Killer Keepsakes

by Jane K. Cleland

  I scooped up the phone to call Wes.

  “Whatcha got?” Wes asked.

  “I wanted to know what you’ve found out.”

  “We should meet.”

  I glanced at the clock again. It was almost six thirty. Ty was driving in from Vermont and wouldn’t be home until eight or even later. My next-door neighbor, landlady, and friend, Zoë, and her kids were scheduled to come to dinner. I’d told her to come over around seven, but I could call and change it to seven thirty. The kids would already have eaten anyway, and Zoë, I knew, was completely flexible. I could get what I needed at the gourmet shop in five minutes flat.

  “Can you meet me at Shaw’s in Rocky Point?” I asked, naming the super-sized grocery store near my house. “In ten minutes?”

  He agreed, and I tore through the gourmet store en route.

  Wes was leaning up against his car when I pulled into a space next to him at the far end of the parking lot. His eyes were as intent and watchful as usual.

  “So about the dead guy—nothing yet,” he said, jumping in without saying hello. “ID’ing him is a tough one. According to my police source, his pockets were empty and his fingerprints aren’t in the New Hampshire or federal system.”

  “How can he be identified, then?”

  He shrugged. “Lots of ways. Mug shots, collection agencies, missing persons reports—but it takes time. I’m approaching it from the other way. I want to know how he came to be in Gretchen’s apartment. Do you have any idea?”

  “Me? I don’t know anything.”

  “Maybe he was her boyfriend,” Wes speculated.

  I made a gesture of helplessness. “He could be, I guess. Although no one seems to recognize him, and you’d think that someone would if they were a couple. Have you learned anything about the car?”

  Wes took a folded-up piece of lined paper from his inside pocket, turned it over, and read from his notes. “Chevy, Tennessee plates. Registered to a Sal Briscoe. His address is an SRO—single room occupancy—in Memphis. No one down there seems to know him. He arrived about four years ago, always pays in cash. The car was bought used last week, also for cash.”

  “It sounds so peculiar.”

  “Yeah. So what’s your take on the situation?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You keep saying that! Come on, Josie.”

  Knowing Wes, I understood that unless I gave him something, I wouldn’t get anything. I swallowed my disinclination to gossip and told him about Gretchen’s friend Mandy and the belt buckle we’d be appraising.

  “Thanks, Josie. This is great stuff. Love the buckle. Shows the three-dimensional nature of an investigation. Can I get a photo?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “It doesn’t have to be top quality. You can use your cell.”

  I shook my head, but he wasn’t looking at me; he was reviewing his notes.

  He looked up. “Please? I won’t say I got it from you.”

  “Maybe later,” I said, holding out the possibility as a carrot. “Not now.”

  He sighed, Wesian for acquiescence.

  Before I started shopping, I called Zoë.

  “Seven thirty’s fine,” she said. “I’ll feed the kids now. I’m making apple martinis.”

  “I’m not sure apple martinis go with what I’ve planned for dinner.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Linguine with Black Truffles.”

  “Sounds delish, very chichi—but I’m surprised that you didn’t know that apple martinis go with everything. I’ll feed the kids and bring dessert. See ya soon!”

  Driving home, I speculated on Gretchen’s whereabouts and Mandy’s unexpected reticence. I was beyond eager, I was desperate, to know that Gretchen was safe and to understand why she’d disappeared. I couldn’t picture Gretchen as a killer. I just couldn’t. Of course, if she’d been threatened or attacked, maybe she’d struck back the way anyone would. If that was the case, though, she would have come forward—unless she’d been kidnapped. It was the only alternative I could think of. My heart pounded so hard at the thought, I felt dizzy.

  Who’d kidnap her? I asked myself. As far as I knew, she wasn’t rich—she lived on her salary. If she came from money, she surely hid it well. Her apartment was attractive, but the mortgage payment was within her budget. She could afford to buy a previously owned, well-maintained Heron every few years, but she couldn’t have swung a new one. I carried key man insurance to protect my company in case something happened to me, but Gretchen wasn’t on the policy, and surely no one would think she would be. Plus, there’d been no ransom note. Unless someone took her for a reason other than money. My blood froze at the horrific images of depraved fetishes that flooded my brain. I needed to do more to find her, but I couldn’t think of what that might be.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Y

  ou should have warned me to sell the family jewels,” Ty said when he called.

  It wasn’t until I was home that I realized that I’d forgotten to buy the truffle oil. I’d called Ty and asked him to pick it up on his way home.

  “Truffle oil is a bit pricey? Is that what you’re saying?” I asked, giggling a little. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear so I could continue chopping vegetables while carrying on our conversation.

  As usual, I was charmed by Ty’s sense of humor, and tonight I was especially grateful for its effect. Despite my nonstop, frenzied worrying about Gretchen, he made me laugh.

  “A little pricey?” he responded. “Are you insane, woman? One eight-ounce bottle costs more than a steak dinner!”

  “Ah! But wait until you taste my linguine.”

  “You’re right! Put that way—it’s a bargain! See you soon!”

  I slid the portable phone into its cradle and smiled again as I touched my mother’s handwritten cookbook, stroking the soft leather. Ty’s appreciation of my cooking was flattering to me, but it was also a compliment to my much loved mother, who’d died when I was thirteen. Back then, I’d missed her so much it hurt to breathe. Now, while the pain was still there, it was an ache, not a stab.

  I stared out my window into the darkness, unable to see the meadow or the trees that marked the faraway property line, and thought again of Gretchen.

  About six months ago, she’d brought in a miniature sandbox for her desk. Periodically, she’d drag a small wooden rake through the sand to create swirling patterns, then laughingly announce she could feel her blood pressure dropping.

  One day, a consignment deal I hoped we would land fell through. Not wanting to let the staff see my disappointment, I took myself out to a coffee shop that played mournful jazz and drowned my sorrows in a double mocha extra cream cappuccino. When I got back to work, Gretchen’s sandbox was on my desk. She’d tacked a Post-it Note on it reading “Stress Management 101. Rake away!” I had, and whether it was my act of raking or Gretchen’s act of kindness, I’d felt a little better. Gretchen was one of the most sensitive and thoughtful people I’d ever met.

  Before I had time to fret myself to tears, I heard laughter and chatter, then a knock, and called, “Come in!”

  Zoë, Jake, and Emma entered through the back door. Zoë flashed a quick smile. Her eyes were striking—brown, and big enough to see everything. Her hair was thick, near-black, and long. She was tall, maybe half a head taller than me, and thin, like a model. Zoë wore jeans and a mustard yellow sweater and carried a huge red tote bag. The kids were dressed in pajamas, jackets, and boots. Jake’s pj’s had airplanes, spaceships, and shooting stars; Emma’s were pink with white clouds.

  “Hi, Josie!” Jake said, hugging my knees before tearing into the living room.

  “Hi, Jake!” I called after him. “Your blocks are behind the sofa.” I turned to Emma. “Hi, Emma.”

  “Look at Mary-Rose,” she replied, thrusting a slightly battered stuffed monkey in my direction. “She’s from the attic. I picked the name myself.”

  “She looks very well loved!” I responded.


  Emma hugged the monkey and nodded. “She’s a teddy monkey. Like a teddy bear, but a monkey.”

  “What a find!” I exclaimed, awed by Emma’s vocabulary and comprehension.

  Zoë unpacked apple juice, sippy cups, a container of fudge swirl ice cream, and a thermos of apple martinis. “Hell,” she said, “it’s only been two years since I moved in! Of course I’m still going through the stuff in the attic.”

  Her uncle, Mr. Winterelli, had been my landlord and next-door neighbor until he died a little more than two years ago. Apparently my house, a smaller version of his, had been built as an in-law unit in the early 1900s. When Zoë had inherited his entire estate, she’d left a bad marriage on the West Coast and moved back to New Hampshire. From her politely worded comments, I gathered that while Mr. Winterelli had been her favorite uncle and she’d loved him to death, she was having a hard time creating order out of the chaos he’d left behind because he’d been both a pack rat and a bad housekeeper.

  “It’s a pretty name,” I told Emma. “How did you pick it?”

  “I liked it,” she said.

  Emma’s reply reminded me that decisions are often straightforward, based on personal preference or impulse, without any hidden agenda—like Gretchen’s wind chimes.

  “Do you want some apple juice?” Zoë asked Emma, standing nearby, smoothing the monkey’s fur.

  Emma nodded, and Zoë filled two sippy cups about half full. “Go give one to Jake, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, gently tucking Mary-Rose under her arm and clutching the two sippy cups in her chubby hands.

  “What a great kid,” I said, smiling as I watched her.

  “She really is. They both are.” She double-tapped the wooden cutting board, then teasingly shook the thermos. “Martini, anyone?”

  “You bet,” I replied.

  I watched Zoë pour the pale green, frothy liquid into martini glasses she took from the freezer, and without even being aware I was doing it, I tilted my head back and rolled it side to side, unconsciously trying to ease the ropelike tension gripping my shoulders and neck.

  Zoë handed me a drink. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  I took a sip. “It’s Gretchen. Did you hear what happened?”

  “Of course not. I’m a stay-at-home mom. The only news I hear is from my kids.”

  I reported the facts, and when I finished speaking, she exclaimed, “Josie, this is horrible! You must be beside yourself with worry!”

  “I am,” I acknowledged, my voice quivering. I swallowed to keep from crying and concentrated on the red pepper I was chopping. “I can’t believe she killed him. If she had, no matter why, she would have called the police, don’t you think?”

  Zoë shrugged. “I don’t know her. Maybe she flipped out—I know I would—and ran to a friend.”

  “Yeah, I’ve wondered about that, too.”

  “You don’t know her friends, right?”

  “Not really. Just a girl named Mandy. She said Gretchen’s best friend is named Lina.” I shrugged and swallowed hard as I used my knife to sweep the pepper bits into a bowl. I began chopping chives. “I’ll tell you my worst nightmare—that Gretchen’s been kidnapped. You hear such horrible . . . such wicked . . . things, you know?”

  Zoë nodded soberly.

  “Maybe she did run,” I said, pausing with my knife in midair, turning to Zoë. “If, when she entered her apartment, she recognized the dead man, and knew that someone had a motive to kill him, she would have called the police. Unless she knew that the killer also had a motive to kill her. The killer arrives, intent on murdering Gretchen, and finds him there instead. A fight ensues, and the murderer kills him. Gretchen comes home and sees her friend—dead. Maybe she knows who wants to kill her. Or maybe she recognizes the killer from something he left behind—like his gun. Under those circumstances, she might flee. That’s plausible, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, but there’s another possibility, too,” Zoë said. “Whenever you talk about Gretchen, there’s one attribute that you always mention—her caretaking nature. Maybe she didn’t kill that man and no one is out to kill her. Rather, what if she loves the person who did kill him? What would she do then?”

  “She’d do everything she could to protect him,” I acknowledged, following Zoë’s logic. “If there is someone she cares about that much.” I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head. “Since she’s worked for me for four years without mentioning anyone who qualifies, I think it’s a stretch. Just because something is conceivable doesn’t mean it’s credible.”

  Gretchen was a kind, generous, and loving person by nature, but I didn’t delude myself that she was a saint—and she certainly wouldn’t be the first woman to do something foolish, even illegal, to help a murderer. I’d just read an article about women who love men who murder. One woman the author interviewed had chartered a helicopter to hover over the prison yard at a time when her boyfriend, a three-time convicted killer, was outside exercising. She’d lowered a rope, he’d quick-climbed high enough to clear the wall, and off they’d flown. The police caught up with them five days later, thirty miles away, in a motel room. In a jailhouse interview after she’d been convicted of multiple felonies and sentenced to fifteen years in prison, the woman claimed to feel no regrets, explaining that after years of mind-numbing boredom as a clerk in an insurance company, she’d had five days of bliss—and that was five more than anyone she knew had ever had.

  Which is it? I asked myself as I resumed chopping chives. Had Gretchen been kidnapped for reasons too horrendous to mention? Was she a killer on the run? Was she shielding a lover in a misguided effort to help? Or was she herself running from a killer?

  I turned to Zoë. “I just pray she’s safe.”

  Ty walked in amid a blast of cold air. There was no longer any hint of spring warmth.

  “Hey,” he said, smiling and handing me a grocery bag. “Hey, Zoë.”

  Ty was just over six feet tall, broad, and fit. His dark brown hair was cut short, and his eyes were deep-set and almost black. His skin was weathered, not tanned, and his features were irregular. Just seeing him took my breath away.

  “Hey,” I replied. I pulled the bottle of truffle oil from the bag and held it high over my head like a trophy. “Good news. With this magic potion, I will create food fit for a king and,” I said, turning to Zoë, “a queen.”

  While I finished cooking, Ty and Zoë dragged the twin-sized futons I kept rolled up in the front hall closet into the living room and settled the kids in front of a Disney movie. Between stirrings, I watched them snuggling under afghans.

  After dinner, with an old Gerry Mulligan CD playing softly in the background, I sipped my second apple martini and kept Ty company as he loaded the dishwasher.

  “I think they’re down for the count,” Zoë said, joining me at the table. She poured herself a refill and turned to me. “So, my friend, how are you holding up?”

  Ty didn’t speak, but I could sense his intense attention as he listened in.

  “Not so well, actually,” I replied. “I hate not knowing where Gretchen is, and I hate worrying. It’s exhausting.” I raised my glass. “As my father often said, ‘Here’s to silver light in the dark of night.’ ”

  “Hear, hear!” Zoë toasted. “To no dark nights.”

  Ty started the dishwasher and joined us at the table with a mug of coffee. “Nothing dark about a night when Josie cooks.”

  “Aw, shucks,” I said, pleased with the compliment. “Thanks.”

  Later, after Ty had carried both kids home and I’d rolled the futons back into the closet, and after I’d taken a hot shower and was warm in bed, I had a thought: Maybe I should knock on Mandy’s door and see if Gretchen is there, hiding in her friend’s apartment. And Lina’s. I should ask Mandy where she lives.

  I didn’t really believe that either woman was hiding Gretchen, but checking could do no harm. Just as I was fading from wakefulness to sleep, I had another thought: Maybe I can find
out whether Gretchen’s car is still in the shop, and if not, who drove her to pick it up.

  CHAPTER NINE

  W

  ith my morning cup of coffee in hand, I sat at my home computer and Googled Mandy’s name and “New Hampshire.” Ty was long gone, heading back to Vermont.

  Her address popped up. She lived in a town house near the Fox Run Mall in Newington, about two miles from Prescott’s in Portsmouth and about five miles from my house in Rocky Point.

  Rocky Point was a small, affluent beach community a few miles south of Portsmouth. It claimed three of New Hampshire’s eighteen miles of shoreline, the fewest of any state. A few blocks inland, main street boasted charming boutiques, gourmet restaurants, and an expensive hair salon and day spa. At one end of the park there was a central green with a gazebo where a band played on summer evenings. On the other end there was a small pond surrounded by forsythia bushes just in bloom. On the west side of the village, Main Street narrowed and became residential. At the edge of town, just before the dividing line between Rocky Point and Turnow Falls, Main Street widened again and turned rural. The Heron dealership sat on newly developed acreage at the far end of the street.

  Wispy clouds streaked across a baby blue sky. It was warmer than yesterday.

  I decided to visit the Heron dealership first.

  I turned into the pennant-draped lot and drove slowly down the rows of vehicles. Gretchen’s car wasn’t there. I drove around the back to the service bays. The doors were down, but the lights were on and I could see workers through the windows. I parked off to the side and entered through the door marked CUSTOMERS.

  A man at the window said, “And change the oil, okay?” He signed the form, thanked the clerk, and left.

  I approached the round cutout in the acrylic divider and smiled at the young man. He was short. There were two earrings in his left ear. He had a tattoo on his neck that read MOM, and he wore a too-large pale green uniform with MAC embroidered on the pocket. He looked bored. His uninterested attitude changed my approach. I’d intended to tell the truth but decided to take some creative license. I was willing to bet that he wouldn’t care about the details and didn’t watch the news.