Killer Keepsakes

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Not anymore. She was with the DA’s office for years, but she just went private. She’s good.”

  “Okay.” I glanced at Max. “May I ask about what happened?”

  “If Gretchen feels like telling you, that would be all right. She’s given the police a signed statement, so she’s free to speak.” He turned to face her. “As long as her story doesn’t vary—even a millimeter—from her statement.”

  I turned to Gretchen. “Could you tell me about it?”

  She shrugged. “Talking seems so pointless, but I don’t mind.” She took a deep breath. “On Wednesday, I took the bus from Logan Airport, and Lina picked me up at Portsmouth Circle. She drove me to the Heron dealer. We got there about one. My car was ready. I paid for it, and I drove home. As soon as I stepped into my apartment, I saw Morgan on the couch. Dead.” She shivered and hugged herself. “I couldn’t believe it! I thought I’d escaped from him, and then after all these years—he found me. Except now he was dead.” She sighed. “I grabbed my suitcase, drove to Lina’s, and hid my car in her garage. I let myself in with my key. I’ve been there ever since.” She blinked. “That’s all I know.”

  “What about the luggage tag I found in your hallway?”

  She looked blank for a moment, then said, “Oh. I’d taken that off at the airport while I was waiting for the bus. There wasn’t a trash can nearby, and I hate to litter, so I just tossed it in my tote bag.” She shrugged. “When I got back, I had it in my hand, ready to throw away. I must have dropped it.”

  “Do you know where Lina was that morning, before she picked you up?”

  “I wouldn’t allow Gretchen to speculate on Lina’s whereabouts to the police, and I won’t allow her to do so to you,” Max informed me.

  A ghost of a smile crossed Gretchen’s face. “It’s okay, Max. She got a manicure. She had a hot date that night.”

  I nodded, thinking. “Did they ask you about the milk?”

  “Yes,” Max said. “We don’t know anything about milk. What do you know?”

  I shrugged. “Not much. From what I hear, someone placed a carton of milk in your refrigerator,” I told Gretchen, glancing at Max. “From the date stamp and lot number, they know it was purchased nearby on Wednesday, the day you returned—the day Morgan was killed.”

  Max rubbed his nose, thinking, and didn’t speak.

  “It must have been Mandy,” Gretchen said. “That was awfully nice of her, wasn’t it?”

  “Completely,” I agreed, “but why do you think it was her?”

  “Well, it wasn’t Lina, because she would have mentioned it to me, and there’s no one else it could be. They’re the only two people who have keys. Besides the property manager, I mean. Mandy and Lina split up the plant-watering duty. Mandy must have stopped by on her way into work that day.”

  As far as I knew, no one had checked whether Mandy’s fingerprints matched the one on the milk carton.

  “Do they both have keys or did they share?” I asked.

  “They each had one. I made a copy for Mandy just before I left. Lina’s always had one.”

  I nodded as a germ of an idea took hold. I put the thought aside and asked, “Were you inside Lina’s when that attempted break-in happened?”

  “Oh, God, it was terrifying. I didn’t know what was going on, just that Blitzie was going nuts. I hid in the bathroom. Thank goodness the neighbors called the police.”

  I extracted the plastic sleeve containing Peter Boulanger’s picture from my bag and showed it to her. She looked at his image, then at me.

  “That’s Peter, Morgan’s brother,” she said, taken aback. “Why do you have his picture?”

  “He’s here using the name Chip Davidson. He’s been asking for you.”

  Her eyes opened wide, but she didn’t speak.

  “I think he’s the one who tried to break into Lina’s apartment. He guessed you were there.”

  “How?” she asked. “How could he possibly have guessed?”

  “The other day, Lina and Mandy drove into Prescott’s just as Peter was leaving. He must have recognized Lina as Iris and tracked her down.”

  Gretchen stared at me, then slowly nodded. “That explains it. I didn’t know if the attempted break-in was related to Morgan’s murder or not.” She sighed, closed the folder, and slid it back to me. “Lina thought maybe we should just take off again, but we were so scared—scared to stay and scared to leave.” She laughed a little, an ironic sound, simultaneously self-mocking and resigned. “Having worked at Prescott’s, learning so much about computers and databases, and having had my fingerprints taken for the security clearance, I knew enough to know that getting ourselves established a second time wouldn’t be as easy as it was last time around.” She sat up straight. “Plus, it felt so unfair. Neither Lina nor I had done anything wrong, and we love our lives. We love New Hampshire. We wanted to stay.” She shook her head. “I kept thinking something would happen and it would all come out all right.”

  “It will,” I said. “I’m convinced of it.” I shot Max a look. He didn’t comment. I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “I spoke to Jack Stene.” I repeated what Jack said about wanting a rain check.

  “Just my luck, right?” she said softly. “I finally meet a great guy, and look at me. I’m a mess and I’m in jail.”

  “He knew all that, and he didn’t seem to care,” I said, smiling. “Is it okay for me to tell him you say yes to a rain check?”

  She sat up straight. “Absolutely,” she said. “Please tell him yes.”

  There was a knock on the door, and a uniformed guard poked his head in and said that our time was up. Gretchen hugged me, thanked me again, and was even able to smile a little as she left.

  Max walked me to my car.

  “I’m hoping to work out an arrangement with the Denver police tomorrow morning providing for Gretchen’s cooperation,” Max told me. “If I do so, and if the Rocky Point police feel that Gretchen has been open and honest with them, I’ll go back to court to ask that the question of bail be revisited. There’s no guarantee, of course, but if all goes as planned, Gretchen could be out as early as tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Max, you’re a wonder man. Thank you.”

  As I drove to Ty’s, I thought more about who might have killed Morgan. Mandy, I thought—or Vince. There was no one else.

  I was convinced that both Mandy and Vince had been in Gretchen’s condo the day Morgan died—Vince to install the light fixture, Mandy to water plants and drop off the milk. Either they entered and found a pugnacious Morgan inside, or they unlocked the door and Morgan forced his way in. Both men, Vince and Morgan, were violent by nature. Their first instinct, not their last, would be to fire up and attack.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  T

  he next morning, first thing, I checked out the online edition of the Seacoast Star. The headline wasn’t too bad.

  BROCK & NADLEIN ARRESTED

  BAIL DENIED, EXTRADITION POSSIBLE

  At least it doesn’t imply they were killers, I thought.

  Wes’s article summarized the current status of the investigation and bullet-pointed the facts about Amelia Bartlett’s murder in a sidebar. Another sidebar posed the question: “How Did Josie Prescott Know?” and described how my research led me to the original photo showing Lina and how I discovered Gretchen’s whereabouts.

  He quoted me as saying, “I can’t imagine that either Lina—Iris Gibbons—or Gretchen—Marie Boulanger—possesses criminal knowledge of anything. Back in Denver, they were young and afraid and they ran for their lives.”

  I looked out over the meadow. It was a sparkling sunny day, great for my spirits but bad for business at the tag sale. According to the thermometer Ty had mounted outside the kitchen window it was already 58 degrees. Nice, I thought. We might approach 70 by afternoon if we were lucky. The woods gleamed with a faint red glow, a sure sign of spring—red buds illuminated by morning sun.

  I walked Ty to the door. He was
off for another long day of mock emergency training, this time in Augusta, Maine, the need urgent enough to justify working on a Saturday.

  “See you tonight,” he said, touching my cheek.

  I listened until the sound of his SUV faded away.

  I poured coffee into my thermos and headed to my own house before going into work. I didn’t feel like wearing my usual attire—jeans and a work shirt. This fine spring day demanded khakis.

  As I drove home, an idea occurred to me. It worked once, I thought. I dashed upstairs to change, then stepped into the kitchen to check the time. According to the mahogany and rosewood clock mounted above the refrigerator, it was eight thirty. I smiled every time I looked at that clock. It had been one of my first “grown-up” purchases, a genuine Dan Chessman original, and it was one of my favorite possessions.

  Eight thirty. Early, I thought, but not too early. I called Mandy, who agreed to meet me for coffee.

  I retrieved the see-through sleeve containing Gretchen’s and Peter Boulanger’s pictures, the one I’d shown to Brice. I slid Gretchen’s photo out and set it aside. Using a soft cloth, I carefully rubbed the plastic until it was smudge-free, then slipped the sleeve into a folder for safekeeping.

  Mandy sat sipping from a heavy white mug. She looked just about done in.

  “I’m so glad you suggested meeting,” she said as I slid into the banquette. “I’m hoping you can fill me in.” Her hands trembled as she placed the mug on the table.

  “And I’m glad you were able to meet me,” I replied. Her eyes were rimmed in red. “I’ll tell you everything I can—but first, how are you doing? You look like you haven’t slept much.”

  She looked down for a moment, then said, “I’m pretty upset. Have you—” She stopped speaking as the waitress approached to take my order, then finished her thought. “Have you spoken to Gretchen or Lina?”

  “Gretchen, briefly. You know that they’ve both been arrested and that bail’s been denied?”

  “I heard that on the news, but why?”

  I explained their connection with the ongoing Denver investigation and said, “Gretchen’s lawyer thinks they’ll be able to get bail soon—maybe even today. What about Vince?”

  The waitress placed a mug in front of me. The coffee smelled good, rich and strong.

  “His lawyer thinks he’ll be released today, too. I’m expecting a call anytime.”

  She was frowning as if she were fighting a bad headache. “How are you feeling about him and the situation?” I asked, concerned for her. “Have you done any more thinking?”

  She shrugged. “All I do is think, but that doesn’t seem to get me any closer to knowing what’s best to do.”

  I nodded. “I hate that feeling—you don’t even know what to think about, am I right?”

  “Or how to weigh things. I want to make decisions with my heart, but then I think that’s stupid and I should use my head and ignore my heart. Then I decide I want to follow my heart, to be a trusting person. Then I end up exhausted and all mixed up.”

  Poor Mandy, I thought. “Have you spoken to the police again?”

  She nodded, looking as if she might cry. “They asked me about Wednesday all over again. Whether Vince went to Gretchen’s to put in the light fixture. Whether I was there, too. They wanted to fingerprint me.” She paused. “It was a nightmare. They asked about the break-in at your place, too, and the attempted one at Lina’s.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. Vince told me to refuse to answer questions and not to let them take my fingerprints.”

  “That must have been hard—to not answer, I mean. I know you want to help with the investigation.”

  She nodded. “Everything is hard—but Vince said that facts can be twisted, so I shouldn’t talk to them at all.”

  “Would you tell me one thing?” I asked, knowing that I was treading on dangerous ground. Neither the police nor Vince would approve of my questioning Mandy, but I was revealing no secrets since Wes had already published that Vince’s fingerprints were on the light fixture. “I’m curious about something. The police know that Vince installed the light fixture. His fingerprints are all over it. I’m wondering why—why did you give it to her?”

  She shrugged. “I only had room for one of them, and Gretchen loved the design, so we decided to give the other one to her.”

  “That was really nice of you—of both of you,” I said softly.

  “Thanks.”

  Her eyes were guileless. It was almost as if she were under Vince’s spell. She seemed able to think independently, yet when push came to shove, she did as she was told.

  I placed the folder on the table next to her mug and opened it up so Peter’s photograph was visible. “Do you know this man?”

  She picked up the sleeve and held it out in front of her. “No,” she said. “Who is he?”

  “His name is Peter Boulanger, but he’s been using the name Chip Davidson. He’s the dead man’s brother. Does either of those names ring a bell?”

  She shook her head. “No. Should they?”

  I finished my coffee and signaled the waitress for the check. “He’s involved somehow. I’m not sure how,” I said. “I’m not sure about a lot of things.”

  “I know that feeling,” she said with mordant humor, then added, “If you see Gretchen or Lina again, will you tell them I asked after them?”

  Mandy was such a sweet girl, spiraling down instead of rising up. Part of me wanted to shake her and ask if she couldn’t see how bad Vince was for her. The rest of me just wanted to hug her and wish her luck.

  “Sure,” I said.

  _____

  From the parking lot I called Cara to tell her I’d be late, then Wes who agreed to meet me at our dune in ten minutes.

  I waited in my car, and when he pulled in behind me with a jerk, I got out. We scrambled up the shifting sand. Once at the summit, I surveyed the beach ten feet below, but I saw no one. Spewed-up wet black-green seaweed littered the shore. A few pieces of sun-bleached driftwood were lodged, half hidden, under the tall grass that separated the dunes from the beach. The ocean was calm, the tide gently ebbing.

  “I need you to check something out, but it’s a tricky situation.” I met his eyes. “No joke, Wes. If it gets out in the wrong way, people may run. People may destroy evidence. People may kill. You’ve got to promise.”

  “Okay,” Wes said.

  “It’s Mandy.”

  “What about her?”

  I faced the ocean. Far out, I spotted a tanker heading south. “Gretchen told me something. You can’t write about it. It was told to me in confidence.”

  “No prob.”

  “I’m trusting you, Wes.”

  “I got it, Josie. Jeez. I heard you the first time.”

  “Okay. Here’s the thing. Except for the property manager, only Mandy and Lina had keys to Gretchen’s apartment. Lina was fingerprinted when she was charged as a material witness, so I’m assuming that the police checked whether her prints matched the one on the milk, am I right?”

  “Yup. According to my source, there’s no match.”

  I nodded. “So by process of elimination, it has to be Mandy’s fingerprint.” I handed him the folder containing the plastic sleeve. I’d removed Peter’s photograph. “Don’t touch the plastic. Mandy’s prints are all over it.”

  “Tell me,” Wes said.

  I explained my alternate theories of the crime, then said, “We can worry about the details of their alibis later.” I pointed to the plastic sleeve. “First we need to know if it’s Mandy’s fingerprint.”

  Wes nodded, his brain running full-tilt. “Gotcha. Good stuff, Josie.” He started off, then looked back at me. “You know my word is good, Josie—but if the print matches, it’s out of my hands.”

  “The police will pick her up.”

  “So quick your head’ll spin.”

  “Fair enough.” I paused, then asked, “Do you think it will match?”

 
He grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

  My next stop was Shirl Sheriden’s office to drop off a check for Lina’s retainer. Her receptionist, a short, white-haired woman, offered me a cappuccino.

  I accepted and sat down to wait. The cappuccino was good.

  Ms. Sheriden was a tall, voluptuous brunette, and she was a sharp dresser. Today she wore a royal blue suit with a pale peach blouse.

  “Come on in,” she said, smiling broadly, inviting me into her office. It was vast and modern. She favored blond wood and contemporary art. “Max called me,” she said, pointing to a chair, indicating that I should sit, “so I’m up to date.”

  “Then you know that I’m paying for Lina—I mean Iris’s—defense.”

  “Assuming she wants to retain me, yes.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No. I will soon. When I spoke to her, she asked me to call her Lina, by the way.”

  “So many different names—it’s confusing. Here,” I said, handing her the retainer check. “Max told me that he hopes to arrange bail for Gretchen today. Do you think you’ll be able to get bail for Lina, too?”

  She tapped the check on her desk, then looked at me and said, “This is awkward. You’re paying me, but you’re not my client, so I can’t comment on any aspect of either my strategic thinking or my tactical plans.”

  I nodded, disconcerted. “Right. Sorry.” I stood up. “I should go. ’Bye.”

  “Sit, sit. Just because I can’t talk to you doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me.”

  She smiled again, and I found myself smiling back. She radiated warmth and sincerity. I bet she was a superb litigator.

  “Assuming I take on Lina as a client, what can you tell me that will help me represent her well?’

  I sipped the frothy drink as I considered her question. “She’s loyal to Gretchen. She’s a great actress.”

  She wiggled her fingers. “Engaging opening,” she said, grinning. “Flesh it out.”

  “Loyalty—that one’s easy. Lina hid Gretchen for a week despite obvious personal risk to herself. The actress one—that’s more complicated and more disturbing. She’s maintained a fictional identity in perfect harmony with Gretchen for years, but it was all a fabrication, and I never suspected it. As an antiques appraiser, I’m trained to recognize liars. It’s not a perfect science, but I’m pretty good at it, and I had no clue.”