Killer Keepsakes

by Jane K. Cleland

  Cara was standing near the cash register, her back to the wall. She held an auction cata logue opened wide, high enough up to block her face. She was doing a pretty good job, I thought, of pretending she wasn’t watching a man by the entryway. If I hadn’t received her frantic phone call, I might have fallen for the subterfuge myself.

  He stood off to the side, scanning the room in a grid pattern. His eyes were moving from sector to sector on a three-second swing. Nine sectors, I counted, like a sniper hunting quarry or a private pilot on the lookout for other aircraft. It was as if he were looking at nine slices of half a pie, one at a time. His focus was absolute.

  I entered the room and walked slowly toward the front, watching him. When I got closer I could see that he’d pinned a tiny silver airplane to his lapel. I planted a welcoming smile on my face as I approached him.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott. Can I help you find something?”

  “Hi,” he said, smiling back. “I’m Chip Davidson, a friend of Gretchen Brock’s.”

  When he smiled, his whole demeanor shifted from intense to warm.

  “She’ll be sorry she missed you—but she’s not here.”

  “No wonder I can’t find her!” he kidded. “Darn! When do you expect her?”

  Maybe this was the fellow Gretchen met in Hawaii, the chemist from Maine. “Sorry,” I said, “but we never talk about employee schedules. I can have her call you, if you’d like.”

  “No way! Don’t you dare tell her I was here!” he said, laughing. “I want to see her face when she spots me. Can you at least give me a rough idea of when I could hook up with her? Will she be here later today? Monday?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “Sorry. Company policy.”

  “Rules are made to be broken,” he said, his eyes glittering with fun and promise and trustworthiness.

  “I haven’t heard that since high school!”

  “I’m betting it didn’t work then, either, am I right?”

  I laughed. “You are! I’ve got to get back to work, Chip. Are you sure you don’t want to leave a message?”

  “No—thanks, though.”

  He extended his hand, and we shook.

  “I hope to see you again,” I said.

  “You will!” he assured me, and with a last quick, charming grin and a cheery wave, he was gone.

  As soon as he was out the door, Cara came up to me, her eyes big with curiosity.

  “A friend of Gretchen’s,” I reported, smiling. “He seemed nice, actually.”

  “What a relief!” Cara said.

  “You did the right thing to call me.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling a little.

  As I made my way back to my office, I thought about Chip. I had no reason to think he represented any threat or possessed any relevant knowledge, but I decided to call Detective Brownley on Ty’s principle that the more information she had, the better.

  _____

  I couldn’t reach her, but left a detailed message on her cell phone describing Chip’s appearance and behavior.

  Curious, I Googled “Chip Davidson” and got too many hits to be useful. I added “chemist” and got one hit—a university professor working in Dubai who appeared closer to eighty than seventy, obviously not the right man. Knowing that Chip is often a nickname for Charles, I tried “Charles Davidson” and got tens of thousands of hits. Adding “chemist” and “Maine” still left me with too many options to pursue.

  Now what? I asked myself. Suddenly I had another thought.

  Vince was in construction, and when Wes told me that the police were checking whether the murder victim had a job that might result in his hands getting cut a lot, I’d thought of a carpenter. Could they know one another? Could Sal Briscoe have worked with Vince?

  The New England Regional Council of Carpenters stated that they represented twenty-four thousand carpenters, pile drivers, shop-and millmen, and floor coverers. I found the union membership directory but then was stymied. Neither Vince Collins nor Sal Briscoe was listed. There were no photos. It would be an overwhelmingly laborious process, I thought, to seek out each worker listed, one by one, and vet him. To say nothing of all the nonunion laborers. Leave it to the police, I thought, and wondered if they were making any progress.

  I stood up, frustrated, then almost immediately sat down. The vase, I admonished myself. I can do more with the vase. The vase was a direct link to Gretchen. If we learned where Gretchen got it, we might be able to learn enough about her to find her.

  In a traditional appraisal, the challenge would be to verify ownership from the time the vase left the Meissen factory to the present. I could either trace the vase backward from the Wyoming auction house to the factory or forward from the factory to the auction house. Backward is sometimes easier—but not when the last known transaction occurred sixty years earlier from a seller who’d gone out of business.

  With the “AR” mark in mind, I decided to search for textual references to royal purchases of Meissen vases starting in 1723, the first year the mark was used. There was no one definitive source to consult; according to the Meissen company, which was still in existence, there are no sales records that go back that far. By following linked references from an auction cata logue to a scholarly article, I found a reference to a Ph.D. candidate’s inventory of decorative items at St. James’s Palace, the royal residence.

  The inventory wasn’t posted online.

  The student’s name was Percy Oliver Johns. He’d been a student at the University of Southern California back in 1969. I couldn’t find any current record of him at all, and couldn’t think of anything else to look up.

  Instead, I returned to the tag sale room to take my turn in the Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth. Every Saturday, Sasha, Fred, and I each did hour-long stints. Anyone could walk into the tag sale with an object or a photo and get an on-the-spot, quick-and-dirty assessment. It was good fun, and it was good business. Between the three of us, we appraised between thirty and forty objects each week, first come, first served.

  Fred left the booth as I arrived, and I turned to greet the first woman waiting in line. As I introduced myself, she shook my hand and smiled, and I felt myself relax a bit. She reminded me of Mrs. Horne, my junior year high school English teacher. Mrs. Horne introduced me to Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, and Helen MacInnes and taught me about gerunds, ellipses, and the power of selecting the correct noun. She was one of my favorite teachers.

  “I’m Kathy Franzino.”

  “Welcome! What did you bring me to look at today?”

  “A music cabinet.” She laughed. “Don’t get worried! I didn’t bring the whole cabinet, just some snapshots. I hope they’re good enough for you to see.”

  She handed me four photos, and I laid them side by side.

  The music cabinet stood on Chippendale-style legs. The doors opened to reveal six drawers. The hardware was brass throughout. The cabinet appeared to be constructed of mahogany and rosewood, and there was ornate decorative detailing at the bottom and top. On the front, there were flowers painted in gilt and accented with tiny mother-of-pearl inlays. It appeared to be in excellent condition. One photo showed a small bronze plaque reading PATENTED OCTOBER 1892.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “What do you know about it?”

  “It’s been in my family for as long as anyone can remember, but no one knows where it came from. I’ve always loved it. My daughter, Elizabeth, thinks it might have come from Greece.”

  “Why Greece?”

  Kathy laughed again. “No reason except that my mother is of Greek origin. My boys, Frank the third and Joe, they thought the style was likely to be Italian.”

  “And your father’s Italian, am I right?”

  “How’d you guess?” she asked, laughing so hard that her pretty eyes crinkled nearly shut.

  I joined in laughing, then turned my attention back to the photos. “I think we’ll find it’s American made. Give me a minute to do a little resear
ch.”

  Using one of the specialized Web sites we subscribed to, I was able to confirm my suspicion easily—the music cabinet was, in fact, made in the U.S.A.

  I turned to Kathy and said, “This is a good example of an American-made late Victorian music cabinet. The detailing to the doors gives it charm, and it’s in wonderful condition. Before recorded music became widely available, many families owned musical instruments, and thus there was a demand for furniture designed to store sheet music. The fact that the company had bronze plaques cast to indicate it was a patented design tells me that these examples were made in fairly large numbers.”

  “So selling it won’t let me take my family on an around-the-world cruise, is that what you’re telling me?”

  I laughed again. “I’m afraid not. If you wanted to sell it, I would expect it to fetch between six and eight hundred dollars.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t sell it for the world anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. I was just curious.”

  “When you look at it, you think of your grandmother, right?”

  “And my mother, and all the wonderful times I had as a child.”

  I gathered up the photos and handed them to her. “That’s priceless.”

  Next in line was a woman named Eleanor Glass Moe. She had short gray hair and a huge smile and was holding a doll.

  “Here’s Shannon,” she said.

  “I’m not familiar with that brand,” I replied. “What can you tell me about it?”

  She laughed. “No, no. That’s the name I’ve given her. Irish proud, that’s me!”

  “Got it! Let’s see what Shannon can tell me about herself.”

  The doll was close to life-size, with movable joints and eyes that blinked. She had short blond hair and wore a white dress detailed with lace and a blue and white beaded necklace. She was missing a finger, and there was visible wear on her arms. The back of her head, under her hair, was marked with the numeral “99” and the word “Handwerk,” probably indicating the year of manufacture and the company—1899 and Heinrich Handwerck.

  Since Fred was the lead appraiser for our upcoming doll auction, I wanted to hear his views. I IM’d him, “Heinrich Handwerck—99—finger missing, wear on arms, original lace dress w/necklace in fine cond. Price?”

  While waiting for his reply, I asked, “Does Shannon have other clothes?”

  “No,” Eleanor said. “The poor girl owns only one dress.”

  Fred’s IM arrived. “Clothes+, condition–, prob $400–$500.”

  I told her our assessment and explained our thinking and watched her easy smile reappear. We shook hands, and Eleanor thanked me again. I watched her weave her way out of the tag sale, cradling Shannon in the crook of her left arm like a baby.

  Four appraisals later, my shift was over.

  Sasha approached for her second turn in the instant appraisal booth. I stood and stretched and was walking toward the front just as Mandy stepped inside and spotted me. She looked petrified, as if she were losing ground in a race against the devil.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  D

  o you have a minute to talk?” Mandy whispered.

  “Sure,” I said.

  We entered the warehouse through the inside door. I led the way to the nearest corner, and we stood behind a stack of crates taller than me. I touched her arm, just for a moment, and waited for her to speak.

  She stood stiffly, her hands clenched into fists. Even in the dim light, I could see moisture glistening on her eyelashes. She seemed unable to begin.

  “What’s happened?” I asked.

  She took a deep breath and then another and then she said, “A reporter from the Seacoast Star has been asking people about Vince and me. Wes Smith. He even came into the store and talked to my manager.”

  “That’s what reporters do, Mandy. They ask questions.”

  “Vince is so angry at the thought that our names will be in the paper.” Mandy crossed her arms across her chest. “I know you know him. I see you quoted in his articles all the time.”

  I took a deep breath, bracing myself to be the bearer of bad news. “If what you’re hoping is that I can get Wes to stop, I can’t. Nothing and no one can. If you give Wes an interview, you’ll be quoted by name. If you don’t, he’ll write that you’re refusing to talk to reporters.” I shrugged. “Pretty much, it’s a given that your name will be in the paper.”

  She looked down and was quiet for a long time, then looked up at me. “Why would anyone talk to a reporter?”

  I shrugged. “To vent. To make your point to the world. To expose corruption or wrongdoing. To have the right to ask questions in return to someone in the know.”

  She didn’t comment.

  “Does Vince have something to hide, Mandy?” I asked softly. “Do you?” She still didn’t speak. I shrugged. Without knowing the specifics of why Vince was so upset about seeing their names in the paper, I could only offer her general guidance. “If you do decide to talk to Wes, or any member of the press, make sure you know whether you’re on the record or not.”

  Her brow was lined with worry. She looked very young. God knew that I’d done my share of ranting against the press over the years, but I sensed that something else, something deeper than mere irritation or annoyance, was in play. The only explanation I could think of for her anxiety was fear. The question I couldn’t even begin to answer was what she was afraid of.

  “Thanks, Josie,” she said finally—and left.

  Ty called just after six to tell me that he was running late. “There’s a guy I’ve got to talk to. He’s just not getting it.”

  “What’s he doing wrong?” I asked.

  Ty laughed, not a ha-ha sound of enjoyment but a derisive chortle. “He was positive that all of his equipment was in his car the first time we ran the drill, so he didn’t check. The second time he brought only the equipment he figured he’d need, not the equipment on his checklist. He said he was experienced enough to know what he needs, so why not save time.”

  “And you’re a by-the-book sorta fella who doesn’t really see his perspective.”

  “Well, he is, after all, a first responder, not a strategy planner, you know?”

  “So you need to have a little talk with him.”

  “Exactly. I think it’s time for him to decide if this position is a good fit with his interests and expectations about the job. He might be happier behind a desk somewhere in a planning capacity.”

  “You’re kind to put it that way,” I observed.

  “Nah, it’s true. He’s a good guy—he’s just thinking too much for this job.”

  “Sounds like an unpleasant conversation.”

  “It has that potential,” Ty acknowledged. “And it’s going to make me late. Do you want to go to my place?”

  “Why don’t I go home? I have a lot to do. You can decide whether to come over once you’re en route.”

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  By the time I shut down my computer and walked downstairs, it was almost six thirty, and everyone was gone. I left right after confirming that Eric had walked the cash drawers into the safe and locked all the doors and windows.

  At home, I showered and ate and curled up in my living room with Rex Stout’s Plot It Yourself. Ty called just after eight to say he was about an hour away and would come over if it was okay. “Yeah,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, “it’s okay.”

  When he got there, he sat at the kitchen table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed, listening. He drank Smuttynose from the bottle. I stood at the counter, transferring leftovers from plastic containers to a plate for reheating in the microwave as I filled him in on my day.

  Ty was a great listener. He never interrupted, nodded when he understood a point, and asked smart questions. He paid attention. I told him everything that had happened and ended by asking his opinion. “Do you think Mandy or Vince has a specific secret? Or is it just general angst?”

  “I don’t k
now, Josie. What’s your sense?”

  I wrinkled my nose, thinking. The microwave clicked off. “Mandy’s hypersensitive when it comes to all things Vince, but I don’t know why. I don’t know if she’s protecting him or if she’s afraid of him,” I said as I carried Ty’s dinner to the table.

  Ty nodded. “To further complicate the issue, sometimes people react as you expect, and a lot of the time, they don’t. Probably she’s acting scared for one or both of the reasons you suggest, but maybe not. There’s a possibility that’s just her way of handling stress.”

  “Plus which,” I added, nodding, “with Vince, there’s probably an element of control going on. What’s that old saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Just because Vince is a control freak doesn’t mean he doesn’t have secrets he’s determined to keep private.”

  “True, and sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Maybe Mandy knows something that would implicate one of them in some way—because they are involved.”

  Ty finished his Smuttynose and walked to the fridge for another bottle. “Want me to ask around, see what I can find out?”

  I smiled and slid my hand across the table, stopping near his plate. “Thank you, Ty.”

  He covered my hand with his and gave a little squeeze. “You’re welcome. Now, get out of my way, woman. You’re keeping me from food.”

  Sunday morning, Ty and I went to his house and spent the day relaxing. Anxiety about Gretchen was never far from my mind, but for the first time since entering her apartment and discovering the corpse, I felt a bit encouraged that I was getting closer to finding her. Between my research on the belt buckle and the vase, and questions I might be able to ask Mandy to draw her out, I was hopeful that we might finally begin to get answers soon.