Dolled Up for Murder (7 page)

“No.” I dialed Eric's number and heard the ring on my end. “Do you hear it?”

Ellis walked to the front of the van and leaned in. He nodded, his expression somber. I ended the call and clutched the unit to my chest, stricken at the nightmare images flooding my brain. Eric was somewhere without his phone.

“What's all that stuff on the floor?” he asked.

“It looks like the objects Eric packed up today. I see splintered slats from the wooden crates he would have used to pack things in, as if someone ripped into them willy-nilly. Those blue glass pieces are from the cobalt glassware collection.” I pointed. “That's an old wooden plane, from the tools collection. Look at all the doll parts—the dolls sure got the worst of it. There's a head. That's a torso over there. Those bits are glass eyes. That white piece of cloth was probably torn from a doll dress. The clumps of hair are from dolls' wigs.”

“I presume they were in one piece when he went to collect them?”

“Yes,” I said. “It looks like someone tossed the glassware and tools aside but stomped the dolls. Why would somebody do that?”

“You tell me.”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.” I paused, then added, “Maybe the dolls were in the last crate they opened, and they were so disappointed that the crates weren't filled with gold coins or something, they took it out on the dolls and fled.”

“You think it was a theft?” he asked.

“What else could it be?” I waved my hand dismissively. “Who cares? All I want to know is where Eric is.”

Ellis scanned the woods and the road in both directions. When he looked at me again, I saw caring and concern, which only served to ratchet up my panic.

“It looks as if Eric is missing,” he said.

I stared at him.
Eric is missing.
His words reverberated in my head.
Eric is missing.
I couldn't seem to process what that meant. A roar from what sounded like a motorcycle interrupted my thoughts. I turned toward Oakmont in time to see Wes's old car screech to a halt at the police barricade. He leapt out and would have dashed to join us if the police officer hadn't blocked his way.

“What's going on, Chief?” he shouted from behind the patrol car.

Eric is missing.

Ellis turned his back to him and didn't reply. “Follow me, Josie,” he told me and walked toward the front of the van, farther away from Wes. “Let's go over what we know. Not what we think, but what we know.”

I nodded, glad to have something specific to do. Ellis gestured toward the police officer standing by her vehicle. She was tall and blond. Her badge read
F. MEADE.
She jogged to join us.

“Take notes,” Ellis instructed.

“Yes, sir,” she said and extracted a small notepad and pen from her pocket.

Ellis raised a finger. “One: At a little after four thirty—we'll get the exact time from your phone record—Eric was at the Farmington house, packing up. Everything was fine. Right?”

I nodded. “Right. He told Jamie and Lorna that Alice was dead. They were upset, left him to close up, and headed straight to the police station.”

“They're the Farmington sisters, right?”

“Yes.” I explained the sisters' connection to the dolls and to Alice.

“When did you last speak to them?”

“Just now, at the station house.” I repeated our conversation.

“Hold on a second, Josie.” He lifted his collar and spoke into his microphone. “Cathy, are you there?” A staticky noise sounded, which he seemed to understand as words, because he continued talking. To me the sound was just a sound. “Are Jamie and Lorna Farmington there?” Another crackly noise. “Good. Let me talk to Claire.” A pause, then a noise. “Claire, ask the Farmington sisters about Eric. He was at their house packing antiques, and Josie spoke to him around four thirty.” A longer crackle. “All right, then. Let me know as soon as you get something.” He turned back to me. “When you spoke to Eric, how much more work did he say he had to do?”

I thought back. “Not too much.”

“How long would it take him?”

“I don't know exactly. Fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour.”

“So that puts us a little after five at the latest. He didn't call in to the office. Is there anyone he would call?”

“Maybe his girlfriend,” I said. “Grace.”

“Grace what?”

“Abbott.”

“Do you have her number?”

I nodded and scrolled through my phone log. “Should I call her?”

“I will. What's the number?”

I gave it to him. He punched it in, took two steps away, and said, “Ms. Abbott? This is Chief Hunter of the Rocky Point police. I have an out-of-the-blue question. Did Eric call as he was leaving the Farmington house this afternoon?” He shifted position. “I know it's odd … Please just answer … He did. All right, then. I'm going to ask you to come join me and Ms. Prescott, Eric's boss, for some conversation … Yes, I'll explain when you get here … Shall I send an officer to bring you … That's fine.” He told her where we were and hung up. “She's with her brother. He'll drive her here.”

“She's got to be upset. It's awful when you won't answer questions.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “It's better, though, that I don't waste time answering questions that won't move the investigation forward. She'll hear what's happening soon enough.” He took in a breath and raised a second finger. “Two: So we have him in the van calling Grace just before five.” Another finger went up. “Three: Garry Road is a natural cut-through from the Farmingtons' to your company.” He glanced around. “It's also a great spot for an ambush.”

“Why?” I asked, my heart tightening at the word. “Why would someone want to ambush Eric?”

He held up a fourth finger, then a fifth. “Four: Someone destroyed the dolls, and the tools and glassware seem incidental. Five: There's no apparent sign that anyone or anything was dragged through the woods anywhere near the van. I'm no tracker, but while I was waiting for you, I examined the ground cover and low-lying branches and twigs. Nothing is smashed or trampled.”

“How about tire tracks?” I asked.

He held up his left thumb. “Six: There are no tire tracks. It's been dry, so I wouldn't expect deep gullies or anything like that, but there's nothing, so I'm guessing the attackers left their vehicle in the street, transferred Eric into it, and drove away.”

An unmarked black SUV rolled to a stop near the police vehicle blocking the Tripper end of the street. The same woman I'd seen at my company's parking lot wheeling a pilot's case stepped out, saw Ellis, extracted her case from the back, and hurried toward us. I glanced over my shoulder. Wes hadn't moved. His eyes were narrowed, taking it all in.

“Can you video-record first thing?” he asked her as she approached. “I want Josie here to study it, to see if she can figure out what they were looking for, and if they found it.”

“That's a great idea,” I said, optimism spiking. “I can compare it to the recording I made during my initial walk-through. I have a video record of every object.”

“Good,” Ellis said.

“I'm on it,” the tech said. She wheeled her case to the back of the van.

“What have you done so far?” I asked.

“We're canvassing for witnesses and beginning the forensic examination. I put in a call to the state police for a tracker.” He glanced at his watch. “He should be here any minute.”

A dark blue pickup truck pulled up beside Wes. Grace was in the passenger seat. Before the car fully stopped, she flung open the door, jumped to the street, and ran in my direction.

“That's Grace, Eric's girlfriend,” I told Ellis.

Wes shouted something, which she ignored. The police officer, Daryl, I thought his name was, moved to intercept her but stepped aside when Ellis called to let her through. A man about her age, twenty-three, maybe a little older, got out from behind the wheel and stood for a moment, then ran to join us. He was tall and husky, with neatly trimmed dark brown hair, the same shade as Grace's. He also ignored Wes's questions.

“Where's Eric?” Grace asked.

I didn't want to break down in front of her, and her wide-eyed panic was contagious. I took a deep breath and told myself to stay calm.

“We don't know,” I replied, pleased that my anxiety hadn't affected my voice.

“Ms. Abbott?” Ellis said. “I'm Chief Hunter.” He paused as the tall man reached us. “You are?”

“Jim. Jim Abbott, Grace's brother. We heard a news flash about the van being jacked. What's going on?”

The two men shook hands, assessing one another. I held my breath, waiting for Ellis's answer.

“We don't know yet,” he said. “The vehicle Eric was driving was found here with some of the contents, antiques, destroyed. There's no sign of Eric.”

Grace took a step back, and her already white complexion lost what little color it had. She fumbled with her purse. “I'll call him.”

“His phone is in the van,” Ellis said.

Her eyes widened. “Was it that man?”

“What man?” Ellis asked.

“The one who tried to get into the Farmington house.” She looked at me, then back to Ellis. “Eric called me when he was ready to leave and told me about it. It was right after the sisters left to go to the police station. This man rang the doorbell.”

She stopped talking, and Ellis encouraged her to continue. “Who?”

“I don't know. Eric was a little annoyed at all the interruptions, the man, and having to lock up the house, because it made him late and we had plans.” Rosy dots of color appeared on her cheeks, and she looked down for a moment. “Eric asked me to change our dinner reservation from seven to seven thirty. We were going out to celebrate my new job … I've been looking for so long … I just landed my dream job, teaching third grade.”

“Oh, Grace—congratulations.” I said. “What an accomplishment.” To finish her degree and get her teaching license, Grace had attended night school for years while working full-time as a teacher's aide.

She smiled, small and wavering, but a smile nonetheless. “Thanks.” She turned back to Ellis. “Eric apologized for being late.”

“Did he say what the man wanted?”

“He told Eric he'd left something inside and would only be a sec.” She turned to talk to me. “You know how much Eric hates confrontation, and that's what this felt like to him. Eric was a little upset. He said the guy tried to walk through him like he wasn't there, and Eric had to strong-arm him a little to keep him out. That's when the neighbor stopped by. Another interruption.”

“What did the neighbor want?”

“To drop off a casserole for the sisters. Eric put it in the fridge.”

“All set,” the technician called from the back of the van. She hopped down and added, “I uploaded it, Chief, and e-mailed you the URL and password.”

Ellis looked down at his BlackBerry, then up at me. “I'll forward it to you.” He tapped something into his handheld, then asked, “How long do you think it will take you?”

I mentally reviewed the steps I'd need to go through. “At least an hour, probably more.”

“Are you okay to drive?”

I nodded, then turned to Grace and her brother. Grace looked frightened and worried and sad all at once. Her brother just looked worried. “Will you be home later?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Or at my brother's.”

As I entered Jim's phone number into my cell, just to have it, the police officer I thought was named Daryl had Wes back his car out of the way. I felt everyone's eyes on me as I walked to my vehicle. Latching my seat belt, I felt my eyes fill and blinked the tears away. I wouldn't tell anyone what I was thinking, not even Ellis, not even Ty, but I couldn't stop the words from forming in my head. There was a chance, maybe a small one, maybe a big one, but there was a chance that Eric was dead.

CHAPTER SIX

Fred looked up as I walked into the main office, then leapt up, sending his chair skittering sideways. Something in my expression must have alerted him to trouble.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I'm glad you're here,” I said. “Has everyone else left?”

“Yes,” Fred said.

I took a last look at Griff, sitting in his idling police car, guarding the marked-off crime scene area, then plunked down at Gretchen's computer and took a deep breath. “Brace yourself—I have bad news.” I told him what little I knew. “So … here's the deal … while the police do what they do, trying to find witnesses, looking at the forensics, and so on, they've asked us to help figure out what someone had against the antiques, and why they seemed to focus mostly on the dolls.

“I'll take the recording I made during my initial walk-through and print still shots of the dolls. We might need photos of each piece of glassware and every tool, but from what I saw, I don't think we will. Most of those objects were still in the crates. It was the dolls that took the worst hit. You take the tech's recording showing the debris in the van and print stills using a grid pattern to ensure we have every inch covered. When we tape them together, we'll have one image of the entire van floor. We'll each take half the doll photographs and use them to ID everything, all the doll body parts and accessories. That way we can see if anything is missing. Okay?”

He nodded. “I'm game.”

I turned on Gretchen's computer, and while it booted up, I glanced at her Mickey Mouse clock. It was seven forty-five. It occurred to me that Penn Moreau's bit aired just about now. I used the remote to turn on the flat-screen TV mounted on a side wall. An ad for a new hybrid car was just ending.

I opened my e-mail program and forwarded Ellis's e-mail to Fred, then went to the FTP site where we store client videos. When I had the Farmington video up and running, I fast-forwarded to the doll section. I muted my audio descriptions and began framing individual images of each doll, both front and back, and sent them one at a time to our high-end color printer/copier.