A thunderous tidal wave of demands to know the other woman’s name pounded Bobby. He stood like a bulwark amid thrashing surf. I’d never seen a stonier expression. I listened to him refuse to name her for more than a minute, then clicked off the Web site. I’d had enough.
At four, when I next checked the Web site, they were playing a Web camera interview between Wes and Tamara.
“I don’t know who he called,” Tamara announced with big eyes and a contemptuous snort, “except that it wasn’t me. He broke up with me months ago.”
Wes’s face appeared, facing the camera. “When asked that question directly,” he said, his voice low, “Bobby Jordan refused to answer. There is no record of his calling anyone from his office, his regular cell phone, or the disposable cell phone he used to contact other women with whom he was having illicit affairs. According to a reliable source, the police are currently checking likely pay phones.”
I exited the Web site again.
I called Ellis and asked if I could speak to Gretchen. He said no, but that he’d be glad to pass on a message. I asked him to tell her I missed her and was thinking of her, and he assured me that he would. I felt out of touch and disconnected, and my simple message felt inadequate to let her know how much I cared.
I decided to leave for the day, a little earlier than usual. I straightened my desk, placing like items on one another, forming several unified piles. Auction notes topped catalogues, and my accountant’s analysis topped Gretchen’s revenue reports. I picked up the photocopied inventory that Dr. Walker had handed me earlier, trying to decide where to place it, or whether, since I already had his fax, I should just throw it away, when all at once I realized there was an inexplicable incongruity.
I reread Dr. Walker’s description of the Claire McCardell coat. Lavender. Gray. Flannel. Pearl rosette button. I clicked on the spreadsheet Riley had created, the one Ellis had e-mailed us. The coat was there, but no button was mentioned. That was consistent with the other entries—Riley had skipped most details. I found the inventory that Dr. Walker had faxed over. The same coat was listed. It had been typed in the same font, and it was positioned in the same place in the document. On the copy Dr. Walker had given me today, though, the line ended with the reference to the button. On the faxed copy, that space was blank. I held the two documents side by side and compared all of the listings. The two documents were identical, except for this one discrepancy.
I called Dr. Walker and got him. “I have a kind of off-the-wall question,” I said. “The copy of Riley’s list you gave me when I stopped by—are you positive it’s the same one you faxed over? Could there be more than one version floating around?”
“More than one version?” he repeated, bewildered. “No. There’s just that one document, the one I printed out years ago. Why?”
I stared at the paper, stunned and horrified. My mouth opened, but no words came. There was only one possible explanation—someone had seen the button listed on the fax and, with malice and calculation, deleted it.
“Thanks, Dr. Walker,” I said, ignoring his question. “I’ll see you Thursday. ’Bye.” I hung up before he could ask me anything else.
I thought back to the day I received the fax. We were all busy. Every time I’d been in the office, the phone had been ringing nonstop.
I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. Bottles of Wite-Out sat on everyone’s desk and on the utility shelf near the photocopier—which was out in the open and available for general use. It would be easy enough to take the fax from the machine and go to the restroom, or, as I thought of it, simply to stand with your back to the room, as if you were looking out the window, perhaps, and apply Wite-Out. Two quick swipes and you’d cover up the reference to the button. By the time you walked to the copier, it would be dry. Slip the page into the feeder and hit the copy button. Once you have the replacement page in hand, slide the adulterated page into the paper shredder, and walk the document back to the fax machine for someone else to discover. The entire procedure would take thirty seconds, not more. I opened my eyes.
I remembered the scene well. In addition to my staff, two customers had stopped by that day: Becka and Kenna.
I needed to talk to Wes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I was going to call you,” Wes said, his tone urgent and serious. “We need to talk.”
Over the phone line, I heard a foghorn, its blare echoing like a death wail. I looked out my window. The rain had stopped, but it was still cloudy.
“It sounds like you’re near the ocean,” I said. “Can you meet at our dune in ten minutes?”
“Done.”
I got there first and clambered up the hill. The sand was wet. Thick fog rolled off the water. The waves were choppy and angled to the shore, a sure sign of a deadly rip tide. If it were summer, unwary or weak swimmers would risk being dragged out to sea.
Wes parked in the breakdown lane and hurried up the dune, climbing sideways.
“Those passport pages you found?” he said as soon as he reached me. “They aren’t Bobby’s. The dates of travel are right, but the page numbers and stamp placements are off. The pages belong to someone who traveled to Honduras on the same dates as he did.”
“Just like we thought. They must be part of the proof Max gave Riley.”
“Along with photos, which she tore up and threw away.”
“Except that one little piece fell into her tote bag.” I paused. “Max won’t tell the police anything, right?”
“Right. Gus won’t either. Since he was working for Riley’s lawyer, privilege extends to him—and privilege extends beyond death. No matter whether they want to tell the police or not, they can’t. Any ideas on how I can trace the passport pages?”
I thought for a moment. “How about looking at people’s travel schedules. For instance, was Becka or Kenna out of the country during those times?”
“I checked, but the info is inconclusive. Those dates match Hitchens’s vacations—so Becka was off work. She won’t talk to me, but according to my police source, she was out of town both times. She says that one time she was visiting friends in L.A., and the other time she was hiking in the Adirondacks, alone. Which might be true. She’s done stuff like that before.”
“Can’t the police check with airlines?” I asked.
“Not without a court order, which they can’t get without probable cause. When Judge Gleason refused their application, he accused them of going fishing. He wasn’t happy.”
“I get his point, I guess. What about Kenna?”
“She says she was in Orlando with her family during the first period—public schools were off, too—but they drove their own RV and stayed with friends along the way, not at campgrounds, so there’s no paper trail. The friends the police have spoken to so far refuse to discuss it. During the second period, Kenna says, she was working her regular schedule. Personnel data support it, but since she’s in charge of submitting vacation information to the outside company that handles the Blue restaurant chain’s payroll, she could say anything she wants.” He shrugged. “I haven’t found anyone who’s contradicting her.”
“So we have nothing. Now what?”
“I keep pecking away. I confirmed Bobby’s call to that Lake Winnipesauke resort, Crenshaw’s. He made the reservation. From the phone log, the police know that his call to Crenshaw’s was made from the Blue Dolphin’s main line, and that he made it about fifteen minutes after hanging up from Riley on C1, the disposable cell phone.”
“He didn’t use that phone to call his girlfriend to break up with her, though,” I said, thinking aloud.
“No.”
“If he has one disposable cell phone, maybe he has others.”
“Maybe—but if so, why wouldn’t he come clean about it? I mean, it’s his own story, you know?” Wes asked.
I stared out over the roiling ocean, ideas flooding my brain. Lies on top of lies, I thought, can create a fictional picture that looks as true to life as if it were re
al. I turned to face him. “Maybe it’s all a lie, Wes. If Bobby intended to kill Riley from the start, it’s possible that he created a fictional affair so he could pretend to end it at just the right time. I mean, think about it. He could have called Crenshaw’s not to set up a romantic weekend, but to create reasonable doubt for a jury. He’d say that since Riley was giving him a second chance, he had no motive for murder.”
Wes pursed his lips, thinking. “Except that according to the message Riley left for Sister Mary Agnes, she really was giving him a second chance. And he really did go to Honduras with a woman. And there really was a twenty-minute window between his call from Riley and his attempts to call her back.”
I nodded. “You’re right. Although taking a girl to Honduras, well, that could have been a fling, not an ongoing affair. As for the lag time between calls—that could have been to give him time to get his ducks in a row before firing off the next salvo in his campaign to get away with murder.”
“Good one, Josie!” Wes said.
“Or,” I added, ignoring his tasteless compliment, “maybe he didn’t break up with her at all. Couldn’t the breakup be a hoax?”
Wes nodded and low-whistled. “That’d take a real dog, huh?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“I’ll keep digging and get back to you. Anything else for me?”
I shook my head. “No. I have a question, though. Any news about the forensic accounting investigation? Last I heard, the police were looking into Quinn and Kenna.”
He nodded. “They’re just about done. It looks like there’s nothing there. The money Bobby kept overseas is properly listed in his records. It looks like Kenna miscoded an entry or two, but according to the police accountant, that’s actually a pretty good record. Most bookkeepers screw up dozens of postings.”
“So the only motive we have left is Bobby’s infidelities.”
“Which doesn’t eliminate Kenna,” Wes said.
“True,” I agreed.
He flashed a grin and walked down the dune. I watched as he drove away, then followed.
I hadn’t told Wes about my suspicion that someone had altered Dr. Walker’s fax. I needed to think it through and investigate further. I knew what had to be done, but I dreaded it—I couldn’t think of anything worse than having to interrogate my staff.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
That night I slept fitfully and awoke just before three with the blankets on the floor and the sheets twirled around my ankles. I was numb with cold. Evidently, Thursday was off to a frigid start. I straightened the bedclothes, turned over, and tried to get back to sleep with no luck.
At four o’clock, I gave up, went downstairs, and sent Gretchen an e-mail.
Hi Gretchen,
I miss you! A quick q: Do you remember the faxed inventory we got from Mr. Walker on Friday, the day of Riley’s funeral? According to the time stamp, it arrived at 12:37 p.m. Do you know who took it from the machine?
Josie
* * *
When I got to work that Thursday morning at seven, Gretchen’s reply was waiting for me. I guessed she hadn’t been able to sleep well either.
Hi Josie,
Thanks for the messages. I miss you, too!
Re: Dr. Walker’s fax: I was sitting at my desk, on the phone with I don’t recall who, when the fax machine clicked on. I watched the first page kick out, wondering if it was one of the asphalt companies’ bids, then I got distracted by the call—I don’t remember why. There was a lot going on, I remember that for sure … a boutique customer came in and Becka and Kenna stopped by. I didn’t think about the fax again. Why? Is it missing or something?
I hope to see you soon … I’m going nuts not working!
Gretchen
At ten o’clock, once Fred had arrived, I gathered everyone together.
“I have a question that’s going to sound a little crazy,” I said, forcing a smile, glancing around. “Do you remember the fax we got from Dr. Walker? It listed Riley’s vintage clothing collection as of about twelve years ago. It arrived at 12:37 P.M. on Friday, the day of Riley’s funeral.”
Everyone did.
“Who took it from the machine?”
Sasha looked blank. Fred shrugged. Ava and Cara shook their heads.
“Does anyone remember who brought it to Cara’s desk?”
No one recalled.
“I can imagine how odd my questions must seem to you, but please bear with me. Where were you when the fax came in—just after twelve thirty?”
“That’s my usual lunchtime,” Cara said, “and I know I was in the staff room eating. I remember that day in particular, because I had leftover pot roast—it’s my favorite.”
“I was with you,” Ava said, smiling. “I remember because it smelled incredible.”
“That’s right. I remember your lunch, too. You’d added avocado to tuna salad. I’d never thought of that—it looked delicious.”
I turned to Fred. “How about you?”
“That was the day Mrs. Sheridan stopped by,” he said. He pursed his lips, thinking. “At twelve thirty, I was on the loading dock with her fire box. Then I was in the warehouse for a while looking at some fireplace screens, then I was at my desk.”
“Did you see the fax at all?” I asked him.
“No. I didn’t know that Dr. Walker had sent it in until I heard Sasha and Ava discussing it later that day.”
“Sasha?” I asked.
She looked fretful. “I don’t remember, and I didn’t notice a thing. I’m sorry.”
“No problem,” I assured her. “What about Kenna and Becka? Does anyone remember what they were doing while they were here? Could they have picked it up?” From everyone’s expressions, I could tell that my questions were striking them as increasingly strange. I didn’t blame them. They sounded strange to my ear, too. “It’s no biggy—I’m just curious.”
“Gretchen gave them coffee,” Fred said. He pushed up his glasses. “I remember because she made a fresh pot and asked us all if we wanted any.” He shrugged. “They sat at the guest table, chatting with whoever wasn’t on the phone or working at that moment. Then Kenna wanted to see that purse in the boutique. When they got back, she helped Gretchen retrieve Hank’s mouse from under the copier, while Becka stood at the window. That’s it, I think.”
No one else had anything to add. I thanked them and walked back upstairs. No one remembered much of anything about the fax—why would they? We got faxes all the time, and everyone was busy doing ordinary things: reading, talking on the phone, eating lunch, and chatting with customers. It all sounded logical and reasonable, except that the fact remained that someone had altered the fax.
My money was on Becka.
* * *
Upstairs, Hank jumped onto my lap and arranged himself like a comma. As I petted him, I found myself thinking that everything came back to the pearl rosette button. Someone had changed the fax to hide the fact that the McCardell coat had a button on it. Why? The only reason I could think of was that he or she hoped to use that button to replace the one that had been lost during Riley’s murder. Margo, the nice woman from EZK, said there wasn’t any way to identify individual buttons, but I wondered if there was any way to trace sets. I brought up their Web site and clicked through to the site map. A page called “Legacy” caught my eye.
“Welcome to our heritage,” the text at the top began. “You can sort by the date the woman joined EZK, or by her name. If you click on a member’s name, her bio opens in a separate window, and all of her relatives are listed. If you know any part of anyone’s name, you can search for her by just that part—her married name, for example.”
At the bottom of the page, it said, “We do our best to keep up with our sisters! When anyone changes her names for whatever reason, marriage, divorce, business, whatever … we track it. Has your name changed? Do you know someone whose name has changed? E-mail us the news!”
Cara buzzed up to tell me that Eric was leaving to go to Rocky Point Nur
sery to buy some shrubs, that Ava had to leave early to fill in for someone at her waitress job, and that Sasha was going to cover the phone when she went to lunch. I thanked her for the update and turned my attention back to the Web site. I started my search with Kenna.
Kenna Duffy, née Kenna Mitchell, had been a member of EZK when she was at college back in the 1990s. She had no relatives who had ever been a member of the sorority. Becka Dowling had also been a sorority member, and she also didn’t have a legacy connection. Riley, I knew, had been a member, and I learned that she didn’t have a legacy connection, either. Even though Quinn had apparently been eliminated as a suspect, I checked him out, too, just in case. He didn’t seem to have any female sorority sisters. Nor, I confirmed, did his wife have any connection to the sorority. It looked like the only person connected to Riley who’d received a set of buttons was Bobby’s grandmother, Babs Miller. According to the entry, she’d joined the sorority in 1938.
I called Bobby and got him at the Blue Dolphin.
“Your grandmother was a sorority girl—Zeta Kap. Every girl got a set of four buttons, pearl rosette buttons. Assuming the button on the gray coat is one of them, do you know where the others are?”
He paused, thinking. “I don’t remember Riley using any of the others—but to tell you the truth, I didn’t know that she’d used this one, or that my grandmother had.”
“I understand,” I said. “I didn’t see them in the house. Do you have any idea where they are now?”
“The police told me the pearls are real,” he said, and I wondered if he was trying to change the subject.
“I hadn’t heard, but I’m not surprised,” I replied, following his lead. “The setting is platinum.”
“Then probably, Riley put them in my safe. She kept all her jewelry there. In a box. You know the kind of box I mean. It’s specially designed with hooks and little compartments.”
“In your safe where? At work?”
“Yeah. In Kenna’s office.”
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