by Susan Slater
Dan looked at the L-shaped building of not more than eight hundred to a thousand square feet. Its front, probably a painted-over brick façade, sported plaster emblems like miniature coats of arms on every column—everything a solid tan, the density of color that only repeated thick coats of paint could give.
The building was flat-roofed of a period known as New Mexico colonial and probably was adobe, all but the façade. The wooden numerals eight-zero-one were attached to the building above the door and a repeat of the address in stick-on numerals on the glass in the door itself. There were no windows along the side that faced the alley, but seven foot tall windows graced the front street entrance, each encased in dark brown heavy wooden frames complete with a dark brown painted-over transom above each one. The architecture was definitely early 1900s.
“Looks vulnerable,” Dan concluded. Even if the walls were solid other than the front—and he suspected they were—there was enough glass across the front to warrant an open invitation to unwanted visitors.
“But didn’t you say the robbers tunneled in? Through some cellar?”
Dan nodded. “I don’t see a cellar from here. Let’s drive down the alley and around to the south side.”
It always surprised him to find an alley in the Southwest. Alleys were a Midwestern phenomena—dirt “streets” that divided a block of houses and were fronted by backyards instead of front porches. Usually the place for garbage containers and utilities—poles and meters. And, come to think of it, cellars were not run-of-the-mill out here—another Midwestern touch.
The cellar in question on the west side of the bank was still marked off by tape. From their vantage point it looked like any cellar in a vintage home from Kansas to Indiana. Just odd to find one in New Mexico and underneath a bank. Wasn’t that some kind of double-dare invite to try to get inside? Didn’t seem like it’d been too difficult to hoodwink the bank’s guards…or guard…there might only be one; he’d have to check—get an interview.
And he’d visit the bank later, but he’d bet anything that there was a marble counter upstairs, and an area for a couple of tellers all behind tasteful turn-of-the-century, fancy, black wrought-iron caging. Then the steel door with a combination lock leading to the room of safe deposit boxes. A couple offices, maybe a free-standing station with deposit slips, pens, and other paper necessities and that would be about it. That and the small walk-in vault, triple-reinforced and double-locked, needing a key and a combination for entry—the one the robbers didn’t bother with. Just the necessities. A bank like a thousand others that appeared out this way a hundred years ago.
“Seen enough?” Elaine slipped the car in gear.
“Yeah. Think you can find Romero Street? Don’t want to keep Ms. Kennedy waiting.”
***
Elaine pulled up in front of a nicely kept two-story adobe with what looked like a fresh coat of earth-colored brown stucco. White flower boxes below each of four front windows overflowed with purple, pink, and white petunias—attesting to the fact that there hadn’t been a hard frost yet this fall. A white picket fence maybe three feet high stretched across the front and around both sides and sported a sparkling white gate right in the center of the cement walkway that led to the front door.
“You didn’t tell me you were visiting the gingerbread family. This is too cute—out of some book I read as a child.”
“Hey, I have a good idea—why don’t you come with me? Might make Ms. Kennedy feel a little safer.”
“Safer? Just because her interviewer is black and blue and swathed in bandages?” Elaine turned to look at him. “You know, maybe I should.”
The front door opened before they were halfway up the walk. The two women framed by the doorway were like peas in a pod—one younger but already a carbon-copy of what was probably her mother, the older with curly white hair, checked green-and-white wool flannel skirt, and matching green sweater, a starched white apron securely around her waist. The other woman, with graying brown locks just as curly but tucked under a scarf pulled back and tied at the nape of her neck, wore a solid tan wool skirt with a dark brown sweater over a crisp long-sleeved white blouse. And they were both as cute as their house, Dan decided.
“Oh my goodness, just look at you. When your office called to reschedule, they said you’d had a bit of a mishap.” The older woman stepped back to let them enter. “This is my daughter, Penelope, and I’m Gertie. You can call me Gertie. I prefer to use the shortened version of my middle name—my first name being Cornelia.” She paused and looked up at him over the silver rims of half-glass readers. “Well, what would you do? It was either Gertie or Corny.”
“I see. That does make for an easy decision.” Dan chided himself but for all the world this was exactly how he pictured Mrs. Claus—well, had pictured her as a child when Santa and his wife had been real entities in his life. “And this is Elaine Linden…my right hand until I get my own back.” He held up the cast.
“And to make introductions complete, this is Bitsy.” Gertie pulled a tiny long-coated Chihuahua from an apron pocket. Bitsy had the longest eyelashes Dan had ever seen on a dog. It crossed his mind that they might not be real. If a dog could wear a rhinestone tiara—which she was—why not false eyelashes? Then at the urging of her owner, Bitsy held out her paw for a shake.
He felt like an idiot but took the tiny paw between index finger and thumb giving it the tiniest wiggle up and down. “How do you do, Bitsy.” All in the line of work, he guessed, but he swore the dog looked smug and withdrew her paw after the shake, dismissing him.
“Do you have a dog?” Gertie tucked Bitsy in the crook of her arm.
“A wonderful dog.” Elaine spoke up and then briefly filled them in on Simon’s heroics after the accident, how he defied death to guard his master’s belongings. Mother and daughter nodded solemnly.
“That’s such a wonderful story.” Penelope patted Elaine’s arm, “You must love him very much.”
“Yes, I do.” She caught Dan’s eye above the woman’s head. “Very much.” Let Dan figure out if she was referring to him or Simon.
“Let’s sit in the dining room. I have some pictures that your employer wanted you to see.” Gertie led them to a claw-and-ball-footed round table and waited while each of them pulled out a chair and sat down. “The necklace belonged to my grandmother—my father’s mother. He gave it to my mother on their wedding day.” She picked up two pictures and handed them to Dan. “This one simply showcases the piece—it’s the one we’ve used for insurance purposes but really doesn’t do it justice.”
Dan studied the eight by ten glossy. The necklace was spectacular—sapphire and diamond “drops,” some ten in number with a two-inch drop in the center. The sapphire in this drop was at least five carats and heart-shaped—looking like a faceted, fluffy, deep blue pillow. All drops were anchored to a platinum chain with alternating bezel-set sapphires and diamonds—not one stone less than three-quarters of a carat. The earrings were two and half-inch drops on posts, each with two-carat center stones to match.
“Beautiful.” He handed the picture to Elaine and gave his attention to the other photo. Here, the necklace adorned a stunning young woman in her wedding dress. Even with the sepia tint to the photo, he could see the grandness of the necklace.
“And here’s Mother on the deck of the Titanic.” Gertie slipped another eight by ten from the pile. “You know, she kept that necklace under her clothes all the time—pinned to her corset. She was so afraid of losing it…and to think that now…”
A stifled sob caused Penelope to lean forward with a hand lightly placed on her mother’s arm. “Mother, we need to have faith and trust that Mr. Mahoney will be able to find it.”
Dan didn’t correct her, couldn’t quite bring himself to tell them that an investigator only concerned himself with the “how.” How something was lost and how remuneration would be paid—not much more. He had reason to believe that every jew
el in the necklace had been popped out, bagged, graded, and dispersed—most of the larger stones probably weren’t even in the country. And the platinum, a melted mass already sold.
“The necklace was made in 1900 by Tiffany. My grandfather helped to design it. My father inherited it when my grandmother died, and in 1912, gave it to my mother—his wedding gift along with the fateful honeymoon. Mother was twenty-two—Father’s second wife—he was ten years older. But they both survived the Titanic. Both among the seven hundred survivors. Father, of course, because he had a clubfoot. Any man with a disability was placed in the boats with women and children. I thought for years that my father felt guilty that he’d survived. Hastened his death, I know it did.”
“Mother, you can’t know that, but it would seem natural for grandfather to grieve with so many lost—over twenty-two hundred, wasn’t it?” Penelope pushed back from the table. “What depressing thoughts—time to liven this party up. Would everyone like a cup of tea? It’s ready to go.”
Elaine got up, too. “Let me help.” She followed Penelope to the kitchen.
Tea turned out to be quite the ceremony with brownish lumps of natural sugar and a plate of assorted sweets—all diminutive and looking like tooth-rattlers, Dan thought. Napkins were small with frilly edges and initials stitched in one corner, white embroidery against the slight yellowing of old linen. Dan’s body was beginning to suffer sitting on hard, unrelenting wood. He shifted his weight to his left side and balanced the eggshell-thin china in his left hand. So far, so good. No spills, nothing to apologize for. But there was a lot to be said for a good cold bottle of Bud. A lot easier to grab hold of, for one thing.
“And I didn’t come along for another thirteen years…” Gertie seemed to be on a roll or just enjoying an audience for what must be oft-told stories. Dan tuned back in, then shifted again, but never lost eye-contact as she continued. “In those days I was considered a late-in-life baby. My mother was thirty-five and my father forty-five. I wouldn’t be late-in-life today. Did you read about that woman in her sixties giving birth? Sixties. Why, I can’t imagine.”
“Nor can I.” Elaine filled tea cups, placing a beautifully ornate white china pot with gold trim on a trivet in the center of the table before sitting. “This is delightful. Is the pound cake homemade?”
“My specialty.” Penelope appeared to blush, Dan thought. And the little tea party was “delightful,” but he needed to guide Gertie back to the particulars—ask the questions he’d need for the investigation.
“Always hate to mix business with pleasure,” he gestured toward Gertie with his tea cup, “but I need to double-check some details.”
“Oh my, I have been rattling on. Of course, you just ask ahead. I have no secrets.”
Usually when people said that, a big red flag flipped up, but not with Gertie. She was leaning toward him with rapt attention—and the guileless expression of the perfectly innocent.
“How often did you remove the necklace from the bank’s safe deposit box?”
“Well, I only took it out for cleaning. And that was on a strict schedule—I never missed a date.”
“And that was how often?” Gentle prodding but the old gal was eighty-five. She’d earned the right to have some lapses.
“Oh my, I forgot to say…let me get the calendar then I won’t be telling fibs.” Gertie walked to another room, an office Dan thought, and brought back a wall calendar showing various costumed poses of the Taco Bell Chihuahua. She backtracked to August and placed an index finger on the tenth.
“There. Notation reads…‘removed from vault for cleaning.’”
“How long did you keep it out for these periodic cleanings?”
“Not long. Two days usually. This time I was running low on the ammonia mixture and had to order a bottle. I hadn’t realized this when I’d gotten the necklace out.”
“So, it was here longer than usual?”
“Yes.”
Dan made a few notes in a forced shorthand he hoped he’d be able to figure out later. It would have been much easier if his left hand had gotten mangled instead of the right.
“Did you wear it anywhere while it was here?”
“Oh, my goodness, no. Why I’d be so nervous that I wouldn’t enjoy doing anything. I wouldn’t even wear it around the house.”
“When it was here, where did you keep it?”
He thought for a minute she wasn’t going to answer. A frail, veined hand flew to her mouth, fingers brushing her lips. She sought Penelope’s okay before answering. At her daughter’s nod, she began, “Well, it’s deceptively simple really. We’d thought of putting it in a safe but, you know, that only advertises that you have something to put in it.”
That’s one interpretation, Dan thought. But under the circumstances probably a wise choice.
“So, we put it in the Barbasol can.”
“I’m not following.”
“Just give me a minute.” Gertie pushed back from the table again and was gone longer this time. Dan slipped another lemon tart onto his plate and picked it up with his fingers—forks and left hands were a dangerous mix.
“Here we go.” Gertie reentered the room, walked to the table and placed a black- and-red striped can of Barbasol in front of him. “Remember when these were so popular? Penny and I couldn’t decide whether to get the Comet cleanser or the Barbasol.” With that, she twisted off the top to reveal an empty can—someone’s idea of the perfect hiding place.
Keep it under the sink in the bathroom and no one will ever suspect…yeah, right. Two little old ladies with a can of Barbasol—did they even make the stuff anymore? He was saved having to comment by Gertie continuing, “…you understand, of course, that this was just an overnight fix, so to speak. And I can’t think of a time when either one of us was away from the house overnight.”
Like burglaries didn’t happen during the day. Dan sighed and decided not to enlighten them—no point doing it now.
“Do you remember when you returned the necklace to the bank?”
“Let’s see.” More checking the calendar. “This time—because of needing extra cleaner—I kept it out a full week.”
“And the date you returned it?”
“August seventeenth. Oh dear, let me see…That’s not quite right. I took the necklace down to the bank but the door to the safe deposit box room had been removed. Some problem with the hinges not releasing when the combination was entered. I had to bring the necklace back home and didn’t put it back in the bank until the following morning. The bank called to let me know when the vault was ready.” Gertie looked at the calendar. “Oh my, look here, I forgot to note the corrected date. But it would have been August eighteenth.”
Dan made a notation and slipped the notebook back in his shirt pocket. “Anything else you can remember? Anything that you’d like to add?”
“I can’t think of a thing. This is a very quiet town, Mr. Mahoney, very quiet and safe. What happened is such a shock. Why, never in a million years would I have guessed something like this would happen in Wagon Mound.”
They said their good-byes. Elaine made over Bitsy and the small dog seemed to relish the new attention. Dan couldn’t bring himself to perform another doggy handshake.
“I’d like to find that boardinghouse before it gets too late.” Elaine pulled away from the curb and took a right at the next corner.
“What do you think?”
“About the Kennedys? There’s absolutely no doubt that they’re being truthful. I really feel sorry for Gertie. Eighty-five and something so precious is stolen. Certainly isn’t fair.”
Dan passed on making any comments about fairness, and yes, he felt badly for Gertie, too. Life at eighty-five shouldn’t be complicated.
***
Elaine found the boardinghouse—huge compared to the buildings around it—situated on a corner maybe two blocks up
from Railroad Avenue. Slick, tan stuccoed walls and tiny windows gave some hint of its age, but again, it was one of the town’s better kept relics.
“Be back in a minute.”
He handed her his travel plastic. United Life & Casualty was a good company to work for—all things considered. They didn’t scrimp on travel expenses and he couldn’t think of a time that an expenditure had been questioned. Some good things come with seniority.
Dan watched as Elaine turned halfway up the walk to wave. He was a lucky man. Beautiful woman, great companion. And he hoped that one of these days the vertigo he suffered from just bending over would go away. Wouldn’t impress anyone if he swooned in the middle of sex. He continued to watch until she disappeared inside.Then it was back to business. He took out the notebook and began a list by writing Gertie—interview, completed, followed by the date and time.
Item two was another interview, this time scheduled with the bank president—he’d try for Monday maybe ten in the morning. He’d also need to tour the robbery site. Not sure how long all that would take. Then tentatively either Tuesday or Wednesday, he’d interview the other safe deposit box holders who had also lost items in the robbery. And he’d stop by the chop shop and talk with Jeeter…Ferris? Sounded right but he’d check the last name.
He was purposefully leaving the FBI until last. Dan wanted to form a picture of events on his own. It was always better to compare notes with these guys than to sit there taking them. Usually they were pretty helpful—he hoped that hadn’t changed. The mutual back-scratching was important in his business and had worked to his advantage before.
Then there were other things maybe less in importance…such as a talk with Chet’s grandson, a call to the Hobbs office to see who knew when he was heading out that morning after the meeting and what route he would be taking…and maybe a look around Roy. Tough to check on cut hoses at this late date, but you never knew. If there was one thing thirty years in the business had taught him—never, never second-guess. And to drop the word assume from your vocabulary.