Deadly Appraisal (24 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

J

ust after Max left, Gretchen buzzed up to tell me that Ty was on line two.

“Hi,” I said, punching the button.

“How’s it going?” Ty asked.

“Okay,” I responded, and filled him in.

“Sounds like Rowcliff is being thorough. How about you? You okay?” he asked.

“Yes. More or less.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Not now,” I said softly, “but thanks.”

“You let me know, okay?”

“You’re going to be sorry you offered. By the time you get home, I’ll have a long, long list.”

He laughed and said, “Good. I work well with lists.”

I smiled and asked, “How about you? Are you okay?”

“Same as you. Yes—more or less.”

“How’s Aunt Trina?”

“The doctors keep reminding me that she’s almost ninety.”

“That’s awful.”

“Is it? Or is it realistic?”

He sounded sad, and I understood why.

“Both. It’s both,” I said, and then I added, “I understand.” After I hung up, I realized that I’d spoken without thought, and suddenly I felt sick.

It had been perilously easy to utter the conventional words of acceptance—
I understand.
And as it happened, I
did
understand why Ty had posed the question—“Or is it realistic?” He was bracing for Aunt Trina’s death—without fruitlessly lashing out at the doctors or indulging in childish wishful thinking. No, he was a decent man doing the right thing, practical and competent, but it made him sad.

But that wasn’t why I’d said it. My motivation was less altruistic and more self-serving—I hoped to please him, and that could only mean that I was more invested in him than I’d thus far admitted to myself. Apparently, I was willing to say whatever I thought he wanted to hear. In this case, the words were true, but what about the next time?
If necessary to keep his love, would I hide my feelings? Would I pretend that everything was okay even if it wasn’t? Just how far would I go? How many lies would I tell?

I’d seen what happened when friends lied to their boyfriends or husbands under the guise of protectionism, hoping to preserve their egos or hide their own needs or ambition: They were lulled by the continued appearance of intimacy into thinking that all was well. But I knew that deceit wore through the fabric of a relationship as surely as a moth destroys wool, and inevitably, the women found themselves in the chasm of isolation they’d lied to avoid.

I pivoted to face the window and examined the newly bare branches on my maple tree through the misty fog. I looked to the left, to the west toward Los Angeles, over the barely visible tops of the birch trees that ringed my property, past the spire of the Presbyterian church.
I’ll never lie to you, Ty,
I promised.
Not once.

The route I followed to reach Mrs. McCarthy in Dover took me directly past the old Victorian house where Eric lived with his ill-tempered mother. About halfway there, I spotted Chi’s blue car, far back.

As I went by Eric’s house, I saw that while it was in as bad shape as I remembered, apparently repairs were under way. There was a sign in the front yard declaring that Wallace Contractors were on the job, but I saw no workers.
The rain,
I thought.
They’ll be back at work tomorrow.

Knowing how seriously Eric took his responsibility to care for his mother, I could only imagine what a great sense of accomplishment it must be to him to be able to make repairs. I hoped his mother would appreciate his efforts, but having witnessed her morose discontent, I doubted it.

All at once, I felt my heart begin to race.
Four hundred thousand would fund a lot of repairs,
I thought, appalled.
Eric? No way.
I chased the depressing thought out of my head.

I parked in front of Mrs. McCarthy’s elegant center-entrance Colonial, and as I walked up the pathway, I glanced around. I saw nothing unusual. No sign of Chi or his blue sports car, nor of anyone else. I rang the bell.

“Come upstairs, dear,” Mrs. McCarthy said, and led the way to a small room at the back of the house. “You can’t imagine how surprised I was to discover this thing! I’d forgotten all about it. I haven’t seen it in years!”

She pointed to an enormous, elaborate black—tarnished silver, probably—epergne. An ornate temple stood in the center, completely surrounded by a detailed jungle scene. There were tigers, elephants, and lions; palm trees, bamboo, and willowy flowering plants; and sepoys and palanquins were positioned here and there in and about the jungle. Eight leaf-capped branches twisted throughout the panorama, each branch ending with a circular brace, all but one of which supported a bowl with a gadrooned border—the same style of bowl Fred had shown me—and each bowl cupped a cut-glass dish. The seven bowls were all black. I extracted one of the bowls and turned it over, silently praying,
Please, God, let the hallmarks match.
And there they were—the same anchor, lion passant, and lower case
a
that marked the bowl back at the office.

Turning to Mrs. McCarthy, who was eagerly awaiting my judgment, I said, “When it’s polished, it will be spectacular.”

“Do you think so?” she asked skeptically.

“I’m quite confident,” I replied. “Do you know where it came from?”

Mrs. McCarthy looked embarrassed. “I’m afraid not. It’s so big, I’ve never displayed it. I don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s called an epergne. Believe it or not, it was used as a centerpiece. Can you imagine how big the table must have been to support it!”

“With all those wild animals,” she said, pointing to a lion squatting on his haunches, poised to pounce, “it doesn’t seem suitable for family dinners, does it?”

I laughed. “Depends on the family, I guess. But actually, it probably was used for ceremonial dinners.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Well, that’s just an educated guess. I may be wrong. We’ll know more when we look into it.”

“Do you think it’s very old?” she asked. Knowing sellers, my guess was that her question was euphemistic and what she really wanted to know was how much it was worth.

“Most likely, it dates from the early nineteenth century. I suspect it’s quite valuable,” I said.

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” she said, “that it sells for a lot.”

“You know I’ll do my best to get a good price for it,” I promised.

She watched as I packed it carefully, using supplies I’d brought along, and signed the updated consignment agreement. I thanked her, feeling enormously gratified that she trusted me and my company with her treasures.

Ty called to say a quick good night, and after hanging up, I found myself filled with restless energy. I swept the kitchen floor and did a load of laundry, and then, desperate to relax, I took a long lavender-scented bath, and it worked. Not even my constant fretting about Eric’s possible role in the tureen theft kept me from sleeping well.

Following instructions to vary my route into work, I took Route 1. As I exited the Old Post Road, I thought I saw Chi’s blue car glint by, but I couldn’t be sure.

I greeted Gretchen after her day off, then went to the tag-sale room and helped Eric organize a large display of Christmas-themed decorative and household items—from pottery Santa Clauses to vintage Dickens village houses and from fake trees to sets of dishes festooned with boughs of holly and berries. Around ten o’clock I returned to the main office and sat with Sasha and Fred to brainstorm how to research Mrs. McCarthy’s epergne.

“The jungle suggests that it was created for someone who lived in one of the British colonies—India, probably,” I said.

“Or someone who’d been there and felt nostalgic—it was made in Birmingham, after all,” Fred commented.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “that’s possible. Maybe someone who made his fortune in India and then returned home to England. How will you start to trace it?”

“With the maker,” Sasha said. “Some of them kept records of their important pieces.”

I nodded. “Sounds good. Keep me posted.”

I left just after noon to drive to Dora’s Literacy Matters luncheon at her boyfriend’s beachfront house in Rye Beach. The weather was far sunnier than the day before. It was perfect for a fall event—bright and crisp. For reasons that seemed to have more to do with a good night’s sleep, pleasing conversations with Ty, and the weather than confidence that Rowcliff was close to solving the crimes, my mood was sunnier, too. Regardless, I was relieved to be feeling better.

Hank’s house was small but spectacular, traditional in design and built on stilts to maximize the ocean view. I recognized Hank by his blond ponytail as he stood with his back to me just inside the ground-level garage, which had been converted into what appeared to be a workshop of some sort. Barnlike doors stood open and I saw a dozen or so trombones, trumpets, and other brass instruments suspended on Peg-Boards affixed to the back wall.

As I walked across the street and up the driveway, I glanced around and saw Dora’s gold Jaguar, but none of the other cars ranged along the street or in the driveway looked familiar.

“Hi,” I called.

Hank turned around. “Hi, there,” he said.

“I’m Josie. We met at the Gala.”

“Sure,” he said, “I remember.”

“I don’t know if I ever got a chance to tell you how much I enjoyed the music.” He’d been the trombone player in the small group.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t play all those, do you?” I asked, gesturing toward the instruments hanging in the back.

“Hardly. I do instrument repair.”

“Really? Like what?” I asked.

“I work on brass instruments—you know, a little of this and a little of that,” he said, and shrugged. “I knock dings out of bells, re-plate mouthpieces, adjust valves, that sort of thing. Mostly repairs on school instruments.”

“Interesting,” I said, smiling. “Is Dora upstairs?”

“Yeah. Take the stairs by the front.”

“Nice seeing you again.”

I looked toward the ocean as I climbed the steps and paused on the half landing. Hank had an unobstructed view of the dunes and the ocean beyond. Dune grass and late-blooming sea roses swayed in the easy breeze, the sapphire-colored water sparkled in the bright sun, and white-tipped waves rolled in with the tide.

Dora opened the door before I reached the top. “Josie! I’m so completely thrilled that you’re here!” She held the door open so I could enter. “Let me look at you! Aren’t you a quick healer. If I’d been through what you’ve been through—well, I wouldn’t look as good as you do, I can tell you that!”

I was flustered by her comment and didn’t know what to say, so I simply smiled and murmured, “Thank you.” She whisked me in and introduced me to the other attendees, none of whom I’d ever met. The six other participants were women, all older than I, and all were pleasant. The conversation throughout the luncheon was varied, but if the truth be told, superficial and, I acknowledged to myself, boring.

It was only after lunch was finished and donations had been solicited and received that I had a chance to fully appreciate Hank’s house. Standing on the jalousie porch that jutted out toward the ocean, I could hear the peaceful sound of thunderous waves even through the closed windows.

“What a great place,” I commented to Dora.

“Isn’t it? It’s been in his family for generations, and it’s hard to imagine a more beautiful spot,” Dora replied.

“He seems very nice. I spoke to him briefly on my way in.”

“We’re good together,” Dora said, staring pensively at the beach. “He’s quiet, kind of introspective. He has lots of substance below the surface.” She laughed suddenly and turned to me, her charm bracelet jingling. “They say opposites attract, right? Well, we know I’m neither quiet nor introspective. But that’s where the opposite commentary stops!”

I smiled. “Absolutely,” I responded as if on cue. “Everyone knows there’s great substance to you.”

“Forced you into that one, didn’t I?” she said with a chuckle.

I shook my head, smiled, but didn’t respond. I was never comfortable with teasing chat.

“Have you heard anything from the police? Are they making any progress?” Dora asked after a moment.

“Not that I know of,” I replied, “but I’m not sure they’d tell me. I think they have several lines of investigation they’re pursuing.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged. “I think they’re making progress on the purchase of the fake tureen. And they know the make of the car that tried to run me down.”

“That
is
progress, isn’t it?”

She didn’t look at me, but kept her focus on the ocean, as if answers would wash in along with the roiling waves. I followed her gaze, and we stood without speaking, two friends sharing a private moment.

I laughed and she turned to me, smiling, eager to share the joke.

“I’m laughing,” I explained, “because you just finished telling me that you aren’t introspective—yet here we are, both of us lost in our own thoughts.”

“Oh dear!” she said with a soft laugh. “I’m found out!”

“Your cover’s blown. There’s substance, and you’re introspective, too.”

“Thank you, Josie.” She was going to add something, but the moment was shattered when my cell phone beeped, alerting me to a message. I felt myself tense as I listened to Max ask if I was free at four o’clock for a meeting with Rowcliff.
What now?
I wondered.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A

s I entered the front office around 2:30 P.M., the phone was ringing. Gretchen mouthed hello to me and handed me two messages, then answered it with her usual cheery greeting, “Prescott’s! May I help you?”

Zoe had asked that I call her back when I had a chance and a woman named Amy Lorne had wanted information about appraisals.

Before heading upstairs to return the calls, I took a quick spin around the tag-sale venue. The place looked great—well stocked with interesting items attractively displayed. Our Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth, complete with computer hookup, stood ready to go. Every Saturday, Sasha, Fred, and I took turns manning the booth, providing on-the-spot, quick-and-dirty informal appraisals of whatever anyone brought in. It was a popular feature, generated good publicity as well as valuable leads to buy antiques and collectibles, and it was a lot of fun.

I watched as Eric, atop a six-foot ladder, strung vintage Japanese lanterns from one side of the room to the other, the cords passing over displays of silver teaspoons, model airplane kits, wicker baskets, dictionaries, writing implements, souvenir shot glasses, and porcelain teacup and saucer sets.

Eric,
I thought,
could you be working hard and betraying me at the same time?
I didn’t believe it, but knew it was possible.
Anything is possible,
I told myself,
most anything, at least.
I took a deep breath and prepared to carry on as if everything was fine.

“Hey, Eric! Those look great!” I called, pointing to the rice-paper lanterns.

“Thanks.”

“Looks like you’re almost done,” I added, scanning the room.

He nodded. “Yeah. I think we’re in good shape.”

“I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Okay,” he said, and returned to his task.

Upstairs, I dialed Zoe, and she answered, sounding breathless and harassed.

“Yes, I’m both out of breath and harassed,” she agreed, laughing, when asked. “No surprise, since I’ve been chasing two tireless beings for what seems like hours.”

“Well, at least you sound cheerful!”

“Yeah, and the truth is that I love it! Guess that makes me crazy, huh? Anyway, I was wondering about dinner tomorrow night—can you come?”

“Absolutely. Sounds great.”

“Let’s barbecue,” Zoe said, “and drink martinis.”

“Perfect.”

I told her that I’d see her at seven tomorrow, and crossed my fingers as I dialed Ms. Lorne. My luck held. She was interested in learning more about the process of appraisals, which I explained; then she invited me to come and see her nineteenth-century snuffboxes, clowns, African masks, and pewter vases.

“That’s quite an eclectic array of collections,” I remarked.

“I’ve indulged my varied interests for a lot of years,” she said proudly, “and it’s way past time to make sure that I’ve got enough insurance.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing everything.”

When I called Max, his assistant told me he was in a meeting, so I left a message that I’d expect him and Detective Rowcliff at four o’clock.

I entered the amount I’d written to Literacy Matters into my check register and realized that I was too filled with nervous energy to start any project that required concentration or precise thinking. Instead, I dusted my rooster collection, the bookshelves, and all the flat surfaces in the room, and still it was only 3:50 P.M.

I picked up Detective Rowcliff’s Mitsubishi listing and idly flipped through the pages. With a sigh, I turned to the first page and began to read, once again, each name and address, just in case I’d missed something.

And there it was—right in front of me.

I stared at the entry, shocked, my mouth gaping open. I couldn’t breathe. Once I recognized it, it was so obvious.
Henry Avery on Old Locke Road. Hank. Dora’s boyfriend, Hank.
Synapses sparked in my brain as previously unrelated facts linked into one cohesive chain of events. I didn’t know why, but now I knew who—Hank.

He owned a black 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer ES. And he fit the sales clerk’s description of the man who purchased the reproduction soup tureen—he was tall and quiet, with light-colored hair.

I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t even conceive of such a thing.
Hank? What did I ever do to him?

With Max and Rowcliff due any minute, I picked up the phone, my hand trembling.

“Max,” I said when I had him on his cell phone. I choked, suddenly so dry that I couldn’t speak. I gulped some water.

“Hey, Josie. I’m just pulling into your lot. You okay?”

I coughed. “Hurry upstairs. I need to talk to you before Detective Rowcliff gets here. I’ll tell Gretchen.” I hung up, then got Gretchen on the line and told her to send Max right up but to buzz me when Rowcliff arrived.

“Sure,” she said. “Also, Bridgewater Elegant Junque would like to know if you want to bid on their barn. They’re closing the shop and moving to Florida, and they’re looking to sell everything as one lot.”

I heard the words, but they made no sense, and I didn’t know how to respond. I couldn’t think. I forced myself to focus. An entire barn’s worth of stuff for sale. I knew the place. It was a dump, and nothing in the place was worth much. But I knew I should take a look regardless. “Yes. Make me an appointment for Monday,” I said.

“Sure,” she responded, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?”

“You bet!” I lied, not wanting to be burdened with explanations.

Max hurried into my office and sank into the yellow guest chair nearest the door, not taking his eyes from my face. “Tell me,” he said.

I pushed the listing across the desk and pointed. “The second one down. That’s Dora’s boyfriend, Hank, the trombone player at the Gala. I was at his house at a luncheon Dora hosted today. I saw him. He’s tall, thin, blond, and quiet. He
has
to be the one.”

Max stared at the printout, then at me. “It doesn’t seem logical, does it?”

“I just can’t imagine. I can’t think. I mean, I—” I raised a hand, shut my eyes, and forced myself to breathe.
Don’t talk until you can control yourself,
my father once warned me.
Otherwise, people will only hear your emotion, not your message.

“Sorry about that,” I said, looking at him, and trying to smile. “One possibility is that Hank learned something about Maisy from Dora and tried to blackmail her. Maisy threatened to go to the police—or to Dora—and he killed her to eliminate the threat.”

“But how? How could he have killed her? He was in the back, wasn’t he? With the band?”

“Not really. He was only sitting with the musicians when he was playing. Otherwise, he was with Dora, and I’ve talked before about how Dora is an absolute master of working a room. I mean, I can’t say for sure, but I’ll bet you that she stopped at every table—including, I assume, Maisy’s. If I’m right, that means Hank was near Maisy’s wine and could have poisoned it.”

“But you remembered Maisy drinking her wine and being okay.” Max shook his head, perplexed.

“That’s right.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I remember the waiter clearing glasses, but the truth is that I’ve sort of lost track.”

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I agreed, thinking hard. “I wonder where his car is now.”

Max nodded and made a note on his legal pad. “Astonishing to think of,” he said, sliding the papers back toward me. “Is that how Hank could afford a house on Rye Beach? By blackmailing Maisy?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. According to Dora, his family has owned the house on Rye Beach forever. Maybe he comes from money.”
Wes can find out,
I thought.

“But why would Hank try to kill you?”

“Or steal the soup tureen?” I added, shaking my head. “None of it makes sense.”

I was struck by a sudden thought:
If Hank’s in, Eric’s out,
and I felt weak with relief.

Gretchen buzzed up. I glanced at Max and he gestured to proceed. “Send him up,” I told her.

“Do you know what Detective Rowcliff wants?” I asked, almost as an afterthought.

“Only that he has some photos he wants you to look at.”

“Photos of what?”

Max shrugged and shook his head. Before I could respond, I heard Detective Rowcliff’s feet pounding up the stairs.
He sounds angry even when he walks,
I thought.

He sat first, then said hello. “Did Max tell you I have some pictures to show you?”

“Yes,” I managed to say, shaking a little as I reached for my bottle of water. “No problem.”

“Before you start,” Max interjected, “Josie recognized a name on the Mitsubishi list.”

“Tell me,” Rowcliff instructed.

Max explained, and Rowcliff looked at me, assessing something—I didn’t know what—for more than a minute. I drank more water.

“Why didn’t you pick up on him before?”

“I only met him at the Gala—and he was introduced as Hank, not Henry. I’ve never even heard his last name. If I hadn’t looked at the listing immediately after driving down his street, I don’t know that I would ever have noticed it.”

“We cross-referenced the Mitsubishi owners with the invitation list—and he wasn’t on it. Why not?” Rowcliff growled.

“He was working. No one who was there to work was on the list.”

He stared at me, as if he was considering whether to believe me. I stared back.

“What do you know about him?” he demanded after a long pause.

I glanced at Max and he nodded, indicating that I could answer. I took a deep breath. “I spoke to him today for the first time.”

“And?” Rowcliff waggled his fingers, wanting more information.

“We chatted about his business. In addition to playing in a quartet, he repairs brass instruments. Trumpets and tubas. For schools, mostly.” I shrugged. “Nothing special.”

Rowcliff shifted in his seat and began tapping his foot, staring into space, thinking. Max and I watched him for what seemed like a long time.

“I’ve got some snapshots,” Rowcliff said, “taken by a Gala guest.” Rowcliff pulled a manila envelope out of an inside pocket, unfolded it, and extracted a Ziploc bag stretched taut, filled with four-by-six glossy prints. “In a minute, I’m going to ask you to comment on each one, but first, point out Hank Avery.” He flipped through the photographs, found one showing the brass quartet posing in a formal stance, their instruments in their hands, and passed it to me.

Hank’s tux fit him as if it were custom-made; his smile was crooked, kind of awkward and very appealing; and his gaze conveyed understanding. He looked like a really nice guy. “That’s him,” I said, pointing, “on the right.”

Rowcliff accepted the photograph and pulled out his flip phone. He pushed a preprogrammed button, and when someone answered, he said, “Two things. Send someone out to visit Henry Avery—the second entry on the Mitsubishi list. . . . Do you see it? Right. . . . Old Locke Road. Confirm the whereabouts of the car, but don’t spook him. You know the drill. Routine, right? Also, I want someone to go to Weston’s pronto with a photo array. Use the guy on the far right from photo number”—he paused to turn over the photo—“nineteen.”

Smacking his phone shut, he turned to me. “In the meantime, take a look at the photos one by one. Tell me what you notice.”

He slid the pile toward me.

The first dozen or so were shots of the gathering crowd, and nothing in particular struck me. Pointing to one shot, I commented, “See what they’re doing?” I pointed to a jovial group gathered near a small rosewood table, one of the antiques that had been offered for sale. “That’s mostly what people did until dinner—they looked at the antiques, greeted their friends, and drank.”

The next photo showed Maisy standing off to the side, next to Pam, viewing the room, a goofy expression on her face. A few photos later, Maisy, still grinning happily, stood next to her husband, Walter, who stared disapprovingly into the far distance.

There were several photos of Dora chatting with people, all with Hank by her side. One shot showed her brushing up against him as she laughed at something out of view. Hank’s face was far less expressive than Dora’s—the reserved demeanor of a quiet man. Pam appeared in two pictures. In one she was seated near Maisy, raising her glass in a toast, and in the other she was chatting to a man I didn’t recognize.

I paused to sip some water and noticed that my trembling had stopped. The shock had passed and my ability to concentrate had returned. I continued my narration.

“Look at this!” I exclaimed. “It’s just like I described! Britt is leaning over my glass, handing something, or indicating something, to Dora. And there she is looking at the bid sheets.”

Gretchen called up, interrupting my commentary. “Eric’s left and asked that I tell you he’ll be in by seven o’clock tomorrow.”

“Is everything locked up?”

“I did it myself—and I set the alarms in the tag-sale area and the auction room. Sasha and I are getting ready to go, too. Should I set the phone or ask Fred to cover it?”

“How long does he plan on staying?” I asked, aware of Rowcliff’s irritation.

I heard her relay the question.

“For at least an hour,” she said.

The clock in the corner of the computer monitor read 4:30 P.M.

“Go ahead and set the phone, and would you ask Fred to call up when he leaves?”

“You got it! Can I bring you anything before I head out? You want some tea?”

I thanked her, and said no. I didn’t know what I wanted, but whatever it was, I doubted that she’d be able to provide it. I was able to act the part of a helpful citizen, but beneath the surface, I was seriously shaken.

I did the only thing I could think of—I turned my attention back to the photos.