The doll from dunedin, p.25
The Doll from Dunedin, page 25
Maggie stared at me with wide eyes, her arms akimbo. “What just happened?”
The elevator bell rang. When the door opened, people had filled the car to capacity. Olivia stepped out, flashing an FBI badge. She strutted over to Tim. Two more plain-clothes FBI agents, and five uniforms spilled out.
Olivia, Agent Finley as per her badge, crouched in front of Tim. “What’s going on?”
He shook his head, refusing to answer.
One of the officers read him his rights.
“Tim, tell the officers what’s going on,” Agent Finley urged.
He didn’t respond.
“We’ll take him to the precinct. He’ll talk there.” Two cops sandwiched him, each slipping an arm under his, then jerked him to his feet. Tim snuffed and wailed, “I didn’t do anything. I wasn’t going to hurt them.”
As the elevator closed, a cop said, “Zip it, buddy. Save your story for later.”
“Tim’s gun is in the gallery.” I pointed to the handgun I’d set on one of the viewing seats.
Agent Finley led two FBI agents into the room and pointed toward the painting. “This is the Kuhn.”
The agents began photographing each painting, spending longer on the one in question.
Agent Finley joined us in the lobby. “What happened up here after I left?”
“The lad panicked when we found an invoice with his name on it,” Maggie blurted.
“It was for the Kuhn.” I thought for a moment. “He must have been watching or listening from the library. He heard me read his name. That’s when he barged in, brandishing his gun.”
“RaeJean held her ground. She wouldn’t give him the paper.” Maggie patted my arm.
I shrugged. “Stupid, I know, but he didn’t strike me as a killer.”
“And you know what a killer looks like.” Agent Finley’s disgusted look suggested I wasn’t just stupid. I was an idiot.
I felt the blood drain from my face when I realized the gravity of my actions and the naivety of my statement. “Maggie. Oh, God. This could have ended in tragedy.”
Agent Finley nodded. “It could have, and both of you could have been victims.”
“But we’re not.” Maggie wrapped her arm around me. “I’m pretty shaken, but today we must have had divine intervention on our side.”
“Or luck,” I mumbled. “I’m so sorry to have put you through this.”
She gave me a squeeze and wiped a tear from her cheek with her free hand.
My phone vibrated. Sam’s name appeared on the display. “It’s Sam. Can he come up?”
She shook her head. “No. I want a forensic crew in here. You can leave as soon as you give me the invoice.”
My unease about Olivia, also known as Agent Finley, returned, but I was still trying to decide if I was dead wrong about her. Her badge looked authentic, and she wasn’t alone. “How about a copy? I’ll give the box of papers to Austin, and he can give you a copy.”
“That’ll work for now. We can subpoena the documents when we’re ready for them.”
She sounded legit.
Agent Finley looked around. “Right. So, where’s the document?”
“I hid it.”
The three of us went to the library. I hesitated as I glanced toward the book.
“Aren’t you going to show her?” Maggie winked at me. “She’s going to love it.”
“Love what?” Agent Finley asked.
I reached up to the middle shelf, retrieving the book. I handed it to her.
She threw back her head, laughing as she read the title aloud. “Praise of Folly, Erasmus.”
Maybe I could trust her. She had my sense of humor. “Can we go now?”
Agent Finley smiled. “Sure.”
During the elevator ride, we remained quiet. On the ground floor, I held the close button on the panel. “Will you explain how you knew Tim was a threat?”
She nodded. “Sure, but not today. Not until we nail the rest of the ring.”
“Fair enough.” The door groaned open.
Sam stood outside the elevator. With one motion, he scooped me into a tight hug. “Quit doing this to me. I won’t live to see forty.”
Maggie stepped off the elevator and patted Sam’s arm. “Don’t you worry about her, young man. She’s tough as Irish wool and nowhere near as scratchy.”
Sam laughed. “She is feisty.”
On our ride back to The Retreat, my mind churned. I’d never suspected Tim. And I’d misread Olivia—that is, Agent Finley. Maybe.
I also still had a puzzle to solve. What did art fraud have to do with Dorothy Arnold?
Chapter Fifty-Four
We’d been back home for a week when my phone rang at midnight. Shriver’s name appeared on the display. “Hello. Hang on while I go to another room.”
Sam rolled over with one eye peeled open. “Who’s calling at this hour?”
“It’s Shriver. I’ll get it in my office.” I grabbed my sweatshirt and shuffled down the hall, both dogs tripping me with every step. “Okay. I’m ready.”
“Sorry to bother you this late, but the Queenstown police had a breakthrough.” He paused. “They interviewed the shuttle driver. He didn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious or unknown hanging around when he loaded the gear.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a breakthrough.” I checked my watch. Twelve fifteen.
“That’s not it.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to admit it, but the suspect had to be someone from my office working with a partner at Murbeck. But I can’t imagine who.”
Olivia came to mind again. She was FBI—with connections. I didn’t say anything to Shriver. Instead, I listened.
“I wasn’t going straight to the office the next morning. I figured you and Sam would leave early. So, I brought the bags to the office and left them there overnight. The driver picked them up on his way to get you and Sam.”
“The bags stayed at the law office overnight,” I repeated. “Did you lock your office?”
“Yes, but the interns, my receptionist, and the cleaning crew all have keys.”
“Giving someone an opportunity. But what’s the motive?”
“That’s a good question. Why would someone think you are a threat?”
I wracked my brain, but I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone at his office would care.
“There’s more. The police forensic investigator found an online source for the spider found in the sleeping bag.” Shriver cleared his throat.
“Online. They sell spiders online.” I grimaced.
“Yes. A company called Bugs Online sells arachnids to a variety of customers all over the world through Amazon and guarantees three-day delivery regardless of the destination.”
“A package labeled arachnids arrived in Wellington the day before you and your husband departed for Christchurch. We’re tracking down the exact drop by NZ Post. They’ve upgraded their system, but it’s not user-friendly yet.”
“How did the perpetrator know we were going on a hike?”
“It had to be someone at our firm. There is no other explanation. I lent you the gear and someone on my staff had to have dropped the spider into the bag.”
“But who?” I suppressed the thought that it might be Shriver. Austin had assured me he was clear of accusations in the firm’s scandal. But maybe he had a different agenda.
“I’ve called Austin. He’s going to pull phone records and email trails from his end, and I agreed to do the same here.” Shriver hesitated. “Both our companies are international, so it’s possible whoever’s behind this is routing requests through other offices.”
“How long will the investigation take?” I didn’t like the possibility of a spider showing up at my house in Wyncote in an Amazon box. Sam and I ordered online all the time. Currently, I had a dozen items on their way—books and a couple of supposedly indestructible toys for the dogs.
“It’s hard to say. We’ve hired a consulting firm that specializes in data capture and retrieval. They didn’t want to commit. They could find a trail right away, or if the person is an expert at covering their tracks, it could take weeks or even months.”
“Did you pack the bags yourself?”
“No. I had one of the other interns handle it for me. I had a meeting. But I doubt he did it. His father is a partner. He’s a good lad. He’s worked for us since high school. The police scheduled an interview with everyone who was at our office the two days the bags stayed here.” Shriver paused, clearing his throat. “We may want you to return and testify.”
“I’m not a fan of court proceedings. In my profession, expert testimony can be a part of the job, but I avoid it like the plague.” That uneasy, sick feeling crept through my body. For inexplicable reasons, opposing attorneys liked to grill me. Sam believed it was my size. They saw me as a rookie, easy to discredit.
“Maybe Austin can record a deposition, but it would be more powerful for you and Sam to make an appearance.”
“Let’s hope it isn’t necessary.” I thanked Shriver for the update, disconnected, and went back to bed.
“What did he want?” Sam asked, scooching into a sitting position against the headboard, giving his left leg extra help. The muscle memory remained weak for certain movements.
“They found the origin of the spider in your sleeping bag.”
“They did? Where did it come from?”
“Amazon.”
“The Amazon rainforest in Brazil?” Sam’s eyes widened.
“No, Amazon, the online company.”
“You’re kidding. I have a new appreciation for the power of the Internet markets.”
“It gives me pause. I’ve got items in transit. Now, I’m worried. Every shipment could be a spider.” I hugged my chest.
“Most of what you order is books. Spiders would get smooshed in a typical book envelope. Plus, the shipping label would indicate the shipper along with a sticker indicating a live arachnid.”
“Just the same.” I shivered. I filled Sam in on the progress and next steps. “If they find this guy, we may have to go back to Wellington to testify.”
“I’d better get in shape for another vacation getaway.” Sam grinned.
“It could mean that. If it does, we’re providing our own gear this time.”
“No kidding.” Sam nestled back under the covers. “I’m game. I’d love to spend more time there when it’s summer.”
“Me, too. Although, I don’t think it gets that cold. Just windy during the winter.”
Sam glanced at the clock. “Man! It’s almost two. I have a meeting at the airport with Paul in the morning. He picked up a clock at an estate sale over the weekend in Chester that he wants me to appraise. He’s flying back to Boston at noon.”
I yawned. Exhaustion couldn’t wipe away the images of spiders crawling from Amazon boxes. I tossed and turned, dozing off around four-thirty. The alarm rang at six.
“Up and at ‘em, Sherlock,” Sam said as he rolled out of bed. “I’ve got to be on the road by eight.”
Groaning, I slung my feet over the side of the bed and sat upright.
Hopefully, Austin would have answers soon. I wanted this case closed.
Chapter Fifty-Five
On Friday morning, I called Austin. He was unavailable, but I spoke with Agent Finley, who had been asked to help with office interviews. “We’ve questioned Mr. Bradley’s entire staff. No one from this office committed an international crime.”
“What about rerouting emails or messages through international partners?” I asked.
She didn’t answer immediately. “It’s possible. We’ve got a technical team on that.”
“Thanks, Olivia…Agent Finley. Will you have Austin call me when he’s available?”
“Sure.”
When I disconnected, I sent Austin an email in case she forgot. I also sent an email to Grace Walker, my contact in the FBI, asking her to verify that Anne Finley worked for them. It didn’t hurt to be careful.
So much had happened over the last six weeks that I’d forgotten about the Abbott photo of Jill with an unidentified woman. I’d planned to visit the Museum of the City of New York to review the Mayer correspondence, but I never did. I found my copy buried under a stack of papers. The woman in the photo might provide a link between Jill Hamilton and Dorothy Arnold.
My throat tightened as I studied the scene. Jill held out a bouquet of flowers in her left hand and Patsy tucked under her right arm. The face looked familiar, but I couldn’t identify the woman or recall where I’d seen her before.
I called the museum again and spoke with the same archivist.
“Since our last conversation, most of the Abbott records have been categorized and dated. If Abbott took the photo in the early 1930s, we’ll have a copy, a negative, or a reference to the scheduled shoot. If you send me a digital copy of the front and back, I will see if I can find it in the files.”
She’d never asked for a copy during our initial contact. I guessed that she expected me to follow through with the Mayer correspondence. “Great. I’ll send you a copy right away.”
The archivist gave me her work email. “I’ll check today at the end of my shift.”
As soon as we disconnected, I sent off a digital copy of the picture and a short note.
The next day, the archivist responded, saying the woman in the photo was Marjorie Dubey, Dorothy Arnold’s younger sister. Abbott had taken the photo in the Dubey’s backyard on Old Chester Road in Essex Fells, New Jersey.
If their grandmothers maintained a lifetime friendship, it wasn’t unreasonable to think the granddaughters, Isabelle Hamilton and Marjorie Dubey, would become friends. Isabelle would have wanted to introduce her daughter to her social circle.
I studied the picture. Marjorie’s expression hinted at deep sadness as she stared into Jill’s eyes.
Chapter Fifty-Six
When Dorothy disappeared, George Griscom Jr. also left for a family vacation near Florence, Italy, with his parents. Something felt amiss with Junior’s trip.
Plus, Dorothy’s brother John’s movements during the time of her disappearance didn’t add up, either. He was out of the country when Dorothy vanished. When he returned home, he acted surprised that she’d gone missing even though the news made the headlines in both national and international newspapers. After being home a short time, John believed Griscom knew of Dorothy’s whereabouts, so he and their mother traveled to Europe in February 1911 and confronted Junior. Even after an alleged thumping by John Arnold, Junior claimed to know nothing.
One reporter suggested it was Dorothy and not his mother who traveled with John, and that John had whisked Dorothy off to Europe in a move to free her from her father’s grip.
According to reports, Mrs. Arnold returned home first, followed by John Arnold several months later.
I looked down at Sophie, who slept at my feet. “That is, if she left in the first place.”
Sophie opened one eye.
Both mother and brother swore they never found Dorothy. When Junior Griscom returned from Europe, he searched for Dorothy, too. He spent time and money, without success.
Next, I revisited my research about the Greenwich Village bohemians and their writing community, but I didn’t find anything new. So, I redirected my attention to the writer from New Zealand, Katherine Mansfield. I spent the next few hours examining Internet photographs of Katherine Mansfield and following her whereabouts prior to Dorothy’s disappearance. My gut told me she and Dorothy may have connected in Europe, somehow. I found nothing.
Finally, I ran a wide-open Internet search without a date restriction and found a 1920 photo that showed Katherine sitting with a group of people. The caption read, “George Gurdjieff, the mystic, expounding on his theory of waking sleep.” Upon closer examination, I spotted a woman in the rear of the group who resembled Dorothy Arnold. Could Dorothy have been at Gurdjieff’s institute in France where Mansfield studied?
I captured the photo, cropped it to isolate the woman, and then emailed it to Greg along with several published photos of Arnold I’d found online. His facial recognition program would catch identifiable facial features the naked eye might miss.
Until this photograph, I had no indication Dorothy knew or associated with Katherine Mansfield. Nor did I have any indication, other than speculation, that she might still have been alive in 1920.
Seeing a potential photo of Dorothy in France, I searched for her name in 1920 to 1921 on ship passenger manifests leaving from America’s east coast seaports to ports in Europe. Still nothing.
In previous cases where my trail had gone cold, I would brainstorm possibilities using the notion of six degrees of separation. First, I’d look at family trees for a link, then I’d look at the tree without the names. I’d compare town, city, county, state, or country of origin. I already knew Roy Beauchamp and Katherine Mansfield hailed from New Zealand. Using the commonality of the country, I searched for a lead in the South Pacific.
I found a woman named H. Beauchamp, a first-class passenger on a ship manifest leaving from New Zealand. The ship sailed into the port of Rotterdam in 1920, the same year as the group photograph. From Rotterdam, the Internet trail went cold.
H. Beauchamp could have been the same person as H. Parks, who appeared on a ship manifest in 1911.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
On Wednesday, I received the autosomal DNA results for Ginny and Lester. I found a match at the family level, so I’d order a complete analysis, Y-DNA for the father, and mtDNA for the mother.
There was a twenty-five percent confidence level for Ginny’s match to Jill, enough to indicate she was related. They also shared an identical mutation in the marker table for the Beauchamp family.
In fact, the chromosome showed abnormalities associated with Down syndrome. In a recent study, scientists learned that people who suffered from depression, addiction issues, or bipolar behavior shared the same genetic mutation in combination with another gene typical in a Down’s syndrome child. Jill and Ginny carried those markers. I ordered a complete analysis for both women.
