body. We didn’t have a memorial service.”
I mm-mmed sympathetically, and again waited. “Is there anyone who would know whether there was a ceremony for Sara Beth O’Malley? Family in the area, something like that?” Somebody who might be hiding her now? I added mentally.
“Nah. Sara Beth didn’t have a lot of family. Her parents were fairly old when she studied to become a nurse, so they must have passed away by now.” Connie Oliver wrinkled her forehead, remembering something. “She was engaged, though. The guy was younger. I think he might still have been in high school when she finished nursing school.” I held my breath. She squinted at me. “His name was Tom. Schwartz or Shoemaker or something like that. He adored her. Much later, I heard through the Fox Meadows D.A.R.E. officer that Sara Beth’s fiance had become a cop. I guess you could see if you could find him through the sheriff’s department.”
“Okay, thanks.” I paused, almost overwhelmed by so many words from her strung together at once. I had to ask another question. “Did you ever hear anything about Sara Beth coming back from Vietnam? Like she wasn’t really dead after all?”
“No!” She paused, shaking her head, clearly annoyed.
“The things you journalists come up with, I swear.” A bell rang and she stood up. “I have to go in. You want to know more about Sara Beth, you need to go talk to Tom Schlosser or whoever he was.”
“Okay. Thanks. You don’t happen to know any more about him?”
She gestured to a boy who was limping toward her. “What is it, George?”
“Mike kicked me. I’m crippled. I think I’m going to have to go home.”
Connie’s voice turned indulgent. “Let me have a look.”
As George scooted onto the bench, I said, “I promise I’ll get out of your hair if you can just finish what you were telling me about Sara Beth’s fiance. Did he grieve over her death?”
“That I don’t know,” Connie said as she carefully folded down George’s sock. I winced at the swelling bruise. No question about it, life on the playground was still pretty darn rough. Connie’s voice was quick and dismissive. “All I remember, Miss Chastain, is that even though Tom was younger than Sara Beth, he was terribly protective of her, always calling to see how she was holding up during exams, seeing if she wanted to go out to eat. That kind of thing. He was crazy about her. Some girls have all the luck.”
“Thanks again,” I repeated forlornly, before sneaking George my last emergency truffle. He gave me a wide smile. I winked at him and left.
On my way to Golden, I called the castle. To my astonishment, Tom answered.
“Hello, husband,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t hear the tremor in my voice. “I’m just phoning to check in. How are you feeling?”
“Great, for a one-armed guy. Where the heck are you?”
“Doing errands.” It was sort of the truth. “I’ll be home in no time.”
“Julian keeps stuffing everyone around here with food. Nobody’s going to be hungry until midnight.”
“Incorrect!” Julian yelled from the background.
“Okay,” Tom said, laughing. “Alicia hasn’t arrived yet. But the Hydes talked to Julian about tonight’s dinner. They have a leg of lamb and won’t let him go get one. It’s thawing now. They’re excited you all are fixing dinner, and want to have it in the Great Hall.”
I told him that would be no problem, signed off, and parked on the steeply sloping street that boasted the residence of Troy McIntire, auction agent. It was a mixed area of run-down houses, I noticed, as I cut and pasted from The Stamp Fox catalog. Some older dwellings were made of stone, while others were cheaply faced with vinyl siding or false brick. My assembling mission complete, I walked up to a one-story brick house with peeling white trim.
“I’m Francesca Chastain,” I told the short, stooped, sandy-haired man who opened the door. I judged him to be in his mid-sixties. “We have an appoint - “
“Yeah, yeah. McIntire,” he snapped brusquely as he offered a gnarled hand and closed the door behind him. “What exactly are you looking for?”
So, we were going to stand on his porch to conduct business? Oh-kay. I remembered Lambert’s words that the types of stamps stolen had never been reported in the newspaper. I handed McIntire the cut-and-pasted page I’d made from The Stamp Fox catalog. On it I’d slapped five pictures of the most valuable Queen Victoria stamps. Troy McIntire held the sheet up to his face and perused it, then quirked a thin eyebrow.
“Okay, yeah, I have one of these.” A crooked finger pointed to a picture on my sheet. “A man was going through his great-grandmother’s stuff and found it. There might be more, but he has to go through a ton of stuff. You wanna buy it?”
“How much?”
He squinted at me, rheumy bloodshot eyes in a pale face. “It’s in mint condition. Two hundred twenty-five thousand.”
“Actually,” I said tartly, “I’m an investigator working with the police.”
“Go away.” He dropped the sheet and turned toward his door.
“I’m going to need to see that stamp,” I said, my voice firm.
“The heck you say.”
“Please turn around and look at me.”
He slowly turned back and shot me a baleful look; “You’re not coming in without a warrant. And let’s see some ID.”
“It’s in the car.”
“You ain’t no investigator!”
I sighed. “You’re right. I’m a collector. Part of my collection was stolen when I gave a party. It’s driving me nuts.”
“You ain’t the first to have stamps stolen.”
“I know. I’ve already been over to that place at the mall.”
McIntire snorted contemptuously. “That guy’s a piker.”
“Could you please help me? Could you just tell me who sold you those stamps?”
“It was just some guy. I don’t remember his name.” He quickly whirled, pulled on the knob, and slid through his door.
“Please wait.” I planted my elbow on the door. McIntire groaned. With my legs braced and my right elbow forcing his door open, I used my right hand to grasp my wallet and my free left hand to rummage around for my wad of photographs. I thrust the packet across the threshold. “Recognize any of these people?”
He looked down at the first one: the cuddle of saccharine-smiling Charde and Buddy and family. “These are the people who were at your party?”
“Have you seen either one of them?”
“Nope.” He shuffled past snapshots of Sukie and Eliot and one of Arch in his fencing gear, being corrected by Michaela on his lunge. Then he stopped dead.
“What is it?” I demanded.
“Nothing.” He tried to hand me back the photos, but they fell on the ground. Avoiding my eyes, he swiftly wrenched the door away and slammed it shut.
“Can’t you tell me anything?” I pleaded. “Did you recognize anybody?”
“Scram!”
“Thanks for nothing!” I snarled, suddenly deeply exhausted, frustrated, and extremely angry. I dropped to my knees and started to scoop up the fallen photos.
Charde and Buddy. Sukie and Eliot. Michaela and Arch.
I gasped and my blood ran to ice. The final photo was the one I’d shown Sukie and Eliot. The Jerk. In his scrubs.
“Hey! Was your mystery seller a slender, good-looking guy?” I hollered at the closed door. “Blond hair, drives a gold Mercedes? Real pale, like he’d just gotten out of prison?”
Inside, all was silence.
-19-
I hopped into the van, revved it, and made a hasty U-turn. I glanced back at the house, knowing McIntire was
