Chapter 7
Dear Natasha,
I saw the most fabulous clock mounted in a friend’s house. It was giant, probably four or five feet in diameter. It wasn’t in a case, it was mounted directly on the wall. How do I make one in my house?
Always on Time in Clockville, New York
Dear Always on Time,
You can buy a kit or separate parts from online clock part companies. Don’t forget that you can be creative with the numbers. Use family photos or start a theme (seashore, forest, soccer) that is meaningful to your family.
Natasha
“Any leads on that yet?” I asked, collecting my coffee and bagel.
He stared at me without speaking for a moment. I guessed he was trying to figure out what he should and should not divulge.
“No one should die the way Lark did. But it’s still early in the investigation.”
In other words, there wasn’t anything he was willing to share about Lark’s murder. Not yet anyway. A wise friend had recently pointed out to me that Wolf didn’t share information about murder because he liked or trusted me. He carefully chose what information he parceled out to me. He never divulged police information unless there was a good reason to do so. As frustrating as that was for me, I couldn’t fault him for his silence. It was his job and I had to respect that.
“Any chance it was the same person who hit Nina’s house last night?” I asked.
Wolf took a deep breath. “I’ve thought about that. There isn’t anything that connects the two events.”
“Really?” I sipped my coffee and played innocent. “You don’t think it’s peculiar that both of them just returned home from the same trip abroad?”
“I’m aware of that detail. But at this point, it appears to be coincidental.”
“Is it also coincidental that the intruder picked the locks on their doors?”
“It’s interesting,” he said, “but the prevailing thought is that Lark let her killer into her house.”
I pushed him a little. “Is the autopsy report back yet?”
Wolf smiled and looked into his coffee cup. “I expect it any time now.”
At that moment, Greer Shacklesworth, one of the DIY exhibitors, approached me. “Sophie, could I have a word, please?”
Wolf waved at me and walked away. Greer and I stepped outside. She was in her late forties I thought, though almost no wrinkles marred her long aristocratic face. She knew how to apply makeup well, but it was scant on her deep brown eyes, giving her a fresh and barefaced appearance. She had nailed the blond hair color preferred by women in the Deep South, very light with no roots showing even though she had twisted it up, leaving errant strands that looked like they had come loose when everyone knew they’d been artfully pulled out. Greer wore significant gold earrings that I bet were the real thing, a light blue blouse that fell like it was silk, and café au lait–colored trousers. The sleeves on her blouse were rolled back exposing a bracelet of gold coins adorning her wrist. The kind of casual look that screamed money and lots of it.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m not one to complain,” she said in a cultured voice with a heavy Southern accent. “But Paisley and Frank have turned their tent into a yard sale. I know that DIY isn’t for everyone, but some of us are high-quality dealers and we would never have signed on if the DIY Festival was a shabby place to pick up, well, junk. I admit I’m not a yard sale fan, but there is a difference between emptying out a house and being creative. It’s just that I don’t want others to get that idea and start hauling all their trash out here to sell. It would diminish the value of the festival.”
“I’ll take a look,” I assured her. “I happen to like yard sales, but I do get your point. There is a distinction.”
Greer’s shoulders sagged with relief. “I’m so glad you understand my concern! I really hate to make a fuss.”
“No problem. I’ll go straight there now.” I walked toward Lark’s house and could see the trouble before I was at Paisley’s tent. They had lined up tables outside the tent and covered them with every conceivable household item, from half-empty bottles of dish soap to partly burned candles and dishes piled on top of each other.
Paisley, her husband, Frank, and brother, Bennett, were in the tent.
Waving my hand at the tables, I asked as sweetly as I could, “What’s this?”
Paisley’s face flushed red. Her eyes were rimmed pink from crying. She glared at her husband.
Frank said angrily, “Bennett found Lark’s will. She has cheated her children out of their rightful inheritance.”
I was confused. That didn’t sound right, but even if it was true, what did that have to do with bottles of shampoo and kitchen equipment?
Paisley’s voice sounded like she was holding back tears. “Mom left her money in a spendthrift trust. We can’t have any of it unless it’s approved by some stranger. Bennett looked it up on his phone. Apparently, this man gets to dole it out to us as he sees fit.”
“We’re contesting the will and taking him to court,” said Frank. “It’s absolutely outrageous. I’m filing the papers this afternoon. We cannot have this.”
“I would understand it,” said Paisley, “if Bennett and I were children who couldn’t handle our own money, but that’s not the case. I cannot imagine what Mother was thinking.”
“What does that have to do with lamps and boxes of Christmas ornaments?” I asked.
Paisley gulped and appeared pained. She flicked a look at her brother but quickly averted her eyes.
“We’re selling Lark’s junk. People are coming by to gawk anyway. Why not?” asked Frank.
I didn’t feel I should mention how unseemly it was to clear out Lark’s possessions when she had been dead for less than forty-eight hours. Paisley seemed uncomfortable with it, but I had to wonder what kind of cold and contriving man Bennett was to allow the sale of his mother’s belongings so soon after her death.
Everyone grieved differently. I could understand throwing oneself into work as a diversion from the harsh reality of loss. I could understand packing it all in and going home to be with family or even to be alone. But I could not grasp how anyone could sell the possessions of a newly deceased loved one when the body was barely cold. In fact, it forced me to question their involvement in Lark’s death.
Not to mention that there was crime scene tape crumpled by the gate. I knew how to stop this instantly. One call to Wolf and they would be in major trouble.
I said as kindly as I could, “I’m so sorry, but the contract you signed to participate in the DIY Festival specifically limits what you are allowed to sell and demonstrate. Yard sale items are not permitted.”
“That’s baloney,” cried Frank. “What about the lady with the action figures and mirrors across the way? Or the man who makes birdhouse lamps?”
His tone drew attention to us. I tried to keep my voice even and calm. “Makes may be the operative word here. Didn’t you notice that she creates lamps out of action figures? And those beautiful mirrors look like the ones in a trendy upscale store, but she creates them out of inexpensive mirrors and garlands. The birdhouse lamps are completely handmade, too.”
Frank changed his tune like a chameleon changes colors. His entire demeanor was suddenly different. Quietly, he said, “Maybe you could give us a break. After all, Paisley and Bennett just lost their mom.”
“I’m so sorry, but other vendors are complaining.”
The anger returned in a flash. Frank shouted, “Then we’ll move the tables into the side yard. That’s private property and you can’t tell us what to do there!”
Everyone was watching now.
Frank marched over to the gate and swung it open with such force that the discarded police tape intended to keep everyone out flapped up into the air.
That was a huge mistake. I didn’t have the power to do much about their display of yard sale items, but the police would not be happy about them trampling on a crime scene, which they must have done all morning to carry the items out of the house.
I walked to the end of the street and around the corner so they wouldn’t notice me calling Wolf.
He answered his phone, “Sophie? Didn’t I just see you?”
“I’m afraid Frank Eames has removed your police tape and is trying sell Lark’s possessions.”
“I’ll be right there.” The phone clicked off.
I dallied a bit at the other end of the street, hoping it wouldn’t look as though I was waiting for Wolf or had called him.
I watched as a woman demonstrated how to make a clock directly on a wall. It was very clever and easier than I ever would have expected. She sold the various components to excited buyers.
When I looked down the street, I could see an elderly lady embracing Paisley. She was thin, but not frail, with short hair so white that it almost glowed.
As I watched, Wolf arrived at Lark’s house and I wondered what had happened to Nina and Francie, who were supposed to be manning the tent so Paisley and Bennett could grieve.
I wandered in that direction to see if I could hear what he was saying. I paused near the tables loaded with Lark’s possessions. As I gazed at the tables, my own thoughts crowded out the voices around me. I had known Lark socially, seen her at fundraisers for worthy local charities, chatted with her at the best grocery store in town. She hadn’t been in my close circle of friends. But looking at her possessions on the table was like looking at my own things after my death. I knew this woman better than I thought because she was just like me.
Her fine china was Waterford Lismore Lace Gold. Even stacked in unceremonious heaps, it was stunning. A lacy, but not fussy, golden pattern surrounded the edge of the perfect white background on each plate. She had the entire complement of Waterford Lismore stemware. Old-fashioned tumblers and their elegant stemmed iced tea glasses, and white wine, claret wine, and water goblets filled the table. A shimmering array of cut to clear wine hocks in ruby, sapphire, emerald, and amethyst stood next to a small collection of Hummel figures. On the next table over was the Villeroy & Boch French Garden Collection of dishes in cheerful greens and yellows, along with select pieces of Portmeirion, and a Baccarat crystal elephant and bear cub. Four Lladró pieces, still in the boxes, lay on top of duty-free bags. She must have bought them on her last trip. They were even selling her silver. Twelve place settings of repoussé from Kirk Stieff. The ornate floral pattern was classic.
Lark had been known for her formal dinner parties. And now all of her cherished belongings were out on display like worthless trash.
Frank interrupted my thoughts. “This is your fault,” he hissed at me.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Frank, you’ve made enough of a scene,” whispered Paisley. “Mother would be mortified. Leave Sophie alone. She has nothing to do with our problems.”
“Paisley, have you lost your mind? What are we going to do for money?”
She turned lobster red. “I’m so sorry, Sophie. Please forgive us. It’s a very trying time.”
The elderly woman wrapped a reassuring arm around her.
“Um, this is Mrs. Gurtz,” said Paisley. “She cleaned for my mom and took care of Bennett and me when my mom needed a sitter.”
A child screamed a few booths down. “Mommy! Mommy!”
Paisley screamed, “Oscar!”
Oscar lay underneath a tall chest of drawers that appeared to have toppled over on him.
Frank and Paisley ran to him immediately, with Mrs. Gurtz wisely looking after the other boys.
The chest in question had been on display with the drawers open to show off the clever paintings of mermaids on the sides of the beach-themed drawers.
The vendor in that tent, Beall Hattaway, was saying, “He climbed up the drawers! Is he okay?”
Frank and Beall picked the piece of furniture up and off the little boy. Frank yelled at Beall, “How could you be so irresponsible? What were you thinking setting up a piece of furniture that way? It was a clear invitation to a kid to climb it.”
Beall snapped back, “Maybe you ought to watch your kids instead of letting them run wild through everyone’s tents.”
Paisley cuddled her son, examining him for injuries. “Frank, I think Oscar needs to go to the emergency room.”
“Don’t be silly. I fell a hundred times when I was a kid.”
“Honey, I’m serious. He could have a head injury. What if he cracked his skull?”
That suggestion brought on a torrent of tears from Oscar.
All five of his siblings stood in a huddle staring at their brother, the smallest ones clinging to Mrs. Gurtz. “Is he going to die?” one of them asked.
As if Oscar wasn’t sobbing hard enough already, that question brought on panicked screams. Oscar’s face was now redder than his mother’s.
“Do you know what that will cost?” hissed Frank.
“I. Don’t. Care. Oscar is my baby and we are taking him to the emergency room right now. Do you understand?”
“Don’t make a scene, Paisley. There’s no need for that. I’ll take him.” He lifted the child out of his mother’s lap and said, “Come on, kids.”
“You’re taking all of them with you?” Paisley asked.
“Sure. It will be fine. You go sell your furniture.”
He walked off with Oscar in his arms and five little boys trailed along behind him, subdued by one of their own being injured.
I reached a hand to Paisley and helped her up off the pavement.
“Thank you, Sophie.” She brushed off her clothes and glanced sideways like she was looking for her brother.
“Could I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked.
She chewed her lower lip. “Not now. I have to get back to the tent.” She scurried off like she was afraid of something, or someone.