CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
D
etective?” I said. “This is Josie.”
“I was thinking I got cut off,” he complained.
Ignore the tone,
I reminded myself.
Deal only with the content
.
“Sorry you were on hold,” I said, keeping my apology simple.
“How’s the ankle?” he demanded without compassion.
“Okay, I guess.”
“You’re able to get to work, I see,” he said in a tone I took to mean that if I was really hurt, I wouldn’t have been able to do so.
“Thank you for your concern,” I replied, my voice neutral. If he couldn’t tell I was being sarcastic, did it count?
He cleared his throat and said, “So. I have a question.”
“Okay.”
“Have you spoken to Bixby?”
“Max? Yes. Just now. Why?”
“Then you know that the forensic evidence looks good. We’re probably going to be able to ID the model of automobile by the paint and the kind of glass that was used in the headlight—you know, the one that shattered. Plus, we’ve got good information about the size of the car by analyzing the point of impact.”
“Yes, Max told me. That’s great.”
“While the lab does its thing, I thought I’d try a shortcut. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Okay.”
“Who do you know who drives a black sedan?” he asked.
A black sedan. Nothing came to mind. “No one.”
“Your staff?”
“No.”
“What kind of cars do they drive?”
“Why are you asking about my staff?”
“Just covering all bases,” he said. “It’s not personal.”
“But why?”
He sighed. “I want to see what kind of automobile memory you’ve got.”
I knew if Max were here, he’d tell me that Rowcliff’s reasoning was clever, not insulting. “Sasha’s car is a red compact. Eric drives a tan truck, an old four by four. Gretchen has a blue Mini Cooper. And Fred’s car is white. I don’t know about the part-timers or temps.”
“How many of them do you have?”
“It varies. We have a couple of regular part-timers and we add on as needed.”
“I’ll need their names.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to be sure their cars weren’t involved,” he stated, sounding irritated at my question.
So it
wasn’t
just a test of my automobile memory,
I thought. “I’ll have Gretchen prepare a list for you.”
“Go back a year, okay?”
“Sure.”
“What about neighbors? What kind of cars do they drive?”
I tried to picture Zoe’s car, but nothing came to mind. When I was in her vehicle last evening, I was drugged and weak. “I don’t know. I’ve never noticed.”
“Business associates?”
“Like who?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he snapped. “That’s why I’m asking.”
I took a breath and forced myself to refrain from snapping back. Instead, I said, “Nothing comes to mind.”
“I want to show you some automobile shapes anyway. If you think of anything else, you can tell me then. What time this afternoon is good for you?”
My heart rate increased at the thought of having to interact in person with Detective Rowcliff without Max by my side. I tried to think when it would be best to meet him.
“Four o’clock,” I said. “Could you come at four?”
He agreed and I hung up the phone, relieved that the call was over. I wondered if everyone he questioned had the same reaction to him that I did. I called Gretchen and told her to prepare the employee listing for Detective Rowcliff and to send a copy to Max. Was it possible that one of my own employees was out to kill me? No. Rowcliff was just being thorough.
To calm myself, I sipped some tea, and after a few moments, I was hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
I slept.
I awakened about fifteen minutes later when Eric cleared his throat. I opened my eyes and saw him standing at the threshold, looking concerned and unsure whether he should enter the office.
“Come on in,” I said, sitting forward, brushing hair out of my eyes, smiling.
He walked in, still troubled. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Absolutely. Better than I look, for sure.”
He nodded, and when I told him to have a seat, he did so.
Eric was the second person I hired when I started Prescott’s; he’d started only days after Gretchen. At first, he worked a few hours during the week and all day on Saturdays. When he graduated from high school, I offered him a full-time job, and with a shy smile, he accepted, confessing that he’d never been much good at school and was glad to be done with it and get going with “real life.”
Today, he seemed girded for bad news, signaling through his body language that he was expecting to hear criticism, a lifelong
C
student’s best-learned lesson—low expectations. Poor Eric.
I wondered if his self-image would improve. I wasn’t optimistic. It hadn’t budged yet, and he’d had ample opportunity to feel good about himself, since I was generous with praise as well as money.
Looking at him anxiously waiting for me to explain why I’d called him in, I realized for the hundredth time how young and vulnerable he was. He was very tall and boyishly thin, with a wisp of peach fuzz mustache and a sallow complexion. I hoped he’d be pleased with my announcement. I didn’t think he had a lot of joy in his life, and maybe this reward would give him a boost.
He lived in Dover, a small town a dozen miles northwest of Portsmouth, with his crabby widowed mother and two big dogs. There weren’t a lot of young men just out of their teens who’d be content with such a circumscribed life, but if he was dissatisfied, it didn’t show at all. He expressed only kindness and patience.
One time when I’d answered the phone and his mother asked for him, I told her what a valuable employee he was, what a hard worker. He stood nearby, listening, embarrassed, but obviously pleased. She didn’t respond, not a word, and after a moment, I said I’d get him for her. I gathered from listening to his side of the conversation that she wanted him to stop and pick up something from the grocery store on his way home. When he hung up the phone, he paused before heading out of the office.
“I’m sure she appreciates it, you know, the nice things you said. She just doesn’t show a lot because, well, life has been pretty hard on her, you know?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I’d patted his shoulder and half-smiled. A shoulder pat can mean anything.
Over the years, I’d come to realize that he had no hidden agenda. He was just what he seemed to be, a thoughtful and loyal son, a young man who took responsibility seriously and loved his dogs, and a humble and uncomplaining employee who followed rules and always did his best.
I considered delaying the conversation I was about to initiate, then decided it was important to proceed with as much normal day-to-day business as I could. It felt good to put my aches, and my fear, aside and work to keep my company running smoothly, but meeting with Eric wasn’t simply a way to distract myself from pain and worry. It was crucial. “Time waits for no man.” If I didn’t keep up with the demands of business, I’d give my competitors an edge.
“I have good news, Eric,” I said, jumping in. “You’re getting a promotion and a raise.”
His eyes cleared and his focus shifted from resignation to hope. “Really?” he asked.
“Yup. We’re growing, and at this point, there’s too much work for you to do alone.”
“I could work more hours.”
“No, that’s not the answer.” I paused, thinking how best to explain. “One metric I use to keep a handle on how we’re doing is how long it takes us to get new inventory to auction or out to the tag sale, not counting the items we’re keeping back on purpose, of course.”
He nodded, listening hard, and I understood why. Managing inventory was one of the most complex aspects of the business, and he wanted to learn.
No matter what we acquired, or when, where, how, or how much we paid for it, as soon as it arrived on-site, Eric entered it into our computerized inventory-control system. Then it was up to Fred and Sasha to conduct a quick-and-dirty assessment. The best items were set aside for a more exacting appraisal, while everything else went to the tag sale.
“And it’s not just the inventory management. You’re also responsible for cleaning items and stocking shelves. Plus, you do all the moving, help set up displays, oversee pickups and deliveries, and—whew—you’re also the assistant cashier at the tag sale!”
“You’re right,” he said with a grin. “I need a raise.”
I laughed. “Hey! Not so quick! You’re well paid for your current job. It’s your
new
responsibility I want to reward.”
“What’s that?”
“Supervisor.”
“Supervisor? Me? Who will I supervise?”
“The new person we hire. Or the two new part-timers.”
“To do what?”
“To help you with various things. Your job is too big for one person, Eric. I want to identify what other people can do, and train you to supervise them while they do it.”
“I don’t know . . .” he began, his eyes clouding over again.
I recognized his reaction and held up a hand to stop him. His visceral fear when faced with learning new things was ingrained after years of struggling in school and achieving only a mediocre academic record.
“You’re going to be a good supervisor,” I said. “I’m sure of it because I know you. You’re smart, hardworking, and fair. I’m guessing that you’re hesitating because you’re aware of how much you don’t know. Am I right?”
He nodded.
“That’s okay. I promise I’ll teach you everything you need. And I guarantee that you can learn it. Really.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I’ll prove it to you. The first thing I want you to do is write down everything you do and how long it takes you to do it. Okay?”
“Everything?” he asked, startled.
“Yup. Once we know where your time is going now, we can figure out who we should bring in to help.”
“But how do I do that?”
“Work with Gretchen to identify broad categories. Here,” I said, handing him a pad of paper, “jot these down.” He took the pad, selected a pen from the holder on my desk, and waited for me to talk. “Entering new items into inventory. Moving furniture. Cleaning and polishing antiques. Driving to pickups and deliveries.” I waited for him to finish. “Do you see what I mean?”
He nodded.
“Tell Gretchen what we’re doing and ask her to help you brainstorm category titles and then create a spreadsheet so you can track your time in, oh, let’s say fifteen-minute increments. We’ll do it for a week or so, until we feel like we really have a sense of how long it takes to do various tasks.”
“Okay.”
“During this time, while you’re working on this log, when you do something that’s not on the list, write it down and tell Gretchen so she can add it in.”
He nodded again.
“Can you do that?” I asked him.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“See,” I said, smiling, “I told you I’d prove it to you. You
can
learn what you need to be a supervisor.”
“I’ll do my best, Josie. Thank you.”
“I know you will,” I said, and when I told him the raise I had in mind, he smiled again, a big grin that went from ear to ear and lit up his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A
bout twelve thirty, just as I was finishing reviewing Sasha’s first draft of next month’s auction catalog, which featured an unusual collection of American weather vanes, Eddie called on my cell phone and asked how I was doing.
After expressing conventional words of concern, he said, “Josie, I wanted you to be the first to know—well, almost the first,” he said, chuckling.
“Know what?”
“I’m closing the catering business and moving.”
“You’re kidding! Eddie, when? And why?”
He chuckled again. “When? Now. I’m on the road already. Why? What the hell, Josie, you know I was having a hard time. I told you.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Nah, it’s good. Nothing like failing at business to help you get over a midlife crisis.”
“Oh, Eddie, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, kiddo. You’re the best. My favorite client, so I wanted to tell you directly. You’ll be getting an announcement.”
“Did you sell out?”
“Sell what? Who’d want to buy a lot of nothing? I just closed the doors.”
“I can’t believe it, Eddie! What about the investigation? You know, Maisy. Is it all right for you to leave?”
“Hell, Josie, I’m not disappearing. I’m just moving. Sure, I told the cops. I’m keeping the same cell phone—they’ve got the number.”
“Where are you going? What are you going to do?”
“I got a job out west. Can you believe it? Me and the cowboys.”
“Are you okay, Eddie?”
“Relieved as all get-out, Josie. I guess I don’t have what it takes to be an entrepreneur after all.” He chuckled again. “I’m looking forward to getting back to being a working stiff and letting the other guy take the headaches home.”
“I’m so surprised and sorry, Eddie. I’ve really liked working with you.”
“Me, too, Josie.”
I sat forward and closed my eyes to help me concentrate. “So you won’t be stopping by today?”
“Sorry, Josie. It was time to head out, you know? We were going to leave later this week, but then I said to my wife, ‘What the hell? Let’s get outta here.’ So we did.”
“Wow. I’m just stunned.”
“Never mind that. Tell me how you’re doing?”
“Okay, all things considered,” I said, ignoring the daggerlike stabs in my ankle and my achy, stiff muscles.
“That’s good. It’s a helluva thing. I couldn’t believe it when Britt told me about it.”
“Britt?” I said, surprised.
That’s right,
I thought, remembering Eddie’s mention of Britt in his voice-mail message, the one waiting for me when I’d returned home from Zoe’s.
“Britt. You know Britt. Britt Epps. He’s my lawyer.” Eddie chuckled. “I cleared my quick getaway with him.”
How had Britt learned of my injuries?
I pondered. At the time, in my battered and weary condition, I’d considered their calls thoughtful gestures, nothing more. Now they seemed ominous.
“How did he hear about what happened?” I wondered aloud.
“Who knows? Bad news spreads fast, that’s for damn sure.”
“I guess,” I responded, just to say something. “Eddie, can I ask you something?”
“Sure. What?”
“About the waiters—”
“You bet. What can I tell you?”
“I’m interested in anything you can tell me about the new ones. The ones who started just before the Gala.”
“I think I might have given you a wrong impression about that,” Eddie said.
“What do you mean?”
“I told you there were new guys—and there were. But everyone was either known to me or recommended by someone. You know, a friend of a friend, someone’s cousin, that sort of thing. No strangers.”
“Really?” I asked, a groundswell of relief beginning to grow. The odds that Trevor was a waiter at the Gala just lowered—a lot.
“Absolutely.”
We chatted another couple of minutes about the details of his move, the job itself as manager of someone else’s catering business, and how he and his wife had heard only good things about his new home, Tulsa.
“I wouldn’t have thought of Tulsa as ‘out west,’ ” I remarked.
“What do I know? I’m an Easterner—it sure seems ‘out west’ to me!”
With a final exchange of good-luck wishes, we hung up. I called Gretchen on the intercom.
“Eddie just called me,” I said when she picked up. “Guess what? He’s moving away. He closed the business and took a job in Tulsa.”
“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed.
“Nope. Can you believe it? Anyway, he sounds fine. You know what that means?”
“We need a new caterer.”
“Exactly. Get me some possibilities, okay?”
The reality sank in: In all likelihood, Trevor Woodleigh hadn’t disguised himself as a waiter during the Gala.
Unless Eddie’s lying
. I didn’t think that Eddie would deliberately mislead an investigator if he thought he had information that would help find a killer. But I could easily imagine that he would take a more flexible view of truth telling when it came to discussing an idea he’d probably see as far-fetched, and that occurred during an event that was, to him, old news. In the hours before he drove off to start a new life, he might have decided that it would be easier to fib and say he knew the entire wait staff—at least a little—than it would be to get more deeply involved in an ongoing murder investigation.
I shook my head, aware of feeling unreasonably sad and apprehensive. I liked Eddie okay, but it wasn’t that. What was upsetting was having to endure more unwanted change. Nothing stayed stable, it seemed. Nothing.
Gretchen buzzed to say that Wes was on hold, and on a whim, I decided to take his call.
“Josie,” he complained when I was on the line, “you didn’t call me back.”
“I wasn’t really up for chatting.”
“Why not?”
“I’m in kind of tough shape right now.”
“What do you mean, ‘tough shape’? According to the reports, you’re okay.”
“What reports?” I asked.
“The official statement from the police.”
“What official statement? What did it say?”
“Just what I told you,” he replied impatiently. “Why? Is it wrong? Did they exaggerate?”
This was the Wes I knew, wanting to acquire new information, not share that which he already possessed.
“No, no, I guess it’s fair to say, all things considered, that I’m okay.”
“Fill me in. Specifically, what’s your condition?”
His wording made me feel as if he wanted a report on the status of a specimen in a jar, not an update on a woman who’d been attacked.
“I hurt, what do you think?” I responded petulantly.
“How bad?”
“Wes, you’re flipping me out here. Why do you want to know?”
“For tomorrow’s paper.”
“Wes, I swear to God, if you print one word, I’ll . . . I’ll steal your pencil and snap it in two. Off the record, remember?”
“Even about your condition?” he asked, sounding shocked.
“Yes,” I said firmly.
He sighed, the sorrowful sound of Wes expressing acute disappointment. “All right,” he said, sighing a second time, “no problem. Let’s start again. Are you okay, really?”
“More or less, I guess. I’m a little shaky, a little scraped, and, to tell you the truth, a lot frightened.”
“Could be worse, right?”
“Oh God, Wes, you smooth talker, you.”
“Huh?”
“I hardly know the words to tell you how touched I am by your concern.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
Getting Wes to understand that he sounded like an insensitive jerk would be like asking a squirrel to bark. I gave up. “What do you want, Wes?”
“We need to meet.”
“Why?”
“I have news.” His lowered tone implied importance.
“Good or bad?”
“I don’t know. Interesting.”
Wes using the word “interesting” reminded me of that ancient curse: “May you have an interesting life.”
“I can’t.”
“Josie—” he whined.
“Wes, give me a break. I’m battered, bruised, and exhausted.”
“I understand,” he said, apparently trying to placate me, as if he were doing me a favor by being so flexible. “Let’s meet later this afternoon, then. You pick the time. We can meet at our regular place—the dune, okay?”
“I can’t,” I said again.
“Why not?”
“I can’t exactly scramble up a sandy hill right now. My ankle’s pretty badly sprained.”
“Just at the edge, then. You can sit in your car if you want,” he said, sounding as if he were making a great concession.
“No,” I said slowly, trying to gather my thoughts before I spoke, “that won’t work. It’s not going to be so easy speaking to you privately.”
“How come?” he asked.
“The police are sort of, you know, protecting me,” I said.
“Oh, wow, yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. I get it. So for you and me to get together, you’ve got to figure out how to slip away from them.”
“No, Wes. I don’t want to get away from them. I
want
their protection.”
“Then how are we going to meet?” he asked.
I shook my head in mute amazement at Wes. For someone as smart as I knew him to be, he sure could sound dumb. It was one thing to be focused, but it was another to lose sight of important side issues. I decided to ignore the implication that my safety was secondary to his nailing a story, thinking instead about the issue at hand—I wanted to hear his news.
“Maybe,” I ventured, “we can cover everything on the phone. Anyone checking the records knows we’re talking anyway.”
“They’d learn that calls were made, but not the content of those calls. What if your phone is tapped? We can’t assume it’s not.”
True enough, I thought. “If you come here,” I said, “I’ll arrange it so we can talk privately.”
I could meet Wes at the edge of the paved parking lot, out of sight and hearing of the office, near a cluster of birch trees at the rear of my property. I glanced at the spot. The white-barked trees were spectacular with their lush gold and smooth, soft yellow leaves shimmering in the sun. Too open, I realized. It would be more private to meet in the deserted tag-sale area. I told him to park down the street and walk through the woods to the tag-sale entrance on the far side of the warehouse. “I’ll be at the door,” I said. He agreed to be there at one fifteen, but only after a little more give-and-take, and his impatience made me wonder what he had up his sleeve. Wes was tactless to the point of rudeness, but he usually had the goods.