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

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Me, either. I’m dazzled. Thank you so much.”

  “Did I get it right?” he asked.

  “You did indeed.”

  I now knew how Uncle Les got possession of the posters. All that remained was to confirm that Uncle Les had used the name Gael Patrick. I asked Bert if the name meant anything to him, but it didn’t. I thanked him again and ended the call. The last sounds I heard before placing the receiver in the cradle were Bert calling out, “Who wants to play Go Fish?” followed by gleeful shouts.

  * * *

  Brock Wood’s phone rang and rang and rang. No machine picked up. I tried every half hour or so, until nine, without luck. For all I knew Uncle Les’s good friend was on a round-the-world cruise.

  My best hope to connect the storage unit with Les Markham lay with Tabatha Solomon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Trina Greeley had no questions. As I climbed the porch steps at eight the next morning, I saw a standard #10 envelope with my name on it taped to her front door. Inside I found a typed letter addressed “To Whom It May Concern,” authorizing me to ask questions about Lester Markham on behalf of the Greeley family, with an oversized pink Post-it Note attached.

  Thank you, Josie. Hal tells me you’re hot on the trail of those posters. Let me know if I can provide additional help.

  Best, Trina

  I stopped at Rocky Point Pharmacy, where they had a small photocopier you could use for twenty-five cents a copy, and made four copies of Trina’s letter and two of her Post-it Note, just in case.

  * * *

  Belle Mer looked more like a Mediterranean mansion than an assisted living facility. Positioned at the top of Strawberry Hill on Rocky’s Point’s northern border, the building was oriented to capture an unfettered ocean view on three sides.

  Tabatha Solomon’s ground-floor office was smaller than I would have expected and overlooked the parking lot. If I were considering placing a relative in the facility, I would have been impressed. Clearly, Ms. Solomon saved the best views for the residents.

  She was about five feet tall and stout, with curly brown hair cut short and reading glasses hanging from a black cord around her neck. She looked to be about sixty. I handed her the letter, and she read it through, then placed it on her desk.

  “How can I help?” she asked, all business.

  “A couple of things. First, how did Mr. Markham pay for his care?”

  “His pension and Social Security checks came directly to us. At his request, a hundred dollars was transferred into a bank account each month.” She smiled. “Les called it his walking-around money. As far as I know, he never used it, but it meant the world to him to have it available.”

  “It represented independence,” I said, nodding.

  “And hope.”

  “That he’d be able to leave the facility?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. I assumed his nephew, Hal Greeley, closed the account. Didn’t he?”

  “I don’t think he knew about it.”

  She tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose he might not have. Les once bragged that he was able to check his balance online—no paper statements. We have wireless Internet available throughout the facility. Les had his own computer and was quite facile in using it. If Mr. Greeley hadn’t known about the account, I suppose he wouldn’t have thought to look for one or ask about it.”

  “What happened to the computer?”

  “Mr. Greeley arranged with our IT fellow to wipe the hard drive; then he gave it to Zach. Zach Moore, Les’s primary aide. The computer was quite old, but still, it was a nice gesture. Zach was glad to get it.”

  “You said that Les’s retirement payments came directly to you. How do your financial arrangements work?”

  “Most residents make a cash payment when they move in, then pay a small monthly fee. Mr. Markham opted for our month-to-month plan instead. I don’t think he planned on staying as long as he did. His monthly fee was just shy of four thousand dollars.”

  “Was there a balance in his account when he died?”

  “Yes, about five thousand dollars. Mr. Markham died intestate, so a check was issued to his sister, Katrina Greeley.”

  “Change of subject,” I said. “Did Mr. Markham ever mention silent movie posters?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’m an antiques appraiser trying to assess some artwork,” I said, smiling. “You mentioned Zach Moore. Might Les have spoken to him about something like artwork?”

  “Let’s find out.” She used her phone and directed someone named Pam to send Zach in.

  Zach Moore came into Tabatha’s office with the cautious tread of a frightened man. His lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes round with worry. He stood with his hands clenched in front of him, waiting for bad news. He was tall, with strawberry blond hair, and thin. I put him in his midtwenties. He wore an all white uniform, pants and shirt, with ZACH stitched on his chest pocket.

  Tabatha smiled, and when she spoke, her voice was low and soothing.

  “Thanks for joining us, Zach. This is Ms. Prescott. She has some questions about Les Markham, and, of course, I thought of you. You knew him better than any of us.”

  He nodded, still reticent and timid.

  “Have a seat,” Tabatha said, pointing to the chair next to mine.

  He slid into it, keeping his eyes on her face. Ms. Solomon looked at me, smiled, and nodded.

  I smiled at Zach. “I appreciate your talking to me, Zach. I understand you knew Les Markham well.”

  “Pretty well.”

  “He was here five years and you were his aide the whole time, is that right?”

  “I have other guys, too, not just him,” he said as if I’d accused him of something.

  “Did Mr. Markham ever talk to you about art?” I asked, keeping my tone friendly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How about a storage unit he rented?”

  “I don’t know nothing about any storage units,” he said, agitated.

  “How about movie posters?” Lines appeared on Zach’s brow. When he didn’t reply, I clarified my question. “Did he ever mention that his dad painted silent movie posters?”

  Zach looked at his feet and wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. He was growing ever more nervous, and I couldn’t understand why.

  “I don’t know nothing about nothing,” he said.

  I turned to Tabatha, silently asking for help.

  “It’s important, Zach,” she said, her tone softer than before. “Les would want you to help.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t owe Les nothing. That’s what my brother says, and I think that’s right.”

  “What is it your brother says, Zach?”

  He folded his lips together and shook his head. “I promised I wouldn’t tell,” he said, still staring at the ground, “and I won’t.”

  He wouldn’t tell us what his promise involved or to whom he’d made it. He wouldn’t say another word about Les. When Tabatha or I asked a question, Zach shook his head. We’d hit a brick wall. Finally, Tabatha thanked him for coming in to talk to her and told him he could return to work.

  “That’s one for the books,” she said once we were alone. “I’ve never seen Zach like this.”

  “What do you think that promise is all about?” I asked.

  “I have no idea. Our aides aren’t paid privately by our residents, yet he sounded as if he thought Les owed him something.”

  “Do residents often leave aides something in their wills?”

  “It happens, but it’s not typical by any means. Zach getting a computer was above and beyond the norm.”

  I thought about Zach and promises. I told Henri I wouldn’t tell anyone about the phone call he received the day before he died, and Ellis had persuaded me to reveal it, because he’d said that murder victims want their killers caught, and I’d believed him. I wondered what it would take to persuade Zach to break his promise.

  “Secrets imply knowledge,�
�� I said. “A man named Henri Dubois was killed in a storage room locker that might have belonged to Lester Markham. If there’s even a small chance that Zach knows something … I think we need to tell the police.”

  “Let me talk to him first.”

  She left me in the lobby. The receptionist, a pleasant-looking woman with a tan so dark I wondered if she was just back from a beach vacation, offered me a coffee. I declined with thanks. I didn’t want a coffee. I wanted answers. Too itchy to sit, I got up and paced.

  The lobby was attractive in a don’t-offend-anyone sort of way. Blond wood furniture was arranged in small clusters, four chairs and a low square table. The chairs had armrests and were upholstered with a blue nubby fabric. Stacks of lifestyle and craft-themed magazines sat on each of the tables. Framed museum exhibition posters advertising shows of impressionist paintings were placed at eye level along the longest wall. Well-tended plants sat on tables and in big pots in the room’s corners. The receptionist sat behind a chest-high partition. A brass plaque said her name was Karla.

  I walked to the window and looked out over the snowy fields to the dark ocean beyond.

  I hated waiting. I was impatient all the time, but when I was waiting for someone else to do something that affected me, it was worse.

  “Ms. Prescott?” Karla said. I turned in time to see her hang up the phone. “Ms. Solomon is ready for you now.”

  * * *

  “Zach is quite upset,” Ms. Solomon told me once we’d settled back in her office. “He says he doesn’t know the name Henri Dubois, and I believe him.”

  She began fussing with an old-fashioned Pink Pearl eraser, the kind we kept in stock to remove pencil marks from rare books and dirt from pottery, flipping it over and over. I wondered why she had an eraser on her desk, whether she was an artist or wrote in longhand. She raised her eyes to mine and held them.

  “I believe him because with Zach, what you see is what you get. He’s reliable and hardworking, but I doubt he watches the news or reads the paper.”

  She was saying he was slow. She paused again, waiting for a comment, perhaps, but I didn’t have anything to say, so I stayed quiet.

  “Zach is a truthful man, and guileless. The eyes are a window to the soul, right?”

  “The French say the eyes are the mirror of the soul. Both are true, I think, or not.”

  “In Zach’s case, they’re both true. When he assured me that he knows nothing about any murder, I believed him.”

  “What’s his secret?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s not related to the murder.”

  “You can’t know that,” I said.

  “I know Zach.”

  Wes said that I’m wrong about people as often as I’m right, and maybe oftener. I had no reason to think Ms. Solomon was any better at it than I was.

  “We need to tell the police about Zach’s secret,” I said. “It might be nothing, but it might be something.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know how this will hurt him. He’s come so far.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  * * *

  Ellis’s work and cell phones went to voice mail. When I called the police station’s main number, Cathy said Ellis was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. She offered to put me through to his voice mail, and I agreed.

  “Ellis,” I said to the machine, “this is Josie. I just met with Tabatha Solomon, the director of Belle Mer, where a man named Lester Markham lived for the last five years. I think he rented the locker under the name Gael Patrick. I can fill you in about that later. The thing is, Mr. Markham died about six months ago, and his chief aide at Belle Mer, a fellow named Zach Moore, knows something. I have no idea what it is or if it’s relevant to Henri’s murder. I just know he knows something he won’t tell either Ms. Solomon or me. He keeps repeating that he promised he wouldn’t tell, and he won’t. Ms. Solomon and I agree there’s something there, but I’ve got to tell you, she’s pretty upset that I’m calling you. Zach is, well, he thinks about things at his own pace. You should talk to her before you talk to him.” I gave him Ms. Solomon’s direct phone number, then added, “I can fill you in on what I’ve learned about Lester Markham and the locker whenever you’re available.”

  I wondered how long it would take for Ellis to call me back. Not long, I thought, if I knew him half as well as I thought I did.

  * * *

  Ellis called as I was about to back out of my parking spot at Belle Mer. I put the car in park and answered the phone.

  “I got your message about Zach Moore,” he said. “Thanks for the lead. You also said you had some info about the locker. I’m ready.”

  I recounted my conversations with the Greeleys, explaining how and why I reached the conclusion that the storage unit where Henri died had been rented by Lester Markham.

  “This is all very helpful, Josie,” he said, and something in his tone, a hint of formality or distance, got my attention, and my worry meter zipped into action. “Can you stop by? I have some other questions.”

  “Sure,” I said, glancing at the dash clock. It was just shy of ten. “How’s one? I haven’t been in to work yet, and I should.”

  “Now would be better,” he said, his tone clipped.

  With my worry meter spiking, my pulse started pumping faster, too fast for comfort. “What’s wrong, Ellis?”

  A long pause. “I’ll explain when you get here.”

  I laughed, an awkward sound. I couldn’t think of how to reply.

  “When can I expect you?” Ellis asked.

  “I’ll come now,” I said.

  I sat a while longer, staring at the phone. I didn’t know what I was in for, but I knew the sound of trouble when I heard it.

  * * *

  Wes called just as I was finishing a call to my office, telling Gretchen that I didn’t know when I’d be in, asking about everyone’s work, hearing that all was well.

  “I’ve got a shockeroonie or three or four,” he said. “You know how you told me that Scott and Leigh Ann used to be married?”

  “Yes,” I said, uncertain where he was heading.

  “It looks like Scott wants her back. He’s told lots of people he was a fool to let her go. That’s one heck of a motive.”

  “Even if he did regret the divorce, that doesn’t mean he’s a killer. Lots of exes stay close, even those who regret being apart, and it doesn’t imply anything other than maturity.”

  “You think?” he asked, shifting from tough-guy reporter to kid brother in a heartbeat. “Are you still in touch with any ex-boyfriends?”

  “No. But I wish I were—or rather, I wish my last relationship hadn’t ended badly, that we’d simply parted company instead of descending into ugly. How about you and that girl who moved to Florida? There was no nastiness, was there?”

  “No, but no way am I going down to Jacksonville for a weekend hi-di-hi-ho if she’s living with some new guy.”

  “Good point.”

  “Here’s the kicker—are you ready? Neither Leigh Ann nor Scott has an alibi for when Henri was murdered. Leigh Ann says she was at Suzanne Dyre’s condo helping her select paint colors, but the ME can’t narrow down the time of death down close enough to clear her for sure, plus Suzanne was late. She got caught up in reading a report on food costs and lost track of time. Can you believe that? A real page turner, huh? And Scott is completely open.”

  “I think you’re making a mountain out of flat land, Wes. Having a perfect alibi is more suspicious than being unable to account for every second of your day. Scott told me he was driving around, checking out the area, and Leigh Ann—jeesh! She was meeting with a client. Both of them were doing normal things.”

  “‘Normal’ is one of those words, right? What I call normal, you call whacked. Have you had any more ideas about that Andrew Bruen guy? No one can find him, not under that name.”

  “Really?” I asked, intrigued. “Interesting. All deposits at C
rawford’s are in cash, and you don’t need to show ID to register. So I guess it could be a made-up name.”

  “Why would someone use a fake name to bid on an abandoned storage unit?” he asked.

  “Because you don’t want your interest in the unit known.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but it sure sounds suspicious to me.”

  “How would you find him?”

  I remembered the list Ellis rattled off when we were talking about finding Gael Patrick. He’d searched various databases from taxpayers to voting rolls. I repeated the options.

  When I was done Wes said, “Yeah, they’ve done all that. Makes you wonder, huh? Are you ready for another news flash? I got the goods on that phone call Henri got Thursday afternoon. The number goes to a smart phone used by … wait for it … a lawyer.”

  “How on God’s earth did you find this out, Wes? You told me anyone at a phone company would leave an e-trail, so they couldn’t give you info anymore.”

  Wes got haughty. “If a person is conducting a legitimate inquiry for someone like a police officer, there’s nothing that says they can’t tell me, too.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Never mind that. What do you think it means that Henri’s last phone call came from a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly, thinking. “Maybe there was a snafu with his immigration situation.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he didn’t fill out the paperwork right. The government is very cautious. All your t’s have to be crossed and your i’s dotted just right. You know that, Wes.”

  “True. Maybe. I don’t know … I still think it’s Scott, don’t you? Don’t you think he seems guilty as dirt?”

  “What’s guilt got to do with dirt, Wes? You’re making no sense.”

  He laughed. “Jeez, Josie, can’t you fill in the blanks? Obviously I meant that he seems as guilty as a little boy who’s caught playing in a mud pile while wearing his Sunday best. It’s a truncated metaphor, Josie, not a literal reference.”