Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  We made our way to the bar.

  Chester came toward us, hands extended. “Josie! The Colonial Twist is honored.”

  “You’re very kind. Chester, this is my fiancé, Ty Alverez. Ty, Chester Randall.” As the two men shook hands, I added, “I see we were lucky to get a reservation.”

  “I can always make room for friends. Why don’t you order a drink? It won’t be too long.”

  The bar was almost as crowded as the lounge, the happy rumble of conversation sprinkled with laughter. I waited by the side wall while Ty elbowed his way to the elephant railing.

  As I’d anticipated, all the men wore jackets or blazers and ties. I felt a bit underdressed because most of the women wore evening attire, the little black dresses and sparkly tops you see at cocktail parties. I didn’t recognize a soul.

  Chester joined me. “A table should be ready in about ten minutes.”

  “Perfect.”

  Chester leaned in close to my ear so he wouldn’t be overheard. “I was going to stop by on Monday. I heard about the break-in on the news. Are you all right?”

  I kept my voice low, too. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine. It was pretty frightening, though.”

  “You don’t know who did it?”

  “No.”

  He cast his eyes around the room, keeping a professional watch on the servers and his guests. “So … do you have any news regarding the whereabouts of our mutual acquaintance?”

  “No. How about you?”

  “I thought so, but no. I followed his lady friend after she left work yesterday. She drove to a cobbler on Islington. Why does anybody go to a cobbler five miles from her condo, and farther than that from her job, when there’s a shoe repair shop a half mile from where she lives? Do you know that stretch of Islington? Down by Hatchett Street? The neighborhood is solidly working class, a little long in the tooth, maybe, but decent. Nora stayed about an hour.”

  “I can’t see Cal living in a working-class neighborhood. He’s too proud.”

  “‘Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.’ When vermin is under attack, it does what’s necessary to survive.”

  “Where did Nora go next?”

  “Straight to her condo.”

  “And you went back to check out the shop.”

  “That’s right. As far as I could tell, it’s just a shoe repair shop. I figure she waited while they replaced a heel and gave her shoes a good shine.”

  “An hour is a long time for that.”

  “I know.”

  Ty walked up carrying my martini and a glass filled with amber liquid. Chester said he needed to check on something and walked toward the restaurant.

  I took a sip. The drink was cold and thick, creamy. “Yum. You don’t drink beer out of a glass very often.”

  “This isn’t a drink-from-the-bottle kind of place. Plus, they have Allagash White on tap.”

  “Really! Allagash White. I’m stunned. You’re not serious!”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic. I was celebrating with you.”

  “Oh.” He raised his glass.

  I clinked and said, “Here’s to us.”

  “And to silver light in the dark of night.” He touched my glass, then drank. “Ahh! Allagash White. Life is good.”

  The hostess, another attractive woman in a black dress and pearls, led us to a table in a corner. The cloud-white tablecloth was soft and supple. I could see myself reflected in the silver flatware. Delicate yellow blossoms drifted alongside a tea candle in a shallow bowl of water. To my left, I could see the entry to the casino.

  I turned my attention back to Ty. “If I ask nicely, I bet Chester would show you the casino.”

  “Not tonight. Tonight I just want to be with you.”

  “You’re so romantic.”

  “I’m in love.”

  I raised his hand to my cheek and closed my eyes. “Me, too.”

  The waiter appeared. I chose Mama’s lasagna. Ty went for the lobster alfredo primavera. We decided to share a Caesar salad.

  The food was wonderful, and the service was even better, there when you wanted it, but unobtrusive. We sat and talked about nothing in particular. It was, all in all, a perfect evening.

  “What do you think?” I asked Ty as soon as the waiter cleared our plates.

  “Delicious. Next time, I’ll try the steak.”

  “Me, too.”

  Chester beamed when we told him how much we’d enjoyed ourselves.

  I had a new favorite restaurant.

  * * *

  Shelley came through. The disposable phone with a 917 area code arrived just before eleven on Sunday morning. I texted her a thank-you, not wanting to risk waking her again, then dashed to my computer, entered the phone number into my Antiques Insights request for a Hiroshige print in perfect condition, paid the fee, and posted my ad.

  * * *

  At two, I sat on the couch, reading “Poor Sherm,” a short story by Ruth Chessman that had been featured in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine as a “classic.”

  Ty came into the room. “You look deep in thought.”

  “Relationships are complicated.”

  “What did I do wrong?”

  I laughed. “Not you. You’re perfect. I was thinking how fragile life is. Blink twice and you miss it.”

  “You miss your mom.”

  “And my dad.”

  Ty sat beside me and kissed the top of my head. I leaned into his shoulder and let the memories come. From the time I was about six until my mom died, our little family of three spent a weekend a season in Dennis, on Cape Cod. We stayed in a beachfront cabin. My folks got the bedroom. I slept on the couch.

  During my mother’s final pain-ridden days, we’d gone for one last weekend. It was September, and my mother had insisted that she was eager to go on our annual hayride. My dad, afraid that sitting on hard slats of wood and bouncing along the rough track would be too much for her, arranged with a local farmer for a custom ride. While she napped inside our cabin, Dad and I covered the cart’s floor with thick blankets and set up three tranquility chairs, low and cushy. We reclined in style as the farmer drove us slowly along a packed-dirt path that ran alongside his property. My mother kept her eyes on the fire-colored leaves and breathed in the pine-infused scent of fall.

  I leaned over and kissed Ty. “Ready for a hayride?”

  At three, Ellis, Zoë, her son, Jake, her daughter, Emma, Ty, and I bundled ourselves into hoodies and sweaters and drove to the Allen Farm. We walked along the faux-torchlit path to where an old wagon was waiting, and I took my place next to Ty. For the half hour we rocked along the path, I was young again, and I had my mother near me.

  After we got back to my place, I grilled burgers and dogs, and then, as twilight’s purple blush enshrouded the meadow like a veil, we sat around the fire pit, watching Jake and Emma play badminton until they could no longer see the birdie.

  Later, the kids roasted marshmallows and passed them out to the adults, and as I licked the gooey sweetness from my fingers, I thought I was maybe the luckiest woman in the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I was first into work on Monday morning. As soon as I booted up my computer, I emailed Mac at Antiques Insights.

  Hi Mac,

  How did Pat Durand pay for his account? What credit card did he use? How did his buyers pay him? Did the transactions go through PayPal?

  Thanks!

  Josie

  Mac’s reply came quickly.

  Hi Josie,

  Yes, everything went through PayPal.

  Mac

  I looked up from my monitor. PayPal linked to a credit card. The police—or Wes—could probably find the record, but that wouldn’t help. I was certain that Cal, using the name Pat Durand, had acquired the kind of credit card you prepay in cash and refill as needed. Lots of places sold cards like that, and many of them didn’t have security cameras, since tracking buyers would
be bad for business. In all likelihood, the post office box had been opened simply because Pat Durand needed an address to get the credit card, but he was paying the bills online. I’d taken one step forward and one step back. I’d learned the details of Cal’s operation, but I’d made no progress in tracking him down.

  As I began considering next steps, Shelley’s phone rang. I grabbed it, then froze with my finger hovering over the ACCEPT CALL button. If it was Cal, he’d recognize my voice. Same with Nora. Same with Lydia. I hoped whoever was calling would leave a voice mail.

  The display said it was an unknown number. A few seconds later, an email popped into my newly created Hiroshigefan Gmail account.

  Hello!

  I see you’re looking for an original print from 100 Famous Views of Edo—I have one. Where are you located?

  Pat

  I knew how I wanted to reply, but I hadn’t considered what name I should use. I swiveled toward my window. One of my best friends in grammar school was named Andrea Brewster. We’d called her Andi.

  Hi Pat,

  Which one do you have? I’m from New York.

  Andi

  Hi Andi,

  “Flower Pavilion, Dango Slope, Sendagi No. 16” in stock. Do you know it?

  Pat

  I Googled Hiroshige “Flower Pavilion Dango Slope Sendagi No. 16.” The print depicted an exquisite cherry blossom scene. Indistinct figures strolled through the orchard, taking in the astonishing, fleeting beauty.

  Hi Pat,

  I love it! I want it! Can you send photos?

  Andi

  Hi Andi,

  Will do. I’m on the road right now, so it will be a few hours before I can get them to you, though. Okay?

  Pat

  Hi Pat,

  No problem. I’ll be running around all day anyway. Are you a dealer?

  Andi

  Hi Andi,

  Yes. And you’re obviously a collector of great discernment!

  Pat

  I didn’t roll my eyes, but I could have. Pat was treating our exchange like a mating dance. I represented fresh meat. Flattery, he assumed, would boost the price. I decided to let him think his ploy had worked.

  Hi Pat,

  Thanks! I try.

  Where are you located?

  Andi

  Hi Andi,

  Maine. But I get to NYC often. Are you in Manhattan?

  Pat

  Hi Pat,

  I live in Manhattan, but I happen to be in Boston for a few days. Where in Maine?

  Andi

  Hi Andi,

  Bar Harbor. Too far. I can get to Boston.

  Pat

  Time to slow it down, to think, to regroup, to consult Ellis.

  Hi Pat,

  Let me check my schedule and get back to you.

  Andi

  Hi Andi,

  Okay. Talk soon!

  Pat

  I checked the voice mail on the phone I was now thinking of as Andi’s.

  “Sorry I missed you. I’m calling about a fabulous Hiroshige print that meets your specifications. I’ll email you now.”

  “What?” I said aloud, confused.

  Pat’s voice sounded female. How could that be? Anita had identified Cal as her customer, Pat Durand. My brows drew together. It seemed Cal had a partner after all. Who is she? It wasn’t anyone I knew. She had a faint British accent, as if she’d been reared in England but had lived here for decades.

  I called Ellis.

  * * *

  Ellis didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. His attitude was apparent from his icy stare.

  We sat in a booth at the Rocky Point Diner. We each had a coffee. Outside, the clouds were thickening.

  Ellis stretched out his arm, palm up. “Give me the phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to have that voice mail analyzed.”

  “I thought I would text Pat Durand.”

  “Why text?”

  “Whoever is behind this scam might recognize my voice.”

  His lips tightened. “Yet another reason for you to let us take it from here.” He stretched out his arm, palm up. “Give me the phone.”

  I slid the phone across the table. “I thought I was helping.”

  “You agreed to consult me before you took action.” His eyes remained unrelenting. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Josie. If Cal or whoever is behind this is a killer, your life may be in danger. Even if he’s merely a crook, he may feel cornered and become deadly. These conditions require finesse. To make matters worse, your well-intentioned efforts may chase him deeper into the woods.”

  I swallowed hard, abashed. “What can I do?”

  His hand closed over the phone. “I’ll get back to you on that.” He relented. “I know you thought you were helping.”

  He slid out of the booth and left.

  I sat in my car and called Max. I explained the situation and asked his opinion. “I know I messed up. How can I make it right?”

  “How about if I call Ellis on your behalf and offer your assistance in fielding any calls or texts. I’ll make it clear your only interest in this is your appraisal, but that since your interest might run alongside his interest, you’re eager to cooperate.”

  “You make it sound so easy, Max. I’m glad you’re on my side.”

  * * *

  I was almost back to my office when I remembered Quentin’s Spy Shop. I’d passed it each time I visited Anita’s boutique inside Murphy’s Interiors. I backtracked to Route 1, parked near the front, and went inside. I approached the shop and found my attention riveted to the video playing on a TV just inside Quentin’s. A woman was demonstrating how to use a hidden voice recorder built into a lipstick.

  Twenty minutes later I was back in my car, the proud owner of a voice-changing machine. One of the settings was a female with a slight British accent. It looked like Cal didn’t have a partner after all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Fred was hot on the trail of another guitar, so I called his contact at the Mississippi Department of Revenue, Heather Jan Lassiter. She was surprised at my request.

  “As I told your associate, we never release personal information. Individual tax records are personal.”

  “I don’t need to know anything about Ms. Dowler’s taxes. I just need her address.”

  “Her address is personal.”

  “Darn! I really need to talk to her. There’s no possible bad outcome. I’m trying to trace an antique.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t help.”

  I thanked her for her time and hung up.

  I called the city clerk’s office and spoke to another nice woman who, like Heather Jan, refused to release personal information.

  “Is there anyone there close to retirement? Someone who would have been on the job in the early 1970s?”

  “Why?”

  “I have an off-the-wall question about Clarksdale in 1971. I know, I know … that’s not something you hear every day, is it?” I laughed. “Who do you think I should talk to?”

  “You’re right, that’s not an everyday request. You should talk to Jay Malc. He’s an engineer with the county. He’s retiring at the end of the year, and he knows everything about Clarksdale from long before I was born.”

  She gave me Jay Malc’s full name, Jay Malcom Curtis, and his extension number, then transferred me.

  Jay Malc Curtis answered on the first ring. He had a deep baritone, a radio voice.

  “I’m an antiques appraiser calling from New Hampshire. I have a question that will, I suspect, surprise you … To complete an appraisal, I need to speak to Marianne Dowler, and I’m having trouble finding her. I know she lived in Clarksdale in 1971, and I know Clarksdale isn’t all that large. Since you’ve been in the workforce since about then, I was hoping you might know her.”

  “Know Marianne Dowler! Sure I do. She went by Mari Mae. I haven’t thought about Mari Mae in years. We went to the same high school. Mari Mae and I worked
together on a science fair project our senior year. She was truly special—smart, hardworking, dedicated.”

  I did a private fist pump. There was nothing as exhilarating as moving an investigation forward. “Did she leave Clarksdale after school?”

  “That’s right. She went north to college. She got herself a scholarship at Temple.”

  “In Philadelphia. Where is she now, do you know?”

  “I’m not rightly sure. Mari Mae used to come home now and again—I don’t know why, to tell you the truth, since she didn’t have any family left. I haven’t seen her in … I’m guessing it’s fifteen years, maybe more. She married a Yankee, I know that for certain. He was from Boston, I think.”

  I crossed my fingers. “Do you recall his name?”

  “Rayburn Sanford. She called him Ray. Said he was her ray of sunshine.”

  “That’s sweet, isn’t it? What did she study at Temple?”

  “Psychology. She went on and got a Ph.D. From New York University, I think it was, but I’m not sure about that.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Curtis. May I have your home or cell phone number in case I need to reach you again?”

  “Sure.”

  He called out both numbers.

  “When did you graduate high school?”

  “Nineteen seventy. Can you believe it? I started here with the county in 1975, and I’ve been here ever since. More than forty years.”

  I congratulated him on his retirement, then listened as he told me how he and his wife were going on a cruise to Tahiti to celebrate. While he spoke, I Googled “Marianne Sanford” and “Boston.”

  Marianne and Rayburn Sanford lived in Amesbury, an affluent suburb of Boston. Ray was a psychiatrist in private practice. Marianne was a professor at Rockport University, with three books and more than fifty peer-reviewed articles under her belt.

  I thanked Jay Malc and called Marianne’s office number. It went directly to voice mail.

  “Dr. Sanford, my name is Josie Prescott.” I explained who I was and where my company was located. “I have a question about a guitar you sold to Abbot’s Musical Instruments in 1971.” I gave her my contact information, then added, “I know this must come as a surprise to you. I look forward to filling you in. I think you’ll be pleased!”

  * * *

  I walked into the front office. Gretchen was smiling at her computer monitor like a cheerleader facing adoring fans.