"Well then, who are they?” I asked, bewildered.
"No one knows. There's no ID. No wallet. No laptop. The police have run his prints and there's no match."
"That doesn't make any sense. Why would people lie about their names in Rocky Point?"
"Makes you wonder, huh? There's more—are you ready? They were able to recover trace evidence from under the dead guy's fingernails—blood and tissue."
"Whose is it?"
"Who knows? Until they have someone to compare it to ... you know the drill."
"What do they do now?"
"Hope his wife comes back soon."
* * * *
The next afternoon, Detective Brownley showed up without an appointment, wanting to talk to me. I told Gretchen, my receptionist, to send her up.
I started my company in an old canvas factory. I refurbished it to include a luxurious, high-end auction venue on one side; a cavernous warehouse for sorting, cleaning, and storing inventory in the middle; and a Spartan tag-sale shack on the other side. There was a big office in the front. My private office occupied the mezzanine level.
From the landing, I watched as Gretchen walked the detective to the spiral staircase that led to my office. Per my insurance company's requirements, no one was allowed to be in the warehouse unescorted, not even a police detective on duty.
"I was wondering if you can tell me anything about the victim from this watch. Apparently, it's his,” she said after we were settled in matching yellow Queen Anne wing chairs. She dangled the plastic bag containing the pocket watch. “According to both Ms. Lane and Ms. McIver, he wore it all the time.” She extended an arm. “The lab is finished with it."
I opened the bag and allowed the watch to spill gently onto the table, then I picked it up and held it to the light. The watch was gold, a terrific example of a classic gold damaskeened pocket watch. Made by the Waltham Watch Company, it featured a pristine white porcelain dial, black Arabic numerals, red five-minute marks, and black spade pointers. Inside there was an inscription in delicate script:
For Edmund T. Blair
25 Years Faithful Service
1972-1997
"Did you look up the name?” I asked.
"Yeah—no luck—there were almost a hundred fifty thousand hits. We checked the Waltham Watch Company too. It's out of business.” She shrugged again. “So what do you think? Can you help?"
I turned the watch over. The etched design was ornate, featuring vines, hanging fruit, blossoms, and tendrils. The Waltham Watch Company mass produced watches, but this one didn't look like a mass produced product, and if it wasn't, there was a chance I could trace it. “I can try,” I told her.
"Thanks,” she said.
I slid the watch back into the plastic bag and walked her downstairs. Gretchen took digital photos and typed up a receipt, our standard procedure for an antique left for appraisal.
"I'll call as soon as we know something,” I told the detective.
"Hurry, okay?"
I nodded, understanding the exigency. She was out of options and was counting on me.
I showed the watch to my appraisers, Sasha and Fred. Sasha, my chief appraiser, was shy and quiet, diligent and persistent, with small-town style. Fred was assertive and confident, a pit bull, with big-city sass.
"We need to find the owner,” I told them.
"It's a Waltham,” Fred said, snorting dismissively. Fred was an antiques snob and Waltham had produced something like forty million watches.
"What about the fob?” I asked. “It looks like onyx. Any chance we could trace it?"
Fred held up the circular black stone attached to the watch chain through flat links. The stone was encircled in chased gold. “Unusual,” he said. “And engraved—it says, ‘...a form of madness.’”
"I know that. Is there more?” I said, racking my brain trying to recall the reference.
"No,” he said.
"My dad quoted it,” I murmured, feeling the familiar stab of loneliness and loss whenever I thought of him. I missed him every day. “I know I know it. Give me a minute.” I shut my eyes, then opened them. “It's from Man's Rise to Civilization, by Peter Farb. The quote is something like romantic love exists, but people need to recognize it for what it is—a form of madness.” Seeing Fred and Sasha's astonishment, I added, “My dad loved words used well,” then shook my head to chase the memory away.
Fred leaned back with a knowing grin and pushed his square-framed glasses into place. “That's pretty good."
"What's on the reverse?” I asked, bringing our conversation back to work.
Fred turned the stone over and examined it under a loupe, then scrutinized the gold, turning it slowly. “Nothing on the stone. And just ‘14 K’ stamped on the ridge."
"Sasha, what do you think?” I asked.
"We could research companies that awarded gold watches for twenty-five years’ service in 1997."
I nodded. “What else?"
"The inscription's worth a shot."
"Fred? Any other ideas?"
He shrugged. “Nothing's likely to work. Whoever owns it now probably bought it used. Tracking down the company or the inscription is more likely to lead to a guy who bought it from a pawnshop ten years ago and sold it on eBay five years after that."
I nodded again. “You're probably right. Still, we've got to try ... I'll take the watch and the inscription. Why don't you guys give companies who gave gold watches in 1997 a whirl?"
"Okay,” Sasha said.
Fred agreed without enthusiasm.
Upstairs, I used a loupe to examine the pocket watch milli-meter by millimeter. Woven into a vine near the bottom, clear as day, I spotted letters: RfTD. It meant nothing to me.
I Googled the initials and got more than a thousand hits, articles and press releases about Roy farrell Thomas Design. From my reading, I gathered that Roy farrell Thomas Design had been a big deal design studio based in San Francisco back in the ‘90s. That Mr. Thomas used a lowercase middle initial was one of many eccentricities he and his studio were known for.
I clicked on a retrospective in Design Issues @ Work referencing a change in ownership. Mr. Thomas had sold his studio to Shapiro Graphics, an L.A.-based full-service graphics agency, in 2004.
I called Shapiro Graphics and got a nice woman in personnel, but she couldn't help me. No Roy farrell Thomas Design employees were employed by Shapiro Graphics, and if any ever had been, she was unaware of it. She passed me on to the client relations manager, a crabby-sounding man who acted as if he could get some work done if only clients would stop bothering him.
"Kill ‘em with kindness,” my dad once told me. “Works better than going toe-to-toe."
"I'm sorry to disturb you,” I said, apologizing in a ploy to soften him up.
It didn't work, but my persistence did, and finally he explained that Shapiro had bought Roy farrell Thomas Design for its client list, not for the designs, so he could provide no useful information. I asked to be transferred back to the woman in personnel, and when I asked for Mr. Thomas's contact information, I struck out again. Last she heard, he was living somewhere in Costa Rica.
Fred called up. “Finding companies who in 1997 gave watches to retirees is impossible. There's no central listing. There's nowhere to search. There are no experts to ask. It's a bust."
I told him that he and Sasha should go back to other appraisals, and I turned back to the inscription.
Detective Brownley said she got too many hits on the name. I thought for a moment, then Googled “Roy farrell Thomas” and “Edmund T. Blair” and “pocket watch,” and I got no hits. I tried again, this time dropping Mr. Blair's middle initial from my search. Just because he used it didn't mean other people were as diligent. A single reference appeared: Mr. Blair's obituary in his church's online newsletter. He died in Lee, Massachusetts in 2005.
The article stated that Edmund Blair had loved his Roy farrell Thomas watch, the one he received from Landler Metal Works when he retir
ed. And that he was survived by his wife and one son, Chester, a playwright, who lived in New York City.
Further research provided a photo of Chester Blair at the opening of his latest Broadway hit, No Time for Crying. It was hard to be certain that Chester was the murder victim, since the only time I'd seen his face, it had been misshapen and discolored, but I was fairly certain that I was staring at a photo of the dead man.
I searched for more information about Chester Blair and found a long, juicy article in New York Monthly from last year. Chet, as he was known, was apparently quite a ladies’ man. He spent a lot of time tearing up New York City hotspots with a variety of young women, everyone from actresses who performed in the plays he wrote to waitresses who served him to neighbors who lived in the same trendy Tribeca locale, and more or less, he got away with it. One woman sued him for paternity, but the tests proved he wasn't the father of her baby. Another woman attempted suicide when she learned she was one of three women he was dating, but as she'd already attempted suicide several times in the past, the news reports referred to the incident as unfortunate, not blame-worthy. Chet had never been married.
I called Detective Brownley to report.
* * * *
I stopped by the Rocky Point Bed and Breakfast on my way home to see how Valerie was doing. She invited me in for a cup of tea, and led the way into her comfortable red and white gingham country kitchen. She wore a yellow turtleneck sweater and jeans, and she looked bone weary.
We sat at a rectangular table that jutted out from the far wall. A stacked washer-dryer was off to one side. Rhythmic churning told me that the washer was in use. A turquoise plastic laundry basket, filled with darks, rested nearby.
"This is Shannon McIver,” Valerie said, introducing me. “Shannon, this is Josie Prescott. She's an antiques dealer and appraiser."
Shannon was a wispy blonde, with skin so white it was almost translucent. She wore a navy blue suit with a V-neck, sea-shell pink blouse. She sipped what I took to be green tea out of a big mug. The mug had an illustration of a va-va-voom-looking woman sitting at a desk, smiling. The text read: “World's hottest accountant. Only your receivables age.” She appeared shell shocked.
I greeted her, then asked Valerie, “How are you doing?"
She shrugged as she fussed with the teapot, but didn't reply. She poured me a cup and slid it onto the table.
"Any news?” I asked.
The washer clicked off and she walked to the machine to switch the loads. “Nope."
"Have you spoken to the police?” Shannon asked me.
"Yes. Briefly. How about you?"
She shivered and nodded. “They came to the university to get me. It was awful. I was with them all afternoon yesterday and most of this morning."
I glanced at Valerie to see if she was listening, but I couldn't tell. Her back was to me. I saw her toss the blue negligee and its matching belt into the dryer.
"How did it go?” I asked Shannon.
She stared into her mug. “They wanted a DNA sample."
"What did you say?"
"No.” She looked up at me. Her eyes were pale gray and red-rimmed. She'd been crying. “I said no. I want to help. I liked Murray, but no way am I letting my DNA get into a police database."
"It's a terrible situation all around,” I said diplomatically.
A rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the kitchen door. Through the window, I saw Detective Brownley's stern countenance staring at me. Valerie opened the door. I stood up.
"Ms. Lane, Ms. McIver, I'm glad to find you both here,” she said. “I have a few more questions."
She spoke to them, but she was pinning me with her eyes.
"I was just leaving,” I said. “Nice meeting you, Shannon. I'll talk to you soon, Valerie. Thanks for the tea.” I got out of there before Detective Brownley could corner me and start asking me questions.
* * * *
Wes called as I was driving home. I slipped in my earpiece.
"We need to talk. Can you meet me?” he asked imperatively.
It was dark and I was tired. “I can't, Wes. It's late."
"Josie!” he exclaimed, sounding astonished. “It's important!"
I wasn't impressed. Everything was urgent to Wes. “Sorry. Tell me on the phone."
He sighed, Wesian for acquiescence. “I hear from my police source that you ID'd the dead guy through his watch. Why didn't you call me?” he griped.
"Do you have any news about the missing woman?” I asked, ignoring his question. “The woman who's not Phyllis Jenkins?"
He sighed again, no doubt wanting to be certain that I knew that he was disappointed in me, then said, “Yes, I do.” He paused. “Give me something, Josie. I'm on deadline and I need something."
I considered my options—what I could reveal and what I should hold back. “I have a photo of the pocket watch."
"E-mail it to me."
"Okay. Tell me about the woman."
"She's a New York City actress, Dahlia Hearns. Mostly Off-Broadway and a couple of TV commercials. She's slotted for the lead in Chester Blair's new play. They've been up here while he's revising the script. He likes to get out of New York to write. She's keeping him company. They're not married."
"Where is she now?"
"She went to New York, but now she's back here. She came voluntarily. Chet was just about finished with the revision. He was going to join her in a day or two, whenever he was done. She drove back to get their apartment in order."
"Why didn't he keep the car?"
Wes chuckled. “He didn't drive. Can you believe that?"
Having lived in New York City for a decade, I could, in fact, believe it. “Yes,” I said. “So, Dahlia and Chester are an item?"
"Yup. They've been living together for more than a year. They're checking whether he was screwing around."
"I heard he was quite a playboy,” I commented, curious about Wes's take on the subject.
"That's not even the half of it—are you ready for an info-bomb? The police have proof that he and Shannon McIver were having an affair this fall."
"You're kidding!” I exclaimed, astounded, then not. I recalled Shannon's red eyes. “Why would they think that?"
"They found evidence at Macon Cleaners—a dirty sheet from Shannon's room. Val gave them permission to search the B&B and Shannon gave them permission to search her room, apparently not thinking that the police would track down soiled sheets. There was no question about which inn the sheets came from—Macon kept each client's linens separate; nor was there any question about which room the sheet came from—only Shannon's room had twin beds. The tests showed that Shannon and Chet had sex."
"I can't believe it! He was sleeping with Shannon while he was there with Dahlia?"
"Yup. There's more! The test also showed that the blood and tissue found under Chet's fingernails didn't belong to Shannon."
My brain was reeling. “What do they think happened?” I asked.
"They think that maybe Dahlia killed him. She left that morning, then came back. What if Dahlia walked in while he and Shannon were having a lunchtime canoodle? Maybe Dahlia went nuts."
I thought about it. Shannon's car was there at twelve thirty when I saw Dahlia pull out and head south. “It's possible,” I acknowledged, and told Wes about the sequence I'd observed.
"Yeah, maybe, but Dahlia denies everything. She's sticking to it that the police tests are wrong, that Chet wasn't having an affair with Shannon, and that his playing around was a thing of the past."
"What does she think happened?” I asked.
"She thinks that he was killed during a robbery—after all, his laptop and wallet are gone. She figures the thief didn't steal the pocket watch only because it fell under the bedside table—he missed it. She said that Valerie left the inn unlocked during the day, which is true, so anyone could just walk in. But when she was asked why a thief would choose the one occupied room to ransack, you know what she said? That thieves are often irrational.” He
chuckled again. “She's refusing to give a DNA sample too. But they can't find evidence of a fight or anything else relevant, so they can't get a court order."
I paused for a long moment, trying to assimilate everything Wes just told me, then asked, “Wes, there's something I don't understand. If it wasn't robbery—where are the laptop and wallet?"
* * * *
The next morning, I woke up with a conviction and an idea about how to prove it.
At ten, I walked into Blackmore's Jewelers on the Green in Rocky Point Village, the finest jewelry store on the coast, in business for eighty-seven years. A handsome man close to retirement age wearing a well-tailored suit approached me as soon as I entered.
"May I help you?” he asked.
"I hope so. I'm Josie Prescott. I own Prescott's Antiques and Auctions."
"Of course, of course, a pleasure. I'm Morton Blackmore."
We shook. “Wow. I knew you'd been in business for a long time, but I had no idea it was still family run. This has to be some kind of record."
He smiled. “Not really, but when my grandson takes over, then maybe we can talk about setting records. What can I do for you today?"
"Is there somewhere we can talk?"
His eyes narrowed appraisingly, but with a gracious sweep of his hand, he indicated that I should accompany him to the rear. He led me into a private office. He sat behind a mahogany desk, pointed toward a guest chair, and waited for me to speak.
I extracted the onyx fob from the satin jewelry case I'd stored it in, and laid it on the desk. “Am I right that you sold this?"
He glanced at the piece, then at me. “May I?” he asked, before picking it up.
"Please."
"Why do you want to know whether we sold it?” he asked, turning the fob over.
"It belonged to a murder victim and I think knowing who bought it will help the police catch his killer."
Morton looked at me straight on. “That man at the bed and breakfast?"
"Yes."
He slid the fob toward me. “Yes, we sold it. Two weeks ago. It was a birthday present."
AHMM, November 2008 Page 2
