Antique Blues Page 3

  As we turned the corner, the soft hum of a guitar caught my attention. Frank sat with his back to us playing a blues tune I knew but didn’t know. Frank was tall and fit and loose-limbed. His craggy features and weathered skin made him look like an outdoors man, a rancher maybe. He wore dark blue cargo shorts and a sky-blue polo shirt.

  We walked across the flagstones, and Frank, hearing our footsteps, looked over his shoulder. He smiled and stood up, placing his guitar on a thick maroon towel he’d laid on top of a black wrought-iron table.

  “Josie. Good to see you.”

  “You, too, Frank. That was beautiful. What is it?”

  “‘I Believe I’ll Dust My Broom.’”

  “I love it. I don’t know if you’ve ever met Ellis Hunter?”

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  Ellis said, “Nice to meet you.”

  “I called Mo a little bit ago. She was going to ask Cal to meet us here. I have a couple of questions about Mo’s Japanese print.” I glanced around. “Have you seen them?”

  “Mo, not since breakfast. Cal, not since yesterday.” He surveyed Ellis’s face, pausing at the dark red scar that ran in a jagged line from his right eyebrow to his eye, a relic, I suspected, from his days as a New York City homicide detective. “Hunter … you’re the police chief.” He turned toward me. “You’ve brought a police chief to ask Mo questions about her print? That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Ellis is a friend,” I said, telling one truth while avoiding another.

  “Fair enough.” Frank flashed a smile. “Actually, I’m glad to see you. I was going to call. I’m thinking I want to sell this baby.” He pointed toward his guitar. “You handle musical instruments, don’t you?”

  “Sure.” I smiled. “It would be an honor.”

  “Good. It’s a 1930 Martin OM-45 Deluxe. They only made fourteen that year, and I think this one was built for Robert Johnson, a pretty famous blues man back in the day.”

  “Why do you want to sell it?”

  “Estate planning. It’s hard to believe, but I’m closing in on seventy. If anything happens to me, I don’t want Trish to have to deal with it.”

  “I’ll be glad to handle the sale, but if you’d rather not sell right now, we could appraise it for you, so when either of you is ready, you’ll have a good idea of its value.”

  “That sounds like a smart first step. Let’s do it.”

  I smiled. “Excellent!”

  “I’ll get it cased up, and check on Mo, too. Sometimes she gets working on those lesson plans of hers and loses all track of time.”

  I found my iPad in my tote bag. “I’ll have my office prepare the paperwork. Tell me what it is again.”

  Frank dictated the model number and Robert Johnson’s name, while I typed.

  I keep a miniature flashlight attached to my belt, so I’ll always have it handy when I need to examine the undersides of tables and insides of drawers, and I used it now to peer into the sound hole to confirm the serial number, 45317, then videotaped the guitar.

  When I was done, Frank lifted it clear, bundled up the towel, and went inside.

  “You look excited,” Ellis said.

  I typed a note to Gretchen asking her to prepare the appraisal documents. I looked up. “Want to guess why?”

  “Because you’re excited.”

  “I never could get anything past you.”

  “What do you know about guitars?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And that makes you an ideal choice for appraising them.”

  I hit the SEND button. “Don’t be sassy. I know how to appraise valuable objects. I never know anything about anything until I learn it.”

  “Too bad everyone doesn’t share that attitude. Lots of people think they know things when they don’t.”

  “And most of those people don’t hesitate to share their opinions. Except they don’t call them opinions. They call them facts.”

  One corner of Ellis’s mouth twitched. “I know you … you’re talking about someone in particular. Who?”

  “Cal. You’ll see.”

  Frank came out with two black guitar cases in hand. “I can’t find her. I called her cell, too.” He lowered the cases to the table. He patted the one closest to him. “This is my working case. The guitar’s in it. The other case is the original, from Martin.” He looked around the yard. “Mo said something the other day about playing some game, croquet or badminton, I forget which. She might be in the shed hunting down birdies or wickets. I’ll check.”

  Ellis’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the display. “I need to take this.”

  Ellis sat on a wrought-iron bench while Frank and I crossed the lawn to the shed. Frank opened the door and switched on the light. The left side was full of lawn care equipment, including a riding lawn mower. Tools hung on pegboard hooks. Sports gear was housed on the right. Two kayaks were suspended from the ceiling; three bags of golf clubs rested on a wooden platform; six tennis racquets, four badminton racquets, and a mesh bag of birdies hung from brackets above the croquet set; and a rolled-up badminton net and silver poles leaned against the wall.

  Mo wasn’t there.

  He turned off the light and shut the door. “What time did she say she’d meet you?”

  “Five.”

  He glanced at his watch. “That’s now.” He stared into the shrubbery that surrounded the shed as though he might spot Mo hiding under a bush. “It’s not like her to miss an appointment.”

  “It’s not urgent. I can come back another time.”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you have Cal’s number?”

  “No, but Lydia will. She’s in the living room, working. She left work early today. She didn’t want to risk getting stuck in traffic and being late for Trish’s book club. Sometimes I think Lydia likes the book club more than Trish does.”

  We walked across the lawn to the patio. Ellis was reading something on his phone.

  “We’re going to ask Lydia for Cal’s phone number,” I told him.

  He met my eyes and nodded. “Why don’t I wait here.”

  I knew Ellis well enough to understand his unspoken message. He didn’t want to spook Lydia into refusing to give me Cal’s number.

  I followed Frank into the house, through the mudroom, down a corridor, and into the living room.

  Frank stopped about ten feet from where Lydia sat in a red leather club chair. Her feet were curled up under her. She was reading from a legal brief. There was a faint purple smudge under her right eye.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Lydia?”

  She looked at me, then back at Frank. “Is something wrong?”

  “Do you know where Cal is?”

  “Why?”

  “Mo arranged to meet Josie and him. Neither one of them showed up.”

  “Maybe they got the location wrong.” She met my gaze. “Or you did.”

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” I said. “Do you have his phone number?”

  “Sure.”

  She called it out, and I entered it into my phone. Frank and Lydia kept their eyes on my face as I waited for the call to connect. It went directly to voice mail. I listened to Cal’s voice invite me to leave him a message.

  “Hi, Cal. This is Josie. Josie Prescott. I thought you, Mo, and I were going to meet up today at the Shannons’ house. At five. In the garden. Did I misunderstand the location? Give me a call, please! I have a few questions about the woodblock print. Thanks!”

  Lydia tapped the brief against her leg. “What questions?”

  “Technical stuff. Were you with Cal when he bought it?”

  “No. We’re not joined at the hip.”

  “So you don’t know where he is now?” Frank asked.

  “No. What’s going on?”

  I smiled. “Just a couple of questions. Could Cal be at Hitchens?”

  Her shoulders lifted an inch, then dropped. “Maybe. We’re not scheduled to get together until tomorrow.”

  “I
f you talk to him, ask him to call me, okay?” She said she would, and I turned toward Frank. “Why don’t we check the garden again?”

  “Sure.”

  I glanced over my shoulder as we left the room. Lydia was already back at work, flipping pages, shaking her head over some point in the brief.

  * * *

  Ellis stood facing the ocean, his back to us. He was on his phone.

  Mo and Cal weren’t in sight.

  “I wonder where they are,” Frank said. “I don’t like it. Mo doesn’t make mistakes about locations any more than she forgets appointments.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll go ask Trish if she knows anything.”

  “Want to sign the appraisal authorization? Then I’ll stow the guitar and meet you back here.”

  Frank read the agreement, signed the electronic form, and headed into the house.

  I opened the modern case to confirm that the guitar was inside, latched it closed, and carried the two cases to my car. I wrapped each of them in protective blankets and secured them in the trunk.

  When I got back to the garden, I took another look around. Neither Mo nor Cal had shown up. I walked past Ellis, back on the phone, toward the ocean. When he saw me, he raised his index finger. I gave him a thumbs-up.

  Riffles of whitecaps ran along the surface, a light chop. Farther out to sea, the water looked black and deadly. I reached the low fieldstone wall that protected the unsuspecting or the preoccupied from the twenty-foot drop. I looked to the right, south. Instead of the tan thick-grained sand that covered most of New Hampshire’s coastline, overlapping eight-foot granite boulders ranged along the bottom of the cliff and stretched ten feet into the ocean. Glossy ribbons of bottle-green seaweed were wedged between some of the boulders.

  I glanced at Ellis. He was nodding at something someone was saying. I turned north and watched the frothy waves batter the boulders and the cliff. When the water ebbed, I spotted a heap of clothing lying on a boulder, something pink and flowery. I tried to imagine how it got there, then gasped and tripped, scraping my knee on the rough stone wall. It wasn’t a pile of clothing. It was a body.

  I spun toward Ellis. He must have seen panic on my face, because he ended his call and started jogging toward me.

  I turned back to the rocky shoreline.

  “What is it?” Ellis called as he ran.

  I could see it was a woman. Her face was turned toward the shore, toward me. I squinted to try to discern her features.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered, pointing at the boulder, fighting tears, my throat closing.

  Ellis stood next to me, and together we stared at Mo’s broken body.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I sat on the lawn with my back to the stone wall and my head between my knees, waiting for the gold flecks dancing in front of my eyes to disappear. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Ellis was on the phone barking orders. After a few seconds, the specks floated away. I found a tissue in my tote bag and wiped the wetness from my face, then used the wall to hoist myself upright.

  A police boat cut its engines fifty feet from shore, glided for a few seconds, then dropped anchor. I recognized the medical examiner, Dr. Graham. I’d seen her before, but I didn’t know her. She was petite and about my age, midthirties. From all reports, she was totally by-the-book and as thorough as all get-out.

  Two men I didn’t know, both in their thirties, and both wearing official Rocky Point police windbreakers, lowered a dinghy. It landed in the water with a loud plop. One of the police officers climbed in, followed by a younger man wearing a Rocky Point Crime Scene Technology jacket. The police officer on the larger boat helped the doctor navigate her way into the dinghy. She stepped down, setting it rocking. He passed two black bags, a big one stamped with the department’s gold logo, and a smaller one, more the size of a camera case, to the tech. Once the dinghy settled down, the police officer rowed toward the boulders.

  “No!” Trish screeched to the heavens, shattering the stillness.

  I spun around. Ellis stood on the patio, his face lined with concern, his hand on Trish’s shoulder. Frank kept his eyes on Ellis’s face and his arm under Trish’s elbow, ready to catch her if she fainted, which from her ashen complexion seemed like a realistic possibility.

  “No!” Trish screamed again, her head back, her eyes scrunched closed.

  Lydia had a death grip on the back of a wrought-iron chair. She looked as scary-pale as her mother.

  Ellis said something I couldn’t hear.

  Trish shrieked again, and Frank embraced her. She howled again and again, her cries growing louder. Her legs buckled. Frank walked her to a bench.

  I hadn’t had enough time to process the fact that Mo was dead, that my friend was dead, and witnessing Trish’s tortured reaction made the horror worse, more palpable. It felt wrong to watch something so private, so harrowing. I looked away. As Trish’s screams faded to whimpers, I fought back a fresh wave of tears. After a few seconds, I had myself under a modicum of control.

  The medical examiner was squatting on the boulder, leaning over Mo’s body. She wore turquoise plastic booties. The tech did, too. He was video-recording Mo’s corpse and the craggy rocks. The dinghy was moored ten feet away, roiling in the increasingly choppy water. The police officer who’d rowed the doctor and technician in sat in the boat watching them work.

  On the lawn overlooking the crime scene, Ellis was listening to Claire Brownley, a detective I’d known for years.

  Lydia, ignoring Detective Brownley, spoke to Ellis, and Ellis nodded.

  “Daryl!” Ellis called, and a young police officer hustled over, listened for a moment, then ran ahead and opened the kitchen door.

  Lydia whispered something to Frank. He helped Trish stand and placed his arm around her shoulders, said something to her, and led her into the house. Lydia dragged along behind, her shoulders bowed.

  Ellis resumed his conversation with the detective. I was curious about what they were discussing. No one was paying any attention to me. Keeping my eyes on the ocean, I sidestepped past beds of late-blooming roses until I was partially hidden by clusters of tall grass. I walked backward past the rosebushes, then turned inland. I skirted the patio by staying on the far side of the hedges and bushes. I paused behind a tall lilac bush, close enough to hear but not so close as to intrude.

  Frank burst out of the kitchen and headed straight to Ellis with Lydia on his heels.

  “I heard Cal’s name on that police officer’s radio,” Frank told Ellis, his tone so sharp it could have poked a hole in iron, “and I came on the fly. Have you located him?”

  “Not yet,” Ellis said. “He told the Art Department secretary that he’d be back for a student conference. He didn’t show up.”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “Daddy, please.”

  “Enough. Your sister’s dead.” He froze her with an icy stare. He turned to Ellis. “I need to get back to Trish. So he’s on the run. Now what?”

  “Now we find him.”

  “Whatever you need, you just let me know. You name it, you got it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Frank met Lydia’s stony gaze. “Stay and tell him everything you know about Cal.”

  “Of course.” She turned toward Ellis. “Cal had nothing to do with what happened to Mo.”

  Ellis waited until Frank was back inside. “Are you all right to talk? We can wait a little.”

  Lydia lifted her chin. “I’m fine. Upset, of course, but I can talk.”

  A boat engine revved high, then quieted, and we all turned toward the ocean. A second police boat pulled up beside the first one.

  “I appreciate your cooperation,” Ellis said. “Do you know where Cal is?”

  “No.”

  “When did you last talk to him?”

  “This morning. I stayed at his place. We’re not scheduled to see each other again today because tonight is my mom’s book club. Oh!” She touched her mouth. “I need to call everyone to
cancel.”

  “We’ll talk to them as they arrive. To be sure I understand—Cal isn’t expecting you back at his apartment later?”

  “No. On book club nights, unless Cal attends, I stay here.” She shook her head, a small, sad motion. “My mom’s pals can toss back wine with the best of ’em. I try to keep up, so I never drive afterward. I called Cal earlier and left a message. I told him what happened and asked him to come over, to help me.” She glanced at the side of the house that led to the driveway. “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I can’t believe this is happening … I just can’t believe it.”

  “Why don’t you go see how your folks are doing? I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Lydia took in a deep breath. “I’ll go in when we’re done. Daddy’s right—if I can help, I want to. What else can I tell you?”

  “When did you last see Mo?”

  “Let me think.” Lydia rubbed her forehead. “Yesterday, maybe.”

  “Last night?”

  “No. I was with Cal from after work until this morning. I stayed here the night before, so I would have seen Mo at breakfast.”

  “Do you have your own home?”

  “I keep a studio apartment near campus. I don’t use it much.”

  “How was Mo feeling yesterday?”

  “About what?”

  “In general. Did she seem the same as always?”

  “I guess. I didn’t notice anything in particular, and I think I would have if something was different.”

  “Was Mo dating anyone?”

  “Not that I know of. She’s recovering—she was recovering from a bruising divorce. It was final last October, and she’s been slow to bounce back.”

  “Why was it bruising?”

  Lydia snorted, half harrumph, half derisive chortle. “Her ex, Steven Jullison. He calls himself Stevie, and that tells you just about everything you need to know about him. He’s a first-grade teacher, which feels right since he acts about six most of the time. The precipitating event that made Mo finally toss him out was that she found out he was going on overnight playdates with some hottie.”