Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Bobby?” she said. “I thought you said you’d be there … Bobby? Are you there?” I could hear her breathing. When she spoke again, her tone was different. Lower. Huskier. Sexier. “You make me crazy, Bobby, you know that, right? Call me, baby.”

  I stared at the machine, unable to move. It’s true, I thought, sick at the idea. Riley isn’t even buried, and Ruby’s leaving Bobby a come-hither message.

  A car door slammed, jerking me out of my reverie. I ran to the front and peeked out the window. Bobby was walking up the path to the door. I dashed back into the kitchen, scooped up my video bag, and hightailed it for the front door. I didn’t want to be there when Bobby discovered Ruby’s message. If I kept my cool, maybe he’d think I’d been upstairs and out of earshot when the call came in.

  I had the door open as he approached the porch.

  “Hi, Bobby,” I said, astonished and relieved at how normal I sounded. “I was just leaving.”

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Good. I did my first go-over. There are some real treasures here, that’s for sure.”

  “What happens next?”

  “Some of my staff will come back to examine things in more detail and pack objects up. One thing—there’s a trunk in the attic. Do you have the key? It’s probably made of brass.”

  “A trunk?” He frowned, concentrating. “Oh, that would be my grandmother’s. Riley went through it not that long ago, so she must have had a key. She told me there were some scrapbooks in there. Sorry, but I don’t know where it is.”

  “Okay, well, if you find it, now you know what it goes to. If you don’t, and if you want me to include the trunk and/or the contents in the sale, I can try some skeleton keys, and if that doesn’t work, we can arrange for a replacement to be made.”

  “There’s no point in my keeping it, so if I can’t find the key, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  “Is it all right for me to send a team in first thing tomorrow morning?” I asked. “Around nine?”

  “Sure. That’ll work.” He smiled at me. “I appreciate your help, Josie, and your speediness, too. I know this isn’t easy for any of us.”

  “You’re welcome, Bobby. And you’re right. This is very hard.” I shifted the video bag strap to better distribute its weight. “Okay, then. ’Bye for now.”

  I quick-stepped my way out the door, then ran for my car, tossing the case onto the front seat. As I began backing down the driveway, I glanced back at the house. Bobby was standing at a living room window, holding a sheer panel aside, watching me. Our eyes met, and I began breathing quickly, too quickly, as if I’d just finished a wind sprint. I waved, then took off. It wasn’t until I pulled onto the interstate that I began to breathe normally.

  Ick, I thought, recalling Ruby’s message. Double ick.

  * * *

  As soon as I was out of sight of the Jordans’ house, I rolled to a stop and called Ellis. His cell phone went to voice mail, so I called the station house. Cathy, the Rocky Point police civilian admin, answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, Cathy,” I said. “It’s Josie, Josie Prescott. I need to speak to Chief Hunter.”

  “He’s in a meeting, Josie. Can I take a message?”

  I bit my lower lip, thinking. “It’s pretty important. Could you slip him a note and ask if he can take my call? Tell him it will only take a minute.”

  “Sure. I’ll put you on hold, okay?”

  A few minutes later, Ellis was on the line.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said, “but I thought this was important.” I repeated what had happened, then dug the paper out of my pants pocket and read off the number Ruby had called from.

  “Thank you, Josie. You did the right thing to call. Talk to you soon.”

  He hung up.

  I gazed into the trees that lined both sides of the street. About half of them showed some sign of life, soft green leaves or red buds. I thought about calling Wes and telling him about Ruby’s call, too, but decided not to. I couldn’t think of her message without shuddering. I’d had a duty to tell the police. I didn’t have a duty to tell Wes.

  I called Ty and told him about the call. When I was finished, he said he agreed with my analysis—“ick” summarized it well. He asked if I wanted to go out to dinner. I did.

  “Yes,” I said. “Someplace romantic.”

  “Not, I suspect, the Blue Dolphin.”

  I sighed. “I hate that one of my favorite places feels sullied.”

  “Sullied?” he repeated.

  “Sullied was one of my mother’s favorite words.”

  “It’s a very good word. When all is said and done, the Blue Dolphin may be unsullied. In the meantime, I’ll find us a good place.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I love you, Josie.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, smiling.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning, I was in the front office, leaning against Gretchen’s desk, explaining the parameters of the Jordan appraisal to Sasha, Fred, and Eric, when Fred yawned.

  He pushed up his glasses. “Sorry,” he murmured.

  “No problem,” I said, smiling. “I know eight thirty feels like the crack of dawn to you.”

  “It is the crack of dawn.” He glanced at Eric. “Support me here, buddy. Wouldn’t you prefer to start work at noon?”

  Eric grinned. “No comment.”

  “Moving on,” I said, still smiling, “Sasha has the letter authorizing you to pack up anything and everything. For this first trip, focus on the antiques and collectibles that will require the most work to appraise: the vintage clothing collection and any decorative objects or paintings you think are worth researching, for example. We’ll do the furniture next trip. Don’t take anything Bobby might need while he’s still living there, like his clothes, the kitchen utensils, TVs, and so on. Record and document everything as usual. Any questions?”

  “Sounds clear,” Sasha said.

  “Good. Keep me posted.”

  “Can we stop for coffee en route?” Fred asked as they marched out.

  I watched them drive off. It still hadn’t rained, but it felt as if it might any minute. The clouds had thickened into a solid gray mass. With any luck, the storm would hold off until they got back. Eric had taken tarps, so nothing would be damaged if they had to work in the rain, but it was messy, nasty work schlepping valuable objects in bad weather.

  Hank mewed, and I squatted to say hello. “How are you this morning?” He nuzzled my hand with his head.

  The phone rang. I glanced at the clock. It was eight fifty.

  “Prescott’s. This is Josie. May I help you?” I asked, using our standard greeting.

  “Hi, Josie. It’s Max.”

  Max Bixby, my lawyer, was a solid-as-granite ally I’d known since I’d first moved to town. Having him in my life, as a friend to call on when needed, had made every aspect of settling into a new community easier.

  “I’m calling on behalf of a client,” he said. “Riley Jordan. Do you have any time this morning? I’d like to stop by and go over something with you.”

  “Sure,” I replied, mystified. “Anytime.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I stared at the receiver for a moment before returning it to its cradle. Apparently Riley and I had shared more than a love of vintage fashion. We’d shared a lawyer, too.

  * * *

  While I waited for Max, I sat at the guest table and read Wes’s lead article in the Seacoast Star. His headline read:

  WHY KILL RILEY?

  Was It Greed or Lust?

  Wes kept to the facts but laced his narrative with innuendo, suggesting that Riley might have been killed to cover up an underlying crime or sin like fraud or theft or infidelity. In a sidebar titled WHAT GRETCHEN BROCK ALMOST SAW, he reported that Gretchen might have seen the killer drive away in a silver car. Leave it to Wes, I thought, to make a gossipy mountain out of an innocuous molehill.

  I’d just set aside th
e paper when Hank began mewing again; he wanted access to the warehouse. I pushed open the door and watched for a moment as he trotted toward his corner, then turned as the wind chimes jangled. Cara, Gretchen, and Ava arrived together, chattering about some TV show they’d all watched the evening before.

  “Can you believe Wes’s article?” Gretchen said, pointing to the newspaper I’d left on the guest table. “Three people have already called to ask me about that stupid silver car!” She giggled, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I don’t mean to laugh over something as awful as Riley’s murder, but Wes is absurd! He makes me sound like the star witness.”

  “Well, dear,” Cara said, “you do have a role in the investigation. Not only did you give the police an important clue, but memories frequently surface—usually when you least expect it.”

  “I guess.” From her tone, it was clear she was unconvinced. She hung up her coat, then asked, “Anything for me right now, Josie?”

  “No. Nothing special. Max will be here any minute. Sasha, Fred, and Eric are en route to the Jordans’ to pack up some of the collections.” I pushed open the warehouse door. “And Hank is awake.”

  * * *

  Max sat across from me. It was good to see him, and I told him so. He was tall and thin, about my age, maybe a few years older. He always wore tweed jackets and bow ties. Today, both were olive green.

  “Riley was with me for several hours on the day she was killed,” he said. “During our time together, she signed a new will and established a foundation. It’s the foundation that brings me here today. The Riley Jordan Fashion Education Foundation’s purpose is to fund initiatives that promote fashion preservation and education. The foundation will be funded through Riley’s substantial assets, including debts to be collected from her husband.” He reached into his briefcase and extracted a one-page document. He glanced at it, then handed it to me. “You can see here that she drafted a list of sample projects: a museum exhibit focusing on specific designers or design themes, scientific research into textile preservation or green methodologies, and scholarships for students interested in a career in fashion.”

  “This is terrific, Max. Really wonderful.”

  “Yes.” He shifted position and paused for a moment. “She hoped you’d help.”

  “Me? In what way?”

  “She named you as the foundation’s trustee.”

  “What?” I asked, stunned.

  Max nodded. “She said she trusted you and your judgment completely.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I was speechless. I was flattered beyond measure, yet amazed that she hadn’t hinted that such a plan was in the works. I didn’t know where to begin thinking about this news.

  “This is quite a compliment,” I said. “I don’t know what to say, Max. Is it as big a job as it sounds?”

  He rubbed his nose for a moment, then said, “Yes, although it’s left to your discretion how big to make it. She allocated ten million dollars cash to the foundation. She’s owed another two million, give or take, from Bobby, which I hope to collect immediately, so you have twelve million dollars at your disposal. Invested conservatively, and allowing for some reinvestment of capital to ensure the foundation stays ahead of inflation, it should provide an annual after-tax income of close to half a million dollars. That’s a significant sum to be responsible for handing out.”

  “It’s huge. Should I accept the trusteeship?”

  “Since I’m not here advising you, I can’t venture an opinion. Before you decide, though, there’s more information you should consider. Riley set up a separate fund to pay the trustee a generous stipend and to fund a part-time employee, someone to handle the paperwork and winnow down applications, that sort of thing.” He handed me another document detailing the amounts. “I’m sure you’ll want some time to think it over.”

  I was about to agree with his statement when I realized that really there was nothing to think about. There was no way I could refuse. All I could do was try to honor Riley’s vision. “I don’t need to think about it. I accept.” I shook my head, thinking about Riley. “She stopped by the day she was killed and asked me to go to lunch the next day,” I said. “This must have been why.”

  He nodded, standing. “Probably.” He picked up his briefcase. “She also arranged to pay me for consulting services going forward. Whatever support you need, Josie, Riley wanted to be certain that you had it. You don’t need to think twice about calling on me.”

  “Amazing,” I said as we walked to the door. “She thought of everything.”

  “And then some.”

  “What else did her will provide? Can you tell me?”

  “Yes. I filed for probate yesterday afternoon, so it’s public information. The only other beneficiaries named are the New England Museum of Design, whose costume department will receive Riley’s extensive vintage clothing collection, the Sisters of Repose, a local convent, which will receive a generous cash bequest, and the New Hampshire chapter of CHF, which will receive the residue of the estate. Do you know them? Children’s Hope Foundation? They help children with disabilities get whatever they need to succeed at school and in life, from wheelchairs to scholarships to in-home nursing care. CHF is Riley’s chief beneficiary.”

  Two thoughts came to me simultaneously. One was that while I’d known Riley was private, I’d had no idea how private. I hadn’t had a clue that she was involved with CHF. The other thought was that she must have been unbelievably angry at Bobby. It’s no easy task disinheriting a spouse.

  “I know CHF well,” I said, pushing my thoughts aside. “I support them, too. They do God’s work, that’s for sure. I had no idea Riley was involved with them.”

  “She didn’t like to talk about it, but she’d been a major donor of theirs for many years.” Max shook his head. “She was quite a woman. She told me she thought it was hard enough being a child in today’s fast-paced world, let alone a child with a disability. The least she could do, she said, was make sure they got the best education and supplies that money could buy. I’ve already spoken to the board of directors. Her bequest is so large they’ll be able to build a new research center on their campus. They’ve been trying to fund it for years, hoping to attract world-class scientists. Now they’ll be able to. Which means that Riley’s bequest isn’t just good for the children, it’s good for science, and it’s good for New Hampshire.”

  “What a legacy,” I said as I led the way down the spiral stairs. “I’m glad to know about the vintage clothing. I’ve already begun an appraisal on Bobby’s behalf.”

  “Yes, you’ll need to segregate her possessions.”

  “Shall I consult Bobby on who owns what?”

  “That sounds like a good place to start. Once you have the two lists—his and hers—please show them to me.”

  “All right,” I said.

  For no apparent reason, when we were halfway across the warehouse, while I was thinking how unutterably sad this situation was, I stumbled and nearly fell. Max grasped my arm to steady me. Inexplicably, I began to cry.

  “Oh, Max,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  Max gave my arm a gentle squeeze, then released me. He stood next to me until I regained a modicum of composure. Standing in the middle of the warehouse, waiting for my tears to stop, I realized I was exhausted. I felt as weak as if I’d been filled with helium and someone had pulled the plug.

  “Sorry,” I said, embarrassed, wiping my cheeks with the side of my hand.

  “Don’t be silly, Josie. You have nothing to apologize for. Your reaction is normal.”

  We continued walking toward the front office.

  “Riley was right to choose you, you know,” he said. “You’ll do a great job.”

  * * *

  Cara buzzed up at ten. Chief Hunter, she said, wanted to talk to me.

  I took the call, and we had a one-minute conversation. No surprise, the techn
icians had found nothing useful on or about the pearl rosette button. He said he’d have someone run it back to us. I thanked him and went downstairs to let Ava know it was en route.

  When I stepped into the office, I found Ava reading something on her computer monitor, Cara on the phone, and Gretchen on her knees near the photocopier.

  “I don’t know, Hank,” Gretchen said. “I just don’t know.”

  Hank sat nearby watching her. Her long copper-colored hair had fallen forward, blocking her face.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She looked over her shoulder, brushing her hair aside. “I’m fine. It’s Hank. He’s upset. He batted his mouse under the copy machine. I can see it, but I can’t reach it.”

  I looked at Hank. He didn’t look upset. He looked curious. I glanced around the room for a tool and spotted an old wooden yardstick leaning against the wall near Sasha’s desk. I handed it to her. “Try this.”

  “Good idea!” She swept the yardstick under the machine, and the mouse shot out. “What a relief,” she said, standing up and holding the mouse over her head like a trophy. “Now I can rest, knowing the man of the house will have access to his favorite toy.” She spoke to Hank as she replaced the yardstick. “You can thank Josie, Hank. It was her idea!”

  “Maybe we should get him more mice.”

  “Another good idea!” She tossed the mouse toward him, and he leapt on it and batted it toward the wall.

  We watched him awhile longer, and then she turned to me.

  “May I ask a favor? Would you mind if I left a little early today?”

  “Of course not,” I replied. I didn’t want to pry, but I let my curiosity show in my eyes.

  She laughed. “Jack is talking to his boss to see if he can get out early, too. If so, great—but regardless … he’s taking me to Boston tonight for a special dinner. It’s our two-year anniversary. We’ll be staying overnight at the Ritz.”

  “The Ritz! Sweet! Has it been two years already?”

  She blushed happily. “Not quite, but today’s the one-year anniversary of when we knew we loved each other.”