Dolled Up for Murder (29 page)

I raised my right hand, fingers crossed, then glanced at the wall clock. It was after three. I needed to hurry.

“Fred and I are going to head over to Alice's now and get started recording everything,” I said, starting to rush back up the center aisle. Then, changing my mind, I veered to the right.

I wanted to say hello to Hank. As I passed the rows of angled shelving filled with antiques and collectibles and the roped-off sections containing consigned goods or objects under review, the niggling feeling that I was missing something continued to taunt me.

“I don't know,” I said aloud, frustrated. “So close, and yet so far away.”

Hank was curled in his basket, asleep, his right front leg draped over the edge, as if he'd started to get up but hadn't quite been able to make it before a nap took him away. I sat down next to him and petted him gently so I wouldn't wake him, and he began purring in his sleep.

“What is it, Hank?” I whispered. “What did I see or hear?”

He didn't even wiggle.

“I know the kidnapper is someone who's both a risk taker and methodical. He's someone who knew how to get fake IDs. He has enough cash on hand to buy three used cars. What else? He was after the currency. He knew that Selma Farmington had Union currency and that she stashed the money in her Chatty Cathy dolls. He didn't know that someone had already stolen some of it from Selma and replaced it with counterfeit. Hmmm … that might exclude Randall, don't you think, Hank? I just don't know, Hank. What a good boy you are, that's right … You're
such
a good boy. I still think it might be Ian, don't you, Hank?”

He stretched and turned his head to lick my hand, four sandpaper licks, then repositioned himself into a tight little ball.

“You don't know any more than I do, do you, Hank? Never mind … you're a good boy. A very good boy.” I stood up. “Sleep tight, baby boy. You're a good friend, too, Hank. Just being able to sit here for a few minutes and talk to you … well, thank you, sweet boy.”

*   *   *

Alice Michaels had lived in a twelve-room Colonial on the ocean. Old stone walls marked the property line, and woods of scrub oak, pine, and sycamore blocked the ocean view from the street and flanked each side of the property, providing Alice, and her neighbors, privacy. Across the street, on the inland side of Ocean Avenue, a half acre of woods completed the panorama. The property was as private as anything I'd seen along the shore. The closest side streets were Astor Road, the cut-through from Main Street that Fred and I were on, and the more distant Raleigh Way.

Fred and I took separate cars and parked at the end of the long, winding driveway. We entered through the side door, and I stood and looked around as Fred unpacked the video camera. We were in the mudroom. I lifted the lid of a wooden bench positioned along an outside wall. Four pairs of boots of various styles and colors stood next to one another. They were all size seven, and presumably they were all Alice's. Across the small room coats hung on hooks. Cabinets revealed piles of hats and scarves and mittens and gloves.

“Ready?” I asked Fred.

“Ready,” he said, and I unlocked the kitchen door.

Prescott's appraisal protocol requires that we create an annotated video recording before we begin appraising individual objects. I planned on a quick walk-through just to see if anything stood out as special, leaving Fred to do the actual recording. Fred decided to begin in the basement and work his way up.

“I think I'll head upstairs first,” I said.

The attic was accessed by a door in a small bedroom at the rear of the second floor. I climbed the narrow staircase and found an unfinished, unused space. A single low-watt lightbulb dangled high overhead. The space was gloomy and stuffy.

I walked to a small south-facing window and took in the beach view. A woman was power-walking on the soft sand, her auburn hair streaming behind her. The water was choppy and nearly black. The storm was blowing closer.

By the time I'd returned to the main floor, it was clear that Alice's taste ran to British Colonial. The furnishings appeared to be modern reproductions and of good quality, but there was nothing that stood out as noteworthy. Her furniture was a mix of heavy, dark wood and rattan. The only custom piece was an empty display case, where, I presumed, Alice's doll collection had been housed. The key was in the lock. Two rooms on the upper floor were wallpapered, one with a grass-textured paper, the other with a pattern featuring monkeys and coconut palms. The rest of the rooms were painted in neutral tones, taupe and sand and straw. The artwork was also reproductions. The Queen Anne doll would go a long way to reimbursing investors, but based on my quick once-over, I didn't see anything else that would contribute much to the cause. I saw lots of places where a diary could be stored, desks and bedside tables and bureaus, but I didn't bother opening any of them. If Alice had kept her diary where it was easy to find, the police would have already found it.

A room on the ground floor that Alice had obviously used as an office was stripped nearly to the bones. The desk drawers were open and empty. Phone and fax machine cords lay across the desk, but the units themselves were missing. A wireless router sat on a bookshelf, but there was no computer. A mahogany file cabinet was barren. I scanned the book titles that filled the shelves. They were all contemporary and business oriented: investor guides, industry analyses, and economic reports, that sort of thing. There was nothing that appeared to be a diary, but I supposed it could be secreted in a hollowed-out book, which would, as I thought of it, be a great way to hide it in plain sight. We'd need to examine each book individually.

I found Fred recording the contents of the kitchen pantry.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“No,” he said, lowering the camera. “No antiques at all.” Fred didn't wrinkle his nose, but from his tone, he might as well have.

I nodded. “All right, then. I'm going to take off. If you find a diary or a journal or anything that could serve as a diary, like a notebook or something, let me know right away, okay?” I handed him the keys and the letter of authorization. “Don't feel obliged to do everything today. We can finish up tomorrow.”

“I'll see how it goes.”

I told him good-bye and left, pausing on the wraparound porch to enjoy the view. Whitecaps swirled close to shore, and the tall grasses near the house lay nearly sideways in the now-strong breeze. The sun was still out toward the west, but looking east, the cloud cover was thick.

*   *   *

When I pulled to a stop at the end of Fenter Lane, right on time, Ian was nowhere in sight. I parked by the side of a rusted corrugated Dumpster large enough to hold a car and looked around. The packed dirt road was pitted with potholes. Thick tangles of weeds grew along the sides. A decrepit one-story building stood to the north situated on a low rise. The windows were boarded up, and a sign, its paint cracked and peeling, swung from a broken chain. I squinted to make out the words. It read
KAT'S BODY SHOP.
The wind had died down, and the sun was trying hard to poke through the clouds. The dark green water on North Mill Pond was glassy. Pussy willows, cattails, vines, and thorny bushes grew in wild abandon around the perimeter. Three ducks dipped their opalescent teal heads into the water, then swam past in perfect alignment, as if they were part of a synchronized swim team. I leaned against my car and watched them frolic.

I checked the time on my cell phone and was surprised to see it was ten after four. I thought I'd only been watching the ducks for a minute or two. I decided to wait until twenty after, then call him. At twenty-two after four, I left him a cheery I'm-here-where-are-you message. At four thirty, I decided to leave.

Rather than try to turn around in the narrow lane, I pulled up Kat's packed dirt and gravel driveway. I was about to back out when I noticed a reflection—the now-bright sun was bouncing off something white. I drove in another ten feet.

Ian's SUV was parked at an angle, as if he'd driven up the driveway intending to parallel park behind Kat's but had messed up. I left my car idling in park and stepped out.

I was standing on a slight rise, maybe fifty feet above the pond, in a cleared dirt area, roughly rectangular in shape, about a hundred feet square. A couple of wooden horses stood off to one side amid a thick knot of weeds. A rake rested on a patch of crabgrass. A green plastic chair, with all but one of its back slats missing, sat next to a heap of old tires. I looked down toward the pond. The ducks were nowhere to be seen. A gray rabbit ran across the dusty road and disappeared into the brush.

I approached the SUV gingerly, worried about what I might see. I cupped my eyes and peered inside. The keys were in the ignition. The car was empty. I frowned and walked toward the hood. I saw a shoe.

“Oh, God,” I said. “No.”

I took a step and then another. The shoe was of cordovan leather, a man's loafer. Slacks came into view, khakis. One more step and I would see the man's face. I closed my eyes and took a breath, then another. I opened my eyes and took the step. It was Ian. He lay on his back, his left arm by his side, his right arm bent, his legs straight, his eyes open, his mouth forming an O, as if he were surprised. A river of blood, glittering in the sun, streamed from his head toward the weeds. A target pistol rested near his right hand. My stomach leapt into my throat, then plummeted. Little gold flecks spun in front of me, and I thought I might faint. I stumbled a few steps away, then ran for my car.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Inside my car with the heat on high and the doors locked, I dialed Ellis's cell. I got his voice mail.

“Ian Landers is dead,” I stated. “His corpse is behind an old body shop, Kat's, on Fenter Lane. A gun is by his hand. I'll call nine-one-one now.”

I repeated the message to the 911 operator, then settled in to wait, the warm air streaming at my face providing a measure of comfort. Twelve minutes later, Ellis's SUV and two Portsmouth police patrol cars roared down the road, their red and blue rooftop lights spinning and their sirens piercing the air. Ellis slammed to a stop halfway up the driveway, in back of my car. I pushed the button to lower my window.

“Are you okay?” Ellis called, stepping out.

“Shaken, but intact.”

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I was supposed to meet Ian at four. I waited until four thirty, then used the driveway to turn around. I saw his car … then a shoe. It's horrible, Ellis, just horrible.”

“Stay here,” he ordered.

I watched him jog to where Griff and Officer Meade stood waiting for instructions. Ellis said something I couldn't hear, and I stopped trying to pay attention. Instead, I raised my window and called Ty.

“Hi,” I told Ty's voice mail. “If my voice sounds all quivery, it's because I'm a mess. I just discovered a dead body. Ian Landers. I think he shot himself. I was supposed to meet him at four. Why would he kill himself, Ty?”

Ellis tapped on the glass, startling me.

“Oh!” I said. “Here's Ellis. I've got to go.”

*   *   *

I sat in Interrogation Room One, a small room with a scarred wooden table and metal straight-back chairs. I'd opted to face the two-way mirror, so my back would be to the human-sized cage. The cage, which Ty had told me was necessary for an occasional unruly guest, unnerved me. A video camera sat on a tripod, the pinprick-sized red dot signaling it was on.

“Do you think Ian killed himself?” Ellis asked.

“I can see it,” I replied. “If he felt things closing in on him, he might have decided he had no choice. Is it definite that it was suicide?”

“Definite is too strong a word. The angle of the entry wound is right, but we're considering all options.”

Which meant nothing. Either Ellis didn't know or he wasn't telling.

*   *   *

Since my meeting with Ian never took place, my statement was mercifully short. I explained that I'd hoped to get a description of Alice's diary and, maybe, information about its contents. I provided a detailed timeline and recounted finding the body. I refused to speculate about what might have happened, and that was that. Ellis thanked me for cooperating and said he'd be in touch. By seven thirty, I was home.

I changed into jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and when Ty called I was mixing a Blue Martini.

“Oh, it's so good to hear your voice!” I said. “What a day.”

“So I gather. First some good news—I'll be home tomorrow by two. I have one meeting, early, then I'm outta here.”

“Yay! I can't tell you how much I've missed you.”

“Me, too. Are you okay?”

“Not really. I'm still all weirded out.”

“Do you have any idea why Ian would have killed himself?” he asked.

“He was an angry man, Ty, sarcastic and mean. It was the kind of anger that's out of proportion to the incident at hand, and maybe even unrelated to whatever was going on. Whatever was driving him, it ran at high velocity. I could see him spinning out of control. Anger outward turning inward, leading to depression and hopelessness.”

“You know that's pure conjecture.”

“Yeah, and I also know that when I try to interpret out-of-whack behaviors, I'm often wrong.”

“Not always. Sometimes you're right.”

“True.” I shifted position, stretching out my legs, resting my heels on the coffee table. “Tell me about your day. I don't want to think about Ian anymore tonight. I want to listen to you talk.”

“I came up with a new exercise,” he said, “and it looks like it'll make the short list.”

I could hear the pride in his voice, and the pleasure. We were two lucky people, and I knew it. Too many people I knew hated their jobs or their bosses or both. Ty and I were the exception, not the rule. After he finished describing his idea, he asked how I was feeling.