The Glow of Death Page 21

  “Her name is Angela,” I said, “because she has this little white spot. Angels wear white. Clearly this little girl is an angel.”

  “That’s beautiful, Josie,” Cara said. “An angel come from heaven to help us. To help Hank.”

  “She looks like an angel,” Gretchen said. “Don’t you, darling?”

  Eric stared at the kitten, his head tilted. “Angela’s a good name.”

  “Can I go tell Sasha and Fred?” Gretchen asked.

  “Definitely. You and Eric can spot them so they can come meet our new little angel.”

  They left together. Cara kissed Angela on the top of her little head and set off toward the office. I lowered Angela to her kitty bed, and she yawned, stretched her bottom half, then her top half, and sauntered over to the water bowl as if she’d lived here forever. She took a long drink, paused, then drank some more. Hank looked at me.

  “I know, Hank. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

  Angela walked back toward her bed, then changed her mind and crossed the line into Hank’s domain. She went straight for his cat bed and sat down. Hank walked over and watched as she curled herself into a tight spiral. As her eyes closed, he began sniffing her from top to bottom, taking his time. When he was done, he meowed, and I picked him up.

  I kissed him and whispered, “You’re my original love bunny, Hank, and you always will be. It’s your job to show Angela the ropes, okay?”

  He mewed his begrudging agreement.

  By the time Sasha and Fred arrived, Angela was solidly asleep. Her soft purr sounded like the hum of a high-performance engine. I’d placed Hank on his rug, and he stayed put, sitting near her, watchful but no longer growling.

  “She’s beautiful,” Sasha said in a hushed tone.

  Fred laughed. “So much for worrying about how she’d adjust to her new surroundings.”

  Hank came to me and rubbed my calf while arching his back, his way of asking to be cuddled. I scooped him up again and held him close.

  After they left, I stayed where I was for a while longer, hugging and kissing Hank, and watching our new little angel sleep.

  * * *

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Ty said.

  It was Sunday morning around eleven. I slid the last plate from our late breakfast into the dishwasher and positioned two cutting boards on the counter, one near the sink for Ty, the other near the fridge for me.

  “I guess I’d label how I feel as subdued. Would you get the dishwasher started? I’ll cut the potatoes.”

  He poured the soap into the receptacle. “How come you’re feeling subdued?”

  The dishwasher hummed to life, a comforting sound. “The last time I made potato salad, Ellis got a call that Ava had been murdered.”

  Ty leaned against the counter. I felt his eyes on my face, but I didn’t look up. I opened the refrigerator and started extracting the ingredients for my mother’s potato salad: boiled new potatoes, celery, mayonnaise, a lime, and Dijon mustard.

  “I don’t think you’re subdued. I think you’re pissed off.”

  “Feeling subdued and angry aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  “What did I do?”

  My eyes flew to his face, and I laughed. “Nothing. I’m not mad at you.”

  He opened his palms, his fingers spread apart, silently asking, Well, then, who? I didn’t want to talk about it, but I didn’t want to fence Ty out, either.

  “If you want the truth, I’m furious at Ellis.” I sliced a cold boiled potato into large chunks. “He had the audacity to ask me if my business was in trouble, thinking maybe I switched out the Tiffany lamp myself, you know, to get some cash. Overnight, it occurred to me that what he was really wondering about was whether Ava caught on somehow and I killed her. I’m fuming.”

  “And getting madder by the minute, it sounds like.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “Blame doesn’t come into it. You feel as you feel. The question is what to do to relieve the pressure, to manage the situation.”

  “I’m handling things just fine,” I said, laying into a second potato.

  “You should call Max.”

  I spun to face him. “What? You think I need a lawyer?”

  “Yes. You’ve just been questioned—on camera—about your possible involvement in a major art theft, which may relate to a murder.”

  I laid the knife on the counter. “What are you saying?”

  “Can’t do any harm.”

  “You’re saying it’s not my imagination, that I’m really a suspect.”

  “I doubt Ellis considers you a suspect for real, but he’s a by-the-book cop, and there’s nothing that excludes you. Motive—he’s supplying one. Means—the weapon was available. Opportunity—sure. You don’t have to prove a negative—that you didn’t do it—but you should be ready if he circles back for another go at you.”

  “By calling Max, I’m taking charge of the situation, not simply allowing Ellis to call the shots.”

  “Which means you won’t feel like a victim.”

  “I gave Ellis Fred’s and Eric’s names, too. I already told them that Max will go with them when they’re questioned.” I turned back to the potatoes. “Thank you, Ty.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I chopped another potato. “You’re a smart man.”

  “You’re a smart woman. And beautiful. And a helluva cook.” He walked toward me. “I’m about to hug you, so I’d appreciate it if you’d put the knife down.”

  I laughed and placed the knife on the cutting board. Ty took my hands in his and gently pulled me into his arms. He hugged me tight. I leaned my head against his soft cotton T-shirt, and in that moment, I knew everything would be just fine.

  * * *

  Almost a week late, we were about to celebrate our independence. I’d switched out the orange Japanese lanterns for July Fourth–themed red, white, and blue ones, laid in a supply of sparklers, and loaded patriotic tunes on my iPhone, from country favorites like Charlie Daniels’s “In America” and Waylon Jennings’s “America” to show tunes like “76 Trombones” and “The Yankee Doodle Boy.”

  Ellis was either a superb actor or far better than I was at compartmentalizing. At the barbecue, he was as genial and as witty as ever. No one watching his performance would think there was any ill will between us. From his point of view, maybe there wasn’t. His attitude reminded me why he was my friend. From what I could tell, he wanted to at least create the appearance of normalcy, and one of his tactics had him saying things that required responses.

  “I can’t believe the fog burned off overnight,” he said.

  “It’s good to see the sun again.”

  “Great martini, Josie! What do you call it?”

  “A Rouge Martini.”

  “I love it.”

  “Zoë gets the credit. She came up with the idea.”

  It was exhausting, but it served to whisk away the worst of my impotent fury. There’s something to be said for civility. Courtesy tempers rage.

  * * *

  I couldn’t sleep. I wound myself up in the blanket like a tangled strand of yarn. I wasn’t upset, exactly. It felt as if a memory were just out of sight, a thought just out of reach. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Around four thirty, I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs.

  I made coffee and booted up my computer. The Seacoast Star featured a rehashing of old news about the murders. The only new-to-me information was that Jean’s will left her entire estate to her sister, and in the event Ava predeceased her, to a variety of local charities; and Shawn O’Boyle had been in Mexico the whole time he said he was. Wes published a photo of him. He was short for a man, about five-four, at a guess, and bald. He and the man in the pharmacy security photo were definitively not one and the same. Shawn O’Boyle was not Orson Thompkins.

  After I finished reading Wes’s article, I relocated to the kitchen. I sat on the section of bench that faced the meadow, sipping coffee and thinking about motives for steali
ng and motives for murder until the sun came up over the trees sometime around twenty after five. Merry had seen Jean with a box in her hands while playing ball with Eleanor in the backyard. Sylvia had heard Edwin and Ava fight through an open window. I wondered whether Sonny, the Towsons’ handyman/gardener, had heard Edwin talking about his family’s history with the Tiffany lamp while he was watering plants or pulling weeds. His wife had been eliminated as the fake Ava, but as far as I knew, no one had taken a look at whether Sonny was the fake Edwin. I couldn’t recall Sonny’s last name, although I knew I’d heard it or read it.

  I moved back to my office. The Seacoast Star’s archives were searchable, and by using the advanced function, I could limit the search window to a certain time frame, in this case starting the day before Ava’s murder to now. I found the reference I’d recalled in his article about the sketch. They’d shown it to Sonny Russo, among others.

  No Sonny Russo lived in the seacoast region, but Sonny, I knew, was often a nickname. I tried Salvatore Russo, then Santino Russo, without finding him. I brought up the white pages and navigated to “Russo,” searching for a first name that began with S. Third down was Sandro. Sandro Russo. Sonny Russo.

  I gasped.

  Sonny Russo lived at 29 Sonille Road in Portsmouth—only a few houses down from the house that Orson Thompkins used as a mail drop. Surely Sonny could have observed that his neighbor was often gone for extended periods.

  I Googled his name and clicked on a link that took me to Rocky Point Hospital’s December newsletter. On page 3, an article touted the employees’ food drive. Noreen Russo, a cafeteria worker, was a volunteer, and her husband, Sonny Russo, was helping out by delivering all the canned goods to a local food pantry. The photo showed the couple standing among a clutch of other volunteers next to Sonny’s loaded pickup. Sonny was tall and thin. The truck was blue. I’d seen it before, and I’d seen Sonny. He’d backed out of a driveway in the Grey Gull complex, but he hadn’t left. He’d driven deeper into the complex. Maybe to Jean’s condo. If Jean needed a handyman, surely she would have asked Ava for a recommendation. I wondered if the police had cleared him of involvement. It was possible I hadn’t heard his name mentioned because he had an unassailable alibi. I needed to talk to Wes.

  I glanced at the time log on my monitor. It was 5:43. Too early to call, so I e-mailed him: What do you know about Sonny? Alibi?

  As I walked back to the kitchen to get more coffee, an idea came to me, and I ran back to my computer. I brought the white pages back up and jotted down Sonny’s phone number. Many day laborers start work early, some as early as seven, and I wanted to try to reach him before he left for the day. I decided to call at six thirty.

  I heard rustling overhead. Ty was awake. I poured him a cup of coffee and brought it upstairs.

  “I wish you didn’t have to leave,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Friday.”

  “I miss you already.”

  He kissed me, and I kissed him back.

  Ty left at six, and I left ten minutes later. Max wouldn’t be in until eight at the earliest, which meant I had at least two hours before I could talk to him. While I waited for the a/c to kick on in the car, I considered what I should do with the time. I smiled as I recalled my mother shaking her head anytime someone said they had time to kill, as if time itself were the enemy, a demon to exorcise. I tapped on the steering wheel, thinking.

  Ten seconds later, I nodded, knowing how to best spend my time. I wanted to see the Towson Company guesthouse. Maybe it was empty—but maybe it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Just before Rye, the town north of Rocky Point, I came to the address Tammy had given me—1 Ocean Avenue. It was a beautiful cottage with a rose-covered trellis, a wraparound porch, and an ocean view. There was a blue Lexus in the driveway, parked in front of the attached garage.

  I parked around the corner on a street called Mallery facing Ocean, diagonally across from the cottage. The roar of the surf was thunderous, even today, when the sea was calm. On a stormy day, it must sound like the wrath of God.

  I got out of my car and looked around. This stretch of Ocean Avenue was lined with stately homes. From where I stood at the intersection of Mallery and Ocean, facing the beach, no other house was visible on the beach side of the street. Across from the beach, there were two properties, one on each side of Mallery. A meticulously trimmed eight-foot-tall boxwood hedge enclosed the northernmost property; the other was surrounded by a six-foot-high fieldstone wall. I walked to the southwest corner of Mallery and Ocean and stood with my right side pressed against the rough surface of the stone wall.

  I wanted to know if anyone was living in the cottage, and if so, whom. The Lexus indicated someone was there now, but that didn’t tell me much. Maybe the Lexus belonged to a real estate agent taking photos in preparation of putting the house on the market. With Edwin’s plans to relocate his company to London, he had no need for a guesthouse.

  The Towson property was marked by a four-foot-high cypress hedge. A latticework bower was twined with white, pink, and red roses. The porch was unscreened and wide. The wood siding was salt-flecked brown. The house was perfectly situated for both serenity and privacy.

  Using the telescopic setting on my camera, I snapped a photo of the Lexus’s license plate and dashed back to my car to call Dowd Investigations, the company we used to conduct background checks. I punched through their interactive menu to reach the person on off-hour duty. I gave my company’s account number, answered two security questions, and had the information five seconds later—the Lexus was registered to the Towson Company.

  At six thirty, I called Sonny Russo. A woman answered.

  “Hi,” I said. “I hope I’m not calling too early. This is Josie Prescott calling about some gardening work. Is Sonny there?”

  “Hold on.”

  A moment later a gruff-sounding man said, “Hello?”

  “This is Josie Prescott. I understand you do gardening.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I need some new bushes planted. Can you come take a look and give me an estimate?”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Rocky Point, not far from the interstate.”

  “I could come later today. Sometime in the afternoon.”

  “I’ll call you around noon if my schedule opens up. What’s your cell phone number?”

  He gave it to me, a 603 number. Local.

  I tapped it into my computer, just in case, but I doubted I’d need it—I’d never spoken to Sonny before, which meant he wasn’t the fake Edwin. I thanked him and ended the call.

  He might not be the fake Edwin, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a killer.

  * * *

  I resumed my study of the Towson guesthouse. The windows were open. White sheer curtains fluttered in the mild breeze. If I lived there, I’d use the porch with the ocean view, not the one facing the street. I was about to make my way down Ocean to a beach access path when I noticed that the red mailbox flag was up.

  I sprinted across the street, and, with my heart thudding so hard I thought it might break my ribs, opened the mailbox. There was only one envelope inside. It was white with delicately rendered butterflies printed on the back, a greeting card. It was addressed to someone named Alli Rheingold in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The return address read Clover Avenue in Los Angeles. The sender’s name was Coco Tully. I photographed both sides of the envelope, shut the mailbox, and scurried away down Ocean toward the path that led to the beach.

  Turning into the sandy alley that ran from Ocean Avenue to the dunes, I glanced over my shoulder. No one was following, and I paused, leaning gingerly against a rickety picket fence, willing the adrenaline rush to pass. I couldn’t believe I’d just peeked inside a stranger’s mailbox. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the ocean’s roar and rumble. The waves cracked with lightning-bolt fervor, then ebbed into shore with purling calm. My h
ands were trembling. After a while, a familiar and welcome serenity replaced my agitation, and I continued down the path.

  When I reached the beach, I stuffed my sandals inside my tote bag and set off south, placing the Towson cottage at my back. The shifting sand was littered with shiny twirls of dark green seaweed and countless clam and mussel shells. A hundred yards down the empty beach, I came to a long, twisted branch of silvery gray driftwood. After being blown into the ocean during a storm and moiled in the turbulent water for years, the bark fell away and the wood was sanded to a silky finish, until finally, a confluence of fierce winds, powerful waves, and high tide tossed it onto shore. I stretched out beside it, lying on cold, hard sand. I peered through a crook in the branch. A tall, thin woman somewhere in her thirties was on the porch, sitting on an Adirondack rocker, facing the ocean, drinking from a blue mug and reading something on a tablet. She had short auburn hair. She wore a silky, tangerine-colored maxigown and an ivory fine-knit sweater. After a moment, she placed her mug and the tablet on a nearby table and walked to the railing. She stared out over the ocean.

  I raised myself up on one elbow and took three photos, wishing she would gaze in my direction so I could capture her full face. After a few minutes, she walked back to the rocker and sat down again. I was ready and took three more shots. After another minute watching, with my neck cricked and my foot tingling as if it were about to go to sleep, I said, “Enough.”

  I stood, turned my back to the cottage again, brushed off the sand that clung to my skin and dress, then walked slowly back to the beach access passageway. I still had some flyers for New Hampshire Children First! in my tote bag. Funding therapeutic horse rides would serve as a logical reason for me to knock on her door. Once I was back on Ocean, I picked my way along the shoulder until I reached the cottage driveway.

  Circling around the Lexus to reach the porch steps, I raised my shoulders to my ears, then lowered them, three times, then turned my head as far as I could to the right, then to the left, surefire relaxation techniques. The garage door had three big windows, and as I passed, I glanced in. A red Mercedes was parked inside. The license plate read MYLV.