Look Both Ways (22 page)

Things were upbeat at the Tabby's diner when I stopped in for morning coffee. Newspapers were in evidence all over the place as actors and directors, stagehands and volunteer staff members searched for reviews of the previous night's opening performance. The
Salem News,
the
Boston Herald,
the
Boston Globe,
and a few tabloids I'd never heard of were spread out on the counter and on most of the tables.

Mr. Pennington called to me from a booth tightly packed with players from the cast of
Hobson's Choice.
“Ms. Barrett. Do come and join us. The reviews are stellar! Look. The
News
even mentions the excellent set design.”

I stood at the edge of the table and looked at the paper, pleased that my efforts had brought positive editorial notice. There was clearly no room for me to join the happy group, but two seats at the crowded counter behind me were vacated as I stood there, and I hurried to claim one. As I slid onto the round red stool, a man captured the one next to me, and we bumped elbows.

“Well, Ms. Barrett, we literally keep running into each other, don't we?” Gar y Campbell rubbed his arm. “You okay?”

“I am,” I said, relieved that we were finally acknowledging that collision on the steps of Shea's shop. “You?”

“Smacked my funny bone, that's all. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“You don't have to do that,” I said.

“I'm not so broke, I can't afford coffee,” he said, smiling.

“Thanks,” I said. “I looked for you last night. I wanted to thank you again for the cash register. Did you and Jenny enjoy the show?”

“Ver y much. The old man got a laugh every time he opened it to grab his booze money, didn't he?”

“It added a lot to the story. And thanks, too, for being so gracious about the candlestick.”

He shrugged. “It's nothing. Glad to help out when I can.”

“You're very generous.” As soon as I said the words, I remembered what River had said about the blue-eyed, blond man.
He can be generous, but he can be cruel or brutal.
What had he said to Shea that was cruel enough for a judge to issue a restraining order? Had they really reconciled, agreed to go back into business together? I sipped my coffee and looked at his reflection in the Coca-Cola mirror behind the counter. He was still smiling.

“I understood how the old man felt, though,” he said.

“The old man?”

“In the play. When he was stealing from the company to support a bad habit.” He turned and faced me. “I used to steal. Out of that same cash register. For almost the same reason.” The smile had disappeared.

What the heck are you supposed to say to an admission like that?
I was saved from having to say anything when Daphne's reflection appeared between us in the mirror. “Hey, Lee! Did you see the reviews? Awesome, huh?”

“Wonderful. Mr. Pennington is so happy.”

“I know. I wonder if the papers will say such good stuff about my play.”

“I'm sure they will. Daphne, you know Mr. Campbell, don't you?”

“Sure.” She faced the man, squinting. “Can I sit with you guys?”

“Here. Take my seat,” I told her. “I have to get up to my office. Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Campbell.”

“You're welcome. Please call me Gar y, Lee.”

I left the diner through the doors leading to the Tabby. When I looked back, the two were in animated conversation.

On the third floor, the
Our Town
actors were going over their lines in front of the old S&H Green Stamp redemption center, while one of the stagehands ran a vacuum cleaner over the rug on the suite 67D stage. Once again, I left my office door ajar, finding the sounds of activity soothing. I cleared the top of my desk, putting a few folders into the file cabinet. As I arranged the bound scripts into a neat stack, I noticed one of River's tarot cards. I turned it over and found myself face-to-face with the Knight of Wands . . . that blond, blue-eyed mystery man. I turned him facedown again and smiled as I texted River, telling her she was no longer playing with a full deck. She texted me back, telling me to keep him as a reminder to be careful. I taped old blue eyes to the wall beside me.

I read through the property lists on the back page of each of the remaining scripts, checking off the things we'd decided to use and crossing out the ones the director thought unnecessary. I looked up from my work when I heard the office door swing open. This time Tommy Trent didn't look angry, but he didn't look particularly friendly, either.

“Please don't close that door,” I said as he started to push it shut.

“Oh, sorr y.” He opened the door halfway. “That better?”

“Yes, thank you. What do you want?” My phone was close at hand.

“I took my car to the car wash today,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Had a full detail. They vacuumed the whole inside.”

“Uh-huh.” My hand crept closer to the phone.

He pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from his pocket. “They found this under the front seat. It's got your name and address on it. First the card in my bureau drawer and now this. What are you trying to prove, lady?” He shook the paper close to my face. I recognized the name on the heading.

“I've never seen it before,” I told him, “but I know it was stolen, and I know that the police are looking for it. If somebody put it in your car, that somebody is trying to get you into trouble.”

“One thing I don't want is more trouble,” he said. “I've had enough of it.” He put the paper on my desk. “If the cops need it, they can have it. Call them if you want to. Maybe they can figure out how it got into my locked car. I'm calling my probation officer.” He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Something's going on here that can land me back in prison.”

My mind raced, and my first thought was Daphne. She'd claimed she'd found the index card, and I knew she had access to Tommy's car. Gar y Campbell had been in the shop with Shea's body. Had he taken the index card from the register? Were Daphne and Gar y working together? Was that a chance meeting downstairs in the diner, or had they arranged it?”

I almost blurted out, “What about Daphne?” when the door swung open all the way. Pete stood in the door way, and my aunt Ibby was right behind him.

“Put your hands where I can see them, Trent,” Pete ordered. “What are you doing here?”

Tommy put his phone down and spread his hands out flat on the desk. “I found something in my car that I thought might belong to Ms. Barrett here. Has her name on it.” He jerked his head in my direction. “She'll tell you.”

I walked over to where my aunt waited in the doorway, and stood beside her. She squeezed my hand.

“That right, Lee?” Pete stepped closer to the desk and looked down at the crumpled work order.

“That's right,” I said, “and I'm pretty sure that's the paperwork somebody took from Bob's, isn't it?”

“Looks like it. You say you found this in your car, Trent? Let's step outside, and you can tell me all about it.”

Aunt Ibby and I moved aside as Tommy Trent and Pete left the office.

“Good heavens, Maralee,” she said. “What on God's green earth was that all about?”

“It's pretty much what Tommy Trent said. He found that paper with my name on it and wanted to know what was going on.”

“Pete seemed to know Trent was here.”

I smiled. “Pete's keeping an eye on me. But what are you doing here? Is anything wrong?”

“Not at all. I did as you asked and learned a few things about the night Helena died.” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I thought we might go to lunch together so I can show you what I've found.”

“Good idea,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Let's get out of here.”

I closed my office door as we left, and looked around for Pete and Tommy in the Theater Arts Department. “Pete must have taken him outside to see what he has to say about the work order.”

“Did you believe what the man said about it, Maralee?” my aunt asked. “That he found it in his car and didn't know how it got there?”

“You know something? I did believe him. Strange, isn't it?”

“Not so strange. If he'd stolen it, he'd hardly carry it up here and show it to you, now would he?”

“That's probably what Pete's thinking. So if both the index card and the work order were planted on Tommy, who did it? And why?”

“I'm sorry to say it,” she said, “but little Daphne comes to mind.”

I sighed. “I thought of that, too.”

Aunt Ibby stopped at the head of the stairs leading down to the second floor and looked around the huge space. “This used to be Trumbull's furniture department, you know. And over there was the beauty parlor. And I think over there, where those actors are, was the place where Mother used to cash in her Green Stamps.” She shook her head as we started down the stairs. “Things change.”

The diner was still pretty crowded, so we opted for Rockafellas just down the street, in the old Daniel Low Building, because Aunt Ibby loves the way they do Caesar salad. We each ordered the salad and raspberry iced tea, and my aunt again pulled the sheaf of papers from her handbag.

“There were several of what you might call ‘society events' going on in Salem the evening that Helena died,” she said. “And the
Salem News
had reporters at most of them. I cross-checked the reports with the articles about the murder, trying to narrow it all down to what I thought was of the most interest to you.” She pushed several pages across the table to me. “See what you think.”

The top one showed a photo of Tripp Hampton posing next to a large painting he'd donated to a charity auction sponsored by the North Shore Patrons of the Arts. “I remember reading that he and Daphne attended that auction together.” I checked the date at the top of the page. “This paper came out the next morning, before they found Helena's body.”

“That article is quite extensive,” Aunt Ibby said. “It was apparently an A-list party, and extremely well attended.”

“Must have been,” I said. “It says here they raised well over a million dollars.”

“Read on,” she said, sipping on her iced tea.

I skimmed through the report on the event, which had taken place at a private home. The reporter had been seriously impressed. The story fairly bristled with adjectives. Hundreds of
wealthy
guests.
Fabulous
music.
Exquisite
hors d' oeuvres.
Beautiful
women, all in
gorgeous
gowns.
Handsome
men, all in black tie
.
. .

I stopped reading and looked across the table at Aunt Ibby. “Bingo,” I said.

“Find what you were looking for already? That didn't take long.”

“Mr. Pennington has told you about Daphne's poor eyesight, hasn't he?”

“Yes, indeed. He says the poor child is probably legally blind, but she still refuses to wear glasses.”

“That's true,” I said. “And last night she mentioned that Tripp Hampton took her to a party once where all the men wore tuxedos.”

“Could be the charity auction.”

“She said all the men looked so much alike, she didn't know who she was dancing with half the time.” I looked again at the picture of Tripp. “She and Tripp were pretty much each other's alibis on the night Helena was killed.”

Aunt Ibby nodded. “You're thinking Tripp could have left the party, and she wouldn't have noticed.”

“Uh-huh. And he could have mingled enough and posed for enough photos that among over a hundred guests, it wouldn't be hard for him to slip away for a little while. Did you happen to find the address where the party was held?”

“The Garland mansion,” she said. “It's right over near the Hampton place, and it's even bigger.”

“Walking distance?”

“Maybe, for a young person. One thing, though, Maralee.”

“What's that?”

“Was Pete with you when Daphne mentioned the men in tuxedos?”

I remembered Pete saying he always rented a tux if he needed one. “Yes, he was there.”

“Then I'll bet he already has all this.” She picked up the pile of papers and put them down again. “I'll just bet he does.”

I knew she was probably right. Not much gets by Pete. “All the same, I'm going to tell him about it.”

“You do that, dear.” She picked up the check. “Lunch will be my treat.”

“Thanks,” I said. “This must be my lucky day. Gar y Campbell bought my coffee this morning.”

“Gar y Campbell? The cash register man?”

“And the candlestick man.
And
the man I saw leaving Shea's shop.”

We walked back to the Tabby, where Aunt Ibby had left her car in the guest parking lot. I looked around but didn't see Pete's Crown Vic or Tommy Trent's Mercedes.

“I don't have a lot to do today,” I said, “so I'll be home early. Want to look at Helena's composition book with me?”

“Can't think of anything I'd rather do,” she said, climbing into the Buick. “I've been curious about it from the beginning.”

After Aunt Ibby drove off, I went over to the student theater, where a cleaning crew was at work, guaranteeing that everything would be in order for the evening performance of
Hobson's.
I checked out the stage set, moving a chair here, a pair of shoes there. It was important that all the props were exactly where the actors expected them to be. Onstage, reaching for something that should be there and finding nothing is unacceptable.

I was more and more convinced that Shea'd thought about that when she'd removed something from the bureau. That it had to be replaced so that it wouldn't look as though she'd removed something valuable—like the pink diamond.

By three o'clock I'd run out of things to do at the Tabby. I called Pete and left a voice mail telling him I was leaving for home, then called my aunt to see if she wanted me to pick up something for dinner.

“Don't bother,” she said. “I'll whip something up. Hurry home. I'm dying to read Helena's story.”

I was growing impatient to read it, too. I wanted to learn more about Grandpa and about where the cabin was.

I was just pulling into the garage when Pete returned my call. “You left work early. Anything wrong?”

“Nope. Just ran out of things to do. Aunt Ibby and I are planning to read Helena's journal,” I said. “And I have a couple of ideas about the night Helena was killed that I'd like to tell you about. Why don't you join us when you get off ?”

“You've got me curious now,” he said. “More clues?”

“Don't laugh,” I told him. “One of these days I'll turn up something important.”

“Hey, I'm not laughing. You're the one who figured out the candlestick angle. Did I ever tell you . . .” He trailed off teasingly.

“Yeah, I know. I'd make a good cop.” It was my turn to laugh. “Really, come over if you can. Aunt Ibby's cooking.”

“Okay. I can come for a little while. I'm taking my nephews to hockey practice at around nine.”

“And, Pete, by the way . . .” I paused, not sure whether or not I should ask the question on my mind.

“You'd like to know what happened with Trent today, wouldn't you?”

“Uh-huh. If it's all right for you to tell me.”

“I headed over there as soon as I got the word that his car was in the Tabby parking lot.”

“I was so relieved when I saw you in the door way,” I said, “and thankful.”

His voice became gruff, in a tender sort of way. “I don't want creeps like Trent anywhere near you.”

“I wasn't as frightened as the last time he appeared in my office,” I admitted. “He didn't seem to be angry with me—just confused about the work order being in his car. He says it was locked.”

“I know. He told me the same thing. And he'd already called his probation officer about it, and about the index card, too. We think he's telling the truth this time, Lee. Somebody's messing with him.”

“I believed him, too,” I said. “Did he tell you who else might have keys to his car?”

“Nobody that he knows of. But it's not hard to get duplicate keys made for an old model like that.”

“Are you thinking Daphne?”

“She has access, no doubt. I can't tell you anything more.” The cop voice was back. “I'll call you when I'm on my way over, okay?”

“One more thing,” I said. “It might be nothing, but Gar y Campbell told me he used to take money out of that old cash register for the same reason old man Hobson did in the play. For drinking money.”

“Must be what the two thousand dollars he was returning to Shea was for.”

“Must be. See you later.”

I climbed out from behind the wheel, locked the Corvette, glad that I knew where both sets of
my
keys were, and hurried through the garden to the house. I glanced over at the fence, wondering if any of O'Ryan's cat friends might sit there during the day, but there were no cats in sight. I let myself into the back hall, where something smelled good. I tapped on Aunt Ibby's kitchen door.

“It's me,” I called. “I'm going up to my place to change. Be right back down.”

“Okay, dear,” came the answering voice. “I'm making Tabitha's corn chowder again, using heavy cream this time.”

It didn't take long for me to shower and change. Helena's notebook was still on my bedside table, where I'd left it after my first reading. Tucking it under my arm, I left via my kitchen door and headed down the two flights to what I still thought of as home.

As I entered the living room, O'Ryan looked up from his favorite perch there, a needlepoint pillow on the window seat in the bay window, blinked a couple of times, and went back to sleep. “I guess I'm definitely cat staff now,” I muttered. “No big greeting at the door for me anymore.”

“Are you talking to me, dear?” Aunt Ibby appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “Did you bring the notebook?”

“Right here,” I said, lifting Helena's composition book with both hands. “And I was just complaining about O'Ryan taking me for granted these days.”

“Yes, he rules this roost, no doubt. Why don't we take the book into the kitchen? Light's better in there, and I can keep an eye on my chowder.”

I followed her into the bright, cozy room and pulled one of the captain's chairs up to the round table. “Sit next to me so we can read it together.” I handed the book to her. “Start at the beginning.”

Aunt Ibby and I began reading Helena's story, starting with tales of idyllic days spent fishing, picking wild blackberries, swimming, learning to operate a motorboat—all in the company of Grandpa. There was no mention of other children, and we got the impression that Grandpa's cabin was in a remote place.

There were postcards of Marblehead Harbor and Salem Willows pasted onto the lined pages here and there, as well as movie ticket stubs and brochures from several North Shore historic sites, which indicated “field trips” taken with Grandpa.

Although the journal pages weren't dated, they seemed to cover activities from several summers. The handwriting and sentence structures changed subtly as Helena's story progressed. The prose was broken up occasionally with a short rhyme. At about the midpoint in the volume, an undated newspaper clipping noted the passing of Arthur Cole at the age of ninety-four. Mr. Cole had been preceded in death by his wife, Mildred. The account mentioned a daughter Sarah and a granddaughter Helena. Written across the top of the clipping in pencil was the word
Grandpa,
and on the facing page was a browned and brittle pressed flower between two squares of waxed paper.

“What kind of flower do you think it is?” I asked.

“Looks like a pansy. A purple one,” my aunt said. “Helena's grandmother's favorite flower.”

“Of course, that's what it is,” I said, feeling a tiny sting of tears. “This is so sad.”

Pete called at just about that point in our reading, so we closed the notebook and cleared the table to make room for dinner. When he arrived ten minutes later, bearing a bottle of wine, a box of chocolates, and a large package of kitty treats, O'Ryan and I met him at the front door, and then the cat led the way to the kitchen.

“Want to give me a CliffsNotes version of what is in Helena's book?” Pete asked as Aunt Ibby ladled the creamy corn chowder into our bowls and sprinkled crispy bits of fried salt pork on top.

“We're only about halfway through it,” I said. “We just got to the sad part, where her grandpa dies.”

Pete poured chardonnay into Aunt Ibby's second-best crystal wineglasses, while I sliced French bread. “Grandpa being the gent in the picture in the bureau?” Pete asked.

“Must be. She spent summers with him when she was a little girl, according to Tripp,” I said.

“Around here?” Pete asked.

“I think so. They visited Marblehead and the Willows and fished for saltwater fish, but she doesn't say exactly where the cabin is . . . at least so far in her stor y.”

“You said you have some ideas about the night Helena was killed. Want to tell me about that?”

“When Daphne told us about the party where all the men wore tuxedos, it made me wonder about something I'd read about Helena's murder.”

“Made me wonder, too,” he said. “Made me wonder about some people's alibis that seemed airtight at the time. Now . . . maybe not so much.”

“Did you—the police—know back then about Daphne's eyesight problem?”

“No. She hides it so well, I don't think anybody would notice it unless she told them.”

“Will you . . . is this . . . I mean, is it a reason to reopen the case?”

“Not my call,” he said. “I typed it up and put it on Chief's desk. May be something. May be nothing. He still thinks Trent and Daphne have the diamond stashed somewhere.”

Aunt Ibby started to clear the table, and I got up to help her. “Let's get on with Helena's stor y,” she said. “Leave the dishes in the sink. I want to learn more about that girl.”