Dolled Up for Murder (5 page)

I dashed up the stairs to call Ty at his weeklong strategy session in D.C., and I got lucky. Ty, a training manager for Homeland Security, was between meetings.

“I wish I could blink my eyes and be there for you,” he said after I filled him in. “The way things are going, I won't be home until Friday—I'd hoped we'd be done by Thursday, but no such luck. Will you be okay? All you have to do is say the word and I'm outta here.”

“You're so wonderful, Ty … but I'm fine. I need to give my statement down at the station. Then I'm going home. God, I want a hot bath.”

“You can't wash away what you saw.”

“You're right, but it will help. It always does. I'm supposed to have dinner at Zoë's. That will help, too.”

“I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you, Josie.” His tone was low and urgent.

Tears sprang to my eyes. “Ditto. I love you, Ty.”

“I love you, too, Josie. I'll call you later.”

I decided to call Eric en route to the police station and was halfway down the spiral stairs when Cara's voice crackled over the intercom.

“Josie,” she said, “Wes Smith on line one.”

I considered ignoring his call, then thought better of it and trudged back to my desk. I knew what Wes wanted—information. I also knew that if I didn't give him some now, he wouldn't give me any later, and I knew that once the initial shock of witnessing Alice's murder had passed, I'd want as much as he would give me. Someone had killed a woman, a client, a friend, in my parking lot. My panicky upset had already begun to morph into simmering anger. Just below the still-roiling terror and horror lurked a more primal emotion—rage. No way was it okay to shoot someone on my property and get away with it. Wes, I knew, was part terrier and part bloodhound. I was amazed, and sometimes alarmed, at the facts he could dig up and the lies he could sniff out. It was a reasonable guess that he already had information to share.

CHAPTER FOUR

“What did you see?” Wes asked, skipping hello, like always.

“I'm fine. Thanks for asking, Wes.”

“I know you're fine, Josie. I picked that much up from my police scanner. So what did you see?”

“Nothing,” I said, closing my eyes against the memories. I didn't want to revisit Alice's befuddled expression or remember how the patches of blood had blossomed across her chest.

“Josie!” he whined. “You had to see something!”

“I saw her shot, Wes. I didn't see who did it.”

“Did you look?”

“Of course I looked!”

“And?” he prodded.

“What have you found out so far?” I asked, using a technique I'd learned from him years earlier: If you don't want to answer a question, ask one instead.

“The police say she was at your place to buy some dolls. What kind?”

“I'll tell you,” I said, aware that Wes was using his gift as a reporter to draw me out, “but first you need to promise not to quote me.”

“Josie!” he protested, sounding shocked.

“It's our usual arrangement, Wes. Take it or leave it.”

Wes sighed, and I knew he hoped to convey his deep disappointment in having to agree to my patently unreasonable terms. I didn't comment.

“Okay,” he said, stretching out the word to communicate his begrudging acceptance.

“The dolls are old, but not special.”

“How much are they worth?”

“I'm guesstimating somewhere around fifty thousand dollars, but I don't know for sure. We haven't appraised them yet.”

“Fifty big ones … for dolls?”

“That's not a lot of money for rare dolls. Alice's own collection is worth much more, around four hundred thousand.”

Wes low-whistled. “Yowzi.”

“So who inherits Alice's estate?”

“Why? What do you know?” he countered.

“Nothing. Just that she had some personal assets. Like her house, which is on the ocean.” I swiveled to face my window. “It occurred to me that maybe her murder has nothing to do with the Ponzi scheme thing, that's all.”

“Gotcha. Once we know who inherits, we can check his or her alibi and go from there. Good one, Josie!”

“It's so awful, Wes.”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding as if he were champing at the bit. “I'll check it out. What else?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Or rather, nothing in particular. I shouldn't think there'll be a shortage of suspects, not when everyone seems so angry at her.”

“Like who?”

“Like everyone you wrote about today.”

“You mean Ian and Lenny. Who else?”

“All her other clients, I guess.”

“The police think so, too. They're going to use the same forensic accountant for the murder investigation that the attorney general used for the fraud case.” Wes paused for a moment. “Back to the shooting itself—how did Alice react once the bullets started flying?”

“She froze and looked confused, as if she couldn't understand what was happening. I yelled for her to duck, but she didn't. She just stood there.”

“Juicy image, Josie. Thanks. What did you think of her? What was she like?”

I sighed and shook my head.
Juicy,
I thought. “She was direct, with a kind of sharp edge, and witty. Also, she was quick. Quick-talking. Quick-walking. Quick to get what you were saying. Quick to react. I liked her, Wes, but she wasn't warm and fuzzy, if you know what I mean. If you were sick, she'd be more likely to tell you to stop whining and get out of bed than she would be to make you chicken soup.”

“She sounds like a hard-ass.”

“That's about right,” I said, “but she was also funny and generous. You know how many charities she supported.”

“So which was she mostly, good or bad?”

“You can't simplify people like that, Wes. They're too complicated.”

Wes sighed again, signaling his impatience. “This is just between us, Josie. I won't quote you. Was she a good egg or a rotten one?”

I thought it over. “Good,” I said. “I don't think she was a paragon, but no way was she rotten.”

“You've been wrong about people before, Josie. Lots of times.”

I swallowed hard. Wes was right. I wasn't infallible. Still, I was way better at summing up personalities and character flaws than most people. In my business, I had to be.

“Let me know when you find out who inherits, okay?” I asked, skipping a response that would only sound defensive.

Wes promised he would. “Catch ya later!” he said and hung up.

My neck and shoulder muscles had been so tense for so long, they felt like twisted bands of steel. I watched the maple leaves shimmy in the breeze and raised, then lowered my shoulders in a futile effort to ease the stiffness. I wished I could skip going to the police station, but I knew I couldn't. I had to call Eric, too.
Might as well get it over with,
I told myself and dialed his cell phone.

He answered on the second ring. It was four thirty-seven.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Good. The dolls and tools are packed. I'm finishing up the glassware now.”

“You've made great time,” I said. I took a deep breath and jumped in. “Something's happened, Eric. I need to tell you about it.” I kept my tone neutral and stuck to the facts as I reported Alice's murder and repeated my admonition about talking to the police and the press. He didn't respond. I could hear him breathing. I waited several seconds. “Are you okay, Eric?”

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

“It depends on how you feel. Prescott's is officially closed. Some people find that getting away on their own helps them process tragedies like this. Other people prefer to work. Which means that if you want to continue packing up the glassware, that's fine. If you'd rather wait until tomorrow or even the next day to finish up, that's fine, too.”

“I'll stay and work,” he said without hesitating even for a second.

“Are you sure? You don't have to.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I'm going to be leaving now. I don't know if anyone will be here when you get back. I expect I'll be in tomorrow, but maybe not. If you decide to take the day off, just let me know.”

“Sure,” he said. “If I'm the last one there, I'll make sure Hank is all squared away for the night.”

What a great guy he is,
I thought as I hung up the phone. What you see is what you get, and what you see is an uncomplicated, hardworking, all-around stand-up guy. I sighed, wishing everything in life were as simple to understand.

Downstairs, I made a beeline for Hank's area. He was curled up in his basket, asleep. I squatted beside him and stroked under his chin, his favorite place to be rubbed. Second favorite was his tummy.

“Hank,” I cooed, “you're such a good boy. Are you a good boy, Hank? Yes, you are. What a good boy.”

Hank's fur was mostly silver with charcoal and apricot highlights. His vet called the color chinchilla. Hank had lived at Prescott's for just over a year now, ever since Gretchen had spotted him wandering around outside. We hadn't been able to find his owner, so we'd adopted him. It had taken him about a minute to settle in. It had taken me about two minutes to fall in love with him.

“I'm leaving a little early, Hank. I'll see you tomorrow … okay?”

He turned his head just enough to lick my hand. His eyes stayed closed. I stood up, and he settled back in, curling into a perfect comma.

I took a deep breath, getting ready to face the police presence outside, wondering how long it would take Wes to get the skinny on Alice's will.

*   *   *

The Rocky Point police station was located on Ocean Avenue, across from the beach. It had been designed to match the prevailing architectural style in the affluent New Hampshire seacoast town and looked more like a cottage than a police station, with shingles weathered to a soft dove gray and trim painted a muted Colonial blue.

Ian Landers stood in the lobby staring at the bulletin board where notices about church suppers vied for space with top-ten wanted lists. Even from the back, he looked as if he were fuming. He was tall and broad, and his shoulders were hunched forward in a fighter's stance. His arms hung by his sides, his fingers curled into half-fists, and his legs were spread just right for springing. He turned at the sound of the door latching shut. His eyes were ice blue and as cold as a glacier.

“Josie Prescott,” he said, sneering, his tone daring me to deny it.

I fought the urge to look away, to move away. “And you're Ian Landers,” I said, keeping my voice even.

“Alice Michaels died at your place.”

“In the parking lot, yes.”

“I wish I could have been there to watch.”

I stared at him, unable to think of what to say.

“The police think I killed her,” he continued. “I wish I'd thought of it.”

Ellis stepped out of his office, and from his expression I could tell he'd overheard Ian's last comment and wasn't impressed. Ellis shut the door behind him with a snap and took several steps toward Ian, moving in too close for most people's comfort, challenging his dominance and independence. Ian took a step toward Ellis, signaling that there was no way he was backing down. Even though their interaction was nowhere near me, I stepped back instinctively as I looked from one to the other. I could feel the crackle of male energy in the room.

“What can I do for you, Chief?” Ian asked, using the same tone for the word “chief” that I might use for “cockroach.”

“Follow me, Landers,” Ellis said, his voice frigid. He turned to me, and as if he were an actor switching scenes, he was a different man. Instead of looking at me with the stony eyes and severe expression he was showing Ian, he smiled. “Thanks for coming in, Josie. We'll be right with you.”

I watched as Ellis led Ian down the hallway that led to Interrogation Room One. Ian's strut communicated that he felt both cocky and unperturbed.

“Josie?” a female voice called. I looked around. Detective Claire Brownley stood on the other side of the lobby. She smiled at me. “Come this way.” As we walked, she added, “Chief Hunter wanted me to let you know this is simply a formality. You should be done in no time.”

“Thank you,” I said. I glanced back over my shoulder, but Ellis and Ian had turned the corner.
I'd love to be a fly on that wall,
I thought.

Detective Brownley was right. Forty minutes after she led me to Interrogation Room Three, she escorted me back to the lobby. I hadn't been able to add anything to my original story, and she didn't push too hard to try to make me.

As we passed Interrogation Room Two, I glanced in the long, skinny window fitted into the wall to the right of the door. The venetian blind slats were open, and I recognized Lenny Einsohn, Alice's recently fired chief operating officer. His brow was furrowed; he was biting his lower lip; his shoulders drooped; overall, he looked as if he were about to cry. I slowed down. A video camera was aimed at his face, the tiny red light indicating his statement was being recorded. I couldn't see who was conducting the interview. The last thing I noticed as I walked past was him shaking his head; no, no, no, he seemed to be saying. You have it wrong. No, no, no.

“Thanks again, Josie,” Detective Brownley said when we reached the lobby.

“Glad to help,” I replied, eager to be gone.

I felt myself relax, just a bit, as she disappeared down the hallway. The two Farmington sisters, Lorna and Jamie, sat close together on an oak bench that ran the length of one wall. Jamie, the older of the two, was about thirty. She was somewhat taller than me, with big bones and a sturdy build. Lorna, about twenty-five, was about the same height but slimmer. Lorna's eyes were red and puffy, and I wondered if she'd been crying about Alice, and if so, why.