The next morning, shortly after arriving at her shop, Jo spotted the answering machine blinking and pressed play. The voices of Carrie’s two knitting students came on, one after another, and with much hemming and hawing gave convoluted reasons for not being able to come to the class that morning. Jo sighed, and called Carrie.
“You might as well take the morning off,” she said, explaining why.
“Shoot!” Carrie said. “Why don’t I call those two and try to straighten them out?”
“I doubt it would do any good. At this point no one is going to admit they truly believe I’m guilty of murder. But the rumors are probably making them uneasy enough to want to keep their distance. Nothing you say is going to erase that feeling. Only finding the real murderer will do that. Which reminds me, how did it go last night at the diner I sent you to?”
“Well, Ginger’s version of home cooking was more like home freezer to home microwave. We didn’t leave hungry, is the best I can say for it. But we did spot that photographer, Bill Ewing, sitting at the counter. You described him perfectly.”
“Did you get to talk to him?”
“It took a while, but yes, around the time we were ordering desserts – I don’t recommend the apple pie, by the way – Dan managed to catch his attention by bringing up the subject of tobacco barns with the waitress, and how they were disappearing with all the new development. I saw Ewing’s ears perk up when Dan mentioned an old one he knew about that was still standing after many years. Ewing wandered over to ask about its location. He wrote down Dan’s directions. I think he plans to go there tomorrow, if the weather hold out.”
“Great! Good work, Carrie. When this is over I’ll treat you all to a really good dinner, at the place of your choice.”
“When this is straightened out, I’d be happier to see you put your money into a big “open house” party at the shop to welcome back all your wayward customers.”
“Not a bad idea,” Jo said, thinking, however, that it not only depended on this terrible situation ultimately being straightened out, but also how quickly it was. Her budding business had precious little cushion to fall back on. This slow-down of income would hurt her badly if she didn’t clear her name soon.
When Carrie arrived, shortly before one, Jo was eager to be on her way to talk to Patrick Weeks.
“Thanks for holding down the fort again,” she said, grabbing her pocketbook and keys. “Wish me luck in Marlsburg.”
“I do. I hope between you and Dulcie that you can pry everything you need from that ex-husband.”
Jo hoped so too, and as she climbed into her aging but still road-worthy Toyota she wondered if she had made the right decision about bringing Dulcie along. She didn’t know Loralee’s daughter all that well, having spoken to her fewer than a handful of times since she’d moved her family into Loralee’s house with its newly attached mother-in-law suite. At last night’s workshop it had sounded like a good idea – that Dulcie get the conversation going with questions for Weeks about corner cabinets. Would the discussion get stuck on furniture, though? Jo needed to turn the talk to Linda. Would it have been easier on her own, to simply approach Weeks directly?
By the time she’d reached Loralee’s and Dulcie’s home Jo had run out of questions as well as time. Right or wrong, Dulcie was coming with her. As Jo pulled up in front of the pretty Cape Cod, she spotted the woman waiting out front beside a blooming forsythia, a red and white cooler sitting at her feet. Jo’s first thought was that Marlsburg wasn’t a long enough trip to need food. And Dulcie certainly couldn’t plan to soften up Patrick Weeks with gifts of homemade soups or baked goods, though Jo wouldn’t put that past Dulcie’s mother. What did she need to keep cold?
“Hi, Jo,” Dulcie called, picking up the cooler and hurrying toward the Toyota. “Let me pop this in real quick, and then I’ll get the baby seat.”
“Baby seat?” Jo squeaked.
“For Andrew.” Dulcie closed the passenger door on her cooler, then returned to the house where an infant car seat perched on the front stoop.
Jo eased out from behind the wheel. The last she remembered of last night’s discussion was that Loralee had volunteered to watch Dulcie’s children. Both of them.
“Caitlin felt a little warm to me,” Dulcie explained, as she lugged the bulky seat to Jo’s car. “I can’t take a chance the baby will catch something.”
Jo didn’t claim to know that much about babies, but it seemed to her that babies were always catching something, that it was part of what defined their baby-ness.
“Is Andrew specially vulnerable?” she asked, suddenly picturing Dulcie’s son as living one step away from life in a bubble.
“Andrew’s extremely robust!” Dulcie answered, almost dropping the car seat in her shock at Jo’s implication. “I make all his baby food from scratch and he gets absolutely no refined sugar. He’s healthier than any other thirteen-month-old I know!”
“But you’re so concerned about him getting sick.” Jo reluctantly opened her Toyota’s back door as Dulcie hefted the baby seat, ready to strap it in.
“He’ll be much better off staying with me,” Dulcie said in a tone of finality. As she got to work installing the seat, Loralee appeared on the porch, carrying baby Andrew. Jo walked over to meet her.
“I’m sorry, Jo,” Loralee said, adjusting Andrew’s little knit cap. “I know you didn’t plan on having the baby with you. And Ken needed the car today, or Dulcie would have left the baby seat where it was and driven you both.”
Or maybe she could have just cancelled altogether, Jo thought but didn’t voice to Loralee, who would have been pained. Instead she asked, “How is Caitlin? Does she need to see a doctor?”
“She seems fine, so far. I promised Dulcie I’d check her temperature regularly and call the doctor if it got any higher, but I really think she was simply a little overheated from running around earlier.” Loralee leaned closer to Jo and whispered, “Dulcie’s a wonderful mother, but a bit over cautious.”
Jo smiled weakly, thinking now you tell me.
“Would you mind terribly holding him for a minute?” Loralee asked. “I need to bring out the diaper bag which is quite bulky.”
Jo took Andrew, who, she had to admit, was a cutie with his no-refined-sugar chubby cheeks and big blue eyes. She quickly carried him toward his mother, before it could sink in that he had just been handed over to a complete stranger and therefore needed to work up the required howl.
“There you are,” Dulcie sing-songed as she reached out for her son, gave him a loving nuzzle, then strapped him securely into his seat. “I’ve packed plenty of drinks and nibbles in the cooler,” she said to Jo, “so he shouldn’t be a bit of trouble.”
Promise? Jo wanted to ask, but didn’t. One part of wisdom, she remembered once hearing, was recognizing the inevitable and accepting it, and she decided she might as well strive for a little wisdom. She wished, though, she had striven long before this excursion was first proposed.
Loralee trotted over with the diaper bag and Jo stowed it in the back, then climbed behind the wheel. They all waved good-bye, with Loralee continuing until Jo turned the corner and probably long after. As Jo caught the final sight of her friend in her rearview mirror, she wondered what Russ would say about a murder investigation starting off in such a manner. Several wry comments came to mind before she realized she was highly unlikely to ever tell him, or at least not for a long time. Certainly not while he was still recovering from his gunshot wound.
The drive to Marlsburg progressed fairly pleasantly. The sun peeked out for a bit, highlighting the white-flowering trees along the road, which Dulcie identified as flowering pears. “There might be a few wild cherries here and there too,” Dulcie said, which, if correct, indicated her interest in gardening went beyond plopping a potted mum in a hole or sprinkling a few marigold seeds in a row.
Andrew was thankfully quiet, aside from the few squeaks and munching noises Jo heard behind her as he worked at his nibbles. Dulcie kept so busy supplying him with chunks of fruit or sugar-free crunchies that nothing was discussed about the upcoming encounter with Patrick Weeks. Jo hoped this trip wouldn’t end up being one long “mother’s-afternoon-out”. Dulcie and Andrew might benefit from the excursion, but Jo’s situation had little room for such luxuries.
She pulled off of Route 30 at the exit that announced Marlsburg, then drove a mile or two until the sparseness of houses occasionally dotting the landscape changed into the compact density of town streets. Jo checked the directions Dan had printed off his computer for her, and with Dulcie’s help reading the street signs, made a few turns until they both spotted the sign: Weeks Custom Made Furniture.
“There it is,” they said in unison, and Jo pulled into the small parking lot beside the one story brown building. While Dulcie got busy extracting Andrew from his seat, Jo stepped out to look the place over. Though clearly many years old, the outside had been painted and trimmed attractively, with diamond-paned windows at the front that gave a cozy, Williamsburg feel. Large masonry flower pots flanked the entrance, which Jo imagined would sport red geraniums or something equally as welcoming once the weather warmed. The overall effect, she felt, was a thriving business, though from the size of the place, probably a modest one. Too modest, she was sure, for Linda to want to have been a part of.
They passed through the door into a small showroom filled with wooden furniture: dining room sets, rockers, dressers, end tables, all glowing with a rich, soft patina. “Oooh, I like these,” Dulcie said.
A man stepped out from a back room, wiping his hands on a rag. Of medium height and build, he had thinning, sandy-colored hair and pleasantly even features, though his serious expression told Jo he was probably more comfortable in the back room than dealing with customers. He was dressed in a plaid, flannel shirt tucked into jeans.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he said, greeting them. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Weeks?” Jo asked, and he nodded.
“I love your furniture,” Dulcie said, shifting Andrew in her arms.
“Thank you.” A smile transformed his face, but only briefly. “We specialize in eighteenth century styles, but we can make others. Were you looking for anything in particular?”
Dulcie launched into an explanation of the corner cabinet she was thinking of, and as she did Jo glanced around and noticed a girl of about eight peeking out of the back area. “I’m not sure what we can afford just yet,” Dulcie said, “but I’d love to get some ideas.”
Weeks led Dulcie to a couple of pieces in the showroom, mentioning the alterations that could easily be made as well as the various stains and finishes available. Jo followed, but stopped to examine a lovely, bentwood rocker. The young girl stepped out a little farther. Jo smiled, and she smiled back shyly, then came all the way over.
“I helped my daddy make that,” she told Jo.
“Did you? You both did a very good job. It’s beautiful.”
The girl smiled wider, and Jo looked at her more closely. She had her father’s sandy hair, but a shade or two brighter. Her eyes, though, were definitely her mother’s. Jo realized with a shock that this must be Linda’s daughter. A daughter whose existence Linda had neglected to mention to any of her friends in New York.
As the girl ran her hand over the rocker’s curved arm, Jo asked, “What’s your name?”
“Abigail.”
“Abigail? That’s a very pretty name.”
“Abby,” Patrick Weeks called, “would you bring my catalogue from the back?”
As the girl turned and ran to the back room, Weeks explained, “She’s out of school today because her asthma was acting up earlier. She’s okay now.”
“What a shame!” Dulcie cried. “Asthma and allergies can be so frightening in children. But usually they outgrow them, don’t they?”
Weeks shifted his weight. “Usually.”
Abigail ran back with a catalogue in her hand. Weeks took it and rapidly flipped through to find a particular page. He rolled back the other pages and held it out to Dulcie.
“This is the one I was talking about. Very eighteenth century, in style and also in construction. All the joints are dovetail, or mortise and tenon, which gives a much stronger, longer lasting joint. Plus we sand only enough for smoothness, but still allow the character of the wood to show through.”
Weeks went on about stains and lacquers, clearly enthused with his subject, and Dulcie listened closely, obviously enthralled. Jo wondered how serious she was about wanting a cabinet, and, since no costs had yet been mentioned, what her budget might allow. The workmanship Weeks was describing was not going to come cheap.
Finally, a price was named, and Dulcie gave a little gasp. “Oh, my!”
“That, of course, would be our top of the line.” Weeks flipped a few more pages and began discussing another piece. Andrew, who until then had been quite cooperative, apparently decided he’d had enough and started fussing.
“Andrew,” Dulcie said, struggling with the suddenly squirmy child. “What has gotten into you?”
Jo felt a tug on her jacket.
“I have some toys he could play with.” Abigail said, shyly but loud enough for Dulcie to hear.
“Do you?” Dulcie said, smiling at the girl. “What kind of toys?”
“A top my daddy made out of wood. And some blocks. We keep them in the corner back there.”
“I afraid Andrew needs a quick diaper change before he plays with anything. Do you mind?” Dulcie asked Weeks.
“No, it’s fine. We get lots of families. Abby, show the lady where the rest room is, okay?”
Abby skipped off, leading the way, and Jo, suddenly pleased to have brought Andrew along, was left alone with Weeks. He looked over to her. “Can I show you anything in particular?”
“My friend is the one who’s looking for furniture.”
Weeks nodded, and started to turn away, but before he got too far, Jo asked, “Does Abby know what’s happened to her mother?”