Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  He paused for a moment to sip his water. “That’s correct.”

  Questions exploded from all directions.

  “When did she lose it?” a man on my left shouted.

  “She said it must have happened on the Thursday or Friday before Riley was killed. She thought it probably fell off while she was dusting the undersides of tables and chairs at her job.”

  “What’s the big deal? Why didn’t she just tell the police about it?” another man asked.

  “She said she was scared—and that she wanted to protect me. She told me that she was a terrible liar, that if she tried to make something up about where she got the button, they’d know she was lying for sure.” He paused, his expression a combination of awkward embarrassment and pride. “You don’t need to tell me I fell for the oldest line in the book. I already know it. All I can say is that every man wants to believe the woman he loves is a lousy liar—me included.”

  “So you loved her?” a woman sitting next to Wes called out.

  He exhaled loudly. “Yes.”

  “Do you still?” the same woman asked.

  He raised his chin. “No,” he said, his tone defiant.

  “When did she tell you she’d lost the button?” Wes called.

  “The Thursday after Riley died,” Bobby replied.

  “What about Ruby Bowers?” I shouted, still standing. “How is it you became involved with her if you were in love with Ava?”

  The room quieted.

  “I’m not going to say anything about Ruby except that she’s a beautiful woman and a good friend.”

  “You said you broke up with Ava as soon as you hung up from Riley. Did you call her?”

  “No … I told her in person.”

  “Where?”

  “Outside the Blue Dolphin. She ran into Riley in the parking lot as she was leaving for her lunch break. They spoke briefly, and from there, she came directly to see me. We stood near the river and talked.”

  “Did you really end your affair? Or did you just tell her that you needed to be discreet for a while?”

  “I told her I wasn’t going to end my marriage.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  He took in a deep breath and pulled back his shoulders, a warrior readying himself for battle. “I hope I would have had the strength to stop seeing her.”

  Another reporter, a woman standing in the back, asked what Ava said, exactly, when they met by the river, and I realized that I didn’t care what Ava said, exactly. I made my way through the crowd to the exit. My questions had been answered. I’d wanted to see him, to get an in-person sense of the man behind the words, and I had. Now I just wanted to get out of there.

  * * *

  I called Wes around three and asked if we could meet.

  “Sure,” he said. “Whatcha got?”

  “Questions.”

  “I’m near your office. I’ll be there in ten, okay?”

  “I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” I said.

  * * *

  “Ava’s lawyer won’t let her say another word,” Wes said. “He’s really hot that the police let her talk to you, and he’s certain that her confession will be ruled inadmissible.”

  “Really?” I said, upset at the thought. “Do you think he’s right?”

  “Beats me, but I don’t think it matters. There’s so much evidence against her that even if her confession is thrown out, they’ve got her.” He ticked off the evidence on his fingers. “The police have the photos Gus took, and they’re pretty explicit. Based on the photos, not the confession, they got a court order to search her apartment.” He tapped a second finger. “They have her passport in hand, and it matches the passport pages showing the trips to Honduras that were found in Riley’s possession.”

  Wes paused, then said in a different tone, “Aren’t you curious how that detective got hold of her passport?”

  “Yes. Do you know?”

  “The police think he cozied up to Ava’s roommate and got into the apartment that way.”

  “Heck of a way to earn a living,” I said.

  “Anyway…” A third finger went up. “A police artist took her passport photo and added dark hair, a straw hat, and big sunglasses. Both Mr. Blackmore and the Maine gun dealer identified her as the woman they knew as Nancy Patterson. Also, the gun dealer kept a copy of her driver’s license, and the police found the original in her apartment.” Wes raised two more fingers, one for the fake license and one for his next point. “Several employees from the Honduran resort have identified her as the woman they knew as Mrs. Jordan.” He brought up his left hand to mark his sixth point. “They found the hatchet in her car. It had been cleaned with bleach, so there was no trace of the leather on the trunk or any other forensic evidence, but they expect to be able to prove the strike marks on the trunk are an exact match to the blade and hammerhead.” He raised a seventh finger. “Last but not least, there’s a red-light camera on the service road leading from your place to the interstate. Guess what? They’ve got photos showing Ava driving away in her silver Chevy both after Riley’s murder and after Gretchen was shot.”

  That must be the same camera that nabbed Fred for running a red light, I thought.

  “Why didn’t they check it before?” I asked.

  “The light’s brand-new, and it’s in Portsmouth, not Rocky Point. The Rocky Point police didn’t know about it, and it never occurred to the Portsmouth police to check until after Ava was in custody. Then someone had a bright idea.”

  “Do you know why the police didn’t search for silver cars as soon as Gretchen reported seeing one?”

  “They did. They pulled together a list of all silver cars registered within a fifty-mile radius of Rocky Point.”

  I nodded. “Which means Ava’s name didn’t come up because she’s a student and her car is registered at her parent’s address in Michigan.”

  “Exactly. Students don’t have to transfer their registrations.”

  “I still can’t believe it, Wes,” I said, shaking my head.

  “She snookered you good, huh?”

  “I’m not sure I like your word choice, but yes, she did.”

  “Happens to the best of us,” he said, alarmingly unconcerned. “Anything else?”

  I shook my head.

  He opened his car door, then paused. “Do you think Bobby’s apology was sincere?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought it had a ring of truth.”

  “If Bobby was so in love with Ava, how come he got involved with Ruby?”

  “Maybe he didn’t.”

  “I told you about Ruby’s phone message.”

  “You’ve got a point there—that was definitely hubba hubba hottie stuff. Maybe he’s one of those guys … You know what I’m talking about. You read about them every day. They can’t say no, or at least they don’t say no. Of course, even if that’s what was going on, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t for real in love with Ava or that he isn’t genuinely sorry now.”

  “That sounds right. I think Bobby truly loved Ava and is actually sorry about how things turned out. I also think those guys get very experienced at fixing things.”

  “You mean they lie?” Wes asked.

  “I mean they say whatever is necessary to extricate themselves from whatever situation they find themselves in. Sometimes they lie. Sometimes they apologize. Sometimes they probably even mean it—at least at the moment they’re saying it.”

  Wes nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Do you think Bobby will always cheat?”

  I shrugged. “Over the years, I’ve discovered that leopards rarely change their spots.”

  “Well, sometimes they do.”

  Wes was young, in his twenties. He’ll learn, I thought. “I don’t mean to sound cynical, but that hasn’t been my experience.”

  “So you think he’s a goner from the world of celebrity bad boys?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. He sounded sincere, and the world
likes good-looking, successful go-getters who take responsibility for their mistakes. I can almost guarantee you that he’ll recover his golden-haired-boy image, and that he’ll do it in nothing flat.”

  Wes nodded. “I can see that.” He started to step into his car, then paused again. He grinned. “You called him out good, huh?”

  I smiled. “That’s one tiny ray of sunshine in a pretty bleak landscape.”

  * * *

  I watched Wes drive away, then walked slowly back toward the office, thinking about Ava and Bobby and truth.

  I wanted to talk to Ty, but he was in a closed-door meeting and unavailable until six. I thought about calling Zoë, but she would be busy with after-school child care. My instinct was to get back to work, but I knew that wasn’t what I needed right now. I needed joy. I needed an antidote to Ava’s betrayal and Bobby’s conveniently timed contrition. I needed to be around people I could trust.

  As I reached the door, a marked police car pulled into the lot. Griff was driving. He stopped near where I was standing, stepped out, and opened the back door. I leaned down, trying to see who was inside the vehicle, but before I could, Gretchen leapt out, ran around the car, and flew into my arms. I hugged her, then hugged her again. She waved good-bye to Griff, and he drove off.

  “I’m back!” she shouted, spinning around like a ballerina. “My shoulder’s fine, and with Ava in custody, I’m free! I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to get back to work, and the police said it was okay, so I had them drive me directly here!”

  “It’s so wonderful to see you!” I hugged her again. “I was just thinking that I needed some good news. Are you really okay?”

  “You mean, given that one of my favorite customers was strangled at my place of employment and her murderer tried to kill me—twice—and succeeded in shooting me and burning down my home—you mean, given all that, you’re wondering if I’m really okay?”

  I grasped her forearm. “That’s exactly what I mean,” I said, looking into her shining green eyes.

  She grinned. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I’m sad about Riley and I’m beyond shocked about Ava, but I’m just so darn happy to be safe and alive and free!”

  She jumped up in a spontaneous expression of delight, whipping her arms over her head, sending her spring-flower-patterned skirt twirling.

  When she landed, she shouted, “Yippee!”

  I giggled and jumped a little myself. Her happiness was contagious.

  “Can you and Jack come to dinner tonight? I want to invite everyone to a celebration party. We can celebrate Riley’s life as we celebrate your emancipation.”

  “Yes! We accept with pleasure.” She jumped again, giggling. “Maybe Fred will bring Sandy, that girl he took out the other day. I want to meet her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I made a reservation for fourteen at the best Italian restaurant in Rocky Point, Notaro’s.

  Fred brought Sandy, the Hitchens professor he’d just begun to date. Eric brought Grace, his girlfriend of more than a year. Sasha brought her roommate, Jenn. Cara brought her grandson, Patrick, a cutie. Ellis brought Zoë, a last-minute coup he managed to achieve when Cathy, the police civilian admin, overheard him say that she couldn’t find anyone to watch the kids and offered to babysit. I brought Ty.

  We met at the restaurant at seven, and at seven fifteen, when Jack still wasn’t there, Gretchen began to fret. As people were settling in at the long rectangular table in the private, wood-paneled room, she took me aside.

  “He told me he’d be here before me,” she whispered. “Do you think something happened, like a car accident or something?”

  “No. Probably he just got delayed for some reason. I’m sure he’ll be here in a sec.”

  She took her seat in the middle of the table and glanced at the empty chair next to her.

  “Does everyone know everyone else?” I asked, but before anyone could reply, horns sounded.

  Trumpets, I realized, followed by trombones. I looked over my shoulder in time to see four men in tuxedos enter our private room and arrange themselves in a loose semicircle against the far wall. They were playing Henry Purcell’s “Trumpet Voluntary,” one of my favorite ceremonial music pieces, from miniature sheet music clipped to the end of their instruments. I knew the group, Academy Brass. I’d hired them occasionally to play at auction previews.

  Jack walked into the room and stopped halfway to the table. He kept his eyes on Gretchen and smiled. She stood up. He dropped to one knee, extracted a Blackmore’s jewelry box from his pocket, and opened it. Nestled on the white velvet lining was an emerald-cut diamond ring. In the soft golden light cast by the chandeliers, it sent out rainbows like a prism.

  “I love you, Gretchen,” he said. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Please … will you marry me?”

  “Oh, Jack,” Gretchen whispered. She pressed her fingers into her cheekbones. Her eyes filled with tears. Time stood still.

  “Will you, Gretchen?” he asked again.

  I held my breath.

  “Yes!” she said. She ran around the table, reaching him just as he stood. “Yes! Yes!”

  He slipped the ring on her finger and gathered her into his arms.

  I smiled and stood up and began applauding. “Wow!” I said.

  Ty put his arm around me and drew me close. I leaned my head on his shoulder. Soon everyone was standing and applauding. Fred whistled. Cara was crying. Gretchen was flushed. Jack was grinning.

  The musicians segued into Jean-Joseph Mouret’s joyous “Rondeau.” Gretchen and Jack turned to face the quartet and listened to the end of the song. When it was finished, the bass trombonist stepped forward and smiled at them.

  “Congratulations,” he said, then the four men filed out.

  “Can you believe this?” Gretchen asked as she and Jack walked back to the table.

  “Yes!” I said. “Let me see the ring.” The sparkles were dazzling. “It’s magnificent, Jack.”

  Jack raised Gretchen’s hand to his lips and kissed it, then pressed it against his chest, holding it to his heart. “So’s Gretchen.”

  She kissed his cheek. She looked radiant.

  It was an evening of toasts—to their engagement; to Gretchen’s safe return to work; to Riley’s legacy helping children, providing scholarships, and preserving fashion; and by me, to us all, to our health and happiness. The last toast was my dad’s, “To silver light in the dark of night.”

  At the end of the evening, as Ty and I walked hand in hand to the car amid the sounds of crickets and katydids, I repeated Wes’s question about whether Bobby’s apology and promise to Riley to change were sincere, summarizing Wes’s perspective, and adding my leopards-don’t-change-spots metaphor.

  “How about you?” I asked. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re right on all counts.” He laughed and paused under one of the floodlights that lined the parking lot. He pulled me close. “If nothing else, Bobby knows a romantic spot when he sees it. I did some training at Crenshaw’s a couple of years ago. It’s spectacular. Every ground-floor room in the main chalet has a private walled-in outdoor area with a hot tub.”

  “That sounds heavenly!” I said, leaning in against him, my cheek resting against the soft cotton of his denim shirt. I could hear his heart beating.

  “Maybe we should go.”

  I leaned back and pretend-pouted. “What do you mean, maybe?”

  He laughed again. “How’s Memorial Day?”

  “How’s tomorrow?”

  He kissed me and I kissed him back.

  “Tomorrow works,” he said. “Can you really get away?”

  “Yes. Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  We kissed again, a long one this time, and then we walked arm in arm to the car.

  As some things end, others begin, I thought. Gretchen and Jack’s life as a married couple was about to begin. The people Riley would touch
through the scholarships her foundation would award and the scientific research she’d fund represented new beginnings, too. Earlier in the day, I’d hoped for some moments of joy, and my wish had come true.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks go to Leslie Hindman, who, with her team at Leslie Hindman Auctioneers, continues to appraise antiques for me to write about. Please note that any errors are mine alone.

  As a former Mystery Writers of America/New York chapter president and the chair of the Wolfe Pack’s literary awards, I’ve been fortunate to meet and work alongside dozens of talented writers and dedicated readers. Thank you all for your support. For my pals in the Wolfe Pack and fans of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe stories everywhere, I’ve added my usual allotment of Wolfean trivia to this book.

  Thank you to Jo-Ann Maude, Katie Longhurst, Christine de los Reyes, and Carol Novak. Thank you also to Dan and Linda Chessman, Marci and James Gleason, John and Mona Gleason, Linda and Ren Plastina, Rona and Ken Foster, and Liz Weiner and Bob Farrar. Thanks also to Harry Rinker for his invaluable assistance about antiques.

  Independent booksellers have been invaluable in helping me introduce Josie to their customers—thank you all. I want to acknowledge my special friends at these independent bookshops: Partners and Crime, Front Street Books, the Poisoned Pen, Well Red Coyote, Clues Unlimited, Mostly Books, Mysteries to Die For, Book’em Mysteries, Mystery Bookstore, Legends, Book Carnival, Mysterious Galaxy, San Francisco Mystery Bookstore, M is for Mystery, Murder by the Book in Houston, where David Thompson will be forever missed, Murder by the Book in Denver, Murder by the Book in Portland, Schuler Books, the Regulator, McIntyre’s, Quail Ridge Books, Book Cove, Remember the Alibi Mystery Bookstore, Centuries & Sleuths, Mystery Lovers Bookshop, the Mystery Company, the Mysterious Bookshop, Partners in Crime, Booked for Murder, Aunt Agatha’s, Foul Play, Windows a Bookshop, Murder by the Beach, Books & Books, Moore Books, The Bookstore in the Grove, Uncle Edgar’s Mystery Bookstore, Seattle Mystery Bookstore, Park Road Books, and Once Upon a Crime.

  Manhattan’s Black Orchid Bookstore is still sorely missed; I remain grateful to Bonnie Claeson and Joe Guglielmelli for helping launch Josie.