Paper-Thin Alibi (14 page)
“But you’re so concerned about him getting sick.” Jo reluctantly opened her Toyota’s back door as Dulcie hefted the baby seat, ready to strap it in.
“He’ll be much better off staying with me,” Dulcie said in a tone of finality. As she got to work installing the seat, Loralee appeared on the porch, carrying baby Andrew. Jo walked over to meet her.
“I’m sorry, Jo,” Loralee said, adjusting Andrew’s little knit cap. “I know you didn’t plan on having the baby with you. And Ken needed the car today, or Dulcie would have left the baby seat where it was and driven you both.”
Or maybe she could have just cancelled altogether, Jo thought but didn’t voice to Loralee, who would have been pained. Instead she asked, “How is Caitlin? Does she need to see a doctor?”
“She seems fine, so far. I promised Dulcie I’d check her temperature regularly and call the doctor if it got any higher, but I really think she was simply a little overheated from running around earlier.” Loralee leaned closer to Jo and whispered, “Dulcie’s a wonderful mother, but a bit over cautious.”
Jo smiled weakly, thinking,
now
you tell me.
now
you tell me.
“Would you mind terribly holding him for a minute?” Loralee asked. “I need to bring out the diaper bag, which is quite bulky.”
Jo took Andrew, who, she had to admit, was a cutie with his no-refined-sugar chubby cheeks and big blue eyes. She quickly carried him toward his mother, before it could sink in that he had just been handed over to a complete stranger and therefore needed to work up the required howl.
“There you are,” Dulcie singsonged as she reached out for her son, gave him a loving nuzzle, then strapped him securely into his seat. “I’ve packed plenty of drinks and nibbles in the cooler,” she said to Jo, “so he shouldn’t be a bit of trouble.”
Promise?
Jo wanted to ask, but didn’t. One part of wisdom, she remembered once hearing, was recognizing the inevitable and accepting it, and she decided she might as well strive for a little wisdom. She wished, though, she had striven long before this excursion was first proposed.
Jo wanted to ask, but didn’t. One part of wisdom, she remembered once hearing, was recognizing the inevitable and accepting it, and she decided she might as well strive for a little wisdom. She wished, though, she had striven long before this excursion was first proposed.
Loralee trotted over with the diaper bag, and Jo stowed it in the back, then climbed behind the wheel. They all waved good-bye, with Loralee continuing until Jo turned the corner and probably long after. As Jo caught the final sight of her friend in her rearview mirror, she wondered what Russ would say about a murder investigation starting off in such a manner. Several wry comments came to mind before she realized she was highly unlikely to ever tell him, or at least not for a long time. Certainly not while he was still recovering from his gunshot wound.
The drive to Marlsburg progressed fairly pleasantly. The sun peeked out for a bit, highlighting the white-flowering trees along the road, which Dulcie identified as flowering pears. “There might be a few wild cherries here and there too,” Dulcie said, which, if correct, indicated her interest in gardening went beyond plopping a potted mum in a hole or sprinkling a few marigold seeds in a row.
Andrew was thankfully quiet, aside from the few squeaks and munching noises Jo heard behind her as he worked at his nibbles. Dulcie kept so busy supplying him with chunks of fruit or sugar-free crunchies that nothing was discussed about the upcoming encounter with Patrick Weeks. Jo hoped this trip wouldn’t end up being one long “mother’s afternoon out.” Dulcie and Andrew might benefit from the excursion, but Jo’s situation had little room for such luxuries.
She pulled off of Route 30 at the exit that announced Marlsburg, then drove a mile or two until the sparseness of houses occasionally dotting the landscape changed into the compact density of town streets. Jo checked the directions Dan had printed off his computer for her, and with Dulcie’s help reading the street signs, made a few turns until they both spotted the sign: “Weeks Custom-Made Furniture.”
“There it is,” they said in unison, and Jo pulled into the small parking lot beside the one-story brown building. While Dulcie got busy extracting Andrew from his seat, Jo stepped out to look the place over. Though clearly many years old, the outside had been painted and trimmed attractively, with diamond-paned windows at the front that gave a cozy, Williamsburg feel. Large masonry flowerpots flanked the entrance, which Jo imagined would sport red geraniums or something equally as welcoming once the weather warmed. The overall effect, she felt, was a thriving business, though from the size of the place, probably a modest one. Too modest, she was sure, for Linda to have wanted to be a part of it.
They passed through the door into a small showroom filled with wooden furniture: dining room sets, rockers, dressers, end tables, all glowing with a rich, soft patina. “Oooh, I like these,” Dulcie said.
A man stepped out from a back room, wiping his hands on a rag. Of medium height and build, he had thinning, sandy-colored hair and pleasantly even features, though his serious expression told Jo he was probably more comfortable in the back room than dealing with customers. He was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt tucked into jeans.
“Afternoon, ladies,” he said, greeting them. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Weeks?” Jo asked, and he nodded.
“I love your furniture,” Dulcie said, shifting Andrew in her arms.
“Thank you.” A smile transformed his face, but only briefly. “We specialize in eighteenth-century styles, but we can make others. Were you looking for anything in particular?”
Dulcie launched into an explanation of the corner cabinet she was thinking of, and as she did Jo glanced around and noticed a girl of about eight peeking out of the back area. “I’m not sure what we can afford just yet,” Dulcie said, “but I’d love to get some ideas.”
Weeks led Dulcie to a couple of pieces in the showroom, mentioning the alterations that could easily be made as well as the various stains and finishes available. Jo followed, but stopped to examine a lovely, bentwood rocker. The young girl stepped out a little farther. Jo smiled, and she smiled back shyly, then came all the way over.
“I helped my daddy make that,” she told Jo.
“Did you? You both did a very good job. It’s beautiful.”
The girl smiled wider, and Jo looked at her more closely. She had her father’s sandy hair, but a shade or two brighter. Her eyes, though, were definitely her mother’s. Jo realized with a shock that this must be Linda’s daughter. A daughter whose existence Linda had neglected to mention to any of her friends in New York.
As the girl ran her hand over the rocker’s curved arm, Jo asked, “What’s your name?”
“Abigail.”
“Abigail? That’s a very pretty name.”
“Abby,” Patrick Weeks called, “would you bring my catalogue from the back?”
As the girl turned and ran to the back room, Weeks explained, “She’s out of school today because her asthma was acting up earlier. She’s okay now.”
“What a shame!” Dulcie cried. “Asthma and allergies can be so frightening in children. But usually they outgrow them, don’t they?”
Weeks shifted his weight. “Usually.”
Abigail ran back with a catalogue in her hand. Weeks took it and rapidly flipped through to find a particular page. He rolled back the other pages and held it out to Dulcie.
“This is the one I was talking about. Very eighteenth century in style and also in construction. All the joints are dovetail, or mortise and tenon, which gives a much stronger, longer-lasting joint. Plus we sand only enough for smoothness, but still allow the character of the wood to show through.”
Weeks went on about stains and lacquers, clearly enthused with his subject, and Dulcie listened closely, obviously enthralled. Jo wondered how serious she was about wanting a cabinet, and since no costs had yet been mentioned, what her budget might allow. The workmanship Weeks was describing was not going to come cheap.
Finally, a price was named, and Dulcie gave a little gasp. “Oh, my!”
“That, of course, would be our top of the line.” Weeks flipped a few more pages and began discussing another piece. Andrew, who until then had been quite cooperative, apparently decided he’d had enough and started fussing.
“Andrew,” Dulcie said, struggling with the suddenly squirmy child. “What has gotten into you?”
Jo felt a tug on her jacket.
“I have some toys he could play with,” Abigail said, shyly but loud enough for Dulcie to hear.
“Do you?” Dulcie said, smiling at the girl. “What kind of toys?”
“A top my daddy made out of wood. And some blocks. We keep them in the corner back there.”
“I’m afraid Andrew needs a quick diaper change before he plays with anything. Do you mind?” Dulcie asked Weeks.
“No, it’s fine. We get lots of families. Abby, show the lady where the restroom is, okay?”
Abby skipped off, leading the way, and Jo, suddenly pleased to have brought Andrew along, was left alone with Weeks. He looked over to her. “Can I show you anything in particular?”
“My friend is the one who’s looking for furniture.”
Weeks nodded and started to turn away, but before he got too far, Jo asked, “Does Abby know what’s happened to her mother?”
Chapter 14
Patrick Weeks looked at Jo, a scowl rapidly darkening his face. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Jo McAllister. I knew Linda in New York where we both crafted jewelry.”
“You were a friend of hers?”
“I knew her. I found Linda difficult to be friends with.”
Weeks gave a low snort. “Then you knew her pretty well. To answer your question, no, I haven’t told Abby yet, so I’d appreciate your not saying anything in front of her.”
Jo nodded. “Of course. She seems like a sweet girl. Linda never mentioned her to me.”
Weeks walked toward the front windows, farther away from the restroom and play area where Abby lingered. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. Abby was two when Linda decided we were holding her back and took off. I could count the times she’s seen her daughter since then on the fingers of one hand.”
“How sad.”
“Actually, I think Abby’s better off for it. Linda would have been a rotten mother if she’d hung around.”
“What will you tell Abby about her?”
“That’s going to be a tough one, isn’t it?”
“Daddy, can the baby play with the new toy truck?” Abby asked, running halfway across the showroom.
“No, sweetheart.” Weeks cleared the grimness from his face to answer his daughter. “I haven’t finished sanding it yet.”
“Oh, okay.” Abby ran back to where Dulcie and Andrew were, and Weeks turned back to Jo.
“The sheriff was here to inform me of what happened to Linda,” he said. “Abby wasn’t around, then, thank God.”
Jo noticed that all his concern centered on his daughter and the effect such news would have on her, with nothing spared for what had happened to his ex-wife. She wished she could have been there when the sheriff first told Weeks, to see his reaction. Had he been shocked, or merely pretending shock? Would she have been able to tell?
Jo was about to ask if Linda had contacted Weeks when the door to the showroom suddenly opened and a tall, matronly woman breezed in.
“Patrick,” she called, spotting him with Jo, “I’ve decided I want that table made after all.”
Jo saw relief fly across the man’s face—from having his conversation with Jo interrupted?—and he excused himself to attend to his paying customer. Dulcie, looking over, picked up Andrew and rejoined Jo, with Abby trailing behind.
“Any luck?” she asked.
Jo shrugged, glancing at Abby. “A little.” She saw that Weeks and the tall woman had become engrossed in a conversation that looked unlikely to end soon, judging from the papers he began pulling out from behind a counter. Then a young couple entered the store, running further, unwitting interference between Patrick Weeks and Jo. She asked Dulcie, “What would you think of getting a cup of coffee, somewhere around here?”
“Abby tells me that she and her daddy go to Shirley’s Café a lot, and that it’s right down the street. Is that right, Abby?”
“Uh-huh.” Abby ran to the window and pointed. “It’s right down there, past the gift shop and the tree that was hit by lightning last summer and now it has a big dark stripe going down it.”
“Wow, so we’ll get to see that,” Jo said. “Thanks, Abby.”
“Will you bring the baby back?” Abby asked Dulcie. She reached up to touch one of the little hands Andrew held down to her.
“Maybe not today, Abby,” Dulcie said. “But we might come back another time. Your daddy makes beautiful furniture.”
Abby nodded but looked disappointed as she waved good-bye to Andrew. Dulcie called out her thanks to Patrick Weeks with a promise that she would think over all he had told her. He looked up from his consultation to acknowledge their leaving. His gaze, Jo noticed, left Dulcie and settled on her as they made their way to the door.
“Thanks for getting me those few minutes to talk with Weeks,” Jo said as soon as they were out of the store.
“Thank Andrew,” Dulcie said. “He’s the one who put an end to the furniture discussion with his squirminess.”
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