CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I
called Detective Brownley.
“What’s up, Josie?” she asked.
“I need to tell you—” After so many dead ends, false starts, and failures, I finally sensed that I was onto something—and that, with any luck, my realization would lead us to Gretchen. “I think I know who the killer is. There’s too much to tell you on the phone, and it’s too important to delay. I’m about half an hour away. Can we meet?”
After a short pause, she said, “Why don’t you come here? I’ll set up the video so we can talk.”
Her words brought back more than one uncomfortable memory of other interviews with the police. “Of course,” I said, my voice sounding surprisingly unruffled. “I’ll call Max Bixby, my lawyer, and see if he’s available.”
Another pause. “Good. I’ll expect you here in half an hour.”
Max was leaning against the Rocky Point police station door, protected from the rain by the portico, gazing into the eastern sky. Just seeing him boosted my confidence and made me smile. Max was kind and gracious, and I trusted his judgment completely.
I parked as close to the building as I could and dashed through the now steady freezing rain to join him. He stepped forward to greet me.
Max was tall, probably an inch or two taller than Ty, and thin, lean like a runner. Under the leather duster he wore with flair, I saw a brown nubby tweed jacket and a green bow tie. He wore dark brown slacks and cowboy boots. His leather cowboy hat sported a green feather.
“Hey, Max. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Glad I was available.” He smiled and pulled open the door. “Ready?”
I nodded without enthusiasm and walked into the station house. Words Emily Dickinson wrote came to mind:
If in that Room a Friend await
Felicity or Doom . .
.
“Thanks for coming in,” Detective Brownley said, extending her hand to me, then to Max. “Good to see you again, Max.”
“You, too, Claire.”
“Shall we head to the back? I got us set up in Room One.”
She turned left and headed down the corridor. “I see it’s still raining,” she said as we walked.
“Cats and dogs,” Max said. “Have you heard the forecast?”
“Yeah. It’s supposed to stop overnight, but we’re getting a bucket-load before then.”
Detective Brownley opened the door to the depressingly familiar interrogation room. I sat with my back to the cage, a nasty-looking, single-person-sized, wire mesh cell. Ty had told me years ago that it was used to control unruly guests. The room was unchanged since my last visit. The table was wooden and scarred. The chairs were cold metal and uncomfortable.
Now that I understood that this was a formal police interview, I knew what I was supposed to do. It was my job to wait until I was asked a specific question and then answer it without embellishment.
Max, relaxed as ever, sat next to me, opened his briefcase, and pulled out a lined legal-sized pad and two small bottles of water. He unscrewed the cap on one and slid it over to me. “Talkin’s thirsty work, little lady,” he said in an undertone. “Thought you might want to wet your whistle now and agin.”
“Thank you, Max,” I whispered, touched beyond reason.
He winked at me.
Detective Brownley pushed the RECORD button and spoke into the microphone. She gave our names and the date and time, then said, “Thanks for coming in, Josie. You called me this morning and said you had information about the murder that occurred in Gretchen Brock’s apartment, is that correct?”
“Yes . . . well, sort of . . . I mean, I don’t know that . . . what you said . . . that it’s related to the murder.” I paused to gather my thoughts and choose my words. “I called because I had information that, to my mind, cast doubt on Vince Collins’s alibi. I don’t think he was where he says he was at the time that man, Morgan Boulanger, was killed.”
I glanced at Max’s profile, worried that I was overexplaining. Max once told me that one-word answers to official police questions were good. He sensed that my eyes were on him and turned his head to look at me. He nodded reassuringly.
Whew
, I thought.
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” Detective Brownley said, leaning back in her chair, at ease and ready to listen.
I took a deep breath. “It was the stained glass that got me thinking. I had a cup of coffee with Gretchen’s friend Lina this morning. She mentioned that Vince had brought an antique stained glass window over to Mandy’s last night.” I looked from Detective Brownley to Max and back again. “Where did he get it?” I asked rhetorically. “From the project he’s managing. The company he works for tears down old houses to put up new ones. Vince doesn’t own them. He’s an employee. Don’t you see? If he’s taking architectural remnants, well, that’s stealing.”
Detective Brownley looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “Besides the stained glass, what items has he allegedly stolen?”
“Another stained glass window I bought this morning, the two light fixtures in Mandy’s mudroom and Gretchen’s hallway, glass doorknobs, and antique locks. Probably more.”
“So I can understand the context of what we’re discussing, how much are these things worth, would you estimate?”
“The stained glass window I bought would sell at auction for about four thousand. I don’t know about the one Lina mentioned—I haven’t seen it. The two light fixtures, probably about three hundred dollars each. The other items are worth less than fifty dollars each, but there are scores of them, so it really adds up. I should specify, that’s retail. He probably got a quarter of that amount, maybe less.”
“I’m a little confused. What makes you think he stole these items?”
I nodded. “It’s circumstantial. Let me explain. I was driving to Phil’s Barn in Exeter when Vince’s Jeep passed me, coming from that direction.”
Detective Brownley started to speak, and I held a hand up to stop her.
“I know, I know, there’s nothing illegal about driving in Exeter. It’s not that. It’s the timing. Phil said they acquired the doorknobs on Wednesday—after he went home sick at lunchtime. He apologized for making me take another trip. I’d already had the antique locks picked up, and he said if his wife hadn’t made him stay home with his cold, he could have saved us a trip.” I shrugged. “Look at the time line. If what I’ve been hearing on the radio and reading in the paper is right, Vince’s alibi just got busted. He was at Phil’s on Wednesday, sometime after Phil left for the day.”
Detective Brownley asked, “What time did he get to Phil’s?”
“I have no idea,” I replied.
“Seems like asking Phil a few questions is in order,” Max said.
“Thank you, Josie, for reporting this. What else did Lina tell you?”
I glanced at Max, and he nodded. “Before I answer that, I need to communicate her very real, and I think completely reasonable, concern. She overheard a conversation between Mandy and Vince, and she’s scared to death that he’ll find out that she’s the one who told you about it, and he’ll explode the way he does sometimes. Since only the three of them were present, if they get wind of it, they’ll know who told you.”
She nodded. “We’re pretty deft at investigating so no one knows our sources.”
“I know you are, and that’s what I told her.”
“Okay then. Point taken. So, what did she overhear?”
“Mandy asked Vince if she should tell.”
“Tell what?”
“Lina didn’t hear, and she says she doesn’t know. We talked about how it could be anything. Maybe Mandy’s pregnant and was asking Vince if he thought she should tell. Maybe Mandy’s got a new job. There’s no way to know, but I thought Lina ought to report it, in case it does, in fact, relate to the murder or Gretchen or my break-in.”
Detective Brownley tapped her pen for a four-beat, then said, “Okay, then. We’ll check it out.”
“Anything else we can tell you while we’re here?” Max asked, slipping his pad into his briefcase.
She turned off the recorder. “Nope, that about covers it.”
“Anything you can tell us?”
She shook her head. “Thanks for coming in, Josie.”
She walked us out, and at the front door she shook my hand and said, “You hear anything more, you let me know, okay?”
“Sure.”
Outside, under the overhang, I said, “I think it was smart to have you join me.”
Max nodded. “It can’t ever hurt to have your lawyer present.” He stared out over the dunes toward the rain-shrouded ocean. “I get the sense that there are many layers to this investigation.”
There are many layers
, I kept thinking as I drove back to work: two murders, a missing woman, and a break-in; too many people with fake IDs; a thief and, maybe, a liar.
There are many layers of deception
.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
C
hip Davidson called as I was walking into my upstairs office with the bag containing my deli lunch.
“Josie,” Chip said, and I could picture his smiling eyes and appealing grin and neon-blond hair. “I’m glad I got you. How ya doing?”
“I’m good, Chip. You?” I replied, glancing at the phone, ready to jot down his number. The display told me it was private.
“Fine, thanks. Listen, Josie, I just heard about Gretchen. I’m completely shocked. Do you know anything about it? Is it for real that she’s a suspect in two murders?”
“I’ve heard the same thing,” I replied. “Unbelievable, isn’t it?”
“One thing, Josie. I’m her friend, not the cops, so if she needs some help, well, you can tell me, you know?”
He was openly suggesting to me, a relative stranger, that we conspire to hide a fugitive. He was willing to lie. My father had warned me about people like him: “Once a liar, always a liar.” I chased the memory away. Chip was waiting for my response to his offer to help Gretchen.
“Sorry, Chip,” I said firmly. “I don’t know anything. Is there any way I can reach you in case I hear from her?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m still moving around a lot.”
“How about your cell phone?”
“I don’t own one,” he replied, chuckling. “Can’t believe it, right? I’m a Luddite at heart. I’ll call you every once in a while to check in, if that’s all right. I’m pretty darned worried about her.”
My eye gravitated to Jack Stene’s business card, the one on which he’d scrawled his cell phone number. Jack’s openness contrasted positively with Chip’s reticence.
“Anytime,” I said, wondering once again how Chip fit in and what he wanted with or from Gretchen.
I spent the rest of the afternoon on edge, struggling to come up with ways to stay abreast of Detective Brownley’s investigation. I was jump-out-of-my-skin curious, but I couldn’t think of any approach that wouldn’t get me in trouble.
I thought of calling Wes, but since I hadn’t alerted him before or after I met with the police, I could only imagine how he’d react. Worse, the news was relevant and significant, so probably I’d end up as his lead in the next issue of the
Seacoast Star
.
I had no choice but to wait. I checked e-mail, then sent a howdy message to my pal Shelley in New York, a short-lived distraction. I was trying to decide what to do next when Fred buzzed up and asked me to come downstairs. In response to one of our ads soliciting dolls for our upcoming auction, a woman had arrived with an old Barbie.
“Sure. I’ll be right down.”
Barbie, the first-ever mass-produced teenage doll, was launched in 1959 at the American Toy Fair in New York City. She was an immediate hit and remains one of the nation’s most recognized brands.
As I entered the office, Cara was reciting the tag sale hours to a caller, then reading from the cheat sheet to explain how our instant appraisals worked. Fred was leaning against his desk, his tie loosened, chatting with a woman he introduced as Dana.
“I think it’ll turn to snow overnight,” Dana said as I joined them. “It’s getting bitter out there.”
She was about fifty-five, with brown hair that hung to her shoulders in soft waves. She wore jeans, a beige to-the-knee down coat, and work boots.
I introduced myself. “Thanks for coming in,” I said.
“Fred here tells me you might be interested in making an offer for my Barbie.”
Fred handed me a sheet from his notepad and stepped away from his desk so I could see the doll. I glanced down at the paper. Fred had written, “$2,000 max, okay?”
Barbie stood on a black circular pedestal and wore a gold brocade dress with a matching coat and hat. There were mink cuffs on the coat. She wore white gloves and pumps and carried a pale blue evening bag. She was a brunette. Standing beside her was a mint-condition orange-topped box decorated with silver and black silhouettes of Barbie.
“Is this your doll?” I asked.
“Yeah. It was a birthday present for my seventh birthday in 1959.”
I nodded. Laid out beside the box were two additional sets of clothes: a winter holiday set, complete with tartan plaid tote bag, and an Easter outfit including a patterned sheath dress, coat, shoes, and a gold-tone necklace.
“Everything looks to be in great shape.” I smiled. “It would seem you played with her very gently.”
Dana chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I never played with her at all. Sacrilege, right?” She chuckled again and shrugged. “I was a tomboy.”
“That accounts for the condition. Are the sets complete?” I asked Fred.
“Yes.”
I picked up the doll and looked at her bottom. The patent stamp was there—the doll had been manufactured during the first year of production. Since we were deep into planning for our upcoming auction, I was up-to-date with doll data, and I knew that this Barbie would sell at auction for about six thousand dollars, maybe even more. I turned to Fred and nodded. His price point was right on.
“Dana, do you have any thoughts about how much you’re looking for?” he asked.
She chuckled again. “Lots.”
When I’d first opened Prescott’s, I’d set a policy for taking the high road in our dealings. We never tried to deceive people. We were transparent in our pricing strategy: If a seller asked how we priced things, we told the truth, but people rarely asked. We never deceived anyone, but we also tried to never pay more than we had to.
Fred pursed his lips, thinking. He glanced at the doll. “We’d love to include it in the doll auction we’re planning. Based on its condition and scarcity, we can offer you fifteen hundred.”
“You’re kidding!” Dana responded, looking impressed, then cagey, as the thought that maybe she’d struck gold occurred to her. That happened sometimes when people had no idea what an object was worth or how the antiques business worked. “How about four thousand?” she countered.
Fred shook his head. “We don’t have a lot of room to negotiate. I can up the offer a little—say, seventeen hundred—but that’s as high as I can go,” he said, sounding disappointed, as if he expected the deal to fall through.
Looking at Dana’s ardent countenance, I thought Fred might be right.
Dana looked at me. “What do you think?” she asked me. “Don’t you think it’s worth more?”
“To a private buyer, maybe.” I shrugged.
“Maybe I should sell it on eBay or something.”
“That’s certainly an option,” I acknowledged.
“If I could get more for it on eBay, why should I sell it to you?” she asked, glancing from me to Fred, then back again.
I stayed quiet and let Fred handle it.
“A lot of people are happy selling on eBay or other auction sites, but, like most everything, it’s not as easy as it seems. You have to write a description and take photos and upload them. You have to be prepared to answer dozens of questions. Serious collectors may demand a written appraisal before bidding for an item likely to sell in this price range. You have to decide if you want to set a reserve price, and if so, how much that should be. If it sells, you have to pack it carefully and ship it, and most common carriers won’t insure antiques and collectibles over a certain age—like twenty years. Plus, don’t forget the costs; you’re charged whether the object sells or not. Then, after all is said and done, you may not get more for it. People expect bargains when they buy at an online auction.” Fred pushed up his glasses. “We pay cash.”
“That all makes sense,” Dana said, sounding disconcerted. She nodded. “Can we call it two thousand and be done with it?”
Fred paused, then said, “Yes.”
We completed the paperwork, and Dana left, thrilled to have cash in hand.
As we wrapped Barbie’s clothes in acid-free tissue paper and placed everything in the warehouse for further screening, I said, “That was masterful, Fred. Really well done.”
He grinned, left side up, giving him a debonair air. “Thanks,” he said.
Back in the main office, I glanced around, looking for something to capture my interest. The phone rang.
“It’s Wes,” Cara told me.
I nodded and took it at Sasha’s desk.
“I’m pretty upset, Josie.” His tone was so severe my heart flip-flopped.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You know what’s wrong—you didn’t call me. I was tempted to not call you either.”
I couldn’t speak openly, not with Fred and Cara in the room. “I can’t explain right now,” I said, my tone neutral.
“We need to meet.”
I looked through the rain-streaked window. “How about at Shaw’s?” I asked.
“Now?”
I glanced at the computer monitor. It was already three o’clock. “How about at five thirty?”
“It’s too important to wait. There’s been a new development—it’s about Gretchen.”
His somber tone frightened me. “Okay,” I said. “Now’s good.”