Killer Keepsakes

by Jane K. Cleland

  “How did he sound?”

  “Friendly.”

  “Thanks, Cara. By the way, when I said that I don’t want to talk to any reporters, that includes Wes.”

  Cara nodded her understanding, her eyes alert and attentive.

  Chip sure is persistent, I noted. I thought back to last Saturday—Chip standing by the door methodically scanning the tag sale room, wholly absorbed in his efforts. His fierce concentration had reminded me of something. What? It was on the edge of my memory, elusive, indistinct, yet there.

  Then, all at once, I remembered: He’d reminded me of a pilot seeking motion—or rather, in this case, recognition—and he wore a small airplane pin on his lapel. What if he wasn’t just acting like a pilot? What if he was a pilot?

  I Googled “Siva International” and called the 800 number that popped up.

  “I’m looking to rent a car in Burlington, Massachusetts. Can you tell me where your rental counters are located?”

  “We only have one location in Burlington, at the Galleria. Would you like to make a reservation?”

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  Like dominoes falling in perfect alignment, an idea came to me fully developed. The narrowed cast of Chip’s eyes, squinting as if he were staring into the sun. A barely noticeable lapel pin. My insurance company’s security requirements. A rental car from a suburb north of Boston.

  I turned to my computer, but before I could open my online address book, Cara buzzed up. It was Mandy, and she said it was urgent.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  V

  ince has been arrested,” Mandy said, sounding as if she might burst into tears.

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Grand larceny. They say he’s been stealing artifacts from where he works, but I know that’s not true. He sold them on his boss’s orders.”

  “Maybe he didn’t tell the truth about how much they sold for.”

  “Lie to his boss? Vince would never do that!”

  I shook my head. People create their own mythology. “If that’s true, then there’s no problem. His boss will confirm their arrangements, and that will be that.”

  I could hear her breathing on the phone. “Do you think he’s guilty?” she asked quietly.

  I hesitated, then said, “It looks that way.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I really love him.”

  “Grand larceny is a pretty serious charge.”

  “Are you saying that you think I should leave him?”

  “What do you think?”

  “How can I even consider it when he’s in trouble? That’s so not right.”

  I thought about how to reply. I didn’t want to pour salt on her wounded heart, but neither did I want to sugarcoat the situation. Everyone’s different, I thought. What might send me running for the door might be a minor inconvenience to Mandy. Who am I to judge? “Only you can decide that, Mandy. I’m not you, and it’s such a personal decision.” I took a deep breath. “To be fair, though, an arrest is not a conviction.”

  “That’s a good point. I’ll wait until after the trial. I’m sure he’ll be found not guilty.”

  I couldn’t think of how to respond. Denial, I thought, your name is Mandy.

  We ended the call with an exchange of good wishes and an agreement to talk soon.

  Time was of the essence if I was going to check out my idea about Chip. I suspected that Vince would be out of jail soon. His bail might be high, but he would pay it and be out.

  I found the security company’s phone number, and called my contact, Dobby. “Can I take a look at last Saturday’s tag sale security video?” I asked.

  “Sure. Any particular time of day, or do you want it all?”

  “Morning. From nine to ten. All three cameras.”

  “Sure thing. Hold a sec.” I heard tapping as he entered my search criteria into his system. “The files are too big for e-mail, so I’ll post them to our FTP site and e-mail you the retrieval instructions.”

  Cranston Security, following my insurance company’s directions to record all activities involving the public, had hung three cameras in the tag sale room. One was placed high up on the rear wall aimed directly at the front entrance; the second was perched over a side window and faced the cash registers; and the third rested on a ledge over the main door and photographed anyone who entered or departed through the warehouse entryway. Each camera took high-resolution black-and-white still photographs every three seconds.

  I thanked Dobby, and within minutes I’d downloaded all three files.

  Chip Davidson had been standing by the front door scanning the room when I’d entered from the inside door, so I started with the camera mounted on the back wall. One at a time, I clicked through the still shots. I watched as a mother and daughter pushed through the door, early birds eager to find bargains. They were frequent customers, and I smiled as I watched their progress in the sequential shots. Next came three older women, laughing and chatting as they shopped. I continued to click through the photos until Chip Davidson appeared. I viewed them all, then selected one that showed him full face.

  I right-clicked to save the image to my desktop, cropped it tight around his head and shoulders, then printed it out on glossy paper.

  I slipped the photograph into a clear plastic sleeve, then cropped and printed a shot of Gretchen from our December holiday party, her eyes alive with joy, and eased it into the sleeve so the two images were back to back.

  Time for a road trip, I thought.

  Harrison Air Field in Burlington, Massachusetts, had grown up.

  When I was a girl, it had been an airstrip with a sometimes-open coffee shop called Olson’s that served stale doughnuts and burnt coffee. I’d always figured the two Olson brothers who ran the joint bought the day-old stuff at the grocery store, so the doughnuts really were stale and the coffee really was burnt. No one cared. Back then, it was all about flying. My dad had frequently taken a chartered four-seater from Harrison to his meetings in New York City, and my mom and I had often seen him off. Thinking of those two young men who’d worked so hard at the food stand to help pay for their flying addiction made me feel old. I missed seeing them.

  Now Harrison was a busy regional airport, and the coffee shop was a professionally run concession called Amstead’s. According to a sign on the door, it was open regular hours, and from what I could see as I walked past, it served cooked-on-the-spot standard fare.

  Just before security, I spotted a door labeled OFFICE. A woman about my age sat at a big desk doing something with a topographical map. There was a brass tent-shaped sign on her desk that read JENNY MARSH.

  She looked up and smiled. “Hi, there,” she said.

  “Hi. I’m Josie Prescott. I have a few questions about a flight last Friday. Are you the right person to ask?”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “What time it landed, who was the pilot, where it came from, that sort of thing.”

  “Scheduled or private?”

  “Private,” I said.

  “You want to talk to Brice. Brice Trumbull.”

  She directed me to a metal hangar at the back of the airfield. A twelve-foot-high chain-link fence with barbed wire on top was bolted to both sides. A wind sock mounted to the roof fluttered toward the south. A weathered sign over a glossy red door read TRUMBULL’S AVIATION.

  A tall, thin man, about fifty, opened the door to my knock and stepped back with a jaunty flair to let me enter. “Hello, there,” he said.

  His skin was the color of honey. He was bald. He had a scar on his cheek, a puckered circle, like maybe he’d been struck by a pebble kicked up from a plane taking off back when Harrison was still a flyboy airfield. I didn’t know him, but I knew his type. He was a devil-may-care flying nut, you could just tell.

  BRICE was embroidered on the pocket of his green jumpsuit.

  “I’m betting you’re Brice,” I said, smiling.

  “How’d you know?” he asked, smiling
back.

  “I’m Josie Prescott. Brice, I have my fingers crossed that you’ll help me by answering a few questions.”

  “Come on in and tell me about it.” He led the way across the cold concrete floor to a ripped leather sofa positioned kitty-corner to the field entrance. “Want a cup of coffee? It tastes bad, but it’s fresh-made.”

  “With a recommendation like that, who could resist?”

  “Have a seat,” he said with an easy grin. He reached over to a Mr. Coffee machine that looked older than me and poured steaming black liquid into a foam cup.

  “Do you remember the Olson brothers?” I asked.

  “Hell, yes. You know them?”

  “From when I was a kid. My dad always said their coffee was the worst in the world.”

  Brice laughed. “Your dad had the right of it, all right. That’s why I got myself a Mr. Coffee.”

  “What are they doing now, do you know?”

  “Last I heard they moved to Florida. That was about ten years ago. They were smart boys. I’m sure they’re doing well.” He put the pot down. “I only have that powder stuff—what is it? Coffee-mate. Want some?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, hoping the coffee wasn’t too awful.

  “Sugar?”

  “Nope. Black is fine.”

  He pulled up a wooden chair and straddled it backward, his arms resting on the back rung, facing me. “So, what can I tell you?”

  “When did this man arrive on Friday?” I replied, showing Chip’s photo.

  He stared at it, then rubbed his nose and looked up at me. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I think he’s involved in the disappearance of my friend.” I flipped the sleeve to show Gretchen’s picture.

  “Fine-looking woman,” he remarked.

  “She’s a wonderful woman—and she’s missing.”

  He nodded. “He arrived around two in the afternoon.”

  I smiled in relief. “What’s his name?”

  “He was flying a Dragon 850A, a beauty. I never forget a plane.”

  “Can you look up his name?” I asked.

  “Don’t need to. Don’t forget names, neither. His is Chip Davidson.”

  “Where did he fly from?”

  “Harrisburg.”

  “Pennsylvania?” I asked, mystified.

  “Yup, but that don’t mean nothing. He might have come from anywhere, and Harrisburg was his last stop.”

  I nodded, understanding. “When’s he planning on leaving?”

  “He didn’t say. He paid for a week, a little extra, too, ’cause he asked me if I could have his plane ready to go on an hour’s notice.”

  About how long it would take to drive from Rocky Point, I thought. “Can I see the plane?”

  “Sure, but I can’t let you in it.”

  “I understand.”

  We walked out to the field. I carried my coffee with me. To my surprise, it tasted pretty good. About twenty planes ranged over a quarter mile of concrete, separated from the active runway by a locked gate. Mounds of melting snow dotted the perimeter.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing to the fourth plane in.

  “It has markings on it,” I observed, “and numbers.”

  “Right. That’s how the pilot identifies himself to the tower.”

  “Can I look it up somewhere?”

  “Sure. Easy.”

  “Can we do it now?”

  Brice took me to his work area, a small enclosure configured using shelving units. He sat at an old wooden desk. I sat on a wooden chair next to him. He tapped a few instructions into the computer, brought up an official registry site, and entered the plane’s call numbers into the search window, and within seconds I had my answer. The plane was registered to Peter Boulanger of Evergreen, Colorado.

  Boulanger, I thought. He and Morgan must be related somehow, brothers or cousins, probably. I considered the time line. Chip—whose real name might be Peter—probably knew that Morgan had fled Denver after Amelia Bartlett’s murder and was in Tennessee using the name Sal Briscoe. If he also knew that Morgan was tracking his wife, Marie, and that he’d discovered her in Rocky Point using the name Gretchen Brock, well, then . . . when he heard the news that a man had been found dead in Gretchen’s apartment, he would have immediately headed for Rocky Point to see what was what. My logic was sound, I thought, but the conclusion it led me to was grim: The only reason I could think of for Peter to use an alias was that he intended to avenge Morgan’s murder.

  “Did he have anyone with him when he landed?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “How about a hotel contact? Did he tell you where he’d be staying?”

  He shook his head. “He didn’t say nothing about that. As soon as the paperwork was straight, he had me call him a taxi. I heard him tell the driver to take him to Siva’s, in the Galleria. Maybe they can tell you more.”

  I stared into space, trying to come up with another question. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. “I guess that’s that, then.”

  “Sorry I can’t help more,” Brice said.

  I patted his shoulder and smiled. “Are you kidding me? Brice, you’re the answer to a prayer. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You think he got that pretty girl?”

  “No, but I think he’s trying to get her.”

  Brice nodded. “You gonna find her first?”

  “I’m going to try like hell.”

  “Well, you need a quick getaway, you give me a call. I’ll fly you anywhere you want to go. Don’t need no hour’s notice neither.”

  “Thanks,” I responded, touched.

  I got a business card from my case and wrote my cell phone number on it. “If you hear from him, you call me, okay?”

  He tucked the card into his pocket. “You bet I will. Here,” he said, taking one of his cards from a little stand on the desk. “You need me, you holler.”

  The card was yellowed with age.

  “Thanks for the information, Brice—and the coffee. It’s pretty good.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s just better than I told you it was. I’ve learned the trick of managing expectations.”

  I smiled at Brice’s application of a well-respected business principle, paused for a moment, then said, “I’m going to need to tell the police, Brice.”

  “I got no problem with the police.”

  “Once the police get into it, reporters are sure to follow.”

  “Free publicity.”

  I smiled again and extended my hand. “You’re something special, Brice,” I said.

  “Nah. I just try and do the right thing.”

  He walked me to the door and watched as I got settled in my car. He smiled and waved as I pulled out of the lot, heading north. Something way special, I repeated silently.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I

  pulled over and set my blinkers before calling Detective Brownley.

  “I have information about the man calling himself Chip Davidson,” I told her. After recounting my conversation with Brice, I added, “It looks like his real name is Peter Boulanger. I’m guessing that he’s the dead man’s brother, out for revenge. Since he’s been calling or coming by my business every other minute asking for Gretchen, I bet he thinks she killed him and wants her blood.”

  “What’s Brice’s full name and number?” she asked coldly.

  I fingered the yellowed card and read off the information.

  “So let me get this straight. You went down there because he scanned your tag sale room like a pilot scans the sky? Do I have that right?”

  “Also because he wore an airplane lapel pin and because his Taurus was rented in Burlington, Massachusetts.”

  “Just how do you know about the Taurus?” she demanded, sending my heart plunging.

  I couldn’t tell her the truth—that Wes had filled me in—and I wasn’t willing to lie. “Does it matter?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry, I c
an’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  I could hear Max telling me to be quiet. “I have nothing else to add, Detective. Except that Brice was really helpful.”

  “Tell me this—did you get the information from someone in this department?”

  That I could answer. “No.”

  There was a long pause, then she said, “You should have called me before you went down there.”

  “If I’d called and said that a man named Chip had stood in my building looking around like a pilot so I wanted to check out an airport in a different state, you would have laughed me out of town.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she said quietly, her anger replaced by solemnity. “I would have gone with you.”

  “Really?” I asked, pleasantly surprised. “I figured you would have told me to butt out.”

  “Next time, call me first.”

  I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure I believed her.

  “And tell your buddy Wes Smith that if he learned about the Taurus from someone on my team, heads are going to roll.”

  My stomach tightened. I was on precarious ground, and I knew it. “You tell him yourself, Detective. It’s none of my business. You have no reason to think that Wes told me anything.”

  “Are you saying Wes didn’t tell you?”

  “I’m saying nothing.”

  Another pause. “Next time, call me before you do anything on your own.”

  I was glad to get off the phone. I could sense her disapproval. I could understand her concern.

  I didn’t call Wes until I was back in New Hampshire. I owed him an exclusive, but I wanted Detective Brownley to have a head start.

  As soon as I stepped into the office, Cara handed me a sheaf of message slips.

  “More reporters,” she said. “I told them you had no comment.”

  I flipped through the messages. “I’ll be upstairs,” I told her.

  Sasha was on the phone but held up a finger to arrest my progress. I nodded and listened to her end of the conversation.

  “Thank you again, Dr. Johns,” she said. “Yes, certainly . . . we’d love it. Absolutely. Josie may call you herself if she has additional questions . . . you, too . . . bye-bye.” She looked up at me, smiled, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “That was Dr. Johns. He wrote that dissertation you found. He’s an associate professor at Maxwell State University outside of Chicago, and he was pretty darn excited to hear about the vase.”