I sidestepped toward the tag sale room, slowly, ever so slowly, walking as if the floor were made of eggshells. Every step on the concrete floor reverberated in the high-ceilinged, cavernous space. I reached the end of the shelving unit and took a deep breath. My palms were moist and my heart was throbbing. I felt sick.
The door from the front swung wide. I swallowed a scream and froze, then sank to the ground, making myself as small as possible. I stood up and found a slit that provided a clear sight line through the mechanical toys and children’s books stacked on the shelves around me to where he stood just inside the doorway. He was about six feet tall, with an average build. He wore jeans and work boots, a shapeless black trench coat with the collar up, black leather gloves, and a black knit ski mask that covered his head and face. I couldn’t describe his hair or eye color or skin tone—not one inch of him showed.
He scanned the entire warehouse, then started moving toward the spiral staircase that led to my office. I felt light-headed at the realization that he was heading where I’d almost gone. I’d need only a few seconds to reach the panic button, but from his position on the steps, he’d be sure to spot me. I decided to wait until he reached the top and disappeared into my office. I readied myself to run, and as I did so, I touched a toy near my elbow, a monkey playing a drum set, and the cymbal sounded.
Shocked, I gasped and stepped back instinctively, smashing into the shelving unit in back of me with a dull thwack, sending a pair of heavy bronze bookends crashing to the ground.
Damn, I silently cursed, and tiptoed to the end of the row, to distance myself as best I could from the noise. I held my breath. I couldn’t see him clearly, but it felt like he was staring right at me. He plunged down the steps and ran in my direction.
I scooted into the far aisle, dashed toward the rear, then dove into the back row, desperate for a plan. He’ll track me by my footsteps, I thought, on the edge of suffocating panic, uncertain what to do or how to escape. The vault came into view in front of me. Safe haven, I thought.
I swiped my sweating palms on my jeans so my fingers wouldn’t slip on the slick steel keypad of the combination lock. I punched in the code, but the wheel wouldn’t spin. I’d gotten the numbers wrong. I looked over my shoulder. He’d found me. He was at the far end of the row, running full speed straight at me.
Forcing myself to concentrate, I entered the numbers again and got them right.
I wrenched open the door, shot into the safe, and dragged the door closed, throwing the bolt and spinning the wheel only seconds before he reached me. I slapped the panic button positioned by the combination pad, and only then did I breathe. Unless the intruder had brought a bomb, he wasn’t going to reach me—the safe was that secure.
I leaned against the back wall, waiting for my tumultuous pulse to begin to quiet. Time passed, then seemed to stop. I leaned for a while longer, then sat down. I couldn’t hear sirens, phones, or people, but I wasn’t worried. I had enough oxygen for six hours, but the security service should be there within minutes. Still, it was terrifying. It felt as if I were alone in the world. I decided to have a telephone jack installed first thing in the morning.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only fifteen minutes at the most, a muffled voice called out, “Ms. Prescott?”
“In here!” I called as loudly as I could. “I’m locked in the safe!” I thumped the door and shouted my position again.
I heard more than one voice as people approached, but I couldn’t make out any words until someone asked me to identify myself. I could have wept, I was so relieved. We exchanged our preset code words. If I called “cat,” I was informing them that I was being held hostage. If I called “dog,” they’d know I was safe. If they spoke the word “machine,” I’d know it was really someone from the security company, not a bad guy up to no good.
“Dog,” I yelled. “It’s Josie. Dog. And you?”
“Machine,” someone said, sounding close.
With trembling fingers, I released the bolt.
Two uniformed security men stood in a half-circle facing me, their expressions grave. “Are you injured?” one asked. His name tag read JAYSON.
“No,” I replied, and I realized that I was shaking. “A man in a mask was inside, chasing me. I heard glass break.” I looked around the vast warehouse. Nothing looked disturbed. “I heard noises in the front office.”
“That seems to be the entry point. We called the police as soon as we arrived and saw the broken window.”
Shrieking sirens announced their arrival.
The front office was a mess. One of the windows stood open. I stared at it as Detective Brownley instructed a technician to gather up the glass pieces and try them for prints.
Evidently, the intruder had demolished a single pane of glass and reached in to unlock the window. Easy as pie, I thought, anger replacing fear. Damn him.
“Aren’t you surprised that he’d risk entering through a front window?” I asked. “Anyone driving by would see him. Plus, didn’t he think someone might be here? I mean, my car is in the parking lot!”
She shrugged. “There’s almost no traffic out here that time of day, and you said he rang the bell and knocked and called, right? Obviously, he thought no one was here and it seemed like a reasonable risk to him.”
“What about those calls? Can’t you trace the number?”
“I’m betting it will turn out to be a disposable cell phone. What I want to know is what he was after.”
I surveyed the damage. An African violet that sat on the table had been knocked over, the pot broken, and its delicate purple blossoms scattered in the dirt. Gretchen would be heartbroken. She’d rescued the nearly dead plant from the trash room at her condo, then spent weeks nurturing it back to health.
Locked file drawers had been pried open, probably, according to the crime scene tech guy, with a crowbar. File folders were strewn across the floor. Papers were heaped in chaotic piles. Desk drawers stood open.
“Gretchen’s personnel file,” I said. “Maybe he wanted to find her emergency contact, thinking he could look for her at that person’s house.”
“Is her file there?” Detective Brownley asked the technician. “Gretchen Brock. Do you see it?” To me, she added, “She didn’t list anyone, so it’s moot anyhow.”
He extracted a thin manila file from the mishmash. No papers were missing.
The night manager at my security firm called to let me know that they’d e-mailed the digital camera output to the police as I’d requested, but that they agreed with my assessment—the man was unrecognizable.
I called Ty and reported what had happened. “I need to nail up some wood,” I explained, “so I don’t know exactly when I’ll get home.”
“I’m almost back—look for me in about fifteen minutes.”
“You don’t need to come.”
“Yes, I do. Fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks,” I said, my eyes welling. A little of my anger faded away.
As I stood near the broken window, watching Detective Brownley huddle with Griff, I flexed my back and shoulders, trying to relax. It felt like a steel rod was embedded in my neck. Although the parking lot was brightly lit, Griff lifted heavy-duty handheld spotlights from his vehicle’s trunk. Starting in opposite corners, they walked the parking lot seeking evidence on the still-damp pavement. Of what? I wondered. Tire marks. A discarded cigarette butt. A candy wrapper.
Griff squatted, aimed his lamp at something, then called to Detective Brownley. She joined him, examined whatever he’d found, and nodded. She photographed it, then continued snapping as she walked away from the building. She’s recording footsteps, I realized. Footsteps that led straight like a shot into the woods. Detective Brownley and Griff stepped behind a chestnut tree, and for a moment they were lost in the darkness. Then their spotlights came on, and I could follow their progress as they wended their way toward the church parking lot.
When Detective Brownley returned to the o
ffice, she confirmed that they had identified footprints they suspected belonged to the intruder and would be casting molds right away in case it rained again overnight.
Ty arrived, and without even taking off his coat, he hugged me. I buried my face in his chest, and for one long glorious moment my world was comprised solely of the earthy aroma of leather, the beating of his heart, and the security of his embrace.
Half an hour later, when Detective Brownley announced they were done with their inside crime scene work, Ty nailed a plank of wood into the window frame while I tested the doors in the auction venue and tag sale room to be certain everything was secure. I spun the wheel on the safe, and only then did I remember that I hadn’t returned Gretchen’s vase to the vault.
I rushed over to the spot where I’d left the box. It was gone. I’d left it in this exact spot, I was certain of it, and now it was gone. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I was hyperventilating. Ty called my name, but I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t speak at all. I stood, immobile, until he found me.
“It’s gone,” I whispered, pointing to where it had been. “Gretchen’s vase. The man stole it, and now it’s gone.”
Ty guided me back to the office and told me to sit down. “You’re in shock, Josie,” he said. “Do as I say.”
Within minutes, Detective Brownley was back with the team of technicians in tow. It was surreal, a nightmare. I felt overwhelmed and helpless. I couldn’t find Gretchen, and now I’d lost her vase.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I
didn’t even try to sleep. At Ty’s suggestion, I took a hot shower, had a cup of tea and then a glass of brandy—but nothing helped. I was beside myself. I couldn’t read, watch a movie or TV, or listen to music. All I could do was fret.
About two thirty, I decided to use my wakefulness in the only productive way I could think of—doing research. As I viewed the images of Gretchen’s vase I’d downloaded onto my laptop, I began to tear up. I stopped myself from crying.
I’d left off at the discovery that the vase might have been a present from King George II to his mistress, Henrietta Howard. Deepening my investigation, I found several articles that revealed additional details about Henrietta’s struggles and tenacity.
Henrietta Howard, a gentle-born woman, survived an abusive marriage, reinvented herself as a member of Queen Charlotte’s staff, and, after spending years as the mistress of King George II, went on to become one of the most sought-after women of her generation, friends with the greatest poets and intellectuals of her day. Alexander Pope wrote of her:
I knew a thing that’s most uncommon
(Envy be silent and attend)
I knew a reasonable woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a friend.
Pope’s attitude toward women reflected his era, I thought, highlighting the magnitude of Henrietta Howard’s accomplishment. In an age when women had few rights, she’d rescued herself from battery and penury.
I spent the next two hours trying to locate the full text of Lord Chesterfield’s letter, the one that Percy Oliver Johns had referenced in his dissertation, without luck. A wave of fatigue swept over me. I e-mailed Sasha, describing where I’d searched and asking her to give it a try.
As I clicked SEND, I thought that finally I might be able to rest.
I slept fitfully for a few hours and woke up feeling unrested and fretful.
Ty had left a pot of coffee on the burner and a note taped to the refrigerator: “I’ll be home early. You’re doing everything you can. Detective Brownley is very, very good at her job. Love, Ty.” I held his note against my heart for a moment, grateful for the concern and care that resonated from his words.
Wes called at eight, just as I was preparing to leave for work. “We need to talk,” he said, his tone grave.
We agreed to meet at the Portsmouth Diner.
I got there first, selected a booth near the back, and ordered coffee.
Wes came in a few minutes later. Sliding onto the bench, he said, “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”
I looked out the window at scores of tiny yellow and white crocuses blooming along a grassy knoll. I didn’t want to discuss how I felt. “I’m holding up as best I can.”
“Yeah . . . well . . . I hear the police are making progress.”
I felt myself perk up, just a little. “Tell me.”
“First, about last night—fill me in. I got the news on my police scanner, but I was too far away to get to your place in time.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Wes,” I replied, forcing myself to adopt a light tone.
He looked embarrassed. “I was kind of tied up.”
“What kind of tied up?” I asked warily, prepared to hear something offensive or insensitive.
“If you must know, I was with my mother in Hampton. I took her to dinner. It was her birthday.”
I smiled. “Good going, Wes!”
His cheeks reddened. “So what happened?” he asked.
I paused, then said, “Someone broke into Prescott’s and stole a valuable vase.”
“How? Come on, Josie, I need details.”
I met his eyes. “I can’t talk about it yet, Wes. I’m too upset.” I pushed my coffee mug away and prepared to leave. “If you have something to tell me, great. Otherwise, I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t go. If you can’t talk about the details, list the things you want to know. Maybe I can help.”
I paused. That was a good offer, and it was kind of him not to challenge my refusal to talk—in addition to being expedient, of course. If he got me describing what I wanted to know, he’d be that much ahead of the game.
“Thank you. I’d like to know who broke in, of course, and why. The intruder was completely covered up—all I could see was that he was about six feet tall. What was he after? Information about Gretchen? He went through papers in the office before stealing a vase packed in a box. With all the inventory available, why did he take that one object? The police found footprints. I want to know if they got good imprints and what they were able to learn from them.” I shrugged, thinking whether there was anything else. “That’s what I’d want to know.”
Wes wrote furiously on his lined paper, then nodded and looked up. “Thanks, Josie.”
“Do you have any news, Wes?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Wes said, “but I will.”
I left him sitting in the booth and drove straight to work.
I filled out several online forms, reporting Gretchen’s vase to the various national and international stolen art and antiques registries that Prescott’s, like all reputable auction houses, subscribed to. If the vase were offered for sale, we might catch the seller and, from that information, find Gretchen, or at least, the thief. I was attaching photographs when Cara called up to say that someone named Jack was downstairs asking to see me.
“Jack who?” I asked.
“Jack Stene. He’s a friend of Gretchen’s,” she added, lowering her voice as if she were revealing a secret. “You remember—he called last Friday.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Jack Stene was in his early thirties. He wore khakis and a button-down blue shirt. At a guess, he was about five-eleven and well built. His hair was sandy brown and long enough for him to have gathered it into a ponytail. He had brown-black eyes and an affable smile.
“You must be Josie,” he said as I walked into the office.
“I am.” I extended a hand and smiled back.
He took my hand in his and shook it—a good one, strong, but not too strong, and lasting just the right amount of time—as he introduced himself. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked.
I led the way into the warehouse and paused by the stacked crates.
“I met Gretchen.” He looked away as if he were embarrassed.
Gretchen’s chemist, I thought.
“I got back last Monday. Since then . . . well . . . I’ve heard the news . . . about the murder and everything . .
. I just don’t understand . . . I mean, the police have asked me—”
“The police?” I broke in, surprised.
He nodded. “They got my name from her cell phone call log and my e-mails to her. I mean, that was bad, but then it was on the news that an APB had been issued . . . and this morning I heard that there was a break-in here last night . . . I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on.”
“What did you tell the police?”
“Nothing. I don’t know anything. Do you?”
Jack was waiting for my reply, his eyes conveying sincerity and concern and nothing else, except determination. I had to say something, and from the set of his jaw and his unwavering gaze, I could tell he wasn’t going to be put off by a politely worded general statement.
“Only that it’s crazy to think that Gretchen did anything wrong,” I said. Without warning, my voice cracked, and I looked away. I took several deep breaths to compose myself.
“She talked about you a lot, about what a smart businesswoman you are and how much she trusts you. I can’t help thinking . . . if anyone knows where she is, it would be you.”
I took another deep breath. “I wish,” I said.
He looked past the rows of shelving, toward the back wall. Then he met my eyes and held them. “Are you sure you don’t know how to reach her? Even to deliver a message?”
Even if I had a way of contacting her, I wouldn’t have told him so. I had no reason to trust him. None. He might be just what he purported to be—a new fella in Gretchen’s life, confused and worried and eager to know she was all right. Maybe he wasn’t, though; it was possible that he was just a good actor.
“No,” I said. “Do you?”
“Me?” He seemed nonplussed at my question. “No. That’s why I’m here.”
I nodded. Probably it was true. He gave me his business card, jotting his cell phone number on the back. We promised to let one another know if and when we heard from her.
Killer Keepsakes Page 13