Page 48 of The Couple’s Secret (Detective Josie Quinn #23)

Forty-Four

“We don’t think anything,” Josie said. “That’s why we’re asking you.”

Grabbing a sleek wooden cabinet, he muscled it toward the tailgate. “Will you even believe me if I tell you it was my dad? ’Cause it seems like you’re just looking for a reason to accuse Hollis of something from back then since you can’t pin anything on him from now.”

“We’re not trying to pin anything on anyone,” said Gretchen. “We’re asking you what you heard on the day Gabrielle died.”

He leaned his arm on top of the cabinet.

“Fine. I heard my dad. The two of them were arguing, just like always. Then it got quiet. I waited to see if they’d start again but they didn’t.

Instead, Dad started yelling, freaking out.

He was talking to someone else. I realized later he’d called 911.

That’s what I remember. What are you trying to do here?

It sounds like you’re trying to manufacture some drama about the past instead of dealing with what’s happening in the here and now. ”

“We’re gathering information,” Gretchen said.

He scoffed. Then he was back on the ground, maneuvering the cabinet off the tailgate. The wind picked up again, gaining force as it rushed into the garage bay and back out, nearly knocking his hat off. He put it back in place. “Well, that’s all I’ve got for you.”

“Did you ever talk to your dad about what happened that day?” Josie asked.

“Why would I?”

“Did you ever witness your dad being physically abusive to any of his partners?”

“No,” Jackson answered. “I never saw him act that way. That wasn’t really his style anyway.”

“What was his style?”

“What are you— You do realize that my dad is a murder victim, right? You’re supposed to be figuring out who killed him and Cora.”

“To do that, we need to build a complete picture of who he was as a person,” Josie said. “Tell us about your dad. What did you mean that physical abuse wasn’t his style?”

“He was more…manipulative.”

“In what way?” asked Gretchen.

He draped his arm over the top of the cabinet.

It was tall and narrow with a shiny mahogany surface and a domed lid.

Below that were two sets of double doors with dainty brass knobs.

A crank jutted out from one side. Josie frowned at the keyhole inches below where Jackson’s hand dangled from the lid.

“One of the things him and Gabby argued about was her job at the daycare. He wanted her to quit. Don’t ask me why ’cause I don’t know.

I was twelve. All I can tell you is what I overheard.

One day she accused him of purposely getting her fired from the daycare so she’d be forced to stay home.

At the time, I thought maybe she was mixed-up but as an adult?

It made sense. A lot of times, if he didn’t get his way, he’d do something sneaky.

Like one time Gabby was away on a girls’ trip with some friends, and he called her and told her Zane had a really high fever that wouldn’t break.

Dad wouldn’t let her talk to Zane. Probably ’cause he wasn’t sick.

When Dad told her he was taking Zane to the ER, Gabby felt so worried and so guilty, she just came home.

When she got back, Dad told her the fever had broken and Zane was feeling better.

She was pissed and accused him of making the whole thing up—which he had. ”

Gretchen asked, “Did he do things like that to Cora?”

Josie edged closer to the cabinet so she could get a better look at the keyhole.

“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “I wasn’t living there when they got together. You’d have to ask Zane.”

“Ask me what?”

A scowl darkened Jackson’s face as his brother joined them. He was in khakis and an At Your Disposal polo shirt. His eyes were bloodshot. The bruising beneath them had faded to a light purplish red. His sandy hair was mussed from the wind.

“Did Dad do sneaky shit to Cora?” Jackson asked.

Zane stared at him, unmoving. Gone was the anger and irritation that had colored their previous interactions. In its place was suspicion. They held eye contact, neither of them moving or speaking. The silence grew thick and awkward.

Then Zane’s eyes dropped to the cabinet. He walked over to it and ran a finger across the keyhole. Jackson’s hand curled into a fist. That was when Josie realized why it kept drawing her attention.

“It takes a skeleton key,” she said.

“Yeah,” Jackson said tightly. “We have it. This belongs to a recent client of ours. We’re selling it for them.”

Zane moved around the side opposite Jackson and ran his hand along the back of the cabinet.

A moment later, he held up a small envelope.

Tape hung from its edges. He opened it and plucked the little key from inside before handing it to Josie.

It was silver and shiny, about the same size as the one they’d found in Cora’s purse.

The head was a circle with a V inside of it.

Josie turned it over in her palm and looked back at the cabinet.

Just as she’d thought the first time she had seen it—it was an antique phonograph cabinet.

“A Victrola,” she said.

Zane nodded. “Yep. Contrary to what most people probably think, the Victrola is the kind with the internal horn. Everyone thinks it’s the one with the big external horn mounted to it.

The one that looks like the cones they put on dogs, but that’s not a Victrola.

Although sometimes those external horns come as part of cabinets and other times they come separately.

You get to learn a lot of cool shit like that doing this job. ”

An alert went off in the back of Josie’s mind. Mentally, she sifted through all the information she’d gathered in the last couple of weeks, searching for why.

“Zane,” Jackson said through gritted teeth. “It doesn’t matter. This conversation is over.”

Josie returned the key to Zane. He unlocked the cabinet, lifting the top so they could see the record player. Bright green felt.

Gretchen shot a glance at Josie before returning her attention to Zane. “Then what’s the cabinet with the external horn mounted to it called?”

“It’s called a Victor,” Zane carried on like a museum docent. “They were first produced in 1901. Victrolas came out in 1906. This one is from the 1920s, I think. What year, Jacks? Do you remember?”

“No, I don’t remember. Put the key back and help me move it. If this shit gets wet, we’re going to be screwed.”

Zane closed the lid.

“Are all of them so small and narrow?” asked Josie, every last one of her instincts buzzing like a hornet’s nest in her stomach.

“Oh, they come in all kinds of different sizes,” Zane said. “Some smaller, some larger. Different brands, too.”

Green felt, the sliver of something brass but conical, flaring at one end. The photographs. The damn photos.

“Can I see the inside?” Josie asked. “Underneath?”

She could see Jackson straining to keep his composure and she had an idea why. It was a crazy idea, but it was there.

“Sure,” Zane said. Using the key again, he swung the doors open. It contained several wooden slots for records.

Maybe she was wrong, but the idea pushing at the edges of her consciousness wouldn’t stop. The inside of this cabinet was cluttered with its internal mechanisms, but there were other brands, presumably designed differently, perhaps in such a way that the inside could be hollowed out.

“That’s enough,” Jackson snapped. “I need to get all of this shit moved out of the truck right now.”

Josie felt a couple of raindrops land on her forearms. “Did you have one of these when you were little?”

“No,” Jackson said gruffly.

“How about one like this?” asked Gretchen. She must have figured out where Josie was headed with this line of questioning. “Maybe a different brand.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Your dad didn’t have one?”

He slammed a palm on top of the cabinet. “I don’t remember!”

Zane jumped. “Calm down, man. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is that someone killed my wife and all I want to do is get all this shit out of my house—get everything out so I can sell it and never have to go back there and instead, I’m standing here having the stupidest conversation of my life with a couple of police officers who are trying to pin Riley’s murder on Hollis. ”

“You remember something else about the day your mom died, don’t you?” Josie pushed, the buzzing inside her getting stronger. “Well, maybe you don’t remember precisely. Maybe you put it together later. The photos of your mom on display in your house, that’s how you figured it out, isn’t it?”

Jackson glared at her. Zane looked back and forth between them. “What is she talking about?”

“Or maybe you had memories of her playing records. One of the photos at your house is of the two of you and you’ve got a record in your hands.

When you saw the cabinet in the background of old photos of her, it started to come back to you.

Your dad had a cabinet like this one but with the external horn.

There’s a photo in the upstairs hall of his house.

It’s you and him on your second birthday and in the background, you can just catch a glimpse of what looks like green felt from the record player and a portion of the brass horn of a Victor. ”

Zane’s features twisted in confusion. “Seriously, what are you talking about?”

Josie plunged ahead, keeping her focus on Jackson. “Did you remember telling Bruce Olsen that your mom went ‘in Victor’ when you were three? Or did he tell you that when you asked him to find your mom?”

“I didn’t know what it meant,” Jackson said tightly. “I don’t remember saying it to Olsen but all my life, everyone else said it. ‘Rachel ran off with some guy named Victor. Jackson saw them.’ I don’t know what I saw. I told you. I only have flashes. Fragments. I was three years old.”

“And you were traumatized,” Josie said. “Because you watched your father kill your mother and stuff her into the cabinet to get rid of her. She didn’t run off with some guy named Victor. She left the house in an antique Victor cabinet.”