Hidden Treasure Read online

  “What?” Wes exploded. He sputtered and stammered, whining that I should know better than to trust my important perspective with a newbie, that maybe he’d taken too strong a position before, and that he’d fix it immediately.

  I smiled, pleased with his reaction. “Good. When you’ve published your correction, call me, and we’ll talk.”

  “Don’t contact Cary.”

  “You have an hour.” I hung up.

  I opened the Seacoast Star website and scanned the listing of top stories. Ten minutes later, after my third refresh, a new link appeared. The headline read JOSIE PRESCOTT HELPS POLICE. The short article touted my expertise and integrity. He even included a quote from Ellis thanking me for working with the police to locate Maudie’s missing objects. I had just finished reading when Wes called.

  “Did you see it?” he asked.

  “Yes. How did you get the quote so quickly?”

  “I’ve had it for a while. I was saving it.”

  “For what?” I demanded.

  “For when the objects were found. I’m sorry, Joz … my enthusiasm got the best of me.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “You’re right,” he said, sounding young and vulnerable. “I won’t do it again.”

  My anger melted, at least a bit. “Apology accepted.”

  “Thanks. So whatcha got?”

  “You called me, remember?”

  “I need information—talk to me.”

  “I have nothing but questions.”

  “Questions are good. They can point me in the right direction. Do you have time to meet? Our dune in ten?”

  I still felt bruised and raw from Wes’s perfidy and was about to tell him to forget it when I remembered something my dad once told me: If you expect people to be perfect, you’ll spend a lot of time alone. I believed Wes’s remorse was genuine, and I trusted his commitment to never betray me again.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll leave now.”

  I grabbed my tote bag, told Cara I’d be back in a while, and ran for my car.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wes was in his midtwenties, seven or eight years younger than me. He had slimmed down since his marriage, and he’d cleaned up his act, at least superficially, but he hadn’t lost a bit of his enthusiasm for the hunt. Now that he’d promised to corral his errant bad boy instincts, I could support his efforts to find the truth.

  I got to the dune first, our dune, the place where Wes and I met to talk without fear of being overheard. I climbed the sandy hill and stood at the top surveying the scene. The sky was solidly pewter. The ocean churned, waves pounding against the beach, landing with a thunderous roar.

  A car engine revved, and I knew it must be Wes. Only Wes revved the engine as he jerked to a stop. I turned to watch. He parked on the shoulder and leapt out of the car.

  “Hey, Wes,” I called.

  “Hey.” He wore crisply creased tan slacks and a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up three turns.

  He clambered up the shifting sand. “So I guess you’re up the creek this time, huh?”

  “Me? What are you talking about?”

  He scanned my face, trying to see if I was pulling his leg. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “It’s what I said on air, except more so. An idea’s being floated that you and Celia worked out a deal on the QT—you were to sell the box and cat without Maudie being any the wiser. You stashed the goods in your car, and as you walked back to Maudie’s unit, you realized that you could eliminate a witness, to say nothing of keeping all the proceeds for yourself, if you ix-nayed Celia, so you did.”

  My brain slowed. I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it.

  My first instinct was to shove him off the dune. He’d paw the air in a futile effort to save himself, then catapult toward the beach, rolling through the sand like a pig in mud. He wouldn’t be hurt much, possibly a few bruises and a wrenched muscle or two, nothing long-lasting. Then maturity kicked in and I laughed.

  “God, Wes, you’re unbelievable. Did you come up with this theory all by yourself? Or did you hire a novelist?”

  “Why?” he demanded. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Everything. Why don’t you close your eyes for a minute, take a few deep breaths, and when you’re ready to join me back here in the real world, let me know.”

  He grinned, and his entire demeanor was transformed into the boyish imp I knew and adored. “Okay, okay, so I was just trying it on for size. After apologizing to you earlier, I figured I’d better show you I wasn’t turning soft.”

  I thought again about shoving him off the dune, then got pragmatic. “Have you told anyone else?”

  “Nah.”

  “You’re some piece of work, Wes. Have you heard anything about Maudie?”

  “Nothing. She’s vanished.”

  “With no sign of foul play.”

  “Right. No one saw her leave Belle Vista, and no one has seen her since.”

  “How can that be? There are security cameras everywhere, in bank parking lots, on streetlights, in residential driveways, yet no image has surfaced that would help explain Maudie’s disappearance? Don’t you find that hard to believe?”

  “Totally. The police are still canvassing. They surveyed stores, too. My police source says that was your idea, and it was a good one. A good one, but no dice. As far as they can tell, Maudie wasn’t in any Rocky Point shop or store yesterday afternoon.”

  “Is Maudie’s purse in her apartment?” I asked. “Her toothbrush?”

  “No to both.”

  “Have they checked her credit cards?”

  “No can do without a court order, and no judge will issue it.”

  “Even though her apartment is a crime scene?”

  “Unless the person has a proven physical or mental disability that places them or someone else in danger, or they were kidnapped, or—and here’s the only section of the law that might apply—the adult is missing after what they call a ‘catastrophe,’ the police can’t do squat.”

  “A catastrophe probably refers to an earthquake or something of that nature.”

  “Right. I’m with you, though, in being skeptical. I mean, if she went away on some kind of trip, don’t you think she must have heard what happened? Surely she would have gotten in touch.”

  “Not if she went out of state, where the murder wouldn’t make the news, or to an off-the-grid place, like one of those health spas that collect your cell phones when you check in.”

  “Does that sound like her?”

  “Out of state? Yes. A spa? Not really. How about Doug? Was he at Belle Vista yesterday?”

  “There’s no evidence he was, but there’s no evidence he wasn’t, either. I followed up on your tip about his job interview at Jestran’s. The cops have Doug on video arriving at nine fifty-five for his ten o’clock meeting and leaving an hour later, just before eleven.”

  “So he had plenty of time to get to Belle Vista.”

  “Bingo on that. No one admits seeing him or letting him in or anything, but that doesn’t prove anything—that place is a security sieve. They’re still sifting through everyone’s stories. It’s a lot of who was where when and who saw you there.”

  “No blips on anybody’s radar at all?” I asked.

  “Nope. Belle Vista routinely does background checks, which I guess makes sense given that the staff is in and out of residents’ units all day every day. No one has ever been convicted of a felony. Most of them have never even gotten nabbed for speeding.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Aren’t you? There’s almost two hundred people who work there. And not one is even a little bit dicey?”

  “That shows Belle Vista does a good job screening people. They’re diligent. Back to Doug for a sec—how did his job interview go?”

  “No news.” Wes sounded annoyed, as if his contact had let him down by not sharing the details of Doug’s interview.
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  “Where did Doug go when he left Jestran’s?”

  Wes chortled. “Who knows? He said he drove around. Talk about lame.”

  “Lots of people find driving relaxing.”

  “He was on the phone with Celia for fifteen minutes while he was driving, from eleven ten to eleven twenty-five.”

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  He grinned. “I’ve got game. Doug won’t say what they talked about because it was, quote, ‘personal,’ end quote.”

  “What’s surprising about that? Don’t you and Maggie talk about private things?”

  “Not so private I wouldn’t tell the cops if I was suspected of murder.”

  “Is he really a suspect?”

  “From what I hear, he’s the one and only.” He chuckled. “Except you.”

  I smiled politely. “Cute.”

  “I bet they were talking about making the rent,” Wes continued once he realized he wouldn’t get a rise out of me. “When you don’t have enough money, you can’t think about anything else, and as we know, Doug and Celia were riding on fumes.” He waggled his fingers at me. “Your turn … talk to me. You gotta know something.”

  “I wish I did.”

  “When you do,” he said, waggling his index finger again at my face, “I’m your first call.”

  Before I could reply, Wes crab-walked down the dune and was gone.

  * * *

  When I got back to Prescott’s, I locked my bag in my car and set out for the Congregational church. The quarter-mile walk through the woods that separated our properties was one of my favorite ways to declutter my brain.

  I followed the packed dirt path under a thick lattice of maple leaves until I reached the church parking lot. I’d hoped I’d find Ted, the pastor, puttering in his garden, and I did.

  Ted maintained a large vegetable garden at the back of the property. Anyone, congregant or stranger, was welcome to help themselves anytime. I often took some arugula in spring, a few cucumbers in summer, and a Halloween pumpkin or two in fall.

  “Josie!” he called, leaning back on his haunches. “Are you here for some tomatoes?”

  “No, just stretching my legs.”

  “The cherry tomatoes are especially good,” he whispered.

  “Why are you whispering?”

  “I don’t want to hurt the Big Boys’ feelings.”

  “You make me smile, Ted.”

  “You look like you could use one.” He stood, pulled a small jute bag from his pocket, filled it with plump red cherry tomatoes, and handed it to me. “Come have a cup of coffee with me.”

  “Thank you. I’d love a coffee.”

  Ted’s office was airy and bright. He’d cranked open every one of the half dozen Gothic-style windows, and the moist, cool air was as invigorating as the steamy hot coffee he poured from a Mr. Coffee machine.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Is it the murder of that poor woman?”

  “Yes, sort of. Mostly, it’s the missing woman. Maudie Wilson. I only met her a few days ago, so I can’t understand why I’m so upset.”

  “You have a big heart, Josie. You feel things deeply.”

  “That’s nice of you to—” I broke off as a dragonfly sailed in, its iridescent blue-green wings whirring. “Look! How gorgeous!”

  The dragonfly lit on the top molding of a mahogany bookcase by the door. Ted and I swiveled to watch it.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I said.

  “Luminous.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Call Winnie,” Ted said, reaching for the phone.

  “Who’s Winnie?”

  “Winnie Thornton. A congregant. She works here part-time now, mostly in the office. This isn’t the first dragonfly to get inside, but I’m not worried. Winnie has a sixth sense when it comes to God’s creatures. She’s gotten them all out safely.”

  “That’s wonderful, but you need screens.”

  “They’re custom windows, which means we’d need custom screens, and I’m afraid the budget doesn’t allow for that. Excuse me for a moment while I call Winnie. She lives nearby.”

  I didn’t hear a word of Ted’s conversation with Winnie. I was watching the dragonfly, a universal symbol of self-awareness, of the ability to embrace change and adapt. Like Maudie was trying to do for herself. Maudie went to Rocky Point Computers for training. She told them she was a travel writer. I wondered what else she might have mentioned in the course of their conversation.

  “Winnie will be right here,” Ted said as he replaced the receiver.

  “Something’s come up. Sorry. Thanks for the coffee, but I’ve got to go.”

  Ignoring his startled expression, I jogged back to Prescott’s, retrieved my tote bag from the trunk, and jumped behind the wheel. I turned inland out of the lot, toward the village, where answers lay.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rocky Point Computers occupied a one-story stand-alone building a block from the village green. It shared a parking lot with a strip mall containing a pizzeria, a nail salon, a Chinese takeout restaurant, a children’s clothing store, and an outpatient physical therapy facility.

  It was packed, not a surprise on a gloomy Saturday afternoon. Inside, computers and peripherals were displayed on shelves that ran along the left side of the store. They sold and serviced cameras, cell phones, and tablets, too. Carrels lined the right side. Every unit was in use, some with two people working together at one machine. A big schoolroom clock was mounted high on the wall. It was eighteen minutes past four.

  A woman in her early twenties walked up, smiling. She had four gold studs running up the outer edge of her left ear and a nose ring. Her shoulder-length toffee-brown hair was full and curly. When it bounced a certain way, I could see a blue-and-yellow anchor tattoo on the side of her neck. A name tag pinned to her blouse read GILLIAN.

  After we exchanged greetings, I smiled warmly, hoping to disarm her. “Maudie Wilson told me how excited she was about the training on her new computer. I’m hoping you can tell me who she worked with.”

  “Maudie Wilson. That’s the woman who—” Gillian’s brows lifted. “Why are you asking?”

  I smiled even more broadly. “It’s a surprise. Maudie’s going to be over the moon!”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, unimpressed.

  “I want to buy Maudie a present,” I said, maintaining the pretense, “whether it’s more training, a professional camera, some software, you know, whatever would be special for her. I’m hoping that whoever Maudie worked with would know what she’d want.”

  Her brow cleared. “Fun! But I don’t know who did her training.”

  “Can you look it up?”

  “No, sorry. We’re really busy.”

  “I can wait.”

  “It’ll be a while.”

  “Maybe I can talk to the manager.”

  From Gillian’s expression, I could tell she’d decided it would be easier and quicker to get rid of me by answering my question than it would be to wait me out or deal with her manager.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute. You can wait here.”

  Gillian went to the customer information booth and tapped something into a computer. After a minute, she walked back to join me.

  “She was here on Thursday afternoon, and she worked with Lara.” Gillian scanned the room and spotted Lara, a curvy blonde in her late twenties, sitting at one of the workstations with an older man, and pointed. “Lara’s doing training now.”

  “Would you mind asking her if she can give me two minutes when she’s done? I don’t want to interrupt her.” I smiled again. “As I said, I don’t mind waiting.”

  Gillian crossed the room and spoke to Lara, who nodded at me. I nodded back and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  Gillian walked back to me. “Lara will be done with this session at four thirty and will be glad to talk to you.”

  “You’re the best!”

 
; “No prob!” Gillian said. She returned to cruising the sales floor.

  I stood by the carrel closest to the front door, out of the way, but able to keep my eye on Lara. She finished with her client right on the dot and came to join me.

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  “First, thank you for seeing me without an appointment. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  She checked the time. “My next appointment isn’t until five. Do you mind if we go outside so I can have a smoke?”

  I said that would be fine. She said she’d grab her cigarettes from the back and meet me at the bench in front of the pizza place.

  I stood by the bench. A few minutes later, Lara rounded the corner. She paused to light up, then sauntered my way. She sat down, slouching and stretching her legs straight out, crossing her ankles. I sat next to her.

  She tapped her cigarette on the bench arm. “Gillian said you had questions about Maudie Wilson. I heard the news—is she all right?”

  “As far as I know, she’s fine. She told me how excited she was to begin training. How did it go?”

  Lara exhaled slowly, watching me through a haze of smoke. “Why are you asking?”

  “It’s a surprise!” I said, smiling, giving a small gurgle of laughter, and replicating the bubbly answer I’d just given Gillian.

  My silliness drew a reluctant smile from Lara. She cocked her head, her expression more curious than suspicious as she debated whether to probe deeper.

  “So how did she do?” I repeated, betting she’d decide to skip asking any follow-up questions. It’s always easier to do nothing than make waves.

  “Good. I mean she was rusty and all. She said she hadn’t used a computer since her husband died, but she was familiar with all the basic settings and some of the software, so she felt comfortable with the laptop. She’d never worked with a touch screen before, though, and she didn’t like it. That’s okay. Not everyone is ready to make the switch. I adjusted the settings so the one she bought has dual capability. The touch screen works if you want it to, but you don’t have to use it. She’s a fast typist, so that boosted her confidence.”

  “Did she want to learn a photo program?”