CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

 

 

I heard Maverick before I saw him. His frantic nails scratched the wood on the inside of the door. “Hey, fella.” He skirted past me and into the yard with furious yapping. I peered into the dark beyond the golden circles under the neighborhood lights for evidence of a squirrel, or cat, or bird, or any other living creature and came up empty. “C’mon, boy.” He finished marking his favorite tree and hightailed it into the apartment, proud of doing his job.

Dad and Ida drank cocoa at the kitchen table. She smiled softly behind the steam above her mug, cuddled in a bulky sweater that bunched up around her neck. Dad dipped a peppermint stick in his mug, sipped, and hummed. “What did Yvonne say?”

“I didn’t get out to see her,” I said.

Dad’s brows took a nosedive. “Where’ve you been?” he said, sounding like a dad.

“Anita Jones had a fire in her studio …” They both sucked in a breath.

“Oh, that poor dear.” Ida looked ready to cry again.

“She’s okay. The studio—not so much. I dropped her at her sister’s while they investigate the cause of the fire. I’m going to give Mrs. Nygren a call. Maybe she’ll see me now.”

“She will. The clock is ticking,” Ida said.

In more ways than one.

“You’d better take Maverick with you. He’s been pouting all day and I think he’d like the change of venue.”

When we connected, Mrs. Nygren apologized for not emailing me a copy of the list of objects she needed to organize. She’d be at the center for another few hours and said I could text her for admittance when I arrived.

Maverick sat in the passenger seat, riveted by my every word with nary a dissenting opinion. We didn’t come to any astounding conclusions, but I figured out I needed to talk to Paula McCall along with the bogus Jordan Quintz. My to-do list grew.

Mrs. Nygren answered my text with a call. “Come to door five on the east side of the building. It isn’t locked, and it’s closest to my office.”

“I brought my dog with me. He’s a good boy. May I bring him in?”

“Of course, of course. I love dogs and there isn’t anything he can get into.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but Maverick and I made tracks through the crisp clean snow.

Door five squawked as I pulled it open. We tiptoed down a dark tunnel toward the orangish shaft of light streaming from a room at the end of the hall.

“Mrs. Nygren?” Her office looked almost as bad as Anita’s studio, though dry. Papers, beige and maroon files, and manila envelopes stuck out of drawers that couldn’t close. A mound of garbage rose on the floor in front of the trash can. Stacks of boxes lined one wall and overturned empty boxes piled up next to the opposite wall. Necklaces hung on the corners of the computer screen, and pieces of jewelry hid most of the keyboard.

The printer stopped whirring and Mrs. Nygren collected copies from the tray. She skimmed them and, without looking my way, shoved two sheets at me. “None of these items are here. I’ve looked through the entire Titanic exhibit, in the safe, and in the storage unit. I can’t imagine where they are. I distinctly remember polishing this jade and diamond piece for Miss Grace to wear the night of the gala and wondered how it could be worth so much in its condition, but it was one of the Bruckner originals, not a reproduction. I didn’t get it back.” She stared at her reflection in the window, then shifted her eyes to mine. “I don’t know where else to look.”

Thumbnail images accompanied the detailed descriptions. Only one item was checked. “Where did you find the cufflinks?”

“I lent them to the man who hosted Table Seven. He pretended to be Thomas Andrews and he was so thrilled to use them he donated five hundred dollars for the evening’s wear. He returned them on Monday after the gala. But I can’t find anything else.”

Maverick slumped to the floor. My finger traced the lines down the page and stopped on the blurry photo of a pendant. It looked like the necklace Jane hung as the new focal point of her wreath. “Miss Grace never returned the pendant?”

“I forgot all about it until I read the list. By that time—"

“Ida helped Robert Bruckner put the finishing touches on the exhibit. She might have an idea where else to search.”

“Thank you. Thank you. I still have two more days, but I’ll take all the help I can get. No matter what, I will have to report the loss and—” She sniffed. “That will be the end of my job.”

“Do you have a number where I can reach you?” She entered her contact information on my phone.

If the jade on Jane’s wreath belonged here, we had our work cut out for us. Was it the same piece? How did it get onto the ice? Who took it from Miss Grace? Maybe Mrs. Nygren was trying to hide the fact she took the items.

Maverick’s pose shifted to that of a sphinx, eyes and ears alert. Mrs. Nygren and I turned and watched. He stood and gave one huge woof, and Paula McCall appeared in the doorway.

“I see you’re busy. I can come back tomorrow, Yvonne.”

“Don’t go. I’m on my way out.” I secured Maverick’s leash. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. McCall. Thanks again, Mrs. Nygren.”

“You can call me Yvonne, Katie.”

“Thanks, Yvonne.”

Maverick loped beside me, and we jogged to the car.

 

* * *

 

The only illumination at 3141 North Maple came from the fairy lights aglow on the Christmas tree in the back window of my apartment which, I hoped, meant Ida slept, nestled in her bed.

Dad’s door was closed, but Jane bolted upright when Maverick jumped on her mattress and lapped her face.

“Whoa, big fella.” She giggled but couldn’t wriggle away from his mile-long tongue. She dropped her phone and I heard Drew shout, “What fella?”

She picked up the phone, said some lovey-dovey words, and smooched at the speaker a dozen times before saying goodnight.

I flicked the switch on the table lamp and plopped into the cushiony chair next to her. “Look at this.” I pointed to the sheet that included a note about a jade and diamond pendant.

Jane scratched under Maverick’s chin, distracting him from giving sloppy kisses. Her jaw dropped as she read the description. She skated across the bed and stopped in front of the wreath hanging on the inside of my front door. She compared the paper in her hand with the genuine article, looking up at the necklace and down at the explanation and photo, and up and down again. “This is it,” she said, a little awestruck. “How did it get with my wreath jewelry?”

I cocked my head, waiting for her to remember.

“Oh, right. Ronnie brought it over with all the other pieces.” A bright light went on in her head. “But who took it from Miss Grace?”

“That is the question. Do you think we need to call Ronnie?”

We looked at each other and said at the same time, “No.”

Jane inhaled. “I can’t deal with him tonight.”

“Me neither.”

She read the rest of the list, and I told her about my evening, the concert, the fire, Yvonne, and Paula.

“We’ll have to talk to Daniella tomorrow too.” Jane yawned. “I’m bushed. It’s time to call it a day.” She sank back onto the pillow.

I pointed to Maverick and snapped the leash on his collar. I donned my headlamp cap and reflective vest, which felt mildly comforting, and we stepped outside. I glanced across the street. “The music room lights are still on, Maverick. Let’s go talk to Jordan, the phony, right now.”

I marched up his steps, raising my fist as if to knock. Maverick pawed the door and it swung open with a screech. Maverick pulled loose and I took three rapid steps after him, calling, “Hello, Jordan? Hello? Anyone here? Maverick!”

During the day, the collection of figurines in her glass cabinets smiled benevolently. At night, in the beam from my cap, the menacing grimaces from Alice and the Red Queen and Dorothy and the Wicked Witch of the West tracked my every step. My pace slowed to a crawl, and I backed into the glass case that held Miss Loehr’s precious piano music boxes, releasing a few notes. The dissonance sent goosebumps up and down my arms. Or maybe it was the polar temperature of the night.

“Maverick,” I whispered, tiptoeing to the dining room where I switched on the lights. The credenza doors flopped open, revealing empty shelves. I tripped on one of the three overturned chairs. Linen spilled from the hutch drawers and fell to the floor. The cutlery that used to fill the velvet-lined silverware box could have been hiding anywhere in the upended room.

I punched in Jane’s number and got voicemail.

“Maverick, where are you?” I took a few more steps toward the music room. “Jordan? Hello?” I said with more courage, creeping, one foot at a time, into the lighted room.

A black hole gaped in the alcove the bulky antique reel-to-reel tape recorder used to fill. I skied on a slippery slope of music scores and books until I slid on a tape reel and skidded into the piano bench next to Maverick. I picked up the reel, thinking I’d save myself from being taken down on my exit. He gave me an expectant look and raced out of the room. His paws padded up the stairs. I pocketed the reel and I chased after him.

I gasped at the chaos I found in the twin rooms at the top of the stairs. The mattresses stood upright against the wall and bedding heaped on the floor.

Maverick rocked from paw to paw, waiting for me to catch up. As soon as I grabbed for his leash, he danced out of reach and into the master suite. The room had an orderly disorder, different from the rest of the house. Someone had been looking for something, hadn’t bothered to conceal the search, but the contents remained in their respective places.

Stacks of clothes, still on their hangers, lined the wall. Fancy gowns peeked through jagged slits in their long transparent plastic protective sheaths. Shoes had been removed from the rack but lined up in pairs on the floor. I stepped over a jumble of headpieces.

Then, I heard a moan. I caught Maverick before he made his escape and hung on tight when he stood outside Jordan’s room raising a ruckus. I pounded on the door. “Jordan? I’m coming in.”

The door clattered against a stack of dirty dishes. The room smelled like week-old sweat and month-old liquor. Clothes covered every surface, but not as if someone was looking for something. More like, a messy person.

Maverick barked and jerked me toward the source of the groaning—a figure on the floor.

One eye opened in the red and purple swollen face and peered at me. “You.”