Killer Keepsakes (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

G

riff escorted me to the parking lot and handed me over to a young woman in uniform. She was tall and thin, with Scandinavian-pale skin and hair. She wore no makeup. Her badge said she was Officer F. Meade. Meryl sat on the backseat of the patrol car, her feet on the asphalt. Two men in plainclothes arrived carrying large black cases. I guessed they were crime scene technicians.

No one spoke. The sun was bright and warm, and I felt myself relax, just a little.

A gray Volvo station wagon pulled into the lot, slowing to a stop as the driver, an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and pink glasses, gazed in our direction. She parked and hurried over.

“That’s Gretchen’s apartment,” she said, pointing to the door the technicians had just entered. “Is she all right?”

“Could I get your name and contact information, please?” Officer Meade asked, ignoring her question.

I recalled what a local reporter, Wes Smith, once told me. The best way to avoid answering an unwanted question, he said, was to pose one of your own. Without hesitation, the woman told Officer Meade that her name was Fern Adams.

I listened in as Mrs. Adams gave the officer her home and office phone numbers, then pointed to the Chevy. “Is that car involved somehow?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“When I came home for lunch yesterday, that car was here. With a man in it. The engine was running.” She shrugged. “I’d never seen it before.”

“Can you describe him?” Officer Meade asked, flipping to a new page in her notebook.

“Thirty, maybe. Not much older than that. He had a deep tan, like he worked outdoors. Dark brown hair cut very short.” She paused, concentrating, then shrugged. “I just saw him for a few seconds as I drove past.”

Mrs. Adams was describing the dead man. Meryl, still seated in the police car, met my eyes. She looked frightened.

“When you left after lunch, was he still here?” Officer Meade asked.

“The car was here, but the man was gone.”

“What time was that?”

“Just before one.”

“Thank you. If you’d wait just a minute,” Officer Meade said, “I’d appreciate it.”

She walked around the car and spoke into a microphone pinned to her collar. I couldn’t hear what she said.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Mrs. Adams asked me in a near-whisper.

“A man is dead.” I fought a sudden, unexpected urge to cry and paused to regain some measure of composure. “In Gretchen’s apartment.”

“Oh, my,” she murmured. “Was it him? The man in the Chevy?”

I shrugged. “From your description, it sounds like it.”

Detective Brownley clambered down the steps. Officer Meade joined her, and they talked, their heads together, for several minutes.

A small gray bird with blue-tipped feathers circled the pond, its wings on high, then glided out of sight below the roofline. “How well did you know Gretchen?” I asked.

“Enough to chat with her about the weather and the fox I saw on the property, that sort of thing,” Mrs. Adams said. “Gretchen’s always got a smile and a kind word. Once when I had the flu, she brought me a bag of groceries. She didn’t ask, she just did it. So sweet.”

Detective Brownley joined us. She glanced down at Meryl, still sitting hunched over, then turned back to Fern Adams. “I’m Detective Brownley, in charge of the investigation,” she said. “Thanks for coming forward. You said that when you arrived home for lunch you saw the Chevy with the man sitting in it. Did you recognize him?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’d never seen him before.”

“How about his car? Was it familiar?”

“No.”

“How about Gretchen’s car? Was it here, too?”

“No. I looked for it, but then I remembered it’s in the shop for a tune-up.”

“What? It’s in the shop?” Detective Brownley asked.

She nodded. “I followed her to the garage myself, then dropped her at Portsmouth Circle—she took the bus to Logan Airport from there. She told me she’d arranged for someone else to pick her up when she got back, and when I saw the man in the car, I figured he was the person who got her and that Gretchen had run inside to get something, maybe her checkbook. Afterward, when I saw that his car was empty and that Gretchen’s wasn’t here, I thought he drove her to get her car, then brought his car back and parked it here, and that they’d gone out to lunch or something.” She wrinkled her nose with distaste as she added, “I assumed they took Gretchen’s car instead of his because hers is nicer. Her Heron is well maintained, and his Chevy, well, let’s just say it’s got more than a few miles on it.” She paused and, with an awkward laugh, added, “You must think I’m just an old busybody!”

“We appreciate observant people,” Detective Brownley said politely. “Which garage?”

“The Heron dealership on Main Street in Rocky Point, Archie’s Herons.”

I noticed Officer Meade taking notes.

“When you were leaving, besides noticing that his Chevy was here and her Heron wasn’t, did you see or hear anything unusual?” Detective Brownley asked.

“Like what?”

“Like anything. Like someone running. Like a car barreling out of here. Like a stranger hiding under a bush. Like a gunshot. Anything.”

Mrs. Adams shook her head. “No.”

Detective Brownley nodded and handed her a business card. “If you remember anything else, anything at all, please call me.”

Mrs. Adams promised that she would and began a slow walk across the parking lot.

Detective Brownley watched a still-tearful Meryl for several seconds, then turned to me and said, “Can you think of anything that might be helpful to us?”

“I don’t know if it’s related to whatever is going on—but a man’s been calling Gretchen at work. Someone we don’t know. He really wants to talk to her, but he won’t leave a message, and he’s getting increasingly angry about it.”

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“He hasn’t given it.”

“How about phone ID?”

“I never noticed,” I admitted. “I should have, but I just didn’t.”

“We might be able to retrieve the number,” she said, then asked, “Who else might have spoken to him?”

“Sasha, Fred, and the temp who covered for Gretchen. No one else.”

Detective Brownley wrote down the temp’s name and agency contact information. I doubted the lead would prove useful—she’d simply taken messages like the rest of us.

“When was the last time he called?”

“Fred spoke to him Tuesday, I think.”

“I’ll ask him about it,” Detective Brownley said, looking thoughtful. “What else can you tell me?”

“I know one of her friends. A young woman named Mandy Tollerson.” I explained what I knew about Mandy.

“Thank you. Anything else?” When I said no, she added, “I’ll see you at your office in about an hour. Okay?”

I nodded somberly.

I felt her eyes on me as I walked to my car. Part of me wanted to talk to her some more, to ask the questions pinballing through my brain, but I didn’t go back. I glanced over my shoulder one last time, and she was still watching me. I was glad to get away.

CHAPTER FOUR

M

inutes later, I pulled off to the side of the road by some high dunes and scampered to the top. Frothy waves rolled into shore, tossing dark seaweed onto the sand. Sun-sparked sequins twinkled on the black-green ocean.

I called Ty. Solid and strong, confident and calm, Ty appealed to me in every way. I respected him and I liked him and I thought he was drop-dead gorgeous. Since taking the job as Homeland Security’s head of first responders for northern New England, Ty traveled throughout Vermont, Maine, and New Hampshire. Today he was in Vermont.

Meeting Ty was an unexpected benefit of relocating from New York City to New Hampshire. I’d moved for rational, business reasons; the emotional rewards were unanticipated and joyous. I loved the hard-work ethic that permeated the coastal region and the circle of friends I’d started to build—and I loved Ty Alverez.

A sudden gust of wind, more winter cold than spring mild, hit me full in the face. Ty answered, and the sound of his voice warmed me. He listened with the quiet focus I’d come to expect as I recounted what I’d seen and thought.

“I’m so scared for Gretchen,” I confessed. “I’m scared she’s hurt—or worse.” I looked out over the endless blue ocean. Whitecaps dotted the undulating surface. The wind was picking up, blowing from the east. “I know Gretchen couldn’t have killed anyone—but still, if they find a body in your living room, I mean, you’ve got to be involved somehow.”

“Detective Brownley is very thorough. She’ll figure things out,” Ty said, and I was comforted, just a little.

Wes Smith, a feature reporter for the
Seacoast Star,
was waiting by Prescott’s front door as I pulled into the lot.

I wasn’t happy about the prospect of being quoted in yet another of his articles on murder. Still, after years of getting upset at Wes’s style, I’d come, in some small measure, to value his substance. What Wes lacked in bedside manner, he more than made up for in determination; when he picked up a scent, he was unstoppable.

In his midtwenties, Wes was pudgy with an indoor pallor. No one looking at Wes would ever mistake him for an outdoorsman.

“Josie,” he called, heading toward my car. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Hi, Wes,” I said.

“Fill me in,” he demanded, sounding depressingly eager to hear the latest dirt.

“What do you know?” I asked.

“Nothing. I picked up the murder report on my police scanner, but when I got there, they chased me away.” His eyes were blazing with excitement. “As soon as I heard there was a dead guy in your assistant’s apartment, I came straight here. So tell me—do you think she killed him?”

“No! Of course not!” I said loyally.

“Who is he, anyway?”

“I have no idea. Do you?”

“No,” Wes replied, sounding aggrieved. Wes hated not knowing things. “Who do you think he is?” he asked.

“Maybe a friend. Maybe a thief. I don’t know.” I paused, then asked, “Can you find out?”

Wes smiled. “Yup.”

______

Gretchen’s wind chimes jingled as I pushed open our front door. When she’d first hung them, I’d asked her why, and she’d looked at me as if she’d thought that I might be joking.

“Because they sound good,” she’d replied.

Every time I heard them I was reminded not to overlook the obvious.

Fred was absorbed in reading something at his computer.

Sasha sat at Gretchen’s desk. The phone rang as she was greeting me, and I listened while she gave directions to someone interested in attending Saturday’s tag sale.

It was inefficient and inappropriate that my chief appraiser was spending the bulk of her time fielding administrative or logistical questions. Not for the first time, I toyed with the idea of installing an interactive phone system, but as always, I dismissed it. Prescott’s business strategy relied on personal service, not canned messages. I needed to deal with the reality that Gretchen was missing and get someone in to cover her duties.

“Did you find out anything?” Sasha asked as she replaced the receiver.

“Not about Gretchen, but about something else.” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “There’s a dead man in her living room.”

Fred looked up.

“What?” Sasha asked, disbelieving.

“I know it sounds incredible—and it is—it’s horrible!” I told them what little I knew, then added, “I’ll be in my office. If I hear anything, I’ll let you—” I broke off as the front door opened and Gretchen’s friend Mandy stepped inside.

Mandy’s big brown eyes went to the framed
Antiques Insights
magazine cover that we’d finally got around to hanging by the door to the warehouse yesterday. In the magazine’s December roundup of the year’s “best of,” Prescott’s was featured as the top small antiques auction house.

“Wow! Look at that! Congratulations, Josie!” Mandy said, tucking her curly brown hair behind her ear.

In the photo, I was smiling broadly, my arms stretched wide to showcase an intriguing array of antiques. My entire full-time staff was visible in the background. Eric looked embarrassed, almost edging out of the shot; Sasha smiled shyly; Fred, his Brat Pack–cool tie loosened, appeared confident and relaxed; and Gretchen beamed proudly, her emerald eyes luminous.

It was, I knew, a great honor, but I always felt awkward being the center of attention, and I blushed a little at Mandy’s praise. “Thanks,” I said, then, eager to take the focus off myself, I asked, “How are you doing?”

“I’m late as usual. Lucky me, I get to work the late shift. I start at one today, and even so, I can’t get to work on time.” She smiled. “I just had to pop in and say hi to Gretchen. She didn’t call last night. Did she have a good time in Hawaii? As if you could do anything but have a good time in Hawaii!” Her eyes took in Gretchen’s empty desk. “Is she at lunch?”

“You haven’t heard,” I said.

“Heard what?”

I paused, then glanced at Sasha and Fred, both openly observing our interaction. Sasha twirled a strand of hair, a sign of stress. Fred was leaning back, his eyes fixed on Mandy. I took a deep breath and reported what I knew.

“What?” she gasped, gaping. “A dead man in Gretchen’s apartment?
Murdered?
”

“You haven’t heard from her?” I asked.

“No. Not since before she left. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it. When was he killed?”

“I don’t know.” Reacting to the tension in her voice and the fright evident in her eyes, I asked, “What is it, Mandy? Do you know something?”

She shook her head. “Me? I don’t know anything. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m going to be late. I’ll be in touch.”

Before I could think of another question to ask, Mandy was out the door, jogging to a waiting black Jeep. A sharp-featured man was behind the wheel.
Vince.
I thought,
the creepy boyfriend
. His entire demeanor was 1950s hip. He wore a black leather bomber jacket, and he had thick dark hair brushed straight back, Elvis style.

As I climbed the spiral steps that led to my private office, I realized how odd it was that the first question Mandy asked me was
when
the man died.