Dolled Up for Murder (17 page)

“I hate to ask,” I said, “especially in this nasty weather, but I'm wondering if you can deliver the package to my company without telling anyone what you're doing. I've got reporters following me, and it's vital that no one knows what I'm up to.”

“Of course, Josie,” she said. “I'll do it now.”

“Thanks so much, Louise. It's important it stay dry. Wrap it up well, okay?”

“Will do. Will you be there?”

“I'm en route now, but I don't know whether you'll beat me there or not. It's best that you leave it regardless. Maybe you could put it in some plain box or container and simply put my name on it.”

She agreed, and I thanked her again.

I stopped trying any fancy moves to lose the reporters and drove straight back to Prescott's. As I was navigating the last turn before reaching our parking lot, Gretchen called.

“Darleen and Randall Michaels are here,” she said. “They're hoping to talk to you.”

I knew the shades of Gretchen's voice well enough to know that she was not happy.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” she replied.

“You can't talk. So I will. Is it Darleen who's the problem?”

“Yes.”

“Wow … I can tell from your tone that you're annoyed. Is she really that bad?”

“Absolutely,” Gretchen said with conviction.

“I'm braced. I'll be there in five minutes.”

“Great! I'll let them know.”

Apparently Alice wasn't alone in thinking Darleen deserved the title Ms. Attila the Hun.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I ran through the steady rain to my company's front door, dragging the suitcase behind me and clutching my tote bag to my chest to shield it as best I could. I'd found an umbrella in my car, a good thing, but even so, I was glad to reach the overhang. I shook off the umbrella and opened the door, but before stepping inside, I paused and looked back. Several reporters, including Wes and Bertie, stood watching me. Some, like Bertie, stood under umbrellas; others, like Wes, stood under dripping trees. All of them looked irritated and impatient.

“When you have a minute,” a woman said from inside the office.

Her tone got my hackles up. She sounded as if she were speaking to a lazy child. I stepped inside, shut the door, said a general hello to my staff, then smiled and nodded at the woman who'd spoken to me and the man sitting beside her.

“This is Darleen Michaels and her husband, Randall Michaels,” Gretchen said, “and this is Josie Prescott.”

Darleen sat with her hands folded and her elbows resting on the table. She wore a dark gray dress, maybe a sign of mourning, maybe a reflection of her mood. Her supershort, spiky hair was dyed platinum blond. Her eyes were dark brown and unforgiving. I glanced at Randall. He was tall and slender, with rounded shoulders. His hair was sandy brown and cut short. His brown eyes were flecked with gold. I only saw them once, when he raised them momentarily to my cheek as we were introduced. He lowered them right away and kept them down.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I'll be with you in a sec.” I slid my umbrella into the Chinese blue-and-white-patterned stand we kept by the door for that purpose, then wheeled the Farmingtons' suitcase to the center of the room. “Fred, will you take this to the back worktable?”

Fred stood and grabbed it. “You bet. Want me to empty it?”

“No, thanks. Just leave it there.” He headed off.

I turned to Darleen and Randall. “Come on upstairs. Can we get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”

“We're fine,” Darleen replied sharply.

“How about you, Randall?” I asked, irritated at her domineering attitude.

“Darleen?” he asked.

“A quick one, if you want.”

“Thanks,” he told her. To me he said, “I'd love a coffee. Thank you.”

He sounded almost friendly, but there was nothing friendly about Darleen. The muscles in her jaw grew rigid as he spoke. Evidently she didn't like his expressing an opinion at odds with hers, even about something as insignificant as coffee, even though he'd checked with her first. Or maybe I was reading too much into it. For all I knew, Randall asked for coffee so they'd have to sit a while and visit, so Darleen would have to slow down, calm down. I knew from experience that sitting and chatting could sometimes be an antidote to distress. Asking Gretchen to bring his coffee upstairs, I escorted them to my office. I took one of the yellow wing chairs. Darleen perched on the matching love seat, her body language conveying that she didn't intend to stay long. Randall sat next to his wife, farther back, a small rebellion, perhaps.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” I told them. “I enjoyed knowing Alice. Very much. And I've long admired all she's done for Rocky Point.”

“Thank you,” Randall said, his eyes on the carpet. “It's hard to fathom that she's gone.”

“I know what you mean. She's there. Then she's not. It was like that for me, too, when my dad died. Have you made funeral plans yet?”

He shook his head, shot Darleen a glance, then raised his eyes to my cheeks. “No, not yet.”

“Please let me know when you decide what to do.”

“We will. My mom admired you very much. She was impressed with your knowledge and integrity.”

Darleen jiggled her bracelet, then, moments later, began tapping her foot. Sometimes chitchat calmed people down; other times it stirred them up. I kept my eyes on Randall's face, willing him to look me in the eye. It didn't work. He never glanced higher than my cheeks.

“That's really nice to hear,” I said. “Thank you for making it a point to tell me.” I turned to Darleen. “What can I do for you?”

“We need your help,” she said, her tone clipped. “We have reason to think the attorney general is about to get a court order that will freeze all of my mother-in-law's assets. It's completely unjustified and unreasonable, and of course we'll fight it. In the meantime, we need to get prepared. After her house, one of her most valuable nonfinancial assets is her doll collection. You appraised it about a year ago.”

“Right. For insurance purposes.”

“We want you to update the appraisal. If the attorney general confiscates it, he'll get an appraisal from someone we know nothing about and we'll have no power to argue their determination of value. This way, at least we'll have a benchmark. The issue is this: Alice left everything to our daughter, Brooke. It may seem insensitive that we're doing this now, with Alice just dead, but we have to protect Brooke's inheritance as best we can. The vultures are circling. There's no time to delay.”

I heard Gretchen's heels click-clacking up the stairs. I was glad for the diversion. I wanted a moment to think about how to handle this uncomfortable request. I didn't want to be in the middle between angry investors trying to recover lost funds and a lionesslike mother trying to protect her daughter's inheritance. Gretchen, her expressive eyes signaling she was aware of tension in the room, placed the tray on the butler's table and left. She'd brought a pot of coffee and three cups.

“Darleen? Gretchen brought extra cups. Would you like to reconsider?” I asked as I poured Randall's coffee from the tall Lenox pot.

“No,” she said, crossing her legs, keeping her eyes on mine. “Is there a reason you're hesitating? We're not asking you to do anything illegal or unethical. We want a fair and impartial appraisal, that's all.”

I nodded. “I'll be glad to help.”

“Good. Thank you. Can you do it right away?”

“Yes. We have the appraisal information from last year, so that will speed up the process.”

“We have the dolls in the car along with the documentation. There are twenty-six of them. We also brought along a jewelry box. It's a recent acquisition. Alice said it was just about the most valuable piece she owned.”

“More so than the dolls?”

“That's what she said.”

“Interesting,” I said. Having already agreed to appraise the dolls, I didn't hesitate. “We'll be glad to appraise it, too. I'll ask Gretchen to prepare the paperwork.”

I was reaching for the phone to call down to Gretchen when the intercom rang. Cara wanted to let me know that Dawn LeBlanc had arrived with a question about her mother's birthday gift and Louise from the church had dropped off a box for me. I told her we'd be right down and asked her to transfer me to Gretchen.

“Gretchen,” I said, “we're going to appraise Alice's doll collection, the same one as last year, plus any new acquisitions she made. Pull the records so you can prepare the paperwork. Also, there's a jewelry box we're going to look at, too.”

“I'm on it!” she said.

I hung up and smiled at Randall. “I offer you coffee, then don't give you time to drink it. Feel free to bring your cup with you.”

He thanked me but left his cup on the tray. I walked them to the front office and turned them over to Sasha and Gretchen, then picked up the box Louise had delivered from Cara's desk and invited Dawn and Fred to accompany me.

As I stepped into the warehouse, I heard Darleen griping about having to fill out new paperwork, saying any delay might lead to disaster.

*   *   *

“Fred,” I said as soon as we were in the warehouse, “I'm enlisting your help. I'm not going to explain. I just need you to do as I ask. All right?”

“Sure,” he said, doing a good job of keeping his astonishment under wraps.

“Don't let anyone into the warehouse until I give an all clear. I have no clue what excuse you can use, but you need to think of a good one. Any ideas?”

“How long for?” he asked.

“Less than an hour, at a guess. Certainly less than two.”

He stared at me for a moment, then grinned. “I'll tell Cara and Sasha you're working on a surprise for Gretchen's bridal shower. I'll tell Gretchen you're working on a surprise for Eric's homecoming.”

“Perfect.”

“Can I help? I mean, I could whisper around, then come in and help.”

I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said. “We can use the help.”

He looked pleased. “I'll be back in a flash.”

“Meet us at the photocopier.”

He returned to the office, and Dawn and I started toward the back.

“You're sure that was smart?” she asked.

“Yes. I trust him completely. Also, he worked with me on identifying the smashed dolls and looking for contraband last night, so he knows something is up.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

We walked for several seconds without speaking, our footsteps the only sound until I heard a soft mew followed by a pitter-patter. Hank padded up and mewed again.

“Hi, Hank,” I said, looking down. “I can't play right now. I'm busy.”

He trotted along beside me, certain, it seemed, that I'd change my mind.

“When I drove to Blackmore's,” I said to Dawn, “the reporters were on me like bad breath. No way am I going to be able to drive to a ransom drop without a conga line of them trailing behind me. I don't know how to shake them loose.”

“Yeah, that's not good,” she said. “Let me call Chief Hunter while you retrieve the money.”

I opened the safe and extracted the evidence bag containing the hundred bills I had in my possession. By the time I got back, she was off the phone.

“He'll take care of it,” she told me. “When the time comes, you focus on getting wherever you're going safely and let him worry about the media. Just be sure and keep him posted so he'll know which route you'll be taking.” She turned toward the dolls. “What can I do to help?”

“We need to photocopy this money,” I said, pointing, “onto this paper.” I held up the box. “Then trim it neatly. Follow me.”

I led the way to the alcove near Hank's area where the super-duper color photocopier had its own alcove. We used it for weekly tag sale signage, auction flyers we posted around town, and auction catalogue mock-ups. I Windexed the glass, drying it carefully to avoid streaks, then laid out four bills on the glass surface. I ran off a single copy, then placed it in the paper drawer upside down. I turned over the currency, trying to position it so it lined up with the other side.

“Here's hoping the alignment is right,” I said as I pushed the
START
button.

It wasn't even close. The back side of the currency was off by upwards of an eighth of an inch. I tried again, using the copier's built-in ruler as a guide.

“This is better,” I said, “but it's not good enough. Do you see what I mean? The left border is narrower than the right.”

Five tries later, I got it, or at least I got it as close as possible using trial and error.

“In the printing business, they call this a ‘make-ready.'” I held it up. “It's far easier to replicate a single sheet than it is to replicate bits and pieces.” I examined it closely. “Now we can copy the lot. Once they're done, we'll use the paper cutter to separate them one sheet at a time.” I showed her how to line up the paper on the paper cutter so it was perfectly square.

“The secret to clean cuts is to use force,” I said, demonstrating. “If you go too slowly or too lightly, the cutting arm drags through the paper.”

“Got it. I'm pretty handy, so I think I'll be fine.”

Fred joined us as Dawn was inserting the first sheet.

“Any problems?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Nope. All set.”

“Good. You can work with Dawn to cut and trim the bills.”

I repeated Barry's suggestion for how to prepare the bills, watched Dawn cut one sheet with crisp precision, then hurried to the worktable.

I found the European doll whose head we'd detached and tacked it back on. My goal wasn't to achieve stitches of restoration quality; I simply wanted to ensure that the kidnapper wouldn't see anything awry. When I was done I held the doll up and nodded. It would do.