Dolled Up for Murder (12 page)

“She must be beside herself,” I said.

Grace didn't reply right away. I could hear her crying. I hoped Grace was expressing her upset about Eric, not reliving an altercation during which his mother had shown her evil side, but that, I knew, was past praying for.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I don't want to repeat what she said,” Grace managed, gulping. She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “It was hateful.”

I felt my throat close. Grace was a gentle soul, and thinking of her having to endure that shrew's spiteful tongue made me want to cry, too.

“I'm so sorry, Grace. I should have called her myself.”

“No,” she said. “It's better that I did.”

I sighed, unable to think what to say.

“I'm sorry to be tearful,” she whispered. “It's just that I'm so scared.”

“Me, too.” I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them and took in a deep breath. “I spoke to Wes Smith, a reporter for the
Seacoast Star
. I gave him some information and pictures. I checked with the police first. They agree that asking the public for help can't hurt, and maybe it will help.”

“That's a great idea, Josie!” she said, suddenly buoyant.

“We can only hope that it works. I figure that someone knows something.”

We talked a little longer; then I headed upstairs to start my bath. I didn't for a minute believe that Eric had left of his own volition. Eric had been kidnapped.

Eric,
I said silently as I trudged up the steps,
hold on.

*   *   *

After a steamy-hot bath, a bowl of reheated homemade minestrone soup, a Blue Martini, and a good-night call to Ty, I fell into bed more relaxed than I would have thought possible an hour earlier.

I expected to toss and turn all night, but I didn't. I slept like a rock until six fifty in the morning. I would have slept even longer, but my cell phone buzzed, jerking me awake. Rolling toward the bedside table where I'd left it, I tangled myself in the sheets. I jerked my arm loose and grabbed the phone. The icon indicating that a new text message had arrived flashed, and I punched the button to display it.

“Oh, wow,” I said aloud.

I was reading a ransom note.

CHAPTER TEN

I pulled on my jeans and a sweater and ran through the drizzle that had come up overnight to Zoë's. I took the porch steps two at a time and leaned on the buzzer.

“You're here bright and early,” Zoë said as she swung the door wide. She was model tall and willow thin with sleek black hair and big brown eyes. She wore slim-cut black jeans and a fitted brick red collared blouse. She looked as if she'd just walked off the pages of
Vogue.

“I need to see Ellis,” I said.

“He's in the shower—he'll be down soon.”

“Run up and tell him it's me, and that I have news, will you?”

“I hate to bother him while he's—” Zoë said, then noticed something in my eyes and stopped. “Sure, Josie. No problem. Go on into the kitchen and pour yourself a cup of coffee.”

“Okay,” I said.

I went into the kitchen, but I didn't get coffee. I paced from the kitchen door to the refrigerator and back again often enough to create a rut in the hardwood floor. I could hear the kids grumbling upstairs as they got ready for school.

Ellis entered, dressed for work in a brown tweed sports coat, brown slacks, off-white shirt, and green tie. His hair was damp.

“What news?” he asked.

I handed him my phone. He held my gaze for a moment, then lowered his eyes to the screen. The text message read:

WE HAVE ERIC. PACK UP ALL FARMINGTON DOLLS. INSTRUCTIONS LATER TODAY. NO COPS OR HE DIES.

He pushed the button to bring up the details of the text, then held the unit so I could read it. The text had come from a 603 area code—New Hampshire. I didn't recognize the number.

I shook my head. “The message says Eric is alive.”

“Which may be true,” Ellis said quietly, confirming my unspoken fear.

Ellis placed my phone on the counter and hit a speed dial button on his own.

“Claire,” he said, “I need you to do something without telling anyone about it.” He rattled off the number and told her to trace it.

“Now what?” I asked.

“We wait for confirmation that the phone the kidnapper used is a disposable unit, the kind you buy at a big-box store for cash.”

I nodded, understanding. “Untraceable. How long will it take her?”

“Not long. Minutes, maybe.”

“Meanwhile, I can pack up the dolls,” I said.

“We need to discuss whether you should do what they say.”

“Of course I should do what they say!”

“No matter what your gut tells you, Josie, you need to force yourself to think objectively. I'm sorry to be blunt, but Eric might already be dead, in which case we need to consider how best to catch his killer.”

I knew Ellis might be right about Eric, but I couldn't bear thinking that Eric might be dead. I wouldn't. “We have to proceed on the assumption that he's alive.”

“I agree, but we have to build in contingency plans. Like marking the money.”

“Will they be able to tell?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Even if they look?”

“Right. Even if they look.”

“Okay—except it's not my money. It's Jamie and Lorna's money.”

Before responding, he reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. The kids came clomping down the stairs, and I heard Zoë tell them to put on their rain slickers and galoshes. Ellis hoisted the pot in my direction, silently offering me a cup. I nodded. He took a mug from the cupboard, poured, and slid it along the counter toward me.

“I'll meet with them to explain the situation,” he said.

“I should be there to explain about the money.”

He nodded. “I'd appreciate the help. Let's assume they'll agree to let us use the currency. The next thing we have to talk about is whether to call in the FBI.”

“No way! You read the note. It's bad enough I told you.”

“Don't be so quick to dismiss it, Josie. The FBI are the experts here.”

“Doesn't it make sense that I simply do as I'm told? I hand over the dolls and they hand over Eric.”

“If they keep their end of the bargain.”

I shut my eyes for a moment, then opened them and searched his face for signs of hope. I couldn't find any. He looked the same as always, businesslike, attentive, calm. Words escaped me.

“Another way to think about it,” he said, “is that the only reason not to call them in is if you think they'll screw something up.”

I looked out Zoë's kitchen window, taking a deep breath and then another, thinking it through. I knew I lacked both information and experience, a potentially deadly combination. I couldn't let my ignorance put Eric's life in jeopardy.

“I don't know what to do,” I said. “How can I possibly decide? If the FBI can help us, of course I want their input, but you read the note—the kidnappers told me not to call the police. Maybe they've tapped my phone. Oh, God, Ellis—it didn't even occur to me … what if the kidnapper is watching my house at this very minute? What if he saw me come over here and recognizes your SUV? He'll assume that I've already spoken to you.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “It's possible, in the way that anything is possible, but it's not likely. If anything, I think they'll keep an eye, and maybe an ear, on your office. That's where the dolls are, and that's where they would figure you'd be leaving from.”

I took a minute to think some more. “Doesn't contacting the FBI feel like too big a risk?”

“No. I can call them from my office on a secure line and tell them our plans off the record. We can take advantage of their expertise without committing ourselves. I can solicit their opinion, then, if we want, we can call it a day.”

I bit my lip. I wanted to do the right thing, the smart thing. I finished my coffee, and as I placed the mug in the sink I saw that my hand was trembling. “Maybe I should discuss it with Grace or Eric's mom.”

“No. Or rather, of course you can seek whatever counsel you think is appropriate, but from where I sit, you need to think long and hard before you tell anyone anything. Loose lips sink ships, and all that.” He paused. “You're frowning, but think about it, Josie. Eric isn't married and he isn't a minor. They have no right to know and no specialized knowledge that would help us. Don't get me wrong—of course I've assigned someone to be their police point person. We've been in touch with them since the beginning, and we'll continue to be in touch. That's different from consulting them on a decision of this magnitude.” He paused again and shook his head empathetically. “The bottom line is that this is your decision, Josie. The note came to you. You own the dolls. This is all on you.”

“I don't want to, and you can't make me!” Jake shouted from the hall.

“Don't try me, Jake Winterelli!” Zoë shouted back. “Put on your raincoat and do it now!”

I leaned against the counter, feeling weak and weighed down, and wishing I was helping Zoë get the kids into rain gear, not navigating a life-and-death decision.

“What would the FBI do?” I asked.

“Add a recording device to your phone, plant GPS chips in your car and in the dolls, mark the bills, and, once we know where the exchange will take place, plant agents all around, whether that means pretending they're homeless people in a dark alley or customers in a restaurant or whatever. If the location is isolated, they'll put snipers in trees or hide them behind rocks, that sort of thing.”

My big fear was that the kidnapper would learn that we'd consulted the FBI. No matter what Ellis might say about professional discretion, I suspected that word would get out, that the media, and thus the kidnapper, would hear of it in about a minute and a half. I only had to look to Wes's far-reaching web of sources to know that in a criminal investigation, as in life, the only secrets that were safe were the ones you never revealed.

“That's too many people in the loop,” I said. “Word would leak out, and that's a risk I'm not willing to take. You can use local resources to do everything you just listed. Local resources under your command, and thus under your control. We don't need the FBI.”

“It's true that I can access all the technology and manpower we need. Don't misunderstand, Josie, God knows I'm not lobbying on the FBI's behalf—I just want you to make a fully informed decision. Here's the thing … in addition to resources, the FBI is known for their criminal profiling expertise. That's a capability we don't have locally, and it's one I can't access without calling them in.”

“Okay, then. It's decided. No FBI. Since we don't need criminal profiling expertise, we won't call them in. This isn't some random snatch, Ellis, or a serial killer or a psychopath or anything like that. This is a kidnapping for ransom. This is about money. Plus, we already know a fair amount about Eric's kidnapper. We know he's aware that there's something valuable, and not breakable, hidden in one or more of the Farmington dolls. We also know that he has no idea which doll or dolls he's looking for. In the van, he stomped all the dolls, a quick way to reveal contraband—if you're not worried the bounty will shatter. What we need to do is look at Selma's best friends—” I broke off and felt my mouth fall open. “Oh, wow … I don't know why this didn't occur to me before, Ellis. According to Selma's daughters, Selma's best friend was Alice. If Selma told Alice what the secret was, it explains why Alice was so determined to acquire the collection.”

Ellis nodded slowly, taking it in. “Alice didn't kidnap Eric.”

“True, but maybe she told someone about it. It's possible the kidnapper is someone Alice confided in. Like her son, Randall. Or like her valued employee, Lenny. Or her good buddy, Ian. Back in the day, before the trouble started. You know, one of those fun conversations about goofy hiding places.”

“Interesting idea,” Ellis said. “What do you know about her relationship with any of those three?”

“About Randall, only what I've read in the paper and heard around town.” I told him about Lenny's efforts to sell his antiques and reminded him of Ian's belligerent attitude at the police station.

“Who else might Alice have confided in?”

“I don't know.”

“Who else might Selma have confided in?”

“Her daughters.”

“Who else?”

“I don't know.” I sighed. I took a deep breath. “All I know is that Eric is alive. Until I have a good reason to think otherwise, I'm going to do what I believe offers the best chance of keeping him alive, and that's to follow the kidnapper's instructions to the letter.” I nodded, pleased I'd made a decision. “Which means I need to get to my office and start packing the dolls.”

“Okay. It's your call. That said, since you've enlisted my help, I'm going to need you to follow my lead. You need to do exactly as I tell you. I know you're smart and determined and brave, but you're an amateur. You're not trained. You need to trust me and my expertise. Are you okay with that?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking that it was mostly true. I trusted him completely—but I trusted myself, too.

“Okay, then. When we're done talking, I'll leave first and go about my business, staying away from you and your company for the rest of the day. We'll need to arrange for your car to go into the shop this morning so we can install the tracking devices, and I'll need you to okay a phone tap. I'll e-mail you instructions about both and attach the forms you'll need to sign.” He rubbed his nose, thinking. “Also, I'll send a female officer to install the tracking devices in the dolls. She'll go in empty-handed and leave carrying a Prescott's bag, so anyone watching will just think she's a regular customer.”