Killer Keepsakes

by Jane K. Cleland

  I fingered Jack’s card as I watched him walk to his car. I didn’t just need information—I needed answers. When in doubt, I thought, call Wes.

  His phone went directly to voice mail. “I’m hoping you can check out someone for me—a friend of Gretchen’s named Jack Stene,” I said in my message. “He works at Dobson Corporation.” I read off Jack’s contact information, but I didn’t articulate the obvious point: Within days of meeting him, Gretchen disappeared.

  Cara buzzed up about ten minutes later. Serena Carson was on line two. I nearly toppled off my chair diving to punch the button marked 2.

  “I found someone for you to talk to,” Serena said. “His name is Jed McGinty, and he started working at Sidlawn fencing in 1978. According to what I’ve been told, he knows everything.” She giggled, and I wondered what juicy nugget she’d been given as an example of Jed’s long memory.

  “You’re the best!” I exclaimed.

  “Thanks! Jed is expecting your call. He’s kind of excited to think he’s assisting in a police investigation.”

  Jed answered with the easy manner of a man who had all day to chat, and lucky for me, he recalled the belt buckle well.

  “It was incredible,” Jed said, “the best prize ever—a dude ranch. Back then, every year, the CEO took the company’s top sales reps and executives somewhere. You know the kind of thing—a resort in Puerto Rico, Disney World in Orlando, Broadway shows in New York. They were all sweet, but a dude ranch in Montana? Man, that created some buzz in the company, let me tell you.”

  “I can imagine. Did you go?”

  He laughed, a deep, rolling chuckle. “Are you kidding me? I’d been with the company less than a year at that point. I was an associate accountant, about five levels too low to even qualify to be invited.” He chuckled again, and I wondered what struck him as funny. “The CFO, Barry Rackham his name was, he was lucky enough to go, and when he got back, he showed us all the swag. That belt buckle you’re asking about, it was part of his haul. It was in the gift bag.” He laughed again. “I asked my boss what it would take to get one of those puppies for myself. He told me that given my age and experience, my best bet was marrying the boss’s daughter!”

  I laughed politely. “What can you tell me about the buckle?”

  “It was custom made, a great design—an Indian in full war paint. There were only a few of them produced, so getting one was, like, up there with getting a bonus.” Another huge laugh. “Didn’t happen, you know?”

  “So, Jed, tell me,” I said, crossing my fingers for luck, “is there a list of recipients?”

  “Now that I don’t know.”

  “Darn. Who might?” I asked, disappointed but not surprised.

  “Hmmm,” Jed murmured. “I think you’d better talk to Serena about that.”

  “Will do.” I thanked him, and he transferred me back.

  “Serena,” I said when she was on the line, “I have another question. Jed was very helpful. He was able to describe the belt buckle, which is great, but he didn’t know if there’s a list of recipients. How about it? Can you think of any way I could track it down?”

  “Oh, my,” Serena commented. “Jed didn’t have any ideas?”

  “Yes, he did. His idea was to ask you.” I laughed a little, and she joined in. “I’m pretty sure that there were only ten produced. Doesn’t it make sense that the company would have kept track of that sort of information? I hate to ask you to go back to HR.”

  “No problem. To tell you the truth, it’s fun! I feel like a real detective.”

  “You’re good at it.”

  “Thank you, Josie. I’ll call you back as soon as I can,” she said.

  I resigned myself to another agonizing wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  G

  ood news,” Serena told me when she called back. “I found out who knows about the recipient list. I’ve conferenced you in to Grady. Grady, are you with us? He knows where the belt buckle records are. I’ll let him explain.”

  “Josie, no one here has thought about those end-of-year celebrations since the owner died. I mean, we’re talking a lot of years ago already! We used to have framed lists of the top performers hanging in the cafeteria, one per year, but we moved locations, and those lists got put into storage.”

  “Oh, no! The dreaded storage nightmare.”

  “Exactly, except that I am the company-wide document manager, so I know where they’re located. We’re talkin’ warehouse, though, so you’ve got to give me a little time.”

  “The only problem is that I have no time. How long are you thinking?” As soon as I asked the question I could sense a mood shift. I bit my lip and held my breath.

  “I don’t know,” he said, sounding defensive. “A while.”

  I paused to find the right words. “I know it sounds weird to suggest urgency when we’re talking about a 1979 belt buckle, but”—I laughed, embarrassed at what I was about to say—“we’re actually talking life and death.”

  “Run that by me again?” Grady said.

  I could hear Serena breathing in the background, listening. “I’m helping the police in a criminal investigation. I’m not at liberty to discuss particulars, but I can tell you that the belt buckle was worn by a victim of a crime. There’s no implication that your company is involved in any way. This is all about tracking the buckle—learning who received it from Sidlawn Fencing in 1979 and tracing it from there. If you need more information, I’ll ask the police to get in touch with you.”

  If Grady was like most people, I figured, he’d rather have a root canal than invite the police into his home or office to snoop.

  “Of course, we’re glad to cooperate with any police investigation,” he said. “Let me just think for a second.”

  Serena stayed quiet. After almost a minute, I concluded that I’d muffed it. You should have told him about Gretchen, I berated myself, about how it was possible that his efforts might save her life.

  “Okay then,” Grady said. “I’ll get cracking.”

  “Do you need help? I mean, if we’re talking about digging through boxes, I could arrange for some guys to help.”

  “Nah, we got workers on site. It’s all priorities, you know?”

  “How long do you figure it will take?” I asked.

  “No idea. I know the plaques are stored in boxes, and I know which warehouse the boxes are in, but not their exact location. But trust me—your request has made it to the top of the heap. I’ll get you your answer just as soon as I can.”

  Despite my urge to be up and doing, I thanked him, and then I thanked Serena, too.

  “I have news about Henrietta Howard,” Sasha told me. “There are hundreds of her letters extant, most of them in private hands, including Lord Chesterfield’s, but no one source that tracks everything. I’m afraid it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack to find a reference to that particular vase.”

  “Darn. At least we have other irons in the fire,” I said. “See if you can track down Dr. Johns. Percy Oliver Johns—the author of that inventory. He referenced the letter, so he must know where it is. In fact, he might have additional information that didn’t make it into his dissertation.”

  Gretchen’s chimes sounded. Mandy and Lina stepped inside.

  “We wanted to stop by,” Mandy said. “We heard the news about the break-in.” Her eyes went to the plywood. “Are you okay?”

  I smiled a little. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you both. I’m fine.” I gestured toward Fred, Sasha, and Cara. “We’re all fine.”

  “Did you see who broke in?” Mandy asked, sounding apprehensive.

  My mouth went desert-dry. Vince, I thought. She’s wondering if Vince is involved—and if so, whether I can identify him. Is he? “Yes,” I said, leaving it open whether I recognized the intruder or not. “It was pretty frightening.”

  “Was anything taken?” Lina asked.

  “Just one item,” I replied, avoiding revealing that Gretchen’s vase
was stolen. “No one was hurt, and that’s the main thing.” I shook my head. “It sounds trite to say so, but it’s true. Can either of you think of anything that might help the police?”

  They couldn’t. After a few more minutes of expressing our shocked dismay, Mandy said, “Well, we better get going or we’ll be late to work.”

  I thanked them again for stopping by and watched as Lina got behind the wheel of an old Ford Focus and drove off. As they pulled out of the lot, a gold Taurus pulled in. The blond man who’d wanted to find Gretchen at the tag sale, Chip, parked and sat for a minute, then stepped out, saw me standing at the door, and waved, smiling like he meant it. In the sunlight, his yellow hair looked totally fake.

  “Hello again, Josie Prescott.” He extended his hand as he approached, and we shook. “What happened here?” he asked, nodding toward the wood-covered window.

  “A broken window. The glazier’s en route. Chip, right?”

  I shut the door, and he nodded around, silently greeting the staff. “Good memory. I don’t see Gretchen. Don’t tell me I’m out of luck again.”

  “Sorry. Maybe next time.”

  “Are you sure she really works here?” he asked in a teasing tone, semismiling.

  My something’s-wrong-here-meter switched on. He sounded more annoyed than jovial. I found myself wondering what his story really was—and then I had an idea. I smiled again, warmly this time.

  “Can I get you something?” I asked. “A cup of coffee? Maybe you want to sit a little and talk.”

  He met and held my eyes. “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  I placed cups and spoons and napkins on a tray, added a plate of macaroons, and carried it upstairs. Chip sat on the wing chair, seemingly at ease. I skewed sideways on the love seat to face him.

  “So, you said you’ve known Gretchen for quite a while, is that right?” I asked.

  “Yes, but we lost touch. It was great to find out where she worked.”

  “How did that happen?” I asked, avoiding his eyes, selecting a macaroon instead. When I was a junior in college, I took an acting course. In the parlance of the field, what I was doing was giving myself “business.”

  “One of those happenstances.” He chuckled appealingly. “You know how it works. A mutual friend told me he saw her working at the tag sale a few weeks ago. He didn’t speak to her ’cause she was busy. Apparently you do a very good business.”

  I smiled modestly. “We’ve been very fortunate. So you decided to surprise her. That’s so fun!”

  He laughed again and leaned forward. “A picture came to me of what would happen when Gretchen first saw me. As soon as she spotted me, she’d call my name, leap up, and hug me. Can’t you just see it?”

  He was right. Gretchen would bound across the room, shrieking with pleasure, and the thought of it tore my heart out. I met Chip’s eyes but didn’t see him. Through a veil of anguish, I pictured Gretchen being dragged away by unknown hands. Now, nearly a week later, I imagined her trapped in some makeshift prison, terrified and hopeless.

  I pushed the horrific vision aside, took a deep breath, and said, in the most animated tone I could muster, “Surprising her sounds like a great idea! I want to be there when you two finally connect. Where do you know her from?”

  He waved it away and winked. “A gentleman never tells.”

  I smiled, pretending to succumb to the allure of his flirtatious manner, while thinking that on the face of it, he was pretty darn cagey.

  “How about you? Did you know her before she started working here?”

  “No,” I said. “She applied for a job and got it, and she’s been here ever since!”

  “How long ago was that?”

  He’s playing me, I thought. He’s trying as hard to get information from me as I am to get some from him. “I’d have to look it up,” I said, fluttering my fingers. “I have no head for dates. Not at all.” I smiled again. “How’s your coffee?”

  “Hits the spot. Thank you.” He downed his cup, placed it on the butler’s table, and stood up. “Duty calls. I’ve got to go.”

  “I’m glad we had this chance to chat,” I said. “Are you off to work?”

  “Late for work is more like it.” When he saw that I intended to follow him, he added, “You don’t need to bother. I can find my own way out.”

  I shrugged. “No bother. Plus it’s another one of those pesky rules. No civilians are allowed to wander around unescorted.”

  He laughed and started down the spiral stairs. “A civilian, huh? I’ve been called worse.”

  I waved a final good-bye at the front door, watching as he crossed the lot to his Taurus. It had Massachusetts plates. I memorized the number, then jotted it down on a scrap of paper. Upstairs, I decided to solicit Wes’s assistance again.

  He picked up the phone on the first ring. “I was just going to call you. I’ve got nothing on Stene. He’s been with Dobson Corp. a little over three years. No wants, no warrants, no debt to speak of. Nothing. Did you get a something’s-fishy smell, or were you just asking on spec?”

  “I don’t know that I’d say on spec, exactly,” I replied. “It just seemed prudent to me. There’s something else, though. A man who says his name is Chip Davidson has been in to see Gretchen twice. Which tells me he doesn’t know where she is now—but wants to.”

  “So?”

  “So Chip was on edge and too familiar. He wouldn’t leave a message, and he avoided answering my friendly questions. I got his plate number. He drives a Taurus. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s a rental. Lots of car rental places have Tauruses.” I gave him the number. “There’s more. I’ve got his fingerprints—and his DNA—on a coffee cup.”

  Wes paused, and I could picture his thoughtful expression. “Tell me again why you’re suspicious of him.”

  “I felt immediately comfortable with him. He’s charming, but I starting sensing that he’s not charming-nice; he’s charming-glib, if you know what I mean. Also, he doesn’t look like the type to dye his hair, but I’m pretty sure he does. I mean, he’s polished, but he’s not a pretty boy, and he’s not punky or goth or anything. I know none of what I’m saying is conclusive—but taken together, it adds up to trouble. I’ll tell you what I think. I think he’s a con man.”

  “Worth a look, I guess,” Wes agreed without enthusiasm. “When can I get the cup?”

  “Now. I have to go to the bank,” I said, thinking that I needed to make a deposit. I told him the location. “Can you meet me there in fifteen minutes?”

  He could.

  I slipped a stubby pencil through the handle of Chip’s cup and picked it up. It tilted and wobbled. Using the eraser end of another pencil, I leveled the cup and carried it gingerly to the sink, slowly tipped it sideways to drain the last few drops of coffee, and gently lowered it into a plastic bag, the kind we keep in stock by the thousands for packaging purchases at the tag sale. I twisted the plastic tie into a screw and held up my prize.

  Gotcha, I thought.

  _____

  Wes seemed underwhelmed as he dangled the plastic bag and stared at the pretty cup.

  “I’m still not sure I get the significance,” he said. “You’re asking me to call in a favor to check prints and DNA on this coffee cup because some guy came into your place twice to ask about Gretchen, have I got that right?”

  “Well, yes, but it’s not just that. It’s the way he asked. Besides which, what harm can it do to check?”

  Wes shrugged. “I only get so many favors, you know?”

  I nodded, understanding his point. “Obviously, there’s a lot that we don’t have a handle on. While it’s possible that Gretchen has some kind of guilty knowledge of the murder, I just don’t believe it.” I held up a hand. “I know, I know. Whenever a polite young man is arrested for a crime, everyone says how quiet he was and how surprised they are. I get it, Wes, but that’s not this. I’m talking about Gretchen. Think about it—she’s not some stranger. She’s someone I’ve worked with for four year
s.”

  “I think you’re off track, Josie. I know you like her and everything, but you’re sounding pretty starry-eyed, you know?”

  I turned away from his penetrating gaze, not wanting him to see how his words dashed my hopes. “What do you think?” I asked, my eyes still averted.

  “Gretchen is a stranger. Her identity is only four years old. She’s likable, warmhearted, and a good employee, but you don’t know anything about her, not really. Think about it objectively, Josie. She comes back from vacation but doesn’t show up at work. You don’t know why. You’re just making it up to suit the picture you hope is true.”

  If he was right and this was just wishful thinking, I was engaged in one of the most dangerous of indulgences—self-deception. I couldn’t think of what to say.

  “The police have verified that the victim’s fingerprints match prints found in the Chevy,” Wes said.

  I looked up. That was new information.

  Wes nodded, then continued. “From what we can tell, the dead guy is Sal Briscoe—unless, like we talked about before, he stole the car from Sal Briscoe and that’s why his prints are inside the car, or he was in the car because he’s Sal Briscoe’s buddy or something.” Wes shrugged. “Regardless, no one seems to know who Sal Briscoe is. He’s not in the federal databank, and he doesn’t have a record in Tennessee. The police are still checking other states.” Wes shrugged again. “Gretchen’s friends are no help. No one knows anything.”

  I shook my head, saddened and frustrated: “Do you think Chip is worth checking out?” I asked.

  Wes opened his car door and placed the cup on the passenger seat. “Yes.”

  “What about last night’s break-in? Any news?”

  “Vince has an alibi for that, too. He was with Mandy all evening.”

  “She’d lie to protect him.”

  “I know. The police think so, too.”

  “Do you mean the police think he’s involved?” I asked.

  “Yes, but not for publication. They’re looking into both his alibis.”

  “What about his motive? Why would he break into my place?”