Софи Райан - Telling Tails

Mac shook his head. “That would explain why I found Mr. P. waiting by the back door at quarter to eight this morning.”

“He’s crazy about her,” I said. “And I know she feels the same way about him.”

A slow smile spread across Mac’s face. “And would you have predicted that would happen the day the two of you”—he cleared his throat—“encountered each other at Legacy Place? You’re kind of responsible for the two of them getting together.”

I laughed, putting a hand to my mouth. “Given that—as Gram would say—Mr. P. was naked as a jaybird, no.”

I’d been doing a workshop at Legacy Place as a favor to my grandmother. I’d walked into the room we were using and, thanks to a miscommunication, discovered a naked Alfred Peterson, posing in the middle of the room.

“It wasn’t his best look,” I said to Mac.

I remembered walking across the floor to Alfred, keeping my eyes locked on the old man’s blue ones, silently repeating, Please don’t let me see anything that isn’t G-rated.

When I’d asked what he was doing, Mr. P. had replied, “I’m posing, my dear.”

Based on the position he’d assumed, I’d been fairly certain he was trying to approximate the Farnese Atlas , a marble sculpture of Atlas, partly down on one knee, with the world on his shoulders. In Mr. P.’s case it had been a red-and-white-striped beach ball with the logo of a beer company on his shoulders.

It turned out that he was posing for an art class, filing in for Sam, of all people. There had been some kind of mix-up. The class, it turned out, was drawing hands, not bodies.

I looked at Mac. I was shaking with laughter at the memory, my lips pressed tightly together. Luckily, Charlotte had been with me and had walked in and sent Mr. P. off to the washroom with an admonition to put his clothes on before—as she put it—the mystery was gone.

Mac glanced over at Alfred, who was talking to Charlotte, although his attention kept shifting to Rose. “The beginning of a pretty good friendship,” he said.

I nodded. “Hard to believe, but yes, it was.”

We settled at the table. Rose took the chair to my right and Liz sat beside her. Mr. P. and Charlotte were on my left and Mac leaned against the workbench with his sandwich and coffee, the way he often did when we had these kinds of meals. I glanced at him and he gave me a small smile of encouragement.

Mr. P. had set his computer bag on the table. He hadn’t unwrapped his sandwich or touched the cup of tea Charlotte had poured for him. I’d noticed that he and Charlotte had exchanged a couple of looks when he wasn’t watching Rose and trying not to be obvious about it.

I cleared my throat and they all turned their attention to me. I held up a hand in the old man’s direction. “Mr. P., you’re up,” I said.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he said. “First of all, Charlotte was able to get in touch with Mr. Cameron’s assistant, Chloe Sanders.”

“She was my student,” Charlotte said. “She agreed to stop by this afternoon.”

“Charlotte and I spent the rest of the morning trying to track down Mr. Cameron,” Mr. P. continued.

“So did you?” Liz asked.

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “No, Elizabeth. We didn’t. There hasn’t been any activity on his credit or debit cards since late yesterday afternoon when he put gas in his vehicle at a station in Rockport. Calls to his cell phone go straight to voice mail.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought Jeff Cameron was at a meeting in Portland. That’s what he told me yesterday.”

Charlotte shook her head. “There was no meeting. It had been rescheduled.”

“He was in town,” Rose said.

“All we can prove for the moment is that his vehicle was here,” Mr. P. continued, his eyes never leaving Rose’s face. “As well as the transaction at the gas station, we also have him on video heading for the highway early in the evening.”

“Do you believe he’s dead?” Rose asked.

I turned to look at her, but like Mr. P. all her attention was focused on one person. Him.

“We have another theory,” Charlotte said slowly.

Alfred nodded. He cleared his throat. “It is . . . more than a little outlandish,” he said.

Mac pushed away from the workbench and moved forward so he was standing between my chair and Mr. P.’s. “What is it, Alfred?” he said.

“Do you think he’s dead?” Rose asked again.

“I think he wanted you to think he’s dead,” Mr. P. said. “But I think he set up his wife to make it look like she killed him and then he ran off with all their money.”

No one said anything for what felt like a stretched moment in time. Then Rose spoke. “You’re saying Jeff Cameron used me. He manipulated me into offering to deliver those candlesticks to his wife so I could be a witness to his alleged death.” She was sitting upright in her chair, her hands folded primly in her lap, but anger flashed in her gray eyes.

Mr. P. nodded. “I’m sorry, Rosie. Yes.”

“He thought I was some feeble, dotty old woman he could use as part of his scheme. If he wasn’t dead, I’d smack him with my purse.”

Liz made a snort of derision. “Clearly the man is a pretty lousy judge of people.”

“Our theory is like a colander at the moment,” Charlotte said, setting her cup on the table. “It has a few holes, mainly the why and the who. Why on earth would the man want to set up his wife like this, and who helped him?”

“He had to have had help,” I said. “Someone to masquerade as his wife and someone else to assault Rose.”

“That may work to our advantage,” Mr. P. said. He gave me a small, sly smile. “Sarah, by any chance are you familiar with what one of our Founding Fathers, Benjamin Franklin, said about secrets?”

I nodded. “Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” The words didn’t leave me with a good feeling.

Chapter 9

That was all it took to wash away Rose’s anger at Charlotte and Mr. P., although I suspected she wouldn’t have stayed angry even without all the work the two of them had done to try to trace Jeff Cameron. Rose and Charlotte had been friends for a long time, and although she didn’t talk about it, I knew her feelings for Mr. P. ran deep, just the way his did for her.

I reached for my coffee and shifted in my chair so I could look at Liz. “And do you have anything you’d like to share with the group?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “Leesa Cameron may”—she held up one finger—“may have been seeing another man.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, apparently she’s some kind of rower.”

I nodded. “I saw a scull in the backyard.”

“Her husband is a runner.” She looked at me and I nodded. “Leesa Cameron had been working out with someone.” She paused. Knowing Liz, it was for effect. “For at least the past two months. And they’d been running.”

“Why wouldn’t she just go running with her husband?” Rose asked.

“You’re sure about the running part?” I said.

“One hundred percent,” Liz said. “Shannon, who did my nails”—she held up her hand like she was royalty—“said Leesa admitted she’d been running, but she said ‘we’: We were running .” Liz reached for the insulated carafe that held the tea. Her eyes flicked in my direction. “Shannon said Leesa Cameron’s feet reminded her of yours.”

Liz had gifted me with a spa pedicure at Phantasy after a road race I’d done in May. It had been a wonderfully pampering experience and I’d been thinking of doing it again.

I made a face at her. “For the record there’s nothing wrong with my feet, but we get your point. Do you know who Leesa was working out with?”