A Familiar Tail (23 page)

“So, I guess Brad and Dorothy were spending a lot of time together.”

“And even though they were being careful, Frank found out, and he jumped to the conclusion that Brad was badgering Dorothy about the house. They argued. In fact, they argued the night Dorothy died.”

I bit my lip and ran my hand over my purse. I felt the wand underneath. A low prickling ran up my palm. I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't know what to do with any of it. Because this story Laurie was telling me was so very different from what I'd been hearing from other people.

“This must all be really hard for you,” I said.

“Well, it hasn't been easy. Still.” She shrugged and brushed her straggling hair back. “Maybe now . . .”

She was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming open. “Hey, Mom!” shouted Colin. “You here?”

Laurie shot to her feet. “Colin!” she called back. “Did you . . .”

Colin loped into the kitchen. He saw me and he stopped dead. I seemed to have that affect on the Thompsons.

“What's she doing here?” he demanded.

If ever there was a cue to exit stage left, that was it. “Thank you for your time, Laurie.” I shook her hand. It really was cold. “I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Thank you, Anna,” she murmured.

“Well. Gosh. Since you're going, I'll walk you out.” Colin stepped aside to make it easy for me to head for the front
door, all the while making it very clear that this was exactly what I should be doing right now.

Of course his mom noticed this.

“Colin,” said Laurie sternly. “This is not a problem.”

“Course not,” he answered. “Didn't say it was.”

I didn't say anything at all. I just smiled politely and headed out the Thompson's front door, very aware of the young man who followed me down the driveway to make extra sure I didn't turn around and bother his mother anymore.

I didn't. But when I reached my Jeep, I did turn around and bother Colin. “I'm not here to make trouble,” I said. No points for originality there, but at least I meant it.

“Suuurrre,” Colin drawled. “Why would I think that? Especially since you're going away now, and you're not coming back.”

“I was here to help. I might have a gig for your mom, for her art.”

That startled him, but he was not at all ready to back down. “We've had enough help.”

“What do you mean, Colin?” I laid my hand over my wand. My palm prickled. Julia said magic was about focus and concentration. I tried to concentrate on what
I
meant. I meant to help. I meant to be a friend. I meant to get to the bottom of what had gone wrong.

Colin shifted his weight and looked away. “I mean since Dorothy Hawthorne ‘helped' Dad, he's been acting all crazy. It was bad enough when he was out of work, but this . . .” He folded his arms and stared out across the street.

“What's ‘this'?” I took a step closer and did my best to focus.
Tell me. I can help. Please, tell me.

“He's supposed to be at work today, but he's not,” whispered Colin. “Nobody knows where he is.” He slapped his palm over his mouth and for a second he looked panicked. “Don't tell Mom, okay? Please?” The hostility was gone.
This was just a worried kid who was having to grow up a lot faster than he should.

Personally, given how she was acting when I showed up, I figured Laurie already knew. But I nodded anyway. “I won't say anything to her, I promise.”

“Thanks. Look, I'm supposed to be going to work now. Just . . . leave Mom alone, okay? She's got enough problems.”

“I'm going, I'm going,” I told him. “But if there's anything I can do . . .”

But Colin had already turned away and headed back toward the house.

I climbed into the Jeep, started the engine and drove. When I was two blocks away and around the corner, I pulled over and hit Kenisha's number.

“Freeman,” she answered. “What's going on, Anna?”

“I've just been over at the Thompsons'. Brad Thompson's missing.”

“Missing?” she repeated in her calm, controlled, cop voice. “How long?”

“Just since this morning, but he's not at work, and Colin is really worried. I think Laurie is too. It's got to be twenty-four hours before they can make out a report, right?” Kenisha made an affirmative noise. “I know you don't like to do anything without proof, Kenisha, but I'm sure something's going on here.”

“You've been talking to Val too much.”

“No, that's not it. I swear.”

Kenisha sighed. “All right, all right.” All at once, her voice dropped. “I can't talk now.” I pictured her glancing over her shoulder and wondered if that lieutenant everybody kept muttering about had come within earshot. “But I can keep an eye out for Brad. Is Colin home with Laurie?”

“For now. He says he's got to go to work soon.”

“Okay. Maybe I can phone later . . . thanks for the heads-up.”

We said good-bye again and hung up, and I sat there for a while, both hands on the wheel, not going anywhere. I'd done what I could, for the moment. I had just a few problems:

1) Brad Thompson was probably lying to his wife about why he'd been spending so much time with Dorothy Hawthorne.

2) Elizabeth Maitland was probably lying to me about how she got her hands on that blackmail letter.

3) Julia Parris was definitely lying to me about the little yellow spy bird.

4) How in the heck was I supposed to make small talk with Frank Thompson with items one, two and three hanging over my head?

33

DESPITE THE LIST
of lies and worries that I seemed to be accumulating, the day brought some good news too. Nadia
loved
Laurie's work. Capital
L
, italics, exclamation points and blinky smiley faces loved.

“Do you have her e-mail?” Nadia demanded. “I showed her stuff to a couple of my clients who do high-end office decor, and they want to see her originals, like, yesterday!”

At this time, I was curled up on the living room window seat with Alistair purring in my lap, and looking proud enough that you'd think the whole thing had been his idea.

After I hung up with Nadia, it felt a whole lot easier to believe that everything could be cleared up with a few phone calls and a few pointed questions. I was singing old Beatles tunes as I showered and changed to go meet Frank.

Alistair did not stick around for the second chorus of “A Hard Day's Night.” Smart cat.

Frank and I had agreed to meet in front of the North
Church, and he was already sitting on one of the tourist benches when I arrived.

“You look like you want to change your mind,” he said as he got to his feet. Apparently, I hadn't been able to keep all my worries and doubts out of my expression.

“No, no. I'm sorry. I just . . .” I glanced around, searching for an excuse. I couldn't tell Frank straight-out about all the things I'd heard today, not if I wanted him to keep talking to me. Which I did. Kind of a lot, all things considered. “I was just wondering where we should go.” From where I stood, I could count at least five busy restaurants between the clothing and souvenir shops.

“How about the Pale Ale?” he said. “I know you like the place, and the new chef is really terrific . . . And you've got that look on your face again.”

I laughed. “Sorry. It's just that the new chef is my best friend, Martine Devereux, and if we go to dinner there, she might see . . . us.”

Frank raised both eyebrows. “And Best Friend Martine would care because . . . ?”

“Because she'd think we're . . . that this is a . . . you know . . .”

“Oh.” Frank nodded sagely. “Is she pro or anti you know . . . ?”

“Oh, pro, but I'm taking a break from . . . you know.”

“And she doesn't get it, and she's going to give you all kinds of best-girlfriend grief if you walk in with some random guy, especially if he just happens to be your new landlord.”

“Hey, you're good at this.”

Frank grinned. “It's those killer journalistic instincts. Okay, Pale Ale probably not the best idea. How do you feel about chowder?”

“I feel that chowder is nature's perfect food.”

“I was hoping you'd say that. Come on, Anna
Blessingsound Britton. It's time you were introduced to Joe King's Chowder Shack.”

•   •   •

JOE KING'S CHOWDER
Shack proved to be just that—a shack. It was a little white clapboard building by the river sandwiched between a Circle K quickie mart and a gas station. Across the street, a fake tiki bar blasted techno dance music from the roof patio. It was early yet, but the bar's parking lot was packed and clearly the party was in full swing.

Inside the shack, there was barely room for me and Frank, the battered counter, and the smiling man who tended the pair of steaming kettles.

“Hey, Manny!” called Frank as he held the screen door open for me. “How's it going?”

“Hey-yah, Frank. Cahn't complain. Cahn't complain.”

Manny was a little round man with leather brown skin and black hair slicked back under a black flatcap. He also had big hands, a genial smile and the thickest old-school New Hampshire accent I'd ever heard.

“What's on the fire today?” Frank leaned both elbows on the counter and inhaled the fragrant steam.

“Oh, let's see heyah. We got the clam chowdah, as always, and we got a lobstah bisque, mighty good. Get'cha a taste?” he asked me.

“That'd be great,” I answered.

Manny produced a couple of small white cups filled with delicate pink broth and a chunk of sweet lobster floating in each. I sipped. The bisque was light and savory and sweet. In short, perfect.

Frank was watching me and grinning. “I think that'll be two, Manny. And some of Marisol's bread, okay?”

“Comin' right up.” Manny started carefully ladling soup into disposable bowls and wrapping bread in brown paper.

“Marisol?” I said to Frank. “The housekeeper at the Maitlands'?”

“You've met Marisol?” Frank asked.

“Elizabeth Maitland invited me over for tea yesterday.”

“Did she?” Frank did not sound very happy about this coincidence. Considering his opinion of Ellis Maitland, I guess I should not have been surprised. “What for?”

Before I could answer, Manny put two white paper sacks down in front of us. I reached for my purse, but Frank waved me back.

“Let me.”

“Oh, no. You got the coffee last time. This is mine.”

Frank made a face. “You're working for me, remember? Boss buys bisque.”

I made a face of my own but relented. Frank paid, and we headed out, each carrying a paper bag. Frank winced at the noise from the tiki bar. “Maybe we should walk a ways?” He gestured up the river. “There's a park by the North Mill Pond, just across the bridge there.”

“Sounds good.”

The park turned out to be a lovely green space around a big irregular sidewater of the Piscataqua. Dragonflies chased midges across the water's dark surface. We found a lopsided picnic table to sit at and flattened the bags to use as place mats for the chunks of crusty bread. Unlike some people (Martine), Frank Hawthorne did not get all judgey when I dumped an entire packet of oyster crackers into the satin-smooth bisque. Seagulls clustered on the rocks, a feathered mafia waiting for their chance to make a move on our turf, and our dinner.

“So.” Frank dunked bread into bisque. “Have you had a chance to look around the house yet?”

It was not exactly a subtle lead-in, but I'd been ready for something like it. “A little,” I told him. “In fact, I noticed the furniture's there, but Dorothy's personal papers aren't.
The old bills and checks and stuff like that. Have you got them?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Have you been through them?”

He cocked his head toward me. “Not thoroughly.”

I stirred soup and oyster crackers and said nothing. Frank made a sour face. “And you are wondering why I haven't gotten off my duff and really dug into them?”

“I have never said the word ‘duff' in my life.”

“It was one of Aunt Dot's favorites.” He sighed. “I did look. I had to get the records together for probate and everything, but it all seemed . . . normal. I mean, I already knew that Dorothy was up-to-date on all her payments, and the mortgages were both fixed rate, really conservative and straightforward.”

A strange feeling of disappointment surged through me. If there wasn't any money trouble, that shot down several of my best theories about Dorothy's murder.

Unless, of course, the reason she didn't have money trouble was that she'd been bringing in some extra money on the side. I bit my lip.

Frank, of course, saw this, and he pounced. “You have found something. What is it?”

I found out your aunt is a blackmailer. Unless it's Brad Thompson. Unless it's you.

I did not say this. Frank, it turned out, was not in a mood to let a good silence stretch out.

“Is it something to do with what you and Brad Thompson were arguing about at the restaurant the other day?”

“I should have known you'd find out about that.”

Frank smiled, but it was not a happy expression. “Yeah, you really should have.”

I dipped my spoon into the bisque and turned it over. “Seems like Brad was fighting with a lot of people,” I said. “Including you.”

Frank winced. “You've been talking to Laurie, haven't you?”

“I'm supposed to be figuring things out, remember?” I sipped a spoonful of bisque. “And as it happens, I'm putting her in touch with a friend of mine who might be able to sell some of her watercolors.”

Frank wasn't looking at me. He was spooning up soup and struggling with something hard inside. “That was nice of you,” he said, and he meant it. I remembered how he'd tried to protect Brad when he thought Brad was about to get into trouble with his boss.

“Were you and Brad good friends?” I asked.

Frank nodded. “He was older than me, so we didn't exactly grow up together, but you know how it is in a small town; there are just some people who are always . . . around. Our families knew each other, and I didn't have siblings, and Brad, he kind of took over the part of my big brother. He looked out for me when I got into high school. Made sure I made it home okay when I'd gone to a party or two I maybe shouldn't have.” He turned over his bread a couple of times like he was looking for something in the crumbs. “I accused him a couple times of ratting me out to Aunt Dot when he probably didn't.” Frank yanked off a chunk of bread and pitched it at the gulls, who set up a massive ruckus as they all dove after it. “Brad was one of those straight-arrow guys we were all supposed to imitate. Studied hard, ran track and field, got into a good college, got out with a good business degree. Came home, married Laurie, bought a nice house, had nice kids. Everything by the book, everything smooth. Until all of a sudden it wasn't.”

“What happened?”

Frank shrugged. “Life. He got downsized at work, and then his dad got sick and the insurance wasn't covering half of what they needed, and . . . it all just melted away: savings, house, everything. We were all hoping things would get better for them when he got the job with Ellis Maitland, and for a while they did. But now . . .” Frank tore off another hunk of bread to pitch toward the gulls. “Something's gone wrong again. It's probably nothing, really. He's probably just scared it'll all fall apart again.”

Except that wasn't all there was to it. But how much could I, or should I, tell Frank about what I knew? I thought about Brad's search for the “copies.” I thought about how Frank had just told me he had all Dorothy's personal papers. I thought about how frightened Brad had been when he realized I might be working with Frank.

I thought about how Dorothy had left her clue in a room she'd made darn sure her nephew would have trouble getting into.

Her nephew, or anybody else.

“I should have told you before,” I said slowly. “When I . . . was in Dorothy's house the first time, the person Alistair and I chased out was Brad Thompson.”

Frank made no answer, at least not right away, but his whole body tensed. A whole lot of something was going on inside his head, and none of it was taking him to his happy place.

“You're sure?”

“We got a very good look at each other.”

He sighed and tossed the spoon into the empty bowl. “You know, when you described the guy, I thought, jeez that sounds like Brad, but I told myself it couldn't be.”

“Why not?” I asked, and when I saw the glare he turned on me, I almost wished I hadn't. Almost.

“Because it's not the kind of thing he'd do! Brad's a good guy, a good, regular guy. Maybe we're on the outs, but that's
only because he cared about Dorothy almost as much as I did!”

“Then, they were close? Laurie told me Dorothy and Brad had been spending a lot of time together.”

Frank didn't answer. He got up and paced over to the pond and stared at the busy dragonflies.

“You asked me to help find out how your aunt died,” I reminded him. “You said you wanted to know, no matter what turned up. Well, this is what's turning up.”

“You've got to understand; Aunt Dot . . . she was all I had,” Frank said softly. “My mother died when I was a kid. My dad . . . he was, is, always off somewhere chasing the next big thing. Aunt Dot raised me, and Brad looked out for me. And this is what I'm supposed to go tearing apart?” He stopped. “I know. I'm a journalist. I'm supposed to go after the truth, whatever it is. But how can I do that when it might hurt the people I care about? Or ruin my memory of them?”