“Did you go on vacation?” I asked.
“Sort of. I went to see my grandmother in Florida. She just moved to Boynton Beach, so I went down for a few days to help her settle in.”
“That’s sweet, Wes.”
His cheeks reddened. “Finding a corpse in your tag sale room,” he said, changing the subject, “that must have been a shockeroonie and a half! What did she look like when you found her?”
I closed my eyes, appalled at Wes’s sledgehammer tactics. I knew it wasn’t that Wes didn’t care. It was that bad news sold newspapers.
“She looked dead.”
“Josie!” he whined. “I need details.”
I opened my eyes. Talking to Wes often left me pummeled, and I could feel the assault beginning. I could walk away, but I knew I wouldn’t. Curiosity was my stock-in-trade, but sometimes it felt like a besetting sin.
“You can’t quote me,” I said.
“Josie!”
“Promise, Wes, or I won’t tell you anything,” I said, knowing he’d agree now as he had in the past. He had no choice. I was one of his most important sources, and he knew I knew it. This little dance we did was all for show, reiterating ground rules we both knew by heart. I spoke openly to him, occasionally going on the record, often providing background information and photos, and in return, he answered my questions.
“I promise,” he said, sighing loudly, communicating his frustration.
“She was on her back, her hands by her side.” My voice cracked. I took in a deep breath, then described her skin tone, the twisted scarf, and her expression. “It was awful, Wes. Horrible.”
“Was her clothing ripped? Was there any sign that she fought with her killer?”
“No,” I said, talking quickly, wanting to get it over with. “Her jacket was buttoned properly. Little bits of her burgundy silk blouse showed. Her skirt was brown, to the knee. She wore knee-high brown leather boots. They were zipped up.”
“Good stuff, Josie. Was the skirt rumpled? You know, like someone roughed her up?”
“God, no, Wes!” I exclaimed, appalled at his question. “It was smoothed out.”
“Someone killed her, rolled her under the table, then straightened out her clothes? Doesn’t that strike you as bizarre?”
“Now that you mention it … maybe. It is odd, isn’t it? You’d think the murderer would just want to get away, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah. Why would someone bother?” Wes asked.
I thought about his question. “Because they cared about her and knew how much she cared about clothes and her appearance.”
“Nah. That doesn’t sound likely.”
“Maybe smoothing out her skirt was done without thinking. Perhaps whoever killed her is neat.”
He nodded, pausing for a moment. “Did you hear about Bobby?” he asked.
“No, what about him?” I asked, thinking that Bobby was as much a clotheshorse as Riley had ever been.
“He was at the police station most of the night.”
I swallowed hard. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” Wes chuckled. “From all accounts, when it came to women, he was a busy boy.”
“That’s all gossip, Wes. Riley didn’t believe Bobby was cheating on her.”
“You talked about it with her?” Wes asked, his tone shifting from casual chat to all business. “What did she say?”
I looked out over the ocean as I repeated what I’d told the police, that Riley was more irritated by the gossip reporters than the gossip itself, and that Bobby’s cynical manipulation of the press was, if true, icky.
“Whether Bobby was playing the press or not, didn’t Riley get suspicious when mentions of other women started showing up? I mean, no matter who I talk to, speculation about Bobby and other women—note the plural—comes up.”
“I have no idea, Wes. Can’t you confirm the reports?” I asked, hating to ask but wanting to know.
“I’m working on it. One claim looks pretty damning. According to a waitress at his New York City flagship restaurant, Blue Apple—her name is Tamara Mitchell—she and Bobby had an affair that lasted for months. She said it was really hot, and she has the text messages to prove it. I’m waiting to see them before writing anything.”
“How did you find her?” I asked.
“Tamara had been reading about Ruby for months, but didn’t believe there was anything to it. She told me that when Bobby ended their relationship, he said he wanted to try to make his marriage work, and she believed him. Then yesterday, she saw a TV spot speculating that Bobby and Ruby’s relationship was the real deal, and that Bobby had asked Riley for a divorce, not the other way around. She got completely bent out of shape thinking that Bobby dumped her for Ruby. She couldn’t reach the show’s producer—how stupid are they to keep the producer under wraps? Jeesh! So she called me.”
“What an awful situation! I just hate thinking about it, Wes. I like Bobby!”
“Yeah, everybody does. Maybe Tamara thinking that Bobby was that into her is just her imagination. You know how that goes. Girls can make a romance out of nothing. Like, you say, ‘Hi, how ya doin’?’ and the next thing you know you’re in a relationship.”
“Well, Wes Smith, you hound dog, you. Have you been holding out on me? Who is she?”
“As if,” he said, grinning. “I read a lot, that’s all. So what do you think—is it true about Bobby and Ruby?”
“I have no idea. What do their friends say?” I asked, certain that Wes would have already tracked several of them down.
“Ruby’s friends say no comment, not like I’ve spoken to them, but I’ve spoken to her publicist, who tells me to forget it, that no one knows anything because there’s nothing to know. She says it’s all an attempt to ruin Ruby’s reputation as a wholesome girl next door. I never pictured Ruby that way, but whatever. I mean, I think of her as pretty glamorous, you know? I guess girls next door can be glamorous, why not? Anyway, until Bobby started trying to build his man-about-town rep, he and Riley were a pretty private couple, especially considering how rich and famous they were. I mean, they aren’t members of any clubs. Bobby doesn’t hang out with his former Olympic buddies. They didn’t do things with their neighbors. It’s not like they were recluses or anything, just they didn’t socialize much. Mostly, they worked. Riley was pretty involved in local charities—she was on the New England Museum of Design board of directors, for instance. I spoke to one of Riley’s oldest friends, Becka Dowling, and Bobby’s bookkeeper, Kenna Duffy. You know them both from your workshop, right?”
“Yes. What did they say?”
“Becka insists it’s all hype, that Bobby was as devoted to Riley as Riley was to him. Kenna says she’s been hearing rumors about Bobby and other women for years, but she’s never seen Bobby cross the line with anyone, including herself.”
“Let’s hope that’s the truth of the matter.”
“While I’m waiting for Tamara to talk to her lawyer about whether it’s okay to show me Bobby’s text messages, I’m checking phone records. By the way, I think Tamara is lying when she says she’s checking with her lawyer to make sure she’s not breaking any laws in turning over the texts. I think she’s sending out feelers hoping to sell her story to a junky tabloid instead of giving it to a bona fide journalist for free.” He shrugged. “By looking at the phone records, I’ll be able to track how often Bobby and Ruby speak, although if they’re friends, you know, innocent friends, they still might call each other a lot. I’m going to talk to everyone who works at the Blue Dolphin, too, not just Kenna. Can you think of anything else I should check or anyone else I should talk to?”
“No. I’m pleased to report that I have no idea how one confirms or disproves rumors about sex,” I said. “So what’s your ‘info bomb’?” I grimaced as I quoted his colorful word choice. Wes had a communication style all his own.
His eyes were gleaming. “Bobby’s infidelities—if there are any—might have had nothing to do with Riley’s murder. It�
��s possible that she was killed over money. You know that Riley inherited a fortune, right?”
“Sure, from her grandfather,” I said, thinking how much I loved Marshall’s chicken noodle soup.
“You know she was an investor in the Blue restaurants?”
“Yes.”
“It seems that Riley sent an e-mail from her BlackBerry to Quinn Steiner, her financial adviser, asking him to audit the Blue restaurant chain’s finances. That was around noon on the day she died. If Quinn looked into things right away and found problems, and if Riley confronted Bobby, there you go. Motive up the kazoo.”
“What kind of problems?” I asked.
“According to my police source, she used the term ‘financial improprieties’ in the e-mail. She asked Quinn to check out whether Bobby was padding expenses to make profits look smaller and transferring money overseas to hide assets. Details are sketchy, but I gather that Riley thought Bobby might have been trying to rook his chief investor—herself.”
“Wow—this sounds very serious, Wes. Does Kenna know anything about it?”
“She says she doesn’t. She also says that she didn’t do anything illegal, period, and if Bobby did, she doesn’t know anything about it. Do you think she might have been involved? What do you know about her?”
“Kenna? I can’t imagine her doing anything even a little shady. She’s a peach, Wes. Very sweet. During our first class when I was talking about frauds and knockoffs and how hard it can be to tell the real McCoy from a fake, she was shocked.”
“You mean, she’s gullible, so if Bobby told her to send money to some account somewhere, it wouldn’t occur to her to question it?”
“No, not exactly. I think you’re right in how she’d react to instructions, but wrong to label her as gullible. I think she’s very literal. She takes things at face value. She trusts easily. Let me give you an example. One of the other students, Marlee, told this story about how stupid she felt after she bought a bag she was told was a Prada from one of those online auction sites for twenty dollars. Turns out it was a phony, no surprise. Prada bags start in the hundreds and go up from there into the thousands. To Marlee, it was a learning experience, but Kenna had a different take on it. Marlee asked herself how she could have been such an easy mark. Kenna was upset on Marlee’s behalf. She said it’s not your fault, how could you possibly have known, and so on. I thought it was an interesting exchange, and revealing. Marlee took it as a lesson to smarten up. Kenna took it like a victim.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Let me make a note.” He extracted a smudged, much-used piece of lined paper from an inside pocket and jotted something down. When he was done, he added, “Chief Hunter’s talking to the Portsmouth Police, too, to see if they know anything.”
“How come?” I asked.
“Part professional courtesy, I guess, because Bobby’s business is in Portsmouth, and part hoping to pick up some scuttlebutt. From what I heard, he didn’t.” He slipped the paper back in his pocket. “On a new subject, I know the tech guys spent hours at your place, and that Chief Hunter talked to your staff this morning. Did you get any hints about what the police are thinking?”
“No,” I said, awed yet again at the depth and breadth of Wes’s contacts. From police and bankers to clerks at utilities and credit bureaus, Wes found ways to stay abreast of investigations and access private data. He seemed to have his fingers in everyone’s pies.
“Anything else for me?” he asked.
“No.”
“Okay, then. See ya!” he said.
I stayed on the dune and watched Wes hustle toward the street, then turned back to face the ocean. As I reviewed Wes’s observations about Bobby and other women and what Riley had deemed “financial improprieties,” I barely noticed the frothy tide and glittering sun-specks. Bobby, it seemed, didn’t just have one motive to kill Riley. He had two.
CHAPTER SIX
When I got back to Prescott’s, Gretchen was behind her desk. She reported that Detective Brownley had shown her photos of an array of cars, but she hadn’t recognized any of them as the one she’d seen leaving the parking lot, and that Hale Alarms would begin the security audit within the next few days. I thanked her and asked her to work with Eric to get him a helper.
“He needs someone right away, so call the temp agency, okay? Then let’s figure out where his time is going so we can design a permanent part- or full-time position if we need to.”
“I’ll get right on it,” she said.
I went to peek into the tag sale room. The technicians were gone, but the police seal was intact. My stomach clenched at the sight of the yellow and black tape, and I stood for several seconds, trying to picture what the scientists might have found. Fingerprints, maybe. Fibers. Hair. I shook my head. It was useless. Hundreds of people were in and out of the room every week. We kept it clean, but we didn’t sterilize it. I went back to the office and asked Cara when they’d left.
“About fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “They said that they might be back later and reminded me that none of us was to enter the room until they said it was all right.”
I nodded and announced that I’d decided to cancel this week’s tag sale. I asked Cara to call the part-timers scheduled to work the event and change our regular recurring newspaper ad to one offering our condolences to Riley’s family. I asked Gretchen to send a media release to the Seacoast Star and the area’s TV and radio stations. We talked for a while about the wording, finally deciding to keep it informational and matter-of-fact, and not to mention Riley at all.
“Speaking of the media,” I said, “Cara, would you ask Eric to come into the office? I want to talk to all of you.”
When Eric arrived, he looked like a schoolboy who’d been called to the principal’s office. Naturally self-effacing, Eric always presumed he was guilty of something until he was proven innocent. I smiled to reassure him.
“May I have your attention for a minute?” I called to the room.
Sasha looked worried and began twirling a strand of her mud-brown hair. Gretchen seemed keyed up, hoping I was about to make a major announcement. She wasn’t the least bit ghoulish, but she sure loved the drama of crises. Ava was rubbing her neck through her turtleneck sweater as if her muscles were knotted and she was trying to ease the tension. Cara was frowning a little, braced for bad news. Fred was leaning back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, watchful and relaxed. Only Hank was oblivious. He lay on his tummy on a guest chair, half hanging off the cushion, fast asleep.
“I know that you’re all as sick about what happened as I am,” I said. “Riley was a wonderful woman, a valued customer, and a good friend. We are, of course, cooperating fully with the police. It is up to you whether you talk to the press or not. If you decide to do so, please make it clear that you’re speaking only for yourself, not Prescott’s.” I paused to look at them, to ensure they got the message that I was serious. “Everyone reacts to stress differently, just as everyone grieves differently. If you need time off, take it. For me, it’s important to keep working. Any questions?”
No one had any. Gretchen shook her head. So did Cara, then Ava. No one spoke.
“So Fred, if you’re okay with carrying on, I’d love to hear what you learned about the Le Petit Echo de la Mode magazine covers.”
Gretchen filled Eric in about our plans to cancel the tag sale.
“Your timing’s perfect,” Fred said to me. “I was just about to tell Sasha and Ava about Dr. Walker and the magazines.”
We’d found 147 magazine covers mixed in with Lana’s shop’s vintage clothing inventory, all from the French magazine Le Petit Echo de la Mode, which in English means “a small review of fashion.” All were from the first half of the twentieth century, and I had high hopes that the magazines were a real find.
I swung a guest chair around so I could join their conversation. The scraping sound woke Hank up, and he stretched.
“Sorry, baby,” I said, reaching over to give him a little bottom pat. He y
awned and curled onto his side, slipping back into sleep.
“Dr. Walker is a curator at the New England Museum of Design,” Fred explained to Ava. “He’s one of the consultants we call about anything to do with vintage clothing, textiles, and costume design.” Fred turned toward me. “From what he said when I met with him, I gathered he was a pretty big Riley Jordan fan. He sent you his regards.”
I nodded at Fred, acknowledging the message, but I didn’t reply. I didn’t want to talk about Riley anymore, not now. I didn’t want to sink back into melancholy.
“So,” I said, forcing myself to smile, “are the magazine covers genuine?”
“Yes,” he said dismissively, pushing up his glasses, “but even back then, the magazine had a circulation in the hundreds of thousands, so none is rare.” Fred was an antiques snob, so to him, anything mass-produced was, by definition, unworthy.
I turned to Ava. “What do you think, Ava? Fred says they’re real, but not rare. How would you price them?” I asked, knowing that thinking through the process was one of the best ways for an appraiser-in-training to hone her skills.
Ava lowered her eyes to study the cover on top of the pile. It dated from the mid-1940s. The color illustration showed two attractive women, one standing, one seated. The woman standing wore a red plaid dress, a red beret, and gray gloves. The other woman wore gloves, too, but hers were red. She also wore a beret, gray with gold trim. Her dress was a solid dove gray.
Ava raised her eyes to Fred. “When was the magazine first published?” she asked.
“Eighteen seventy-nine,” he replied.
“I know we market magazine covers as art prints, and that at the tag sale they go for twenty dollars each, but I’m thinking these might be worth less. If you look along the left side of this one, for instance, you can see there’s a red-brown blemish at the corner.”
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