“No. I looked for it, but then I remembered it’s in the shop for a tune-up.”
“What? It’s in the shop?” Detective Brownley asked.
She nodded. “I followed her to the garage myself, then dropped her at Portsmouth Circle—she took the bus to Logan Airport from there. She told me she’d arranged for someone else to pick her up when she got back, and when I saw the man in the car, I figured he was the person who got her and that Gretchen had run inside to get something, maybe her checkbook. Afterward, when I saw that his car was empty and that Gretchen’s wasn’t here, I thought he drove her to get her car, then brought his car back and parked it here, and that they’d gone out to lunch or something.” She wrinkled her nose with distaste as she added, “I assumed they took Gretchen’s car instead of his because hers is nicer. Her Heron is well maintained, and his Chevy, well, let’s just say it’s got more than a few miles on it.” She paused and, with an awkward laugh, added, “You must think I’m just an old busybody!”
“We appreciate observant people,” Detective Brownley said politely. “Which garage?”
“The Heron dealership on Main Street in Rocky Point, Archie’s Herons.”
I noticed Officer Meade taking notes.
“When you were leaving, besides noticing that his Chevy was here and her Heron wasn’t, did you see or hear anything unusual?” Detective Brownley asked.
“Like what?”
“Like anything. Like someone running. Like a car barreling out of here. Like a stranger hiding under a bush. Like a gunshot. Anything.”
Mrs. Adams shook her head. “No.”
Detective Brownley nodded and handed her a business card. “If you remember anything else, anything at all, please call me.”
Mrs. Adams promised that she would and began a slow walk across the parking lot.
Detective Brownley watched a still-tearful Meryl for several seconds, then turned to me and said, “Can you think of anything that might be helpful to us?”
“I don’t know if it’s related to whatever is going on—but a man’s been calling Gretchen at work. Someone we don’t know. He really wants to talk to her, but he won’t leave a message, and he’s getting increasingly angry about it.”
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“He hasn’t given it.”
“How about phone ID?”
“I never noticed,” I admitted. “I should have, but I just didn’t.”
“We might be able to retrieve the number,” she said, then asked, “Who else might have spoken to him?”
“Sasha, Fred, and the temp who covered for Gretchen. No one else.”
Detective Brownley wrote down the temp’s name and agency contact information. I doubted the lead would prove useful—she’d simply taken messages like the rest of us.
“When was the last time he called?”
“Fred spoke to him Tuesday, I think.”
“I’ll ask him about it,” Detective Brownley said, looking thoughtful. “What else can you tell me?”
“I know one of her friends. A young woman named Mandy Tollerson.” I explained what I knew about Mandy.
“Thank you. Anything else?” When I said no, she added, “I’ll see you at your office in about an hour. Okay?”
I nodded somberly.
I felt her eyes on me as I walked to my car. Part of me wanted to talk to her some more, to ask the questions pinballing through my brain, but I didn’t go back. I glanced over my shoulder one last time, and she was still watching me. I was glad to get away.
CHAPTER FOUR
M
inutes later, I pulled off to the side of the road by some high dunes and scampered to the top. Frothy waves rolled into shore, tossing dark seaweed onto the sand. Sun-sparked sequins twinkled on the black-green ocean.
I called Ty. Solid and strong, confident and calm, Ty appealed to me in every way. I respected him and I liked him and I thought he was drop-dead gorgeous. Since taking the job as Homeland Security’s head of first responders for northern New England, Ty traveled throughout Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire. Today he was in Vermont.
Meeting Ty was an unexpected benefit of relocating from New York City to New Hampshire. I’d moved for rational, business reasons; the emotional rewards were unanticipated and joyous. I loved the hard-work ethic that permeated the coastal region and the circle of friends I’d started to build—and I loved Ty Alverez.
A sudden gust of wind, more winter cold than spring mild, hit me full in the face. Ty answered, and the sound of his voice warmed me. He listened with the quiet focus I’d come to expect as I recounted what I’d seen and thought.
“I’m so scared for Gretchen,” I confessed. “I’m scared she’s hurt—or worse.” I looked out over the endless blue ocean. Whitecaps dotted the undulating surface. The wind was picking up, blowing from the east. “I know Gretchen couldn’t have killed anyone—but still, if they find a body in your living room, I mean, you’ve got to be involved somehow.”
“Detective Brownley is very thorough. She’ll figure things out,” Ty said, and I was comforted, just a little.
Wes Smith, a feature reporter for the Seacoast Star, was waiting by Prescott’s front door as I pulled into the lot.
I wasn’t happy about the prospect of being quoted in yet another of his articles on murder. Still, after years of getting upset at Wes’s style, I’d come, in some small measure, to value his substance. What Wes lacked in bedside manner, he more than made up for in determination; when he picked up a scent, he was unstoppable.
In his midtwenties, Wes was pudgy with an indoor pallor. No one looking at Wes would ever mistake him for an outdoorsman.
“Josie,” he called, heading toward my car. “I came as soon as I heard.”
“Hi, Wes,” I said.
“Fill me in,” he demanded, sounding depressingly eager to hear the latest dirt.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“Nothing. I picked up the murder report on my police scanner, but when I got there, they chased me away.” His eyes were blazing with excitement. “As soon as I heard there was a dead guy in your assistant’s apartment, I came straight here. So tell me—do you think she killed him?”
“No! Of course not!” I said loyally.
“Who is he, anyway?”
“I have no idea. Do you?”
“No,” Wes replied, sounding aggrieved. Wes hated not knowing things. “Who do you think he is?” he asked.
“Maybe a friend. Maybe a thief. I don’t know.” I paused, then asked, “Can you find out?”
Wes smiled. “Yup.”
______
Gretchen’s wind chimes jingled as I pushed open our front door. When she’d first hung them, I’d asked her why, and she’d looked at me as if she’d thought that I might be joking.
“Because they sound good,” she’d replied.
Every time I heard them I was reminded not to overlook the obvious.
Fred was absorbed in reading something at his computer.
Sasha sat at Gretchen’s desk. The phone rang as she was greeting me, and I listened while she gave directions to someone interested in attending Saturday’s tag sale.
It was inefficient and inappropriate that my chief appraiser was spending the bulk of her time fielding administrative or logistical questions. Not for the first time, I toyed with the idea of installing an interactive phone system, but as always, I dismissed it. Prescott’s business strategy relied on personal service, not canned messages. I needed to deal with the reality that Gretchen was missing and get someone in to cover her duties.
“Did you find out anything?” Sasha asked as she replaced the receiver.
“Not about Gretchen, but about something else.” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “There’s a dead man in her living room.”
Fred looked up.
“What?” Sasha asked, disbelieving.
“I know it sounds incredible—and it is—it’s horrible!” I told them what little I kn
ew, then added, “I’ll be in my office. If I hear anything, I’ll let you—” I broke off as the front door opened and Gretchen’s friend Mandy stepped inside.
Mandy’s big brown eyes went to the framed Antiques Insights magazine cover that we’d finally got around to hanging by the door to the warehouse yesterday. In the magazine’s December roundup of the year’s “best of,” Prescott’s was featured as the top small antiques auction house.
“Wow! Look at that! Congratulations, Josie!” Mandy said, tucking her curly brown hair behind her ear.
In the photo, I was smiling broadly, my arms stretched wide to showcase an intriguing array of antiques. My entire full-time staff was visible in the background. Eric looked embarrassed, almost edging out of the shot; Sasha smiled shyly; Fred, his Brat Pack–cool tie loosened, appeared confident and relaxed; and Gretchen beamed proudly, her emerald eyes luminous.
It was, I knew, a great honor, but I always felt awkward being the center of attention, and I blushed a little at Mandy’s praise. “Thanks,” I said, then, eager to take the focus off myself, I asked, “How are you doing?”
“I’m late as usual. Lucky me, I get to work the late shift. I start at one today, and even so, I can’t get to work on time.” She smiled. “I just had to pop in and say hi to Gretchen. She didn’t call last night. Did she have a good time in Hawaii? As if you could do anything but have a good time in Hawaii!” Her eyes took in Gretchen’s empty desk. “Is she at lunch?”
“You haven’t heard,” I said.
“Heard what?”
I paused, then glanced at Sasha and Fred, both openly observing our interaction. Sasha twirled a strand of hair, a sign of stress. Fred was leaning back, his eyes fixed on Mandy. I took a deep breath and reported what I knew.
“What?” she gasped, gaping. “A dead man in Gretchen’s apartment? Murdered?”
“You haven’t heard from her?” I asked.
“No. Not since before she left. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. When was he killed?”
“I don’t know.” Reacting to the tension in her voice and the fright evident in her eyes, I asked, “What is it, Mandy? Do you know something?”
She shook her head. “Me? I don’t know anything. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late. I’ll be in touch.”
Before I could think of another question to ask, Mandy was out the door, jogging to a waiting black Jeep. A sharp-featured man was behind the wheel. Vince. I thought, the creepy boyfriend. His entire demeanor was 1950s hip. He wore a black leather bomber jacket, and he had thick dark hair brushed straight back, Elvis style.
As I climbed the spiral steps that led to my private office, I realized how odd it was that the first question Mandy asked me was when the man died.
CHAPTER FIVE
U
pstairs, I called the temp agency. When they said the woman who’d filled in for Gretchen during her vacation wasn’t available, and they’d have to call around, I thought of Cara.
Cara had been working part-time at the tag sale for just over a year. As she was a retiree, I thought there was a chance she’d be available to help out in a pinch. She was; she told me she could be at the office in a half hour.
I swiveled to face my old maple tree and looked past the white spire of the church down the street, into the conifer forest beyond. When Eric, an uneasy leader and inexperienced supervisor, had reluctantly agreed that we needed another part-time helper, he’d selected Cara. It had been a wise choice: Not only was she delightful to be around, easygoing, and a quick learner, she’d shown herself to be comfortable working for Eric. He was young enough to be her grandson, and her uncritical acceptance of him in his role as a manager boosted his confidence.
The intercom buzzed, startling me. It was Sasha.
“The police are here,” she said, sounding worried.
Detective Brownley stood next to Officer Meade and a young man wearing a long-sleeved, collared T-shirt and khakis. She introduced him as Mitch, an IT expert who worked for the Rocky Point police.
“If it’s all right with you,” Detective Brownley requested, “I’d like him to look at your phone and Ms. Brock’s computer.”
“Sure,” I agreed.
Mitch punched something into the phone unit, looked at the display, then shook his head. “The unit only stores twenty-five numbers.”
Officer Brownley nodded. “So there’s no way to recover a number from Tuesday?”
“No,” Mitch said. “They’ve had twenty-five calls already today.”
“That guy hasn’t called today, has he? The one trying to reach Gretchen?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Detective Brownley nodded. “We’ll check the phone log. Where’s Ms. Brock’s computer?”
“It’s this one,” I said, pointing.
“Officer Meade will go through her desk.”
“All right,” I said, hating the thought of a stranger pawing through Gretchen’s possessions and my company’s papers.
“Any other computer or desk she could have used?” she asked.
“No, we each have our own workstation, and all our computers are password protected.”
Detective Brownley nodded and looked around. “I’d like to talk with you all one-on-one.” She gestured toward the guest chairs ranged around a small circular table near the windows. “We can talk here, if that’s all right.”
“Would you prefer to go upstairs? You can use my office,” I offered.
“Great. Thank you.” She looked at each of us. “This is just a preliminary conversation,” she said, and as she spoke, a dreadful image of the hours I’d spent in Rocky Point police interrogation rooms came to me.
“We can’t leave temps alone in the tag sale room, so when you’re ready for Eric, I’ll go in there. They’re setting up for Saturday’s sale,” I explained to Detective Brownley.
She nodded. “Sounds fine. If it’s all right, I’ll start with you, Josie.”
“Let’s go,” I said with forced cheerfulness.
As we headed out, Mitch asked for Gretchen’s password, and I typed in the administrator codes to access the information.
My heart was in my throat as I led the way across the concrete floor to the spiral staircase that led to my private office. Preliminary conversations might be called interviews, not interrogations, but they were unsettling regardless.
I gestured that Detective Brownley should sit in one of the yellow Queen Anne wing chairs. I sat across from her on the love seat.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Josie. We appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
She eased a Poloraid photo out of her jacket pocket, glanced at it, and slid it across the butler’s table that served as my coffee table. “You said you didn’t know the victim. Take another look, will you? Are you sure you don’t recognize him?”
I leaned forward to see the shot. It was the dead man. His lifeless eyes stared into the far distance. It was eerie. I shivered and looked away. “Yes,” I told her. “I’m certain.”
“What can you tell me about men in Ms. Brock’s life?”
“None that I know of.”
“She never mentioned she was dating someone?”
I shook my head. “No. In fact, she talked a lot about how tough it was to meet guys.”
A memory came to me. About a year ago, Gretchen had gone on a first date with a fellow she’d met while house-hunting, and the next morning I’d been in the front office when Sasha asked how it had gone. Gretchen had rolled her eyes and said, “NGB.” I’d asked for a translation and learned that “NGB” stood for “nice guy, but . . .”
Detective Brownley regained my attention with her next question. “Are you aware of any financial trouble? Is she late on her bills? Does she gamble? Is she struggling to support a family somewhere?”
“No. I’ve never heard any intimation of anything like that.”
“Does she have any financial issues? For instance, do you have any i
dea how she could afford the apartment at Pond View? Those condos are pretty expensive for someone on an assistant’s salary.”
“Well, she’s more than just an assistant—she’s really more of an office manager—and last year was a good one for the firm. All full-timers got a bonus equivalent to three months’ salary. I think she used the bonus as part of her down payment.”
She nodded and made a note. “You seem to care about her a lot, and yet you aren’t friends. Help me understand that.”
I paused for a moment to think how to express it. “We don’t have much in common, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t think the world of her—I do. We never hang out as girlfriends, but I really like her. She’s a lot of fun, and she’s an incredibly valuable employee.”
“Where is she from?”
“I don’t know. She never said.”
“How about family?”
I shook my head. “I have no information.”
“Did she ever mention going home for the holidays, attending a niece’s school play, anything like that?”
“Nope.”
“This Mandy Tollerson is the only friend you know about?”
“Yes.”
“Can you think of anything else about the man who’s been calling?”
“No. Just that the calls began shortly after Gretchen left on vacation.”
“Okay, that’s enough basic information for now. Who, besides you, knows her best?”
“I don’t know that anyone knows her very well. Maybe Sasha.”
“Send her up, would you?”
When I announced that Detective Brownley wanted to see Sasha next, she started at hearing her name and momentarily froze, like a small animal who senses that a predator is about to attack.
“Sure,” Sasha said, her voice barely audible. She walked around the two police investigators working at Gretchen’s desk.
“How did it go?” I asked when she returned.
“Okay, I guess.” She twirled a strand of her lank brown hair. “Fred, you can go now.”
Fred stood, pushed his glasses up, and headed out.
Killer Keepsakes Page 2
