Chapter 12 - Vanessa’s Secret Stash
At eight-thirty that evening, the rain began to fall in heavy, rhythmic sheets, drumming against the roof of the coastal cottage.
Inside the living room, a warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering orange shadows across the cedar-paneled walls. But there was no peace in the room. Sitting around the coffee table were Arthur Vance, Detective Miller from the Portland Police Department’s financial crimes division, Daniel, and me.
On the table lay a printed copy of Vanessa’s extortion email.
"This is classic extortion under Title 17-A of the Maine Criminal Code," Detective Miller said, tapping the printout with a stubby pencil. "She is demanding fifteen thousand dollars in cash in exchange for the return of property she admits was stolen from the estate. She has no legal claim to that locker."
"Can you arrest her at the diner?" I asked.
"We can," Miller replied. "We’ll have two plainclothes officers inside the diner and another car in the parking lot. You go in with a decoy envelope provided by our department. As soon as she places the key or the locker documentation on the table, you give the signal—take a sip of your water—and we move in."
"Is it safe for Pamela to go in alone?" Daniel asked, his jaw tight with protective concern.
"I’ll be two booths away with a concealed audio wire," Miller assured him. "Vanessa Montgomery is a desperate social media climber, not an armed cartel operative. She wants fast cash to escape her debts in Florida. She’s not looking for violence."
"I can do it," I said, looking at Daniel. "Grandma Evelyn’s emerald brooch was her mother’s wedding gift. If there’s a chance to get it back, I’m not letting Vanessa throw it into the harbor."
Forty-five minutes later, we were in position at the roadside diner off Route 1. The neon sign buzzed through the torrential downpour.
I walked through the double doors wearing a heavy rain jacket, the police-supplied manila envelope tucked securely under my arm. The diner was nearly empty on a stormy Saturday night, save for a trucker in the corner and Detective Miller sitting near the kitchen door reading a laminated menu.
Vanessa was sitting in the very back booth, hidden beneath a baseball cap and a dark trench coat. She looked gaunt, anxious, her eyes darting toward the door every three seconds. When she saw me, she signaled with a sharp jerk of her chin.
I slid into the booth across from her.
"You're late," Vanessa whispered, her voice tight and trembling with caffeine jitters.
"The weather is awful," I said, setting the thick envelope flat on the table between us. "Show me the key first."
Vanessa reached into her designer shoulder bag—ironically, a bag Toby had probably bought her with stolen money—and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. She unzipped it, revealing a heavy brass safety deposit key stamped with the logo of *Portland Vault & Depository*, along with a laminated customer card bearing Linda Harris’s forged signature.
"It's locker 412," Vanessa breathed, leaning in close. "I personally watched Linda open it two years ago. The emerald brooch is in there, along with three gold pocket watches, a diamond tennis bracelet, and an envelope full of bearer bonds Evelyn thought she had lost. There's easily two hundred and fifty grand in that box."
"Why didn't Linda pawn them?" I asked.
"Because the pawnbroker told her those pieces were too rare, too traceable," Vanessa sneered. "He told her if she tried to sell the emerald brooch, the state auction registry would flag it immediately. Linda was waiting for Evelyn's probate to close completely before driving down to Boston to find a black-market buyer."
"And how did you get the key, Vanessa?"
"I stole it from Linda's jewelry armoire while she was screaming at Toby yesterday morning," Vanessa said without a shred of shame. "Linda owes Toby fifty thousand dollars for his ruined career. Toby owes me for the wedding. Consider this my severance package."
She reached out her manicured hand toward the manila envelope. "Now push the cash over. And sign the waiver Arthur drafted."
I didn't touch the envelope. Instead, I picked up the glass of ice water sitting on the table, raised it to my lips, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"What are you doing?" Vanessa hissed. "Push the envelope!"
Before she could blink, Detective Miller stood up from his booth, badge out, his partner emerging from the side corridor.
"Vanessa Montgomery," Miller announced in a booming voice. "Keep your hands flat on the table. You are under arrest for extortion and possession of stolen property."
Vanessa’s face went translucent. She tried to snatch the key, but Miller’s hand clamped around her wrist like iron handcuffs.
May you like
"What?! Pamela, you bitch!" Vanessa shrieked, kicking wildly under the table as the second officer clicked steel cuffs around her wrists. "You set me up! You promised! Toby will kill you for this! Toby will—"
"Toby can't even afford his phone bill, Vanessa," I said quietly, sliding the brass deposit key across the table and dropping it safely into my pocket. "Have a safe flight back to Florida."
