Deadly Appraisal (11 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T

he Blue Dolphin was located at the intersection of Bow and Ceres streets, in the heart of town and about two blocks away from where I parked on Market Street, the closest spot I could find. Its position at the end of a gentrified little road added to its charm. Ceres Street was filled with trendy restaurants, ocean-themed bars, and froufrou gift shops.

Shivering, I sped up as much as my boots—whose heels were made for strutting, not running—allowed.

I rushed past a row of old wooden and stone four-story buildings with shops and stores at street level and offices and apartments on the upper floors. Everything was closed—the beauty parlor with wigs on faceless white foam heads in the window; the hardware store with signage from the forties; two women’s clothing stores; a shop that sold hand-dipped candles and aromatic oils; and a tanning salon with part of its neon lighting on the blink.

I crossed a narrow driveway that gave access to the backs of the buildings, and then the Blue Dolphin came into view. A copper overhang shielded the entrance and bow windows gave an unobstructed view of Portsmouth Harbor.

Eager to get there and warm up, I increased my pace a little. I passed another block of shops, including a real estate broker with listings taped to the front window; a café; a bookstore with pyramids of books on display; and a gift shop offering goods as varied as picture frames and Christmas ornaments, linen napkins and teapots, and pewter vases and wooden trunks.

There was no foot traffic, and all at once I became extra aware of the darkened stores and shops around me. A quiver of fear flew up my spine. I looked over my shoulder. Nothing. I didn’t understand what had startled me. Maybe it was just being alone on such a dark night. I heard faint bursts of laughter and the hint of music from the establishments on Ceres and farther up Market, but on this section of the street, there was no sign of life.

Reaching the restaurant, I pushed open the heavy wooden door and gave a sigh of relief as heat enveloped me. I told Karla, the hostess who offered to take my cape, that I’d keep it, then entered the lounge just after eight o’clock.

Pam Field looked just like her picture. She sat at a window seat with what looked to be a Cosmopolitan on the copper-topped table in front of her, facing the fire. I had trouble picturing her and Maisy as friends. They were about the same age, I guessed, somewhere in their forties, but whereas Maisy had looked like a dowdy matron most of the time, Pam seemed way more hip. Her dark hair hung in angular layers to her chin, her jewelry was big and shiny, and she wore all black.

“Hi,” I said, introducing myself. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

“Hi,” she replied.

I ordered my usual—Bombay Sapphire on the rocks, with a twist—and settled into an armchair across from her.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said.

She nodded and gazed at the fire. “Maisy spoke about you a lot.”

“Really? I’m surprised.”

“How come?”

I shrugged. “We didn’t know each other all that well. What did she say?”

“She admired you. She thought you worked really hard.”

“That’s nice to hear. I admired her dedication to the Guild, too.”

We ran out of small talk. Suddenly, I felt awkward and silly being there, being in this place with this woman I didn’t know, preparing to ask questions I hadn’t framed, trying to learn I couldn’t imagine what.

“Anything I can do to help,” she said, sparing me the necessity of finding a way to start. “I want to. I want to help find my friend’s killer.”

“I understand that and I appreciate it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“It’s complicated. I don’t know—no one, it seems, knows whether Maisy was killed by misadventure and whether, well,
I
was the intended victim. If whoever poisoned Maisy wanted her dead—then that’s a tragedy and the police can work to find the murderer. But if not, well, I need to do something to protect myself—although I’m not sure what.”

Pam nodded but didn’t speak.

“So I was hoping you’d tell me about her . . . give me some insight into her life, so maybe I can figure out what’s going on,” I explained.

She leaned in and picked up her drink, her hair swooping forward. “It’s pretty hard to imagine someone killing Maisy on purpose.”

“Why?” I asked.

Pam finished her drink and signaled Jimmy, the bartender, for another.

“Maisy was awfully self-contained, you know? Not so easy to get to know. Pretty reserved. It’s hard to picture anyone hating her enough to kill her.”

“It doesn’t need to be hate,” I said. “It could be envy. Fear. Money. Love.”

Pam grunted a little, a disdainful sound. “No envy. No fear. Money? No. Love? Did you know Walter?”

“Not really,” I replied. “I met him only once, at the Gala.”

“Once is enough.”

“Yeah,” I acknowledged, recalling his unpleasant attitude. “Were they happy?”

Pam sipped the drink that Jimmy slid across the table. She met my gaze, but I couldn’t read her expression.

“Maisy expected Walter to walk out on her,” she said after a long pause. “She was planning on leaving him first.”

“Really?” I asked, stunned. “I had no idea. Why would Walter leave her?”

“ ’Cause he’d fallen like a ton of bricks for a bookkeeper in his office.”

I couldn’t see how his infidelity provided a motive—unless Walter
wasn’t
going to leave Maisy. That would provide a pretty solid reason for the bookkeeper girlfriend to want Maisy dead.

“What are the chances he was stringing the bookkeeper along?”

Pam shook her head. “Not according to Maisy. She told me it was for real. He had a lawyer’s appointment and everything.”

“What was Maisy’s attitude toward her marriage ending? Was she going to contest the divorce?”

Pam half-smiled and said, “No, she was okay with it. She was a little hurt, but she was prideful, too.”

“What was Walter doing at the Gala?” I asked. “Do you know?”

“Maisy asked him to show up to put a good face on things. They intended to file for divorce right after the Gala.”

I nodded.
Envy. Fear. Money. Love.
What I had originally perceived as Maisy’s over-the-top enthusiasm was, it seemed, a studied reaction to her troubles with Walter.
I’m fine,
she was signaling the Gala crowd. Maybe her euphoria hadn’t been a sign of insipidity, but a mark of bravado.

Perception can be wrong, and often is.

If
that was what had been going on. I had only Pam’s word for it, and I wondered how deep in Maisy’s confidence she’d really been. Maybe Maisy had been seeing someone herself. Hard to imagine, but she wouldn’t have been the first middle-aged woman to succumb to the lure of illicit love. That also might explain her giddiness. Maybe her animation hadn’t been intended to camouflage her hurt. Perhaps the answer was one of cause and effect—if she had been caught in a tidal wave of passion, it was possible that she simply could no longer keep her exhilaration under wraps. Would Pam know? And if she knew, would she tell me?

“I hope you don’t mind my asking . . . but is there any chance that Maisy was having an affair?”

“No way.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You didn’t know her or you wouldn’t ask. That kind of deception just wasn’t in Maisy’s makeup.”

I nodded, noting that Pam didn’t say that Maisy wouldn’t have an affair, just that she wouldn’t lie about it. Which could be true—or Maisy could have been a better liar than her good friend Pam knew. I felt utterly out of my depth. I was gathering miscellaneous information, but I didn’t know what was meaningful and what wasn’t. I began to feel frustrated.

“How about money? Were she and Walter comfortable?” I asked, thinking that it might have been cheaper for Walter to kill Maisy than to divorce her.

“Yeah, I guess. But they weren’t more than comfortable, if you know what I mean. She told me once that she needed to work.”

I nodded. “If she’d gotten divorced, what would she have done? Do you think she planned to stay in the area? Keep working at the Guild?”

“She talked about taking a trip. She was so excited when her passport arrived! Her first one ever. She described it to me. You know, telling me it was dark blue with pretty gold printing.” Pam looked away, shaking her head a little, a sad smile on her face.

“Where was she going? Did she say?”

“A cruise. One of those around-the-world cruises.”

“That isn’t cheap,” I commented.

“No,” Pam agreed.

“How could she afford it?”

“I don’t know. I guess I figured she was going to take part of her divorce settlement and kick up her heels a little. She asked me to join her.”

“What did you say?”

“ ‘No can do, I’m afraid.’ ” She half-laughed. “I told her I didn’t have the money and couldn’t take the time. We toyed around with my joining her somewhere at one of her ports of call.”

“That sounds good,” I said, smiling. “Where were you thinking?”

“We were debating between Cannes and Hong Kong.”

“When Maisy said ‘around the world,’ I guess she meant it!”

“She sure did,” Pam agreed.

“Do you know which ship she was thinking of?”

“Yeah. What was its name?” she asked herself. After a sip of her drink, she shook her head. “I don’t remember the name, but I have the brochure somewhere. I could give it to you if you want.”

“Thank you. That would be great.” I dug out a business card and wrote my home address and phone number on it. “Would you send it to me at home?” I asked, thinking that Gretchen, who opened my mail at work, would have a field day if an expensive travel brochure arrived in the mail.

“I’ll look for it first thing in the morning. I’m pretty sure I know exactly where it is.”

I nodded, then turned to look out the window. Gazing into the deep darkness of the moonless night, I couldn’t see anything but my shimmering reflection. I didn’t know what else to ask.

“Would you tell me something?” Pam asked softly.

“Sure.”

“Do you think Maisy was putting on an act for Walter, or do you think she really had fun at the Gala?”

I had no idea, but I inferred that Pam would find some comfort in believing that Maisy had had fun. “Given that there’s no way of knowing for sure, I can tell you my strong impression.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Did Maisy have fun? Absolutely. She had a ball! She genuinely seemed to be having a good time. Right up until the end.”

“That’s great to hear. Really great. I thought so, too.” Pam picked up her purse and said, “I’ve got to go. Did anything we talked about help?”

“I don’t know. It’s all pretty confusing.”

She nodded, pushed her half-full drink aside, and fixed me with her eyes. “Maisy was a good woman. Strong and kind. She was a good friend to me.”

I nodded. “She was lucky to have you as a friend.”

“Thank you.” Pam blinked away a tear.

I insisted on paying the check, and after Pam left, I sat alone, watching the flames consume crackling apple wood, thinking about Maisy until my drink was gone.
Envy. Fear. Money. Love
. I felt as if I knew less about Maisy’s murder than when I’d walked into the Blue Dolphin, and that uncertainty was terrifying.

Outside, I swung my cape over my shoulders, extracted my car key from the pocket, and ran. It had begun to sprinkle. “Great,” I said aloud, “I get to run in heels in the rain. A fitting end to a stressful day.”

The rain grew steadier and I ran faster and tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, almost going down, but righting myself at the last moment. Just as I reached to open the driver’s-side door, I heard a car motor gunning. When I looked up, I was blinded by headlights on bright and froze until I realized that a car was heading straight at me.

I reacted in the only way I could think of. I slapped the palms of both hands on my car and catapulted myself over the hood, landing on the grassy edge of the sidewalk and rolling away from the curb just as the oncoming vehicle slammed into mine.

I screamed, covering my head with my arms, and curled up in a ball.

CHAPTER TWENTY

F

irst a man arrived, then the police, then an ambulance. Then I stopped screaming.

I struggled to sit up, but before I could, I was lifted onto a stretcher and whisked away. When we arrived at the emergency room in a frenzied rush, with lights flashing and the siren shattering the night, I thought I saw Ty, but since I knew that was impossible, I wondered if the man I saw was a look-alike or if I was hallucinating.

Every part of me ached or throbbed and the noisy pandemonium added to my anxiety. The commotion didn’t stop until X-rays were taken and I was wheeled back to the ER. An aide left me alone in a big room with an opaque white curtain pulled halfway around my bed, explaining that someone would be in after the radiologist reviewed the X-rays. Apparently, the examining physician thought there was a chance that my left ankle had broken when I landed on it.

Broken or not, I felt thoroughly battered, as if I’d strained every muscle and scraped every inch of flesh. I felt emotionally beaten, too, worn and weary and without the internal fortitude to fight on. Tears seeped out of the corners of my eyes and I didn’t have the strength to stop the flow. The terror that had electrified me the moment that I realized the car intended to hit me was with me still. I closed my eyes.

I was a believer now—someone wanted to kill me, but I had no idea who or why, and that was almost as scary as the mere fact itself.

My father would have agreed. I remembered the warning he issued the day he told me to find out immediately who was telling malicious tales about Trevor and me—untrue innuendos alleging an affair.
An unknown enemy is more dangerous than one you know,
he declared.
Once you know who you’re up against, you can outmaneuver the son of a bitch
.

Taking my dad’s counsel to heart that day, I asked around and quickly discovered the source of the gossip, a vile woman named Hattie, an assistant in the restoration department, with big hair and disapproving eyes. I’d taken her aside and with a bright smile—my thousand-watter—I’d threatened her with mayhem if she didn’t cease and desist, and she did.

I never learned what drove her to try to sabotage my career and ruin my reputation. Jealousy that I, and not she, was Trevor’s golden-haired girl, perhaps. The experience taught me that the
why
of things rarely mattered, and that my focus needed to be on the
what. What
she did was diabolical;
why
she did it was irrelevant.

Lying on the too-hard hospital bed, raw and weak and frightened, I had no idea what I could do to stop whoever wanted to kill me from succeeding.

“Are you asleep?” Detective Rowcliff asked briskly.

“Yes,” I replied, recognizing his voice. I kept my eyes closed.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“A car aimed at me and tried to hit me. I don’t know how I did it, but I flipped myself over the hood of my car to get away, and the other car smashed into mine.”

“How do you know the car was aiming at you?”

“What do you mean? Look at me.”

“Maybe it was an accident.”

I turned to him, cringing at the pain. I groaned a little. My neck didn’t want to rotate. Max’s words warning me to take Rowcliff’s questions seriously echoed my father’s instructions to ignore sarcasm and deal only with the content, and remembering both admonitions helped me control my impulse to address him derisively. Instead, I spoke in a serious, calm tone.

“Someone tried to run me down, to kill me,” I said. “First, they got me full in their headlights and then I heard the car’s motor roar. It wasn’t an accident. It was on purpose.”

“Did you see the car or driver?”

“Not really. He or she—or they—had the car’s brights on. It was blinding.”

“Were you able to see its shape? Was it a car or a pickup truck, for example? A van? An SUV?”

I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking. “I can tell you that the car was medium-sized and dark. Black or deep green or blue. Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall the shape of the car. I’m pretty sure it was a sedan. Ordinary.”

“We’ll get some illustrations in here and maybe you can narrow it down further.”

I nodded and stopped halfway when my neck objected—again.

“What else do you remember?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Rowcliff persisted in questioning me. His growing impatience with my short answers and lack of information was obvious, and his agitation irritated me. It was as if he were an insect buzzing in my ear, not actually biting or stinging me, but annoying enough that I had to respond. An hour later, Rowcliff had left and the doctor gave me the good news that my ankle wasn’t broken, merely badly sprained. She assured me that it was common for a person to pull ligaments and muscles when executing a fly-over-the-car move.

“You’ll begin to feel better in a few days,” she explained, “but don’t be surprised if you’re still experiencing some discomfort a month from now—and it may take as long as three months, or even a little longer, before you’re a hundred percent better. Also, you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Just in case. Who can we call for you?”

Oh Dad. I wish you were here to care for me
, I thought. The doctor looked up from the chart, surprised, it seemed, by my silence. My mind was blank.
Who would stay with me tonight?

Ty was a continent away. One of my staff—either Sasha or Gretchen—would rush to help. But I couldn’t bear the thought of my employees seeing me in this miserable state. I just couldn’t bear it. I began to cry because I was all alone and had no friends and my dad was dead, and then I thought of Zoe.

With painkillers in hand, and with my boots in my lap, I was processed out of the ER and cleared to go home.

Zoe pulled up in her old car and I saw the kids strapped into their car seats in the back. Apologizing for taking so long, she held my arm as I struggled out of the wheelchair that the ER insisted had to be used to transport me to the exit door, then guided me gently into the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry to get you out at this time of night,” I told her.

“Don’t be silly. I’m glad to help.” As she closed the door, she added, “I put the seat all the way back, but the car’s pretty small. Here, let me latch the seat belt for you.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t care. The painkiller and sedative had begun to work, and as my fear and pain dulled, I just wanted to go home and go to sleep. I dozed as she drove, lulled by the motion of the vehicle and the hum of the motor.

I awoke with a start at the sound of her door closing and looked around. The kids were asleep. We were home.

“Wait here,” Zoe said, and got the kids out of the car, running them inside one at a time.

I dozed again.

“Come on, Josie,” Zoe said. “I pulled out the sofa bed. You’ll be warm and toasty.”

“No,” I semi-whined. “I want to go home.”

“In the morning,” she said.

I didn’t have the strength to refuse. Zoe settled me in the living room, where I’d never before set foot, and handed me a steaming mug of tea. It might have felt awkward if I hadn’t been three parts asleep. She encouraged me to keep sipping the tea, and when I was done, she helped me get situated under a thick down comforter.

After she had gone, I closed my eyes and listened to the night noises for what seemed like a long time.

I awoke at 8:00 A.M. and struggled up and out of bed, groaning and wincing.

Zoe had placed a fresh toothbrush on the sink and taped a note to the mirror:

Josie, I hate to leave you, but I’ve got to take Jake to pre-school. I’ll be back in a flash. Call me on my cell when you wake up. There’s some food in the fridge and coffee on the burner.

Zoe

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I took stock of my condition. I didn’t look as bad as I’d expected. I couldn’t put much weight on my left ankle, but I could hobble with no problem. My muscles had stiffened, my scrapes hurt to the touch, and my joints ached. A yellowish purple bruise circled my left eye. But I was vertical and mobile, and as I swallowed a painkiller, I felt ready to get on with business.

As I entered the kitchen, my ankle throbbing, I realized that the house was oddly dark. All of the curtains and shades were pulled.
Zoe thinks that whoever wants to kill me might try shooting through a window next
, I realized with a rush of panic.

I didn’t feel up to a shower, but I used a washcloth to clean up, folded the comforter, and, with a groan, horsed the sleeper sofa closed. Borrowing a pair of Zoe’s sneakers that I found in the hall by the door, I peered deep into the sun-streaked trees across the street.
Go
, I told myself.
Don’t think about it. Just go
. I saw nothing that shouldn’t be there and, with my heart thudding, limped outside. I felt vulnerable and exposed.

Leaning heavily on the banister, I wobbled down the porch steps and staggered across the small patch of lawn that separated our houses. Inside my own place, I sank into a kitchen chair and tried to quiet my still-pounding pulse. As the wave of dread receded, I took stock: My ankle throbbed. My neck was stiff. I didn’t know what to do. I felt terrified and overwhelmed and alone. Part of me wanted to do nothing but sink into a hot, bubbly bath, then go back to bed. But a bigger part of me knew that if I stayed home, all I’d do was fret, my reasonable fear mounting into paralyzing panic.
Plus which
, I reminded myself,
the doctor told me to keep moving or I’d stiffen up
. I decided to go in to work.

I called Zoe. She answered on the first ring.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s your houseguest. Thank you for the rescue.”

“Hi. My God, you’re up early for someone who looked as battered as you did. How are you doing?”

“Not as bad as I expected.”

“Good. Where are you?”

“Home—my home. Why?” I asked.

“Keep the blinds down, okay?”

Feathery shivers ran up my spine, and instinctively, I looked out the back window. The rain had stopped during the night, and the morning was bright and sunny. Golden meadow stretched into distant woods.

“I noticed they were drawn in your place,” I said, trying for a light tone. “You think there might be a sniper, huh?”

“No way to tell,” Zoe replied crisply. “Better to be careful.”

Her words were unnerving. “Right. Good point.” I thanked her again for her help, and as soon as I hung up, I lowered the shades and drew the curtains in all the ground-floor windows. My heart was racing. When I was done, I stood in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter, and waited for my pulse to slow.

“Okay, then,” I said aloud.

I stared at the staircase. Clean clothes and my answering machine were up there, but from where I stood, it looked like a mountain. Taking a deep breath, I started up. After only three steps, I had to sit for a while and rest. After another few steps, I rested again, taking the last several steps in one final push.

Triumphant, I reached the top landing and struggled into my bedroom. The little lamp next to the bed that was always on as a welcome-home greeting burned brightly. I sank onto my bed and collapsed, allowing myself a few minutes to regroup. When I felt able to sit up again, I turned toward my answering machine. I had seven messages. I leaned over and pushed the Play button, my muscles protesting the motion.
Mental note to self
, I thought,
don’t lean
.

Wes had called twice, both times wanting a quote for the article he was working on about the newest attempt on my life. His tone was pantingly curious. I deleted both messages.

Max had called and wanted to know where I was and asked that I call him and tell him that I was all right.

Britt, the honorary chair of the Gala, had called to express concern. Thoughtful.

Eddie, the caterer, had called, saying he was shocked to hear from Britt that I was the intended target after all and to let him know if he could do anything—and let him know if I wanted to reschedule our meeting.

Ty had called, saying he was sorry he missed me and he’d call me later and that I should try him, too, though he said that in the hospital he had to keep his cell phone off.

Gretchen had called, crying, but trying to pretend she wasn’t. I dialed her number and got her at home.

“Oh, Josie, thank God. Are you all right?”

I was touched by her emotionalism and a little embarrassed. “You bet, Gretchen. I’m fine. Well, almost fine. When you see me, don’t faint. I’m very colorful.”

“Are you in the hospital?”

“No, no, I’m home. I’ll be in to work in a while.”

“You’re able to come to work? Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“I’m a little shook up, but you know me—I’d always rather work than sit around.”

Once we got down to details, I told her to call Eddie and ask if he could come by in the early afternoon.

“Of course,” she said, jotting notes.

I explained that she was to go over everything about the pickup at Verna’s with Eric. “Stress that he needs to tick off the items on the list one by one.”