't know anything more about it,” I said. “These things take a while. They'll weigh it and measure it and compare it to the . . . you know . . . the wound.” I paused. “Even then,” I added, “Pete doesn't tell me much about police business.”

“No kidding. It looked to me like you two were pretty tight.”

“About a lot of things we are,” I admitted. “But we don't tell each other ever ything.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes that's best, I guess. I know you're busy. I'll let you get back to work.”

“You're busy, too. How's the inventory going? Mr. Campbell seems quite anxious to get the shop open.”

“I know. The bills keep coming, even when you aren't selling anything.” She sighed. “And I keep coming up with these little roadblocks—like the missing candlestick.”

“Something else missing?”

“It's the darnedest thing. Did you notice the silver coin display in a glass case in the back room?”

“Nope. Sorry. I didn't. That room is pretty crowded.”

“Tell me about it! Well, there was a nice complete set of Benjamin Franklin half-dollars there. They minted them only from nineteen forty-eight to nineteen sixty-three, you know.”

“I don't really know much of anything about coins,” I said.

“A complete set is worth more than just a bunch of individual coins.”

“I should think so.”

“Shea had it priced as a set, but wouldn't you know it? There's one missing, so that changes the value and messes up my appraisal.”

I didn't need to ask which half-dollar was missing, and I knew exactly where that 1951 Ben Franklin was.

“Somebody probably offered her enough money for just the one to make it worthwhile to sell it. I'm sure she meant to replace it later.” Jenny sighed again. “Oh, well, I'll figure it out. Let me know if you hear anything about that candlestick, will you?”

I promised to keep her informed and returned to thoughts of my own problem. I realized that Jenny had handed me the answer. I dialed Pete again.

He answered right away. “Anything wrong? You okay?”

“I'm fine. Don't worry. But I think Jenny has just given us another clue.”

“I know you like clues, Nancy Drew. What is it this time?” I heard the smile in his voice.

“I'm serious, Pete,” I told him. “Listen. Jenny's found something else missing in the shop. A Benjamin Franklin half-dollar.”

Cop voice back. “Nineteen fifty-one?”

“I'm betting on it. I think Shea found something in that compartment in the bureau, took it out, and looked around for something small to replace it. That's why the tissue paper from the dog license was torn. She wrapped the coin in one half of the tissue paper and put it in the bureau in place of the . . . whatever.”

“You're thinking ‘the whatever' is the diamond.”

“I am. You?”

“Could be. Could very well be. Nice going, Lee. Did I ever tell you—”

“That I'd make a good cop? Couple of times. I saved the torn tissue paper. I'll show you when you come over tonight.”

We said our good-byes, and I leaned back in my chair, relieved. I'd managed to plant the idea that Shea had found the diamond, and I'd done it without saying anything about candlestick visions. Dodged a bullet on that one. For now.

I pulled my prop lists from the top desk drawer and ran a finger down the vertical row of checked boxes. Too many boxes were still without check marks. Most of it was small miscellaneous stuff—ashtrays, footstools, lamps, artificial flowers and plants, cups and plates. My budget was down to less than a hundred dollars, so it was time to “beg, borrow, and steal,” as Aunt Ibby had predicted. I also knew that my aunt had much more “miscellaneous stuff” than anyone needed, and I was pretty sure some of it was squirreled away in our rebuilt fourth-floor attic.

I told Mr. Pennington I'd be out of the office for a while, phoned Pete, and left a message that I'd be at the Winter Street house. I exchanged my car for the truck once again and headed for home.

Although the top floor of the house had been completely restored after the fire, I hadn't ventured up there at all. Too many bad memories from that Halloween night when Aunt Ibby and I had confronted a killer there. I backed the truck into the yard, then tapped on my aunt's kitchen door.

“Home already, Maralee? Is everything all right at the school?”

“No worries,” I said. “I'm home to check out the stuff in the attic, if you don't mind. Might be something in there we can use onstage. Want to come up with me?”

“You're more than welcome to anything up there. You go ahead. I'll join you in a few minutes.” She pointed to the ticking oven timer. “I'm trying out another of Tabitha Trumbull's recipes.”

“Smells good, whatever it is. I'll see you in a few. I have some more news about the pink diamond.”

The enclosed stairway to the fourth-floor attic room was not far from the door to my apartment. Even so, I'd avoided it for months. I'd just turned the glass doorknob and started up the stairs when O'Ryan pushed his way through the kitchen cat door and dashed ahead of me. The smell of new wood was pleasant, and thankfully, there wasn't a whiff of smoke.

“What do you think, boy? It's a lot different from the last time we were up here, isn't it?” I said when we reached the attic room.

O'Ryan inspected the edges and corners of the long room. Unlike the attic I remembered, which was jam-packed with castoffs, this new space was relatively bare. But what I saw held theatrical possibilities. There was an old kitchen chair and a small stepladder, which would do for
Our Town,
a clear plastic box full of ashtrays—nobody we know smokes anymore, but the people in suite 67D probably did—and at least half a dozen stacked cardboard boxes marked
ODDS AND ENDS.
It looked like a good haul of props for no money.

The cat, tail twitching, walked to a window overlooking the garden far below, hopped up to the sill, and sat there, looking outside. The window frame was brand new and didn't resemble the old one—the one Aunt Ibby and I had, not so long ago, climbed through to get onto the flat roof below and escape from a killer.

I bypassed the cardboard boxes and headed over to the cat, then leaned over his head to see what he was looking at. It was another cat, a black one wearing a red collar, who'd somehow made its way up onto the roof and now sat there, looking in at us.

I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me and called out, “Aunt Ibby? Is that you?”

“It's me, and I can hardly wait to hear what you've learned about the diamond. Has it been found?” She appeared on the top step and hurried into the room.

“Not exactly, but I think I've discovered something new about what's become of it.”

“Really? Here. Sit down and tell me everything.” She sat in the old chair and motioned for me to sit on the top of the little stepladder. O'Ryan had left his post by the window and had returned to his position in front of the cardboard boxes.

“First, I guess I'll have to tell you . . . there've been some recent changes in my gazing ability.”

She frowned. “In addition to seeing things in the new mirror?”

“I'm afraid so. Apparently, some other shiny surfaces can show me, um, things.”

“Things?”

“The old display shoe at the Tabby still works, for instance, so I know the visions aren't limited to just one object anymore, like Ariel's obsidian ball or the tarnished mirror.”

“Yes, I suspected that when the new mirror in the bureau offered you scenes. But your ability to turn these pictures on and off whenever you want to seems to have grown, too. Isn't that true?”

I nodded. “Right. But today I saw . . . something . . . on an unusual surface.” I told her about the candlestick missing from the inventory of Shea's shop, and about my remembering that I'd seen the pair when I'd bought the bureau.

She leaned forward. “Did you tell Pete about this? A heavy candlestick like that could be used as a weapon!”

“I called him the minute Jenny told me about it. He came to the Tabby right away, and he and Jenny and I went to the shop to check it out.”

“Does Pete think the mate to it could be what killed Shea?”

I shrugged. “He took it back to the police station with him. They'll have to run tests.”

“I understand,” she said, “but what did you start to say about seeing something? On an unusual surface? Not the candlestick!”

“Afraid so. It was a little bit distorted, but I saw Shea Tolliver. She was alive and smiling, and, Aunt Ibby, she was holding the pink diamond necklace.”

“So Shea found it in the bureau, after all! Maralee, you have to tell Pete about this. Someone must have killed her for it.” She frowned. “But how can you tell him such a thing? He wouldn't believe it, would he?”

“I don't know whether he would or not. I know I'm not ready to tell him that I . . . see things. But Jenny found something else missing.” I told her about the half-dollar and my idea that Shea had just looked around the shop for something small enough to fit in the space where the necklace had been, and had grabbed the Ben Franklin coin.

“Well,” my aunt said, “she owned the bureau fair and square, along with everything in it. The necklace belonged to her, no doubt. As they say, ‘Possession is nine points of the law.'”

“Anyway, I told Pete about my idea that Shea had switched the half-dollar for the necklace, and I think he agrees with me. So I didn't have to tell him about . . . you know.”

“I do know, my dear. But if that young man cares about you as much as he seems to, it would be dishonest of you not to tell him about this ‘gift' of yours. I'm sure you'll find the proper time and place to do so.”

“I hope so,” I said. “But it won't be today. We're going to the opening of
Hobson's Choice
tonight. Will you and Mr. Pennington be there, too?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.” She stood and motioned to the pile of boxes. “Now back to business.” She picked up a small willow clothes basket. “Take whatever you want. You should be able to fill this up.”

“Thanks. O'Ryan and I will sort it out. Afterward, maybe we'll have time for a bite of that great-smelling Tabitha treat you were baking. What is it?”

“Tabitha called it Louise's Bread Pudding. I don't know who Louise was, but she used marmalade and toasted almonds in her bread pudding.”

“Yummy. We'll hurry with the sorting,” I promised. “Will there be whipped cream?”

“Absolutely. If you want this little stepladder, I'll carry it downstairs for you.” I nodded. She picked it up, gave a little wave, and disappeared from my view.

“All right, then, cat,” I said, lifting the top box from the pile. “Let's get started.” O'Ryan sniffed at the box, batted at it with one paw, then hopped up onto the chair my aunt had just vacated and watched as I pulled the folded flaps apart. “So this is just going to be a spectator sport for you, huh? Okay. You relax. I'll do the work.”

The articles in the boxes had all been carefully wrapped in newspaper. I unwrapped and inspected each one, putting things that might be useful props in the willow basket and rewrapping the others and returning them to their boxes. I even found a couple of items I could use in my apartment. One was a small framed watercolor of a bowl of fruit—just what River had said I needed for the kitchen. Time passed quickly as I sorted and repackaged the assorted castoffs, all under O'Ryan's watchful gaze.

The last cardboard box in the pile, unlike the others, had been tightly sealed with packing tape. As I picked at a corner of the sticky binding, O'Ryan jumped from the chair and landed with a thud on top of the flat, slim box. He stood there, legs slightly apart, all four feet firmly planted, the golden eyes fixed on mine.

“Get down from there, you silly boy,” I scolded. “We're almost finished here. Don't you want some nice whipped cream?”

He shook his head from side to side. No question about it. The witch's cat didn't want me to open that box.

“Scat,” I said. “Get away from there.” O'Ryan hunched down, not breaking his unblinking stare, and gave a low growl. I was surprised. He'd never growled at me before. “What's wrong, boy?” I reached out to pat his head, but he shook my hand away. I heard a scraping noise behind me and turned toward the direction of the sound.

The black cat was scratching at the window, and it was no longer alone. A gray cat with a star-shaped white blaze on its forehead stood beside the black one. The gray cat tipped back its head, opened its mouth, and gave a long, loud, bone-chilling yowl.

“Okay,” I said. “You and your friends win. Let's get out of here.” I put the basket under one arm, picked up the kitchen chair by its ladder back, and clattered my way down those stairs in a hurry, O'Ryan right behind me. As soon as we reached the third floor, I ducked into my apartment, then closed and locked the door. I plopped the basket on the kitchen table and shoved the chair behind the counter. Seconds later, the cat strolled calmly through the cat door, approached his bowl of kitty kibble, and began munching away, as though he and his feline pals hadn't just scared the bejesus out of me. I was glad no one else had been in the attic to witness my unceremonious departure, and I was in no hurry to go back up there anytime soon, either.

“No need to be greedy,” I said, “The ladder and chair and the basket of tchotchkes will do just fine for now.”

The cat looked up from his bowl and gave me an up-and-down nod.

“You agree?”

Another nod.

“Maybe there's something hazardous or toxic in that box, and you don't want me to get hurt.”

O'Ryan gave me a blank, ordinary cat look and then turned his full attention to the kibble. The conversation was over.