Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  I used the photo of Cal I’d found on the Hitchens University faculty page and got one of Nora from her church newsletter. I cropped the photo so only Nora showed. Just for good measure, I decided to include a photo of Lydia, too. Her professional headshot from the Technology Transfer Department’s Web page was flattering. She looked self-assured and determined, not harsh or ruthless. I downloaded all three images to my phone.

  Mac emailed back. He wrote:

  Hi Josie,

  Good to hear from you.

  As you know, we take all cases of fraud extremely seriously and we work hard to ensure that people buying from our site can do so without concern. We vet every ad. In this case, the description of the print, the seller’s guarantee, and the price were all in line. What information do you have and what do you hope to learn? Maybe it would be easier if we spoke. 917.555.8762. Now is good for me if it’s good for you.

  Regards, Mac

  I dialed his number.

  “Thanks so much, Mac, for making yourself available on a Saturday—and so early.”

  “When you have a two-year-old, this is late.”

  “I didn’t know you had a child. That’s wonderful! Boy or girl?”

  “A boy. Sam. Sam the Man. So … Josie … what are you saying about this print?”

  “I need to learn who sold it. I think it might be a gambler who sells repros as originals to pay down his debt.”

  “Are the police involved?”

  “Yes, but they don’t know I’ve contacted you.”

  “Will they have to?”

  “No. They may need to contact Antiques Insights, but no one will know you and I spoke.”

  “Thanks. If the situation warrants contacting the seller or the buyer about the potential fraud, will you let us do that?”

  “Yes … with the same caveat. I can’t speak for the police.”

  “That’s fair. The seller was Pat Durand.” He read off a Gmail address. The phone number started with a 207 area code, Maine. “The buyer is Michelle Michaels.” Mac gave me her contact information, an AOL email account and a Kansas City address.

  I thanked him again and promised to keep him posted.

  I reviewed my options: tell Ellis about Michelle Michaels and Pat Durand, ask Mac to get Michelle to contact me, or ask Wes to check them both out. There was no choice, not really. Ellis had to know.

  I emailed Ellis with an update, keeping Mac out of it, and asked him to let me know what he learned.

  There was nothing else I could do until Branson Wills opened at ten. I was halfway out of my chair when I realized I hadn’t watched the video I’d shot last night. I opened the file and hit PLAY.

  “Oh, wow,” I whispered.

  I raised my eyes from the screen and stared unseeingly into the woods. I watched the video a second time, horrified at what I was seeing.

  After a moment, I brought up the Home Depot’s website.

  A minute later, my questions answered, I texted Ellis: Call me. Urgent.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ellis called me two minutes later.

  “Thanks for calling so quickly, Ellis. Can you meet for a minute?”

  “I’m on the porch now.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I stuck my head into the kitchen. “I’m going to talk to Ellis. I won’t be long.”

  Ty held up the coffeepot. “Want a refill?”

  “Good idea.”

  Steaming mug in hand, I slipped on a sweater coat and walked across the driveway to Zoë’s porch. Hazy mist rose from the fields, and dew glimmered on the white aster and late-blooming purple flowering raspberries.

  Ellis was half-sitting on the railing drinking coffee from a thermos.

  “Thanks for meeting me so quickly,” I said. “What did the utility people tell you happened last night?”

  “A branch took the wires down. They had to wait for a supervisor to assess the conditions before they could begin repairs. Power was fully restored by midnight.”

  “Did you look at that branch? I mean really look at it?”

  “It’s about ten feet long, slender, with smaller branches and twigs running along the whole length of it.”

  “But no leaves. That branch was covered with moss. It didn’t break off a tree—it’s been lying on the forest floor for months, probably years. Have they thrown it away yet? It might help prove that someone tampered with the power lines.”

  “We’ve got it.”

  “You knew?”

  “I wouldn’t say I knew. I’d say we’re thorough. Keep in mind, it might be nothing more than some kids who thought it would be fun to create a blackout.”

  “I think the same person who broke into my place took down the wires.”

  “Pretty risky.”

  “Not so much if you wear rubber gloves and stand ten feet away.”

  “Downed wires can ricochet.”

  “I don’t know whether he got lucky or what; I just know he did it.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Probably Cal.”

  “Wouldn’t he worry about someone driving by and catching him in the act?”

  “There’s not much traffic at night. This was a deliberate act, Ellis. Someone found the branch and whacked at the wires until they fell. He had a clear plan. First, he disconnected my generator. Second, he knocked down the wires. Third, he broke into my office.”

  “Fourth, he got away. How?”

  “The scraping sounds I heard were from a telescopic ladder being extended. He had to have a ladder, and this model is easy to carry. You can buy one that weighs less than forty pounds at the Home Depot for less than two hundred dollars. He parked at the Congregational church and used the trees as cover. It’s only about a hundred yards from my building to the tree line, then a quarter mile on an easy-to-follow path. Figure a minute to collapse the ladder. If it were me, I’d bring a sturdy backpack to carry it—much less unwieldy and much quieter. Add a minute to pack it up and swing it into place. Thirty seconds to pass the tree line, less if he sprints, and another five minutes to reach the church, less if he jogs. Soup to nuts, it wouldn’t have taken him longer than seven or eight minutes once he hit the parking lot. As long as he was in the woods, he was safe. It was an audacious and clever plan.”

  “What happened after he got to the church?”

  “He tossed the ladder in his trunk or in the backseat and off he went. Oh! I don’t know if the church has security cameras. Do you?”

  “Do you think he had a partner?” Ellis asked, ignoring my question.

  “No. He didn’t need one, not with the generator out of commission. Remember, he thought he had the whole building to himself.”

  “Could it be a woman?” Ellis asked.

  “Sure. I carry things that weigh more than that all the time. I bet you’re examining the branch for touch DNA.”

  “Which I doubt we’ll find.”

  “How about bits of rubber from the gloves?”

  “Unlikely, but possible.”

  “Examine my parking lot and the path—you’ll find shards of glass. He walked on them. With all the rain we’ve had, there may be footprints.”

  “Good idea.”

  “You’ll check the church for security cameras, too.”

  Ellis smiled and sat in one of a pair of Adirondack chairs. “Have a seat and tell me what else I’m going to do.”

  I laughed and sat down. I drank some coffee. “I suggested that you check Cal’s emails for references to the Japanese prints.”

  “Already done. Our computer forensic team tells me no emails about Hiroshige or any Japanese woodblock print have been found on any of Cal’s accounts or computers.”

  “Of course, if Cal used a different device and a new email address, we’d have no way of knowing what he’s up to. Will you contact the director of the Langdon Museum and ask if Cal had access to their house list? Mailing the museum members might be a good way to drum up business.”

  “That’s a smar
t idea. Why did you ask me to look into that buyer, Michelle Michaels?”

  “The easiest way to sell another print would be to approach a satisfied customer. Presumably, she is one.”

  “How did you get her name?”

  “I’m reviewing ads offering Japanese woodblock prints going back a year. I think Cal is using that name I wrote you about, Pat Durand.”

  “Thanks, Josie. I’ll follow up.”

  “I’m going to place a ‘Hiroshige print wanted’ ad. I’ll let you know if I get any nibbles from Pat Durand or anyone else.”

  “You’ll let me know before you follow up.”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. When my mug was empty, I told him good-bye and went home to eat pancakes.

  * * *

  Rocky Point Congregational Church’s pastor, Ted Bauer, and I were pals. I frequently walked through the woods that separated our properties to stretch my legs and get some air. Ted was an avid gardener, and in nice weather, I often found him working in his rock garden. Ted’s wife, Peg, a tag sale regular, was a nurse. Their routine had her dropping him off at the church en route to her job at Rocky Point Hospital. Her shift started at seven, so I wasn’t surprised to see him kneeling on a gray foam pad beside a clutch of lavender phlox. He leaned back on his heels when he heard a vehicle turn into the parking lot, and when he saw it was me, he smiled and stood. Ted was about five-nine and stout, probably thirty to forty pounds overweight. His blond hair had long since turned gray.

  “Don’t tell me you’re getting rid of that beautiful phlox.”

  “Perish the thought! I’m dividing and moving some of the clusters. Spreading the wealth, as it were.”

  I scanned the gutters, then turned to the light poles. “Ted, do you have any security cameras I’m not seeing?”

  “No, why?”

  “My place was broken into last night. I think there’s a chance the thief used your parking lot.”

  Ted’s brows drew close together, and he reached out a garden-gloved hand as if to touch me. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. And nothing was stolen.”

  “Is this related to the power outage?”

  “I think so.”

  “So this was no casual break-in.” His eyes emanated caring. “Is there anything I can do?”

  I smiled. “No, thanks, Ted.”

  “We talk sometimes about installing cameras.”

  “It’s hard to decide what’s best.”

  “Please let me know if we can do something.”

  I thanked him again and walked to my car. By the time I was buckled in and ready to leave, Ted was already back in his garden, hard at work.

  * * *

  I sat at a worktable in the warehouse and talked to each of my key staff, one at a time, reassuring them that I was fine, that the break-in was an aberration, and that repairs would be completed shortly. I asked Eric and Gretchen to pass the news along to the part-timers.

  Everyone reacted as expected: Sasha listened without comment, twirling her hair nervously; Fred got angry, wishing he could have a few minutes alone with the intruder as soon as he was caught; Eric was anxious, shuffling in place, while nibbling on his bottom lip; Cara was worried about everyone and everything, eager to help in whatever way she could; Gretchen was more concerned about my emotional well-being than the break-in per se.

  Gretchen took two steps toward the front office, then stopped. After a moment, she marched back.

  “It was me. Wes called me and asked so many questions, some of them so awful … you know … lurid. I had to stop him.”

  That sounded just like Wes. “Like what?”

  Tears glistened on her long lashes. “He asked if any of us used your office for a little nooky when you aren’t there. Isn’t that horrible?”

  Rage, which had fired up as soon as I heard the panes of glass break, and which had been simmering all night, began bubbling to a boil.

  I forced myself to speak calmly. “That’s unbelievable, actually. A new low, even for Wes.”

  “I was shocked, completely shocked. I told Wes no, of course not. Then he asked how I could be so certain.” Gretchen raised her chin. “I know I should have ignored him, but I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. I said maybe his wife expected to find him there with a sweet young thing and broke in to check.”

  I laughed, my anger dissipating in an instant. “Well done, Gretchen! What did he say to that?”

  “He chuckled as if he’d just been razzing me and I’d landed a winner. After that he started asking questions about what was taken and who had keys and so on. I was so relieved he stopped trying to create a scandal, I said too much.”

  I stood up and patted her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me. It looks like there was no lasting harm done, and you’ve learned an important lesson: Don’t take the bait. Not that I blame you—Wes is a champion baiter.”

  “Thank you for understanding. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.”

  As soon as she was gone, I set off to the tag sale venue. I’d bought the nineteenth-century building, which had started life as a manufacturer of canvas products like sails and duffle bags, for its bones and location, but every inch had to be upgraded, from the electric and the plumbing to the foundation and the roof. I walked through the warehouse to the inside access door and stepped into a different world. I’d brought the tag sale venue up to code and expanded it, but I’d kept the nostalgic rustic feel. Our warehouse was modern and efficient, the auction venue was luxurious, and the tag sale venue exuded country charm.

  After a quick walk-through to confirm that Eric had done his usual capable job setting up the displays, which, of course, he had, I met our newest part-timer, Melissa Sayers. Melissa was new to Rocky Point, the wife of a doctor who’d just accepted a job at Rocky Point Medical Center. She was tall and thin, somewhere around forty, with medium brown hair, cut short. She wore a maroon Prescott’s polo shirt and khakis, as we all did on tag sale days. She had the residue of a deep tan and dark brown eyes.

  Before leading me up to her, Eric whispered that she’d gotten tired of selling men’s suits, which had been her last job, and loved antiques. She’d passed her background check with flying colors and seemed eager to learn. Today, she was scheduled to shadow Eric.

  I loved that Eric and Gretchen had taken the initiative to hire her, and I hoped she worked out, as much for their sake as for mine.

  Sasha was booting up a laptop in the Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth. I told her she could plan on me staffing it from noon to two, and left.

  * * *

  At nine fifty-seven, I turned into the Murphy’s Interiors parking lot. When I reached the Branson Wills boutique, Anita was sitting at her desk, typing into her computer.

  She greeted me warmly and invited me to sit.

  I brought up Cal’s photo and slid my phone across the desk to Anita. She swallowed, twice. Her recognition was apparent.

  “You know him.”

  “Yes. He’s a customer.”

  “This is Cal Lewis, the man I mentioned who sold the print to my friend, Mo. You said you didn’t recognize that name. What name did he give you?”

  “I’m sorry, Josie, but I’m just not comfortable talking about my customers.”

  “And I hope you know I feel the same. I’m not asking you to gossip. I never gossip. I hate gossip. This is part of an appraisal that I’m afraid might lead to an investigation into fraud.”

  “You suspect him of misrepresenting a print?”

  “I’m afraid so. Did he buy a Hiroshige print?”

  She didn’t reply for several seconds. “I hate this.”

  “So do I. It’s important, Anita. You know I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t.”

  She kept her eyes on my face, thinking it through. “He said his name was Pat Durand.”

  “Thank you.” I took a notebook from my bag. “What did he buy, and when?”
/>   She tapped into her computer. “He’s purchased two twentieth-century Japanese woodblock print reproductions, both from One Hundred Famous Views of Edo. The first was sold on June nineteenth: Benten Shrine, Inokashira Pond, number eighty-seven. He bought the one you asked about, Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill, number one hundred eleven, on August twenty-third. He paid eighteen hundred fifty each time, cash.”

  “What’s his address?”

  Anita turned to her computer for a moment, then read off a Rocky Point post office box number, 156.

  “His phone?”

  “None given. I have an email address, though.”

  She called it out, the same Gmail address I got from Mac.

  “I think Cal is ready to sell some more prints. He’s gone into hiding, and I’m afraid he’s deputized someone into helping him. Can you tell me when you last sold one of these prints?”

  “Actually, a woman bought one yesterday, Hiroshige’s Flower Pavilion, Dango Slope, Sendagi, number sixteen, also for cash, the same price, eighteen hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Did she seem agitated?”

  “Not so much agitated as … I don’t know … unengaged. I asked her a bunch of normal questions, you know, was she trying to match a color scheme? Was she a fan of all Asian art? She didn’t want to talk at all. She wasn’t even aware that this portfolio encompassed four seasons, and when I told her, she didn’t seem to care. She merely flipped through and picked one in what seemed a random fashion.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t want to be on our mailing list.”

  I brought up Nora’s photo on my phone and handed the unit to Anita. “Is this her?”

  Anita shook her head. “No. I’ve never seen this woman before.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, surprised. I’d been certain that Nora was Cal’s co-conspirator. I swiped the screen to reach Lydia’s photo and gave the phone back to Anita.

  She stared at the image, then shook her head. “No. I don’t recognize her, either.”

  “Thank you, Anita.” I glanced at the ceiling. “Are there any security cameras?”

  “Only in the back office. Murphy’s isn’t concerned about shoplifting. It’s up to each of us to decide if we want to install a security system. Cameras are on my list.”