Dolled Up for Murder (11 page)

“I can see that working with a ten-dollar item, but not a thousand-dollar anything. Wouldn't the dealer worry the bills were fake?”

“That's why he looks with a loupe. It's not carbon dating, but it's good enough so you'll catch obvious flaws, like printing that's out of alignment, mushy lines, uneven coloration, that sort of thing. Also, experienced numismatists know what the paper should feel like by touch.”

“All this is happening in a stairwell?”

“Yup. Or out in the parking lot. Or in the men's room.”

Ellis shook his head. “All I can say is it's a hell of a way to earn a living.” His BlackBerry vibrated. He pushed a button, read a text, then said, “Nothing showed up on X-ray. There's a mishmash of prints on the currency, but nothing popped in any of the law enforcement databases she checked. There's no possibility of a DNA match.”

“Can we get the money back? For when the ransom note comes in?”

He nodded and tapped a reply into his unit. “Done. She should be here in about ten minutes.”

“At least we know why the dolls were destroyed,” I said and sighed. “We need to talk to Jamie and Lorna. It's possible that they have an idea about who knew something was hidden in the doll.”

Ellis nodded. “I left a message on their cell phones a little while ago.”

“How come they haven't called back?” I asked, my worry meter whirring onto high. I knew myself: Until Eric was home safe and sound, I would fret if people weren't where I expected them to be and if, when contacted, they didn't respond right away.

“Lorna told me she only uses hers for emergencies, so I doubt she'll check it anytime soon. Jamie will call back as soon as she gets the message.”

“Can't we just go there?” I asked. “Or call the house number?”

“I had a car drive by their house, but they're not home. They're probably at some friend's house. As to calling the house, they had their mother's landline turned off after she died.” He smiled at me. “I'm not worried about it, and you shouldn't be, either. I'll let you know the minute I hear from them.” Ellis stood up and stretched. “As soon as the tech shows up, I think we should call it a day, Josie.”

“I guess.” I pointed to the taped-together image. “Is it all right if we roll up the photo?”

“Yes. Don't throw it away, though, in case we need to refer to it again.”

“I'll do it,” Fred offered. “I'll wait for the tech if you want and put the currency in the safe. I just keep thinking word is going to come any minute that Eric is okay.”

“Me, too,” I said, sighing again. I told him I'd take care of getting Hank settled for the night, then turned to Ellis and said good night.

“I'll see you home,” Ellis said. “I'm going to Zoë's anyway.”

“Okay,” I said. “Give me five minutes.”

When I reached Hank's corner he hurried to meet me. He rubbed my leg and mewed. He wanted to play.

“Can you fetch this mouse, Hank?” I asked.

I tossed the little felt mouse toward the back wall, and Hank took off like a bullet. He pranced back with the mouse in his mouth, its gray tail dangling to one side, and dropped it at my feet. Maine Coons, we'd learned, fetch. Hank looked proud, even cocky.

“You're a very clever boy, aren't you, Hank?”

I threw the mouse again, and again he galloped toward it, scooped it up in his mouth, and brought it back. After a dozen more tosses, he grew weary. He stretched his top half, then his bottom half, then stepped into his basket. I told him he was a good boy, changed his water, topped off his food, putting out an extra bowl of each in case we all decided to stay home tomorrow, and told him I'd probably see him in the morning. Back in the front office, I confirmed I had turned off Gretchen's computer and scanner, then told Fred good night.

I was glad to get outside, into fresh air. The evening was balmy and humid. It felt like it might rain. I arched my back, trying to ease the iron-hard tension. Ellis was in his SUV waiting near the exit for me to join him. All signs of police presence were gone. I walked to Ellis's SUV. He rolled down his window as I approached.

“Why hasn't there been a ransom note?” I asked.

“There will be.”

“You seem very certain.”

“I am.”

“Maybe he left by choice,” I said. “It happens.”

“Rarely.”

“Maybe Eric flipped and attacked the dolls.”

“Do you believe that?” he asked.

“No. I think he was kidnapped.”

“Me, too.”

“So why hasn't there been a ransom note?” I asked again.

“They're getting Eric situated. It's not so easy to kidnap a grown man in broad daylight and transport him somewhere without being seen. They might be driving around, waiting until the middle of the night to hide him away.”

“Do you think he's still alive?” I asked, looking past the stone wall into the thicket of dark woods, not wanting to see the uncertainty I was sure would appear in his eyes.

“Yes.”

I looked back at him. “Why?”

“Because there's no percentage in killing him.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Ellis.”

“For what?”

“For being kind.”

He smiled. “Don't let it get around.”

“Too late.”

CHAPTER NINE

Within minutes of getting onto the interstate, my fingers began to throb—I had the steering wheel in a death grip. I sighed, a deep one, and said aloud, “Relax, Josie. Relax.” I glanced in the rearview mirror and felt inordinately relieved to see Ellis's headlights.

I pulled into my driveway, and Ellis pulled into Zoë's. If I'd stretched out an arm, I could have touched the passenger-side door. Her porch light was on. I leaned over the dash to look up at my bedroom window. The little golden light I always kept burning because I hated entering dark houses alone shone brightly.

“You going to be okay?” he asked.

“Yes. I'm just beat.” I tried to smile. “Tomorrow's another day, right?”

I mounted my porch steps and stretched. The air had thickened, and the moisture felt fresh and clean. I opened my front door, turned, and waved to Ellis. He was on Zoë's porch, watching me. He didn't open Zoë's door until I had closed mine. Inside, I shot the bolt and had taken one step toward the kitchen when my home phone rang. I grabbed it, hoping it was some news about Eric. It wasn't. It was Wes calling for a quote. I leaned back against the wall, deflated.

“Tell me about the dolls,” he said. “Why would someone want to destroy them?”

“I don't know,” I replied.

“Why would Eric disappear?” Wes asked.

“I don't know that either.”

He sighed. “Do you have a list of the dolls that were destroyed? And pictures? I can publish them and ask our readers for ideas about how the dolls might be involved. It might help, Josie.”

He was right. It might. “Let me think about it,” I said. “I need to be careful, Wes. I don't want to make a bad situation worse.”

“How could it make anything worse?” he asked.

“I don't know. That's why I want to think about it. I'm hanging up now. I'll call you back in a few minutes.”

“Wait!” he shouted, and I did. “You asked me to find out whether Darleen and Randall had alibis for when Alice was killed. They didn't. Darleen was supposed to be chaperoning a field trip with her daughter's class but canceled at the last minute. She told the cops it was because with all the publicity surrounding Alice, she didn't want the grief. Randall says he was walking on the beach, alone, that he was upset about his mom's death, but he can't prove it. He can't even provide any details. He said he was in his own world and simply didn't notice where he parked or which section of beach he was on or when he got there or anything.”

“From your tone, I can tell that you don't believe him, Wes, but it could be true. I can see how grief might befuddle memory.”

“Yeah, especially when you've gone AWOL. Darleen told the cops that Randall was at the funeral parlor, making Alice's burial arrangements. Turns out, that's what Darleen told him to do, but he didn't do it. Instead, he went to the beach. I bet he was in trouble when he got home.”

“Poor Randall,” I said.

“You think? He comes off wussy to me.”

“Yeah … still … I think it's sad. It sounds as if he's never been his own man, even a little bit. I mean, we're talking about a walk on the beach as a rebellious act, Wes. That's sad.”

I could practically hear Wes shrugging. “Whatever. The bottom line is that the police think he's wide open.” He paused, then added, “You also asked me to find out who Alice might be dating. No one knows if or who. She had lots of different escorts to charity and club events. Often she went alone, too. As to investors out for blood, the one name that keeps coming up is Ian Landers.”

“I saw him at the police station,” I said. “He was plenty mad. Nasty mad.”

“He's wide open, too. He says he was jogging near the library, but so far no one remembers seeing him.”

“How about weapons? Do either of them own guns?”

“Not registered,” Wes said, “but you know how that goes. Anyone can get a gun.”

“True. Thank you, Wes.” My voice cracked as my throat closed. I took in air. “I've got to go, Wes. I'll call you back soon.” I hung up, then lifted the receiver again and dialed Ellis's cell phone. I apologized for disturbing him, repeated Wes's suggestion, and asked his opinion. “I'm thinking it might be a good idea, Ellis. If I let Wes quote me begging for help in finding Eric, it will create the impression that we have no idea what's going on—which, of course, we don't. That might reassure the kidnapper, don't you think?”

“I do. I like it, Josie. I can't see any downside.”

“Good. I'll do it now.”

I dashed into the den, flipping on lights as I ran, and booted up my home computer. Once it was ready, I remoted into my work computer and e-mailed myself the two doll inventories, the one listing the dolls I'd taken away and the one listing the dolls that had been destroyed in the van. I also uploaded the still shots Fred and I had created earlier to an FTP site. I combined the two inventories into one and paused, thinking. I nodded and said aloud, “Why not?”

I brought up the original video recording and fast-forwarded until I came to the three dolls the Farmington sisters had decided to keep, Chatty Cathys from the 1960s. I captured each one as a photograph and uploaded them to the FTP site. I sent the inventory to Wes along with instructions on how to access the photographs.

“Whew,” I said aloud as I dialed Wes's number. It was after midnight. “Wes, it's Josie. I decided you were right. Any help is welcome.”

“That's great, Josie!” he said after I explained what I'd sent him. “Now give me a quote.”

“‘None of us at Prescott's has any idea if these dolls are somehow involved with Eric's disappearance. If anyone does have information, please notify the police. All we want is Eric's safe return. I know the police would say that no idea is too off-the-wall and no fact is too minor to be worth reporting.' How's that?”

“Good, good,” he said. I heard him scribbling notes. “Had Alice Michaels bought the collection?”

“No. She left a deposit as a right of first refusal.”

“So her estate still has a claim?”

“I'm not a lawyer, but since we hadn't deposited the check before she died, I can't imagine how it could,” I said.

“Do you think her murder is somehow related to the dolls?”

“I don't know.”

“How about Eric's disappearance? Do you think the murder is somehow connected to it?”

“I have no idea, Wes,” I said, feeling like a broken record. My voice cracked again. There was so much I didn't know. I felt worn down and worn out. “I wish I did.”

“You haven't gotten a ransom note, have you?”

“No,” I said.

“Do you think he was kidnapped?”

“Yes … I mean, what else could it be?”

“Maybe he just disappeared. You know, maybe he's one of those guys who goes out for a pack of cigarettes and never comes home. They feel overwhelmed with whatever responsibilities they've gotten themselves into, trapped, you know? Isn't it possible Eric just vamoosed of his own free will? You know what I mean. Eric's quiet. Respectable. Nice. That's how they always describe the guy, the people left behind, I mean, when he turns up twenty-seven years later with a new family and a house and everything.”

“You should write a made-for-TV movie, Wes.”

“If it's a kidnapping, why hasn't someone, you or his family, received a ransom note?”

“We will,” I said, repeating Ellis's words, wishing I shared his confidence. I didn't think Wes's analysis was right, but something in my gut made me wonder.

“When you do,” Wes said, “I'm your first call, right?”

“You know I can't promise that, Wes.”

“Josie!”

“I'm tired, Wes. I'm hanging up.”

With Wes sputtering in protest, I cradled the phone. I glanced at the big clock mounted over the refrigerator. It was after one. I turned out the light and stood in an oblong of silver moonlight. “Here's to silver light in the dark of night,” I whispered. I called Grace.

“I don't have any news,” I said, not wanting to raise her hopes, even for a second. “I'm sorry to call so late, but it's the first chance I've had. I didn't want to go to bed without talking to you.”

“It's okay,” she said. “I wasn't asleep. I doubt I'll sleep at all.”

“Yeah.” I paused. “How are you holding up?”

“It's hard.” She paused. “I called Eric's mom.”

I bit my lip.
I should have done that,
I thought. Maybe not, not if I couldn't be supportive, and since Eric's mother was a sour old woman with a chip on her shoulder the size of Alaska, it was unlikely I could have offered what she would have demanded.