Dead Certain

by Mariah Stewart

  “Yes.”

  Clark picked up a needlepoint pillow and crushed it to his narrow chest, seemingly oblivious to the conversation around him.

  “Was he in the habit of visiting you at that hour, Ms. Crosby?”

  “Generally, no. But he and Clark had been away—”

  “Vacationing in Europe.”

  “Yes, and they just returned yesterday.”

  “I expect he’d have been tired after that long flight home. Jet lag, and all that. Why would he have wanted to pay a visit so late at night, after such a long, tiring trip? What was so important that it couldn’t have waited until this morning?”

  “We had some business to discuss.”

  “Business that couldn’t have waited until this morning?”

  “He’d been gone for two weeks. We had a lot to catch up on.” Amanda searched her pockets for a tissue. Finding one, she wiped the tears from her face.

  “So he left here around eleven, but he never arrived at your place?”

  “No. He did not.”

  “Weren’t you worried?”

  “No, but I was a little pissed off. I thought he’d gotten distracted by something on his way over and just lost track of the time.”

  “Is this something he did often?”

  “Get distracted?” Tears filled her eyes. “At least once a day.”

  Clark began to sob again, his head in his hands. Amanda rubbed his back to comfort him.

  “What sort of things distracted Mr. England?”

  “Anything that caught his fancy, really. It’s just the way he is. He sees something that interests him, he stops to take a closer look.” She wasn’t aware that she was speaking of him in the present tense. “He loses track of time. Is late for work. For appointments. For the most part, people forgive him because he’s charming.”

  “So when he didn’t show up, you didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Not really. Not at the time, anyway. We—Clark and I—thought maybe he’d stopped off at the home of some friends and maybe they were standing around talking. I told Clark that if he spoke with Derek before I did, to tell him to just go home, that I’d see him in the morning. And I went to bed.”

  “When did you first become aware that Mr. England did not come home last night?”

  “Clark called at one this morning, then again at three and then around five. At that point, I advised him to call the police. He called later to let me know that he’d done just that and that you were looking for Derek’s car.”

  “Was your partner in the habit of picking up hitchhikers?”

  “Derek?” She shook her head. “He always said he read too many murder mysteries. He’d never stop for a stranger. Why do you ask?”

  “Someone was with him in his car last night.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He was shot through the head, Ms. Crosby. From behind. Whoever shot him was in the backseat.”

  Clark collapsed on the sofa.

  “Ms. Crosby?”

  Amanda emerged from the back of the shop to find Chief Mercer standing near the door. It was close to two-thirty in the afternoon. When Clark’s brother arrived at Clark and Derek’s house to provide support, Amanda had taken the opportunity to leave, suddenly needing some time to sort things out and to grieve alone. That apparently wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.

  “Oh. Hello.” She closed the door to her work space behind her. “Do you have any news?”

  “Not really.” He looked around the shop as if assessing it. “I stopped at your house. I’d assumed you’d be closed for business today. I mean, after your partner being murdered like that . . .”

  “I am closed for business,” she said stiffly, resenting his assumption. “I just stopped in because I . . . I had to pick up something.”

  “Got a few minutes? I have a few questions.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did your partner have any enemies that you know of?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Anyone he’d argued with recently?”

  “No. Again, though, not that I know of.”

  “Other than yourself.”

  “Derek and I were not enemies.” She stared up at him. “We’ve been friends for years, business partners—”

  “But I do understand there’d been an argument last night.”

  Damn Clark.

  “Yes, we argued on the phone over a business matter.” She kept her voice calm. “It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t have been the last.”

  “Mr. Lehmann says your telephone conversation was quite heated. That Mr. England was quite upset when he left the house.”

  “I imagine he was.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’d just reamed him out but good. He wasn’t looking forward to facing me.”

  He smiled. Obviously, he knew all about that.

  “Look, Derek has—had—a bad habit of making poor decisions. While he was on this trip abroad, he”—she checked herself—“made another one of his poor decisions. He bought something we couldn’t afford. It hurt the business. I’m sending the item back. As a matter of fact, the courier should be here any minute. I’m surprised he hasn’t been by already.”

  “Courier?” His eyebrows raised appreciably. “FedEx won’t do? Must be something of great value.”

  She could have kicked herself.

  “What’s it cost to send something by courier these days, Ms. Crosby? And just where are you sending it back to?”

  “What does this have to do with Derek?”

  “Who else might have known that Derek brought valuable items home with him from this trip? I’m assuming these items were valuable, if they have to be shipped by courier.”

  “You mean, could someone have followed him to rob him?” Amanda shook her head. “I don’t think he’d have told anyone else. And he didn’t buy anything else on this trip that I’m aware of. Just the . . . the one thing. And he had that shipped back. It wasn’t with him.”

  Mercer leaned one hip against the counter. “What was that one thing, by the way?”

  “It was a pottery goblet.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “It’s in the safe, in the back room.”

  “May I see it?”

  “It’s already wrapped and ready for the courier,” she protested.

  “Well, if you’re real careful when you unwrap it, you won’t have a problem wrapping it up again.”

  She glared at him.

  “The package, Ms. Crosby.”

  “Fine. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Damn Derek. Damn Clark. Damn Mercer.

  Damn damn damn.

  She unlocked the safe and withdrew the crate. Grabbing a screwdriver from a drawer, she went back into the shop. Chief Mercer was staring at a bronze statue of the goddess Diana that was locked inside a glass case.

  “Nice.” He nodded toward the piece.

  “Art deco.” She placed the wooden crate on the counter. “It’s an original Zelt. Quite exceptional. She did very few pieces in bronze. Seventeen thousand dollars. For you, maybe we could knock off a few bucks.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.” He was all business again. “Now, let’s take a look at this piece of pottery that needs such special handling. . . .”

  He helped her to painstakingly remove the crate. Inside, another wooden box held yet another. When she finally got to the goblet itself, he stepped back as if to appraise it.

  “That’s it?” he asked skeptically. “That’s the vase you fought with your partner over?”

  “Goblet,” she corrected. “It’s from a site in southern Iran called the Tell i Bakun. Part of an old civilization that—”

  “Sorry, but all that means nothing to me.”

  “Think very, very old and very, very rare.” She fought hard against the urge to be sarcastic. “Think civilizations that are no more.”

  “I’m getting the picture. What’s its value?
”

  “Whatever someone is willing to pay for it.”

  “What was Derek England willing to pay for it?”

  “Sixty-five thousand dollars.”

  Mercer whistled. “But he must have thought he’d be able to sell it for more than that, though, right?”

  “He said he had a buyer who’d pay many times that amount.”

  “Who was the buyer?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Any particular reason why not?”

  “Because it didn’t matter. It had to go back.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me for being dense, but why would you argue with your partner over buying an object that you could sell for such a large profit?”

  Amanda hesitated. She had hoped to be able to somehow just get past the goblet without going into detail about its origins and Derek’s involvement—however inadvertent—with the black market.

  “Because its origins were . . . questionable.”

  “You mean it could be a fraud? A fake?”

  “I almost wish it were.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, it’s very, very authentic.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that it was stolen some years ago from a museum in Iran.”

  “I see.” Clark apparently hadn’t filled him in on that little detail.

  “Then you see how this is not only bad for business, but more important, that my partner could have been arrested for dealing in stolen artifacts.”

  He stared at her for a long time.

  “I guess that’s one thing you won’t have to worry about now.” He leaned against the counter. “The damage to your business’s reputation, or bailing him out. So what’s the hurry in sending this . . . Where were you sending this, anyway?”

  “Back to its owner.”

  “Now how were you going to go about doing that? I mean, how would you know how to do that?” He paused, then added, “And with your partner dead, who would even know that you have this in your possession?”

  It was her turn to stare at him.

  “I mean, if it’s so valuable, and no one knows that you have it, why would you send it back? Why not just sell it yourself, pocket that big profit?”

  “I don’t deal in stolen merchandise, and I don’t support sales of antiquities on the black market,” she snapped.

  “But your partner did.”

  “Derek was clueless,” she all but exploded. “He was smart enough to know that what was being offered to him was the real deal, but not smart enough to demand its documentation.”

  “Now I’m really curious. Why would you, someone so seemingly savvy about these things, be in business with someone who is, by your account, not very smart.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.” Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t say he wasn’t smart in general. He knows his American primitives—art and furniture—inside and out. That’s his specialty. He just isn’t all that familiar with items like this.” She nodded in the direction of the goblet.

  “And you are?”

  “I know someone who is. Look, Officer Mercer—”

  “Chief Mercer.”

  “Right. Sorry. Chief Mercer. Derek was not a crook. He was offered an opportunity to buy something very valuable, and since he’s a dealer and knew he could make a tidy profit on it, he bought it. Once he found out what it was, he was in total agreement that it be returned to its rightful owner. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do, as soon as the courier gets here.”

  “Ah, I see. Very righteous of you.” He tapped two fingers on the counter. “But wasn’t there a situation about two years ago . . . ? Seems to me I heard something about a Civil War–era uniform.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t really what the papers made it out to be. Derek had a client—”

  “And wasn’t there a samurai sword some time back . . . ?”

  “Derek—”

  “Derek again? Not you?”

  “No, of course, not me.” She was becoming exasperated.

  “So you’re in business with a man who isn’t really all that concerned with where he acquires his merchandise.”

  “That’s not fair. Derek’s just . . . well, sometimes he’s just too trusting. Too naive about people.”

  “How so?”

  “He takes everyone at face value. I’m sure that the man he bought this piece from looked totally on the level. That would have been good enough for Derek.”

  “And what would you have done under the same circumstances?”

  “I would have asked to see some documentation on the piece. In archaeological terms, I’d have questioned its provenance. Its pedigree, if you will.”

  “Isn’t that sometimes difficult to obtain?”

  “When you’re dealing with important pieces, there should be some kind of paper trail. A record of its excavation, for example, or a record of its chain of ownership.”

  “Generally speaking, would a sixty-five-thousand-dollar piece be considered important?”

  “Not necessarily,” she conceded. “At least, not on the international market, where artifacts can command hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  “Then what should he have done differently?”

  “He should have passed on the offer to buy.”

  “Because you suspected the piece was stolen.”

  “I know the piece was stolen. It’s been confirmed.”

  “By?”

  “By a noted expert in the field.”

  “When did you receive the piece?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “And you’ve already confirmed its origins? My, that was fast.”

  “I have a friend whose sister is in the Middle East. She’s an archaeologist, part of the international team currently evaluating the losses in Iraq. We emailed some photos of the goblet to her. She confirmed my suspicions.”

  “When did this take place?”

  “On Sunday.”

  “The day before yesterday,” he noted. “The day before Mr. England returned from his trip.”

  “Yes.”

  Mercer touched the goblet and shook his head. “Crazy, isn’t it, what some people will kill for?”

  It took a long moment for his words to sink in.

  “Kill for?” She straightened up slowly, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “You think someone killed Derek for this?”

  “Someone might have.” He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. “Let’s start with you, Ms. Crosby.”

  “Me?”

  “You have to admit, you make a really good suspect.” His dark eyes studied her carefully. “Mr. England had just spent your cash cushion on a piece of stolen pottery that you’re going to have to send back, which puts you out a great deal of money.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “And then there’s this little matter. . . .”

  From his pocket he withdrew a cell phone. Amanda recognized it as Derek’s. Mercer scrolled down the screen, then pushed a button. He needn’t have bothered. Amanda knew full well what the message was.

  “Derek, you are so dead. If you have any sense at all, you’ll stay in Italy, because the minute I see you, I am going to kill you.”

  Mercer turned off the phone. “Do I need to play it again?”

  She shook her head.

  “And that is your voice?”

  “Yes, of course it’s my voice,” she said, exasperated. “I was infuriated with him. Yes, I said that I would kill him, but that doesn’t mean I was really planning on killing him. And I did not. I wouldn’t have.”

  “I have only your word for that. You had motive; you had opportunity. We only have your word that he didn’t arrive at your house last night. For all we know, he was there, or you met him someplace.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Let the evidence prove that. Ms. Crosby, I’m going to need you to come down to the station to give me a statement. I’d also like to stop at your house and pi
ck up the clothes you were wearing last night.”

  “Looking for gunshot residue, right?” She began to seethe. “Want to test my hands with a metal detection reagent to see if I’ve fired a gun?”

  “If you’ll let us, sure.” He hadn’t expected this. “Watch a lot of CSI, do you?”

  She ignored the question. “The sooner you eliminate me, the sooner you’ll start to really investigate Derek’s murder and make a legitimate effort to find his killer. Of course, then you’ll have to do some real work.”

  “Well, then, point me in another direction, Ms. Crosby. Who else would want to see Derek England dead? Who else stood to profit from his death? I see you now as sole owner of the business with a very valuable piece of pottery in your hands.”

  “Why would I be sending it back, if I intended to sell it?”

  “What proof do we have that you are sending it back?”

  “Hang around for a while,” she snapped. “The courier should be here any time now.”

  “Well, it’s easy enough to confirm through the company,” Mercer conceded, “though of course if he shows up now, it will be a wasted trip from his standpoint.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Evidence,” he said as he began to secure the goblet in its wrappings. “The only place this is going is down to the station.”

  She stood and stared while he placed the goblet into the smallest of the wooden boxes.

  He looked up at her. “Am I doing this the right way?”

  “No.” She pushed him aside and took over the task, fighting an urge to do him bodily harm.

  She reminded herself that an assault on a police officer would get her jail time. She knew this for a fact, because her brother was a detective in a Philadelphia suburb and had recently testified against a woman who had attacked his partner with a baseball bat. His partner hadn’t been badly injured, but the woman still got time.

  “Hello?” a voice called from the door. “Amanda?”

  Marian O’Connor, the owner of the shop next door and a very good friend, poked her head in. “Oh. You’re busy. I . . . I can stop back. . . .” The woman backed up slightly at the sight of the police officer. “I can see you’re . . . well, I just wanted to say how terrible I feel about Derek. I just saw it on the news. . . .”

  She began to cry. Amanda went to her. “Marian, thank you. I know that you and Derek were such good friends. I know you’ll miss him, too.” Amanda attempted to comfort her.