Killer Keepsakes (11 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

D

o you have a minute to talk?” Mandy whispered.

“Sure,” I said.

We entered the warehouse through the inside door. I led the way to the nearest corner, and we stood behind a stack of crates taller than me. I touched her arm, just for a moment, and waited for her to speak.

She stood stiffly, her hands clenched into fists. Even in the dim light, I could see moisture glistening on her eyelashes. She seemed unable to begin.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

She took a deep breath and then another and then she said, “A reporter from the
Seacoast Star
has been asking people about Vince and me. Wes Smith. He even came into the store and talked to my manager.”

“That’s what reporters do, Mandy. They ask questions.”

“Vince is so angry at the thought that our names will be in the paper.” Mandy crossed her arms across her chest. “I know you know him. I see you quoted in his articles all the time.”

I took a deep breath, bracing myself to be the bearer of bad news. “If what you’re hoping is that I can get Wes to stop, I can’t. Nothing and no one can. If you give Wes an interview, you’ll be quoted by name. If you don’t, he’ll write that you’re refusing to talk to reporters.” I shrugged. “Pretty much, it’s a given that your name will be in the paper.”

She looked down and was quiet for a long time, then looked up at me. “Why would
anyone
talk to a reporter?”

I shrugged. “To vent. To make your point to the world. To expose corruption or wrongdoing. To have the right to ask questions in return to someone in the know.”

She didn’t comment.

“Does Vince have something to hide, Mandy?” I asked softly. “Do you?” She still didn’t speak. I shrugged. Without knowing the specifics of why Vince was so upset about seeing their names in the paper, I could only offer her general guidance. “If you do decide to talk to Wes, or any member of the press, make sure you know whether you’re on the record or not.”

Her brow was lined with worry. She looked very young. God knew that I’d done my share of ranting against the press over the years, but I sensed that something else, something deeper than mere irritation or annoyance, was in play. The only explanation I could think of for her anxiety was fear. The question I couldn’t even begin to answer was what she was afraid of.

“Thanks, Josie,” she said finally—and left.

Ty called just after six to tell me that he was running late. “There’s a guy I’ve got to talk to. He’s just not getting it.”

“What’s he doing wrong?” I asked.

Ty laughed, not a ha-ha sound of enjoyment but a derisive chortle. “He was positive that all of his equipment was in his car the first time we ran the drill, so he didn’t check. The second time he brought only the equipment he figured he’d need, not the equipment on his checklist. He said he was experienced enough to know what he needs, so why not save time.”

“And you’re a by-the-book sorta fella who doesn’t really see his perspective.”

“Well, he is, after all, a first responder, not a strategy planner, you know?”

“So you need to have a little talk with him.”

“Exactly. I think it’s time for him to decide if this position is a good fit with his interests and expectations about the job. He might be happier behind a desk somewhere in a planning capacity.”

“You’re kind to put it that way,” I observed.

“Nah, it’s true. He’s a good guy—he’s just thinking too much for this job.”

“Sounds like an unpleasant conversation.”

“It has that potential,” Ty acknowledged. “And it’s going to make me late. Do you want to go to my place?”

“Why don’t I go home? I have a lot to do. You can decide whether to come over once you’re en route.”

“Sounds good,” he said.

By the time I shut down my computer and walked downstairs, it was almost six thirty, and everyone was gone. I left right after confirming that Eric had walked the cash drawers into the safe and locked all the doors and windows.

At home, I showered and ate and curled up in my living room with Rex Stout’s
Plot It Yourself
. Ty called just after eight to say he was about an hour away and would come over if it was okay. “Yeah,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, “it’s okay.”

When he got there, he sat at the kitchen table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles crossed, listening. He drank Smuttynose from the bottle. I stood at the counter, transferring leftovers from plastic containers to a plate for reheating in the microwave as I filled him in on my day.

Ty was a great listener. He never interrupted, nodded when he understood a point, and asked smart questions. He paid attention. I told him everything that had happened and ended by asking his opinion. “Do you think Mandy or Vince has a specific secret? Or is it just general angst?”

“I don’t know, Josie. What’s your sense?”

I wrinkled my nose, thinking. The microwave clicked off. “Mandy’s hypersensitive when it comes to all things Vince, but I don’t know why. I don’t know if she’s protecting him or if she’s afraid of him,” I said as I carried Ty’s dinner to the table.

Ty nodded. “To further complicate the issue, sometimes people react as you expect, and a lot of the time, they don’t. Probably she’s acting scared for one or both of the reasons you suggest, but maybe not. There’s a possibility that’s just her way of handling stress.”

“Plus which,” I added, nodding, “with Vince, there’s probably an element of control going on. What’s that old saying? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re
not
out to get you. Just because Vince is a control freak doesn’t mean he
doesn’t
have secrets he’s determined to keep private.”

“True, and sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Maybe Mandy knows something that would implicate one of them in some way—because they
are
involved.”

Ty finished his Smuttynose and walked to the fridge for another bottle. “Want me to ask around, see what I can find out?”

I smiled and slid my hand across the table, stopping near his plate. “Thank you, Ty.”

He covered my hand with his and gave a little squeeze. “You’re welcome. Now, get out of my way, woman. You’re keeping me from food.”

Sunday morning, Ty and I went to his house and spent the day relaxing. Anxiety about Gretchen was never far from my mind, but for the first time since entering her apartment and discovering the corpse, I felt a bit encouraged that I was getting closer to finding her. Between my research on the belt buckle and the vase, and questions I might be able to ask Mandy to draw her out, I was hopeful that we might finally begin to get answers soon.

First thing, I brought in the newspaper the delivery person had tossed on the front stoop. Wes’s headline blared with innuendo, as usual:

APB ISSUED FOR MURDER APT OWNER:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN—GRETCHEN BROCK?

The article’s overall tone was more restrained than most of his work, and my name only appeared twice, first in paragraph three, mentioning that I was Gretchen’s boss, and once in paragraph eight, referring to me as an antiques expert. Somehow Wes had acquired a photo of Gretchen’s vase. The caption stated that the police planned on asking me to examine it after their lab had finished its forensic work.

Later, I made my mother’s fancy Raspberry Chicken Roll and we watched
Sea of Love
, one of my favorite old movies.

While I was setting the table for dinner, the phone rang, and Ty went into his den to answer it. When he came back, he reported, “Vince Collins is, by all accounts, a bad guy.”

I met his gaze and waited for the details.

“Here’s what I’ve learned: Collins works for a residential real estate development company that’s doing well. He’s a project manager. From all reports, he’s a real hard-ass to work for. He believes in management by choking. No, really,” he said, reacting to my startled look of inquiry. “No charges were filed because the guy he choked quit. In fact, he’s left the state.” He shrugged. “Moving along, it seems that the police are keeping close tabs on Vince, and he knows it. There have been a couple of altercations—shouting only—in which he’s challenged the officers tailing him to justify their actions.”

I laughed. “I love your diction,” I said.

He smiled. “Vince is on probation, so I’m betting he won’t do anything beyond shouting, if you get my drift.”

I found his common sense persuasive, but I was still worried about Mandy. I had an edgy, amorphous feeling that she knew something about Gretchen and was afraid to tell—something we needed to know.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

M

onday morning, I woke up more worried than when I’d fallen asleep and more convinced than ever that Mandy was key. She knew something. It was like having an itch I couldn’t scratch—frustrating, all-consuming, and irritating.

I drove straight to her apartment to try to persuade her to confide in me.

It was sunny and cool, with a hint of hoarfrost shimmering on the lawn and a chill in the air, but I could tell it would warm up by afternoon.

Vince’s Jeep wasn’t there, but a silver Honda was. I parked under the willow tree, ran up the front steps, and rang the bell. I heard it chime, but no one came to the door. I rang again. Still no answer. Sounds of water running came from somewhere to the left. I stepped around the corner of the building.

Mandy stood with her back to me, watering flowers. I called to her, and she whip-turned, startled.

“Oh, hi, Josie,” she said. “Did you ring the bell? Sorry, I didn’t hear it.”

“I’m sorry to bug you. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She laid down the hose and led the way across the small patch of lawn and tiny garden into the mudroom. Mandy wiped her feet on the rough coir mat, then sat on the built-in storage box to exchange her bright yellow rubber boots for slippers.

As I waited, I glanced up, saw the light fixture, and nearly fainted. The light fixture I was staring at was a match for the one in Gretchen’s hall—a hand-painted Dutch scene with tulips and a windmill.

I’d noticed Gretchen’s light fixture the first time I was in her apartment—when Meryl and I discovered the corpse. Yet when I’d returned with Detective Brownley specifically to collect any object that might be traceable, I’d missed it. I could have kicked myself, I felt so stupid.

Mandy stood up, ready to enter the kitchen.

“That’s beautiful,” I said, pointing to the fixture.

“Thanks. Vince got it for me last month. I love it.”

“Is it an antique?” I asked.

“I think so.”

I waited until Mandy served us coffee and we were settled at the kitchen table to speak.

“I’m worried about you.” I aimed for a soothing tone. “I think you know something about Gretchen or the dead man, and I think you’re afraid to tell. I want to help you manage the situation.”

Mandy looked away and tucked her hair behind her ear. I couldn’t read her expression at all. “Thank you, Josie, but you’re wrong.”

“I promise you that I will do everything I can to protect you from whatever danger you might be in.”

She shook her head. “I was just upset about that reporter. Vince and I talked about it. He’s going to call him, so I don’t have to.” She tried to smile, but it was a pretty feeble effort. “Vince will take care of it.”

“It wasn’t just the reporter. There’s something else.”

She shook her head.

“If you change your mind about telling, you can always come to me,” I added.

“You’re wrong,” she repeated. She stood up. “I’m sorry, but I have to get ready for work.”

Outside, a soft breeze had kicked up, and shadows from the willow tree danced on the hood of my car. I called Detective Brownley. As soon as I got to the part about the light fixture that matched the one in Gretchen’s hallway, she interrupted me.

“Couldn’t it be a coincidence?” she asked.

“No way are they stock items. They’re hand-painted and probably antiques. I feel so stupid for having missed it before.”

She thanked me, told me she’d check into it, and hung up before I could ask her to let me know what she’d learned.

As I drove toward my building, I had a thought. If I wanted to buy an antique light fixture, I knew where I would go—Phil’s Barn, known for carrying high-quality architectural artifacts.

Phil’s Barn was accessed from a small dirt road about half a mile off of Oak Street in Exeter, a pretty drive through a traditional New England town. As I crossed over the Squamscott River on High Street, then turned onto Oak, the forest closed in on either side. It felt like a movie set. I could have been a million miles away from civilization. I turned into Phil’s gravel-strewn yard and saw Phil standing with his hands on his hips, his head tilted back, gesturing as he talked to someone on the roof.

I parked off to the side. A young man with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth hoisted a section of wrought-iron fencing into the back of a brown pickup. Another man, this one middle-aged and fat, rolled an old carriage wheel toward his SUV. At Phil’s Barn, commerce started early and continued steady all day.

“Did you check the valley flashing?” Phil called, pointing to the metal gully that ran from the peak to the gutter.

“Doing it now,” the voice shouted back.

“Hey, Josie,” Phil said as I walked up to join him. “I got a leak. Damn thing. Can’t find it.”

“I hate leaks.”

“Damn straight.” He shrugged. “Glad you stopped by. I was going to be calling you. I’ve got a dozen glass doorknobs on brass shanks. Five pair are green glass, one’s lavender, four are clear, and two are black. I set aside the chipped ones. All these are in excellent condition.”

Glass doorknobs were popular items, hard to find in unchipped and nonrusty condition. At the tag sale, we’d always price them at fifty dollars or more a set.

“You are a source of wonder and awe, Phil! You must have quite a supply chain going. First the locks and now the knobs.”

“Thanks. I do okay. Sorry about not getting you the knobs last week. I’ve been out sick for a couple of days.” He exploded into a coughing fit that lasted several seconds. “Damn cough—my wife has been pestering me to stay home to try and shake it off.”

“Maybe she’s right—you sound bad. You feel all right?”

“ ’Bout the same. You know that old adage about it taking a week to get over a cold if you stay in bed, but if you go into work, it takes seven days? Seems true in my case.”

I laughed. “You’re on what, day five?”

“Exactly right. The doorknobs came in last Wednesday, just after I went home for lunch and my wife chained me to the bed.”

I laughed again; then we talked price. At a guess, Phil had paid no more than thirteen or fourteen dollars a set, so my offer of seventeen dollars per pair represented a nifty profit for him for his few minutes’ work examining their condition. We shook on it, and the deal was done.

“They’re inside.” He lifted his head and called to the man on the roof, still crab-walking along the flashing. “Don’t come down ‘til you find that damn leak.”

I followed him across the old barn to a worktable on the left. As we walked, I asked, “You expecting more salvage pieces?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. There’s a lot of construction going on hereabouts.”

“You have any light fixtures? Something hand-painted, maybe?”

“Nope, nothing like you might have in mind. Just eighties trash.”

“You get anything, you call me, okay?”

“You bet.”

The doorknobs were layered with generations of grime, but they were in good condition.

“As described,” I acknowledged. “I’ll pack them up.”

Another customer called to Phil.

“See ya, Josie,” Phil said and started off toward the front.

Using supplies I kept in the trunk of my car, I individually wrapped each knob in bubble wrap and placed them in a sturdy cardboard box. As I worked, I looked around. Phil’s inventory was basically unchanged from my last visit. He had almost no small items, but he had plenty of large objects. I spotted a windmill, in pieces; two weather vanes; shelves of broken appliances, mostly sold for parts; layers of Oriental rugs, some rare and in extraordinary condition; and miscellaneous used furniture stacked partway up the back wall.

I drove to the ocean, crossed the sandy scrub brush onto the beach, and approached the surf. The ocean was calm. White froth licked at my boots as the tide washed in.

I wanted to try to come up with new tactics to find Gretchen. I had no new information. There were only three options that I could see to account for her disappearance: She was voluntarily absent; she was being held somewhere under duress; or she’d been whisked away by the U.S. Marshals. I stared out over the water.

Close to shore, the ocean was cobalt blue. Farther out, it turned bottle green. Farther still, the water appeared black.

Wes said she got a new Social Security number seven years ago.

How?
I wondered. Of course, if she was in the witness protection program, everything was provided for her, but what if she wasn’t under government oversight, if she was, as Wes suggested, on the run for some reason? In this age of terrorism and ID theft, surely it couldn’t be easy to sign up for a new Social Security card.

Then I thought of a way Gretchen might have gotten her new ID. I ran across the beach to my car and was on my way to work in nothing flat.

I arrived about ten thirty and greeted everyone in a hurry. As soon as my computer booted up, I Googled “City Clerk” and “Welton, Massachusetts,” my hometown. The first listing gave me the phone number.

“Welton City Clerk’s office, may I help you?”

“I lost my birth certificate,” I said. “How can I get a replacement?”

“Easy as pie! Send us a letter listing your date of birth, your parents’ names, and a check or money order for ten dollars.”

“That’s it?” I asked, astonished.

“That’s it,” the woman confirmed.

It’s frighteningly simple
, I realized.
Anyone can do it for any reason
. All you’d have to do is canvass graveyards until you find someone born about the same time as you who died in infancy and do a little research to discover his or her parents’ names. Even if a child had been issued a Social Security number before he or she died, the plan would work—you’d get either a new number or a replacement card for a number that hadn’t been used in years.

I tried a search for “Gretchen Brock” and “obituaries” and got a few hits, all recent. If the Gretchen Brock whose identity she adopted had died before newspapers archived their issues online, finding the obit would require as much luck as science.

Another idea, another dead end.

I glanced at the clock and wondered when I could expect to hear from Serena about the Sidlawn Fencing Company belt buckle. I decided to wait until late afternoon. Instead, I picked up the photograph showing Gretchen’s vase’s marks.

I’d reached a stumbling block when I hadn’t been able to locate Percy Oliver Johns’s inventory of decorative items in St. James’s Palace. I wondered whether I should keep trying or continue Sasha’s efforts to discover whether Faring Auctions was still in business.

If the note we found in Gretchen’s envelope was accurate, sixty years had passed since the vase had been purchased, and finding someone who remembered selling a certain vase back in the 1940s—even a special one like the Meissen—was unlikely in the extreme. My best hope lay in finding archived notes. While most professionals are loath to include details that can’t be proven in a written appraisal, they’re equally unlikely to throw their research notes away. In fact, many organizations keep original or computerized records of appraisal notes archived forever. It was a long shot, for sure, but I’d discovered over the years that sometimes long shots paid off.

I visited the Web sites of the Cheyenne Chamber of Commerce, the Wyoming Better Business Bureau, and the Wyoming State Historical Society. At each site, I looked up the Faring auction house. I’d follow up with phone calls just to be sure, but from the online evidence, it seemed that Faring Auctions wasn’t a member of the chamber of commerce and no complaints had been filed against it with the Better Business Bureau. On the Wyoming State Historical Society site, despite learning that the society hadn’t been established until 1953, I found my first evidence that Faring Auctions had existed.

When I entered “Faring Auctions” in the Web site’s search bar, I got two hits, both from scholarly articles. One of them, from a Washington, D.C.–based university journal dated 1939, referred to Faring’s track record as a purveyor of Native American crafts, and the second, from an art magazine in the 1940s, described a specific item that had been sold in 1942, a folk art painting by a little-known artist.

I jotted down the three organizations’ contact information and got ready to work the phone. From the Cheyenne yellow pages, under the category “Antiques, Dealers,” I selected three businesses to query. It’s hard to gauge substance from ads, but all three appeared to be well-established firms.

At noon, 9:00 A.M. on the West Coast, I began making my phone calls. I struck out at the Better Business Bureau. The historical society also had no record of the auction house, but unless it had been located in a landmark building or owned by a founding family or something of that nature, the absence of information about it didn’t indicate anything one way or the other. At the chamber of commerce, I finally got some information—but it wasn’t easy.

The friendly woman who answered the phone had trouble understanding why I was calling but was game to figure it out. From her perspective, if I didn’t want to join the chamber, reach a current member, attend a function, buy a raffle ticket, sell something, or contact an employee—why was I calling? Finally she gave up and connected me to Wilma, the member services representative.

“I’m trying to locate information about a company that operated in Cheyenne in the 1940s called Faring Auctions,” I explained. “I don’t think they’re still in business, but—”

“And you want to know if they’ve ever been a member, right?” Wilma asked, reading my mind and breaking in.

“Yes, and if so, when they dropped out.”

“I’ve never heard of Faring Auctions,” Wilma said, “and I’ve been here almost six years. Let me check a directory from before then. Hold on a sec.” Less than a minute later she was back. “I checked the 1999, 2000, and 2001 directories—no Faring. How far back do you want to go?”

“Could we go back to 1949?” I asked, thinking that it would be great to get a benchmark. According to the note, that was the year the Meissen vase had been purchased. Surely Faring Auctions existed then, and most likely it had been a member of the chamber.