Dolled Up for Murder

by Jane K. Cleland

  Jamie nodded thoughtfully. “You can tell just by looking at them?”

  “Sometimes. Occasionally there are clues in or on the object itself; often discoveries occur through related research. Prescott’s can’t appraise the currency. For something this specialized, we need an expert.”

  “That’s a good idea. Yes, please, send all one thousand bills for appraisal. And yes, you may have the Chatty Cathy dolls. I’ll leave the money inside for now, all right?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “You understand the dolls might be destroyed,” Ellis said.

  Jamie nodded. “Yes. They’re nothing special, just old, broken dolls from the sixties.”

  While she and Ellis discussed how to smuggle the dolls out of her house without alerting anyone who might be watching, I called Barry and reached him at his Madison Avenue shop. I could picture it. His storefront totaled about fifteen feet. The slip of a space was wedged between an equally narrow cigar shop and a larger men’s haberdashery. Barry’s window displays were always dramatic. One I recalled having seen some years earlier featured a single gold coin resting on a burgundy velvet cloth. Inside, a solitary display case, filled with miscellaneous coins and bills and related curiosities, divided the long room into two sections. Anyone was welcome in the front, but the rear section was accessible by invitation only.

  “I need some help,” I said. “Say I wanted to produce counterfeits of the bills I asked you about earlier. What kind of paper should I use?”

  “Josie, Josie, Josie. You starting a sideline? Business a little slow?”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “You know me better than that. This is for a kind of emergency situation we have going on up here.”

  “Is this about the kidnapping I heard about on the news?” Barry asked.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Understood,” he said. He paused. “Will an expert be assessing the counterfeits?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think it matters. Most experts handle so much money they can tell by feel if it’s overtly wrong, but these bills were printed on thin rag paper, a specific cotton-linen mix that almost no one is familiar with. So you’re probably okay. At a minimum, though, you need a similar rag paper. It’s only available at specialty stores, not office supply stores, but you should be able to get your hands on it pronto. Give me a sec and I’ll look up if there are any stores close to you.”

  “Thanks, Barry,” I said, relieved. I heard him tapping into his computer.

  “Kingsbridge Paper Supply in Elliot, Maine. That’s their main factory, and they have a sales showroom on-site. They’d give you a sample, but not a supply. How much paper do you need? To print all one hundred?”

  “One thousand.”

  He whistled. I could almost hear him begin to salivate. “When this is over and your employee is back safe and sound, you’ve got to give me a crack at the deal.”

  “The money isn’t mine, but you know there’s no one else I’d recommend, Barry. We’ll be sending you the currency today for appraisal.”

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “According to the current owners, they’re direct descendants of Salmon Chase. As you know, his signature is on this currency. They have letters from Chase to President Lincoln and from President Lincoln to Chase, so we can treat their assertion with a high degree of confidence.”

  “I’ll want to see the letters,” he said.

  “If they want a written appraisal, I’ll make sure you get a look at them. Right now, we just want to know about authenticity and assumptive value. Because the currency was found in four distinct locations, I’ll package it as four units, one containing a hundred bills, the other three containing three hundred bills each.”

  He asked some logistical questions, when we needed the info and whom he was billing. I answered his questions, then asked, “Is there anything else I need to know to produce credible counterfeits?”

  He thought for a minute before answering. “Back then, they printed them four to a sheet and hand-cut and hand-trimmed them. How do you plan to cut them?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Use a paper cutter with a sharp blade. For touch-ups, use an X-Acto knife.”

  “I can do all that.”

  “Let me call Kingsbridge,” Barry offered.

  “Have them messenger it to the Congregational Church,” I said. “I don’t want a paper company truck coming to my location.” I scrolled through my phone log and gave him Ted’s number and the church’s address.

  Barry said he’d get right back to me, and by the time I’d talked to Ted’s secretary, Louise, asking her to accept delivery of the paper for me and to let me know as soon as it arrived, referring to it only as a package, he was calling back. The paper was already en route.

  After Jamie and Lorna left—they were going to pack the dolls in a rolling suitcase and deliver it to the service station where my car was being loaded with tracking devices—Ellis asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Except for Jamie’s refusal to let us use the money, yes.”

  “Yeah. I’ll send Dawn back to help you print and trim the bills.”

  “That will be a big help.” I glanced at my phone. “So long as the kidnapper holds off until we’re ready.”

  During the half hour it took for Jamie to drive to her mother’s home, pack the Chatty Cathy dolls, and deliver them to the service station, I ate two lemon cookies. While I sat quietly, thinking and nibbling, Ellis made a series of phone calls, getting updates, asking for details, guarded, as usual. I was sitting right next to him, but I learned nothing.

  I was reaching for another cookie when his phone rang.

  “Good,” he said. He hung up and turned to me. “Are you ready to go? Jamie just dropped off the suitcase.”

  I leapt up. “Absolutely.”

  * * *

  Louise called as I was turning onto the interstate to tell me the package had arrived. I told her I would be there in ten minutes. I kept my eyes on my rearview mirror as I drove but got no hint that anyone but the minicaravan of reporters was following me.

  This time I needed to lose them. The church was my private refuge, and I wasn’t willing to compromise it. I took the back roads but couldn’t shake them. I turned onto the interstate again. I tried speeding up and slowing down. They stayed with me as if their lives depended on it, and as I thought of it, I realized that maybe their livelihoods did. It wasn’t going to be easy to deliver the ransom without company. I slipped in my earpiece and called Louise at the church.

  “I hate to ask,” I said, “especially in this nasty weather, but I’m wondering if you can deliver the package to my company without telling anyone what you’re doing. I’ve got reporters following me, and it’s vital that no one knows what I’m up to.”

  “Of course, Josie,” she said. “I’ll do it now.”

  “Thanks so much, Louise. It’s important it stay dry. Wrap it up well, okay?”

  “Will do. Will you be there?”

  “I’m en route now, but I don’t know whether you’ll beat me there or not. It’s best that you leave it regardless. Maybe you could put it in some plain box or container and simply put my name on it.”

  She agreed, and I thanked her again.

  I stopped trying any fancy moves to lose the reporters and drove straight back to Prescott’s. As I was navigating the last turn before reaching our parking lot, Gretchen called.

  “Darleen and Randall Michaels are here,” she said. “They’re hoping to talk to you.”

  I knew the shades of Gretchen’s voice well enough to know that she was not happy.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” she replied.

  “You can’t talk. So I will. Is it Darleen who’s the problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow … I can tell from your tone that you’re annoyed. Is she really that bad?”

  “Absolutely,” Gr
etchen said with conviction.

  “I’m braced. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Great! I’ll let them know.”

  Apparently Alice wasn’t alone in thinking Darleen deserved the title Ms. Attila the Hun.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I ran through the steady rain to my company’s front door, dragging the suitcase behind me and clutching my tote bag to my chest to shield it as best I could. I’d found an umbrella in my car, a good thing, but even so, I was glad to reach the overhang. I shook off the umbrella and opened the door, but before stepping inside, I paused and looked back. Several reporters, including Wes and Bertie, stood watching me. Some, like Bertie, stood under umbrellas; others, like Wes, stood under dripping trees. All of them looked irritated and impatient.

  “When you have a minute,” a woman said from inside the office.

  Her tone got my hackles up. She sounded as if she were speaking to a lazy child. I stepped inside, shut the door, said a general hello to my staff, then smiled and nodded at the woman who’d spoken to me and the man sitting beside her.

  “This is Darleen Michaels and her husband, Randall Michaels,” Gretchen said, “and this is Josie Prescott.”

  Darleen sat with her hands folded and her elbows resting on the table. She wore a dark gray dress, maybe a sign of mourning, maybe a reflection of her mood. Her supershort, spiky hair was dyed platinum blond. Her eyes were dark brown and unforgiving. I glanced at Randall. He was tall and slender, with rounded shoulders. His hair was sandy brown and cut short. His brown eyes were flecked with gold. I only saw them once, when he raised them momentarily to my cheek as we were introduced. He lowered them right away and kept them down.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said. “I’ll be with you in a sec.” I slid my umbrella into the Chinese blue-and-white-patterned stand we kept by the door for that purpose, then wheeled the Farmingtons’ suitcase to the center of the room. “Fred, will you take this to the back worktable?”

  Fred stood and grabbed it. “You bet. Want me to empty it?”

  “No, thanks. Just leave it there.” He headed off.

  I turned to Darleen and Randall. “Come on upstairs. Can we get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”

  “We’re fine,” Darleen replied sharply.

  “How about you, Randall?” I asked, irritated at her domineering attitude.

  “Darleen?” he asked.

  “A quick one, if you want.”

  “Thanks,” he told her. To me he said, “I’d love a coffee. Thank you.”

  He sounded almost friendly, but there was nothing friendly about Darleen. The muscles in her jaw grew rigid as he spoke. Evidently she didn’t like his expressing an opinion at odds with hers, even about something as insignificant as coffee, even though he’d checked with her first. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. For all I knew, Randall asked for coffee so they’d have to sit a while and visit, so Darleen would have to slow down, calm down. I knew from experience that sitting and chatting could sometimes be an antidote to distress. Asking Gretchen to bring his coffee upstairs, I escorted them to my office. I took one of the yellow wing chairs. Darleen perched on the matching love seat, her body language conveying that she didn’t intend to stay long. Randall sat next to his wife, farther back, a small rebellion, perhaps.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told them. “I enjoyed knowing Alice. Very much. And I’ve long admired all she’s done for Rocky Point.”

  “Thank you,” Randall said, his eyes on the carpet. “It’s hard to fathom that she’s gone.”

  “I know what you mean. She’s there. Then she’s not. It was like that for me, too, when my dad died. Have you made funeral plans yet?”

  He shook his head, shot Darleen a glance, then raised his eyes to my cheeks. “No, not yet.”

  “Please let me know when you decide what to do.”

  “We will. My mom admired you very much. She was impressed with your knowledge and integrity.”

  Darleen jiggled her bracelet, then, moments later, began tapping her foot. Sometimes chitchat calmed people down; other times it stirred them up. I kept my eyes on Randall’s face, willing him to look me in the eye. It didn’t work. He never glanced higher than my cheeks.

  “That’s really nice to hear,” I said. “Thank you for making it a point to tell me.” I turned to Darleen. “What can I do for you?”

  “We need your help,” she said, her tone clipped. “We have reason to think the attorney general is about to get a court order that will freeze all of my mother-in-law’s assets. It’s completely unjustified and unreasonable, and of course we’ll fight it. In the meantime, we need to get prepared. After her house, one of her most valuable nonfinancial assets is her doll collection. You appraised it about a year ago.”

  “Right. For insurance purposes.”

  “We want you to update the appraisal. If the attorney general confiscates it, he’ll get an appraisal from someone we know nothing about and we’ll have no power to argue their determination of value. This way, at least we’ll have a benchmark. The issue is this: Alice left everything to our daughter, Brooke. It may seem insensitive that we’re doing this now, with Alice just dead, but we have to protect Brooke’s inheritance as best we can. The vultures are circling. There’s no time to delay.”

  I heard Gretchen’s heels click-clacking up the stairs. I was glad for the diversion. I wanted a moment to think about how to handle this uncomfortable request. I didn’t want to be in the middle between angry investors trying to recover lost funds and a lionesslike mother trying to protect her daughter’s inheritance. Gretchen, her expressive eyes signaling she was aware of tension in the room, placed the tray on the butler’s table and left. She’d brought a pot of coffee and three cups.

  “Darleen? Gretchen brought extra cups. Would you like to reconsider?” I asked as I poured Randall’s coffee from the tall Lenox pot.

  “No,” she said, crossing her legs, keeping her eyes on mine. “Is there a reason you’re hesitating? We’re not asking you to do anything illegal or unethical. We want a fair and impartial appraisal, that’s all.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be glad to help.”

  “Good. Thank you. Can you do it right away?”

  “Yes. We have the appraisal information from last year, so that will speed up the process.”

  “We have the dolls in the car along with the documentation. There are twenty-six of them. We also brought along a jewelry box. It’s a recent acquisition. Alice said it was just about the most valuable piece she owned.”

  “More so than the dolls?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Interesting,” I said. Having already agreed to appraise the dolls, I didn’t hesitate. “We’ll be glad to appraise it, too. I’ll ask Gretchen to prepare the paperwork.”

  I was reaching for the phone to call down to Gretchen when the intercom rang. Cara wanted to let me know that Dawn LeBlanc had arrived with a question about her mother’s birthday gift and Louise from the church had dropped off a box for me. I told her we’d be right down and asked her to transfer me to Gretchen.

  “Gretchen,” I said, “we’re going to appraise Alice’s doll collection, the same one as last year, plus any new acquisitions she made. Pull the records so you can prepare the paperwork. Also, there’s a jewelry box we’re going to look at, too.”

  “I’m on it!” she said.

  I hung up and smiled at Randall. “I offer you coffee, then don’t give you time to drink it. Feel free to bring your cup with you.”

  He thanked me but left his cup on the tray. I walked them to the front office and turned them over to Sasha and Gretchen, then picked up the box Louise had delivered from Cara’s desk and invited Dawn and Fred to accompany me.

  As I stepped into the warehouse, I heard Darleen griping about having to fill out new paperwork, saying any delay might lead to disaster.

  * * *

  “Fred,” I said as soon as we were in the warehouse, “I’m enl
isting your help. I’m not going to explain. I just need you to do as I ask. All right?”

  “Sure,” he said, doing a good job of keeping his astonishment under wraps.

  “Don’t let anyone into the warehouse until I give an all clear. I have no clue what excuse you can use, but you need to think of a good one. Any ideas?”

  “How long for?” he asked.

  “Less than an hour, at a guess. Certainly less than two.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then grinned. “I’ll tell Cara and Sasha you’re working on a surprise for Gretchen’s bridal shower. I’ll tell Gretchen you’re working on a surprise for Eric’s homecoming.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Can I help? I mean, I could whisper around, then come in and help.”

  I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said. “We can use the help.”

  He looked pleased. “I’ll be back in a flash.”

  “Meet us at the photocopier.”

  He returned to the office, and Dawn and I started toward the back.

  “You’re sure that was smart?” she asked.

  “Yes. I trust him completely. Also, he worked with me on identifying the smashed dolls and looking for contraband last night, so he knows something is up.”

  “Fair enough,” she said.

  We walked for several seconds without speaking, our footsteps the only sound until I heard a soft mew followed by a pitter-patter. Hank padded up and mewed again.

  “Hi, Hank,” I said, looking down. “I can’t play right now. I’m busy.”

  He trotted along beside me, certain, it seemed, that I’d change my mind.

  “When I drove to Blackmore’s,” I said to Dawn, “the reporters were on me like bad breath. No way am I going to be able to drive to a ransom drop without a conga line of them trailing behind me. I don’t know how to shake them loose.”

  “Yeah, that’s not good,” she said. “Let me call Chief Hunter while you retrieve the money.”

  I opened the safe and extracted the evidence bag containing the hundred bills I had in my possession. By the time I got back, she was off the phone.

  “He’ll take care of it,” she told me. “When the time comes, you focus on getting wherever you’re going safely and let him worry about the media. Just be sure and keep him posted so he’ll know which route you’ll be taking.” She turned toward the dolls. “What can I do to help?”