by Ellery Adams
“I just got off the phone with her,” he said. “I told her not to go home, and she said she called Atlas, and he told her she could stay with them. It turns out the Dolans have a two-bedroom apartment over their garage for their bodyguard and driver, Holt Garrido. Holt is going to pick Helen up at three, drive her to her house so she can pack a suitcase, and then take her to the Dolans’ to stay at his place in the extra room. I’m having a squad car meet them there, in case Jasper is lurking about.”
“You’re still at the motel?”
“Yeah. I’ve got door knockers out talking to guests and employees, but so far no one remembers seeing Jasper. The problem is, the Crescent Moon isn’t your average motel. It’s twelve cabins in the middle of the woods, and of course Jasper’s is the most remote. Chief Taylor did approve a surveillance team, so they’ll be setting up in one of the nearby cabins in case he comes back. In the meantime, I’ve got a BOLO out on him. Hopefully, he’s picked up soon.”
“If Jasper was planning on killing Helen, why would he care if she was dating Brett? Why keep her tied up all night? Why not kill her and get it over with?”
“Maybe he got cold feet and couldn’t go through with it,” he said.
“And then what? He went to Brett’s house and killed him instead?”
“At this early stage in the investigation, we don’t have any evidence that he was ever at the farmhouse,” he said. “I’m also not willing to write Helen off as a possible suspect, if it turns out Brett’s death wasn’t a suicide. I don’t like her being there, or how she didn’t talk to us until Jasper had plenty of time to hightail it out of the state.” Molly heard someone in the background say something to him. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he told the person. Then to Molly, “Sorry about that. I’m going to be here a while. Tell me about your convo with Sabrina. Is there something I should know?”
“I don’t know if it’s important or not, but I’m pretty sure Sabrina was in love with Brett, and she could have felt betrayed when he started dating Helen. She introduced them in the park, and he asked Helen out the very next day.”
“Ouch. That had to smart.”
“She also thinks Brett used her to get to her father, and moved on to Helen when she failed.”
“Ah, true love. You think she murdered him because he started dating Helen?”
“It’s petty, I know, but unrequited love is often a motive for murder, not to mention pure old jealousy.” Again, she heard the voice in the background. “One more thing before you go,” she said. “Sabrina told me to talk to Iris Jefferson, her father’s housekeeper, about the cookie jar and the pawn, because she has a cookie jar collection and plays board games. Iris used to work for Sabrina, but she got fired because Sabrina accused her of stealing forty dollars from her. I’m not sure it’s true. I think Sabrina is being spiteful blaming Iris. But I thought I probably should talk to Iris.”
“Does she have a motive to kill Brett?”
“I have no idea. I’ll stop by to see Atlas tomorrow, and while I’m there I’ll see if I can talk to her, and anyone else who works there. Although I’m wondering . . . how do you get in to see a celebrity? Do I walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell? Or do I need to make an appointment?”
“I’d show up unannounced,” he said. “If they know you’re coming, it gives them time to prepare answers to any questions you might ask.”
“Good idea. I’ll do that,” she said. “I’ll tell them I’m asking questions for my article.”
“Let me know if you find out anything,” he said.
“You sound like you’re coming over to my side and you do think Brett was murdered.”
“I can’t ignore Jasper being here, and what he allegedly did to Helen,” he said. “But I’m still waiting for the official report from the medical examiner before I open a murder investigation. Still, if you are going out to the Dolans’, be careful.”
“I will be, I promise,” she said. “I also need a little favor from you.”
“What is it?”
“Another address,” she said. “Atlas Dolan’s home is unlisted.”
Chapter 10
The Sandy Point community where Atlas Dolan lived was a development of homes built in the mid-fifties as an affordable housing option for young couples. Over the last two decades, as the population grew and the area’s wealth increased, so did the prices. Molly checked one realtor’s website and found a house currently on the market for five hundred thousand dollars. It was a modest split-level built in 1956, and it wasn’t even on the lake, although the listing did say it had a peek-a-boo view of the lake from an upstairs bathroom window. Was that worth half a million dollars? Molly didn’t think so. If she was going to pay that kind of money for a house, it would have to be on the lake with a real view.
As a celebrity, Atlas’s address was a closely guarded secret, but Lombardi was able to find it for her. There was only one street, a narrow one-way road shaped like a horseshoe sloping toward the lake, with one way in and out to the main road. Molly drove slowly. The homes on each side of the road were professionally landscaped, and the cars she saw in some of the driveways were all high-end luxury models. Many of the original homes had been torn down and replaced by new builds, like Atlas’s home. It was also the only house on the block surrounded by an eight-foot-high, black iron fence.
With the motor idling, Molly took a good look at it. Large and modern, it was painted dark gray with white trim and had a black metal roof. The garage was for three cars, and the level above, which she assumed was Holt’s apartment, had a long row of windows overlooking the driveway. Helen would be staying there until Jasper was apprehended.
Across the street she saw the house where Sabrina was living. It was one of the originals, a two-story Cape painted a cheery yellow with a red front door. White flower boxes beneath the windows were filled with colorful blooms, and there were old, tall trees on the property. It was not gated, and had no garage. And since there wasn’t a car parked in the driveway, Molly wondered if Sabrina was already out looking for a new job.
Turning back to the imposing black iron gate, she noticed a call box on the gatepost and powered down her window. She pressed the call button and a moment later a female voice came over the intercom. “Who is it?”
“Helen?”
“No. Who is it?”
“Sorry, I thought you were Helen. My name is Molly Appleby. I met Atlas yesterday at the auction. I was hoping I could talk to him.”
“One moment.”
Four minutes later, just as Molly was getting ready to press the call button again, the iron gates began to open. She drove through them down a driveway that widened in front of the garage. Off to the side was an area reserved for guests and employees. Molly parked next to a shiny new silver Ford Focus, and as she was getting out of the car, she heard the front door open behind her. Iris stood there wearing the same outfit she’d worn yesterday—black slacks, white shirt, and comfortable black sneakers. Most likely her work uniform.
Molly walked over to her and smiled. “You’re Iris, right? I saw you at the auction yesterday.”
“Shush.” Iris put her index finger to her lips. “The baby’s sleeping,” she said quietly.
Molly walked into an open-concept house with high ceilings and polished cherry floors covered in Persian rugs that probably cost more than her Audi. Off the entryway was the living/dining room. It was furnished in an eclectic blend of Chinese black lacquer chests and what looked like original Duncan Phyfe furniture. Molly knew the dining table alone could easily sell for over a hundred thousand dollars. She wasn’t sure how these two styles ended up working together, but somehow they did, possibly because Atlas had a limitless cash supply and could hire the most talented decorators in the country. If she’d tried something like that at home, it would have turned into a decorating disaster.
As Iris closed the front door, Molly said quietly, “I was wondering if I could talk to you after I speak to Atlas.”
Iris ignored her and started down the hall, leaving Molly no choice but to follow her. They went past a modern kitchen and out a pair of French doors, where a brick patio ran across the rear of the house. Beyond the patio was a formal garden and a small private beach. A warm breeze was coming off the lake, and in the distance Molly could hear the murmur of power boats. Whitney was sunbathing on a lounge chair near the end of the patio, and lifted her head as Iris brought Molly to her. She pushed herself into an upright position and adjusted her tiny red string bikini top. Bug-eyed dark sunglasses were perched on her nose, and she pushed them up to the top of her head.
“Iris says you want to talk to Atlas.”
“Yes, I was hoping to interview him for the magazine,” Molly said. “I’m writing an article about the auction, and after what happened to Brett, I thought I’d write a tribute piece to him.”
“Holt picked Helen up from the hospital yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, I know. It’s very kind of you to let her stay here.”
Whitney frowned. “She’s only staying here because the police won’t let her go home until they find her good-for-nothing ex-husband. I am not, and I repeat, not happy about any of this. It’s very upsetting.” She turned to Iris. “Don’t just stand there looking like Little Bo-Peep. Get us some iced tea, and check to make sure Katie’s still asleep.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Iris said.
Iris walked away and Whitney crossed her long tan legs at the ankles. “Sabrina’s car died this morning,” she said. “Atlas and Holt have taken her to the car dealership to get it fixed.” She waved a hand at Molly. “Please, sit down. You’re making me nervous standing there.”
The patio furniture was wrought iron with thick cushions. Without asking, Molly opened the umbrella and pulled one of the chairs into its shade. She had a fair complexion and didn’t want to sit in the sun without sunscreen on.
“Do you know when Atlas will be back?”
“I couldn’t say,” Whitney said. “But you’re welcome to wait.”
“Thank you,” Molly said. “Perhaps while I’m waiting I could interview you?”
“I’m not sure I want to be interviewed,” Whitney said. “Atlas doesn’t like me talking to the press.”
“I’m writing a piece on the auction and on Brett. I’m not going to delve into your personal life, if that’s your concern.”
“Well, in that case . . . what do you want to ask me?”
“Were you involved in the auction in any way?”
Whitney laughed. “Involved? My biggest contribution was to persuade Atlas to sign on the dotted line. The man has so many antiques, it’s ridiculous. When we were designing this house, I insisted he designate a separate room to put them in. I call it his museum room. The truth is, I don’t like antique furniture or jewelry or whatever. I think it’s all creepy.”
“Creepy in what way?”
“All these old things belonged to other people,” Whitney said. “Who knows what kind of bad mojo they have around them. I’ll put up with some of the furniture, but that’s it. I won’t even wear old jewelry.”
Molly was amazed. The antiques she had seen on the auction block had been far from creepy. They were works of art. “Were you around when Brett was planning the auction with Atlas?”
“Brett was here, but I wasn’t involved with any of it. You’d need to talk to Atlas and Helen.” Whitney sighed. “Of course, Atlas took forever to make up his mind about which pieces he was going to part with. You’d think they were his children and someone was wrenching them out of his arms. I told him to stop dragging his feet and just do it. I said, if you want to keep collecting, you’ve got to get rid of some of this stuff, because we’re not building a second museum room.”
Molly wondered how a man like Atlas, who had collected antiques for over thirty years, lived with a woman who hated what he loved. They were certainly an odd couple.
“What was your opinion of Brett?”
“He seemed like a nice enough man,” Whitney said. “Atlas said he knew a lot about antiques and trusted him to do a good job with the auction. We were shocked when Helen told us he’d killed himself. Do you know why he did it?”
“No, I don’t,” Molly said.
“Neither does Helen, which seems strange to me. How could she be dating the man and not see this coming?”
“You saw them together. Did you think it was getting serious?”
“No, but I’m not friends with my husband’s secretary, so it’s not like we ever discussed it.” Whitney’s eyes shifted toward the house. “Speaking of Helen . . .”
Molly turned and saw Helen coming toward them from around the side of the house. She was dressed for work in tan slacks and a long-sleeved navy blue blouse, which covered her bandaged wrists.
“Hello, Molly,” she said. “I just came downstairs to work and saw you on the security monitor. What are you doing here? Have you come to tell me the police found Jasper?”
Whitney replied before Molly could. “She’s here to interview Atlas about the auction, and to write a piece about Brett. I told her Atlas and Holt took Sabrina to get her car fixed.”
Helen pulled out a chair and sat down. She sighed deeply, and Molly could see there were dark circles under her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night,” she said. “I kept thinking about Brett, and I’m worried about Jasper.”
“You’re worried about him?” Whitney scoffed. “Why would you worry about a man who kidnapped you?”
“Because the police have taken everything I told them the wrong way,” Helen said. “I’m afraid they think he’s somehow involved in Brett’s death.”
Molly said, “As Detective Lombardi told you, he committed a crime when he held you against your will. There’s no getting out of it. And you did say he threatened to harm Brett.”
“I never should have told the police what happened to me,” Helen said. “Jasper will go to jail again, won’t he?”
“Probably,” Molly said.
“I loved him once,” Helen said quietly. “He’s a good man. It was the drugs that changed him. I’m sure he had nothing to do with what happened to Brett.”
Molly wished she could tell her about the contents of Jasper’s backpack. That might change her opinion about this good man. But it wasn’t her call. Lombardi would decide what information he wanted to release.
“You look like you’re dressed and ready for work,” Molly said.
“Yes, I couldn’t sit around Holt’s apartment all day, thinking about things. Besides, Atlas needs my help with the media. A few major networks have already called this morning and left messages, and a reporter for the Burlington Free Press wants an interview. I’m going to have to work on a press release.”
Whitney said, “Tell them no comment and be done with it.”
“If only it was that easy,” Helen said. “Somehow they got wind of my ties to Brett and Jasper, and they know I work for Atlas. And since the police haven’t ruled on the cause of death, I can tell they’re getting suspicious, thinking there’s some kind of scandal going on. They won’t stop hounding Atlas, or me, until they get a statement.”
Whitney made a face. “Honestly, I don’t see why we have to get dragged into your mess,” she said. “Brett was your boyfriend, and Jasper was your ex-husband. They’ve got nothing to do with us.” She swung her legs over the side of the lounge chair and stood up. “Where on earth is Iris with the iced tea? I’m sorry, Molly. I’m getting a stress headache and need to lie down.” She slipped her bare feet into flip-flops decorated with rhinestone studs and walked off like a model with her shoulders back and her head held high. If she hadn’t been wearing the flip-flops, Molly thought she could have easily pulled off a runway catwalk, but the clack-clack-clack of rubber soles ruined the affect. As she reached the French doors, one opened suddenly, and she almost ran into Iris. “Get out of my way!”
Iris stepped back fast, the tray in her hands teetering, iced tea splashing over the side
s of two tall glasses. Molly was amazed how she managed to keep the glasses from flying off the tray as Whitney pushed by her into the house. She walked over to the table and set the tray down. “Helen, would you like Whitney’s tea? Or should I take it inside?”
“I’ll drink it,” Helen said. “Thank you, Iris.”
Molly said, “Iris, before you go, could I talk to you?”
Iris glanced at Helen. “I have work to do,” she said.
Helen pulled out a chair. “It’s all right,” she said. “You can talk to Molly.”
Iris sat on the edge of one of the chairs. Her feet were planted flat, her hands were folded in her lap, and she looked like she wanted to bolt out of there as fast as she could.
“I write for Collector’s Weekly,” Molly said, “and I understand you collect cookie jars. I’ve been thinking about writing an article on them and would love to hear about your collection.”
Molly thought it best to start with a nonthreatening subject. It was a good way to ease Iris into talking about cookie jars, board games, and Brett.
“I don’t know much about them,” Iris said.
“How many do you have?”
“I’m not sure,” Iris said. “Fifteen, twenty, maybe.”
“Have you bought any new ones recently at Laurel Wreath?”
Iris seemed to stiffen in the chair. “No,” she said.
“But you like to shop there?”
“Yes, of course,” Iris said. “It’s a beautiful store. I love all the antiques.”
“I heard there were six cookie jars stolen from Laurel Wreath a few weeks ago,” Molly said in a confidential tone. “Did you hear about it?” Iris nodded. Molly went on. “You know what’s really strange? The police found one of those cookie jars in Brett’s house. It’s a McCoy cookie jar shaped like a picnic basket, and it had a pawn piece from a game in it. Do you remember seeing that jar at the shop?”
“No, I don’t,” Iris said.
“Brett’s death is so sad, and such a loss,” Molly said. “I’m asking anyone who knew him, even a little, if they noticed any change in his demeanor lately, if he seemed depressed, or upset about anything.”
