I clicked over to the museum’s site again and stared at the photo of him and Becka holding hands.
“Josie?” Chief Hunter said, breaking into my ruminations.
“Hi, there,” I said, feeling guilty, like a voyeur. I clicked on the corner x and closed the Web site.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”
“I have a question about whether you’ve found an inventory of Riley’s vintage clothing collection. I didn’t see anything on paper when I went through the house, so I got to thinking that maybe she computerized her records.”
“Let me see … I have a list of computer files here.”
I heard papers rustling, then silence.
“This looks like it,” he said after a minute. “There’s a spreadsheet called “Vintage Clothes.’ Let me take a look at it. If it’s what it sounds like, I’ll e-mail it to you.”
I thanked him and was ready to end the call when he asked what we’d learned about the rosette button.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Not a surprise, I guess. I’d like to come back and talk to everyone again. How’s tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure,” I said, “but why?”
“Routine follow-up,” he said, as vague as ever.
Once, when Ty had been the Rocky Point police chief, before he joined Homeland Security, he’d explained that when you’re out of leads, you only have two options. You can either find new people to talk to or ask the same people new questions. I wondered if Ellis’s “routine follow-up” was really an effort to generate fresh leads.
We set a time, and I called Cara and asked her to let everyone know.
I considered the work that was piling up on my desk. I needed to finish my accountant’s quarterly report, and I needed to review a list of utilitarian and decorative antique fireplace objects Fred was recommending be included in an auction called Fire Starter, scheduled for next September, but I didn’t want to do either. I wanted to think more about Riley and why she’d been killed in my tag sale room. No new thoughts came to me, and after a moment, I sighed and reached for my accountant’s report.
I was deep in his analysis of revenue sources when Cara called up. Becka was on the phone. She wanted to know if she could stop by and see me. My curiosity fired up. Two images came to me: Becka holding Bobby’s hand in New York City and her sitting, crying, in his New Hampshire office.
“Sure,” I said, “tell her I’ll be here all afternoon.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, I had a delayed reaction to one of the photos on Bobby’s Web site. I brought up the page again and scrolled down to the beach shot. Riley had e-mailed Quinn questioning whether Bobby’s international money transfers were on the up-and-up, and here was Bobby at what was obviously a distant beach. Even in the dead of summer, New Hampshire beaches never looked like that. Our sand was taupe and rocky, our ocean water dark and foreboding. Bobby stood on sand that matched the white of his suit and looked as soft as satin. The water was deep turquoise, and calm. Maybe he was in Florida or Hawaii, I thought, but it was just as likely that he was somewhere overseas.
The caption gave no information. It read, “Here’s Bobby doing a site inspection. Look for new Blue restaurants everywhere!”
I called Wes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Becka had aged in the day since I’d seen her. Thin worry lines seemed to have appeared at the corners of her eyes and mouth overnight. She sat on the edge of the wing chair. Her eyes were rimmed in red.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” she said, “but I’m pretty upset.” She paused, her eyes watering. She swallowed and took in a deep breath. “Have you seen today’s paper?”
“The Seacoast Star? Yes.”
“It said Gretchen saw the killer’s car. Is that true?”
I could sense the prayer inherent in her question. She wanted Riley’s killer caught, and the car might provide a clue. I hated it that I had to be the one to dash her hopes. “Not really, I’m afraid. She saw a glimpse of silver, nothing else. No driver or anything.”
She sighed and looked down at her hands, then up at my face. “Riley was like a sister to me. I can’t stand not knowing who did this to her. From what I can tell, that’s the police’s best hope of catching him. What do you think? Is there anything I can do to help Gretchen remember more? I could ask her questions, or show her shapes of cars, or maybe hire a hypnotist. I have to do something.”
“I understand. The police already showed her photos of cars, though, and nothing looked familiar. I don’t think there’s anything that she forgot, Becka. I think she just didn’t see very much.”
Becka shook her head. “Then it’s hopeless.”
“What’s happened, Becka? When I saw you yesterday, you were upset, but not like this.”
She didn’t answer right away. I waited, watching her watch me. She looked down again.
“Bobby drives a silver Lexus,” she whispered.
She thinks Bobby killed Riley, I realized with a jolt.
“Have you told the police?” I asked.
She shook her head. “They told me.” She looked up at me. “Chief Hunter asked me to come in for an interview, and I did. That was today.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she asked, “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Of course.” I reached down to the side of my desk where I kept a supply of bottled water. I opened one and handed it to her. “Here,” I said.
She accepted the bottle with a murmured thank-you and sipped.
“Would you like a cup of coffee or tea or a Coke? We have lemonade, too.”
She asked for coffee, and I passed on the message to Gretchen.
“Chief Hunter showed me the article,” she said. “As soon as I read it, I thought of Bobby. I didn’t say anything to the chief except that I had no idea who killed Riley, which I don’t, but then he asked. He looked at me and said that he knew how much Riley had meant to me, how close we’d been, and surely if I knew something I’d tell him.” She gulped and clamped her jaw closed.
Before I could respond, the click-clack of Gretchen’s heels announced her approach. Becka turned toward the window, shielding her tear-stained face from view. Gretchen walked in and placed a silver tray on the butler’s table.
“I brought some cookies, too,” Gretchen said, casting an anxious glance in Becka’s direction. When Becka didn’t comment, her expression grew grave.
“Thanks, Gretchen,” I said, jerking my head toward the door to indicate that we needed privacy. She nodded and scooted out. I waited a few more seconds, but Becka didn’t look up. I poured coffee from the Lenox pot. “Here you go. I’ll let you help yourself to cream and sugar.”
“Thank you, Josie,” she said without changing position.
After about a minute, I said, “What did you say when Chief Hunter asked you to tell him anything you knew?”
Becka turned to me. “I told him I would.” She seemed to notice the coffee for the first time and reached for her cup. “I thought I didn’t know anything. Then he asked who Riley knew who drove a silver car and I told him—Bobby.” She poured cream and stirred her cup as if she were in a trance, then raised her eyes to mine again. “I’m so afraid.”
“Of what?” I asked her softly.
She held the coffee cup in front of her like a chalice and stared into it as if it held the answers of the ages. When she spoke again, her voice was muted. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think Bobby killed Riley?”
“No,” she said too quickly. “He wouldn’t do such a thing. He couldn’t. I know him. I’ve known him for ten years. He loved her.”
I nodded. “Do you think he was having an affair?”
Her eyes shot up and searched mine. “Maybe,” she whispered. “Do you know anything?”
“Not for sure,” I said, thinking that while I would have avoided gossiping in any event, I was telling the simple tr
uth; Ruby’s message was suggestive, not conclusive. Just as the photo of Becka holding hands with Bobby implied, but didn’t prove, an intimate relationship.
“What do you think?” she asked.
I decided to answer her question openly. Doing so could do no harm, and with any luck, it might encourage her to answer in kind. “I think he may be seeing Ruby Bowers,” I replied, alert for any signs of guilt or jealousy.
Her eyes remained fixed on mine. “I think so, too.”
I nodded. “Did Riley know?”
She shook her head. “She would have told me.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee, busywork, so I could ask a question without looking at her. “I saw a photo of you and Bobby at a museum gala in New York on the museum’s Web site.”
“What about it?”
“When was it?”
“Last month. Bobby’s restaurant, Blue Apple, catered the gala.”
I observed no guile in her expression and sensed no hesitation in her reply. “I didn’t see Riley.”
“She left early.” She paused, frowning, then added, “What are you implying, Josie?”
“Nothing, really. Or rather, I’m not implying so much as asking. You and Bobby were holding hands.”
“You don’t think—” She stopped speaking for a moment, her frown deepening, and her lips thinning. When she spoke again, there was a definite chill in her tone. “Riley left early. She hated crowds. The party was in full swing, and more than a few people were getting rowdy, not Riley’s cup of tea at all. About an hour later, Bobby and I decided to go. The crowd was thick, and it was hard to navigate. He said to hold on to him, he’d get us out of there, and he did. When we got back to the hotel, Bobby called up to the room, and Riley came down for a nightcap. It was nice, relaxed and pleasant. Then I went to my room and they went to theirs.” She paused and looked at me searchingly. “You think I’m lying. I’m not. On my mother’s eyes, I swear I never slept with Bobby.”
“I didn’t think you were lying, Becka. I figured it was something like that.” I looked at Becka. She was watching me, gauging my reaction. “There’s something I’ve been wondering. If Riley had discovered that Bobby was seeing Ruby, what would she have done?”
She leaned back in her chair. “She would have left him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because she said so. A friend of ours from college caught her boyfriend cheating and forgave him. Riley thought she was crazy. ‘If he did it once, he’ll do it again,’ she said.”
I nodded. “What a mess,” I said.
“Completely.” She sighed and stood up. “Thank you, Josie, for seeing me. I hope Gretchen remembers more about the car.”
By the time we’d walked downstairs, her tears had dried up to nothing and she was able to chat about Riley’s incredibly generous donation to the Children’s Hope Foundation.
As I watched her drive away in her circa 1965 British racing green MG, I found myself thinking of my dad.
He rarely took photos, saying he wanted to live life, not record it. Photos, he said, show a moment frozen in time, nothing more. They don’t provide context. You can’t see what’s out of the shot, what happened moments before or after the shot was taken, or what people are truly thinking or feeling. If you have memorable experiences, he said, you don’t need photographs. As a result, I don’t have many photos from my childhood, but it’s never bothered me. Like my dad, I have the pictures in my head, and the joyous memories will stay with me forever.
By providing context, Becka helped me see that a photo that had appeared to be evidence of wrongdoing could possibly be evidence of something entirely different—good friends having fun.
It’s just like appraising antiques, I thought. One of the most important lessons an appraiser needs to learn is that assumptions aren’t facts.
* * *
I’d barely started a conversation with Fred about the upcoming fireplace accessories auction when Gretchen’s boyfriend, Jack Stene, walked in the door.
Jack had just turned thirty. About five-eleven and well built, he had brown-black eyes and a friendly smile. Today he wore khakis and a button-down blue shirt. With his long sandy-brown hair tied into a ponytail, he looked more like a rocker dressed for court than the straight-arrow chemist I knew him to be.
“Aha!” I exclaimed. “You got out of work early and you’re here to whisk Gretchen away.”
“Would you mind?” he asked, grinning.
“Not a bit.”
“Yea!” Gretchen exclaimed, clapping her hands. “We’ll leave as soon as Cara’s back from lunch.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Fred and I will cover the phones.”
“Are you sure?” Gretchen asked, sounding dubious.
“I wish I could help out,” Ava said, “but I have a class.”
“I’m perfectly capable of handling the phones,” I said to Gretchen, smiling. “Go! That’s an order.”
Gretchen flashed a quick smile and ran into the warehouse to say a quick good-bye to Hank.
“I’m glad she’s gone,” Jack said to me in an undervoice. “Do you have a sec for a question?”
“Sure,” I replied. “Do you want to run upstairs real quick?”
“No,” he said, smiling at Ava. “You can keep a secret, right?”
“Absolutely,” Ava said.
“I need some advice,” Jack told me, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “About jewelers.”
I smiled broadly. “Are you planning on making a purchase?” I asked. “Perhaps a ring?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I don’t know a thing about good jewelry, so I need a recommendation for a reputable jeweler who won’t mind teaching me the ropes.”
“You’re looking for Blackmore’s Jewelers in Rocky Point. They’ve been in business, in the same location, for about a gazillion years. Still family owned and run. Mr. Blackmore is the real deal—knowledgeable and honest. Tell him I sent you, and tell him the truth about how ignorant you are. He’ll take you under his wing and help you every step of the way.”
“That’s great, Josie. That’s exactly what I was hoping for. Thanks so much.”
“I’m really thrilled for you both,” I said.
“Don’t jinx me—she hasn’t said yes yet.”
“Fair point,” I said. I knew, and he had to know, that there was zero chance Gretchen would turn him down, but I found his humility sweet.
“Wow,” Ava said after they left, her eyes gleaming with vicarious pleasure. “Just like that, Gretchen’s life is going to change forever.”
Ava was right, I thought as I walked upstairs. Every big life decision has a ripple effect, affecting other aspects of your life, usually in unpredictable ways. Scary stuff, change.
* * *
Chief Hunter had e-mailed me Riley’s spreadsheet. Riley had been as organized as I’d expected. The spreadsheet listed each garment, alphabetized by designer. Additional cells listed brief item descriptions and the date, place, and price of each purchase. Her collection totaled 214 garments.
I thanked him for sending it, forwarded it to Sasha and Gretchen, and printed out a copy for my own reference.
* * *
Wes called just as I was ready to leave for the day. Using his miraculous and mysterious sources, he’d already discovered that Bobby had traveled to Honduras twice in the last six months.
“Honduras?” I asked. “Why Honduras of all places?”
“Well, it’s not like I know or anything,” he replied, “but did you look at that beach? Jeez, why wouldn’t someone go to Honduras if it looks like that?”
“Good point. Is he thinking of opening a restaurant there?”
“Looks that way. Are you ready for a shocker? Roatán Island has some pretty high-end resorts, so I called around until I found where he stayed … and guess what?”
“I can’t imagine. What?”
“He was with a woman both times. The same woman. The hotel staff called her Mrs. Jordan.”
/> “So? Maybe he went with Riley.” Except, I thought, Riley didn’t own a passport.
“Nope. I e-mailed her photo.”
My heart sank. How could he? “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I sent Ruby, Tamara, and Becka’s photos, too.”
“And?”
“It’s none of them.”
“What are you saying, Wes?”
He chuckled. “Bobby’s been a very bad boy.”
“Have you asked Bobby about any of this?”
“Not yet. I’m still gathering ammo. I’ve got lots of feelers out.” He grinned devilishly. “Just you wait, though. I’ll get him.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday dawned gray and damp. The rain had stopped, but it was foggy and cold, a fitting day for a funeral.
I went alone and sat in the last pew and hoped that no one would join me. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to listen to the service and think about Riley.
The church was crowded. I recognized many, but by no means all, of the people in attendance. Becka sat to Bobby’s right, weeping. Bobby stared into the middle distance with seemingly stoic calm. A woman I’d never seen before, about Riley’s age, sat on Bobby’s left. Her head was bowed as if in prayer. I spotted Frieda, the Blue Dolphin hostess; Jimmy, the bartender; and several other employees I’d seen around the restaurant about halfway back. Kenna sat alone, off to the side. Quinn sat close to the front next to a kempt middle-aged woman, probably, I thought, his wife. She wore a gray suit. She whispered something to him, then skewed around as if she were looking for someone. When she turned, I saw that she was wearing three antique hat pins on her left lapel. She swiveled back to face the front. Dr. Walker, the fashion curator at the New England Museum of Design, sat not far from me. He caught my eye and nodded, his expression grave.
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