Look Both Ways (8 page)

I saw Pete glance at the truck, but of course, he didn't recognize it. Or me. I'd turned my head away as we passed one another, then immediately regretted it, because I hadn't been able to get a good look at the blond woman.

I took Jefferson Avenue all the way down to Salem State University, probably driving a little too fast, before I turned the truck around and headed back to the Tabby. What was the matter with me? I was acting like a silly teenager. Getting snippy with Pete because I didn't like his tone of voice, then being upset because he had a woman in his car. She was probably a fellow police officer, or maybe even a shoplifter he'd just arrested.

Preferring, although doubting, the latter explanation, I stopped at the market on my way back, picked up a bottle of wine to go with tonight's pizza, then drove straight to the warehouse garage. I parked, locked the truck, and walked back into the school. Mr. Pennington's office door was partially open, so I knocked gently and entered.

“I've just taken a ride in the truck, sir,” I said, “and I think she should do fine.”

“Excellent, my dear,” the director said, pulling his top desk drawer open. “Here's a credit card for you to use in the acquisition of properties.” He extended the card toward me, then hesitated. “You understand, I'm sure, that our budget is
extremely
limited.”

“I do,” I said, “but it would be helpful if I knew exactly
how
limited it is. Could I have a dollar figure to work with?”

“We think seven hundred and fifty dollars total would be a good figure.”

I accepted the card and tucked it into my bag. “Probably doable if I can borrow some of the furniture and get lucky at thrift stores and yard sales.”

“We have every confidence in you, Ms. Barrett.” He smiled, stood, and shook my hand. “Of course, the gasoline for the truck is included in the seven-fifty.”

“Of course,” I said. “That's only fair. Guess I'll get started shopping right away, and thanks again for this opportunity.” I gave him a big smile and headed down the broad staircase to the Tabby's first floor.

I still had some time to spare before I was supposed to meet Bob at the house on Winter Street, and checking out a thrift store or two would give me some idea of what I might expect to find in my conservative price range. I left through the parking lot exit, climbed gratefully into my own car, and headed for the closest Goodwill store.

I have to admit that for the next hour or so I happily mixed business with pleasure. I bought a plump blue velvet–upholstered chair complete with ecru crocheted antimacassars on the arms and back for thirty dollars. It looked eminently suitable for suite 67D. Even better, I found a great-looking Biedermeier-style bedside table for my own suite. It was antique white, and the curvy lines had just the look I wanted for my bedroom. I put the chair on the Tabby's card, the table on my own, and promised to pick up both pieces with my truck the following day.

I found myself humming happily on the way home. I was off to a good start on my summer job, and I'd already acknowledged to myself that I was undoubtedly imagining problems in my relationship with Pete, problems that had absolutely no foundation in fact.

By the time I pulled into the garage back home, I was feeling pretty darned good. It was still a few minutes before four, so I'd be right on time to welcome Bob and my new kitchen furniture.

I paused in the back hall, deciding between the two doors facing me. One led to Aunt Ibby's kitchen; the other, to the narrow flight of stairs leading to my third-floor apartment. The wonderful smell issuing from the kitchen made the decision easy. I knocked, pushed the door open, and called, “Aunt Ibby? It's me.”

“Come in, Maralee.” My aunt, wearing a red-and-white-striped apron, with
KISS THE COOK
in black letters, waved me inside. “You're just in time to do a taste test on Tabitha's Joe Froggers.”

Aunt Ibby had been working for several months on preparing a cookbook of Tabitha Trumbull's recipes. She'd discovered a loose-leaf notebook full of them while helping my class with research on the Trumbull family. Proceeds from the sale of the book would benefit the ongoing construction of a state-of-the-art sound and lighting studio in the old building's basement.

Big, plump, round, dark, and fragrant, the cookies were displayed on square racks. “They smell great,” I said, reaching for one of the still-warm goodies. “What's in them?”

“There's molasses, the dark kind. Some ginger and clove and nutmeg. Salt water and a healthy shot of rum,” she said. “Sit down and pour yourself a glass of milk to go with it, and tell me what you think.”

I did as I was told. One bite, and I closed my eyes, leaned back in my seat, and gave her a silent thumbs-up. “This one's a keeper,” I said. “No doubt.”

“Thought so.” She smiled. “They have a bit of history. The fishermen in Marblehead used to take Joe Froggers to sea because they never got hard. That's because of the rum and salt water.”

“Smart fishermen.” I looked at the clock. “Almost four,” I said. “Bob's Delivery should be along any minute. I'd better go up and unlock my door.”

“Oh, it may already be unlocked,” she said. “I was up there earlier, planning a couple of little surprises for you. Hope you don't mind my going in uninvited, but I'm going to a concert with Rupert this evening, and I wanted to get things in place before I had to leave.”

“Of course I don't mind. What's the surprise?”

“Oh, you'll see soon enough. Look, there goes O'Ryan, heading for the front door. I'll bet that's Bob arriving now.”

She and O'Ryan were right, and before long my new table and chairs had replaced the folding ones. The borrowed dishes were back downstairs in Aunt Ibby's sideboard, and the Russel Wright china was safely housed behind my glass-fronted cabinet doors. Bob and his partner returned to their truck with a check for the safe and prompt delivery of the furniture, along with a brown paper bag full of Tabitha Trumbull's Joe Froggers.

I found one of Aunt Ibby's surprises immediately. A brand-new cat entrance had been installed in my kitchen door. I'd promised Pete I'd get one, so I was pleased because it was there, but felt a little guilty because I hadn't done it myself.

The cat door made me think of Pete, which made me think of the yet unopened compartments, which made me think of River, which made me think of pizza. I looked at the clock and grabbed my phone. River would be here any minute, and she'd probably be hungry. I called the Pizza Pirate and ordered a large pizza, half with extra cheese and half with pepperoni—since I didn't know which River might prefer. I gave the Pizza Pirate the Winter Street address—a lot easier to find than my “Oliver Street, back door, through the garden, up two flights” location. I hurried down the aforementioned two flights and unlocked the Oliver Street door for River, climbed back upstairs, put new plates on the gleaming surface of my table, took the two wineglasses Pete had given me from the cabinet, and sat down for a minute to catch my breath. Then I opened my kitchen door so I'd be sure to hear the front doorbell when the pizza arrived. O'Ryan sat there in the hall, head cocked, tail swishing, eyeing the new cat door, apparently debating whether or not to use it.

“It's okay, boy,” I told him. “Brand new and just for you.”

He stood, stretched, ignored the new entrance, stalked into the kitchen the old-fashioned way, and hopped up onto one of the new chairs. Downstairs, the Winter Street doorbell chimed “The Impossible Dream,” while at the same time the bell at my own back steps played “Bless This House.” Hot pizza at one door, River at the other. I stood on the third floor landing. Which way to go?

Aunt Ibby appeared downstairs and admitted the pizza guy, so with a quick wave over the railing to my aunt and a hasty “Thanks,” I raced through the apartment to the door in the empty living room, and greeted my friend with a breathless “Come on in.”

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked.

“Trying to be in two places at once,” I gasped. “Make yourself at home while I run downstairs and pay for the pizza.”

She looked around, laughing. “Make myself at home? Where?”

“Follow me,” I said, dashing to the kitchen and pointing toward the table. “Have a seat.” I grabbed my purse, raced downstairs, paid the bill, thanked Aunt Ibby again, and returned to find River standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a compass and turning slowly in a circle.

“Looks pretty good so far,” she said. “Love the Lucite. Is the stove electric or gas?”

“Gas,” I said. “Why? Does it matter?”

“Sure. It's the fire mouth.” She put the compass into her pocket. “Yours is okay. It's separated from the dishwasher, so there's no clash between fire and water.”

“Cool,” I said. “Glad to hear it. Want some wine?”

“Of course. Listen, you need to hang a picture of fruits and food right there.” She pointed to the wall next to the sink. “And I brought a wind chime for your bedroom. To encourage passion.” She handed me a bright pink bag.

“Thank you,” I said. “That might be just what I need.” I put the pizza box on the counter, took the wine out of the refrigerator and the corkscrew out of the drawer. “Should I open it now?”

“The wine? Or the present?”

I laughed. “Both, I guess.”

“Open your present while I open the wine.” She picked up the corkscrew. “We'll figure out exactly where to put it when we go in the bedroom to check out that bureau.”

River's gift was really lovely. Delicate crystals dangled on silver threads from a gracefully shaped piece of driftwood. Tiny silver dragonflies tinkled, bell-like, as I lifted the wind chime from its pink tissue paper cocoon.

“I love it, River,” I said. “It's just perfect.”

“Glad you like it. It encourages passion, keeps a man in your life.” She handed me a glass of wine. “Or puts some life in your man. Whichever.”

“Oh, there's life in the man, all right,” I said. “I was just having a few minutes of doubt about how he feels about me. That's all. Silly stuff.”

“Why? What happened?”

I put two slices of pizza on each plate—one of each kind—and River and I sat facing each other. The new chairs were not only beautiful but also comfortable, as O'Ryan had already discovered. The big cat lifted his head and sniffed the air. I saw River slip him a piece of pepperoni, and he lay back down on the seat cushion. Eyes still open, ears straight up, he seemed to be listening to the conversation.

“I guess you already know that I was upset because he said he couldn't come over to open the compartments tonight. I thought he was as curious about them as I am. Then—I hate to admit this—I saw him today with a blond woman. She was in the front seat of the car with him, and I felt a little . . . um . . . suspicious.”

“Jealous?”

I shrugged and took a sip of wine. “I wouldn't call it that. Anyway, I'm over it. She's probably just a coworker.”

“A pretty blonde? Short, curly hair? Big boobs?”

“I didn't get a good look at her. I think the short, curly hair is right, though. Why? Do you think you know who she is?”

River took a big bite of pizza. “Probably just Daphne. They ask her to come in every once in a while to talk to them about her low-life boyfriend—especially since he just got out of jail. I know all about it because she calls me for a reading once in a while.” She shook her head. “Poor kid.”

“Daphne?”

“Yeah. She goes by Daphne Trent, but that's not her real name. Got mixed up with that low-life murderer years ago. She says that the cops think she might know where a big gazillion-dollar diamond is. There's been some stuff in the paper about it lately.” She helped herself to another slice of pizza and slipped O'Ryan another piece of pepperoni. “Pete was probably just driving her home so she wouldn't have to take a cab. It's really sad. You'd think they'd figure out that if she had a giant diamond, she could afford to buy herself a car.”

“Wait a minute. You know my bureau came from the lowlife's house, don't you? We are talking about Tommy Trent, aren't we? Daphne's boyfriend who killed his wife?”

“That's him, all right. You mean, your bureau came from Trent's house?”

“Uh-huh. That's where Shea Tolliver told me she got it.”

“Oh, oh.” She drained her wineglass and stood up. “That might be bad karma. Bad
bagua.
Especially since it has that mirror thing, too. You'd better let me take a look at it right away.”

O'Ryan had already jumped down from his chair and stood waiting at the open door of the bedroom. River and I followed the cat into the room. I sat at the foot of the bed, while River stood, hands on her hips, facing the bureau.

A long silent moment passed. River reached into her pocket and pulled out the compass. She turned slowly, as she had in the kitchen. She walked to the window, looked out, returned to the center of the room, and turned again, this time in the opposite direction.

“Well?” I said. “What do you think?”

“It's a really nice piece of furniture,” she said, putting the compass back in her pocket. “It would be a shame to get rid of it just because of where it used to be.” She waved a hand toward the window. “And the furniture placement so far is fine. You could use some plants in here. I think I'll just try a cleansing spell on the bureau after we look inside the compartments, okay?”