I located Sam Bartlett’s phone number and was tempted to dial it, but I didn’t. If Gretchen was there, my call might terrorize her and make her run again, this time deeper into hiding. Instead, I called Detective Brownley. After I explained my thinking and gave her the phone number, she paused, then said, “This is a very interesting idea, Josie.” She promised to let me know as soon as she learned anything relevant.
Wes called with an urgent request to see me. We agreed to meet near the salt pile in downtown Portsmouth.
I got there first and watched as he parked with a jerk in front of me and hustled into my car.
“I only have a few minutes,” he said, “but I’ve got a real-deal bombshell.”
“What?”
“In a sec. First, your insurance company came through with Gretchen’s fingerprints. The print on the milk carton isn’t hers.”
“Whose is it—do they know?”
“No. It’s not in any national databank or known to the New Hampshire police.”
I shook my head, disappointed. “So it’s not Vince’s.”
“Right. Nor is it the dead man’s—Sal Briscoe, now known to be Morgan Boulanger.”
Another negative. “What about tracing the gun?”
“Nope. Not so far.”
I shook my head. “Now what?”
Wes shrugged. “I have news about Chip Davidson. Examining his fingerprints got us nowhere—he doesn’t have a record—but I got some info from the plate number you gave me. The Taurus is a rental. He picked it up in Massachusetts from Siva International on Friday.”
“Where in Massachusetts?”
“Burlington.”
A suburb north of Boston. “Why there of all places?” I asked.
“I have no idea. Do you?”
“No, but if you got his rental record, you have his credit card info.”
“Right, and from that, I got everything we need. He has a Virginia address. Are you ready for the bombshell? His driver’s license was issued for the first time seven years ago.”
I gaped.
“So was his credit card,” Wes said with relish.
“That’s unbelievable. Astounding.”
“It’s a heck of a coincidence.”
“It can’t be a coincidence.”
“Probably not.”
“What does it mean? Who is he for real?”
“You tell me.”
The salt, used to treat the icy roads in winter, was at its springtime low. I stared past the mound and over the sun-specked Piscataqua, the river that separated New Hampshire from Maine, to a private dock on the Maine side as I considered Wes’s question. Chip Davidson must somehow be involved in the Amelia Bartlett killing, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think how. I glanced at Wes. He was watching me, eager for news.
“All we can say for sure is that he doesn’t know where Gretchen is now. Otherwise he wouldn’t keep showing up where she works and asking for her. There’s some connection among the three of them—Chip, Gretchen, and the dead man, Morgan,” I said, deciding to use his real name, not his alias of Sal. I took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Something happened seven years ago that resulted in them all getting new IDs. I think I know what it is, but I don’t know how Chip is involved. You know how you were going to search for a photo of Gretchen involved in some past crime as a way of seeing if she might be in the witness protection program?”
“Sure. I’ve dug around a little, but I haven’t had any luck so far.”
“I have.” I turned away again and kept my eyes on the distant shore as I described what I’d discovered about the Amelia Bartlett murder. Soon after I started my explanation, Wes began taking notes on the dirty scrap of paper he kept in his pocket.
“Why didn’t you tell me this right away?” he grumbled.
“I just learned about it today. I am telling you right away.” I turned again to face him. “Did you ask if Chip’s fingerprints match the one on the milk carton?”
His eyes lit up. “Good question, Josie. I’ll check.” He tucked the paper away and headed for his car.
After he left, I sat for a long time, listening to an old Duke Ellington recording and thinking about Chip Davidson. I reached no conclusions. I didn’t even know what questions to pose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
D
riving home after work, I tuned in the local news station.
“The police report that they’ve identified the dead man found in a North Mill Pond condo last week,” the announcer stated. “According to a high-ranking police official, the man is Morgan Boulanger, a suspect in a 2002 Colorado murder. In another story, Lina Nadlein can thank her dog for stopping a break-in. Her neighbor Andrew Yorne called nine-one-one to report the incident after the dog’s nonstop barking alerted him to the situation. The suspect got away before he could be apprehended. And now to the weather.”
I punched the OFF button and pulled over to call Lina. My hand shook a little as I dialed.
She wasn’t at the Bow Street Emporium. Her cell phone went straight to voice mail. An answering machine picked up after four rings at her home number, but I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I drove to her house.
The shades were drawn. Her car wasn’t there. I ran up to the porch and rang the bell, thinking that she might have put her car in the garage. I heard the tinny buzz from inside and a dog barking, but no one came to the door. I cupped my eyes to see into the garage through the small side window, but the glass was tinted and I couldn’t see a thing. I walked to the rear and climbed the steps to the small back porch. Curtains blocked my view. There was no bell. I knocked gently on the glass, then hard on the door frame.
“Lina?” I called and knocked again. “Lina?”
A dog barked, then bayed, then growled a little. He sounded close, right on the other side of the door. No one shushed him. The apartment felt empty.
I drove to a side street and parked facing the house, deciding to wait for a while. I wanted to hear what Lina thought was going on. It grew dark, and still she didn’t come.
Ty called to tell me he was stuck in Bangor for the night. “This training is like ten pounds of sugar in a five-pound bag. These guys aren’t as far along as I’d expected—or as they need to be. I’ve got to stick here until they get it right.”
I expressed disappointment and understanding in equal measures. After we were done, I tried Lina’s cell phone again and got her.
“I’ve been worried,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“It’s pretty freaky,” she replied. “Thank goodness for Blitzie. If he hadn’t barked, who knows what might have happened.”
“Did anyone get a description?”
“Not much. A white guy wearing a baseball cap pulled down over his face and a coat with the collar turned up.”
It could be anyone, I thought. “Are you going back there tonight?” I asked.
“No way. I’m staying with Mandy. She kept me company while I walked Blitzi and got him squared away for the night. I’m having an alarm system installed tomorrow. Then I’ll go home again.”
“Do you have any idea why someone would try to break in?”
“No,” she said, and from her tone, I believed her. All I heard was fear.
“Call me if I can do anything, okay?” I said. “Anytime.”
She thanked me, and we agreed to talk soon.
With a final glance at her house, I drove home, glad to see the golden glow from the lamp that greeted me. I hated coming into a dark house. Inside, I walked from room to room turning on lights.
I cooked to the soothing sounds of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and at just after ten I decided to go to bed. I felt worn to a nub, emotionally exhausted. I was certain I’d toss and turn all night, yet I slept deeply, my rest untroubled and uninterrupted, the sleep of the innocent.
The next morning, I cooked myself scrambled eggs and bacon and sat for a long time at my kitchen table eating and sipping tea. I had no fresh ideas for finding
Gretchen but still felt a solid gut-deep confidence that once all the facts were known, her blamelessness would be proven.
As I was loading the dishwasher, the local news hit the airwaves.
“According to a highly placed police official, Gretchen Brock, wanted for questioning in the death of the man found murdered in her North Mill Pond condo, who has been identified as Morgan Boulanger, her husband, is also a suspect in an earlier murder,” the announcer said, sounding exhilarated as he recounted the appalling details of the Amelia Bartlett case.
I turned off the radio and hurried to my car. It was a raw, cloudy day. It looked like rain.
I stopped at a convenience store to pick up a copy of the Seacoast Star and winced as I read Wes’s headline:
DID GRETCHEN BROCK KILL HER HUSBAND?
HAS SHE KILLED BEFORE?
I hated the overtones of the headline: Asking if Gretchen had killed before, implied that she’d killed now.
As I stood in the middle of the store and read the article, I had to acknowledge that Wes’s recap of the 2002 murder was clear and to the point. There was no mention of Chip Davidson, nor, I noted, much to my surprise and relief, of me. Wes didn’t even mention that Gretchen worked for Prescott’s. A sidebar titled “Crime Wave?” mentioned the break-in at Prescott’s and the attempted break-in at Lina’s, questioning whether all these crimes that involved people who were known to one another typified the kind of coincidences to be found in a small city or were a matter of cause and effect.
The main article focused on Gretchen’s alleged role in both murders. Wes even quoted a retired Denver police officer who predicted there was a better-than-even chance that Gretchen—i.e., Marie Boulanger—had instigated the entire crime and that her hapless husband was merely a pawn in a chess game of her making. His theory was that Amelia’s murder resulted from a robbery gone wrong, and since Marie knew better than Morgan what objects to steal and where the cash was stashed, she had to be the brains behind his brawn.
Despite my protestations to the contrary, my Gretchen-as-criminal guilt-meter was inching up. At first, I’d denied the possibility that Gretchen could be involved in any way, thinking it was more likely that she was a victim of a kidnapping than the perpetrator of a crime. Then I’d found myself acknowledging the merit of Wes’s argument that no one gets a new Social Security number without cause and wondering if she was in the witness protection program. Now I was questioning whether I’d been wrong about Gretchen’s innocence from the start.
Is it possible that Gretchen has been playing me for all these years? I wondered. In my heart, I didn’t believe she was guilty of anything, but neither could I deny the facts. I felt trapped between what I felt and what I knew, a prisoner of dissonant truths. Maintaining optimism was grueling. I felt the weight of the effort as I trudged to my car.
Once settled inside, with the heat on, I called Wes to ask if he had any news about the fingerprint on the milk carton. I wanted to know if it was Chip’s. His cell phone went directly to voice mail, and I left a message.
Feeling restless, I decided to stop at Phil’s Barn instead of going straight into work. I’d just turned onto Oak Street when, out of nowhere, a black Jeep bore down from the other direction.
Vince Collins was at the wheel. He saw me, too. He slowed as we passed and eyed me with stony dislike. My heart thudded against my chest, and I kept glancing into the rearview mirror and held my breath until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. What did I ever do to him? I wondered.
My cell phone rang, and I jumped a little, startled.
I recognized the number—it was Wes. I pulled over to take the call.
“Wes,” I said, relieved to talk to someone I knew.
“Whatcha got?” he asked.
“Nothing. I was wondering about Chip’s fingerprint. Was it a match for the milk carton?”
“Nope. I was gonna call you later. I’m still checking, but so far it’s as if he’s a phantom or something, you know? He obviously exists, but he’s not real.”
“Wes, you make him sound like a spy!”
“A spook, yeah, maybe. I was thinking that. Except that I can’t find any international connection or anything. Maybe he’s in witness protection like we thought Gretchen might be. What do you think?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Wes, I’m just beside myself with worry. Do you have any news at all?”
“No, but I got like twenty feelers out. We’re on the brink—I can smell it. Catch ya later,” Wes said. He hung up.
He can smell it? I questioned silently. What can he smell?
I was glad not to see Vince’s Jeep again on the road to Phil’s. When I arrived, I parked as close to the big barn door as I could.
“I was just fixing to call you,” Phil said as soon as I entered. “I got in a beauty of a window. Stained glass.”
“Victorian?” That was a safe bet, since most stained glass in our region originated from the late nineteenth century.
“Yup, but it’s something I’ve never seen before.”
The window was magnificent. Shaped to fit a custom-designed transom over double-wide entrance doors, it was fifty-seven inches long and twenty-seven inches tall at the top of the arch. Clusters of flowers in varying hues of pink, from deep rose to soft salmon to pale seashell, were framed by leaves in undulating shades of dark green as they draped over rich brown branches. The background was a clear azure blue formed of irregular rounded shapes joined together in a patchwork leaded design. A one-inch amber border ran in six-inch lengths along the outer edge. It took my breath away.
“It’s something, huh?” Phil said, his eyes on me, his customer, not the window.
“Is it signed?” I asked.
“Nope.”
I nodded. Tiffany wasn’t the only well-respected stained glass artist. Several lesser-known but highly regarded studios had produced scores of gorgeous pieces. This window wasn’t one of them. Still, it was a unique object, with an unusual yet classic design flawlessly executed in popular colors. I didn’t need to research it. We’d already acquired half a dozen similar but smaller examples for the auction, so I knew its value. Properly marketed, I would expect the window to sell for thirty-five hundred dollars, maybe as much as four thousand.
“Do you know where it came from?”
“It’s local. Someone’s tearing down an old house to build some McMansion. At least they had enough sense to salvage the good stuff.”
I readied myself for the negotiation I knew was about to begin. Phil and I might not haggle much over the price of glass doorknobs or locks, but this was a different ball of wax. Because we were preparing for an auction, I wouldn’t have to market this piece individually, which gave me a little wiggle room. I could go as high as seventeen hundred, about half of what I expected the window to sell for. With luck, I thought, Phil wouldn’t start any higher than two thousand.
“Without a maker’s mark . . .” I let my voice drift off and shrugged, feigning indifference. “How much?”
He started at twenty-five hundred. Darn, I thought.
After several rounds of back-and-forth, he said, “Wish I could come down further, Josie, but I can’t. Two thousand. Final offer.”
It was more than I wanted to pay, but the window was worth it. “Sold. You drive a hard bargain, my friend.”
“Jeez, Josie, I’m a pussycat. I let you beat me up nohow.”
I laughed as we shook on the deal. “Right. In your dreams, Phil!”
He smiled knowingly.
I called Eric to come and get it, bringing blankets, cardboard filler, a crate, and a helper.
On the drive back, I turned on the radio to hear the morning news. The report was a repeat of what I’d heard earlier, fleshed out with details from Wes’s article.
“According to Seacoast Star reporter Wes Smith, there’s still uncertainty as to how the two murders relate and whether a recent break-in and another attempted break-in also figure into whatever’s going on,�
� the reporter intoned. Wes’s voice came on the air. “Gretchen Brock, a.k.a. Marie Boulanger, seems to be involved in both killings—but the word ‘involved’ has many meanings. Just because she was in a certain place at a certain time doesn’t make her guilty. It could be cause and effect. It could be coincidence. Until more facts are known, we in the media need to be careful how we use words.”
Wes sounded reasonable and smart, not as if he were trying to stir things up. Way to go, Wes, I thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I
greeted Fred and Cara as I hung up my coat.
“Eric left for Phil’s already,” Cara reported.
“Great! Wait ’til you guys see the stained glass window I just bought. It’s stunning.”
Fred pushed his glasses up and asked, “Marked?”
“No. It’s a no-name dazzler.”
He nodded and looked back at his computer, no longer particularly interested in my find. Fred was an antiques elitist: If an object wasn’t signed, stamped, or marked, it held less allure for him.
The phone rang. Cara answered with her friendly greeting, listened for a moment, then put the call on hold. “It’s Lina Nadlein for you.”
“Tell her I’ll be with her in a minute,” I said, then, wanting privacy, added, “I’ll take it upstairs.”
I ran to the steps.
“Hi, Lina,” I said, grabbing the phone and punching the flashing button. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Hi,” she said in a tiny voice, and from her tone, I could tell she was upset.
“Are you okay?”
“Not really. I’m so—” she started, then broke off. She sounded baffled. She cleared her throat. “I just heard the news about Gretchen having another identity . . . and on top of yesterday . . . I’m feeling pretty rocky. Is it true?”
“I think so,” I said softly.
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