Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  After it was over, I started to drive to work, then changed my mind. I wanted to be alone, to try to shake off the melancholy and ease the tension that had worsened during the service. I’d hoped for solace, and instead, I’d found myself becoming irritated and impatient. Words, I thought, it was all just empty words. I wasn’t ready for closure. I was ready for Riley’s killer to be caught.

  I drove to the beach, parked on the sandy shoulder, and changed from flats into rain boots. I clambered over the dunes and through the tall, winter-brittle grasses to the water’s edge and set out walking, heading north.

  With every step, my feet sank into the heavy, wet sand, and I stumbled on driftwood and rocks hidden by surf-pummeled mounds of sand and tangles of seaweed. After about twenty minutes, I felt the tension in my neck and shoulders start to ease, and by the time I got back to my car, faint tendrils of hope had replaced the leaden weight of despondency that had come on me like a fever. Riley’s spirit would live on in her good works and in the memories of those of us who cared for her. I felt ready to get back to work, and I decided to spend part of the afternoon on her educational foundation. I needed to decide how best to use her largesse.

  * * *

  Back in my office, I reread the language of Riley’s bequest establishing the foundation. She’d left it purposely vague. I decided a good place to start formulating plans was to talk to the people who knew her best, to get their take on how the foundation’s focus should be narrowed. Before I could do that, I needed to come up with a list of questions to ask. I relegated that assignment to my mental to-do list, knowing part of my brain would be working on it full-time, and nodded, satisfied that I’d made a good start.

  I surveyed the piles on my desk. Nothing appealed to me. I forced myself to read a proposal Gretchen had prepared recommending that we install new carpeting in the auction venue—I approved the expenditure—then gave up sitting in my office trying to concentrate on routine business matters. I felt too fragmented, as if most of my brain were otherwise occupied.

  Wandering downstairs, I noticed that Fred was in the parking lot talking to an attractive silver-haired woman. They stood by her SUV’s open hatch, evidently discussing something inside. I slipped on my jacket and went outside to join them.

  “Hi, Josie. This is Florence Sheridan,” Fred said as I approached. “She’s considering selling her fire box.”

  The box, designed to hold fire-starting material, was roughly three feet long, two feet wide, and a foot high. It was made of maple and polished to a rich golden patina. Crude acorn shapes had been carved onto the front.

  “One of my friends has consigned a few things to you for an upcoming auction,” she said to me. She looked at Fred. “I’ve already forgotten its name, and you just told me!”

  “Fire Starter,” Fred said, smiling.

  We already had some stellar objects in stock, including a spectacular eighteenth-century iron screen with forged metal peacock embellishments in perfect condition that Fred estimated would sell for several thousand dollars.

  “That’s right!” she said. “I don’t use the box anymore, so I thought, well, maybe I’ll consign it, too. When she told me that you offer free instant appraisals, I decided to come on down.”

  Word of mouth, I thought, the most valuable marketing tool I knew.

  “One of the most unusual elements in this box is the joinery,” Fred told me.

  He stepped aside so I could take a closer look. The joinery was actually an entire system, obviously custom-crafted. All six pieces—the four sides, the top, and the bottom—slid into one another like pieces of a 3-D puzzle and were held in place by hammered metal rods and loops.

  “Why do you think it’s made that way?” Mrs. Sheridan asked.

  “Probably for utility’s sake,” Fred said. “By sliding out these two rods, for example, you can see how the side panel lifts out. By tipping the box, I could empty the wood into a cubbyhole or bin without bending or lifting. This box was made by a smart carpenter.”

  She nodded. “That’s exactly what we did. I bought it in Fairfield, Connecticut. Do you think it’s an example of Connecticut River Valley furniture?”

  “No,” he said. “I mean, it might be eighteenth century, but that term—Connecticut River Valley furniture—that refers to finely crafted furniture. This is cleverly made, but the carpenter used pretty rudimentary techniques. I’d describe at as ‘country,’ what some people call ‘primitive.’”

  Her blue eyes twinkled. “Which means it’s of less value?”

  Fred smiled. “I’m afraid so. Not all country furniture is less valuable than furniture made with professional-caliber cabinetmaking techniques, of course, but this piece isn’t signed or dated, so it’s unlikely we can trace its provenance.”

  She nodded, then pointed to the acorns adorning the front panel. “A country carpenter tried his hand at carving, and didn’t do so well, huh?”

  “Well,” Fred said diplomatically, “no one would call it fine workmanship, but it’s an appropriate style for the object. I’d call it folk art. Acorns are commonly used to decorate furniture and other objects. You see them on cabinet doors, moldings, finials, gateposts, and so on. The acorn is a universal symbol of patience and endurance and well-earned bounty—you know that old saying, ‘Great oaks from little acorns grow.’”

  “I do indeed.” She reached out and stroked the smoke-darkened wood. “So, break it to me gently. What’s my beautiful box worth?”

  Fred paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on the box. He pushed up his glasses. “What we have here is an antique of unknown period or origin in the style of utilitarian country furniture employing an unusual joinery system. It’s in well-used condition, by which I mean, it’s in the condition we’d expect a box to be in if it had been used every day for more than a hundred years. I’d want to do a little more research to see if we could trace the maker based on the carving style or joinery technique, but assuming we can’t, I’d expect this box to sell at auction for around five hundred dollars.”

  Mrs. Sheridan smiled broadly. “Well, that’s more than I expected! Five hundred dollars! That would let me take my entire family out for a special dinner.”

  “That’s a fun idea! Where’s your favorite place?” Fred asked.

  “The Blue Dolphin,” she said without hesitation. “I love it!”

  Me, too, I thought, a fresh wave of sadness washing over me.

  * * *

  I left Fred directing her to drive around to the loading dock, explaining that he’d meet her there to unload the box. Inside, Cara and Sasha were both on the phone, so I just waved and headed straight into the warehouse. I thought I might finally be able to turn my full attention to work.

  Halfway to the spiral staircase, I heard a rustling sound, a swish of what sounded like plastic fluttering in a breeze. Hank, I thought. He’s gotten into something. I stopped to listen, to isolate the source of the sound.

  “Hank?” I called. “Where are you, baby?”

  He didn’t mew in response, and I didn’t hear the pitter-patter of his feet. I took a few steps, then paused again to listen.

  “Hello!” I called. “Is anyone here?”

  Silence, then a scrape, followed by soft sounds, footsteps maybe, then another rustle and another scrape.

  Why isn’t whoever’s inside responding? I wondered. Maybe a small animal had snuck in, a squirrel, perhaps. I wasn’t scared exactly, but it was eerie, standing there alone in a shadowy place, hearing odd, unfamiliar noises. I told myself not to be silly, that I was in my own building during working hours, that nothing could possibly be amiss. Still, as I started down the central aisle, I shivered as if a cold breeze had blown through the warehouse.

  There were no windows, and the overhead lighting was dim, almost gloomy. It could have been any time of day or night. Row after row of freestanding shelving units stretched the width of the space. Objects slotted for the tag sale were shelved on the right; objects going to auction were hou
sed on the left. In front of me, I could see the rear wall. As I walked, with my engineer boots clomping on the concrete and the sound echoing in the cavernous space, I looked from one side to the other, back and forth, peering down each row. Everything appeared normal.

  “Hello!” I called again, louder this time.

  No response. I paused, and for a moment, the quiet was absolute. Then I heard another rustle followed by another scrape.

  Halfway down on the left, Hank’s area came into view. He was in his basket, asleep. I frowned and stayed still, listening. The sounds were emanating from my right, somewhere diagonally in front of me. My view was blocked by the objects that filled the shelving units. I couldn’t imagine what I was hearing. I took a deep breath and continued on, tiptoeing as best I could in my clunky boots, passing empty row after empty row.

  I saw black boots and froze, gasping, then realized that I knew them—they were Ava’s. I sidestepped through the row.

  Ava was going through the racks containing Riley’s clothing collection. What I’d heard was the sounds of research: plastic garment bags being raised and lowered, hangers sliding along metal rods, and zippers being pulled so she could examine labels. Her back was to me. As usual, she was listening to her iPod. No wonder she hadn’t heard me calling. I stepped into her line of vision. She shrieked and jumped, pulling her right earplug from her ear. She pressed her hands to her chest as if to hold her heart in place.

  “I’m so sorry!” I said, holding up a calming hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, trying to smile. “Wow! That sure got my heart going!”

  “Sorry,” I said again. “I couldn’t imagine what I was hearing!” I pointed to the plastic-covered garments. “Little rustlings and tiny metallic sounds, and when I called, no one answered. It was pretty spooky!”

  She held up the iPod wire. “Sorry about that. I was off in la-la land listening to music and falling in love with Riley’s clothes.”

  I smiled. “I’m glad you were going through things. The faster you get up to speed, the better for us all.”

  “I’m really eager to help Sasha,” she said.

  She slid the last few pieces along the pole, finishing her survey, glancing at them one at a time, then shaking her head in astonishment. “Riley had incredible taste, didn’t she?”

  “Absolutely.”

  After ensuring that each garment hung an inch or so from the next to avoid wrinkling, we walked together toward the office. Sasha and Cara were still on the phone. Ava took her place behind her desk.

  “One last question, Dr. Hutchinson. Where would I expect to find the word ‘boutique’?” Sasha asked.

  I didn’t recognize the name.

  “That’s right, Mitch,” Cara said. “We want to pick up with Sunday’s paper.”

  I knew what that was about: Cara was confirming that we wanted our regular ads promoting the tag sale to resume on Sunday.

  “What are you working on now?” I asked Ava.

  She held up a catalogue from my former New York City employer, Frisco’s, so I could see the cover. “I’m reading a vintage clothing catalogue from an auction that took place about two years ago.”

  “How does Riley’s collection compare?”

  She grinned. “It’s way better.”

  “The museum will be pleased to hear that.”

  Ava resumed reading.

  Sasha ended her call and turned to me. “Good news! I just nailed down the Bob Mackie label question. The word ‘boutique’ appears below his signature.”

  “Is that what we have?” I hoped she’d say yes and confirm that we’d just taken a step toward authenticating some of the gowns in Riley’s collection.

  “Yes.”

  “Well done! Who’s Dr. Hutchinson?” I asked.

  “A professor at FIT,” she replied.

  A professor from the Fashion Institute of Technology was as credible a source as could possibly be found.

  “Terrific,” I said.

  She looked down, her natural reaction to hearing praise.

  I explained Max’s request that we create a his and hers list of the Jordans’ possessions, and her expression changed from embarrassed to engaged.

  She jotted a few notes and nodded. “Do you think anything should be on the list besides her clothes, the knickknacks, and the tableware?”

  “Assign everything that isn’t specifically Bobby’s to her list. Bobby will tell us if we’re wrong.”

  She looked at me for a moment, maybe thinking I was going to add something, then said, “Will do.”

  I glanced around. Gretchen’s desk was covered by paper. She always cleared her desk when she left for the day, so I knew she was still here. I hadn’t seen her yet today.

  “Do you know where Gretchen is?” I asked Ava.

  “A customer came in for the boutique.”

  “Great! Anyone we know?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Even better—a new customer!”

  “Becka and Kenna stopped by just as the customer came in,” Sasha said, smiling, “asking about any new items and so on. Gretchen said she’d just put out a blue suede Adrienne Vittadini purse, and, well, need I say more? Kenna wanted to look at it. They’re all in the boutique now.”

  “Excellent! Did Gretchen mention whether she had a good time in Boston?”

  Ava grinned. “I believe the word she used was ‘dreamy.’”

  I smiled, but before I could reply, Gretchen pushed open the door and held it for Becka and Kenna. Kenna was holding a Prescott’s shopping bag.

  “The purse?” I asked.

  “It’s gorgeous!” Kenna said, extracting it from the bag to show me. “And only forty dollars—I can’t believe it!”

  I smiled, gratified that she was pleased. I turned to Gretchen. “We have a new customer, I understand.”

  She nodded. “A new customer who bought a Lanz dress—you remember it, don’t you, Josie? The blue and red floral wraparound?”

  “Absolutely. That’s a gorgeous dress.”

  “She said she’ll be back!”

  “Well done,” I said and turned to Becka and Kenna. “How are you doing?”

  “Good, good,” Kenna said. “When I saw you the other day, you said the workshop was on for next week, but since we were driving by anyway, we thought we’d just stop in to confirm it. Gretchen tells me it’s definite.”

  “It was a tough call,” I said, “but we decided to resume the classes. We’ll pick up where we left off, with handbags and shoes, which will extend the series one week.”

  “I’m glad,” Becka said. “Riley would have hated to think it didn’t continue.”

  “I think that’s true,” I said. I sighed. “I saw a woman at the funeral today wearing a cluster of antique hat pins arranged to look like a brooch. Do you know who she was?”

  “That was Mrs. Steiner,” Kenna said. “I noticed them, too. Amethysts, right? Didn’t the arrangement look great? She often wears antique jewelry.”

  “It’s a good example of repurposing antiques.” I turned to Gretchen. “It got me thinking … how about asking Cara, Ava, and Sasha—three women of different ages and styles—to let us take their photos wearing three pins at a time? We can arrange them as Mrs. Steiner did, like a brooch. You could take their photos and display them next to a glass full of pins. People might have fun making their own arrangements.”

  “I love that idea!” Gretchen said. “I’ll do it for the next tag sale—assuming my models agree to cooperate.”

  All three models seemed pleased to be included. Sasha smiled shyly. Ava grinned. Cara blushed.

  After a two-second pause, Becka looked at Gretchen. “I read that article about what you almost saw in the Seacoast Star. Have you remembered anything else about the car?”

  “No-o-o,” Gretchen replied, yet from her tone and the way she stretched out the word, I got the impression that she might have remembered something. She shrugged. “
It’s funny. That woman just now … did you notice her car? She was driving a Volvo. It had a kind of boxy shape, and it made me realize that the car I saw wasn’t boxy like that.”

  “If you thought the car wasn’t boxy,” Becka said, leaning in, pinning Gretchen with her fixed gaze, “you must have thought it was some other shape, like a van or a sports car.”

  Gretchen shook her head. “Nothing comes to me.”

  “I told you memories can come back,” Cara said. “Just you wait.”

  Over the years, I’d observed how seriously Gretchen took her responsibilities. While I admired her attitude, I also worried that she stressed over things out of her control. She rarely cut herself a break. I was afraid that she’d misinterpret Cara’s cheerful encouragement as an indictment that she wasn’t doing her best.

  “Sometimes they do,” I said, “but sometimes they don’t. Don’t fret about it, Gretchen.”

  She sighed. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll try to remember. That’s all I can do.”

  “What do you think?” Becka asked. “Should you call the police? I know they already showed you pictures of cars, but maybe there’s something else they can do to jog your memory.”

  Gretchen made a face. “It gives me a headache just to think about going through that again. After about a minute and a half, all the cars began to look alike. I’ll wait until more memory comes back—if it does.”

  “That sounds smart,” I said.

  “If you stop trying to remember,” Kenna said, “sometimes what you’ve forgotten just pops into your mind. That happens to me all the time, like when I misplace my keys.”

  The phone rang, and Cara answered, then put the call on hold. “It’s Ty,” she said.

  “Excuse me,” I said and ran upstairs to take the call in private. I was relieved I did. Ty had called to tell me he loved me, and I was glad to be able to tell him how much I loved him without feeling everyone’s eyes on me.