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

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Yes,” I said. “Al Hirschfeld, too. He hid his daughter’s name in every one of his drawings. Sometimes he put a number near his signature, letting people know how many times Nina’s name appeared in that drawing. Did your dad ever insert more than one cat’s face per painting?”

  “No.” She smiled again. “It’s sweet, isn’t it? Fathers who love their daughters.”

  “Very,” I said, thinking how special my dad was, how much I missed him, how close we’d been. “Your dad signed some things with his actual name, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It wasn’t that he thought commercial art was beneath him so much as he thought signing it was inappropriate. He didn’t think of it as his work. He thought of it as his client’s work. Work for hire, they called it. Still do, I think.”

  “What can you tell me about his materials and techniques?” I asked.

  She paused before answering, and I could almost hear the wheels of memory turning.

  “Tempera,” she said. “That’s what he used for posters. He liked both its flexibility and durability.” She smiled, this one impish. “He had a shortcut—even though all his silent movie work happened before I was born, he made me promise not to tell. Isn’t that funny?” She looked at the ceiling. “I’m telling on you, Dad!” She lowered her eyes to my face and smiled at me. “I don’t mind telling you—Dad would be so thrilled that you thought his work was worth appraising! Anyway, Dad painted on colored poster boards to save him from having to paint the background. That’s clever, isn’t it? That was his big secret.” She shook her head. “As to his brushes … he used all sorts, and palette knives and sponges, too. Anything that would create the effect he was trying for, like stencils for lacy patterns, that kind of thing. My dad was above all else a pragmatist.”

  “How did he decide what the posters should look like?” I asked. “Did he design them himself? Did he need approval from a committee?”

  She laughed. “He came up with the idea himself based on what he’d been told was his number one job: Keep it simple. The movie studios sent still shots and promo copy, but the man he worked for didn’t care about that. He wanted customers to be able to read the posters from twenty feet away, driving by in a car or walking on the other side of the street. Dad’s assignment was to ensure that the film’s title and main star’s name were visible—those elements and one key graphic image were all that was allowed. The dates and times were always in a smaller font and were placed at the bottom. The posters weren’t designed to be informational pieces—they were to attract attention, to create a mood.” She smiled again, a big one this time. “I know all this because my dad loved his work and talked about it.”

  I nodded and smiled. “My dad was the same. It’s how I learned to love business.”

  “What did your dad do?” Trina asked.

  “He was a partner in a management consulting firm. He helped small businesses thrive.”

  “From your voice I can tell you were close to him.”

  I smiled. “We’re two lucky women,” I said. “We had great dads.”

  “That’s the truth if I’ve ever heard it. Even though he thought I was from another planet most of the time, he loved me unconditionally.”

  “That’s a great gift to give a child,” I said, then finished my coffee and scone and told Trina that it was the best scone I’d ever eaten.

  She thanked me and said the secret was vanilla, wrote out her sons’ phone numbers, and wished me luck.

  “Imagine Les having a storage room and never saying a word about it,” she said, shaking her head. “It makes you realize that even the people you’re closest to, the ones you think you know the best, have secrets.”

  Everyone has secrets, Ellis had said. Everyone.

  I promised to let her know if I was able to confirm that her brother was Gael Patrick, then left. On the drive back to my office, I found myself wondering what my life would be like when I was eighty-three. Would I be ready to wind down, to give possessions away, to lighten the load? Or would I still be in acquisition mode? Regardless of which way it went, I hoped I’d look as good, feel as confident, and be as gracious as Trina.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As soon as I got back to work I called Hal Greeley. I glanced at my computer monitor—it was 3:04 P.M.

  An officious-sounding man named Mr. Peterson answered the phone and wouldn’t even tell me if his boss was in the office. From his supercilious tone and stodgy diction, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he was an actor working a day job.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Prescott,” Mr. Peterson said, “but without an appointment it’s very difficult to arrange for you to talk directly to Mr. Greeley. If you care to tell me what your call is regarding, I will be certain to convey the message.”

  “Certainly,” I said, adding an extra measure of sugar to my tone. “Please tell him his mother suggested that I call. If it’s inconvenient for him to talk now, I’ll call Mrs. Greeley and let her know.”

  Hal Greeley came right on the line.

  “Josie Prescott?” he asked in a resonating baritone. “I read about your company a few years back in Antiques Insights. You were nipping at the big boys’ heels and they didn’t like it much. How you doing now?”

  “We’re doing fine, thanks. I’ll tell you why I’m calling. I just spent a delightful hour with your mother, and she thought you might be able to help me. I have a few questions about your grandfather’s silent movie posters. Is now a good time to talk?”

  “Totally,” he said. “I love those posters.”

  “Thank you. My first question may sound pretty random, but I promise it’s relevant. Have you ever rented a storage unit in Rocky Point, New Hampshire?”

  He guffawed. “Anything to be mysterious—us experts are all the same. No, I’ve never rented a storage unit in Rocky Point, New Hampshire.”

  “Do you know anyone who has?”

  “No. I sure hope you’re going to tell me what a storage unit has to do with my grandfather’s posters.”

  “We’re trying to appraise some items, including his posters, that were found in a storage unit. It had been rented by a man named Gael—spelled G-A-E-L—Patrick. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  His jocular manner vanished. “Maybe. What does he look like?”

  “I don’t know. The facility owner doesn’t remember him—it’s been five years since the unit was first rented—and any photos they might have had through their security system are long gone. The renter gave a nonworking New York City phone number and a private residence on West Thirty-fifth Street where he never lived as his address. Who do you think it is?”

  “Uncle Les, my mom’s brother. Gail and Patrick were my grandparents’ middle names.”

  I nodded, glad for the confirmation. That mother and son both reached the same conclusion was encouraging.

  “What can you tell me about him?” I asked.

  “He was a great guy. A perfect uncle. He’s dead now, and I’ve got to tell you, I miss him … a lot. My brother, Bert, and I were just talking about that, about him. When we were kids, in college, you know, and just starting out in our careers, he’d swoop down and take us and a bunch of our buddies out for dinner and a show. I was at law school in Denver when he took me to see Dave Brubeck, and that began my lifelong love affair with jazz. He was a real bon vivant, Uncle Les was, with boundless energy and an independent spirit. He was an art history professor at NYU, a real gentleman.”

  “People like that are so rare,” I said.

  “You got that right.”

  “When did he move to New Hampshire?”

  “About five, six years ago, He entered the Belle Mer assisted living facility in Rocky Point after a fall—he broke his hip and had a difficult recovery. I can’t understand why he put stuff in a storage facility, but nothing else makes sense, not with that name and the timing. I visited him and my mom a couple, three times a year, and he never mentioned it. I assumed he’d taken my advice to se
ll off his possessions to help pay for his care. Now you’re telling me he kept everything in storage all these years.” He paused. “Years ago, Uncle Les told me he never left his apartment without a thousand dollars hidden in his belt, sometimes more, and his passport in his pocket. He called it the adult equivalent of bus money. If push came to shove, and he wanted to get out of Dodge, or had to, he could walk into any airport and buy a ticket to somewhere he’d rather be.” Another pause. “I can absolutely see him thinking that if the nursing facility was unacceptable, he’d get his buddy to drive to New Hampshire, pick him and his possessions up, and head home to New York.”

  “I see what you’re saying. An independent man not ready to give up his independence, hedging his bets, in a sense … but why would he use a fake name?”

  “Probably to avoid a scene with me,” he said, his tone severe. “God … this is not a recollection I’m proud of. Talk about insensitive. I told him not to be silly, that he was never going to live on his own again. Jesus. What was I thinking? Here was Uncle Les secretly hoping his stint was temporary and planning an escape route in case it was unendurable, and there I was telling him that this was his last stop.” He sighed. “One question, though. If Uncle Les had everything in storage, and was current with his bill when he died, how did he pay for it? He was on a fixed income, an income that went to Belle Mer directly.”

  “Good question,” I said. “He never recovered from his fall?”

  “His hip got better … then he was diagnosed with sundowner’s syndrome—a form of early-stage dementia that kicks in when the sun goes down. It went downhill from there.”

  “Who helped him move from New York?” I asked.

  “His best friend, Brock Wood. I have his number here somewhere. I called him after Uncle Les died. He told me they’d been friends for more than fifty years.”

  “Fifty years,” I said, hoping that Zoë and I would be celebrating that anniversary when we were in our eighties. “If Les thought his stint in rehab was temporary, why did he come to New Hampshire at all?”

  “I asked the same question when he first got there. He knew it was going to be months, not days or weeks, and he thought he might as well be near the beach. He spent all his summers up in New Hampshire with us when I was a kid, and he loved the area, loved the ocean. Plus, he and my mom were close, and he said it was a good excuse to spend some time with her.”

  “Did he leave a will?” I asked.

  “No. I didn’t think anything of it at the time because it seemed he didn’t have anything worth bequeathing. The facility refunded some of his money—I assumed it was the unused portion of his bank balance. Really, I didn’t look into things much because it never occurred to me that anything might be missing or improper. Les led a comfortable life, but he wasn’t a rich man. He never owned real estate—he lived in a rental apartment his entire adult life—and he lived well. I called him a bon vivant, and that’s exactly what he was. He never missed a Broadway show. He traveled to Europe a couple of times a year. He dressed nicely. I simply assumed he spent what he earned, but now you’ve got me wondering.”

  “Did you know he owned some of your granddad’s silent movie posters?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “There was a Batiste Magdalena silent movie poster in the storage unit, too. Would you have any idea if he owned that?”

  “I’ve never heard of that artist … so, no.”

  “What about your brother? Might he have any additional information?”

  “I doubt it. Although we went up together when Uncle Les died, the responsibility for closing up his affairs fell primarily on me, not him. I don’t mean to suggest he shirked his duty or anything. I’m a lawyer, so it was easier for me, that’s all. You’re welcome to talk to him directly.” His voice grew quieter. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little dazed. Uncle Les having a storage unit … it seems so damn improbable. But that name, Gael Patrick—what are the odds that it’s a coincidence?”

  “Maybe Mr. Wood will be able to shed some light on the situation.”

  “Let me give you his number.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” I said, meaning it, thinking how direct and frank Hal was, how he’d shifted from blustery at the start of our call to reflective and quiet at the end, perhaps a testimony to how much he loved his Uncle Les. “Your mom gave me your brother’s number, so I’m all set there. If you have a contact at Belle Mer, I’ll take that information, too. Your uncle might have mentioned something about the storage unit to someone there.”

  He gave me Brock’s number, then said, “Good idea about Belle Mer. In fact, let me put you on hold and see if the woman in charge, Tabatha Solomon, is available to talk to us here and now.”

  I agreed, then heard clicks, followed by a long silence, then a woman’s voice.

  “This is Tabatha Solomon. Mr. Greeley, is that you?”

  “Yes, with Josie Prescott on the line. Josie?”

  I had started to explain why we were calling when Ms. Solomon interrupted me. “Excuse me. Let me stop you there. I can’t talk about a patient’s private affairs without written permission. Period. No exceptions.”

  Hal said he understood. He asked if a letter from Les’s sister, his next of kin, would serve, and Ms. Solomon said it would. He thanked her for her time and ended the call.

  “What’s your fax number, Josie?” he asked. “I’ll get it organized immediately. Inquiring minds want to know, right?”

  I gave him my fax number, saying that I’d be glad to stop by his mom’s house and pick it up if that was easier for her, adding that if she had any questions, I’d be glad to explain what we were up to. He said that would be perfect, that he’d ask his mom to have it ready by eight the next morning and would call me if there was a delay.

  “I’m thinking that once I have it in hand,” I said, “I’ll call Ms. Solomon to schedule an appointment. She might be able to direct me to someone your Uncle Les knew at Belle Mer, someone who could confirm that he used Gael Patrick’s name as his own.”

  Without that connection nailed down, all we could do was speculate that Lester Markham had the right to own the posters. To command top dollar, I needed more than conjecture and logic—I needed proof. I felt a trill of anticipation ripple through my veins. I had two new viable leads. It was not a stretch to expect that either or both Brock Woods and Tabatha Solomon might know more than a nephew Uncle Les had apparently perceived as unsympathetic.

  “One last question,” I said. “Your mom told me she passed along your granddad’s posters to you and your brother. May I borrow a few of yours? Comparing a painting to a known original is one of the best ways to authenticate it.”

  He paused. “Let me think on it a little. With some sort of surety, I would probably be okay with it.”

  “My company, Prescott’s, is fully bonded and insured, and, of course, we’d arrange safe transport with what’s called ‘nail to nail’ security. One other thing—while I’m examining the posters, I’ll be glad to provide formal appraisals. That will help you determine your own insurance needs, do estate planning, decide whether to sell them, that kind of thing.”

  “Thank you,” Hal said, warming to the prospect. “That’s a great offer. Especially with a daughter in medical school. Selling a few might be smart. Don’t get me started about the cost of college tuition. All right, you’re on. How many posters would you like?”

  We discussed which ones he should select. I asked for a representative sample of different styles, designs, and painting techniques.

  “I’ll get them packaged up tonight,” he said.

  I made suggestions about safe-packing techniques, thanked him for his cooperation, and gave him Gretchen’s name and number, explaining that she would be the person arranging the courier transport. We ended the call, me with a list of follow-up tasks, him to continue his soul-searching, I suspected, reliving how he’d treated his much-loved Uncle Les when he’d entered Belle Mer. So many things in life, I th
ought, offered no opportunity for do-overs.

  * * *

  I called Tabatha Solomon, the Belle Mer administrator, back and explained about Hal’s plan for me to pick up his mom’s letter of authorization. Based on that, she was happy to give me an appointment at 8:30 A.M.

  * * *

  It was nearly five before I reached Bert Greeley. A bevy of kids shrieked in the background, the happy high-pitched sounds of children at play.

  “Sorry,” he said, laughing. “I’m babysitting my grandkids—four-year-old twins.”

  “Really,” I said, grinning, “it sounds more like half a dozen.”

  “It feels like half a dozen, too. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ll try to be quick. I have a few questions about your Uncle Les relating to some collectibles I’m trying to appraise.”

  “You should call my brother. Hal took the lead in handling Uncle Les’s affairs.”

  “I already spoke to him. I’m on a hunt for confirmation. As I said, I’ll be quick. Did your Uncle Les ever mention silent movie posters to you?”

  “Sure. My granddad painted them, and Les thought they were great. We all did.”

  “Did Uncle Les own any?”

  “Yeah. One summer—God, this is a lot of years ago. Hal was at college, I remember, and I was a senior in high school. I remember because I was a lifeguard that summer and I’d just come in from the beach. Uncle Les was so excited, he couldn’t wait to show me. Dad gave him a bunch of his posters. Four if I’m recalling right.”

  I smiled, thrilled that I’d just edged one step closer to my goal.

  “Do you remember which ones?”

  “You’re really putting me to the test today. There was a Charlie Chaplin one, and one for a movie starring Mary Pickford … hold on … let me think … I can see them in my mind’s eye, the way Uncle Les held them up one at a time, but I remember seeing them in his apartment, too, in New York, years later … Lillian Gish, she was in one, and there was one more … oh, yeah. Birth of a Nation. I can’t believe I remembered.”