“I’ve heard the pitch and I have the proposal.”
He narrowed his blue eyes. “What’s making you hesitate?”
“The cost. And parking. We get a fair amount of business from tour buses. They can pull off the highway and reach our current location easily. And right now I have a pretty big parking lot.”
Caulfield unfolded his napkin and placed it in his lap. “Right now you’re a destination shop. If you move your business you’ll be one of many businesses in the same area competing for customers.”
I smiled and nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Liz doing the same. He was sharp. “Yes,” I said. “I’m not convinced the increased volume of people walking by our door will offset the increased competition for dollars in the same area.”
“What’s your weekly customer volume during the tourist season?” he asked.
I glanced at Liz, who nodded. I gave Caulfield the number. He frowned, holding up one hand as he did some kind of mental math.
My fish cakes were only half gone before he determined that moving Second Chance didn’t make sense. It was the same conclusion I’d come to when I originally considered the idea, back when North by West was behind the harbor-front development idea, but it was nice to have confirmation of my calculations.
“You’re going to be clearing out Edison Hall’s property, aren’t you?” Caulfield asked, raising a finger in the direction of our waiter, who seemed to appear at the table with a full cream pitcher almost by magic.
“We started this morning,” I said, putting a little more spicy salsa on my plate. It was so good I could have just eaten it with a spoon directly from the little glass bowl, but Mom and Gram had taught me better manners than that. And I wasn’t sure that Liz wouldn’t smack me with her own fork if I tried it.
“If you come across a train layout, would you call me?” he asked.
“You mean a model train?” I said. I knew that he did, but I was stalling. He had to be talking about the steam engine and cars Elvis and I had found just a few hours ago. Interesting coincidence.
“What would Edison Hall have been doing with a toy train?” Liz asked. Under the table her hand squeezed my knee, her way of telling me, Don’t say anything!
I put my hand on top of hers to let her know I’d gotten her message.
“Model train, Liz, not a child’s toy,” Caulfield said.
“There’s a difference?” Liz said, raising her eyebrows.
“Yes, there is,” I said, gently squeezing her hand. I wasn’t going to give anything away, but I wasn’t going to let this chance to ask questions slip by. “Model railroading is a very popular hobby. People collect engines and cars, build layouts with track and scenery and run their trains.”
“So you think Edison Hall was into model railroading?” There was an edge of skepticism in Liz’s voice.
Aside from the Marklin engine and cars, there didn’t seem to be anything in the house to suggest the old man had been a hobbyist. There was no track, no layouts. I wondered if the pieces were part of another collection. Along with the stacks of National Geographic magazines in the house, there were dozens of blue glass electrical insulators in the garage and what looked to be maybe half a dozen weather vanes in the backyard. I suspected that Edison Hall was a man with the collector gene.
“I know he was into model railroading,” Caulfield said, setting down his fork. “Years ago we were in a train club together.”
“You’re joking,” Liz said.
He gave her his smooth smile. “No, I’m not. My father worked for the Maine Central Railroad. And Edison was a railroad man himself.” He turned back to me. “I don’t know if you know very much about model trains, Sarah.”
“I recognize Lionel,” I said. “That’s about it.”
“I’m looking for a steam engine and several cars made by a German company named Marklin.”
It was too big a coincidence. Caulfield must have realized we’d find the model train cars pretty quickly. I suspected that was why he’d said yes to Liz’s lunch invitation so easily and not just for the chance to charm her.
“I’m sure Ethan would be willing to sell you whatever you’re interested in from Edison’s collection, that’s assuming we find one.” I didn’t like to lie, but since we hadn’t found a collection yet, I told myself I wasn’t. For the most part.
I speared the last bite of fish cake, dipped it in the salsa and ate it.
Then Caulfield said, “The model train I’m looking for is mine.”
“So, what was Edison doing with a toy train belonging to you?” Liz asked. Our waiter appeared at her side then with a fresh pot of tea. I had no idea how he knew she needed a refill. I hadn’t seen her so much as lift a finger—or an eyebrow.
Caulfield smiled, shifted sideways in his chair and crossed one gray-suited leg over the other. “Years ago I bought a steam engine and several cars from another member of the train club—Duncan Merriman. Edison also bought some pieces from him.” He glanced toward the front window for a moment. “Merriman was in the early stages of dementia.”
“He sold the same train to both of you,” I said.
He nodded. “Yes. It was part of a club layout. When I went to get it I discovered that Edison had beaten me to it.”
“But you had a receipt.” The steam rose from the china teapot as Liz poured more tea.
Channing Caulfield laughed and ducked his head. “The fact that you’re asking me that question tells me you know I didn’t.”
Liz raised her eyebrows over her cup but didn’t say anything.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Edison asked me the same question Liz just did. When I couldn’t show him a receipt, he gave me some nonsense about possession being nine-tenths of the law.”
“The Hatfields and McCoys,” Liz murmured.
“We’d been . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “. . . discussing the issue for years. Last year Edison told me he wanted to make a layout for his grandchildren. He offered me a bottle of wine from his collection. I agreed. It seemed as though things were settled satisfactorily.”
“Then you found out that Edison’s entire wine collection was worthless,” I said.
“Including the bottle he’d given me.” Caulfield gave me a wry smile. “It was all just by chance really. I was in McNamara’s and I recognized Quinn from the article in the Boston Globe. We started talking. He told me he was looking into another case of fraud, here in town. He didn’t say who, but after he left Glenn McNamara said Quinn had been hired to appraise Edison Hall’s wine collection. I put two and two together.”
Liz tipped her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “I don’t suppose you happened to use that bottle to kill Ethan Hall’s wine expert, did you?” she asked.
“Liz,” I groaned.
The former bank manager didn’t seem the slightest bit ruffled. “No,” he said. “What would that have accomplished?”
Liz had crossed her own legs and one high-heeled foot bobbed up and down. “I don’t know,” she said. “And I’m not saying you did kill the man, I’m just asking if you did.” She smiled at him, and I could see why Channing Caulfield, and men half his age for that matter, was captivated by her. She’d just accused Caulfield of killing someone and he wasn’t at all offended. Of course she was showing a lot of leg at the moment—and she had great legs—and that was capturing at least some of his attention.
“I didn’t kill Mr. Quinn,” Caulfield said. “I’d never even met the man. On the contrary, I was hoping he’d be able to figure out who had defrauded Edison. Rumor had it that’s why he was still in town. My attorney has advised me that it would be possible to file a civil suit if there wasn’t enough evidence for criminal charges.”
“So, what were you doing lurking around Edison’s house the morning Mr. Quinn was killed?” Liz said.