Deadly Threads Page 7

  Yellow, I’d thought, how appropriate. I’d refused to sign any of the documents she’d handed me, and four minutes later I was on the street.

  I started walking south to my apartment in Turtle Bay, feeling as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole. Everything was upside down. Nothing made sense. I had no way of coping because I had no context. One day I had the world on a string. The next day I was on the street, alone, a pariah.

  That was the darkest period of my life, bar none. After a month of soul-wrenching despondency, I recalled something my dad had told me years earlier. If you feel as if you’re at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on, and if you can’t hang on, move on. I decided it was time to move on. The next morning, I’d awakened full of energy, eager to research starting my own business. Within three months, I’d relocated to New Hampshire to start a new life.

  My plan had worked. I’d found the business challenges and opportunities, the love, the friends, and the community I’d sought. Maybe Bobby’s plan would work, too. Perhaps getting back to work as soon as he could would help him cope with losing Riley, just as opening a business in New Hampshire had helped me overcome the losses I’d endured. Certainly, it wasn’t my place to judge.

  “Please tell Bobby I understand,” I told Quinn, opening my eyes.

  Quinn extracted a standard-sized envelope from the folder. “I’ll pass on your message, but I’m sure you’ll be able to tell him yourself. He hasn’t left yet.” He handed me the envelope. “Here’s a letter he signed authorizing you and your staff to enter the Jordans’ home and remove any objects you deem appropriate, and a key to the front door. Bobby tells me he only sets the alarm when he’s going out of town.”

  I glanced through the authorization. “This is fine. If you’d like, I can print out the contracts and sign them now.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He sighed and closed his briefcase. “I guess we ought to do it.”

  As we walked toward the front office, Quinn remarked, “I’ve known Riley since the day she was born. My wife and I were good friends with her parents.”

  “It sounds like she was more than just a client to you,” I said.

  “Very much so.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He pressed his lips together. Men like Quinn did not break down in front of strangers.

  Gretchen faxed Bobby the forms about fifteen minutes later. Five minutes after that, he faxed them back, and I’d officially been hired.

  * * *

  Ellis returned my call as I was driving to the Jordans’ house to begin the appraisal. I explained how Hank had fetched the button, then told him that while I had no reason to think it came from a garment worn by Riley or the killer, I had no reason to think it hadn’t.

  The button, he said, wasn’t from Riley’s clothing. “I’d like to have the tech guys give it a once-over.”

  “Sure,” I said, “except lots of us have touched it, including Hank.”

  “Still.”

  “No problem. Do you want me to bring it over?”

  “No, thanks. We’ll pick it up.”

  I told him I’d let Cara know someone from the police was coming, and he thanked me again.

  When I called in, I spoke to Gretchen and asked her to take close-up photos from all angles before the police showed up so that Ava could begin researching the button even though we wouldn’t have it in hand.

  * * *

  I changed my mind about going straight to the Jordans’ house, and instead I took exit 7 off the interstate and wove my way through the city streets to the Blue Dolphin. I wanted to talk to Bobby, to look him in the eye and tell him how sorry I was about Riley.

  Frieda, the longtime hostess, greeted me like a pal.

  “Hey, Josie,” she said, smiling.

  “I was wondering if Bobby was around.”

  Frieda’s smile faded. “Yeah, he is. Heck of a thing, isn’t it?”

  “Worse that that.”

  “Yeah. He’s in his office in the back. You know the way, don’t you?”

  “I do. Is it all right for me to go on my own?”

  “Oh, sure. You know Bobby—he always maintains an open-door policy.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I walked through the dining room on wide-plank oak flooring. After centuries of being scrubbed and polished, the wood had mellowed to a rich golden brown. The walls were painted antique white, with colonial blue trim. Blue and white French country-themed toile curtains hung at the windows, a nod to New Hampshire’s strong French heritage. Several diners sat at tables laid with crisp white cloths, glistening silver flatware, and sparkling cut crystal. Crystal wall sconces, chandeliers, and table lamps cast a warm golden glow throughout the room. The Blue Dolphin’s main dining room epitomized elegance.

  I turned left and passed into a small passageway. A heavy fire door labeled EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY was at the end. I passed the restrooms, a room marked PRIVATE that I knew contained the restaurant’s impressive wine collection, and then an open door on the left. Kenna sat at her desk, frowning at her computer monitor. A guest chair was covered by a stack of three-ring binders. An old-fashioned four-foot-high cast-iron safe stood in back of her. There was no artwork on the walls, no photos of her kids on her desk, nothing to add warmth or personality to the space. To Kenna, an office was where you went to do a job, not a home away from home. It was messy and unwelcoming, not a place I would have liked to work.

  Kenna looked up. “Hi, Josie,” she said.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to offer my sympathy to Bobby.”

  She nodded. “He should be in his office.”

  “Thanks. How are you holding up?”

  She shrugged. “Did you hear that Bobby’s moving to New York?”

  “Yeah. Does that put you out of a job?”

  She shook her head. “No. Bobby’s accountant, Quinn Steiner, has always been my direct report, so things will be pretty much the same for me.”

  “I hate change,” I said, smiling a little.

  She smiled back and nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Well, I’d better go. I’ll see you at class next week, okay?”

  “You bet.”

  Bobby’s office was on the right, just before the emergency exit. The door was open, and I looked in. Bobby was seated behind his desk facing me. A woman sat across from him with her back to me. I couldn’t see her face. She had dark brown chin-length hair.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said. “I was told to come on back.” The woman turned as soon as I began speaking. It was Becka, and she was crying. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Hi, Josie,” Bobby said, standing. “Come on in.”

  Becka turned away. I saw that she was clutching a crumpled tissue. She gulped, and I heard her breathe in deeply.

  He looked in her direction, then at me. From his expression, I could tell that something was worrying him. He seemed guarded and tense.

  “Becka and I were just finalizing plans for Riley’s funeral,” he said. “The service will be this Friday at St. Patrick’s in Rocky Point. At ten.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. After a short pause, I added, “I stopped by to tell you how heartbroken I am, Bobby. I’m really, really sorry for your loss. Riley was a special woman and a good friend.” I turned to include Becka in my comments. “My condolences to you, too, Becka. I know you and Riley were close.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice so low I could barely hear it.

  Bobby dragged up a chair up for me, and I perched on the edge. He looked and moved like an athlete, fit and lithe, with a broad chest and narrow waist and strong, angular features. He coloring showed his Nordic heritage—his hair was blond, his skin pale, and his eyes cerulean blue. He wore khakis and a crisply pressed yellow oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up two turns.

  The charisma the gossip magazines wrote about was real, and was as apparent today as ever. Simply being in his presence, I could feel it, and having been around
him dozens of times, I knew that it wasn’t a manipulative technique he turned on or off at will; it was intrinsic to who he was. Today, though, he seemed on edge and somber, but those emotions alone wouldn’t account for the change that I was finding so disturbing—they were the effect, not the cause. I sensed he was hiding something, or trying to. Maybe, I thought, it was simply that I’d walked in on a private conversation.

  “I appreciate it, Josie,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I’m still adjusting to the fact that she’s really, really gone. It’s hard to fathom.”

  “I can only imagine. Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

  “Just with the appraisal. You got the forms, right? I faxed them over to you.”

  “Yes. Actually, I’m on my way to your house now to start the process.” I stood up. “I’ll keep you posted.” I looked down at Becka, still worrying her tissue. “I’ll see you soon, Becka,” I said, just for something to say.

  She nodded and tried to smile, but failed. She looked away again.

  Bobby came around his desk, offering a hand, and when we shook, he placed his left hand on top of mine and squeezed. He walked me into the hallway. “It’s quicker to the parking lot if you go this way,” he said, pushing the silver bar on the fire door just outside his office. “It’s not armed.”

  I found myself in the alley that ran behind the restaurant, standing on cobblestones and facing the Piscataqua River. Too narrow for vehicle traffic, the alley was used for deliveries wheeled in by hand and, during the summer, for outdoor riverfront seating. Bobby had divided the area into sections by strategically placing rectangular copper tubs of boxwoods, tall willowy grasses, and seasonal flowers. I could see Maine across the water.

  “I’m really sorry, Bobby,” I said.

  He nodded, his expression solemn. “Thanks, Josie,” he replied and stepped back.

  The door latched shut. I turned toward the river and watched the choppy, fast-moving water swirl toward the ocean. On the Maine side, I spotted several trees sporting red buds.

  Something was up with Bobby; I didn’t know what. I couldn’t explain how I knew that any more than I could explain how I knew when it was going to snow long before the first flakes begin to fall. It was as if the atmosphere gave off a certain scent and I could smell it. Here, today, I’d caught a whiff of trouble.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Seeing the Jordans’ sprawling oceanfront home, and knowing that it would soon be sold, brought tears to my eyes. Ty and I had attended cocktail parties and summer barbecues there, and, one superhot August Sunday, a pool party. The house, a mansion really, was more than beautiful, it was substantial and historical. It had been home to Riley’s family for generations. Riley’s death marked the end of an era.

  The wood siding had weathered to a soft taupe. The mansard roof was dark brown. The shutters were white. Tall grasses edged the small lawn. Because the house had been oriented to face the ocean, from the street, it looked plain, but from the beach, the porches and walls of windows were spectacular.

  I stepped onto the driveway, hoisted my video recorder bag onto my shoulder, and circled the house to the front door. When I’d climbed the six steps to the covered wraparound porch, I lowered my bag and stood for a moment admiring the view. Far out to sea, whitecaps dotted the dark blue water, and close in, the waves were peaking at two, maybe two and a half feet. A storm was blowing in from the east. Off to the right a fenced-in pool area abutted the sand.

  Inside, I decided to start at the top and work my way down, so I climbed the wide central staircase to the second floor, pausing on the landing halfway up. French doors opened onto a covered porch. I stepped outside, and after watching the waves roll toward shore for a minute, I sat on a teak Adirondack rocker. With each undulating motion, I felt myself relax another notch. Thin wisps of thunder-gray fog appeared near the horizon, and the clouds thickened until the sun was completely blocked. The crashing grew thunderous, and windswept froth dotted the dark blue water. After a while longer, I went back inside.

  I walked from room to room until I located the access point to the attic. A hinged door set into the ceiling of a small sewing room opened downward. I tugged on the dangling string, and a built-in collapsible ladder unfolded automatically.

  I climbed the steps and found myself in an unfinished space. Beams and slats crisscrossed to a peaked roof. Pink insulation was stuffed in every void. There were three windows, one on either end and a round, decorative one positioned high in the wall overlooking the ocean. With the clouds growing denser by the minute, barely any light seeped in. A single row of uncovered 60-watt lightbulbs suspended from a strand of thick wire stretched the length of the space. I flipped the light switch. The bulbs cast overlapping circles of soft white light.

  The only object in the entire space was a brass-studded leather trunk. I measured it, then turned on the camera and described what I saw, as per Prescott’s protocol.

  “This trunk is four feet three inches long, three feet eight inches deep, and three and a half feet high,” I said, zooming in for a close-up. “It’s covered in stiff dark brown leather. There are multiple splits, cracks, and worn spots. The leather is affixed to the frame with what appear to be brass fittings, specifically, brass straps and hobnails. A single handle is centered on the lid. An escutcheon surrounds the keyhole. There is no key.”

  I lowered the camera and tried to raise the lid, but the trunk was locked. I hoisted it to assess its weight. It was heavy, but not leaden. I guesstimated that it weighed fifty pounds or so, but how much of that was the trunk itself and how much was the contents, I had no way of gauging. As I lifted it, I heard the contents shift, but not rattle. Probably, I thought, it was filled with clothes.

  As I walked from room to room, I annotated all the furniture, as well as all functional and decorative items, from bedside lamps and quilts to carpets and paintings.

  In the central hall, I memorialized a spectacular moon-faced grandfather clock, positioned to hide the upstairs zone security alarm panel; a mahogany side table; and a pair of four-foot-high goldfish vases, probably Ming Dynasty.

  Riley’s walk-in closet was neat and well lit and paneled in cedar. The walls gave off a fresh woodsy scent. Clothing was organized by garment type, then color, so dresses hung in one section, skirts in another, and slacks in a third. Within each section, clothes were positioned from dark to light. Noticing a variety of sizes, from two to six, I decided to record the whole and have Sasha come back to inventory the items piece by piece. When I reached the evening gown section, I paused. A breathtaking Mainbocher peach and ivory satin dress featuring the French designer’s hallmark corset lacing caught my eye. The satin was thick and soft. In the dress section, a suede color-block empire Bonnie Cashin day dress in muted shades of cocoa brown, clay, and sunlit gold caught my eye. The suede was butter-soft, and the colors were true to nature and pure. I forced myself to move on. Left to my druthers, I’d happily spend the day, maybe the week, examining the garments, but I didn’t have the time to allow myself the luxury.

  I headed downstairs and continued on.

  Nearly two hours later, I stood in the living room, taking a final glance around. I was just about done with my initial walk-through. I only had the kitchen and pantry to go.

  We’d need to research everything, but from my initial assessment, I knew that Bobby was looking at making some serious money. Almost all the furnishings appeared to be genuine antiques. The standard definition held that an object had to be more than a hundred years old in order to be called an antique. Some dealers used fifty years as their standard, but I’d decided years ago that Prescott’s would use the more conservative metric. Some of the pieces were especially impressive and would, I was certain, command top dollar. The bookshelves in the library, for example, featured a custom-made ladder that slid along a brass railing. The ladder’s feet had a clever push-down, pop-up locking mechanism. Overall, every object had been designed and fabricated with creative vision, qualit
y materials, and master craftsmanship. I’d be surprised if Bobby didn’t net more than a million dollars from the furniture alone.

  I sighed. When I appraised estates I always felt a little melancholy, but when the person who’d died was old and had lived a full and rich life, it didn’t feel like a tragedy. This felt different. Here, Riley was everywhere I looked. I saw more than furnishings; I saw Riley’s taste and her heritage. Change was inevitable, I knew, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t sad. What had taken more than a hundred years to amass would take less than a day to dismantle.

  I’d finished with the closet and kitchen and was in the butler’s pantry, recording the stacks of Minton china, drawers filled with Lunt sterling flatware, and cupboards stocked with Waterford cut-crystal glasses and bowls when the phone rang, startling me.

  I pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen and approached the built-in desk. A phone number glowed on the combination telephone/answering machine’s LED display. The area code read 310—Los Angeles. The answering machine clicked on. Two seconds later, Ruby Bowers began speaking. I lowered my video camera to the floor, found a pen and pad in a desk drawer, and wrote the number down and tucked it in my pocket.