Safely underneath the hammered metal overhang, I shook out my umbrella, then pushed through the heavy wooden door and greeted Frieda, the hostess.
“Oh, look at you, Josie! You’re as wet as a dish rag!”
“But better looking, right?”
“Much better looking. I’m so tired of bad weather.”
“You know what they say about April showers . . . they’re good for the flowers!”
Frieda shook her head ruefully and smiled. “I’m so ready for flowers! You don’t have a reservation, do you?”
“No. Not tonight, Frieda. I’m aiming for a warm something-or-other in the lounge. I’m expecting a guest. Her name is Lina.”
“I’ll send her in!” Frieda said and turned to greet a just-arriving couple.
A man sitting at the bar with a beer looked up expectantly as I entered. When he saw that I wasn’t the person he was waiting for, he looked away, then glanced at his watch. Two women stood near three tables and discussed pushing them together. One woman said she thought ten people were coming.
Jimmy, the bartender, waved hello. “Hey, Josie,” he called. “How’s it going?”
“Good, Jimmy. You?”
“It’s going!”
My favorite table was tucked in a corner overlooking the Piscataqua River. It was available, and I nabbed it. After I got settled, I cupped my hands over my eyes and pressed my forehead against the bay window, trying to see the light house on the far bank. I knew it was there, but in the darkness and rain, all I could make out was its light. A wide sweep of gold arced rhythmically side to side, over and over again, alerting ships that they were approaching land. It was hypnotic.
“What’ll it be?” Jimmy asked, flipping a cocktail napkin onto the table as if he were skimming a rock over water.
I turned away from the window. “On this dreary day, I think I’m in the mood for a Cocoretto,” I said. The drink always reminded me of a lovely afternoon I’d spent with my friend Jo-Ann, the drink’s inventor. I’d taken the train out from New York City to Connecticut on a bitterly cold winter day to meet her for lunch. She wanted a warming drink, and the next thing I knew, we were drinking Cocorettos.
“You got it,” Jimmy said, interrupting my thoughts. “Hot chocolate and amaretto, coming right up!”
Lina arrived just after six, saw me, and threaded her way through the now bustling room to reach me. She looked worried.
She didn’t want anything to eat. “Just tea, please,” she told Jimmy, then asked me, “Do you have news about Gretchen?”
“No. I wish I did. What I mostly have is questions.”
She nodded. “It’s just awful.”
“It occurs to me—I don’t even know your last name.”
“Nadlein. Lina Nadlein—quite a mouthful. Don’t try to say it three times fast.”
I smiled. “How did you and Gretchen meet?”
“At the Laundromat. Gretchen started chatting with me.” She smiled a little, somewhere between wan and fearful. “She’s so friendly and outgoing. We hit it off right away.”
“Have you spoken to the police again?”
She nodded. “This afternoon. They said they may have even more questions for me.”
“Would you mind telling me what they asked?”
“Everything, it seemed like, and mostly they were the same questions they’d asked before. What plans we made, when I last spoke to her, who her other friends are, that sort of thing.”
Before I could respond, Jimmy delivered her tea. It was served in an elegant porcelain pot, a match to the one containing my Cocoretto.
“Were you able to give them a lot of names?”
“Sure. Gretchen has a lot of friends.”
She poured a little milk into her tea. With her face in repose, she looked like Ginevra Benci as Leonardo da Vinci had painted her, with pale, flawless skin, wide cheekbones, and intelligent eyes that stared at something offstage.
In college, I’d looked at the painting for a long time. I’d been working on a paper discussing what da Vinci’s subjects’ expressions implied about the artist, and I’d been unable to articulate the emotions showing in Ginevra’s demeanor. Instead, I’d listed what the young woman wasn’t expressing: surprise, joy, pain, fear, anger, sorrow, love, amusement, or anxiety. Yet her expression wasn’t neutral. I could tell that her mind was busy. She was attentive, but I couldn’t see to what—it was off the canvas. That’s how Lina looked as she stirred her tea: alert and watchful, with an important but elusive emotion in play.
“Are she and Mandy close?” I asked.
“Sure. They’re friends.”
“How close?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A bunch of us hang out. You know, we’ll all meet up at some restaurant or bar over the weekend. Or we go to the beach or have a barbecue. Or someone will have a party. That sort of thing.”
“What about Vince?”
Lina’s eyes fell to her teacup, then rose again to meet mine. “Have you met him?”
“No. I’ve just seen him from a distance. Even so, he seemed kind of intense, you know? Do you know anything about him?”
She bit her lip and looked down again. “No,” she said.
From the uneasy look on her face, I didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t think of what to ask to get her to open up. “Can you tell me about any of Gretchen’s other friends?”
“Well, there’s the Eagler sisters and Buddy and Roberta and Brenda and Morley and Preston and Alexis and—I don’t know, a bunch of others, too. Why?”
I shook my head. “No reason in particular. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m so worried.” I looked at her but saw nothing but mildly friendly interest. I changed the subject. “Do you know anything about Gretchen’s background?”
“Why are you asking me that?” She looked startled and uncomfortable all at once.
I circled my cup with my hands to absorb some warmth and took a deep breath. Suddenly I felt exhausted. “I just want to help her if I can.”
Lina nodded. “Me, too.”
I reached over and patted her hand. “So, do you know anything about where she comes from? If I know where to look, I can check. Maybe she went back there.”
“Down south. That’s all she ever said—that it was freezing here in Portsmouth compared to where she was from, down south.”
“Did she ever mention family or friends from before she moved here?”
“Only once. She said that it was easier being alone than dealing with her family. I thought it was kind of sad.”
“Where down south?”
“She never said.”
“Not even a state—Georgia or South Carolina, maybe?”
“No,” Lina replied, shaking her head.
I didn’t want to bully her, yet I had to try to find a kernel of information she might not remember but possessed nonetheless. I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing while Gretchen might be desperate, wounded, or terrified—or all three. She might need help, help I could provide.
“Did Gretchen ever say something about her life growing up or an activity that she did as a kid—like her dad was a shrimper or she lived near a museum, or she learned to water ski on the lake before she could walk, something like that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Isn’t there anything else you can tell me? Please?”
She looked at me and shook her head again, a sad-sweet smile on her face. “I’ve wracked my brain—but I don’t know anything else.”
I tried hard to think of another question to ask, and then I gave up. There was no magic bullet that I could use to get information Lina didn’t have. I smiled. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
She zipped up her coat. “One thing I can tell you for sure. Gretchen loves her job. She thinks you’re the smartest businesswoman she’s ever known.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised at the accolade. “Wow. You’ve completely made my day.”
After she left, I
thought about what I’d learned. Not much. Gretchen hung out with a large group of friends, and the police had their names. She came from somewhere down south. And Lina seemed afraid of Mandy’s boyfriend, Vince.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I
got to Ty’s house just after seven thirty. “Hello!” I called, entering with my key through the front door. “Anyone home!”
“In the kitchen!”
His place was bigger than mine, a contemporary with two fire-places, one in the master bedroom, and huge picture windows that framed sweeping vistas of maple, oak, apple, elm, chestnut, poplar, and birch. Last autumn, when the leaves had turned the colors of fire, molten red melding into iridescent orange and flame-hot yellow, I’d sat staring into the woods, thinking that I was in the presence of God.
Tonight, Ty had a fire going in the living room. As I walked past, I heard a soft hissing sound, then crackling. I found him in the kitchen, making pizza from a box.
“We’re having pizza, I see.”
“And salad.”
I sat in a club chair he kept in a corner of the kitchen, my legs curled under me, and watched as he chopped vegetables, his motions confident and quick. I filled him in about my call to the Sidlawn Fencing Company about the belt buckle, our find in my vault about Gretchen’s vase, and my conversation with Lina.
“Your lip curls when you mention Vince. How come?” Ty asked.
“When I think of him, I just feel . . . I don’t know . . . yuk.”
“Yuk,” Ty repeated. “That’s a technical term, is it?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Can you be more specific?”
“Well, Gretchen set the scene by telling me that in her view, Vince wasn’t good for Mandy. Keeping in mind I’ve never even met the guy, I have the impression that Grtechen was right, that he seems to influence Mandy in ways that are bad for her—but subtly bad. I mean, it’s not like he hits her or tells her to obey him or anything. It’s not overt like that.” I floundered, trying to find a way to explain. “Here’s an example: Mandy told me that Vince said that painting flowers in her kitchen was stupid. It’s not that he’s merely not supportive—it’s worse than that—he’s denigrating.” I shrugged. “In other words—yuk.”
Ty looked up from his chopping. “How do you know he hasn’t hit her?”
“I don’t know. I mean, it never occurred to me.”
“Have you seen any marks or bruises on her? Maybe she said she’d fallen down or tripped or something, so you didn’t think anything of it at the time.”
“No.” I looked out into the night. It was still raining and, I knew, cold.
“Did you mention him to Detective Brownley?”
“No. I had no reason to.”
“You should. It can’t do any harm.” He placed a stalk of celery on the cutting board.
I nodded. “Is it important enough for me to call her now?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It isn’t like you’re gossiping with a girlfriend, Josie. It’s a murder investigation. The more she knows, the better.”
“Okay.”
I went into the living room, where I’d left my tote bag. The half-burned apple log spit sparks toward the screen, then popped as sap ignited. I selected a medium-sized log and laid it crosswise on the smoldering cinders.
“So Ty thought I ought to mention that I have a negative reaction to Mandy’s boyfriend, Vince Collins,” I said after exchanging greetings with Detective Brownley. “Even though I’ve never met him. I have no reason to think Vince is involved or a particular threat, but he thought I ought to call, so I did.”
“Thank you, Josie,” she said. “You did the right thing.”
I reported my observations, recounting what Gretchen and Mandy said to me. She thanked me again and hung up. I had an idea, and as I considered its merits, I watched the pepper-red flames turn gold, then white, then red again, and then I called Wes.
I got his voice mail and left a brief message. “Can you check out a man named Vince Collins?” I asked. “I have no evidence, but my gut tells me that there’s a teeny tiny chance he’s involved in whatever is going on.”
Knowing Wes as I did, I was confident that I’d get a full report by morning.
“Good tip, Josie. This Vince Collins guy—he’s got a record,” Wes said when he called at ten the next morning.
I took the call on the tag sale room phone. “What kind of record?” I asked, turning my back to the crowd and lowering my voice.
“Assault. Two counts. He did jail time.”
I gulped. “Tell me about the assaults.”
“One was a bar fight the night of his twenty-first birthday. He broke a beer bottle over some guy’s head, put him in the hospital. He pleaded out and served thirty days. Three years ago, when he was twenty-nine, he beat another guy pretty much to a pulp. They said it was a road rage thing. He wasn’t drunk, which when you think about it makes the whole thing worse, you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” I said, and I began to breathe again. Vince was, it seemed, a man for whom violence came easily. “Did he go to jail that time?”
“Yup. He refused to plead to a lesser charge, insisting that the other guy attacked him and it was self-defense. No one believed him, including the jury, and he served more than two years of a three-year sentence for assault. He was found not guilty on the other charge—attempted murder. He’s been out for about eight months.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s in construction.”
“How long have he and Mandy been dating?”
“About six months. According to my source, they’re pretty serious.”
“What else does your source say?” I asked.
“Pretty strong stuff, actually.” Wes paused to maximize the effect of his next words. “One person I talked to said he thought he was a ticking time bomb ready to explode.”
“What sets him off?”
“By all reports, he’s jealous and controlling—and arrogant.”
Had Gretchen warned Mandy to get away from him? I wondered. “Is there any connection between Vince and the dead guy?” I asked.
“Who knows? We still don’t know who the dead guy is. But there’s more,” he said enticingly.
I braced myself. “What?” I asked.
“An APB has been issued for Gretchen—and her car. Which means they think she’s involved,” he said, sounding thrilled at the prospect.
Wes’s enthusiasm shocked me. “Wes, it’s not an action movie, for goodness sake! Something horrible is going on, but Gretchen’s not the criminal here. If anything, she’s a victim.”
“What do you know?” he asked, pouncing on my innocent remark.
“I don’t know anything about where she is or why she’s missing,” I said sternly, “nor, may I add, do you.”
Disappointed that I had no secrets or speculation to share, but resilient as ever, he ended the call with an energetic “Talk later!”
I pressed the phone into my ribs and stared unseeingly into the tag sale crowd, seriously shaken by both of Wes’s revelations. I took deep breaths as I tried to think what I should do—or what I could do.
Ideas came to me, only to be immediately dismissed. I couldn’t do anything about the belt buckle until I heard from Serena, hopefully on Monday. I couldn’t do anything about Vince at all. I could continue trying to find Faring Auctions; maybe they were bought out like Sidlawn Fencing Company. I wished I could locate the vase itself. All at once, my mouth fell open.
I was willing to bet that I knew exactly where to find Gretchen’s vase.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I
spun the heavy vault lock and stepped inside. The largest boxes were positioned on the bottom two shelves. I squatted and reviewed each box’s index card, one by one, starting in the near left corner.
The first box contained rare books—a twelve-volume set of gold-tooled, burled-leather-bound Shakespeare, dating fr
om 1784, in beautiful condition, last examined by Fred a month ago. The second box was empty. The third box contained carefully packaged early Baccarat glassware, last viewed by Sasha last week. The fourth box’s index card read GRETCHEN. PERSONAL.
I fell back on my heels and stared at the index card for a long time. Then I scampered up and called Detective Brownley.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think to look before,” I said after I explained my find. “I didn’t open the box, but I’m willing to bet money the vase is inside.”
“You don’t maintain an inventory of what’s in your safe?” she asked.
“We will, starting now,” I replied.
She told me she’d be there in ten minutes.
The vase was magnificent. The imagery was evocative of natural beauty and simple pleasures, and while the painting appeared effortless, a closer examination revealed complex layering and delicate, softly shaded brush strokes. I hated to see the vase disappear into the trunk of Detective Brownley’s vehicle, but I accepted her assurance that I’d get to examine it as soon as the lab completed its work.
The intercom buzzed.
It was Cara, and she sounded agitated. “Come to the tag sale,” she whispered. “Hurry.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“A man is looking for Gretchen. Hurry!” she repeated and hung up.
I ran across the ware house, then stopped short at the door that opened into the rear of the tag sale to peer through the peephole. He was easy to spot. He was tall, maybe six feet, with a barrel chest and skinny legs, somewhere around thirty. His hair was an unnatural shade of yellow, cut short, and curly. I could see a faint hint of black near the roots. He wore a long-sleeved, collared black T-shirt, jeans, hiking boots, and a beige anorak.
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