Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “That’s quite a story.”

  “It’s the truth, so help me God.”

  “So Ricky Joe has the receipt.”

  “I guess. He probably had it back then. God knows whether he kept it.”

  “Abbot’s must have a record of the sale.”

  “Or they don’t.”

  “C. K. can verify you won it like you said.”

  “If he remembers.”

  “I’ll need to verify the events somehow, Frank.”

  “Sure. Just don’t tell Trish.” He gave the ice one last spin and downed the rest of his drink. “The owner of the store is the one who told Ricky Joe about the Robert Johnson connection, unless he made it up.”

  “What’s his name? Abbot’s owner?”

  “I don’t recall, if I ever knew it, which I doubt I did.”

  “What did Ricky Joe tell you about the history of the guitar?”

  “That Abbot’s bought the guitar off some gal who was somehow connected to one of Johnson’s girlfriends. Johnson was quite the ladies’ man.”

  “You don’t make things easy, Frank.”

  “Nothing worth a damn is easy.”

  I clinked his empty glass with mine. “Words to live by.”

  My phone vibrated. It was a text from Wes: Urgent. Call now.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Wes said something was urgent, usually it signaled nothing more than his eagerness to be first in line. Usually wasn’t always, though, so I pushed my half-full drink aside and assured Frank his secret was safe. He stood when I did and insisted on paying, a gentleman. I offered condolences again, and he got misty-eyed and hugged me.

  I sat in my car and called Wes. He answered before I even heard a ring.

  “I need some info pronto.”

  “I’m fine, Wes. How are you?”

  “Good, good. You were right. Cal didn’t go to Little Tokyo. My police source tells me they have him driving down Market Street at four thirty-five.”

  “What do you mean they ‘have him’?”

  “On security camera footage. From Harrison Foodmart’s parking lot cameras. He whizzed by.”

  “To get to the Shannons’ from Market, you need to take either the interstate or Route 1. If he took I-95, he’d have to pay a toll. What about tollbooth cameras or E-ZPass?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So if he went to Mo’s, he took Route 1, which is lined with stores and restaurants and doctors’ offices. Surely there are a bunch of security cameras.”

  “You’d think. They’re still checking, but they’ve got nothing at this point. He might have taken back roads in order to avoid the cameras.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. It’s also possible he didn’t go to Mo’s. For all we know, he’s en route to Vegas.”

  “Good one, Joz! Where do you think he is for real?”

  “Have you checked for out-of-state family?”

  “He has a sister in Wyoming, and his mom is in an assisted living facility down in Myrtle Beach, but he’s not close to either of them. The reason I called … Cal hasn’t used a credit card or his cell phone … how would you find him?”

  “You said in your message that it was urgent. What’s urgent about that?”

  “Don’t you want to know what he’s up to?” Wes sounded staggered. “I thought you’d be flattered. Every once in a while you come up with a smart idea.”

  Talk about damning with faint praise. I decided to ignore it. “If I were looking for Cal, I’d ask Lydia who his friends are. I’d talk to people at Hitchens and at the campus museum. I’d look through his desk and his computer. I’d see who contacted him, say in the last three months, and vice versa.”

  “These are stock approaches. The police and I are tripping over one another. I need a new approach. Give me an idea that’s smokin’.”

  “What about Lydia? If Cal is in touch with anyone, it would be her. Can you tell if he’s called her cell or sent her email? Or maybe she’s taken out a bigger-than-usual withdrawal to sneak him cash.”

  “The police are all over it. I don’t call that a smokin’ hot idea.”

  “We could—” I stopped myself as an idea rattled me.

  “We could what?” Wes prodded.

  “I need to go. Sorry.” I hit the END CALL button.

  Much to my surprise, I had come up with a smokin’ hot idea, and I was keeping it for myself.

  * * *

  Sitting in my home office, I reread the document I’d just created and smiled, satisfied. It was good. I emailed it to myself for safekeeping, then printed two copies, slid them into a clear plastic sleeve, and left them by the front door. I crossed the driveway, climbed the steps to Zoë’s porch, and rang the bell.

  The porch light came on, and I stood in a seashell-pink circle of light. All Zoë’s outside bulbs were pink. Ellis opened the door.

  “Just the man I want to see.” I stepped inside. “Got a sec?”

  “Sure.”

  I spoke to his back as he walked down the hall toward the kitchen. “I need to run something by you.”

  Ellis stopped. “Privately?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Is that you, Josie?” Zoë called.

  “Hey, Zoë! I need to talk to Ellis for a minute. I’ll come say hello after.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Nope. Just a little business.”

  Ellis led the way into a parlor off the living room. Zoë called it her thinking room. He slid the pocket door closed. We sat across from one another on matching ladder-back chairs fitted with traditional blue-and-white toile cushions.

  I handed him a copy of my flyer and watched him read it. It didn’t take him long since most of the space was taken up by photographs. One was a shot of Mo’s Japanese woodblock print. The other was a photo of Cal Lewis I’d nabbed from Hitchens University’s faculty page. In the photograph, Cal sat in front of a haphazardly filled bookshelf, his chin resting on his hands, his elbows on his paper-strewn desk, a scholar hard at work, or a man wanting to create that impression.

  When he looked up, I said, “I think I’d like to post this online. What do you think?”

  “This flyer implies Cal has knowledge about the print.”

  “But not necessarily that he did something wrong. I worded it carefully.” I read the headline aloud: “Did you sell this man this Japanese woodblock print?”

  “It’ll make him rabbit. Just do a regular call for sightings, for the print, not the man.”

  “The print is a dime a dozen. Everyone and her mother has sold one of these.”

  “Then we’ll have a lot of sifting to do.” He leaned back, refusing to be hurried, recognizing my impatience because he’d seen it before. “When we know more about what we’re dealing with, then we can talk about publishing someone’s photo. It’s premature and is likely to do more harm than good. For now, I’m going to ask you to hold off.”

  Meeting his unrelenting scrutiny, I could hear the last faint sizzle of my smokin’ hot idea fizzling out.

  * * *

  Ellis and I walked into the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of tea from the art deco Clarice Cliff ceramic teapot I’d given Zoë last Christmas. He raised a cup in my direction, silently asking if I wanted some.

  “No, thanks.”

  Zoë sat at her kitchen table with her feet up on a chair, flipping through an L.L.Bean catalogue.

  I slid into another chair and pointed at the catalogue. “What are you looking for?”

  She grinned. “Nothing, but I’ll know it when I see it. Any news on why Ty was called to D.C.?”

  “Not yet. I hope he’ll be able to tell me something when I talk to him later.”

  “Give him my love.”

  “I will.”

  She tossed the catalogue aside. “The kids want to go on a hayride. Want to come? I’m thinking Sunday, around three.”

  “Great! Let’s plan on dinner at my place afterward.”

  “Sold!”

  * * *


  I revised the flyer, eliminating all references to Cal, and emailed the new version to Wes. My cover note read:

  Hey, Wes!

  I’m giving you a head start. I’ll be mailing this flyer to my entire list in an hour.

  You’re welcome.

  Josie

  Two seconds after I hit SEND, Ty called.

  “Hey, cutie. How’s my best girl?”

  “Saying I’m the best implies that you have other girls and they aren’t quite up to snuff.”

  He laughed, a deep rumble. I smiled. I loved Ty’s laugh.

  “What makes you think I’m joking?” I asked.

  He laughed harder. Ty’s laugh was infectious, and I caught it. I walked into the living room and plunked down on the couch. After a moment we both quieted down.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Stop. Don’t start me off again.”

  “Okay. Are you all right? You sound beat.”

  “I am. It’s been a day. All good, but a lot coming at me from a lot of different directions, leaving me with too many balls to juggle and too much to think about. I’m a single-minded man—give me a task, no one does it better. Give me politics, and I’ll go fishing. The executive committee brought me down to Washington because they wanted my opinion on a reorg idea. It looks like all training will be under the purview of a national director, a new position. They want to assess best practices on a local level, sift all the findings through one assessment model, come up with a unified program, and roll it out nationally. Instead of eighteen local directors reporting to five regional managers, the eighteen will report to three regional managers, organized geographically East, West, and Central. Those three regional managers will report to the new national director.”

  “But different areas have different needs.”

  “That’s a concern I raised. And they agree. They think this approach will translate into quicker decision-making.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a gamble.”

  “They want you for East.”

  “Yes. I’d be based in Rocky Point. They nosed around some about whether I might be interested in the national director position.”

  My heart stopped, then started again, a slow drumbeat, the kind of low, steady thumping that signals danger. I hate change. Any change. I forced myself to think about Ty, not myself. He was brilliant. Responsible. Experienced. Wise.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I kept it vague … you know … ‘That’s something to think about,’ that sort of thing. They were just putting out feelers. Nothing was offered.”

  My pulse quieted, just a bit. “Why wouldn’t you leap at the opportunity?”

  “Because the director will have to be based in D.C. My home is wherever you are, and you need to be based in Rocky Point.”

  “Wow. That’s like the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Say it again.”

  “My home is wherever you are. Not to sound cheesy or anything, but you are my heart. I love you.”

  Outside, a car drove by, and in the glare of its headlights, I spotted a deer in the forest across the street. It froze for a second, then turned tail and fled, disappearing into the night.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You don’t love me?”

  I laughed. “I see you’re not a mind reader. I adore you, Ty, and you know it. I don’t need to be based in Rocky Point. I’m Prescott’s owner. I can be based wherever I want.”

  “You’re a little bit of a control freak. How could you possibly move to Washington?”

  “I’d open a second venue and leave my staff in charge of the flagship location.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t know anything about the D.C. market.”

  “I’m a quick learner. And where you go, I go.”

  “I don’t have to go.”

  “Don’t you want a promotion?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then apply. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Why can’t we do this with our wedding plans?”

  “We will.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thursday morning, I woke to pelting rain just before six. I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head, trying to recapture the slow, dreamy haven of sleep, but it was gone.

  I took my coffee to my study and booted up my computer. I wanted to see which media outlets had picked up my call for sightings. The Portsmouth newspaper had a short article on page 8. Two local blogs, one with a newsy bent; the other one, antiques focused, ran it as a major story. All the major antiques sites and publications highlighted it. It was the lead story on the Seacoast Star’s home page. Wes featured the photograph of Mo’s Japanese woodblock print alongside the headline.

  HELP SOLVE A MURDER

  HAVE YOU SEEN THIS ANTIQUE JAPANESE WOODBLOCK PRINT?

  Next to it, a secondary article discussed the mysterious disappearance of Cal Lewis, stating he hadn’t used any of his credit cards or withdrawn any money from his bank account. There was no direct inference that Cal’s absence was related to the call for sightings, but the implication was clear: Cal bought the print somewhere and sold it to Mo. Mo was killed. Cal went missing. Learning where Cal bought the print might help track down Mo’s murderer. I was glad Wes did it, but I was also glad that it would be Wes, not me, who had to explain the placement to Ellis.

  The article about Mo’s print ended with an instruction to contact me with information. I texted Wes: Great story. I’ll let you know if I hear from anyone.

  * * *

  Fred was at his desk when I arrived around seven thirty, a rare occurrence. Fred was a night owl, often coming in close to noon and staying late into the evening. Since his wife, Suzanne, the general manager at the Blue Dolphin,* almost always worked the dinner shift, his proclivity suited their schedules. Protected by the overhang, I straddled the threshold and shook out my umbrella before stuffing it into the chinoiserie umbrella stand.

  I staggered and pressed my palm against my chest. “Call a doctor! I’m seeing a mirage.”

  “Ha, ha. I can’t believe I’m here either, but duty calls. I have an eight A.M. call to Monsieur Pierre Gagnon in Paris. Evidently, he’s the owner of one of those fourteen Martin guitars.”

  “Great work. Speaking of the guitar, I have an update.” I sat down. “I spoke to Frank Shannon, and there are aspects of the situation he doesn’t want known.” I filled him in. “You reach out to Abbot’s and go backward from there. I’ll work to connect the dots between Frank and Ricky Joe and C. K. Keep written records as usual, but report only to me.”

  “Got it. And I’ll continue tracing the guitars.”

  “Good. Any news from Davy?”

  “He’s due up tomorrow at ten.”

  “Perfect.”

  Gretchen’s wind chimes jingled, and Fred and I looked up.

  Trish straddled the threshold. She shook out her umbrella, then placed it in the holder. She looked amazingly put-together considering the ordeal she’d endured the last few days. Her eyes were clear. Her hair was neatly styled. She wore a hint of blue-gray eye shadow, and her lips shone with a rosy gloss.

  “I hope I’m not too early,” she said. “I saw cars in the parking lot and thought I’d take a chance that you were here.”

  “I’m glad you did. Trish, I don’t know if you’ve ever met Fred, one of Prescott’s antiques appraisers. Fred, Trish Shannon, Mo’s mom.”

  Fred stood and stepped around his desk. He looked as stylish as ever in his slim-fit, perfectly tailored Italian-made suit.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms. Shannon. Josie’s told me wonderful things about Mo.”

  Trish’s eyes moistened as she shook Fred’s hand. “Thank you.”

  I walked to the coffee machine. “I see Fred made a pot of coffee. Would you like a cup? We can take it to my office.”
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br />   She accepted the offer, and I balanced everything on a tray. Fred opened the warehouse door. Upstairs, I used my elbow to flip on the overhead light in my office, then slid the tray onto the butler’s table. Trish sat on the love seat. I poured her a cup, and she grasped it as if she needed the warmth.

  “I saw this morning’s Seacoast Star. Reading that article about Cal, positioned as it was, directly next to the call for sightings … well, it was upsetting.” She lowered her cup to the tray. She hadn’t taken a sip. “I thought you might know something. The police aren’t telling us anything.”

  “No … I’m sorry.”

  “Never mind. The real reason I stopped by … I wanted to let you know that Mo’s funeral is next Tuesday.”

  “I heard.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She paused for a moment. “Mo left instructions that she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes scattered on the beach. We’ll do that privately. The service, though, is public, and I was hoping … we were hoping that you’d deliver one of the eulogies. Her principal is going to talk about her work with the children. Helene will talk about her volunteer efforts. And our minister, of course.” She must have seen my surprised expression, because she added, “Whenever Mo spent time with you, she mentioned it, recounting things you said that stuck with her, reporting on your accomplishments … Mo didn’t have close friends, not in the conventional sense. She was too busy helping other people. Please … will you give the eulogy, as her friend?”

  There was only one possible reply. “I’d be honored.”