Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  My eyes took in the button sitting in a circle of golden sunlight. Wes would love to know what I’d discovered. If I told him about the button, he’d pepper me with questions I couldn’t answer, demand photos I didn’t want to provide, and insist that there was no reason not to publish everything immediately. Until I had more information, there was no point in revealing anything.

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay. Catch ya later!”

  * * *

  I dialed Nick Lossof, the New York City–based button fabricator. A middle-aged man answered the phone with a crisp “Lossoff.”

  “Hi, Mr. Lossoff,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott, an antiques appraiser from New Hampshire. I’m hoping you can answer a few questions about an EZK sorority button.”

  “You’ve got the wrong man, I’m afraid. I’m Tony Lossoff. It was my dad who was the button expert. He died about six weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I hate to trouble you—but by any chance, did someone call you last week about getting a replacement button?”

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked, sounding wary.

  “The sorority mentioned her call,” I said, inventing an excuse for my call on the fly. “It occurred to me, if she’s already found a new source, maybe I can save myself some legwork.”

  “Yeah. Thursday, I think it was. Nancy Patterson, her name was.”

  Nancy Patterson? I repeated to myself, wondering why she decided not to use Riley’s name.

  “Were you able to give her a name?” I asked.

  “No, but I did give her some suggestions. I said her best shot was to contact one of the fashion design associations and ask them to recommend a button designer, someone with tools and know-how, like my dad.”

  “Did you mention any association by name?”

  “No—oh, and Parsons and FIT. I told her someone at one of those places would for sure be able to help.”

  Parsons, like FIT, was one of the world’s leading colleges devoted to, among other things, fashion design. Both the schools and industry associations were good suggestions, I thought, but I was willing to bet that Nancy didn’t call either of them. No way would she risk calling attention to herself by trolling for button designers—her search would be more focused.

  “Those are terrific ideas,” I said. “I’d love to give her a call and see what she’s figured out. You don’t happen to have her number, do you?”

  “Sorry, no. I didn’t ask. I guess I should call the sorority and let them know about Dad.”

  “A sad task,” I said. I thanked him again and hung up.

  I knew there was another kind of designer who could handle the work, a designer who wouldn’t think fabricating a jewel-encrusted button was the least bit remarkable—a good thing if I wanted to stay below the radar. A jewelry designer.

  * * *

  I Googled “Nancy Patterson” and wasn’t surprised to discover that that there were thousands of women with that name. As far as I could tell, none of them lived in Rocky Point.

  I brought up the EZK Web site again and clicked on the members page. Sure enough, Riley Jordan was listed as a member. So was Babs Miller. Nancy Patterson was not. Why would she have made up a name? I asked myself.

  Maybe she’d been afraid that the sorority would only answer questions from members, and hoped that since the sorority was based in Florida, they’d be unaware of a New Hampshire murder, or, if nothing else, that they wouldn’t make the connection until after she was off the phone. It seemed to me to be a risky move. With Bobby’s notoriety as a celebrity chef and with the media hype surrounding his relationship with Ruby Bowers, word of Riley’s murder had surely spread beyond New Hampshire’s borders. Yet it seemed to have worked out as she’d hoped. When I’d spoken to Margo, there’d been no sign that she’d recognized Riley’s name as having any significance beyond that of a recent caller who’d asked about a button. Once that conversation was out of the way, the caller probably deemed it prudent to switch to an invented persona, and Nancy Patterson was born.

  I turned toward my window. The sky was cloudless and blue. The sun was strong, and the breeze was soft. It was a halcyon spring day. As I looked deep into the forest, seeing lilies of the valley not yet in bud and bushes laden with the pale green leaves of new growth, I considered how I’d go about finding a jewelry designer capable of replicating my button. After several minutes, I turned back to my computer.

  I Googled “custom jewelry” and “Rocky Point, NH.” The first listing was Cartier’s in New York. The second was Korley’s, a branch of a national chain of jewelry stores, located in Fox Run Mall. The third was Zello’s, another national chain. It was also located in Fox Run Mall. The fourth was Blackmore’s.

  I called Chief Hunter, and when Cathy told me he was unavailable, I asked for his voice mail.

  “There’s something I want to run by you,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I have an idea about how to catch Riley’s killer.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “You sure know how to get a cop’s attention,” Ellis said.

  “Well, I guess that’s a good thing since I wanted a quick callback,” I replied. “I have an idea, but it’s kind of complicated and has a few assumptions built in. Is there any chance we can get together?”

  “Great minds, right? I was about to call and ask if I could stop by. There’s something I want to show you. How’s ten minutes?”

  “Perfect.” I hung up the phone.

  I wondered what he wanted to ask me about. He’d alluded to the old saw that great minds think alike. True. Of course, it was equally true that fools rarely differ.

  I picked up the button sitting on my desk and tossed it lightly in my hand. “If only you could talk,” I said aloud, “the tales you’d tell.”

  * * *

  “So what’s this idea of yours?” Ellis asked, sitting on the yellow brocade love seat nibbling a Raspberry Lace Lemon Square. He carried a blue nylon tote bag bearing the Rocky Point police insignia.

  “Normally people can’t do anything but ooh and ahh while eating Cara’s cookies,” I said, “and here you are acting, I don’t know … normal. What are you, superhuman?”

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Most people are weak. I, however, am a man of steely discipline and focus.”

  “I can see that.”

  “So?”

  “What did you want to show me?” I retorted, smiling.

  He reached into the bag and pulled out a see-through, jumbo-sized plastic bag containing a gray and lavender coat. I looked at it, then looked at him.

  “Is that the Claire McCardell coat from the trunk?” I asked.

  “Yes. You know how you wanted to see the label and I was extra careful in opening it up so as not to contaminate any evidence?”

  I nodded.

  He reached in the bag and pulled out the coat. He stood and held the coat against his chest. The flannel hung beautifully. The lavender piping was smooth and true. The coat featured a classic one-button closure, but the button wasn’t standard for a McCardell ready-to-wear garment. I was staring at what appeared to be a twin of the pearl rosette button on my desk.

  “Well, shut my mouth,” I said.

  I turned the button over as far as the thread holding it affixed would allow. The engraving was a match, too.

  “So,” he said, draping the coat over one of the wing chairs and sitting down, “we now have two buttons to account for, one found shortly after a murder proximate to the scene of the crime, and one on a garment in a trunk Bobby Jordan says belonged to his grandmother, Babs Miller.”

  I thought for a moment. “According to Dr. Walker’s inventory, Riley had several other garments that had belonged to Babs Miller, which we found in her closet. As far as I can see, the only thing that sets this coat apart is the button—which might account for why it’s the only garment in the trunk.”

  Ellis fingered the button, rubbing the pearls, thinking it through.

&nb
sp; “Let me tell you what I’ve learned so far about the buttons,” I said. “Sets of four were given to members of a sorority called Epsilon Zeta Kappa up until 1941.” I explained how I knew the timeline, then added, “Here’s the thing—when I called the sorority and asked how to get a replacement button, the woman I spoke to, Margo, mentioned that a woman named Riley Jordan had called last Thursday and asked the same thing.”

  He leaned back and looked at me. “Really?” he said, not so much asking a question as expressing surprise. I definitely had his attention, that was for sure.

  “Yes, and when I called the button designer Margo referred me to—he’s passed away, by the way; I spoke to his son—he told me that a woman had called about getting a replacement, also last Thursday. This time, though, she called herself Nancy Patterson.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  He reached for another cookie and took his time chewing. “We’ll need to verify that it was in fact a woman, and not a man trying to sound like a woman,” he said, thinking aloud.

  “True.”

  “Was Riley a member of the sorority?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can understand the caller using a member’s name in trying to get information from the sorority. Maybe thinking they’d hesitate or refuse to disclose member policies to a nonmember.”

  “That’s what I thought. Except it took me longer to reach that conclusion.”

  He grinned. “You forget—I’m a man of steely discipline and focus.”

  “Forgive me, sir.”

  He waved it away. “Consider yourself forgiven.” He finished the cookie. “’Course, Riley’s murder’s gotten some play in New York because of her husband being a celebrity chef.”

  “That, and being linked to Ruby Bowers and all.”

  Ellis leaned back, keeping his eyes on mine. “So the caller decided to use a made-up name.”

  “A common one, like Nancy Patterson,” I agreed, nodding.

  “There’s got to be a boatload of women named Nancy Patterson.”

  “Thousands.”

  “Although it’s not a suspiciously common name like Mary Smith.”

  “Nancy Patterson was a good choice,” I agreed.

  “Interesting that the killer might be a woman,” he remarked, keeping his eyes fixed on mine.

  “Not a surprise, though, if the button had been lost during the murder. A man wouldn’t wear a button like that.”

  An idea came to me, and it must have shown on my face, because Ellis said, “What is it, Josie?”

  “A man might have been carrying the button in his pocket if he’d bought it at an antiques store to give to his wife on her birthday.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  I met Ellis’s eyes. “Quinn. His wife is known for wearing antique jewelry and accessories.” A man whose livelihood and social standing depend on his spotless reputation might kill if he thought he was about to be caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A man who, when he realized he’d lost the button, could have run quick like a bunny to the mall for an alternate gift.

  “Interesting,” Ellis remarked. “Back to this mysterious caller. We might be able to trace her calls if the sorority and Mr. Lossoff give us permission, but it will probably be a bust. Whoever did this knows enough not to call from their home or work phone.”

  “Right. Probably they used a disposable cell phone, like the one Riley called.”

  “And you know this how?” he asked, his eyes narrowing and his tone chilly and clipped.

  My throat closed and my heart began hammering. It was hard to remember that while Ellis was a friend, he also was the police chief, and I needed to watch my tongue. I stared at him, my mind racing to come up with an answer that wouldn’t involve Wes. He pinned me with eyes. He wasn’t giving me any chance to escape his questioning.

  “I must have read it somewhere,” I replied as if it were no biggy.

  “Where?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “When you remember, please let me know,” he said, his tone frigid.

  “All right.”

  He stared at me for several seconds longer, then let it go. He reached for his cell phone and hit a preprogrammed button. “Are you certain there’s no way to trace individual buttons?” he asked as he placed the unit to his ear.

  “Yes. I verified it when I spoke to Margo.”

  He nodded. He repeated what I’d told him to Detective Brownley, then asked her to call both EZK and Tony Lossoff.

  “First,” he said, “find out their level of confidence that the woman they spoke to was, in fact, a woman. Second, ask when she called. What time of day. Third, ask if we can check their phone records to discover her number. She called both places Thursday. Once we nail down the time frame, it ought to be easy to spot the number.” He flipped the phone closed. “Why do you think the woman calling herself Nancy Patterson cares about replacing the button, anyway? Why wouldn’t she just pretend she lost it?”

  “I wondered that, too, since after all, that specific button can’t be traced to her. I figure she’s probably worried that the fact that it’s missing at all will make her conspicuous. Maybe she wears whatever garment the button is on periodically, and her workmates have admired it and she’s said how much she loves it, and so on. It would be odd if she suddenly stopped wearing it. People would register that she hadn’t worn it in a while. People would talk.”

  He nodded again. “I can see that. It’s pretty distinctive. Someone would be certain to notice its absence.” He rubbed his nose, thinking. “I’d like your opinion—should we turn photos of the button over to the media and ask them to issue a call for sightings?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a branch of EZK at Hitchens, which means scores, maybe hundreds, of local girls got sets. There have to be hundreds or thousands of buttons knocking around. It seems to me you’d just get a gazillion false leads.”

  “Chasing down false leads is a big part of our job.”

  “You’d also alert the killer you know what she’s up to.”

  “Good point.” He paused, thinking. “You said you had an idea. What is it?”

  “When the woman calling herself Nancy Patterson discovered that the button designer, Nick Lossoff, had died, she asked his son, Tony, for ideas about how she could get a replacement button. He, being a helpful sort, suggested she contact one of the fashion industry associations and two well-known colleges. You’re from New York, you know them—Parsons and FIT.”

  “Sure. Calling someone in a design department—that’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t think she’d go that route—too dicey and too open. I don’t think she’d call an association, either. It’s different calling one man who makes these particular buttons on a regular basis and calling an organization blindly. Probably you’d get transferred a dozen times and have to explain why you’re calling time and time again. I’d sure feel conspicuous doing that. What Tony said was that she needed to find a man with tools.” I shifted position. “There are no button designers in Rocky Point, and she wouldn’t risk leaving the area to go to New York, or anywhere else there’s likely to be a professional fashion or costume designer, unless she had another good reason to travel. That’s a lot of ifs. Maybe she ordered a replacement online—but that’s risky, too. Talk about leaving a paper trail.” I took in a deep breath. “If I were her, I’d want to find someone local who could do the job quickly, before anyone got wind of the missing button.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I’d find a man with tools—a jewelry designer.”

  “She’d be knowledgeable enough to figure out that a button designer uses the same tools as a jewelry designer?”

  “She might. Think of the materials—platinum and pearls. That sounds like jewelry to me.” I shrugged. “It seems to me to be worth a shot. If it doesn’t pan out, you can always check out the associations and colleges and/or publicize the missing button, like you said.”<
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  He nodded. “I agree. Good thinking, Josie. It’s definitely worth checking out. I know there are three, maybe four, jewelers at Fox Run Mall alone. Is that where you’d start?”

  “No. There’s no way a mall jeweler would even consider taking on a specialized project like this. Maybe the caller went there and asked—but I know for sure where she ended up, because there’s only one shop in town that could handle the job. Blackmore’s.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Police Chief Hunter and I walked into Blackmore’s Jewelers on the Green in Rocky Point Village less than an hour later, just after noon. Blackmore’s had been in business for eighty-seven years and was far and away the finest jewelry store on the coast. A handsome man well beyond retirement age wearing a well-tailored suit approached me as soon as I entered.

  “Josie!” he said, extending his hand for a shake and smiling. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You, too, Mr. Blackmore. Have you met Police Chief Hunter yet? He’s fairly new in the job, about a year.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure. Chief,” he said, as they shook. “What can I do for you?”

  I looked around. The shop exuded a quiet refinement, the kind of place where dickering over a price would seem, well, unseemly. The lighting was subdued, coming mostly from chandeliers, although spotlights illuminated specific cases and displays. The carpet was dark blue and plush. The cherrywood paneling had a luminescent patina.

  Two women about Cara’s age were examining a gold watch and chatting with a saleswoman young enough to be their granddaughter. A man stood with his hands behind his back peering into a case of jewel-studded bracelets. A woman and a young girl entered the shop just as a man about thirty appeared through a door at the rear marked PRIVATE. I wondered if that was Mr. Blackmore’s grandson.

  “Josie tells me your jewelry shop is the best around,” Ellis said glancing around. “Do you have a minute to talk? I don’t want to pull you away from your business.”