Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries)

by Jane K. Cleland

  “It’s a great restaurant. My dad used to take me there sometimes when he’d come in from Boston on business.” A picture came to me of us walking down William Street, not far from Wall Street, toward the restaurant. My dad had been dead for more than a decade, and while the pain of that crushing loss no longer stabbed at me, thinking of the good times still brought on a wave of melancholy, half reflective, half debilitating. I shooed the memory aside, forcing myself back to the here and now, and grinned. “I’d like to get my hands on a copy of that first menu.”

  “Yeah,” Fred said, “or even better, a collection of all of them.”

  Hank wiggled a little, waking up. He licked my chin and jumped down, stretching first his top half, then his bottom half, then ambled off to the warehouse door. He meowed imperiously, wanting in.

  The phone rang, and Cara answered it. Someone was calling for directions to the tag sale. Yay! I thought as I opened the door for Hank—a new customer.

  I waved good-bye to Fred and followed Hank into the warehouse. He headed left toward his domain. I walked to the right, toward the inside entrance to the tag sale venue.

  When I’d first purchased the property, the room we used for the weekly tag sale was more like a shack than a sales room. I’d brought it up to code and winterized it but left it rustic in appearance. During last autumn’s expansion, I’d integrated our vintage clothing shop into the space and added square footage, while maintaining the same simple decor. I glanced at the wall clock as I pushed open the door. It was 3:10. Gretchen stood near the front with her back to me helping two temporary workers arrange a collection of wooden boxes.

  Before I could call to her, Eric walked in from the warehouse door.

  “Hey, Eric!” I said. Noting his gloomy expression, I added, “Is everything all right?”

  “Sorry it took me so long,” Eric said. “I helped Henri load some stuff. I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

  Eric was tall and thin, in his midtwenties. He was trustworthy and earnest, taking his responsibilities seriously, sometimes too seriously. He’d started at Prescott’s as a part-timer while still in high school, went full-time as soon as he graduated, and was one of the cornerstones of my company’s success.

  “You thought right,” I said, smiling. “Did you spot any good surprises as you were moving our things?”

  “No—all I saw was bags and boxes. I put everything inside one of the roped-off areas. Section eighteen. It’s too cold to leave things on the loading dock.”

  “Good thinking, Eric. I appreciate your initiative.”

  Eric flushed, discomfited yet pleased at hearing praise. Gretchen finished issuing her instructions to the temps and joined us, her emerald eyes bright.

  “Those boxes are ingeniously crafted!” she said. “Did you see the one with the rosewood inlay? It slides open sideways so it doesn’t mess up the pattern.”

  I agreed the collection was a terrific find, then asked for an update.

  “We’re on schedule,” Gretchen said.

  “Even ahead a little,” Eric said, surveying the room with an experienced eye.

  “I waited for you to decide about the decanters. How do you think we should display them?”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” I said and hurried toward section 18.

  * * *

  Two hours later, after I’d sorted through a seemingly endless collection of no-name dishes and glassware, Cara’s voice came over the PA system asking me to pick up the house phone.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Josie,” she said. “Everyone’s left for the day except Fred and me, and we’re leaving soon. Sasha said to tell you she has no news about the jewelry, and Leigh Ann Dubois is here asking to see you.”

  I thanked her, asked her to tell Leigh Ann I’d be right there, and headed for the front.

  * * *

  Leigh Ann stood next to a man about our age, maybe a year or two older. She looked sad or mad, I couldn’t tell which. The man was taller than average and solidly built, like a weight lifter, with short, spiky graying hair. His expression was serious but not stern. He nodded at me, and I nodded back.

  “This is Scott Richey, Josie,” Leigh Ann said. “The old friend I told you was coming up from New York.”

  “Hi,” I said, smiling in his direction, and he nodded again but didn’t return my smile. A dynamic was at work I understand. I recognized trouble but couldn’t imagine how I fit into the equation. “Would you like some coffee or—”

  “Have you heard from Henri?” Leigh Ann asked, breaking in.

  “He was here around noon. Is that what you mean?”

  “When did he leave?”

  “I don’t know exactly. About quarter past, I guess. Why?”

  “I’m worried that something’s happened to him.” She paused. “I know how I must sound—hysterical, right? The thing is … I know him. Henri was due back to the store by three, and I haven’t heard from him. It’s completely unlike him to be late and not call. Did he tell you where he was going?”

  “Yes,” I said, her worry communicating itself to me. She didn’t sound hysterical. She sounded apprehensive for cause. “Back to the storage unit to finish clearing it out. I know he made it, because Eric helped him load the van. Maybe he found something he wanted to get appraised right away.”

  “Then he would have gone back to your place.”

  “Unless it was a specialty item. Like rare stamps or jewelry, objects we don’t appraise in-house.”

  “In which case he would have called to tell me about it. Oh! Where is that man? Scott and I just came from Crawford’s. The van isn’t there, and the unit is locked up tight. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Maybe he’s just running some errands.”

  She was eager to believe good news; her eyes lit up. “Yes, that must be it. He’s cooking one of his famous gourmet dinners tonight. He’s probably ignoring his phone because he’s talking to Al, the butcher, or Jonathan at the wine store.”

  I smiled. “That sounds exactly like him. Or Sal in the cheese shop. I bet he’s stopping there, too.”

  “I’ll call them right now.”

  “Let me get you the numbers,” I said and asked Cara to look them up.

  Leigh Ann sat at the guest table. With each “No, he hasn’t been here” she reported, her shoulders drooped farther. She thanked Sal, her final call, and looked at me, her eyes moist, the flash of optimism gone.

  “I don’t know what to do, Josie,” she said. “He’s not answering his phone or responding to texts.”

  “It’s only been a couple of hours,” I said.

  “He’s never late. He always calls.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know … a car accident, maybe. The highways are cleared, but the back roads are still slick.” She paused. “I’m just so afraid.”

  I glanced at Scott, but his eyes were on Leigh Ann, while hers remained on mine, a triangle of concern. I met her steady gaze, thinking that cell phones could be traced, but that there was no way a phone company would help a wife find her husband via his cell phone without police intervention.

  “The van is new, isn’t it?” I asked. “Because I think all new vehicles have GPS in them.”

  “That’s a terrific idea, Josie,” she said, buoyant again. “We bought the van up here after we moved. I’ll ask the dealer. Thank you.”

  “Is the van in your name?” Scott asked, his voice strong yet warm.

  “Oh!” Leigh Ann said, covering her mouth with her hand, her spirits sinking. “No.” She opened her eyes wide. “What should I do?”

  “Let’s stop at the dealer and ask how it works and whether we can access the info,” Scott said. “No harm in asking.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, Scott.” To me, she added. “I’m so upset … it helps to have something to do.” She patted Scott’s arm. “And someone to help me do it.”

  “Keep me posted, okay?” I asked.

  She promised she would. Scott off
ered his hand and we shook, a good one, a real grip, but not a clench, and lasting just the right amount of time.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Cara put on her coat, preparing to leave.

  “It’s no wonder she’s worried,” Cara said.

  “I would be, too,” I agreed.

  “What do you think is going on?” Fred asked.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. But I can tell you this—from what I know of Henri, Leigh Ann is right to be upset. One time, just before Christmas, we had an appointment to meet at CiCi’s shop. He wanted my opinion on the value of a midcentury teak sofa he was considering purchasing for a client. He called to tell me he was running into more traffic than he expected and would be a little late. He called two more times to give me updates on his progress. Henri was not thoughtless. Just the opposite.”

  Cara shook her head. “Why would a man that thoughtful not call his wife?”

  “Why do leopards ever change their spots?” Fred asked.

  “They don’t,” I said. “Something happened. Maybe they had a fight earlier in the day.”

  “And weren’t speaking,” Fred said, pushing up his glasses. “That’s logical … cause and effect.”

  “Or he can’t call her,” Cara said, her eyes clouding over as she gave voice to her concern. “Leigh Ann is right. The back roads are slick, and in rural areas, there are so many of them that run alongside hills and cliffs.”

  “And plenty that don’t have guardrails,” Fred added.

  “All true,” I said. “We shouldn’t let our imaginations go wild, though. Probably he’s just talking to a new butcher, one he hasn’t used before, someone Leigh Ann doesn’t know about.”

  “Do you really think that’s possible?” Cara asked.

  I paused before answering, thinking about Henri and Leigh Ann and secrets. Fred leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, elbows out, waiting for me to reply. Cara’s intelligent blue eyes, guileless and attentive, stayed on my face.

  “No,” I said. “I left Henri a good-news voice mail about one of the silent movie posters around two—I think there’s a better than even chance that it’s valuable. If he could have called me back, he would have done so.”

  “Anyone would,” Cara said, anxiety bubbling into her voice, her tone becoming tremulous. “Oh, my.”

  Fred shook his head. “Not calling back when you get a you’ve-got-money-honey message? That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No,” I agreed. “It really doesn’t.”

  * * *

  After Fred and Cara left for the day, I refreshed Hank’s food and water, adding extra, just in case, layered up against the cold, and turned out the lights. I couldn’t imagine how Leigh Ann must be feeling. I tried to think how I’d feel if Ty just vanished, if he went out for groceries and never came home. Heart-clenching terror, I thought. I’d be petrified, frozen into immobility, unable to breathe.

  The entire time I was closing up, I tried to find a credible explanation for Henri’s disappearance, but I couldn’t. Something was very wrong.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Seacoast Star reporter, Wes Smith, called about nine. I thought of Wes as an adorable, yet annoying, younger brother. He was funny and hardworking and clever and honest, and he always seemed to know everything about everything. He was also as maddening as a mosquito.

  I was sitting cross-legged on the long bench that ran under the windows next to my kitchen table watching Ty load dishes into the dishwasher and telling him about going to Delmonico’s with my dad. I recognized Wes’s number on the phone ID display and was tempted to let the call go to voice mail. Talking to Wes was work. I hadn’t heard from Leigh Ann about Henri, though, and Wes never called about nothing, so I told Ty I needed to take the call.

  “Wait till you hear my info-bomb,” Wes said as soon as he heard my voice, skipping pleasantries, par for his course. Wes wasn’t a bad guy; he was just rough around the edges.

  “I’m fine, Wes. How about you?”

  “Good, good, listen—I got major-league big-time news about a friend of yours. Henri Dubois. He’s a friend, right?”

  I sat forward, my nose for trouble signaling bad news was about to hit the airwaves. “What’s happened?”

  “Is he a friend?” Wes asked.

  I understood his unspoken demand—if I didn’t give him something, I’d get nothing. “Yes, and business colleague. What’s going on, Wes?”

  “He’s missing.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Fill me in,” he demanded.

  “I don’t have any other information. I thought maybe you were calling to report that he’d been found. What do you know?”

  “Just what I hear on the police scanner.”

  “The police scanner! Oh, my God, Wes! What happened!”

  Ty paused, plate in hand. “What’s wrong?” he asked in a low tone.

  I looked at him, shock registering on my face, but I didn’t reply. I was holding my breath, waiting for Wes’s answer.

  “His wife, Leigh Ann Dubois, reported him missing about an hour ago.”

  “What are they doing? Have they organized a search?”

  “Not yet. The police won’t declare an adult missing until he’s been gone for twenty-four hours. So far, he’s just late.”

  “This isn’t good, Wes. He’s been gone for hours, and he’s not that sort of guy.”

  “That’s what they all say. In any event, until he turns up, you’re the hot potato!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re the last person to see him today, which gives you all sorts of creds on this one. Talk to me. What do you know?”

  Ty placed the plate in the rack, then took a step toward me. I raised my palm like a traffic cop, and he stopped walking, his eyes fixed on mine.

  “I don’t know anything! And I wasn’t the last person to see him. Eric saw him later at the storage facility.” As soon as I spoke the words, I realized that Wes had done it again. He had a gift for drawing me out, for getting me to tell him more than I’d planned. Talking openly to Wes wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, because he always returned the favor, sharing information I’d have no other way of learning, and his fact-gathering tentacles reached far and deep, but I hated when it happened without my even being aware of it.

  “When?” Wes asked.

  “I don’t know exactly … early afternoon sometime.”

  “Do you want to ask Eric about the timing yourself and call me back? Or do you want me to call him?”

  “Neither,” I said. “Let’s not put the cart before the horse, Wes. There may well be some innocent explanation for Henri’s disappearance.”

  “Like what? Leigh Ann told the police he was supposed to cook some fancy dinner. They have a guest staying with them.”

  “Maybe his van rolled into a ravine or something,” I said, praying it wasn’t true.

  “We don’t live in the middle of nowhere, Josie. He was driving from Crawford’s on Route 1 to Rocky Point Village, to the wine shop and the butcher. There are no ravines en route.”

  “That’s a good point, and really reassuring, Wes. Still, it’s possible he was in an accident.”

  “I’ve checked with both hospitals in the area. No soap.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Well, it’s pretty scary—a straight-arrow newlywed disappears in broad daylight. Great headline possibilities, though, huh? I could do ‘Wed, Then Dead?’ with a question mark, you know, to show it’s speculation. Or ‘Missing by Design?’ again using a question mark. Pretty good, don’t you think?. Anyway … do you want to call Eric or shall I?”

  “Leave Eric alone, Wes. Don’t make me sorry I told you about him.”

  Wes sighed, signaling his disappointment. “Until tomorrow.”

  “In which case the police will be involved.”

  “That’s why I need a head start.” He paused, maybe expecting me to cave. After several seconds, he sighed again, letting me
know his disappointment had deepened. “Do you think Henri just vamoosed?”

  “No,” I said, hoping I was right, thinking that no matter how bad business was, surely he wouldn’t just pick up and go, leaving Leigh Ann holding the bag.

  “Lots of guys do.”

  “I’m going to hang up now, Wes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Don’t hang up! I need background. I promise I won’t use your name on anything you tell me unless I confirm it with someone else.”

  “You have to promise you won’t use my name, period. Same as always.”

  “Josie,” he whined, “you’re not being reasonable.”

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Wes. Bye-bye.”

  I hung up and looked up at Ty. He resumed loading the dishwasher.

  “Henri?” he asked.

  “Wes thinks maybe he’s gone AWOL.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Do guys really do that?”

  “Sure. All the time.”

  “Jeesh! And you know this how?”

  “From my years as Rocky Point’s police chief investigating missing people. In a town this size, it didn’t happen all that often, but it happened more than a few times. Also, I keep current with Homeland Security’s research about disenfranchised men, some of whom just disappear into the night to start a new life somewhere else and some of whom become terrorists. More men than you think just walk away.”

  “In today’s technologically sophisticated world, why aren’t they found in about a second and a half?”

  “Sometimes no one cares enough to look. Sometimes they go off the grid, living on the land, joining a commune, disappearing into the bush in a distant country, that kind of thing. Sometimes they create a new fake identity.”

  He started the dishwasher, and it came to life with a muted whir.

  “Do you ever think of leaving?” I asked. “Of just walking away?”

  “No. Don’t worry, sweetums.” He gave me a knee-weakening smile. “I’m not going anywhere. Plus which, I don’t fit the profile.”