“Poor Riley. I can imagine how hard it must have been for her. To most women, being a size six would be a dream—but not if you were a size two only a few years earlier and felt as if you couldn’t stop a downward trend.”
“Exactly.”
“I did notice the different sizes in the collection. This explains it.” I paused. “How are you holding up, Bobby?”
“I’m numb,” he replied matter-of-factly. “To tell you the truth, I’m just going through the motions.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah … well, life goes on, right?”
Not for Riley, I thought.
* * *
Wes called just as I was getting ready to leave for the day.
“They got her!” he said in a stage whisper.
I opened my mouth but couldn’t find my voice. I felt all tingly, as if I’d touched a live wire. I took a deep breath and tried again.
“Got her?” I managed. “Or her picture?”
“Picture.”
“Who is it?”
“No one knows. Isn’t that the bomb? According to my police source, they’re going to ask you to look at the photo. They’ve already asked Morton Blackmore, and he’s ID’d her.” Excitement pulsated in his voice. “Want to see it now?”
“Sure.”
“I just sent it,” he said.
I stared at my e-mail in-box until the little flag went up, then downloaded the photos. There were three images, all in color. One showed the woman entering the store. She was wearing a bubblegum-pink sweater, stone-washed, boot-cut, low-rider blue jeans, sunglasses so big they covered her face from brow to cheekbone, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Another picture showed her standing at the counter. The third showed her leaving.
In every photo she was looking down with her face tilted away from the lens, as if she’d cased the joint and knew where the cameras were. The hat brim and the sunglass frames were both so wide, I couldn’t make out any of her features. Her skin was white and unfreckled, but I couldn’t tell if the tone was light, like Becka’s, or olive, like Kenna’s. She seemed to be of average size.
“Wow,” I said. “You can’t tell much of anything.”
“You can tell it’s a girl. A woman.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but just because it’s not Bobby or Quinn, that doesn’t mean they’re eliminated as suspects. Either of them could be in collusion with this woman, whoever she is.”
“Fair enough. So who do you think it is—Becka or Kenna?”
I stared at the photo of her leaving the shop. I shook my head. “Whoever she is, she’s wearing one heck of a good disguise.”
* * *
After Wes and I agreed to talk soon, I took the pearl rosette button from the satchel. As I rotated it under the stark white light cast by my desk lamp, I noticed for the first time that the pearls had mirrorlike attributes. I could see a faint reflection of my face in the large center pearl. Looking deep into the shimmering sheen and dull dark spots, I could sense, more than see, my face’s shape and features. I moved the pearl a bit, hoping that the image would resolve itself, but it never did. The shadows and shiny spots shifted, but they remained fuzzy and formless, no matter which way I turned it. Just like the facts of this case, I thought.
Who was the woman in the security photos? Becka? Kenna? I shivered as if a spider had run up my leg. Whoever she was—was she acting on her own or in concert with someone else? Recalling how nimbly Gretchen’s attacker had responded to the mere hint that her memory of the silver car was returning, I could only imagine how she’d react once she knew the police net was drawing close.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Gretchen called in sick first thing Tuesday morning.
“I’m so tired I can barely talk,” she said.
“Good—not good, you’re exhausted, but good, you’re listening to your body. Yesterday was probably too much for you.”
“I think it was important for me to come in, to ground myself, you know? To do my routine tasks and to see everyone.” She giggled. “Not to mention how crucial it was to my well-being that I eat Cara’s cookies. It took its toll, though, that’s for sure. So I’m about to crawl back into bed.”
“I’ll be thinking of you,” I said. “Sleep tight!”
I picked up a note Sasha had left asking me to look at a pink Chanel handbag from Riley’s collection. From Riley’s spreadsheet, we learned she’d bought it at a garage sale in 1997 and thought it dated from the early 1980s.
Sasha’s note explained that even though she’d verified authenticity using Riley’s own five-point checklist from her book, she still thought something was wrong and wondered if I had any ideas about what it could be. She attached a printout of her research.
According to Sasha’s notes, which referenced Riley’s checklist: (1) The logo was comprised of two interlocking C’s facing away from one another, with the right C overlapping the left C at the top, and the left C overlapping the bottom C on the right. (2) The number on the embossed authenticity card matched the serial number in the bag. (3) The zipper pull featured engraving; specifically, the word CHANEL was etched on one side and the logo was etched on the other. (4) The logo pattern aligned from top to bottom and from side to side. (5) The stamped MADE IN FRANCE mark was on the inside of the bag, and in the correct color. In authentic Chanel bags, gold stamps match gold hardware, and silver matches silver.
All signs pointed to the bag being authentic, but Sasha’s intuition was one of the qualities that made her an excellent antiques appraiser. She had a gift for “smelling” counterfeit anythings.
I removed the black dust bag and picked up the purse. The leather was supple and butter-soft. The hardware gleamed and had heft to it. The lining was soft and smooth. The inner pocket was properly fitted. The stamping was even and true. Suddenly, a fact I couldn’t believe I recalled came to me. In the 1980s, all Chanel handbag dust bags were white. Only contemporary bags were sold with black dust bags. The dust bag itself looked right: The lettering was in white, and the logo and company name were properly placed and encircled.
It was possible that the bag itself was genuine but missing its original dust bag. I consulted Riley’s spreadsheet. Sure enough, she hadn’t listed the dust bag. Probably, when she’d purchased the handbag, the dust bag was missing. She’d somehow procured a contemporary one and used it to protect the bag, but didn’t record it because it didn’t match.
I e-mailed Sasha, suggesting she call Chanel to verify the serial number and ask if there was any reason for that bag to be sold with a black dust bag, and if not, if there was any way we could acquire a proper white dust bag. It was worth the call to Europe. If Sasha could prove the purse was genuine, we’d value it at close to three thousand dollars, even more with the correct dust bag.
* * *
Just before nine, I was downstairs leaving Cara a note about Gretchen when Sasha called to tell me that she’d just made an appointment with Dr. Walker at the New England Museum of Design to discuss how he’d like us to handle a valuation issue. She was going directly there.
“Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “What’s the valuation issue?”
“Some of the garments have no sales history.”
Given that past sales price is one of the primary predictors of future sales price, without a sales history to consult, estimating values becomes more complex. If the collection was going to auction, you could let the market set the price, but these clothes weren’t. Accurately valuing the donation was crucial to ensure that Riley’s estate received the proper tax benefit and the museum was able to satisfy matching grant requirements.
“Got it,” I said.
“If it’s all right, I thought I’d call Ava and ask her to meet me there. I remembered what you said about mentoring her. I thought listening to our conversation would be useful for her.”
“That’s a great idea, Sasha!”
“Thanks. Have you heard from Gretchen?”
“Yes, she called
to say she’s beat and is going to stay home today and sleep.”
“I wondered whether she was pushing herself too hard by coming in yesterday.”
“I had the same concern. At least she’s going to lie low today.”
“True.”
I filled her in about the Chanel dust bag, and she said, “I’m really embarrassed, Josie,” sounding mortified. “I had Ava consult the checklist. I should have told her to check on the dust bag, too, and to look at the spreadsheet.”
“Probably,” I agreed, “but we have enough checks and balances built in, so there’s no harm done. It’s been a long time since any of us has worked with someone as inexperienced as she is.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“These things happen,” I said, wishing for her own sake that she wasn’t quite so hard on herself. “Give my regards to Dr. Walker, all right?”
She promised that she would. I hung up as Cara walked in. About an hour later, I was upstairs, deep in proofing catalogue copy, when Fred brought up the morning mail, a task normally part of Gretchen’s routine.
“Thanks, Fred. I appreciate your pitching in.”
He pushed up his glasses. “No prob.”
As he left, Hank pranced in carrying a catnip mouse and dropped it at my feet.
“What a good boy!” I told him. “Did you want me to throw this for you?”
I tossed it toward the far corner of the room, and Hank took off like a sprinter. After three more throws, I was growing bored, but he wasn’t.
“I need to get back to work, Hank. Come into my lap.”
He mewed, letting me know he was disappointed in my priorities, and wandered off.
I flipped through the mail, separating the bills from the ads, until I came to a thick envelope from Max. I tore it open.
The envelope contained photocopies of scholarly articles and printouts from Web sites all having to do with the subject of establishing award-granting criteria in private foundations. Max’s cover letter said that he thought I might find them useful as I worked toward establishing parameters for grant giving. I silently thanked him, and decided that there was no time like the present to get started on the process.
I scanned the articles and printouts, then settled in to read them more carefully. Hank came back and jumped into my lap. I petted him as I read. After I was done, I swiveled toward my window and thought about what I’d learned. All of the articles shared one recommendation—grant awards should be carefully aligned to the foundation’s mission. I needed to write a mission statement.
I’d already decided to contact Riley’s close friends and the vintage fashion experts she respected, like Dr. Walker, to ask if she’d ever mentioned her plans to them, and if so, what she’d said. Bobby, I thought, might be able to help guide me in tracking down friends to talk to. Dr. Walker might know other professionals she’d admired.
I got Bobby at home. He said that Becka was Riley’s chief shopping buddy, so probably she was the best person to talk to. When I dialed Becka’s office, the departmental secretary answered. Becka wouldn’t be in until noon, she said. I glanced at the clock. It was close to ten. I reached Dr. Walker just before his appointment with Sasha, and we scheduled a time on Thursday morning to meet.
I called Max to thank him for sending the information and to update him about my plans.
“Sounds like a great approach,” he said. “Is Sister Mary Agnes on your list?”
“No, who’s she?”
“One of Riley’s closest friends. They went to grammar school together, I think. She’s with the Sisters of Repose.”
“Which explains Riley’s donation to them.”
“Yes.”
“I’d love to talk to her. Do you have her number?”
He read it off to me. I thanked him again, pushed the button for a new dial tone, and dialed the convent. A woman said she’d get Sister Mary Agnes for me. After several minutes, just as I began to wonder if I’d been disconnected, a pleasant-sounding voice said hello.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sister,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott. I got your name from Riley Jordan’s lawyer, Max Bixby. I don’t know if you’re aware that Riley set up an educational foundation. I’m the trustee.”
“I know your name, actually. Riley spoke of you very highly.”
“Thank you. That’s nice to hear. I’m sorry for your loss, Sister. I know you were close to her.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’ll tell you why I’m calling—I want to be certain to keep to Riley’s vision for the foundation. I was hoping we could talk about it. May I buy you lunch?”
“I’d love it, but only if an early lunch works for you. I’m an administrator at our school, and I’m on study-hall-monitor duty today, starting at one. I could meet around eleven thirty, if that’s all right.”
“That would be perfect,” I said. She suggested the Portsmouth Diner since it was close to the convent, and I agreed.
I stood up, apologizing to Hank for disrupting his sleep, and nodded to myself, pleased that I’d made a good start.
* * *
I left early for my appointment with Sister Mary Agnes. I wanted to bring Gretchen some African violets, one of her favorite plants. I stopped in at Rocky Point Floral Impressions and selected a big basket with a purple and white floral ceramic handle and had them fill it with little pots of the violets. I wrote a short note saying only that we missed her and hoped she would be feeling better soon.
The owner, a French woman named Monique, tucked fluffy Spanish moss around the edges and said, “Ooh! So verdant and cheerful! Your friend will smile.”
I thanked her, then walked back to my car, lightly swinging the basket. The sun was warm, and the breeze felt fresh. I braced the basket on the backseat and drove to Gretchen’s condo. I parked in front of her small fenced-in front yard. My plan was to leave the basket wedged in between her screen door and her front door so as not to disturb her.
As soon as I stepped out, I saw plumes of ugly charcoal gray smoke streaming from the rear of Gretchen’s unit. My heart stopped, then began racing. The smell was acrid. I fought rising panic—Gretchen was inside, asleep. I dumped my tote bag onto the passenger seat, grabbed my cell phone, and punched in 9-1-1.
When the emergency operator answered, I told her where I was and what was happening, then tossed the phone onto the seat and bolted toward the condo, leaping over the fence.
“Gretchen!” I screamed as I ran. “Gretchen!”
When I reached the front door, I pressed the doorbell. Chimes sounded. I kept my finger on the bell and placed the flat of my hand against the wood. It was cool. I pounded on the panels with both fists. I tried the knob, but the door was locked.
“Gretchen! Gretchen! Can you hear me?”
I paused to listen. I heard crackling. The fire was well under way.
I pushed through the bushes that fronted the unit, poky bits scratching at my hands and cheeks, reached the closest window, and peered in, cupping my eyes and pushing my nose into the glass. Her dining room table was barely visible through the swirling smoke. I could just make out a bowl of green apples sitting in the middle of the table and an outline of the archway that led to her kitchen. Thin ridges of orange flames waxed and waned along the bottom and sides of the back wall. I stepped back, horrified. Soon her apartment would be fully engulfed.
“Gretchen!” I shouted. “Gretchen!”
I heard sirens.
I elbowed my way back through the bushes, then dashed to the back of her unit. I wrenched open the gate and leapt onto her deck. French doors opened into her den, but I couldn’t see in. Smoke was pouring out of a gaping hole in one of the door panes, and I choked. I turned away to breathe in fresher air, but couldn’t. The caustic smoke was nearly suffocating. I coughed and gasped until the back of my throat was raw. I turned back to the broken glass. Gretchen must have tried to escape. Realizing that she couldn’t make it, she threw something at the glass, perhap
s to let fresh air in, or maybe to try to get her neighbors’ attention.
The sirens grew louder.
“Gretchen,” I said, no longer able to scream.
My eyes burned. I turned my head to the side again, took in a lungful of foul air, then stepped in close enough to jiggle the door handle. The metal was warm to the touch, and the door was locked. Gretchen was in trouble, and I had to get in. I raised my elbow, ready to shatter the glass pane closest to the handle so I could reach in and open the door, then suddenly realized that I wasn’t treading on glass shards. The glass had been broken in, not out. Gretchen hadn’t tried to escape. Someone had thrown something in. I stood, paralyzed with dread.
The sirens blared, one extraloud blast, then stopped, and I ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t fast at all, to the front to alert them that Gretchen was inside. I was having trouble breathing. As I rounded the corner I slowed my pace and started waving my arms in big, sweeping motions instead.
“Help!” I called, then choked and fell into a coughing fit.
One of the firefighters, a middle-aged man with jet black hair, charged at me.
“My friend’s inside,” I managed.
“Just one person?”
“I think so.”
He turned on a dime and called something I couldn’t hear to a man standing at the truck. The two of them grabbed hatchets, put on their masks, and ran for the front door.
I glanced around the parking lot, feeling helpless. Everywhere I looked there were men in motion. Firefighters rushed from the truck to the condo and back, laying out hoses, turning valves, and sliding their arms into harnesses.
“Are you all right?” a gray-haired woman asked as she approached from somewhere to my left. She looked worried.
“I breathed in some smoke,” I managed between coughs. “I’ll be okay.”
Deadly Threads Page 19
