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BRASS BELLS TINKLED as I entered Crystal Harbor Ceramics, which was located on Main Street next to Janey’s Place, the flagship store of Dom’s health-food empire. I held the door for Nina Wallace, who was exiting with one of those ginormous baby strollers that cost more than my car.
You think I’m kidding. I have little doubt Nina paid more for her infant’s luxury conveyance than I did for my used—excuse me, pre-owned—Mazda sedan. Poppy Battle hovered behind her, wincing as she watched her wedge the huge thing through the doorway. Six-week-old Laura lay oblivious and adorable inside her cushy chariot, bundled against the cold in a nest of pink cashmere and shielded from the light snow flurries by a clear plastic stroller cover.
Nina and I offered each other brief, polite greetings. Outwardly she was the very epitome of the affluent suburban matron: mother of three, president of the Crystal Harbor Historical Society, always elegant and well put together. But scratch the surface and you’d find questionable behavior and even more questionable values. She was far from my favorite person, and I knew darn well the feeling was mutual.
It was Monday afternoon, six days since I’d discovered Allison Zaleski in that frozen lake. Stepping into the pottery studio was like entering another world. Welcome warmth enveloped me. An earthy, spicy scent pervaded the space, thanks to a little incense burner in the corner. Exotic hangings adorned the whitewashed brick walls. The handcrafted wares were displayed on a variety of antique furniture: bookcases, dressers, desks, even a church pew.
“Nina insisted on pushing that huge stroller through the whole place,” Poppy said. “Nearly took out a tea set and a stack of plates.”
“The proverbial bull in a china shop.”
“And then she didn’t even buy anything.” She leaned in toward the straw bucket tote that hung from my shoulder. “Well, hello there, cutie.”
Sexy Beast’s ride was a lot more humble than baby Laura’s. I took him everywhere in that tote. Poppy gave him scritches and was rewarded with licks. He whined to be let out.
“Do you mind?” I asked her.
She lifted him herself and set him on the floor, which was covered with a variety of antique rugs. “How much trouble can a little guy like this get into?”
Oh, you’d be surprised. On the other hand, a seven-pound poodle would have his work cut out for him even reaching the goods on display, so I figured it was a risk worth taking.
Poppy’s overalls today were patched blue denim, which she’d paired with a red sweater. “What’s his name?”
“Sexy Beast.”
“Cool,” she said. “Is he named for the movie?”
“He sure is.” I was impressed. Most people didn’t make the connection. “His first owner was a film buff.”
Poppy spread her arms, indicating the handmade merchandise. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“To be honest, I wanted to ask you something. It’s about Allison. I know you were close.”
Her expression sobered. It was easy to see she was taking her friend’s death hard. She turned and gestured for me to follow her. “Do you like tea? I have every kind of herbal. I might have a little something for Sexy Beast, too.”
“Hear that, SB? Treats!”
That was a word he knew. He willingly stuck by my side as I trailed Poppy to the back of the store, where there was a small round table with four chairs. I appreciated her offer, but to me, herbal tea is another way of saying potpourri soup. “Nothing for me, thanks,” I said, shucking my cream-colored anorak and draping it over the chairback. “I’m a coffee drinker.”
“Give me half a minute,” she said. “I have some cold-brew concentrate. The kettle’s already hot. Sit.”
Sexy Beast and I obeyed in unison as Poppy disappeared into what I assumed was some kind of break room, leaving the door open. I knew the actual studio, where the pieces were crafted, was located at the back of the building, along with a kiln. The Battles gave pottery classes there, and other artists paid them to fire their work.
I heard muted conversation and a moment later Beau emerged and greeted me. His plaid flannel shirt and white painter’s pants were spattered and streaked with gray-brown clay. There was even some in his beard.
I said, “Nice day for mud-wrestling.”
He grinned, gesturing to his begrimed clothing. “Like it? Potter chic. The latest craze.” He pulled up a dainty, needlepoint-upholstered chair and sat, which posed no risk to the chair since the mess was confined to his front. “Poppy said you had a question about Allison.”
“I thought you guys would be the best people to ask,” I said. “Well, except for Skye, but she’s kind of... distracted at the moment.”
Poppy called from the other room, “Skye Guthrie? Why would you ask her about Allison?”
“They were best friends,” I said, and watched Beau’s left eyebrow rise. “Weren’t they? That’s what Porter Vargas told me.”
“Probably because that’s what Skye told him,” he said. “She liked to spread it around that they were tight, but the truth was, she met Allison at some party about a year ago and latched on to her like chewing gum. Allison could never shake her off. She was too nice.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Poppy called from beyond the doorway. “Cream? Sugar?”
It took me a second to realize she was asking how I take my coffee. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just black.”
She entered carrying an old-fashioned hammered aluminum tray, which she set on the table. SB, who’d been lying quietly at my feet, perked up. He couldn’t see the contents of the tray, but he could smell them, far more accurately than we mere humans could.
“Such a good, patient boy!” Poppy exclaimed. She tilted a small pottery bowl toward me. It held a little chicken, cut into tiny pieces. “Is this okay for him?”
“As long as it’s not spicy,” I said. “You’ll have an adoring slave for life.”
SB gobbled up the chicken in about two seconds and whined for more. I declined Poppy’s offer of a refill.
“Sorry, kiddo,” I told him, “you’ve had enough.” Yeah, that’s just what I needed to endear me to this nice young couple: my dog barfing on their carpet. I took a sip of coffee. It was very hot and very good, perfect on a frosty day like this. “So Allison just kind of tolerated Skye?” I plucked an oatmeal cookie off a charmingly irregular ceramic plate.
Poppy nodded. “I think there was some hero worship going on.”
“You mean like the hair?” I thought of Skye’s dyed black tresses, cut in the same style as her friend’s.
“Plus she emulated the way Allison dressed,” Poppy said, “in her own low-rent way. If Allison bought a particular wine, or raved about some movie, Skye was all over it. It’s like she was trying to remake herself in her friend’s image.”
“What does she do?” I asked. “I mean, you know, for a living.”
“Works part-time in a cell-phone store.” Poppy shrugged. “If she has any other source of income, I don’t know about it.”
“Skye stole a lot more than Allison’s sense of style.” Beau stirred honey into tea the color of spoiled cranberry juice. “She didn’t get knocked up on her own.”
The affair and Skye’s pregnancy were public knowledge at this point. Word had spread at the speed of light following that brouhaha during the funeral reception.
“What was it you wanted to ask us?” Poppy said.
“It’s about someone Allison used to... well, an old friend of hers. Or maybe more than a friend. Did she ever talk to you about someone named Jim?”
Wordlessly the couple consulted each other. They shook their heads. Beau said, “I can’t recall her ever mentioning anyone by that name. Why?”
I was ready for this. Which isn’t to say I didn’t feel rotten lying to them. It was a white lie, but still. “A couple of people at the funeral asked where Jim was. I figured he might be someone important, that maybe he should be, you know, notified about her death.” There had been a couple of references in her videos to the two of them having attended high school together.
I asked myself why I was here, pumping these people for information. After all, I’d hardly known Allison. What right did I have to the intimate details of their dead friend’s life? I’ll admit I was more curious than I had a right to be, but I couldn’t help it. In the day and a half since I’d discovered Allison’s flash drive, I’d viewed the first ten video diary entries, and I was beginning to develop a strong emotional connection to her. She’d held nothing back when making the videos. And okay, so they were apparently meant for her eyes only, as a sort of catharsis, I suppose, or self-therapy, but it’s as if she were speaking directly to me rather than to the mysterious Jim, who I suspected had died a long time ago.
I was watching the videos in order. The last one I’d viewed had been made in September. I hadn’t yet gotten to Allison’s discovery that her new husband and her friend were having an affair. What I had seen was Allison falling for, and marrying, a sexy younger man shortly after her husband’s death. Don’t do it, I wanted to shout. You’re too emotionally fragile to make a life-altering decision like that.
Sten had apparently agreed. He’d insisted that Allison have her bridegroom sign a prenuptial agreement. The document dictated that Nick would not be entitled to alimony in the event of divorce and that he relinquished any right to inherit. She’d balked at first, pointing out that her wealthy first husband hadn’t demanded a prenup, but Sten had been persistent and eventually she’d let him craft the document. Nick had signed it without much fuss and, yes, after consulting his own lawyer.
I learned other things from the videos. I learned that Allison had grown up poor in some dinky West Texas town and had moved to Massapequa, Long Island, with her parents at age fourteen. She’d been insecure and unpopular and it had been a tough transition.
I learned that Allison and Mitchell had wanted children. It’s why they’d bought that big old house. When she’d failed to become pregnant, she’d consulted a specialist and begun fertility treatments. This was in the late spring, right before Mitchell’s tragic death.
In the videos I’d viewed thus far, Allison had made only one or two references to Skye. That alone should have told me they weren’t as tight as Skye claimed.
Allison touched me, it’s as simple as that. In many ways she reminded me of myself, not least because of her unfulfilled desire for children. I was certain that, given the chance, she and I could’ve been good friends.
Poppy said, “You should ask Allison’s parents about this Jim. I’ll bet they know who he is.”
“It’s not that important,” I said. “I don’t want to bother them with this after all they’ve been through.” Which was true. Also, the Gleasons would certainly want to know which funeral-goers had been asking about Jim, which was not a question I cared to dance around.
Naturally, Poppy’s next words were, “Who was asking about this Jim?”
I began mentally dusting off my dancing shoes but was saved by the bell.
No, seriously, the brass bells hanging on the door of the shop chose that moment to jangle. Beau hurriedly rose and headed for the front of the store. The reason for his haste became apparent when I spied Norman Butterwick. Norman was well into his nineties, with a head of thick white hair and a dapper sense of style. He always carried one of his collection of antique walking sticks, with which he tended to gesticulate enthusiastically. Which wasn’t normally a problem, but in this particular instance we were back to that bull-in-a-china-shop thing. Beau kept a sharp eye on the cane as he helped Norman choose a gift for his granddaughter’s birthday.
Poppy leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Thank God Allison moved fast to change her will. Can you imagine if she hadn’t? That bastard would have inherited everything.”
“Two-thirds of everything, according to Nick,” I said, “which is still a bundle. She must have known about him and Skye. When did she find out about the affair?” I asked.
“Just a couple of weeks ago, but she figured it had been going on the whole time they were married, if not before.” Poppy had lowered her voice to keep from being overheard by Norman, though I doubted his ancient ears were up to the task of eavesdropping. Then again, he was the most youthful nonagenarian I knew, despite a short-term memory that refused to play nice. There was nothing wrong with his long-term memory, however.
“She caught them at it,” Poppy said.
“Seriously?” I winced, thinking how horrible that must’ve been for Allison, remembering her giddy excitement in the videos as she talked about the new man in her life, how much she was coming to care for Nick. How sweet he was to her, how understanding of her grief and her need for time to come to terms with it. Well, not too much time as it turned out. Sweet, sensitive Nick had managed to snag a very wealthy wife when she was still reeling from the loss of a man she truly loved, a man who, despite the age difference, had by all accounts been her soulmate.
“Allison came home early from one of her adventure trips.” Poppy sipped her tea, which was a pale straw color and smelled like perfume. “She’d wanted to surprise him. She’s the one who got the surprise. They were out on the back porch, in the hot tub. Really going at it.”
“What did they do once their coitus was interruptus?” I asked.
“Oh, they never knew she was there. She saw them through the kitchen window. She quietly left the house and came back when he was expecting her.”
“Well, I give her credit for self-restraint,” I said. “No way would I have been that calm and collected.”
“That was her way,” Poppy said. “She saw the big picture. Confronting them right then and there might have felt good at the moment, but it would’ve tipped her hand.”
“And given him time to regroup, to try to turn things around.” I imitated a whiny wayward spouse. “‘She means nothing to me, honey. It’ll never happen again.’”
Poppy nodded. “Allison was a chess player. She had an organized mind. To her it made more sense to work behind the scenes and quickly do what needed to be done—a kind of surgical strike—than to let the whole thing blow up with drama and accusations and pleading and all that messy stuff.”
Okay, maybe Allison and I weren’t as similar as I had thought. Messy stuff is my bread and butter. Messy stuff has a way of tracking me down, bitch-slapping the heck out of me, and forcing me to play by its rules.
“Come on.” I rose. “Let’s go say hi to Norman.”
As we approached the front of the store I heard the old man say, in his strong, patrician voice, “Sarah likes to drink things out of tiny cups. Espresso, sake, that sort of thing.”
“Well,” Beau said, “we have plenty of things like that, or we can make something to her specifications.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that. Perhaps a gift certificate, then?” Norman noticed me and we hugged. I lifted Sexy Beast so he could pet him. I knew what his next words would be. I’d heard them countless times, though I’m sure he didn’t realize he was repeating himself.
“This isn’t a dog,” he said in his teasing way. “Father had a dog back in the late thirties that would have put this little fellow to shame. Her name was Candy. Splendid English setter, white with liver ticking. Best gun dog I ever knew. And so sweet-tempered. Well, I doubt the grouse thought so.”
SB, accustomed to being unfavorably compared to “real” dogs, emitted a resigned grumble.
Poppy turned to Norman. “Would you like some tea and cookies?”
“No, thank you, dear,” he said. “I can’t stay long.”
“I can bring a chair over for you,” she said.
He waved away the suggestion. “Not necessary, but I appreciate the offer.”
“So,” she said, “you want to buy a gift certificate.”
He looked surprised. “I do?”
“That’s what you said,” I reminded him.
“Oh, yes, of course. I recall now,” he lied.
“How much?” Beau asked.
“Five hundred should do it,” Norman said.
The Battles shot each other wide-eyed looks. “Wow. Okay,” Poppy said.
“You must really love your granddaughter,” Beau observed.
“Who?”
“Your granddaughter?” he said. “You’re here to get her a birthday present? She likes pottery? And, uh, drinking things out of little cups?”
Norman frowned in concentration, and I could almost hear Beau wondering if he’d just blown a five-hundred-dollar sale. The old man produced his cell from the breast pocket of a tweed sport jacket that had probably been custom-made for him half a century before smart phones were invented.
He jabbed at the screen with a gnarled forefinger. “My great-grandson Jason put a note-taking ‘app’ on this gadget.” And yes, he gave “app” air quotes. “No, I stand corrected. It was Evan who did that. Jason put that evil-clown game on it. Terribly clever. One battles the clowns with shotguns, grenade launchers, what have you. The higher one’s ranking, the more bizarre and deadly the weaponry.” He pointed his finger at SB and made pew-pew-pew shooting noises. The dog yawned. “I must admit I’m quite addicted. Ah, here it is.”
The rest of us exchanged guarded glances. Was Norman going to stand there all afternoon slaying evil clowns? I snuck a peek at his phone’s screen. Happily, I saw the note-taking app, set to a list of names and dates.
“What is today’s date?” he asked.
“January thirteenth,” I said.
“Yes, then it’s Sarah’s birthday coming up.” He pocketed the phone and slid a credit card out of his wallet. “She loves handmade ceramics. And drinking out of tiny cups.”
“I’ll fill in the gift certificate.” Poppy took his credit card and started toward the back of the store. “Five hundred, you said, right?”
“Make it a thousand,” Norman said.
She skidded to a halt. “Are you sure?”
Beau gave his wife a pointed look. The man wants a thousand-dollar gift certificate, his look said. We do not question thousand-dollar gift certificates.
“Why?” Norman asked. “Too stingy, you think?”
Poppy made a strangled sound as she groped for a response.
“It sounds perfect to me,” I said, and made shooing motions to Poppy. As heir to the KrunchWorks snack-food empire, Norman was worth tens of millions. And he was expert at managing his fortune, a skill acquired long ago at his daddy’s knee and unaffected by any lapse in short-term memory.
While waiting for Poppy to return, we chatted about Norman’s artwork, which was currently on display at the local library. The old man was a gifted painter. His landscapes were in high demand.
“Are you into the barter economy at all?” Beau asked him.
“I’m not familiar with that concept,” Norman said, “but it sounds most intriguing.”
“It’s basically what it sounds like. You barter with someone for goods and services and leave the green stuff out of it. I’m totally into bartering—like maybe one of your paintings for some of my pottery?”
Norman thought about that a moment. “But then, how does one calculate sales tax and income tax on such a transaction? The IRS must have some opinions on this barter economy.”
“Uh...” Beau had no ready answer for that. I happened to know from experience that the IRS did indeed want their cut when you exchanged, say, a professional-mourner gig—don’t judge me!—for a half-dozen mani-pedis.
“Okay, well,” Beau said, “it’s just something to, uh, keep in mind for the future.”
Poppy returned with a gift box, beautifully wrapped. “I tucked the gift certificate in with a set of demitasse cups that I think your granddaughter will like. I hope that’s all right.”
Norman paused in the act of signing the credit card receipt. “Well, let me pay you for the cups, dear.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said. “Do let her know we’d be happy to make her something special.”
We said our goodbyes and Beau held the door open for the old man. It was snowing in earnest now. Fortunately, Norman’s driver had managed to park right outside the store. We watched as he ushered his employer into the nice warm vehicle and drove off.
“That’s the way to get around.” Poppy turned to her husband. “Where’s my chauffeur?”
“Keep those thousand-dollar sales coming,” he said, “and who knows what’s in our future?”
I said, “Maybe you can barter pottery for driving.”
“We bartered with Allison,” Poppy said. “We needed someone to take pictures of our pieces, someone who really knew what they were doing.”
“For our portfolio,” Beau added, “and our website. She was our official photographer, I guess you’d say.”
“I’ve been to your site,” I said. “The photography is outstanding. Which isn’t surprising. I saw some of Allison’s pictures in her home. She was extremely talented.”
“She never went anywhere without a camera,” he said. “I mean, a real one, not just her phone. She had a bunch of them.”
Poppy said, “We never could have afforded a photographer of Allison’s caliber, and she loved our work, so the swap was a win-win.”
So that’s how Allison ended up with all that pottery—through bartering with the Battles. “And I’m sure the IRS got a piece of the action,” I teased.
Beau winked. “There’s a mug set with your name on it if you promise not to squeal on us.”
The brass bells tinkled and we turned to see Joleen Gleason enter the store. “It’s really starting to come down out there,” she said in her homey Texas accent before exchanging greetings with us. I was still holding Sexy Beast. Joleen went through the motions of patting his fuzzy little cap of hair, but you can tell when someone’s not a dog person. She was just doing it to be polite. She accepted Poppy’s offer of tea and we all settled around the table in back. I reached into my tote bag for a dog biscuit, which SB happily gnawed while Beau brought out more cookies for the rest of us.
“You look very nice today,” Poppy told Allison’s mother, who’d removed her snow-dusted coat to reveal a businesslike gray dress and pumps. Not the most practical footwear, considering the weather.
“We were at the lawyer’s earlier,” Joleen said.
“Sten Jakobsen?” I asked.
She nodded and sipped her tea—regular black tea with lemon and sugar. “To discuss Allison’s will.”
“Oh,” Poppy said. “I hope that... went all right.”
“She left two-thirds of her estate to me and Doug, in the event she predeceased us.” Joleen said this matter-of-factly, but I detected tension in her speech, her bearing, as if the effort to control her emotions was costing her. “She left nothing to my son-in-law,” she added.
Apparently the Gleasons had inherited the portion that was originally earmarked for Nick, the result of Allison’s last-minute alterations to her will.
Beau said, “I guess he’ll have to move out of the house.”
“We’ll give him a decent amount of time to find a new place,” Joleen said. “I wanted to offer him, well, something, some money, but Doug won’t hear of it.”
Can you blame him? I thought, but managed to hold my tongue. Looking at Poppy and Beau, I could tell they agreed with Allison’s father. Nick was a selfish loser. He’d betrayed his wife, and with someone who was supposed to be her friend. More than enough reason, in my book, to let him slink off with nothing.
I was dying to know who had inherited the other third. I didn’t expect Joleen to assuage my curiosity. She and her husband both seem to be reserved, private people. I figured I’d find out soon enough, considering how fast news spread in Crystal Harbor.
Joleen set down her tea mug. “This isn’t a purely social visit. I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything,” Beau said. “Like we told you the other day, we’re here for whatever you need.”
Joleen’s eyes welled. “And I appreciate that more than you can know. So does Doug.” She reached into her purse and produced a small leather box. It appeared old and somewhat battered. “I was going to ask you and Poppy to do this, but now that I’ve run into Jane, I’m thinking this would be right up her alley.”
“Of course,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Gleason?”
Joleen undid the little latch on the box and opened the lid, revealing an antique gold pocket watch. We all admired it, especially Beau, who lifted it out and examined it closely.
“This is awesome,” he announced. “Family heirloom?”
“Yes,” Joleen said, “but not my family. This watch was Mitchell’s. It belonged to his great-grandfather.”
We passed the watch around from hand to hand. The gold case and the glass face were a little scratched from long use, but it was magnificent.
“Well, it’s yours now,” Beau said. “Would you like us to help sell it for you?”
“Oh no,” Joleen said. “It wouldn’t be right for us to keep it. This belongs to the Zaleski family. Mitchell has a daughter, Brenda. I want her to have it.”
None of us stated what we all had to know, that Allison’s late first husband and his daughter had been estranged and that he’d disinherited her. I admired Allison’s parents for wanting to get this family keepsake to her despite that.
I asked, “Would you like me to deliver this to her?”
“I’d be so grateful if you would,” she said. “Allison and Brenda didn’t get along, and it would be, well, awkward for Doug and me to give her this. But I’m thinking a third party...”
“I’m happy to do it,” I said.
“Just add it to your invoice,” Joleen said, referring to the work I’d done on the day of her daughter’s funeral.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking payment for this,” I said. When Joleen started to object, I held up my palm. “Please, Mrs. Gleason. Let me do you this small favor.”
In truth, I felt guilty about Allison’s video diaries. No one but me knew I had them. I doubted anyone else even knew they existed. By rights they belonged to Joleen and her husband. Someday I’d get that little flash drive to them, in the not-too-distant future when I suddenly “discovered” it in the salt shaker. But first I had to finish viewing all the videos. It was like a compulsion, an addiction. I wasn’t proud, but that’s how it was.
“Thank you so much, Jane.” Joleen replaced the watch in its box and handed it to me. “That’s a burden off my mind.”