Killer Keepsakes

by Jane K. Cleland

  “He hasn’t heard any rumors of it being offered for sale?”

  She shook her head. “No, but he said he’d be on the next plane once we had it back in hand.”

  “From his mouth to God’s ears,” I said. “Was he helpful?”

  “Yes. Very—if our goal was to authenticate it.”

  “Does it help us find Gretchen?”

  “I don’t see how.” She glanced at her notes. “He has documentation that the vase King George II gave Henrietta Howard was acquired by a small museum outside of London in 1767—that’s the year she died—then deacquired for unknown reasons in 1883. The museum sent it to auction, where it was acquired by an American woman named Shirley Bosley. Mrs. Bosley was from Cheyenne, Wyoming.” Sasha smiled shyly. “That’s where Dr. Johns lost track of it. He didn’t get a whiff of Faring Auctions.”

  “Wow,” I said. “So provenance is almost set. Good job, Sasha.”

  She blushed a little. “Thanks, but it was your idea to call him.”

  “Good job to both of us, then.” Sasha is right, though, I thought. It doesn’t bring us any closer to finding Gretchen.

  Eric called from the warehouse. “I wanted to show you a mark on the stained glass window we got from Phil’s Barn. I think it’s just dirt, but I’m not sure how to clean it.”

  “I’m glad you asked,” I said, thinking how lucky I was to have such a conscientious worker, “but you know what? We need to hold off on doing anything with it—in fact, we need to hold off on all the architectural artifacts we got from Phil’s. There’s some question about whether everything has clear title.”

  “Okay. I’ll crate up the window to keep it safe.”

  “Good idea. Pack up the doorknobs and locks, too, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  When I hung up, I saw that Cara was frowning at the computer.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  She looked up, surprised. “No, everything’s fine. It’s this formatting.” She smiled a bit. “I’m getting a little frustrated. I want a page number at the top of each page, but then when I edit the document—this is the sales summary report you asked for—the page numbers no longer line up properly.”

  “Believe it or not, I know how to do that! Let me show you.” I selected “Page Number” from the “Insert” pull-down menu, checked the correct box, and closed the window. “That’s it!”

  “I can’t believe it’s that easy!” she said, her pleasure at learning apparent—a fair measure of the potential of a new employee, I thought.

  “Whenever you have a question, please ask. Sasha and Fred know a lot about the software we use, too. Don’t wait until you’re frustrated, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks, Josie.”

  Her frown was gone. Maybe Cara would consider staying on permanently, I thought. That would free up Gretchen to take on more responsibility with our outsourced vendors. Instead of just coordinating the details, she could supervise the relationships. That would free me up to do more outreach to grow the business. When Gretchen gets back, we can talk about it. When Gretchen gets back, I repeated. When she gets back.

  “I’ll be upstairs,” I said and headed toward the warehouse entrance.

  As I approached the door, I glanced at the framed Antiques Insights cover art and smiled. What a great milestone, I thought. For all of us. We all look pretty good, too. It was a tribute to the photographer the magazine sent to take the shot.

  Then I noticed something that had never registered with me before—Eric’s elbow had been cropped out of the photo. I’d thought that he’d felt so embarrassed at being in the limelight, he’d tried to remove himself from the photo, but I’d been wrong. From his demeanor I could tell that he was, in fact, embarrassed, but that wasn’t the only reason why the photo conveyed the impression that he was hiding off to the side—it was a function of the way the photo had been cropped.

  I pushed through the door into the cavernous space. Inside, it was cold and echoey and dim. I waved to Eric, carefully wrapping the stained glass window in protective plastic. Suddenly I was struck by a memory and stopped short.

  In the Denver Globe photo I’d found, Gretchen was standing with the fellow from the Denver Reads! program and Amelia Bartlett. On the right, there was a pair of clapping hands, but the person doing the applauding stood out of range. I hadn’t thought about that missing person before. Who was it? Another employee? Someone shy like Eric who positioned himself as far away as possible from the central figures?

  During my first year at Frisco’s, as part of my training, I’d observed a photographer as he struggled to capture the detail in a glistening nineteenth-century cut crystal decanter set. No matter what lighting or backdrop he tried, shadows striped the glass, rendering the images unusable. Finally, satisfied that he’d tried everything he could, he turned the best of the photographs over to an artist who’d meticulously, dot by dot, retouched the image to eliminate the shadows while preserving the integrity of the rendition. When we got it back, I was dazzled by the accurate representation the artist had achieved.

  Then, all at once, I’d exclaimed, “Look!”

  In a corner of the photograph, glistening in a highly polished silver mug, was a tiny, shimmering image of myself. Our attention had been so completely riveted on the distracting shadow, we hadn’t noticed the out-of-place reflection. I called the photographer to share the bad news.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll crop it out.”

  I’d known what cropping was, of course, but I hadn’t known how frequently it was used. As I watched him eliminate the mug, I realized that any part of any photograph could be removed and no one would ever know what wasn’t being shown.

  I charged up the spiral stairs, so excited I could hardly breathe. Upstairs, I brought up the Denver Globe article and stared at the clapping hands. They were smooth and soft-looking. They belonged to a young woman who wore no rings and had manicured nails. Who was she?

  According to the credit, someone named Helen Mishenko had taken the photograph.

  I Googled “Helen Mishenko” and “Denver Reads!” and easily found the nonprofit organization’s Web site. From its home page, I visited the “picture album” page. Twenty-odd photos in, I came to the one I sought, uncropped.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered, incredulous. I held on to the edge of my desk. I blinked, then I blinked again. “Oh, my God,” I repeated.

  Then I got mad.

  I felt snookered, the way I’d felt when, as a green freshman, I’d eagerly accepted a beauty school’s free makeover offer. When I’d showed up and discovered that my “free makeover” was nothing more than a haircut and blow-dry based on the lesson of the week, I’d walked out. I’d been eighteen at the time, and I’d learned that when something was offered for free, usually you’d be lucky to get your money’s worth.

  Now, staring at the photograph, I realized that I’d been played. There, off to the right, applauding enthusiastically, stood Lina.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  T

  he Denver Reads! caption read “Amelia Bartlett, owner of Denver’s Rosebud Antiques Shoppe, presenting Executive Director Marcus Linden with a generous donation as store employees Marie Boulanger and Iris Gibbons look on.”

  I shut my eyes for a long moment to gather my thoughts, then turned to the window and watched the weak April sun flicker on the branches of the pine trees that ringed the parking lot. Lina, I thought, shaking my head. Things would have been so much easier if she’d trusted me.

  Seeing her photograph explained so many mysteries. Clearly she and Gretchen were friends; they’d left Denver together and stayed together. In just a few minutes, I had the outline of a plan. The first step was getting Lina out of the way.

  The woman who answered the Bow Street Emporium’s phone had an appealing English accent. When I asked for Lina, she said, “Just a sec, luv,” and placed the receiver on the counter. While I waited I heard her tell someone, presumably a customer, “Thanks
ever so much.”

  “Hello?” Lina said, turning the word into a question.

  “Hi, Lina. It’s Josie. I’m just checking in. How are you doing?”

  “Okay,” she replied, but she sounded tense and worried.

  “You can’t talk, right?” I asked.

  “Right.”

  “Okay. I just wanted to know if you had any news.”

  “No.”

  “In case I need to reach you later—do you get off at six today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks, Lina. I’ll be in touch.”

  Okay then, I told myself. I told Cara I had to go out for a while and ran to my car.

  Driving into Portsmouth, I had to concentrate to keep from speeding. I parked in the central garage, then hurried toward Market Street. The street and sidewalk were wet with liquefying snow. At the corner of Bow Street, I whipped into the alley that ran between the Blue Dolphin and the river, nearly slipping on the slick pavement. The restaurant had positioned a huge copper tub filled with tall plantings at the mouth of the alley. I stepped behind it and leaned against the mellowed brick wall. I had a clear view of the Bow Street Emporium.

  I looked over my shoulder. No one else was in the alley. I nodded, satisfied.

  Keeping my eyes on the store, I dialed Detective Brownley at the Rocky Point police station.

  “I have news,” I said. “Pretty astounding news, actually. You know the woman who disappeared at the same time as Gretchen, right after Amelia Bartlett’s murder, Iris Gibbons?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s Lina.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. “What makes you think so?” she asked after a long pause.

  I explained. “There’s no question about it—it’s Lina.”

  She didn’t speak. Through the shop window, I could see Mandy talking to a customer.

  “I’m pretty sure Lina’s at work,” I added.

  “I spoke to Brice,” she said, unexpectedly shifting gears.

  “Great guy, isn’t he?”

  “Very. Are you sure you don’t know how to reach Chip Davidson?”

  “No. I mean yes, I’m sure. I’ve asked him for his phone number more than once, but he always says he’s hard to reach, doesn’t have a cell phone, and will be in touch with me.”

  Another pause. “Thanks, Josie,” she said and ended the call.

  I settled in to wait. The sun shone past me, dappling the snow-tipped cobblestones. I was glad I was wearing a sweater under my coat.

  I was sure Detective Brownley would reach the same conclusions I had. The difference was that she’d need a court order. I was going to rely on persuasion.

  Eight minutes after we hung up, Detective Brownley pulled up in an unmarked car and parked illegally in front of the shop. Griff parked his patrol car right behind her. They entered the shop.

  I held my breath, then reminded myself to breathe, then found I was holding my breath again. After five agonizingly long minutes, Detective Brownley stepped outside just ahead of Lina. Griff comprised the rear guard. Lina, sickly pale, was placed in the back of the patrol car. Mandy’s face appeared at the window, her nose pressed against the glass. She looked dazed.

  I hurried back to my car and drove to Lina’s apartment, parked on a side street with the building in my direct line of vision, and dug my cell phone out of my tote bag. Before I could make my call, it rang. It was Wes.

  “I picked up a report from my police scanner that Lina’s been taken in for questioning,” he said. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Yes. I was going to call you, but I can’t talk now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can, Wes. I promise.”

  “Josie!” he whined.

  I flipped the phone closed to end the call, then opened it again and was midway through dialing Lina’s home phone number when Wes drove up.

  I froze.

  He parked directly in front of Lina’s house and jumped out of his car. He ran onto the porch and pushed the bottom buzzer. I counted twenty before he pushed it again, then, after a ten-count, he pushed both of the other units’ buzzers. Thirty seconds and two pushes later, he walked to the house next door, another triple-decker, and tried his luck there. Everyone was at work, it seemed. Wes walked to the next unit, a duplex, apparently determined to get a quote about Lina from a neighbor.

  I didn’t have the time to allow it. The Rocky Point police might show up at any moment, search warrant in hand. I couldn’t proceed with him here, and I couldn’t wait for him to finish his canvass of the neighborhood.

  I called him and watched as he eagerly checked the number on the display and answered.

  “Hi, Wes. It’s Josie. Sorry about that. Listen, I do have information, and if you can meet me at my office, I’ll fill you in.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I can’t talk on the phone, but we can be private in the parking lot. Can you come now?”

  He glanced at his watch, then surveyed the dwellings on his left, the direction he’d been headed when I’d called him, then turned to assess the ones to his right. Suddenly I realized that if I could see him, he could see me, too. I scrunched down, crossing my fingers that he wouldn’t look in my direction, and if he did, that he wouldn’t recognize my car.

  “It’s important, Wes.”

  “I’ll be there in ten,” he said decisively.

  I stole a look over the dashboard in time to see him trot to his car. I held my breath until he was out of sight. I felt a pang of guilt at sending Wes on a wild goose chase, but I needed Lina’s neighborhood to myself. I’d make it up to him later—in spades.

  I called Cara. “If Wes Smith comes into the office asking for me, tell him something came up and I’ll call him later, okay?”

  Now, I told myself. Now I rescue Gretchen.

  As soon as he was out of sight, I dialed Lina’s number.

  After six rings, a machine picked up and Lina’s voice invited me to leave a message. I shut my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. It was important to sound calm.

  “Gretchen,” I said after the beep, “it’s me, Josie. I think you’re there, at Lina’s. Are you? If so, let me in, or come out. I’m right outside in my car. Please . . . no matter what you did in Denver, no matter what you did here, let me help you.”

  I kept talking until the machine cut me off, my time up.

  I kept my eyes on the front door. Nothing. I felt overwrought with dashed expectations, my eyes welling with tears, but kept on watching the door. I was unwilling to give up hope.

  My concentration was so focused on the front, Gretchen was halfway down the driveway before I spotted her. She’d come from the back, carrying her purse and nothing else. I opened my car door and stepped into the street. I stood still, directly in front of her, fifty feet away. I smiled and used the back of my hand to whisk my tears away.

  Gretchen looked shell-shocked.

  I gestured that she should hurry, and she needed no additional urging. She sprinted toward me.

  I wanted to hug her but didn’t. I had pictured our reunion—she’d screech and embrace me, and we’d rock back and forth, and I’d jump up and down, unable to contain my joy. We didn’t have time for such luxury. I kept expecting to see a battery of police cars race onto the block.

  “Get in!” I called. “Hurry, get in!”

  I leaped into the car and shoved the passenger door open. She dove in. Before she could speak, I directed, “Squash down! You’ve got to stay out of sight.”

  Without hesitation, she tucked tight, so no part of her was visible above the dash board.

  Every inch of me wanted to floor it, but I didn’t. I drove like a little old lady, well below the speed limit and pausing for an extra-long time at stop signs.

  I didn’t speak until we were on the interstate. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Gretchen. I’ve been sick with worry.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her words in
distinct. “Where are we going?”

  “Ty’s. We can hole up there while we figure out what to do next. He’s at work in Boston. He won’t be back ‘til much later.” I snuck a look at her. Her position looked painful. “That looks really uncomfortable. It won’t be long.”

  “I’m okay.”

  Five minutes later, I used the spare remote to open Ty’s garage door. When I lowered the door behind us, I realized that my heart was beating so hard and fast it felt as if my ribs might break.

  “You can sit up,” I said. “We’re in Ty’s garage.”

  She unfurled herself slowly and turned to me, wide-eyed.

  I touched her arm. “Let’s go.”

  I led the way through Ty’s mudroom into the kitchen. I punched the codes into the alarm box to signal I was an authorized visitor, then reactivated the system.

  “Stand here for a sec while I lower the blinds and shut the curtains,” I told her, leaving her in a short corridor that connected the kitchen to the study. Starting in the kitchen, I went from room to room, turning on lights and closing out the outside world. “All clear,” I called as I reentered the kitchen.

  Gretchen walked slowly toward me, looking petrified. I’d never seen her in any other mood but buoyant, and it was harrowing to witness.

  “First things first. Are you okay?” I asked. “Physically, I mean. You’re not wounded or anything, are you?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “Second, are you hungry?” As soon as I asked, I realized that it was a singularly anticlimactic question, a probably futile attempt to return to normalcy.

  She shook her head.

  “How about some tea?”

  “That would be good.”

  She sat at the table while I started water boiling. For the first time I noticed she was wearing jeans with a tropical-patterned, short-sleeved bright red blouse. Exotic birds flew among jungle plants. It was pretty jazzy.