“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.” I hung up.
Detective Brownley and two officers got out at the door, and the third drove away.
“I want the officers close by but out of sight,” Detective Brownley informed me.
Her cornflower blue eyes were clear and purposeful. As she issued instructions, she was capable and focused without being familiar in any way. She looked ready for anything.
The police officers sat on chairs we positioned just inside the warehouse. With the door open two inches, they had clear views of the front door and most of the office.
Detective Brownley sat behind the bank of storage cabinets in a space we jury-rigged by rearranging some furniture. She had direct sight lines for the entire room, but anyone entering the office from the outside would see only the storage cabinets and would have to walk fifteen paces or more to spot her.
Cara arrived about five minutes later, doughnuts in hand, and immediately began fussing around, brewing a pot of coffee and setting out napkins and plates.
Sasha stepped in. “Hi,” she said. She noticed Detective Brownley, then turned to me. “Is Gretchen here?”
“Not yet,” I said. “She’ll be here at ten.”
The chimes sounded. Eric entered the room, took in our group stare, and said, “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not late. You’re right on time,” I said.
Detective Brownley gathered us around and tersely explained her plan, instructing us to act normally, not to speak unless spoken to, and to follow police directions immediately and to the letter. She reviewed various “what if” scenarios including Chip showing up with an associate or not showing up at all, instead sending someone to fetch Gretchen under some pretense.
I sat at the guest table and tried to read an auction catalogue. I couldn’t finish a sentence. Mostly I stared into space.
After what felt like hours, Detective Brownley’s radio cackled. She turned it down and raised it toward her ear to listen. “There’s a spotter in the woods,” she announced to us. “Gretchen’s here. Any questions about my instructions? If so, now’s the time to ask.”
We had none.
The door opened, setting the wind chimes jingling. Gretchen stepped over the threshold, and pandemonium broke out.
Sasha flew to her, reaching her ahead of everyone else. Gretchen shrieked and jumped up and down, hugging Sasha, then Eric, then Fred, then Cara, then Sasha again. Everyone clapped and shouted and patted one another’s arms and backs. At first, I stood off to the side, awed by the camaraderie I was witnessing; then I joined in.
Gretchen began to cry. “I can’t believe I’m here,” she said. “It’s so wonderful to be back. I missed you all so much. It’s just so great to be back.”
After a while, I stepped back to look out the window. As the greetings and celebration continued to bubble around me, I surveyed the parking lot.
I had the same eerie sense of being watched that I’d experienced yesterday when I was standing outside with Wes. Itchy shivers raced up my back.
I couldn’t see police in the woods, but I found comfort in knowing the sentries were in position. Still, my anxiety lingered. There was no gold Taurus in sight. Chip wasn’t hiding behind a tree or vehicle that I could spot. I should feel relieved, I chastised myself. Gretchen is out and safe. There was nothing alarming, yet I felt a foreboding so strong that, for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
I joined the chattering group in time to see Cara hand Gretchen a tissue, then swiveled my head to take in Detective Brownley’s reaction. She wasn’t watching us. She had the radio pressed to her ear, alert for trouble.
After several minutes, the fever pitch of excitement moderated, and people began to sit down.
“So,” I said, taking a deep breath, then forcing myself to speak as if it were an ordinary day, “Detective, now what?”
“Go about your regular duties. The only difference is that you shouldn’t open a back or side door unless one of us is with you. Other than that, ignore us.”
As if, I thought. Okay, I need to show everyone that I’m calm. Or at least that I’m capable of acting calm. I need to lead by example.
I turned to Gretchen and smiled. “Did you know we found you through a belt buckle?”
Gretchen blinked several times, thinking. “The Indian in the headdress? Oh, my God! I’d forgotten all about that—Morgan always wore it. You were able to trace it?” She sounded incredulous. “That’s staggering, Josie.”
“Goes to show what you can do when you’re cheerful and persistent. That’s me—a friendly gnat. People find it’s easier to give me the information I want than to keep swatting me away.” She tried to smile, and it was a pretty good effort. “Anyway, back to work. Gretchen, you and I are going to put our heads together with Cara to discuss job duties. There’s a promotion in your future!”
“Me?” she asked. “Doing what?”
“Moving into managing client and vendor relationships.”
“Wow! I ought to leave town more often!”
“Not hardly,” I said, smiling. “Eric, what’s on your agenda?”
“Cleaning those bookends we just got in.” He approached Gretchen and touched her shoulder. “It’s good to see you,” he said, his eyes on his shoes.
“You, too,” she said softly.
Eric pushed through the door and disappeared into the warehouse.
“Fred, how about you? Dolls?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m still on the half-dolls.”
I turned to Sasha. “You, Sasha?”
Before my words faded away, Detective Brownley’s radio came to life. I watched as she raised it to her ear and listened.
“It’s Chip,” she reported a moment later, and in that instant the atmosphere changed.
Gretchen stood up. She was suddenly pale, and her eyes were clouded with fear. She didn’t speak.
The rest of us sat in apprehensive silence. I tried to think of something to do to maintain the illusion of normalcy. We’d be talking, wouldn’t we? I thought. Or reading. Or doing something. I didn’t move. None of us moved.
The chimes starting tinkling.
Chip walked in.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
H
is roots showed more black than before.
“A full house, I see,” he said, glancing around. His eyes found Gretchen and stayed there.
Her hands curled into tight fists. She looked terrified.
“Hey, there,” he said to her. “Long time no see.”
“Peter,” she said, using his real name, her voice one notch above a whisper.
“You look great, babe. You got a sec? We’ve got some catching up to do.”
I snuck a glance at Detective Brownley, still hidden from Chip’s view. She sat back, apparently relaxed. Her weapon rested in her lap.
No one spoke.
“Come on,” he said, waggling his palm. He was grinning, but I didn’t relax. His eyes were unforgiving. “For old times’ sake.”
I looked at his waistline for the telltale bulge. It was easy to spot. It was on the left, covered by his lightweight navy blue jacket. He’s a righty, I thought. He unzipped his jacket halfway, and at the sound, I sensed Detective Brownley tense up.
“Hi, Chip,” I said, stepping forward, because, if I were acting normally, that’s what I’d do.
He didn’t look at me. His eyes remained fixed on Gretchen. “Hey, Josie,” he said. “Come on, Marie. We’ve got to talk.”
She shook her head and stayed mute.
“Surely you’ll do me the courtesy of talking to me,” he said. “My brother—my only brother—ends up dead on your sofa, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”
“I don’t know anything,” she said softly. “Really. I know nothing.”
He shook his head, back and forth, back and forth, as if he were sad for her because she just didn’t get it. “Come on, give me a break. My baby brother’s dead. You’v
e gotta tell me about it, you know? Let’s go get a cup of coffee or something.”
“I don’t gotta tell you anything,” Gretchen replied, her chin up. “You can’t make me talk to you, and I’m not going to. Not now. Not ever.”
He took two steps toward her, angling around the desk, continuing to unzip his jacket as he walked slowly in her direction. Another few paces and he’d reach the end of the cabinets and see Detective Brownley.
Gretchen stepped back and found herself against the wall with nowhere to go. Her lips moved but no sounds came.
Fred sat rigidly in his chair, his feet pressed back, ready to bolt out and up, maybe intending to block Chip should he attack. Sasha rolled her chair back against the side wall, clearing the way for Fred’s run. Cara’s head swiveled to follow Chip’s progress. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear. I was even with the back of Cara’s desk, in line with Detective Brownley. Chip didn’t notice any of us. He only saw Gretchen.
Chip took another step, and Gretchen splayed her hands and pressed herself against the wall as if she were bracing herself. Her already pale skin turned parchment white. Chip finished unzipping his jacket. Gretchen spotted the weapon, a shiny black handgun, and her eyes formed huge emerald circles. Her terror was palpable. I hoped she wouldn’t faint.
“No,” she said, her voice strong. “No.”
In one flowing motion he whipped his gun from his belt and held it up sideways, like a toy, and rushed her, seizing her and holding her fast against his torso.
Detective Brownley leapt forward, yelling something I couldn’t understand. The two police officers ripped into the office from the warehouse.
Cara squealed.
Fred pounced, lunging to his left, but he was too late—Chip had already passed by him—and Fred tripped and fell.
Detective Brownley yelled that he was to drop his weapon, but he paid no attention.
Chip kicked at Cara’s chair and sent her and it spinning sideways, blocking all three police officers and opening up an exit path—a direct line to the outer door.
Gretchen went rag doll on him. Chip held her to his chest and continued making his way step by slow step to the front door. He waved his gun at us and yelled that we were to get out of his way, get out of his way, get out of his way, or he’d kill her.
Without warning, as he sidestepped past me, he stretched out his right arm and, gun in hand, struck out at me, thrusting me aside effortlessly. I tumbled back and landed in a heap beneath Cara’s desk, the wind knocked out of me. I got to all fours and heaved and heaved, trying to catch my breath. I watched impotently from under the desk’s modesty panel as he dragged Gretchen toward the door.
The police kept shouting instructions that he ignored. When I was able to speak, I sat back on my haunches and raised my head above the desk. “Please, Chip,” I begged as loudly as I could. “Don’t do this.”
“My name is Peter Boulanger,” he stated with icy precision. He met my eyes, and I understood that he despised me.
Detective Brownley said in a tone of calm reason, “You can’t leave with her. I’m Detective Brownley.” She flashed her badge and raised her weapon toward his head. “You’re surrounded.”
Chip, with Gretchen still pinned to his chest, raised his gun to her temple and said softly, “Back off or I’ll kill her.”
He backed away into the parking lot, out of sight.
As Detective Brownley and the officers followed, she hollered, “All of you stay inside and stay down.”
I scrabbled to the door and peeked out through the crack.
“Police! Drop your weapon! Do it! Drop your weapon! Let the woman go,” Detective Brownley shouted. She repeated it over and over again. “Police. Drop your weapon and let the woman go!”
“Go to hell!” Chip retorted, scuttling across the open lot, carrying Gretchen, her feet a foot or so off the ground. She was elbowing and kicking him and clawing at his arm, trying to break free. As I watched, someone from deep in the woods to the left fired a shot and hit Chip just above his ankle.
He shrieked in surprise and pain and loosened his grip. His weapon clattered to the ground and skittered away. Gretchen didn’t hesitate—she leapt forward and rolled away, and Chip, growling with frustration and rage, fell to the asphalt. He lunged for his good ankle and pulled out another gun, a small revolver.
There were so many gunshots, I couldn’t count. I winced with each discharge. When the firing stopped, I pushed myself upright, flung open the door, and ran like my life was on the line to reach Gretchen, lying motionless on the asphalt, curled into a tight ball. I covered her body with mine and got my mouth close to her ear and said, “It’s finished. I’m here. You’re safe.”
I repeated those sentences over and over until finally the sirens stopped, and in the sudden blare of silence, Gretchen began moving. I helped her stand. We stood together, shoulder to shoulder, in the warm sunlight and looked around.
Chip’s body was a hundred feet away. Pools of blood surrounded the corpse. A dozen police officials, some in uniform, some in plainclothes, two in camouflage, stood in clusters, talking.
Two ambulances pulled into the lot. Detective Brownley ran over to us and tried to lead Gretchen into one for a precautionary trip to the hospital. She refused. The detective insisted.
Gretchen shook her head. “No,” she said, brushing grit off the jeans and sweater she’d somehow acquired since I’d last seen her. “I’m fine. Shaken, but fine. Is he really dead?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said, staring at his bloody body. She looked up and met our eyes. “He once told Morgan that I’d sassed him, and that it was Morgan’s fault because he let me get away with everything. That was the first time Morgan punched me. Up ’til then, he’d only slapped.”
I didn’t know what to say. I rubbed her back a little.
“You really should get checked out,” Detective Brownley said.
“No. I really should get back to work. My life has been run by the Boulanger brothers long enough. Thank God, it’s over.”
“Shock is a funny thing. Let the medical experts give you a once-over.”
She smiled. “Thank you for your concern. I’m fine.”
The detective shrugged. “Take her inside,” she told me.
I led the way. Fred and Sasha stood together just inside the door. Cara sat, her head bowed, covering her face with her hands. She was weeping. Eric stood at the warehouse door.
“Is everyone okay?” I asked.
Fred, Eric, and Sasha nodded. I touched Cara’s arm. “Cara,” I asked. “Are you okay?”
She nodded but didn’t look up.
“Okay, then. We’re all okay.”
Detective Brownley stepped into the office and announced that she’d need to take statements from all of us.
“Can it wait?” I asked.
“No, but it won’t take long. Better to get it over with.”
She was right. The police had been on-site, so our reports served only as confirmation of the events, and the process was straightforward and uncomplicated.
Just before noon, Detective Brownley called me out to the parking lot. The gold Taurus’s trunk was open. Inside was a black box with an index card label. It read GRETCHEN.
I smiled. “May I open it?”
“I will,” Detective Brownley said. “We’ll need to check for prints.” Her hands encased in plastic, she gently removed the lid, and there lay Gretchen’s vase. The protective cover had been disturbed, but the vase itself was intact and appeared to be undamaged.
“He took the box because he saw the word ‘Gretchen,’ ” I said.
“Makes sense,” the detective agreed. “I bet we’ll find his shoeprints match the imprints we took at the scene.”
I called Gretchen over. When she saw her vase, she looked at me, then at the detective, and then she placed her hands over her heart. “I prayed that it would be found,” she said. “I prayed hard.”
The police finished
their work both inside and out by one. Detective Brownley told me I could have the parking lot hosed down if I wanted.
I didn’t know what to do first. I wanted to talk to Ty. I wanted a martini. I wanted to discuss what had just transpired with everyone and compare opinions. I wanted to crawl into bed with a good book and not talk to a soul for a week. I wanted to hose down the parking lot to eliminate any trace of the horror I’d just witnessed. Mostly I wanted lunch. For some reason, I was starving.
“Cara,” I said, “set the phone on night service. Let’s get out of here. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I need a little time to process all this. Tomorrow’s another day.”
No one hesitated.
Gretchen told me she was going to take a hot bath filled with the orange blossom bath salts that Jack had bought for her yesterday, when, accompanied by a police officer, he’d gone to the mall to get her a change of clothes; then she was going to ask him to take her out to dinner.
Fred said he thought he’d go home and take a nap.
Sasha said she still felt pretty shaky. “I’m thinking that an old Audrey Hepburn–Cary Grant movie is in order.”
Cara said she was going to take her dog for a long, long walk on the beach. “I’m so glad Gretchen is back,” she said. “Any time you need me to fill in, you call. Okay?”
“I’m hoping you’ll continue on, Cara. Full-time. Permanent.”
“Really?” she asked, her eyes crinkling with delight. “I’d love to!”
I smiled. “See you in the morning, then.”
In moments, everyone had left, and Eric and I were alone in the office.
“I can move things back before I go,” Eric said.
“Good idea,” I said, “I’ll help. It will be good to come in tomorrow and see everything back to normal.”
“Yeah. I was thinking I’d clean the parking lot, too.”
I didn’t reply. I cleared chairs away so Eric could move the furniture without tripping.
“After the parking lot, I want to get started on the bookends.”
“You don’t want to go home?”
He shrugged.
Killer Keepsakes Page 26
