Dolled Up for Murder

by Jane K. Cleland

  She called out Barry’s number, starting with a 201 area code, which meant Barry either lived in New Jersey or had a cell phone he’d acquired there.

  “You’re the best!” I said. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Don’t give it a thought—I never really woke up. See ya, Joze!” She hung up.

  “A hundred, right?” Ellis asked Fred as he straightened the pile’s edges. The stack looked to be about a half inch high.

  “Yup,” Fred said.

  “Which might mean megabucks or it might mean nothing worth mentioning,” I said. “We should scan one in, so I can e-mail it to Barry.”

  Fred used the scanner located next to Gretchen’s desk; then I attached the image to an e-mail and dialed Barry’s number.

  When a male voice answered, I said, “Barry? I hope you remember me … Josie Prescott. I used to work at Frisco’s.”

  “Sure, I remember you. You moved up north somewhere, right? How you doing, Josie? What’s it been? Five years?”

  “Closer to eight, believe it or not. Yeah, I opened my own business in New Hampshire, and it’s going very well. God, Barry, do you remember those ancient Roman coins?”

  “Do I ever. In pristine condition. A hundred thou a pop. Not bad for a day’s work.”

  “I’ll say. Listen … I’m sorry to bother you at home and so late, but I have a kind of situation here and I’m hoping you’ll do me a favor. Can I e-mail you scans of the front and back of a bill?”

  “Sure,” he said and rattled off his personal e-mail address. “What is it?”

  As I typed in his address and hit SEND, I said, “An American 1862 one-dollar bill.”

  “Confederate or Union?”

  “It just says ‘United States.’”

  “Let me get to my computer,” he said. “Got it. Give me a sec.”

  “Okay. Barry, I’m going to put you on speaker, okay? I have some other folks here who need to hear what you say.”

  “Sure.”

  I held on for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds.

  “Of course, I’ll need to authenticate it,” Barry said, “but this sure looks like the real deal. Where’d you get it?”

  “I’ll tell you later. For now, give me a one-minute overview.”

  “This is Union currency, issued to support the Civil War. It’s way rarer than Confederate money, because fewer bills were printed. Best guess is that there’s only between three and five thousand extant. If this is genuine, it’s an example of the first ever federally issued one-dollar bill. Think on that … the first ever. That’s Salmon Chase on the front. He was secretary of the treasury under Lincoln and is considered the man who bankrolled the Civil War. In as good condition as this appears to be, which is to say uncirculated, it’s worth two thousand dollars, maybe more.”

  “What would it do to the value if a hundred bills in this condition hit the market all at once?”

  “Tell me it’s true.”

  “It’s true, but not for publication.”

  “I don’t know. I’d need to gauge buyer response. We wouldn’t want to flood the market, that’s for sure, so I’d keep the total number available on the q.t.”

  I understood his point. If Barry offered one of these bills for sale and got thousands of offers, the value of all one hundred would hold their value or increase in value. If he offered one for sale and got fewer than a hundred requests, that wouldn’t bode well. If he went ahead and put the other ninety-nine on the market, the value would probably drop. Supply and demand.

  “Want to FedEx me a few so I can begin the process of authenticating them?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I can’t. Not yet. Soon, I hope.”

  Barry went pit bull on me, and it took me a full two minutes to get off the phone. He’d gotten a whiff of an unprecedented find of rare currency, and he wasn’t letting go without a fight. I understood. In his shoes, I’d act the same.

  I felt Fred’s and Ellis’s eyes on me.

  As soon as I hung up, I said, “Two thousand dollars times a hundred … two hundred thousand dollars.”

  Fred leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, his eyes firing up with excitement. Fred was an antiques snob, and rare currency with a Civil War pedigree impressed him. When I finished we sat silently for a moment, thinking. I pictured the destruction in the van. Someone had stomped the dolls, a quick way to open them up and see if anything was hidden inside. Someone had known the currency was hidden in a doll, but not which one. I felt my fingers curl into claws. If we could find that person, we’d find Eric.

  The wind chimes tinkled as the CSI technician who’d video-recorded the inside of the van stepped into the office. As Ellis started to greet her, my cell phone rang, and I reached for it so quickly it skittered off the desk. I caught it just before it hit the floor. It was Ty. I pushed into the warehouse for privacy.

  “I’m reeling,” I said after I filled him in. “I’m sick with worry about Eric. I can’t even imagine how Grace must feel. I’ll call her later, just to touch base.”

  “You know you’re doing everything you can, Josie.”

  “I know. Still.”

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed. “How are you? Talk to me about your day.”

  “There’s nothing to report. We’re beefing up training protocols, interesting stuff, but with all the interdepartmental cooperation I need to arrange, I’m stuck in extra meetings.”

  “I understand,” I said, disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to scoot out early but not surprised. “I miss you.”

  “Me, too. More than you can imagine.”

  After we finished talking, I stood for more than a minute, staring at nothing, thinking, wishing, and praying. By the time I got back to the office, the CSI technician had left. Fred handed me the receipt she’d given him. She’d taken the doll, the doll’s head, and the currency.

  “They’re halfway through the X-rays,” Ellis said, his eyes on his BlackBerry display. “Nothing so far.”

  * * *

  “Obviously Jamie and Lorna don’t know about the money,” I said, “or they never would have sold me the doll.”

  “Or they knew about the money and it was an oversight,” Ellis said.

  “A two-hundred-thousand-dollar oversight?” Fred asked.

  “It happens,” I said.

  “Is the currency ours?” Fred asked. “I mean, the Farmingtons didn’t consign the dolls to us, they sold them outright, so we own everything free and clear, right?”

  “Probably not. When I worked at Frisco’s I once found a ruby the size of my thumb taped to the bottom of a drawer in an oak secretary—a desk,” I added for Ellis’s benefit. “That was a moment, let me tell you! We’d bought the desk from an older couple getting ready to retire to Florida about a month earlier.”

  “You got a bonus from the company?” Ellis asked.

  “No way. Along with everyone at work, though, I assumed the ruby was ours, just as Fred assumed we own the currency. In order to discover the ruby’s provenance, Frisco’s jewelry appraiser asked the sellers for information about it—that’s how they learned we had it. They said they’d forgotten the ruby was there, and when Frisco’s wouldn’t give it back, they sued for its return. I followed the case both because it was interesting and because I didn’t know what to think. I could see both sides of the issue. We claimed it was a case of finders keepers, which actually has legal precedent. Shipwrecks, for instance. After a certain period of time, the ship is deemed to be abandoned, and anyone who finds it can file a claim and salvage it—and keep anything they find in it. In this case, the seller’s lawyer argued that the ruby had to be returned because of something called ‘unjust enrichment,’ which says the court shouldn’t allow someone to benefit when they’ve done nothing to deserve it. Since neither of us intended to include the jewel in the purchase/sale contract, the ruby was outside the scope of the deal. Our unexpected windfall was a direct result of their unexpected loss. Patently, that’s not f
air.”

  “Frisco’s settled for an unnamed amount, right?” Ellis asked, his tone as sarcastic as his expression was cynical.

  “No, actually. Frisco’s returned the ruby. I think the powers that be thought it was the right thing to do. Some of my colleagues took a more jaded view. They thought we returned it because the lawsuit would take forever and generate a ton of bad publicity, a big powerful corporation trying to pull a fast one on an older retired couple.”

  “So are you going to give the currency back?”

  “Of course.” I was surprised he had to ask. He knew me well enough to know that I never tried to hedge. I called it the I-want-to-sleep-at-night theory of ethics.

  He smiled. “No wonder you’re such a business success. People are hungry for honesty.”

  “Thanks,” I said, embarrassed. I glanced at Fred. “What do you think, Fred?”

  “I think I have the best job in the world.”

  I laughed, surprised and embarrassed and pleased. “What a nice thing to say!”

  “It’s true. Too many people spend too much time in gray areas. I’m like you—I think most things are black and white, with no gray, and it’s great to work for a company with that kind of principles.”

  “I agree with you both,” Ellis said. “Back to the issue at hand. How hard would it be to sell this currency?”

  “Not hard at all,” I replied. “If you want to stay below the radar, you’d have to sell at a discount, but that’s easy. There are about a million numismatist fairs and shows, worldwide. All you’d have to do is take some of the bills to a show, cruise the dealers, and sell them without other dealers seeing what you’re up to, an arrangement dealers are happy to go along with. You want privacy so you can sell to more than one dealer without any hint you’re flooding the market. The dealers want privacy because they want to keep their competition in the dark about their sources. You’ve heard me say that it’s way harder to buy good product than it is to sell it, so dealers, me included, guard our suppliers like Fort Knox.”

  “How can they do that in an open show?”

  “No prob. I’ll give you a for instance. Let’s say a guy shows up in your booth saying he has some Union currency to sell. The dealer tells him to meet him outside or in a hallway or in a stairwell in two minutes. The dealer’s goal is to complete the transaction out of the view of everyone, get the guy’s name and number so he can follow up and buy the rest of his inventory, if he has more, later, and get him gone. Look at the numbers: The seller will only get about a third to half the retail value—call it a thousand dollars a bill for a round number—but so what? If there are forty dealers at each show, and you sell five bills per dealer to ten percent of the dealers, that’s what? Five bills times a thousand dollars per bill is five thousand dollars per transaction. Times four dealers per show equals twenty thousand dollars. Using this scenario, you’re selling twenty bills per show. If you pace yourself and only go to one show every few months, inside of a year, maybe less, you’ll have sold all the currency and you’ll have a hundred thousand dollars in your jeans. I always give receipts and have sellers sign a bill of sale, but it’s not a stretch to think that some dealers may be more lax. It happens all the time. There’s a good chance you can get cash with no tax to pay and no record of the sales.”

  “Would experienced dealers really pay a thousand dollars for something without appraising it first?”

  “Sure. The trick is for the seller to tell a good story. ‘I found these five bills in the attic when my folks died and I went to clean out the house. I’d always known that my great-great-great-grandfather fought for the Union during the Civil War, and look what I found next to his discharge papers. I did a little research online and saw there’s only a few thousand of them known to exist. From what I can tell they’re worth about two thousand dollars each. Are you interested in buying them?’ Then the dealer looks at them under a loupe, seeking out known marks, stamps, or imperfections, which he probably has in his head because this is a well-known, rare currency. If the bills pass his examination, he tells you that sure, he’s interested, but as a dealer he can’t pay two thousand dollars, which is full retail. You look disappointed. He explains about retail versus wholesale, and you nod. You don’t like it, but you understand his point. The dealer offers seven hundred dollars, and you say no and offer thirteen hundred. Eventually you’ll settle at a thousand per bill, and he hands you cash. Maybe he even gets you to sign a bill of sale, which is okay with you because you’re using a fake name anyway. The whole transaction takes about five minutes.”

  “I can see that working with a ten-dollar item, but not a thousand-dollar anything. Wouldn’t the dealer worry the bills were fake?”

  “That’s why he looks with a loupe. It’s not carbon dating, but it’s good enough so you’ll catch obvious flaws, like printing that’s out of alignment, mushy lines, uneven coloration, that sort of thing. Also, experienced numismatists know what the paper should feel like by touch.”

  “All this is happening in a stairwell?”

  “Yup. Or out in the parking lot. Or in the men’s room.”

  Ellis shook his head. “All I can say is it’s a hell of a way to earn a living.” His BlackBerry vibrated. He pushed a button, read a text, then said, “Nothing showed up on X-ray. There’s a mishmash of prints on the currency, but nothing popped in any of the law enforcement databases she checked. There’s no possibility of a DNA match.”

  “Can we get the money back? For when the ransom note comes in?”

  He nodded and tapped a reply into his unit. “Done. She should be here in about ten minutes.”

  “At least we know why the dolls were destroyed,” I said and sighed. “We need to talk to Jamie and Lorna. It’s possible that they have an idea about who knew something was hidden in the doll.”

  Ellis nodded. “I left a message on their cell phones a little while ago.”

  “How come they haven’t called back?” I asked, my worry meter whirring onto high. I knew myself: Until Eric was home safe and sound, I would fret if people weren’t where I expected them to be and if, when contacted, they didn’t respond right away.

  “Lorna told me she only uses hers for emergencies, so I doubt she’ll check it anytime soon. Jamie will call back as soon as she gets the message.”

  “Can’t we just go there?” I asked. “Or call the house number?”

  “I had a car drive by their house, but they’re not home. They’re probably at some friend’s house. As to calling the house, they had their mother’s landline turned off after she died.” He smiled at me. “I’m not worried about it, and you shouldn’t be, either. I’ll let you know the minute I hear from them.” Ellis stood up and stretched. “As soon as the tech shows up, I think we should call it a day, Josie.”

  “I guess.” I pointed to the taped-together image. “Is it all right if we roll up the photo?”

  “Yes. Don’t throw it away, though, in case we need to refer to it again.”

  “I’ll do it,” Fred offered. “I’ll wait for the tech if you want and put the currency in the safe. I just keep thinking word is going to come any minute that Eric is okay.”

  “Me, too,” I said, sighing again. I told him I’d take care of getting Hank settled for the night, then turned to Ellis and said good night.

  “I’ll see you home,” Ellis said. “I’m going to Zoë’s anyway.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Give me five minutes.”

  When I reached Hank’s corner he hurried to meet me. He rubbed my leg and mewed. He wanted to play.

  “Can you fetch this mouse, Hank?” I asked.

  I tossed the little felt mouse toward the back wall, and Hank took off like a bullet. He pranced back with the mouse in his mouth, its gray tail dangling to one side, and dropped it at my feet. Maine Coons, we’d learned, fetch. Hank looked proud, even cocky.

  “You’re a very clever boy, aren’t you, Hank?”

  I threw the mouse again, and again he galloped tow
ard it, scooped it up in his mouth, and brought it back. After a dozen more tosses, he grew weary. He stretched his top half, then his bottom half, then stepped into his basket. I told him he was a good boy, changed his water, topped off his food, putting out an extra bowl of each in case we all decided to stay home tomorrow, and told him I’d probably see him in the morning. Back in the front office, I confirmed I had turned off Gretchen’s computer and scanner, then told Fred good night.

  I was glad to get outside, into fresh air. The evening was balmy and humid. It felt like it might rain. I arched my back, trying to ease the iron-hard tension. Ellis was in his SUV waiting near the exit for me to join him. All signs of police presence were gone. I walked to Ellis’s SUV. He rolled down his window as I approached.

  “Why hasn’t there been a ransom note?” I asked.

  “There will be.”

  “You seem very certain.”

  “I am.”

  “Maybe he left by choice,” I said. “It happens.”

  “Rarely.”

  “Maybe Eric flipped and attacked the dolls.”

  “Do you believe that?” he asked.

  “No. I think he was kidnapped.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So why hasn’t there been a ransom note?” I asked again.

  “They’re getting Eric situated. It’s not so easy to kidnap a grown man in broad daylight and transport him somewhere without being seen. They might be driving around, waiting until the middle of the night to hide him away.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?” I asked, looking past the stone wall into the thicket of dark woods, not wanting to see the uncertainty I was sure would appear in his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  I looked back at him. “Why?”

  “Because there’s no percentage in killing him.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Ellis.”

  “For what?”

  “For being kind.”

  He smiled. “Don’t let it get around.”

  “Too late.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Within minutes of getting onto the interstate, my fingers began to throb—I had the steering wheel in a death grip. I sighed, a deep one, and said aloud, “Relax, Josie. Relax.” I glanced in the rearview mirror and felt inordinately relieved to see Ellis’s headlights.