transform that entire region. He got a tip that Ogden was going to be bought by a much bigger corporation. He believed he could double my money in less than a year.”
“But he disappeared? With no word on your money or what he did with it?”
“I love him, Mr. Shepard. And I trust him. You wouldn’t understand.”
“No, I guess not.”
Miss Kerns leaned forward, her eyes shining, the unshed tears threatening once again to fall. “Find him, please, Mr. Shepard. I miss him so, you see.”
She was suffering so visibly that Jack wished she were right—though he believed in his heart that the woman had been taken, or her fiance had fallen down a bottle again and something ugly had happened to him.
Jack got more information from Dorothy, standard stuff like where Tattershawe worked, where he lived, any known friends or relatives—all of whom,
“One last thing,” Jack said, glancing around the large salon. “Do you have a recent photo?”
Dorothy rose and walked out of the room. When she returned, she handed Jack a photo of Vincent in an oval frame about the size of his palm.
“Take this,” she said. “It’s hard for me to look at now anyway.”
Jack nodded, encouraged by Dorothy’s admission. Baxter Kerns had asked that Vincent’s whereabouts be kept a secret from his sister. Jack wasn’t all that keen on lying to the lady; but if she were angry at her fiance, then some part of her probably knew she’d been played.
“You mean you can’t stand to look at his face?” Jack pressed. “You’re that steamed?”
“Not at all. I have other photos of Vincent that provide me with much happier memories. This one’s the last gift he gave me. He sent it to me just before he disappeared.”
Jack frowned at that response then studied the picture he’d been given. Like all black-and-white portraits, the subject was a deceptive contrast of shadows and light, a collection of shaded traits. In this incarnation, Tattershawe appeared handsome: a rectangular kisser with a long forehead, solid jawline, dark hair, and dark eyes.
Jack tucked the oval frame in his pocket, wishing someone would invent the camera that could show you whether or not a man had a dark heart.
With no more questions for Dorothy Kerns, Jack bid her goodnight, and stepped into the building’s hallway. As he waited for the elevator, he heard a door opening behind him. It was the service door to Miss Kerns’s luxury apartment. The young Irish maid emerged in a plain overcoat, a hand-knitted hat, and scarf. She nodded politely and waited with Jack for the elevator to arrive.
“Miss Kerns must be difficult to work for,” Jack fished. “I’ll bet she can be very demanding.”
“Oh, no, sir. She’s the sweetest woman in the world. This is the latest I’ve ever worked for her, and she felt so bad about asking me to stay, she gave me car fare to get home.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a live-in?”
“Miss Kerns likes to do for herself. I help out a few hours a day and also receive guests when she has ’em.”
“Does she get a lot of guests, then?”
“Over the past year, they’ve mostly been the ladies from the veteran’s charity.”
“Veteran’s charity?”
“Didn’t she tell you, sir?” The maid looked over her shoulder at the front door then lowered her voice to a whisper. “That’s why she gave all that money to Mr. Tattershawe. It was her idea to start up a special private foundation for disabled veterans in our area, help them in all sorts of ways. I was so proud. My brother lost his eyesight, you know, and she told me he would be one of the men she’d be helping.
“She and Mr. Tattershawe discussed it night after night. It was hard not to overhear them. Mr. Tattershawe believed he could turn her inheritance into a fortune and they’d have the funds they’d need to do anything they wanted.”
“What did you think of Mr. Tattershawe?”
“I liked him, sir. He seemed a fine man.”
“Seemed?”
The maid looked down. “Well, he run off with her money, didn’t he?”
CHAPTER 6
My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly…a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified…
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Black Cat,” 1843
OUTSIDE, A HORN blared. Spencer dumped his bowl and spoon into the sink. “That’s the school bus!”
I’d already run a brush through my hair and thrown on a pair of blue jeans and a powder-blue sweater before making oatmeal for Spencer. But I was still bleary-eyed from the terrible events of the night before…and, of course, that strange dream of Jack working a missing persons case in New York City.
“Wait a minute!” I called as Spencer raced for the door. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”
He wheeled, a look of horror on his face.
I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, kiddo, I’m only going to unlock the front door for you. I’ll stay out of sight.”
Spencer nodded, his sense of relief visible. Together we walked down the stairs. “Do you have your Reader’s Notebook?”
“Duh! I worked on that all summer, Mom. Do you think I’d actually forget it now?”
“Apparently not,” I replied as we crossed the empty bookstore’s main aisle.
The school encouraged reading over the summer by running a contest every year. The student who read the most books would be awarded a grand prize. Spencer had completely filled one spiral-bound notebook with titles, authors, and short descriptions of every story he’d read.
He had nothing on poor Peter Chesley with his fifty volumes, but in my view Spencer’s work had been just as diligent and enthusiastic.
Of course, living above a bookstore might be seen as a blatant advantage, but I didn’t allow him to read a book in our store and put it back on the shelf. I wanted Spencer to get comfortable using the local library and took him there regularly to check out new stacks of books.
When we reached the front door, I unlocked it. “Your first day for the new school year.” I smiled. “Good luck.”
Spencer returned my smile, then darted across the sidewalk. I heard Danny Keenan and a few of my son’s other new friends excitedly shout his name when he entered the bus and I felt my own sense of relief.
My son had gone from a morose little boy who missed his father to a bright and alive young man. He no longer had nightmares about my leaving him like his daddy did. He hardly mentioned missing Calvin anymore.
The early days after his father’s suicide had been awful, and for a long time, I questioned the decisions I was making. But now I was convinced that moving away from New York City and back to Quindicott had benefited Spencer’s peace of mind. It had been the right thing to do—for both of us.
I now had about fifty minutes before our bookstore was scheduled to open, and I went back upstairs to check on my aunt. She was still sleeping. This was unusual for Sadie, who was always the early riser, but considering the previous night’s events, it made me happy to see her get some much-needed rest.
Since I had a little time, I decided to slip on a jacket and head down the block to Cooper Family Bakery for a nosh of something special. The oatmeal was warm but hardly satisfying—and although my size fourteen jeans certainly could have been looser, I sorely needed the fresh air as much as the sugar rush. On the way, I stopped at Koh’s Grocery and bought a
It took me a few minutes before I found a small item about the accidental death of Peter Chesley. The sparse article simply stated he’d “fallen in his home” after “a long illness.” There were no surprises here. It was clear to
