Framed botanical prints, the kind we sold for twenty dollars each, were the only art in the room. Her clothes were neatly organized in the double-wide closet. I pulled a hatbox off the top shelf. It contained a jumble of belts.
In the kitchen, I opened drawers and cupboards and saw no antiques or collectibles. She owned no silver, fine porcelain, or crystal, nor were there empty shelves implying that a theft had occurred. There was nothing remarkable in the linen closet or bathroom. When I was done, I said, “I don’t see any photographs. Did you find any—maybe in an album or a scrapbook, anything like that?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Some photos have value, and they might be traceable.” I shrugged. “If nothing else, we might see pictures of the vase.”
Detective Brownley nodded. “We haven’t found any photographs.”
“How about on her computer? Lots of people have gone digital.” She shook her head.
I thought about that for a moment. “Isn’t it unusual for someone to have no photographs?”
She weighed her words. “People are different. I get the impression that Ms. Brock is pretty private.”
I nodded. “But one man’s ‘private’ is another man’s ‘secretive,’ right? It’s all in the perception.”
She looked around. “What do you call a design style like this? It’s pretty simple, right?”
“Minimalist.”
She nodded. “So it looks like Gretchen isn’t the kind of person who leaves a lot of personal things around.”
I considered her comment. “At work she has a couple of photos taped to the side of her computer. Trolls on top, too.”
“Right. One photo is of the beach and the other is of Halloween decorations. She has no photos of people.”
“That’s true,” I said, nodding, thinking about what that might imply. “Was there anything of interest on her home computer?”
“We’re still looking into it,” she said, her tone cool and neutral, and I understood her unspoken message—she wasn’t going to discuss that aspect of the investigation with me.
“Have you found anything on the computer or in her files that might help me with the appraisal? A past appraisal, a bill of sale, a handwritten note from somebody giving Gretchen one of the plates as a gift, that sort of thing?”
Detective Brownley shook her head. “No paperwork or online records.”
“I mean her paid bills. Some people tuck receipts and appraisals into a ‘Miscellaneous’ file, for instance.”
“I knew what you meant. Gretchen kept no paperwork. She paid her bills online but kept no receipts.”
I thought about it for several seconds. “How about charge card records? Maybe she used a credit card to buy the object that’s missing from here.”
“We’ll check. We’ve ordered copies of the charges from her bank.”
“A safety deposit box?”
“If she has one, it’s not in New Hampshire,” Detective Brownley replied.
Another question for Wes, I thought. In the past, he’d used his sources to ferret out financial information that the police couldn’t access without a warrant and private citizens couldn’t access at all. Thinking of Wes got me wondering what he was up to and what he’d written in today’s Seacoast Star. I had so many questions and so few answers. Only one question really mattered, though. Where was Gretchen?
We were about to leave the apartment when I stopped short, struck by a sudden realization. Maybe the object that had sat on the pedestal would provide a clue to Gretchen’s whereabouts, maybe not, but there had to be a reason it was, apparently, the only item in the entire apartment that was missing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
D
etective Brownley followed me back to Prescott’s so I could give her a copy of the recording I’d made and a receipt for the items I’d taken. After she left and I had explained to Sasha and Fred the need to keep the plates in the safe unless they were being worked on, we discussed the next steps.
“My guess is that the basic valuation will be pretty straight ahead,” I said, “but it would be great if we could figure out where the plates came from. For instance, if we can learn that Gretchen bought one of them at a shop in, say, Bangor, we can check whether anyone in the shop recognizes her. Maybe she’s from Bangor, and when she found a dead man in her apartment, she ran home. Do you see what I mean?”
Sahsa nodded. Fred pushed his glasses up and asked, “Any records?”
“No, not so far. The police are looking into it. So, what will you do first?”
Fred shrugged and said, “Complete a basic assessment of each one.”
“Given the urgency,” Sasha said, “I think we should try to trace each purchase first, then determine its value.”
“Which will be easier,” Fred argued, “the more we know about the plates themselves.”
“Actually, the first thing we should do is to identify specific marks or numbers. If any of the plates come from a limited edition, that’ll be a shortcut,” Sasha stated.
“To valuation, maybe, but it won’t help us trace Gretchen’s acquisition at all—you can tell by looking that none of them is unique.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying that!” Sasha exclaimed. “You should know that superficial examinations are merely a starting place, not an educated judgment. At this point, we know nothing.”
As they continued their good-natured squabble, I realized that I had additional—and more important—questions to ask Lina. I surreptitiously glanced at the wall clock.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll leave you two to it. One thing, though. It looks like the object that sat on the pedestal in Gretchen’s living room was a vase.” I described it. “Does either of you know anything about it?”
They both said no.
I turned to Cara. “How are you doing?”
“Pretty well. I’m trying to follow the Hippocratic oath—first, do no harm!”
“That’s a pretty good approach. I approve! I have an errand. I’ll be back in an hour or so. Any questions before I go?”
“No, I think I’m okay . . . oh, wait . . . I forgot to give you a message.” She extracted a white slip of paper, torn from our WHILE YOU WERE OUT call log.
“Thanks,” I said. The note read: JACK STENE CALLED FOR GRETCHEN. I had no idea who Jack Stene was. Maybe he works for one of our vendors, I thought. His callback number started with the 207 area code. Maine. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“No. He just asked for her, and when I said she wasn’t here, he thanked me and hung up.”
I shrugged and smiled. “A mystery!” I said.
As I approached the Bow Street Emporium, I observed Lina waiting on a customer, but she didn’t see me. I entered, setting the sleigh bells ringing. A young woman with strawberry blond hair and big brown eyes approached me with a pleasant smile.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“Thanks, no. I’ll just look around,” I replied.
I edged my way toward the display of hand-dipped candles, where Lina stood talking to a man. As I approached, she thanked him and pointed to the cashier. He walked away holding a box of beeswax candles.
“Hi, Lina.”
“Oh,” she said, recognizing me. “Hi.”
“May I ask you something? I don’t mean to interrupt you at work, but it’s important.”
She glanced at the sparsely populated store. “I’m the manager on duty, so I guess it’s okay.”
“Thanks,” I said, following her to a corner. She positioned us out of earshot and stood with her back to the wall so she could observe the store. “I’ll be as brief as I can. First, when did you last speak to Gretchen?”
“On her way back from the airport.”
“You picked her up?”
“Yeah. At the Circle.”
“Then you took her to get her car.”
“Right.”
“How did she seem?” I asked.
“Excited. She said she had a great time
in Hawaii. She met a guy from somewhere outside of Portland—a chemist working for a small biotech firm. She was psyched.” The door opened, and three women entered. One of them waved to Lina, who waved back. She turned to me. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
I told her I’d love to stay in touch, and she agreed, hastily giving me her cell phone number.
I left the shop, frustrated because I hadn’t had a chance to ask about Gretchen’s plants or the missing vase. Unsure of what to do next, I walked across the street and stood under the Blue Dolphin’s copper overhang. Even from this distance, I could tell that Lina had a friendly manner, smiling and maintaining good eye contact. I bet she was a terrific saleswoman.
Vince drove by and stopped in front of the store. He glanced around and spotted me. I nodded and sort of smiled, acknowledging that I recognized him. He nodded back, but he didn’t smile.
Mandy stepped out from somewhere in the back of the showroom, smiling, an oversized purse on her shoulder. She was taller and bigger-boned than Lina. She said something to Lina, and they both laughed. Mandy’s eyes crinkled engagingly. I suspected that she was a terrific saleswoman, too. She hurried outside and stepped into Vince’s Jeep. He drove away without looking at me again.
I stopped at a deli to pick up a sandwich for lunch and spotted a stack of this morning’s Seacoast Star under a display of candy bars and gossip magazines.
One glance, and I felt my pulse speed up. I wiggled the issue from the rack. Wes’s headline read:
MURDER IN NORTH MILL POND CONDO
PAST MURDER SUSPECT JOSIE PRESCOTT QUESTIONED BY POLICE
Annoyed at Wes, I placed the paper on the counter headline down, paid for everything, and ran to my car. As I read the article, my initial anger subsided. I had, in fact, been questioned by the police. I did discover the body. No charges had been filed. Everyone who worked at Prescott’s had been interviewed.
I even learned some new things: According to the medical examiner’s preliminary report, the man had been struck in the head, but it was a non-life-threatening blow. I was right, I thought; he was hit with Gretchen’s poker. The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the chest, and the probable time of death was Wednesday between 11:00 A.M. and 1:00 P.M. I thought about that timing, then continued reading. The rest of the article was classic Wes—bloodthirsty innuendo implying that Gretchen was the killer.
My finger hovered over the button to call and chastise him both for putting my name in the headline and for his treatment of Gretchen, but I didn’t.
I took the long way to give myself time to assimilate everything I’d discovered. I got occasional glimpses of gentle waves as I drove along Ocean Avenue. Golden flecks glinted on the smooth surface of the ocean, and the soft rolling motion of the water quieted my lingering agitation.
Back at Prescott’s, I saw Eric on his knees doing something under a big round pedestal display table in the tag sale shack.
One of the part-timers was working on a display of gardening implements, while another arranged sterling silver serving pieces in a display case. A third was organizing plastic-encased copies of Life magazine by date.
Eric reached his hand up and moved the table a little bit. It shimmied.
“Hi, Eric,” I said, squatting next to him. “What’s up? Wiggly table syndrome?”
“Yeah,” he answered, his voice muffled. “I think I’ve got it.” He touched the table again and nodded, satisfied. “I used a shim.” He stood up. “Any news about Gretchen?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I glanced around, then added, “Things look like they’re coming along.”
He nodded. “Yeah, except that I still think we’re a little light in quality items.”
“I’ll pick out a couple of super-dupers.”
I left him to his work and walked across the ware house to the front office. Cara was on the phone, giving directions. Fred was on the phone, too, asking someone named Mr. Wragge whether the map had any rips or tears. I didn’t know what map he was referring to. Sasha had one of Gretchen’s fruit plates in her hand and was frowning at it.
“I don’t think we’re going to learn anything from these,” she said. “Without documentation, there’s nothing to trace. They’re really wonderful examples, though. Gretchen has excellent taste and a good eye.”
I nodded. “Any news on Phil’s locks?”
“Yes. Fred says there’s nothing special, but we got them for a song. Phil wasn’t there, but Johnny said Phil just wanted them gone.”
“Well, at least we got a bargain.”
“Detective Brownley dropped off the belt buckle. It’s in the safe, bottom left, number four.”
“Great!” I glanced at the clock. It was almost two. I walked across the ware house to the far corner, where a walk-in vault the size of a room was positioned against a wall. I spun the dial, heard the clicks as the tumblers fell into place, and opened the door. Separate lockboxes, ranging in size from two to twelve feet square, were positioned around the perimeter—safes within a safe, extra security and an easy way to keep everything organized. An index card slid into a slot on the front of each lockbox and served as a sign-in/sign-out log. Unit four, on the bottom left-hand shelf, was labeled BELT BUCKLE. The first entry noted when Sasha had placed it in the box. I slid the card from the slot, annotated it with my name and the date and time I was removing the box, and replaced the card. I used the master key that hung on the ring at my waist to open the box.
The belt buckle was in a see-through plastic evidence bag. I held it up to the light. The old Native American man was looking left, his features in repose. He was wearing a lavishly feathered headdress and what appeared to be war paint, but he didn’t look warlike. I turned it over. There was a seam, a raised ridge, which meant it had been produced from a mold. There were several marks, but no signature visible to the naked eye. The primary mark was a large H in a double-edged circle. Below it, in a smaller font, were the characters “SFC 79” and “3.”
I spun the wheel on the vault door to lock it and returned to the front office.
Sasha had her headset on. She was typing while asking someone about the hard paste porcelain that had been used at the Richard Ginori factory in Milan.
Fred was reading something on his monitor. He looked up as I approached his desk, and I handed him the plastic bag. “Did you see this, Fred?”
“No,” he replied, removing it from the bag and looking at it with laserlike focus. “What do we know besides that it’s not custom?”
“Nothing. The man killed at Gretchen’s was wearing it. What’s your take on it?”
“It’s well designed, but my guess would be that it’s not particularly valuable—it’s molded. Most likely brass, modern era. We can probably trace the marks—and maybe the mold.”
The phone rang, and Cara answered with a pleasant “Prescott’s. How may I help you?”
I nodded to Fred. “That’s what I thought, too. I don’t know about the value, though. It looks like a limited run, and the mold has great detailing, very high quality.”
“Hold on, please,” Cara said. “Josie, it’s Wes Smith for you.”
I felt my irritation return. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.”
Cara hesitated, her mouth opening.
“Go ahead. Tell him that. He’ll know why.”
She repeated my words, then listened for a moment. She pushed the hold button again. “He said to tell you he understands, but it’s urgent.”
“Tell him ha. Just that. Say, ‘Josie says ha.’ ”
I was aware that Fred was watching our exchange as if it were a tennis match, but I didn’t care. I was too angry.
Cara followed my instructions, listened for several seconds, then said, “Oh, my. All right.” She placed Wes on hold again. “He said to tell you that he has urgent, crucial information about Gretchen.”
I pursed my lips and grabbed the spare phone that sat near the photocopier and punched the b
utton to take him off hold. “What is it, Wes?”
“I’m sorry, Josie. I didn’t write the headline. My editor did. I didn’t even see it until this morning. It was a last-minute thing.”
I felt my resentment drain away. It wouldn’t be the first time his editor revised his headline. I sighed deeply. “Fair enough. What’s the information about Gretchen?”
“Not on the phone. It’s too sensitive,” he said, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “Can you meet now?”
I was about to tell him to forget it when I thought about the many times Wes had fleshed out facts and given me information I couldn’t have gotten in any other way—far more often than he’d failed. He never bragged or engaged in hyperbole, either. If he said he knew something significant about Gretchen, he did, and if he had news about Gretchen, I wanted it. “All right,” I agreed. “Where?”
“Our dune?”
“Fifteen minutes,” I said. I hung up and turned to Cara. “Sorry about that, Cara.”
“No problem. Do you think he really has information about Gretchen?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I replied. “He’s got his teeth into something.” I turned to Fred. “Will you take a crack at the circle-H mark?”
“You bet,” he said, swiveling to face his computer.
I grabbed my sandwich and headed to the beach.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I
spread out the old wool blanket that I kept in my trunk. From where I sat at the top of the dune overlooking Rocky Point beach, I had a clear view of the ocean.
Wes and I had met at this dune frequently over the years. It was private and convenient to get to, and we could see people approaching from any direction long before they reached us. I nibbled my sandwich and waited for him to arrive.
I heard his car sputter to a stop at the sandy edge of the road and watched as he stepped over wild rose bushes and sidestepped up the dune. He wore a leather jacket I’d never seen before. He handed me a cup of coffee, milk, no sugar; a peace offering.
Killer Keepsakes Page 6
