Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  Kenna, reed-thin, with an olive complexion, angular features, and an easy smile, shook her head.

  “No,” Becka said. “Why? Isn’t she here?” Becka was curvy, with fair, flawless skin and straight, blunt-cut, chin-length brown hair. She glanced at Riley’s car. “I assumed she was somewhere out of sight getting ready for a grand entrance … no?”

  “No. We think she might have gone for a walk. Maybe she lost track of time. It’s so nice out, it would be easy to do.”

  “Except it’s getting dark,” Kenna said, gazing out the windows into the gathering dusk.

  “Besides, Riley’s early to everything,” Becka added. She looked at her watch, then at me. “I mean everything. She’d be early for a root canal.”

  I didn’t know what to do. “Let’s give it a few more minutes,” I said, forcing myself to smile.

  As I joined a clutch of students oohing and ahhing over the Dior pumps, I recalled Riley’s haunted demeanor and my earlier thought that something was wrong.

  * * *

  At six-forty I decided to start the class. Riley still hadn’t returned. I kept glancing toward the parking lot expecting to see her trotting toward the door, embarrassed at having lost track of time.

  “Everyone!” I called. “If you’d take a seat, we’re just about ready to begin.” I smiled, covering up my anxiety with a high-voltage welcome. “Tonight we’re going to enter the world of vintage shoes and handbags! As you can see from the display, we have some beauties to discuss. I expect our guest speaker, Riley Jordan, to arrive any time. Meanwhile, I thought it might make sense for us to review some terminology.” I held up the poster. “We put together this diagram of a shoe—you’ll find it in your handout as Appendix One…”—I waited for everyone to find the place—“so that you can become familiar with industry jargon. By using the correct words, you’ll be able to communicate with each other and with professionals with confidence. You see the heel, of course, and the upper. There’s the tongue—” I broke off and smiled. “My arms are getting tired holding this. Give me a sec. I’m going to grab an easel.”

  I reached under the back display table where we stash supplies and touched what felt like skin. I recoiled, nearly toppling over, then squatted, took a deep breath, and slowly raised the tablecloth.

  Riley Jordan lay on her back, her arms by her sides. Her features were distorted, her skin swollen and bluish purple. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the bottom of the table. Maybe, I thought, she’s still alive. I knew the thought was irrational, even as it came to me. Her Burberry scarf was twisted around her neck, knotted, and pulled taut. I took a to-my-toenails breath, then tried to ease my finger into the knot, hoping to loosen the restraint, but the fabric was so tightly drawn, it cut into her neck like wire. Her mouth was open, as if she’d been screaming when she died. I closed my eyes, fighting waves of dizziness and nausea, and dropped the tablecloth. There was nothing I could do. Without question, Riley was dead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Josie?” Gretchen asked, crouching beside me. She must have seen anguish in my eyes, because she added in a whisper, “What is it?”

  “It’s Riley,” I whispered. “She’s dead. Go into the warehouse and call nine-one-one.”

  Her eyes opened wide, and she started to say something, but she stopped when I shook my head.

  “Go quietly,” I said into her ear. “Go now.”

  Without another word, she stood up and hurried to the warehouse door.

  I used my hands to push myself upright. Everyone in the class, eight women and two men, sat in varying stages of agitation, waiting for me to speak. Becka perched on the edge of her seat, her legs pulled under her, as if she were about to take off at a sprint. Kenna’s grip on her purse was so tight her knuckles were white. A man stood up, then sat back down. I didn’t want to tell them that Riley was dead. I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell them.

  “I have bad news,” I said from the podium. “You just saw Gretchen leave.” I looked down as I felt Hank rub my leg. He must have slipped into the room as Gretchen left. “I asked her to call the police. I’m afraid Riley’s dead—murdered. Her corpse is under that table.” Shock and horror registered on their faces. I stood silently, leaning against the podium, glad for its support. When their gasps and disbelieving murmurs had faded away, I continued. “Obviously, we all need to stay here until the police arrive.”

  Gretchen came back in. “They’re on their way,” she said, her eyes moist.

  I nodded. “Everyone, please stay seated. I’m certain the police would say that the less we move around, the better.”

  I walked to the outside door and stood there with my back to everyone. Tears welled in my eyes and spilled onto my cheeks. I was trembling. I wanted to call Ty, to hear his strong, deep voice. I wanted to curl up in a little ball and weep. I wanted to scream.

  Someone had strangled Riley in my tag sale room. Who could have wanted Riley dead? I asked myself. Riley, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Riley, who was generous and gracious.

  I recalled how distressed Riley had seemed when she’d stopped by to invite me to lunch. She’d acted shell-shocked. As I blinked away tears, I couldn’t believe Riley was dead. I just couldn’t believe it.

  Poor Riley, I thought.

  * * *

  Chief Ellis Hunter, a former New York City homicide detective who’d taken on the Rocky Point police chief’s job to see if Norman Rockwell had it right about small towns, had, over the year he’d been here, become a good friend. A widower, he was dating my neighbor, landlady, and best friend, Zoë Winterelli, and the four of us—Ellis and Zoë and Ty and me—spent a lot of time together. He was a friend, but there was nothing friendly in his demeanor now.

  Standing just inside the room talking to Detective Claire Brownley, then informing everyone that we would be interviewed one at a time while the scientists began their investigation, he was all business. He explained that he and Detective Brownley would share the duty of conducting the initial interviews, then called me over.

  “Is it on?” Ellis asked, pointing at the security camera mounted over the entry door.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “We only keep them on during the tag sale—when we’re setting up, running it, and breaking it down.”

  His brow wrinkled. “How come?”

  I looked at my toes, embarrassed. “Money.” I raised my eyes. “My security company charges by the hour—the more hours the cameras are on, the more manpower they need to monitor them and the more storage space is used on their computers. I didn’t perceive the need for having cameras on in an empty room, or during events like tonight’s workshop when there’s just a few people here, and Gretchen or I are on-site all the time.”

  “But that’s the door to the warehouse,” he objected, pointing. “Shouldn’t it always be monitored?”

  “It’s locked all the time, but it gets armed, and the camera facing it activated, when we set the night alarm.”

  He surveyed the doors and windows. “Do you use motion detectors?”

  “No. It’s totally impractical. We’re in and out all the time.”

  “Keycards?”

  I shook my head.

  “Thanks, Josie,” he said, dismissing me. “We’ll get back to you in a minute.”

  I felt completely stupid. What was the point of having security cameras if I didn’t turn them on? If I had, we’d already know who’d killed Riley. My eyes filled again and I swallowed twice, fighting to regain control. Keycards, I thought, make a lot of sense. We’d be able to track who entered or exited each door, and when.

  I crossed the room to where Gretchen was standing, her eyes open wide, taking it all in.

  “First thing in the morning,” I whispered, “call Hale Alarms and get them in here to conduct a full security audit. I want to know vulnerabilities in the system and what they’d recommend we change. And I want all security cameras on, all the time.”

  She glanced up at
the dormant camera. “Okay,” she said.

  I knew it was a classic case of closing the barn door after the horse escaped, but at least it was better than stubbornly leaving the door wide open.

  I sat in a corner, watching the technicians work and stroking Hank. Hank somehow sensed that I was upset, and he was doing his best to comfort me. Gretchen was fussing about, offering coffee and lemonade and cookies. Kenna was trying hard to get permission to leave, explaining that she had young children and had to pick them up. Once the police learned they were at her mother’s, and that her mom had no problem keeping them, even overnight, if necessary, they refused to let her leave. I could see in her eyes that she was impatient and annoyed. Becka, sitting beside her, looked stricken.

  When my turn came, I answered Detective Brownley’s questions as simply as I could. I recalled Max, my lawyer of choice when only a lawyer would do, telling me that when talking to the police, the shorter the answer, the better. In fact, he said, one-word answers were ideal.

  Detective Brownley wore a navy blue pantsuit with a coral blouse. Her black hair was cut short and parted on the side. Her eyes were blue. Her skin was creamy white, and flawless. I’d first met her four or five years earlier, and I knew her to be honest and diligent, a winning combination.

  “Josie, this is a preliminary interview,” she explained. “Of course, I have your name and contact information. You haven’t moved, have you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay, then, let’s start with your relationship to the victim. How did you know Ms. Jordan?”

  “We were friends. She was a customer, too.”

  “How did you meet her?” she asked.

  I explained about hearing her speak at the Rocky Point Woman’s Club luncheon.

  She nodded, then asked, “When did you see her last?”

  “About two o’clock today. She stopped in on her way to an appointment to invite me to lunch.”

  “Any special occasion for the lunch?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “You said you’re friends. Am I correct, then, in assuming that you’ve seen her socially before?” the detective asked.

  “Yes. Several times.”

  She jotted a note. “When did you schedule the lunch for?”

  “Tomorrow.” I closed my eyes for a moment. Poor Riley.

  “Who else did she talk to while she was here?”

  “No one. I mean, she said hello to everyone, but I was the only person she talked to, specifically.”

  “So you’d say she was here for a minute or two?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “Did she tell you where she was going next? What appointment?”

  “No.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “Upset.”

  “In what way?”

  I described her appearance and mannerisms and her snapping response when I’d suggested eating at the Blue Dolphin.

  The detective nodded and made a note. “When did she return?” she asked. “Do you know?”

  “Gretchen said around four. I didn’t see her.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Up in my office.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you, but I need to ask a few questions about your finding the body.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She asked me to explain how I came to discover the corpse, then asked, “What was your first thought?”

  “That she was dead.”

  “Didn’t a name come to you? Didn’t you think, ‘She’s dead. So-and-so killed her’?”

  “Not really.”

  “Who, Josie?”

  I shook my head, staring at the ground, not wanting to meet her eyes.

  “It’s important, Josie,” she said softly, “or I wouldn’t ask.”

  I looked at her. Her eyes conveyed a hint of compassion, but mostly she looked determined.

  I took in a breath. “I didn’t have the thought that anyone in particular killed her. I just wondered if maybe Bobby was somehow responsible for her being so upset.”

  “Her husband.”

  I nodded.

  “What made you wonder that?”

  I explained about Gretchen finding the photo of Ruby and Bobby and the reports of Bobby’s financial difficulties, then added, “I have no personal knowledge that Bobby was having an affair with anyone, let alone Ruby Bowers, nor do I know anything about his business. Riley dismissed the idea that he was playing around out of hand. In fact, she was very good-humored about it. She laughed at the gossip she read in magazines. Still, the photo was pretty damning.” I lowered my voice as if I were revealing a secret, not describing a photograph that had been uploaded to a public Web site. “They were holding hands.” I shrugged.

  She nodded, then wrote for several seconds. “When did you last see Mr. Jordan?”

  I thought back. “About a month ago. He came in and asked me to help him pick out a birthday present for Riley.” I shook my head at the memory. “We got her a fabulous Bob Mackie gown, black with feathers and crystals. Mr. Mackie had originally designed it for Cher.”

  “Back to finding the body. I know you were stunned at seeing her strangled. Apparently the murder weapon is a scarf. Did you recognize it?”

  I winced as the picture came back to me. “Yes. It was hers. She was wearing it this afternoon with a trench coat. The coat was under the table, too, kind of rolled up.”

  “How about her outfit? Had she changed clothes?”

  “I didn’t see what she was wearing earlier—just her coat and scarf and boots. Her boots were the same as before.”

  “She was also wearing gold knot earrings and a diamond wedding band. Were those the same as earlier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “Like what?”

  Detective Brownley shrugged. “Like a shawl or a hat … anything?”

  I considered the question for a moment. “No, not that I noticed.”

  “What else can you tell me that will help us?”

  I shook my head slowly. “I have no idea.”

  “That’s it for now, then,” she said, sliding her notepad into her pocket.

  I glanced around the room. “Have you learned anything?” I asked. “Anything at all that will help?”

  “Everyone’s being very cooperative,” she said, revealing nothing at all. “We appreciate that—a lot.”

  * * *

  At nine fifteen, after the police had scheduled appointments for Gretchen and me to stop in at the police station the next day, they allowed everyone to leave. Riley’s car had been towed away, and they’d sealed the tag sale room as a crime scene. I called Ty from my private office. He’d already heard the news. Wes Smith, the incredibly plugged-in reporter for our local newspaper, the Seacoast Star, had posted a news flash report on the newspaper’s Web site. In it, he promised more details for the morning online edition, and I knew what that meant. Wes would be hounding me for a quote.

  “How are you holding up?” Ty asked.

  “About like you’d expect. I’m pretty upset. Mad, too.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No … I’m not hungry.”

  “Come home. You need to eat. I’ll have something ready for you.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thank you, Ty.”

  Before I left, I read Wes’s online article. He started by saying that rumors abounded that Bobby had been cheating on Riley for months, maybe years, but I already knew that. I hadn’t heard that he and Riley were alleged to be growing apart. According to the article, Wes had spoken to several unnamed friends and associates who confirmed the story. As examples, Wes stated that while Bobby loved traveling the world, Riley didn’t even own a passport, and while Bobby had wanted to relocate his company’s headquarters to New York City to cement his role as a player in the celebrity world he’d just entered, Riley didn’t like New York and had no intention of moving there. She’d wanted to stay close to home, to li
ve where she’d always lived—in Rocky Point, New Hampshire. Wes also reported that while Bobby’s money was all tied up in his business, Riley’s fortune was in the $35 to $40 million range. Yowzi! I thought.

  As I turned off my computer, I shook my head, impressed as always at Wes’s abilities. Riley had only been dead for a few hours, yet Wes had nailed down relevant quotes and filled his story with prurient innuendo. I also had the thought that unless Riley had a very unusual will, Bobby was now a very rich man.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wes called as I was driving home. He’d already left me two voice mail messages. Knowing him as I did, I knew what he wanted: inside information. I let this call go to voice mail, too. I just didn’t have the emotional wherewithal tonight to deal with his relentless questioning. Talking with Wes was work. He’d prod and poke and peck away until I found myself reliving the evening’s horror and revealing more than I intended. Tomorrow I would tell him what I knew, a necessary first step to getting information from him, but tonight I needed Ty’s tender care, not Wes’s bludgeoning. I was just about running on empty.

  I pulled into the driveway, relieved to be home. Ty must have been on the lookout for me. He had the porch light on and the front door open before I turned off the engine. I waved at him, then sat for a moment, overwhelmed with surging and conflicting emotions. I still couldn’t believe Riley was dead. I was grief-struck. I’d valued her friendship and had been looking forward to getting to know her even better as the years went on. I also couldn’t believe someone had killed her in my tag sale venue, of all places. It felt like a personal affront, and I was outraged. I was also scared—a killer had entered my building, and left. Was it someone I knew? Terror, shock, sorrow, and anger raged inside me, leaving me emotionally battered and physically exhausted.

  “Hey,” I called to Ty as I stepped out of the car.

  “Hey,” he said. “How you doin’?”

  I shrugged and walked up the path. Ty was tall, over six feet, and fit. His hair was short and dark brown. His complexion was dark, too, even darker now than before he took the job with Homeland Security, a testament to the frequent training exercises he conducted outdoors. He was smart and sexy and caring and funny. I adored him.