See Something, page 13
“That’s exactly what I thought of too. Looks like it had a tassel on it.” I pointed again.
He squinted at the small screen. “Sure does. I’m pretty sure Jim got a better shot of it.” He put the phone back into his pocket. “Thanks, Moon. That got right by me. Abbot said the guy he thought stole his boat wore shoes with tassels.”
“I’m sure the police have picked up on it,” I said. And I’ll bet it once had the same mucky stuff on it as Emily’s shoes did.
I thanked Scott for the lunch and we made it back to the station a few minutes before two. He was anxious to arrange for a close-up of the tasseled shoe for the evening news and I was right on time for a meeting with Chester about building a circus-themed dog house for Paco.
By five o’clock the top of my desk was cleared. Everything on my daily to-do list had been accomplished. With a feeling of satisfaction, I picked up my hobo bag, locked my office door, and headed upstairs to clock out with Rhonda. I realized that there was yet another plus to my new job. Unlike the edge-of-your-chair, race-out-the-door-at-a-moment’s-notice, day-or-night schedule of the TV field reporter, the hours of a program director were generally quite regular. Almost normal. Well, as normal as things could get at a station like WICH-TV. That made me smile.
I wished Rhonda a good evening, then hurried down the metal stairs to the lobby. I found myself humming an off-key version of “Send In the Clowns” as I climbed into the Vette. It had been a good day, and I still had an evening with Pete to look forward to. I pulled out onto Derby Street, heading toward Hawthorne Boulevard. Passing the hotel I glanced toward the common, automatically focusing on the pigeon lady’s bench where I’d first seen Emily. Nobody there. I checked my rearview mirror and made the left-hand turn onto Washington Square.
A red Mazda CX-30 was almost on my tail. I frowned, speeding up a little, pulling toward the curb, thinking it might want to pass. Instead, the car dropped back. As I made my turn onto Oliver Street, the Mazda sped past toward the Civil War monument, slowing down and signaling a turn on the corner of Winter Street. There was something familiar about the red car. I’d seen it some where else recently. Where?
I’d almost reached our garage when I remembered. That Mazda had been parked directly across the street when Joyce had dropped Emily off on movie night. That solved that. Someone in the neighborhood either had a new Mazda or had a visitor who drove one.
Maybe I should mention it to Pete anyway—just in case it has something to do with Emily.
Aunt Ibby’s Buick was missing again. My aunt is a busy woman. O’Ryan met me on the back steps and followed me up the stairs to my apartment.
“I wonder if that Mazda is parked across the street again,” I remarked to the cat. “Then I could be pretty sure it belongs in the neighborhood.” He didn’t reply. None of my windows open onto Winter Street, so I walked down the front staircase to the foyer and looked out the long window beside the door. No red Mazda. I opened the front door and looked up and down the street. Uh-uh. Not there.
I made a mental note to mention this to Pete.
Just in case.
CHAPTER 22
Once back upstairs I found a text from Pete saying he’d pick me up for fried clams at around seven. Good. That gave me time to shower, do something with my hair, and figure out what to wear. Also, I’d empty the bag full of clothing and accessories I’d loaned to Emily. Maybe I’d even do a reluctant tad of ironing.
In terry-cloth robe with hair towel dried, I dumped the contents of the bag onto my bed. O’Ryan, in typical curious cat fashion, immediately stuck his pink nose into the middle of the pile. Blouses and jeans, sweater and pajamas, had all been neatly laundered and folded. Shoes and handbag were polished and plastic bagged along with the new composition book I’d left in the guest room. My watch and a ballpoint pen were in a sandwich bag. I hung up the jeans, put the pajamas and the sweater into the proper bureau drawers and shoes into their allotted spaces in the closet. I put the watch into the secret jewelry compartment in my bureau and put the handbag on its usual hook next to the shoe rack. The blouses could benefit from a quick touch-up with the iron, so I laid them on the bed, instructing O’Ryan that he must not sleep on them. He put on a sulky face, but left the bedroom in favor of his kitchen windowsill. I picked up the bagged composition book, carried it to the kitchen table. Emily probably hadn’t had time to use it. I could always use an extra notebook at my office. I slid it into my briefcase.
I’d already decided on white jeans and a navy turtleneck for our date at Dube’s. It was nearly six thirty by then, so I dressed, brushed hair, did minimal makeup, and rescued the blouses from the bedroom. “I’m going down to the laundry room,” I told O’Ryan. “Want to come with me?”
He made a little trilling purr sound and scooted down the hall to the living room. He’d already used the cat door by the time I got there. I was sure he had no interest in ironing, but would make a beeline for Aunt Ibby’s kitchen just opposite the laundry room. The sound of John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” told me that my aunt was at home. I tossed the blouses onto the ironing board and knocked on her door.
“Come in!” she called. “It’s open.”
That was a big no-no. Pete has warned her many times to keep her doors locked. She and I had each learned the hard way how important that can be. “It’s supposed to be locked,” I scolded as I let myself in.
“Oh, I thought it was Betsy and Louisa. They should be here any minute. I opened it for them.” She gave me a hug. “You’re welcome too, naturally. Betsy called an emergency meeting of the Angels.”
“Emergency meeting? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know. I guess she wants to surprise us. Want to stay and find out for yourself?”
“I can stay a few minutes,” I said. “How can I resist an emergency meeting? Did she give you any idea of what it’s about?”
“Not exactly. But since they’re both working on the real estate aspect of the mystery, it must have to do with buying and selling.”
O’Ryan headed for the back hall. “Here they come,” my aunt said. “We’ll know soon enough what they’ve discovered.”
Cat and aunt were correct. Betsy and Louisa had arrived together in Louisa’s Lexus, each of them clearly excited about whatever they’d discovered. Barely exchanging greetings, the two, along with my aunt, pulled out chairs and all began talking at once. I held up both hands. “Whoa,” I said. “Slow down, ladies.”
“Sorry,” Betsy said. “Louisa, you go first.”
I remembered that Louisa’s project had been checking on recent sales of high-end properties that had been resold at a much higher price within a month of the original sale, while Betsy had collected names and contact numbers of listing agents.
Louisa fanned out several colorful advertising brochures on the table and, in her well-modulated voice, described how she’d personally called people who’d originally sold the properties. Since she moved in the most rarified of the North Shore’s moneyed circles, she knew quite a few of those folks, who’d been happy to share the names and business addresses—and in some cases, the business cards—of the selling agents and the buyers involved.
Here Betsy took up the narrative. She stood, and smilingly tossed three sheets of paper onto the table. “Here are the copies of sales of the properties Louisa just described. Got them all from city hall. Oddly enough, though the names are different, the contact numbers of the most recent buyers match the numbers for the selling agents on the original deals. What do you think of that?”
I looked at my watch. Five minutes to seven. “Wow. I hate to leave you all, but I have to,” I said with sincere regret. This was going to be one heck of a meeting!
With blouses still un-ironed and leaving what promised to be a fascinating Angels meeting, I dashed out the door and started up the twisty staircase to grab purse and phone and be on time for my date with Pete.
Unlocking the door—I take Pete’s advice about locks seriously—I grabbed my hobo bag from the back of the kitchen chair and was about to stuff the phone into its copious insides.
This giant bag is a bit of overkill for dinner at Dube’s.
The little cross-body bag I’d loaned to Emily would be perfect. I retrieved it from the closet, transferred wallet, lip gloss, tissues, and a pen, added the phone, and I was good to go when my doorbell chimed “Bless This House,” signaling that Pete was downstairs.
O’Ryan, as usual, had beat me to the door to welcome Pete, but quickly returned to Aunt Ibby’s kitchen through his cat door just as soon as I’d arrived on the scene. Maybe he didn’t want to miss any of Betsy’s and Louisa’s show-and-tell either.
Pete had noticed Louisa’s car in the driveway. “Another Angels meeting already?” he asked as he held the passenger door for me, “What’s going on?”
“I left too soon to know exactly,” I told him, “but they’re all pretty excited about some stuff Louisa and Betsy have dug up on the real estate people involved in whatever Emily and Sawtelle were investigating.”
“We’re working on that too.” His tone was noncommittal as he backed out of the driveway and headed toward Bridge Street.
“I guess Emily is pretty helpful, considering her forensic accounting background and her knowledge of Mr. Sawtelle’s business.” I tried for noncommittal too. A moment of silence from Pete’s side of the car.
“Yep. You look pretty.”
“Thank you.” We’d merged onto Washington Street by the time I gave up the polite query technique. “I saw some pictures of the burned murder boat today. Did your forensics guys get anything from what was left of it?”
Tolerant smile as we passed the police station and headed for Jefferson Avenue. “Well, you know what they say. A criminal always leaves something at the crime scene and always takes something away. Ready for fried clams?”
“And French fries and coleslaw. Is that shoe tassel something left or something taken away?”
“You spotted that?” He’d just parked outside the restaurant. “Did I ever tell you you’d make a good cop?”
“Fairly often. And my aunt wants me to be a detective. Not interested in either job. But really, that shoe probably belonged to the boat thief, right?”
He took my hand as we approached the front door. “Smart girl. And you’re guessing that the boat thief is our killer, right?”
“Might be,” I said. “If he is, he left the shoe at the crime scene. But if there are bugs and slime on it, he took something away too.”
Quizzical look. “Bugs and slime?”
“Rhonda’s definition of what an entomologist examines,” I explained.
“Got it. Did you mention the shoe to the Angels?” We were seated, declined the menus because we’d already made up our minds, and Pete ordered two light beers.
“No. I haven’t mentioned it to anyone but you, and, of course, Scott Palmer.”
Slight frown. “Scott Palmer? Why?”
“They were his murder boat photos.”
“I guess we’ll see them on the news tonight then.” He sipped his beer. “Any other observations, Nancy Drew?”
“There is one thing I want to tell you about.” I described the red Mazda and told him how I’d noticed it when Emily came to our house, and that I’d felt that maybe it had followed me that afternoon.
When I’d finished, he didn’t smile either. “Did you get the license plate number?”
“I didn’t. He was too close behind me for me to see it in the rearview mirror, then I turned onto Oliver Street and I saw him turn at Winter Street.”
“You didn’t tell me about it when you saw it the night Emily was there,” he said. “How come?”
Our meals had arrived and I reached for the ketchup. “I thought it belonged to a neighbor, or maybe somebody’s guest.”
“I don’t like thinking somebody is watching you. Or Emily. If you see it again, call me right away.” He reached for my hand. “Hell, Lee. I thought when you got the new job, and didn’t have to run around covering crime stories, I wouldn’t have to worry about you so much.”
“It’s probably nothing, Pete.”
“Sure. Why not? I worry too much because I love you.” He smiled. “Now what’s this about your aunt wanting you to be a detective?”
“Don’t worry about that,” I insisted. “Not going to happen.”
CHAPTER 23
We enjoyed one of our favorite seafood meals, and lingered over coffee. When Pete reached for the check, I objected. “We said we were going dutch tonight. Half of that is mine.” I opened the purse and reached inside for my wallet. “Hey. What’s this?” I’d pulled a colorful business card from the cross-body I’d loaned to Emily. I held the thing up between thumb and forefinger.
“What is it?” Pete asked.
“A business card from a real estate agent. Emily must have left it in here.” I peered into the open purse, extracting my wallet. “It’s not mine.”
“May I see it?”
“Sure.” I handed it to him.
“ ‘Alfred J. Pridholm,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Specializing in waterfront properties.’ Ever heard of him?”
“Nope. Must be somebody Emily knows. Or, more likely, somebody she was investigating.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” he said. “Mind if I hold on to this?”
“It’s all yours,” I said. “Did you get a chance to go over those lists I gave you?”
“They didn’t add up to anything for me, but I think they’re worth studying some more. I handed them over to our forensic accountant to check further. Maybe O’Ryan was right about them though.”
“Maybe. Speaking of accounting, how much is my half of the check?”
He slipped the business card into his breast pocket. “Since you bought breakfast, how about I get this one and you do the tip?”
“Good deal,” I said, slipping the appropriate bills under my coffee mug. “It’s still pretty early. The Angels meeting might still be going on. Want to crash their party and see if they’ve come up with anything?”
“You said they were talking about real estate people?” He patted his pocket. “People who were involved in whatever Emily was investigating?”
“Yep. Let’s go.” Like a couple of conspirators plotting a spy mission, we headed home to casually “drop in” on the Angels meeting. We decided to first do a quick drive-by on Winter Street just to see if the Mazda might be there. It wasn’t, so we drove around the block to Oliver Street. Louisa’s car was still in the driveway and Pete pulled the Crown Vic in beside it.
“Maybe we should have brought ice cream,” I whispered as we approached the back steps where O’Ryan waited for us. As soon as I opened the door, the cat darted ahead of us into the hall.
“Too late now,” Pete said. “Anyway, if O’Ryan did his usual racing-through-the-cat-door act, they already know we’re here.” He tapped on the kitchen door. “I hope this is locked.”
“Who is it?” my aunt called.
“It’s me, Aunt Ibby,” I answered. “Pete is here too.” We heard the lock click open.
“Come in, come in,” she said. “We’ve been so busy. Wait until you see all we’ve uncovered.”
Louisa, Betsy, and my aunt, beaming like kids who knew they’d aced a final exam, invited us to join them at the round oak table where a manuscript-sized stack of paper was neatly centered.
“Looks like you’ve been working hard,” I said. “What’s all this?” I pointed to the paper pile. “A book?”
“No book,” Betsy said, “but we’ve come up with names. Louisa made a list of waterfront properties listed for sale recently, from Portland all the way down to Provincetown. Janie—I mean Emily—had told us about a house that got sold twice. The second time for a much-inflated price. So I researched sales of waterfront homes that fit that pattern.”
“You actually found matching names?” Pete asked. “Between the two lists?”
“We’ve found five,” Aunt Ibby reported. She pushed a piece of paper toward where Pete and I sat. “But we haven’t been able to actually locate any of them. Very strange. No business addresses on any of their cards.”
Pete and I scanned the list and my attention snagged on an entry. One of the names on the list was Alfred Pridholm.
“Good work, Angels!” Pete said. He touched the list. “You’ve gone pretty far afield. Portland to Provincetown, you said?”
“Yes, sir.” Louisa said. “And we’re thinking these swindles may cover even more territory than that.”
“Do we know yet exactly what the swindle is?” I asked.
Four pairs of eyes turned toward me. “Of course. Emily had that pretty well figured out in the first place,” my aunt said. “It’s a very sophisticated scheme. It apparently involves a number of different people who hold different positions in the real estate industry. Isn’t that right, Pete?”
“Looks that way. It may involve bogus businesses and financial institutions not just in Salem or even just in Massachusetts,” he said, “and if Louisa is right about Portland and Provincetown, we have a lot more investigating to do.”
“They must have access to some excellent counterfeiters,” Betsy put in. “We think they’re using fake IDs, fake licenses, even fake certificates of deposit they used for down payments.”
“How does it work?” I asked.
“As near as we can figure it out,” Aunt Ibby said, “the scammer sets up a phony buyer with a fake certificate of deposit to buy a fairly high-priced home. Then he creates a sham sale of the property to himself for a much higher price—usually over a million dollars. Then, using that property as collateral, he gets a loan for close to the million-dollar figure. He pays off the smaller loan, keeps the change, then gets another loan for more than a million to refinance the property.”
“Do this eight or ten times on five or six properties and you’ll have many millions,” Louisa said. “Many, many millions. Do you agree, Pete?”
