Finding Jessica Read online

  “I’d go into withdrawal.” Rocky patted his belly, which was so enormous he looked like he’d swallowed a couple of basketballs. “Get me a chocolate donut and two scones.”

  Heidi set down a napkin and some silverware and poured him a coffee.

  Rose nodded to the stool beside her. “Have a seat, Elmer.” Rocky hated his first name, but she liked trying to get a rise out of him. He was cute when he was mad. “I’m buying today.”

  “Elmer, my foot.” Rocky eased onto the thickly padded stool. “I’ll start calling you Violet, if you don’t watch it. Hey, Emily and I are having a cookout tomorrow night, and Em says she can’t remember if she told you about it.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Some new guy in town.” Rocky rolled his eyes and threw his napkin on his lap. “I told her, let’s make it an early Fourth of July party. I have to work the holiday.” Rocky and Emily were always throwing parties, and no one ever turned them down. They were great cooks.

  “Count me in,” she popped the last of her scone into her mouth. Heidi rushed by, a tray balanced on her shoulder, barely stopping to throw a plate of scones and donuts at Rocky on her way to seat a crowd of eight at the door. “Who’s the new guy?”

  Rocky picked up a scone. Crumbs sprinkled his shirt as half of it disappeared. “Chad Connor,” he said with his mouth full. “You met him yet?”

  “Who?”

  “Retired BU art teacher, moved here this past winter. Em met him at the library.” Emily had to be the world’s friendliest librarian. “I don’t like him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Brags about all these trips he’s taken and how he’s such a great art expert, like I give a rip about Europe or art. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Then right in front of me, he tells Emily he loves the scent of her perfume and thinks she has nice hair. I felt like slugging him.”

  “So why’d you invite him?”

  He sipped his coffee. “Em thinks he’s lonely. She told him to bring a date.”

  “He’s an art lover? Far as I know he’s never stepped foot in the gallery. Speaking of the gallery,” she checked her watch, “I gotta go. I’m meeting Barrington Bigelow.”

  Rocky put down his coffee. “Big who?”

  Rose patted him on the back and put a ten down. “Just one of the most acclaimed artists in the United States. I’ve got Hal working a case for him, and he wants to talk about selling some of his work at the gallery.”

  Rocky grinned. “Just what Haven needs, another crazy artist.”

  “Not as crazy as you, big guy,” she said.

  “Hey,” he called after her. “Where’s Hal?”

  Rose shrugged. “No idea,” she said, “but he’s got a ten o’clock with me at the gallery, so he’d better show soon.”

  When Rose got to the gallery, Amber was pacing the showroom floor nervously, twisting her long blonde hair around her fingers. She looked lovely in a sheer Indian gauze top and flowery skirt. The bells on her ankle bracelets chimed as she ran over to Rose. “I almost died when I got your text.” Rose saw she’d put on what looked like gold fairy dust eye shadow. “I can’t believe Barrington Bigelow’s coming.” Her green eyes glowed.

  “If you keep pulling your hair like that, you’ll be bald by the time he gets here.”

  Amber pushed her hair back from her shoulders. “I need something to do,” she said.

  “You can help me go through yesterday’s receipts.” Rose set her bag down on the counter and checked the voice mail messages Amber had written that morning. “That’s always a good time.”

  Amber’s gemstone and silver rings clicked as she went through the cash register. “The Lamarche sisters came in yesterday.” Amber’s voice had a wispy quality, like a breeze, and for some reason it always made Rose feel a little hypnotized. “I was sure they were going to pinch something on a dare.” She nodded toward the display rack where Rose sold homemade note cards, journals, scarves and jewelry from local vendors.

  “I saw them at Table Talk,” Rose said. The Lamarche sisters were in their eighties and had a bad habit of rearranging every item in the shop without buying anything. By the time they’d left, you could never be sure if anything was missing. “I could have sworn one of them was wearing that orange scarf that disappeared a few months ago.”

  Amber’s dangling earrings caught the light when she laughed. “You’d think I could catch two old ladies shoplifting.”

  Then Barrington Bigelow walked through the door. A jolt of electricity came with him. The man was gigantic, not as big around as Rocky, but bigger boned, stocky. He had wild brown hair, his beard was flecked with gray, and he was wearing a crumpled linen dress shirt and expensive loafers that looked like they were made of alligator.

  “You must be Barrington Bigelow.” Rose came around the counter. “It’s an honor to meet you. This is my associate Amber.” Amber was speechless, looking up at him with her gorgeous eyes, her almost translucent skin glowing.

  “The honor is mine.” He smiled at her. One of his front teeth was crooked, and it gave him the look of a little boy. “Pleasure to meet you both.” He seemed not to notice how speechless Amber had become. “Beautiful gallery. I’m wondering how you find the time to manage it, along with a private investigation business.”

  “I’ve got Amber here, she’s a godsend, goes through slides, helps with inventory and advertising, a Jane of all trades.” Amber giggled and pushed back her hair. “And Hal helps me with the PI work.” Rose glanced at her phone. Where was Hal? “He should be here any minute.”

  “We can give you a tour,” Amber managed to say.

  “I’d like that.”

  Barrington looked huge as he walked along the tall black display cubes in the center of the room, admiring the ceramics and sculpture. He lingered the longest in front of an oil painting by Cameron, a meadow of wildflowers at dusk. His diamond pinkie ring sparkled in the light when he pointed to it. “Is this artist local?”

  “Born and raised.” Rose stood beside him. “He lived in Haven his entire life.”

  Barrington kept his eyes on the painting. “He doesn’t live here anymore?”

  “He passed away a year ago.” She could feel Amber breathing behind her, could smell her White Diamonds perfume, and it steadied her. “He was my husband.”

  Barrington’s eyes widened. He stepped closer to the painting, so close he almost touched it. Rose felt that familiar rise in her throat. If Cameron could only see Barrington Bigelow examining his painting. “Your husband was a talent.” Barrington stepped back. “Is this for sale?”

  The bell rang on the front door, and Amber excused herself to see who it was. Please God, let it be Hal. “Why don’t you come back to my office, and we can talk there?” Rose said.

  But when they returned to the gallery floor, she saw it wasn’t Hal but a couple of tourists in Bermuda shorts with cameras around their necks. Cosmo trotted behind them as they made their way across the gallery.

  “Cute dog,” Barrington said.

  “I got him as a pup when I moved here five years ago, and he’s the store’s official greeter,” Rose said. When they got into the office, she looked at her phone again. “I don’t know what’s keeping Hal.” She nodded to the worn leather chair across from her desk. “But we’ll talk until he gets here.”

  Barrington leaned down to pet Cosmo. “My agent said she spoke to you about selling my work,” he said. “Perhaps we should talk about that first.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure I can sell your work.” Rose eyed the black and white photo of Cameron staring at her from its silver frame. “Our clients are in a certain income bracket.”

  “I actually want to sell a series of photographs.” Rose saw that sadness in his eyes again; she’d seen it when he was looking at Cameron’s painting. “I’ve been taking photographs whenever I travel.” He took a portfolio out of a leather bag and pushed it across to her. “If you would just take a
look ...” his voice trailed off.

  Rose sifted through his photos: a vendor selling sparkling silver at Notting Hill’s flea market, a girl smoking at a Parisian café, the lights behind her like stars, an old man leaning against the railing of the Eifel Tower, a young boy floating on a surfboard in Rio, a series of face shots of the monks in the temples and shrines in Kyoto, and three fishermen on a boat trolling a fjord in Norway. She stopped at a photograph of an elderly couple sitting on a park bench, holding hands. “Was this taken in Madrid?”

  “You know your cities.”

  Rose nodded. She’d been to Spain many times but never as a tourist. An expert at scanning crowds, she would have walked right past that couple and never really seen them. She’d been looking for other things: sudden movements, shadows in the dark. But she would have dismissed this couple, looking at each other with such tenderness. She wasn’t paid to be sentimental, after all. And maybe, she had to admit now as she looked down at the sweet smile on the woman’s face, a small part of her just didn’t want to see such a blatant display of love, a reminder of what she didn’t have.

  “They were married fifty-four years.” Barrington spoke so softly Rose could barely hear him.

  Rose closed the portfolio. It was too late now to set that kind of record. Cameron's face flashed across her mind ... and Daniel, always Daniel, that ache in her heart just wouldn't go away. “I’m concerned about pricing.” She leaned back in her chair.

  Barrington was sitting on the edge of his chair, and she could see a thin line of sweat on his upper lip. “I’d price them accordingly.” His silver gray eyes seemed to plead with her.

  “You could probably get a lot more in New York.”

  “I thought selling them in a smaller venue would be a good place to start.”

  Rose wasn’t sure she believed that, but he looked so eager, she decided to let it pass. Whatever Barrington Bigelow’s reasons, the gallery would get a nice commission. She opened her desk drawer for a contract. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s try it.”

  With the flourish of a very billowy signature, Barrington Bigelow signed an agreement with Mountain Arts to sell a series of original photographs. He also purchased Cameron’s painting and asked if he could leave it on the gallery’s wall until he went back to New York.

  Rose walked him to the door, and they stood outside on the sidewalk, watching a line form in front of Table Talk for lunch. She checked her phone again. No calls or text messages from Hal. She had a fleeting thought he might have taken up whiskey again. But it had been many years since Hal took a drink, and she didn’t know why he’d restart that on some random summer day. “I apologize for Hal’s absence,” she said. “I asked him to be here at ten so you could get an update on your search for Jessica. He must have gotten held up. He’s very reliable.”

  “That’s okay,” Barrington ran his huge hand through that mop of hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “How’s Solitude?” Rose saw Em go into Table Talk with a group of ladies from the library.

  “All frills and lace, nothing like my loft in Soho, but it’s comfortable.”

  “Actually, we’re neighbors. I live about a mile from there. If you’re not busy tonight, stop by. We’ll have a drink, and I’ll put some steaks on the grill. I’ll tell Hal to join us, and we can talk about your case.”

  “I’d love to,” Barrington said.

  “61 Lilac Lane. You won’t get lost again, will you?”

  Barrington laughed. “I grew up in Wyoming, so you’d think I could find my way down some country roads.”

  “Everyone gets lost here,” Rose smiled, “sometimes for good. Seven-thirty okay for you?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  After Barrington left, Rose placed a sold tag on Cameron’s painting. Cosmo sat down and stretched his long neck, tilting his head toward the painting.

  “Yeah, I know,” Rose said. “I’m proud of him, too.”

  Chapter Five

  When he got back from Rose’s house that night, Barrington opened a bottle of Remy Martin. The cognac would pair nicely with one of those Cubans he’d brought from the city. He walked out to the deck and was just about to light the cigar when he noticed the foul odor that permeated the air seemed stronger than before. It’d been a long time since he’d smelled a skunk, and it was terrible. He sat down anyway, lit the cigar and watched the blue smoke spiral into the cool night air. He thought about Rose’s long auburn hair, those pretty green eyes. He guessed she must be near fifty, but it was hard to tell. She could easily pass for forty. He was glad that Hal, the PI, had been a no-show. Just when he was wondering if Rose had a boyfriend, his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and frowned.

  “Marcie.” Marcie needed a boyfriend so she’d quit calling him at all hours. “The answer is still no.”

  “I didn’t say a word!”

  “You don’t have to.” Barrington looked up at the smoky half-moon. “I’m not leaving Haven.”

  “Well, if Rose Chandler sells your photographs, we’re doing a New York exhibit.”

  Leave it to Marcie to think only of business. For someone who represented artists, she was clueless that most of them did it for the art, not the money. “She doesn’t seem too sure she can sell them. I had dinner with her tonight.” The cigar was helping to mask the bad odor, but not much. “She’s a sweetheart.”

  “Really? She sounded sort of bitchy on the phone.”

  “She’s a strong woman, and I love strong women.”

  He heard something scramble in the trees and stood up. An animal howled, then another one.

  “What the hell was that?” Marcie asked.

  “Sounds like coyotes.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Grew up in Wyoming, remember?” An animal cried out again. “I’m going to see if I can scare them off, hold on.” He set the phone down and went into the kitchen for a pot and spoon. Standing on the lawn, he hit the pot. He saw the flash of black eyes, and then two coyotes burst from the trees, ran right past him and disappeared across the beach. He could hear Marcie yelling his name. He picked up the phone. “Scared ‘em off.”

  “You’re crazy.” She sounded concerned. “They could have attacked you.” He was surprised. Marcie never showed concern for anyone but herself.

  “They must have been fighting over a dead animal.” That would explain the foul odor. “Look, it’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” After he ended the call, he went back into the house for a flashlight.

  It was eerily quiet in the trees. He wondered if he’d scared off more than coyotes. The putrid odor was overpowering, and while he swept the flashlight’s beam into the foliage, he kept his hand over his nose. Definitely something dead. He pulled the branches apart.

  “Oh, God.” He staggered back. There in the bushes he saw what the coyotes had been fighting over, and it wasn’t a dead animal.

  “You say you came home at what time?” Detective Rhodes asked again.

  Barrington squinted in the spotlight’s glare and watched the police loop yellow tape around the wooden stakes they’d set in the grass. “Around ten.” He heard another car pull into the driveway.

  The detective flipped a page and scribbled something. His shirt was an eyesore, palm trees with monkeys crawling over them, eating bananas. “I’m not sure I understand the story about the ex-girlfriend.”

  Barrington felt a headache coming on. “Someone told me she was pregnant around the time we split up.” He imagined the headline that would inevitably be in The New York Times art section the next day. He’d have to call Marcie to warn her. “I have reason to believe the child is mine.” Behind him a car door slammed. He turned to see Rose walking toward them.

  “Hey, Rocky,” Rose said.

  Rocky looked at Barrington and pointed his thumb at Rose. “This the friend you called?”

  “She’s the only person I know in Haven.” Barrington felt relieved to see Rose. She looked wide awake and alert, even as
she tucked her shirt into her jeans. “Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem.” Rose’s voice was calm. “What’ve you got?”

  Rocky faced her. “Mr. Bigelow found a dead body in the bushes.” He took a long breath and looked out toward the backyard again before turning to her. “Rose, it’s Hal.”

  The expression on Rose’s face didn’t change, but Barrington noticed a tightening around her eyes. “What happened?”

  “Gunshot.” Rocky closed the notebook and looked at the ground. Barrington saw Rose’s fists clench and then release three times. No one spoke. Finally another car pulled in. “Coroner’s here. Mr. Bigelow, I’ll be back to you in a few minutes.”

  Barrington watched the huge man lumber across the yard. He didn’t dare look at Rose.

  When she spoke her voice was businesslike. “Let’s sit on the deck.” It sounded like she was holding something enormous behind the words. “You don’t look so good.”

  Barrington sat in the rocker facing the house so he wouldn’t have to look at the woods. The cigar and cognac simmered right below the surface, threatening to come up. Rose watched the edge of the lawn behind the rocker, where they were hauling the body out. A black van rolled up the drive. Two men went around the back and pulled out a gurney.

  Barrington felt his throat tighten. “Does Hal have a wife and children?”

  Rose shook her head. “No.”

  “Did you know him a long time?”

  Rose nodded once. She was so calm, it was a little unnerving. He didn’t even know Hal, and he felt terrible.

  In a little while Rocky walked back to them, opened his notebook and pointed his pen at Barrington. “Tell me about the woman Hal was looking for.”

  “Her name is Jessica Winters,” Barrington said. “I used to live with her, but she took off one day, and I never saw her again.” He studied the deck floor.

  “How long ago?”

  “Thirty years.”

  “Long time.” Rocky scratched his head. “How’d you find out about the kid?”