Old Maid's Puzzle (23 page)

"I'm not interested," Celeste said. She stiffened her shoulders and lifted her chin. "I never want to see those pieces again," she said.

Now my heart ached. I would never see those pots again either.

Celeste walked across the room, her body unconsciously heading for the vacant inglenook. I followed her. It was like a little room next to the fireplace. Shelves on three sides and a built-in window seat, but no window. It was easy to imagine curling up with a cup of tea, a quilt, and a good book. Something by Sue Miller, that you could get lost in.

She ran her hand along the empty shelf. "Those weren't the first pieces he stole from me, Dewey. Last Easter, I discovered my full set of Revere silver was gone. Twelve place settings."

I didn't know what that would sell for, but it had to be a lot. This house was full of expensive pieces.

"Before that, it was the miniatures."

He'd been taking small valuables. I wondered how long it would have taken until he got to the furniture. I had visions of a truck pulling up while Celeste was at a Stitch 'n' Bitch meeting, her coming home to a house devoid of treasures.

"Didn't you confront him?" I asked. Easter had been six months ago.

She nodded, her head resting on her chest. Her eyes were slits. She seemed unable to open them wide, in case all of the pain entered and set up shop.

"Why didn't you throw him out then?"

Celeste sunk onto the corduroy cushion. "He said he had a business deal go bad, and was strapped. He promised never to do it again."

"And you believed him?" I asked, incredulous.

She lifted her head and gave me her death stare. "Not really. I knew Larry was a thief. I didn't care."

I couldn't believe what she was saying.

Celeste's waved a hand at me. "They're just things, Dewey. Objects."

Precious, one-of-a-kind things. The kind of things that give you joy to look at. It wasn't about the ownership. I treasured the feeling that came from looking at a pot thrown in Mississippi nearly a hundred years ago. Sensing the artistic freedom and single-minded vision of that particular artist conveyed in a fragile piece of dinnerware. Like quilts, these things gave us a sense of history and connectivity.

Celeste sank on the bench, her long legs folding around her like a praying mantis. She was limp, unable to keep her standing. She aged suddenly, her face a mass of wrinkles. She was mourning not the loss of her objects, but the loss of the man. The man she thought was still out there.

She pulled a throw pillow onto her lap, her hands running over the embroidered peacock.

"Larry Ferguson was a handsome man," she said. "A kind man.

"Kind?" I felt bad, the word blurting out of me.

She didn't hear me.

She was lost in her memories, in a place so tentative, I didn't want to disturb her. It felt dangerous, like waking up a sleepwalker. "I met him at an antique fair in Moss Landing. We were both trying to buy the same Tiffany piece."

She smiled faintly, the memory a ghost of true pleasure. The lines in her forehead eased. "He very graciously allowed me to have it."

He was a con man. He'd targeted her, maybe even knew who she was. She frequented all the antique fairs, and the dealers knew her.

"He took me out to lunch at Phil's Fish Market."

That was a surprise. I couldn't imagine Celeste at Phil's. Fish came directly off the boats and was battered and fried right in front of you. Picnic tables were the only place to eat, and the napkins were paper. Not her usual dining experience. But it was inexpensive, if Larry was paying.

As though she read my thoughts, she pushed her sleeves up on her sweater and looked at me defiantly. "He courted me. I don't suppose you know what that means," she said haughtily.

Courting? Sure I did. Buster was courting me. No sex. I suppressed a smile.

"He took me to the opera, to the ballet. Places I hadn't gone in years. I liked being with him."

As Celeste continued her revisionist history with Larry, I inched closer to the fireplace mantel, staying just outside the inglenook. The family pictures were lined up two on each side, in matching silver frames. Or possibly fake silver frames, if Larry had stolen the real ones.

The pictures were all old. A wedding photo of a young woman from the eighties, based on the lace hat she wore. A Christmas picture of a new family with a different woman, complete with standard poodle in Santa hat. An aged studio picture of Celeste and her husband.

No Larry.

That was a disappointment. I sat back down in the leather chair, half-listening to Celeste's accounts of wine tours in Napa with Larry and trips to Broadway. She was lost, back dating a man who was the best boyfriend she ever had.

I wiggled my laptop to life. The two pictures of Larry and Frank came up. I adjusted them so they were side-by-side on my laptop, making sure the screen was not visible to Celeste. I thought they were the same guy, but I couldn't be sure. The picture of Larry was not clear enough.

Wireless connectivity came back and the auction site came up. There was another way to connect Frank Bascomb and Larry Ferguson. I found the Ohr salt cellar and clicked on the seller's information. The seller was listed as Frankenstein. The profile said he'd been a seller since May 2007 and was in Milpitas, California. His feedback was all good, but he'd only had four transactions.

Not a real name and no picture, naturally. If Larry had used aliases in real life, most likely, he was using several seller names, too. I kept going, looking at piece after piece. The depth of the collection was breathtaking. The pottery should have been sold by Sotheby's, not online. There, it might have fetched a half-million dollars.

The last piece I clicked on was a free-form vase. There it was. The seller was Frank Bascomb. A link to Larry.

My throat closed. I had the proof I needed. I must have made an involuntary noise.

Celeste looked up. "What is this about, Dewey? Why do you care about Larry?"

I hadn't noticed that she'd stopped talking. I'd completely zoned out. I was busted. I shook my head. I struggled to get out of the armchair gracefully, holding my laptop like a pizza.

"It's not about Larry. I didn't come here to talk about Larry," I said, even though I knew I was protesting too much.

She narrowed her eyes at me, grabbed the computer. She was blocking my way out of the chair. She read the information on the screen. "Is this who's selling my things?"

She read further. "His address is Milpitas. Larry lived in Milpitas before he came to live with me. Why isn't Larry's name here?"

"I don't know, Celeste. You need to talk to the police."

Celeste said, "The police? Why?"

I suddenly felt even smaller with Celeste towering over me. I felt a catch in my throat. "You were robbed, weren't you?" I said meekly.

"Dewey," Celeste said, drawing out my name. "Tell me." Recognition was in her eyes. She just wanted me to say it out loud.

I looked around the room. This was a home where people would think they were safe. It was substantial, protective even. But all the natural beauty had not protected Celeste, and I could protect her no longer.

"I think Larry died in my alley," I said.

"You think that was Larry in your alley?" Her voice was trembling. "But the police know who he is. Was."

"Frank Bascomb was the name on the license. But it was an alias." I pulled up the picture of Frank's seller picture on eBay. "Isn't that Larry?"

Celeste's hands flew over her face.

"I'm sorry," I said. Really sorry. Then I remembered Celeste wasn't the only one involved with this con guy.

"What about Gussie? Why didn't you warn her about Larry?" I said. She could have told Gussie what Larry was about and saved me a lot of headaches. "Did he rob her, too?"

Her eyes were glowing. Tears gathered in the corners, but didn't fall. She was stoic. "I fought to give my kids their autonomy when they were younger, and now I wanted mine. It's hard earned, and I wasn't ready to give it up. Gussie is the same way. Her daughter has no time for her. We have to take care of ourselves."

Her face crumpled, the fine lines that crisscrossed her face looking like they were growing deeper by the moment. I patted her hand's wasp-wing skin. So thin, I felt like I could touch her vulnerable veins. My mother would never get this old and this vulnerable and, for a moment, I was glad.

She'd given up everything she'd once cherished to keep a man in her life. Her favorite things, her friends. Her self-respect. Now that he was dead, how could she look herself in the mirror? There was no chance for redemption.

Celeste made a tight noise as though her throat was too closed up to allow sound to escape. She stood, back straight as a ruler. She seemed to glide on the wood floor with her leather shoes. Without another word, she climbed the stairs to the second story. I heard the door shut and the lock turn. Celeste was going to grieve in solitude.

My phone beeped. Vangie was texting me that she needed me to get back. I looked at my watch. It was four. I texted back, "Soon"

I had some money to retrieve first.

I went to Gussie's through the fence between the two yards, again struck by the difference. Celeste's garden orderly and neat, Gussie's pure chaos. On Gussie's side, the pile of weeds was still up against the fence. I could see Gussie's three-leafed plants and wondered if Vangie knew where her pot brownies were coming from.

I was almost to the back door before I saw her. Her back to me, Gussie was on her knees in the far corner of the yard, away from Celeste's, digging in a loamy pile of dirt. She was dressed in baggy elastic-waist jeans and a purple jacket made from a sweatshirt. A faded splintery picnic bench served as her garden table. She was spooning dark mounds into a two-quart pitcher that read Country Style Lemonade on the side. She was happily humming to herself.

"Gussie?" My voice rose as she lifted the pitcher. A pumpkin vine wrapped around my foot and nearly tripped me. I took several steps before righting myself.

Gussie sat back on her haunches. The pitcher tipped, and I reached out and set it upright. Brownish liquid seeped out onto the weathered bench.

She fanned herself. "Oh, my dear, you mustn't sneak up on an old lady like that. It's not good for the heart." She smiled at me to take away the sting of her words.

I was dismayed. "I'm sorry. What are you doing?"

"I'm making tea" She picked up the pitcher, and checked the level. She added more water and stirred. The dirt swirled to the surface.

I was horrified. "Tea? You're not going to drink that?"

Gussie laughed. "Really, Dewey. Compost and water. It makes the best fungicide tea. Best of all, it's free. I'm spraying my roses for the winter."

Silly me. I knew zilch about gardening. I had great plans for my garden at my house, but that was all they were. Plans.

Many of my quilting customers were skilled gardeners. The two crafts seemed to attract creative people who didn't mind getting their hands dirty.

Gussie looked at me. "Dear, I'm surprised to see you here. Don't you have so much to do for the sale?"

I didn't answer her. "Did you hear about a man being found dead in the alley behind my store?"

"Oh, yes," she said, shaking the pitcher vigorously. Her upper arms were ropy and strong. "God bless his soul."

Indeed. God bless his rotten little soul.

I took the pitcher out of her hand. The color was disgusting, although the smell was not as bad as I expected. It was kind of pleasant, like freshly turned-over earth. "It was Larry, Gussie."

When she didn't respond right away, I repeated myself. "He didn't leave town after all. Larry's dead."

"Really? I'd heard the man's name was..." She got a faraway look in her eye, trying to remember what she'd been told.

"Trust me, it was Larry. He had a fake driver's license."

Her eyes were wide and innocent. "Why?"

This was the hard part. "He was a con man, Gussie. He was stealing your money."

She was lagging behind the conversation a sentence or two. "He's coming. He's coming to take Jeremy his down payment"

I slowed down. "No, he's not. The only place that money was going was in his pocket."

I waited for the news to sink in. I'd given her a lot to process. This was taking too long, but I'd learned one thing working at the store. It was always faster to let my older customers go at their own pace.

She steepled her hands. Her nails had dirt under them. "You're saying Jeremy is not buying a house?"

I shrugged. "I doubt it. Did Larry talk to him?"

"Sometimes, if we were all in the backyard, he'd answer my phone. I could never get inside in time. Sometimes I didn't even hear it ring. He liked talking to Jeremy. They became good buddies. Jeremy never had a dad, you know and..."

I stopped listening and sensed something moving in Celeste's yard. I moved closer to the gap in the fence. Was Celeste coming over to tell Gussie herself about Larry? But there was no more movement. It must have been a bird or a squirrel. Celeste was lost in her own world, too broken to consider her friend.

"What have you done with Jeremy's money?" I asked.

"It's still in the shed. I thought Larry would be coming today. But you're saying he's dead."

I watched her face change as she looked at the house next door. Her own concerns erased when she thought about her friend.

"Celeste, oh, dear. Does Celeste know he's dead?" Her hands flew up to her face, her dirty fingers leaving streaks on her face.

"She figured it out," I said.

"And you left her alone? She can't be alone now. She'll be brokenhearted." She pushed herself off the bench, tipping the pitcher of compost tea and dumping it on the ground. I half-expected flowers to spring up immediately.

She started toward the gate between her house and Celeste's.

I reached out to stop her, grabbing the sleeve of her shirt. "Wait, Gussie. What about the cash?"

She gathered her sweatshirt closer to her, swaddling herself. "You know where it is, Dewey." She gave me the combination to the lock. "Right 12, left 3, right 4."