Free Killer Keepsakes by Jane K. Cleland

table again and nodded, satisfied. “I used a shim.” He stood up. “Any news about Gretchen?”
    I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I glanced around, then added, “Things look like they’re coming along.”
    He nodded. “Yeah, except that I still think we’re a little light in quality items.”
    “I’ll pick out a couple of super-dupers.”
    I left him to his work and walked across the ware house to the front office. Cara was on the phone, giving directions. Fred was on the phone, too, asking someone named Mr. Wragge whether the map had any rips or tears. I didn’t know what map he was referring to. Sasha had one of Gretchen’s fruit plates in her hand and was frowning at it.
    “I don’t think we’re going to learn anything from these,” she said. “Without documentation, there’s nothing to trace. They’re really wonderful examples, though. Gretchen has excellent taste and a good eye.”
    I nodded. “Any news on Phil’s locks?”
    “Yes. Fred says there’s nothing special, but we got them for a song. Phil wasn’t there, but Johnny said Phil just wanted them gone.”
    “Well, at least we got a bargain.”
    “Detective Brownley dropped off the belt buckle. It’s in the safe, bottom left, number four.”
    “Great!” I glanced at the clock. It was almost two. I walked across the ware house to the far corner, where a walk-in vault the size of a room was positioned against a wall. I spun the dial, heard the clicks as the tumblers fell into place, and opened the door. Separate lockboxes, ranging in size from two to twelve feet square, were positioned around the perimeter—safes within a safe, extra security and an easy way to keep everything organized. An index card slid into a slot on the front of each lockbox and served as a sign-in/sign-out log. Unit four, on the bottom left-hand shelf, was labeled BELT BUCKLE. The first entry noted when Sasha had placed it in the box. I slid the card from the slot, annotated it with my name and the date and time I was removing the box, and replaced the card. I used the master key that hung on the ring at my waist to open the box.
    The belt buckle was in a see-through plastic evidence bag. I held it up to the light. The old Native American man was looking left, his features in repose. He was wearing a lavishly feathered headdress and what appeared to be war paint, but he didn’t look warlike. I turned it over. There was a seam, a raised ridge, which meant it had been produced from a mold. There were several marks, but no signature visible to the naked eye. The primary mark was a large H in a double-edged circle. Below it, in a smaller font, were the characters “SFC 79” and “3.”
    I spun the wheel on the vault door to lock it and returned to the front office.
    Sasha had her headset on. She was typing while asking someone about the hard paste porcelain that had been used at the Richard Ginori factory in Milan.
    Fred was reading something on his monitor. He looked up as I approached his desk, and I handed him the plastic bag. “Did you see this, Fred?”
    “No,” he replied, removing it from the bag and looking at it with laserlike focus. “What do we know besides that it’s not custom?”
    “Nothing. The man killed at Gretchen’s was wearing it. What’s your take on it?”
    “It’s well designed, but my guess would be that it’s not particularly valuable—it’s molded. Most likely brass, modern era. We can probably trace the marks—and maybe the mold.”
    The phone rang, and Cara answered with a pleasant “Prescott’s. How may I help you?”
    I nodded to Fred. “That’s what I thought, too. I don’t know about the value, though. It looks like a limited run, and the mold has great detailing, very high quality.”
    “Hold on, please,” Cara said. “Josie, it’s Wes Smith for you.”
    I felt my irritation return. “Tell him I don’t want to talk to him.”
    Cara hesitated, her mouth opening.
    “Go ahead. Tell him that. He’ll