with Sasha and Fred so that there was always office coverage.
“I don’t know. I have nothing going on this week, so I’ll let Sasha and Fred pick first.”
I nodded. “They were in yesterday, working on the Picasso.”
“Oh yeah?” she said, spinning around to look at me. “What’s the word?”
I raised crossed fingers and flashed a quick grin.
Gretchen smiled. “Great!”
I was halfway to Newington when my cell phone rang, interrupting my disordered thoughts. Between fanciful anticipation about my upcoming conversation with Ty and fretting about the implications of Maisy’s murder, I was agitated and perplexed.
“Hello,” I said, angling my head to keep the phone in place.
“Josie. It’s Max.”
“Hi, Max,” I said, my worry meter spiking.
“I just spoke to Detective Rowcliff. He wants to see us this afternoon.”
“Why?” I asked, not really wanting to know. My heart began to thud.
“Apparently, he has questions about a few things—including some about Trevor Woodleigh.”
“Do you think there’s a problem?”
“I think he just wants to clarify some things.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
Max paused. “Well, Rowcliff isn’t as forthcoming as I might like, so it’s a wait-and-see situation, I think.”
The studied neutrality of his response added to my anxiety. If Rowcliff had bad news, he wouldn’t say a word to Max, no matter what Max asked, but if Rowcliff had good news, either he would have volunteered the information or Max would have discovered it. I felt a sense of impending doom.
“So,” I said, knowing there was no alternative, “when?”
“How’s three?”
I thought about how long I’d be at the Newington house. Verna, the woman who had called to schedule the appointment, was on her lunch hour, so I guessed that an hour was the outside limit. Twelve thirty to one thirty, a quick lunch, yes, I could get to Portsmouth by three o’clock.
“Sure,” I said, feeling resigned to my fate.
“Rowcliff asked if we’d come to the police station. Are you okay with that?”
“Why? Why does he want to meet there?” I asked, on the edge of panic.
“His convenience. I could refuse, but that might make us appear uncooperative.”
I swallowed as I turned onto Woodbury Avenue, pushing the panic aside. You’ve done nothing wrong, Josie. You’ve done everything right . “Sure,” I said as calmly as I could. “No problem.”
“Let’s talk for a minute in the parking lot before we go in, okay?”
“Okay. About ten of?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you there.”
I tried to recapture the giddy pleasure of fantasizing about Ty, but unease about my impending interview with Detective Rowcliff had taken hold.
As I turned into Verna’s street and searched for house numbers, I found myself fighting tears. I winked away the dampness as I pulled into the pockmarked driveway of 11 Melody Lane.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I
was a few minutes early, so I sat in my car and dialed the number for Maisy’s apparent friend, Pam Field.
“Field Design Studio,” a woman answered briskly.
“Pam Field, please.”
“This is she.”
“We’ve never met,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott. I don’t know if my name is familiar to you.”
“Oh wow,” she said, suddenly somber. “The Gala.”
“Right.”
“Poor Maisy. It’s just so awful.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “I understand you and Maisy were friends.”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said softly.
“Thank you. It was quite a shock.”
I paused, trying to find the words to ask my questions without offending her or seeming too pushy. I decided to keep things vague. “I didn’t know Maisy well. But now—well, this whole situation is so confusing—I’m trying to learn more so I can understand what happened.”
“How can anyone understand murder?” she asked rhetorically.
“Of course.” I cleared my throat. “Listen, you’re located on Market Street, right?”
“Yes. Near
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