“Raging around your office? Sounds like a fun time. I’ll call you as soon as I speak to someone.”
I thanked him and spent the rest of the drive planning what I would say to her and hoping she wouldn’t be too awful.
* * *
To my surprise, there was still a strong media presence at Prescott’s. I figured they’d all be on the courthouse steps, but I was wrong. I ignored the questions being shouted at me and drove straight to the front door, stepping inside just in time to hear Darleen demanding to see me, her voice strident.
Fred was standing, his eyes signaling frustration.
Gretchen was seated at her desk, but she wasn’t working. She was leaning forward, her elbows on her desk and her chin resting on her hands, absorbing every dramatic detail.
Cara was cowering by the warehouse door.
“Oh, there you are!” Darleen said. “Tell him to get me my dolls. Now.”
“I can’t,” I said, closing the door, the chimes’ soft tinkling serving to highlight her shrill braying.
“Excuse me?” she said, dripping sarcasm.
“I spoke to my lawyer, and he instructed me not to release any of Alice Michaels’s possessions.”
“How dare you? This fight is between us and the government. It’s none of your business.”
“I wish that were true, Darleen, but it’s not. Obeying court orders is everyone’s business.”
“Are you working for the cops now?”
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Her tone implied that working for the cops was one step below selling drugs to school kids.
“Are you suggesting that cooperating with law enforcement is something to be ashamed of?” I asked in a level tone.
“I’m suggesting that a businesswoman should focus on keeping her clients happy, not on doing law enforcement’s dirty work.”
“Darleen, I think you ought—” I broke off as the door opened and Christopher Almonte stepped inside.
“Ms. Prescott?” he asked, taking in the office with one sweeping glance.
“Yes,” I said.
“I understand you’re in possession of some of Alice Michaels’s possessions, specifically a doll collection.”
“That’s correct,” I said. I turned to Darleen and smiled, allowing myself that guilty pleasure. “Darleen, this is Federal Prosecutor Almonte. Mr. Almonte, this is Alice Michaels’s daughter-in-law, Darleen Michaels. She was just trying to get me to release the objects to her.”
“Really … then my timing is good.” He handed me a court order, then turned to her. “Seems like you and I should have a talk, Ms. Michaels.”
Darleen stormed out. She didn’t say a word, but if looks could kill, Christopher Almonte would be very sick, and I’d be dead as a doornail.
I called Max, and he asked me to fax the court order to him for review. While we waited for his callback, I asked if anybody wanted some lemonade.
“There’s Cara’s gingersnaps, too,” Gretchen said, heading for the minifridge.
We’d barely poured the lemonade before Max called back.
“Give the man what he wants. Get him to sign a detailed receipt. Also, the AG asked me to ask you if you’d consult for them and appraise Alice’s household goods.”
“Of course,” I said, flattered to be asked.
“I’ll take care of the paperwork. We want to be certain your liability is limited. We can finalize everything tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Max,” I said, glad to be back on solid, familiar ground with Max by my side, not stumbling along Darleen’s rocky road.
It was nearly five thirty, and I told everyone to leave, but Gretchen said she was fine to stay and help. She prepared the receipt, and Fred loaded the tub containing the dolls into Mr. Almonte’s trunk. After he had gone, I realized I was trembling. I was adept at handling difficult personalities. In a consumer business where megadollar sales and competing agendas were routine, coping with anger, jealousy, and envy were all in a day’s work. Darleen was something else altogether. She was mean and spiteful, and I hoped I’d never have to interact with her again.
Upstairs, I sent Wes the scans of the currency as promised, then turned to face my window. I looked out over the forest, into the cerulean sky. I couldn’t think of anything I could do to help find Eric’s kidnapper, not at this point. The police were gathering facts and reinterviewing Eric, and the media were issuing calls for citizen cooperation.
My thoughts gravitated to Randall. How could a skilled and successful businessman be unable to look a person in the eye? I knew well what it took to oversee a small business—Randall had to be able to take calculated risks while simultaneously creating workflow procedures. He had to be able to sell, make decisions, and lead. The man I’d met, the man I’d witnessed climbing the courthouse steps, possessed none of those qualities. Either someone else was running the business or Randall was different at work than he was at home. Lots of people, I knew, were like that, bringing forth different parts of themselves in different environments. It was possible that Randall was competent at work and a milquetoast the rest of the time.
I called Wes.
“Is Randall’s business really a success?” I asked.
“Why are you asking?”
“He doesn’t strike me as the successful entrepreneurial type. I got to wondering if maybe Darleen’s the power behind the throne. Can you check with some employees?”
“Done.”
Unlike Randall, whose subjugated demeanor seemed at odds with how he’d need to act at work, Ian behaved as expected and completely in character. Even so, that was quite a performance he’d put on at the courthouse. I considered the possibility that he’d invented Alice’s diary in an effort to force Lenny’s and Randall’s hands. If they, on their own, or in a conspiracy of Alice’s making, were guilty of even darker crimes than fraud, crimes like blackmail, Ian might hope to tempt them with a way out. If they came clean about the missing money, maybe they could frame a deal that would allow them to escape graver punishment for the more serious charges. Ian might have been teasing them by hinting that he had knowledge relating to their alleged crimes. Or Ian could have fabricated the whole thing for reasons only he understood.
I could think of only one way to find out if Ian’s claims about the diary were real, and that was to ask him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I didn’t have Ian’s cell phone number, so I decided to call his wife, Martha, at the day spa. I picked up the phone to dial but changed my mind before the call connected and hung up. I didn’t know what she thought of Ian’s behavior. For all I knew, she was egging him on, but it was possible she’d distanced herself, that she was acting as if she didn’t know him. Better, I thought, to talk in person so I could see her eyes and gauge her attitude, and better to just show up, instead of giving her time to prepare.
Lavinia’s Day Spa faced the village green. It was housed on the ground floor of a two-hundred-year-old former chocolate factory. Stepping inside, I was immediately immersed in the subtle and familiar aroma of lavender and peppermint, Lavinia’s signature scent. The inside walls were original redbrick, mellowed to a muted terra-cotta color. The flooring was original, too, wide oak planks polished to a golden sheen. Thick aubergine area rugs were scattered here and there. The lighting was recessed and subdued. I felt myself relax the moment I entered.
I waited for a woman in front of me to check in, then said hello to the receptionist.
“I’m Josie Prescott. Do you know if Martha Landers is around, and if so, if I could see her for a minute or two?”
“She’s here somewhere, probably in three places at once, if I know her. Let me check for you.”
I leaned against the counter, orange granite flecked with gold, and waited as she called someone named Patricia, then Sylvia, then Deb.
“I found her!” she said, hanging up. “Her assistant will be right out to lead you through the labyrinth.”
I thanked her again and stepped aside as t
wo customers approached the counter. A moment later, a young woman with a ponytail, wearing a miniskirt and high-heeled sandals, popped her head out of a door marked PRIVATE.
“Josie?” she asked, and when I nodded and stepped forward, she added, “Follow me, please.”
I’d never seen the back offices before, and I was surprised at their plainness. Whereas the spa conveyed warmth and calmness, this section was completely unadorned. The wall-to-wall carpet was industrial gray, the lighting was fluorescent, and from what I could see by peeking into rooms and cubicles as we passed, the walls were stark white and undecorated. The overall feel of the place was utilitarian, even unwelcoming, and certainly not inspiring. It wasn’t a place I’d want to work. When we reached the end of the corridor, the young woman knocked twice at a closed, unmarked door, then opened it without waiting for a reply and held it for me, so I could enter ahead of her.
Martha Landers looked up from her computer monitor and smiled at me. She looked thinner than I recalled, and tired, with purple smudges under her eyes that makeup couldn’t conceal.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” I said.
“Are you kidding me? You’re more than welcome! I’m always glad to take a break from budgeting, and I’m also always glad to see you. How are you doing, with all that’s been going on with you?”
“Amazingly well, I must say. Once I knew that Eric was safe, I felt the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. It’s terrible about Alice, too, of course, but Eric was alive, and—” I stopped midsentence. I didn’t need to relive the horror.
“Understood. Is this a social call? Or can I do something for you?”
“Mostly, I wanted to say hello and see how you’re doing. I know this has been a tough time for you, too.”
She leaned back in her chair, and her shoulders sagged. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Ian’s sure been all over the news.”
“What now?”
“You haven’t heard what happened at the attorney general’s news conference just now?”
Martha cocked her head. “Let’s skip the two-step, Josie. Assume I know nothing.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was trying to be subtle, not sneaky. If I were married to Ian, I’d be worried. He seems a bit like a loose cannon, if you know what I mean. I was just wondering what your take is on the whole situation.”
“Ian who?”
I stared at her.
“We’ve split up.” She shrugged. “I thought you knew.”
“Oh, God, Martha, I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I stuck with it as long as I could, but even I, Miss Goody Two-Shoes, has a limit. I can tell from your expression that you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re thinking I’m upset about the money thing. Or I guess I should say the lack of money thing. I am. Of course I am. Who wouldn’t be? I don’t care about money, though, not in that way. I walked out on Ian because I caught him screwing around on me. Nice, huh?”
I shook my head sympathetically. “You must be crushed, Martha.”
“Actually,” she said, sounding drained but not embittered, “I am. That’s a good word for it. Crushed, like a steamroller ran over me. You know the worst part? Ian didn’t even try to hide it all that hard. I caught him dead to rights because he didn’t even care enough to fake it. It was a few months ago, in February. I was pulling together all the receipts and everything we need for taxes. I noticed a charge for lingerie on one of our credit card statements. I hadn’t received any lingerie, thank you very much. It was like he wanted to get caught.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Damn—I thought I’d thrown it away.’”
“That was it?” I asked, shocked.
“No. He came clean. He told me he’d been unhappy ever since the kids graduated college, and that’s what? About five years ago now. He’d been having an affair that whole time. Five effing years, Josie, and I was just too stupid to notice.”
“Oh, God, Martha. You must be insane.”
“I was. I’m better now.” She took a deep breath and smiled, a weak one. “You come to say hello and get an earful. Sorry about that. For the first couple of months, I did the stoic thing. Then I realized that I was suffering for his sins—and screw that. Now I talk about if I’m so inclined.” She flipped a palm. “Believe it or not, talking about it makes me feel better.”
“I believe that a hundred percent. Talking about things always makes me feel better, too. Have you filed for divorce?”
“Yeah. Alice did us one favor. Not having any money means there are no assets to fight about.”
“Awful. Is he still seeing that other woman?” I asked, hoping my direct question wouldn’t offend her.
She snorted. “Ian’s mistress was Alice Michaels.”
“Alice?” I shook my head, staggered. “Alice? I just can’t imagine it. She had to be, what, a dozen years older than him?”
“Seventeen, to be exact.”
“Oh, wow. Martha, you must have been out-of-your-mind upset.”
“To tell you the truth, Josie, mostly what I am is mad. I feel like such a fool. After we broke up, two so-called friends said they’d wanted to tell me they’d seen Ian out with Alice doing the hot and heavy but hadn’t known how.”
“Yeah, I had friends like that, too. I promise you that if I ever see anything you’d want to know or that you’d need to know, I’ll tell you about it.”
“Thank you, Josie,” Martha said, smiling. “Believe it or not, that means a lot. I promise you the same thing.”
“Deal. On a separate but related subject, I need to talk to Ian about something he said today. I won’t mention this conversation to him.”
“Don’t mind my nosiness—what do you need to talk to him about?”
“He said Alice Michaels kept a diary. Actually, he taunted Lenny and Randall with it. I don’t know if he said it because he was trying to goose Lenny and Randall into talking, or if it’s true, but I want to ask him. I’ve been asked to appraise Alice’s household objects, and the more I know about the diary, the better the likelihood I can find it. Since Ian wants it found, I’m hoping he’ll talk to me about it.”
Martha unscrewed a bottle of water and took a long drink, then took her time screwing the cap back on. “It’s true. Alice kept a diary. Ian told me about it. It was that same night, when I confronted him about the lingerie. He said he was just as glad his affair was out in the open, that it was bound to come out sooner or later because Alice kept a diary. As soon as you put something in writing, he said, you’re screwed. It’s not if you’re screwed, it’s when. He told me he tried to get her not to write about him, but she just laughed it off.”
“Well, that answers that. I wonder where it is.”
Martha ripped a sheet from a memo cube, wrote something on it, and handed it me. “Here’s his phone number. Ask him.”
* * *
I sat in my car with the windows down and called Ian, but I didn’t reach him.
“This is Josie Prescott, Ian,” I said after his voice mail beeped. “I’m hoping we can talk soon. As you may or may not know, it looks like I’ll be the one going through Alice’s possessions, so any information you can give me about her diary to help me find it quickly would be appreciated.”
I looked out over the green, watching a woman roll a ball for a toddler. It was still warm, with the sun an hour or more from setting. I didn’t want to go home. With Ty out of town, there was no reason to hurry, and I wanted to try to clear my head. Something about Ian’s rant was tickling a memory, but I couldn’t seem to capture it. It was like the thought was there, right in front of me, but so thoroughly shrouded in fog, I couldn’t see it.
I drove to the beach. Leaving my car at Rocky Point Taffy, not yet open for the season, I crossed the two-lane street, pushed through rambling roses, just in bud, clambered up a dune, the sand shifting under my feet, and crab-walked down to the beach. Ribbons of slick green seaweed littered
the sand. To the north, a man and a woman were playing Frisbee with a golden retriever. I headed that way.
After a while, the couple and dog left, and I called Ty.
“Hi,” he said. “How are you?”
“Okay. Confused. Upset. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Why are you confused and upset?”
“Nothing seems to make sense,” I said. “It’s hard to tell the sharks from the minnows. Three hundred out of a thousand bills I sent Barry were counterfeit, and no one knows where the real money is. I have no idea who killed Alice or why, which means a murderer is probably here among us. Ian Landers, you don’t know him, but you’ve heard me talk about his wife, Martha—she’s the manager at Lavinia’s Spa—anyway, Ian had a five-year affair with Alice, who was, by the way, just about old enough to be his mother.”
“Five years? That’s not a one-night stand.”
“No.”
“You sound like you need to spend time with a special fella, someone who’ll give you a little back rub and tell you how beautiful you are, and how he’ll never cheat, never think about cheating.”
I smiled. “That would be wonderful—exactly what the doctor ordered—except the man of my dreams isn’t here … wait a minute … yes, he is. I’m talking to him!”
“I miss you, Josie. I wish I was there. Don’t get me wrong—the training here is good, and the meetings aren’t running too long, so work is okay. I’m just tired of being away from home.”
“Today’s Wednesday. It’s only two more days.”
“Two days that will feel like two weeks.”
“We need a vacation,” I said.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“Norway.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’ve never been.”
“There are lots of places you’ve never been. Why Norway?”
“I don’t know. I read a book once in which a couple went to Norway and cruised along the fjords. It sounded romantic.”
“Okay. When do you want to go?”
I smiled. I was going to Norway! “After Gretchen’s wedding and before tourist season really kicks in.”
Dolled Up for Murder Page 20
