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

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Why would he?” Ellis asked.

  “I don’t know. Why would anyone?” I paused, then answered my own question. “To make you think he left voluntarily, which would delay your investigation.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “To make it harder for the ME to determine the time of death.”

  “Maybe. They’re pretty good at taking environmental factors into account, but, of course, it’s possible the killer doesn’t know that.”

  “So why?”

  “You tell me,” Ellis said, using a ploy I recognized, designed to get me talking.

  It worked. I thought about his question for a minute. “If the killer’s alibi is dicey, any ambiguity regarding the time of death works in his favor.”

  Ellis nodded. “That’s logical.”

  “Has the ME given an opinion yet about when Henri died?”

  “Yes. Between noon and 3:00 P.M. on Friday.”

  “That’s about what we expected.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed,” he said. “Confirmation is a good thing.”

  “Always,” I acknowledged. “You were going to check whether any local locksmiths made a duplicate of my door key, the Hotchkins.”

  “We did. They didn’t. Nor did someone try to replicate your car key. The lab didn’t find anything notable on your floor mat or rug, either. I’ll drop them off next time I’m by.”

  I nodded, let down but not surprised.

  “There were metal splinters in Henri’s scalp,” Ellis said, confirming what I’d learned from Scott. “Not painted. Something narrow and rounded, roughly five-eighths of an inch in circumference.”

  “Like the tire iron,” I said, horrified.

  “Looks that way. Your fingerprints aren’t on it, by the way.”

  “Are anyone’s?”

  “No. They’re still testing it, but the blood is a match, and the shape of the wounds is consistent with that weapon. That’s an official term—consistent.”

  “Which means the murderer could have used another weapon, then doctored the tire iron to implicate it.”

  “Theoretically.”

  “Why would someone do that?” I asked.

  “I don’t think they would. I think the tire iron is the murder weapon.”

  “But it could be something else, like a fireplace poker. Or a golf club.”

  He nodded toward the van. “It’ll be interesting to see if there’s an old set of fireplace tools or golf clubs in there, especially if one piece is missing.”

  “Did you look in the storage unit?”

  “Not yet. I’m hoping you’ll go through that stuff next.” He glanced at his watch. “The techs tell me they’ll be done there by one.”

  * * *

  The van was packed with Rubik’s Cube–like precision. We video-recorded the entire load, then each piece of furniture, box, or tub as we removed and examined or unpacked it. From what I could tell, there was nothing remarkable, nothing that would have caught Henri’s attention.

  Everything appeared to be the remnants of someone’s house, the kind of things that we regularly sell at the tag sale but that the Dubois would never be able to use, repurpose, or sell. The teak furniture, two triangular side tables and a low chest, was all midcentury Danish modern, without marks or signatures. At the tag sale, we’d price each piece at just over a hundred dollars. There was a nice but undistinguished cocktail set; reading copies of novels from the 1970s to the early 2000s; six framed 1890-era fashion plates, attractive and collectible, but not worth more than fifty dollars each; boxes of decent quality, no-name dishes, pots and pans, flatware, and glasses, all lovingly wrapped in newsprint; and stacks of National Geographic magazines in pristine condition, but with no market value. My guess was that Henri had planned on driving the entire load to my place for sale or consignment.

  Leigh Ann and Scott drove up in her SUV just as I was finishing. Concerned about how Leigh Ann was coping, I watched her step out of the passenger’s seat. To my surprise, she looked better than I’d expected, more rested, less wan. Scott looked the same as he had when we chatted at the police station, kind, caring, and worried.

  Leigh Ann’s eyes fixed on the van, and she walked forward as if she were in a trance. Just before Scott swung his door closed, I saw a copper-colored, Rorschach-style stain running down the side of the seat. I knew the color—it looked like dried blood. My stomach clenched and the muscles along my upper back and shoulders tightened in a spasm of empathetic grief as the memory of Leigh Ann’s collapse on Henri’s bloody corpse came to me as vividly as a snapshot. How dreadful for her to have to see it each time she slipped behind the wheel, a constant reminder of her devastating loss. I hoped Scott would think to get the upholstery cleaned.

  “I can’t believe it was parked so close to Crawford’s the whole time,” Leigh Ann murmured.

  “Why would anyone leave it nearby?” Scott asked Ellis, joining Leigh Ann on her inexorable, stupefied march. “Wouldn’t that make it more conspicuous, not less?”

  “You see a van with a reputable interior design company logo on it,” Ellis said, “I’d assume a neighbor was doing a renovation, wouldn’t you?”

  “Sure … but a day later? On a Sunday? No one would think that’s normal.”

  “‘Normal’ is a moving target,” Ellis said, and I knew he was right. “After a day or so, especially since there was a blizzard, no one even noticed the van. It became part of the scenery. It became ‘normal.’” He turned to Leigh Ann. “We’ve already removed some items we found in the glove box. I’m hoping you can identify them.”

  He reached into his vehicle’s backseat and extracted five clear-plastic sealed evidence bags, which he held up for her to view, one at a time. The first contained a black trifold wallet, closed. The material, which looked like leather from where I stood, was scratched and rubbed.

  Leigh Ann gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She nodded. “That looks like Henri’s wallet.” She looked at Ellis. “Is anything inside missing?”

  “We haven’t examined it to that level of detail yet. It contains various credit cards and so on, but no cash.”

  He held up the second bag, this one containing several keys on a silver and turquoise key ring.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  “You said he carried five keys. I know you can’t be certain without trying them, but from what you can see, are these them?” Ellis asked.

  She leaned in for a closer look, then nodded. “Yes.”

  The third bag contained a single gold key.

  “That’s the style of key that goes with the padlocks we buy,” Leigh Ann said. She stared for a moment, then nodded. “A Maswell, yes.”

  The fourth bag held a silver-colored men’s watch. Leigh Ann’s eyes filled, and she looked away. “That’s Henri’s,” she whispered.

  The last bag held a smart phone.

  She nodded again. “That looks like his.” She brushed away tears. “Henri … how could someone do this to him?”

  “It’s a tragedy,” Ellis said, using a stock line, the sort of comment that filled space without committing the speaker to an opinion or plan of action. “A crime and a tragedy.”

  “Do you have any theories yet?” Scott asked.

  “We’re looking into several possible explanations,” Ellis said, giving his typical nonanswer.

  I wondered once again if the explanation might be as simple as a straightforward theft and an attempt to delay the investigation. What I’d told Ellis was true: If there had been something in the unit worth stealing, how could we know? We only knew what was there, not what might be missing. It was possible that someone, Andrew Bruen, for instance, knew the unit contained something valuable, something he was determined to get his hands on. When he lost the bidding war, he stormed off. Maybe he came back. Leigh Ann said Henri left in the morning with $5,000 cash. After winning the bid on the storage unit, he would have had $2,750 left, money now missing. Perhaps Andrew took it, thin
king of it as a bonus. Leaving the watch behind was smart. It had value but was inscribed, and as such, it would be simple to trace. Anyone could have driven the van away from Crawford’s without attracting notice. Vicki was in her office, busy with her work. Eric was on the other side of the facility, loading our van, or sweeping up, or en route back to the office. No one else would have noticed. Vehicles came and went all the time, anonymously, privately. If Andrew Bruen left his own car at the office building next to Crawford’s or at one of the scores of shops or restaurants along Route 1, he could have walked out of Little Boston and been on his way in minutes. Maybe he stopped somewhere for a late lunch, then returned to Crawford’s at four to pick up his deposit.

  Ellis turned toward Leigh Ann. “I understand that today is another tough one for you,” he said, “and I hate to ask you to take on more stress, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to take a look around inside the van, to see if the contents of the glove box and center console are the same as you remember. I need you to let me know if anything that should be there isn’t, and if anything unexpected has been introduced.”

  “I can do this,” she said, her tone sounding more like a pep talk to herself than a statement to Ellis.

  She walked to the open passenger-side door and hoisted herself up onto the seat. Scott came and stood beside me. Together, from ten feet away, we watched Leigh Ann unlatch the glove compartment.

  She peeked in, then methodically extracted a car manual, a few napkins, and a document-sized, blue plastic case, probably containing their car registration and insurance cards. They stored their toll pass in the center console, along with more napkins.

  “How about you, Josie?” Scott asked me, keeping his eyes on Leigh Ann. “You holding up all right?”

  “Yes. Sort of. I wish I understood … but how can anyone ever understand murder?” I shook my head to dispel encroaching sadness. “How’s Leigh Ann really doing?”

  “Pretty well, all things considered. Henri’s father asked for his body back, and Leigh Ann agreed.”

  “Will she go there for the funeral?”

  “Maybe. She’s not sure about anything yet.”

  Leigh Ann swiveled to talk through the open door.

  “I think everything is here,” she said, still composed, although tearful. “I don’t see anything unexpected.”

  Scott helped her down.

  “We had to be certain,” Ellis said. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate it.”

  “What about all those boxes?” Leigh Ann asked.

  “Josie’s just gone through everything for us. So far, nothing stood out as significant, but we’ve just begun our analysis. I’ve asked her to go through the contents of the storage room, too. We’re going there shortly. Do you want to join us?”

  “I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “I understand,” Ellis said.

  She turned to me and reached out a gloved hand. I took it in my own. “Thank you, Josie,” she said.

  Scott touched her elbow and led her slowly toward her vehicle. Ellis and I stood and watched, and as I did, I wondered if Leigh Ann would go to France, and if so, if Scott would go with her.

  * * *

  Approaching Henri’s storage room, it was easy to picture him as I’d last seen him, focused, exhilarated, his attention fully engaged. My eyes were drawn along the concrete floor to the back of the room, to the coffee-colored streaks, his blood, so much blood. My eyes began to fill, and to stop myself from crying, I raised them to the boxes, to the work at hand.

  Going through the storage room was harder than going through the contents of the van. Nothing was organized. Several boxes were opened, and some were half empty, presumably because Henri had found things that he wanted to look at right away, or that he’d repacked into other boxes or tubs for safety’s or organization’s sake. It was also a more difficult work environment, too small and too cold for comfort. Squatting to video-record disparate objects in such a cramped space quickly became impractical. The sun was bright, and the temperature hovered around freezing, but it was still cold enough to require gloves, and working in gloves slowed me down, adding to my discomfort and frustration.

  “How about moving everything to my place?” I asked Ellis after about ten minutes. “I could go a lot quicker if I wasn’t wearing gloves, and I could concentrate better if I wasn’t frozen stiff.”

  Ellis nodded. “We can do that. The techs have given a complete all clear. I’ll call some guys.”

  I gave a mental whew and said, “I’ll let Eric know so he can prepare the space.”

  Ellis and I took a couple of steps away from one another and made our separate phone calls.

  “We’ll be there in an hour,” he told me when we were done.

  “We’ll be waiting for you,” I said.

  I turned back to the storage unit, reliving the moment Henri won the bid. He’d been so hopeful, so excited. I could almost feel his presence, but I recognized that sensation for what it was: wishful thinking.

  * * *

  When I got back to work around 1:30 P.M. I found a voice mail waiting.

  “Hey, Josie,” Shelley said. “Marshall White, that movie memorabilia expert I told you about—he’s ready to give you his assessment of your posters. You’re gonna be happy, my friend!”

  I IM’d her, and we set a time to talk in thirty minutes. I swiveled to look out my window, past the old maple and the new rhododendrons, to the church. I was pleased, ecstatic, really, to learn that evidently, from Shelley’s teasing message, Henri’s posters had value, but I felt beyond sad, closer to dejected, that he wasn’t here to share the good news.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  While I waited for Shelley’s call and the police truck containing the contents of Henri’s locker, I created a bulleted list of relevant facts. I planned to ask Fred to handle the Batiste Madalena poster authentication, while I stayed focused on confirming its provenance.

  • Madalena immigrated from Italy. Full name = Batiste F. Madalena

  • Graduated from the Mechanics Institute (later, the Rochester Institute of Technology)

  • Hired as commercial artist by the Eastman Theater, Rochester, New York, 1924

  • Produced seven posters, each at least somewhat different from the others, for each movie shown at the theater. All 22" × 44".

  • Worked from 1924–1928, produced 1,400+ posters, 225 known to be extant, saved by the artist when the new theater owner threw them in the trash.

  • The artist’s collection (all 225 posters) was sold to Los Angeles–based documentary filmmaker Steven Katten.

  • If Steven Katten bought the entire collection, how did one poster get into the storage unit owner’s hands?

  • Do other Madalena posters exist in any museum or private collections?

  • Check with MoMA exhibit curators re 2008 show.

  • Do the materials match one another? Are they consistent with his known work?

  • What else?

  I nodded. With that level of detail, Fred could get a running start on his part of the appraisal.

  I e-mailed him the list, explaining the division of duties between us, and headed downstairs.

  * * *

  I carried the silent movie posters across the warehouse to the worktable nearest Hank’s area, so I’d have company during my call with Marshall. Hank sat nearby, mewing, and I squatted to pet him.

  “How’s my boy?” I asked, scratching under his chin.

  He mewed again and nuzzled my hand. I gathered him up and kissed the top of his head. He placed his paw on my arm, and we stood like that, hugging one another, until the call came in. Cara’s voice came over the speakers. Shelley was on line two.

  “All right, Hank,” I said, placing him in his basket, “I’ve got to go to work now.” I got my headphone in place so I’d have my hands free.

  Meow, Hank said, his tone gruff, his disapproval clear. His meows were way different from his mews, more imperative, less tolerant, making no secret
of when he was disappointed in me. I understood; he wanted more attention. I picked him up again, settling him on my shoulder, and he began purring.

  “Josie, meet Marshall. Marshall is our resident film guru.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Marshall said, giving an awkward guffaw.

  I greeted him, still petting Hank. “Thanks for taking a look at the posters.”

  I surveyed them as I spoke. All four were beautifully designed and executed, yet each was as different from the others as yin from yang. Their chief commonality was that they each communicated intrigue through emotion.

  “It was pretty exciting,” he said, sounding enthused. “Of course, I can’t confirm anything without examining the originals, but based on these photographs and your belief that they’re not modern-era reproductions, I can give you encouraging news. First, some background. Early movie posters were all originals, produced by each theater, if they chose, not by the movie studios.”

  In other words, I thought, Henri’s posters could have been produced anywhere in the country.

  Marshall continued. “When a movie went out of circulation, most of the posters, which were well worn from use by that time, were thrown away, thus increasing the value of any extant examples.”

  Supply and demand, yet again.

  “I agree with your analysis of the Garbo poster,” he added. “In all probability, it was painted by Batiste Madalena. We’ll be glad to authenticate it for you, and handle the sale, if you’d like.”

  He paused, and when he continued, he was breathing so heavily, I heard exactly what Shelley meant by saying he panted.

  “I’m confident that several major museums will be interested in acquiring it,” he stated, “and with our well-established relationships with both the curators and directors, we could help facilitate the process, ensuring your seller enjoys the most favorable terms possible.”

  “Thanks,” I said, skipping it, not bothering to mention that I, too, had well-established relationships with museum curators and directors. Hank squirmed a little, then jumped down and sauntered away a few steps, then sat down and began licking his flank.