Killer Keepsakes (12 page)

“For that I need to go to the executive director’s office. She has a complete set of membership directories on her shelves. Do you want to hold or do you want me to call you back?”

I asked to hold, clicked over to the speakerphone function so I could have my hands free while I waited, and turned my attention back to ways to research the vase’s provenance.

“Faring Auctions is listed in the 1949 directory,” Wilma told me, sounding as pleased as if she’d found a twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk. She chuckled. “I deputized the executive director’s assistant to help. She started with the recent directories and I started with the old ones, and we had a race. I won. Their last mention was in 1969.”

“Wilma, you are sharp as a tack and bright as a star,” I said, quoting one of my mother’s favorite compliments. To merit that accolade you had to both show initiative and do well. “When is the directory published?” I asked. “How far in advance?”

Again Wilma read my mind. “They would have had to renew their membership by the end of July 1968. Back then, that was the closing date for the next year’s directory.” She laughed. “I remember because we only changed it to October a couple of years ago when our printer went completely digital, and as you might imagine, a change that major created quite a stir. In any event, to be fair, I ought to mention that Faring Auctions might
still
be in business,” she said with another chuckle. “Hard to believe, but some companies do drop their memberships.”

Wilma agreed to photocopy the 1969 directory entry and fax it to me. We ended our conversation by comparing weather notes. When I told her I’d seen crocuses, she was amazed, reporting that she wouldn’t expect to see them for a month or more. I added her to my online address book. If I ever went to Cheyenne, I’d definitely look her up.

I was back to dead ends with my calls to the antiques dealers. Not one person had heard of Faring Auctions.

I tried to approach the lack of information philosophically. Negatives are an integral part of an appraisal. Knowing what something
isn’t
helps narrow the field and guides you in identifying next steps.

I was ready to move to the next stage of my research: I had to find that darn St. James’s Palace inventory. All at once, I thought again about how the murder victim’s fingerprints were difficult to match because he had so many scars crisscrossing his fingers. The kind of markings that might come from a job in construction—like building houses for Vince’s company—but I’d already looked for Sal Briscoe’s name in the union directory, and he wasn’t listed.

He wasn’t listed under
that
name, I corrected myself, and nothing said he wasn’t a contract worker, one of the thousands of casual day laborers who worked off the books and, sometimes, lived off the radar.

I called Wes and left him a voice mail asking if he knew whether the police had made any progress in identifying the murdered man, and specifically, if anyone had reviewed the personnel rolls at Vince Collins’s company.

This is it
, I told myself, thrilled at my thought.
Now we’re onto something!

After lunch, I had another thought: Universities keep copies of their students’ dissertations. I went to the University of Southern California’s Web site, clicked through to the library’s section, and located the links to Ph.D. candidates’ dissertations. It was password protected.

I reached a librarian who explained that the site was only available to current students, faculty, and authorized users.

“How can I qualify as an authorized user?” I asked.

She detailed the rules: You had to have a scholarly reason to access the dissertations and guarantee to respect all copyright and intellectual property regulations. I described my need to know, and she took down pertinent details, including Detective Brownley’s contact information, and said she’d get back to me. Another unwanted delay.

Wes called around two.

“I got your message,” he said. “We need to meet.”

I didn’t question the urgency I heard in his voice. I felt pretty darn urgent myself. “Okay. Our dune?”

“Hurry,” he replied. “I have news about Gretchen.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T

he police checked Vince’s employees first thing,” Wes said. “There’s nothing there.”

We stood together facing the ocean. Yellow-white sparks glinted on the smooth midnight blue water. To the north, near the Rocky Point jetty, a young man tossed driftwood for a golden retriever.

I felt disappointment, but not surprise. My idea about checking Vince’s employees had been a sensible theory to pursue, but more guess than conclusion.

“The police are all over him because of his record,” Wes continued, “but he has a tight alibi. You know he’s a project manager for a company that builds residential developments, right? Well, he’s in the middle of tearing down a mess of old houses to build a new subdivision in Rocky Point over by Winton Farm, and he was at the site or his company’s office all day. But you know that tip you gave the police about the light fixtures?”

“How on God’s earth did you learn about that? I just told the police about them this morning.”

“Thanks,” he said as if I’d complimented him. “Hold on to your hat. The police went right to Gretchen’s place—and guess what? Vince’s prints were all over the light fixture.”

“I knew it. I just knew it. So that places him
in
her apartment,” I said.
Maybe
that’s
the secret Mandy wouldn’t reveal
, I thought.

“He’s at police headquarters now, refusing to talk.”

I watched the frothy waves rolling in to shore for a moment, then turned to face him. “You said that you had news about Gretchen.”

“I do—a real info-bomb. Let’s finish this first, though. Tell me how you found out about the light fixtures. I want a quote—a quote I can use. I need something fresh.” Wes pulled a ratty piece of paper from his pocket.

I shook my head, resigned. I knew what Wes wanted—scandal or raw emotion. “The light fixture in Gretchen Brock’s hallway appeared to be a custom-designed, one-of-a-kind, hand-painted antique. Without examining it, I can’t give a more exact assessment.”

“It’s okay,” Wes acknowledged grudgingly, “but it’s pretty white-bread, you know? It doesn’t make you sound very interesting. Why don’t you add a sentence about Vince’s fingerprints—or that there’s another fixture at Mandy’s?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m not going to speculate.”

Wes sighed in eloquent testimony to his disappointment. He finished writing and stuffed his paper into an inside pocket, then asked, “Do you remember how the police were looking into that red mark on the dead guy’s head?”

I nodded. I could picture, with sickening clarity, the long, blood red gash that ran vertically from the man’s temple to his ear.

“They’ve conclusively identified the weapon—it was definitely the fireplace poker. They can tell by the ridge patterns. The markings on the wound line up exactly.”

“What kind of markings?” I asked.

“The poker has indentations and burrs from the manufacturing process, plus there are nicks and dings from normal wear and tear, but here’s the clincher—they can ID the poker but not the attacker. There was nothing on the poker. No hairs or fibers, no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing that points to anyone.”

“It sounds like it was cleaned with bleach.”

“Scoured is more like it,” Wes agreed.

I nodded and turned back to face the diamond-flecked ocean. “Nothing yet on the gun,” Wes said. “No permit was issued to anyone involved in the case in Tennessee or any of the New England states. They’re checking the rest of the country now.”

“What kind of bullet is it?”

“The ballistics report says it’s a nine millimeter.”

“So that takes us nowhere.”

“Right. About Gretchen—I’ve got a real sit-ya-downer. Someone who was in the Chevy with the Tennessee plates, maybe the guy it’s registered to, Sal Briscoe, was after Gretchen in particular.”

“You’re kidding!” I said, shocked at the thought.

“Nope. They could tell from the car. The police got shot down on their first attempt to get a court order to impound it. That was Friday, after it had been sitting there for two days. Even with the fact that the car had just been purchased in Tennessee for cash—it didn’t impress the judge at all. He accused them of going on a fishing expedition, which, of course, they were. Then, over the weekend, Detective Brownley took her time looking inside the car—and guess what she spotted?” Wes asked. “The top banner of December’s
Antiques Insights
magazine was poking out from under a pile of empty fast-food bags.”

My mouth fell open. That was the issue I’d just had framed—the one with Gretchen’s picture on the cover.

Wes nodded, pleased at my reaction. “Pretty amazing, huh? According to the documents the police filed with the court this morning, Detective Brownley was able to recognize it because she saw it hanging in your office. So today, based on the fact that the issue was in plain sight, she was able to get an emergency court order. The car’s in police custody already.”

I was right
, I thought.
Sal Briscoe
is
the murder victim—he must be
. “Sal Briscoe must have been stalking her,” I managed, my mind roiling. “Gretchen must know him.”

“Not necessarily. Some stalkers pick their victims because of physical attributes or other random factors. I mean, maybe this guy’s a little whacked and decided he and Gretchen were soul mates simply from the cover photo. It’s possible.”

I nodded. There was so much I wanted to know, yet my brain was moving too fast to frame follow-up questions.

“I figure she walked in on him and killed him—and that,” Wes concluded, his voice fired with unbridled excitement, “is why she’s on the run.”

“No,” I replied, my mind snapping into focus at his words. “If it happened that way, Gretchen would have called the police. That would be a clear case of self-defense.”

“You’re forgetting Gretchen’s new ID. She couldn’t turn herself in. Whether she’s in witness protection or whether she’s a criminal—all she could do was get away.”

The picture Wes was painting was horrible and vivid and had the ring of truth. From the start, I’d intuitively believed in Gretchen’s innocence, and I still did, but it was getting harder to stay resolute in the face of Wes’s logic.

Detective Brownley called as I was driving back to Prescott’s to report that the lab was almost done with its rush analysis of the vase. It would be delivered to me between four and five. As I pulled off to the side of the road so I could focus on our conversation, my heart lurched in anticipation of getting my first hands-on look at Gretchen’s vase. I told her I’d be there to receive it and then, without pausing for breath, snuck in an unrelated question.

“Were you able to get any information about the light fixtures?” I asked.

She was quiet for a two-count. “It was a valuable tip, Josie. Thank you again for bringing them to our attention.”

I took the hint and didn’t ask any more questions.

Before continuing my drive, I called Serena, only to get her voice mail. I decided there would be no harm in leaving a cheery follow-up message about my belt buckle research. I crossed my fingers that she’d call me back right away.

When I entered the front office, Cara was on the phone with the University of Southern California. I’d been approved, and my user name and password had been e-mailed to me. I rushed upstairs, found the e-mail, and just like that, I was in.

Percy Oliver Johns’s dissertation was online and searchable. I entered “vase” and “Meissen” in the search engine, beginning the search in 1723.

Several Meissen objects were listed, but time after time, it was clear that none of the decorative pieces could possibly be Gretchen’s vase. There was a ewer, a bowl, two open, thin-necked vases, and a pair of opulently decorated women carrying baskets of flowers. Then, on May 3, 1730, the palace steward recorded that a Meissen vase had been purchased by King George II.

According to the steward’s notes, the vase passed by the king’s hand to a long-term servant to the queen, H. Howard, in August of that year. Still searching within the document, I looked for references to “H. Howard” and “King George II” and “gift,” and much to my amazement, I hit pay dirt.

Henrietta Howard, in addition to serving as a woman of the queen’s bedchamber, was the longtime mistress of the king. According to a footnote, the king’s steward reported that Henrietta Howard admired the vase in the king’s presence, and he gave it to her on the spot. The footnote went on to detail that the author’s source for the explanation of the transfer was a letter written to her by Lord Chesterfield in which he congratulated her on having acquired such a wonderful object. I sat back, amazed, then turned to the photographs of the vase.
I would have been over the moon
, I thought,
if someone gave it to me, let alone my lover, let alone the king
.

I was considering how to learn more about Henrietta Howard when Cara buzzed me. Detective Brownley was downstairs with the vase.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I

signed the forms accepting responsibility for the vase.

“Call as soon as you know something, okay?” Detective Brownley asked.

“Absolutely,” I promised, hoping I had something to call about soon.

She touched the porcelain with her fingertips as if for luck, then left. I watched as she strode to her car. The sky had darkened, and suddenly it began to shower. Detective Brownley ran the last couple of steps to her car.

Back inside, I carried the vase to the cushioned worktable in the warehouse. It was spectacular, and goose-bumpy chills ran up my arms and spine and down again and made me shiver, just thinking that a king might have bestowed this very object on a woman he loved nearly three hundred years ago. I positioned it on its side. As I began my examination, Sasha stepped into the warehouse.

“Cara’s gone for the day. Is it all right if Fred and I head home, too?”

“Absolutely. I’m going to get started on the vase.”

She approached the worktable. “Fred,” she called over her shoulder, “come and look at this.”

“What?” he asked from the threshold, shrugging into his coat.

“Gretchen’s vase.” Sasha pointed at the marks on the bottom. “Look at the underglaze.”

“It’s hard to know where to take a scraping from,” Fred said, joining us at the table, assuming we’d want to confirm that the object had been created with period-appropriate materials.

“Inside, I think,” Sasha said.

“Because there’s a better chance of getting an unadulterated sample?”

“That, and because we wouldn’t risk damaging the visible surface.”

I didn’t anticipate trying to date the vase through a materials analysis, since we didn’t care whether it was real or not. Our only concern was finding Gretchen. I was going to examine the vase for clues—additional marks, for instance, integrated into the design, that might have been overlooked and that might lead us to a seller or previous owner.

“Höroldt was very talented,” Sasha noted. “Look at those swirls—they’re freehand and incredibly even. Like calligraphy, almost.”

We admired the vase awhile longer, then I told them both good night and asked that they set the phone to the night message and lock up.

“Will do,” Sasha called.

Through the cracked door, I heard their leaving noises. The front door clicked closed, and then I was alone.

What
, I asked myself, looking at the vase,
besides extra marks could help me find Gretchen?
Maybe she tucked the tag into the vase’s cavity, saving it for future reference. If so, there was a chance that the tag would be imprinted with a store’s name. I aimed a high-wattage work light into the vase’s hollow center and peered inside. It was empty.

Using a grease pencil, I marked a start point on the vase’s lip. I examined the vase, millimeter by millimeter, in concentric circles, each about an inch high, staring through a loupe. It was precision work, with no room for error.

The blue hues were luscious and subtly varied. I’d reached the third circle when suddenly the image blurred. I removed the loupe, stretched, and turned to the wall clock. It was just after seven. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes for a moment, then considered pushing on. I couldn’t. If I tried, I risked missing something. I marked my stopping point and gently lowered the vase into its protective box, annotating the index card in keeping with our current protocol.

I hoisted the box and started off toward the vault. The only illumination in the windowless warehouse came from the low-wattage overhead bulbs and the work light, its beam stretching along the wall to the ceiling. Long, thin shadows shifted as I moved. It was spooky.

The doorbell rang, momentarily startling me.
A customer
, I thought.

The bell chimed again, this time followed by a series of fist-pounding knocks.
A persistent customer
, I joked to myself and walked on.

I heard someone jiggling the doorknob, and I paused, uneasy.

The phone rang, and the machine clicked on, then off when the caller hung up. Almost immediately, it rang again. I frowned, uncertain what, if anything, to do. Several seconds passed.
They left
, I thought. I told myself I was just a scaredy cat. I started off again, relieved. The tag sale room buzzer sounded.

“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed in a whisper, startled.

Someone had decided to try another door. I wanted to see who was out there. I carefully lowered the box to the floor and slid it into the passageway against a shelf, out of the center aisle, and sprinted to the tag sale room door. I placed my eye against the peephole and surveyed the room. The last vestiges of dusk filtering in through the windows provided a measure of comfort and allowed me to see outside. Nothing alarming was visible.

Into the silence came a sharp crack, then the sound of glass shattering, followed by the tinkling pings of glass on glass.
Someone’s breaking in
, I realized, picturing a gloved hand sweeping shards off the windowsill. My heart was beating so ferociously I couldn’t swallow. My lips were suddenly dry. I darted into the closest row of shelving. I was five rows back.

A thump sounded, then the harsh, loud scraping of metal against metal. I tried to picture what was happening. Besides a few appliances like the microwave, the only metal object in the front office was a four-drawer file cabinet. It sounded like someone was using a metal tool to jimmy it open.
Why?
I asked myself.

I looked up. Red lights told me that the cameras were recording, but no amber lights were illuminated, which meant the alarm wasn’t set—no surprise, since we only activate the system when we leave for the day. No one was coming to my rescue. I had to save myself.

If I could reach my office on the mezzanine level, I could lock myself in and call for help. To get upstairs, I’d have to traverse the fifty-foot-wide open area—and part of the time, I’d be visible from the front office through the door, still slightly ajar. Worse, once upstairs, I’d be trapped. There was no alternate way out.

Or I could hit one of the panic buttons placed strategically throughout the building. The nearest one was twenty unshielded feet away. I’d be vulnerable, but less so.

I nodded, my decision made. The panic button it was. I listened for a moment, preparing to run. I heard confusing noises—papers rustling, a small crashing sound, footsteps.
Footsteps!
I thought, my heart leaping into my throat.

I calculated distance and time and realized that if the intruder was heading into the warehouse, the panic button was too far away—I’d be an easy target.

Still, I had to do something, and I had to act now. Of the two flawed options, this one was marginally less risky than the other.

I sidestepped toward the tag sale room, slowly, ever so slowly, walking as if the floor were made of eggshells. Every step on the concrete floor reverberated in the high-ceilinged, cavernous space. I reached the end of the shelving unit and took a deep breath. My palms were moist and my heart was throbbing. I felt sick.

The door from the front swung wide. I swallowed a scream and froze, then sank to the ground, making myself as small as possible. I stood up and found a slit that provided a clear sight line through the mechanical toys and children’s books stacked on the shelves around me to where he stood just inside the doorway. He was about six feet tall, with an average build. He wore jeans and work boots, a shapeless black trench coat with the collar up, black leather gloves, and a black knit ski mask that covered his head and face. I couldn’t describe his hair or eye color or skin tone—not one inch of him showed.

He scanned the entire warehouse, then started moving toward the spiral staircase that led to my office. I felt light-headed at the realization that he was heading where I’d almost gone. I’d need only a few seconds to reach the panic button, but from his position on the steps, he’d be sure to spot me. I decided to wait until he reached the top and disappeared into my office. I readied myself to run, and as I did so, I touched a toy near my elbow, a monkey playing a drum set, and the cymbal sounded.

Shocked, I gasped and stepped back instinctively, smashing into the shelving unit in back of me with a dull thwack, sending a pair of heavy bronze bookends crashing to the ground.

Damn
, I silently cursed, and tiptoed to the end of the row, to distance myself as best I could from the noise. I held my breath. I couldn’t see him clearly, but it felt like he was staring right at me. He plunged down the steps and ran in my direction.

I scooted into the far aisle, dashed toward the rear, then dove into the back row, desperate for a plan.
He’ll track me by my footsteps
, I thought, on the edge of suffocating panic, uncertain what to do or how to escape. The vault came into view in front of me.
Safe haven
, I thought.

I swiped my sweating palms on my jeans so my fingers wouldn’t slip on the slick steel keypad of the combination lock. I punched in the code, but the wheel wouldn’t spin. I’d gotten the numbers wrong. I looked over my shoulder. He’d found me. He was at the far end of the row, running full speed straight at me.

Forcing myself to concentrate, I entered the numbers again and got them right.

I wrenched open the door, shot into the safe, and dragged the door closed, throwing the bolt and spinning the wheel only seconds before he reached me. I slapped the panic button positioned by the combination pad, and only then did I breathe. Unless the intruder had brought a bomb, he wasn’t going to reach me—the safe was that secure.

I leaned against the back wall, waiting for my tumultuous pulse to begin to quiet. Time passed, then seemed to stop. I leaned for a while longer, then sat down. I couldn’t hear sirens, phones, or people, but I wasn’t worried. I had enough oxygen for six hours, but the security service should be there within minutes. Still, it was terrifying. It felt as if I were alone in the world. I decided to have a telephone jack installed first thing in the morning.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes at the most, a muffled voice called out, “Ms. Prescott?”

“In here!” I called as loudly as I could. “I’m locked in the safe!” I thumped the door and shouted my position again.

I heard more than one voice as people approached, but I couldn’t make out any words until someone asked me to identify myself. I could have wept, I was so relieved. We exchanged our preset code words. If I called “cat,” I was informing them that I was being held hostage. If I called “dog,” they’d know I was safe. If they spoke the word “machine,” I’d know it was really someone from the security company, not a bad guy up to no good.

“Dog,” I yelled. “It’s Josie. Dog. And you?”

“Machine,” someone said, sounding close.

With trembling fingers, I released the bolt.

Two uniformed security men stood in a half-circle facing me, their expressions grave. “Are you injured?” one asked. His name tag read JAYSON.

“No,” I replied, and I realized that I was shaking. “A man in a mask was inside, chasing me. I heard glass break.” I looked around the vast warehouse. Nothing looked disturbed. “I heard noises in the front office.”

“That seems to be the entry point. We called the police as soon as we arrived and saw the broken window.”

Shrieking sirens announced their arrival.

The front office was a mess. One of the windows stood open. I stared at it as Detective Brownley instructed a technician to gather up the glass pieces and try them for prints.

Evidently, the intruder had demolished a single pane of glass and reached in to unlock the window.
Easy as pie
, I thought, anger replacing fear.
Damn him
.

“Aren’t you surprised that he’d risk entering through a front window?” I asked. “Anyone driving by would see him. Plus, didn’t he think someone might be here? I mean, my car is in the parking lot!”

She shrugged. “There’s almost no traffic out here that time of day, and you said he rang the bell and knocked and called, right? Obviously, he thought no one was here and it seemed like a reasonable risk to him.”

“What about those calls? Can’t you trace the number?”

“I’m betting it will turn out to be a disposable cell phone. What I want to know is what he was after.”

I surveyed the damage. An African violet that sat on the table had been knocked over, the pot broken, and its delicate purple blossoms scattered in the dirt. Gretchen would be heartbroken. She’d rescued the nearly dead plant from the trash room at her condo, then spent weeks nurturing it back to health.

Locked file drawers had been pried open, probably, according to the crime scene tech guy, with a crowbar. File folders were strewn across the floor. Papers were heaped in chaotic piles. Desk drawers stood open.

“Gretchen’s personnel file,” I said. “Maybe he wanted to find her emergency contact, thinking he could look for her at that person’s house.”

“Is her file there?” Detective Brownley asked the technician. “Gretchen Brock. Do you see it?” To me, she added, “She didn’t list anyone, so it’s moot anyhow.”

He extracted a thin manila file from the mishmash. No papers were missing.

The night manager at my security firm called to let me know that they’d e-mailed the digital camera output to the police as I’d requested, but that they agreed with my assessment—the man was unrecognizable.

I called Ty and reported what had happened. “I need to nail up some wood,” I explained, “so I don’t know exactly when I’ll get home.”

“I’m almost back—look for me in about fifteen minutes.”

“You don’t need to come.”

“Yes, I do. Fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said, my eyes welling. A little of my anger faded away.

As I stood near the broken window, watching Detective Brownley huddle with Griff, I flexed my back and shoulders, trying to relax. It felt like a steel rod was embedded in my neck. Although the parking lot was brightly lit, Griff lifted heavy-duty handheld spotlights from his vehicle’s trunk. Starting in opposite corners, they walked the parking lot seeking evidence on the still-damp pavement.
Of what?
I wondered.
Tire marks. A discarded cigarette butt. A candy wrapper
.