Beware False Profits (19 page)

Lucy’s eyes were shining. “Now you’re talking like a detective.”

“No way. Not happening. Not going there. Better to take a chance on Cilla. The way she feels about Joe, I doubt she would ever do a thing to jeopardize his job.”

We were interrupted by my mother, who came in the front door carrying a cardboard box that nearly didn’t fit through the opening.

I jumped to my feet to help guide her, taking the box out of her arms. I looked down and saw neatly folded fabric that looked vaguely familiar. “What’s this?”

“Felted wool. For the penny rugs the girls and I are making.”

“Oh. You went to buy fabric?” The closest store was miles away, which was part of the reason Junie’s quilt shop was bound to be a success.

“No, precious, I’ve been at It’s a Wash all morning. I didn’t want to use your machines for felting. It’s messy.”

I set down the box and picked up a folded square. “Why does this look familiar?”

“I bought bags of wool skirts, pants, and blazers at the rummage sale. Maybe you saw them when you were there. The girls and I took them apart, then this morning I washed the pieces in hot water and put them through the hottest cycle on the dryer. Heat shrinks everything and tightens the weave. Now the fabric won’t ravel when we cut and stitch it.”

Hazel Kefauver’s skirts, pants, and blazers. Shrunk almost beyond recognition.

Junie sounded delighted. “I’ll dye most of the fabric because the colors are unbelievably dreary. But you have no idea what this would have cost anywhere else. It was high-quality wool, quite a find. I’m so glad I moved here.”

I kissed her cheek. “Aren’t we all?”

“Oh, I did find one odd thing in a pocket. I’ve been meaning to give it to you. Can you wait a moment?” She started upstairs.

“Is that fabric what I think it is?” Lucy asked.

“No point in telling Junie and spoiling her fun.”

“You missed something in a pocket?”

“I told you what a hurry I was in.”

Junie returned and held out her hand. Resting on her palm was a small plastic object about an inch square.

I saw why I had missed it. “What is it?”

Lucy was peering over my shoulder. “It’s a photo card for a digital camera. Tell me you know what a digital camera does.”

“Of course I do. I just don’t choose to use one myself. My little Brownie box camera works great. When I can load the film.” I took the photo card and turned it over. “I’m assuming this didn’t go through the laundry?”

Junie picked up her box of fabric. “No, I found it when I was cutting up a skirt. It was caught in a seam. You girls have fun.”

“Luce?” I held out the card once Junie was gone. “What equipment do we need so we can see if there’s anything useful on this?”

“A computer and a few minutes.”

“Let’s go.”

Ed is not technology challenged. He has a USB universal media hub plugged into our computer, something he hadn’t—for obvious reasons—bothered to tell me. Lucy found the correct slot and inserted the card. In less than a minute we were looking at a strip of three photos. Lucy clicked on the first one.

“Can you tell anything?” I squinted at the photo. I guessed it was a dark city street with a collection of street-lamps. The photo was blurry, as if Hazel or someone had moved the camera when she shot it.

“I think those lights may be signs,” Lucy said. “Neon signs. But they’re impossible to read.”

I leaned closer to the screen. “Could be. Let’s go to the second one.”

Lucy went back to the strip of three and clicked the second. This photo was a little clearer. We could tell that buildings sat one on top of each other, some were brightly lit, some were darker. This was not Emerald Springs. We don’t have this much neon in the entire town.

“Cleveland?” I guessed. “Cincinnati?”

“Hard to tell. Can you read that sign?” She pointed to a corner of the screen.

I leaned closer again. “Pizza?”

“I think so.”

“I’m sure Sam Spade could do something with that, but I’m at a loss.”

“Such an amateur.” Lucy went back to the strip and clicked on the third photo.

This time we didn’t need Sam Spade. Hazel had finally gotten the hang of her camera. Maybe she’d figured out how to use her flash. Maybe she’d realized that she had to set up the lens or a filter for nighttime photos. But whatever it was, now Lucy and I were staring at the outside of the Pussycat Club in New York’s East Village. The pink neon cat with enough wattage to light up the entire downtown of Emerald Springs could not be argued with.

“Hazel knew,” I said. “She was at the Pussycat Club. She knew about Joe. She must have followed him there.”

Lucy sat back, still staring at the photo on the screen. “Now I guess the next question is did Joe know about Hazel? And did he kill her before she could tell the world and destroy his life?”

Nan called before I had a chance to decide whether I should ask her for help. Generally Ed’s mother calls when there’s little chance her son will be home. I’m not sure this is a snide refusal to believe ministry really is a job with long hours, or just that her conversations with Ed—who refuses to be hooked by guilt or any other negative emotion—are less satisfying than conversations with me. I’m hooked almost every time.

“Agate, this is your mother-in-law. Ed’s mother?”

I wondered if Nan thought I had more than one husband. “How are you?” I was so pleased with my tone I risked another sentence. “I thought you were heading for Martha’s Vineyard this week.”

“That’s
next
week. Perhaps I’d better send you a calendar.”

I dropped into a chair and picked at a hangnail with malicious intent. “I’m afraid you’ve missed Ed again. He’s at church all day on Tuesdays.” I did not offer to send
her
a calendar, chalking up a point in the mature adult category.

“I just called to see how my granddaughters are doing.”

“They’ll be sorry they missed you, but of course, they’re in school.” I subtracted my point, so unfortunately, we were even again.

“How is Teddy’s little play?”

I could fault my mother-in-law for many things, but never for forgetting the details of her granddaughters’ lives. Nan follows them from afar, but she does follow them. In her own way, she’s fond of my girls, and they are as fond of her as children can be of someone who continually tries to mold them to her specifications.

“She was thrilled to be picked for Cinderella,” I said, and didn’t add that Teddy was less thrilled now.

“I’m sure you were surprised. There must be many little girls in her class who wanted the part.”

I was silent a moment, thinking about what she’d said. Had Nan inadvertently fingered the problem? Had Teddy lost friends from jealousy? Or had she been so pleased with her own good fortune that now they thought she was stuck-up? The perils of first grade. I wanted to wring my hands, but I was too busy with the hangnail.

“And Deena?” Nan probed.

I recited what I could. I didn’t tell Nan about Tyler, afraid she might call Deena and deliver a lecture on the importance of eschewing the opposite sex until she’s been admitted to an Ivy League university. Nan lives in terror that our decision to send both girls to a public school outside New England has doomed them to universities like Johns Hopkins and Northwestern and a life of mediocrity.

I asked Nan to tell me what she was doing, and she reciprocated. As our chats went, this one was remarkable. I was so encouraged I decided to broach the subject of Creative Construction. At the next lull, I went for it.

“We have somebody in our congregation who’s loosely connected to an old Boston scandal. You’re so well informed, I wonder if you’ve heard anything or seen anything in the papers there.” I proceeded to tell her what I knew about Creative Construction, then I waited.

“Agate, you know the worst people. How can this help Ed move to an
important
church? Don’t people expect more from you?”

This was the big zinger, the reason she’d lulled me into submission with pleasantries. Okay, maybe not, but now that she’d well and truly hooked me, I could feel her preparing to reel me in.

“The more I know, the more I can help,” I said so sweetly my saliva crystallized. “You don’t want your only son consorting with criminals, do you?”

“Ed?”

Did she have more than one son? I was beginning to wonder if I had inadvertently married identical twins.

“Knowledge is security,” I said. “It sounds like you know something about these people.”

“Those people are in and out of the news. And it’s my civic duty to stay informed, as is yours.”

“Well said.” I sat on my stinging finger and clenched my jaw instead.

“There were rumors about the Mafia being involved in Creative Construction and money laundering. No one ever seems able to prove anything, though. Of course they’re from Charlestown, not the North End.” As if that esoteric bit of geography said everything I needed to know.

“It must be a fairly well-established company to set off rumors. I mean, let’s face it, lots of businesses have connections to organized crime, and they don’t make the papers.”

“They’ve done some rather large projects, several quite visible.”

I had gotten more information than I’d expected. And I hadn’t even needed to visit the Internet.

We discussed Martha’s Vineyard, the need for Deena to do good works—not for the moral uplift but for her college application. Nan suggested Deena begin her own charitable foundation, and I promised to take it under advisement.

I hung up, more pleased than usual with my mother-in-law. Then I went to check Ed’s closet, just to be sure there weren’t two identical sets of everything.

My plans for the evening never came up in conversation. Unbeknownst to me the church board had planned a potluck supper, and Ed only came home long enough after office hours to cook a pot of brown rice. I knew it would be returned untouched to our kitchen later in the evening, except for Ed’s own portion. I’d seen this before. Ed is oblivious.

The rest of us made tacos, and the girls started on their homework. Junie had promised that if there was time after they finished, she would take my daughters to our local craft store to choose dye for their penny rugs. I had finally given up and asked what they were. Penny rugs are small decorative pieces consisting of a base fabric covered with felted wool appliqués.

Having Junie in the house is like having a camp counselor, except that the crafts are far superior, and she’s convinced her own ghost stories are true.

Lucy arrived at nine, after sunset. She wore black from head to toe, a nice touch. I wore the wrinkled blue T-shirt and pants I’d had on all day. I doubted we were going to find Johnny Depp grouting our tile.

Junie got a quick rundown of my plans, the tops of my daughters’ heads were kissed, and I sailed out to Lucy’s cherry red Concorde.

“Put the top down and we’ll go cruising for guys,” I said. “Or we can dance at the sock hop and drink chocolate malts at the soda shop.”

“Or drive off a cliff like Thelma and Louise.”

“On second thought, keep the top up.”

Lucy pulled out of the driveway. “Someday I’m really going to own a convertible. Then you’ll have to fantasize about something else.”

“My fantasy life is so rich and deep, nothing can throw a kink into it.”

“So what’s your fantasy about our mystery man?”

“Somebody down on his luck and so grateful for a place to stay that he’s paying us back the only way he knows how.”

“Why would such a talented carpenter be down on his luck? I could keep him busy for the next year, and he could charge what he’s worth. He could easily afford a nice apartment.”

“I wonder if we’re crazy to confront him like this.”

“What’s the alternative? The police?”

“You wanted more time with Roussos.”

“Maybe so, but Roussos would haul him in. Even if he let the guy go afterwards, the damage would be done.”

I thought so, too. And I couldn’t ask any man I knew to come with me as bodyguard without involving Ed, and the moment Ed heard what we were planning, he would call Roussos.

Life is a circle.

“I have my Mace,” Lucy said. “If he gets too high-spirited, you can flip him over your shoulder, or whatever it was you learned from your father.”

“Make fun of my childhood. Go ahead. The next time you need somebody to load your assault rifle, you’ll have to find a new best friend.”

Lucy parked at the end of the block, and we both got out. We were slightly more subdued. For all the reasons Lucy and I discussed, I wasn’t really worried. But I would be glad when I was proved correct.

“Okay, I’ll take the back door,” I told her, “because that’s where he’ll head when he hears you turning the key.”

“Why you?”

“Because he doesn’t stand a chance against me.”

“Size forty-two.”

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Remember?”

“I put the police on speed dial. I can get them in seconds.”

“Just don’t jump the gun with the phone or the Mace.”

We were close enough now that it was time to split up. I pointed to the neighbor’s yard, an older woman we’d gotten to know well. She was off on vacation this week. I knew because I’d promised to take in her mail. Now I threaded my way through the yard and squeezed through the row of lilacs that separated the two houses. I stayed as close to the back of the house as I could to avoid being seen through a window. Then I waited until I heard Lucy unlocking the front door. I grasped the back doorknob and started to insert my key.

I wasn’t even close to target when the door flew open, and a large figure pushed through. I didn’t have time to step aside. We went down together. Just two steps, but it felt like we were rolling down the staircase of the Statue of Liberty.

“Oomph.” I tried to scramble to my feet and push him away. Our legs tangled, and I kicked and rolled to the side. He leaped to his feet and started across the yard at a fast lope.

The back lights came on and Lucy came down the steps in pursuit. I got to my feet, and got my first good look. Our intruder was almost out of the circle of light, just moving into the shadows at the back of the yard, but I’d seen enough to know who we’d caught.

“Joe Wagner!” I got to my feet and started after them. Lucy was just a few steps ahead of me.

The man didn’t slow. My ankle had twisted during our fall, and I wasn’t going to get far fast. I tried my last and best shot at stopping him.

“Joseph Belcore! You stop right this instant!”

Our guy stopped so suddenly that Lucy nearly collided with him. She backed away, and I hobbled in their direction, my heart pounding.

We had found Joe Wagner, or rather, he had found us. I didn’t know how to feel. Grateful he was alive? Happy I no longer had to search for him? How about worried that we had been crazy to flush him out of hiding?

Because why would Joe Wagner have secreted himself in the Victorian without letting anybody know where he was, unless he had something terrible to hide?

“You know Joey?”

I stopped and stared, and my jaw probably hit my collarbone. The man moving toward us and into the light, the man who had asked the question, wasn’t Joe Wagner at all. Yes, he was tall, with Joe’s broad shoulders and general build. And his face? Well his face was like looking at Joe’s, only Joe in maybe ten years. The nose was straight and the cheekbones high. He parted his hair on the same side, and it had the same casual wave. But the hair wasn’t jet-black, it was laced with silver, and the olive skin crinkled around the eyes and drooped just a little under the chin.

I realized he was waiting for an answer. He was still poised to turn and run, his weight on the balls of his feet.

I shook my head to clear it, but the image when I opened my eyes again was exactly the same. Joe, only
not
Joe.

“I know Joe Belcore,” I said. “But these days he goes by the name of Joe Wagner. You’re his brother, aren’t you?
One
of his brothers?”

“Where is Joey?”

“We don’t know and we’d like to,” Lucy said.

He didn’t move. I pointed to the house. “You know, if you come inside, maybe we can figure this out together. We’re afraid something may have happened to Joe. We could use your help.”

He still looked undecided. God help me, I resorted to guilt. “Of course, if you don’t care about him…”

The man stood very still. I wasn’t sure we had a chance of keeping him there. Then he sagged.

“We’d like to pay you for all the work you’ve done for us,” Lucy said, to sweeten the offer and take the sting out of my words. “And we want you to finish it. That was our only reason for coming tonight. We didn’t know who you were.”

“I just want to find my brother.”

“Then we’ll tell you our story, and you tell us yours,” I said. “Maybe we can work together and make that happen.” I turned and started back to the house, because what else could I do? Wrestle him to the ground? Nothing in my background had prepared me for that.

I wasn’t sure Joe’s brother would join us, but when I opened the door and held it, he followed Lucy inside.

Reuben Belcore—known simply as Rube—liked tacos. Five minutes of stand up conversation in the Victorian had convinced us we could have a more productive and comfortable talk at the parsonage. My offer of a home-cooked meal, even if it consisted of leftovers, helped Rube make the leap from suspicious to merely watchful.

He followed us in a rusted pickup truck that had seen a decade of use. The camper that fit over the truck bed had met with misfortune on the trip from Boston and he’d had to scrap it. I told him this was actually good fortune since eventually the mishap had brought him to us when he needed a place to sleep. But our connection wasn’t pure coincidence. As he scarfed tacos, accompanied by fruit salad and two of Junie’s fabulous brownies, he told us why he had installed himself in the Victorian.