Grand Theft Retro (Style & Error Mystery Series Book 5) (24 page)

The traffic was light. After snaking through the streets of West Ribbon, I turned and  drove east toward Amity. I didn’t know how I’d explain a visit at such an unusual hour, but if Jennie Mae was anything like me, she’d prioritize the return of her cat over sleep. I ignored the posted speed limits and blew through several yellow lights. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have minded if a cop put on his siren and followed me there.

I pulled into the long gravel driveway and slowed considerably. A landscaping van was parked next to the house. The back doors were open and a row of potted trees and shrubs were scattered about the driveway. I parked the taxi on the opposite side of it and climbed out. I picked up Navajo’s carrier and approached the wide open front door.

“Jennie?” I called out. “Miss Jennie? It’s Samantha Kidd. I have Navajo.” I stepped into the living room and looked around. The rugs had been rolled up, the collection of frogs had been removed from the shelves, and the cats were missing from the divan. The only thing that remained was the empty rocking chair that I’d sat in during our visit, covered loosely by the earth toned afghan.

I set the carrier on the divan and opened the door. Navajo appeared scared. I cooed at her and blew kisses, and then reached in and pulled her out. She reached her paws toward my shoulder and her claws dug into the flesh through my striped shirt. I stroked her fur and tried to calm her down while I looked for Jennie Mae or Mr. Charles.

“Jennie? Hello? Who’s here?” I called. I carried Navajo to the kitchen and set her down by an empty bowl.

There had been so many cats here on my previous visits that I didn’t understand how there could be only one bowl on the ground. I found a can of cat food in the refrigerator and forked it into the bowl, and then filled a separate white china bowl with water. I pushed the bowl toward the opening of the pantry. Navajo’s head peeked out. She buried her head in the food and made the kind of eating noises that reminded me of Logan.

I called 911 and told them about the empty house. I had no firm evidence that what I saw was illegal, but after the theft, I wasn’t taking any chances. It seemed odd that someone had arranged for movers to pack up the contents of the house but that nobody was there. Was this going to turn out like Nick’s apartment, with Jennie Mae and the rest of her cats hidden inside a closet?

I went up the stairs and stared into the attic. The trunks were gone, leaving dark rectangles on the floor where they’d sat. The room looked much larger now that it was empty. Sunlight cast through the window and painted long golden rays on the floor. I walked to the window, my footsteps creating a rhythm of dull thuds with each step. A week ago, I’d been standing among Jennie Mae’s vast collection of fabulous retro fashion. Her racks, filled with runway samples and the accompanying Polaroids of how they were worn on the runway, had been a treasure trove of fashion history, the value of which might never be known. I turned around and looked back at the empty space. Something was off, but standing in the middle of an empty attic as I was, I couldn’t figure out what it was. I turned to the left and slowly let my eyes pan across the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. And that’s when I noticed that the discoloration on the floor, the rectangle that I’d assumed had been where the trunk had sat, had nothing to do with fading light or shadows. The wood in that rectangle had been replaced.

I walked to that section of floor and dropped to my hands and knees. When I ran my palms over the wood, I detected an edge. I fished the dead taxi keys out of my pocket and inserted them in the narrow space between floor boards and pried at them until I was able to lift one. A shadow of turquoise caught my eye. My fingers slipped and I dropped the board and started over, this time wedging the keys underneath the board as soon as I lifted it high enough. With a little effort, I was able to wrench my hand under the board and push up on the neighboring one. It was tighter than the first, but with pressure on the middle of the board, it lifted off. And I realized what had felt off to me when I’d first walked across the floor. My footsteps should have sounded hollow against the wood. Instead, they’d left a dull sound, muffled. Because the space under the floor boards wasn’t empty.

The black silk robe trimmed with piano fringe was there, as were the paisley printed dresses and suede skirts. But who would have put them here?

The turquoise satin peasant blouse that I’d started to try on when I’d heard Pritchard coming up the stairs that first day hung half on/half off a hanger, as if it had been flung here and not folded and tissued and treated like the valuable item it was. I moved the faded Polaroid that hung from the top of the hanger and touched the beadwork by the collar. Tiny hand rolled beads in shades of coral, white, and turquoise had been placed in a perfect pattern. The beads were so small that I could barely make out each individual one.

It was exquisite. The kind of garment that Nancie would have wanted us to use in our editorial. The kind of piece that could go from a runway show forty years ago to the pages of
Retrofit
with a slight shift in styling. It represented every single thing that Nancie loved, everything she’d dreamed of when she first dreamt up
Retrofit
and then planned the print magalog that would take it to the next level. After what she’d been through, Nancie deserved to have her editorial.

I pulled the turquoise blouse off of the hanger and laid it on top of a white gauze scarf, and then rolled the scarf until it was a few inches wide. I tied the scarf around my waist and knotted it on the side. We’d been granted permission to photograph the collection and use what we wanted in our magazine. Jennie Mae had signed the release forms before the collection had been stolen. Nobody had to know that this blouse hadn’t already been removed from the premises already. When we were done, I’d see that it was returned to Jennie Mae’s collection regardless of where she lived.

But the clothes under the floor were only a portion of what I’d seen that first day. I reached my hand under the samples and felt around, discovering that this pocket of space was only about five feet long by two feet wide. No way were all of Jennie Mae’s clothes in there. I sat back on the floor and looked around. No other sections of floor were discolored like this one.

The hidden clothes were clearly part of a bigger crime. Had someone been stealing from Jennie Mae all along? Had the collection reached a point where the empty holes became noticeable? Or had the apparent theft of the clothes been a diversionary tactic? A smokescreen to focus all of our attention on the clothes when they’d never been stolen in the first place?

I was halfway down the stairs when it hit me. Jennie Mae had signed the release forms that allowed Pritchard to come into the room and go through the samples. Or had she? Pritchard had told Nancie that he’d taken care of that. What if all of this—the skull in the hobo bag, the threats against me, the ransacking of
Retrofit
, the abduction of Nancie, were all about my coworker getting access to this room before anybody else knew what was in here?

Those release forms, if they did exist, were more likely than not in Pritchard Smith’s briefcase in the backseat of dead taxi #3, which was parked out front next to the landscaping van.

I ran downstairs, into the kitchen, and grabbed the phone from the wall mount. The cord had been cut. I picked up the cordless. The battery chamber was empty.

I tossed the useless phone to the counter. It clattered against the marble and Navajo jumped by my feet. I glanced around the kitchen one last time. Navajo lowered her head and ran past me into the tall cupboard cabinet next to the back door.

“Come on, Navajo, we have to get out of here,” I said. I eased the pantry door open and peeked inside. And what I saw changed everything.

Chapter 29

Navajo lay on top of a cardboard box filled almost to the brim with clothes. Immediately, I recognized items that I’d seen in Jennie Mae’s attic on my first visit. The box had a shipping label to Utah. Navajo looked at me and I swear if cats could think human thoughts, then the one going through her little kitty mind was this:
These belong here and I won’t let anybody steal them.

I was a person who had grown up with cats. Our family’s first, Topsy, had been a Bengal kitty, colored with markings of orange, black, and brown. Next came Buddy, a calico, and then Murphy, an orange and white striped tabby. My favorite summer ever had been my fifteenth year, when two separate strays had chosen our yard for their litters. We’d gone from a one cat family to a nine cat family while my parents tolerated the interest my sister and I took in the care and feeding of feline squatters.

When I’d adopted Logan in New York, he’d been a kitten. He’d seen me through a lot and had become more than a pet. He was my family. If someone had found him abandoned, I’d want that someone to take care of him for me. There was no question that I would not leave Navajo alone.

I reached down and ran my hand over her head. She purred. I stood back up and fished the dead taxi keys out of my sailor pants. If I moved the car around to the back of the house, nobody would know I was there. I could get the boxes out of the house and into the dead taxi and they’d be safe. I opened the back door and found myself face to face with Mr. Charles.

“Hurry,” he said. “There’s not a lot of time.”

I backed away from him. “Where is Jennie? Where are the other cats?” I asked. “What have you done with them?”

“They already left. Come with me and I’ll explain everything.”

“No.” I slammed the door in his face and flipped the deadbolt. He stared at me through the glass panes, and it occurred to me that if he really wanted to get me, all he’d have to do was to break the glass. I backed away, slowly at first, until I saw him turn and move swiftly to the right side of the house. I turned around and ran through the kitchen, past the rocking chair in the living room, to the front door and threw the lock on that as well. I turned around and leaned my back up against the door, my pulse racing.

When I heard a key slide into the lock and the tumblers shifting into place, I darned near jumped through the roof.

Mr. Charles pushed against the door. I pushed back, but he was stronger. I stepped away. The door swung open unexpectedly, and Mr. Charles fell through onto the exposed wood floor. I ran up the stairs even though I knew the only way out was the window—I’d gotten through it before and I could do it again. The floorboards that I’d peeled up were scattered across the floor. I ran across the floor to the window, flung it open, and climbed out.

This time I didn’t spend time hanging from the shutter. I jumped to the drainpipe and wrapped my hands and knees around it. The drainpipe pulled away from the wall, so slowly at first that I didn’t notice it. I clung to the metal tube, increasingly aware that the distance between the drainpipe and the ground was closing. It wouldn’t have mattered if my last three meals were salad instead of pizza. Gravity was going to win this battle.

Mr. Charles stood on a patch of grass looking up at me. And my wily coworker, who had caused all of the trouble from the get-go, snuck up behind him and hit him on the head with the butt end of a gun.

Chapter 30

There wasn’t time to create a master plan. As soon as the drainpipe got close enough to the ground for me to jump, I did. I tried to stay loose, but the impact knocked the wind out of me. I rolled away from Pritchard and stood up. Vertigo claimed my senses and kept me from running. I put both hands out, reaching for some point of contact so I could bring my senses back in line. My left hand connected with the dangling drain pipe that had continued its descent after I’d jumped off. It pulled away from the wall and fell to the ground like a defeated dinosaur.

“I made it very clear that you were to leave me alone. I’ll have to report in to Nancie that you do
not
follow direction well. You do
not
work well with others.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” I said. “I mean, you’re not my boss. Nancie is.”

“Nancie. What a delightful woman. Giving me free rein on the basis of a background check and a waived salary.”

“A fake background,” I said. “You’re not Pritchard Smith. You’re a phony. You made up everything you told her about you. You don’t deserve to work at
Retrofit
. You deserve to be behind bars.”

He maintained his distance, but the gun trained on me kept me from making any sudden moves. “You’re not one hundred percent correct,” he said. “My name is, indeed, Pritchard Smith. And I am well versed in the history of Seventies fashion. Your knowledge comes from a college degree and a more-than-causal interest in the subject. I came about my knowledge through a more intimate route. I was born into it.”

“Jennie Mae Tome didn’t have any children. You have no legal claim to her clothing collection.”

“Jennie Mae wasn’t my mother, but Pritchard Smith was my dad. She chose her modeling career over her marriage and he found companionship when she was away.”

I thought about what I’d learned about the two business partners and the argument that had gone horribly wrong. “They didn’t argue about business, they argued about a woman. Your dad slept with Gene Whitbee’s wife, didn’t he?
That’s
why Gene killed him.”

“How do you know that name?” Pritchard said. For the first time since I’d met him, he appeared surprised.

“Your dad and Gene were small town crooks. They trafficked in stolen goods and manufactured fake IDs on the side. People suspected that Gene murdered Pritchard, but the body was never found.”

“I’m impressed. Seems you know about more than just the history of fashion. I’m curious, EssKay, what do you think any of this has to do with
Retrofit
?”

I ran the facts as I knew them through my head.
Retrofit
had led us to Jennie Mae Tome’s house. But the contact here wasn’t through Nancie, it was through Pritchard. He needed the cover of legitimacy to obtain access to the collection in the attic. He’d planned all along to come here.
Retrofit
hadn’t needed him; he’d needed
Retrofit
.