“Sorry, Chip,” I said firmly. “I don’t know anything. Is there any way I can reach you in case I hear from her?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m still moving around a lot.”
“How about your cell phone?”
“I don’t own one,” he replied, chuckling. “Can’t believe it, right? I’m a Luddite at heart. I’ll call you every once in a while to check in, if that’s all right. I’m pretty darned worried about her.”
My eye gravitated to Jack Stene’s business card, the one on which he’d scrawled his cell phone number. Jack’s openness contrasted positively with Chip’s reticence.
“Anytime,” I said, wondering once again how Chip fit in and what he wanted with or from Gretchen.
I spent the rest of the afternoon on edge, struggling to come up with ways to stay abreast of Detective Brownley’s investigation. I was jump-out-of-my-skin curious, but I couldn’t think of any approach that wouldn’t get me in trouble.
I thought of calling Wes, but since I hadn’t alerted him before or after I met with the police, I could only imagine how he’d react. Worse, the news was relevant and significant, so probably I’d end up as his lead in the next issue of the Seacoast Star.
I had no choice but to wait. I checked e-mail, then sent a howdy message to my pal Shelley in New York, a short-lived distraction. I was trying to decide what to do next when Fred buzzed up and asked me to come downstairs. In response to one of our ads soliciting dolls for our upcoming auction, a woman had arrived with an old Barbie.
“Sure. I’ll be right down.”
Barbie, the first-ever mass-produced teenage doll, was launched in 1959 at the American Toy Fair in New York City. She was an immediate hit and remains one of the nation’s most recognized brands.
As I entered the office, Cara was reciting the tag sale hours to a caller, then reading from the cheat sheet to explain how our instant appraisals worked. Fred was leaning against his desk, his tie loosened, chatting with a woman he introduced as Dana.
“I think it’ll turn to snow overnight,” Dana said as I joined them. “It’s getting bitter out there.”
She was about fifty-five, with brown hair that hung to her shoulders in soft waves. She wore jeans, a beige to-the-knee down coat, and work boots.
I introduced myself. “Thanks for coming in,” I said.
“Fred here tells me you might be interested in making an offer for my Barbie.”
Fred handed me a sheet from his notepad and stepped away from his desk so I could see the doll. I glanced down at the paper. Fred had written, “$2,000 max, okay?”
Barbie stood on a black circular pedestal and wore a gold brocade dress with a matching coat and hat. There were mink cuffs on the coat. She wore white gloves and pumps and carried a pale blue evening bag. She was a brunette. Standing beside her was a mint-condition orange-topped box decorated with silver and black silhouettes of Barbie.
“Is this your doll?” I asked.
“Yeah. It was a birthday present for my seventh birthday in 1959.”
I nodded. Laid out beside the box were two additional sets of clothes: a winter holiday set, complete with tartan plaid tote bag, and an Easter outfit including a patterned sheath dress, coat, shoes, and a gold-tone necklace.
“Everything looks to be in great shape.” I smiled. “It would seem you played with her very gently.”
Dana chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I never played with her at all. Sacrilege, right?” She chuckled again and shrugged. “I was a tomboy.”
“That accounts for the condition. Are the sets complete?” I asked Fred.
“Yes.”
I picked up the doll and looked at her bottom. The patent stamp was there—the doll had been manufactured during the first year of production. Since we were deep into planning for our upcoming auction, I was up-to-date with doll data, and I knew that this Barbie would sell at auction for about six thousand dollars, maybe even more. I turned to Fred and nodded. His price point was right on.
“Dana, do you have any thoughts about how much you’re looking for?” he asked.
She chuckled again. “Lots.”
When I’d first opened Prescott’s, I’d set a policy for taking the high road in our dealings. We never tried to deceive people. We were transparent in our pricing strategy: If a seller asked how we priced things, we told the truth, but people rarely asked. We never deceived anyone, but we also tried to never pay more than we had to.
Fred pursed his lips, thinking. He glanced at the doll. “We’d love to include it in the doll auction we’re planning. Based on its condition and scarcity, we can offer you fifteen hundred.”
“You’re kidding!” Dana responded, looking impressed, then cagey, as the thought that maybe she’d struck gold occurred to her. That happened sometimes when people had no idea what an object was worth or how the antiques business worked. “How about four thousand?” she countered.
Fred shook his head. “We don’t have a lot of room to negotiate. I can up the offer a little—say, seventeen hundred—but that’s as high as I can go,” he said, sounding disappointed, as if he expected the deal to fall through.
Looking at Dana’s ardent countenance, I thought Fred might be right.
Dana looked at me. “What do you think?” she asked me. “Don’t you think it’s worth more?”
“To a private buyer, maybe.” I shrugged.
“Maybe I should sell it on eBay or something.”
“That’s certainly an option,” I acknowledged.
“If I could get more for it on eBay, why should I sell it to you?” she asked, glancing from me to Fred, then back again.
I stayed quiet and let Fred handle it.
“A lot of people are happy selling on eBay or other auction sites, but, like most everything, it’s not as easy as it seems. You have to write a description and take photos and upload them. You have to be prepared to answer dozens of questions. Serious collectors may demand a written appraisal before bidding for an item likely to sell in this price range. You have to decide if you want to set a reserve price, and if so, how much that should be. If it sells, you have to pack it carefully and ship it, and most common carriers won’t insure antiques and collectibles over a certain age—like twenty years. Plus, don’t forget the costs; you’re charged whether the object sells or not. Then, after all is said and done, you may not get more for it. People expect bargains when they buy at an online auction.” Fred pushed up his glasses. “We pay cash.”
“That all makes sense,” Dana said, sounding disconcerted. She nodded. “Can we call it two thousand and be done with it?”
Fred paused, then said, “Yes.”
We completed the paperwork, and Dana left, thrilled to have cash in hand.
As we wrapped Barbie’s clothes in acid-free tissue paper and placed everything in the warehouse for further screening, I said, “That was masterful, Fred. Really well done.”
He grinned, left side up, giving him a debonair air. “Thanks,” he said.
Back in the main office, I glanced around, looking for something to capture my interest. The phone rang.
“It’s Wes,” Cara told me.
I nodded and took it at Sasha’s desk.
“I’m pretty upset, Josie.” His tone was so severe my heart flip-flopped.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You know what’s wrong—you didn’t call me. I was tempted to not call you either.”
I couldn’t speak openly, not with Fred and Cara in the room. “I can’t explain right now,” I said, my tone neutral.
“We need to meet.”
I looked through the rain-streaked window. “How about at Shaw’s?” I asked.
“Now?”
I glanced at the computer monitor. It was already three o’clock. “How about at five thirty?”
“It’s too important to wait. There’s been a new development—it’s about Gretchen.”
His somber tone frightened me. “Okay,” I said. “Now�
��s good.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
W
es and I stood in a corner near the front of the grocery store, next to the rows of shopping carts. People glanced at us as they dislodged each cart from its fellows, but no one questioned why we were huddling in the corner.
Wes stood with his arms crossed, looking as angry as he’d sounded. “Why didn’t you tell me what you found out about Vince?”
“I didn’t want my name in the paper.”
Wes shook his head. “Josie, fair’s fair. I tell you things. I tell you everything.”
He was right, and I felt a little guilty. “Did you learn about it from your police source?” I asked, avoiding a direct response by posing another question.
“My sources are confidential, but they’re reliable.”
I stared at his frigid countenance. “I was frightened, Wes,” I confessed quietly. “I still am. Vince scares me.”
“That’s good,” he said, reaching for the sheet of lined paper he used for notes. “Why?”
“That’s not a quote, Wes. That was my attempt to explain my reticence.”
“But it’s news.”
“Gimme a break, Wes! Everyone is scared of Vince. That I’m scared of Vince is not only not news—it’s old not news.” I sighed. “Listen, change of subject. You were terrific on the radio. Smart and competent.”
Wes smiled. “Thanks.”
“So,” I asked, “what do you know about Gretchen?”
“You first,” he said stubbornly. “Give me something.”
It occurred to me that negotiating with Wes was similar to negotiating in business. “What do you want?” I asked.
“An on-the-record report of how you figured out that Vince was lying about his alibi.”
I shook my head. “I can’t do that. I have sources that must be protected, too.”
“A quote, then. A substantive quote.” Wes pursed his lips and tempted me to talk with a nugget of what he had to offer. “The police have already interviewed Phil and Johnny at Phil’s Barn.”
“Did Phil confirm that Vince was lying?”
“I say nothing until I get my quote.”
“What about what you said—that you have news about Gretchen?”
Wes shook his head. “You first.”
“Okay. Here goes: From what I can see, there are many layers to this investigation,” I stated, paraphrasing Max’s comment. “A lot of deception seems to be at work.”
“That’s good, Josie,” he said eagerly, writing quickly, “but flesh it out. I need more.”
“That’s enough, Wes. You can summarize some of the areas of confusion—Gretchen’s role in Amelia Bartlett’s murder, why she might have got a new identity, and where she is now—and then close with my quote. Good stuff.”
“Maybe. Link up the break-in at your place and the attempted one at Lina’s for me.”
“I can’t imagine how they’re connected. Maybe the motive is buried under one of those layers.”
He nodded, making a note. “Yeah, that’ll work.” He finished writing and looked up. “Vince’s alibi might not be so airtight after all. Phil and Johnny confirmed what you hypothesized to the police. Vince is Phil’s supplier for the bulk of those building things—” He broke off and read from his notepaper. “Architectural artifacts. He went to Phil’s twice on Wednesday to sell stuff, once early in the morning, and once in the afternoon, after Phil had gone home sick. Since Phil wasn’t there, Vince did business with Johnny.”
“Vince can’t be the murderer,” I said, thinking aloud, “if he was all the way in Exeter when Morgan was killed.”
“Probably that’s right. There are two issues: Who was covering for Vince at his job site and why, and did he have time to both sell the artifacts and kill Briscoe—Boulanger? A carpenter named Lenny gave him the alibi. I think I mentioned before that the police did a minute-by-minute time line for Vince, and he was covered the whole time. Except Lenny lied. He said that Vince was with him for more than an hour discussing how to take down a double-wide staircase without destroying the railing and balusters. Now he says they discussed the staircase the day before and he covered for Vince because he’s his boss and he told him what to say.” Wes shrugged. “Apparently that happens a lot. Vince didn’t make an explicit threat, but since he has the ability to fire him, he didn’t need to.”
“The police believe him?”
“Yeah, because it fits. Apparently Vince ran the architectural artifact trade like a cartel. From Phil’s sales records and the building owner’s revenue reports, it looks like the owner got sixty percent of the take, Vince got thirty percent, and the guys on the job split the remaining ten percent. Except the owner thought he was getting it all. He’s already fired Vince and stopped all work on all his projects until the police can sort it out.”
“Has Vince been arrested?” I asked, awed at the speed with which the police got results.
“Yes. For trafficking in stolen property.”
Vince is going to be out for bear, I thought. Poor Mandy. “What about the time issue you mentioned?” I asked.
Wes shook his head. “It’s tight. He was on a routine call with his parole officer from eleven that morning until about eleven fifteen. The police can tell his general location by which cell phone tower transmitted the call, so they know he was either at his job site or close by the entire time. It takes an hour and a half to drive from the job site to Phil’s, then to Gretchen’s, then back to his company’s Rocky Point office, where he attended a one o’clock meeting. He was with Johnny for about fifteen minutes.” Wes shrugged. “It looks like he’s not the killer.”
I nodded. My information had helped uncover a crime, but it was a different crime from the one I’d taken aim at. I made a mental note to ask Max whether we would need to return the architectural remnants. I looked at Wes. “So we’re nowhere.”
“Not hardly,” he said. “The owner’s agreed to let the police search all the houses Vince had access to. Guess what they’re looking for.”
“More stolen goods?”
“Nope—Gretchen.”
My mouth fell open. “I thought we just proved that Vince couldn’t be involved.”
“We demonstrated that he probably couldn’t be involved. The police are taking no chances.”
I didn’t buy anything at the store. I jogged to my car and drove straight to Vince’s Rocky Point job site. As I drove south, the freezing rain turned into snow and visibility plummeted.
I turned onto Ocean Avenue. Avenue! Ocean Lane would be more apt, I thought, wondering how the narrow two-lane road had ever received such a grandiose label. I passed a dozen of the small weathered-wood bungalows and contemporary stilt houses that gave Rocky Point its eclectic feel.
When I reached the job site, I slowed to a crawl. The cluster of run-down old houses stood in vivid contrast to the well-maintained, upscale residences I’d just passed. These Victorian white elephants stood like silent behemoths, relics from an earlier time.
Up until the last quarter of the twentieth century, the 120-acre family-run Winton Farm had been a major producer of apples and blueberries. In 1870, young Josiah Winton, the scion of the family, built six houses on the eastern edge of the property for his relatives. The land abutted Ocean Avenue, and each house enjoyed an unobstructed view of the ocean. When the last Winton died in 1947, the entire kit and kaboodle passed to Hitchens College. Over the years, the college sold everything piecemeal to raise cash.
It took the company Vince worked for five years to buy up all six houses and twenty-seven acres of surrounding land. The acquisition included a hundred yards of beachfront property, with only Ocean Avenue separating the land from the dunes. It took them another two years to obtain the permits they needed to build a luxury condo development complete with a man-made lagoon and a private nine-hole golf course. They’d begun demolition only a month or so ago. One house was completely gone. The others were partially stripped, almost ready for the wrecking b
all.
As I approached, I saw that yellow and black police tape had been stretched from tree to tree, circling the houses, marking the border. I counted four marked police cars parked in driveways. Lights shone in all the houses.
The snow wasn’t sticking, but it was coming down thickly, and I was having trouble seeing through the white haze. There was nowhere to park, or even to pull over. Heading south, with the ocean on the left, there was no curb. Where the asphalt stopped, tall grasses, brambles, and wild roses grew in jumbled abandon. On the other side, the street led directly to crabgrass-covered private property.
I turned around and inched back past the work site at near-idling speed. I looked into each house, seeking out signs of life, but I saw nothing. Is Gretchen inside, a prisoner in a hidden basement? I wondered, horrified at the thought.
Wherever the police were working, it wasn’t near the windows. I made two more passes, and both times I failed to see any signs of life. Knowing I had no way to convince the police to let me join in on the search, I gave up and drove back to work.
Ty called. I set aside the catalogue copy I was proofreading. Sasha had done a great job—the cobalt glassware really came to life.
“Hey, Ty,” I said.
“I can tell by your voice, something’s wrong.”
“From two words?”
“Sometimes I can tell from one.”
I smiled from my toes. “How are you doing?”
“Better. I’m en route home.”
“That’s great! I was braced to hear about another delay.”
“Nope. I’ll be there in an hour or so, depending on the snow. Lots of black ice around. Want me to stop at the store?” he asked.
“Yes. I have almost nothing in the house. I’ll cook whatever you get.”
“You sure know how to woo a guy.”
I laughed. “Should you be talking on the phone while you’re driving? Is it safe?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m hands-free, and pretty much, mine is the only car on the road. So fill me in. What’s wrong?”
Killer Keepsakes Page 18
