Deadly Threads (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries) - Hardcover

Cleland, Jane K.

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9780312586560: Deadly Threads (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries)

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0312586566 ISBN 13: 9780312586560

Publisher: Minotaur Books, 2011

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Fashions fade, but death is eternal in Deadly Threads--Agatha finalist Jane K. Cleland's irresistible new blend of vintage and vengeance.

Josie Prescott has begun hosting classes at her antiques and appraisals shop, nestled in the cozy little coastal town of Rocky Point, New Hampshire. The next class is on building a great vintage clothing collection. But when guest lecturer Riley Jordan is late, Josie begins class by reaching under a display table for a dazzling pair of Chanel heels. But instead of the heels, she finds Riley, dead. When it looks as if one of Josie's employees may be involved in the murder, she teams up with the local police chief to investigate, one clue, and one fabulous vintage accessory, at a time.

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About the Author:

JANE K. CLELAND once owned a New Hampshire-based antiques and rare books business and now lives in New York City. An Anthony Award and two-time Agatha Award finalist, she is a board member of the New York chapter of the Mystery Writers of America and chair of the Wolfe Pack's literary awards.

CHAPTER ONE

“Wow! I can’t believe it!” Gretchen said, her pretty green eyes fixed on her computer monitor. “That’s Bobby Jordan.” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper, and I knew the juicy part was coming. “Riley’s not in the photo.” She looked at me, her eyes round. “Bobby’s holding Ruby Bowers’s hand.”
I knew I shouldn’t look at the photograph. I didn’t want to contribute to the already rampant rumors that Bobby and Riley Jordan’s marriage was on the rocks. As I neatened a pile of antiques-themed magazines, tapping the bottom edges to square them up, I told myself to walk away, just walk away. Instead, I found myself rationalizing looking. The photo was, after all, on a public Web site, and I didn’t see how taking a quick peek could do any harm. It wasn’t as if I were peeping into someone’s bedroom, after all. Curiosity and discretion warred inside me, and curiosity won.
The photo was just as Gretchen described.
I shrugged, feigning a lack of interest. “Maybe Riley’s just out of the shot,” I said.
“I suppose ... or maybe she’s in the ladies’ room.” Gretchen stared at the photo for a moment longer, then turned to face me. “Do you think they’re...”
I didn’t know how to respond.
Bobby Jordan was the founder of the trendy Rocky Point–based, blue-themed restaurant chain, and since he was as charismatic as he was handsome, his occasional TV appearances had opened a floodgate of work and social opportunities. Within a year, he’d become one of the most recognizable celebrity chefs in the world. He was also a former Olympic biathlon medal winner—and the grandson of Babs Miller, one of America’s sweethearts, an Olympic figure skating champion in the 1930s and one of the first female graduates of Hitchens University. Bobby’s flagship restaurant, the Blue Dolphin, was my favorite hangout.
Riley, his wife of seven years, was more reserved. She exuded ladylike elegance. If there had been a New Hampshire Best Dressed List, she’d have been at the top. She was also a serious collector of vintage clothing and had recently started a small consulting business advising museums and individuals on how to build their twentieth-century designer clothing collections. Her book, Collecting Vintage Clothing, had brought her instantaneous acclaim in the fashion world.
During my first year in Rocky Point, I’d heard Riley speak at the Rocky Point Woman’s Club. Her topic had been “Letting Your Passion Drive Your Collecting.” She’d focused on her own favorite collectibles, vintage clothing, specifically the sexy and glamorous gowns designed by Bob Mackie and the practical and stylish separates designed by Claire McCardell, the groundbreaking inventor of “ready-to-wear” fashion. I’d been transfixed. Not only had Riley’s presentation been filled with insider stories, she’d been a terrific speaker: energetic, accessible, and informative. I could trace my fascination with vintage clothing to Riley’s fun and inspiring program.
Bobby and Riley Jordan were a golden couple, and it was awful to think that their relationship was unraveling.
I looked at the photo again. Ruby Bowers was a bona fide A-list movie star. She was tall and ethereal, in her early thirties and single, and her comings and goings were constant fodder for the gossip magazines. I knew this because Gretchen, the first employee I’d hired when I opened Prescott’s Antiques & Auctions six years earlier, had an addiction to celebrity gossip and chattered about her all the time. In this shot, Ruby was wearing Versace. Bobby’s tux had been tailored by a pro.
It wasn’t the first time Ruby’s name had been connected to Bobby’s. Lurid headlines in cheesy tabloids had become the norm. According to Riley there was nothing to it but a publicity stunt that seemed to be working. Ruby had started frequenting Bobby’s New York City Blue Apple restaurant last fall, and he, a smart and ambitious businessman, had leveraged their burgeoning friendship into priceless publicity. Ditto for Ruby. Occasionally, Riley tagged along on their outings, but as Riley had explained to me over lunch a month earlier, whereas Bobby was in his element smiling for the paparazzi and waving to Ruby’s fans, she hated being in the spotlight. Other rumors swirled around Bobby, too, and not just about his alleged affairs. One gossip column Gretchen had told me about speculated that his newfound fame had gone to his head, that with his jet-setting lifestyle and aggressive expansion plans, he was nearly broke.
I sighed, still staring at the photograph of Bobby, with his chiseled features facing the camera, his eyes alight with pleasure, and Ruby, larger than life and as magnificent as always, in her shimmering gold lam� gown, flashing a radiant, Botox-enhanced smile.
Gretchen was waiting for me to speak. I didn’t want to add fuel to the already smoldering fire, and I didn’t want the rumors to be true. Bobby and Riley were good customers and good friends. I liked them both—a lot. Plus, I’d been in grammar school when I’d learned that there was no upside to gossip.
I smiled at Gretchen and shrugged. “I’m sure their holding hands is completely innocent,” I said. “Bobby’s in chef-to-the-stars mode, so it makes sense he’d be hanging out with a movie star like Ruby Bowers at some tony Broadway opening party.”
“Maybe,” Gretchen said, gazing at the screen.
I could tell from her tone that she didn’t for a minute believe it.
Neither did I.
Just last week, I’d asked my boyfriend, Ty Alverez—the former Rocky Point police chief and a current training manager for Homeland Security—what he thought about their alleged affair. He’d smiled at me, a private, just-for-me smile that started in his eyes.
“I think Bobby’s insane to be messing around with an empty gown like Ruby,” he said, “but that’s because compared to you, she’s nothing but a pretty face. I don’t know what Bobby thinks of Riley. Maybe in his mind, Ruby’s a hot ticket.”
I’d leaned my head against Ty’s shoulder and smiled, luxuriating in the knowledge that the man of my dreams wanted me above all others, including a gorgeous-to-the-max movie star.
I shook off the memory and picked up a copy of Riley’s book from the stack on Gretchen’s desk.
“How many copies did you get?” I asked Gretchen, consciously changing the subject.
“A dozen,” she replied. “I figure that whatever doesn’t sell at tomorrow’s class will sell in the boutique. I thought I’d put up a display by the cash register.”
“Good thinking!” I said, pleased at her initiative.
Gretchen had started as a receptionist when I’d opened Prescott’s. She’d moved up to chief cashier and administrative manager, and in the last month, she’d taken on a major new responsibility—managing one of our two newest ventures, the small boutique we’d added called Prescott’s Vintage Fashions. I’d opened it after I’d purchased the entire inventory of a Manhattan consignment shop. The owner, a woman named Lana whom I’d known since my days working in the city, had called last fall saying she wanted to retire and move to the Bahamas. She’d made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and overnight, we were in the vintage clothing business.
I was taking care of the other new undertaking myself—a workshop series. “Prescott’s Antiques & Collectibles: How to Build a Great Vintage Clothing Collection.” Tomorrow evening’s class, the third in the series, was scheduled to cover shoes and handbags, and I’d invited Riley to co-facilitate. I was thrilled that she’d accepted my offer, and I hoped her book would sell like hotcakes.
“I wish I could take credit,” Gretchen said, laughing, “but it was Ava’s idea!” She nodded at Ava Marlow, our new intern, a graduate student at nearby Hitchens University.
“Kudos to Ava, then,” I replied, smiling at her, then turning back to Gretchen, “but managing a team takes talent, too, so you get credit as well.”
“Thanks!” Gretchen said, her expressive eyes sparkling at the compliment.
“Speaking of a team effort,” Ava said, standing up and stretching, “cataloguing Prescott’s incredible vintage clothing collection makes a girl hungry! I’m going to run over to Westil’s Deli. Can I bring anyone anything?”
Ava, in her midtwenties, was a little taller than me, about five-three or so, with platinum blond hair styled in an angle-cut bob and intelligent, dark brown eyes. Not only was she smart and a quick learner, she was innately curious, a must-have quality for an antiques appraiser. She researched carefully, wrote well, and chatted with customers with ease. She also had a terrific work ethic. In addition to attending grad school full-time and interning part-time for us, she spent most of her weekends waitressing at the Blue Dolphin for extra money—and she sewed her own clothes to boot. Today she wore a dark orange raw silk sheath with a brown nubby silk jacket. Her only jewelry was a long, heavy silver link chain that disappeared under her dress. She looked like a million bucks. I was already formulating plans to offer her a full-time job when she graduated.
We all said no, thank you, we didn’t want anything. She slipped in her iPod earphones and left, setting the wind chimes Gretchen had hung on the door shortly after we opened tinkling.
I watched as she strolled across the parking lot toward her car, th...

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