Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  Ellis tried again, making his request seem reasonable. Nothing. After two more attempts, he said, “We’re coming in.”

  “No! Don’t.”

  Kimberly appeared at the cave opening, her hands cheek high. She didn’t look anything like as upset as she had the day before. Her eyes were clear, and her chin was up.

  “Are you alone?” Ellis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your bag?”

  She lowered her hands. “Why?”

  “I need to check for stolen property.”

  “It’s mine.”

  Ellis scanned the desolate area. “How did you get here?”

  “I hitchhiked, then walked.”

  Ellis turned to the men with the flashlights. “Take a look inside. Daryl, cover them.”

  “Don’t!” Kimberly said. “It’s sacred ground. I came out so you wouldn’t go in. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “This isn’t your private property, Ms. Larson.” He waved them in. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m done talking.”

  “Then we can wait together while they search the cave.”

  Thirty seconds later, Daryl appeared at the mouth holding a wheeling suitcase in one plastic-gloved hand. The suitcase was black and sized to fit in a plane’s overhead bin. He held Kimberly’s tote bag in his other hand.

  Ellis snapped on gloves and eyeballed the insides. He pulled out a set of keys and read from the red tag attached to the ring. He looked up. “Daryl, call Detective Brownley and tell her to check with Milkin Cars.” He tossed the keys to Griff and said, “Find the car.”

  Kimberly took a step toward him.

  “Why did you leave your old one in a shopping mall parking lot?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply.

  “Why did you lie just now about hitchhiking here?”

  “It’s not a lie when someone asks a none-of-your-business question.”

  Ellis reached back into Kimberly’s bag and extracted a narrow blue plastic binder. I saw a logo on the front and some text.

  Ellis said, “Greenfield Travel Agency.” He opened the binder and flipped through the papers. “Kosovo. Tonight at eleven from Boston’s Logan Airport. You and Ryan. Why are you leaving Rocky Point?”

  “You keep asking me about things that aren’t crimes. So what if I want to take my son to Europe? The only crime I see is searching a woman’s bag without her permission.”

  Ellis didn’t comment. He lifted a manila envelope from the bag and opened it. “What have we here?” He pulled out a bundle of cash. “How much is it?”

  Kimberly didn’t comment.

  Ellis turned to Daryl. “Open the suitcase.”

  “This is outrageous!”

  Daryl reached for the zipper. “It’s locked. A small padlock.”

  Ellis looked into the envelope containing the money, then unzipped a side pocket inside the tote bag and poked around. He zipped it back up and unsnapped a change purse. He shook a small key into his palm and handed it to Daryl.

  “Am I under arrest?” Kimberly demanded.

  “Only if you insist. We have evidence that Cal committed fraud and that you were involved. Your plan to leave the jurisdiction will convince a judge that you had knowledge of your wrongdoing, and that’s enough to prove intent. I don’t want to arrest you on that charge, though. I think you’re a victim here, Kimberly. I think Cal was blackmailing you.”

  Kimberly began to cry, and she covered her face with her hands. Ellis nodded at Daryl, and he unlocked and unzipped the suitcase. A shiny laptop sat on top of a neatly folded pile of clothes.

  Griff hustled along the rocky path. “The key opens a silver Ford Escape parked on Clinton.”

  The two men with the flashlights reappeared and talked to Ellis. I couldn’t hear what they said. After a minute they left.

  Ellis turned to Daryl. “No one goes in this cave until the forensic team gives an all clear.”

  “Got it.”

  Ellis touched Kimberly’s elbow, and she trudged down the path beside him. Griff followed close behind. I kept taking photos until they rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

  I slipped my phone into my back pocket and used footholds on the boulder to heave myself up and over. Daryl’s eyes widened and he took a step forward when I landed on his side of the rocks, but he didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either.

  * * *

  By the time I reached my car, the Ford Escape was already hooked up to a police tow truck. I took some more photos, then started emailing them to Wes. I was still at it when the truck drove off. As soon as I finished, I texted Wes. Before I had the car in gear, he called.

  He asked where I was, and I explained about Kimberly’s connection to Salt Pearl Cavern.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about it.”

  “You’re welcome for the photos.”

  Wes sighed.

  I ignored his unspoken disapproval. “The last ones show her new car being towed away.”

  “What new car?”

  “Apparently, Kimberly decided to start over somewhere. She needed to figure out the logistics of getting a new identity, so she bought a car for cash. I’m certain she used a different name. The temporary plates are good for twenty days, plenty of time.”

  “Car dealers require ID.”

  “Maybe she paid extra … you know … cash money. Some dealers would be happy to make up a name and address for you, maybe even jury-rig a fake ID they could photocopy for their files. By the time the DMV catches on, she’d be long gone.”

  “The dealer’s going to get in big trouble.”

  “Possibly. They’ll both deny it—he said, she said.” I told Wes about discovering the laptop in the suitcase and the plane tickets to Kosovo. “Maybe she’d planned this for a while, and already had a new identity, a passport—you know, a new name for a fresh start.”

  “Why Kosovo?” Wes asked.

  “No extradition treaty.”

  “Why would Kimberly buy a car on the down-low if she planned to fly to Europe right away?”

  “I suspect she wanted time to think things through and get her plans in order. Evidently, she was ready to face the fact that her relationship with Steve was over. If Lydia was arrested, Kimberly might figure she could come back. If she did, the car would be waiting for her at the airport, and off she and Ryan would go. If she decided to stay in Europe, oh, well … she lost a little money on the purchase.”

  He soft-whistled. “She was cooking on all burners, huh?”

  Thunder cracked overhead.

  “A storm’s coming,” I said.

  “More than a storm! A nor’easter—we’re in for it! Rain starts by six, then the temperature plummets. We may get snow.”

  “Why do you sound so happy?”

  “Because Maggie and I are going to hunker down all weekend.”

  “What a great idea, Wes! Maybe Ty and I will do the same.”

  He asked for more details—what Kimberly was wearing and how she looked, did Ryan’s name come up, or Steve’s, and how did she explain having so much cash—and when he ran out of questions, he gave his usual “Catch ya later” and was gone.

  A jagged bolt of lightning illuminated the yellow-gray sky, and I drove back to work.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Ty and I spent the weekend at his house. My place was cozy. His was expansive. He once told me he bought the house because of the view from the living room. We sat on the oversized sofa in front of the wall of windows gazing into the forest. By leaving the outside deck lights on, we had a 180-degree view of the crimson, gold, and orange leaves, their colors as true as fire. By the time darkness descended, the rain had picked up, and all I could see was black. We turned out the deck lights and closed the curtains, insulating ourselves from the outside world.

  I stacked kindling and logs for a fire while Ty made martinis. I lit it and watched the flames tickle the bark, then sat on the rug and leaned against the doubl
e-wide ottoman. Ty placed a tray on the floor and sat beside me.

  He kissed my cheek. “We need to decide on the timeline for selling this place.”

  “Never.”

  “Do you want to live here for real?”

  “No.” I poured us martinis from the silver shaker and handed his over. “I want us to have a home we choose together, but this fire! That view!”

  “Do you want us to live at your place?”

  “Short term, yes. It’s next door to Zoë, and it has a spiffy new hot tub.”

  “Long term?”

  “Once you know whether we’re moving to D.C., we’ll figure it out.”

  “Good.” He took a sip. “Guess what I did today?”

  “You signed up to train as an astronaut.”

  He laughed. “Where did that come from?”

  “I always wanted to be an astronaut.”

  “Really?”

  “Sort of.”

  “You’re a woman of many aspects.”

  I snuggled into his shoulder and watched the flames leap and curl, a perfect end to a difficult day.

  “What did you do?”

  “I confirmed our reservation in a gorgeous suite for three nights starting on our wedding day, Thursday the twenty-first.”

  “Eastern Turret Flag Officer’s Suite.”

  “You have a great memory.”

  “For some things. For others, I have Gretchen. I’ve asked her to help us organize the wedding.”

  “That’s a smart idea. I also put twenty sleeping rooms on hold for out-of-town guests … and … drum roll, please…”

  I pitta-patted my thighs.

  “You said you wanted a honeymoon that offered cosmopolitan amenities and a quiet beach and from-the-shore snorkeling. I’ve booked us a house on Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman Island. We fly out on Wednesday, June twenty-eighth, for ten days.”

  I sat up and spun around. “The Cayman Islands? That’s fabulous!”

  Ty grinned like a ten-year-old with a hot new video game. “It’s a single-family house and comes with a cook, a housekeeper, and a gardener. The gardener also takes care of the pool. The property includes a full acre of private gardens, winding paths lit by tiki torches, and a twenty-foot-high waterfall.”

  I placed my glass on the tray and kissed Ty full on the mouth. “Oh, Ty. It sounds heavenly. Magical.”

  He placed his arm over my shoulder and drew me close. The orange flames curled around and over the logs. Sap crackled and popped.

  I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I can’t wait.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Why do we leave on Wednesday?”

  “I know you. After the wedding weekend, you’ll want to check in at work for a couple of days.”

  I smiled. “It’s perfect, Ty. Thank you.”

  * * *

  I kept checking the Seacoast Star’s website all weekend and all day Monday, but there was no new information about Kimberly. The first news came from Ellis, who stopped by my office Tuesday morning.

  “I thought you’d want to see this.” He handed me a printout of the Rheingold logo. “We found this on the laptop in Kimberly’s bag. From fingerprints and the contents of emails, there’s no question it was Cal’s.”

  “Was it password protected?”

  “Yes. Katie was able to circumvent it, though. Why?”

  “If Kimberly couldn’t access the computer, she wouldn’t have seen the email making Pat’s phone date with Andi. Not that it matters whether she knew or not. She couldn’t have kept the appointment anyway, since she was teaching. I bet she planned to take the computer to an IT service company and pretend to be so ditzy she forgot her own password.”

  He laughed. “We found the phone Cal used in Kimberly’s suitcase, too.”

  “More evidence of intent. Anything of interest on the phone?”

  “Cal sent a text to the disposable phone that we think went to Lydia. From the time stamp, he sent it during the funeral.” Ellis read it aloud. “‘Is it as awful as you expected? See you soon. I miss you.’ That helps set the time of Cal’s murder.”

  I touched the printout. “Cal created the Rheingold receipt.”

  “And the fake Hitchens ID, and the phony lease that was used to open the PO box.”

  “You’re building a case.”

  “One fact at a time.”

  After Ellis left, I sent Sylvia Rheingold an email explaining that the Rocky Point police had discovered who created the fake invoice, and that since the perpetrator was dead, there was no reason to think there’d be a repeat performance. I was glad I could provide her with some closure.

  * * *

  Wes and I met at our dune just before two thirty. Last weekend, we had a nor’easter. Today we were in the middle of a mini heat wave. The temperature had soared to nearly eighty. The sun sparkled, and the ocean was bright blue and calm.

  Wes pulled out his notebook. “So talk to me. How did you know Kimberly was the killer?”

  “I remembered something Ty said years ago—there’s always a motive for murder. Always. Even if the motive doesn’t seem logical to you, it makes sense to the killer. In this case, the only person who wanted Mo out of the picture was Kimberly. She was petrified that Mo and Steve were going to get back together.”

  “Were they?”

  “Maybe. Kimberly was so desperate to find out, she even approached me to ask—after Mo was dead.”

  “That was kind of dumb of her, huh? Calling attention to herself for no reason.”

  “She didn’t really call attention to herself, at least not directly. She asked about starting fresh in a new location, which makes me think she’d already half given up. You know how that goes … Your rational self knows a relationship is over, but your emotional self doesn’t want to let go. Her rational self was asking why I moved to New Hampshire, how I set up a business, and so on. Her emotional self clung to the hope she wouldn’t have to leave, that the murder cases would go cold, and Steve would propose, and all would be well with the world.”

  “Stupid.”

  “Not stupid. Deluded.”

  “Whatever … So you never bought the idea that Lydia was the killer?”

  “Not once I thought about Kimberly’s motive. How is Lydia doing?”

  “Who knows? She talks, but she doesn’t say anything worth listening to. She plays her emotions close to her chin.”

  “I hope she finds her way.”

  Wes made a note. “Do you think Kimberly killed Mo on purpose?”

  “I don’t know that it was premeditated, but it’s not like Mo simply tumbled over the wall. Remember what the ME said—Mo’s death wasn’t an accident. Have you heard whether Kimberly has admitted it?”

  “Not yet, but smart money says she’ll take a deal. She’s already admitted she stole Cal’s computer, phone, and voice changer. She insists the cash they found in her purse—fifteen big ones, thank you very much—is hers fair and square. She says that she won it from Cal at poker. That’s possible, right? Anyway, what she can’t explain away is the rain gear she bought at Anthony’s. My police source tells me that checking their sales of rain gear was your idea. You nailed it, Joz! Anthony was in the restroom when Kimberly came in, and Boris made the sale. They found the receipt for one pair of booties and one poncho. Boris picked Kimberly out of a photo lineup. According to Boris, the transaction occurred at the right time—just as the funeral was ending. They’ve got Kimberly cold.”

  “What does she say?”

  “That Boris is wrong, that it never happened.”

  “And of course she denies taking the golf club.”

  “Yup.”

  “It’s not going to be an easy case to win.”

  “They’re retracing her steps after leaving the social club. Maybe they’ll find the bloody boots and poncho. Most grocery stores and shopping malls have security cameras aimed at their Dumpsters. That’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “Trash removal is big business. Using
another guy’s Dumpster saves you money. Cameras discourage the practice.”

  “Back up for a minute … Why did Cal need someone else to buy the Japanese woodblock prints for him, anyway? He was doing fine on his own.”

  “He was doing fine because he was only selling one fake every few months. After he lost so much money, he needed to sell three or four prints right away to cover the debt. He got Lydia to help, but still needed to raise twenty thousand dollars, and that would simply get him caught up. It wouldn’t pay her back or help him finance his lifestyle going forward. He had a choice—risk raising a red flag by flooding the market or find a proxy to do it for him.”

  “And since what he was doing was illegal, he couldn’t simply ask a friend to help him out.”

  “Nor could he hire it out.”

  “Why did Kimberly go ahead and sell the print after Cal was murdered?”

  “Why not? She had a buyer ready to go.”

  Wes closed his notebook. “The one thing I can’t wrap my head around is that you figured everything out because the ink in Mo’s print was too blue. Did I get that right?”

  “Not just that … but, yeah.”

  Wes’s phone vibrated. He read the message and chuckled. “Guess what? The police found security camera footage showing Kimberly tossing plastic cover-ups in the Dumpster behind Harvey’s Market, the one that’s closest to Anthony’s. The timing is right. Their case is no longer hard to prove.”

  Even though I wasn’t surprised, I was horrified, and I let it show. “Oh, Wes.”

  “Yeah … it gets you thinking, doesn’t it? What else ya got for me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Catch ya later!”

  Wes walked-slid down the dune. I stayed for a while, watching the waves slide to shore.

  Kimberly would be found guilty of murder and sentenced to life in prison.

  Ryan would move to Ohio to live with his grandparents.

  Lydia would get a slap on the wrist.

  Life would go on.

  * * *

  I pulled into my parking lot around three thirty and saw Steve leaning against the hood of his car, tapping into his smartphone.

  I parked two spaces away. Steve looked up. He wasn’t smiling, but neither did he look angry or upset.

  He slipped his phone into his pocket. “Hey, Josie.”