Fatal Fixer-Upper (25 page)

Who might Professor Wentworth have spoken to about the statute of limitations?

One name came immediately to mind: Graham Rodgers, Aunt Inga's old friend and faithful family attorney. After quoting chapter and verse to me when I asked him about holographic wills, it seemed Mr. Rodgers was well trained in the ins and outs of Maine law.

It was the work of a moment to call him; however, at this point my luck ran out. The attorney didn't have a cell phone. When he didn't answer his home phone, I left a brief message—'Hi, Mr. Rodgers. This is Avery Baker. I had a quick question about statute of limitations. Would you give me a call when you have a minute?'—followed by my number, and then I hung up.

No sooner had I closed the phone and put it on the table than it rang again. I picked it back up, sure it was Mr. Rodgers answering my call. It wasn't.

'Look outside,' Derek commanded.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Look out the front door.'

'Why?'

'You'll see.' He didn't say anything else, and since it seemed like a fairly small thing to ask, I shrugged and got to my feet.

'Where are you?' I asked as I wandered along the hall toward the front of the house.

'None of your business. Are you there yet?'

'Almost.' I undid the locks, opened the door, and peered out.

I had thought he'd be at the curb, holding flowers or a pizza or something—so sue me; I've watched too many sappy sitcoms—but he wasn't. He was nowhere in sight nor was his truck. 'I don't see anything,' I said.

'You're not looking in the right place. Look right. I mean, left.'

I looked both ways, just to be safe, and still didn't see him. I did, however, see something else. 'What . . . ? Is that . . . ? Oh, my gosh, is that for me?'

'It used to belong to one of Cora's daughters,' Derek explained with a chuckle at my obvious surprise and pleasure.

'She doesn't live in Waterfield anymore, so Cora thought you might like to have it, since you don't have a car. She came by a while ago, but Wayne was there and she didn't want to intrude. Is everything okay?'

'Everything is fine. I was handing over Professor Wentworth's appointment book. And of course I'd love to have it. Tell her thank you and give her a kiss from me.'

Derek promised he would. 'I'd offer to come back out there, so you could pass on the kiss in person, but I can tell that at the moment I'd be superfluous. Enjoy.' He hung up. I stuffed the cell phone into my pocket and sank to the porch floor to commune with my new bicycle.

19

––Ten minutes later, I was on my way out the ocean road at a good clip. The bike was a better fit for me than Professor Wentworth's had been, and although the injured knee grumbled a little at being bent and straightened repeatedly, it beat the heck out of walking. And doing something, even if it was riding around willy-nilly, hoping to sight the Range Rover or Philippe, was better than sitting at home doing nothing.

This day felt like it had gone on forever. It was amazing to think that just twenty-four hours ago I'd been having dinner with Derek at the Waymouth Tavern. We hadn't yet realized that the fainting couch was gone or that Philippe was missing. Or for that matter who Philippe really was. Or any of the other bombshells that had exploded in my life today. As I pedaled, I reflected on what a difference a day makes.

Of course I also kept an eye out to the left and right— mostly the right—for signs of skid marks or breaks in the vegetation or guardrail along the ocean road, as well as, of course, for the Range Rover itself. By this time, it was dusk; not dark yet, not so far north in the summer, but just starting to turn from day to night. The stars were beginning to twinkle above, and lights began to come on in the houses I passed.

After a couple of miles, I came upon Mr. Rodgers's spread and slowed down. He still hadn't returned my phone call from earlier, although there was a light on in a couple of the downstairs rooms. As I rolled past the wrought-iron gates, spelling out the name Cliff on one side, House on the other, a shadow passed in front of the window. I slowed to a stop.

There was no sign of Mr. Rodgers's Cadillac in the driveway, although I could see what must be a carriage house inside the fence, just to my left. These days, that was probably in use as a garage. Maybe Mr. Rodgers had pulled the Caddy inside. But if he was home, why hadn't he called me? And if he wasn't home, but in Thomaston visiting family, as Wayne had suggested, who was moving around in his house? The gate was closed but unlocked I found when I tried to open it. It moved smoothly without making a sound, and I pushed it open just enough to wheel the bicycle through and prop it against the fence post inside.

My first stop was the carriage house, a smallish structure with three double doors and what looked like a dovecote in the middle of the roof, topped by a weather vane. It was painted white and green, like the main house, and the paint was peeling in places. Mr. Rodgers really ought to have had Derek paint it when he'd offered.

The three doors had six windows each, near the top. So near the top, in fact, that I had to stretch as high as I could just to peer through. The interior was dark, but I was able to make out the outline of a car behind the first door. It was big, boxy, and light-colored, so was probably Mr. Rodgers's white Cadillac.

Behind the second door, there was nothing but garden tools: outlines of spades and hoes, garden hoses, and a wheelbarrow. I moved on to door number three. There was another car behind door number three. Bigger than the Caddy, bulky and imposing. For a second, I couldn't believe my eyes. What was Mr. Rodgers doing with a brandnew Range Rover? Why drive the old Cadillac if he had this at home? And then my sluggish brain added two and two together. Not Mr. Rodgers's Range Rover, Philippe's. Stunned, I went back down on my heels and just stood for a second, as my brain raced to keep up. OK, so the Rover was in the garage at Cliff House. That explained why Wayne's APB hadn't turned it up. Just like Melissa's Mercedes, it was off the road for the time being. And if the Range Rover was here, then presumably so was Philippe. It made sense, really. Laura Lee had contacted Mr. Rodgers to tell him that Philippe was coming to Waterfield. Mr. Rodgers had shown Philippe the way to Aunt Inga's house. He might even have offered Philippe a place to stay in the event that Philippe wouldn't be staying with me. Philippe may not have realized that the writing was on the wall, and that I wouldn't welcome him back with open arms, but Mr. Rodgers, who had seen me with Derek for the past week, had most likely caught on to the fact that I was no longer interested in Philippe. His last statement to Philippe, back at the house the night before, had been for Philippe not to hesitate to call if there was anything Mr. Rodgers could do for him.

Or—I paled—what if the situation was less friendly? What if Mr. Rodgers had happened to drive by the house on his way home last night and had seen Philippe trying to make off with the fainting couch? What if Philippe had panicked and had hit Mr. Rodgers? He was half Mr. Rodgers's age, and thanks to his carpentry work, almost twice his size. Maybe he had taken him back here, to lie low until all the hoopla over the missing chaise longue died down—because he must have realized that he'd be the obvious suspect once we found it missing—and now he was holding Mr. Rodgers hostage in his own home. Maybe that's why Mr. Rodgers hadn't been answering his phone today. Maybe he hadn't gone to Thomaston to visit his family at all. Something skittered quickly through my brain and out on the other side. I tried to grab it and hold on, but without success. And then I jumped as a voice behind me said, 'Miss Baker?'

For a second, I felt dizzy. Then I swung on my heel, a big smile on my face. 'Mr. Rodgers! You're all right!'

'Indeed, Miss Baker.' Mr. Rodgers nodded cordially.

'May I ask what you are doing in my yard?'

'Oh.' I flushed and bit my lip. 'I left you a message earlier, but I didn't hear back from you. And Wayne Rasmussen said he'd called you, too, but he hadn't been able to get hold of you, either. He said you'd probably gone to Thomaston. And when I saw that the light was on in the house, but that there was no car in the driveway, I got worried that someone had broken in. Between the break-ins at Aunt Inga's house, and . . . um . . .' I paused, not quite sure how to proceed. The other burglaries had taken place more than seventy years ago, perhaps before Mr. Rodgers was born; it was only in my mind that they were something recent.

'I see,' Mr. Rodgers said. 'Very considerate of you, Miss Baker.'

'No problem. Um . . . is that Philippe's car in the garage?'

I hooked a thumb at door number three.

'Indeed, yes. Monsieur Aubert has spent a very uncomfortable night and day.' Mr. Rodgers lowered his voice delicately. 'A reaction to the escargot at Pierre's, I believe.'

'That figures,' I muttered. Trust Phil Albertson to insist on eating snails, when every restaurant in town, including the college cafeteria, had Maine lobster on the menu.

'He is still in a bit of a tight spot, I'm afraid, but if you would care to come inside, I'll take you to him.' Mr. Rodgers gestured toward the house.

'Sure,' I said. I was there; I may as well see Philippe. If he looked pitiful enough, I might even reconsider my plan to slice him to ribbons with my pinking shears, although that was by no means a sure thing.

. . .

The first thing I saw when I walked into Cliff House was the fainting couch. It was sitting up against the wall in Mr. Rod gers's foyer, sans tweed upholstery. It was the first time I'd seen it entirely in its original form, and I stopped and stared. It was gorgeous, even though the once off-white fabric was yellowed with age and some of the embroidery had worn out. Frayed ends of golden yellow and pale green, rose, and blue thread were sticking out in places. Murmuring endearments, I squatted in front of it. 'I thought I might never see it again,' I told Mr. Rodgers over my shoulder, as I traced one of the embroidered flower swags with my finger.

'Monsieur Aubert was in possession of it when he arrived last night,' Mr. Rodgers explained. 'He indicated that you had relented and agreed to allow him to take it to New York after all, to be authenticated. We brought it in overnight, to keep it safe.'

'Thank you,' I said, getting to my feet again. 'And don't worry, I don't blame you at all. It sounded reasonable; there was no way you could have known that he was lying through his teeth.' The bastard. Just wait until I got my hands on him. I looked around the foyer, my hands fisted.

'He was lying?' Mr. Rodgers raised his eyebrows. 'Then I'm glad you're here. This way, Miss Baker,' Mr. Rodgers said, gesturing me down the hall. 'Through here, please.'

He opened a door and stood aside. I headed for it, not paying too much attention to where I was going, too busy looking around. The Cliff House was old, and built in a Federal style. The details were less frivolous than in Kate's house or Aunt Inga's. Kate's fireplace mantels were of dark wood, tall, with oval mirrors sunk into the top, and the fireplace surrounds and hearths had gorgeous glazed tile in shades of brown and green. Here, everything was less ornate: white-painted wood with slender columns on plinths supporting a broad, high mantel, around a fireplace surround of basic plaster. The hearth was simply red bricks laid in rows, uneven and unsealed. The floors were of broad wood planks and the windows a lot shorter than the tall, skinny Victorian arches. They were six over six, and sunk into the thick walls. Through a door on the right, I caught a tantalizing glimpse of an antique tapestry on one of the walls in the room beyond, and I almost stopped dead in my tracks, wanting nothing more than to go and examine it more closely. Even from a distance, I could tell that it was quite old and in remarkable condition. But Mr. Rodgers was waiting for me to catch up. 'After you, Miss Baker.'

He stood aside politely. I walked through the doorway, only to find myself in another small hallway, less ornate than the one outside. Part of the old servants' quarters, maybe? Mr. Rodgers followed, then moved past me with a murmured apology. The smaller hall ended in another door, which he also opened and, once again, bowed me through first. 'The light switch is on the wall just to the right of the door, Miss Baker.'

I stepped in, fumbling on the wall inside. No sooner had my heels cleared the threshold than the door slammed shut behind me. Outside, I could hear Mr. Rodgers throw the locks and bolts.

For a second I was too shocked and astonished to react, and then I threw myself at the door. 'Shit!' It isn't a word I use often, but the circumstances seemed to demand it. I added a few more choice curses as I hammered my fists against the reinforced steel. Nothing happened; not that I had expected it to. Still, it was disconcerting. 'Mr. Rodgers?' I tried. 'What's going on?'

There was no answer. I had no idea whether he could hear me or whether he'd left after shutting me in. I certainly couldn't hear him. Was he standing just outside the door, listening to me freak out, or already calmly going about his business? 'Shit!' I said again. It seemed to sum up the situation nicely, even if my voice was shaking.

'Avery?' a voice said from the darkness, followed by the sound of a door closing. I spun around, squinting, my nose wrinkling as a whiff of something sickly sweet wafted toward me.

'Philippe?' Old habits are hard to break.

'Ma petite chou!'

'Oh, come off it,' I said rudely. 'I have it on good authority that your name is really Phil Albertson and that you've never even been to France.' He didn't answer, and I added, 'What are you doing here?' Obviously he was not on his deathbed, suffering from poisoning by bad snails.

'That dirtbag Mr. Rodgers offered me a place to stay last night, and then he locked me in here,' Philippe said with only a trace of his fake accent.

'Why?'

'How am I supposed to know? Why did he lock
you
in?'

I pulled a face. 'I made a mistake.'

'What mistake?'

'I thought you had stolen my chaise longue and that he caught you in the act, and now you were holding him hostage. Obviously I was wrong.'

'Obviously,' Philippe said. I could hear him come closer, but I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.

'Are you OK?' I asked belatedly. 'He didn't hurt you, did he?'

'Something in my drink,' Philippe said. He reached out a trembling hand and found my waist. 'Do you still care,
chérie
?'

'Not so much that you'd notice,' I answered, twisting away. I felt sorry for him, but there are limits. 'You took care of that when you cheated on me with Tara. I'm glad you're not hurt, though. If we're to have any hope of getting out of here, we both have to be mobile. And speaking of mobile . . .' I fumbled for my cell phone. It showed me it was going on p.m., but there was no signal. Philippe sighed heavily. 'I'm sorry to have to tell you,
chérie
, but there is no way out of here.'

'There has to be!' I said and moderated my voice. 'Have you looked around?'

'As well as I can in the dark. The room we're standing in is small, perhaps six by eight feet. Because the ground slopes up behind the house, we're underground, so there are no windows. There's a door on the other wall that leads into a tunnel. I followed it for a few yards, and then it, also, ended in a door. That's where I was when you arrived.' No wonder he hadn't returned my phone call. His voice was strained. Maybe he had a touch of claustrophobia. After twenty-four hours down here, I might have a touch of claustrophobia, too. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

'Is it like this one?' I asked, thumping the door behind me. 'Reinforced steel?'