Dolled Up for Murder (30 page)

“Better since I'm talking to you, but still not great. All I want to do is hear about good news things. Or at least not bad news things. Do you have anything mundane you'd like to discuss?”

“Emotionally, you're full up.”

“That's exactly right, Ty. If I were a teacup, I'd be spilling over.”

“So,” Ty said, “did you find those Hawaiian thingies you were looking for?”

*   *   *

After Ty and I had finished our conversation, I sent Martha Landers a brief e-mail.

I struggled to find the right words to express sympathy when I wasn't certain whether she would perceive Ian's death as a loss or a blessing. I settled on a simple message.

Hi Martha,

I can't imagine how you're feeling … I wanted you to know I was thinking of you. If I can do anything, please let me know.

Your friend,

Josie

Wes had sent an e-mail asking me to call him. I deleted it. I checked my voice mail and listened to his two messages. I deleted them, too. I didn't want to talk to him. I wanted to read a chapter or two of my current book, Rex Stout's
Plot It Yourself,
and go to sleep.

Wes called my landline as I was rinsing my martini glass, and I stared at the phone as it rang. I wondered if he was calling with news or for news. If I spoke to him, I'd have to relive the horror, but if I didn't, I might miss out on getting up-to-the-moment information. I needed to quell the chaos more than I needed quiet. I answered the phone.

“You should have called me back,” he said, as usual.

“I just got your messages, Wes. It's been a full day.”

“In spades, huh? You're in the thick of it, that's for sure.”

“I just found the corpse, Wes,” I protested. “I'm not in the thick of anything.”

“Did you get any photos?” he asked.

“Of course not!”

“I don't mean of the body, although that would have been rad. I mean of anything, like the police showing up and doing stuff.”

“No,” I said. “No photos.”

He sighed. “So why were you meeting Ian?”

“Is that why you called? To get me to tell you what happened?”

“Of course—but I also have a major league info-bomb.”

“What?”

“You first.”

“Ian said he'd tell me about the diary.”

“Why was he willing to talk to you about it? He wouldn't tell me squat.”

“I've been hired to appraise Alice's household goods. The more I know about the diary, its size, color, and so on, the more likely I am to find it. He wanted it located, so he agreed to meet me.”

“If he wanted the diary to get to the police, it must be loaded with dirt. The question is, dirt on whom? Do you think he was killed to stop him from telling you?”

“Killed? What are you saying, Wes? I thought he killed himself. The police told me the entry wound was at the right angle for a self-inflicted wound.”

“Yeah, that's what I hear, too. I was just asking.”

“So what's your info-bomb?” I asked, wincing as I repeated his made-up term.

He chuckled. “It's a doozy! The weapon found next to Ian's body is the same one that was used to kill Alice.”

“You're kidding!”

“Nope,” he said, tickled that I was astonished. “His prints are on it, in all the right places—and no one else's.”

“That's incredible, Wes.” I thought for a moment. “Do you have any info on where he was all day?”

“Yup. He had a long meeting with some Boston lawyers. They've issued a statement saying that due to Alice Michaels's position in Rocky Point society, Ian was concerned he wouldn't be able to find an impartial lawyer. Which may be true, no matter what anybody says. Anyway, he was at the law firm from ten to one. Then he went to a coffee shop around the corner and had a sandwich. He charged it so they know the exact time he left—one forty-five. If you figure it took him fifteen minutes to get to his car and he headed straight back to Rocky Point, he'd have gotten here between three thirty and four. But … hold on to to your umbrella … there's more … according to Ian's cell phone record, someone called him from a disposable unit—a unit the police haven't run into before—at ten fifteen, twelve fifty, and three forty. The first two calls were only a few seconds long. The last one took five minutes.”

“So while Ian was with his lawyer, the calls went to voice mail, and whoever was calling didn't leave a message. Afterward, when the call came in, he answered the phone.”

“Exactly. I'm thinking that he was already at Fenter Lane when he took the call. Whoever he spoke to told him something so upsetting, he killed himself then and there.”

“When did he die?” I asked. “Do they know yet?”

“The preliminary report says three to four. They think it's on the later side. They're still analyzing his stomach contents.”

“So the timing works.” I paused. “What could the caller possibly have told him?”

“What do you think?”

I stared out the kitchen window into the blackness. I knew there was a meadow there, and woods beyond, but all I saw was nothingness.

“That he knew Ian had killed Alice,” I said.

“Good one, Josie! That would explain everything! Ian murdered Alice because from where he sat, and it looks like he was right, Alice stole his money and then dumped him. Ian offered her a deal—repay me and I'll keep quiet about your Ponzi scheme. She wouldn't—or couldn't—repay him, so boom, he killed her. He felt righteous. Then someone starts in after him. He can't stand the thought of prison, so he folds.”

“You're making a boatload of assumptions, Wes. Who started after him? Why?”

“That's what we have to find out.” Wes said, exhilarated. “The police aren't stopping there, though. They're busy checking alibis, too. They're not ready to write it off as suicide, not by a long shot. So far, nobody's clear. Lenny and Randall both made bail by noon. Lenny says he was at home, but he lives in Greenland with no near neighbors. His wife was at her mother's, and his kids were doing after-school stuff. He didn't make any calls or anything, so essentially, he has no alibi. Randall picked up his daughter from school and took her to her ballet class. Then he ran a few errands, which covers the entire window of time we're looking at, but there are gaps. Theoretically at least, he could have made all the stops he says he did, gotten to Fenter Lane, and still picked up his daughter on time. He says that just because he shopped at a leisurely pace, that doesn't mean he's a murderer, that he wasn't in any hurry since he was just killing time until his daughter's class was over, at five. The police haven't found anything to contradict his story. No one remembers seeing him. There aren't any security cameras in the stores he visited. He paid cash for everything and kept no receipts, but who does for a small container of threepenny nails and a jug of laundry detergent, right? He can't recall exactly when he was where, so for all intents and purposes, he's open, too.”

“What about Darleen?”

“At a salon getting stuff done to her hair and face. She's covered.”

She could still be the brains behind everything,
I thought,
issuing the orders while staying out of sight
.

“What about the gun?” I asked.

“Stolen from a gun shop in Los Angeles two years ago. It hasn't been associated with any crimes.”

“So what you're saying is that so far as is known, Lenny and Randall
could
be involved, but there's no reason to think it's
not
suicide.” I thought for a moment, then asked, “In your gut, Wes … do you really think Ian killed himself? Do you really think he's a killer?”

“Maybe … why not? Things are usually just what they appear to be.”

“Except when they're not.”

*   *   *

I woke up the next morning, Friday, with a fully developed idea on how to find out if Alice's diary was pivotal to what was going on. It was six fifty. I reached for the phone to call Ellis, but as I dialed, I realized it would be far easier to explain in person than it would be on the phone, so I hung up and padded to the window to see if his SUV was parked in Zoë's driveway. It wasn't.

I dialed his cell phone and counted rings. I got to six before he answered, sounding groggy.

“It's Josie. I woke you up. I'm really sorry.”

“I'm not awake yet. Keep trying.”

“I have an idea.”

“Shoot,” he said.

I told him my thinking, and when I was finished, he said, “Congratulations … you did it. I'm awake.”

*   *   *

I awakened Wes, too.

“I have an on-the-record statement to make,” I said. “If you hurry, you can scoop everyone and get yourself on the morning news.”

“Let me grab my pencil … okay … I'm ready.”

“Ask me the status of our appraisal of Alice's household goods.”

“What's the status of your appraisal of Alice's household goods?” he asked.

“Prescott's has finished our initial inventory of Alice Michaels's household goods. I know her company's former investors are interested in how much money is likely to be raised from their sale. It appears that besides her home, her doll collection was her most valuable possession. At first glance, we didn't find any other antiques, but we didn't expect to. We'll know more once we begin our on-site examination, which will happen later today.”

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Don't you want to know our role in finding the diary?”

“What about the diary?” Wes asked. “Have you found any hint that it might be somewhere in her house?”

“No, but there are scores of places she could have hidden it.”

“Like where?”

“I'll give you one of many possible examples. There's a wall of business books in Alice's home office. We need to examine each one to see if it's really a business book, or if Alice used a business book jacket to disguise her diary, or perhaps if she placed the diary inside a fake book.”

“Interesting idea,” Wes said. “Going back to something you said a minute ago—why didn't you expect to find any antiques?”

I smiled. Wes had just asked one of the two important questions I needed him to highlight in his article, and he'd done it without prompting. “Ms. Michaels's house isn't alarmed, and in our experience, when homeowners have valuables in their houses, they install some sort of a security system.”

“What about the dolls?”

“Dolls aren't attractive to thieves; they're too delicate to transport and too hard to sell. Plus, they were displayed in a locked cabinet. As an aside, they're no longer at her house. We have them secure at Prescott's.”

“What's your next step?” he asked.

I smiled again. There was question two. “We've already made a video of her possessions. We'll spend the morning reviewing it to prioritize where we should search for the diary. We'll begin that phase of our work this afternoon.”

*   *   *

Cara arrived about quarter to eight, more than an hour earlier than her regular start time, a platter of gingersnaps in hand.

“I wanted to be here when Eric arrived,” she said, smiling.

Eric's start time was eight.

“Me, too,” I said.

So, it seemed, did everyone, even Fred. Gretchen and Sasha arrived about five of eight, followed closely by Fred.

“Wow!” I exclaimed in mock amazement. “Look what the wind blew in!”

“Getting ready for bed, Fred?” Gretchen asked, giggling.

“Just because none of you has ever seen me up and about this early before doesn't mean it can't be true.”

I smiled broadly. “You seem so … I don't know … what's the word … oh, I know! Awake.”

“That part's an illusion,” Fred said. “All you can say for sure is that I'm vertical.”

Gretchen giggled again and said, “I'm going to get Hank. He wouldn't want to miss seeing Eric.”

She pushed into the warehouse as Fred said, “So what do you say, Cara? Can I try one of the new batch?”

“Not until Eric has some.”

“You're being unreasonably cruel to a vulnerable man!” he said.

“I know,” she said, smiling. “It bothers me a lot.”

“Did you find anything worthy of remark at Alice's?” I asked as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“No. It's all nice enough stuff, but nothing special.”

Gretchen returned with a sleepy-eyed Hank in tow, cradling him like a baby. His head rested on her shoulder. One paw was wrapped around her upper arm.

“PTK,” I said, reaching for him, using Prescott's shorthand for “Pass the kitty.” She handed him over, and I gave him a little hug and kissed the top of his head. “Good boy, Hank.”

Eric walked in, setting the chimes jangling.

“Yay!” I said.

Gretchen shouted, “Yay!” and her arms shot up, forming a wide V. She began her happy dance, a high-energy performance filled with high jumps, low kicks, sideswiping hand motions, and bouncing spins, circling him and saying “Yippee!” over and over again.

Eric looked the same. His color was good, his eyes were bright, and his demeanor was as reserved as ever. He looked pleased and embarrassed and awkward all at once. I plunked down at the guest table, Hank still in my arms, and rubbed his little tufty ears as I watched the fun.

Eric told us he was fine, really, fine as he ate half a dozen cookies in quick succession and drank about a quart of sweet iced tea.

As the excitement began to fade, I stood up, placed Hank on the floor, and said, “All right, everyone. Let's give Eric some breathing room.”

Eric looked troubled as he leaned over and gave Hank a pat. “Do you have a minute?” he asked me.