Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  I shrugged. “It seems hard to believe. I mean, Claire McCardell was wonderful designer, but still … I’d need to see it, of course, but even if it’s in as good condition as the rest of the collection, it’s only worth a few hundred dollars.”

  He pursed his lips for a moment. “Is anything else missing?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  He frowned. “How come you can’t say definitively? I mean, you’ve got the clothes and you’ve got the list, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, “but we haven’t finished inventorying everything yet. Heck, we’ve barely begun.”

  He nodded and leaned back, thinking.

  “The phone rang while I was hiding,” I said. “Was it the security company?”

  He turned his gaze back to me. “Yes. If a panic button is pushed, their protocol has them calling. If they don’t get an answer, they leave a generic message requesting a callback. If you don’t call them back immediately, they call us.” He glanced at Ty. “Ty called, too. Your nine-one-one message got through loud and clear.”

  “Is there any sign of damage that would account for what I heard?”

  He shook his head. “Someone took a whack or thirty at the trunk. The technicians will be here soon to check for fingerprints and so on. Then you and I can look inside.”

  “A whack or thirty?” I repeated. “You mean like with an ax?”

  “Yeah—except I think they probably used a hatchet.”

  * * *

  As soon as I reached the top of the attic stairs, I saw the destruction.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed.

  The leather was ripped every which way all across the trunk’s top. Chop marks marred the wooden frame. Whole chunks of wood were missing, strewn across the floor. The escutcheon hung sideways—someone had succeeded in levering out half the nails.

  “It wasn’t like that when you last saw it?” Ellis asked.

  “No, not at all.” I turned to face him. In the dim light, the small jagged scar near his right eye that looked bloodred in daylight was hardly visible. “I can’t believe it!”

  “I’m changing my mind. There may be forensic evidence, and if so, I don’t want us to miss it. We’ll take the trunk to the station and open it there.” He glanced out the window. The rain was steadier now and showed no sign of letting up. “They’ll bring tarps.” He turned to face me. “Will you come, too? I have a feeling that whatever is inside is something you’ll know more about than me.”

  “Of course. I’m glad to help,” I said.

  I was also as curious as a cat.

  * * *

  Ty drove me back to my office so I could pick up my car. We agreed he’d go home and I’d join him as soon as I could.

  “It won’t be the same sitting in front of the fire without you,” he said.

  “But it’ll still be pretty darn good.”

  He grinned. “Yeah.”

  I stepped out of the car and waved good-bye backwards as I ran through now-pelting rain into the office. Inside, everyone was getting ready to leave for the day, chatting about weekend plans, the bad weather, and how weird it was that tomorrow wasn’t a tag sale day. I glanced at Gretchen’s Mickey Mouse clock—it was six minutes after five.

  “Were you able to open the trunk?” Gretchen asked.

  “No,” I replied. “There’s a story there, but for another day. You all take off. I’m just going to put the skeleton keys back. I’ll close up.”

  “Or I will,” Gretchen said. “I want to put out extra food and water for Hank since we won’t be back until Monday.”

  The wind chimes tinkled as one after another of my staff left.

  As Fred slid his tie knot into place, he said, “If it’s okay with Hank, I’m planning on coming in for a few hours tomorrow. Tonight, I have a date.”

  “You do?” Gretchen said, stopping short and turning full around, her gossip antennae on full alert. “Who with?”

  I set off toward the supply cabinet, not unhappy that she held the door open, so I could hear about Fred’s date, too.

  “Sandy Sechrest. From Hitchens. She teaches in the Decorative Arts Department. Do you know her?”

  “No. Tell me everything.”

  “There’s not too much to tell. I talked to her yesterday when I began researching some of the fireplace objects, and one thing led to another and I asked her out to dinner.”

  “Are you telling me you’ve never even met her?”

  “That’s why they post faculty photos on college Web sites, isn’t it?”

  “That’s wild!” she said, laughing. “I hope you have a great time. Where are you taking her?”

  “Where else but the best restaurant in town—the Blue Dolphin.”

  “Very nice! I’ll expect a full report on Monday!”

  “Forget it, Gretchen,” he said. “Guys don’t kiss and tell.”

  “How about a high-level update?”

  “That I can do!”

  They exchanged good-byes, and then I heard the click-clack of Gretchen’s heels as she made her way across the concrete to Hank’s area. After I replaced the keys, I joined her at Hank’s basket. He was awake, and we took turns tossing his mouse and applauding his fetching, then wished him a good weekend and left, umbrellas in hand. I punched the alarm code, and we walked into the parking lot side by side.

  “I’ll see you on Monday!” she said.

  “Bye-bye,” I called, turning toward my car.

  Before I reached it, I heard a sharp clap, as if someone had slammed two pieces of wood together. It was a distinct sound at odds with the soothing patter of the rain. I looked at Gretchen, and I could tell from her expression that she’d heard it, too. It rang out again, another loud cracking sound, this time less a clap than a strike, like splitting wood.

  “What’s that noise?” she called.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  I surveyed the forest that surrounded us, the two-lane road that ran along my property’s edge, and the stone wall across the way. A third crack shattered the quiet, and Gretchen screamed. I whirled around in time to see her umbrella spin through the air like a whirling top. She toppled, landing with a thud and made a sound, a gurgle, then a sputter. The umbrella crashed to the ground upside down and collapsed.

  Gretchen turned to look at me.

  It wasn’t until I spotted blood seeping through her jacket that I realized she’d been shot.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I tore across the parking lot, dropping to my knees beside Gretchen. She looked bemused more than upset or frightened. She’s in shock, I thought.

  “Don’t move,” I whispered.

  “What happened?” she managed, her voice thin and weak.

  “You’ve been shot.”

  Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t speak.

  “I need to find where you’ve been hit so I can stop the bleeding,” I explained. I unzipped her jacket and saw an elliptical hole in her sweater near the outer edge of her left shoulder. I ripped the sweater to see the wound. Blood oozed from a ragged cut. The bullet seemed to have only grazed her skin. I shoved my hand into my bag, patting around until I found the lightweight fabric tote bag I always carry, just in case I find myself with antique treasures to purchase but no packing materials. It came prefolded into a small square and was perfectly sized for covering the wound. I centered it over the bullet hole and pressed hard.

  Gretchen winced. “Ow,” she murmured.

  “Sorry,” I said, keeping the pressure steady. I stuck my left hand inside my tote and felt around for my phone while peering into the trees on the far side of the stone wall. I saw nothing out of place. I saw no flash of color as if someone were running through the woods. There was no glint of metal, at least not enough of one for me to spot it in the dull gray light and driving rain. I turned back to look at Gretchen. Her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful, as if she were asleep. Without warning, a spasm roiled through her body, and she bit her lip. My fingers touched hard
plastic—I’d found my phone.

  As I punched 9-1-1, I heard a car start. The engine revved, then quieted. I kept my eyes on the road, but no vehicles passed by. If one had, I knew what I would have seen—a silver sedan.

  * * *

  I called Ty from the Rocky Point police station. I was in Interrogation Room One again, alone this time. As soon as I heard his strong, familiar voice, I began to cry.

  “What’s going on, Josie?”

  “I’m okay,” I said through my tears. “I hate crying. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

  I inhaled deeply, twice, then said, “Gretchen’s been shot.” I told him what happened, then added, “Ellis is calling the hospital right now.” As I spoke, he pushed open the door. “He just walked in.” I looked at him, but his eyes gave nothing away. “I’m on the phone with Ty. Anything?”

  He nodded. “Yes. The doctor says it’s a superficial wound. She’ll be released shortly.”

  I felt myself sink farther into the chair. “Thank God,” I said. To Ty, I added, “Did you hear that?”

  “I did. Let me talk to Ellis, okay?”

  “Sure.” I handed the police chief the phone. “Ty wants to talk to you.”

  I listened as the two men spoke. Mostly I heard grunts and affirmations and “Not yet.” Ellis handed me the phone.

  “How long do you figure I’ll be?” I asked, before resuming my conversation.

  “I’m guessing maybe an hour or so.”

  “I’ll be there in a little over an hour, I guess,” I said. “Maybe longer.”

  “I’ll have food ready and a fire going.”

  I glanced up and saw that Ellis was watching me, and I felt myself blush. I wanted to tell Ty that I loved him, but instead I said, “Great. I’ve got to go.”

  * * *

  Detective Brownley took my statement, which amounted to a lot of “I don’t know,” “I can’t remember,” and “I don’t think so” assertions. She video-recorded it, as was their protocol.

  After asking me to recount what happened, she leaned back and tapped her pen against the table.

  “Can you think of anything that happened today that might account for Gretchen’s being shot? I mean, why now? Why today?”

  I recalled Gretchen’s description of the silver Volvo. It wasn’t boxy like the Volvo, she’d said.

  Something must have shown on my face because the detective asked, “What is it, Josie? What did you just remember?”

  I explained.

  “Who was there when she made that remark?”

  I felt my heart sink. “Becka and Kenna.”

  * * *

  I told Detective Brownley the truth, but refused to speculate about which of them was more likely to have shot Gretchen no matter how she tried to worm an opinion out of me.

  “I have no idea who’d want to kill Gretchen. It’s crazy.”

  Detective Brownley nodded. She leaned back and tapped her pen. “Which of your staff was there?”

  “Almost everyone.”

  “What can you tell me about them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Give me one-sentence profiles.”

  “I don’t know anything about anyone’s private life. I mean, I know Cara was widowed about ten years ago. She lives with a golden retriever and is close to her grandson. Sasha goes to Boston a lot for lectures at the Museum of Fine Arts. Fred had a date tonight with a professor from Hitchens. Eric lives with his mother and two dogs and has been dating a girl named Grace for more than a year—but he wasn’t in the room.” I flipped up my hands. “You see what I mean? I don’t know anything relevant about any of them, and I know even less about Becka and Kenna.”

  “Right—but what do you think?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me about Cara’s grandson.”

  “I don’t know anything. I don’t even know his name.”

  “Does any of your staff own a gun?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where’s yours?”

  My properly registered Browning 9 mm was in my bedside table, and I told her so.

  “Do any of them know how to shoot?”

  “I don’t know,” I repeated like a mantra, thinking of Bobby’s Olympic past.

  It went on and on, until finally I was rescued when Ellis stuck his head into the room.

  “You about done?” he asked Detective Brownley.

  “Yes,” she said, flipping her notebook closed. “Josie’s been very helpful.”

  “Thanks, Josie,” he said, smiling at me.

  “I don’t know how helpful I’ve been—all I seemed to say was ‘I don’t know.’”

  “Negatives can be as useful as affirmations,” he said.

  “I guess.”

  “Ready to get a look at the contents of the trunk?”

  “You bet!” I said, standing, relieved that the interview was over.

  Ellis and I walked down the corridor to the entry area, past the long counter where a patrolman I recognized named Darren sat typing into a computer with two fingers, through a closed door that led to another side corridor, and into a medium-sized room that overlooked the rear parking lot. The trunk sat on a metal table. The lid was up. The contents were laid out across three other tables.

  “There’s the coat!” I said, approaching the table where the gray and lavender coat sat, folded into a neat square, back side up.

  “Don’t touch—the tech guys haven’t finished yet.”

  “Can you turn it so I can see the label? I want to confirm it’s a size two Claire McCardell.”

  Ellis put on latex gloves and gingerly folded back the collar to expose the label. It read: CLAIRE MCCARDELL, then, on a separate line, CLOTHES BY TOWNLEY. Mystery solved—it was the coat. Another label read: 2.

  “That’s it. I’m glad to know it’s there, but I wonder why Riley kept this coat, and it alone, in the trunk.”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I have no idea. Dr. Walker annotated his list, so I know this coat had belonged to Babs Miller, but so did lots of other pieces.”

  “Maybe this was the only one she no longer wore.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Why do you think?” he said, once again turning the question back to me.

  “I don’t know.”

  He nodded. “Do you recognize anything else?” he asked.

  “That looks like an Olympic medal,” I said.

  “It is. It was Babs Miller’s.”

  “Bobby’s grandmother?”

  “Right. It looks like everything in the trunk belonged to her.” He started at one end of the table and called out the objects as he pointed at them, moving from left to right. “Those are her yearbooks from Hitchens University. Those three hold memorabilia from her skating days. The one below contains photos from when she lived in a sorority at Hitchens. The next stack over are scrapbooks from her marriage. From what I can tell, the scrapbooks contain a mixed bag of memorabilia—letters and cards from friends, sorority sisters, Olympic competitors, and her husband, recipes, pressed flowers, and souvenirs … you know, theater tickets and Playbills, that sort of thing. That final stack, those are scrapbooks about Bobby. They contain his report cards, letters from camp, newspaper clippings from his Olympic competitions, and so on. From appearances, she was a devoted wife and one proud grandma.”

  “It’s sad, isn’t it? Sweet-sad.”

  “I don’t see it that way. I think it’s sweet-happy. Obviously collecting all of this gave her pleasure, or she wouldn’t have done it.”

  I nodded. “I guess.”

  “Does anything here have value?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell without going through things. Some of the ephemera might.”

  “Ephemera?” he asked. “I know that word…”

  “In the antiquing biz, the term refers to perishable objects, like tickets, concert programs, pamphlets, postcards—anything created knowin
g it would have a short life span. They serve their purpose, then they’re yesterday’s news.”

  “Like newspapers,” he said, nodding.

  “Exactly like newspapers.” I looked back at the piles.

  “If you were me, what would you do now?”

  “That’s easy,” I said, grinning. “I’d let me examine everything.”

  “I will. The tech guys tell me it’s going to take them a day, maybe two, to process everything here. Will you be available to look at things on Monday or Tuesday?”

  “Yes, absolutely.” I walked over to the trunk. “You said you thought whoever did this used a hatchet.”

  “Yes. See those indentations? They’re small and circular, like someone was trying to punch through with a hammer. Most hatchets have a hammerhead on the other side of the blade.”

  The frightening-looking marks were everywhere along the top. It was as if someone had been out-of-control enraged and had taken it out on the trunk. Some of the wooden slats that lined the steel frame had been shattered, and dagger-sharp pieces of wood stuck through the leather at ugly angles. In places, the leather had been shredded.

  “Why didn’t he succeed?” I asked. “I mean, look how the leather is destroyed, just decimated. Do you see how over here it’s almost totally stripped away? Why didn’t the trunk implode?”

  “Steel isn’t so easy to hack through.”

  I nodded, thinking. “Is it even possible to hack through steel?”

  He shrugged. “It depends on the tool and the user. Whoever did this wasn’t strong enough. Or he got interrupted before he had time to finish. Or his hatchet was too small.”

  The bits of metal visible through the ripped leather and splintered wood were intact. In fact, as I leaned in closely, I could see that while strike marks were evident, every piece of metal appeared true and level.