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

by Jane K. Cleland

  “You need to be a houseguest more often,” Zoë said. “This mango thing is to die for.”

  “Thanks. Not many people in this part of the world happen to have mangoes on hand in February. I thought I’d take advantage of the bounty.”

  “I have blueberries, too. Want to make pancakes for lunch?”

  I laughed. “Next time.”

  “You called it Mango Surprise Syrup,” she said. “What’s the surprise?”

  “Pineapple.”

  “Pineapple? That’s a surprise!”

  “See?”

  While Ty helped Ellis clear the front path and driveway, I gave Zoë a mommy break by playing a rousing round of Pictionary with twelve-year-old Jake, still under the weather but improving, and nine-year-old Emma, determined to win. She did. Zoë stayed upstairs, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and writing in her journal.

  Just before one, Ty and I drove to the Meyer’s lot to retrieve my car.

  “I need a generator,” I said. “I feel stupid about it. I made sure to have backup systems at work—why wouldn’t I do the same thing at home?”

  “You didn’t think of it, that’s all.”

  “That’s what brains are for, to think of things.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Josie. You’re human, not a thinking machine.”

  I smiled and stroked his arm. “You’re very sweet,” I said.

  He patted my hand as we passed utility workers finishing a repair, then pulled into Meyer’s lot. The open areas had been plowed, but thigh-high drifts surrounded each vehicle. Ty reached into the back for a snow brush and shovel and waded through the fluffy snow to reach my car.

  “If you clear the trunk first,” I said, “I’ll get my shovel. Then we’ll both be able to work.”

  He swept the snow that covered the trunk aside, then pushed his way through to the front. I used my clicker to open the trunk. Next to a tub of emergency supplies, next to the shovel, lay a tire iron I’d never seen before. I gasped. Under the dim yellow light cast by the small bulb, I saw dark crusty bits at one end. I was looking at the murder weapon. It had to be.

  Whoever came into my house had opened my car, not to take something, but to leave the tire iron. God only knew what they’d hidden in my house. Panicky shivers raced up my spine. My first thought was to get rid of it, to fling it aside, to deny I’d ever seen it. I stared at it, feeling weak with impotent rage. I wouldn’t fling it aside. I would do the right thing, the only thing. I’d call the police and submit to their relentless questions. I’d endure the media’s unremitting innuendo. It had to be done. As molten anger replaced frozen panic, the tire iron’s black hue reddened—I was seeing it through a red haze as fury took hold of my soul.

  “Ty?” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “What?” he called from the front.

  “Come look.”

  He trudged to the rear, followed my gaze, and said, “You don’t own a tire iron.”

  * * *

  Ellis explained that he’d call for the flatbed to transport my car to the police garage on his cell phone to keep it off the police scanner, to keep it from the media, if he could. I thanked him, knowing it was a lost cause; too many people, from the tow truck driver to the lab techs, would know what was up.

  Ty drove me to the police station and waited in the lobby while I gave a formal statement. It didn’t take long since I had no information, no ideas, no suggestions. I told Ellis I’d never seen the tire iron before. I had no idea how it got into my trunk. I didn’t have a clue how someone could have got my keys, since only Ty and I had keys to my car, and neither one was missing. I said that I’d never bought or owned a tire iron, that I wouldn’t know what to do with one.

  He thanked me and turned off the video recorder.

  “Once the lab finishes testing the tire iron, we’ll probably have more questions,” he added, his tone empathetic.

  * * *

  Just after three, Ty parked by the old stone wall across from my house, next to a six-foot-high bank of snow.

  “It’s going to be all over the media,” I said.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I didn’t do it, Ty.”

  “I know that. So does Ellis.”

  “I feel powerless, as if I’m caught in a maelstrom and can’t swim clear.”

  “An apt description of chaos,” he said. “Let’s get this snow cleared and get you a rental car, then go back to my place. I’ll make you a fire.”

  “And a sandwich?”

  “And a salad.”

  “What a guy.”

  Ty used Zoë’s snow blower to clear our driveways, and I shoveled our walkways and porch steps. I was exhausted and fretful, and the sun and exercise brought a welcome burst of energy.

  The electricity was still out, and walking into my home felt strange, as if the house had been abandoned long ago or I were opening up a summer cottage after a long winter. It was bone-chillingly cold. The silence was omnipresent and ominous.

  “I hate the quiet,” I said, looking around, seeing familiar things that seemed foreign. “I’m scared, Ty. Worse even than last night. Someone snuck what is probably the murder weapon into my car. Someone is framing me for murder.”

  “Trying to, it looks like. They won’t succeed. You won’t let them. I won’t let them.”

  I leaned my head against his arm for a moment, then said, “Let’s do what we came for and get out of here.”

  We stepped into the long hall that led to the front door and began our survey. We stayed together, retracing the path I’d walked with Ellis. I examined every flat surface, every wall, and every inch of flooring. Ty did the same using his government-issued high-powered torch. This time I also looked behind and under furniture, in drawers, even in the refrigerator.

  “You didn’t hear a vehicle approaching or leaving?”

  “No, but if someone had parked at Meyer’s and hiked or showshoed in, I wouldn’t.”

  “Not with the snow muffling sounds,” he agreed.

  “I wondered about footprints, but with the way the snow was blowing, there’s no way we could spot any.”

  “The rational part of me needs to ask … there’s no chance you forgot that you bought a tire iron and tossed it in the trunk, is there? Or that you imagined those footsteps? Spilled the water yourself?”

  “Zero, unless I’ve started hallucinating for the first time in my life.”

  He nodded. “When you realized you were hearing footsteps, what came into your mind?”

  “I thought it was you because who else could it be? The whole time, though, I knew it wasn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “The timing. You couldn’t possibly have covered that distance in that time.” I paused, remembering. “One thing … at first I was certain the noises started from near the back door … but now I’m not so sure. I know how sounds reverberate and bounce off walls and so on.” I shrugged. “Although the intruder probably entered through the back, since the dead bolt wasn’t in place. We checked the front door lock, and it was set.” I turned and looked at the door. “Ellis said he’ll send someone over to check for prints, but he wasn’t optimistic. Ditto examining the mat and rug for evidence.”

  Ty squatted to inspect the lock and keyhole, then stood up. “You can pick a dead bolt,” he said, “without leaving any marks.”

  “Doesn’t the idea that someone would set out to pick a lock in the middle of the night during a blizzard stretch credibility?”

  “Depends how badly they wanted in.”

  My mouth opened, then closed, then I said, “That’s a terrifying thought.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. He stood and opened his arms. “Come here, gorgeous.”

  I walked into his embrace. His arms enveloped me, and I closed my eyes, feeling secure and loved and, for the moment, at least, safe. After a minute, maybe longer, I leaned back and traced his jawline with my finger.

  “I could stay like this forever,” I said.

&nbs
p; He kissed me. “Me, too.”

  “Ellis said I needed to confirm the keys hadn’t been lost or stolen. You have yours, right?”

  “Yes. Right here.” He patted his pants pocket, setting his keys jangling. “I already checked.”

  “And I have mine. I’ll make sure my extra one is in my desk at work, but I’m certain it is. Let’s run over to Zoë’s now. She said that as far as she knows, the spare is in her kitchen catchall drawer, same as always, but we should look.”

  I used the spare key Zoë had given me, and we entered her kitchen. Zoë’s house was bigger than mine but similar in layout. When they’d been built, mine had been designed as a fancy in-law abode, a sort of dower house.

  My key was in the back of the drawer, on an Empire State Building souvenir key ring.

  Trudging through mounds of snow back to my house, I thought about what Ty had said—there was always a motive. I believed that to be true. Sometimes, motives were obvious and evident; other times, they were hidden or disguised. Just because I didn’t know the motive for the break-in didn’t mean none existed.

  “Let’s blow this pop stand,” I said as I turned the dead bolt. “Let’s go somewhere safe.”

  * * *

  I spent the rest of Sunday on Ty’s couch, dozing and sleeping and listening to the crackle and pop of the fire. He brought me a salad at seven, a turkey sandwich at eight, and a cup of tea at ten. I did my best not to think, and more or less, it worked. I was able to relax and let information and impressions and intimations simmer just below the surface. By the time I arose from the sofa, as the last tiny embers glowed red, I knew I would sleep. I also knew the first thing I would do in the morning—call Wes.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Whatcha got?” Wes asked.

  “Questions,” I replied, adding a thimbleful of milk to my tea.

  We sat at a small table near the window in the Portsmouth Diner early the next morning, Monday. I ordered my regular, tea, a fruit salad, and an English muffin, dry with jam. Wes ordered his regular, too, a double side of bacon and a Coke.

  “Shoot,” he said.

  That Wes hadn’t jumped in with questions about the break-in and finding the tire iron was a relief. So far, it looked like Ellis had succeeded in keeping the news off Wes’s radar. Since Wes listened to the police scanner religiously and seemed to have sources in every corner of the police department, I was both surprised and appreciative. The last thing I wanted was publicity that my house contained valuable antiques and was easy to access. Even less did I want to announce to the world that someone was out to frame me for murder.

  “The initial shock of Henri’s murder has worn off, but I’m still stunned, Wes. I just can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t fathom that someone wanted to kill him.” I shook my head and looked out the window, taking in the sun-streaked snowbanks and the salt-covered asphalt. The red SUV I’d chosen from the rental options stood out among the rows of vehicles—it was the only shiny car in the lot. “So all I have is questions.”

  “It’s all there is,” Wes said. “It’s all there ever is. Questions and answers. And questions without answers.”

  “You might be right … I don’t know.” I sighed. “Have you learned anything about Dubois Interior Designs’ financing or Henri’s will?”

  “A little about the financing and everything about the will. The business is in Henri’s name only. So are their house and their cars. They paid for everything in cash—no line of credit, no loans, no net-thirty credit terms, nada.”

  “Wow. That’s not something you hear about every day, not for first-time business owners. That means they must have had…” I paused and mentally tallied the cost of the furniture they had on display, guesstimating the rent they must be paying at their prime village green location, and throwing in an extra percentage to cover all the other expenses I knew they must have incurred, from signage to insurance and from utilities to office supplies. “Double wow, Wes. You’re talking about Leigh Ann and Henri’s having had close to five hundred thousand dollars in cash.”

  “That’s big buckeroonies, but not unique in Rocky Point start-ups. You did, too, when you opened up. Even more than that when you add in the cost of your building and the renovations you made—all of which you paid for in cash. It happens.”

  “How on earth do you know how much I spent opening my business, or that I paid for things in cash?”

  He grinned. “I like knowing stuff. Questions and answers … I told you, it’s all there is.”

  “Don’t be evasive, Wes. How do you know anything about my company’s financing?”

  “Confidential source,” he said as he dismissed my question with an airy wave and picked up a piece of bacon.

  “Wes, if my banker or accountant is telling you about my private affairs, I need to know it. I will not talk to you ever again until you tell me how you know.”

  “Simmer down, Josie! No one betrayed you! You told me yourself.”

  “What are you talking about? I did no such thing!”

  “Sure you did—just now.” He grinned again. “Don’t fly off the handle. All I did was float a trial balloon. I said you paid your start-up costs with cash, just like Henri and Leigh Ann, and you confirmed it for me.” He leaned back and faux-shot me with his index finger. “Gotcha!”

  I stared at him, speechless. Fury at Wes and mortification at my own naïveté churned inside me. He’d conned me like a pro, and I’d fallen for his ploy like an amateur.

  “Where’d you get all that money anyway?” he asked shamelessly. “Rob a bank or two?”

  My dad died. I used the money from his estate and insurance. “There is no force on earth that could possibly make me answer that question, Wes.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I learned about where Leigh Ann and Henri got the money?”

  “Yes, but there’s no quid pro quo here. None.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said with an irritating chuckle. “Especially since I have no idea where their money came from. When they moved here, they didn’t open up a new bank account—they just changed branches from New York City to Rocky Point. They had nearly six hundred thousand dollars in the account. Since then, their balance has never dropped below the high five figures, and sometimes it’s been up in the low six figures. That’s a lot of moola in the coola, no matter how you cut it. I have inquiries out, checking where the money came from in the first place, but so far, no dice.”

  “How long has the account been open?” I asked.

  “Since last August thirty-first.”

  “Shortly after they married, then,” I said.

  “Looks that way. As to his will, he left everything to his father, Pierre Dubois.”

  “Maybe his father put up the financing for the business, and part of the deal was that he would be Henri’s heir.”

  “That’s what I think,” Wes said. “The father’s some top-dog doctor in Paris. I checked. What do you know about how Leigh Ann and Henri met?”

  “They met at a huge annual expo, the gift show. Do you know it, Wes? It’s held every year in New York City. Specialty manufacturers from candle makers to cabinetmakers and artisans like potters and sculptors rent booths so that gift shop owners and department store buyers can see what’s available and place orders. Henri worked in sales for a French fine-linen company and was manning their booth. When Leigh Ann first moved to New York, she planned to be an actress, but I guess it didn’t work out. She went back to school to become an interior designer, and that wasn’t going so well, either. When they met, she was working for a big-box store helping customers choose tiles and fixtures for their do-it-yourself projects. She hated it—she called it soul-annihilating work, where all anyone cared about was speed, ease of installation, and cost, where concepts like beauty and style were secondary at best. So there Leigh Ann is in Henri’s company’s booth admiring the linens, and they ended up having one of those unexpected conversations, you know the sort of thing I mean, don’t you, Wes? You’re o
n an airplane or a bus or at a conference and you end up having a deep conversation with a complete stranger. Leigh Ann and Henri spent an hour discussing the true meaning of quality.”

  Wes chomped bacon, unimpressed. “His boss must have loved that.”

  “That conversation led to their meeting later that day for coffee,” I continued, ignoring Wes’s interjection, “then the next for lunch, then dinners each evening, and then Henri had to return to France. Ten days later, Leigh Ann spent what she called a halcyon week with him in Paris. A week after that, Henri returned to New York, and their fates were sealed.”

  “Yawn,” Wes said.

  “It’s a wonderful story, Wes. Romantic.”

  “No wonder I’m single, huh? What happened next?”

  “Henri applied for and received a fiancé visa, and they were married in August. By November, they’d relocated to Rocky Point and opened their business. They seemed perfect together.” I sighed. “It’s so sad.”

  “Sounds kind of, I don’t know, gooey.”

  “You won’t think it’s gooey when it happens to you. Do you know when Henri signed the will?”

  “Why?” Wes demanded, catching a scent of a fresh angle.

  “I’m curious,” I said, thinking that figuring out how to handle money as a couple represented a pivotal moment in any relationship. If the process went smoothly, the couple would grow closer, aligned and allied. If it didn’t, even if the couple managed to stay together, resentment and ill will would invariably follow, gnawing away at trust and contentment as subtly and surely as a termite destroys wood.

  “He signed it a few days before they moved to Rocky Point. After they were married. What do you think it means?”

  “That our guess is probably right—Henri’s dad financed their move to Rocky Point.”

  Wes chuckled. “Since Leigh Ann isn’t in Henri’s will, it looks like she didn’t kill her husband for money.”