Deadly Threads

by Jane K. Cleland

  When I got downstairs again, Fred was back behind his desk, frowning at his computer monitor, engrossed in whatever he was reading. Sasha was on the phone, talking to someone named Carl about Madeleine Vionnet’s use of netting. Ava was still reading the Frisco’s catalogue. Cara was entering customer contact information into our database. Gretchen was using Sasha’s yardstick to retrieve Hank’s mouse from under the photocopier again. Kenna was on her knees beside her, peering under the machine and directing her efforts. Becka stood with her back to us, looking out the window.

  “Got it!” Gretchen said, scooping up the mouse as soon as it flew out.

  “Well done!” Kenna said.

  “I’m going to deliver it to him, the little devil,” Gretchen said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “We should get going,” Kenna said to Becka.

  Becka turned around and sighed, but she didn’t pick up her purse or walk toward the door. She seemed lost in sorrow. She swayed for a moment, then leaned heavily against the wall.

  Kenna’s expression softened. “Are you okay, Becka?”

  “I’ll be fine. I just feel a little … I don’t know.”

  “Would you like some water? Tea? Anything?” I asked, thinking she looked pale, wondering if she was going to faint.

  “Water, please.”

  “I’ll get it,” Cara said, hurrying to the minifridge.

  “There’s nothing wrong … it’s just … everything.”

  “Maybe you should sit down,” I suggested.

  Becka sank into one of the guest chairs and took in a deep breath. Kenna and I watched her until Cara returned with the water. She accepted the bottle with a quiet thank-you.

  “What do you think happened?” Kenna asked her, concerned.

  “I don’t know,” Becka said between sips. “Really, I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  The phone rang and Cara reached across her desk to take the call. “Oh,” she said, her eyes lighting on a sheaf of papers. She wiggled a stapled document out from under a paperweight and handed it to me. “I forgot to give this to you. It just came in.”

  “Thanks, Cara,” I said, reaching across for it. I recognized the logo. It was a fax from the New England Museum of Design, time-stamped about half an hour earlier. I glanced through the cover letter. Dr. Walker wrote that he’d heard from Max Bixby that I was appraising Riley’s vintage clothing collection, and he thought it might be helpful for me to have his old notes to refer to as I worked. I flipped through the pages. It was a printout of a word-processing document listing the vintage clothing and accessories Riley had intended to donate to the museum as of October 18, 1999.

  There’s been an ocean of water under that bridge since then, I thought.

  The inventory was woefully out of date, but whoever had prepared it had been meticulous. It seemed to contain many more descriptive details than were included in the inventory the police had e-mailed me. A 1950’s Tina Leser blue cashmere cardigan sweater was described as having a “floppy bow detail at the neck, owned by Babs Miller,” for example, and a Bonnie Cashin clutch bag was described as “coral-colored saddle leather w/ white saddle-stitching along edges and brass frame, bought at a York, Maine, flea market.” I sat at Gretchen’s desk and hunted around on her computer until I found her copy of the spreadsheet Chief Hunter had sent me. I wanted to confirm that I’d remembered correctly. I had; Riley’s listing only included the basics of each item—a “Tina Leser blue cashmere cardigan sweater” and a “Bonnie Cashin orange clutch.” Either Riley had decided to eliminate a lot of detail or someone else had prepared the earlier list.

  Reading through Dr. Walker’s inventory, I came to an unfamiliar object—a “Claire McCardell dove gray and lavender wool/flannel blend coat.” I searched Riley’s spreadsheet and found it listed. I turned toward Sasha. She felt my eyes on her, and she looked at me. Something in my expression caught her attention, and she asked Carl to hold on.

  “Sorry to interrupt—have you seen a Claire McCardell dove gray and lavender wool/flannel blend coat in Riley’s collection?” I asked.

  “No.” She rolled her chair toward me until she was close enough to see the spreadsheet on Gretchen’s monitor. “No,” Sasha repeated, sounding worried.

  “That’s okay,” I said, smiling to reassure her. “Finish your call.”

  She nodded and rolled back to her desk.

  Gretchen came back in the room. Noting I was sitting at her computer, she asked, “Is there anything I can find for you?”

  “No, thanks,” I replied, “I got it.” I looked first at Becka, then Kenna. Becka looked better, less ashen. “By any chance, did Riley ever mention a Claire McCardell gray and lavender coat to you? It’s listed on her inventory, but it wasn’t in her closet with everything else. Did you ever see it or hear her talk about it?”

  Kenna shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I seem to remember that coat,” Becka said, her brow furrowed as she dredged up the memory, “but I haven’t seen it in years. Is it missing?”

  “It’s too early to call it missing. She might have taken it to the dry cleaner or something. Plus, there’s a trunk in the attic that I haven’t looked at yet. It may be in there.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Kenna said with a small smile. “It’s locked and Bobby’s lost the key?”

  “He’s famous for losing things, is he?” I asked, matching her smile.

  “Infamous is closer!” she said, smiling and shaking her head. “He’s a brilliant chef, but he’d be the first to admit that he’s not the most organized person in the world when it comes to business.”

  “What will you do if he can’t find it?” Becka asked.

  “Try skeleton keys we keep on hand for just that purpose. If they don’t work, I’ll call in a locksmith. Either way, I’ll be able to get it open today.”

  “Good,” she said. She stood up and smiled at me, then Cara. “Thanks for the water. I feel much better.” She turned to Kenna. “I’m ready if you are.”

  “You bet!”

  They said good-byes all around and left, and I turned back to the fax. Dr. Walker described the coat as size two and fully lined with gray silk. Scanning the spreadsheet, I saw that many of Riley’s earlier acquisitions were size two. Most of the latter ones were size four. Some were size six.

  Sasha thanked Carl, hung up, then asked, “Is that coat missing?”

  “I think it might be in a trunk in the attic. I’m going to call Bobby now and ask if he’s found the key.”

  As I headed back upstairs to call Bobby, I wondered why Riley would have stored only one garment in the trunk. I needed to open it, pronto.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I reached Bobby on his cell phone, and we talked for a moment about the funeral service.

  “I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” I said.

  “I’m a mess, to tell you the truth.” He sighed. “Everyone is very … supportive, of course, but it all feels … I don’t know … surreal.”

  I could feel his anxiety and upset. “I thought the service was moving. Very touching.” Platitudes, I thought, cringing, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you with business at a time like this—” I stopped talking. I knew Bobby was in a hurry, but I felt awful calling him within hours of his wife’s funeral about something as prosaic as a key.

  “What is it, Josie?” he asked.

  “Did you ever find that key?” I asked. “The one for the trunk in the attic?”

  “No. I should have called to tell you.”

  “I hate to ask—but did you think to check her key ring?”

  “Yes … the police gave me back her … anyway … the key wasn’t there.”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’ll go to your house with a bunch of skeleton keys. There’s no guarantee, but one of them might work. If not, we’ll need to call a locksmith.”

  �
�That sounds fine. Thanks, Josie. I know you’re being very thorough, and I appreciate it. You have the house key, so if you need to get a locksmith, can you arrange to be there with him? Or bring the trunk back to your place and get it done there?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll head over right now.”

  * * *

  I walked to the big metal cabinet at the back of the warehouse where we stored our skeleton key collection, pausing en route at Hank’s basket. He was still asleep, his breathing deep and rhythmic. He really is a very handsome boy, I thought. I watched him for several seconds, then squatted to give him a little underchin rub. He leaned into my hand and began purring, still asleep. As I stroked and petted him, he opened his eyes. He licked my hand, and I smiled. Hank was becoming a friend.

  “I’ve got to go,” I whispered. “You be a good boy.”

  Bobby had seemed genuinely disturbed on the phone, I thought, both unfocused and sad. I stood in front of our skeleton key collection for a long time, trying to decide which ones to bring, finally deciding to take them all. I was white-hot curious about what was inside that trunk, and I didn’t want to miss a chance to find out.

  * * *

  As I buckled my seat belt, I looked up. The sky was darkening again. More rain was on the way. Ty pulled into the parking lot. As I watched, he spun his government-issued SUV toward me and stopped short, and my heart lurched. Obviously, something was wrong.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle.

  “Nothing,” he replied, smiling, walking toward me. “I’m here to kidnap you.”

  “You are? Why?”

  “I got off early, and I thought maybe I could persuade you to do the same. Then we could go to my place and light a fire and have Cherry Blossoms to greet the weekend.”

  I grinned. What a guy, I thought. Ty’s house was a big, angular contemporary, set in a clearing in the forest. He had two fireplaces, a two-sided one in the center of the window-walled great room and another, smaller, stone-faced one in the master bedroom.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  He glanced at his wrist. “About one thirty.”

  “Give me an hour, and you’ve got a deal. I was just on my way to try to open a trunk in the Jordans’ attic.” I waggled the tote bag I’d filled with keys. “Wish me luck! I’m hot on the trail of a missing Claire McCardell coat.”

  He smiled. “What happens if you can’t open it?”

  “I’ll get Eric and Fred to bring it back here and call a locksmith.”

  “Why don’t you just bring it back anyway?”

  I nodded and smiled. “I thought about it. I’m impatient. I want to try the keys now.”

  “You? Impatient?”

  I play-punched his arm. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

  He grinned broadly. “Who was being sarcastic? I like it that you’re impatient.”

  “You do? I always thought it was a fault.”

  He reached out his hand and touched my cheek. “You have no faults. You’re perfect.”

  I touched his fingers with my own and met his eyes. He wasn’t joking. “That’s sweet,” I said, “but we both know that’s not true—I’m laden with faults.”

  “There’s foibles and personality quirks and eccentric preferences, and then there’s faults. You’ve got plenty of foibles and lots of personality, and you’re pretty darn opinionated when it comes to expressing your preferences, but if you have any faults, I’ve yet to discover them. For me, you’re perfect.”

  My throat closed as Ty’s eyes remained fixed on mine. My lips went dry. “Wow,” I said.

  He hugged me and I hugged him back, snuggling my cheek into the soft corduroy of his jacket. After several seconds, I leaned back so I could see his face.

  “Ha!” he said. “See what I did? I tricked you into hugging me, and now you’re my prisoner. Consider yourself kidnapped. I want us to get settled in front of the fire before the rains come.”

  “I’d love to, Ty, you know I would, but I can’t. Duty calls. Come with me—keep me company.”

  He thought for a moment. “The Jordans live on Ocean, right? I tell you what—I’ll drop you at the house. While you try your keys, I’ll get us some kick-ass steaks at Alexander’s. We can pick up your car on our way back.”

  Alexander’s was a specialty gourmet shop that carried the best beef on the Seacoast and whose butchers cut prime steaks to order.

  “You sure know the way to a girl’s heart—Cherry Blossoms and a steak from Alexander’s. Let’s saddle up, fella.”

  * * *

  Ty pulled into the Jordans’ driveway.

  “See you in a half hour or so,” he said.

  “I’ll be on the lookout!” I waved good-bye and ran around to the front door.

  The trunk was in the same position as it had been during my last visit. I tried lifting the lid, just to be certain it really was locked. It was. I sat cross-legged in front of it and began trying keys. Our skeleton key collection included examples of various types, materials, and sizes. Some keys didn’t even fit into the lock; others seemed to turn a little, then stopped. Nothing worked.

  I replaced the keys in my tote bag and stood up, brushing dust from my backside and glancing around to be certain I wasn’t forgetting anything, then made my way down the ladder, switching off the lights at the bottom. The ladder folded up as smoothly and quietly as it had come down.

  I’d just stepped out of the sewing room into the upstairs hallway when I heard glass shatter—one loud crashing sound, then a series of tinklings, followed by cracks and more tinkling. My heart leapt into my throat, then plummeted. I knew those sounds—someone was breaking in. They were clearing away the last bits of glass that clung to the door or window frame, and soon they’d be able to safely reach through and unlock it or climb in.

  I was standing in the hallway totally vulnerable. Anyone heading up the stairs couldn’t help but see me. Wild thoughts of fleeing had to be quashed. There wasn’t time to flee. The best I could do was hide.

  From my recent walk-through, I knew that the doors lining the hallway accessed the sunroom, two guest rooms, two bathrooms, the master bedroom suite, a linen closet, and a large storage closet. I looked at the pair of goldfish vases, the side table, and the grandfather clock. My phone, I thought. I can call for help. I reached into my tote bag and found my unit. I heard a faint patter of footsteps. The intruder was already inside, walking who knew where. Move, I told myself. Now.

  Without giving myself another second to think, I sidestepped to the grandfather clock while keeping my eyes on the staircase. I slid my hand behind it to reach the mostly hidden alarm panel and pushed the panic button, then darted to the storage closet door and wrenched it open. Inside, I pulled the door almost, but not quite, closed. I stood next to a wooden croquet set, the mallets dangling from notches in the crossbar. Tennis racquets and a badminton set sat on shelves in back of me, relics of happier times. With only the green glow of the display to see by, I texted Ty “911,” then tossed the phone back into my bag. I might need both hands free, I thought, lowering the bag to the floor. I put an eye to the crack. From my vantage point, I could see the clock’s face. It was two forty.

  The house phone rang, and I gasped. Instinctively, I stepped back, tripping on my bag and hitting a mallet, creating a domino effect of hammering sounds as each mallet hit the next in line. I pressed them into my legs and held them steady, then took a deep breath to calm myself.

  Probably the security company was calling to ask if the alarm was a mistake. When no one picked up, they’d call the police, and the cavalry would be on its way to the rescue. The phone stopped ringing and the machine clicked on. I could just make out a low rumbling voice, but I couldn’t hear any words. I waited, listening. Nothing. Silence that lasted for seconds, then footsteps coming closer. Someone was mounting the stairs. More silence. Fear sent shivers up my neck and spine. The upper hall was carpeted, so someone could be directly on the o
ther side of the door, and I might not know it.

  I used my foot to slide my bag into the far corner. I waited, listening. I heard only house sounds—the tiny swish of heat flowing from a radiator; the clicks of a machine cycling on and off, maybe the refrigerator; and the rhythmic ticking of the clock. I put my eye to the crack again. All I saw was the door to the master bedroom and the grandfather clock. It was two forty-two.

  Staccato, angry-sounding thuds and thumping exploded somewhere close by. I jumped and nearly stumbled, crashing again into the croquet mallets. I stopped them knocking and placed my palm against the wall to steady myself. I stood, waiting, as the attack grew louder and fiercer.

  Do something, I told myself, hating it that I was simply waiting, wanting to control the chaos. My hand touched a mallet. A mallet would make a good weapon. I slid one off the crossbar and grasped it firmly, like a baseball bat.

  The rhythmic smacks continued, a steady, deadly-sounding assault.

  I heard sirens and exhaled. I’d been holding my breath for what felt like hours. Seconds later, as the clock chimed the quarter hour, I heard running feet, followed by a slamming sound. I threw open the door and flew to a street-facing window in one of the guest rooms.

  I was too late.

  All I saw was a sliver of silver as a car, maybe a sedan, disappeared around the corner.

  * * *

  “I was terrified,” I told Ellis. Sitting on the Jordans’ floral-patterned sofa next to Ty, I still felt breathless and on edge. Ellis sat across from me on a cranberry-colored club chair. I shrugged. “You should have heard those sounds—someone was attacking something as if they wanted to kill it.”

  Before he could respond, Detective Brownley appeared in the archway. Ellis turned to face her.

  “May I see you for a moment, sir?” she asked, all business.

  “Certainly.” He walked to join her.

  She leaned in close to his ear and semiwhispered. I couldn’t hear a word. He nodded and said something that I also couldn’t hear. Then she left, and he rejoined me.

  “Our initial canvass of the neighborhood hasn’t turned up anyone who saw the silver sedan.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost four, so most people are at work.” He shrugged. “We’ll continue asking, but the closest neighbors offer the best hope, and of the few who were home, no one noticed.” He crossed his legs, thinking. “You said you think there’s an antique coat in the trunk, and that’s why you were here. Is it credible that someone did all this just to get that coat?”