The man didn’t have a phone? What was the world coming to?
In the future, she’d be telling her children old-fashioned stories of street-side pay phones and phones with cords. If she lived to have kids.
Gretchen’s eyes lit on a glass curio cabinet in the corner that she hadn’t noticed at first. She walked over, peered in-and sucked in her breath in surprise.
The cabinet contained rocks, a fairly sizeable collection. Each specimen had an identification tag attached to it.
Gretchen opened the curio and picked up a rock. Read the tag.
Exchanged it for another. Read another tag.
And another.
The rocks had long complex names that she couldn’t pronounce, let alone decipher. Granodiorite, gabbro, anaorthosite gneiss.
And every one of them had a place of origin neatly printed underneath the name.
Cairo.
Jericho.
Zimbabwe.
The same exotic places she’d daydreamed about. The travel stickers had come from these faraway cities. They had been placed lovingly on a doll’s travel trunk by a young girl named Flora.
Gretchen had found John Swilling’s rock collection.
48
Caroline sits in an interrogation room with Matt Albright. Good thing Gretchen took off down the street before the detective found out about their escapade at the museum. He’s working his jaw like he’s trying to restrain an angry outburst. It crosses her mind to push him a little. What happens when her daughter’s boyfriend gets really angry? She’d like to see him at his worst.
If he’s not the right guy for Gretchen, she wants to know now.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You spent the night at the museum after I specifically told you that it was off-limits?”
“You never told me any such thing.”
“I warned your daughter. The two of you violated police orders. That building is under investigation. It’s a crime scene. I can’t believe it.” He studies the ceiling like he might find the answer written up there.
Caroline feels a tinge of compassion for him. He’s in a tough place, sitting on the fence between his professional ethics and his personal relationship with her daughter. Would he be exhibiting this kind of frustration with two women he didn’t know? She doesn’t think so. He feels helpless and is afraid for them. His emotions surface as anger. She studied psychology in college and is putting it to good use.
She won’t let him get to her.
His elbows are on the table. He rubs both hands through his hair. “Where is she?” he asks.
“I said I’ll tell you but not yet.” Calm down first.
“The guy you hog-tied insists he was protecting you.”
“Hardly likely. He broke in. He had a knife.”
“You think he’s a killer.”
“Yes.”
“Both Flora Berringer and Allison Thomasia were murdered with a geologist’s hammer, not a switchblade. The killer didn’t use a knife on his victims. The guy you assaulted is in trouble for breaking and entering and carrying, but not for murdering a woman in a cemetery. Not for stashing bones in an armoire.”
Could Matt be right? Caroline isn’t sure. But Jerome, not exactly a harmless guy, is off the street. “I wouldn’t discount him if I were you,” she says.
“Where is she?”
“At the banquet hall. She has my cell phone.”
She gives him the number and he dials with his thumb. “No answer.”
“The phone was running low on power.”
They are out in a front entry room of the police station when another cop pulls Matt aside. Whispers. She hears only one word. Berringer.
“I’ll have someone take you home,” Matt says to her. “I’ll let you know if we need anything else from you.”
He has dismissed her, distracted.
The detective stops at a window and speaks clearly, so Caroline doesn’t miss a word. “Locate a car in central Phoenix,” he says to the dispatcher. “Have the squad pick up Gretchen Birch and bring her here.” He gives the location of the banquet hall before disappearing down the hall.
49
Gretchen was rigid with shock. She stared at the rock collection. It had to be John Swilling’s collection. What was it doing in Mr. B.’s apartment? Was her landlord actually Richard Berringer? No wonder the man had been so eager to donate space for their luncheon. The club members had been thrilled. They wouldn’t have considered turning down his offer. How devious!
She glanced out the window to the street below. A car pulled up on the side of the building and Julie Wicker got out of the driver’s side.
A little late for their meeting, but Gretchen would forgive the woman for not showing up earlier. She needed her help and was relieved to see her alive and well.
She raised the blind. The window rolled open easily. Gretchen called out to her. “Am I glad to see you!”
Julie looked up, startled. “What are you doing up there?”
“It’s a long story. I have to get out of here immediately. Do you have a phone?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“Are you alone?”
“No, I mean, yes, but if I don’t come out in the next two minutes, call the police. Wait. Call them anyway.”
Julie said something else, but Gretchen couldn’t hear because she was already at the bedroom door, then at the apartment door, then creeping quickly down the steps straining her ears for any sound of movement below.
She thought she heard something. Before letting herself out, she peeked cautiously into the break room. Andy sat on the floor, moaning and holding his head.
What if he had a concussion? “An ambulance will be on the way soon,” she said. He nodded weakly.
She had to get medical attention for him.
The warm sunny day shocked Gretchen after so much time spent indoors in low lighting. She blinked like a mole.
“What in the world is going on?” Julie asked.
“I need to use your phone. I might have made a terrible mistake. A man inside might die because of me.”
“Mr. B.? What did you do to Mr. B.?”
Gretchen shook her head in frustration. “Not Mr. B., Andy Thomasia. I thought he killed his wife. I hit him pretty hard with the stage gun. We have to call an ambulance.”
“What can I do?” Julie said.
“Stay with me. I don’t know what’s going on anymore. But I’m pretty sure that Mr. B., the guy who owns this building, is Richard Berringer.”
“Impossible,” Julie said.
“He has his grandfather’s rock collection upstairs.”
“No!”
“Give me the phone.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Julie keyed in the emergency number and spoke into the phone, giving their location and requesting an ambulance to assist with an injured man inside the building. “Now we can relax,” she said after hanging up.
“Perfect. Let’s go in and wait with Andy.”
“The ambulance attendants will take good care of him. There isn’t anything we can do. And if the man who lives upstairs really is Richard, we could be in significant danger. We need to get away.”
Julie looked frightened. She should be, Gretchen thought. We both should be.
Gretchen chewed the inside of her lip and considered the dilemma. There wasn’t anything she could do about Andy’s condition. And she wasn’t absolutely sure that he hadn’t killed his wife. And what about Mr. B.? Owning a rock collection wasn’t enough evidence to assume that Mr. B. was a killer. Was it?
She had made too many assumptions as it was.
“Okay,” Gretchen said, scanning the street for signs of Mr. B. “Let’s get in your car. We’ll lock ourselves in.”
Was that enough protection? The killer had rammed her mother’s car in an attempt to murder her. Would he do the same to them if he found them here?
Looking up and down the street again, she didn’t see Mr. B., but he could turn a corner at any moment. Had any of the club members asked what his full name was? Yes, she remembered that April had. He’d said it was a long Slavic name, that everyone called him Mr. B.