“Oh, Eric. It’s just awful to think of what you’ve been through.”
“It’s okay. I mean, I’m okay, you know?”
I did know. It’s hard to remember the sharpness of pain or heart-pounding fear. Once you’ve endured an agonizing or petrifying episode and come out the other side intact, most of what you feel is relief. When you think back, you recall that you felt pain or fear, but it’s an intellectual, not a literal, recollection.
“I know you are … and thank goodness for that! Are you all right answering a few more questions?”
“I guess. The police were here already asking a lot of stuff. I couldn’t tell them much. I don’t know much.”
“What did he look like? You saw him without his mask twice, right? When he ran you off the road and when he drove you to the exchange.”
“Yeah, but I think he was disguised. He had red shaggy hair, and even at the time I thought it was a wig, you know, the kind you’d wear on Halloween if you were going as a clown. He wore aviator sunglasses. He had a little mole next to his mouth, but maybe that was paint or makeup. All I know for sure is that he was white and thin, or at least not fat. I don’t know how tall he was, but I figure he must have been somewhere in the normal range or I would have noticed.”
“It’s amazing, isn’t it, how effective a simple disguise can be? You change one or two things, and everything changes.” I paused for a moment. “When he drove you away from the log cabin, were you able to see where you were?”
“No. He had me drugged up by then. I wasn’t noticing anything. I was in the back, lying down and blindfolded. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“It doesn’t matter, Eric. All that matters is you’re safe and well. Grace tells me you’re eating. Did he give you any food?”
“Yeah. He let my hands loose sometimes and let me eat out of a box of Cheerios. I had bottles of water, too. I guess he knew I wasn’t any danger to him, not with all the drugs he gave me. Grace says that I have about a million calories to make up, which is why even dizzy, I’m hungry.”
“I’ll tell Cara to make some gingersnaps. I know those are your favorites.”
“Great! I hope they let me out of here soon.”
“Don’t hurry too much. You need rest.”
“Yeah, and warm socks. I almost got frostbite. There was no heat in the cabin, and the nights were cold. Lucky for me it’s May, not January.”
We chatted awhile longer, and then I asked to speak to Grace.
“I know he’s going to want to come into work over the weekend. Don’t let him, okay?”
“If I can stop him. You know Eric.”
“True. How are you doing, Grace?”
“Better. Thank you for everything, Josie.”
“What about his mom? Is she all right?”
“Kind of.”
“Is she there in the room with you?”
“Exactly.”
I left it at that. Eric’s mom was never happy, never relaxed, never kind. She wasn’t evil. She was just sour, pickled in the brine of her bitterness.
* * *
I rolled into work, feeling semibattered and still upset, around one that Wednesday afternoon. I’d considered taking the day off, but I’d felt too restless to read or rest or even watch TV. I’d called Ty and Zoë. They were both supportive and loving and busy. I’d decided not to communicate with Wes, not until I felt more like myself. Finally, after realizing I hadn’t eaten since Zoë’s care package the evening before, I cooked myself a hamburger and decided to go into work.
The media was still out in force. I drove slowly past the barrage, waved at Officer Meade, who was stationed at my parking lot entrance, keeping them at bay, and parked near the front door. As I got out of my car, I scanned the reporters’ eager faces and noted that Wes was nearly growling at me. Bertie waved and smiled as if we were old friends.
I parked near the front and stepped inside. Everyone looked up. I grinned.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s all true. Eric’s fine. He may be released from the hospital as soon as today.”
Fred leapt up from his chair and whooped, punching the air, wanting a high five. I laughed and returned the salute. Gretchen applauded, and Cara joined in. Soon we were all applauding, clapping until our hands stung and then clapping some more.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Gretchen asked. “If not, no problem, but you can imagine how curious we are.”
“I’d better not, not until the police say it’s okay. I don’t know what they may be holding back. I can tell you this much. The kidnapper was clever. Very smart. Very detail oriented.” I waved it away. “For now, I just want to celebrate the good news about Eric. Is there any coffee? I want to propose a toast!” When we all had our drink of choice in hand, coffee for Gretchen, Fred, and me, and tea for Cara and Sasha, I raised my mug and said, “To Eric’s safe homecoming, and to us all. You’re family to me.”
Mugs clinks, we sipped, then Fred said, “One more toast: To Josie, our fearless leader, for doing what was necessary to win Eric’s release.”
“And for being the best boss ever,” Gretchen added.
“Hear, hear,” Cara said.
“Hear, hear,” Sasha said.
I felt myself redden as their mugs touched, clink, clink. “Oh, gee, golly … enough of that … you’re making me blush.” I smiled. “Thank you.” I placed my hand on my chest, over my heart. “Thank you so much. You are incredible.” I paused and grinned. “One thing I should confess. Cara, I made a commitment on your behalf. I promised Eric you’d bake him gingersnaps.”
“Oh, good! I’ll make them tonight!”
“I don’t expect him to come back to work until Monday. Maybe Saturday if Grace can’t stop him.”
“That’s all right. I’ll have them here in case he stops by, and I’ll make a fresh batch for Monday.”
“You’ll need to,” Gretchen said. “Your gingersnaps never last long around here!”
“I have another toast!” Fred said, raising his mug. “To Cara’s gingersnaps!”
We clinked and laughed and called out “Hear, hear,” and then the moment passed and people placed their mugs on their desks and began drifting back to their desks.
“It’s such a relief, isn’t it?” I asked. “Such an incredible relief. Fill me in, Gretchen. Is there any work stuff I should be aware of?”
“Cara and I will oversee the tag sale setup,” Gretchen said.
“Excellent,” I said.
Fred leaned back in his chair, pushed up his glasses, and grinned. “I’ve confirmed the witchcraft book—it was in fact owned by Boswell. Strafford’s Autographs in London has a letter Boswell wrote, signed with one l. They’ve used a forensic examiner to authenticate it. They e-mailed me a scan of the letter showing the signature. It’s a lock.”
I leaned against Sasha’s desk. “Holy cow.”
“Exactly.”
“So now we hire a forensic examiner of our own,” I said.
“And make some history.”
“Well done, Fred,” I said.
“Thanks. I’m stoked.”
“I don’t blame you.” I turned to Sasha. “Anything with Alice’s dolls?”
“Nothing like as amazing as Fred’s news,” Sasha said. “There’s only one new doll in Alice Michaels’s collection since last year. Isn’t that a surprise? She sure seemed focused on getting the Farmington collection, so I assumed she was in acquisition mode.”
“Interesting,” I said, nodding. “I’d like to see it.”
We walked together through the warehouse to the side worktable where Alice’s doll collection was laid out.
Sasha reached for a sock doll. “This is the new one. It’s simple and pleasant-looking, but it’s neither unique nor, from what I can infer from the age of the socks, rare. Isn’t it strange that only this one doll has been added?”
So this is Hilda, I thought, the doll Alice made for herself when she was a girl. The blue of Hilda’s eyes an
d the red of her mouth had faded over the decades, but the artistry was unmarred; the features had been drawn with flair. The brown yarn used for her hair was in excellent condition, with no unraveled bits. She wore a blue-and-yellow polka-dot pinafore. Her blouse was white.
“I’m certain that this doll,” I said, “is not a new acquisition. This is Hilda. Alice told me about her. She made it herself when she was about seven. She named her Hilda after her favorite teacher.”
“That’s sweet, isn’t it?”
“Very.” I unbuttoned her blouse to examine the stitching. “Alice was a good seamstress. The workmanship in these set-in sleeves is flawless.”
“How do you think I should appraise it? Traditionally, sock dolls are considered folk art, which, of course, makes determining value very tricky.”
I nodded. “True. Still, even if we consider nothing more than the doll’s age and condition, she’s got to have some value—she’s more than fifty years old and in pristine condition. See what you can find in doll auction records over the last year when a sock doll is part of a lot of rare dolls. Then compare the sales records of the other lots when no sock doll was in the mix.”
“Good idea,” she said, nodding. She reached for a wooden doll with delicately carved features. “Do you remember this one? Last year we couldn’t trace the maker. I’d like to try again, if it’s all right with you. Queen Anne dolls are so rare. If I can prove this is one … well, I don’t want to shortchange the estate.”
Sasha’s point was well taken. It was extraordinarily unusual to see a doll that dated from earlier than 1850; further, most early dolls were crafted to look like children. Dolls from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that look like adults are among the rarest of finds, and thus the most valuable. Even though Queen Anne’s reign ended in 1714, dolls that meet these parameters are known as Queen Anne dolls.
The majority of these early adult dolls were crafted in England by carpenters who carved the dolls out of hardwood and added paint to enhance their features. In excellent condition, they’re nearly priceless. Last year, after sending the doll out for age verification and learning that the wood dated from the mid-seventeenth century, we valued it at fifty thousand dollars based on its age, subject matter, craftsmanship, and condition. Sasha had referenced an auction catalogue saying only thirty Queen Anne dolls with a known maker were extant.
“Am I remembering correctly that Alice had no idea about its provenance?” I asked.
“She knew a little, but it wasn’t helpful. She bought it at an antiques store on Cape Cod twenty years ago. The store was called Elegant Antiques. She had no specific memory of how much she paid, although she thought it was in the hundreds, not the thousands. The shop closed when the owner died, ten years after that. The inventory was sold at auction. No records were retained by the estate once probate was granted.”
A dead end. “Since Alice had impeccable taste and good instincts, and since she was attracted to early European dolls,” I said, thinking aloud, “I agree that it’s worth pursuing. Alice wouldn’t have purchased it unless it met her standards.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too,” Sasha said.
“How will you try tracing it?”
“Last year I examined photos of the dolls made by known carpenters of that era to see if I could identify any common elements of style. Since the photos are from online museum sites or auction catalogues, they’re limited, and usually the dolls are dressed. This time around, I thought I’d ask the curators or owners to take more detailed shots for me to use.”
“That’s a great idea, Sasha,” I said. “Since so few carpenters are known to have done that sort of work, that’s a smart approach—you won’t be overwhelmed with options.” I paused, then asked, “Is the jewelry box from that same period?”
“No,” Sasha said.
She unwrapped the box from multiple layers of bubble wrap. I expected her to add additional commentary, but she didn’t. I picked it up. The box was roughly 18" × 6" × 6" and crafted from mahogany, with rosewood embellishments.
“This isn’t rare,” I said, my brow wrinkling.
“I know.”
I lifted the lid. From the run-of-the-mill brass hinges and contemporary nails to the glue used to attach the red velvet lining to the wood, it was obvious that the box was modern and ordinary. It was attractive, but nothing special.
“What about the jewelry?” I asked, scanning the array of gold and silver earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. Most of the stones were blue, but I spotted red, pink, yellow, and green ones, too.
“I looked at each one. I think it’s all costume and contemporary,” Sasha said.
“She must have been pulling Darleen’s leg when she told her it was her most valuable possession. I can see that happening. She would have loved to see Darleen make a fool of herself by offering it for sale to a New York City auction house or something.”
“Not nice,” Sasha said.
“No. Alice was often not nice—especially to Darleen.” I shrugged. “We should ask Nate to take a look at everything, just in case.”
“I’ll get it all to him right away.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“Not at this point,” she said. “I’ll let you know if I learn any—”
She broke off as the PA cackled. “Wes Smith on line one,” Cara said.
“I’ve got to take this,” I told Sasha. “Keep up the good work!”
I told Cara I’d take the call upstairs and ran for my office.
* * *
“We have to talk,” Wes said, skipping hello, as always. “You should have called me back.”
“Give me a break, Wes.”
He sighed. “Okay, okay—but I’ve got a real shockeroonie. You’re not going to believe it.”
“What?” I asked, knowing he wanted me to draw him out.
“Not on the phone,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “We’ve got to meet.”
I glanced out the window. It was a dazzlingly bright day, warm and fresh after yesterday’s cleansing rain.
“Really, Josie. It’s important.”
The time display on my computer monitor read 1:50. “Okay. Our dune. Ten minutes.”
“Done!” he said, sounding both pleased and excited.
Wes, I knew, would plead with me to give him a blow-by-blow account of my experience. Probably he’d be upset that I hadn’t surreptitiously taken photos. I shook my head. Wes was pushy and relentless, but he was also diligent and dedicated. In the hours since Eric had been rescued, Wes would have used his sources to piece together details about the kidnapper that I had no other way of learning. He had his agenda, but I had mine, and I was willing to make a trade.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I arrived first and climbed the dune. Standing on the still-damp sand, I stared out over the ocean. The gentle sway of the tide was hypnotic. Toward the horizon, it looked as if golden stars were twinkling on sapphire glass.
I heard Wes’s car before I saw it. He needed a new muffler. I watched him jerk to a stop, then turned back to the ocean and waited for him to scamper up the dune.
“You look okay,” Wes said.
“Thanks. It’s been quite a week.”
“Yeah—a murder and a kidnapping. You’re the girl of the hour, that’s for sure.”
“That’s not how I would put it.”
“Yeah, whatever. So fill me in.”
“What’s your shockeroonie?” I asked, cringing inside as I repeated one of Wes’s favorite words.
“Eric’s been released from the hospital,” Wes said.
“Already? I spoke to him around ten.”
“Did he tell you about his concussion?”
“Have you spoken to him?” I asked, ignoring his question.
“No. Why?”
“How do you know he had a concussion? Medical information is confidential.”
“I have good sources,” he said proudly, as if I’d been admiring him,
not questioning his ethics. “The police are at his house now. So far, he doesn’t remember anything useful. What about you?”
“How much do you know about what happened?” I asked.
“Just the basics. I’m counting on you to fill me in. I want to know everything.”
“As soon as the police say I can, I will.”
“Josie!” he whined. “That’s not reasonable.”
“If I tell you anything, you have to promise me you won’t publish it until it’s public.”
“Or until I confirm it from another source. Like always.”
“There is no other source. Just me—and the kidnapper.”
“You know you can trust me,” he said, sounding hurt.
“I know. I wouldn’t talk to you at all otherwise. I’m not negotiating, Wes. I’ll talk to you on my terms or not at all.”
He sighed, a deep one. “Okay, then. Your terms and I get the info as an exclusive.”
“I can’t guarantee that,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked, sounding shocked.
“Because I don’t know who else might have information I want.”
He pursed lips, upset and hurt. I knew that I probably wouldn’t want to talk to another reporter. I never had, but this time, other considerations were at work. As far as I was concerned, kidnapping Eric was a personal affront, a slap in my face. You don’t mess with my family and get away with it.
He sighed again. “Okay. Talk.”
I did, and I knew I had Wes’s full attention when he pulled a piece of ratty paper from his pocket and began jotting notes. I didn’t embellish the story, but I didn’t skip any details, either. Retelling it brought back tendrils of the anxiety and fear I’d felt during those agonizingly long hours. While I spoke I kept my eyes on the ocean, the steady ebb and flow of the incoming tide helping to calm my jagged nerves.
“How come you didn’t push Eric more on things? Like in his phone message to you, whether he used ‘they’ because he thought there was more than one kidnapper or because it’s just one of those things you say? Or how often he was untied? Or whether he ever heard people talking in another room?”
“Because he was in the hospital recovering from a concussion!”
Dolled Up for Murder Page 17
