I stood. “Hitch up our wagon? Mosey?”
“I can’t help it. I just tried out for Oklahoma!”
“I didn’t know you could act.”
“Who says I can?”
I laughed. “Or sing.”
“Ditto.”
“You’re too funny.”
“That I am.”
He held the door, and we agreed to drive separately. I called Matt en route and left a message saying that I wanted to move to the next step and had some ideas to discuss. I hoped my news would make his day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Katie, the police department’s IT tech, was ready to go when Max and I arrived. Police Officer Dawn LeBlanc was there, too. Dawn was short and stocky, with shoulder-length medium brown hair, brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She worked for a police force in a nearby town and had helped the Rocky Point police with undercover assignments in the past.* Her job was to play Andi Brewster at the meet.
Ellis led us into Interrogation Room Two, and we took seats around the table. An assistant district attorney named Cheryl Tavery fussed a little about the language Max had written absolving me of responsibility and liability for anything and everything, but finally she signed all four copies. After I signed, too, he distributed them, shook hands all around, and left.
Ellis sat at the head of the table, to my left, with Cheryl next to him, across from me. Katie was next to her at the foot of the table, surrounded by computer and electronic equipment. Cables snaked across the table from her computer to the phone. Dawn sat next to me, on my right, pen and pad in hand.
Ellis slid the phone unit from the center of the table toward me. “I assume you’re all right with our using your phone and voice changer. Probably we could forward the number to a police cell phone and get our own voice changer, but why risk it? I’ll see you get them back.”
“Of course.” I placed my voice changer next to the phone, attached the cable, and tapped the voice changer’s screen to bring up the southern-woman option. “My job is to role-play the call with Dawn, is that correct? I play Pat Durand. She plays Andi Brewster.”
“Yes, but let’s start with you explaining the antiques aspect to Dawn.”
I pushed my chair out, angling it so I faced Dawn straight on.
I described Hiroshige’s woodblock prints, showed her a photo of Flower Pavilion, and detailed how I’d tried to create an impression that Andi was a bit overeager and naïve.
“I’m certain Pat Durand is not an art or antiques expert,” I said and explained how Pat hadn’t sent any photos of the back of the print. “Pat is involved in art fraud, though, and maybe murder.”
“And as such, should be considered armed and dangerous,” Ellis said. “Thank you, Josie.” To Dawn, he added, “Any questions?”
“Only one—what if Pat Durand doesn’t answer our call?”
I jumped in. “Pat is expecting Andi’s call, so if she doesn’t answer, I think you should hang up, then call back a minute or two later, sounding mystified that Pat isn’t there, explaining that the previous hangup was you, that you wanted to confirm the time, blah, blah, blah. What do you think?”
Dawn made a note on her pad. “My goal would be to set another time to talk?”
“I wouldn’t. I’d try to set a time to meet without any intermediate steps.”
Dawn looked at Ellis. “Sounds good to me. What do you think?”
“I like it. Cheryl? Any objections?”
“I’m always in favor of hurrying things along. Make certain you don’t say anything that could be interpreted as entrapment.”
“Of course.”
I looked at Ellis, then Cheryl. “Are you sure I can’t do it? We know the voice changer works. Why not?”
Cheryl was brusque. “Because it’s police business.”
Ellis looked at Dawn. “We’d talked about arranging to meet at the gazebo on the village green. The overhang on the roof will allow Katie to hook up her equipment so it’s out of sight. But don’t mention it to Pat Durand. Get a commitment to meet in Rocky Point tomorrow afternoon around five. Once she agrees, tell her you’ll call her back with a location when you know where you’ll be.” Ellis caught Katie’s eye. “We can delay telling her the location until around four or four thirty—does that give you enough time?”
“We’ll be done by then. Plus, my assistant, Curt, and I will be wearing Park Department uniforms. We’ll cover the gazebo in tarps and put up ‘People Working’ and ‘Wet Paint’ signs. Everyone will think we’re whitewashing it.”
Ellis rubbed his nose. “Good. Josie? Are you ready?”
“Yes. Someone do a ring, ring, beep for me.”
“I’ll do it,” Cheryl said. “Brrrrng. Brrrrng. Brrrrng. Please leave a message at the beep. Beep.”
I closed my eyes. “Pat, I’m sorry I’m missing you. That hangup you just got—that was me. When you didn’t pick up I got afraid I had the wrong number or the wrong day or something. Anyway … maybe I wrote it wrong in my calendar. It doesn’t matter! I hope you’re doing fine. I really love that print! Love it! The colors are so incredible. It turns out I’m going to be in Rocky Point, New Hampshire, tomorrow, Thursday, so I’m hoping we can connect around five in the afternoon. Give me a call, okay? I probably won’t be able to pick up, but I’ll get the message for sure. I’ll bring cash, so if the print is as beautiful in person as it is in that photo you sent, we can do the exchange right then and there. Talk to you soon—or rather, see you soon! Bye-bye!” I opened my eyes and looked around the room. “How was that?”
Cheryl smiled. “Masterful. I’m glad you’re not a defense attorney I have to face in court.”
I felt myself blush at the compliment. “Thanks.”
“Talk about a hard act to follow,” Dawn said. She dragged the phone unit closer. “I’m ready to go. I don’t need to practice.”
Ellis turned to me. “What could Pat say that might trip Dawn up?”
“Nothing I can think of. If Pat asks why you like the print, just talk about the beauty of the scene and the colors. If she uses any technical terms, feel free to giggle with embarrassment and ask what they mean.”
“Dawn?” Ellis asked.
“I’m good.”
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Dawn looked at Katie.
“The tracer is up. The recording is on.”
Dawn put the phone on speaker and dialed. After six rings, a robotic voice invited Dawn to leave a message. The sound reverberated through the room. She hung up. We sat silently for more than a minute; then Dawn hit REDIAL and waited for the beep. She spoke clearly and confidently, parroting my message, her tone warm and excited. When she was done, she replaced the receiver.
“Well done, Dawn!” Ellis said.
“Now all I have to do is actually talk with a southern accent while maintaining that kind of perkiness. I can handle the southern accent, but the perkiness may kill me.”
Everyone laughed.
Ellis stood. “Thank you, Josie. I’ll walk you out.”
“Good luck, everyone.”
When we reached the lobby, Ellis stopped. “It goes without saying that you shouldn’t talk about this with anyone, and you shouldn’t be on the village green tomorrow afternoon.”
“You’re more than welcome. I’m glad to help.”
Ellis grinned. “Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation very much. No offense intended.”
“None taken. I won’t talk to anyone about this, and I won’t go to the village green tomorrow afternoon.”
I had a day to find a place where I could see the gazebo without being seen.
* * *
I dug my phone and keys out of my tote bag, then locked it in my trunk. Matt had called back saying he was eager to hear my ideas for the new business venture and asking when I’d like to get together. I didn’t want to talk to Matt until my mind was clear, so I texted him that I would call him soon to schedule a time.
I cross
ed the street and climbed a low dune, relishing the warm September sun. The ocean was green today, darker than emerald, lighter than pine. To the north, far from where I stood, a woman rode a gray stallion along the shoreline, and I thought of Mo.
I sat on the sand, letting the breeze tousle my hair, and stared at the horizon. A thought came to me: What if Lydia was telling the truth, that she hadn’t killed Cal? The memory of what I’d overheard at the garden party—Frank and Trish agreeing to kill Cal—remained fresh in my mind. I wondered if anyone had checked them out.
I texted Wes: Do Frank and Trish have an alibi for Cal’s murder?
My phone vibrated. It was Sasha. I took the call. Sasha had news about Mo’s print. The prior owner’s great-great-grandfather had been a professor of industrial design at Oxford University, specializing in medical instrumentation design. He’d visited Japan as part of a Dutch delegation before and after the country opened to the West.
“Rangaku,” I said, referring to a body of knowledge developed by the Japanese through their relationships with the Dutch. “You’ve done a great job, Sasha.”
She also reported on the quotes to test both the paper and the ink. Greyson Chemicals wasn’t the cheapest, but we agreed they were the best, so we decided to go with them.
Moments after our call ended, Wes texted back: Airtight. Why?
My phone vibrated. It was Cara. Dr. Sanford, the woman who sold the Martin guitar to Abbot’s back in the early 1970s, was on the line. She was close by and wondered if she could stop in.
“Tell her I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I had almost reached my car when Nora pulled into the lot. I stood until she parked and got out of her vehicle, then walked toward her. Everything about her looked tense. A muscle on the side of her neck twitched. Her knees were locked.
I said hello and asked how she was.
“Okay, I guess. I’m pretty freaked out, actually. I can’t imagine why they want to talk to me.”
“Probably they think you know what Cal was doing at that social club.”
Her lips tightened. “Why would they think that?”
“I saw you at Anthony’s Shoe Repair yesterday, just before Cal was murdered.”
She tried to smile, and failed. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I believe you.”
Her tension eased, just a bit. “Why?”
“Because of how you hugged your husband after Mo’s funeral. I know how a woman looks when she’s giving a man she used to love a good-bye hug. This wasn’t that. You hugged him like he was your safe harbor.” I took a step closer and lowered my voice. “Did you break up with Cal?”
“I went there to play bingo.”
“The police know you were involved with him.”
“That’s crazy!”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what you think you know, but—”
She broke off when I held up a hand. “Don’t. Folks at the Colonial Club reported that you and Cal were an item.”
Nora seemed to falter. She closed her eyes for a moment. After a few seconds, she turned toward the ocean. “I’m such a fool.”
“Indiscreet, perhaps; not necessarily foolish.”
“I acted like a giddy teenager.”
“What attracted you to him?”
“You’ve seen Cal, haven’t you? He was gorgeous!”
“I suppose.”
She turned back to face me. “You didn’t think he was good-looking?”
“I don’t think appearance has much to do with attraction.”
She half-smiled. “It does for me … at least at the start. And he seemed so urbane, so debonair. So different from Kevin.”
“What changed?”
“Gambling. At first, going to the Colonial Club was exotic and fun. I’d make twenty dollars last an hour, but Cal lost hundreds, thousands, so much money, not once, but over and over again. He finger-popped the whole way through, like it was nothing. After a while, I thought it was, well, pathetic.”
“Did he ever ask you for money?”
“No. He wouldn’t.”
“How about the Japanese woodblock prints? Did he ask you to help sell them?”
She looked mystified. “What prints? Like Mo’s?”
I ignored her question. “Was Cal alive when you got to Anthony’s?”
“Yes. I told him it was over.”
“How did he take it?”
“He was philosophical. He said we’d had a good run, but that his luck always did run out. It took two minutes. Three, maybe. He didn’t care, not really. I was so relieved. I’d been afraid he’d argue with me, try to convince me to give it another go. Then I went and sat in on a bingo game. In case anyone saw me there, I needed a cover story.” She smiled again, a weak one. “I won five dollars.”
“Have you told the police?”
Her smile faded. “Just about playing bingo. There are security cameras all over the casino, so I knew they’d know.”
“You should tell them the truth. It will help them set the timeline.”
“No way. Kevin will find out. I can’t believe I went to the Colonial Club with Cal. If I hadn’t done that one thing, no one would know, and everything would be all right.”
“The police are good at keeping secrets. You have an opportunity to be a hero here.”
She rubbed her temples for a moment. “I’ve made such a mess of everything.”
“You made a mistake, that’s all.”
She aimed her big, frightened eyes at me. “I wish—”
Nora turned without finishing her thought and walked quickly toward the front door.
I hoped she’d take my advice and tell the police the truth, but I doubted it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I was sitting at the guest table when Dr. Sanford arrived about twelve fifteen. She wore black jeans with a red sweater and a gold chain belt, casual chic. I told myself not to get excited, that her calling didn’t mean she had news about the guitar’s provenance.
She didn’t want anything to drink, and I suggested going up to my office. She walked beside me through the warehouse, observant and silent, intelligence radiating off her like heat. Upstairs, she settled onto the love seat. I sat across from her and waited for her to speak.
“I know how easy it is to create a website and a social media history on the fly, so I wanted to visit your company without giving you time to fake a persona. I’m convinced—you’re for real.”
In her position, I would have done the same thing.
“I’m pleased I’ve passed muster.”
“My husband and I spent yesterday evening going through everything I inherited that could possibly be related to the guitar. I know I said that you and I would look together, but the more I thought about it, the less comfortable I got.” She extracted an envelope from her briefcase. “I brought you copies.”
“Thank you so much. That’s wonderful of you. If you made copies, that implies you found something you thought I could use.”
“I did. My grandmother kept a diary. She was a hairdresser by occupation, but a poet by avocation. She had big ideas and big dreams, but back then, a black woman in the Deep South, well, her options were limited.” She reached into the envelope for an old photograph, which she laid on the butler’s table, facing me. “I found this photo between two pages of her diary.”
I reached for it, then hesitated. “May I?”
“Yes. You can keep it. As I said, it’s a copy. You can publish it, if you want.”
I picked it up. “This is Robert Johnson.”
“Yes, a studio shot.”
I read the inscription: To my best girl, Robert Johnson. “The guitar he’s holding sure looks like a Martin OM-45 Deluxe.”
Dr. Sanford eased a sheet of paper from the envelope and handed it over. “Here’s a copy of the back.”
I squinted at the blurry red mark. “Cloister Studio. San Antonio.” I smiled. “San Antonio … Robert Johnson recorded fiftee
n tunes for Vocalion Records in San Antonio in 1936. If he had a record contract, naturally they’d want some publicity shots.”
“It gets better.” She removed a sheaf of papers from the envelope and slid them onto the table. “These are copies of Grandma’s diary, every page that mentioned Johnson. The Post-it Note flags where I found the photo.”
I skim-read the first two pages, then looked up. “They were in love.”
“It sounds like he was the love of her life.”
“Does she explain how she came to own the guitar?”
“Robert got sick. Speculation was that he’d been poisoned by another girlfriend’s husband. My grandmother knew he wasn’t faithful to her, and she didn’t care. I don’t understand that. Do you?”
I thought of Nora. “Love can be so powerful, reason goes out the door. It’s irresistible, like a tidal wave, so yes, I do understand that.”
“That’s lust, not love.”
“You may be right, but when you’re in the middle of it, you call it love. I suspect it’s a walk-a-mile-in-her-moccasins thing. I don’t judge.”
“Perhaps. My grandmother wrote that she offered to nurse him, but he refused. From all reports, Johnson was a prideful man, and he didn’t want a woman he loved to see him weak and delirious. It broke her heart. A friend took him to his house on the plantation where he worked, but Robert left his guitar at her place for safekeeping, saying he’d be back for it as soon as he got better. He died two days later. He was twenty-seven.”
“That’s tragic.”
“My grandmother cherished that guitar because of the man who played it.” Dr. Sanford stood. “I give you all this information for my grandmother. She hid her love for Johnson her entire life. There’s no reason to hide it anymore. She’s smiling down on me right now, I just know she is.”
“If I get to share your grandmother’s story, I promise you I’ll honor her love for Robert Johnson.”
Dr. Sanford reached out a hand as if to touch my arm, then pulled back. “Thank you.”
As we walked downstairs, she asked, “How much do you think the guitar is worth?”
“It’s too early to speculate. We’re still in the authentication phase. On the face of it, this guitar has everything going for it. It’s in perfect condition, it’s rare, it’s scarce, it’s been owned by legendary players, and guitars are enduringly popular. It ticks all the boxes.”
Antique Blues Page 24
