CHAPTER 14
I dropped the envelope in the DiCicero mailbox at the Pebble Lane address Derrick had given me. The modest ranch house at number ten, part of a sixties-era subdivision not far from Tim’s place, had no lights on. I didn’t see a car in the driveway, although the garage door was shut. I supposed Phil and Kendall might be with relatives somewhere, or maybe the girl had gone to school and Phil to work. It seemed way too soon for that.
My GPS lady directed Miss M—with her top up and windows closed—and me to a small industrial park outside of town. A sign over one of the doors read, “DiCicero and Hicks Furniture Restoration.” I parked in front of it next to a light-colored Prius. When I opened the door, a buzzer rang in the back.
Before and after photos similar to the ones on the website covered the walls of the front office. They depicted dining tables, antique chairs, upholstered recliners, bureaus, and more. Unmarred wood gleamed in the after shots, and upholstery was unstained, untattered, and stretched smooth. I knew they could do a lovely job on my little table, but the price might be out of my range. A small family portrait hung behind a couple of straight chairs. I peered at a very much alive Annette seated in an armchair. On her lap sat a little dark-haired girl with huge brown eyes, with a thick-necked man standing next to them. He also had dark hair, worn combed back from his forehead, and he’d slung his arm around Annette’s shoulders in a possessive stance.
A kid of no more than twenty in work pants and a canvas apron came through the door from the back. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I wondered if I could talk with Phil?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you a reporter?”
“A reporter? No. I have an old table that needs restoring.”
“Okay. It’s only that . . .”
“They’ve been bugging you because of Annette’s death?”
“So you know.”
“Yes. It’s been on the news.” I didn’t need to tell him I’d seen her corpse.
“It’s, like, super sad. She was such a nice lady.”
“Yes. About the table, can you give me an estimate?”
“That’s literally beyond my pay grade, and Mr. DiCicero isn’t in. But Mr. Hicks can give you a price. Let me get him.”
“Thanks.”
He pulled open the door to the back. Beyond I spied furniture in all stages of repair. Giant rolls of padding and fabric hung from rollers mounted on a wall, and scents of chemical strippers and furniture polish wafted into the front.
“Mr. Hicks,” the kid called. “Lady needs an estimate on a table.” To me he said, “He’ll be right out. You can sit down if you want.” He disappeared through the door.
A moment later a man pushed through. He looked a lot like the photo I’d seen on the website, except a bit worse for wear. “Ogden Hicks. Do you have the table in your car?” He stood a little taller than my five-foot-seven and wore the same black canvas apron as the kid had. He had a smudge of sawdust on his temple that matched thin hair the pale yellowy color of Cape Cod sand.
I’d rarely had a more brusque greeting. “I’m Mac Almeida. It’s nice to meet you, Ogden.” I held out my hand.
He shook his head. “My hands aren’t clean, Ms. Almeida.” He opened long-fingered hands colored with stain, hands that shook almost imperceptibly.
“No worries. No, I didn’t bring the table because of the rain and my small car. But I have pictures.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the shots I’d taken. “I really like the size and the drop-leaf, but it’s old and isn’t very pretty. Can you give me an estimate from the photos?”
I swiped through slowly so he could study them.
“Can you zoom in on the top?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“The legs aren’t turned.”
“What does that mean?” I tilted my head.
“You know how some older tables have rounded sections on the legs, like knobs?” His voice had had a nervous edge to it. Now that he was talking about furniture it evened out. “Those are turned. These are Shaker style, smooth and tapered. That makes them a lot easier to strip and refinish. It’s a nice piece. I’d say we could do it for three hundred dollars.”
Gulp. Or I could wait until next summer and do it myself for the cost of the stripper and the finishing stuff. “I’ll need to think about it a little.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Let us know.” He fished a card out of a holder on the counter and handed it to me.
“Thanks. Hey, I’m sorry about your partner’s wife. He must be devastated.”
Ogden blinked. “We all are, naturally. The cops had better catch the guy responsible, and soon.”
“The officer handling the case is good at what he does. I’m sure Detective Haskins will have someone in custody soon.”
“You know the detective? Who are you?” His eyes blazed. “Undercover police? Some kind of private investigator? Sneaking in here like you want work done.” He clenched his fists.
“No, not at all.” I took a step back. “I simply asked about my table, and I happen to know the detective. Thank you for the estimate. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I slid out the door as fast as I could.
He pulled it open and glared. I exhaled with relief once I’d put Miss M in gear and pointed her away from the shop. He’d shown one heck of a reaction. The guy didn’t seem to like the police. But why not?