“What do you think it means?” I asked, not liking the sound of it.
I could imagine Max’s shrug. “Probably just what it says. That he’s following up on several promising leads.”
The phrase “following up on promising leads” chilled me. Somehow, the wording sounded ominous.
We agreed to talk on Monday after I’d been through the Grant house, or sooner if I needed him. His rock-solid support was an enormous comfort to me. I pictured him sitting in his suit and bow tie, his brow furrowed as he listened, and I wished I was nearby to touch his elbow, to thank him for helping me navigate this unchartered sea.
As I hung up, Sasha came into the office.
“We’re all set,” she said, looking exhausted.
“You did a great job, Sasha,” I told her.
“Thanks,” she answered, blushing, her awkwardness at being complimented manifesting itself in a quick hair twirl.
“New project,” I said, changing the subject.
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“The Grant goods. We’ve been hired by Mrs. Cabot, Mr. Grant’s daughter, to verify, authenticate, and value the contents of the house. You and I will work together, but you’ll be doing most of the research.”
“That’s great!” she exclaimed, her eyes blazing at the prospect, exhaustion a thing of the past.
“The first step is for you to watch the tape I made. And read the inventory Mrs. Grant kept. Review them before Monday, okay?”
“Absolutely. This is so exciting! Thank you, Josie.”
“You’re welcome. It’s great, isn’t it? Let’s meet at the Grant house at, what? Nine on Monday morning? Is nine okay for you?”
“Sure, nine is good.”
“Okay. Make sure you have the address.”
She smiled and thanked me again. From her perspective, I was offering a rare treat. She was visibly excited at the prospect of spending her weekend studying the tape I’d made of Mr. Grant’s antiques and poring over the inventory. Lucky me.
I slept until noon on Sunday. When I awakened, I felt discombobulated, uncertain of the day or, even, momentarily, where I was. No remnant of a dream lingered, so I couldn’t blame my confusion on that. Shaking off the amorphous discomfort proved tough, and it wasn’t until I showered and ate eggs, cooked just the way I like them, scrambled soft with tomatoes and onion mixed in, that I began to feel more like myself.
At three, dressed in jeans and a lightweight sweatshirt, I headed for the Grant house planning to stop at a grocery store on the way back to buy the ingredients I needed to cook Monterey chicken. I took the scenic route, glad for an excuse to drive along the shore.
It was a warm day, the bright sun hinting at summer. I rolled down the windows, relishing the ocean breeze. As I drove, I spotted several sailboats coursing along, running parallel to shore. I’d never sailed, and I decided that once I was clear of the Grant situation, I’d learn. Why not? I asked myself.
Driving through the village, I saw that the Taffy Pull’s door was propped open, and impulsively, I swung right into a vacant parking space. According to Wes, someone from the Taffy Pull had called Mr. Grant shortly before he’d been murdered, and I wanted to know why.
I stepped out and looked around. The street was deserted, but there were several cars scattered along the stretch of Main Street where the shops were nestled.
The Taffy Pull’s front window was decorated with displays of small piles of sand, artistically arranged to suggest the beach. Miniature lawn chairs dotted the sand piles. Brightly colored saltwater taffy pieces somehow connected to fluffy clouds dangled on nylon threads from the ceiling. It didn’t make logical sense, but it was whimsical and cute.
I took a deep breath for courage, and entered the store. I blinked several times, trying to hurry my eyes along as they adjusted to the dim inside light.
A blonde stood with her back to me, stretching to pull down a small white box of candy from a high shelf.
“Hi,” I said, looking around, glancing at the woman’s back.
“Hello,” she answered over her shoulder.
Box in hand, she turned, and I’m certain surprise showed on my face. “Paula!” I exclaimed.
Paula, my part-time tag-sale employee who wore T-shirts emblazoned with her political views and causes, responded, “Josie?”
“I didn’t know you worked here.”
She grimaced, just a little. “Family business. Today’s my turn.”
“Got it.” I smiled. I wanted to say something nice. A family business required a compliment even if she had made a face in telling me about it. “The display window’s cute.”
“Thanks. That’s my mother’s touch. She’s the needlepoint and scrapbooking type, so her window displays are always ‘cute.’”
She spoke the word “cute” as if it were vulgar, or at least embarrassing. I flashed on a memory from when I was about nine or ten, with my mother. My dad was busy with business, and the two of us had driven out to the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, about two hours west of Boston.
“It isn’t just his craftsmanship, Josie,” my mother told me later that night, as we sat eating dinner at the Red Lion Inn. “Obviously, Rockwell’s a brilliant technician. But it’s more than that. It’s the emotion. He captured the moments in life exactly. You look at what he painted and you know how the people in his pictures felt about whatever situation he put them in. That’s an amazing talent.”
To this day, I loved Norman Rockwell. But I was willing to wager that Paula, like many of the hip, so-called sophisticates I’d run into during my years living in New York scorned him, viewing his illustrations with disdain. “White bread,” they called his work, dismissing it as banal. Too bad for them. I could just imagine the picture Rockwell would have created showcasing Paula’s mother pridefully putting the final touches on the display window.
Paula seemed the same as always, cordial but not friendly. Solemn, as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. Today’s T-shirt read Mind Your Own Religion. Appropriate dress, I guessed, for an atheist with an attitude to wear on a Sunday.
Given her reaction to the window I’d just described as cute, I felt the need to clarify my comment. “I meant it as a compliment.”
She paused, apparently unused to hearing positive remarks. “Oh. Sure. I’ll tell my mother. She’ll be pleased.”
I smiled. “So you sell saltwater taffy, do you?”
“Yeah. And other stuff. We sell all sorts of handmade candy.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she said, placing the small white candy box on the counter.
“You know how a man named Mr. Grant was murdered?”
“Yeah, I heard. Terrible.”
“Was he a customer?”
“A customer? I don’t think so. I don’t know. Why?”
“Did you know him?”
Her look of surprise at what must have struck her as an out-of-the-blue question seemed genuine. “No. Why?”
I shrugged, not wanting to explain. “No reason. He’s a local, that’s all.”
A man entered the store holding hands with a girl of about seven or eight. They were laughing.
“Hi,” Paula greeted the newcomers.
“Hi,” the girl answered sweetly. “Oh, look, Daddy…” and she led him to a display of pink-wrapped taffy.
There was no point in asking any more questions, even if I knew what to ask, which I didn’t. I didn’t feel right not buying something, so I pointed to the small box she placed on the counter, asked if I could buy it, and when she said yes, paid in cash. As I was about to leave, I turned back and got her attention. “You did a great job yesterday.”
She seemed taken aback. “Thanks.”
“I’ll see you next Saturday.”
Paula almost smiled. “You bet.”
Getting in my car, I placed the little white box of candy on the seat beside me, noticing the kind-of-hokey, kind-of-sweet tag line under the logo: Made with pride by the Turner family.