Antiques to Die For by Cleland Jane K

Author:Cleland, Jane K. [Cleland, Jane K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2009-12-28T11:00:00+00:00

I gazed out the window as I considered the situation. Rainbow sequins prismed off the snow-covered roof of the church across the way.

Who wrote the letter? I wondered. Lesha? The angry guy in the pickup? Evan? Suddenly I realized we were taking Lesha’s assessment of how she came into possession of the palette at face value. We didn’t even know if she stole it, and if so, from whom. Had Evan ever owned it? Had she ever been, in fact, Evan’s girlfriend? Had he left a will? My mouth opened as shock registered. Was he even dead? And assuming he was, we didn’t know what killed him. Lesha had called it a blood disease. A blood disorder that kills could be anything from leukemia to septic poisoning to AIDS to poison.

I Googled “Evan Woodricky” and “New Hampshire.” I found no local Evans. I searched again, this time looking for an Evan Woodricky anywhere in the country, and got three hits. One was into heavy metal bands, another was looking for tactics for growing tomatoes in rocky soil, and a third was on a nine-month assignment teaching English as a second language in Brazil. I shook my head and tried Googling Lesha’s name. Nothing. I picked up the phone and called Wes Smith, my best source.

“I was going to call you later today,” Wes said. “I got news.”

I looked over at Paige. She seemed absorbed in her book, but even so, I didn’t want to talk to Wes in front of her.

Losing a parent when you’re between ten and twenty is the worst thing that can happen to a child, my father told me the day of my mother’s funeral. At that age, you’re old enough to understand the magnitude of your loss but too young to handle it well. Be gentle with yourself, kiddo. You’re in for some tough times. I’d wept at his words, raging against the fates, bitter and unforgiving, cursing God and the doctors and cancer. I carried the scars of that loss with me still.

“I can’t really talk.”

“Me, either. Let’s meet. When?”

I looked at the time display on my computer monitor. It was almost nine. “An hour?” I asked, thinking that would give me time to check out the tag sale before I met him.

“An hour’s good. Where?”

“How’s the Portsmouth Diner?” I asked.

“Done. See ya,” he said, and hung up.

My adrenaline began to flow. Wes didn’t make idle boasts. If he said he had news, he did. I could hear it in his voice. Something in his tone conveyed that he didn’t just have information, he had answers.

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