Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (139 page)

Jessica laughed. “Where to?”

They both looked down the road. The snow gently fell. The hills were covered with a silken duvet of white.

Nicci glanced at the map on the seat, tapped south. “I think we should go this way,” she said. “And I think it’s time to change tactics.”

AT AROUND ONE
they arrived at a family-style restaurant called Doug’s Den. The exterior was a deep brown rough siding, the roof a gambrel style. The parking lot held four vehicles.

As Jessica and Nicci approached the door, it began to snow in earnest.

THEY ENTERED THE
restaurant. Two older men, a pair of locals instantly identifiable by their John Deere caps and worn-looking down vests, held down the far end of the bar.

The man wiping the countertop was fifty—big shoulders and hands, just starting to go thick in the middle. He wore a lime green sweater vest over a crisp white shirt, black Dockers.

“Afternoon,” he said, brightening a bit at the notion of two young women entering the establishment.

“How ya doin’?” Nicci asked.

“Good,” he said. “What can I get for you ladies?” He was soft-spoken, affable.

Nicci gave the man a sideways glance, the one you give someone when you think you recognize them. Or want them to
think
you do. “You used to be on the job, didn’t you?” she asked.

The man smiled. “You can tell?”

Nicci winked. “It’s in the eyes.”

The man tossed the bar rag under the counter, sucked in his gut an inch. “I was a state trooper. Nineteen years.”

Nicci went into coquette mode, as if he had just said he was Ashley Wilkes. “You were a
statie
? What barracks?”

“Erie,” he said. “Troop E. Lawrence Park.”

“Oh, I
love
Erie,” Nicci said. “Were you born there?”

“Not far away. In Titusville.”

“When did you put in your papers?”

The man looked at the ceiling, calculating. “Well, let’s see.” He paled slightly. “Wow.”

“What?”

“I just realized that it was almost ten years ago.”

Jessica would bet the man knew exactly how long it had been, probably down to the hour and minute. Nicci reached out, touched him lightly on the back of his right hand. Jessica marveled. It was like watching Maria Callas warm up for a performance of
Madame Butterfly.

“I bet you could still fit into that uniform,” Nicci said.

In went the gut another inch. He was kind of cute in his big, small-town-boy way. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Jessica couldn’t help thinking that, whatever this guy had done for the state he had
definitely
not been an investigator. If he couldn’t see through this line of crap, he couldn’t have found Shaquille O’Neal in a day-care center. Or maybe he just wanted to hear it. Jessica saw this sort of reaction in her father all the time these days.

“Doug Prentiss,” he said, extending his hand. Handshakes and introductions all around. Nicci told him they were Philly PD, but not homicide.

Of course, they’d known most of this information about Doug before they’d set foot in his establishment. Like lawyers, cops liked to have the answer to a question before it was asked. The shiny Ford pickup parked closest to the door had a license plate that read DOUG1, and a sticker in the back window that read
STATE TROOPERS DO IT ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
.

“I imagine you’re on duty,” Doug said, ready to serve. If Nicci had asked, he probably would have painted her house. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Just brewed.”

“That would be great, Doug,” Nicci said. Jessica nodded.

“Two coffees, coming up.”

Doug was off like a shot. He soon returned with two steaming mugs of coffee, along with a bowl of individually packaged creamers on ice.

“Are you out here on official business?” Doug asked.

“Yes, we are,” Nicci said.

“If there’s anything I can do to help, just ask.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that, Doug,” Nicci said. She sipped from her cup. “Good coffee.”

Doug puffed a little chest. “What’s the job?”

Nicci took out a nine by twelve envelope, opened it. She extracted the photograph of the farmhouse, slid it across the bar. “We’re trying to locate this place, but we’re not having too much luck. We’re fairly certain it’s in this zip code. Does it look familiar to you?”

Doug put on a pair of bifocals, picked up the photograph. After looking at it carefully he said, “I don’t recognize this place, but if it’s anywhere in this area I know who would.”

“Who is that?”

“A woman named Nadine Palmer. She and her nephew run the little arts-and-crafts store down the road,” Doug said, clearly pleased to be back in the saddle again, even if it was just for a few minutes. “She’s a heck of a painter. So’s her nephew.”

72

The Art Ark was a small weather-beaten store at the end of the block, on the one and only main street in the small town. The display in the window was a cleverly arranged collage of brushes, paints, canvases, watercolor pads, along with the expected silo-and-barn landscapes of local farms, produced by local artists, painted by people most likely instructed by—or related to—the proprietor.

A bell over the door announced Jessica and Nicci’s entrance. They were greeted by the aroma of potpourri, linseed oil, and a subtle undercurrent of cat.

The woman behind the counter was in her early sixties. Her hair was pulled into a bun and held in place by an elaborately carved wooden pick. If they were not in Pennsylvania, Jessica would have placed the woman at a Nantucket art fair. Maybe that was the idea.

“Afternoon,” the woman said.

Jessica introduced herself and Nicci as police officers. “Doug Prentiss referred us to you,” she said.

“Good-looking man that Doug Prentiss.”

“Yes he is,” Jessica said. “He said you might be able to help us.”

“Do what I can,” she replied. “Name’s Nadine Palmer, by the way.”

Nadine’s words promised cooperation, even though her body language had tightened up a little when she’d heard the word “police.” It was to be expected. Jessica brought out the photograph of the farmhouse. “Doug said you might know where this house was.”

Before Nadine looked at the photograph she asked, “Might I see some ID?”

“Absolutely,” Jessica said. She pulled her badge, flipped it open. Nadine took it from her, scrutinized it.

“Must be exciting work,” she said, handing the ID back.

“Sometimes,” Jessica replied.

Nadine picked up the photograph. “Oh, sure,” she said. “I know the place.”

“Is it far from here?” Nicci asked.

“Not too far.”

“Do you know who lives there?” Jessica asked.

“Don’t think anyone lives there now.” She took a step toward the back of the store, yelled, “Ben?”

“Yeah?” came a voice from the basement.

“Can you bring up the watercolor that’s leaning up against the freezer?”

“The small one?”

“Yes.”

“Sure thing,” he replied.

A few seconds later a young man came up the steps carrying a framed watercolor. He was in his early to mid-twenties, right out of central casting for small-town Pennsylvania. He had a shock of wheat-colored hair that fell into his eyes. He wore a navy blue cardigan, white T-shirt, and jeans. He was almost feminine in his features.

“This is my nephew, Ben Sharp,” Nadine said. She went on to introduce Jessica and Nicci and explain who they were.

Ben handed his aunt the tastefully framed and matted watercolor. Nadine put it onto an easel next to the counter. The painting, realistically rendered, was almost an exact duplicate of the photo.

“Who painted this?” Jessica asked.

“Yours truly,” Nadine said. “I snuck out there one Saturday in June. A long,
long
time ago.”

“It’s beautiful,” Jessica said.

“It’s for sale.” Nadine winked. From the back room came the sound of a teakettle whistling. “If you’ll excuse me a second.” She walked out of the room.

Ben Sharp looked between his two visitors, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, rocked on his heels for a moment. “So, you guys are up from Philly?” he asked.

“That’s right,” Jessica said.

“And you’re detectives?”

“Right again.”

“Wow.”

Jessica glanced at her watch. It was past two. If they were going to track down this house, they had better get going. She then noticed a display of paintbrushes on the counter behind Ben. She pointed to it.

“What can you tell me about these brushes?” she asked.

“Just about anything you’d like to know,” Ben said.

“Are they all pretty much the same?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. First of all, they come in different grades—master, studio, academic. All the way down to economy, although you really don’t want to paint with economy. They’re more for the hobbyist. I use the studio, but that’s because I get a discount. I’m not as good as Aunt Nadine, but I’m coming along.”

At this, Nadine reentered the shop with a tray bearing a steaming pot of tea. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” she asked.

“I’m afraid we don’t,” Jessica said. “But thanks.” She turned to Ben, held up the photograph of the farmhouse. “Are you familiar with this house?”

“Sure,” Ben said.

“How far away is it?”

“Maybe ten minutes or so. It’s kind of hard to find. If you like, I can show you where it is.”

“That would be very helpful,” Jessica said.

Ben Sharp beamed. Then his expression darkened. “Is that okay, Aunt Nadine?”

“Of course,” she said. “Not exactly turning away customers, it being New Year’s Eve and all. I should probably just close up and pop the Cold Duck.”

Ben ran into the back room, returned wearing a parka. “I’ll bring my van around, meet you out front.”

While they waited, Jessica glanced around the shop. It had that small-town atmosphere that she found appealing of late. Maybe that was what she was looking for now that Sophie was getting older. She wondered what the schools were like around here. She wondered if there
were
schools around here.

Nicci nudged her, dissolving her daydream. It was time to go.

“Thanks for your time,” Jessica said to Nadine.

“Anytime,” Nadine said. She came around the counter, walked them to the door. It was then that Jessica noticed the wooden box near the radiator; the box contained a cat and four or five newborn kittens.

“Couldn’t interest you in a kitten or two, could I?” Nadine asked with a hopeful smile.

“No thanks,” Jessica said.

As she opened the door and stepped into the snowy Currier & Ives afternoon, Jessica glanced back at the nursing cat.

Everyone was having babies.

73

The house was much more than ten minutes away. They drove on roundabout roads, and deep into the woods, as the snow continued to fall. A few times they encountered white-out conditions and had to stop. After about twenty minutes, they came to a curve in the road, and a private lane that all but disappeared into the trees.

Ben pulled over, waved them up alongside his van. He rolled down his window. “There’s a few different ways in, but this is probably the easiest. Just follow me.”

He turned onto the snow-drifted track. Jessica and Nicci followed. Soon they came into a clearing, and merged with what was probably the long driveway leading to the house.

As they approached the structure, cresting a brief rise, Jessica held up the photograph. It had been taken from the other side of the hill, but even from this distance there was no mistaking it. They had found the house that Walt Brigham had photographed.

The driveway ended in a turnaround, fifty feet from the building. There were no other vehicles in sight.

As they exited the car, the first thing Jessica noticed was not the remoteness of the house, or even the rather picturesque winter setting. It was the silence. She could almost hear the snow hitting the ground.

Jessica had been raised in South Philly, had attended Temple University, had spent all her life within a few miles of the city. These days, when she answered a homicide call in Philly she was greeted by car horns, buses, loud music. Sometimes, by the shouts of angry citizens. This was idyllic by comparison.