Chapter Three
Addie plopped onto her aunt’s old sofa. She could feel the prickle of the horsehair stuffing where the fabric had been worn thin in places as she ran her palm across the ancient surface. Exhausted, she put her feet on the eighteenth-century marquetry coffee table, not caring whether her aunt would have approved or not. This was her house now, and she was going to be comfortable living in it. Her eyes closed for a moment, and she breathed in deeply, exhaling slowly, her limbs finally relaxing. Each time she closed her eyes, she could see the constant stream of curious locals who had filled her shop this afternoon. She’d made a few small sales, but for the most part, it was nosy tire-kickers who had come in to assess her
. Word seemed to have spread quickly about her links to the place and her ancestry. Serena would be the one she’d have to thank for that. In spite of her good intentions, the chaos her spreading the word had caused only added to what already had started out as a most bizarre day. Right now, Addie was nothing more than a bowl of jelly.
Perhaps a drink would rejuvenate her. She eyed the walnut bar trolley across the room, guessing it to be of American 1920s vintage. It reminded her that there was still work to be done around the house, sorting and appraising, but the thought was too daunting right now.
She sniffed her jacket lapel—and cringed. A bath was definitely needed after the fiasco with the garbage this morning. She decided a glass of something, anything, with a long hot soak in the tub, would be perfect, if she could only will her body to move.
Her heavy eyelids fluttered. She rested her head on the overstuffed sofa back, peering through her long, thick lashes and surveyed the somewhat updated living room. She smiled and recalled the feeling she’d had when she first arrived at the three-story Queen Anne Victorian called Greyborne Manor. She’d pulled down the driveway, and her mouth had dropped open. The sheer size of it, with the wide wraparound porch, gabled roofline, two tall brick chimneys and a second-floor, glassed-in sleeping porch, took her breath away, sending her mind reeling.
She had arranged for the lawyer, Raymond James, to meet her at the house, and when she arrived, he was sitting in one of the white wicker chairs on the porch. He rose when she dashed up the wide porch staircase. She was surprised to see his tall stature, as it didn’t seem to match his meek telephone voice. She had guessed him to be middle to late sixties, and she saw that she’d been right. He introduced himself, bowed slightly, and with a wave of his hand directed her through the front door.
She remembered vividly how she had felt as she walked into the entry hall. It was as though she’d stepped back into the eighteen hundreds. He proceeded to conduct her tour, guiding her from one room to another. He had seemed pleasant enough, although he remained aloof and lawyer-like as he answered the million questions she had about the antique furniture, the ornately carved doorframes and staircase banister, the custom tile work around the four fireplaces, and the beautifully restored Walter Crane wallpaper. She knew her head was spinning and suspected that, with her nonstop babbling, his was, too.
Little did she know then that the real treasures were yet to be found. A few days later, she climbed the narrow back staircase to the top of the house, an area Raymond hadn’t included in the initial tour. When her foot hit the top step, she knew she’d stumbled onto a significant find. She’d plopped down on an old crate completely lost for words.
Perched on the dusty mahogany shelves were her aunt’s journals, first-edition books, and relics from her years spent traveling the world. When she caught her breath and began to explore, she discovered that every shelf and box contained one fantastic prize after another. Her training and work experience made her very aware of the importance and value of such a collection.
But some of the books she discovered were just old and well loved, so she began to separate them all into three piles. One for the books she recognized as being of library or museum quality—she would call the head curator at the British Museum for those. The second pile was for books she knew were valuable but had no idea of their worth in today’s market. Those she’d send to her former supervisor, Jeremy, in Boston for value appraisal, as soon as she could find the time. The third was for the leftovers. When she looked at that pile, her heart had sunk. There were so many; what a shame. She bit her bottom lip, staring at them. Then she jumped to her feet and twirled around, clapping her hands.
“I’ll open my own used and rare book shop.” She danced around the mountain of books and stopped short. She shuddered at the thought of still having to sort through the rest of the stacks piled floor to ceiling. Even so, it was too late. The seed had been planted, and her mind raced with ideas.
Here she was, three months later. Her store had opened, and she wasn’t half done with the sorting. She shook her head. “All that work still to do, and now a day job, too.” What was I thinking?
Heavy-eyed, her gaze wandered back to the liquor cart. She urged her shoulders forward but instead fell back and snuggled deeper into the sofa, eyes closed.
A noise echoed through the house and Addie jerked. Dazed, she rubbed her stiff neck. She must have drifted off. The sound had probably only been in a dream, because the living room was dark now. She got up to turn on the Tiffany lamp by the window, but stopped short when there was another thud. She peered outside just in time to see the taillights of a dark-colored car speeding up her driveway to the main road. Her mouth was arid and her heart raced. It looked like the same car that had tried to run her over in the street this morning.
She grabbed a silver candlestick from the side table. Armed now, she entered the foyer. She checked the front door, but it was secure, and nothing appeared out of place. She made her way toward the back kitchen, glancing in the study, library, and dining room as she passed.
When she neared the kitchen entrance at the end of the long, wide corridor, a cool breeze drifted across her hot cheeks. She took a deep breath, reached her hand around the doorjamb, and flipped on the light. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Pearls of perspiration trickled down her brow, stinging her eyes. She squeezed them tight, counted—seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten—and peeked into the large room. The back door was ajar. Addie slid her hand into her jacket’s side pocket. With trembling fingers, she took out her cell phone and dialed 911.
Her eyes remained fixed on the door. Her breaths came short and fast. The only sound she heard was the clock on the wall ticking off the minutes. Five minutes. Eight minutes. Then she heard a creaking on the back step. A gun barrel appeared through the door crack. She sucked in and pressed her back hard against the wall. Her hand gripped the candlestick. She raised it.
A police cap appeared around the doorframe. “Marc?” Her arm dropped to her side. “Thank God it’s you.”
“Addie. You okay?” he whispered.
She nodded.
“Have you checked upstairs?”
She shook her head.
He signaled behind him, and two more officers carrying guns slipped through the doorway. “Don’t worry. I’ve got more men at the front door. Is it locked?”
She nodded.
He whispered to the men behind him. “We’ll make our way to the front door and unlock it. Go.” He motioned. “Stay here and don’t move,” he murmured as he slid past her into the hallway.
She took another deep breath and clenched her jaw to keep her tears in check.
“Clear. . . . Clear. . . . Clear.” Their voices rang out one by one as they scanned each room along the corridor to the front entrance.
Addie heard shuffling on the stairway, and then the hardwood floors above her creaked.
A few minutes later, Marc returned. “All clear on the second and third floors.”
“Thank you. Oh God, when you came in you scared the life out of me. I hadn’t heard any sirens.”
“Nope, didn’t use them. Hoped to catch the perpetrator in the act, but looks like we’re too late.”
“Yeah, I spotted the car racing off. I guess that’s what woke me.”
“So you were upstairs in bed?”
“No. I fell asleep on the living room sofa.”
She glanced over at the splintered doorjamb, biting her lip.
“Don’t worry, I’ll secure that before I go.”
She nodded with relief.
He cleared his throat. “Twice in one day to the same person. That’s not something that usually happens around these parts.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. “Were you involved in anything criminal in Boston?”
“No. Of course not,” she snapped. Her eyes flashed. “I worked at the library.”
He rubbed the day-old growth on his chin, a wave of chestnut-brown hair dangling over his forehead, holding his dark eyes steadfast on hers.
She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, huffed, and planted her feet. “Why? Do you think I brought this with me from some sordid past I have?”
“No, no, just trying to figure out why you’re a target in this sleepy little town.”
“All clear, sir,” said an officer from the doorway. “I’ve checked the cellar, too, and nothing, but thought I’d bring these two-by-fours up to fix the door with.”
“Thanks, Steve but I’ll take care of that. You can just leave them there for now. You guys can head back to the station. I’m going to stay with Miss Greyborne while she does an initial check of her property to see if anything’s missing.”
“Very good, sir.” He nodded and tipped his cap at Addie as he left.
“Look. I know you’re tired, but we need to do a quick inspection tonight to see if your intruder made off with anything.” He nodded toward the door and stepped back as she passed.
She paused and looked at him. “You don’t like me much, do you?”
“Don’t know you well enough to form an opinion, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. His lips arched into a half smile.
She huffed and strode down the hall to the dining room.
They explored the rooms on the main floor, and although drawers and cupboards were opened and appeared to have been searched, nothing seemed to be missing. Nothing on the top two floors even looked like it had been touched.
“I suspect since you were dozing right here”—he motioned to the living room—“the intruder didn’t have time to check upstairs. Afraid you’d wake up and all. Probably just looking for quick grabs that would sell easily.”
“But it doesn’t look like anything’s missing, so it doesn’t make sense.”
“Tells me it was probably a kid, not a professional. Didn’t know the value of some of this stuff, I guess.”
“Or someone who is looking for something very specific, like whoever ransacked my shop?”
“I doubt they’re related.” He jotted something down in his notebook. “These types of break and enters are usually just a quick in and out before the homeowner wakes up. So in future, if you are a heavy sleeper and someone can break in, and you wouldn’t hear—”
“I’m not normally,” she snapped, “but I was exhausted. It was a trying day. You know how it started off, and besides, the kitchen door, and any noise he might have made, is a long way from the living room. There’s a lot of house between them.” She tapped her foot. “I feel like you’re back to suspecting me of doing something wrong, so are we almost done here?”
“Yup.” He nodded, still writing. “But . . . as I was going to say, if you are a heavy sleeper, and since this house is the size that it is, then I’d suggest you make sure your security system is turned on even when you’re in the house.”
“Oh, sorry.” Her cheeks grew warm, and she glanced down at the floor. “I don’t think there is one.”
He shook his head and jotted another note into his book.
They went to the kitchen. Addie felt the awkward tension she had created with her sometimes-too-quick-to-respond tongue. While he proceeded to secure the damaged door with the two-by-fours, she busied herself cleaning nonexistent smudges off the large center island, grateful that the kitchen had been updated with all the modern conveniences.
When Marc finished securing the original mahogany door, they returned to the entry foyer. He advised her in a very matter-of-fact tone to call the local handyman and locksmith first thing in the morning, and then he handed her his official police business card. “I wrote his name and number on the back. The number on the bottom is my cell.”
“Chief Marc Chandler? I didn’t know you were the chief of police. Your name tag says ‘Lieutenant.’”
“Yeah, need to get that changed.” He glanced down at it. “I was promoted by the mayor last month when Chief Ryan retired.”
“Well then, belated congratulations.” She smiled, noting his square jaw and sharp cheekbones.
He nodded. “If you think of anything else, just call the dispatcher, or . . . maybe my cell number.” A flush swept across his cheeks.
She flipped the card over and smiled up at him. “Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
His eyes held hers. The corners of his mouth twitched with a slight suggestion of a smile, but then he tipped his cap, turned sharply on his boot heel, and left.
She stood alone in the foyer and began shaking. She wished there was someone she could call to come and sit with her while she processed the day’s and evening’s events. She looked down at the scrawled phone number on the back of the card and turned it over a few times before stuffing it in her pocket.
With a deep breath, she marched into the living room, picked up a crystal decanter from the cart, took a whiff of the contents, poured a tall glass of the scotch and took a gulp. Out of past experience, she winced and waited for the burning in her throat to start, but to her amazement, it didn’t. The drink went down as smooth as silk. A warm glow coursed through her veins. She flopped onto the sofa, swirled the amber liquid in the glass and took another gulp. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket.
She tapped the speaker button. “Hello?”
“Addie? It’s Serena. Marc just called me and told me what happened. I can’t believe it. I’m on my way over now.”
“You have no idea how much I need the company.”
“Yes, Marc said you looked a little shaken up when he left. How about if we have a sleepover? You shouldn’t be there alone tonight.”
“You don’t even know me that well. Why would you want to put yourself out like that?”
“Don’t argue with me. I insist. Besides, I feel like I do know you well enough, and if my brother calls me and tells me anything about a case, then I know I should listen.”
“He’s worried?” Addie’s brow rose.
“Not worried, but concerned. Twice in a day is enough to rattle anyone. So I’ll see you soon.”
Addie took another sip of her drink and laid her head against the back of the sofa. The events of the day replayed through her mind. She hadn’t been robbed either time, so it made no sense. She bolted straight up. Was someone trying to scare her out of town? But why?