Killer Keepsakes (15 page)

“He’s a crook. You’ve got valuable antiques.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Everything really valuable is in the vault. Besides which, breaking into a business just after business hours with a car in the parking lot is crazy—it’s too risky.”

“Probably he thought that the car’s owner had gone out to dinner with a friend or something and would be back in an hour or two. Which meant that the alarm wouldn’t yet be set for the night.” Wes shrugged. “What the heck—he was right about the risk factor, you know? He got away with it.”

I sighed. “You make sense. Anything else?”

“Nope. Catch ya later,” he replied, and waved as he drove away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

W

hen I got back to the office, Cara handed me a message. Grady had called about the belt buckle. “Hi, Grady. It’s Josie. I got your message,” I said when I called him back.

“We found the plaque, and I transcribed the list, but I don’t know if it’s in numbered order. I can’t find anything indicating which person got which number buckle. Nothing’s easy, right?”

“Isn’t that the truth? Regardless, having the names is great. You really went above and beyond. Can you e-mail me the list?”

I gave him my e-mail address and heard the muted tap-tap as he typed it in. I felt excited enough to do a jig. I was certain that a clue to Gretchen’s disappearance was at hand. I stared at my inbox until the e-mail appeared, then downloaded the listing and printed it out. The names on the list read:

   1. Alvin Smith

   2. Bernie Winslow

   3. Orrie Cather

   4. David Mackaw

   5. Robert Boulanger

   6. Barry Rackham

   7. Victor Norris

   8. Louis Steinberg

   9. Mortimer Brazenford

 10. Roland Sisto

I read the list, carefully considering each name, one at a time.
Surely
, I thought,
Gretchen has or had a relationship with one of
these men
. To me, though, the only familiar name was Barry Rackham, the CFO who showed Jed the belt buckle in 1979. I felt deflated. I’d been so hopeful.

The owner of the belt buckle might have given or sold it to someone Gretchen knew, I reasoned. Or the original recipient might have pawned, sold, or consigned the buckle to some dealer somewhere. If so, tracing it to its current wearer—the dead man now tentatively identified as Sal Briscoe—might be irrelevant or even impossible.

I called Detective Brownley and said I’d e-mail her the list.

“Thank you, Josie. Great job. We’ll check out all ten names,” she responded.

Me, too
, I thought, sending the e-mail.

I started with Orrie Cather on the off-chance that the third name on the list had actually received the buckle stamped number three. Googling his name brought up dozens of hits, and I scanned the first several references. Nothing leapt out at me as germane. I repeated the process for each name, with the same disappointing result. Until I got to the fifth name on the list—Robert Boulanger.

When I typed in his name, there were more than a hundred hits. The first was a short newspaper article that had appeared in the
Denver Globe
on October 2, 2002, the day after a woman named Amelia Bartlett had been beaten to death in her Denver antiques store. According to the article, Robert Boulanger’s son, Morgan Boulanger, was a suspect in the murder. He’d been twenty-two when the murder had occurred.

The newspaper report from the next day provided the details of Amelia’s death. It was ghastly. Two days after her sixty-third birthday, she’d been bludgeoned to death. Morgan Boulanger’s fingerprints had been found on the murder weapon, a leg that had been snapped off a balloon-back chair. Morgan’s prints were in the system because in the two years before the murder, he’d been arrested three times for domestic abuse. The last time, he’d pushed his wife, Marie, down a flight of stairs. He’d pled down to assault and had spent less than eight months in prison—and Colorado hadn’t submitted his prints to the federal databank.

Accompanying the article was Morgan Boulanger’s mug shot. I was staring into the soulless eyes of the man on Gretchen’s sofa. He’d fled the scene of the crime, and according to the article, a nationwide manhunt was under way. Apparently he’d taken the name Sal Briscoe to avoid capture.

I read on. Two of Amelia’s employees had been in the store when the murder occurred, Iris Gibbons and Marie Boulanger. That explained why Morgan was in the store, I realized. He went to see his wife.

I wondered what had caused Morgan to explode. Had someone done or said something that set him off, or had he entered the store angry enough to kill? I couldn’t imagine the rage that must have consumed him. Fury powerful enough to drive him to break off a chair leg and batter his wife’s employer—a woman old enough to be his grandmother, for heaven’s sake.

The article reported that Marie and Iris were missing, too, and quoted an anonymous source who said that Marie went with her husband voluntarily and that the pair might have kidnapped Iris because she was a witness to his—or their—crime, maybe forcing her to handle some of the logistics of their escape.

Amelia’s cousin, a man named Sam, had been interviewed for the story. Sam stated that Amelia kept large quantities of cash in a store safe, since many of the antiques were purchased from walk-ins. Sam said that if the cash was a factor in the murder, the police needed to look at the only person who had access to it besides Amelia—her trusted employee, Marie. The police refused to discuss whether the safe had been cleaned out.

The next day there was more information about Morgan. He was a line cook at the upscale Gold Mine restaurant in Denver’s Jeffrey Hotel. According to the restaurant’s executive chef, Morgan picked up his paycheck the day of the murder but never showed up for work again. The apartment he’d shared with Marie had been ransacked, as if someone were searching for something or had packed in a hurry.

A line cook—a man who worked with a knife every day. That would account for the scars that crisscrossed the dead man’s fingers.

Three days later, with less fresh news available, the
Globe
’s article about the murder was relegated to page four. Mostly it recycled previously reported information and quoted predictable comments stating the police were aggressively pursuing several valuable leads. It also included a photograph from happier days.

The photograph showed Mrs. Bartlett handing a check to the director of a literacy society, an employee smiling in the background. Another person’s hands were visible on the left, applauding. The caption read “Rosebud Antiques Shoppe owner Amelia Bartlett handing a $500 check to Marcus Linden, executive director of Denver Reads! as staffer Marie Boulanger looks on.”

I stared at the photo, transfixed.

My heart stopped, then began to thump so hard I had trouble breathing.

I closed my eyes, then opened them, disbelieving, shocked.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, unable to take my eyes off the photo.

I was staring at a younger version of Gretchen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I

f Gretchen was the woman called Marie Boulanger, that meant that the dead man in her living room wasn’t a random stalker—he was her husband.

In the photograph, her hair was the same dark red mixed with amber as now, but shorter and spikey and moussed into peaks. Her makeup was darker and more dramatic. Now her look was more mature and subtle, her cosmetics softer in hue and smokier in shading. Her fashion style appeared to be the same. Gretchen always wore heels and skirts and trendy accessories, and in the photo she was wearing a black leather pencil skirt, a cheetah-print blouse, and a wide gold-toned metallic belt, fashion-forward at the time.

I pushed away from my desk and stood. I felt incapable of looking at the image for one second longer, and equally incapable of processing what I’d just seen.

Without being aware of moving, I found myself on the far side of my office, my chest heaving, and then I was back at the computer, braced for the worst, girded to learn that there was evidence suggesting or proving that Gretchen had been the killer.

I needed to call Detective Brownley. Probably she had already discovered Gretchen’s involvement in the Amelia Bartlett murder and gotten in touch with the Denver authorities, but if she hadn’t, I needed to alert her.

My first call, though, was to Ty. I needed to talk to someone who would understand the conflicting emotions ricocheting through my brain. I got his voice mail and tapped the desk in frustration as I listened to his outgoing message. I wanted to talk to him
now
.

“Ty, if you can give me five minutes, I’d really love to talk to you. It’s about Gretchen,” I said. My voice broke as I spoke her name.

He called back ten minutes later. “Is Gretchen all right?” he asked first thing.

“I don’t know . . . I mean, it’s not news about her
now
. It’s what I discovered. Oh, Ty, it’s just horrible.” I began to cry.
Stop, breathe, think
, I reminded myself. I took a deep breath.

“It’s okay, Josie. Take your time.”

I closed my eyes and managed to continue. “I don’t know what to think. I’ve identified the murder victim from an old mug shot. There’s no doubt about it—the dead man isn’t Sal Briscoe. His name is Morgan Boulanger. Ty, I can barely say it—but I found an old newspaper photo of Morgan’s wife, Marie Boulanger. It’s Gretchen. Gretchen is Morgan’s wife—his widow. The news reports said that they think Marie—Gretchen—vanished with her husband after he killed her employer, a woman named Amelia Bartlett, the poor soul.”

My voice disappeared, and I dissolved into a fit of coughing. I drank from the bottle of water I kept on my desk.

“Read me the article, okay?”

“There’s more than one. I’ll start at the beginning.”

When I finished, he said, “Well, no matter what that reporter Wes Smith would say to the contrary, newspapers don’t always get it right. Sometimes they report conjecture as fact, and sometimes they quote people who deliberately mislead the journalist.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“To encourage her to come forward to clear her name.”

“But she didn’t.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the police might have tried the tactic. The bottom line is that from what I can tell, the article is about sixty percent innuendo and surmise. For all we know, the reporter made the whole damn thing up. You don’t
know
anything, Josie. You’re doing as much speculation as any of them.”

I leaned over, supporting my forehead on my fingers, and allowed tears to stream down my cheeks unabated. Ty didn’t speak, but his support came through loud and clear nonetheless. The tension in my neck eased. After a while, my crying slowed, then stopped.

“I need to call Detective Brownley,” I said.

“Yes,” he concurred. “Why don’t you e-mail her the link to the article?”

I took a deep, long breath, wiped wetness away, and said, “I’ll do that now. Thank you, Ty. You just made a bad situation easier to bear.”

“I love you, Josie.”

“Me, too,” I replied, smiling at his words.

I e-mailed Detective Brownley. The subject line read “Colorado report re: Gretchen.” In the body of the e-mail, I wrote, “I found this link, which seems to be relevant. You’ll note that the fifth name on the Sidlawn Fencing belt buckle list is Robert Boulanger.” Then I added the URL and “Best, Josie,” and clicked SEND.

I felt increasingly anxious and decided to turn my attention back to the Meissen vase, even though there was only a bluebird’s chance of tracing it to Gretchen. I had no better ideas, and I needed to stay busy.

As I stood by my window, ready to jump back into researching the vase, I found myself wondering how Chip Davidson knew Gretchen.

I Googled “Chip Davidson” and “Gretchen Brock” and got no hits.

I tried “Chip Davidson” and “Marie Boulanger,” and again I came up empty.

I shrugged and decided to see if any of the men who seemed to be involved in either murder, or with Gretchen, shared a public history. I Googled all combinations of the three men’s names and pseudonyms, in tandem. Since Sal is often a nickname for Salvatore, I added it, too. I netted eleven possible matches.

• Vince Collins and Sal Briscoe
  
• Vince Collins and Salvatore Briscoe
  
• Vince Collins and Morgan Boulanger
  
• Vince Collins and Chip Davidson
  
• Vince Collins and Charles Davidson
  
• Sal Briscoe and Chip Davidson
  
• Salvatore Briscoe and Chip Davidson
  
• Sal Briscoe and Charles Davidson
  
• Salvatore Briscoe and Charles Davidson
  
• Morgan Boulanger and Chip Davidson
  
• Morgan Boulanger and Charles Davidson
  

Methodically I searched for each pair of names, and I was rewarded by a smattering of irrelevant connections. For example, in 1972, in Indiana, someone named Vincent Mark Collins played in a garage band with Charles (Chuck) Davidson.

Nothing
, I thought. I tried adding in the women’s names: Gretchen Brock, Marie Boulanger, Mandy Tollerson, and Lina Nadlein.
Still nothing
. I added Jack Stene, and in case Jack was a nickname, I added John Stene into the mix, too, methodically comparing pairs of names.
Nothing
.

I closed my eyes, and the picture of Gretchen, so full of life, so young and pretty, standing beside Amelia Bartlett, came to me.
Marie
, I corrected myself.
Gretchen’s name is Marie
.

She’d appeared proud and pleased to be helping with the literacy cause. I began to speculate on the current status of the Amelia Bartlett murder investigation, dismissing the idea that Gretchen/Marie had been involved in any way, then stopped myself. I didn’t know enough to have an opinion.
Time for more research
, I thought.

I Googled “Amelia Bartlett” and “murder” and “2009,” hoping to learn the current status of the case. The first listing sent me to a personal blog written by Mrs. Bartlett’s cousin, Sam.

The entry was dated October 2, 2008. “After six years,” he wrote, “I continue to miss my cousin Amelia so much that it hurts like a painful scrape. We were reared as brother and sister. Her mother, my aunt, Lynne White, was like a second mother to me.”

Lynne White!
I thought, remembering the name from the note in Gretchen’s envelope. Amelia Bartlett’s mother, Lynne White, had evidently been the winning bidder for the vase at the now defunct Faring auction house—and Gretchen had worked for Mrs. Bartlett. I read on.

“We were more than cousins. We were best friends. I counted on her intelligence, and I trusted her judgment. Amelia helped me choose my college major, introduced me to my wife, was godmother to my first child, and was there for me at every step.” Sam went on to beg for assistance. “My entire family misses Amelia every day. Please help us find her killer. Someone reading this must know
something
. The police still want to talk to Morgan Boulanger.” Sam linked to Morgan’s photo, the same mug shot I’d seen earlier. “Do you know where he is? If so, please get in touch with Detective Parker of the Denver police.” He gave the phone number and a link to Detective Parker’s official e-mail, then added, “Please. Help us.”

Agonies of loss overwhelmed me. I understood Sam’s pain only too well. My father had been murdered, too, leaving me pummeled by misery, as if someone had used me for a punching bag. When he’d died, I’d wanted to die, too, but I didn’t have the strength to kill myself. I’d felt doomed to live, to suffer alone.

I shook off the memory, grateful that I didn’t hurt that way anymore.

My eyes scanned my office.
You’ve come a long way
, I thought,
since the forlorn days
. I picked up Ty’s photo and smiled.

I’d taken the photograph one day last October. Ty had been splitting logs in back of his house. The halcyon day had been as warm as summer. Golden sunlight caused orange and pink maple leaves to glow with an iridescent sheen. He took my breath away. He looked so gorgeous, I thought I might faint. I grabbed my camera, stepped outside, and called to him. He turned as soon as he heard his name, and I pressed the button, capturing an unposed image of the sexiest man I’d ever known.

I sighed, remembering the moment, then replaced the framed image on the corner of my desk and turned my attention back to the computer. I found the photo of Amelia Bartlett handing the check to Marcus at the literacy organization.

Amelia looked younger than sixty-three, with shoulder-length brown hair and an hourglass figure and a big smile. Gretchen—Marie—looked tickled pink to be associated with the check-giving event. I touched the monitor, touching Gretchen’s guileless, open expression. It was a singular moment in a young woman’s life. Her expression showed a flicker of promise, of her potential to help others, frozen in time.

Back at Google’s search results, I found another reference to the ongoing investigation—an end-of-the-year roundup. The December 31, 2008,
Denver Globe
had a sidebar on cold cases. According to the report, the Amelia Bartlett case was still open.

Whether Gretchen’s vase had once been owned by Henrietta Howard or not, it had definitely crossed the Atlantic at some point, because in 1949, Lynne White bought it from Farings in Cheyenne. When she died, it had apparently passed to her daughter, Amelia Bartlett. Gretchen, then known as Marie, worked for Amelia Bartlett’s antiques store.

I didn’t believe that Gretchen had stolen the vase—she wasn’t a thief. She could have purchased it, but not on a salesgirl’s salary, even if she combined it with her line cook husband’s pay. Which meant that in all probability Mrs. Bartlett had given it to her. Which suggested they were close. If Sam Bartlett felt like a brother, not a cousin, to Amelia, it was possible that Gretchen felt like a niece, not an acquaintance, to Sam. If she had run away from Rocky Point, maybe she’d run to him. Years ago, she wouldn’t have wanted to put him at risk, but now that Morgan was dead, Sam might have been her first call.

I located Sam Bartlett’s phone number and was tempted to dial it, but I didn’t. If Gretchen was there, my call might terrorize her and make her run again, this time deeper into hiding. Instead, I called Detective Brownley. After I explained my thinking and gave her the phone number, she paused, then said, “This is a very interesting idea, Josie.” She promised to let me know as soon as she learned anything relevant.

Wes called with an urgent request to see me. We agreed to meet near the salt pile in downtown Portsmouth.

I got there first and watched as he parked with a jerk in front of me and hustled into my car.

“I only have a few minutes,” he said, “but I’ve got a real-deal bombshell.”

“What?”

“In a sec. First, your insurance company came through with Gretchen’s fingerprints. The print on the milk carton isn’t hers.”

“Whose is it—do they know?”

“No. It’s not in any national databank or known to the New Hampshire police.”

I shook my head, disappointed. “So it’s not Vince’s.”

“Right. Nor is it the dead man’s—Sal Briscoe, now known to be Morgan Boulanger.”

Another negative. “What about tracing the gun?”

“Nope. Not so far.”

I shook my head. “Now what?”

Wes shrugged. “I have news about Chip Davidson. Examining his fingerprints got us nowhere—he doesn’t have a record—but I got some info from the plate number you gave me. The Taurus is a rental. He picked it up in Massachusetts from Siva International on Friday.”

“Where in Massachusetts?”

“Burlington.”

A suburb north of Boston. “Why there of all places?” I asked.

“I have no idea. Do you?”

“No, but if you got his rental record, you have his credit card info.”

“Right, and from that, I got everything we need. He has a Virginia address. Are you ready for the bombshell? His driver’s license was issued for the first time seven years ago.”

I gaped.

“So was his credit card,” Wes said with relish.

“That’s unbelievable. Astounding.”

“It’s a heck of a coincidence.”

“It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Probably not.”

“What does it mean? Who is he for real?”

“You tell me.”

The salt, used to treat the icy roads in winter, was at its springtime low. I stared past the mound and over the sun-specked Piscataqua, the river that separated New Hampshire from Maine, to a private dock on the Maine side as I considered Wes’s question. Chip Davidson must somehow be involved in the Amelia Bartlett killing, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think how. I glanced at Wes. He was watching me, eager for news.

“All we can say for sure is that he doesn’t know where Gretchen is now. Otherwise he wouldn’t keep showing up where she works and asking for her. There’s some connection among the three of them—Chip, Gretchen, and the dead man, Morgan,” I said, deciding to use his real name, not his alias of Sal. I took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Something happened seven years ago that resulted in them all getting new IDs. I think I know what it is, but I don’t know how Chip is involved. You know how you were going to search for a photo of Gretchen involved in some past crime as a way of seeing if she might be in the witness protection program?”