Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  One of the hardest aspects of moving to New Hampshire had been not knowing a soul. I’d arrived a stranger, and it had been an isolating and frightening experience. Now I was part of a community of like-minded people, people I valued and respected and admired. It was an enormous comfort to know that when push came to shove, if one of us tumbled off a cliff, we all knew we’d survive the fall because someone who cared for us would be there with a net and someone else would come running up with our favorite treats. After enduring several lonely years, I’d discovered that small kindnesses from friends contributed just as much to my overall contentment as big leg-ups, and sometimes more.

  “Raspberry Lace Lemon Squares!” I said. “That explains why you want to come into work on Monday—you’re afraid we’ll snarf them all up before you get back if you don’t lay your claim!”

  “Busted!” she said, laughing. “And all this time you thought I liked my job! Now you know the truth—I’m a cookie ho!”

  “Everyone’s a cookie ho when it comes to Cara’s baking. Seriously, though, Gretchen, I promise I won’t let anyone abscond with your share, so you should feel free to stay home if you need to.”

  She thanked me, and we chatted until she announced she was ready to drift off again.

  After we hung up, I sat for a while longer on Ty’s oversized sofa with my feet tucked under me. Through the window, I watched the just unfurling, sun-dappled leaves sway in the gentle spring breeze. Gretchen, I thought, was one of the finest women I knew.

  * * *

  I had to force myself to go to work on Monday morning. Ty left just after six for an all-day strategy session in Manchester, and under normal conditions I would have been at work by seven thirty. Today, though, between the cloudless blue sky and the dazzling sun that had temperatures already approaching seventy, a veritable heat wave for New Hampshire in April, I was fighting a serious case of spring fever. The weatherman said we’d reach a high of seventy-five by the end of the day, and all I wanted to do was put on shorts and a tank top and plant pansies, my favorite spring flowers. Instead, I celebrated spring by finding a pair of lightweight khakis I hadn’t worn for eight months, paired them with a short-sleeved blouse, and went for a walk.

  I started out along the road, then turned onto an old horse path that wended its way through an ancient forest and marked the edge of the property. A canopy of lawn-green maple leaves kept the path in stippled shadow. Dark purple violets sprouted amid dense patches of moss. Twigs snapped and crackled as I walked. Within a hundred yards or so, I came to the meadow that stretched for acres and abutted a stand of poplar. A stone wall separated it from the path. Every spring as I walked past, I thought of Robert Frost’s poem about the ritual of examining his stone walls to see how they survived the ravages of winter, silently agreeing that good fences make good neighbors, that being a good friend meant balancing involvement with respectful distance.

  A lot of the time, people have to make their own mistakes. Sometimes emotion overtakes reason and people act stupidly or thoughtlessly. Sometimes people kill for reasons large and small. They kill for revenge. Or avarice. Or envy. Or fear. Why had someone killed Riley?

  Despite brutal cold and record-breaking snowfall, I spotted only a few fallen stones, and every one was easy to wedge back into place. I walked the entire length of the wall before turning back.

  I felt good, and didn’t feel the least bit guilty that I didn’t get into work until ten of nine.

  Within minutes, Sasha and Ava arrived, both asking if I had an update about Gretchen. Before I even began replying, Fred called to ask the same thing. I put him on speaker so we could all talk at the same time.

  “Gretchen hasn’t called, so I guess that means she’s planning on coming into work. I can’t believe it, but there you go.”

  “Are you sure she should come in?” Sasha asked, concerned.

  “No,” I said, “but her doctor gave permission.”

  “Wow,” Ava said. “That’s amazing.”

  “Say hey for me,” Fred said. “I should be in by ten.”

  “You got it,” I told him, hanging up.

  Eric poked his head into the office. “Any news about Gretchen?” he asked.

  I repeated what I’d told Fred, and he nodded, his expression glum.

  “I think she’s doing fine, Eric,” I said to reassure him.

  He nodded. “Still…”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “I changed Hank’s water and everything,” he said.

  I smiled. “That’s great, Eric. Thank you.”

  I had just opened the front office window to let the warm air in when Cara backed into the office, setting the chimes jingling. She was carrying a huge platter of Raspberry Lace Lemon Squares.

  “Hi, Josie,” she said. “Any news about Gretchen since yesterday?”

  I helped her place the platter on the guest table. “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when Gretchen arrived. She sat in the back of a patrol car with Officer Griffin, whom I’d known for years, at the wheel.

  Griff stepped out and looked around, then hustled her into the building.

  “You know what to do if you want to leave, right?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she said. “Call you.” She smiled at him. “Thank you, Griff.”

  He nodded, touched his cap, and left. He moved his car so he wasn’t blocking the entrance but stayed close in.

  “Hi!” Gretchen said, including us all, smiling.

  She looked as gorgeous as ever with her creamy ivory skin gleaming, her titian hair cascading in graceful waves halfway down her back, and her green eyes radiating joy.

  “Thank you all for calling over the weekend. I’m fine, really. I’m not in any pain or anything.”

  “Gretchen promises to follow doctor’s orders,” I announced to the group. “Which means not lifting anything and leaving as soon as she feels tired. Right, Gretchen?”

  “Absolutely. He told me to listen to my body.” She grinned. “Right now, my body is calling for Raspberry Lace Lemon Squares. Let me at ’em!”

  * * *

  I wanted to ask Cara about the call that Wes told me about—the one from the phone he’d labeled C1—but I didn’t want to have to field a flurry of questions and comments from everyone else, so I asked her to come upstairs. From the concern apparent in her eyes and the speed with which her smile disappeared, I could tell that she thought she’d done something wrong and was about to be chastised.

  “You’re doing a great job,” I said as we walked across the warehouse. “I just need to talk to you privately for a minute.”

  “Certainly,” she said, her anxiety unmitigated.

  “What I’m about to tell you isn’t confidential,” I explained once we were seated. “In fact, I think it may even be in today’s paper. Even so, I didn’t want to open up a conversation with everyone and make a big deal out of something that might mean nothing at all. I just have a simple question.” I smiled. “At least I hope it’s simple. Evidently, Riley made a call just before she died. She called a disposable cell phone, the kind that can’t be traced. Within minutes, someone used that cell phone to call us on our main number. That’s my question to you. On the day Riley died, just before she came inside—that would be around two—who called us? I know it’s crazy to think you’d remember a thirty-second call from a week ago, but I thought there might be something about it that stands out.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I do remember, actually. Someone called and asked if Riley was here. I replied that she wasn’t, but that she would be later. I asked if he’d like to leave a message, and he said no.”

  I crossed my fingers for luck and asked, “Who was it?”

  “Oh, dear, I have no idea. I didn’t recognize the voice, and we didn’t chat. I only recall it because the caller asked for Riley.”

  I nodded. “I understand. Are you sure it was a man?”

  She looked stricken and stared into the dist
ance for several seconds, then shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but I just don’t know … I think it was a man … but I’m not at all certain. The call was so brief, and we were so busy.”

  I nodded again and stood up, smiling. “Thank you, Cara. The police will probably ask you the same question. It goes without saying, of course, that you should tell them everything you can remember.”

  “Certainly.” She paused at the door. “Gretchen looks well, doesn’t she?”

  “She sure does—and just wait and see how she looks after she’s had her fill of your Raspberry Lace Lemon Squares!”

  Her already rosy cheeks grew pink. “Thank you, Josie.”

  I walked down with her to retrieve the platinum and pearl button we’d logged into lost and found and to talk to Ava.

  While Cara prepared the sign-out form for me to sign, I sat at the guest table.

  “I’m going to take a crack at tracing the button,” I told Ava. “I don’t want to duplicate efforts, so as a first step, what did you do?”

  Ava’s ice-blond hair fell to the side when she leaned over to open a file drawer in her desk. She flipped through some folders, found what she was looking for, and wiggled a single sheet of paper loose.

  “Here are my notes,” she said, glancing at the paper. “The first thing I did was Google various combinations of ‘pearl button’ along with the saying on the back, ‘Industria et Munus’—adding in ‘platinum,’ for instance, or just ‘button’ and the saying. Then I tried Googling the saying by itself. I thought there was a good chance it would lead to a club or an organization, but it didn’t. I went to the National Button Society and several regional associations’ Web sites—I had no idea there were so many button collectors, nor how many of them collect pearl buttons!—and everyone I spoke to was very kind, but no one was able to help me. There was nothing else to look at, really.”

  I took the paper when she handed it over and scanned her notes. “Did you look at those letters on the back, EZK?”

  “No, I assumed they were a person’s initials, so I figured it would be hopeless to pursue them.”

  “Nothing ventured!” I said, thinking that next time I assigned Ava a research task, I’d need to be more explicit about what she should look at. While she’d made a good start, I knew there were lots more avenues of research available. As I climbed the stairs to my office, I made a mental note to tell Sasha and Fred the same thing. When someone was as smart and willing as Ava, it was easy to forget that she was a newbie, and it was our responsibility to mentor her.

  I laid the button on my desk. The pearls almost glowed, their sheen was so lustrous. I turned the button over and felt the satiny cool metal, then used my loupe to confirm there were no marks I’d missed. Probably Ava was right about the letters—in all likelihood, they were someone’s initials. Still, it was possible they stood for something else, like a company or organization. I Googled EZK, and just like that, I learned that there was a sorority named Epsilon Zeta Kappa.

  I clicked through to the sorority’s Web site, and on the history page, I read that every member used to receive a set of four buttons when she successfully pledged the sorority. I leaned back in my big leather chair, staring at the sentence for several seconds before I read on. The tradition ended in 1941 when the company that made the buttons went out of business. The sorority had posted photos of both the front and the back of the buttons. They’d been placed on a deeply shadowed white satin backdrop. The background and dramatic lighting had no doubt been selected to accentuate the details in the pearl mounts and engravings. It worked—there was no question that the button sitting on my desk was a perfect match. I located the EZK headquarters’ phone number on the contact page and dialed. From the area code, I could tell I was calling Florida.

  “Zeta Kap, how may I help you?” a friendly voice asked.

  Zeta Kap, I repeated silently. A lesson I’d learned in a college communications course came to me. Abbreviations, like acronyms, are one of the ways we distinguish friend from foe—if you recognize my shorthand, you’re in my ken.

  “I’m not sure who to talk to. I have a question about some buttons you used to award new members,” I said.

  “Our pearl rosette buttons. Let me connect you to Margo in Member Services.”

  “Hi, Margo,” I said when she came on the line. “I’m an antiques appraiser on a hunt for information about your pearl rosette buttons. I’m hoping you’ll answer a few questions.”

  “Glad to. What would you like to know?”

  “Thanks so much! I understand the buttons are no longer made—but what if I needed a replacement?”

  “You call and ask me, and I give you Mr. Lossoff’s name and number. Nick Lossoff is a button expert. He’s been making replacements for members for years.”

  “Perfect! Do you have his number handy?”

  “You bet. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I said. I wrote down Mr. Lossoff’s number as Margo called it out. The area code was 212, I noted. New York City. “Are the buttons somehow coded or registered? Like, is there a number that I haven’t located that tells you which buttons were given out to which individuals?”

  “No. They’re all identical.”

  “Interesting. I bet you get lots of requests for replacements.”

  “Not as many as we used to. My guess is that the button isn’t in style nowadays, so people aren’t wearing them as much, and if they’re not wearing them, they’re not losing them.”

  “That’s logical—and fashion is all about trends, right? I bet they’ll come back in style before too long.” I paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to ask what I really wanted to know without causing alarm bells to go off in Margo’s head.

  Don’t explain, don’t apologize, I thought, silently quoting my dad. He’d spent most of his career in sales, and he said the best way to get people talking was simply to ask questions in a tone that conveyed confidence and competence. “Be polite and be direct,” he’d said, “and most people will answer without thinking about why you want the information or whether you have any right to it.”

  “Did someone call and ask about getting a replacement last week?” I asked, crossing my fingers for luck.

  “How did you know?” she asked, sounding impressed, not leery.

  “Someone asked me about getting a replacement, and I wondered if she’d gotten in touch with you directly.”

  “Was it Riley Jordan? She called last Thursday.”

  I sat forward, my attention riveted. Someone calling herself Riley Jordan called EZK two days after Riley had been killed. The button must belong to the killer. The killer must be a woman. Which meant Bobby didn’t murder his wife.

  “That’s her,” I said.

  “The poor thing. She said she was desperate. Her mom considered the buttons family heirlooms and she’d lost one.”

  “Thank goodness for Mr. Lossoff!”

  “You’ve got that right!”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so I thanked her, and she gave a cheery “Anytime!” and hung up.

  I picked up the button and stared at it. It was more than just a magnificent button; it was a tribute from a bygone era and a testimony to a young woman’s accomplishment. With this button, I thought, they said you’re one of us.

  I turned it over and over, watching the light hit the pearls. What’s the big deal? I asked myself. If I’d lost it while killing someone, I’d simply deny ever having owed it—destroying the garment it came from, if necessary. Unless people knew I had the button in my possession and expected me to wear it periodically. Or if I’d borrowed the garment, and it had to be returned. I might think saying I’d lost it would be too risky, especially once it became known that it had been found near the scene of a murder. I nodded. It would be more prudent to simply get a replacement.

  I reached for the phone to call Mr. Lossoff, but before I could do so, Cara buzzed up that Wes was on line one.

  “I got some firecracker-hot news
about Bobby,” Wes said, jumping in. “The police found a slush fund, an account in a Swiss bank. Can you believe it? It looks like when Quinn accused Kenna of ‘sloppy bookkeeping,’ he was being kind. The forensic accountant the police hired suspects that it’s an intentional effort on Bobby’s part to hide assets from an investor—his wife—and he couldn’t have done it without Kenna’s help.”

  “Oh, my God, Wes! That’s awful.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sounding as if he were salivating at the thought. “There’s more than half a million dollars in the account. That would buy a lot of nachos, baby!”

  Nachos? I thought, rolling my eyes. “What does Bobby say?”

  “That it’s a working capital account, that those monies are earmarked to fund new ventures. He also says that Riley knew about it.”

  “That sounds logical, Wes.”

  “Maybe—but catch this hot potato! There’s only one cosigner on the account. Want to guess who?”

  “Who?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Kenna.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. She’s his bookkeeper.”

  “No, but it’s plenty suggestive.”

  “Do you think so? I’m not so sure. What does Kenna say?”

  “That she was an employee who did as she was told, that there’s nothing illegal about moving money overseas, and that if there’s something knurly about the account, the cops ought to talk to Bobby and Quinn, not her.”

  “Fair points.”

  “Maybe. What did you learn from Cara about the call from C1?”

  “Nothing. She remembers that someone did call and ask for Riley, but she doesn’t even know for certain if it was a man or a woman.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah. Did you learn who knew that Bobby rarely set his security alarm?”

  “You betcha! Becka says Riley talked about the alarm situation years ago, saying she wished Bobby would set it more regularly, but that she’d decided it wasn’t a battle worth fighting. That’s pretty dumb, isn’t it? I mean, what’s the point of having a security system if you don’t use it? Jeesh! Anyway, neither Kenna nor Quinn admits to knowing anything about it. Bobby says he didn’t tell anyone, and he hadn’t been aware that Becka knew. I’m still asking around, checking if someone heard someone else mention it, but nothing so far. What else is going on? Anything?”