Dolled Up for Murder

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Late June. Consider it done.”

  We talked awhile longer, and then the sun lowered toward the horizon and a chill set in. I told Ty I was ready to go home and that I’d call him at bedtime.

  As I drove, I slipped in my earpiece and called Zoë.

  “May I invite myself over later?” I asked. “I’ll bring a pitcher of Blue Martinis.”

  “Oh, please. You’re the answer to a prayer. I’ve had such a day.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “If have to watch one more animated cartoon I’m going to run screaming into the woods.”

  “Ready for some adult conversation, are you?”

  “Desperate. Hurry.”

  “I’m on my way!”

  * * *

  I turned on the flat-screen TV Ty had installed in the kitchen for company and mixed a pitcher of Blue Martinis. I was cutting pineapple wedges for the garnish when the TV anchor said, “And now our Legal Eagle, Pennington Moreau, will discuss the arrests today that have rocked the Seacoast region.”

  “Thanks, Mitch,” Penn said. “Lenny Einsohn and Randall Michaels were arrested today on a laundry list of charges stemming from the alleged Ponzi scheme being run by Alice Michaels, founder of Rocky Point–based ADM Financial Advisers. One of the investors who alleges he lost more than a million dollars in the scam is Ian Landers. Mr. Landers has been extremely vocal in condemning the company’s principals and demanding they reveal what they know.”

  I heard Ian’s voice and looked up in time to view a video clip of his in-your-face confrontation with Lenny and Randall.

  “In an exclusive off-camera interview conducted after this episode,” Penn continued, “Mr. Landers was a changed man. Instead of yelling, he was somber. He explained that he was despondent over his financial losses and heartbroken over a recent romantic breakup. He stated he’d been romantically involved with Ms. Michaels for more than five years and that she ended the relationship about a month ago.”

  Poor Martha, I thought.

  “The police and state and federal prosecutors are certain to follow up by looking at what, if anything, Mr. Landers might have learned from Ms. Michaels about her firm’s alleged financial irregularities during the course of their relationship. According to a high-placed official on the prosecutorial team, who would only speak on condition of anonymity, Josie Prescott, owner of Prescott’s Antiques and Auctions, has been retained to appraise all of Alice Michaels’s household goods. It’s hoped that she will discover among Alice’s possessions enough objects of value to compensate the alleged victims.

  “If you have any knowledge of anything related to this case, the police and the prosecutors want to hear from you. Call the toll-free tip line number you see at the bottom of your screen.

  “I want to leave you with one last thought. Let this increasingly distasteful situation serve as a cautionary tale. Choose your friends and associates with care. Are they looking out for your interests—or their own? This is Pennington Moreau, the Legal Eagle, soaring high and signing off.”

  I muted the TV just as the phone rang.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were hired to appraise Alice’s stuff?” Wes asked, sounding hurt.

  “You were listening to Penn.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “He’s wrong. Nothing’s been finalized, Wes, and he didn’t even call me to confirm the report. Sloppy journalism.”

  He snorted. “He’s not a journalist. He’s a wannabe.”

  “Good point. Let me ask you something. Do you know if Ian Landers or Randall Michaels has an alibi for when Eric was kidnapped?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Alice saw the Civil War currency in one of Selma’s dolls. If she and Ian were as close as Penn says they were, it’s reasonable to think she would have told him about it. As for Randall—if Alice confided in her lover, it’s not out of line to think she would have confided in her much-loved son. I don’t know, Wes. I just figure it can’t do any harm to check.”

  “I’m on it,” Wes said. “Give me a quote about being hired.”

  “I haven’t been hired.”

  “You will be. Give me a quote I can use if and when.”

  “Okay. Are you ready?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Keeping in mind that this is all if and when, ‘Prescott’s looks forward to working with the authorities to ensure a comprehensive and impartial appraisal.’”

  “Jeez, Josie, that’s a little white bread, don’t you think?”

  “It’s all I’ve got under the circumstances.”

  “Okay. Catch ya later.”

  “Wait—what about Randall’s company?” I asked. “Did you find anything out yet?”

  “Yeah. According to two employees and a client it’s like the AG said. Randall was his mother’s errand boy. Alice ran the business and he did as he was told. All three said it wasn’t a problem for them because Alice was easy to work for and with and Randall never interfered.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Wes.”

  “Talk soon.” He hung up.

  I turned off the TV and finished preparing the pineapple wedges, placed the pitcher and plate on a tray, then picked my way across the little lawn that separated my place from Zoë’s, thinking that you could never tell, you just never could tell. I’d thought that Randall was merely a shadow of a man. Then I learned that he had evidently lied and cheated like a champ at his mother’s behest. Now I wondered just how far he’d go for the woman in his life. Would he have kidnapped Eric if Darleen told him to? Would he have killed his mother?

  Likewise, I’d thought Ian was just bombastic. Then I learned he was a philanderer. Now I wondered what other crimes he might have committed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  At seven thirty the next morning, Thursday, I sat at my little round table eating cereal and orange slices and watched the local TV channel’s anchor rip Randall’s and Ian’s characters to shreds. It was painful and embarrassing to watch, but I couldn’t look away. He alternated between locally relevant news stories, like the planned lane shutdowns on Route One due to emergency pothole repairs, and innuendo-laced speculations about the two men’s roles in ADM’s collapse and Alice’s murder. Since the anchor had no facts, he quoted anonymous sources, which for all I knew were his in-laws. Watching him made me respect Wes more. Wes was frequently irritating, but he never skimped on facts and never repackaged gossip as news.

  The anchor presented Randall as a co-conspirator, a hapless man manipulated by a stronger personality into a life of crime. That was bad, but what he said about Ian was worse. He actually referred to Ian as a shark. He talked over live video showing reporters staked out in front of Ian’s condo. I recognized some faces from their recent siege of Prescott’s, including Wes. Bertie was there, too.

  While the anchor was saying something about how the police were drilling down into Ian’s alibi for Alice’s murder, implying they were taking a harder look at him than anyone else, which, as I thought of it, might actually be true, Ian charged out of his unit. He didn’t look despondent. He looked as angry as ever. Instead of welcoming the reporters’ attention, he ignored their questions and stomped past them to his car, a white SUV. I could almost see the steam pouring out of his ears. Several reporters, including Wes, jumped into their vehicles to follow him. The TV cameramen swung the shot wide, and the chase began. When Ian turned onto a side street, with the horde of reporters following close behind, the station returned to a standard in-studio shot. I wondered if Ian would be able to get free of the onslaught. I was almost sympathetic, but not quite.

  Ten minutes later, Ian called me.

  “I got your message,” he said. “Sure, I’ll tell you what I know about the diary. Not on the phone, though. What with Penn implying that Alice spilled the beans during pillow talk, I figure there’s a fair to middling chance the Feds have tapped my phone.”

  “You might be right. When should we meet, and where?”

  “I’ve got
some business to deal with out of town. How’s four this afternoon?”

  “Four will work, but is there any way we could meet sooner?”

  “No can do,” he said. “Let’s meet at North Mill Pond. Do you know Fenter Lane?”

  “It’s off Maplewood, right?”

  “Yeah. It dead-ends at the pond.”

  I knew the short road from when I’d first moved to Rocky Point seven years earlier and had spent hours driving around town trying to get the lay of the land. Fenter Lane was off one of Rocky Point’s busy main streets, about a quarter mile from Route One. It was quasi-industrial, mostly deserted, and a good choice if you wanted to have a private conversation.

  * * *

  The courier carrying the currency, including the three hundred counterfeits, arrived about nine thirty.

  “I’ll be in the back,” I said.

  “Before you go,” Sasha said, “I heard from Nate Blackmore.”

  “He discovered a priceless treasure among Alice’s costume jewelry.”

  She smiled. “No such luck. It’s all costume. There’s nothing valuable or remarkable in any way. He’ll drop everything off soon.”

  “Got to love Alice’s sense of humor,” I remarked.

  While Sasha started in on the dolls, I took charge of the currency, carrying the package to a worktable near the safe. Wearing latex gloves, I extracted two bills, one from the middle of the hundred-bill stack and another from the middle of the three-hundred-bill stack Barry reported was counterfeit, and held them up to the light. In the first sample, the light seemed to radiate through and around the paper. There were no watermarks or mars or noticeable threads. The second sample was obviously printed on different paper. As clear as day, on a spot to the right of Salmon Chase’s portrait and above the U in “United States” was a sweep of feathers, the kind found on a quill pen. I was looking at Elegance’s watermark.

  I locked the box of currency in the safe and went upstairs to call Ellis.

  “Well, all right, then,” he said. “I’ll call the Secret Service.”

  “I still can’t believe it, Ellis. Do you want to call the Farmington sisters or shall I?”

  “Let’s tell them together, and in person. I’m sure they’ll have questions that can only be answered by an antiques expert.”

  “Okay, although I’m certainly not a numismatist. Shall I bring a bill as an example?”

  “Better not. We’ll give them the bad news, I’ll ask my questions, and that will be that. From then on, they’ll be dealing with the Feds. The Secret Service will sort out who owns what. Which means you shouldn’t turn anything over to the Farmingtons, neither the three hundred counterfeits nor the seven hundred genuine bills. I’ll call them now and try to set something up. What does your day look like?”

  “I have an appointment in Portsmouth at four that shouldn’t last more than an hour. Anytime up until then is fine. Or after.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. So I hear you’re getting on the government’s payroll.”

  “I am?”

  “That’s what the AG tells me. They’ve hired you to appraise Alice Michaels’s household goods.”

  “I knew it was in the works. I didn’t know it was a done deal. My lawyer had some questions about liability.”

  “I guess they straightened it out. If you find that diary, call me.”

  “If I’m working for the state or the federal government, shouldn’t I call them?”

  “I’m not telling you not to call them. I’m just asking you to call me. If you could call me first, that would be even better.”

  “You’re a tricky devil, aren’t you?”

  “Nope. I’m just a cop working a couple of unsolved cases, you know, a murder and a kidnapping.”

  “I understand,” I acknowledged. “Yes, I’ll call you if I find the diary—first.”

  “Thank you. Any idea where it is?”

  “No, but I feel as if I ought to have one.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I just have a sense that I should. Like déjà vu in reverse. Don’t you ever get that feeling? Like you’ve heard something or seen something that should register with you, but for whatever reason it’s slipped away or faded away or something?”

  “All the time, actually. I thought it meant I was getting old.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “It doesn’t. It means your brain is full. That’s what I figure, anyway. I stupidly filed the memory in the wrong drawer of my mental filing cabinet, and I can’t find it. All I can do is keep poking around and hoping I run across it.” I laughed. “This must sound bizarre to you.”

  He chuckled. “That’s one way of putting it.” He added that he’d call after he spoke to the sisters, and we hung up.

  I checked the time display on my computer. It was just after ten. I picked up my accountant’s report and settled back to read about revenue streams. About forty minutes later, Cara called up. Max Bixby, she said, was downstairs and asked if I had a minute.

  * * *

  Max sat on the love seat and laced his hands behind his head.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” he said, “so I thought I’d stop by. I see the reporters are gone.”

  “They’ve moved on to other stories, I guess.”

  “Sometimes stonewalling works.”

  “Is that what I was doing?” I asked. “I thought I was simply ignoring them.”

  He smiled, a lopsided grin. “A rose by any other name … I’ve hashed out the details with the attorney general and the federal prosecutor. All I need to do at this point is confirm your rate, and we’re good to go. Your contract will be with the federal government. They wanted to split your time between the two agencies, but I refused. This is cleaner from our perspective, and it doesn’t matter whether they divvy the charges up before or after you do the work. There are no liability issues. You’re to use your best efforts. Period.”

  “You’re a magician, Max!”

  I gave him my rates, and he said he’d call when I could stop by and sign the contract. I could send someone to retrieve the dolls from the federal prosecutor’s office anytime. I thanked him again and escorted him downstairs, then told Sasha the good news about our new appraisal contract.

  She smiled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, that’s great news—especially since I haven’t been able to get that wooden doll out of my mind.” She rifled through a stack of papers on her desk. “Look at this.”

  Before I could take the paper she was handing me, Ellis called to tell me that the Secret Service was sending someone from Boston to pick up the currency.

  “It’s now officially out of our hands,” he said.

  I turned back to Sasha and reviewed the stapled document she handed me. There were three pages, each showing a different angle of a finely crafted wooden doll. I flipped through the pages, then looked at Sasha.

  “These photographs come from a doll dealer in Berlin named Oskar Streinfeld,” she explained. “I posted photos of Alice’s wooden doll and put out a call for sightings same as I did last year, but this time Oskar came through! I think it’s the same maker. Look at her ear. Do you see the bulbous lobe? That’s an unusual shape. Alice’s doll has the same lobe. Also, there’s a subtle indentation directly above the clavicle. It’s hard to see in the photo, but I confirmed it directly with Mr. Streinfeld. He said to look at the doll’s ankles for a signature. The maker, Thomas Whitley, carved his initials on the inside of his doll’s left ankle. Apparently, the initials are so small they’re barely noticeable. Can you imagine?”

  “Sasha, this is terrific news! Fabulous! But why didn’t Mr. Streinfeld respond last year when you put out the call?”

  “He just acquired his doll a month ago from an estate sale.”

  I nodded. Timing wasn’t all, but it was a lot. “What do we know about Thomas Whitley?”

  “He owned a fine cabinetry shop in London. He died in 1680.”

  “Wow.”

  She grinned. “Ye
ah.”

  “Do we know that he made any dolls besides Mr. Streinfeld’s?”

  “Yes. He kept detailed work records. Mr. Streinfeld has put me in touch with a university professor who wrote his thesis on seventeenth-century entrepreneurs. He has copies of all Thomas Whitley’s work records. From those documents, we know he carved a dozen dolls. Alice’s doll, if we can verify its authenticity, will be the third extant example. So when I say I’m a little excited, I mean it!”

  “Well done, Sasha.”

  Fred walked in, setting the chimes jingling. “What’s well done?” he asked.

  Sasha recapped her research coup, and I added, “I’m glad you’re here. I was just about to suggest we try calling Eric.”

  Cara dialed, and when Eric was on the speaker, she said, “I have gingersnaps for you, Eric.”

  “Great! I’m still hungry all the time. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “No way!”

  “The doctor said I was fine. All my tests so far are good. I’d have come in today, but I need to go back this afternoon for a final all-clear checkup.”

  I squelched the anxiety-fueled protest I was about to utter. Eric was a grown man and needed to be guided by his own judgment, not my fretfulness.

  “Well, you know best. If you change your mind, just give us a call.”

  I listened to my staff’s enthusiastic questioning about his condition and was reassured by Eric’s commonsense replies. He’d slept a lot and eaten a lot and was eager to get back to it. He had lots of questions, too, about the status of the tag sale setup, and whether Gretchen had scheduled the gutter cleaning, and how the new bushes he’d planted were coming along.

  “How’s Hank?” Eric asked.

  I smiled at the thought of dog-loving Eric asking about Hank.

  “He misses you,” Gretchen said.

  * * *

  Ellis called just after eleven.

  “I spoke to Jamie Farmington. They can see us at one if that works for you. I can pick you up.”

  “The time is good, but let me meet you there. I have errands afterward.”

  “Okay. Can you stop by here en route? Like maybe at noon? I’d like to talk to you.”