I reached into my tote bag for my calendar and flipped back to the January pages.
“That was the Winter Festival. I was at the Community Center, along with half of Rocky Point.”
“And you went to the buffet line, leaving your tote bag behind, leaving your phone behind.”
“Three times. Once for dinner, then for dessert, and third for another helping of Mimie’s Whiskey Bundt Cake. You’re right that theoretically someone could have scooped my phone away, then slipped it back in—but what a risk!”
“Not if you take it to the restroom and do your setup there.”
“Who had Henri’s phone at 4:20 P.M.?”
“Leigh Ann doesn’t know. She doesn’t know exactly where he was. Leigh Ann’s online calendar has her at a potential client’s house—the deal is still pending. The client confirms the appointment was kept that afternoon, but neither of them recalls the exact time they met.”
“And you have no way of knowing where Henri was,” I said.
“I have no way of verifying he was where his schedule said he was, which was out canvassing interior design stores along the Maine coast, all the way up to Kennebunkport, looking over the competition, sussing out vendors, and so on. None of the shop owners remember him, but it was a while ago, and we can assume he made a point of calling as little attention to himself as possible. We can also infer that he completed at least some of his trip, because he sent out a spate of e-mails the next day asking vendors for catalogues.”
“Excuse me for interrupting,” Katie said, “but I have a meeting. Anything else for me at this point?”
Ellis told her no and thanked her.
Katie placed my phone in a plastic evidence bag and sealed it. Seeing my expression, she said, “Sorry. I’ll need to keep it for the time being.”
“Why?” I asked, upset.
Max placed his hand on my forearm and shook his head at me.
“Routine,” Ellis said.
My phone in hand, Katie left the room. I wanted to run after her, to stop her, to get it back.
A memory came to me. I’d been about ten. My mom’s car had to go into the shop for service, and the whole time it was gone, she’d been crabby, explaining that she felt lost without it, that to her, it represented freedom. That’s how I felt now. Don’t be absurd, I told myself. It’s just a phone. You’ll get it back or you’ll get a new one. Yet even as I tried to quash my feelings of powerlessness and isolation, I knew that while my reaction might be absurd, it was real. To my mother, a car represented autonomy and personal power. Without my phone, I felt vulnerable and alone.
“As a working hypothesis,” Ellis said to Max, “let’s assume Josie is telling the truth.”
I frowned. I wondered if I was supposed to feel grateful that he was willing to assume that I wasn’t a liar, that I hadn’t been screwing around on Ty, that I hadn’t killed Henri.
“That’s a smart idea,” Max said dryly.
Ellis ignored Max’s tone, maintaining his normal all-business attitude.
“Maybe some of the messages weren’t sent remotely,” Ellis said. “Maybe someone sent them directly from your phone, which leads to the question, who has access to your phone?”
I looked at Max, and he nodded.
“No one,” I said. “It’s with me all the time.”
“How about at work? Your phone is in your tote bag, right? Do you keep it under lock and key?”
“No, of course not. It stays beside my desk all day.”
“Which means everyone who works for you knows your habit and has access to the bag.”
I thought of my full-time staff, Eric and Cara, Gretchen and Sasha, and Fred.
“It’s easy to say that anything is possible,” I said, “but that’s absurd. The thought that one of them would betray me, would try to frame me for murder, is ludicrous, beyond reason. It is not possible. Every single one of them is loyal and honest.”
“Maybe. What do you know about them? Really?”
I felt as if I’d stepped through Alice’s looking glass. “Curiosity often leads to trouble,” Lewis Carroll wrote. Did I somehow bring this on myself? I wondered, aghast at the thought. Have I unintentionally pricked someone’s ego? Spoiled their plans? Crossed them? Who hated me enough to try to frame me for murder? I shook my head. I know my staff well. I’ve worked with them for years.
“I can’t imagine that any one of them is involved. As to their backgrounds, they’re all bonded.”
“If need be, we can dig deeper,” Ellis said, seemingly unimpressed with my confidence. He jotted a note on his pad.
I had a harrowing thought. Had Henri been killed not because of something he did, but rather because someone wanted to get rid of me? Had Henri been sacrificed so the killer could reach his or her primary goal—convincing the police to arrest me? Someone who couldn’t simply murder me because he or she would be the primary suspect? Who did I know who hated me or feared me or would benefit by my death? Who would have no compunction in killing an innocent man? Think, I told myself. Work the logic.
The only people close enough to be automatic suspects were Ty, Zoë, and my staff. That one of them did it simply wasn’t credible. All things are not possible.
I nodded and took in a deep breath. Good, I thought. This is progress.
I could assume that Henri was the intended victim, not me. What I didn’t know, and couldn’t see how to figure out, was whether Henri had been killed because of something connected to the storage room locker or whether his being murdered in the storage room was an accident of timing.
“Who else has access to your tote bag?” Ellis asked.
“No one,” I said, refocusing on Ellis.
“How about Ty?”
“Of course, but come on, Ellis! That’s ridiculous. I hang with Zoë a lot, too.” I waved it aside. “I understand you have to consider every possibility, but these simply aren’t possible. There’s another answer. There’s something we’re missing.”
“What?” Ellis asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s next?” Max asked.
“A few more questions,” Ellis replied, “then we’ll go to Josie’s place for the search. Thank you again for your cooperation.”
Max nodded, then Ellis turned to me. “While I personally believe that you didn’t kill Henri, and the remote access software lends credence to that belief, strictly speaking, these e-mails provide evidence of an illicit romance, the sort of relationship that might go sour and bring up emotions that lead to murder—and that’s motive.” He held up a hand. “I understand you’re denying the e-mails’ veracity. That’s on the record. We have the murder weapon in hand, a weapon Josie could easily have acquired and one that was found in her vehicle, and based on my knowledge of Josie’s level of fitness—I’ve seen her ice-skate and snowshoe and swim, for instance—I know she would be strong enough to wield it. Which leaves opportunity. I need to ask, Josie: Where were you last Friday between 1:00 and 3:00 P.M.?”
Max leaned into me and whispered, “Where were you?”
“At my office.”
“With people?”
“Not every minute.”
“Can you retrace your steps? Phone calls, conversations with staff, anything like that?”
“Yes … maybe … I can come close. No way will the gaps between meetings be big enough for me to have driven to Crawford’s, killed Henri, and gotten back.”
Max nodded. “Good.” He looked at Ellis. “Josie was at her place of business during those hours. She was in meetings, took some phone calls, made others, and so on. It was a regular business day. She doesn’t know how completely she can account for all her time during those hours, but is confident there won’t be enough unallocated time for her to be considered a viable suspect. Would you like her to document those meetings as closely as possible?”
Ellis smiled. “That would be very helpful.”
“She’ll do it today and send it to me. I’ll ensure you ge
t a copy.” Max pushed back his chair, preparing to stand. “Anything else?”
Elli stood. “Let’s get that search out of the way.”
* * *
Inside my house, I turned up the heat and switched on lights. Ellis, Max, and I stood in the kitchen.
“Given those e-mails,” Ellis said, “I’m betting that if we find anything incriminating, it will be love notes.” He glanced around. “If someone snuck some into your house, they’d place them in a logical spot. If you kept love notes, where would they be?”
“I do keep love notes—Ty’s love notes—in a hatbox on a shelf in my bedroom closet.”
Ellis’s face registered surprise. “Why a hatbox?”
“It’s pretty.”
“Oh.” He waved an arm. “Lead the way.”
I mounted the steps, embarrassed. I hadn’t made the bed when I’d fled my house for Ellis’s guest room, and I hadn’t been upstairs since.
“The room’s a mess,” I said with an awkward laugh.
“We don’t remember messiness,” Ellis said. “I promise.”
I pointed to the round floral-printed antique hatbox sitting on the top shelf. Ellis put on plastic gloves, then dragged it closer by the strap, catching it as it tottered and lowering it to the rug. I hated the idea that anyone but me would read Ty’s lovingly inscribed greeting cards and the sweet messages he’d scrawled on scraps of paper, sticky notes, and cocktail napkins.
Ellis removed the snugly fitting lid, revealing disorganized heaps of envelopes and cards and bits of paper, a mishmash.
I stood off to the side, blushing as I recalled how personal some of the messages were, realizing that while Ty signed his cards, be didn’t sign his notes, so Ellis would need to read them.
“I hate this,” I said.
He removed items, one by one, scanning them, then placing them off to the side. Some notes were romantic, testaments to our love. Others were practical, making plans or assigning tasks, homey peeks into our private world. Some were intimate, intended for no one’s eyes but ours.
“Can I leave?” I asked. “Watching you go through my most private correspondence is up there with moments I don’t want to experience. Words like mortifying and humiliating come to mind.”
“I’m only looking at the handwriting, Josie,” Ellis said, “not the words.”
“That’s nice of you to say. Why don’t I make us some tea?”
“Sorry. I need to keep you in sight.”
I turned my back, closed my eyes, and leaned my head against the wall. Max patted my shoulder empathetically. A few minutes later, Ellis announced that he was done, that I could put everything away.
“Where else do you keep letters?” Ellis asked.
“Nowhere. Except for Ty’s, I don’t keep any.”
“Do you have a staging area? You know, a place you keep them until you have time to get the hatbox down from the shelf?”
“Sometimes I’ll leave them on the kitchen counter.”
“Where else?”
“My tote bag.”
“Let’s take a look.”
Downstairs, he emptied the bag onto the kitchen table, flipped through my notebook, examined every nook and cranny in my wallet, and peered into zippered compartments.
“Any place else you can think of?” he asked as I put everything back in place.
“No.”
“Who knows about the hatbox?”
“Ty. Zoë.” I shrugged. “That’s it.”
“Let’s think like a killer,” Ellis said. “If I were trying to frame you, and didn’t know about your hatbox, where would I put a note I wanted someone to find.”
“Here,” Max said. “In plain sight.”
“It wouldn’t be out in the open,” Ellis said, scanning the countertops. “Josie would find it right away and either destroy it or tell us about it.”
“In a drawer,” I said. “In my study.”
I led the way to my tiny study. The room was attached to the dining room, closed off by French doors. My desk sat kitty-corner to the window, allowing me to have the money view, the meadow, as I worked.
Ellis opened the slender center drawer, the only drawer on my antique ladies’ writing desk, an eighteenth-century mahogany beauty. He moved a pad of notepaper, and there was an ivory-colored sheet of heavy-weight paper. I saw handwriting I didn’t recognize. When Ty and I had toured my house on Sunday, I’d opened this drawer, but I hadn’t moved the notepad. This note had been there all this time. Ellis grasped it by the corner and tugged. Max and I read over his shoulder.
* * *
Ma Cherie,
Life is not so funny when it plays tricks on us with timing and love. I only find you now, when it is so difficult. Don’t give up on me. Love conquers all.
Your Henri
* * *
“This wasn’t written to me,” I said.
“I’m going to need to do a more thorough job,” Ellis said. “I’m going to ask Detective Brownley to oversee a complete search.”
“I’ve never seen that note. I wasn’t having an affair. I didn’t kill him.”
“Josie,” Max said. “Let’s go.”
“She’ll be available for questions?” Ellis asked.
“Of course.”
“Have you spoken to Zach?” I asked. “Zach Moore, the Belle Mer aide?”
“No. Not yet. Why?”
“Because he has a secret.”
“We’ll be talking to him,” Ellis said.
“Check that note for fingerprints,” I called over my shoulder, as Max shushed me and led me away. “I never touched it.”
Outside, standing by my car in the bright midday sun, Max said, “Don’t be scared, Josie. An investigation is a process. There’s an arc to it. I don’t think you’re guilty of anything, and I don’t think Ellis does either. All we can do now is wait. Let them find whatever there is to find, and we’ll deal with it as a total package.”
I thanked Max for his time and headed out, back to Belle Mer. To me, Ellis’s response to my question about Zach sounded like a blow-off, a cavalier dismissal. I would not stand by passively and wait for another go-around in Room One, not if there was an alternative. If Zach’s secret was related to Lester Markham and his storage room, perhaps through that seemingly tenuous relationship, I’d find a connection to Henri’s murder.
The worst that could happen was that I’d get nowhere, but getting nowhere was better than doing nothing. Max might be all right with waiting, but I wasn’t, not when someone was setting me up to take a fall for murder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I drove straight to the phone store and bought a stripped-down cash-and-carry smart phone with a whole new number. I could use it right away and always, refilling it when the balance got low. My first call was to Ty. I got his voice mail and left my new number, telling him I’d explain later. I got Zoë’s voice mail, too, and left the same message. I reached Max’s secretary in person and asked her to give the number to Max.
I felt inordinately pleased to have a phone, especially one with a number so few people knew.
* * *
I toyed with calling Zach to see if I could schedule a meeting during his lunch hour but voted against it. It was already after two, and if Zach worked the seven-to-three or eight-to-four shift, his break was long over. I also considered calling Ms. Solomon and asking for her support, but I didn’t do that either. Since I’d refused her request to keep Zach’s secret from the police, the chances of her helping me open him up were, I suspected, somewhere between zero and nil. As I sat in the parking lot, eating an unexpectedly tasty fast-food grilled chicken salad, it occurred to me that given how skittish Zach was during my last visit, taking him by surprise would probably work to my advantage.
“Hi!” I said, greeting Karla, Belle Mer’s receptionist, with a bright smile. “I’m here to see Zach again. Zach Moore.”
She glanced at her computer monitor, checking the time, and said, “Oh, no … it’s aft
er two. Shower time. Zach is overseeing his patients’ showers. He can’t be disturbed.”
“Darn! I was really hoping to see him. Do you know when he might be available?
“The aides are pretty busy. Did you want to talk to Ms. Solomon?”
“Thanks, but I don’t need to disturb her. When does Zach’s shift end?”
“Four.”
I smiled again, thanked her, and left. I didn’t bother to ask for Zach’s home address. I couldn’t imagine Belle Mer allowing Karla access to that information, let alone authorizing her to release it. Plus, it was twelve minutes to three, and with a plan in hand, I didn’t mind waiting.
* * *
I used the time until I expected to see Zach emerge from the staff entrance to write down my schedule for the day Henri died. I found some information in my old-style pocket calendar, but the situation required more than the basics, and for that I needed Cara.
“It’s me,” I said, in response to her standard welcoming greeting.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, flustered. “I didn’t recognize the number on the display.”
“This is a new phone.” I laughed awkwardly, then stopped, embarrassed. “Don’t give out the number, okay?”
“All right,” she said, and from her hushed tone, I could tell she was worried about me, or wary about what I was about to say, or both.
“So,” I said, “I’m in a kind of a situation here, and I need your help.”
“Of course, Josie. Anything.”
“The thing is that I need to be able to account for my time the afternoon Henri was killed, and for that I need your phone log.”
“Oh, my.”
“Yeah, well … let’s start at noon.”
Between my online calendar and Cara’s detailed phone log, I was able to account for something within every fifteen-minute window. I smiled. No way could I be considered a suspect. A normal workday’s busy schedule would, I hoped, provide an effective counterpoint to the efforts someone was expending to implicate me in Henri’s murder. I typed it out on my netbook and used Belle Mer’s free wireless to e-mail it to Max.
Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries) Page 22