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

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Hi, Josie,” she said. “Ty’s already here, in the lounge. He told me to set aside a Sole Veronique for you.” As I handed over my coat, accepting a pink claim check in return, she added, “Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Suzanne led me to the back corner of the entry room, out of traffic.

  “Are the police close to naming a suspect in Henri’s murder?” she asked, her voice low.

  “I have no idea,” I said, wondering why she would have thought I did. “I’m sorry.”

  She sighed and stared into the middle distance for a moment. “I feel so horrible. Really, I’m just beside myself. I don’t know what to do.”

  I murmured something soothing, nonwords intended to convey empathy.

  “Have you heard anything?” she asked, her tone plaintive.

  “I know the police are pursuing many leads, but if they’re making progress, I don’t know it.” I thought that I knew both too much and too little. I had plenty of facts, but no conclusions. “I know how vague that sounds.”

  She sighed again, and her eyes moistened. “Do you know about funeral plans? I’d like to attend.”

  “I think the burial will be in France. I don’t know if Leigh Ann plans a local memorial service. I hope so—I’d like to go, too.”

  She nodded and touched my arm again. “Thank you, Josie. Please keep me updated. I’d like to know what’s going on … what the police learn … please let me know anything you hear, anything at all.”

  I promised I would, and as I headed into the lounge, I wondered whether Suzanne’s interest was related more to the manner in which Henri died than it was to the man himself, like the voyeuristic fascination people feel driving past a car wreck where their attention is riveted to the carnage not by concern but by curiosity. I stopped myself. Just because she’d only met Henri a couple of months ago didn’t mean their friendship wasn’t genuine or meaningful, or that her grief wasn’t authentic. I gave myself a small mental slap, ashamed at the cynicism that led me to question her motivation.

  Ty stood as I approached, and as I looked at him, I felt myself begin to glow. No matter how wearing the day, no matter how upset I might be, Ty was an elixir.

  “Boy, oh boy,” I said as I settled into the banquette by the window, “are you a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Why are your eyes sore?” Ty asked.

  Jimmy came over, and I ordered a French martini before answering. “Because of this.”

  I placed the photo showing the snow-shrouded bit of car on the table. Ty looked at it, then up at me.

  “Ellis thinks that if this driver and the person who broke into my house aren’t one and the same,” I said, “it’s one heck of a coincidence.”

  He picked up the photo and tilted it under the light, reviewing it with care, then placing it alongside his beer. He tapped the border with his index finger.

  “I know this car,” he said.

  I smiled. “I’m not the least bit surprised. Pretty much, you know everything, huh?”

  He laughed. “Hardly. The guy I worked with in Berlin was driving one just like it—a Malibu. He’d rented one and loved it, so he went out and bought his own.”

  Ty texted Ellis to let him know he thought the car was a Malibu, while I texted Wes the same message.

  Our phones tucked away, Ty proposed a toast, using what he knew was my favorite, my dad’s favorite, passed down to me.

  “Here’s to silver light in the dark of night,” he said, touching my glass with his own.

  I sipped my martini. “What will Ellis do now?”

  “Start looking for a metallic-colored Malibu.”

  “That sounds impossible, like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Time-consuming, yes. Impossible, no. This wasn’t a stranger, Josie, randomly picking a house to break into. This was someone who knows you, which means someone you know drives a Malibu.”

  My heart plummeted, then leaped into my throat. I stared into Ty’s brown eyes, seeing not his concern or love but a slide show of cars. Ty was wrong: No one I knew drove a Malibu.

  “I don’t know anyone who drives a Malibu,” I said, then, realizing that I did, in fact, know someone who drove a Malibu, I gasped and pressed my fingers against my lips. “Scott. He’s driving a rental car. I’m pretty sure it looks just like this one.”

  I couldn’t believe Scott was involved in the break-in at my house. I just couldn’t. It made no sense, but I reminded myself that if nothing makes sense, it’s not that sense can’t be made; it’s that you lack information. In an antiques appraisal, you either are able to determine value or you aren’t, and if you aren’t, you dig deeper, talk to more people, investigate details you’d previously dismissed as irrelevant. All research shared that pattern. The only cure for ambiguity was knowledge.

  “What do I do?” I asked.

  “Call Ellis.”

  * * *

  I called Ellis. Our conversation lasted about ten seconds.

  “You probably have already thought of this, but Scott, Leigh Ann’s friend, is driving a rental. Lots of rental fleets include Malibus. It’s a popular car.”

  “Thanks, Josie,” he said. “All tips are welcome.”

  I hit the END CALL button, then sipped some martini.

  “You know,” I remarked to Ty, “Ellis is better at playing his cards close to his vest than anyone I know.”

  “Except maybe me,” Ty said, cocking his head sideways. “When I had his job, I was pretty good at the no-news two-step.”

  “So true. You still are. How’s security at private airfields?”

  “It’s one of many issues Homeland Security is looking into.”

  “See?” I reached across the table to touch his cheek. “You’re a wonderful man, Ty.”

  He took my hand in his and kissed my palm. “You’re a wonderful woman, Josie.”

  “We’re very lucky,” I said, feeling the familiar, welcome pull of attraction, of love.

  “And we know it.”

  Frieda approached, ready to seat us for dinner.

  Walking into the dining room beside Ty, my hand tucked in his, I felt a rush of gratitude. It might have been blind luck that Ty and I found one another, but whether it was luck or fate or serendipity, I never took our love for granted.

  Picking up the menu, I wondered whether Ellis would call Scott and ask about his rental vehicle or whether he’d drive by Leigh Ann’s house to see the car for himself. Ellis would go in person, I decided, because he wouldn’t want to alert Scott to the possibility that he was a suspect in the murder of his ex-wife’s husband. Half of me wanted to rush to Leigh Ann’s house to watch the police at work. The other half was eager to stay away, to eat Sole Veronique and listen to Ty talk about his day.

  I hoped that Wes’s article would work, that someone would recognize the car and come forward, and that with this new information, chaos would resolve into order.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Because I subscribe to both the online and paper editions of the Seacoast Star, I was able to check the paper’s news flashes before I went to bed. Knowing Wes’s predilection for listening to his police scanner, I wasn’t surprised to see Scott mentioned. I was pleased my name didn’t appear.

  MURDER VICTIM’S WIFE’S FRIEND TAKEN IN FOR QUESTIONING

  Scott Richey was brought to police headquarters at 8:45 P.M. last evening and is still being questioned regarding his whereabouts during the overnight hours of last weekend’s blizzard. According to Rocky Point Police Chief Ellis Hunter, “There’s no reason to think this issue is related to the murder of Henri Dubois.” When asked to clarify what “this issue” refers to, he declined to provide details at this point. More information will be posted on this site as it becomes available.

  If I were Scott, I’d be furious. Every fact Wes included was true, yet the article itself insinuated something I doubted was true, and the word for that was sophistry. Without evidence, implying Scott was guilty o
f a crime and, worse, suggesting he was somehow connected to Henri’s murder was more than wrong; it was dastardly.

  I fired off an e-mail to Wes.

  Low blow, Wes, implying Scott has some evil association to Henri and is guilty of some unspecified crime. I’m seriously not impressed.

  I was so riled up I expected to toss and turn all night, but I didn’t. I slept dreamlessly and long. When I finally awoke, it was after eight, and Ty was long gone. He left a “see you later” note on the mirror. I smiled at how he’d signed it “xxo.” I would tease him later, asking why I only got one kiss.

  Before I went into work, I looked for an update about Scott on the Seacoast Star Web site and read Wes’s article about the car photograph. I also checked my e-mail. Wes’s reply to my earlier message was classic Wes.

  Lighten up. Jeez, Josie.

  In spite of myself, I smiled.

  Wes had updated the article about Scott, adding that he had left the police station at 3:10 A.M.

  I couldn’t imagine what the police had found to discuss that could have filled six hours. After asking if he’d driven around in the blizzard and whether he had broken into my house and planted the murder weapon in my car, then what?

  I thought Wes did a great job on the other article, the one about the car photograph. He managed to convey gravitas, mystery, and urgency all at once. His headline read:

  DO YOU KNOW THIS CAR?

  DRIVER MIGHT HOLD ANSWERS IN ROCKY POINT ANTIQUES MYSTERY

  His article used the paragraph Ellis had written, adding a Q&A with me.

  Q: What’s the mystery?

  A: There may not be one—that’s why I need to ask the driver some questions. The antique is a valuable painting, nineteenth-century, European. I can’t reveal any more about it, but I can say this—one of the key aspects of an antiques appraisal is provenance, proving that the object has an unbroken, legal chain of ownership. The driver of this car may be able to help confirm provenance.

  Q: How?

  A: I’d like to thank anyone who helps identify the driver in advance, and assure them they’ll be doing society a world of good. Yes … society. Finding the driver is that important.

  Wes listed my contact information at the bottom and in the photo caption.

  I sent him a follow-up e-mail. This one read:

  Maybe you’re right about me needing to lighten up. In any event, “Do You Know This Car?” gets two thumbs up. Well done, Wes.

  * * *

  Ellis got the court order compelling Vicki Crawford to disclose any and all information about the owner of the storage locker Henri won at auction first thing Tuesday morning.

  He called at nine to put me on alert. “I’m en route to hand-deliver it, and I plan to wait for the information. I’ll come directly to your place afterwards.”

  He showed up at 9:50 A.M., and we went upstairs to my private office. I sat on one of the wing chairs. Ellis sat across from me on the love seat.

  He placed a manila folder on the cushion next to him and tapped it. “This folder contains the information you need. I’m willing to tell you everything—names, addresses, bank account numbers, the works, but I have a condition.” He paused, his eyes unwavering. “You can’t reveal the name to the media. I need to tell you as part of an active investigation. I understand that you may need to mention it in the course of your appraisal, but there is no need to know that goes beyond that. We simply don’t know what ships loose lips might sink.”

  “I’m good at keeping secrets,” I said.

  “I know,” he said.

  I wondered which secret he was referring to, the one I’d kept for Henri or the many secrets Zoë had entrusted to me, late-night confessions about how much she loved him; how fearful she was that theirs was a rebound relationship, his first serious romance since his wife’s death, and wouldn’t last; or how anxious she felt about her children bonding to a man who might simply walk out the door at any moment and disappear from their lives.

  I met his gaze but didn’t comment.

  “You okay with that?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He nodded, satisfied. “I don’t know if or how this will help you, but here’s the deal. The unit was leased five years ago to a man named Gael Patrick,” Ellis said. “Gael is spelled G-A-E-L. Vicki doesn’t remember a thing about him except that it was, in fact, a man who rented it. She thinks he was older but isn’t sure. As she explained it, she has nearly a hundred units, most rented short-term, which means she has scores of people coming and going, and this was five years ago.” He smiled. “She says she pays attention to their paperwork, not their faces.”

  “What about her security camera? She told me she has one in the office.”

  “She only went digital a few months ago. Photos from back then no longer exist. Gael Patrick has been delinquent for the last five months. Vicki mailed a certified letter as required by their contract warning him that she was going to repossess the unit and sell the contents at auction unless all back rent and late fees were paid by a certain date, but it was returned as undeliverable. In case the post office messed up somehow, she sent an additional certified letter. It, too, was returned as undeliverable. The New York City address Gael Patrick provided was a fake. It’s 454 West Thirty-fifth Street. Do you know the West Side at all?”

  “Yes. In fact, I know that address. It’s a beautiful brownstone.”

  “Right. It’s privately owned. There are four residents, all men, and they’ve all lived there longer than five years. I checked with all four, but no one had ever heard of Gael Patrick. So I checked out both 445 and 544 West Thirty-fifth Street, in case Mr. Patrick accidentally transposed numbers. From the satellite view, those two buildings look identical, indistinguishable from any of the dozens of new high-rises popping up everywhere in that area. Both buildings’ property managers told me the same thing—they’d never had a Gael Patrick on their rent rolls.”

  “Yet another dead end,” I said.

  “Looks that way. The phone number he listed at Crawford’s is a dud, too. When I called, the phone was answered by a Spanish-speaking woman who doesn’t speak or understand a word of English. She’d never heard of Gael Patrick. Using my very rough Spanish, I learned that the number was assigned to her when she moved to New York two years earlier.”

  “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

  He grinned. “I don’t think anyone would call what I speak Spanish. I picked up a few words while I was on the job in the city, enough to get by.” Ellis leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle. “Until Patrick fell behind at Crawford’s, all the payments were made on time by automatic debit from an account at Rocky Point Community Bank. The account was closed five months ago. I spoke to the branch manager, and she wouldn’t tell me anything. I need another subpoena, which is in the works.”

  “Do you think Gael Patrick died?”

  “No. I asked the bank manager specifically, and she said that if an account is closed because the owner died, they keep the death certificate on file, and she doesn’t have one in this case.” Ellis shook his head. “Gael Patrick doesn’t have a current phone number, utility account, or voter registration record, and he isn’t listed on any tax roll in either New York or any New England state. Any other ideas how I can find him?”

  I thought about it. “He lived in New York and moved his possessions to New Hampshire, but not into his own place, into storage. Could he be in an assisted living facility?”

  “Not in Rocky Point. We’ve called them all. We’re continuing to check facilities in a continuously expanding geographic area. We’re already into Maine. What else?”

  “Maybe he moved in with one of his children.”

  He nodded. “And if it’s a daughter who changed her name when she got married, we’re screwed. How would you go about finding him?”

  I looked out the window into golden rays of sun. The snow coating my maple’s limbs was melting. I turned back to Ellis. “Through his doctor.�
��

  He nodded again. “We’re making those calls, too.”

  I smiled, pleased that Ellis was consulting me, pleased that I was coming up with smart ideas. “Ask the media to publicize it?”

  “It’s too early in the investigation to show our cards.”

  “What if it’s a fake name?”

  “Could be. There’s lots of reasons someone might not want to use his real name when renting a storage unit.”

  “Like if he’s storing stolen goods or a pornography collection,” I said.

  “Nothing like that was found in the unit, so unless the killer stole those kinds of objects, those reasons don’t apply.”

  “Maybe he’s a privacy fiend or a conspiracy nut afraid the government is out to get him and he needs a place to store his canned goods and guns for when the revolution starts.”

  “You have a great imagination, Josie. Impressive. Except we didn’t find canned goods or guns in his unit, either.”

  “I have no idea why someone would use a fake ID to store ordinary household goods.”

  “Me, either,” he said. “Will knowing his name—or rather, the name he used—help with the appraisal?”

  “If we can’t find him, no. I need to know how he acquired the posters. If his identity is an invention…” I stopped talking and shrugged. There was no point in stating the obvious. “Never say never. Onward and upward. Fight to the end.”

  Ellis smiled. “Any other clichés you want to drop in my lap?”

  “No, that should do for now.”

  “So what’s your next step?” he asked.

  “Find someone who knows about the posters.”

  “How do you do that?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

  I walked Ellis downstairs, discouraged. Nothing, I thought peevishly, was easy.