coolly. “You must be crazy. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone!”
He uncrossed his arms, which had been folded in front of his chest. “We just want to talk to you.
Outside. Come on.” He leaned against her—hard.
His buddy did the same thing.
“Nobody wants any trouble, lady. Let’s go.” He patted his jeans pocket. They were tight and she could see the bulge clearly. It had nothing to do with any personal attractions she might possess; besides, it was in the wrong place. It was another gun.
They were everywhere.
She jumped to her feet and waved her card.
The auctioneer looked her way and nodded.
“Seven hundred and fifty. Do I have eight?”
“No!” she shouted.
“Are you bidding or not?” He was smiling, but he wasn’t amused.
“I’m not bidding. I need help. These men are—” Before Faith could finish her sentence, they were out the door. An auction house employee was coming her way. She felt oddly like Cary Grant in
“I have seven hundred and fifty. Are you all done at seven hundred and fifty dollars for this magnificent Hummel?”
“What’s the problem?” the employee seemed genuinely concerned as he leaned over her.
“Those men who were sitting next to me, do you know who they are? They were annoying me.” The man shook his head. “Never saw them before. Is everything okay now?”
Hardly, but Faith didn’t want to go into it. She had to get to a phone.
“Yes, they’re gone, but I need to make a call.”
“There’s a pay phone in the hallway. I’m very sorry. This kind of thing doesn’t happen at our auctions, and if I see them again, I’ll be questioning them. A woman shouldn’t have to encounter that kind of behavior, and we won’t ignore the incident.”
He thought they had been hitting on her—and in a way, they had. She thanked him and went into the corridor.
The men weren’t there, but that didn’t mean they weren’t waiting for her outside, waiting to follow her home, force her off the road. She did need help and she needed it now.
“Going, going,” the auctioneer’s voice floated out to the hall as she made her call. “Gone!” Charley MacIsaac came in for pie and coffee.
He’d been able to come as soon as she called for an escort. She’d paid for her silver and watched until she saw the cruiser in the parking lot before venturing out of the hall. None of the other cars took off when Chief MacIsaac pulled in, but they would be too savvy for that. The last thing these men would want was a chase. Still, hiding in whatever car or van they’d come in, they’d seen the police car and knew she wasn’t alone in all this.
Not anymore.
George Stackpole had a lot to lose and he was playing for keeps. It had to be George who was behind this, but how had he known she would be there? That’s what was bothering her now as she explained to Charley what she’d been doing the last few days. Tom was still in his study with the wardens.
“Okay. I’ll pull this Stackpole character in. See what he says. You’ve turned up enough of your stuff at his outlets to make it legitimate, and tomorrow you can come look at pictures and see if you recognize the men from tonight. No more antiquing, Faith. Right?”
Faith was well and truly shaken by tonight’s threats. She had no desire to approach George Stackpole on her own at all. She’d let Charley handle it.
“See you tomorrow, then.”
Faith saw him out the back door, locking it after he left, still an unaccustomed habit. The alarm system had not been installed yet, but they were near the top of the list, they’d been assured. She cut herself a wedge of pie and sat down to think.
She hadn’t told Charley about going to Framingham, but she’d told him almost everything else.
Who knew she was going to be in Walton tonight?
Nan Howell. She’d talked to her about it. Who else? Faith hadn’t mentioned it when they were out in Concord today, yet she was pretty sure she had said something about it to Courtney and Stephanie yesterday. Stephanie babbled on all the time about anything and everything, and it was possible she’d have mentioned it to Julian. Who else? Well, Tom, of course—and Rhoda Dawson.
Faith had left the information on the parish answering machine, a machine checked with some frequency by the superconscientious Ms. Dawson. Rhoda Dawson. Who was she anyway?
“Maybe another time. No problem.” Faith hung up the phone early the next morning. It was Nan Howell and she was in a hurry. George had called and canceled their visit. Nan didn’t give a reason. Faith didn’t need one. She was becoming more and more sure Nan and George were linked together. It might simply be that Nan suspected the things she bought from the dealer were hot and continued to buy from him—or it might be more. Nan must have mentioned Faith’s name to Stackpole, or told him why Faith wanted to check his stock. Either way, the dealer wouldn’t want this particular lady anywhere near his house.
George probably figured that Faith had been sufficiently warned last night. He wasn’t about to have anything more to do with her—especially give her a chance to connect any more of the stolen items to him.
It was one of those Sundays when church seemed to go on forever and her mind kept wandering during the sermon. At times, the service was the only place where she had any peace and quiet for herself, and her thoughts took wing. This was one of those occasions. But she wasn’t thinking of last night specifically. She was thinking about Sarah Winslow. Two muscular young men.
George would never have had to be involved.
They’d done his dirty work for him—and frightening Sarah to death had been part of it.
Faith had given Tom a much-abbreviated version of the auction and told him Charley was bringing Stackpole in for questioning, which effectively quelled her husband’s fears. He agreed to take the kids for the afternoon while she looked at mug shots. By now, Faith had convinced Tom that the break-ins were linked, especially theirs and Sarah’s, both with missing sideboard drawers. These were also the only two houses where the police had been able to get prints—the Fairchilds’ on the back door frame and a good set on one of Sarah’s canisters. It had a tight lid and apparently the thief had had to take off his gloves to open it. There had been an attempt to wipe it off, but the police had one clear thumbprint. If Faith found the men from last night in the rogue’s gallery at the police station, their prints would be on file someplace—prints that could provide crucial evidence, tying them to the Aleford crimes. Tom had agreed with Faith on the importance of trying to identify the men. And if she did, he wanted to memorize their faces for his own reasons.
Faith vowed to create some quality family time soon. Much as Ben might love hanging out at the police station, she thought they should all head for Crane Beach or the Ipswich Audubon Sanctuary with a picnic. Next Saturday was the grand event—the Bullock wedding. Sunday would be Fairchild Day. Maybe they’d go down to Norwell.
Which reminded her that she hadn’t called Tom’s mother with an update. She’d be terribly pleased at the recovery of the fish-serving pieces, though Great-Aunt Phoebe’s ring was still missing.
Still missing.
After the fifth book, the pictures were beginning to swim in front of Faith’s eyes. She stood up and walked around the room. Charley said Stackpole was coming by at four o’clock and he wanted her out long before. Faith had no wish to meet the man face-to-face. Stackpole had been extremely cooperative over the phone, Charley reported, and was bringing receipts for the items the chief described that the Fairchilds had recovered. Faith was beginning to get a sinking feeling about the whole thing. Maybe she should have called John Dunne from the VFW hall instead of Charley, but he would have passed it all on to MacIsaac, she figured. This wasn’t a homicide, at least not in so many words. Manslaughter? How would Sarah’s death be characterized legally? Morally, Faith had no trouble finding the right word.
She opened the next book, and then the next. If it hadn’t been for the gold chains, she would have looked right past him, but apparently they were a permanent part of the man’s fashion statement.
“Charley!” She ran excitedly into the chief’s office. “Charley, I found one of them!”
