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

by Jane K. Cleland

I ignored his mordant humor. “Does she have an alibi?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll check. You think she might have killed him for real? If not for money, for why?”

  “I don’t know,” I fibbed, thinking of Scott.

  “Is she screwing around?” Wes asked as if he could read my mind.

  “Wes! Of course not! She was a newlywed.”

  He chuckled again. “Right, right … that never happens,” he said, dripping sarcasm.

  I stared at him, shocked that such a young man would sound so jaded, would be so jaded, until I realized I’d had the same thoughts, and then I felt amused and guilty and embarrassed, all at once.

  “If so, I have no information about it. Everything I know argues against it. Leigh Ann and Henri seemed to care deeply about one another.”

  “God, Josie, got any more pap you want to spew?”

  “When did you become Mr. Hardnose?”

  “What are you talking about?” Wes asked. “I’ve always been Mr. Hardnose.”

  “You said you were going to find out about Scott,” I said, rolling my eyes, eager to change the subject.

  “All I know so far is that he owns a company called SRR, whatever that means, and he’s divorced. How about you?”

  I couldn’t see any reason not to tell him that Scott and Leigh Ann had been married and divorced, and that Scott’s company’s initials probably stood for Scott Richey Realty, since Scott had told me he owned apartment buildings.

  “I heard a few things,” I said and told him what I knew about Scott and Leigh Ann.

  “Rocket science, Josie!” he exclaimed when I was done. “You’re the bomb.”

  I rolled my eyes again and asked, “Any news from the French consul?”

  “The consul is just a local lawyer, did you know that? He’s hired by the French government to represent their interests in the area. Interesting, huh? Anyway, Henri was here legally, just like you told me. No surprises on that front. They called him a French national in good standing.” He pushed his empty plate aside and drank some Coke through a straw that bent at the top. “The police got Henri’s call logs. They’re focusing on one call in particular, a call he received Thursday afternoon—it’s the last call he made or received before he died. It came from an unlisted number in the nine-one-seven exchange, New York City. They don’t know who it belongs to. The reverse directory, you know, the thing that lets you look up phone numbers to get the name and address—nothing. It’s a pretty reliable tool for landlines, not so much for cell phones. Do you know anything about that call, who Henri was talking to?”

  “Why don’t the police just call it?” I asked, using a trick I’d learned from Wes years earlier—if you don’t want to answer a question, ask one instead.

  “They did. The guy won’t talk to them. He won’t even give his name.”

  “Really?” I asked. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “Very. The service provider for that phone won’t give out any info without a subpoena. Which the police received, natch, but getting the log still takes time. Back in the day, you’d get a buddy at the phone company to look up numbers for you on the q.t., but now any research an employee does on, let us say, an informal basis leaves a computerized e-trail, and if someone catches on and tries to see who leaked the goods, bam, they get nabbed dead to rights.”

  “You said it takes time to get the log,” I said, skipping over Wes’s wistful discussion of how hard it was to breach security today compared to the good old days. “How long are we talking? Days? Weeks? Months?”

  “At least a couple of days. As soon as the subpoena is received by the company, they forward it to their legal department for review, blah, blah, blah.”

  I nodded. Bureaucratic wheels often turned slowly, and sometimes they ground to a halt.

  “What do you know about Andrew Bruen?” I asked.

  “Who’s he?”

  “A stranger who bid against Henri for the storage locker and was really upset that he lost out. I mean, really, really upset.”

  “You think he might be the killer?” Wes asked, his eyes fiery bright.

  “I have no idea,” I said, “but when you consider the circumstances, well, it seems suspicious. Andrew Bruen bid on one and only one locker … he’s outbid and is visibly upset … the winning bidder is murdered within hours, and his body is found in that very storage unit. I’m not suggesting a causal relationship here. I’m saying it’s enough of a coincidence that I want to know more about him.”

  “This is bonzo, Josie! Totally bonzo! You rock! Tell me what you know about him. What does he look like?”

  “He’s about my age. Ordinary looking. You know, nice enough, but nothing remarkable. He was wearing a Red Sox baseball cap and a blue parka.”

  “He sounds like a thousand other guys.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. His cap and jacket … they were dirty, you know, greasy.”

  “Like he’s a sloppy eater?”

  “It’s possible,” I said, thinking about it, “but I don’t think so. I’m talking tiny spots. I’m talking smears.”

  Wes nodded, taking it in. “What was he driving?”

  “An old model, silver. A Camry, I think.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out. What else you got?”

  I stared at him, debating whether to reveal how Henri had asked me not to tell about the call. I decided yes. It couldn’t do any harm and might do good.

  “I’ll tell you what I know with my usual condition—you can’t ever quote me.”

  “Josie!” he whined.

  I shook my head and closed my lips. Wes fussed with his usual vigor, then gave in. I don’t know why he even bothered. I always demanded the same level of anonymity, and he always agreed.

  “What do you think it means?” he asked after I’d filled him in.

  “I think Henri told me the truth, that he got some bad business news—news he didn’t want to reveal to Leigh Ann.”

  Wes nodded. “More to think about,” he said. “What else you got?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “All right, then,” he said. He double-tapped the table, then stood up. “Catch ya later.”

  I watched through the plate glass window as he charged toward his old car, filled with purpose. His confident stride reminded me of my dad.

  * * *

  An hour later, I thanked Tim of Rocky Point Home Services Company for installing the generator, tested the automatic turn-on/turn-off feature, set the alarm, and left. News reports said the power should be fully restored by the end of the day.

  * * *

  “Oh, Josie,” Cara said, her eyes moist. “I heard about Henri on the news. Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “More or less.”

  “I made chocolate chip cookies,” she said. “Your favorites. I couldn’t think of anything else to do to help.”

  “You’re wonderful, Cara,” I said, touched. “Thank you.”

  “Any news?” Gretchen asked, her eyes clouded with concern.

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “Poor Leigh Ann,” Cara said, and Sasha echoed her sentiments.

  Fred’s eyes stayed on mine, his concern apparent.

  “It’s so awful,” Gretchen said. “They haven’t even been married a year.”

  “Have the police made any progress?” Fred asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I wish I had news, but I don’t.” I unwrapped the plastic platter piled high with Cara’s luscious cookies. “Anyone but me want one?”

  Everyone did. I had two. They were as tasty as all Cara’s cookies, maybe more so because of the caring she’d baked in.

  * * *

  The key to my desk was in its hidey-hole, as expected. My spare house key was in the drawer, also as expected. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. I was thankful that no one had stolen my spare key, but the question about how the intruder had gained access to my house and car remained unanswered, and that was beyond al
arming; it was terrifying.

  * * *

  I called Leigh Ann about ten, and Scott answered the phone.

  “I wanted to check in,” I said, “to see how Leigh Ann is doing.”

  “She’s sleeping,” Scott said. “She was up most of the night, finally fell asleep around four.”

  “That you know the timing means you were awake, too.”

  “That’s true.”

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “The same.”

  “Tell her I was thinking of her, okay?”

  “Will do. How about you? You all right?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  “I have Nate Blackmore on the phone,” Sasha said just before eleven. “I think you’d like to hear what he has to say.”

  “Come on up,” I said.

  Two minutes later, with Sasha settled on the guest chair in my office, I activated the speakerphone and greeted him.

  “Hey, Josie,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m the bearer of good news. While most of the jewelry in the collection is costume, good costume, but not particularly valuable, with no piece worth more than a couple of hundred dollars, the wrapped heart is a different can of beans all together. The jewels are real. The materials that look like eighteen-karat gold and platinum are. From the design and craftsmanship, I think it’s a Verdura, but only they can authenticate it.”

  “You sure know how to put a smile on a gal’s face,” I said. “Two gals. I think Sasha’s smile is broader than mine. But before I do my happy dance—and I gotta tell you, my friend, you have not lived until you’ve seen my happy dance—you didn’t mention a signature. Is there one?”

  “I didn’t find any additional marks besides the one you spotted, which may be significant, or not. Signing jewelry wasn’t as common back then as it is now. I can usually smell a fake, you know? And this one smells like the real deal.”

  I knew what he meant. Experienced appraisers, like experts in all fields, get so familiar with their areas of expertise, it’s almost as if they can sniff out a real deal amid a slew of fakes.

  “That’s very encouraging, Nate,” I said. “Do you have any sense of value?”

  “You’re going to love me—although I’m tempted to tell you in person so I can witness the happy dance.”

  “I promise a reprise.”

  “Well, then, okay … based on gem quality alone, you’re looking at a hundred thousand dollars, plus. If the brooch can be authenticated as a Verdura, add a hundred thousand more. If there are any interesting associations, well, you’ll go up from there. As you know, Verdura designed for high society, so there’s a chance you’ve got something unique, something with a wonderful story behind it.”

  “Oh, Nate!” I exclaimed, awed. “This is such great news. Do you have a name for us at Verdura’s?”

  “Adèle Bové,” he said. “I worked with her on a project a year or so ago. You’ll like her. Say hey for me.”

  I said we would, thanked him again, and told him we’d be in touch when we’d arranged for a courier service to transport the brooch to New York.

  I looked at Sasha. Her eyes were big with excitement.

  “Wow,” I said.

  Sasha nodded. “Wow.”

  “Double wow.”

  She smiled and stood up, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I’ll call Malca-Amit,” she said, naming one of the world’s top jewelry and art courier companies. “Do you want to call Ms. Bové?”

  “Let’s do it together,” I said. “Let’s do it now.”

  She sat back down, and I got the phone number for the Fifth Avenue–based salon. When Adèle Bové came on the line I introduced myself and Sasha, extended Nate’s regards, and explained why we were calling.

  “A wrapped heart,” Adèle said. “I love those.”

  “Are they marked in some way somewhere we can’t see?” I asked.

  “You won’t find a signature, but each piece has a unique scratch number—that’s what we call them. It’s a code, etched into the metal. For a brooch, the mark will start with C.”

  “Why C?”

  “B is for bracelet.”

  “Got it. We looked and saw C-136. Does that mean it’s real?”

  “Not necessarily. Someone might have copied an original—including the scratch mark.”

  “How can you authenticate it?”

  “If we can find the original drawing, we’ll know it’s a Verdura design. Some pieces were made in quantity, but most were not. The wrapped hearts, for example, were all custom designs. That means there’s a very good chance we can find the original drawing, and from that, we can identify the original buyer.”

  “I can’t believe you have all those records,” I said.

  “It’s something, isn’t it? We have boxes and boxes of paper, all the records since the company was founded in 1939. We’re slowly computerizing everything. In the meantime, we search manually.”

  “Impressive,” I said, holding crossed fingers in the air. “You can’t see it, but my fingers are crossed that you’re able to find the drawing for this heart.”

  “We’ll do our best,” she said. “It’s amazing that you found it in a storage locker. Who did the locker belong to?”

  “We don’t know,” I said, knowing Vicki would never tell. “We never know, and we can’t find out.”

  As Sasha discussed the logistics with Adèle, I considered our next steps.

  Assuming the heart was a genuine Verdura, once we had the original buyer’s name, we could begin our detective work. Using auction records, letters, bills of sale, and other written and oral evidence, we would attempt to track the brooch from its first owner to the storage locker, proving clear title, showing that each owner along the way had the right to possess it.

  I felt my pulse quicken with a familiar burst of exhilarating anticipation. I loved every aspect of my job, but my favorite part was the hunt.

  * * *

  “Guess whose meeting tomorrow morning got canceled?” Ty asked.

  “I can’t imagine,” I said, smiling. “Whose?”

  “Mine. Guess which restaurant has added your favorite fish prepared your favorite way to its menu?”

  “You’re kidding! Sole Veronique?”

  “Yes, indeed. Suzanne, the manager of the Blue Dolphin, was just interviewed in the Newcomers segment on the radio. She’s very good, by the way, articulate and genuine sounding. So having heard this momentous news, guess what I did?”

  “You went for an early lunch?” I asked, glancing at my computer monitor. It was 11:45.

  “No. I made a reservation. For two. At seven tonight.”

  “Yay! You are so wonderful! My mouth is watering already.”

  We decided to meet at the restaurant at seven, and I’d just resumed reading my accountant’s updated revenue report when Cara’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Chief Hunter on line two, Josie. He says it’s urgent.”

  I picked up the line.

  After we exchanged quick hellos, he said, “I need some antiques help, Josie.” I heard loud background noises, some grinding, metal on metal, and men’s voices. “I’m at the police garage on Turler Street. Do you know it?”

  “I think so. It’s off Baylor, right?”

  “Right. First block in, on the right. Can you come now?” A clatter sounded, like a tool hitting the ground with a bang, not a thud. “We found Henri’s van.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The police garage was housed in a one-story concrete building that took up most of the block. Triple-wide access doors opened to a cavernous space filled with vehicles, mostly patrol cars. Henri’s van was in the middle bay, high on a hydraulic lift. Electric heaters were spaced every ten feet or so, creating a zone warm enough to work in.

  “You can bring it down,” Ellis called to a young man in a green jumpsuit. The hydraulic lift lowered smoothly. His eyes on the van, Ellis added, “I expect Leigh Ann he
re shortly.” He turned toward me. “She’s coming from Dixon’s Funeral Home. The burial will take place in France, and she’s making the arrangements.”

  “It must be horrible, sickening, to have to plan your husband’s funeral,” I said, then wished I hadn’t spoken. Ellis’s wife, a dancer, had died not that many years ago. Her death was one of the reasons he’d relocated to Rocky Point. So many of us came here to get away from memories of loss, to start over, I thought.

  “Yeah,” he said. The van’s tires hit the ground. He walked closer to it. “The van is packed with boxes and tubs and crates. The techs have cleared it for you to go through. I don’t even know the questions to ask, Josie. Is it all junk? Is anything worth killing over? Can you tell if anything is missing?”

  “When we do an appraisal, we video-record everything we see, talking about it as we go. We create an annotated record. I’m thinking we should do the same thing here. Placement may be relevant down the road. I have a camera in the trunk. If you want, I can get it.”

  “Good idea. But let me get one of our recorders. It’s a chain of custody thing, if and when it ever comes up. I’ll send someone for a setup.”

  He used his phone to call in the request. “They’ll be here in about ten minutes.”

  I nodded.

  “I sent a team to try for prints on your back door this morning,” he said. “Nothing.”

  “Implying someone wiped it clear?”

  “Or you’re a really good housekeeper.”

  “Trust me, that means it was wiped.” I paused. “So there’s nothing more to do.”

  “We’re canvassing the neighborhood, checking security cameras, considering other lines of investigation. We’re not giving up.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Where did you find the van?”

  “In Little Boston. Buried under a snowdrift on Dartmouth Street. An officer on routine patrol spotted it.”

  “Any idea how long it had been there?”

  “Since before it started to snow. Several nearby residents noticed it, but no one saw who drove it in.”

  “Do you think Henri left it there and walked back to Crawford’s?”