Griff squatted, aimed his lamp at something, then called to Detective Brownley. She joined him, examined whatever he’d found, and nodded. She photographed it, then continued snapping as she walked away from the building.
She’s recording footsteps
, I realized. Footsteps that led straight like a shot into the woods. Detective Brownley and Griff stepped behind a chestnut tree, and for a moment they were lost in the darkness. Then their spotlights came on, and I could follow their progress as they wended their way toward the church parking lot.
When Detective Brownley returned to the office, she confirmed that they had identified footprints they suspected belonged to the intruder and would be casting molds right away in case it rained again overnight.
Ty arrived, and without even taking off his coat, he hugged me. I buried my face in his chest, and for one long glorious moment my world was comprised solely of the earthy aroma of leather, the beating of his heart, and the security of his embrace.
Half an hour later, when Detective Brownley announced they were done with their inside crime scene work, Ty nailed a plank of wood into the window frame while I tested the doors in the auction venue and tag sale room to be certain everything was secure. I spun the wheel on the safe, and only then did I remember that I hadn’t returned Gretchen’s vase to the vault.
I rushed over to the spot where I’d left the box. It was gone. I’d left it in this exact spot, I was certain of it, and now it was gone. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I was hyperventilating. Ty called my name, but I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t speak at all. I stood, immobile, until he found me.
“It’s gone,” I whispered, pointing to where it had been. “Gretchen’s vase. The man stole it, and now it’s gone.”
Ty guided me back to the office and told me to sit down. “You’re in shock, Josie,” he said. “Do as I say.”
Within minutes, Detective Brownley was back with the team of technicians in tow. It was surreal, a nightmare. I felt overwhelmed and helpless. I couldn’t find Gretchen, and now I’d lost her vase.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I
didn’t even try to sleep. At Ty’s suggestion, I took a hot shower, had a cup of tea and then a glass of brandy—but nothing helped. I was beside myself. I couldn’t read, watch a movie or TV, or listen to music. All I could do was fret.
About two thirty, I decided to use my wakefulness in the only productive way I could think of—doing research. As I viewed the images of Gretchen’s vase I’d downloaded onto my laptop, I began to tear up. I stopped myself from crying.
I’d left off at the discovery that the vase might have been a present from King George II to his mistress, Henrietta Howard. Deepening my investigation, I found several articles that revealed additional details about Henrietta’s struggles and tenacity.
Henrietta Howard, a gentle-born woman, survived an abusive marriage, reinvented herself as a member of Queen Charlotte’s staff, and, after spending years as the mistress of King George II, went on to become one of the most sought-after women of her generation, friends with the greatest poets and intellectuals of her day. Alexander Pope wrote of her:
I knew a thing that’s most uncommon
(Envy be silent and attend)
I knew a reasonable woman
,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend
.
Pope’s attitude toward women reflected his era, I thought, highlighting the magnitude of Henrietta Howard’s accomplishment. In an age when women had few rights, she’d rescued herself from battery and penury.
I spent the next two hours trying to locate the full text of Lord Chesterfield’s letter, the one that Percy Oliver Johns had referenced in his dissertation, without luck. A wave of fatigue swept over me. I e-mailed Sasha, describing where I’d searched and asking her to give it a try.
As I clicked SEND, I thought that finally I might be able to rest.
I slept fitfully for a few hours and woke up feeling unrested and fretful.
Ty had left a pot of coffee on the burner and a note taped to the refrigerator: “I’ll be home early. You’re doing everything you can. Detective Brownley is very, very good at her job. Love, Ty.” I held his note against my heart for a moment, grateful for the concern and care that resonated from his words.
Wes called at eight, just as I was preparing to leave for work. “We need to talk,” he said, his tone grave.
We agreed to meet at the Portsmouth Diner.
I got there first, selected a booth near the back, and ordered coffee.
Wes came in a few minutes later. Sliding onto the bench, he said, “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
I looked out the window at scores of tiny yellow and white crocuses blooming along a grassy knoll. I didn’t want to discuss how I felt. “I’m holding up as best I can.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . I hear the police are making progress.”
I felt myself perk up, just a little. “Tell me.”
“First, about last night—fill me in. I got the news on my police scanner, but I was too far away to get to your place in time.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Wes,” I replied, forcing myself to adopt a light tone.
He looked embarrassed. “I was kind of tied up.”
“What kind of tied up?” I asked warily, prepared to hear something offensive or insensitive.
“If you must know, I was with my mother in Hampton. I took her to dinner. It was her birthday.”
I smiled. “Good going, Wes!”
His cheeks reddened. “So what happened?” he asked.
I paused, then said, “Someone broke into Prescott’s and stole a valuable vase.”
“How? Come on, Josie, I need details.”
I met his eyes. “I can’t talk about it yet, Wes. I’m too upset.” I pushed my coffee mug away and prepared to leave. “If you have something to tell me, great. Otherwise, I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t go. If you can’t talk about the details, list the things you want to know. Maybe I can help.”
I paused. That was a good offer, and it was kind of him not to challenge my refusal to talk—in addition to being expedient, of course. If he got me describing what I wanted to know, he’d be that much ahead of the game.
“Thank you. I’d like to know who broke in, of course, and why. The intruder was completely covered up—all I could see was that he was about six feet tall. What was he after? Information about Gretchen? He went through papers in the office before stealing a vase packed in a box. With all the inventory available, why did he take that one object? The police found footprints. I want to know if they got good imprints and what they were able to learn from them.” I shrugged, thinking whether there was anything else. “That’s what I’d want to know.”
Wes wrote furiously on his lined paper, then nodded and looked up. “Thanks, Josie.”
“Do you have any news, Wes?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Wes said, “but I will.”
I left him sitting in the booth and drove straight to work.
I filled out several online forms, reporting Gretchen’s vase to the various national and international stolen art and antiques registries that Prescott’s, like all reputable auction houses, subscribed to. If the vase were offered for sale, we might catch the seller and, from that information, find Gretchen, or at least, the thief. I was attaching photographs when Cara called up to say that someone named Jack was downstairs asking to see me.
“Jack who?” I asked.
“Jack Stene. He’s a friend of Gretchen’s,” she added, lowering her voice as if she were revealing a secret. “You remember—he called last Friday.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Jack Stene was in his early thirties. He wore khakis and a button-down blue shirt. At a guess, he was about five-eleven and well built. His hair was sandy brown and long enough for him to have gathered it into a ponytail. He had brown-black eyes and an affable smile.
“You must be Josie,” he said as I walked into the office.
“I am.” I extended a hand and smiled back.
He took my hand in his and shook it—a good one, strong, but not too strong, and lasting just the right amount of time—as he introduced himself. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked.
I led the way into the warehouse and paused by the stacked crates.
“I met Gretchen.” He looked away as if he were embarrassed.
Gretchen’s chemist
, I thought.
“I got back last Monday. Since then . . . well . . . I’ve heard the news . . . about the murder and everything . . . I just don’t understand . . . I mean, the police have asked me—”
“The police?” I broke in, surprised.
He nodded. “They got my name from her cell phone call log and my e-mails to her. I mean, that was bad, but then it was on the news that an APB had been issued . . . and this morning I heard that there was a break-in here last night . . . I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on.”
“What did you tell the police?”
“Nothing. I don’t know anything. Do you?”
Jack was waiting for my reply, his eyes conveying sincerity and concern and nothing else, except determination. I had to say something, and from the set of his jaw and his unwavering gaze, I could tell he wasn’t going to be put off by a politely worded general statement.
“Only that it’s crazy to think that Gretchen did anything wrong,” I said. Without warning, my voice cracked, and I looked away. I took several deep breaths to compose myself.
“She talked about you a lot, about what a smart businesswoman you are and how much she trusts you. I can’t help thinking . . . if anyone knows where she is, it would be you.”
I took another deep breath. “I wish,” I said.
He looked past the rows of shelving, toward the back wall. Then he met my eyes and held them. “Are you sure you don’t know how to reach her? Even to deliver a message?”
Even if I had a way of contacting her, I wouldn’t have told him so. I had no reason to trust him. None. He might be just what he purported to be—a new fella in Gretchen’s life, confused and worried and eager to know she was all right. Maybe he wasn’t, though; it was possible that he was just a good actor.
“No,” I said. “Do you?”
“Me?” He seemed nonplussed at my question. “No. That’s why I’m here.”
I nodded. Probably it was true. He gave me his business card, jotting his cell phone number on the back. We promised to let one another know if and when we heard from her.
I fingered Jack’s card as I watched him walk to his car. I didn’t just need information—I needed answers.
When in doubt
, I thought,
call Wes
.
His phone went directly to voice mail. “I’m hoping you can check out someone for me—a friend of Gretchen’s named Jack Stene,” I said in my message. “He works at Dobson Corporation.” I read off Jack’s contact information, but I didn’t articulate the obvious point: Within days of meeting him, Gretchen disappeared.
Cara buzzed up about ten minutes later. Serena Carson was on line two. I nearly toppled off my chair diving to punch the button marked 2.
“I found someone for you to talk to,” Serena said. “His name is Jed McGinty, and he started working at Sidlawn fencing in 1978. According to what I’ve been told, he knows
everything.”
She giggled, and I wondered what juicy nugget she’d been given as an example of Jed’s long memory.
“You’re the best!” I exclaimed.
“Thanks! Jed is expecting your call. He’s kind of excited to think he’s assisting in a police investigation.”
Jed answered with the easy manner of a man who had all day to chat, and lucky for me, he recalled the belt buckle well.
“It was incredible,” Jed said, “the best prize ever—a dude ranch. Back then, every year, the CEO took the company’s top sales reps and executives somewhere. You know the kind of thing—a resort in Puerto Rico, Disney World in Orlando, Broadway shows in New York. They were
all
sweet, but a dude ranch in Montana? Man, that created some buzz in the company, let me tell you.”
“I can imagine. Did you go?”
He laughed, a deep, rolling chuckle. “Are you kidding me? I’d been with the company less than a year at that point. I was an associate accountant, about five levels too low to even qualify to be invited.” He chuckled again, and I wondered what struck him as funny. “The CFO, Barry Rackham his name was, he was lucky enough to go, and when he got back, he showed us all the swag. That belt buckle you’re asking about, it was part of his haul. It was in the gift bag.” He laughed again. “I asked my boss what it would take to get one of those puppies for myself. He told me that given my age and experience, my best bet was marrying the boss’s daughter!”
I laughed politely. “What can you tell me about the buckle?”
“It was custom made, a great design—an Indian in full war paint. There were only a few of them produced, so getting one was, like, up there with getting a bonus.” Another huge laugh. “Didn’t happen, you know?”
“So, Jed, tell me,” I said, crossing my fingers for luck, “is there a list of recipients?”
“Now that I
don’t
know.”
“Darn. Who might?” I asked, disappointed but not surprised.
“Hmmm,” Jed murmured. “I think you’d better talk to Serena about that.”
“Will do.” I thanked him, and he transferred me back.
“Serena,” I said when she was on the line, “I have another question. Jed was very helpful. He was able to describe the belt buckle, which is great, but he didn’t know if there’s a list of recipients. How about it? Can you think of any way I could track it down?”
“Oh, my,” Serena commented. “Jed didn’t have any ideas?”
“Yes, he did. His idea was to ask you.” I laughed a little, and she joined in. “I’m pretty sure that there were only ten produced. Doesn’t it make sense that the company would have kept track of that sort of information? I hate to ask you to go back to HR.”
“No problem. To tell you the truth, it’s fun! I feel like a real detective.”
“You’re good at it.”
“Thank you, Josie. I’ll call you back as soon as I can,” she said.
I resigned myself to another agonizing wait.