“I know who you are,” said the man. “I overheard you talking to the boss just now.”
She wondered how he’d managed that, but then remembered hearing a noise when she’d been talking to Amabel. It must have been the man’s silent footfall.
“I just want a quick word with you about Boyd Baker,” she said as she fell into step beside him. “Amabel told me you’ve worked here the longest, and that you may remember Mr. Baker.”
He had a distinct stoop, a ratty white beard, and a pockmarked face with shifty eyes but he was still pretty sprightly, trying to get away from her as fast as he could.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he said.
“I just need some information about Mr. Baker. Did you know his body was found buried in my parents’ basement yesterday?”
“Of course. I read your articles, Miss Poole. It was all over the garage this morning.”
“Well, then you will also know that his relatives would very much like to know what exactly happened to Mr. Baker. All this time they thought he’d run out on them, while in fact he was right underneath their feet.”
The man gave her a quick sideways glance. “Don’t print my name in that newspaper of yours, Miss Poole. I don’t want any trouble, you hear?”
“I won’t print a word you tell me, or your name. Everything off the record.”
He halted in his tracks. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
He nodded curtly. “I remember Boyd. Nasty temper.”
“Nasty? What do you mean?”
“I mean the man was a drunk and a bully. And a thief and a liar, if I’m going to spill my guts and spill it properly. He was involved in some kind of gang.”
“A gang?” She remembered her grandmother’s words about the kind of rumors swirling around about Boyd Baker. Gran had told Mom things used to disappear each time Boyd was on a job, and his personnel file seemed to confirm this.
“They stole stuff. Valuable stuff. Every time a member of that crew had a job at some place, stuff would mysteriously disappear, and a couple days later Boyd and the others would suddenly show up with a brand-new car, or some fancy new clothes or an expensive watch. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, Miss Poole.”
“I saw in his personnel file that the police came here to talk to him.”
“I remember. They figured he was the ringleader, but I don’t think so. I think the real ringleader was Earl Paxton.”
“Earl Paxton,” she said as she jotted down the name.
“I wouldn’t bother looking for him. He died a long time ago. After he was fired.”
“And Boyd was part of his crew, you say?”
“Oh, yes, he was. Thick as thieves with Paxton, Boyd was. They used to hang out at the Rusty Beaver every night, talking big, and spending money like water. Back then the cops weren’t as sophisticated as they are now, and it took them a while to catch on. But once they did, Paxton was arrested, and then Boyd suddenly disappeared.”
“He was found with a diamond brooch on his person,” said Odelia, and showed the older man a picture of the brooch.
He tapped it and smiled, showing a nice set of gleaming white dentures. “This is the kind of stuff they used to steal. Made a small fortune, too.”
“And you were never involved?” she asked, quasi casually.
“No, I wasn’t. I was too young and too fresh. They only trusted the people who’d worked here a while, and they didn’t trust no outsiders. In fact when I said something about these accusations and rumors once, Boyd actually cut me.” He stripped up his coverall sleeve and showed Odelia a tiny white stripe. “See? That’s where he cut me. Happened fifty-something years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday. No, Miss Poole. Boyd Baker was a bad man, and if he was murdered he got exactly what he deserved.”
Chase had been going through the archives and gradually getting more and more covered in dust and spider webs. He cursed the genius who’d scrapped the budget to transfer all of these old files to digital format. So far he hadn’t found anything useful, but he had a hunch, and over the years he’d learned better than to ignore those hunches of his.
There was more to this Boyd Baker case than met the eye, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.
Dolores had asked him if he’d have put in so much effort if the body hadn’t been found in what practically amounted to his own basement, and he’d told her that didn’t matter one bit. A crime had been committed, however long ago, and justice needed to be served.
And then when she’d asked him if he’d have dug so deep if the body had dated back to the eighteen-hundreds, he’d told her there was no statute of limitations on murder, though he had to admit he might balk at investigating a crime that happened over a century ago.
But somehow, for some reason, this case intrigued him. A nice family guy like Boyd Baker, with a loving wife and two kids, cut down in his prime and suffering the indignation of being buried in his own basement. It just wasn’t right, and he needed to find out how he’d died, and by whose hand.
And he’d been wiping a tickling dust bunny from his nose when suddenly he struck gold. Or at least a report on Boyd Baker.
“Bingo,” he said as he read through the report. It wasn’t what he’d expected, though. All he’d wanted to find was the report on the man’s disappearance and maybe the cop who’d handled the case at the time. If he or she were still alive he could have talked to them, asked if they’d had any leads back then. But instead he found a report filed against Boyd Baker. By the family of a Mrs. Clifford. For the theft of a brooch…
Odelia arrived at the offices of Mr. Clifford and announced herself to the receptionist. The young woman, though irked that Odelia hadn’t had the foresight to make an appointment, still showed the kindness to talk to her boss and ask him if he could award a brief moment of his valuable time to a Miss Poole, journalist.
“About…” she said as she placed her hand on the receiver.
“Boyd Baker and Aurelia Clifford’s brooch. He’ll probably know what this is about,” she added when the woman knitted her brows questioningly.
Five minutes later she was led into the office of Nate Clifford and offered the choice between coffee, tea or water. She picked coffee, and took a seat at the man’s desk.
“I’m a little puzzled, I have to confess, Miss Poole,” said Nate Clifford, who was a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties, wearing a power suit and a stylish haircut that must have set him back a considerable amount of money.
From what she’d been able to glean on the internet, Nate now ran the Clifford family trust, though what exactly this entailed was a little opaque. He seemed rich enough, so he probably either did a very good job, or received a very handsome fee for his services.
“I don’t know if you know this, but Mrs. Aurelia Clifford filed a complaint against a Mr. Boyd Baker fifty-five years ago. For the theft of a brooch. Yesterday Mr. Baker was found immured in my parents’ basement, and this brooch was found on his remains.” She slid her phone across the desk and Nate leaned in to take a gander.
He frowned. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s my great-grandmama’s brooch. See the inscription? AC/34? The AC stands for Aurelia Clifford and the 34 is the code given to this particular brooch. The Clifford family have always codified their items of value, so they could keep track—for insurance purposes. I’ll be damned. And where did you find this, you say?”
Odelia told Nate the story of the missing Mr. Baker, and the police report that had been filed against him for stealing Mrs. Clifford’s brooch. All this over half a century ago.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Nate repeated, mussing up his nicely coiffed and gelled hair. “Do you know how much this brooch is worth, Miss Poole? Do you have any idea?”