“Were you able to tell her anything useful?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t think so. I realized that I don’t know very much about Gretchen.” She sounded a little surprised.
“Did you recognize the photo?”
“No,” she answered, her voice shaking a bit.
After Fred, Eric went upstairs, then the part-timers, one at a time. From all reports, Detective Brownley asked the same questions of each of us, and everyone’s answers mimicked mine and Sasha’s. No one, it seemed, knew anything personal about Gretchen. Only Fred was able to add anything salient about the mysterious caller—the time of the last call. He’d spoken to him at three, so if it was the dead man who’d been calling, he was alive then.
Downstairs again, Detective Brownley asked me, “What about Ms. Brock’s job application?”
I glanced at Sasha and Fred, who were, no surprise, listening in. I was embarrassed at having to explain my spur-of-the-moment decision to hire Gretchen within minutes of meeting her.
“She didn’t fill one out,” I said, giving an awkward laugh. I raised a hand to stop her from asking the obvious follow-up question. “It’s very unlike me, but she was so earnest.” I shrugged. “I trusted my gut, and I was right. She’s terrific.”
At Detective Brownley’s request, I photocopied Gretchen’s tax forms, insurance security clearance report, annual performance appraisals, and health insurance opt-in card from her personnel file. I also provided a list of all employees who’d worked at the company over the last year and a printout of Gretchen’s online calendar. Glancing at it as I handed it over, I saw an entry for next week reading “trk ltg.”
Track lighting, I thought. Gretchen had scheduled an appointment with Tony, our electrician. It had been Gretchen’s idea to add an additional row of movable spotlights in the auction venue. As soon as she mentioned it, Fred had jumped on it as a great idea, brainstorming with Gretchen and Sasha about the possibilities. It was Fred who’d explained why he thought it was worth the money: The additional tracks would allow us to add dramatic lighting to certain objects while highlighting others. I smiled as I recalled congratulating Gretchen on her idea. She’d grinned and said, “Now you know the truth! I’ll do anything to add drama to life!”
Mitch broke into my reverie when he told Detective Brownley that he was done with Gretchen’s computer. He reported that there weren’t any hidden or encrypted files, all business folders were organized and accounted for, the only Web sites she’d bookmarked were magazine gossip sites, and the only personal information Gretchen had stored on her computer related to her Hawaiian vacation.
Detective Brownley looked at Officer Meade. “How about you? Have you found anything?”
She hadn’t. I watched as Detective Brownley ran her finger down the inventory Officer Meade had written.
“Okay then,” Detective Brownley said, returning the officer’s notebook. “You two can go on ahead. I’ll see you back at the station.” To me, she added, “We’re done for now, which means that you can use her workstation.”
Gretchen’s chimes tinkled, and Cara walked in. I introduced her to Detective Brownley, who handed her the photograph of the dead man.
“Have you ever seen him before?” she asked.
Cara stared at the photo for several seconds, then said, “Yes.”
CHAPTER SIX
T
ell me,” Detective Brownley said.
Cara looked up at the detective, then back at the snapshot. “Is he dead?”
“Yes. Please. It’s important. Please tell me how you know him.”
“He was here last Saturday. At the tag sale. He asked to see Gretchen.”
Rippling anxiety surged up my spine—a man had wanted to see Gretchen, and days later, he was dead, murdered. Was it cause and effect?
“Did he give his name?” Detective Brownley asked.
“No,” Cara said, her face lined with concern.
“Start at the beginning. When did he arrive and what—exactly—did he do and say?”
Cara thought for a moment. “He came in around two in the afternoon. As soon as he stepped inside, he paused, looking around. A lot of customers do that. I was the greeter. We’re trained to approach each person and ask if we can help them find anything special or if they just want to poke around. He didn’t reply; he just kept looking. I greeted a couple who came in right behind him, then a single woman, then a woman I know from church. I remember, because he was sort of blocking the door, and they had to edge around him. Finally he told me that he wanted to talk to Gretchen.”
“Can you remember his exact words?” Detective Brownley asked.
Cara looked down, clasping and unclasping her hands, then spoke, her tone soft. “He asked, ‘Where’s Gretchen?’ I told him she was on vacation. Then he asked when she was due back. I said that I wasn’t sure but that I thought it was sometime this week. Oh! . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I gave out schedule information, and I know we’re never supposed to do that. I didn’t think . . . I mean, it never occurred to me. I’m so sorry, Josie.”
“It’s okay, Cara,” I reassured her. “You’ll know better next time.”
“What happened then?” Detective Brownley asked.
“Nothing.” She opened her palms, and I took the gesture to express helplessness—Cara wanted to provide useful information but had none to give. “He left. He wasn’t inside for more than a minute or two.”
“What was he wearing?”
Cara closed her eyes for a few seconds. “Jeans and a flannel shirt. I don’t remember the shirt color or his shoes. Nothing that stood out, or I would have noticed.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Detective Brownley handed her a card. She turned to include Sasha and Fred in her comment, placing a card in front of each of them. “If you remember anything else, call me, okay?”
Sasha nodded.
Cara said, “I will.”
Fred murmured, “Sure.”
Detective Brownley turned to me. “I’d like another word with Eric and the part-time staff.”
“Cara, go ahead and get situated at this desk,” I told her, pointing to Gretchen’s workstation. “Sasha, Fred, one of you show her how to work the phone, okay?” To Detective Brownley, I said, “This way.”
We entered the warehouse, and I led the way across the echoing expanse, past stacks of packing crates, rolls of bubble wrap, shelves of carefully arranged inventory, roped-off areas of consignment goods, and worktables where objects were graded, cleaned, and readied for sale or storage.
When we reached the tag sale room, I waved Eric over. He was in his early twenties, but he looked younger. He was tall and lanky and thin like a still-growing teen.
“Please call the part-timers over,” Detective Brownley said. “I have something important to tell you all.” When everyone had gathered around, she said, “I wanted to hand each of you a business card in case you remember anything else about Ms. Brock.” She paused and took the time to meet each person’s eyes. “Maybe one of you knows something that you don’t want to mention in public. Even if you think it’s silly or insignificant, call me and tell me privately, okay?”
Everyone nodded or said something affirmative, and after she was done, I walked her to the door. Once she was in her car and on her way, I took a deep breath, turned to scan the displays, and assessed the setup. I approached Eric, who was working with a part-timer to hang nineteenth-century samplers on a silk rope stretched against the back wall.
“Things look good in here,” I told him.
“There’s still a lot to do.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Detective Brownley had returned. She waved me over, and my pulse began to throb. I nodded and held up a finger, indicating that I’d be with her in a minute.
“Are you worried about anything in particular?” I asked Eric.
“I’m not sure we have enough good stuff.”
I nodded. Each week we seeded the tag s
ale with a few objects priced to move to encourage repeat business and bargain hunters. “I’ll check it out,” I told him.
Detective Brownley held the door open, jerking her head toward the outdoors, indicating that I was to follow her. The temperature had dropped, and a cold breeze stabbed at me.
“I have a question,” she said. “With all respect, why would you, a successful, experienced businesswoman, hire Ms. Brock on the spot, without checking her references? You deal in valuable antiques. How could you give a stranger who just showed up at your door the run of the place? There’s got to be more to the story.”
“It’s really not as outrageous as it sounds. My insurance company does in-depth background checks that go back three years. You have a copy of their report from her personnel file.”
“What does it say?”
“She’s clean as a whistle.”
Detective Brownley nodded and looked over my shoulder into a stand of birch trees near the front of the property. “What do you think happened? Do you think she killed him?” she asked, turning back to me.
I met her unwavering gaze, then lowered my eyes. “I can’t imagine Gretchen killing anyone.” I looked up. “She won’t kill a spider. I mean it. If she sees one inside, she won’t step on it, and she won’t let anyone else kill it, either. She’ll trap it in a plastic container and release it outside.”
“It doesn’t have to be murder. Maybe it was self-defense.”
I nodded, rubbing my upper arms for warmth, hugging myself. “I can see that.”
“Would she have panicked?”
I shrugged and shivered as a blustery gust struck my face. “I don’t think so.”
“You know her. Would she? Would she panic?”
I thought about her question. Once, when a valuable Chinese tureen had been stolen from the auction venue, Gretchen had called the police and followed their instructions to the letter, maintaining her composure throughout. Another time, when we’d underestimated the popularity of an auction and scores of potential buyers had pressed to get in without waiting in long registration lines, she’d spoken kindly to people without giving in to their demands or losing control. No, I concluded, Gretchen wouldn’t panic.
“I don’t think she would,” I said, citing the examples. “But I understand that business stuff isn’t the same.” I cleared my throat, hating the thought but wanting to know. “Have you considered whether . . . I mean . . . do you think that maybe she’s been kidnapped by whoever killed that man?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Returning to the main office, I overheard Cara taking a message from someone who apparently sold telecommunication services. Cara did a good job of politely revealing nothing. As I listened, my eyes lit on the Mickey Mouse clock sitting on Gretchen’s desk.
It was a modern-era trinket sold in every Disney store. Unlike the victim’s belt buckle, I realized with a thud of awareness—and what about the missing object, the round item that had stood on the pedestal in her living room?
Fred and Sasha were both reading on their monitors. Cara was hanging up the phone.
“Did Gretchen ever mention something she owned that might have been positioned on a pedestal?” I asked.
“Like what?” Fred responded, looking up.
“Something round like a bowl or a circular base for a sculpture—about this big.” I used my hands to approximate its size. “The object isn’t there. Did she mention taking something in for repair or cleaning? Even if she never mentioned it, could she have talked about the pedestal, maybe when she was buying it? Does anything about it ring a bell?”
Sasha and Cara shook their heads. “No idea,” Fred said.
Upstairs in my office, I called Detective Brownley’s cell phone. It went straight to voice mail.
“There’s a chance that we can trace the dead man’s belt buckle,” I said in my message. “I won’t know until I examine it, but if you want, I can take a look.”
After I hung up, I tried to focus on work but was too worried about Gretchen. I spun my chair to look out my window, took a deep breath and, with a sigh, swiveled back to face the piles of papers on my desk. After a while, I walked downstairs again.
The warehouse and tag sale room were deserted. It was growing darker, not quite dusk, but close. The security cameras stood at the ready, a red pinprick of light indicating the power was on. Faint circles of white light marked the panic buttons my insurance company had had me install throughout the building. I wondered what time it was. I never wore a watch, since it always seemed to get in the way as I crawled under furniture and packed awkwardly shaped objects. As I walked toward the front office, I played a guessing game with myself—I bet it was just after five.
It was five twelve. Cara was gone. Fred was standing, stretching. Sasha was straightening papers on her desk.
A night owl, Fred often came in close to noon and worked late into the evening, but with Gretchen on vacation, he’d been keeping more standard hours to help provide office coverage. I spotted a color printout of a pink-faced doll on his desk and wondered what he’d learned about it. We were planning a major auction of antique and collectible dolls next fall. “Anything?” I asked him, pointing to the printout.
“I confirmed that it’s a twenty-inch Madame Alexander Cissy doll from 1957,” he said. “I was worried that it might be a Binnie/Winnie with the Cissy face, but it’s not.”
“How could you tell?” I asked.
“Binnie/Winnie is flatfooted.”
“Great!” I responded, knowing that Cissy was more valuable than Binnie/Winnie.
“This one seems to be in really good shape—it comes with a stocked wardrobe of mostly tagged clothing, all of it in excellent condition. I still need to assess the doll itself—wig, joints, arm movement, eyes, eyelashes, cracks, and splits. The regular drill.”
I glanced at the printout again. “The eyes do look cloudy, don’t they?”
“Can’t tell from the photo. It might only be dust.”
The phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” I told them. “You guys go on home.”
It was Detective Brownley returning my call, and as soon as I heard her voice, I exhaled. It felt as if I’d been holding my breath since I left her the message.
“Terrific idea about the belt buckle,” she said. “It’s at the lab. I’ll get it to you as soon as they finish with it. I’d like your opinion on the artwork and other things in Ms. Brook’s apartment. Can you meet me there?”
“Of course,” I replied, and we settled on a time midmorning. I took a deep breath. “Do you have any news? Anything?”
She paused, then said, “Our investigation is progressing.”
I didn’t push. There was no point.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I
was on my way to the gourmet shop for black truffle oil when I decided to stop by the nearby Bow Street Emporium and ask Mandy if she was the friend who’d been watering Gretchen’s plants.
The Bow Street Emporium was stocked with aromatic soaps and candles, hand-painted glassware, delicately embroidered linen, elegant silk flowers, and one-of-a-kind baubles and knickknacks. Sleigh bells attached to the heavy oak door jangled as I entered the shop. A pretty woman with delicate features smiled as she approached me. In a tone rich with innuendo, she told me Mandy had left early.
“Is she all right?” I asked.
“The police came and took her away,” the woman said, lowering her voice to enhance the dramatic effect.
I nodded.
“You’ve heard the news, then?” she asked. “It’s all over the radio—a man was murdered in her friend’s apartment. Can you imagine?”
I agreed that it was terrible and left. Once outside, I stepped around the corner, out of sight of the store, and called Mandy. I got her. She told me that the police had just dropped her off. She sounded fragile and on edge.
After we commiserated about the situation, I asked, “Did they show you the photo of the dead man?�
�
“Yes. I’d never seen him before. Had you?”
“No.” I took a deep breath. “May I ask you something, Mandy?”
“Okay,” she replied warily.
“Have you been to Gretchen’s to water her plants while she’s been gone?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral as if I were just making conversation. Mandy seemed like a skittish kitten. I didn’t want to frighten her into darting away.
“A couple of times,” she said, after a two-beat delay. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” I replied lightly. “When was the last time?”
“Oh! Did you hear that? My oven timer is going off—I have to run.”
I didn’t hear anything. “How about friends—were you able to give the police some names?” I asked in a rush, wanting to get more information before she ended the call.
“A few. I suggested they talk to Lina.”
“Who’s Lina?”
“Gretchen’s best friend, Lina. Don’t you know her? We work together at the store.” I heard a faint click in the background, maybe the sound of a door shutting. Before I could ask for more details about Lina, Mandy whispered, “I’ve got to go,” and hung up.
I closed my phone slowly, my mind a whirlwind of half-stories and information gaps. What, I wondered, had spooked Mandy just now? How had Gretchen gotten home from Boston? Where was Gretchen’s car? And for God’s sake, where was Gretchen?
I walked back into the store and asked the young woman I’d spoken to earlier if Lina was around. She said it was Lina’s day off.
“What’s her last name?” I asked, smiling in an effort to rob the question of impertinence.
“Why?” she asked, on guard.
“Never mind. I’ll stop by tomorrow,” I said, smiling again and leaving quickly, before she could challenge me any further.
Walking to my car, I tried to figure out what to do next. Then I remembered something I’d read in college. Samuel Johnson wrote, “Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a subject ourselves, or we know where we can find information upon it.”
Killer Keepsakes Page 3
