Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  I ran to a worktable and brought up the video I’d taken the day before. I captured a still shot of the bag containing the undusty club and blew it up. Looking at the clubs carefully, the distinction between the clean driver and the other clubs was unmistakable. I emailed the image to Ellis, then called him.

  I got his voice mail. “Ellis, I just sent you a photo.” I explained why I had Trish’s golf bags, then added, “I can’t help but wonder if I’m looking at the murder weapon.”

  I sent my staff an email telling them not to touch anything in the Shannon section.

  I felt shaken and confused. Trish couldn’t have known. Using one of her golf clubs to kill Cal pointed right at Lydia, so Trish never would have sold them to us.

  I wanted some air. Outside, the sky was thick with ash-gray clouds, and darkening by the minute, so a walk through the woods to the church would be in the near-dark. Instead, I drove to the ocean and parked in the Rocky Point police station lot. A walk on the beach sounded good. First, though, I walked into the station.

  Ellis wasn’t in. I left a message saying I’d be on the beach for a while, in case he came in.

  The ocean was black and churning. Diagonal lines of white foam surged toward the beach. I watched for a few seconds, then walked along the shore. After about ten minutes, I turned around. A gusty wind blew in off the water, and I shivered. When I reached my car, I felt better, stronger, more like myself.

  I walked back into the police station. Ellis was in.

  “I just left you a message,” he said. “I wanted to speak to you before I sent Detective Brownley and a tech team to your place to get the golf clubs.”

  “Let me text Cara that it’s okay.” I did so, and she texted back immediately, saying she’d prepare the receipt. “All set.” I looked at him. “Are you all right? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

  “That’s about how I feel.”

  “Is Kimberly still here?”

  “No. Her lawyer showed up around nine thirty last night, and we let her go about ten.”

  “Now what?”

  “I bring the clubs in for forensic analysis, and I think of more questions to ask people, starting with the Shannons. On the off chance the golf club is the weapon, I need to know who had access to them.”

  “I was at a party there not long ago, and the shed was unlocked.”

  “So someone could walk onto the property, take a club, use it to kill Cal, clean it, bring it back, and no one would notice.”

  “That sounds about right. I have another suggestion, too … two, actually. First, ask Kimberly about blackmail.”

  Ellis leaned back and rubbed his nose. “Tell me.”

  “The only reason Kimberly would conspire with Cal was if she had to. Sure, she wanted more money, but it would never occur to her to do something sleazy. She walked the straight and narrow until she couldn’t anymore. Everything started to unravel that day in the faculty lounge when she came into the room and saw Steve hang up the phone. That could only mean one thing—he’d made a call he didn’t want her to know about. She assumed he’d called Mo. She hit redial, and sure enough, Mo picked up. She taught in the room next to hers, so she’d know her voice. Kimberly went to Mo’s house after school to confront her, to stake her claim. Cal was there to meet with Mo and me. He arrived early, and he saw Kimberly arguing with Mo. Cal witnessed Mo fall. He threatened Kimberly, saying he’d tell the police he saw her push Mo.”

  “Did she?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Regardless, I can see Cal blackmailing Kimberly. It’s just his style of slimy. If you can get her talking about how she was the victim, maybe she’ll come clean. My other idea … about covering your clothes if you’re going to beat someone with, say, a golf club, and you don’t want to end up covered in blood. Rain gear would work, and guess where they sell it? Anthony’s Shoe Repair. Talk about convenient.”

  “These are good ideas, Josie.” He stood. “Thanks for coming in.”

  As I crossed back to the beach, I toyed with texting Wes to ask if Anthony’s sold any rain gear in the hours before Cal was killed, but I didn’t. I suspected getting Anthony to cooperate would be a delicate operation, one requiring Ellis’s deft handling, not Wes’s bludgeoning.

  The sky was steel gray now, and the air was thick with moisture. The swells were growing and breaking hard, slapping the water with a deafening roar. I didn’t want to think about blackmail or the kind of emotional anguish that drove someone to kill. I wanted to do something optimistic.

  I called Matt Janson.

  “Do you have any time today to talk?” I asked. “It won’t take long.”

  “I’m meeting a friend in Rocky Point for a late breakfast. Can I stop by afterward? Around eleven thirty?”

  “Perfect!”

  As I pulled into my parking lot, Wes broke into the regular radio program with a news flash. “Kimberly Larson is apparently missing. The police are asking for help in locating her.” She wasn’t at her teaching job, and she hadn’t called in sick. According to Wes’s police source, Kimberly had been released from police custody at ten last night, and she hadn’t been seen since. She didn’t go home. She didn’t stay in a hotel. She simply vanished.

  I pulled into a spot and called Ellis. “What about Ryan?”

  “Steve took him to school. He’s fine. We pulled him from class and have him safe. Her parents should be here soon. Why?”

  “Because I doubt she’d leave without him. She’s up to something, Ellis. Something local. Kimberly’s parents owned a summer cottage, which they sold last spring. Since it’s September, maybe whoever bought it isn’t using it. She told me there was a broken lock on her old bedroom window that she used to come and go when she was a teenager. If it’s empty, and the new owners haven’t fixed the lock yet, it would make a perfect hideaway.”

  He thanked me so brusquely, I suspected he was already accessing the state tax records for the address. I grabbed my iPad and found it in two minutes by looking up recent sales on a real estate website. I drove directly there.

  * * *

  The cottage was picture-book charming, with weathered dove-gray siding, a terra-cotta roof, a white picket fence covered with red climbing roses, and a wraparound porch. A red maple grew on the left. The place looked deserted, but I wasn’t fooled. It was a perfect lair, and I was convinced Kimberly was there, or had been overnight. There was a one-car detached garage.

  I parked half a block away and texted Wes to give him a heads-up.

  Five minutes later, Ellis drove up in his SUV, followed by a van filled with uniformed officers and technicians. Ellis pretended he didn’t see me, but I knew better. Ellis saw everything. I got out and leaned against a streetlamp to watch them work.

  Ellis pressed the doorbell, waited ten seconds, rang the bell again, waited some more, then pounded on the door.

  Officer Meade and a uniformed officer I didn’t know, a young man with red hair, walked up the driveway to the garage. Officer Meade tugged on the door, without luck. She went left and he went right, circling the small structure. They paused at windows and peered in. Ellis said something to two men who were balancing a tall metal ladder on their shoulders, and he pointed toward the beach.

  Wes arrived a minute later. He took in the scene at one glance, then hustled toward the ocean. I followed more slowly. By the time I reached the sand, Wes was video-recording the action. I stood in back of the garage, far enough away so I wouldn’t interfere with the police, but close enough so I wouldn’t miss anything.

  The two men wedged the ladder into the sandy ground, then leaned it up against the house. One man held it in place while the other scrambled up. When he reached a second-story window, he pressed his nose against the glass and cupped his eyes so he could see inside. After a few seconds, he tried to lift the window, but it didn’t budge. He came down the ladder. They moved it to the next window and repeated the process with the same result. One by one, they made their way across the back of the ho
use. When they reached the side window by the red maple, the man on the ladder easily slid it open. He straddled the sill, then disappeared.

  Ellis hurried to the front, and I followed.

  A minute later, the front door opened from the inside, and Ellis stepped in. Officer Meade followed him, reappearing a few seconds later with what looked like a gold-colored key on a silver ring. She used it on a lock built into the garage doorjamb, and the male officer hoisted the rolling door. They both put on gloves. She reached in and flipped on the light. I could see that no one was inside. Tools hung from a big sheet of brown pegboard along the left wall. A workbench was positioned at the rear. Two big green plastic trash cans stood on the right.

  A rumble of thunder exploded overhead, startling me. I’d been so certain Kimberly was here, and I was wrong. Ellis stepped out, talked to Officer Meade, and drove away.

  * * *

  When I got back to my company, I went to my office and sat facing my window, trying to think about what Kimberly was doing. She said she dreamed of just driving away. Maybe she had. I would have thought she’d take Ryan with her, but maybe I was wrong about that, too.

  Wes texted: Thx for the tip. Kimberly’s car found in Rocky Pt Mall parking lot. No sign of her. Any ideas?

  I didn’t have a clue, so I didn’t text back. Instead, I checked email.

  Mac at Antiques Insights had written thanking me for the update and letting me know he was working with the Rocky Point police to unravel Pat Durand’s crimes.

  I had just finished a private meeting with Gretchen, explaining that Ty and I were going to hire a wedding planner, and asking her to help manage the details on a consultant basis for extra pay, when Cara called up to tell me that Matt had arrived.

  “Thanks, Cara. Bring him up.” I turned back to face Gretchen. “As you can tell, Ty and I know a lot of what we want, but we’re wrestling with some things. If you create a timeline with what needs to be done and when, you’ll be able to coordinate with the wedding planner, and we’ll be certain we don’t miss anything.”

  Gretchen stood, her emerald eyes gleaming. “Thank you for your confidence in me, Josie. I won’t let you down.”

  I listened to the click-clack of her stilettos reverberating through the cavernous warehouse, followed moments later by the steady, sturdy sound of boots. Cara escorted Matt in.

  We shook, and I pointed to a guest chair.

  “Thanks for coming in, Matt. As I said in my message, I’m interested in proceeding. I’ve finished reviewing your business plan. It’s a winner on all fronts.”

  Matt leaned back and grinned. “Thanks.”

  “If you’re still of the same mind, I’d like to make an offer to buy you out, then hire you.”

  He cocked his head. “No partnership?”

  “No. Our roles would be as you describe, though. You can have a contract of any length.” I smiled. “The terms will be favorable, including a profit-sharing arrangement.”

  “I’m amenable to discussing it, but I make no guarantee. I’ve been pretty focused on a partnership.”

  “I understand. Can we see what develops as we proceed?”

  “That’s fair. Let the due diligence begin. Do you have someone in mind to run this location?”

  “Yes. Our first confidence—I’m trusting you not to repeat this.”

  “You can. I won’t.”

  “Gretchen. Our office manager.”

  “That’s quite a leap—office manager to general manager in one step.”

  “She’ll be great. Gretchen is one of the most organized and trustworthy people I know. She’s confident and poised, and she never pretends to know something she doesn’t.”

  “I wish we could clone her. I’ll have to hire from the outside.”

  “I want to introduce you to my key staff.”

  When we reached the front office, I waited for Cara to finish her call. “Everyone … excuse me for interrupting.”

  Cara smiled. Sasha and Fred looked up from their computer monitors. Gretchen, who was standing at a file cabinet, turned toward me, a manila folder in hand.

  “Do you all know Matt Janson? He owns Janson’s Antiques Mall. I visit it periodically and often find hidden gems. Matt, this is Cara, our receptionist and database manager. Sasha is our chief antiques appraiser. Fred is also an antiques appraiser. Eric, our facilities manager, isn’t here.”

  I looked at Gretchen.

  “He’s meeting with Montgomery’s Landscaping Service,” she said. “I thought he should visit their headquarters before we signed the contract. One last check.”

  “Good thinking, Gretchen!” I looked at Matt. “And this, obviously, is Gretchen.”

  “Nice to meet you all,” Matt said, smiling around. He turned to me. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I walked him out, and we shook hands, our eyes meeting, honoring the moment.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Wes was nothing if not thorough. By one, his news reports included a phone interview with Annie Briscoe, a New York City–based dermatologist, who had bought the beachfront cottage from the Larsons last March. The police had alerted Dr. Briscoe earlier that morning that they’d applied for and received a search warrant. She was devastated that her house could have been used by a fugitive. I could admire Wes’s journalistic acumen, but her shock and a dime didn’t tell us where Kimberly was now.

  Ellis stopped by as I was finishing a salad I’d ordered in for lunch.

  “Thanks again for the tip about the cottage.”

  “It was a bust.”

  “Most tips are. The golf club, on the other hand, that’s the real deal.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “The ME matched the shape of the club head to the shape of the wound. The materials found in the laceration appear to match the graphite and persimmon wood in the club’s shaft and head. We have to wait for forensic testing, but Trish confirmed the clubs were made of those materials, and she hasn’t cleaned them since she retired. This one club was doused with bleach.”

  “They can do DNA testing on the wood.”

  “If they need to.”

  “Was the shed locked?”

  “According to Trish, it’s never locked.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Did Kimberly know about the shed?”

  “I saw her in it earlier this month. She opened the door and walked in. I wonder where she is right now.”

  “I can tell you where she isn’t—anywhere requiring a ticket or a passport. She hasn’t used her credit cards, an ATM, or her phone. I liked your idea—she’d go somewhere familiar and comfortable, and the cottage sure qualified. Are you sure she didn’t mention anywhere else that might fit the bill?”

  I thought for a moment, reviewing our conversation. “She said she dreamed of just driving away.”

  “We found her car, so that’s out.”

  “Maybe she bought a new car.”

  “With what? According to Steve, she doesn’t carry a lot of cash.”

  “Cal did. He funded her purchase of the woodblock print. It’s possible he was flush and she cleaned him out.”

  Ellis tapped a speed-dial button on his phone. When his call was answered, he said, “Check if any car dealers sold a car to Kimberly … Describe her … She might be using another name. The dealer might have picked her up at the Rocky Point Mall.” He pushed the END CALL button and smiled at me. “Another good idea. Thank you.”

  “Spelunking.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She and her friend Chelsea liked caves.”

  “What caves?”

  I recounted Kimberly’s comments.

  “What’s Chelsea’s last name?”

  “I don’t know. She lives in Colorado Springs with a husband and three kids. Kimberly exchanges Christmas cards with her.”

  Ellis called Detective Brownley and told her to pull Steve from his class. “Find that Christmas card list.”

  * * *

  According to Chels
ea Cox, Kimberly’s old friend, their favorite cave was Salt Pearl Cavern at the end of Rocky Point Beach.

  As soon as Ellis had that information, he thanked me and left. I waited for him to pull out of the lot, told Cara I didn’t know when I’d be back, and drove to Clinton Lane, across from the beach. I parked behind a silver Ford Escape. I took my phone and keys and left my bag in my trunk.

  I knew of Salt Pearl Cavern, but I’d never been inside. I didn’t like the dark. I’d never thought of my disinclination as a phobia, or even a fear; rather, I simply didn’t like the dark. I always left a light on when I left home so I’d never have to enter a dark house, and I’d made certain Prescott’s night-light setting was more than cursory. I couldn’t imagine wanting to hike into a cave.

  I followed a rocky trail inland for about a quarter mile, then pushed through a dense stand of holly, laurel, and oak. A jumble of four-foot boulders ran from the path to the mouth of the cave. I climbed one and slid down the other side. I sat on pebbly ground, positioning myself so I could see through a crevice between the rocks. I wasn’t tempted to contact Wes, knowing his rough-and-ready methods, but I would take photos for him.

  The waves pounded the shore, so I didn’t hear Ellis and the other police officers arrive. They walked in single file, silently. I opened the camera on my phone and began snapping away.

  Ellis pointed to Daryl, then to the left of the cave mouth. Daryl walked quickly to the left, flattening himself against the granite wall. He signaled Griff to go to the right. Griff got in position. The same two men who’d carried the ladder at the cottage held two huge LED flashlights. Officer Meade handed Ellis an old-fashioned megaphone.

  “Ms. Larson, this is Chief Hunter.” His voice sounded echo-y and unlike him. “I’ve consulted the Rocky Point surveyor. He tells me there’s only one way in and out of this cavern. It’s over, Kimberly. Come out now, with your hands up, and let’s talk about what’s going on.”