He Will Be My Ruin

by K. A. Tucker

  Now that I think about it, I remember Celine talking about a guy friend from school who was as into antiques as she was. “I grew up with her,” I answer dismissively. “And you’re here now because of those eggs?”

  “My master’s thesis was on Fabergé,” Hans says matter-of-factly. “I work at Hollingsworth. She’s been trying to get me here to do a formal appraisal for months so she can sell them. I just didn’t have the time before.”

  Celine mentioned Hollingsworth to me enough times for me to know it’s a well-established international art brokerage. Not only has it brokered some of the most significant sales in history through both public auctions and private deals, but it has an educational division—Hollingsworth’s Institute of Art, where Celine had been accepted to attend. She planned on applying for a job as an appraiser at Hollingsworth after getting her MA.

  But . . . “Sell them?”

  “Yes. She figures the money from these will cover her storage fees.” His black eyes take in the shelves. “At least for the first few months.”

  I frown. “Storage fees?” I realize I must sound like a complete idiot to Hans, with my two-word questions and clueless stare.

  “It’s a cruel world, isn’t it? When a collector has to sell one of her children? Thank God I was able to talk her out of putting them up on that vile eBay.” He spits out the name “eBay” and shudders.

  Celine had an eBay store, where she sold the occasional vintage find. But she said she was building her “real” collection, so selling it all doesn’t sound like something she’d do. “Did she say why she was doing that?”

  He shrugs. “She needs the money, I guess.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, my frustration at a boiling point. Between Celine and Rosa, I’ve never met two more obstinate people in my life when it comes to money. Rosa has always been too proud to take a dollar that she hasn’t earned. Every check I have ever included in a Christmas gift or birthday gift has gone uncashed. Knowing Rosa, it was torn up immediately. When she was diagnosed with cancer and I flew back to stay with her, I had to resort to stealing her mail and paying her bills at the bank before she had a chance to.

  Rosa taught her daughter to be just as proud and stubborn.

  This must be about covering her tuition, and why she delayed starting her master’s. I don’t know how many times I offered to pay for it, but she refused.

  “They’re not real Fabergé, are they?” I ask. I don’t know a lot about art history, but even I have heard about Fabergé. “Aren’t those worth, like . . . millions?”

  Hans laughs. It’s one of those high-pitched, fake-sounding laughs that isn’t actually fake. “No, of course they’re not real. But even a well-made ‘Fauxbergé’ egg is worth something. Take this one, for example.” He holds up a delicate blue egg with silver decoration. “Look at the punched-out detail and the enamel and . . .” He goes on, babbling about chasing and single-cut diamonds and color like I understand what he’s saying. “She could get upwards of four thousand for this one. Can you believe that? She bought it for five bucks at a garage sale in the Bronx a year ago. Some clueless people clearing out their dead mother’s attic.”

  “Wow.”

  He must sense my lack of excitement because his mouth flattens and that snooty tone reemerges. “Where is Celine?”

  There’s no great way to tell him. “You should probably put that egg back on the shelf.”

  He frowns but complies.

  And then I tell him that Celine is dead.

  Hans, the self-proclaimed Fabergé expert, crumples onto the couch and begins to sob uncontrollably. I don’t really know what to do, so I simply sit down next to him and keep him company while he blubbers on. Outwardly emotional people and I have never meshed well.

  Except for Celine, of course.

  “But . . . but . . . how?” He peers at me in earnest. It’s a fair question. It’s the first question everyone asks. When it’s an acquaintance who wants to know, I’ve found myself lying and saying she had a heart condition.

  “Too much vodka. Too many pills.”

  Understanding fills his face. “You don’t think she really meant to . . . ?”

  My simple shrug is enough to send him into another fit of tears.

  “She was such a beautiful, kind person. Never judgmental. She used to let me talk her ear off about everything. But then I got busy with work and I kept canceling on her.” He blows his nose on a cloth handkerchief that he had tucked in his pocket. “I had no idea. I’m such a terrible person. She was truly one of my best friends.”

  “Yeah . . . mine, too,” I say with a soft smile, adding quietly, “one of my only.” It’s only in the last few years that I’ve realized just how few people I’ve let get close to me, how short my list of must-call people when I’m back in America has become.

  I’ve always done well with solitude.

  “Wait, are you that friend of hers? You’re . . .” He snaps his finger in my face as he points at me.

  “Maggie Sparkes.”

  “Right.” He nods slowly, and that gleam of harsh judgment has all but faded from his eyes. “She always talked about you.” A long, awkward silence hangs between us as our gazes wander among the clutter. “I can’t believe she’s gone. What are you going to do with all of this stuff?”

  “Good question.” I tell him about Rosa’s wishes.

  “So you need to have everything appraised first. How are you planning on doing that?”

  “I don’t know yet. I was reading up on it and I think my best option is to find an online appraisal company that can take care of her entire collection. At like, ten bucks an item, that’ll run me about . . . ,” I cringe, “ten grand, give or take?” I’m guessing the appraisal will be worth more than the sum total of everything in here. Truthfully, I’ll end up paying that out of pocket and padding the foundation generously in addition to it.

  “Appraisals ‘R’ Us? Bite your tongue, woman!” Hans snaps. “Celine would be rolling in her grave if she heard you say that.”

  “I don’t see any other options.”

  He takes a deep breath, swallowing hard as he looks at the shelves across from us with calculation in his eyes. “If you catalogue everything, I can make some calls. Yes . . .” He nods slowly, his jaw set with fresh determination as he dabs the tears from his cheeks. “I know plenty of people in the industry and everyone owes me a favor. We can do this. And I know good dealers, too, who might be willing to buy outright, or sell on consignment. Put them all in storage and we can take our time finding the right buyers.”

  “That’s . . .” I exhale, feeling suddenly lighter now that I have some educated help. “Thank you. I don’t know where to begin. Like, what do you mean by cataloguing?”

  He mutters something in French. “Take pictures. Several, of different angles, including any markings. I can use them to help convince people to lend their expertise.”

  “Pictures. I can do that.”

  With his fingertip he traces the metal detail on the lockbox sitting on the coffee table. “Wow, eighteenth-century escutcheon.”

  “Sure.” I smirk, though a part of me admires the guy for his vast knowledge. I can see why he and Celine were friends. They could geek out about art history in a way that she and I never could.

  Hans absently picks up the picture of the naked mystery man, now lying on the floor by my feet, and unfolds it. His grief is temporarily suspended. “Well, hello . . . Who is this?”

  The man who will be both Celine’s salvation and ruin? Those words gnaw at my conscience. “I have no idea. I take it you don’t know either?”

  He frowns and shakes his head. “Why?”

  “No reason. Just . . . curious.” I pluck the picture from his fingertips and stuff it in my purse. I’ll need it for the detective.

  After a heartfelt hug and a few more quiet tears on his part, Hans and I exchange phone numbers and make plans to connect about Celine’s collection over the next week, and then I say good-bye.
r />   I’ve barely sunk back onto the couch when there’s another knock on the door. I want to ignore it but I can’t, because each knock may bring a new piece of information about Celine.

  The super is back. “Hi, how’s it going?” His gaze drifts over the pile of untouched cardboard flats, over the coffee table, covered with sentimental keepsakes. He shaved today, I notice, and made some effort with styling his hair.

  “I got caught up in her things, and then obviously I fell asleep,” I say, waving my hands over the exact same pair of jeans and flannel shirt I had on when I last saw him.

  He nods. “When my brother died a few years ago, I spent an entire week lost in his stuff. It’s overwhelming.” His eyes—a pretty mixture of hazel and green—wander the space again. “And there wasn’t nearly as much stuff to get lost in.”

  His casual words pluck at my heart, reminding me that everybody has lost somebody. I instantly feel less alone.

  After a pause he says, “Listen, I’m just going to pull that mattress out of here and then leave you to it, okay?”

  He was serious about doing that?

  He nods his head to the side, and a burly man appears. “I brought the muscle with me.”

  I scan the super’s arms—lean and cut—and can’t help but smile, because he’s obviously attempting a joke. It’s all the more endearing, delivered with his light English accent.

  “Okay.” I turn my phone on to check for any messages—there are several, most work-related that I’ll ignore, one about a mattress delivery for later today, and one from Rosa—while the two men pull the soiled mattress off the bed frame and turn it on its side to fit through the door, holding the duvet in place to hide the stains.

  The super stops just outside the door. “Good luck in here, Maggie.”

  “Thank you . . . I’m sorry, I missed your name yesterday. I was a bit overwhelmed.”

  He smiles. “It’s Grady.”

  “Well, thank you, Grady. And the muscle.” They vanish down the hall with Celine’s deathbed.

  ————

  One second I’m alone in the narrow, dimly lit hallway outside Celine’s apartment.

  And then I lock the door and turn around to find a tiny, wrinkled woman standing no more than a foot away, smiling up at me.

  She exclaims, “Hello, Maggie!” at the same time that I jump back and grab my chest.

  “You’re confused. Wondering how I know you, right?” she asks with a wide grin, showing a full set of dentures. She must be in her eighties, her white hair framing her face in perfectly set curls.

  “Kind of.” She made absolutely no noise coming out of her apartment. I’m guessing this encounter is no accident. She’s probably been hovering just inside her door, the hearing aid tucked into her left ear turned up to full, waiting for me to emerge.

  “I’m Ruby Cummings.”

  I frown. Ruby Cummings . . . I remember that name. “You sent flowers to the funeral home.” I went through each arrangement, mentally noting the people who took the time out of their day for such a kind gesture. I knew most of them. I didn’t recognize a Ruby Cummings, but I silently thanked her then.

  Now I take her hand, the skin papery-thin but her grip surprisingly strong.

  “I recognize you from the pictures on Celine’s shelf. You’re that rich one who does all those humanitarian things, right?” Cloudy green eyes survey me from behind glasses—my long caramel hair that is about six months late for a cut and pulled into a haphazard ponytail, my tanned skin in need of some moisturizer, my rough hands, the nails chewed and chipped. Perfectly acceptable while dragging building materials off wagons in a third world village. Basically, I’m the opposite of what you’d expect of someone with the size of bank account I have access to. “She was such a dear, sweet girl. Worked so hard, always off to the library or some garage sale when she wasn’t at the office. Would you like to come in for tea or coffee? I’ve made shortbread. Celine always enjoyed those.”

  Clearly Ruby and Celine knew each other. There’s no reason for me to be wary of a little old lady, even if she was waiting for me to emerge.

  She gestures behind her, toward her apartment, from which the evidence of her baking wafts. I can’t help but follow with my eyes, catching a glimpse of the inside. It makes Celine’s apartment look minimalist. Shelves upon shelves of books line every visible wall. Stacks of leather-bound spines sit in piles on the floor. Paperbacks rest on doily-covered tables. Hardcovers create obstacles everywhere, just waiting to teeter over and crush toes. I can see why she and Celine hit it off. It’s a librarian’s dream.

  And a claustrophobic’s nightmare.

  My chest constricts at the sight of it.

  Fortunately, I have an honest excuse for avoiding what would amount to an hour of difficulty breathing and possible blackouts. “Thanks for the offer, but I have to meet with the detective on Celine’s case.” I called before my shower to confirm that he’s working today.

  “Oh . . . ?” Curiosity flickers in her eyes. “About what?”

  “Just want to clear up some questions I had.” I smile. A smile that I hope conveys that this isn’t to be gossiped about.

  “Okay, dear. Well, you know where to find me. And if I can help with anything at all, don’t hesitate.”

  “Thanks.” I begin down the hall, but then stop. “Hey, quick question.”

  She nearly pounces. “Yes?”

  “Did you ever see any of Celine’s friends visit her?”

  Her wrinkled face scrunches with thought. “Well, there’s her coworker, the lovely Greek girl with those black ringlets. And then—”

  I interrupt her. “What about men? Was she dating anyone?”

  “No. Not that she mentioned to me. Odd, don’t you think? She was such a beauty. I tell you, if I could turn back time and look like her, I’d have a parade lined up right here.”

  Dirty old bird. “Celine was a bit shy.”

  “Yes, I gathered that. She never brought a man home, not that I noticed anyway. And I’m always home. I would have heard or seen something.” She drops her voice an octave. “I keep a watchful eye on the comings and goings around here.”

  I’ll bet you do.

  As tempted as I am to show her the picture of Celine’s mystery man, I don’t. It doesn’t seem like that’ll do anything but give her something to talk about with the neighbors. “See you around, Ruby.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Maggie

  “How much longer?”

  “Detective Childs is out on a case and will be here just as soon as he can,” the gray-haired clerk answers without looking up from her computer screen, her voice monotone, the line a standard dismissal.

  “You said that two hours ago,” I mumble, earning a leveled glare that makes me focus on the white Styrofoam cup I’m gripping, the grounds sticking to the rim. I helped myself to the precinct’s coffeepot but haven’t managed to choke down the muddy water.

  At least I’ve been able to catch up on emails while sitting here, only mildly distracted by criminals and police officers alike milling about.

  “Ahhh . . . well, there you are,” the clerk calls out as footsteps approach from somewhere unseen to me. “This young lady has been waiting so patiently for your return.”

  “Well, how ’bout that.” A man of average height and soft-bellied build appears and examines me through chocolate-brown eyes that match his skin. He shifts a grease-bottomed paper bag from his right to his left hand and then sticks his right hand out in greeting.

  “Hi, I’m Maggie Sparkes. I’m here about Celine Gonzalez.”

  “Celine Gonzalez . . .” His heavy, untamed brow crinkles in thought, as if he has to filter through the various cases in his head to remember hers.

  She only died two weeks ago. So far, I’m not impressed with Detective Chester Childs.

  With a big meaty hand, he gestures me up and around the front desk.

  I trail him down a narrow, poorly lit hallway that hasn’t seen a coat of pai
nt in far too long. It ends in a vast room of computers and desks in rows, with the low buzz of phones ringing throughout. He takes the third desk in. Dropping a heavy notepad next to the keyboard, he eases himself into the chair with a groan. “So, Celine Gonzalez.” A few keystrokes on his keyboard has a file showing up on the monitor. “The pretty girl near Mott and Kenmare.”

  He’s so casual about it. “Yeah.” The pretty dead girl.

  “Right. I spoke to her mother on the phone. Lovely lady. What can I do for you today, Miss Maggie Sparkes?”

  I pull the picture out of my purse. “I found this in her apartment and I thought maybe it would be important.”

  Detective Childs peers first at me before pulling a pair of glasses from his front pocket and slipping them on. His short, curly hair is just beginning to gray. If I had to guess, I’d peg him in his early fifties. He reminds me of a younger Morgan Freeman, and I shudder, remembering Se7en. “Handsome man,” he murmurs, appraising the picture.

  I flip the picture over for him. “That’s her handwriting there.”

  He pauses to read it. “And where did you say you found this again?”

  “In a lockbox that I gave her years ago. It has a false bottom, for hiding things. I found almost ten thousand dollars in there with it.”

  “Hmm . . . and what exactly do you think this means, Miss Sparkes?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the detective. But I think it’s suspicious. Did you notice that her phone is missing?”

  He refocuses his attention on the computer screen, too calm and collected for what I’m telling him. “Your friend had been taking antidepressants on and off for seven years. Treatment for depression and anxiety.”

  “Mild depression and anxiety. And who isn’t?” It seemed like half the girls in college had a script for Prozac.

  Dark eyes flash to me for a second before moving back to the screen. “She just renewed her prescription with her doctor and her dosage was increased. She said some things to her doctor that I can’t reveal but are clear indicators.”