“When Julian graduated from Harvard, he was already spending most of his time buying and selling antiques. Daddy wanted to set him up with a shop on Charles Street, but Julian preferred to run the business from his—I should say our home. He bought so frequently from Stackpole that they worked out an arrangement that gave Julian first crack at whatever George turned up. I knew him, too, of course, and the man did have an eye. He could have done very well for himself if he hadn’t been such a lush.” Courtney’s voice dripped with scorn at the imperfections of others.
“He does have nice things; everyone did,” Faith said. “I had such a strange feeling walking around the show, wondering how much of what was for sale had ended up there the way mine did.”
“There will always be dealers—and customers—who are not overly concerned with provenance, and this is true on every level of the business. Just look at the fuss they had at the MFA about that Egyptian breastplate they bought from Sotheby’s that turned out to have been stolen from some little college someplace no one ever heard of.”
Faith remembered the incident, and the college was Lafayette, not exactly little. Stephanie was bored. The conversation wasn’t about her.
“Are you sure about the soup? I think we need to taste some alternatives.”
Courtney gave Faith a complicit glance. “Darling, you want to fit in your dress, don’t you? The menus are perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing at this point.”
Faith couldn’t believe her ears.
“I have to meet Binky at Sonsie’s for drinks in an hour and I really can’t sit here talking about some little man you and Daddy used to get antiques from. Binky doesn’t like it when I’m late.”
“Sorry, pet. I do feel for you, Faith. A home invasion is the ultimate violation.” Courtney shuddered. “Perhaps you misunderstood Julian. He’s a man of few words—believe me, no one knows that better than I—and he may be able to tell you more about George. He was certainly still purchasing the odd item from him as recently as last fall, because I bought something from him for a client and he said that it had come from Stackpole. To be sure, he paid the man a pittance compared with what he charged me.”
And you doubled that in your client’s bill, Faith thought.
Mother and daughter left in a cloud of complementary fragrances. As if on cue, Amy woke up crying and Ben decided to join her for no good reason. Faith locked up quickly, strapped them into their separate car seats, drove home, and settled down on the couch for a few hundred repetitions of The Very Hungry Caterpillar— Amy’s favorite—and every Henry and Mudge book written to date, Ben’s choices.
At 2:00 A.M., Faith wondered if she would ever get a full night’s sleep again. Either she couldn’t get to sleep or she woke up with a start, unable to fall back. She was getting more reading done than she’d been able to for a long time, but fatigue was taking its toll during the day. She’d nodded off on the couch with the children and Ben had been very annoyed. She’d started to snap back at them, then hugged both of them instead and got a cup of coffee.
Why had Julian Bullock downplayed his relationship with George Stackpole? She was sure she hadn’t been mistaken. He used few words, but the words were precise. “Met him once or twice. Know him slightly.” Then all that business about pickers and runners.
While she was making dinner, Faith had tried dialing the phone number she’d found in Stackpole’s trash, first without any area code, then with several local ones. Tom had come in and she’d had to stop. They’d resumed the argument about Rhoda Dawson coming alone to the house, though, and Faith, frustrated at a number of other things, had told Tom it was fortunate he didn’t have to pick one of them over the other, because he’d have a very hard time. He’d started laughing at that point, which infuriated her further.
Her eyes smarted from lack of sleep and she turned the light off, yet her mind kept racing. Tomorrow—or rather, today, Tom had promised, they could go out to Julian Bullock’s to look at the sideboard. Maybe she could introduce Stackpole’s name again and watch Julian’s reaction. She’d left Tom a message at his office as soon as she’d heard about the auction in Walton. She knew he was scheduling a meeting with the senior and junior wardens sometime on Saturday and she hoped to get to him before they did. If the meeting was too late in the afternoon, they’d miss the preview. When she’d called the auctioneers, she’d asked if there would be any furniture, specifically sideboards, and they’d said yes. She was in love with the one out in Concord, but she had to have a legitimate reason for going to the auction—and she wanted Tom to come, too. She was thankfully drifting off. Wouldn’t he be surprised when some of their silver came up in lot number something or other and they could buy it back? Who said she wasn’t efficient?
“He’ll be home all morning,” Tom announced. He’d called Julian Bullock while Faith was getting Amy dressed.
“Daddy come.” She wriggled out of Faith’s grasp and passionately threw herself at her father. This is why women have sons, Faith reflected. Although a daughter is what you want in later years. A friend of Faith’s summed up her filial role as “chief toenail clipper” after one of her frequent visits to her ninety-year-old mother. Sons don’t do things like that.
“Great.” Faith was feeling optimistic. “Why don’t we go now?” Old age was a long way off and today the sun was shining.
The ride to Concord along Route 2A was a pretty one, especially in the spring. Orchards were blooming; trees had leafed out. There were still farms along the road, and the newly turned earth bore promises of plenty of corn and tomatoes come August. At the Concord Inn, they turned right on Monument Street, driving past Hawthorne’s Old Manse and stopping farther on to let a tour group cross from a parking lot to the path leading to the “rude bridge” where the patriots of 1775 had made their stand. They drove over one of the small bridges that crossed the Concord River. A canoe was gliding toward them. Half a mile farther on, Julian Bullock’s two-hundred-year-old farmhouse sat high upon a knoll. It was surrounded by acres of meadows and orchards. Horses grazed close to the lichen-covered stone walls. He’d named the estate Dunster Weald, a reference to Dunster House at Harvard, where he’d spent his undergraduate years. When she’d come with Patsy Avery, Patsy had explained to Faith that Julian let his neighbors use the pastureland so he could have an equine aesthetic with none of the bother. When they’d pulled in the drive, she’d pointed out the beautiful post-and-beam barn behind Bullock’s house, “filled with Chippendales, not Clydesdales.”
“Horsie! Horsie! Moo!” Amy exclaimed proudly, reaching toward the window.
“She’s so dumb, Mom. Why is she so dumb?” Ben complained in a long-suffering tone of voice. “I mean, anybody knows horses don’t say moo.”
“She’s a baby, Ben. Remember? A baby—and you were one, too, once. At her age, you thought horses said meow.”
“Did not!”
Actually he hadn’t, but Faith had made her point.
With Amy delightedly in Tom’s arms and Ben’s hand in her viselike grip, Faith followed Julian into the hallway to show Tom the sideboard. She could tell from his expression that he was as taken with it as she was.
“Faith tells me it’s not genuine,” he said.
“If it were, it wouldn’t be here, but out in Greenfield Village or at Winterthur,” Julian pointed out. It struck Faith that he was as good at selling as he was at buying. She wondered if this was unusual. The two skills were so different. For one, you had to present yourself and your worldly goods to the public, or a rarefied stratum thereof; for the other, you had to be invisible, low-profile, behind-the-scenes.
“How much?” Tom asked bluntly.
Julian was not taken aback. “I could let it go for twenty-two hundred dollars.”
Faith had figured at least three thousand. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for them? But then she didn’t think emotion played much of a role in this kind of transaction.
“I assume this includes delivery,” Tom said.
“Certainly—and we might be able to work something out in regards to the one you’re replacing.”
Amy gave Faith a sudden panic-stricken look. It had nothing to do with money. Faith knew it well. She took her from Tom and transferred Ben’s sticky little boy hand to his father’s large one.
“Could we use the bathroom? There’s one off the kitchen, isn’t there?”
“By all means.” Julian nodded in that direction, keeping his eyes on Tom’s face.
The small half bath had been carved out of a pantry, and they reached it not a moment too soon. Daytime dryness was a recent accomplishment, and Faith did not intend to have any recidivism. What they were saving in Huggies could pay for Amy’s first year of college.
There was a phone in the pantry, and on the way out, Faith thought she’d better call work to make sure Niki was all set. They were doing a luncheon for the Uppity Women, a small group of terrific women all originally from Aleford who got together several times a year, mostly because, according to one, “We do like one another, never have time to see one another without a definite date, and need to laugh far from the ears of the rest of the world.” Niki was doing the job solo. When the Uppities called, Niki answered. She’d become their mascot, if not a member. The job required only one person. They’d flipped for it at first, but Faith had taken to sacrificing her turn to Niki—another carrot so she wouldn’t think about leaving.
Faith dialed the number and looked at the phone. It really was a rotary phone, an old black table model with the dial in the middle. Someone had printed the phone number on it years ago and it had faded—but not completely.
It hadn’t taken Faith long to memorize the digits she’d found in George Stackpole’s trash, nor Bell Atlantic’s message after each of her attempts: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, hang up and then dial your operator.” She wasn’t hearing the message now, but the number she’d learned by heart was staring her in the face.
Three crumpled pieces of paper—two leading to Nan Howell and now one straight to Julian Bullock.
“I don’t understand why you want to go see another sideboard when the one at Bullock’s is perfect. It’s unlikely you’d find anything of that caliber at this auction. Early Ethan Allen, maybe.”
“You mean just because it’s in the VFW hall and not at Skinner’s? You of all people, Tom! You know the kind of treasures that can get mixed in with trash.” Faith wished she’d chosen another word than trash. Since they’d left Julian’s, Tom in fine fettle over the sideboard, she’d been obsessing about the phone number and Julian’s denial of any knowledge of George Stackpole. She’d mentioned the man’s name as they were leaving.
“I was lucky again yesterday at the antiques show at the Copley. I found a gold pendant watch Tom had given me. It was at this George Stackpole’s booth—the same dealer who has had everything else.”
“Congratulations. Would that it could all be returned.”
“You did say you didn’t know him, know anything about him? I’m anxious, of course, to find out as much as possible, especially where he sells his things.”
Julian sighed heavily. “I’m really terribly sorry, but I can’t be of much help, I’m afraid. Have only had a passing acquaintance with the man.”
“Thank you anyway.” It was all she could do to keep from grasping the man’s shoulders, daring him to look her in the eye and say that.
Now Tom interrupted her thoughts. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to your message yesterday, but it would have been too late anyway. The only time all three of us could meet was tonight.”
“But you can meet here? I won’t have to get a sitter.”
“Yes, we can. That’s no problem.”
“I won’t be late. You’re probably right and Hummels will be the most interesting items put up for bid.”
It didn’t take long to get to Walton and Faith had plenty of time to preview the items up for bid. There were Hummels and just about everything else. It was an estate sale with additions, so boxes of kitchenware sat on the floor next to an Eastlake bedroom set. Tom had been wrong about the furniture. It wasn’t in Julian’s league and there was nothing close to the sideboard, but it was still good quality.
The parking lot was filled with vans, so the dealers must be out in full force. Nan Howell had told Faith she could expect this. The same stuff was appearing over and over again, so an estate sale with the possibility of items that were actually new to the market, and not simply touted as such, would bring out a large crowd. Late in the afternoon, Faith had called Nan to make sure they were on for the next day and to see if she knew about Morrison’s auction, reporting what she’d overheard George and the other dealer saying at the Copley. “Dealers who don’t have shops get rid of stuff they’ve picked up in odd lots themselves at auction. That’s often what the ‘with additions’ part means,” Nan had told Faith.
However, the real purpose of the call was to find out if George or Nan was canceling Sunday’s visit. Faith wasn’t sure she wanted to keep the appointment—images of lion’s dens and spider’s webs loomed large—but she was curious whether one of the dealers would call it off. Apparently not. It was still on, but Nan was going to another auction tonight, one featuring jewelry.
The VFW hall was filled with rows of folding chairs, but at this point they were occupied only by place-saving items—jackets, bidding numbers, containers of coffee. Everyone was roving about the stuffy room, checking out the merchandise. Faith was excited. She loved auctions and there was an air of anticipation tonight that was common to all—whether the lots contained Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s personal belongings or the detritus of an old Swampscott family settling an estate, as now. Every bidder, dealer or not, was there for a coup—the Rembrandt etching hidden behind a print of The Maiden’s Prayer, a silver bowl, school of Revere, which turned out to be by the master himself, the locked trunk—no key found, buyer beware, the sly smile of the auctioneer daring you to be suckered in—or maybe not.
There was no sign of George Stackpole, or his friend Gloria. Faith hadn’t gone back to the Copley sale. There hadn’t been time. She would have made some if the woman had mentioned a cameo ring instead of earrings. Time. She wasn’t spending a great deal of it with her family lately. But she’d left a great snack for Tom’s meeting: smoked turkey, chutney, and a thick wedge of Wensleydale cheese on her own sourdough bread. There was pie, too. Pie was good meeting-type food and she’d taken a Dutch apple one out of the freezer.
She might be joining them for the snack. The only thing she’d found that she wanted to bid on was a small hanging cupboard that would be perfect to display the child’s tea set that had belonged to her grandmother, now intended for Amy. It was carefully packed away, too fragile for play. It would look lovely in Amy’s room—or maybe Faith’s.
The lots of silver and a small amount of jewelry were on two tables next to where the auction organizers were assigning numbers. After getting her own number, Faith had headed for them when she’d arrived, finding nothing. Since then, she noticed, they’d added some flat boxes of odd lots of silver and she went back for a look. Most of it was in pretty bad shape, tarnished and dented. But still in the same jeweler’s cloth was the dessert set Tom’s aunt and uncle had given them—a cake server, berry spoon, large serving fork, six dessert spoons and forks with a gold wash on the bowls and tines. It was in a plastic bag with some salt spoons, one of which was theirs, and some Rogers silver plate—odd pieces. Lot number twenty-five. It would come up fairly soon. Faith was thrilled. She couldn’t imagine she’d have much competition for it. She loved the dessert set, but it was new and wouldn’t interest any of these dealers. She knew from years of attending auctions that you could almost always outbid a dealer, since they had to be able to mark the item up at least 50 percent. Her only competition would be from someone like herself and she didn’t think there could be anyone else in the hall with quite her vested interest, but then, you never knew. She went to find a seat. Having neglected to save one, she was forced to the rear of the hall.
Bidding was spirited and the auctioneer was moving things fast. Much to Faith’s astonishment, an ocher-colored small painted shelf went for over a thousand dollars. There was a great deal about this business she didn’t know. When she’d pulled into the parking lot, there had been several groups, mostly men, smoking and conferring. Dealers setting prices, she figured—or maybe just passing the time of day with one another until the auction started. Now, nobody was leaving the room, not even for a smoke. She had the rear row almost to herself, though. Everyone else was in front of her, or standing along the sides.
“Lot twenty-four—sold to number—hold it high; don’t be ashamed—number one sixty-seven. Next item, lot twenty-five, assorted silver pieces. What do I hear for this lovely grouping? Open that up, Jimmy. What’s in the cloth? Can we start the bidding at a hundred dollars? A hundred and go!” This was greeted with loud laughter. “How about fifty, then? Do I have fifty? For this—let’s see, looks like a dessert set. Mint condition. Fifty, fifty, fifty—do I have twenty-five? All over the house!”
Faith had raised her card with a dozen others; she raised it again when he went to thirty-five. At forty-five, there was only one other bidder, another woman, near the front. “And to you, do I have fifty?” Apparently not. “All done at forty-five? Fair room and fair warning. Going once. Twice.” He banged the gavel. “Forty-five it is to number one twelve in the back.”
Faith was so pleased she decided to wait and bid on the hanging cabinet. After all, it wasn’t painted. She might have a chance. For a moment when lot twenty-five had come up, she’d forgotten she was bidding on what rightfully belonged to her and just felt thrilled to be getting a bargain.
During the bidding, two men had come in, sitting on either side of her. She’d been too busy to pay much attention to them, but now, as the heavy musk cologne one was wearing saturated the air, she took a closer look. She was used to antiques dealers who didn’t seem like antiques dealers, but these two had definitely been cast against type. They were both wearing tight black cotton T-shirts designed to show off how much time they’d been spending at the gym, and an inordinate number of tattoos. Both appeared to be in their mid-twenties. One of them sported multiple Mr. T–type gold chains; the other opted for a single Italian gold horn. The one with the chains was the one with the musk and it seemed to be coming from his long, oily dark hair.
“You’re finished, lady.”
“I beg your pardon?” What was the man talking about? Maybe she’d heard wrong.
“I said you’re finished. Here and every other place you’ve been sticking your nose into. Now let’s get going.”
She was in a crowded hall; nothing could happen. She fought down her mounting fear and tried to reply coolly. “You must be crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone!”
He uncrossed his arms, which had been folded in front of his chest. “We just want to talk to you. Outside. Come on.” He leaned against her—hard. His buddy did the same thing.
“Nobody wants any trouble, lady. Let’s go.” He patted his jeans pocket. They were tight and she could see the bulge clearly. It had nothing to do with any personal attractions she might possess; besides, it was in the wrong place. It was another gun.
They were everywhere.
She jumped to her feet and waved her card. The auctioneer looked her way and nodded. “Seven hundred and fifty. Do I have eight?”
“No!” she shouted.
“Are you bidding or not?” He was smiling, but he wasn’t amused.
“I’m not bidding. I need help. These men are—” Before Faith could finish her sentence, they were out the door. An auction house employee was coming her way. She felt oddly like Cary Grant in North by Northwest. “Bothering me,” she managed to add, then sat down limply.
“I have seven hundred and fifty. Are you all done at seven hundred and fifty dollars for this magnificent Hummel?”
“What’s the problem?” the employee seemed genuinely concerned as he leaned over her.
“Those men who were sitting next to me, do you know who they are? They were annoying me.”
The man shook his head. “Never saw them before. Is everything okay now?”
Hardly, but Faith didn’t want to go into it. She had to get to a phone.
“Yes, they’re gone, but I need to make a call.”
“There’s a pay phone in the hallway. I’m very sorry. This kind of thing doesn’t happen at our auctions, and if I see them again, I’ll be questioning them. A woman shouldn’t have to encounter that kind of behavior, and we won’t ignore the incident.”
He thought they had been hitting on her—and in a way, they had. She thanked him and went into the corridor.
The men weren’t there, but that didn’t mean they weren’t waiting for her outside, waiting to follow her home, force her off the road. She did need help and she needed it now.
“Going, going,” the auctioneer’s voice floated out to the hall as she made her call. “Gone!”
Charley MacIsaac came in for pie and coffee. He’d been able to come as soon as she called for an escort. She’d paid for her silver and watched until she saw the cruiser in the parking lot before venturing out of the hall. None of the other cars took off when Chief MacIsaac pulled in, but they would be too savvy for that. The last thing these men would want was a chase. Still, hiding in whatever car or van they’d come in, they’d seen the police car and knew she wasn’t alone in all this.
Not anymore.
George Stackpole had a lot to lose and he was playing for keeps. It had to be George who was behind this, but how had he known she would be there? That’s what was bothering her now as she explained to Charley what she’d been doing the last few days. Tom was still in his study with the wardens.
“Okay. I’ll pull this Stackpole character in. See what he says. You’ve turned up enough of your stuff at his outlets to make it legitimate, and tomorrow you can come look at pictures and see if you recognize the men from tonight. No more antiquing, Faith. Right?”
Faith was well and truly shaken by tonight’s threats. She had no desire to approach George Stackpole on her own at all. She’d let Charley handle it.
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Faith saw him out the back door, locking it after he left, still an unaccustomed habit. The alarm system had not been installed yet, but they were near the top of the list, they’d been assured. She cut herself a wedge of pie and sat down to think. She hadn’t told Charley about going to Framingham, but she’d told him almost everything else. Who knew she was going to be in Walton tonight? Nan Howell. She’d talked to her about it. Who else? Faith hadn’t mentioned it when they were out in Concord today, yet she was pretty sure she had said something about it to Courtney and Stephanie yesterday. Stephanie babbled on all the time about anything and everything, and it was possible she’d have mentioned it to Julian. Who else? Well, Tom, of course—and Rhoda Dawson. Faith had left the information on the parish answering machine, a machine checked with some frequency by the superconscientious Ms. Dawson. Rhoda Dawson. Who was she anyway?
“Maybe another time. No problem.” Faith hung up the phone early the next morning. It was Nan Howell and she was in a hurry. George had called and canceled their visit. Nan didn’t give a reason. Faith didn’t need one. She was becoming more and more sure Nan and George were linked together. It might simply be that Nan suspected the things she bought from the dealer were hot and continued to buy from him—or it might be more. Nan must have mentioned Faith’s name to Stackpole, or told him why Faith wanted to check his stock. Either way, the dealer wouldn’t want this particular lady anywhere near his house. George probably figured that Faith had been sufficiently warned last night. He wasn’t about to have anything more to do with her—especially give her a chance to connect any more of the stolen items to him.
It was one of those Sundays when church seemed to go on forever and her mind kept wandering during the sermon. At times, the service was the only place where she had any peace and quiet for herself, and her thoughts took wing. This was one of those occasions. But she wasn’t thinking of last night specifically. She was thinking about Sarah Winslow. Two muscular young men. George would never have had to be involved. They’d done his dirty work for him—and frightening Sarah to death had been part of it.
Faith had given Tom a much-abbreviated version of the auction and told him Charley was bringing Stackpole in for questioning, which effectively quelled her husband’s fears. He agreed to take the kids for the afternoon while she looked at mug shots. By now, Faith had convinced Tom that the break-ins were linked, especially theirs and Sarah’s, both with missing sideboard drawers. These were also the only two houses where the police had been able to get prints—the Fairchilds’ on the back door frame and a good set on one of Sarah’s canisters. It had a tight lid and apparently the thief had had to take off his gloves to open it. There had been an attempt to wipe it off, but the police had one clear thumbprint. If Faith found the men from last night in the rogue’s gallery at the police station, their prints would be on file someplace—prints that could provide crucial evidence, tying them to the Aleford crimes. Tom had agreed with Faith on the importance of trying to identify the men. And if she did, he wanted to memorize their faces for his own reasons.
Faith vowed to create some quality family time soon. Much as Ben might love hanging out at the police station, she thought they should all head for Crane Beach or the Ipswich Audubon Sanctuary with a picnic. Next Saturday was the grand event—the Bullock wedding. Sunday would be Fairchild Day. Maybe they’d go down to Norwell. Which reminded her that she hadn’t called Tom’s mother with an update. She’d be terribly pleased at the recovery of the fish-serving pieces, though Great-Aunt Phoebe’s ring was still missing.
Still missing.
After the fifth book, the pictures were beginning to swim in front of Faith’s eyes. She stood up and walked around the room. Charley said Stackpole was coming by at four o’clock and he wanted her out long before. Faith had no wish to meet the man face-to-face. Stackpole had been extremely cooperative over the phone, Charley reported, and was bringing receipts for the items the chief described that the Fairchilds had recovered. Faith was beginning to get a sinking feeling about the whole thing. Maybe she should have called John Dunne from the VFW hall instead of Charley, but he would have passed it all on to MacIsaac, she figured. This wasn’t a homicide, at least not in so many words. Manslaughter? How would Sarah’s death be characterized legally? Morally, Faith had no trouble finding the right word.
She opened the next book, and then the next. If it hadn’t been for the gold chains, she would have looked right past him, but apparently they were a permanent part of the man’s fashion statement.
“Charley!” She ran excitedly into the chief’s office. “Charley, I found one of them!”
“Terrific! Who is he?”
She placed her finger on the man’s forehead. “James Green,” Charley read out loud, “and his last address was in Revere. I’ll run a check and get in touch with the police down there.”
“Sounds like an alias.”
“Go home, Faith. Get some rest. You’re looking a little peaked these days.”
“Thanks, Charley.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll let you know what I find out from this Mr. Stackpole.”
Charley was as good as his word, calling late that afternoon, as soon as the dealer left the station.
“He had receipts for the gold watch and some silver things. He says he buys at yard sales often and they don’t give receipts. He has no idea why your things have turned up in his booths, but he says this can happen. He suggests you keep checking the big co-ops and something called Brimfield.”
“It’s a huge outdoor antiques sale a couple of times a year in Brimfield, Massachusetts—hundreds of dealers. I went once. It was a madhouse.”
“He’s an old guy, Faith. Took this up in retirement, he says. Doesn’t make a whole lot. Very cooperative and pleasant.”
Faith was afraid of this. George, shaved and pressed, but not too much, had pulled the wool over Chief MacIsaac’s eyes.
Of course, she hadn’t told him what had happened Thursday night in Framingham. Hadn’t told anybody.
“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t worry.” Charley seemed to be saying this with some frequency to Faith lately and it was making her worry all the more. The phrase joined the others whose constant repetition brought her close to screaming. Charley was amplifying his remarks. “I know you saw the man at work and how he was when he was selling. Now today was different. He was putting his best foot forward with me. I’m sure he makes more than a nice little living from all this, but one he’d rather keep from Uncle Sam, so that’s one lie for starters. You also said he’s been in this business a long time, and that’s easy enough to check, so maybe lie number two. Anyway, I’m going to be keeping tabs on him and he knows it. He said he had some more receipts and he’s coming back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks. Any word from the police in Revere?”
“They know Green. And by the way, it’s not an alias. Nothing big-time; penny-ante thug. We sent them the prints we lifted from your house and Sarah’s. We should know more tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is going to be a big day, Faith thought.
George Stackpole called in sick on Monday, much to Faith’s disgust. “How can you let him get away with that? He was perfectly fine when I saw him on Friday and I’m sure he was all right yesterday, wasn’t he?”
Charley replied patiently, “We’re not arresting the man. He can come when he wants. This is the United States, remember? And he did look a little under the weather.”
“That’s how he always looks,” Faith snapped back. “He probably has a prior engagement—breaking into some houses in Concord.”
Charley hadn’t heard anything more about Green from the Revere police. So far, Monday was a washout.
She groused some more at work to Niki. The day’s only notable event was the absence of a single call or visit from any of the Bullocks.
“Come by and see my table. It’s glorious!” It was Patsy Avery. The phone had been ringing as Faith walked in the door with the kids late in the afternoon and she lunged for it, expecting MacIsaac.
“I’d love to, but I can’t come now. You’d have little handprints all over that nice shiny surface. It’s the children’s hour. Tom’s in Chicago until tomorrow night and I’m operating as a single parent.”
Patsy laughed. “I must be getting maternal. The idea of the paw prints is appealing—but definitely not single parenthood. I want all the help I can get. You could bring the kids, you know, but we’ll make it another time if you’d rather. Did Tom like the sideboard?”
“He loved it as much as I did. Now we have to figure things out with the insurance company. Julian’s holding it for us.”
“He’s a good guy. Stuck on himself, of course, but a lot of that is Harvard. Still, I enjoy doing business with him.”
“You’ve never heard that he might be picking up items of dubious origin?” Faith asked.
“I wouldn’t imagine he’d do anything like that knowingly. He has too much to lose. Not just his business but his TV appearances, too. You know he’s a regular on PBS and his expertise has made him a kind of celebrity nationally, although only in the uppermost echelons, my dear. He sells to museums and the stars.”
They made a date for lunch and table viewing the following week. As she hung up, Faith wondered what Julian had put in place of Patsy’s table. She desperately hoped it was the same size as the one that had been there or there would be hell to pay. Courtney was spending a fortune, and her own, she’d pointed out, on the star-covered tablecloth. The rehearsal dinner was only four days away and Faith didn’t want anything to go wrong. But she knew in the pit of her stomach there was bound to be something. In fact, the tablecloth would be manageable. It was the fear of the unknown that gnawed at her, like those monsters under the bed in childhood, just waiting to grab your ankle.
She didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad sign that Charley was putting in a personal appearance late Tuesday afternoon, tapping on the glass at her kitchen door. It meant he had something to tell her that he didn’t want to communicate on the phone. Of course it could also mean he was hungry, was in the neighborhood, and wouldn’t mind the spare crumb or two.
“What’s up? News?”
“A couple of things, and I thought I’d drop by and tell you myself.”
“I have some of those sour cream brownies you like. Why don’t we sit in the kitchen.”
“Maybe later,” he answered, walking straight through the kitchen into the living room. He sat down in one of the wing chairs, kinder to his ample frame than the spindly Windsor chairs that had spread throughout the parsonage over the years like topsy. “I’m not hungry now. Tom still in Chicago?”
Charley MacIsaac turning down brownies. Not hungry. Faith steeled herself.
“He’ll be back late tonight. Let me make sure the kids are okay and you can fill me in on what’s been happening. I take it Mr. Stackpole is enjoying good health again?”
“Yes, he came by this afternoon—with his lawyer.”
Faith dashed into the den, made sure Amy was still in her playpen and Ben still enthralled with the Tintin tape. All was well, and if Amy’s vocabulary was being supplemented by Captain Haddock’s colorful phrases—“blistering blue barnacles”—Faith would have no one to blame but herself.
“Why did he bring his lawyer?”
“A lot of people do when they come to a police station. I was a little surprised he didn’t have one the other day. We live in a very legalistic society, you know.”
Faith was surprised to hear Charley wax philosophical—and political. It was completely out of character.
“But before I go into all this, you’ll be happy to know James Green’s prints matched the ones we found in your house and in Sarah Winslow’s. An arrest warrant has been issued and we’ve informed the police in New Hampshire and Rhode Island as well. We’ll get him.”
Faith was stunned—and nauseated. She’d been sitting next to the man who broke into her house, the man who tied Sarah up, the man who killed Sarah.
“It was a great break, Faith. You did a good job. I know how much Sarah meant to you, meant to us all.”
“The Revere police didn’t have any leads about where he might be?”
“He left his apartment early Sunday morning, according to the landlord, and hasn’t been back. They’re staking it out anyway, also a sister’s place up in Billerica. He’s not going to get far. They never do, the dumb ones. He’ll come back to see his girlfriend or get some clothes.”
“What about Stackpole? Maybe that’s why he brought a lawyer. Because he thought you could connect him to Green.”
“He said he’d never heard of the man. We have no reason to believe otherwise. Okay—I know you’re not going to like this…”
Here it comes, thought Faith.
“But I don’t see the guy as guilty of anything more than lousy bookkeeping and maybe income-tax evasion. He brought some shoe boxes full of receipts and his lawyer made the point that a lot of your things look like other items from the same period. I showed him the pictures and they agreed some of the things were the same, but apparently the guy has been to several auctions since your break-in and that’s where he claims to have bought your silver and jewelry. Obviously, Green sold what he stole to somebody, but not to Stackpole, according to him. I gave the lawyer the list of your missing items and they’re going to go over Stackpole’s inventory and see what else he might have.”
“What!” Faith shrieked. “I can’t believe you did this! Why didn’t I just give the man a key to the place initially and let him come in and take what he wanted!”
“Now, Faith. He’s cooperating with our investigation. This is not an unusual thing for the police to do.”
“Cooperating! He’s probably digging holes in his backyard, burying everything this very minute! Why couldn’t you simply ask if we could look at his stock?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“No, instead you give him a detailed list and photographs!”
“I didn’t give him the photographs.” Charley stood up. He knew he could kiss the sour cream brownies good-bye.
“I’m very disappointed in you,” Faith said in her best schoolmarmish voice.
“You’ll get over it,” Charley said, and patted her on the shoulder as he let himself out the front door.
“Jeez, Faith, don’t you know anybody else?” Scott Phelan was complaining even as he drove north toward the New Hampshire border.
Faith ignored the comment. He had come as soon as she called and that was all she cared about. Samantha Miller had come to baby-sit, too. She was punting the rest of senior year, she’d told Faith a week ago, and was taking it easy for the first time since kindergarten. Next fall at Wellesley, she’d pick up the load again.
After Chief MacIsaac had left, Faith went into the den and watched the tape with the kids for a while until she calmed down enough to think clearly. And one thought was clear: George Stackpole, now armed with the list, would clean out all his outlets of anything remotely resembling Fairchild loot. She reasoned he’d go to the co-ops nearest Aleford first, figuring she’d head for them, too, so her best bet was to go to the Old Oaken Bucket. It was open until eight o’clock, but even with Scott driving as fast as he dared, Faith was beginning to realize they wouldn’t make it in time.
Which was why she’d called him in the first place. True, after Saturday night, she wasn’t eager to venture out solo into antiques land—a place that had become fraught with danger even in the most secure places. She wanted company, particularly company who had a better left hook than, say, Pix, although Faith had a feeling the athletic Mrs. Miller’s might not be so bad.
But should the Bucket be closed, Scott was the only person Faith knew who might be able to disarm an alarm system—not so she could break into Stackpole’s case, but so she could have a look, she told herself. The idea that everything was fast disappearing down the drain obsessed her and she was firmly suppressing any felonious thoughts. She wasn’t breaking and entering herself. Fair was fair. She was tracking her own possessions. What’s hers was hers. It would stand up in any court of law, she told herself. And besides, this was her last chance.
“You’re awfully quiet—and it’s making me nervous. What’s going on in that screwy little head of yours, boss?”
“If it’s closed when we get there, we may have to do something to the alarm so I can go in and have a peek at what’s in Stackpole’s case. You don’t have to come. I wouldn’t want you to get in any trouble.”
“Good, because I’m not going to. If it’s closed, we turn around and go home. When I said ‘screwy little head,’ I wasn’t kidding.”
Faith kept her mouth shut.
The Old Oaken Bucket was closed and it was dark by the time Scott pulled his precious Mustang into the empty parking lot.
“Okay, we tried. I’m sorry. First thing in the morning, we’ll come back.”
“Maybe they just have signs. Maybe they don’t set the alarm. Lots of people put the stickers up and don’t bother with the expense of a system. Why don’t we pull around the back and have a look?”
Scott pulled around the back. It would be easier in the long run. Besides, she looked so pathetic. She’d told him about James Green—the auction and the prints matching the ones in her house and Miss Winslow’s. He wished he could have a few minutes alone with the guy before the cops got him.
They had gotten out of the car and were approaching the back door when they heard another car stop in front of the building.
“George! I bet it’s George!” Faith whispered. She darted around to the corner and was in time to see the dealer, flashlight in hand, unlock the front door and go in, closing it behind him.
“Come on.” She grabbed Scott’s sleeve, yanked him behind her, and crept toward the door.
Stackpole didn’t turn any lights on. Faith could see the flashlight beam through the glass on the door. He’d known how to disarm the alarm—if there had been one set. Despite her words to Scott, she was pretty sure there was. With all the security the Oaken Bucket displayed when open, they’d be even more cautious when closed.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Scott hissed at her. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’m going inside. I want to see what he’s taking out of the case. And you can be my witness. He’ll never see us. We’ll slip behind the counter and down the other aisle across from his booth.”
She had the door open and was inside before Scott could object further. On the drive up, she’d told him about going to Framingham and seeing Stackpole with a gun—and told him he was the only person who knew. Scott wasn’t about to let her go into the building alone knowing this.
The interior of the Old Oaken Bucket was pitch-dark and it was easy to crawl under the counter and position themselves behind one of the booths in the aisle opposite the one Stackpole rented. The only problem was getting a clear view. If Faith had thought she’d have a front-row seat, she was mistaken. The flashlight darted up and down like a firefly. He was putting things into a bag at his feet, but it was impossible to see what these things were except for an occasional flash of silver.
“I’m going to try to get closer,” Faith whispered in Scott’s ear. He put his arm out in front of her.
“Don’t be crazy, Faith. The man packs a rod, remember?”
Faith did, but she’d been trying not to. She paused, then tried to push Scott’s arm out of the way. At that instant, the lights came on—bright, garish fluorescents flooding the vast interior, turning the booths into a sudden riot of sparkling color. Then as soon as they went on, they went off, leaving a series of images like smoke trails before Faith’s eyes. They must be on a timer, she thought.
She started to try to move forward again, but now it was a sound that stopped her. Crash! The sound of breaking glass. Crash! George destroying his booth and maybe one or two others to make the break-in look legitimate. The noise stopped abruptly. Soon she heard the front door open and close. He was leaving with her things—and he’d get some insurance money, too, she bet! They were too late. She was close to tears.
It wasn’t the things—well, it was a little—but this had been her chance to nail him. To catch him with their stolen property. And then maybe this James Green would rat on his partner or employer, whatever George was. Sarah’s murderers. And all the pain they’d caused the group of people that had met in the Fairchilds’ living room. Lost class rings, lost lockets, lost links to loved ones.
But she’d blown it. They should have confronted him. Pretended to have a gun. They should have called the police as soon as they saw George go in. There was a pay phone in the parking lot. They should have…She heard the car speed out of the parking lot, sending a spray of gravel against the outside wall.
“Let’s get going. We don’t want to hang around.” Scott was speaking normally and it sounded now as if he was shouting, after the tense silence of the last quarter hour. “He wants the cops to find his B and E, so he’ll call in an anonymous tip and they’ll be swarming all over the place soon. I’ve never been in trouble in New Hampshire and I plan to keep it that way. Besides, Tricia would kill me.” Scott took Faith by the arm, firmly steering her toward the door.
“I want to check his case. He may have left something.” Faith wasn’t budging an inch. She dug into her pocket for the Penlite she’d shoved in when she left the car.
“Okay, but quickly. We don’t have a lot of time here.”
Faith went straight to case number four, following the tiny pinpoint of light. As they passed the other booths, objects took form, eerie outlines of bygone days. One case was filled with dolls. Their glass eyes glittered like demonic children. The rows of tools in another looked like medieval instruments of torture. Ordinary objects in the light; frightening ones in the dark.
“Watch out for the glass and don’t, I repeat, don’t touch anything!” Scott warned.
Faith had no desire to touch anything. There were shards under her feet, shards sticking to the soles of her shoes.
But George Stackpole hadn’t driven away and he wasn’t making any calls, anonymous or otherwise.
George Stackpole was dead—his throat slit from side to side. The Fairchilds’ missing carving knife was lying on the floor next to his lifeless body, the monogram completely obliterated by blood.