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Authors: Barbara Early
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restraining order.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jillian looked overly penitent. “It’s her day off.”
I flipped through my pictures—I had taken a couple of new pictures of Othello and a cute one of him staring at Bonnie and Clyde through the glass patio door—until I got to the one of the toy.
She leaned in to study it. “I have seen this before. I’m pretty sure.”
“Are you positive?” Which was a lame question, because she’d already said she was pretty sure. Conversations with Jillian tended to go this way.
She nodded. “It’s part of a collection bequeathed to the museum.”
“You mean it belongs here? Was it stolen?”
She shook her head. “The owner was planning to leave it to the museum in his will.” She shrugged her petite shoulders. “But he hasn’t died yet. Which is a good thing.”
“Have you seen this man?”
She nodded again. “Once. Since he’s technically a donor, he can visit the museum for free, but I gather he didn’t get out much.” Her eyes fell to the floor. “Do you think he might be the man who died in your shop?”
“Was he very tan with a pockmarked face?”
Jillian must have thought about this question for a full minute. I wouldn’t call her stupid, just slow to respond. As if the whole world had high-speed Internet, and she still had dial-up and was waiting for the modem to connect. I halfexpected the next words out of her mouth to be, “You’ve got mail.” She tilted her head and gave it a brief shake. “I don’t think so. But I do have the donor’s name and address on file, if that helps.”
Moments later Dad and I headed to the address Jillian had printed out from her files, after apologizing when she had to reload the paper and then the toner on the printer.
“Quit apologizing,” Dad had insisted.
“Sorry,” she’d said.
But we’d gotten what we had come for, and without running into Peggy Trent once.
When we drove past Well Played, with the yellow crime scene tape barring the door, Dad merely cleared his throat and I forced my eyes back on the road.
The name Jillian had given us was Syril DuPont, and the address was in a once tony part of town, where grand, old painted-lady Victorians, in various states of disrepair and restoration, were draped with snow, looking like so many gingerbread houses made by a baker a little too generous with the butter cream.
Dad studied the printout as we neared our destination, at least according to the GPS. He tapped the page. “There’s something familiar about this address.”
When I parked in front of the building, he whistled. “I was right. Betsy, I’ve been here before.”
“Been here before recently ?”
He shook his head. “It’s been a while, but I answered a bunch of calls to this address. Nuisance stuff, mainly.”
“What kind of nuisance stuff?”
Dad scratched his bristly cheek. “I can’t remember.”
I momentarily stopped breathing. The doctor hadn’t said anything about problems with Dad’s long-term memory.
“Don’t panic, Lizzie.” He grabbed my hand and laughed. “I don’t think I forgot anything. I just don’t think that the calls ever amounted to anything that my brain thought important enough to remember. Like calls saying they heard someone prowling about the place, but there was no evidence. Fresh snow and no footprints, that sort of thing. Just some guy with an overactive imagination living in an old house that made odd noises.”
I stared up at the house and understood how someone’s imagination might run away from him. Against the bleak, gray winter sky, the house did look foreboding, almost Hitchcockian. Cue the Psycho soundtrack.
While I sat there pondering the house, a car pulled up behind me and parked. The passengers didn’t linger in the vehicle; they hopped right out, slammed car doors, and headed to the house carrying casserole dishes and trays of food.
“Someone’s having a party.” Dad smirked.
“Should we come back later?” I asked,
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jillian looked overly penitent. “It’s her day off.”
I flipped through my pictures—I had taken a couple of new pictures of Othello and a cute one of him staring at Bonnie and Clyde through the glass patio door—until I got to the one of the toy.
She leaned in to study it. “I have seen this before. I’m pretty sure.”
“Are you positive?” Which was a lame question, because she’d already said she was pretty sure. Conversations with Jillian tended to go this way.
She nodded. “It’s part of a collection bequeathed to the museum.”
“You mean it belongs here? Was it stolen?”
She shook her head. “The owner was planning to leave it to the museum in his will.” She shrugged her petite shoulders. “But he hasn’t died yet. Which is a good thing.”
“Have you seen this man?”
She nodded again. “Once. Since he’s technically a donor, he can visit the museum for free, but I gather he didn’t get out much.” Her eyes fell to the floor. “Do you think he might be the man who died in your shop?”
“Was he very tan with a pockmarked face?”
Jillian must have thought about this question for a full minute. I wouldn’t call her stupid, just slow to respond. As if the whole world had high-speed Internet, and she still had dial-up and was waiting for the modem to connect. I halfexpected the next words out of her mouth to be, “You’ve got mail.” She tilted her head and gave it a brief shake. “I don’t think so. But I do have the donor’s name and address on file, if that helps.”
Moments later Dad and I headed to the address Jillian had printed out from her files, after apologizing when she had to reload the paper and then the toner on the printer.
“Quit apologizing,” Dad had insisted.
“Sorry,” she’d said.
But we’d gotten what we had come for, and without running into Peggy Trent once.
When we drove past Well Played, with the yellow crime scene tape barring the door, Dad merely cleared his throat and I forced my eyes back on the road.
The name Jillian had given us was Syril DuPont, and the address was in a once tony part of town, where grand, old painted-lady Victorians, in various states of disrepair and restoration, were draped with snow, looking like so many gingerbread houses made by a baker a little too generous with the butter cream.
Dad studied the printout as we neared our destination, at least according to the GPS. He tapped the page. “There’s something familiar about this address.”
When I parked in front of the building, he whistled. “I was right. Betsy, I’ve been here before.”
“Been here before recently ?”
He shook his head. “It’s been a while, but I answered a bunch of calls to this address. Nuisance stuff, mainly.”
“What kind of nuisance stuff?”
Dad scratched his bristly cheek. “I can’t remember.”
I momentarily stopped breathing. The doctor hadn’t said anything about problems with Dad’s long-term memory.
“Don’t panic, Lizzie.” He grabbed my hand and laughed. “I don’t think I forgot anything. I just don’t think that the calls ever amounted to anything that my brain thought important enough to remember. Like calls saying they heard someone prowling about the place, but there was no evidence. Fresh snow and no footprints, that sort of thing. Just some guy with an overactive imagination living in an old house that made odd noises.”
I stared up at the house and understood how someone’s imagination might run away from him. Against the bleak, gray winter sky, the house did look foreboding, almost Hitchcockian. Cue the Psycho soundtrack.
While I sat there pondering the house, a car pulled up behind me and parked. The passengers didn’t linger in the vehicle; they hopped right out, slammed car doors, and headed to the house carrying casserole dishes and trays of food.
“Someone’s having a party.” Dad smirked.
“Should we come back later?” I asked,
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