“You heard about the fire. The good news is that Gretchen wasn’t there,” I said.
Cara sank into her chair, relief patent on her face. “Oh, thank goodness!”
“The news only talked about the fire and how someone had tried to kill Gretchen last week,” Fred said.
“She’s really all right?” Sasha asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “She’s fine. She was at Jack’s when the fire started, and now the police have whisked her away to a safe house.” I smiled. “It’s pretty scary, isn’t it?”
Everyone nodded and murmured something.
“Can we talk to her?” Sasha asked.
“I don’t know. Cara, why don’t you try her cell phone, and if you get her, put her on speaker.”
We stood and watched Cara dial.
“It’s gone to her voice mail,” Cara said.
I felt everyone’s eyes on me. I took the receiver. “Hi, Gretchen,” I said. “We’re all standing in the office. We just wanted to let you know we were thinking about you. We’re so glad you’re safe. Call when you can. ’Bye!”
Other voices chimed in with good-byes and talk-soons and take-cares, and then I punched the disconnect button. I looked around. Everyone was looking at me waiting for direction.
“I don’t know about you guys,” I said, smiling, “but I want to get back to work.”
* * *
Upstairs in my office, I checked messages. Ty had called, concerned. I texted him that I was back at work and okay and that Gretchen was safe. Wes had called three times. I texted him that I had nothing to add at this point. Introducing Sister Mary Agnes to Wes, which I knew was what he wanted, would be like tossing a minnow into a tank of piranhas.
I scanned my desk seeking out something that would distract me, but nothing fit the bill. Instead, I called Sasha and asked if she and Ava would come up and fill me in about their meeting with Dr. Walker.
Once they were settled, Sasha invited Ava to do the talking.
“Dr. Walker was so incredible,” Ava exclaimed. “Sasha explained our dilemma about figuring out value without sales records, and he had all sorts of suggestions. For instance, he talked about something he called ‘shared association.’ We can add a modicum of allure to the clothing by identifying those garments in Riley’s collection that were created by designers who dressed famous people. He gave us an example of Mrs. Wallis Simpson, who became the Duchess of Windsor. Riley owned several Mainbocher dresses, including one in the color known as ‘Wallis Blue.’” Ava leaned forward in her chair, her curiosity and intellect a delight to witness. “Mainbocher developed the color to match the duchess’s eyes.”
“What do you think, Sasha? Is simply owning a dress by a certain designer in a certain color enough to affect value?”
She cocked her head. “It is if buyers care about it, and they do.”
“How about the whole concept of shared association? Do you think it’s fair play?”
“Oh, yes,” she said earnestly. “As long as we keep our notes factual and don’t state or imply an actual association, I think it’s more than fair—in fact, I think it’s appropriate. It provides a three-dimensional view that’s highly relevant. The only downside is that it adds layers of research to the job.”
I nodded. “I agree on all counts. Let’s get cracking!”
As I walked downstairs with them, I asked Ava if she could stay late to help with tonight’s workshop. She said she’d love to but couldn’t. Sasha said she could and would be glad to. I thanked her and peeled off toward the back of the warehouse, where we’d sectioned off a section for the vintage clothing I’d bought from Lana.
I wanted to take a look at the handbags. Having seen the variety of sizes, colors, and shapes that had covered Sasha’s desk and the floor, it occurred to me that I might be able to find another example or two for the workshop. I reached the area and spotted three clear plastic tubs filled with bags stacked against the wall. I lifted the top one down and opened the lid. A barn-red Clarins Paris shoulder bag caught my eye, and I set it aside. In the second tub, I was tempted by a signature-patterned Chanel shoulder bag, but decided we had enough Chanels as examples. I opened the third tub and gaped—resting near the front was Riley’s Louis Vuitton Neverfull tote bag.
I stared at it, recalling Riley’s quick visit the day she’d been killed. She’d set her tote bag on the floor next to the jumble of bags near Sasha’s desk. After we’d made our lunch date, she’d left. I pictured her walking across the parking lot holding only her car keys. At some point, I’d asked Sasha about the bags, and she’d said Eric was going to pack them up. He must have included Riley’s bag along with the others. Why wouldn’t he? It wasn’t his place to question why this one bag, and it alone, wasn’t empty. He might not have even noticed it. It was a bag and it was there.
I reached for the nearest wall phone and called Ellis to report the find, but his phone went to voice mail. I left a message asking him to call me back ASAP, then tried the Rocky Point police station’s main number. Cathy told me he was unavailable, and I left another message.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of the bag. The side ties hadn’t been tightened, and I could see a legal-sized manila envelope bearing Max’s firm’s name and address preprinted in the upper left-hand corner. The envelope was unsealed, the flap tucked inside.
With Wes in mind, I ran upstairs and grabbed my camera, then hurried back to the workstation and took some photos. I kept my eyes on it as I debated whether to wait for the police or take a peek myself. Ty would tell me I had to turn it over to the police, immediately and untouched. Ellis would say the same thing. Wes would take a different view. Situational ethics, my dad had taught me, was bull. Right and wrong never depended on the situation, he said, but solely on right and wrong. I sighed. If I didn’t hurt any potential forensic evidence that might be present, and if I left everything as I found it, what possible harm could a quick peek do?
Feeling only slightly guilty, I grabbed a pair of long-handled tweezers and some latex gloves, the kind we used to protect our hands when polishing silver or applying polyurethane.
Ellis would be calling soon, and I had work to do before he did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Keeping my eyes on Riley’s tote bag, I snapped on the gloves and pushed gently at the envelope’s sides until a boat-shaped gap appeared at the top. I could see the top of a multipage typed document bound in an old-style blue legal jacket. The heading read LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF RILEY JORDAN and below it, stamped in red, was COPY. I jiggled the envelope by tapping the sides with the tweezers. Behind the will were several photocopies of passport pages. At the bottom of the envelope I could just make out a business card.
I used the tweezers to slide each passport page upward until it was almost out of the envelope, so I could look at each one individually. They weren’t consecutively numbered. The only thing they seemed to have in common was entry and departure stamps from Honduras. Holding the tweezers with my left hand, I used my right to take photos, then allowed each page to drop back into place. I tweezed out the business card and photographed it as well. The card read:
GUS SULLIVAN
Confidential Investigations
603.555.8941
Riley had hired a private eye, or Max had done so on her behalf. From the area code I knew that Gus Sullivan was local to New Hampshire.
Using my gloved finger, I eased the envelope aside. Something shiny resting on the bottom of the bag caught my eye. Roughly triangular in shape, with two straight edges and one ragged edge, it appeared to be a ripped corner of something, about two inches long at its widest point. I tweezed it out. From the emulsion, I guessed it was part of a photograph, but I couldn’t identify the subject matter. The image was shapeless and gray, a shadowy picture of nothing. I snapped a photo.
Cara’s voice cackled over the PA system. Chief Hunter, she said, was on line two. I placed the emulsion back in the bottom of the bag where I’d found it, then took the
call.
“You sounded as if you had news,” Ellis said.
“Big-time,” I acknowledged, my eyes fixed on the bag. “You’re not going to believe it—I’m having trouble believing it myself. Riley left her tote bag here. She forgot it, the day she died. It got mixed in with other bags and stored. I saw it today while I was looking for something else.”
“Someone will be there in ten minutes. I don’t need to warn you not to touch anything.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, feeling a sharp stab of guilt.
As soon as I hung up, I glanced at the big clock mounted high up on the far wall. It was nearly four. I called Wes.
“About time you called me back,” he grumbled.
“Hi, Wes. How are you?”
“I’m okay, but that’s beside the point. Who’s that woman, and what did she tell you that made you take her over to Chief Hunter?”
“I have nothing to say about her, Wes. But I do have news. We need to meet.”
“What is it?” he said, sounding grumpy.
“It’s too hot for the phone,” I whispered.
“I’m in Durham and have an appointment at five. Is there any way you can meet me somewhere near here?”
Durham, a college town located about ten minutes inland, was home to the New England Museum of Design.
“Do you know the New England Museum of Design? Their building is on Durham Lake. I can meet you in the parking lot in half an hour.”
“Done.”
* * *
When Cara announced that Chief Hunter was here, I stashed my camera in a drawer and used the intercom to ask her to have Fred walk him to the Jordan section. No one was allowed inside our warehouse unescorted, not even a police officer, not even a police chief.
As usual, Ellis’s demeanor and countenance revealed only what he wanted me to see, in this case, nothing.
“Which one is it?” he asked.
“That one,” I said, pointing.
“I can’t stay long,” he said, “but I wanted to come myself so I could thank you in person.” He looked at me with deceptive innocence. I knew that behind his wide-eyed, open expression lurked a sharp-eyed hawk. “I appreciate your bringing Sister Mary Agnes over to me and calling about the bag.”
“Of course,” I replied. “Was Sister Mary Agnes any help?”
“Very much so.”
“Was this the first time you met her?”
“Why would you think that?” he asked, fencing.
“No reason. Just you didn’t seem to know her and vice versa.”
He leaned against the workbench, looking relaxed. “Bobby didn’t include her on his list of Riley’s friends.”
“Why not?”
Ellis shrugged. “I assume he just forgot because he has a lot on his mind. Why? What do you assume?”
“Nothing. I just thought you meant he forgot to include her on purpose.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Because she was Riley’s confidante?”
“It’s possible.”
I nodded. “I can see Bobby conveniently forgetting to mention it. Since she lives in a convent, he might hope that her existence would go unnoticed.”
“Do you think she knows more than she’s telling?”
“How can I answer that when I don’t know what she’s told you?”
“Fair enough. Sister Mary Agnes says that she doesn’t know anything, that she’s deeply shocked, and that Riley’s voice mail was the first she heard that there was trouble in paradise.”
“I can’t imagine her lying.”
“I agree. She might want to protect Riley, though,” he said.
“From what?”
He shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’m just poking around asking questions.” He rested his elbows comfortably on the workbench, settling in. I glanced at the time. I had six minutes before I’d need to leave to meet Wes.
“Did Bobby actually call Crenshaw’s Resort?” I asked, wondering if he’d answer, and if not, whether Wes would know.
“We’re checking that out,” he said.
“Any news about the fire at Gretchen’s?”
“There’s no question that it was arson,” he replied, “but no one saw anything relevant, what with most everyone at work and all.”
“Is there any forensic evidence?”
“Some. The fire investigator is optimistic that it will lead somewhere.”
“That’s great news,” I said. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
He stood up, took a jumbo-sized evidence bag out of an inside pocket and shook it gently to unfold it, then eased it over Riley’s tote bag. He labeled and sealed it, then started toward the door. I walked alongside him.
“I know you can’t tell me where Gretchen is,” I said, “but … is she okay?”
“She’s fine. A little rattled, which is to be expected, but she’s fine.”
I stood at the door and waved a last good-bye as he drove away. Once he was out of sight, I dashed back to the worktable, grabbed my camera, and ran upstairs. I had one minute before I needed to leave, and I used it to do an online search. That was plenty of time to learn that Gus Sullivan was a licensed private detective who’d been in business for eighteen years. He worked out of Rocky Point and said he specialized in personal, business, and insurance investigations, which seemed to cover all eventualities.
I downloaded the photos I’d just taken, then attached them to an e-mail to Wes. I hit the SEND LATER button, confirmed that I could access it on my BlackBerry, grabbed my tote bag, told Sasha I’d be back by six, and ran for my car.
* * *
“Whatcha got?” Wes asked as soon as I was out of my car.
He’d parked on the edge of the lot. Looking through the still mostly winter-bare trees, I could see Durham Lake. Touched by the late afternoon sun, the navy blue water shimmered as if it were covered with gold lace.
“A lot,” I said, turning my attention to him. “First, tell me what you’ve learned about the arson investigation.”
Wes half-closed his eyes, and I could tell he was wondering if I was playing him. I kept my expression neutral.
“The investigators are still inside,” he said, deciding I had no hidden agenda, “collecting evidence. They found most of the bottle that contained the incendiary device. Believe it or not, they’ve already identified it. It had been emptied and cleaned, but it’s a jar used exclusively by a high-end jelly company—Peterson’s. Do you know them?”
“I’ve never bought their jellies, but I’ve seen them on the shelf. They’re expensive.”
“Yeah, no joke. It’s like twice the price of most brands. What do you think that means?”
“I have no idea. What do you think?”
“According to my police source, the fire investigator thinks that particular jar was used because the glass is what they’re calling ‘delicate.’”
I nodded. “Oh, God, Wes, that’s awful. They picked the jar because it would shatter easily.” I turned toward the lake. Two people, a young man and an older woman, kayaked by, paddling in perfect harmony. “Can the police trace it?”
“To the store that sold it, yes, by the lot number, but since that store sells more of Peterson’s than anywhere else in the region, they doubt that will help any. Except for one thing—that lot was delivered last Friday.”
I looked back at Wes. “Someone planned this attack over the weekend. After they failed to kill Gretchen by shooting her.”
“Looks that way,” Wes said, nodding.
“It’s horrific.” I shook my head. “What else do they have?”
“They’ve confirmed the fuel—regular unleaded. They’re hoping to find some fingerprints, but, you know, you gotta figure the arsonist has heard of fingerprints.”
“True.”
Wes paused and looked at me straight on, frowning a little. “We’re pals, right? I mean, you know you can trust me.”
I felt my brow furrow. “Sure,” I replied, wondering what
he was after.
“Sister Mary Agnes. I know that’s the woman you were talking to at Gretchen’s condo, and I know she’s one of Riley’s oldest friends. None of my sources will tell me squat about what she knows. I’m counting on you, Josie. What’s so hush-hush?”
I knew that Wes was really a true-blue good guy, hardworking, honest, reliable, and sincere. I hadn’t intended to tell him anything about Sister Mary Agnes, but meeting his earnest gaze, I changed my mind. The more I gave Wes, the more I’d get.
“I’ll tell you what I know, but only if you promise not to bug her.”
“I never bug people!” he protested, sounding hurt.
“Our usual arrangement, Wes.”
He sighed, then sighed again, recognizing from my unwavering gaze that I wouldn’t budge.
“Okay,” he said, resigned. “Deal.”
I told him that Sister Mary Agnes’s cell phone was the one he called C2, explained how it came into her possession, and revealed Riley’s last message.
“This is fab-to-the-max stuff, Josie,” he said. He pulled a smudged sheet of lined notebook paper from his pocket and began taking notes.
After I repeated Riley’s words, as close to word-for-word as I could get, I took in a deep breath and added, “There’s more.”
He looked up from his notes, his eyes glittering with anticipation.
“I need you to do some research,” I said. “Riley left her tote bag at the warehouse, and it got mixed up with some other bags. Then today, I happened to be looking for something, and I saw it. It’s a Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag, you know, the one with the side ties. The ties were loose, and I could see in.”
“What did you see?” he asked, waggling his fingers to hurry me up.
I smiled at him. “I took photos.”
He grinned and leaned back on his heels and raised his hand for a high-five slap. I tapped his palm with my fingers.
“You know how you told me Bobby has been to Honduras twice in the last six months?”
“What about it?”
“In the tote bag was an envelope from Riley’s lawyer, and inside the envelope were photocopies of passport pages showing entrance and departure stamps from Honduras. Since Bobby’s trip was out in the open and that resort told you he was with a woman, I’m betting these pages weren’t from Bobby’s passport.”
Deadly Threads Page 21
