“You mean beside the fact that several of my missing antiques are in his apartment?” Cayce paused a minute and grabbed her notebook. “Let me write down what I saw so I can check it against the inventory list.”
Nic paced on the sidewalk, waiting for her to finish. “I don’t believe Sarah was just there to grieve. She’s part of this.”
Cayce tucked the notebook back into her tote. “You think she killed Matthew? Or that Sarah and Arnold killed him?”
“I think either one is a good bet. Of course, there’s no proof.” Nic sighed and leaned up against the wall with Cayce. “I’m not feeling good about this. I would really like you to come stay at the compound.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Cayce didn’t like the fact they were still having this argument.
A voice interrupted their fight. “Check the video.”
It was the homeless man standing by the corner, watching them. “Did you say something?”
“Mr. Goldstein installed cameras. He knew there was something wrong with the store. He hired me to watch at night, but I didn’t see anything.” The man shook his head. “I must have fallen asleep. Stupid, stupid.”
“There are cameras in the store?” Cayce took a step toward the guy, but he ran out into traffic.
“Stupid me, stupid me,” he chanted. Car horns blared as he darted between two cars.
Cayce stared after him. She started powerwalking toward the shop. “Let’s go find these cameras.”
It took them a while to find the closet where Matthew Goldstein had set up a security system. Four monitors showed the main showroom, the outside, the back door, and Matthew’s office. Nic glanced at the system. “I don’t want to mess with this. Call your detective friend.”
Later that day, Detective Charles sat in Cayce’s office. “He hit him with one of those statue things. While his back was turned. What a coward.”
“While you were watching the videos, I matched the list of everything that was supposed to be in inventory that I saw in Barnett’s apartment.” She handed him the list. “Arnold Barnett didn’t just kill Matthew; he was stealing from him. All of these items should be at the shop.”
“We’ll let you go through the apartment as soon as the crime scene guys get done with it. It might take a while for you to get everything back, but at least you’ll have a full list.” He nodded to the coffeepot. “Mind if I have a cup? I think it’s going to be a long night.”
“Have a seat, I’ll get it. Black?” Cayce nodded to the other visitor chair.
“Perfect. Besides the evidence you gathered, I got a call from the station a few minutes ago. Sarah Stiner came in and confessed to cooking the books. Arnold Barnett told her he was going to kill the old man, but she didn’t believe him. Until it happened.”
“I don’t understand—why would she confess?” Cayce asked the detective as sipped his coffee.
“She said Harry told her she had to if she wanted to sleep at night.” The detective sat down his cup as Nic and Cayce exchanged glances. “So, who’s Harry?”
KEEPSAKES, by J.A. Chalkley
Thunder rumbled in the distance as Lynn Weber hurried up the steps and across the portico to a set of massive double doors. Large white columns coupled with ivy-covered walls gave the mansion an air of Old South charm.
Lynn half expected Scarlett O’Hara to throw open the doors and greet her with a glass of lemonade. She had no doubt that the brass lion-head door knockers staring down at her were worth more than her car. As tempting as they were, she reached to use the doorbell instead. Beyond the doors, bells chimed her arrival with a piece of classical music she vaguely remembered from a Saturday morning cartoon.
Lightening flashed, causing the hair on her arms to tingle. She eased closer to the door, counting off the distance until thunder marked the storm’s approach. Two and a half, it was moving fast. Receiving no response to the doorbell, she reached for the ring hanging from one of the lion’s jaws. It moved out of her grasp as the door swung open.
Before she stood, a small woman with dark eyes that glared out from hawkish features that seemed frozen in a scowl. Her floral perfume hit Lynn with enough force to take her breath away. “Miss Weber?”
Definitely, not Scarlett. “Yes.” Lynn managed to choke out. “You must be, Ann Harper, Mrs. Anderson’s assistant. We spoke on the phone.” Lynn held out a hand. It was ignored.
“You’re late.” Ann Harper stepped back holding the door open for her. The woman looked like a matron from an old forties prison movie, complete with a ring of keys jangling from the belt at her waist.
“Sorry.” Certain any excuse would be rejected Lynn offered none. Once she was clear of the threshold, the heavy door closed with a sharp click. It sent a shudder down her spine.
“Follow me. Please.” It was clear the please had been tacked on as an afterthought. Not waiting for an answer, Ann spun on the heels of her sensible shoes, and stalked away.
Lynn hurried to catch up. They entered a dark, wood-paneled study. Paintings, framed newspaper articles, and accolades lined the walls. Overstuffed leather chairs and expensive rugs were scattered about. The room reeked of old money.
“Wait here. Mrs. Anderson will be with you shortly.” She waited till Lynn had perched in the offered chair before disappearing through the door.
Releasing a shaky breath, Lynn settled back in the leather chair, only to freeze as a loud noise that could be mistaken for something other than uncomfortable furniture squeaked in the quiet room. Heat flushed her cheeks at the sound.
Her attention was drawn to a large oil painting hanging over the stone fireplace. Katherine Anderson stared back at her. Judging by her blond hair and smooth skin, Lynn guessed the woman to be in her mid-to-late twenties. She did a quick calculation—the painting had to be over fifty years old. There was nothing more recent in the room. A hint of a smile on the woman’s lips offset the portrait’s formality. It made her seem impish. Maybe it was one of the reasons she’d snagged three rich husbands over the last six decades. And managed to outlive them all.
Lynn slipped a hand into her backpack, tracing fingertips over a manila envelope. For the hundredth time she wondered if she should have gone to the police first with her suspicions. And give up my chance to break the story? No. This is my baby, and nobody is going to steal it out from under me.
Ignoring the chair’s protests, she pulled out her phone. With a quick check to assure she was alone, she snapped several photos of the room. They might come in handy for reference later—at least, that was the story she was sticking to.
Portraits of old men in three-piece suits lined one wall. Three she recognized as Katherine’s deceased husbands. She had no idea who the others were.
Outside the wind began to pick up, causing the shrubs to tap against the window glass. Lynn’s attention turned to the desk. Various trinkets and an expensive pen set made i
t look more like a store display than a working desk. She snapped another photo.
Her gaze settled on a glass-dome display of a well-worn wristwatch. The leather band had seen better days, and the face bore small scratches. Lynn was no expert, but it looked vaguely military, maybe from the thirties or forties. Closer inspection revealed a Marine Corps emblem on the leather. There was something familiar about the watch. Whatever it was danced at the back of her mind, just out of reach. Beside the watch sat another display case, this one square and empty. There was no clue as to what it once held. She snapped pictures of both.
Satisfied, she pulled up her story notes. After two years of intense research she knew the material by heart. Still, it couldn’t hurt to check them once more. A newspaper article popped up.
Missing Sutherland Girl Found in Shallow Grave at Lake Chesdin.
The bold headline took up most of the front page. Dated April 14, 1970, the story touched on brief details of the girl’s disappearance two years earlier. Nearly fifty years had passed, but Paige Louise Archer would forever be the seventeen-year-old girl, beaming an angelic smile at the yearbook photographer. Hiding behind that smile, Lynn knew Paige had been a little hellion who had done things that would have made a sailor blush. None of which justified her being beaten to death and abandoned in an unmarked grave.
She paused at the sound of raised voices. Lightening brightened the room, followed a heartbeat later by thunder. By the time it had faded away, the voices were silent.
I’m letting this place get to me.
Lynn shook herself. Another swipe brought up a second article one dated May 10, 1971. Local Brothers Drown During Fishing Tournament. Beneath the headline was a grainy black and white photo of two men with their arms around each other’s shoulders, each holding a large trout.
The caption below the photo read: Judge Robert Samuels (left) and Sheriff James Samuels, brothers celebrate after logging the largest catches for the first day of the Lake Chesdin 1971 Fishing Tournament. Both men sported well-developed beer guts, though Robert did a better job of hiding his. James looked like he’d pulled a weekend bender. There was a glassy eyed stare even the poor-quality photo couldn’t hide.