Dolled Up for Murder (15 page)

I got one at a worktable and jotted the name and number down. I knew the location. It was close to Blackmore's. I glanced at a wall clock. It was just after ten. He didn't need to talk to Dawn, so we ended the call.

“So what am I getting my mother for her birthday?” Dawn asked as we walked toward the front office.

“How about a silver soup ladle?”

“How much?”

“Seventy-five dollars, nineteenth century, newly replated.”

“Sounds fair. She'd love it. For real, actually.”

I smiled, a small one. “After this is over, come back and we'll pick out something really special for her, a thank-you for her daughter's efforts. For now, it's the ladle.”

I took it from the shelf as I walked her out and handed it to Gretchen for processing and wrapping.

Dawn thanked me so everyone would hear, and I watched her walk to her car, seemingly impervious to the reporters' hollered questions.

I turned back to my staff. Cara was typing something into her computer. Gretchen was using an adding machine with her right hand as her left index finger ran down a column of figures. Sasha was just finishing a call. Fred was reading an auction catalogue from my former company, Frisco's, featuring objects related to magic. We'd learned that in the antiques witchcraft world, the two terms were often used interchangeably.

“What are you all doing here?” I asked, smiling. “I expected you to take the day off.”

“Once we know what we're dealing with,” Fred said, “you may need help.”

Sasha nodded.

“I couldn't stay away,” Cara said. “It wouldn't be right.”

“I keep hoping we'll hear something,” Gretchen said.

Feeling their eyes on my face, my throat closed, but only for a moment. I wanted to fill them in, to reassure them that they were in the loop, but I couldn't reveal our plans and I didn't want to lie. Everything I could do to help find Eric was being done. The campaign was under way. What I needed to do now was act natural.

“I'm as anxious as anyone,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “As soon as I can tell you anything, I will. In the meantime, update me. What are you working on?”

Gretchen told me she was reconciling last week's tag sale receipts and waiting for the temps to come in to help with this week's setup; Sasha reported she was working on the doll appraisals; Cara said she was entering names for our mailing list; and Fred said he was reading about a shaman spirit trap similar to the one we planned to include in the witchcraft auction. Our shaman spirit trap was Burmese in origin, carved out of local hardwood, and comprised of two wooden halves. Eighteenth-century shamans, or medicine men, had used the six-inch box to trap and transport supernatural spirits.

“They're describing it as folk art,” he said. “That's an interesting take on it.”

“I agree. I like it. Any valuation yet?”

“Yeah. Less than we'd hoped. Probably around a hundred dollars.”

I shrugged. “Oh, well … some collector will be thrilled!”

Without providing details, I told Cara I'd be back in a while and left.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Three reporters tagged along as I drove to the service station, each in a separate vehicle. One of them was Bertie. Wes was nowhere to be seen. I didn't try to lose them. When I pulled into the station and rolled to a stop at an open bay, they parked in the lot. They followed me inside, squeezing into the small office to watch me fill out the service order.

“Josie,” Bertie said warmly. “How are you doing during this dreadful time?”

“Hi, Tim,” I said, using the name embroidered on the service station employee's dark green jumpsuit, ignoring her. “I just need an oil change.”

“We'll take care of it,” Tim said. “Give us half an hour or so.”

“Thanks. I'll be waiting at Blackmore's Jewelers.”

Blackmore's was only two blocks from the station, but a northeast wind had come up, driving the rain sideways and lowering the temperature enough to make me wish I'd worn a jacket. The reporters trailed along, calling out questions. I pretended they weren't there.

Wes called as I approached Market Square. I answered and told him I couldn't talk to him and wouldn't be able to for a while.

“Why?” he asked.

“I'm hanging up now, Wes. You know you can trust me to tell you everything I can as soon as I can.”

I punched the
OFF
button, leaving him arguing with the air.

Inside the shop, I shivered, damp and chilled from the walk. I waved to Nate Blackmore.

Nate, the owner's grandson and Prescott's go-to guy for jewelry appraisals, was about thirty. He was as tall and handsome as his grandfather, with manners just as polished. Blackmore's, which had been in its current location for more than ninety years, was, hands down, the finest jewelry store on the seacoast, and it looked the part. From the cherrywood paneling to the Vivaldi sonata playing softly in the background, the shop exuded refinement.

Nate waved back and started toward me, then stopped as the three reporters entered the shop.

“May I help you?” he asked, looking from one to the next.

“I just have a quick question for Josie,” one man said.

“Sorry,” I replied, turning my back. “‘No comment' is my only answer today.”

“What about Eric?” the man asked. “Do you think he's dead?”

“How about Alice Michaels, Josie?” Bertie asked. “Any thoughts on why she was killed on your property? Do you think it was a warning to you?”

“Okay, that's it,” Nate said. “This is private property. Out. Now.”

They went, but not quickly, and not without shouting out additional provocative and offensive questions. Once they were gone and the shop was quiet, I exhaled and looked around. A matronly woman looked shocked. A young sales clerk seemed stunned. I smiled.

“Sorry about that, everyone.” I turned to Nate. “Thank you.”

He shook his head. “It's awful, isn't it?”

“On so many different levels.”

“Follow me,” he said. He started toward the back. “Can I bring you anything? You look like you could use something warm to drink.”

“That would be great. I'm so not dressed for this weather.”

“Don't blame yourself—you can't dress for this weather. No one can. You know what they say about spring in New Hampshire … if you don't like the weather, wait five minutes.”

“Totally true,” I said and glanced at my BlackBerry, hoping a text from the kidnappers had arrived. No word yet.

Nate opened the heavy door, and I slipped into the back office. Morton Blackmore sat behind his oversized mahogany desk. Ellis sat in one of four guest chairs lined up on the other side of it. Both men stood as I entered.

“There's a restroom over there,” Mr. Blackmore said after greeting me, “if you want to dry off a bit.”

I took him up on the offer, and by the time I returned, a steaming cup of tea was waiting for me. Before I'd taken a sip, Nate opened the door and the Farmington sisters walked in. Lorna looked worried. Jamie looked wary.

“Thank you for coming in,” Ellis said. “This is Mr. Blackmore. He owns the shop and has agreed to let us meet here.” He completed the introductions, the polite convention and elegant surroundings creating a odd counterpoint to the potentially deadly scenario unfolding outside the shop. Mr. Blackmore offered refreshments, which were declined.

“Ladies,” Mr. Blackmore said, “Chief … if you'll excuse me.”

“Please … have seats,” Ellis said as soon as the door clicked closed.

He stayed standing until the sisters sat down. They perched on the front edges of their seats. Lorna twisted her purse strap into a tight screw. Jamie kept her eyes on Ellis's face.

“I arranged this meeting,” Ellis continued, “because I need to talk to you without anyone knowing about it. In case someone is watching, I couldn't come to you and I couldn't ask you to come to the station house. I don't know that anyone is following any of us, but we're dealing with a life-and-death situation, so I'm taking no chances. When I say no one can know about this meeting—I mean no one. I asked Josie to join us for her antiques expertise. Are you okay with committing to keeping this conversation strictly private?”

Lorna looked at her sister. Jamie kept her eyes on Ellis. “Yes, that's all right. We can do that.”

“Thank you,” he said to Jamie. He turned to Lorna. “Ms. Farmington? Are you all right with that commitment?”

Lorna jumped as if she'd been touched by a live wire. “Yes.”

“Thank you.” He took in a breath. “You know that Josie's employee Eric has been kidnapped.” They nodded. “Josie has received a ransom note from the kidnapper. He wants the dolls she bought from you that are currently in her possession. That's okay. She has no problem giving them up. Where it gets complicated is why they want the dolls.”

“I read that they destroyed the ones in the van,” Jamie said.

“Right.” He nodded in my direction. “Josie, will you explain, please?”

“We searched the dolls and found that one contained rare and valuable Civil War currency.”

Jamie shot a glance at Lorna. Lorna's mouth was hanging open.

“Rare Civil War currency?” Jamie repeated, her intonation making it a question.

I recounted what Barry had told me about the origin and potential value of the find.

“It doesn't make any sense,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

She glanced at her sister again, but Lorna didn't notice. Her eyes were on me. It was educational to watch her while Jamie talked. So far, I hadn't noticed any inconsistencies between Lorna's nonverbal communications and Jamie's words.

“The currency is in three Chatty Cathys,” Jamie said. “We told you that we wanted to keep them for sentimental reasons. The truth is that our mom told us that's where she hid the money.”

“Chatty Cathys?” Ellis asked, all at sea.

“Chatty Cathy is a brand of doll,” I explained to him, “that was manufactured by Mattel starting in 1959. They're no longer available, but at the time, they created quite a stir because they spoke. They could say eleven phrases.” Ellis still looked bewildered, so I added, “The dolls had miniphonographs in their chests. You pulled a ring in the doll's back that set the phonograph spinning and it spoke one of the phrases randomly.” I turned to Jamie. “They're highly collectible but not particularly valuable. First-edition blondes go for around three fifty, maybe four hundred dollars. First-edition African American dolls with pigtails are the most scarce and thus the most valuable, selling for as much as twelve hundred each.” I turned to Jamie. “Someone removed the phonograph, right, and placed the currency in the now-empty chest cavity?”

“Exactly.”

I nodded. “What's especially clever about that is that the dolls are often mute. The pull ring snaps off or the string it's attached to breaks. Rubber gaskets wear out. Anyone noticing that your dolls couldn't speak wouldn't think anything about it.”

“How much currency do you have?” Ellis asked Jamie.

“Nine hundred dollars, three hundred in each doll,” Jamie replied. She turned to me. “How much did you find? Do you know what it's worth? Mom thought it probably had some value.”

“We found a hundred bills, giving you a thousand, total.” I paused to do the math. “Your mom was right. The currency may be worth as much as two million dollars at full retail, which would net you somewhere between six hundred thousand and as much as a million dollars, wholesale.”

The sisters exchanged glances, and Lorna raised her hand to her mouth.

“I hope you're right,” Jamie said, “but I still don't understand. Mom only told us about the Chatty Cathys. She never told us about another doll.”

“Maybe she forgot, or maybe she didn't know about it. Did she tell you how she came to place the money in the Chatty Cathys?”

Jamie nodded. “It happened when my dad died. Our mom got nervous having the currency lying around, and she never trusted banks much, so she refused to put it in a safe deposit box. Mom told us that the bills had originally been hidden in dolls, but that
her
mother had removed them when World War II broke out, thinking that hiding the money in dolls was too risky if they ever needed to make a quick getaway.” She shook her head and glanced at Lorna. “There's a high-strung gene that runs through some of the women in our family. Lorna's got it. I don't. Grandma and Mom both had it. I know it was a horrible time in our nation's history and everyone was on edge and scared, but from all reports, Grandma was convinced we were about to be overrun by enemy forces, so she was prepared to make a run for it. It must have been very hard on her. In any event, she must have missed emptying the cache in one of the dolls, and Mom never knew it.”

“That's logical,” I told her.

“Which other doll had the money in it?” Jamie asked.

“A nineteenth-century European one.”

Jamie glanced at Lorna, then back at me. “Maybe there's more in some of the others.”

“We X-rayed them all. There isn't.”

Jamie shook her head. “I'm so taken aback.” She paused for a moment. “I don't mean to be crude … but I assume you'll be returning the currency.”

“Of course. There's no question the money wasn't part of our deal.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you know how the currency came into your family's possession?”

“Yes. We were always told that it came directly from our great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather Salmon Chase. We have a letter from President Lincoln discussing the currency. I don't recall that he mentioned a specific amount, but I haven't read it in years.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “That letter sounds amazing. Depending on the content and the context, it and the others may be even more valuable than the currency. But that's a conversation for another day.” I leaned forward. “The police think, and I agree with them, that the kidnapper knew the currency was hidden in the dolls but didn't know which one or ones. Maybe he planned on taking the dolls with him but got spooked when someone drove by. Breaking them apart was a quick way to see if he could find the money.”