Copyright © 2008 L.J.Kottke. All rights reserved. 

Joshua’s knife was poised above the carton of books he was preparing to check in, the result of the latest auction at Digby & Sons. The carton was Lot No. 42, on which he had bid sight unseen. He wondered if the eclectic selection of hard covered volumes might possibly contain a rare first edition or two, or perhaps even something on his current customer want list. Usually this was not the case, and the assortment would most likely wind up on the closeout table during the District’s next sidewalk sale. His musing regarding the outcome of his latest acquisition was interrupted when Henrietta breezed through the door, punctual as ever. She was smartly dressed in a casual summer suit and carried a box from Angelo’s bakery on Yesler. Joshua steeled himself for the barrage of tittle-tattle that would soon fill the small shop.

"You’ll never guess who I ran into when I stopped at Angelo’s this morning for their sponge cake…you know, the layered kind you like so much?...the one they make special on Tuesdays?" She was right, Joshua thought absentmindedly—he would never guess—although he was happy to learn she had brought in his favorite dessert. Angelo’s sponge cake was a four-tiered wonder filled with the bakery’s signature crema pasticcera filling.

Oblivious to his lack of response, Henrietta continued. "Well, it was Jessica Sedgwick, of all people. You know Jessica, the potter who turns out such wonderful pieces in that workshop of hers, the one on her grandfather’s estate. Of course, it’s her estate now, you know, since his death last month. Well, anyway, she and I got to talking and she tells me that her attorney, that handsome Mr. Dax, arranged for an audit after the will was read; I imagine that sort of thing is standard procedure when an estate is expansive. Would you believe it, Joshua? Her pearl necklace—that lovely heirloom from her grandmother, I mean, I’ve only seen it once when Jessica wore it to a fund raiser for the museum, when I helped with the refreshments that evening, but, my word, it was simply breathtaking—well, it seems to have simply vanished. Vanished, I tell you. They couldn’t find it anywhere. Mr. Dax notified the police, of course, and that friend of yours, that nice Detective Hollings—the one who devours Grisham—is looking into the matter. What do you think of that?"

Sorting through dog-eared volumes on architectural theory that disappointingly comprised the major portion of the shipment, Joshua murmured, "I’m sure Jack will sort it out." His attention started when he noticed an aged Agatha Christie mystery; a first edition, he was sure of it. Tenderly caressing the volume, his enthusiasm evaporated when he checked the inside cover and realized the book was indeed a first edition—but unfortunately by an American publisher. Worthless, he mumbled to himself, continuing to rummage through the rest of the volumes in the carton.

Henrietta had managed to make a fresh pot of coffee without missing a beat in her reiteration of her conversation with the young heiress. She poured a cup for each of them and opened the box of cake wedges as Joshua made his way to the back of the shop, between the shelves of used volumes, where he deposited his reading glasses on the table next to the wall and joined his assistant for their morning break.

"I’m sure you’re right, Henrietta," he said, savoring the cake’s luscious cream filling. "The disappearance of the necklace will certainly be in the news, along with a description. I doubt anyone who might consider its purchase could claim to not know it was stolen property."

"I should say not," Henrietta agreed, making a mental note of Joshua’s glasses in order to remind him of their location when he invariably asked her later if she had seen them. "I do wonder, though, who might have taken it and just how long it’s been missing. And where could it possibly be now do you think?"

"I couldn’t fathom a guess," he said, his mind again occupied with the remaining volumes he had yet to catalog.

"It had to be someone Jennifer knows, I would say. Wouldn’t you say so, Joshua?" Before he could venture an opinion, she went on, "It would have to be someone familiar with the house, of course. Someone in the family? Unthinkable. I mean, how could they? No, it had to be someone with a reason to visit the estate, perhaps while her grandfather was ill. I should think people were coming and going quite a bit then. Let’s see, I believe Jennifer mentioned a young fellow, a physical therapist I think. Of course, I can’t believe he was ever alone in the house with her grandfather, so it’s unlikely he had an opportunity to take the pearls; and, of course, that would assume he even knew they existed and where they were kept. Now let’s see, who else…." Henrietta paused, her cup suspended in mid air, as she mentally ran down the list of probably suspects and their possible opportunities. Suddenly, her face paled. She set her cup down carefully and looked across the table at Joshua. She noticed the darkened areas on the sleeves of his sweater from his inadvertent dusting of the shelves each time he rearranged the volumes. Then she said solemnly, "You know, Joshua, it just struck me. What if there’s a connection between Mr. Sedgwick’s death and the disappearance of that necklace? Do you suppose that’s possible?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"I don’t think so, Henrietta," he assured her. "Don’t forget, Mr. Sedgwick was up in age and not in the best of health. I believe the Times article explained that Jennifer found him dead in his wheelchair, in the library, when she returned from town that day. According to the story, nothing was disturbed in the house, and the inquiry at the time determined that his heart had simply stopped sometime when he dozed off after a session with the therapist. Moreover, you said they have no idea as to when the pearls were actually taken; it could have been anytime. As I recall, Jennifer seldom wore them, and kept them at the house only as a remembrance, for her grandfather’s sake."

"Yes, yes," Henrietta said impatiently, fingering the pince-nez that hung from her neck on a black braided cord, "but it’s really just too intriguing. It has all the ingredients of a first rate crime novel, if you ask me. Think of it: a young heiress alone and grief stricken after the mysterious death of her grandfather; her necklace, a treasured legacy from her beloved grandmother, missing; the police baffled." Henrietta’s eyes gleamed as her mind raced. Rapt with imagination, she was quiet for a moment. Then she looked around the shop at the neatly arranged shelves of paperbacks and hard covers, at the courtesy coffee island with its stacks of paper cups, packets of sugar and powdered creamer, and she said, "By the way, Joshua, the sleeves of that sweater need attention. Do let me rinse it out for you as soon as it’s convenient. I could take it home with me tonight and have it back to you by the weekend."

The directional change in her line of thinking startled him, although he knew she was right—his sweater needed freshening; it had simply been handy and the last thing he reached for that morning before heading downstairs to open the shop. Perhaps he would avail himself of her offer; he had to admit she handled his sweaters beautifully; he could never get the blocking thing as precisely as she did, and it made all the difference between a serviceable sweater and a ruined one.

"I suppose you’re right, Henrietta, as usual," he agreed amiably. "But while the matter of the sweater is within our province to correct, I fear we must leave the larger issue in Jack’s hands."

"How would you have done it?" she suddenly asked.

"Oh, cold water to be sure, with some of that special soap for fine woolens," he replied, unaware he had diverged from her latest line of thought.

"No, no," she exclaimed, "not the sweater, you dunderhead—the necklace. How would you have engineered its disappearance? If you had, that is."

Joshua looked at her over the rim of his cup, mentally reconfiguring his thoughts before he ventured to speak again. "Oh, that," he muttered, searching for an answer that would satisfy Henrietta’s heightened excitement at this latest occurrence involving their occasional customer. "I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I’d have to put my mind to it, that’s for sure."

"Oh, Joshua," she blurted in exasperation. "It’s just as well you’re not the guilty party. You most likely would have provided a crumb trail to the front door." She took a deep breath and retired within her private musings regarding the crime.

Henrietta was in a pensive mood the following week. Joshua understood that although she was her usual efficient self, handling the various requests for reprints and best sellers and doggedly chasing down obscure tomes with aplomb, only a part of her intellect needed to be engaged in these endeavors. He could tell she was still intent on the ins and outs of the latest intrusion into their staid and orderly world—a crime had occurred that touched one of the shop’s customers and, by extension of a wider arc, themselves. Hour after hour, Henrietta mechanically went through the motions of her duties, yet all the while her mind focused on the one point of information that would not allow it to rest: Who did it?

The following Wednesday was unusually busy for a weekday, with no lull in customer traffic until an hour before closing, when Jack Hollings entered in response to Joshua’s notice regarding not his usual Grisham, but a new Clancy that Joshua recommended. The two exchanged pleasantries in the stacks at the back of the shop, then Jack approached the cash register where Henrietta waited to check out his purchase. Joshua knew what was coming, and pointedly set about tidying the displays after the day’s activity.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Hollings," Henrietta began brightly. Joshua cringed. Poor Jack.

Her particularly friendly tone instinctively raised the detective’s guard. "Oh. Hello, Henrietta. How are you?" he said cautiously, wondering what she was up to.

"I’m just fine, thank you, Jack," she replied. Here it comes, Joshua thought, and he was indeed correct. "But I was just wondering about Jennifer Sedgwick’s necklace. When I saw her last week, she mentioned how her pearls simply could not be found during an inventory, the one taken for the audit after her grandfather’s death. Have you made any progress on the case?"

Now Hollings braced himself for the onslaught he knew was coming, for his activities had been the target of Henrietta’s scrutiny in the past when any sort of mischief occurred within his jurisdiction. "Well, we’re certainly making inquiries," he answered. "I’m sure we’ll unravel the mystery in good time."

"Are you now," she said suspiciously. "And just what have you determined is the scope of the mystery you intend to solve in such good time?"

Hollings was trapped. Apprehensive of the point of her question, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well, just what are you dealing with? Mr. Sedgwick dying and the pearls missing, and no one knowing anything about it? Am I the only one who wonders if the two events might not be connected? Has it occurred to no one else that the poor man may have been dispatched in the course of a robbery?"

"Mr. Sedgwick?" Oh Lord, she was going to light on that one. "No, Henrietta, no connection at all. Really. The man died of a heart attack, no mystery there; hardly unexpected, given his age. He was, after all, eighty-six years old."

"Perhaps," she said grudgingly. "But can you positively rule out a connection between the two events? Do you honestly believe that absent a bullet or knife wound, murder is impossible? With the incentive of a necklace insured for one million dollars?"

The reference surprised him. How on earth did the blasted woman find out about the insurance? He could not imagine the Sedgwick girl discussing such a private financial matter.

"You’re right, of course, Henrietta," he sighed. What else could he say? The truth was that initially no connection was made between the two events, and with the body being cremated within days of the unhappy occurrence, there was no going back now. "However, I assure you," he continued, "we will look at all aspects of the situation. I’m confident the jewels will turn up before too long, and when they do, it’s just possible we may uncover more information regarding Mr. Sedgwick’s death, if it was truly any more than natural causes."

Hollings got a look with his change that told him Henrietta was not satisfied with his assurances. Well, he would just have to live with that. He took the bag with the book he had just purchased and turned to leave. He had just taken hold of the door handle when he heard Henrietta ask, "What does his mistress say?"

Hollings froze. He slowly released the handle and turned back to the register, where Henrietta was standing with her hand on her hip, a smirk surfacing on her face; she had thrown light on a blind spot the detective had not considered.

"Mistress?" he asked. "Whose mistress? And what do you know about it, Henrietta?"

"Oh, really, Sergeant Hollings," she said, the smirk indicating she realized she had scored a coup. Then, as if she were explaining the theory of relativity to an art major, she said, "I’ve given the matter a good deal of thought, you know. It was certainly someone close to Jennifer, someone who knew the house and her movements, and who knew the necklace was kept in a safe beneath her grandmother’s portrait in the library."

Damn. Is there anything she doesn’t know? "Go on," he told her. Hollings did not take Henrietta to be a stupid woman—annoying perhaps…occasionally very annoying—and it would do no harm to hear her out, particularly since his own investigation had temporarily stalled due to a lack of any substantive clues at the Sedgwick estate.

"Well, if you consider the family," she began, giving voice to her recent musings, "to my mind there is just one member who should be examined with particular care; in this case, a handsome man in financial difficulties married to a wealthy older woman, a woman who—along with a number of their friends and acquaintances—has been duped into investing in her husband’s unsuccessful business ventures."

Sergeant Hollings mentally ran down the members of the Sedgwick family. There was just one who fit the profile Henrietta had just described.

"Charles?" he said cautiously.

"Bingo!" she answered triumphantly.

Hollings slowly turned back to the door, exerted pressure on the handle, and resolutely walked through it. His mind was muddled by Henrietta’s comments. Mistress? How could she know? And why should she even think Charles Rawlings, the husband of Jennifer’s sister Helen, might have a mistress? Although…. He got into his car and started the engine, then paused. Could Henrietta be right? In interviewing the family and the few people with reason to visit the estate on a regular basis, he had to admit he had not gone beyond them. Yet, what Henrietta said was distinctly within the realm of possibility. A handsome man married to a wealthy older woman. Her conclusion certainly wasn’t inevitable; nevertheless, it was one he had failed to consider. Perhaps he needed to look again.

Joshua had heard the exchange between Jack and Henrietta, and wondered if he had just lost a customer. Would the detective return, or would he take his trade to another shop where he could escape being assailed by a relentless amateur?

"Don’t you think that was a bit over the top?" he asked her.

"Joshua," she began in a tone that dismissed any question of her conclusion, "think about it. Charles Rawlings married Helen for her money; the way he’s gone through it proves that. Have you heard about his latest toy? A yacht, Joshua. A yacht, which will be making its maiden voyage during this season’s club regatta. And it’s no secret that Charles is being sued by several club members who invested in his last scheme and lost their handmade Italian shirts. Now then, with the walls of his cushy little world surely closing in on him, it only makes sense that the man would look for a way out. For that he needs money. And not chump change, either, not for the kind of life he’s become accustomed to courtesy of Helen’s money, and not for the mistress who is probably getting tired of life in the shadows. And he has one, Joshua; mark my words, he has one. That kind always does." For emphasis, Henrietta slapped the register drawer shut, closing the discussion.

Henrietta saw no reason to enlighten either Joshua or Hollings as to the source of her apparent intuition. The truth was that the ladies normally present during her weekly appointments at Sally’s Smart Set Salon followed the activities of Charles Rawlings as faithfully as they perused the tales of celebrity goings on in the various tabloid publications. Among their group, all with standing appointments between one and three on Saturday, secrets were laid bare as surely as ice melted on a hot stove. One regular, in the twelve-thirty slot and residing in an apartment building in Bellevue, was aware of occasional visits to another tenant, a woman named Silvia Gardner, by Charles Rawlings, whom she recognized from his frequent pictures in the society columns of the Times. Another, the one-fifteen, was the wife of an attorney representing several members of Charles’s club in their suit against him. After the two o’clock, the manager of a lingerie shop who frequented Sally’s for her monthly tints, mentioned items selected by and charged to the account of Charles Rawlings being sent to Miss Gardner at the Bellevue address, well, it wasn’t difficult to fill in the blanks and reach the very conclusion Henrietta had just espoused.

The conversation with Henrietta haunted Sergeant Hollings in the following days as he continued his interviews with the Sedgwick clan, all of whom disavowed any knowledge of the theft or the present whereabouts of the pearls; and the therapist, Chad Jamison, swore the old man was alive when he left the estate after their session. And yet…? Hollings wondered about Henrietta’s apparent conviction that there was a player outside the sphere of the family and the occasional visitor to the estate. Could she be right? He suspected she was. It then occurred to him that perhaps he was not asking the right questions, and that a little backtracking might be in order. There were ways to obtain information other than direct confrontation.

A week went by, then another, with no information in the Times regarding the recovery of the necklace, and no further word from Jack. Henrietta trolled her usual haunts for any salient bits of gossip regarding new developments in the investigation and came up empty. It was as if the entire episode had simply never happened.

On the Monday morning of the third week after Henrietta’s conversation with Jack, a small floral arrangement arrived at the shop. Joshua signed for the flowers and looked at the card for a long time. Don’t tell me…no, it couldn’t be, he thought. But what other explanation was there? None. And yet…how?

Henrietta immediately spied the arrangement when she arrived with Angelo’s daily special, cannoli. Upon reading the accompanying card, her face took on a look of such self-satisfaction that Joshua was sure she would now be more impossible than ever, and steeled himself once more for the onslaught of her opinionated ranting. It never came. Instead, a calm settled over her, as if a great internal strife had suddenly been amiably resolved. He didn’t get it, not until Hollings’ visit later that afternoon.

Jack appeared at his usual time—an hour before closing—when the activity of the day had mainly dissipated and only a few browsing stragglers remained in the store. Joshua and Henrietta were arranging the display of a new shipment of best sellers when he walked in. Spying the flowers he had sent, which Henrietta had placed on the counter beside the register as a conversation incentive with every customer she checked out, he smiled and approached their display.

"Good afternoon, Jack," Joshua said cordially. Henrietta only nodded acknowledgment, yet she appeared about to burst with a look of "I told you so!"

"Good afternoon," Jack started, addressing them both. "I suppose by now you’ve guessed what happened. We’ve recovered the Sedgwick necklace, thanks in no small part to you, Henrietta."

With uncharacteristic modesty, Henrietta simply said, "I’m pleased to have been of help. How did you find it?"

A sheepish Jack Hollings related the new direction his investigation had taken after Henrietta’s comments. He began reviewing purchases billed to the private checking account of Charles Rawlings, not the joint one he shared with Helen. A number of suspicious items—flowers, lingerie, liquor—had been sent to the apartment of one Silvia Gardner in Bellevue, a Seattle suburb on the other side of Lake Washington. A cursory investigation revealed that Miss Gardner operated a travel agency in the city proper. Unwilling to disturb what had to date been a lucrative association, Miss Gardner at first denied any knowledge of Charles except as a client of her agency. She claimed the gifts were simply a client’s expression of gratitude and appreciation for her exceptional service in attending to his needs. However, once presented with the matter of the disappearance of a valuable necklace and its possible connection to the death of Jennifer’s grandfather, the entire story slowly emerged.

According to Miss Gardner, Charles indeed wanted out of his marriage, but not the comfortable lifestyle it provided, and to which he had become accustomed. He needed money in order for the two of them to start a new life together. Aware that the necklace was kept in a safe in the library of the Sedgwick estate, Charles enlisted the assistance of Mr. Sedgwick’s physical therapist, Chad Jamison. Jamison had a prison record he had neglected to note on his license application; Charles threatened to reveal it unless Jamison did as he was told. Their scheme required that Jamison install a camera in one of the volumes in the library to record the combination when the old man opened the safe. Then they bided their time, waiting for the perfect opportunity; it came when Jamison arrived for their therapy session and found Mr. Sedgwick dead in the library, where he often waited for Chad to arrive. Jamison called Charles for the combination, opened the safe, and removed the necklace. Jamison then wiped his prints off the safe and hoisted the old man’s body up to close his fingers around the knob, thus ensuring his would be the only prints found. According to Miss Gardner, the necklace was in a safe aboard Charles’s boat, the Peerless.

With Helen’s permission, Hollings search the yacht, which Charles had purchased in Helen’s name to protect it from the lawsuits he was facing. The discovery of the necklace prompted the issuance of arrest warrants. Faced with overwhelming evidence against them, Charles and Jamison reluctantly confessed everything.

"You know, it’s funny about Charles," Hollings remarked. "It wasn’t his wife’s discovery of his scheme that bothered him, but he was totally crushed by the Gardner woman’s betrayal."

At the conclusion of his story, the three were silent, each ruminating over the developments Hollings had described. Finally, Henrietta broke their collective reverie. "Well, Sergeant, now that things are back to normal, I suppose you’ll have some time on your hands." Selecting the latest Grisham novel from their display, she handed it to him and said simply, "Will that be cash or charge?"