Vultures At Twilight Part 6

Ada smiled. Yes, let's pretend everything's normal, but I will find the truth. 'Come with me.' He followed as she went into her galley kitchen and foraged through the cupboards, looking for suitable sustenance for a sixteen, almost seventeen, year old. As she inventoried her on-hand food, she was struck by how erratic her dietary habits had become. Aside from large-curd cottage cheese, a head of iceberg lettuce, Danish b.u.t.ter cookies, cartons of blueberry and pomegranate juice high in anti oxidants and a half loaf of twelve-grain bread which reminded her of eating birdseed her pantry was bare.

'Wait a minute.' She opened the freezer. 'I have ice cream and . . .' She knew it still had to be there. 'Hershey's syrup.'

Aaron laughed. 'I'm not five.' But he didn't resist as she spooned out generous bowls of Ben and Jerry's and squirted bursts of chocolate syrup over the top.

'So what happened?' Ada asked, taking inventory of her tall, sandy haired grandson in his skinny jeans, sneakers and baggy tee. With his hazel eyes and even features, she had a moment's hesitation and surge of pride; he's turning into a really handsome man.

'I told you,' he insisted.

'You told me something. Are you hurt anywhere else? And how did you manage to run into a wall?'

'Jeez! You don't let up,' he said, avoiding her gaze and wolfing down ice cream. 'Dad and I were fighting, and I wasn't looking where I was going; I ran into the gla.s.s shelves in the living room. It's no big deal.'

'Hmm.' Observing how his story had just s.h.i.+fted from the wall to shelves, and that yes, somehow Jack was behind this; you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! 'Have things quieted down, or is that why you're here?'

'I had to get out of there, and Mom said you told her I could stay here.' He glanced up expectantly.

Ada swallowed back any criticism, any you could have called first or does your mother know you're here? Looking at his handsome, albeit marred face, something melted; it's not just that she loved him unconditionally, but that in his eyes, the angle of his jaw, even the way he flicked his too long bangs off his forehead she caught traces of her own brothers at that age, and from certain angles her grandfather, Morris, a man who by all accounts was too handsome for his own good. 'Of course you can stay, but we'll need groceries.' Then she caught herself. 'Wait a minute; what about school?'

'I've got my car. I can drive.'

'Right,' she said, 'you're not five.' There were so many things she wanted to ask. Are you really gay? How could you possibly know when you're so young? Did your father do that to you? What aren't you telling me? Never one to hold her tongue, Ada was filled with trepidation. She pictured Lil, with her even features and soft brown eyes and how the feelings she had for her friend had progressed beyond . . . friends.h.i.+p. It had taken her decades to even entertain such a notion, how could he possibly know at sixteen?

'What?' he asked.

'It's nothing,' she replied, figuring if he were going to tell half truths about his father and whatever else was going on she'd do the same. And so they pa.s.sed a companionable afternoon, playing Scrabble, finis.h.i.+ng the ice cream and then taking a trip in Aaron's not quite vintage, and not quite restored blue Mercedes diesel sedan to Costco, Ada's favorite store.

NINE.

Tolliver felt numb and not quite real as he pushed the unanswered stack of phone messages from one side of his desk to the other. A tsunami was overtaking his life; if he didn't put his business into order, everything he and Philip had built would be swept away. He imagined that the police would charge him with Philip's murder. After all, people are usually killed by those closest to them.

His attorney, Richard Thompson, III d.i.c.k to his friends had a.s.sured Tolliver there was nothing to worry about. 'There's no hard evidence,' he'd said. 'Nothing to connect you to the scene of the murder. I mean, h.e.l.l, they're not even certain where he got killed.'

Tolliver fanned the messages over his leather blotter. He picked one at random; it was Ada Strauss calling to get his quote.

How long ago that seemed, but it had only been two days; Tuesday, almost a lifetime. He remembered the two women and the translucent Ha.s.sam painting with its idealized images of beautiful Victorian ladies in pastel dresses at a seaside picnic. It was worth a fortune, and not the kind of thing he'd normally let slip through his fingers. 'Just pull it together,' he told himself as he picked up the phone and dialed.

'h.e.l.lo,' a woman's voice answered.

'Mrs Strauss?'

'Yes.'

'This is Tolliver Jacobs; I came by earlier this week to look over an estate.'

'Of course, Mr Jacobs. Not to be rude, but you'd said you'd get back to me yesterday. I'd begun to think you weren't interested.'

'I'm sorry.' His voice echoed in his head. 'Things have been a little crazy.'

'I hope everything's OK,' Ada remarked.

'It's good of you to ask. To be honest ' and he wasn't sure why he continued 'things couldn't be worse. You see, my partner was found murdered.'

'In Grenville?'

'Yes.'

'How horrible for you.'

'It is. It's the most awful thing I could have imagined.' He held the phone to his ear and said nothing, having forgotten why exactly he had called. 'Oh right,' he said, looking at the pink message in his hand. 'About the estate . . .'

'Are you sure you want to do this now?' Ada asked. 'I hadn't realized. Obviously this can wait, or . . .'

'I don't know what I'm supposed to do,' he said, staring at the message slip. 'They can't release the body, and his parents couldn't get a flight till Sat.u.r.day. I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I think work may be what pulls me through this. It's the only thing that feels half normal right now.'

'You could be right,' she agreed as she reeled from what he'd just told her.

'Good, let me look at my notes.' Finding comfort in the routine, he glanced through his three pages of jotted impressions. 'You'll have to forgive me, but usually I write these things up. I just haven't gotten around to it. OK, now without the painting, which I would strongly recommend consigning to a New York auction, I could go one hundred thousand for the entire contents.'

Ada paused. 'I know this is the wrong time,' she said, 'but I'm curious as to how people arrive at their figures.'

'Everyone does it differently. Basically, I add it all up and divide by four,' he said being more blunt than he'd ever been.

'So twenty-five cents on the dollar?'

'Yes. If it were all antiques I might go as high as thirty or even thirty-five cents, but where there's a lot of household goods, it takes more man hours to realize less money.'

'That makes sense,' she agreed. 'I was in retail for years. Let me ask you this: is your quote firm, or do you have anywhere to move?'

In spite of himself, Tolliver smiled. 'How much movement?'

'Well,' Ada continued, 'I was thinking more like one fifty, without the painting.'

'I'll go halfway,' he countered. 'One and a quarter, but that's it, especially with the economy being what it is.'

'That's close to what I was thinking, so yes,' Ada agreed.

After they hung up, Tolliver removed all three of her messages. It made the pile less bulky and he felt a small sense of accomplishment. As he flipped through the others, there was one among the dozen that caused his gut to churn. 'We had been having problems,' he had told the intense detective, unable to tell her more.

He reread the message: To: Mr Jacobs From: D. Preston Re: What we discussed.

He hated everything the message implied; all it meant, all of the changes that had crept into the business, a rot that he'd allowed to happen. He knew that he would have to get back to her; he was in too deep, both he and Philip; is that why this happened? Unable to think of any reason why someone would hurt his beautiful Philip.

Was it this? Over the last few years, the playing field of local dealers had changed. Strange affiliations and tacit agreements had sprung up creating questionable alliances as everyone jockeyed for shrinking inventory.

Yes, he thought picturing Detective Perez we were having problems. And motivated more by fear, than by anything else, he called Delia Preston.

TEN.

I waited in Ada's front hall as she and Aaron got ready. Pretending to fix my face in the mirror hair twisted up into its habitual bun, a bit of lipstick I glanced into the living room, hunting for traces of Ada's face in her grandson's. His black and blue made that difficult, and I had the good sense not to ask questions. I also knew that Ada would fill me in on the details later.

It felt good to see her focused on something other than Evie's estate or her mother's proposed move to Nillewaug. She fussed over Aaron, trying to get him to put on a garish knit cap and scarf she'd made.

'Are you ready?' I asked, b.u.t.toning my chocolate brown leather coat.

'I am,' said Aaron as he joined me hatless in the hall. 'I'm not wearing this,' he said, stuffing the red, green and orange stocking cap into the pocket of his navy blazer.

'It's a little loud,' I agreed, 'but remember, there are few people in this world who will ever love you enough to actually knit you something.'

'I know,' he said, his voice low, 'but next time see if you can't get her to pick better colors. Black is good. And ditch the pompoms.'

'I'll see what I can do,' wondering why he thought I'd have input into yarn selection. We watched as Ada made the circuit of her condo, turning out lights and checking to make sure her electric teakettle and shredder were unplugged. I'd seen her do this so many times, it seemed dance-like, and bordered on obsessive.

'I know I'm forgetting something,' she said. 'You sure you wouldn't rather I fix something?'

Aaron shot me a glance, which let me know he had few illusions about his grandmother's culinary skills. Ada had many talents, cooking was not among them.

'No,' I said. 'We're going. My treat.'

'If you insist.' She joined us at the door. 'And don't you look nice,' she commented and proceeded to pinch her grandson's cheek. 'What did you do with that hat? It's Merino wool; I made it myself.'

'Grandma,' he complained.

'Sorry, but it's nice to see you in something other than jeans and a tee s.h.i.+rt.'

'You said I couldn't wear them to the restaurant.'

'True, and you look very handsome,' she said, taking in his blazer, chinos and b.u.t.ton-down light blue oxford-cloth s.h.i.+rt.

On the way to my car, Ada stopped every few steps to uproot weeds that had grown through cracks in the cement sidewalk. 'You would think,' she commented, 'with the fees we pay, they could take better care of the grounds.'

'They used to. Things have slipped.'

'True,' she agreed. 'I wonder why? I mean yes, the economy tanked, but it's not like our fees have gone down. They raised them again last year. So what gives?'

'Priorities,' I offered as I clicked the b.u.t.ton for the car locks. 'Let's face it; we're two of the youngest residents. This place is getting more and more geriatric. At the last homeowner's a.s.sociation everyone was focused on funding the ambulance and more ramps and handrails on the walking paths. Something has to give, like weeding the grounds.'

Aaron opened the car door and looked around. 'It is kind of weird that this is just a place for old people . . . like a ghetto.'

Ada sighed. 'It is, our own little Twilight Town.'

I slid behind the wheel and looked at her. 'You're really thinking of moving back to the city.'

'I don't know,' she replied, meeting my gaze.

I had the distinct sense she wanted to say more and didn't. I a.s.sumed because Aaron was there. And for the same reason I kept my thoughts hidden, like: what would I do if Ada left? And why did the topic make me so sad?

It was a quick ride to Pilgrim's Mall, the retail hub of Pilgrim's Progress. It houses several excellent restaurants and shops, a three-screen movie theatre and a series of elegant courtyards where venders peddle everything from sungla.s.ses to vitamins. The design, which includes faux pushcarts, was lifted from Boston's Faneuil Hall Marketplace. It was scenic and safe and made it possible to take care of your shopping without ever leaving the community.

Tonight we headed toward Bayberries, an old Grenville restaurant that had relocated to the mall. It was one of my favorites.

'Let's look in the bookstore first,' Ada suggested. 'Our reservations aren't for another fifteen and I want to see the papers.'

As we meandered toward the Nutmeg Bookshop, Aaron spotted something dangling on a yew hedge. He went to investigate.

'Look at this!' he shouted, bringing over what appeared to be a piece of jewelry that glittered in the late-afternoon sun.

I looked over Ada's shoulder as she examined his find. It was a gold locket with a blue-enameled dove surrounded by concentric rays of diamond chips.

'Oh my,' Ada commented, 'someone will be missing this.'

'It's lovely,' I agreed. 'But what was it doing in the hedge? If it fell off its chain, it would be more out in the open.'

Aaron retraced his steps looking for the chain. We watched as he pushed into the tangle of sculpted yews.

'Watch out for your jacket,' Ada cautioned as he ferreted in the greenery.

When he emerged, he held two ladies' pocket watches.

Ada and I looked at each other as he handled the exquisite Victorian timepieces.

'Something's wrong,' I commented as I took one of the watches and opened the engraved case. I grabbed my reading gla.s.ses and saw that it was clearly stamped fourteen carat.

'Did you see anything else?' Ada asked, her expression worried.

'No, but it's really tight in there.'

Ada reached up and smoothed back her grandson's bangs, picking out small twigs and bits of leaf. 'We need to bring these to the security desk,' she commented. 'I have a sick feeling about this.'

'You think someone was robbed?' I asked.

'What else could it be? How sad. I hope no one was hurt.'