He Will Be My Ruin

by K. A. Tucker

I stop asking questions and help Hans unwrap Celine’s entire collection from the box, until a row of fragile vases sits before us.

  Not one of them matches the twin dragon vase in Celine’s journal.

  A sinking suspicion fills my gut. I peer up, first at Hans, then at Ruby. “You know what this means, right?”

  CHAPTER 20

  Celine

  November 11, 2015

  The romantic and complex notes of Piano Concerto no. 25 fill my apartment and my heart. Mozart has always been my medicine after a long, miserable day. And I’ve had a bunch of them. The entire last month has been miserable.

  A year ago, when I decided I wanted to write my thesis on Chinese art—the market is booming, the history is rich, and Hans said that Hollingsworth salivates over North American appraisers with this type of expertise—I realized that I would need to start educating myself long before I even began my master’s. For as well versed as I am in European and British art, the farther east I go, the more ignorant I become.

  So I began reading everything I could in my spare time, studying the politics of China and its surrounding countries, the customs. Even traditional Chinese calligraphy. That alone—the origins of the characters, the very specific pen strokes required, where markings must begin and end—could be the bulk of my thesis.

  I’ve only just started acquainting myself with the actual art history aspect, so I’m still unfamiliar.

  Downing the rest of my vodka—it’s become a nightly habit as of late, to help me drift off after I’ve cried myself empty—I pick up the appraisal certificate and scan it again with a hopeful smile. I swung by the local antiques shop a few blocks away in Chinatown earlier this week and asked the dealer, Ling, to give me an appraisal. She’s very knowledgeable and has become a friend over the last year. I needed proof, before I offered this bowl up on a silver platter.

  I was right. It is a Ming Dynasty lotus bowl from the Xuande period—the cobalt-blue lines crisp from the addition of manganese. It’s likely worth anywhere between four and seven thousand dollars. I paid thirty-five for it, plus the appraisal fees, which I can’t really afford, but it was necessary this time.

  It’ll make a nice gift for her. And hopefully it’ll be a suitable peace offering.

  My gaze shifts to the vase and my heart rate jumps. Finding the bowl was one thing, but this vase . . .

  I still won’t let myself believe it. I’m still in shock.

  I wasn’t supposed to be buying for myself when I strolled into the driveway of a lovely elderly German couple in Queens, who were selling off their things to move into a retirement home together. I found the vase sharing a box with an archaic two-slice metal toaster and manufactured china dinnerware. I at first wrote it off as just another beautiful mass-produced knockoff. When I picked it up, though, and wiped off the thick coat of dust to study the artwork lines that show wear from age, I began to wonder.

  And then I turned it over and saw the markings.

  And I had to buy it.

  Using my iPhone—which has made cataloguing all of my finds so much easier—I carefully turn the vase over now and take a picture of the seal. The strikes are light and flowing, instead of heavy and thick. Judging by the slight curve in one of the letters, I’m pretty sure it’s handwritten, and not a computer-generated font meant to look handwritten. The blue paint matches the rich blue hues used in the detailed floral artwork. And I’m also quite sure that the blue-tinged glaze that coats the seal is uniform to the glaze that coats the rest of the beautiful and meticulous design.

  And this red dragon . . .

  I could have just spent fifteen dollars on something that came off an assembly line and that five thousand other people have sitting on their mantel. But I would hope that by now I can tell the difference, otherwise I probably shouldn’t bother pursuing this career path of mine.

  And if I’m right, if this vase is what I think it is . . .

  But everyone in the industry has written the twin vase off as lost. Destroyed. There have been enough false discoveries of it over the hundreds of years since its disappearance that to say you have found the long-lost twin vase is like crying wolf.

  Nobody believes you.

  I considered bringing it to Ling, but given she’s a Chinese art dealer, I’d feel obligated to sell through her. There’s no way I want to sell something as worthwhile as this may prove to be to some rinky-dink Chinatown dealer. This is a find for the likes of Hollingsworth, somewhere where I can make a name for myself in the industry.

  Besides, I’ll need a slew of experts to assess the vase—I’m guessing, given the value of this antique, that they’ll want to use thermoluminescence testing to be sure of its age—before I’m able to ever claim its authenticity and auction it off. I’ve done all that my naked, semi-educated eye can.

  I need to talk to Hans. He was supposed to come tomorrow night to check out the Fauxbergé but he bailed on me, again. He promised he’d come in a few weeks. I almost feel stupid even suggesting the authenticity to him. I’d rather just show it to him and see what he says.

  Turning the vase right-side-up again, I carefully set it back into the cardboard box on the floor next to me. I send the picture of the vase’s front—the dragon—to my little inkjet printer, so I have something to add to my hard copy catalogue. Call me obsessive, but I like the ability to touch my records.

  While that’s printing, I type out the headline for a new Relics Hunter blog post: “Discovery of a Lifetime?”.

  CHAPTER 21

  Maggie

  December 9, 2015

  “Has Rosa told you yet?”

  “Yes. Just last week.” I watch Melody Sparkes, nee Roswell, smooth the cloth napkin over her champagne-colored pants, her elegant, fluent tone sounding the same as it did ten years ago. The funeral was the first time I’d seen her in close to a year, since I was last in San Diego to take care of Rosa. Between hectic work schedules and time zone conflicts, we’re lucky if we catch each other on the phone once a month. Our relationship mostly exists through email.

  The woman has so far defied age, her complexion glowing, her features sharp. No doubt some of that is thanks to judicious Botox injections and laser treatments, but nothing over-the-top. She’s always been a classic beauty, her honey-blond hair kept long and layered, her makeup simple but effective, her wardrobe heavily geared toward traditional wool suits in pastel colors and pearls. It’s a rather deceptive front, given her reputation as a fierce businesswoman in boardrooms full of egotistical men in a male-dominated industry.

  It’s that energy that first attracted my father to her, or so he said. I wonder, had he married a compliant country club debutante like all the Sparkes men before him, instead of a career woman, would they still be married today?

  “I wish there was something we could do. She’s already been through so much,” my mom says through a glass of Perrier. I hear the sadness in her words, her voice, and that brings me some comfort. I like knowing that Rosa and Celine meant something to her, too. It’s not that Melody Sparkes is an uncaring woman. She’s just never been one to put her emotions on display for others.

  “I’m heading back to San Diego as soon as I’m done here, to stay with her until . . .” My throat begins to close with a sizeable lump. “Until she doesn’t need me anymore.”

  “You know, I come to New York so often. I wish I had made more of an effort to reach out. To visit Celine. I hadn’t seen her since . . . I don’t know when I saw her last. It puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?” She blinks several times. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen to her crying since her mother’s funeral, when I was ten. Clearing her throat, she asks, “How is handling the estate going?”

  I sigh. “Slow, but I’m making progress. You wouldn’t believe how many antiques she crammed into that tiny apartment.”

  “And how are you doing with that? Rosa said you’re actually staying there?” My parents have known about my claustrophobia since I was seven, when they took me to s
ee a specialist. Up until that point, they had just attributed my getting upset about being in a car too long to being a fussy child; my refusal to walk through crowds or step into small rooms, and my need to search out exits, to being “difficult.”

  When I accidentally locked myself inside the bathroom and Rosa found me curled into a little ball, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest, screaming at the top of my lungs, they decided to have me assessed. The diagnosis came back, and they sent me to a world-renowned therapist in L.A., who helped me learn to cope, to talk myself down from my panic attacks, should that ever happen again.

  While my parents haven’t always been there for me, they always ensured I had the best of everything, I’ll give them that.

  I shrug. “It’s manageable.” The waiter comes by with fresh drinks just as Doug’s ringtone chimes from my pocket, cutting into our conversation. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.”

  She waves me away, pulling her own phone out as I stand.

  I answer with “Hey, what’s up?”

  “You’re right. Four pictures of that vase were deleted from the computer.”

  A nervous flutter explodes in my stomach. It’s odd, how the sensation of being right about something so wrong can inspire excitement. “How do you know?”

  “Zac found them. Whoever did it either didn’t care to delete them permanently or isn’t smart enough to make sure they were gone. Or was in too much of a rush. And guess what night they were deleted on?”

  “November fifteenth,” I whisper. That date will forever be a dark day for me. The night Celine died.

  “Someone also went into her blog account and deleted a blog post she had been working on for days. Guess which one?”

  “The one about the vase.”

  “Bingo.”

  “What does this mean, Doug?”

  “Could mean a whole lot of things. Maybe your friend deleted the pictures and the blog post. She may have decided it was risky to have that out on the Internet before she confirmed the vase’s authenticity. Or, it could mean someone hacked into her account and deleted it. It definitely means you’re going to need to cut me another check.”

  I walk back to the table, dread and excitement competing within me. Tiny bread crumbs are trailing in, important nuggets that I don’t yet fully understand. What if Celine’s death has nothing to do with her side profession? What if I’ve been chasing the wrong rabbit this entire time?

  I do my best to carry on a normal conversation through the rest of lunch, as my mom asks what plans I have coming up with my organization that she should be aware of, so she doesn’t look like an idiot to the reporters when they ask. Not that she ever does, because no matter what I’m up to, she stands in front of cameras with a smile and makes the same generic statement: “Sparkes Energy is proud of Maggie’s ongoing work in developing countries. We will always support her philanthropic efforts.”

  Not until an eggnog cheesecake with two spoons is placed between us—compliments of the chef, because the Waldorf Astoria knows the Sparkes Energy matriarch well—does she inadvertently bring Jace Everett up. “So Clifton Banks mentioned that you’re investing some funds with the New York branch of Governor Everett’s investment firm. Not that it’s his firm anymore, per se.”

  I roll my eyes as I slide a sliver of cake into my mouth. Clifton has not yet grasped the concept that “confidential” includes other members of the Sparkes family. The good thing is that it doesn’t sound like she’s going to try to dissuade me. We’ve come a long way over the years. I honestly think that my parents just didn’t know what to do with a child. It wasn’t until I began college that it seemed like we could relate on a human level.

  “Yes, I am. Long story . . . ,” that I’ll never try to explain to her, “but I figured I’d diversify. His son came highly recommended.”

  “His son?” The sparkle in her eye hints at her curiosity.

  “Yes, his son who is arrogant, privileged, and money-hungry.” And paid Celine to have sex with him.

  “Some might say the same about you . . .” She pops her fork into her mouth with a knowing smirk. “That’s too bad. I was hoping you’d bring a date to the gala this weekend. The money is going to your organization, after all.”

  “I would not invite Jace Everett to a charity event.” I wouldn’t even invite Grady, and I’d actually enjoy bringing him. But I can already tell that a night of Cristal and duck confit is not his kind of thing.

  “But you’re coming, right?”

  “I am. And I’m bringing Celine’s neighbor from across the hall.” The only time I ever enjoy being a part of a Sparkes Energy social event is when it’s for charity. If there’s one thing my family’s company does right, it’s this. When I was little, it was a chance to get dressed up and walk down a gold carpet and into a wonderland of delicious food and elegant surroundings. Now I simply enjoy seeing the final tally at the end of the night, of thousand-dollar-per-head tickets sold and additional donations received, knowing that a large percentage of that amount will go to a cause of my choosing. Lately, it’s been the foundation that I built from the ground up.

  I haven’t actually attended one of these events since I was twenty-two.

  “Well, I hope these investments work out for you. Dale Everett is a nice man.”

  Of course my mother would know the governor of Illinois. Given that Sparkes Energy headquarters is just outside Chicago and they’re always tied up in one political mess or another, it makes sense she’d be on a first-name basis with him. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? “How well do you know him?”

  “Well enough. Almost seven years now, since he started campaigning for his first term. Actually, I was just at a holiday event at his home last weekend. You should see this house, Maggie!” She goes on and on, describing the governor’s English-style Tudor home on the bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, paid for not through his elected position but decades of success at his firm, coupled with the “old money” that came with his wife, Eleanor Everett, nee O’Neill, a political debutante. Apparently the governor’s mansion wasn’t appealing to her.

  My mom pulls out her phone and begins scrolling through her pictures with me, showing me the expansive backyard of the Everett estate, filled with people mingling under a white tent set with heaters and twinkling lights, the view of the water beyond spectacular.

  “If you should ever have a chance to tour their house, take it,” she says excitedly. My mother has always had a penchant for historic homes, even though she chooses to live in a Trump Towers condo in downtown Chicago. She hands me the phone. “Look at this library. Isn’t it beautiful? All custom-made walnut cabinetry, and it must be more than a thousand square feet.”

  “Celine would have loved that,” I murmur, studying the home magazine–worthy picture of peaked ceilings and shelving, skillfully lined with books and sculptures.

  “You’re right, she would have. Dale and Eleanor are huge art collectors, in fact. They’ve bought and sold several rare pieces over the years. Eleanor claims herself to be somewhat of an aficionada. She spends a lot of time educating herself.”

  Celine would have really loved dating a guy whose mother shared her passion, I’ll bet. Though Celine’s real thrill was always in identifying the treasures and paying very little for them, rather than handing over thousands—if not more—to someone else who had done the legwork.

  I expand the screen, getting a closer look at one of the shelves, at the vases and plates and other ceramics on display.

  “What’s the matter, Magpie?” my mom asks. “If you scowl like that, you’ll get wrinkles.”

  I zoom in on another shelf.

  And another.

  And I can feel my scowl deepening.

  I can’t tell her what I’m thinking.

  But this is all just too coincidental to be ignored.

  ————

  “I need you to find out everything you can about Governor Dale Everett and his wife, Eleanor,” I demand,
bracing myself as my taxi driver blasts his horn and swerves around a stopped car while people climb out of it, skates slung over their shoulders, smiling and laughing and oblivious. No doubt on their way to the rink at Rockefeller Center.

  “His parents. What for?” Doug asks.

  I tell him what I learned over lunch, specifically about the vast collection of Asian antiques that Jace’s parents have amassed—the many, many decorative vases that line Eleanor’s shelves.

  “So you’re thinking . . .” Doug sounds skeptical.

  “I’m thinking that if his mother is the expert that she claims to be, then she might have heard the story of the twin vases.” And Jace might have heard it, too. “We need more information. Just find out what they’ve bought and where. Hans has tons of contacts in the industry if you need any ins. I’m going to text you a few pictures.” I forwarded the pictures of Eleanor Everett’s library to myself from my mom’s phone. I figured Hans can also help in identifying what’s on those shelves.

  “You know this is going to cost—”

  “So I’ll write you another check!” I snap, hanging up on him.

  CHAPTER 22

  Maggie

  December 10, 2015

  “This is why I love the holidays.” Detective Childs helps himself to three more of Ruby’s shortbreads while she simply holds the tin open with a grin, pleased with another satisfied customer.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have brought her to the precinct with me. I wanted her here to corroborate the facts, but I need Childs’s undivided attention and the cookies are stealing the show. “Ruby saw the vase on the shelf the day before Celine’s death.” I refuse to refer to it as suicide anymore. Any lingering doubts I might have had that perhaps Celine killed herself have disappeared. “And now it’s gone. This is what it looks like.” I smooth the creases in the pictures that Doug printed out for me, recovered from Celine’s hard drive. “Someone deleted these from her computer, the same night that she died.”

  Detective Childs lifts the top sheet with mild interest. “So, let me get this straight. On November eighth of this year, Celine bought this vase at a garage sale for fifteen dollars, based on these records. Ms. Ruby Cummings here”—he smiles kindly at her, but I know exactly what’s going on inside his head, that my eyewitness is an eighty-one-year-old with cataracts and a hearing aid—“insists that she noticed this vase on the shelf, along with the thousand other items that fill Celine’s collection, only the day before. This friend of Celine’s who is helping with appraisals tells you that he thinks it’s an eighteenth-century . . .”