As Robby’s mixer whirred into service, Claire and Nicole turned their attention to the work of baking and frosting with their young coworker’s words ringing in their ears. Thinking about the details of the case and the people involved, Claire worried that no one would agree to speak with them … and then, what would they do? Marty would keep appealing to get the DA’s records, but how long would it take and what would he learn? If people wouldn’t talk, nothing new would ever be discovered.

  With a sigh, Claire rolled the last truffle in dark chocolate powder, placed it on the cookie sheet, and carried it to the refrigerator. After washing her hands, she picked up her phone to check her messages.

  “Nic,” Claire said with excitement. “Peter Safer has agreed to meet with us. Tomorrow. In Downtown Crossing.”

  “Really?” Nicole hurried over to see the reply with her own eyes and after reading the man’s message, she high-fived her friend. “Okay, great. Tomorrow is the beginning of the end.”

  Claire and Robby looked at their boss with horrified expressions.

  Nicole stammered, “I mean the end of the case being cold, not the end of us. Jeez.”

  “I’m glad you cleared that up. Sheesh.” Robby used a spatula to scrape down the batter from the sides of the mixing bowl and headed to the front of the store to retrieve one of the baking tins.

  Anxiety pinged along Claire’s skin and she had the urge to reply to Peter Safer’s message by telling him they could not meet, that the whole thing was a mistake, and she’d never bother him again. The aspects of the case clanged around in her head and her throat felt dry and tight. Hurrying to the sink to get a drink of water, she held the cool glass to her temple and tried to calm herself by taking slow breaths.

  As Nicole passed Claire on the way to the ovens, she said softly, “I hope this isn’t a mistake.”

  “We’ll be okay,” Claire said the words of encouragement as much to convince herself as Nicole. “We’re doing the right thing.”

  “You better ramp up your intuition into high gear by tomorrow,” Nicole told her friend. “We’re going to need all of your ‘skills’ on this one. With any luck, we’ll find a clue right away that will help Marty figure this thing out.”

  Luck. Fortune. While Claire wondered which way the wheel would turn for them, Robby poked his head into the back room.

  “There’s someone out here who wants to talk to you,” he said.

  “We forgot to lock the front door again,” Nicole said with a shake of her head.

  With her heart beginning to race, Claire asked, “Which one of us does the person want to talk to?”

  “Both of you.”

  Claire and Nicole exchanged worried looks, pulled off their aprons, and headed to the café section at the front of the chocolate shop.

  A well-dressed woman in her mid-to-late fifties with a slim build and short blond hair, turned around when she heard the young women come out of the back work room.

  Claire spoke first. “Hello. I’m Claire Rollins and this is Nicole Summers. How can we help you?”

  The woman shifted her briefcase to her left hand and shook with her right. “I’m Rosalind Fenwick. I hope I can help you.”

  Confusion covered Claire and Nicole’s faces.

  Ms. Fenwick made eye contact with them. “I’m an acquaintance of Marty Wyatt. I ran into him last evening. I have some things I’d like to share with you about the Leslie Baker case.”

  8

  As the women took seats near the windows, Robby brought over coffee, tea, and a plate of cookies and set them on the table before scurrying away. Claire and Nicole still had looks of surprise on their faces from the arrival of the unexpected visitor.

  “Marty told you we’re helping him with the cold case?” Claire asked.

  “He did,” Rosalind said. “I spoke with Marty years ago shortly after Leslie’s murder. I was impressed with his earnest and caring attitude. I was sure the police would solve the crime quickly, but we see how that turned out.” The woman sipped from her cup. “I read the recent news article about Marty and his efforts to revive the investigation into the cold case and decided to seek him out.”

  “Are you planning to assist Marty with the case?” Claire asked.

  Rosalind shook her head. “Oh, no. I don’t have the time to do that or the first idea of how to go about working on a cold case.” Reaching down for her briefcase, she said, “I have some pictures from my time at the university. Leslie is in some of them. I brought them to show Marty. He looked at the photos and asked if I’d bring them by to show you.”

  “You and Leslie were friends?” Nicole asked.

  “Not friends, really. We knew each other from classes and we went on a dig together the summer prior to her death.”

  “You were studying in the same department?”

  “I was studying ancient history and classics so we ran into each other frequently,” Rosalind told the young women as she removed several plastic pages from an old photo album she took from her briefcase. Each of the eight by ten plastic sheets had twelve photographs slipped into the insert sections. “These pictures are from my time working on my doctorate. This is the archaeological dig in Iraq we went on together.” Rosalind pointed to one of the photos. “This is me and this is Leslie.”

  Claire and Nicole leaned forward to get a better look.

  “It was hot as blazes there. We lived in small buildings with only fans to cool us. We were there for three weeks. I loved the work, but not the high temperatures. The group got along well. Everyone was dedicated and hardworking and we had lots of fun and laughs.”

  Claire was unsure how the photographs would help the cold case, but she didn’t ask Rosalind anything preferring to let the woman continue to present the information in her own way.

  After showing the pictures from the dig, Rosalind turned to the second sheet. “These are random photos taken while at the university, at lectures, get-togethers, luncheons, parties. These three photos were taken at a party in Leslie’s apartment. If you look closely, you can see a trowel used on digs sitting on the top of the bookcase inside a wooden box with a few other tools. The trowel is unusual because it has mother-of-pearl inlays in the handle.”

  Rosalind turned back to a photo from the dig she and Leslie had been on. “Here’s the same tool on a work table from when we were in Iraq. The trowel belonged to one of the associate professors who worked at the dig. I was surprised to see it in Leslie’s apartment.”

  “Did the professor give it to Leslie as a gift?” Claire questioned.

  “I asked her about it. Leslie seemed a little nervous about my inquiry. She told me she liked the tool that Professor Ambrose used in Iraq and decided to buy one just like it for herself.” Rosalind made eye contact with Claire and Nicole. “I didn’t believe her. Leslie stammered when she replied. She seemed to want to blow it off. Even though she tried to be nonchalant about it, she acted twitchy and nervous. She picked up the wooden cover and closed it over the box.”

  “Why do you think she acted so nervous about it?” Claire watched the woman’s face.

  “At the time, I wondered if Leslie had stolen it from Professor Ambrose.” Rosalind got a faraway expression in her eyes. “One of the inlays on the handle had a small piece broken off of it. I didn’t pick up the trowel that was in Leslie’s apartment, but I thought I noticed a corner of the mother-of-pearl was missing so I thought it must be the same one from the dig.”

  “Do I hear a but in your voice?” Nicole asked sensing hesitation in the woman’s tone.

  “Now I’m not so sure how she came to have the tool. Maybe Leslie didn’t steal it. Maybe it was a gift from the professor to Leslie.”

  “Why would a gift to Leslie make her nervous in front of you?”

  “I always thought there was an attraction between Leslie and the professor. There were some flirting interactions between them like holding eye contact a little longer than was necessary, brushing their hands together. It was all subtle, playful.”

  “Do you think they may have been dating?” Nicole questioned.

  Rosalind’s eyes darkened. “I hope not. When we were in Iraq, Ambrose was recently married.”

  “Professor Ambrose was on the faculty of a Boston university?” Claire asked.

  “Yes, he taught at a college in the city. The dig was a joint project between three universities.”

  “Is he in any of your pictures?”

  Rosalind placed her fingers on two of the photos. “Here he is in this group photo right next to Leslie. I went on another dig that Ambrose was affiliated with. There are other photos from that dig in the later section of the album.”

  Claire looked at the picture of the tall, slender man smiling broadly at the camera. His left hand was on Leslie’s shoulder and her body was turned slightly towards the man with her hand on her hip. Everyone in the smiling group looked confidant and self-assured.

  Rosalind said, “And here they are in this photograph of all us in front of one of the living quarters.”

  In the second photo, six people stood in the back row and five others were positioned in the front row. Looking happy and full of energy, Leslie sat cross-legged on the dusty ground in front of Ambrose who was gazing down at her with a wide smile.

  “It looks like you had a great time together,” Nicole noted after scanning the faces of everyone posing in the picture.

  Rosalind let her eyes move over the sheets of old photographs. “There were the expected annoyances and disagreements, but overall it was a wonderful experience.”

  “Do you know if Leslie kept in touch with Professor Ambrose once they returned from the dig?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t know. We had a get-together in a restaurant about two months after we came back from the dig. It wasn’t obvious if Leslie and Ambrose had seen each other prior to the reunion, but he was flirting with her that night. I got the impression Leslie wanted him to stop. I never asked her if she had been in touch with Ambrose.” Rosalind picked up her cup of coffee and took a long swallow. “I was in Leslie’s apartment a few weeks after I attended the party at her place, the night I spotted the trowel.”

  Claire felt a shiver of anxiety move over her skin.

  “I went by to pick up a few books I’d lent to Leslie. She was cooking in the kitchen. She let me in and told me her hands were a mess from chopping and said to grab the books from the bookshelf in the living room. While I went to get the books, the smoke alarm went off and Leslie ran back to the stove. The wooden box of digging tools was still on the top of the bookcase. The lid was pushed to the side. I moved it a little more so I could get a look at the tools. I wanted to see the trowel again.” Rosalind paused and then said, “It wasn’t in the box. It was gone.”

  “Do you think Leslie needed it for something she was working on?” Claire’s mind raced with ideas.

  Rosalind’s lips tightened. “I doubt it. I think she moved the trowel because I noticed that it was Professor Ambrose’s tool.”

  “Did you share this information about the trowel with the police?” Nicole asked.

  “The police didn’t interview me,” Professor Fenwick said. “At the time, I didn’t even think about the trowel. After reading the news article about Marty trying to renew interest in the case, I pulled out these old photos and remembered seeing the trowel so I met Marty and told him I had wondered where Leslie got it.”

  “Could a tool like that…?” Claire’s inner core felt cold. “Could that trowel have been the murder weapon? When you showed these pictures to Marty and told him what you’ve just told us, did he think it was possible that the trowel could have caused Leslie’s fatal injuries?”

  “He acknowledges that only a medical examiner could determine that, but from the things Marty has read and heard about the case, yes, he thinks it could have produced the injuries.”

  “Did you ever see the trowel again?” Nicole asked.

  “I did not. That was the last time I visited Leslie’s apartment.”

  “Did you see Professor Ambrose again?”

  “I saw him at Leslie’s memorial service. As you can imagine, it was a terrible day. Everyone was distraught that this could have happened to someone we knew.”

  “Did you speak to Professor Ambrose that day?”

  “Briefly. None of us said much except to express our horror and disbelief and share words of comfort with one another.”

  “Leslie had a boyfriend, Peter Safer,” Claire said. “Had you met him?”

  “I met him a couple of times.” Rosalind shifted around on her seat and sat straighter. “He was at the party at Leslie’s place the night I noticed the trowel.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “He was pleasant enough. I didn’t spend any time talking with him and didn’t get to know him. Leslie didn’t refer to Peter as her boyfriend. She called him her friend.”

  “Leslie wasn’t serious about him?” Nicole asked.

  “She didn’t seem to be. Leslie was fun and out-going and eager to learn and have a career. She certainly didn’t give me the impression she was ready to settle on any one person.” Rosalind tilted her head slightly to the side. “I don’t know what Peter thought.”

  “Do you think Leslie was in a relationship with Professor Ambrose?” Nicole asked the direct question to see how Rosalind would respond.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Rosalind gave a shrug. “I wouldn’t speculate on whether or not they acted on their attraction to each other. Outside of the dig we were on, I didn’t see Leslie on a regular basis.”

  Rosalind pushed the old photo album towards Claire. “Keep it, if you like. You might want to look at the pictures again. I don’t need it back right away.”

  Claire nodded and then leaned forward. “Did Leslie have any enemies? Anyone who had a grudge against her? Is there anyone you might think of who had a reason to want Leslie dead?”

  The corner of Rosalind’s mouth turned up. “There were probably a number of people who were quite jealous of Leslie. She was vivacious, intelligent, pretty, fun. There were probably a number of people who wanted to date her, but were unsuccessful in that pursuit. Jealousy, love, unrequited desires … all are time-tested motivations to kill. Was someone so consumed with any of those feelings that they murdered the woman? Did she know her killer?” Rosalind turned her hands up in a helpless gesture. “I have no idea.”

  9

  Early in the evening, Peter Safer met Claire and Nicole at a pub near Downtown Crossing. The man was tall with broad shoulders and white hair cut close to his head. Well-dressed in a fitted suit, the man looked strong and athletic and his high cheekbones and symmetrical bone structure kept him looking younger than his actual years.

  When introductions were made, Safer’s posture and handshake seemed stiff to Claire as if the man was uncomfortable or ill at ease. They took seats in chairs at a high table and gave their drink orders to a waiter.

  “We appreciate you coming to meet us,” Claire said with a smile trying to put Safer at ease.

  The man said, “My office is nearby so it wasn’t a problem to meet here.”

  Claire and Nicole knew that Safer was a very successful financial advisor and in his early sixties, he continued to work full-time. As soon as the drinks arrived, Safer took a long swallow of his whiskey and ginger and drained half his glass.

  Claire noticed the drink consumption and hoped if Safer kept on like that, it might loosen his tongue.

  “An acquaintance of Nicole’s,” Claire fibbed, “is interested in the Leslie Baker case.”

  “Why?” A quick moment of annoyance flashed in Safer’s hazel eyes.

  Nicole said, “He was assigned as a young reporter to the case. He covered the story for a few weeks after the murder. He hopes for some measure of justice for Leslie. We’re helping him gather information.”

  “What does your friend think will happen after the three of you gather information?” Safer asked.

  Claire set her wine glass on the tabletop. “We all hope the case will be reopened and that new evidence will lead to the person responsible.”

  Safer smirked and adjusted the cuff of his shirt sleeve. “It’s been nearly thirty-five years. People have moved away, some have died. What possible evidence could be left?” A trace of an English accent was evident when the man spoke. “It’s a fool’s errand, I’m afraid.”

  “Maybe it is,” Nicole said and then moved the discussion in a different direction. “Your career has been in finance? At the time of Leslie’s death, you were a doctoral student in anthropology, weren’t you?”

  Safer shifted in his seat. “I was. I left the program a year after Leslie’s murder. I’ll answer your next question before you ask it. The reason I left was because academia wasn’t for me. I wanted something more financially rewarding so I abandoned the program and went for an MBA instead.”

  “You’ve done well, I understand.” Claire smiled. “It seems it was the right choice for you.”

  “I believe it was.” Safer didn’t smile or make eye contact. He kept his gaze focused on the liquid in his glass.

  “You and Leslie dated back in the day?” Claire asked.

  “We were friends at times and at other times, we described our relationship as boyfriend-girlfriend. Leslie never really knew what she wanted. Whenever she decided she only wanted to be friends and I subsequently withdrew from her, she’d change her mind and want to get back together. It went on frequently. I felt like a ping-pong ball.”

  “Did you love Leslie?” Nicole asked.

  Safer’s eyebrows went up. “I thought I did. In retrospect, I was probably fascinated by her and maybe, a little obsessed with Leslie. She was so enthusiastic about life, so outgoing, friendly. I didn’t know anyone quite like her. When she gave you her attention, it was like golden sunshine lighting you up. I’ve always been a quiet, more reserved person, not shy by any means, but more of an introvert, someone who enjoys books, mathematics, time alone.”

 

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