Killer Keepsakes (16 page)

“Sure. I’ve dug around a little, but I haven’t had any luck so far.”

“I have.” I turned away again and kept my eyes on the distant shore as I described what I’d discovered about the Amelia Bartlett murder. Soon after I started my explanation, Wes began taking notes on the dirty scrap of paper he kept in his pocket.

“Why didn’t you tell me this right away?” he grumbled.

“I just learned about it today. I am telling you right away.” I turned again to face him. “Did you ask if Chip’s fingerprints match the one on the milk carton?”

His eyes lit up. “Good question, Josie. I’ll check.” He tucked the paper away and headed for his car.

After he left, I sat for a long time, listening to an old Duke Ellington recording and thinking about Chip Davidson. I reached no conclusions. I didn’t even know what questions to pose.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

D

riving home after work, I tuned in the local news station.

“The police report that they’ve identified the dead man found in a North Mill Pond condo last week,” the announcer stated. “According to a high-ranking police official, the man is Morgan Boulanger, a suspect in a 2002 Colorado murder. In another story, Lina Nadlein can thank her dog for stopping a break-in. Her neighbor Andrew Yorne called nine-one-one to report the incident after the dog’s nonstop barking alerted him to the situation. The suspect got away before he could be apprehended. And now to the weather.”

I punched the OFF button and pulled over to call Lina. My hand shook a little as I dialed.

She wasn’t at the Bow Street Emporium. Her cell phone went straight to voice mail. An answering machine picked up after four rings at her home number, but I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I drove to her house.

The shades were drawn. Her car wasn’t there. I ran up to the porch and rang the bell, thinking that she might have put her car in the garage. I heard the tinny buzz from inside and a dog barking, but no one came to the door. I cupped my eyes to see into the garage through the small side window, but the glass was tinted and I couldn’t see a thing. I walked to the rear and climbed the steps to the small back porch. Curtains blocked my view. There was no bell. I knocked gently on the glass, then hard on the door frame.

“Lina?” I called and knocked again. “Lina?”

A dog barked, then bayed, then growled a little. He sounded close, right on the other side of the door. No one shushed him. The apartment felt empty.

I drove to a side street and parked facing the house, deciding to wait for a while. I wanted to hear what Lina thought was going on. It grew dark, and still she didn’t come.

Ty called to tell me he was stuck in Bangor for the night. “This training is like ten pounds of sugar in a five-pound bag. These guys aren’t as far along as I’d expected—or as they need to be. I’ve got to stick here until they get it right.”

I expressed disappointment and understanding in equal measures. After we were done, I tried Lina’s cell phone again and got her.

“I’ve been worried,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“It’s pretty freaky,” she replied. “Thank goodness for Blitzie. If he hadn’t barked, who knows what might have happened.”

“Did anyone get a description?”

“Not much. A white guy wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his face and a coat with the collar turned up.”

It could be anyone
, I thought. “Are you going back there tonight?” I asked.

“No way. I’m staying with Mandy. She kept me company while I walked Blitzi and got him squared away for the night. I’m having an alarm system installed tomorrow. Then I’ll go home again.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would try to break in?”

“No,” she said, and from her tone, I believed her. All I heard was fear.

“Call me if I can do anything, okay?” I said. “Anytime.”

She thanked me, and we agreed to talk soon.

With a final glance at her house, I drove home, glad to see the golden glow from the lamp that greeted me. I hated coming into a dark house. Inside, I walked from room to room turning on lights.

I cooked to the soothing sounds of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
, and at just after ten I decided to go to bed. I felt worn to a nub, emotionally exhausted. I was certain I’d toss and turn all night, yet I slept deeply, my rest untroubled and uninterrupted, the sleep of the innocent.

The next morning, I cooked myself scrambled eggs and bacon and sat for a long time at my kitchen table eating and sipping tea. I had no fresh ideas for finding Gretchen but still felt a solid gut-deep confidence that once all the facts were known, her blamelessness would be proven.

As I was loading the dishwasher, the local news hit the airwaves.

“According to a highly placed police official, Gretchen Brock, wanted for questioning in the death of the man found murdered in her North Mill Pond condo, who has been identified as Morgan Boulanger, her husband, is also a suspect in an earlier murder,” the announcer said, sounding exhilarated as he recounted the appalling details of the Amelia Bartlett case.

I turned off the radio and hurried to my car. It was a raw, cloudy day. It looked like rain.

I stopped at a convenience store to pick up a copy of the
Seacoast Star
and winced as I read Wes’s headline:

DID GRETCHEN BROCK KILL HER HUSBAND?

HAS SHE KILLED BEFORE?

I hated the overtones of the headline: Asking if Gretchen had killed
before
, implied that she’d killed
now
.

As I stood in the middle of the store and read the article, I had to acknowledge that Wes’s recap of the 2002 murder was clear and to the point. There was no mention of Chip Davidson, nor, I noted, much to my surprise and relief, of me. Wes didn’t even mention that Gretchen worked for Prescott’s. A sidebar titled “Crime Wave?” mentioned the break-in at Prescott’s and the attempted break-in at Lina’s, questioning whether all these crimes that involved people who were known to one another typified the kind of coincidences to be found in a small city or were a matter of cause and effect.

The main article focused on Gretchen’s alleged role in both murders. Wes even quoted a retired Denver police officer who predicted there was a better-than-even chance that Gretchen—i.e., Marie Boulanger—had instigated the entire crime and that her hapless husband was merely a pawn in a chess game of her making. His theory was that Amelia’s murder resulted from a robbery gone wrong, and since Marie knew better than Morgan what objects to steal and where the cash was stashed, she had to be the brains behind his brawn.

Despite my protestations to the contrary, my Gretchen-as-criminal guilt-meter was inching up. At first, I’d denied the possibility that Gretchen could be involved in any way, thinking it was more likely that she was a victim of a kidnapping than the perpetrator of a crime. Then I’d found myself acknowledging the merit of Wes’s argument that no one gets a new Social Security number without cause and wondering if she was in the witness protection program. Now I was questioning whether I’d been wrong about Gretchen’s innocence from the start.

Is it possible that Gretchen has been playing me for all these years?
I wondered. In my heart, I didn’t believe she was guilty of anything, but neither could I deny the facts. I felt trapped between what I felt and what I knew, a prisoner of dissonant truths. Maintaining optimism was grueling. I felt the weight of the effort as I trudged to my car.

Once settled inside, with the heat on, I called Wes to ask if he had any news about the fingerprint on the milk carton. I wanted to know if it was Chip’s. His cell phone went directly to voice mail, and I left a message.

Feeling restless, I decided to stop at Phil’s Barn instead of going straight into work. I’d just turned onto Oak Street when, out of nowhere, a black Jeep bore down from the other direction.

Vince Collins was at the wheel. He saw me, too. He slowed as we passed and eyed me with stony dislike. My heart thudded against my chest, and I kept glancing into the rearview mirror and held my breath until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
What did I ever do to him?
I wondered.

My cell phone rang, and I jumped a little, startled.

I recognized the number—it was Wes. I pulled over to take the call.

“Wes,” I said, relieved to talk to someone I knew.

“Whatcha got?” he asked.

“Nothing. I was wondering about Chip’s fingerprint. Was it a match for the milk carton?”

“Nope. I was gonna call you later. I’m still checking, but so far it’s as if he’s a phantom or something, you know? He obviously exists, but he’s not real.”

“Wes, you make him sound like a spy!”

“A spook, yeah, maybe. I was thinking that. Except that I can’t find any international connection or anything. Maybe he’s in witness protection like we thought Gretchen might be. What do you think?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Wes, I’m just beside myself with worry. Do you have any news at all?”

“No, but I got like twenty feelers out. We’re on the brink—I can smell it. Catch ya later,” Wes said. He hung up.

He can smell it?
I questioned silently.
What can he smell?

I was glad not to see Vince’s Jeep again on the road to Phil’s. When I arrived, I parked as close to the big barn door as I could.

“I was just fixing to call you,” Phil said as soon as I entered. “I got in a beauty of a window. Stained glass.”

“Victorian?” That was a safe bet, since most stained glass in our region originated from the late nineteenth century.

“Yup, but it’s something I’ve never seen before.”

The window was magnificent. Shaped to fit a custom-designed transom over double-wide entrance doors, it was fifty-seven inches long and twenty-seven inches tall at the top of the arch. Clusters of flowers in varying hues of pink, from deep rose to soft salmon to pale seashell, were framed by leaves in undulating shades of dark green as they draped over rich brown branches. The background was a clear azure blue formed of irregular rounded shapes joined together in a patchwork leaded design. A one-inch amber border ran in six-inch lengths along the outer edge. It took my breath away.

“It’s something, huh?” Phil said, his eyes on me, his customer, not the window.

“Is it signed?” I asked.

“Nope.”

I nodded. Tiffany wasn’t the only well-respected stained glass artist. Several lesser-known but highly regarded studios had produced scores of gorgeous pieces. This window wasn’t one of them. Still, it was a unique object, with an unusual yet classic design flawlessly executed in popular colors. I didn’t need to research it. We’d already acquired half a dozen similar but smaller examples for the auction, so I knew its value. Properly marketed, I would expect the window to sell for thirty-five hundred dollars, maybe as much as four thousand.

“Do you know where it came from?”

“It’s local. Someone’s tearing down an old house to build some McMansion. At least they had enough sense to salvage the good stuff.”

I readied myself for the negotiation I knew was about to begin. Phil and I might not haggle much over the price of glass doorknobs or locks, but this was a different ball of wax. Because we were preparing for an auction, I wouldn’t have to market this piece individually, which gave me a little wiggle room. I could go as high as seventeen hundred, about half of what I expected the window to sell for. With luck, I thought, Phil wouldn’t start any higher than two thousand.

“Without a maker’s mark . . .” I let my voice drift off and shrugged, feigning indifference. “How much?”

He started at twenty-five hundred.
Darn
, I thought.

After several rounds of back-and-forth, he said, “Wish I could come down further, Josie, but I can’t. Two thousand. Final offer.”

It was more than I wanted to pay, but the window was worth it. “Sold. You drive a hard bargain, my friend.”

“Jeez, Josie, I’m a pussycat. I let you beat me up nohow.”

I laughed as we shook on the deal. “Right. In your dreams, Phil!”

He smiled knowingly.

I called Eric to come and get it, bringing blankets, cardboard filler, a crate, and a helper.

On the drive back, I turned on the radio to hear the morning news. The report was a repeat of what I’d heard earlier, fleshed out with details from Wes’s article.

“According to
Seacoast Star
reporter Wes Smith, there’s still uncertainty as to how the two murders relate and whether a recent break-in and another attempted break-in also figure into whatever’s going on,” the reporter intoned. Wes’s voice came on the air. “Gretchen Brock, a.k.a. Marie Boulanger, seems to be involved in both killings—but the word ‘involved’ has many meanings. Just because she was in a certain place at a certain time doesn’t make her guilty. It could be cause and effect. It could be coincidence. Until more facts are known, we in the media need to be careful how we use words.”

Wes sounded reasonable and smart, not as if he were trying to stir things up.
Way to go, Wes
, I thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I

greeted Fred and Cara as I hung up my coat.

“Eric left for Phil’s already,” Cara reported.

“Great! Wait ’til you guys see the stained glass window I just bought. It’s stunning.”

Fred pushed his glasses up and asked, “Marked?”

“No. It’s a no-name dazzler.”

He nodded and looked back at his computer, no longer particularly interested in my find. Fred was an antiques elitist: If an object wasn’t signed, stamped, or marked, it held less allure for him.

The phone rang. Cara answered with her friendly greeting, listened for a moment, then put the call on hold. “It’s Lina Nadlein for you.”

“Tell her I’ll be with her in a minute,” I said, then, wanting privacy, added, “I’ll take it upstairs.”

I ran to the steps.

“Hi, Lina,” I said, grabbing the phone and punching the flashing button. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Hi,” she said in a tiny voice, and from her tone, I could tell she was upset.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really. I’m so—” she started, then broke off. She sounded baffled. She cleared her throat. “I just heard the news about Gretchen having another identity . . . and on top of yesterday . . . I’m feeling pretty rocky. Is it true?”

“I think so,” I said softly.

“And about her being involved in a murder?”

“I don’t know, Lina. It looks that way.”

“How can it be? It’s impossible!”

I wanted to talk openly to her, Gretchen’s oldest friend, but didn’t know if I could trust her not to blab to Mandy or someone else. I needed to see her in person to gauge her attitude and her integrity. I looked out the window, past my maple tree. A misty drizzle had settled in. The whitewashed church appeared gray.

“I know. I agree. It seems incredible,” I said.

“Gretchen can’t be a killer!”

Listening to her was like reliving my own doubts and disbelief. “Lina, by any chance, are you free for a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. The alarm system is in, and I don’t have to go to work until eleven thirty.”

It was just after ten. “How about meeting at the Sunshine Café in half an hour? That’s near your store.”

Another moment’s silence. “I can get there by then. Thank you, Josie.”

Downstairs, I told Cara and Fred that I was going to run an errand and would be back by noon. I drove through thick fog, praying Lina had news.

Lina was sitting at the counter, her hands circling a steaming mug as if she were absorbing its warmth. Her shoulders were bowed.

“Hi, Lina,” I said as I approached. “Shall we grab a booth?”

She jerked up, startled. “Oh, hi. I didn’t hear you come up.”

Once we were sitting across from one another, I was able to see that her Ginevra Benci face was lined with—what? Worry, maybe. Or perhaps she was merely distracted. The waitress came and took our order and was back almost immediately with my coffee and more hot water for her tea.

“I’m so frightened,” she whispered as she gave the tea bag a dunk. “It’s Mandy.”

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t.

“What about her?” I asked.

“I think she knows something. I don’t know what. It’s about something I overheard last night. She was talking to Vince.”

I wondered why Lina was making me drag the story out of her, sentence by sentence.

“And?” I asked.

She took a sip of tea, then said, “She and I were at her house, just hanging out, listening to music, you know? Vince called and asked to come over. He brought Mandy a framed stained glass window for the hall. He said it was an antique. Anyway, while he’s hanging it from the top of the window, Mandy asks him in a kind of whisper if he still thinks she shouldn’t tell. She didn’t know that I could hear her—I’d gone into the kitchen to refill my wineglass, but I could hear every word. Don’t you think that she must know something that relates to either Gretchen or the murder or the break-in at your place?”

“She could have been referring to anything. Maybe she and Vince are planning on eloping.” I shrugged. “Did you speak to her after Vince left?”

She shook her head. “I went to bed before he did.” She sighed and gazed out the window. “I don’t know if I should tell the police or just mind my own business. Mandy’s a good friend of mine. If she knows something that might help find Gretchen . . .” Her voice trailed off. She turned freshly moist eyes in my direction. “But if Gretchen will get in trouble, maybe I should leave well enough alone. Except that it’s not well enough, and I know it. I just don’t know what to do.”

“We need to find Gretchen no matter what. She might be in real trouble, Lina. If you know anything that might help, you’ve just got to tell. You’ve just got to.”

“If I tell, the police will talk to Mandy, and it’ll come out that I told on her, and Vince will go ballistic.”

I nodded. She was right. “The police are aware of his volatility,” I said, selecting my words carefully. “They’ll be discreet.”

Her lips came together, and for a moment she looked defiant. “I was the only other person there. There’s no way the police can hide where they got the information.” She shook her head. “I’m seeing Mandy in about half an hour at work, and I feel guilty and sad and bad already.” Her voice caught, and she angrily wiped away tears. “I’m scared, Josie. I’m scared for Gretchen, and I’m scared for me.”

“Would you like me to call Detective Brownley for you?”

She wiped away tears with the back of her hand. “It doesn’t seem fair for me to get you involved, too.”

“I’m glad to do anything I can to help. If I talk to Detective Brownley before you do, she’ll be prepared when you talk to her.”

Lina looked unconvinced and didn’t respond.

“She’s smart, Lina, and she’s cautious. She’ll investigate fully, but in a nonconfrontational manner.”

“She may think her manner is nonconfrontational, but Vince won’t. He thinks
everything
is confrontational.”

“He’s on probation, Lina. He’d have to be crazy to turn nothing into something. Even if he finds out—which I don’t think he will—it’s a classic ‘he said, she said’ situation. Detective Brownley will investigate around the edges, seeking out what Mandy might have been referring to without letting her know that she’s looking into anything at all. What she
won’t
do is say to Mandy, ‘Lina said you said.’ I mean, why would she? Mandy would respond, ‘Lina misunderstood. Or she misheard. Sorry, but I didn’t say anything even remotely like that.’ Then Vince will back her up and it’s two against one. I’m telling you, Lina, it just won’t happen that way.”

She was listening hard, wanting to believe me, wanting to help Gretchen.

“I’ll talk to Detective Brownley and explain everything,” I said. I felt confident that the rapport Detective Brownley and I shared was substantial enough for me to offer her word with confidence. “She’ll understand your concern. I guarantee it.”

“Okay.” Lina sighed again. She looked as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

“You’re doing the
only
thing.”

She glanced at her watch. “I have to go,” she said, sliding out of the booth. “Thank you, Josie.”

I smiled a little. “It will be okay. You can trust Detective Brownley.”

She nodded and left. I watched her thread her way through parked cars, cross Bow Street, and enter the store. I paid the bill, left the tip, and stepped outside. The temperature was dropping, and the drizzle had thickened into something close to freezing rain. It was bone-chillingly raw. The sky was solidly gray. The storm wasn’t passing. I was glad I’d found a parking space close by, and once I was inside my car, I turned the heat up high.

Vince’s black Jeep passed me and double-parked about a hundred feet from where I sat. After a minute, Mandy stepped out of the car, holding her coat closed tight to her throat. She jogged into the Bow Street Emporium, and Vince turned into Islington.

I followed him, not on purpose but because I was going the same way.

I was driving to my office and had planned to take the back roads. I didn’t know where he was going. We turned right onto Greenland.

He didn’t get on the highway. Neither did I. We both stayed on Greenland.

Even though my being behind him was happenstance, I stayed in the right-hand lane, out of his direct line of vision, and at least two cars back. I didn’t want to get on his radar. He wouldn’t believe that I wasn’t tailing him, and I could only imagine his reaction if he spotted me.

He was heading inland, so he wasn’t going to his Rocky Point job site. I could have peeled off, but instead I decided to stay with him. He turned onto Route 33 heading south, then merged with 108, and then we were in Exeter. He turned onto Oak Street, and I sailed on past, glad to be away from him. I turned around and wove my way back to my office.

I was almost there when I slowed to a near stop, then pulled onto the shoulder and set my blinkers. Disparate facts clicked into place like a jigsaw puzzle: the hand-painted light fixtures and the stained glass window Vince gave Mandy, the glass doorknobs, Phil’s wife, and Oak Street, and then I realized that there was a better-than-even chance I’d just discovered who’d killed Morgan Boulanger—and how to prove it.