Killer Keepsakes Page 5

  “Hi,” I said, smiling broadly. “Gretchen Brock. Picking up.”

  “Girl reporter, huh? Sorry, babe, you’re too late,” he said. “The cops have already been here.”

  “Darn!” I exclaimed, letting his assumption stand. “Did they tow it away?”

  “Nah,” he said, grinning. “She already got it herself. Wednesday, ’bout noon.”

  “Just my luck, right?” I nodded, turned to leave, then spun back. “Did you see who drove her here?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. She came in alone.”

  “Mac, is there anything else I should ask you?”

  He thought about my question for a second, then leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and said, “Can’t show you the paperwork. Cops got it.”

  I thanked him and left, thrilled to have learned that Gretchen had picked up her car on the day she returned. I felt one step closer to finding her.

  At eight, I idled under a willow tree in Mandy’s apartment complex and scanned the doors looking for her unit, number six. I spotted it halfway down on the left. A black Jeep was in the slot directly in front of her entryway. Vince is here, I thought. Gretchen’s car was nowhere to be seen.

  After I’d been there several minutes, trying to decide if it was too early to knock on the door, Vince walked out, and I dropped my eyes as if I were changing the radio station. He was wearing the leather bomber jacket and jeans. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him unlock the vehicle and swing into the front seat, moving with an athlete’s grace. He adjusted his rearview mirror. I felt his eyes on me. I kept my head turned away and still. As the Jeep pulled into traffic, I jotted down its plate number.

  I circled the complex slowly but didn’t see Gretchen’s car anywhere.

  A good way to hide in plain sight, I thought, might be to leave her car in a mall parking lot, so I drove the few blocks to Fox Run Mall and pulled into the lot through the entrance closest to JCPenney. There were only a half dozen cars in the entire place. Security, I figured, and I realized that hiding a car in a mall parking lot might work on a busy Saturday afternoon, but not on an early morning weekday.

  I returned to Mandy’s apartment. As I approached the front door, I noticed that all of the ground-floor blinds were drawn. I pressed the doorbell. Mandy smiled as she answered the door and said hello. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and looked very young.

  “I was a little worried,” I said. “You sounded pretty upset yesterday.”

  Her eyes lost some of their luster. “I was. I am. Come on in.” She led the way into her yellow and violet kitchen. “I just got the message you left last night—I’ve been staying at Vince’s place.”

  One step into the kitchen, and I stopped short. Boldly painted irises, daffodils, crocuses, and forsythia covered every inch of walls and cupboard doors, transforming the room into a springtime garden.

  “It’s fantastic!” I exclaimed. “Did you do it yourself?”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of a hobby.”

  “You’re really talented, Mandy. No wonder you’re thinking of opening an art gallery.”

  “Vince says it’s a pretty stupid way to spend time,” she said with a self-conscious laugh, “but I have fun with it.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. To express outrage at his absurd and mean-spirited edict was to jump into the middle of their disagreement, a place I didn’t want to be. I stayed quiet.

  After a long moment of awkward silence, she said, “I just made coffee. Want a cup?”

  “Thanks. I’d love one.”

  “Do you have any news about Gretchen?” she asked, turning to face the coffeepot.

  I shook my head. “No news, but I do have a couple of questions, if that’s all right. Gretchen’s best friend is named Lina, you said. What can you tell me about her?”

  “She’s great. I met her when I started working at the store—she’s an assistant manager, too. She introduced me to Gretchen.”

  “How long have they known each other, do you know?”

  “I’m not sure. Years, I think.”

  “Do you have any idea where Gretchen could be?” I asked, thinking, Like upstairs?

  “No,” she answered. “I have no idea, and Vince said I should be careful about speculating.”

  “I want to go look for her,” I said, “to reassure her that no matter what happened, I’ll help her.”

  She looked thoughtful. My gut told me not to believe that she had no idea where Gretchen might be, but my head warned me not to disbelieve her out of hand. From what I had observed myself and what Gretchen had reported, I knew that Mandy spent a lot of time braced for criticism, concerned that she might be disappointing someone. The bottom line was that I had no empirical evidence that Mandy was hiding or otherwise helping Gretchen.

  “It’s not speculating so much as guessing,” I added. “Where would you tell me to look?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied softly, shaking her head.

  I nodded. “Maybe Lina would know. Can you tell me where she lives?”

  She gave me Lina’s phone number and address. I glanced at the paper. I knew the street. It was a middle-class neighborhood near the Piscataqua River.

  “She’s in the ground floor unit.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping the paper into my bag. “Mandy, there’s an architectural pedestal in Gretchen’s living room, in the corner by the fireplace. Do you remember it?”

  She scrunched her eyes a bit, thinking. “Yeah. Sure. That’s where she keeps her vase.”

  I exhaled. Someone who had seen it! I felt a thrill of excitement shoot through me. “Can you describe it?”

  “How come?”

  “It’s missing.”

  Her eyes opened wider. “Really? Did someone steal it?”

  “I don’t know. What can you remember about it?”

  She shrugged and flipped her palms up. “It’s Asian, I guess,” she said.

  “Kind of fat and squat? Or tall and elegant?”

  She shook her head, the picture not clear in her mind. “Medium, I guess.”

  “How tall?” I asked, moving my hands up and down, approximating a height range of six inches up to more than two feet. She watched, then nodded and touched my hand at about eighteen inches.

  “There, I guess. It’s about that high.”

  “Did Gretchen keep flowers in it?”

  “No.” She considered, then added, “It has a top. I don’t know how to describe it. It has a cover on it, so I guess it’s not really a vase.”

  I nodded. “I know the kind of object you’re describing—it’s still called a vase. Can you remember anything about the design? Did it show flowers? Birds? People?”

  She bit a corner of her lip, concentrating. “Not really.”

  “No problem—how about its color? Do you remember that? Was it mostly pinks? Blues? Oranges?”

  “Blue, I think. I don’t know—it looks Asian.”

  I nodded. Some people could recall every detail of an object; others couldn’t remember the most obvious attributes—proving nothing except that people are different. Even artists like Mandy. I’d bet that if I showed her a Renoir, she could later detail the composition, color palette, and subject matter. But a vase? She barely noticed.

  I drove straight to Lina’s.

  Parking in front of the well-maintained three-story house, I climbed a few steps and stood on a small, unadorned porch in front of a heavy, windowless oak door and stared at three unmarked buzzers. Shrugging, I pressed the buzzer on the far left and heard a tinny buzz echoing from somewhere inside. I looked around. There was a detached three-stall garage and a fenced backyard. A crackly voice asked, “Who is it?”

  “Josie Prescott for Lina.”

  There was a flicker of static, then silence, and then the oak door opened about three inches. A petite woman peeked out, then stepped onto the porch, shutting the door behind her. I could hear a dog barking inside. She was of average height but small-framed. She
wore a blue sweater and gray slacks, cool colors for a sunny spring day.

  “Lina?”

  “Yes, I’m Lina.”

  “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  “Oh, hi! That stupid intercom. I couldn’t really hear what you said. You’re Gretchen’s boss. She’s told me so much about you.”

  “Oh, no!” I joked.

  She smiled a little. “All good, I promise.”

  “Have you heard from her?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. You?”

  “No.” I saw only worry in her eyes. “I spoke to Mandy. She told me you’re Gretchen’s best friend, so I was really hoping you’d know something—anything.”

  She shook her head. “That’s very sweet, but I don’t know why Mandy would say that. Maybe because I’ve known Gretchen for a long time.”

  “If you’re not her best friend, who is?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Gretchen’s pretty private.”

  A recurring theme. “Have you talked to the police?” I asked.

  “Yesterday. Why?”

  “I was wondering if you had any news.”

  She shook her head again. “Nothing. It’s all so strange and frightening.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. I wished she’d invite me in. “If she contacts you, please ask her to call me, okay? I want her to know that no matter what happened, I’ll help.”

  “Sure. Except I doubt I’ll hear from her.”

  I gave her my business card and left, feeling that on some level I knew less than when I’d arrived.

  Back at Prescott’s, I entered the building through the tag sale shack. Eric and the part-timers were already at work. He stood by the inside door, huddling with his team. I waved hello to everyone, gestured that he should continue, and leaned against the back wall, listening in.

  “We have a lot of glassware this week. As we bring it out, we’ll line everything up on this table, and then, once we can see it all, we’ll decide how to arrange it. Keep an eye out for some yellow bowls,” Eric told them, referring to the small collection of Depression glass we’d acquired when an older couple, preparing to downsize, decided to sell off most of their collection. “We don’t want to just mix them in with the regular stuff. We’ll do something to make them stand out.”

  “Like what?” a new part-timer asked.

  “Usually we create levels by covering plastic milk crates with tablecloths. Sometimes we put glasses on a tray. Once we even set a table with napkins and plates and everything.” He shrugged. “Any other ideas to make the inventory look good, we’re open!”

  I caught his eye and mouthed, “Great job!” and waved, confident that when I returned, the Depression glass would be cleverly displayed.

  As I stepped into the front office, Cara was dusting her desk—Gretchen’s desk. Sasha looked up from a catalogue she was reading. Fred was typing something.

  “Any news about Gretchen?” Sasha asked.

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  The phone rang. Cara answered, then put the caller on hold and told me it was Phil. Phil’s Exeter-based auction company was known as a reliable source for architectural items, stocking everything from hinges and molding to fences and gates. He wouldn’t have called if he didn’t have something he knew I’d want. I had Cara tell him I’d be right with him and dashed upstairs.

  “Josie,” he said, “how ya doing?”

  We were planning an auction of architectural remnants called Architectural Antiques in August. For two years, we’d worked to amass and catalogue an impressive collection of objects, both those that are generally available, like early nineteenth-century flooring and windows, and those that are harder to find, like built-in bookcases. I’d put the word out among local dealers that I was in the market for any high-end architectural antiques that came their way. Given the trend to rip down old structures to build new ones, there was no shortage of inventory, but as in all aspects of the business, most of the available objects were run-of-the-mill, not distinctive. From dolls to porcelain and from furniture to paintings, it was routine and easy to acquire objects but labor-intensive and difficult to acquire good objects.

  All antiques dealers depend on pickers—itinerant sellers of antiques and collectibles. Pickers have favorite dealers for various items, giving the first look to those dealers known to pay a premium, which most dealers can do only when they specialize in a certain category. I didn’t know who Phil’s pickers were, but he sure had an in with someone.

  His voice sounded husky, as if he had a bad cold.

  “You okay, Phil? You sound a little rough around the edges.”

  “Got one of those damn colds going around. I’m okay. Listen, are you still interested in architectural antiques?”

  “Definitely,” I replied. I crossed my fingers. “What do you have?”

  “I just got in a few nineteenth-century locks. I know for sure there’s no gems, but they’re pretty ornate.”

  My excitement waned. Because houses have so many doors, locks are fairly commonplace and sell for less than custom pieces like hand-carved mantels or decorative painted boards. Supply and demand, I thought. In an unregulated marketplace, it was one of the chief determinants of value. Still, there was a strong market for ornate antique hardware.

  Phil named the price range he had in mind. “You can tell me what you think when you see them.”

  “That’s fine, Phil,” I agreed. Phil and I had a history of fair dealing. “I’ll send Sasha or Fred over to look at them and settle up with you.”

  “I’ll be heading out for lunch soon. If I’m not here, one of my guys can handle it.”

  I left it to Sasha to decide who should go to Phil’s place to examine the locks and make the offer, then followed company protocol and signed out a video camera. I lugged the carry case to my car along with the supplies I’d need to pack up Gretchen’s objects.

  CHAPTER TEN

  T

  he Chevy with the Tennessee plates was still there, increasing the probability, I thought, that it was, in fact, the murder victim’s car. I wondered what it would take for the police to be able to impound it.

  I climbed the steps to Gretchen’s unit and discovered Detective Brownley standing at the rail, looking out over the pond. The sun was lost behind thickening clouds. It looked like rain. She greeted me, slit the police tape that sealed the door, and let us in.

  “Thanks for telling me about Mandy,” she said as we entered.

  “You’re welcome. You know about Lina, too, right?”

  “Gretchen has lots of friends,” she said.

  “Any news about her?” I asked, aware that she hadn’t answered my question.

  “Nothing firm. Lots of avenues to look at.”

  Her answer seemed purposefully vague, and her watchful eyes didn’t invite follow-up questions.

  I turned to face the six small plates Gretchen had hung in her dining area.

  “When we leave here, I’ll go with you so you can get me a dupe of your video recording,” Detective Brownley said. “I’ll give you a receipt for any items you remove. You’ll need to sign a statement saying that they’ll stay under lock and key unless you’re working with them, and if they’re out of the safe, they’re under your direct supervision. Okay?”

  “As long as you can include Sasha and Fred in that, we’re fine. They’re both bonded, so there shouldn’t be a problem. Eric also has access to the safe, and he’s bonded, too, but he won’t be working on them.”

  She agreed that would be acceptable.

  Holding the video recorder steady, I described what I saw, starting with the six fruit plates. With Detective Brownley looking on, I packed them up, wrapping each plate individually in several layers of bubble wrap.

  “Do you have an ID on the victim yet?” I asked, wondering if she’d answer.

  She didn’t reply right away, maybe deciding whether to respond at all. I kept my eyes on my work. I didn’t want her to think I was challenging
her in any way.

  “No,” she said finally.

  I looked up. “I’m surprised.”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes it takes time. Don’t read anything into it. No news is no news.”

  I nodded, picked up the camera, and walked over to the pedestal. The thin coating of dust surrounding the circle measured eight inches, a common base size for a variety of bowls and vases. “Mandy told me that Gretchen kept a vase here. A blue-patterned Asian-style vase about eighteen inches high.”

  Detective Brownley jotted a note. After I recorded the pedestal, I did a slow survey of the room.

  “What are you looking for?” Detective Brownley asked.

  “Nothing in particular. I just want to be sure I’m not missing something. So far I haven’t seen anything else that stands out.”

  She followed my gaze. “That looks good,” she said, pointing to a Picasso print framed in black metal.

  “Picasso’s great,” I acknowledged, “but it’s a reproduction, so for our purposes, there’s nothing to appraise.” I nodded toward three other contemporary art prints that adorned the walls. “Those are re-pros, too. The furniture is pretty standard fare. The fireplace screen looks new.”

  I stared at the fireplace tool set. My heart leapt into my throat as I pictured the angry red mark on the dead man’s head. Suddenly I was parched. I coughed as I tried to speak, finally managing to say, “The poker’s missing.”

  Detective Brownley nodded. “We have it. It’s at the lab.”

  I was willing to bet that the poker had been used as a weapon. Someone had slashed at the murder victim, and an off-center or off-balance blow had struck his skull. I shivered, then forced myself to continue my inspection. I walked into the bedroom. The mattress rested on a metal frame. There was no headboard. The bedside tables were wicker. The only object on the particleboard desk was a mouse pad.

  “Did you take her computer?” I asked.

  “Yes. For forensic examination.”