“Hot petunia, Josie! And you got photos!”
I grimaced at his diction, then told him about Gus Sullivan’s card and what I’d learned about him in my quick Google search, as well as the tiny bit of torn paper that I’d concluded had come from a photograph.
“When can I get the photos you took?” he asked, nearly salivating.
“When you promise to research the passport pages and see if you can learn anything about what Gus Sullivan discovered.”
“You kidding me? I’m on it like white on rice!”
I dug my BlackBerry out of my bag, found the e-mail I had ready to go, and hit SEND.
“Okay,” I said. “You got it.”
One minute later, Wes’s car jerked out of the lot. He might be a terrible driver, but he was one heck of a savvy investigative journalist. My plan had worked just as I’d intended. Wes would fill me in on everything that Ellis wouldn’t even mention. If Wes succeeded as I expected, we’d soon identify Bobby’s latest flame—and maybe have the name of Riley’s killer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Since I was already at the museum, I thought I’d see if Dr. Walker was available for a quick hello. I wanted to thank him for seeing Sasha and Ava, and there was no need for me to hurry back. Sasha, I knew, would have everything under control for tonight’s workshop.
The New England Museum of Design was comprised of a series of sprawling low buildings connected by enclosed, all-glass breezeways. The contemporary buildings featured shallow, sloping roofs with deep overhangs covering flagstone and river-rock terraces. When it was built, a decade earlier, the innovative and energy-efficient design had won several architectural awards.
Dr. Walker was in and available. A beautiful blonde wearing a micro-miniskirt over purple tights with a slouchy sweater led me from the open reception area through a warren of cubicles to the fashion design wing. When her sweater drooped a certain way I could see she had a tattoo on her left shoulder. The design seemed to include musical notations on a staff. Her and her boyfriend’s song, I silently wagered, wondering what she’d do if they broke up.
“What’s your tattoo?” I asked.
She smiled. “Part of one of Mozart’s themes. I’m a harpist, and he’s my favorite composer.”
I lost my private bet and reminded myself not to jump to conclusions. “Nice,” I said.
She stopped at a door labeled DR. WALKER and knocked, then opened it without waiting for an invitation.
“Josie, come in, come in,” he said, standing to greet me. “Thanks, Julianna.”
I added my thanks to Julianna, and to him for seeing me without an appointment, then paused midstep as I took in the dazzling vista.
Dr. Walker’s corner office featured walls of picture windows. The last time I’d been in his office, mid-February, the view had been spectacular—a winter wonderland, where every tree limb had been coated with a layer of white, fluffy snow. Now, in early spring, it was as if a set designer had rolled down a new backdrop. Clusters of pussy willows and stands of tall grasses grew alongside azaleas, just coming into bloom, and mountain laurel, not yet in bud. Beyond the bushes and grasses were stands of maple and birch. A small brown bird with a white belly flew by. A flash of shimmering teal caught my eye. Beyond the still-unfurling leaves trembling in the gentle breeze, a raft of ducks paddled by. Gazing at the bucolic scene, I felt my breathing slow and my muscles relax.
“How do you get any work done in here?” I asked.
“I position my desk so my back is to the window. It’s my only hope.”
“You’re a man of incredible discipline. I don’t think I could resist spending most of the day staring out the window. I thought it was spectacular in winter. This is even more beautiful.”
“You should see it in autumn.” He smiled and gestured toward a red leather chair positioned near his desk, and I sat down.
A knock sounded, and he called, “Come in.”
A young man with gel-spiked hair entered and handed Dr. Walker some papers.
“Thanks, Dennis,” he said.
Dr. Walker glanced at the documents, then handed a stapled set to me.
“I asked Dennis to photocopy the listing Riley gave me, the one I faxed over to you, in case we want to refer to it.”
“Actually, I don’t need to see you about the collection. Sasha has that well under control. Thank you for seeing her—and Ava. They said you were very helpful.”
“Anytime. Actually, I should be thanking you. Your diligence in researching the collection helps me, too.”
I nodded. He was right. “It works out well for both of us.” I shifted position. “I’d like to tell you why I made the appointment for Thursday, so you can be thinking about it in advance.” I paused. I was still horrified every time I thought of Riley’s death. On some level it felt crass to be planning her legacy so soon after her funeral. Intellectually, I knew it wasn’t, that the sooner I got the foundation up and running, the sooner we could begin helping people, but that’s not how it felt. I mentally shook myself and continued. “As you may know, Riley’s will created a foundation dedicated to fashion education. She appointed me as trustee. Max Bixby, Riley’s lawyer, tells me that one of my first responsibilities is to establish award parameters. I’m consulting the people she knew best and those professionals in the field she most admired, which, of course, includes you. I’m hoping that on Thursday you can help me determine how to distribute the annual grants.”
“How remarkable … I hadn’t heard. The more I learn about her, the more impressed I am. What a woman.” He shook his head a little, communicating shared grief. “I’ll be glad to think about it.”
“Thank you,” I said. I glanced at the papers he’d handed me, his original notes about Riley’s collection. As I scanned the detailed descriptions of the Bonnie Cashin day dress, the Tina Leser blue cashmere cardigan sweater, and the Claire McCardell coat with the pearl rosette button, melancholy came over me.“Looking at this list makes me think of Riley. It makes me sad.”
He sighed, nodding. “I was very fond of her,” he said.
I forced myself to smile and tapped the listing. “At least we know we’re doing what Riley wanted. Did Sasha e-mail you a copy of Riley’s spreadsheet, the updated list?”
“Yes—although I haven’t seen it yet. I haven’t mastered e-mail, I’m afraid.” He held up his hand. “I know, I know, it’s embarrassing. I’m pretty good with a fax machine, but I leave dealing with the computers to my staff. Dennis told me it had arrived, and I’ve asked him to print it out for me.”
I smiled. “You can’t be that bad! The listing you faxed us, this one, was created on a computer.”
“Yes, using WordPerfect. Once they changed over the computers, oh, eight or nine years ago now, and switched software systems … well, let’s just say that I’m a Luddite.” He shook his head. “I printed out all my documents before the inevitable happened and they got lost. Or rather, before they got lost to me. That’s why I faxed it. I had it in my files, thank goodness. God only knows where it is on the computer, or even if it’s there after all this time.”
“You’re too funny,” I said, charmed by his self-deprecating humor.
“I’m a dunce, is what I am.”
“Hardly.”
He walked me to the reception area. I thanked him again and strolled back to my car. A breeze coming from the east chilled me, and I shivered. My wishes for real spring warmth weren’t working—it was still cold.
* * *
Riley’s name wasn’t mentioned during the workshop, but her presence was felt. I covered the topics she’d planned to discuss with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, which wasn’t much. The class’s mood seemed to match my own. No one asked questions. No one gushed over the examples. No one seemed particularly engaged. I didn’t take it personally. It was one of the dreaded “firsts,” and had to be endured before we could even begin to feel normal.
Firsts were hard. After my dad’s death, I’d fallen i
nto a seemingly bottomless abyss of isolating grief. The first time I had to celebrate my birthday without him, I stayed home alone and wept. His birthday was just as bad. Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, was worse. Christmas, worse still. Opening my own company, I’d struggled through seemingly endless pangs of wishing he were with me to share in my accomplishment. That first year, each holiday, event, and triumph spent without him crushed my heart. The second year was a tiny bit easier to endure. Now, six years later, while I still missed him every day, I no longer suffered from the shattering shock of loss that had pierced me like a thousand knife cuts. Time might not heal all wounds, but it healed many of them. Over time, I’d learned to cope, and I’d found that I could once again experience joy.
Becka and Kenna sat next to one another in the front row. Kenna, whose frequent smiles were unstoppable, a reflection of her sunny personality, didn’t smile once. She’d lost some weight she could ill afford to lose. She looked gaunt. Becka had lost weight, too, and her normally creamy skin appeared parchment-dry and ghostly pale. As I lectured about handbag hardware, I found myself envisioning what they’d each look like in a brown-haired wig, a big-brimmed hat, and oversized sunglasses. They’d look like the security photo. I tried to stay in the present and not speculate.
“I’m sorry not to participate more,” Kenna said after the workshop. “I guess I’m just not in the mood.”
“Understandable,” I said.
“Your lecture was good,” Becka said, her tone flat.
“Thanks,” I replied, wishing they didn’t feel the need to be polite, yet appreciating their efforts.
I was relieved when it was over.
* * *
I awoke Wednesday morning to the patter of steady rain. Walking past ancient stands of lilac trees laden with low-hanging, sweet-smelling purple and white clusters of blossoms was one of the pleasures of May, but today it was still April, and it was cold and wet and dreary.
Wes was sitting in his car by Prescott’s main entrance when I drove up at eight fifteen. As soon as I stepped inside, he ran to join me. I turned off the alarm and switched on the lights.
“You’re here bright and early,” I said.
“I’ve got news.”
“Come on in. Let me put some coffee on,” I said, leading the way inside.
“Do you have any Coke?”
“Sure,” I said, extracting a can from the mini fridge and handing it over. “So what’s your news?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?” he asked, grinning. He took a swig of Coke. “Bobby’s scheduled a news conference for today at noon. My source tells me he’s going to admit to all his tomcatting, and he’s going to acknowledge talking to Riley shortly before her death.”
The perking sounds and rich coffee aroma were comforting, serving as an odd counterpoint to the anything-but-comfortable implications of Wes’s announcement.
“There’s more—he expects to be named as a person of interest in her murder.”
I stared at him, stunned. “Oh, my God.”
“Yeah. Now we’re ready to rock and roll!”
“Why would he hold a press conference?”
Wes grinned again. “To control the story.”
“That’s sick.”
“It’s smart. It’s his only hope. Anyway, I thought you’d be interested.”
“I am,” I acknowledged.
“If you catch it live, look for me! I’ll be up front and in his face.”
As I watched him drive out of the lot heading toward Portsmouth, I shook my head, astonished at Bobby’s audacity—he hoped to control the story. I poured myself a cup of coffee, then pushed through the door to the warehouse to say hello to Hank, thinking that the only thing I knew for certain was that I was glad I wouldn’t have to see it in person.
* * *
At noon, I succumbed to curiosity and clicked on the local news station’s Web site. I settled back to watch Bobby’s live news conference, which they were broadcasting in real time. Quinn was standing near a podium with another man. I recognized him from chamber of commerce breakfasts as a criminal attorney. His name, if I recalled right, was Chuck Something-or-Other.
The camera panned the room. I recognized two national cable TV news reporters and one from a Boston TV station. Wes was sitting in the front row. He had a notebook perched on his thigh. Every seat was filled, and several people stood at the back. I counted seats. The room was set for thirty. I shook my head, amazed that more than thirty reporters, or their employers, were interested enough to attend this news conference. I wondered if Bobby had planned it in a cynical attempt to control the story, as Wes suggested, or whether his motivation was even darker, whether he hoped to milk the publicity for all it was worth.
Bobby entered the room from somewhere on the left and walked to the podium. His chest was blocked by a wall of microphones. Strobe lights flashed. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd. He looked as handsome as ever, and I wondered if he was wearing makeup. Bobby tapped one of the microphones to ensure it was on, and the crowd grew quiet, the kind of quiet that isn’t really quiet at all, like still night air in the moments before thunder shatters the silence. Bobby looked out over the crowd and spoke directly into the camera with polished élan. I felt an invisible connection, an inexplicable bond, as if he were speaking only to me.
“I’m Bobby Jordan. My wife, Riley Jordan, was murdered just over a week ago. I asked for this time together so I could tell you the truth, and the truth is that I lied to her, and I lied to the police. My lies had nothing to do with her murder, but regardless, there is no excuse for lying to the police. I am ashamed of what I’ve done.” He took a beat, then continued. “I apologize, and I’m determined to tell the whole truth, here and now. I lied to the police about a disposable cell phone. I lied because I used that phone for private calls I didn’t want anyone to know about. The police asked me about it, and I denied owning it.” That explains the phone Wes dubbed C1, I thought. “I’ve decided to come forward and publicly admit my terrible lapse in judgment because Riley deserves it. I don’t want my irrelevant lies to distract the police from doing a proper investigation. I did terrible things, but I didn’t kill my wife.” He choked and looked away for two beats, then turned back to face the camera. “I’ll answer your questions now.”
A cacophony erupted as reporters vied for Bobby’s attention. Bobby pointed at a middle-aged man in the front row. As soon as Bobby made his choice, the room quieted.
“Why are you telling the truth now?” the reporter asked with what to my ear sounded like an Italian accent.
“Because I am ashamed,” Bobby said, not looking at the reporter, speaking only to the camera. “As a week has passed without the killer being caught, I realize that I need to tell the truth. The police were wasting time trying to learn my secrets, and I wanted their full attention to be on catching the murderer. My personal shame means nothing. I loved my wife more than life itself.”
Bobby’s earnest, sound-bite-sized, cliché-riddled comments were tailored for his TV audience, and his frequent use of micropauses added panache to his presentation. I wondered if he’d had media training or if he was a natural.
“Yes, sir,” the same reporter said, polite but insistent, “but why now? What happened that led you to take this step today?”
Bobby tried two more times to spin his confession as a spontaneous and righteous search for justice before finally admitting that the timing had been influenced by a breaking story. A woman reporter outshouted her colleagues to ask if it wasn’t true that since a gossip tabloid planned to publish dozens of incriminating text messages he’d sent Tamara, the New York City waitress, essentially he’d had no choice. Yes, he said, looking like a puppy caught gnawing a shoe, ready to hear that he was a bad dog, but not actually contrite.
Ouch, I thought. No wonder Bobby was doing a mea culpa.
Bobby, still standing tall, but with tension tightening the muscles in his neck and jaw, called on
Wes next.
“Did Riley catch you in bed with someone?” Wes asked, about as subtle as a steamroller. “Is that why she decided to divorce you?”
“She wasn’t going to divorce me.”
“Follow-up!” Wes shouted amid the chaotic calls for attention. “I understand she changed her mind and decided to give you a second chance. What is it she learned that made her decide to divorce you in the first place?”
“Riley was a remarkable woman,” Bobby said, raising his chin defiantly. “She was good clear through, and she had a generous heart. She learned I’d been unfaithful, but she said she was willing to forgive me. I asked if I could take her away that very weekend so I could begin to prove to her how much I loved her. She agreed. I hung up from Riley and made a reservation at a resort.” He shook his head and cast his eyes down for a moment, before once again looking into the camera. “Then she died. She died before I could beg her forgiveness in person.”
“Did you speak to her again?” a young woman asked. I recognized her as an on-air reporter from a Portland, Maine, TV station.
“No,” he said. “I called Riley back, but her phone went to voice mail. She had a speaking job that night, lecturing on her favorite topic, vintage clothing, and I tried her there, too, but she hadn’t arrived yet. While I’m sick that the last conversation I had with my beautiful wife was about my infidelity, I derive some solace from knowing that she was aware of how much I loved her and of how determined I was to save our marriage. I will always be grateful that she was prepared to give me another chance.”
“According to the phone logs, you called her back twenty minutes later. Are you saying that making a hotel reservation took that long?” Wes yelled, his baritone carrying over the general shouts.
“No,” Bobby replied. “Before I called the resort, I spoke to the woman with whom I’d become involved and ended our relationship.”
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