I pulled into my driveway, and Ellis pulled into Zoë’s. If I’d stretched out an arm, I could have touched the passenger-side door. Her porch light was on. I leaned over the dash to look up at my bedroom window. The little golden light I always kept burning because I hated entering dark houses alone shone brightly.
“You going to be okay?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m just beat.” I tried to smile. “Tomorrow’s another day, right?”
I mounted my porch steps and stretched. The air had thickened, and the moisture felt fresh and clean. I opened my front door, turned, and waved to Ellis. He was on Zoë’s porch, watching me. He didn’t open Zoë’s door until I had closed mine. Inside, I shot the bolt and had taken one step toward the kitchen when my home phone rang. I grabbed it, hoping it was some news about Eric. It wasn’t. It was Wes calling for a quote. I leaned back against the wall, deflated.
“Tell me about the dolls,” he said. “Why would someone want to destroy them?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Why would Eric disappear?” Wes asked.
“I don’t know that either.”
He sighed. “Do you have a list of the dolls that were destroyed? And pictures? I can publish them and ask our readers for ideas about how the dolls might be involved. It might help, Josie.”
He was right. It might. “Let me think about it,” I said. “I need to be careful, Wes. I don’t want to make a bad situation worse.”
“How could it make anything worse?” he asked.
“I don’t know. That’s why I want to think about it. I’m hanging up now. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
“Wait!” he shouted, and I did. “You asked me to find out whether Darleen and Randall had alibis for when Alice was killed. They didn’t. Darleen was supposed to be chaperoning a field trip with her daughter’s class but canceled at the last minute. She told the cops it was because with all the publicity surrounding Alice, she didn’t want the grief. Randall says he was walking on the beach, alone, that he was upset about his mom’s death, but he can’t prove it. He can’t even provide any details. He said he was in his own world and simply didn’t notice where he parked or which section of beach he was on or when he got there or anything.”
“From your tone, I can tell that you don’t believe him, Wes, but it could be true. I can see how grief might befuddle memory.”
“Yeah, especially when you’ve gone AWOL. Darleen told the cops that Randall was at the funeral parlor, making Alice’s burial arrangements. Turns out, that’s what Darleen told him to do, but he didn’t do it. Instead, he went to the beach. I bet he was in trouble when he got home.”
“Poor Randall,” I said.
“You think? He comes off wussy to me.”
“Yeah … still … I think it’s sad. It sounds as if he’s never been his own man, even a little bit. I mean, we’re talking about a walk on the beach as a rebellious act, Wes. That’s sad.”
I could practically hear Wes shrugging. “Whatever. The bottom line is that the police think he’s wide open.” He paused, then added, “You also asked me to find out who Alice might be dating. No one knows if or who. She had lots of different escorts to charity and club events. Often she went alone, too. As to investors out for blood, the one name that keeps coming up is Ian Landers.”
“I saw him at the police station,” I said. “He was plenty mad. Nasty mad.”
“He’s wide open, too. He says he was jogging near the library, but so far no one remembers seeing him.”
“How about weapons? Do either of them own guns?”
“Not registered,” Wes said, “but you know how that goes. Anyone can get a gun.”
“True. Thank you, Wes.” My voice cracked as my throat closed. I took in air. “I’ve got to go, Wes. I’ll call you back soon.” I hung up, then lifted the receiver again and dialed Ellis’s cell phone. I apologized for disturbing him, repeated Wes’s suggestion, and asked his opinion. “I’m thinking it might be a good idea, Ellis. If I let Wes quote me begging for help in finding Eric, it will create the impression that we have no idea what’s going on—which, of course, we don’t. That might reassure the kidnapper, don’t you think?”
“I do. I like it, Josie. I can’t see any downside.”
“Good. I’ll do it now.”
I dashed into the den, flipping on lights as I ran, and booted up my home computer. Once it was ready, I remoted into my work computer and e-mailed myself the two doll inventories, the one listing the dolls I’d taken away and the one listing the dolls that had been destroyed in the van. I also uploaded the still shots Fred and I had created earlier to an FTP site. I combined the two inventories into one and paused, thinking. I nodded and said aloud, “Why not?”
I brought up the original video recording and fast-forwarded until I came to the three dolls the Farmington sisters had decided to keep, Chatty Cathys from the 1960s. I captured each one as a photograph and uploaded them to the FTP site. I sent the inventory to Wes along with instructions on how to access the photographs.
“Whew,” I said aloud as I dialed Wes’s number. It was after midnight. “Wes, it’s Josie. I decided you were right. Any help is welcome.”
“That’s great, Josie!” he said after I explained what I’d sent him. “Now give me a quote.”
“‘None of us at Prescott’s has any idea if these dolls are somehow involved with Eric’s disappearance. If anyone does have information, please notify the police. All we want is Eric’s safe return. I know the police would say that no idea is too off-the-wall and no fact is too minor to be worth reporting.’ How’s that?”
“Good, good,” he said. I heard him scribbling notes. “Had Alice Michaels bought the collection?”
“No. She left a deposit as a right of first refusal.”
“So her estate still has a claim?”
“I’m not a lawyer, but since we hadn’t deposited the check before she died, I can’t imagine how it could,” I said.
“Do you think her murder is somehow related to the dolls?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Eric’s disappearance? Do you think the murder is somehow connected to it?”
“I have no idea, Wes,” I said, feeling like a broken record. My voice cracked again. There was so much I didn’t know. I felt worn down and worn out. “I wish I did.”
“You haven’t gotten a ransom note, have you?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you think he was kidnapped?”
“Yes … I mean, what else could it be?”
“Maybe he just disappeared. You know, maybe he’s one of those guys who goes out for a pack of cigarettes and never comes home. They feel overwhelmed with whatever responsibilities they’ve gotten themselves into, trapped, you know? Isn’t it possible Eric just vamoosed of his own free will? You know what I mean. Eric’s quiet. Respectable. Nice. That’s how they always describe the guy, the people left behind, I mean, when he turns up twenty-seven years later with a new family and a house and everything.”
“You should write a made-for-TV movie, Wes.”
“If it’s a kidnapping, why hasn’t someone, you or his family, received a ransom note?”
“We will,” I said, repeating Ellis’s words, wishing I shared his confidence. I didn’t think Wes’s analysis was right, but something in my gut made me wonder.
“When you do,” Wes said, “I’m your first call, right?”
“You know I can’t promise that, Wes.”
“Josie!”
“I’m tired, Wes. I’m hanging up.”
With Wes sputtering in protest, I cradled the phone. I glanced at the big clock mounted over the refrigerator. It was after one. I turned out the light and stood in an oblong of silver moonlight. “Here’s to silver light in the dark of night,” I whispered. I called Grace.
“I don’t have any news,” I said, not wanting to raise her hopes, even for a second. “I’m sorry to call so late, but it’s the first
chance I’ve had. I didn’t want to go to bed without talking to you.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I wasn’t asleep. I doubt I’ll sleep at all.”
“Yeah.” I paused. “How are you holding up?”
“It’s hard.” She paused. “I called Eric’s mom.”
I bit my lip. I should have done that, I thought. Maybe not, not if I couldn’t be supportive, and since Eric’s mother was a sour old woman with a chip on her shoulder the size of Alaska, it was unlikely I could have offered what she would have demanded.
“She must be beside herself,” I said.
Grace didn’t reply right away. I could hear her crying. I hoped Grace was expressing her upset about Eric, not reliving an altercation during which his mother had shown her evil side, but that, I knew, was past praying for.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t want to repeat what she said,” Grace managed, gulping. She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “It was hateful.”
I felt my throat close. Grace was a gentle soul, and thinking of her having to endure that shrew’s spiteful tongue made me want to cry, too.
“I’m so sorry, Grace. I should have called her myself.”
“No,” she said. “It’s better that I did.”
I sighed, unable to think what to say.
“I’m sorry to be tearful,” she whispered. “It’s just that I’m so scared.”
“Me, too.” I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them and took in a deep breath. “I spoke to Wes Smith, a reporter for the Seacoast Star. I gave him some information and pictures. I checked with the police first. They agree that asking the public for help can’t hurt, and maybe it will help.”
“That’s a great idea, Josie!” she said, suddenly buoyant.
“We can only hope that it works. I figure that someone knows something.”
We talked a little longer; then I headed upstairs to start my bath. I didn’t for a minute believe that Eric had left of his own volition. Eric had been kidnapped.
Eric, I said silently as I trudged up the steps, hold on.
* * *
After a steamy-hot bath, a bowl of reheated homemade minestrone soup, a Blue Martini, and a good-night call to Ty, I fell into bed more relaxed than I would have thought possible an hour earlier.
I expected to toss and turn all night, but I didn’t. I slept like a rock until six fifty in the morning. I would have slept even longer, but my cell phone buzzed, jerking me awake. Rolling toward the bedside table where I’d left it, I tangled myself in the sheets. I jerked my arm loose and grabbed the phone. The icon indicating that a new text message had arrived flashed, and I punched the button to display it.
“Oh, wow,” I said aloud.
I was reading a ransom note.
CHAPTER TEN
I pulled on my jeans and a sweater and ran through the drizzle that had come up overnight to Zoë’s. I took the porch steps two at a time and leaned on the buzzer.
“You’re here bright and early,” Zoë said as she swung the door wide. She was model tall and willow thin with sleek black hair and big brown eyes. She wore slim-cut black jeans and a fitted brick red collared blouse. She looked as if she’d just walked off the pages of Vogue.
“I need to see Ellis,” I said.
“He’s in the shower—he’ll be down soon.”
“Run up and tell him it’s me, and that I have news, will you?”
“I hate to bother him while he’s—” Zoë said, then noticed something in my eyes and stopped. “Sure, Josie. No problem. Go on into the kitchen and pour yourself a cup of coffee.”
“Okay,” I said.
I went into the kitchen, but I didn’t get coffee. I paced from the kitchen door to the refrigerator and back again often enough to create a rut in the hardwood floor. I could hear the kids grumbling upstairs as they got ready for school.
Ellis entered, dressed for work in a brown tweed sports coat, brown slacks, off-white shirt, and green tie. His hair was damp.
“What news?” he asked.
I handed him my phone. He held my gaze for a moment, then lowered his eyes to the screen. The text message read:
WE HAVE ERIC. PACK UP ALL FARMINGTON DOLLS. INSTRUCTIONS LATER TODAY. NO COPS OR HE DIES.
He pushed the button to bring up the details of the text, then held the unit so I could read it. The text had come from a 603 area code—New Hampshire. I didn’t recognize the number.
I shook my head. “The message says Eric is alive.”
“Which may be true,” Ellis said quietly, confirming my unspoken fear.
Ellis placed my phone on the counter and hit a speed dial button on his own.
“Claire,” he said, “I need you to do something without telling anyone about it.” He rattled off the number and told her to trace it.
“Now what?” I asked.
“We wait for confirmation that the phone the kidnapper used is a disposable unit, the kind you buy at a big-box store for cash.”
I nodded, understanding. “Untraceable. How long will it take her?”
“Not long. Minutes, maybe.”
“Meanwhile, I can pack up the dolls,” I said.
“We need to discuss whether you should do what they say.”
“Of course I should do what they say!”
“No matter what your gut tells you, Josie, you need to force yourself to think objectively. I’m sorry to be blunt, but Eric might already be dead, in which case we need to consider how best to catch his killer.”
I knew Ellis might be right about Eric, but I couldn’t bear thinking that Eric might be dead. I wouldn’t. “We have to proceed on the assumption that he’s alive.”
“I agree, but we have to build in contingency plans. Like marking the money.”
“Will they be able to tell?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Even if they look?”
“Right. Even if they look.”
“Okay—except it’s not my money. It’s Jamie and Lorna’s money.”
Before responding, he reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. The kids came clomping down the stairs, and I heard Zoë tell them to put on their rain slickers and galoshes. Ellis hoisted the pot in my direction, silently offering me a cup. I nodded. He took a mug from the cupboard, poured, and slid it along the counter toward me.
“I’ll meet with them to explain the situation,” he said.
“I should be there to explain about the money.”
He nodded. “I’d appreciate the help. Let’s assume they’ll agree to let us use the currency. The next thing we have to talk about is whether to call in the FBI.”
“No way! You read the note. It’s bad enough I told you.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss it, Josie. The FBI are the experts here.”
“Doesn’t it make sense that I simply do as I’m told? I hand over the dolls and they hand over Eric.”
“If they keep their end of the bargain.”
I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them and searched his face for signs of hope. I couldn’t find any. He looked the same as always, businesslike, attentive, calm. Words escaped me.
“Another way to think about it,” he said, “is that the only reason not to call them in is if you think they’ll screw something up.”
I looked out Zoë’s kitchen window, taking a deep breath and then another, thinking it through. I knew I lacked both information and experience, a potentially deadly combination. I couldn’t let my ignorance put Eric’s life in jeopardy.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said. “How can I possibly decide? If the FBI can help us, of course I want their input, but you read the note—the kidnappers told me not to call the police. Maybe they’ve tapped my phone. Oh, God, Ellis—it didn’t even occur to me … what if the kidnapper is watching my house at this very minute? What if he saw me come over here and recognizes your SUV? He’ll assume that I’ve already spoken to you.”
He nodde
d thoughtfully. “It’s possible, in the way that anything is possible, but it’s not likely. If anything, I think they’ll keep an eye, and maybe an ear, on your office. That’s where the dolls are, and that’s where they would figure you’d be leaving from.”
I took a minute to think some more. “Doesn’t contacting the FBI feel like too big a risk?”
“No. I can call them from my office on a secure line and tell them our plans off the record. We can take advantage of their expertise without committing ourselves. I can solicit their opinion, then, if we want, we can call it a day.”
I bit my lip. I wanted to do the right thing, the smart thing. I finished my coffee, and as I placed the mug in the sink I saw that my hand was trembling. “Maybe I should discuss it with Grace or Eric’s mom.”
“No. Or rather, of course you can seek whatever counsel you think is appropriate, but from where I sit, you need to think long and hard before you tell anyone anything. Loose lips sink ships, and all that.” He paused. “You’re frowning, but think about it, Josie. Eric isn’t married and he isn’t a minor. They have no right to know and no specialized knowledge that would help us. Don’t get me wrong—of course I’ve assigned someone to be their police point person. We’ve been in touch with them since the beginning, and we’ll continue to be in touch. That’s different from consulting them on a decision of this magnitude.” He paused again and shook his head empathetically. “The bottom line is that this is your decision, Josie. The note came to you. You own the dolls. This is all on you.”
“I don’t want to, and you can’t make me!” Jake shouted from the hall.
“Don’t try me, Jake Winterelli!” Zoë shouted back. “Put on your raincoat and do it now!”
I leaned against the counter, feeling weak and weighed down, and wishing I was helping Zoë get the kids into rain gear, not navigating a life-and-death decision.
“What would the FBI do?” I asked.
“Add a recording device to your phone, plant GPS chips in your car and in the dolls, mark the bills, and, once we know where the exchange will take place, plant agents all around, whether that means pretending they’re homeless people in a dark alley or customers in a restaurant or whatever. If the location is isolated, they’ll put snipers in trees or hide them behind rocks, that sort of thing.”
Dolled Up for Murder Page 9
