Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  He shook his head. “No one else has come forward,” he said, his eyes big with news.

  “I can see from your eyes that there’s more.”

  “Only a stick of dynamite! Riley found out something huge, I don’t know what, the day before she was murdered—that’s why she changed her will.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” I asked.

  “She called to make the appointment with Max Bixby, her lawyer, at three o’clock on Monday, the day before she was killed, saying it was urgent. She tried to get in to see him that same day, but he was unavailable.”

  The implications about the timing were startling, I thought, as I realized that Wes must have gotten Max’s receptionist to spill the beans.

  “What does Bobby say?”

  “According to my police source, he says he hasn’t got a clue. Maybe he’s telling the truth. It’s possible that she didn’t confront him until after she changed her will, or at all.”

  “I can see that happening. What about Bobby’s alibi? Does he have one?”

  “Nope—but for him to be the killer we have to make two assumptions. One, that he knew that Riley was scheduled to speak at Prescott’s workshop, and two, that she would be arriving early.”

  “The first one is, to my mind, a given. I mean, she probably told him about the speaking date when we first booked it. She was so pleased.” I sighed, missing her. “Plus, I bet she talked about it over their morning coffee—I would. How can we assume that he knew she’d be arriving early, though?”

  “Right after leaving her lawyer’s office, Riley made two calls, the first one to a disposable cell phone, the second one to a cell phone on her own plan. The first call lasted ten minutes, from one thirty to one forty; the other one lasted three minutes, from one forty-one to one forty-four. I’ve dialed both numbers, but no one answers, and the voice mail messages are those generic ones, just a robotic voice listing the number, you know? It gets a little confusing with everyone using cell phones, so let’s call the phone Riley called first, the disposable phone, C1, okay? The second call she made went to a phone we can call C2; that’s the one on her own plan. Because she called C1 and C2 just before she died, the police were able to get a court order allowing them to review the call logs, and man, oh man, are they glad they did! First, up until that day, the only outgoing calls from C1 were to Ruby, Becka, Riley, and Tamara. Most of the incoming calls were from them, too. So that’s got to be Bobby’s phone, right? I mean, who else has all those people in common? Some incoming calls were from pay phones and other disposable, untraceable cell phones, but none was from anyone else Bobby was in frequent contact with, like Quinn. About twenty minutes after Riley finished her ten-minute call to C1, a call from C1 was made to Riley’s phone. The call only lasted ten seconds, so I figure the call went directly to voice mail and the caller didn’t leave a message. What the caller did do is immediately call Prescott’s. Your company. That call lasted thirty seconds.”

  “Someone using the cell phone you’re calling C1 called us?” I asked, astonished.

  “Yup,” Wes said, tickled at my reaction. “And the second number Riley called? The one we’re calling C2? Guess what? The only calls, and I mean the only calls in or out, were to or from Riley. So she must have given C2 to someone, right? Only for their private relationship.”

  “It looks that way, doesn’t it?” I said, intrigued. I thought for a moment, then asked, “Why haven’t the police asked me about the incoming call from C1?”

  “They will. They just got the info a couple of hours ago.” He dropped his voice. “Do you think Riley was having an affair, too? Maybe she gave C2 to her lover so she could always reach him.”

  “No way,” I said, appalled at the thought. “Riley never would do that!”

  “Of course not,” Wes said sarcastically. “Women never screw around.”

  “I’m not saying that,” I protested, but Wes was right. I didn’t want the suggestion to be true, so I dismissed it out of hand. I looked at him. “I take it back. You’re right. Of course she could have been having an affair.”

  “So if she had a lover, who is it?”

  “I have no idea. Don’t misunderstand me, Wes. I don’t think there’s a chance that she was cheating. I’m simply acknowledging your point—she could have been. Have the police asked Bobby yet?”

  “Yes. He says he has no idea why Riley has a second line—referring to C2—and he says that he doesn’t know who C1 belongs to.”

  “Oh, please! Who else but him would make calls to Ruby, Becka, Riley, and Tamara? That would be a heck of a coincidence.”

  “The police think so, too,” Wes said. “So if Riley’s call to C1 is really a call to Bobby, then we can assume she told him that she was heading back to Prescott’s.”

  I nodded. “So he’d know she’d be there early. It’s not a stretch to imagine her telling him that she just finished meeting with her lawyer, that she was upset and wanted some time to think things through. She would expect that we’d let her in early to relax in private, which is, in fact, exactly what happened.”

  “Why do you think Bobby called your company?”

  “Maybe Riley hung up on him and he tried to call her back. She saw who was calling her from the phone ID and didn’t take the call. He called us hoping to speak to her. So what’s Bobby’s alibi?”

  “He says he was in his office, alone.”

  “There’s an emergency exit right there. I mean, he could have left with no one the wiser.” I shifted position. “What about yesterday? The day Gretchen was shot?”

  Wes grinned. “Bobby says he was driving home—alone.”

  “That takes care of opportunity,” I said. “In terms of means … since Riley was killed with her own scarf, I figure that either the murder was not premeditated or that the killer came with a different weapon and used the scarf because it was a better—that is, a less traceable—option.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” Wes said, nodding, “and given that Bobby’s a champion biathlon athlete—well, hello!—of course he has access to a gun and knows how to use it.”

  I paused and looked at Wes. “Except if he had been the shooter, Gretchen would be dead.”

  “True.”

  “Unless he’s trying some kind of Machiavellian maneuver—since everyone knows he’s a crackerjack shot, by missing now he creates reasonable doubt, then when Gretchen is actually killed, no one will think of him as a suspect.”

  Wes soft-whistled. “Jeez, Josie, that’s pretty dark. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Some people, I thought, when they have enough to lose, will lie like a grifter, steal like Fagin, and kill like a professional assassin. I looked up. Wes was waiting for my reply. His expression reflected his youth. With his round eyes and open stance, he seemed, to my eye, absurdly, charmingly, ingenuous. I was about to reply when the reality of what we were discussing hit me like a slap. It was possible, really truly possible, that Bobby had killed his wife.

  “Oh, Wes,” I said, blinking away an unexpected tear. “It’s just so awful to think about!”

  “Yeah, but what do you think? Is he that diabolical?”

  I took in a deep breath. “Yes, I do think it’s possible.” I paused. “And I know he drives a silver Lexus.”

  “Right—but while he’s the front-runner, don’t forget that there are other candidates. Quinn and Kenna might have some kind of financial motive. As for Becka, well, remember the photo of her holding hands with Bobby—and she’s one of the people called from C1.”

  I sighed. “You’re right. What does Becka say about that? Won’t she say who called her from that number? How about Ruby or Tamara? What do they say?”

  “Becka says that she has no memory of receiving any calls from that number. Ruby is refusing to answer questions, insisting that since she was in L.A. taping some insider gossip show, in full view of dozens of people when Riley was killed, she can’t possibly be a suspect, and since she has no knowledge of any
crime committed by anyone, she’s not going to discuss her private life. Tamara’s not so reticent. She says it’s the number Bobby always used to call her.”

  I shook my head, horrified. “If it quacks like a duck…” I said.

  “Exactly. C1 is Bobby’s phone.”

  “Bobby’s lying,” I said, disheartened.

  “Yeah, but maybe he’s only trying to hide that he was screwing around.”

  “I suppose,” I acknowledged. “Does anyone know why Riley had that second phone, the one you’re calling C2?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about alibis?” I asked. “Do any of them have one? And could they have known Riley got there early? I mean, are they really suspects?”

  Wes nodded. “Let’s start with opportunity. Becka and Kenna were students in your class, so we can assume they knew that Riley was scheduled as that night’s guest speaker. Maybe one of them arrived early, too, and found Riley there. Becka and Riley were pals, right? So maybe Riley told her about Bobby and that she was going to hang out at your place.”

  “Did Riley call Becka?”

  “Not from her cell phone,” Wes said.

  “Kenna’s office is right across from Bobby’s, so if he said something, maybe during that call with Riley—you know, the call she made from her phone to C1—Kenna might have overheard him refer to Riley’s plans.”

  Wes nodded. “Good one, Josie! Then Kenna might have mentioned it to Quinn—from what I hear, although she works for Bobby, she reports to him.”

  “That’s right, she told me so.”

  “Okay, then … so … at the time Riley was killed, Becka says she was driving to Prescott’s for class, Kenna says she was at her mother’s dropping off her kids, and Quinn, like I told you before, says he went to his club to have a drink with a client. His assistant confirms the appointment but says the client, Butch Mavers, had to cancel. Apparently, something came up at the last minute. Mavers left Quinn a voice mail, which he says he didn’t get until the next day. He says he hung out at the club for a while, looking at a set of golf clubs the pro shop had on sale, and periodically cruised into the bar and side lounges looking for Mavers, but no one remembers seeing him. The bartender was busy taking care of customers, the golf pro was out giving a lesson, and the in-store clerk was ringing up sales.

  “As to when Gretchen was shot, Becka says she was in her office at Hitchens, alone; Kenna says she was at home with her kids nearby, cooking mac and cheese; and Quinn says he was at various shops in the mall choosing a birthday gift for his wife. No one saw Becka, Kenna’s kids are too young to be reliable witnesses, and while Quinn did buy a gold bracelet at a department store about a half hour after Gretchen was hit, the timing is iffy. Going by the time stamp on his receipt, he could have shot Gretchen, then hotfooted it to the mall. No one at any other shop remembers seeing him, but unless he did something to stand out, why would they?”

  “Alibis are tough,” I remarked. “It’s hard to prove you’re somewhere. What about Tamara?”

  “She’s out of it. She was working, waitressing, during both events.”

  “So both Tamara and Ruby are clear, but no one else is.”

  “Exactly. As to means—according to my police source, Becka says she doesn’t know how to shoot, and it looks like that’s true. She’s got a thing about guns—she hates them—and lots of people know that about her.”

  “Which only proves that no one would suspect her of shooting someone, not that she didn’t do it,” I interjected.

  “True,” Wes acknowledged. “Kenna’s brothers all hunt, so, presumably, she knows how to shoot, and it’s a safe assumption that she has access to their weapons. Quinn, as we know, is a member of the Rocky Point Gun and Rod Club.”

  “What about silver cars?” I asked.

  “Quinn’s wife drives a silver BMW. Kenna’s mother drives a silver Taurus. Becka drives a green MG, but her roommate drives a silver Camry. I’ve looked it up—the most popular car color is silver.”

  I scanned the parking lot. “I see what you mean. Half the cars here are silver.” I thought of my staff—half of them drove silver cars, too. Fred had just bought a new-to-him used silver Audi. Sasha’s Prius was gold. Ava drove an old silver Chevy. Eric’s 4 × 4 was brown. Cara drove a silver Sonata. I thought of the part-timers’ cars, and as near as I could recall, many of them were silver, too.

  “Yeah. So considering everything,” he said, lowering his tone to a near-whisper, “do you still think Bobby killed her?”

  I dropped my gaze to the cracked asphalt. Not wanting to believe something isn’t the same thing as not believing it. A horn blared, and I looked up in time to see a middle-aged man behind the wheel shake his fist at a woman who seemed oblivious to the fact that she’d stolen the parking place he’d considered his own.

  I thought about Wes’s question. Becka, Kenna, and Quinn qualified as killers on paper, as it were, but the question wasn’t whether we could build a theoretical case against them. The question was: Did I think it likely that one of them had drawn the scarf around Riley’s neck and twisted it, holding the ends taut until she was dead? Did I really think one of them had aimed a gun at Gretchen and pulled the trigger? Or did I think the culprit was the man Riley had cut out of her will the very day she was killed?

  I stood, resting my elbows on my car’s hood, staring out over the sea of automobiles, thinking. I decided there was no reason to hedge. From where I sat, Bobby looked guilty as all get-out. I turned toward Wes.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Me, too.” He folded up his notepaper, preparing to leave. “Do you have anything for me?”

  I weighed asking Wes if he could find out who knew that Bobby never set his house alarm unless he was going out of town. I just couldn’t imagine someone giving themselves only a few minutes to break in, get to the attic, force open the trunk, and get out. Whoever did it had to have known that the house was unalarmed.

  It came down to trust and confidence. Could I trust Wes to keep a secret? Yes. Did I have confidence that he could ferret out information without revealing his reasons for asking? Yes.

  I met his eyes. He was waiting for me to speak. “Who knew that Bobby never set his security alarm unless he was going out of town?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “How do you he doesn’t?”

  “He told me so, through Quinn, when he hired me to appraise everything.” I met his gaze. “How can we find out who else knew?”

  “Did you see a silver car while you were there?”

  “If I say yes and you publish it,” I said with a nervous, awkward laugh, “my life might be in as much danger as Gretchen’s.”

  “I won’t publish it. Did you?” he asked again.

  Trust, I thought. I trust him. “Yes,” I said.

  “Enough to recognize?”

  “No. It was a sedan, but that’s all I know.”

  Wes nodded and put away his paper without making any notes. “I’ll check who knew about the alarm.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You really can trust me, you know?” he said, sounding a little hurt.

  “I know—but I needed to think it through.”

  He nodded. “I’ll call as soon as I know something,” he said and jogged toward his car. Wes was always in a hurry. I walked into the store thinking that if Wes could learn who knew about the alarm, we might discover more than an intruder—there was a chance we’d nail a killer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I was able to speak to Gretchen on Sunday, and it was a huge relief to hear her voice. After thanking me for the call, she told me she didn’t want visitors; all she wanted to do was stay in bed.

  “I can’t explain it—I’m just so sleepy!” she said.

  “Nature’s great healer, right?”

  “I guess … Have you heard anything? I mean, do you think the police are making any progress?”

  “I don’t know, Gretchen. I wish I had news I could share with you.”

  She si
ghed. “Yeah. To tell you the truth, I’m a little scared.”

  “You’d be crazy if you weren’t.”

  “I have police protection, did you know that?” she said, lowering her voice as if she were revealing a secret.

  “Jack mentioned it yesterday. I’m so glad they’re there.”

  “Yeah … Jack wants me to stay home tomorrow, but I’m planning on coming in.”

  “Why? That doesn’t make any sense, Gretchen! You should stay in bed.”

  “I hate missing work. I always feel so out of it when I get back.”

  “Which is admirable, but not when you need rest. Don’t come in tomorrow. That’s an order.”

  She giggled. “An order! You’re some tough boss.”

  “You bet your booties I am! I mean it, Gretchen.”

  “I’ll tell you what I told Jack: The doctor said I should play it by ear, that if I was feeling up to going to work on Monday, I could, and if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t. He said I wouldn’t do myself any harm, providing that I didn’t lift anything, so my plan is to listen to my body. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “You’re always so practical and sensible, Gretchen. Jeez—I can’t imagine being able to think so logically if I were in your shoes. I think I’d burrow under the covers and refuse to come out.”

  “No you wouldn’t. You’d be at work on time and with a smile on your face.”

  I was taken aback that she perceived me that way. “Wow, what a nice image. I don’t know that it’s true, but I sure like the sound of it.” I paused for a moment. “I defer to your judgment and withdraw my order. Plus, I know that if you come in, Cara will dote on you. She won’t let you lift a thing.”

  “Except Raspberry Lace Lemon Squares,” Gretchen said. “She already called to tell me she’s making them, and I definitely plan on lifting several!”

  I smiled, oddly heartened by Cara’s homey tribute to Gretchen. Cara’s Raspberry Lace Lemon Squares involved weaving a homemade raspberry syrup through lemon batter to create an intricate lace pattern. It was a complicated recipe and difficult to make, and she only made a batch on special occasions.