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

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Are you okay with that?” I asked, wondering how she could bear to let him go. If it were Ty—I broke off the thought. If it were Ty, I’d die.

  “I have mixed feelings, but I think it’s what Henri would want. At heart, he was a Frenchman.” She shrugged, a delicate gesture. “Why I planned on calling … I’m hoping you’ll sell those silent movie posters, and everything from the locker—” She paused, then took in a breath and looked at me, her eyes distant, distracted. “Would you take the art book, too? On consignment? You know the one I mean … with all those insects and things.”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering if she had the right to make a deal with me or anyone. With Henri dead, Pierre owned the business, not her. I thought about asking directly, then decided it would be better, more sensible, more circumspect, to act as if I didn’t know anything about her affairs; I could get clarification from Pierre in the morning. “You want me to frame them individually and sell them as art prints?”

  “Would you?” she asked.

  “I’d be glad to. Our usual arrangement for everything?”

  “Yes. Thank you. There’s an antique plant stand, too, that Henri didn’t get to show you. It came from a locker he bought last week. He was going to ask you to appraise it. Would you sell it, too?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked away, then back at me. “I have to go to the funeral home tomorrow at ten to finalize the arrangements. If it works with your schedule, Scott could drop me off there, then open up the shop for you.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “I need to put a sign up, telling people we’re closed. I’ve written it … Scott can tape it up while you get the book and plant stand.”

  “Are you closing for good?” I asked, surprised.

  “I hope not. I don’t know.” She paused and swallowed, and when she looked at me again, her eyes were moist. “I don’t know if I can run it alone.”

  “It’s so hard,” I said, thinking that my words were meaningless, that I didn’t know what to say.

  “A little light shining in the darkness is finding Scott again.” She smiled at him. “He’s a rock. A complete rock.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, then turned to Scott. “I’ll see you at the shop about ten fifteen, is that good?”

  “Perfect,” he said.

  “Let me get a look at everything,” I told Leigh Ann, “and we can go from there.”

  “Thank you, Josie,” she said.

  We said our good-byes, and as I headed back to the lounge, I wondered how long it would be before they remarried, then wondered what I thought about that. I thought I was happy for them, but I wasn’t sure. The emotional wound of Henri’s murder felt too fresh, too raw for me to feel unadulterated happiness yet. That would come later, after the healing.

  * * *

  Suzanne was looking across the Piscataqua River into Maine. As I approached, I followed her gaze. Shimmering sparks of light glimmered on the deceptively calm surface of the river. The water was fast moving and ice cold, but in the dark, under the undulating lights, it looked inviting. Each summer two or three people drowned, jumping in for an innocent frolic, unprepared for the river’s constant and roiling current, unable to withstand its frigid temperature.

  I sat across from her and took a sip of French martini, trying to decide how to begin. Suzanne was waiting for me to speak, her demeanor serene and patient. I decided on the truth.

  “Leigh Ann seems to be coping well,” I said. “Better than I would, I think.”

  “You never know how you’d react to something like this until it happens.”

  “That’s true.” I shook my head. “I’m still so upset about Henri.”

  She nodded. “I’ve never known someone who was murdered. Besides the grief and fear, it’s … I don’t know how to express it … it’s like standing on shaky ground.”

  “Instead of stability, everything feels precarious.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So sad … you’ve been interviewed by the police, right? Did you pick up any information?”

  “Me? No. I’m completely out of the loop. The police talked to me briefly because I’d been one of Henri’s clients, but I couldn’t tell them much. I don’t know much. I didn’t know Henri well.”

  “You seemed so fond of one another.”

  “Yes,” she said and looked again toward Maine. “We were, and given time, we might have become friends. I’m fond of Leigh Ann, too.”

  “So much in life is timing, right?” More lights came on in the houses that lined the Maine shoreline. On the river’s surface, in the spots where the glimmers and shimmers overlapped, there was enough light to see the water rushing by. I turned toward Suzanne. She was staring into her teacup. “Was it happenstance that brought you to Rocky Point?”

  She shook her head, then looked up. “Sort of.” She shrugged, her expression philosophical. “Everyone has a story, right? Mine is short and not so sweet. I loved a man. He left me. I was heartbroken. Everywhere I looked reminded me of him, our favorite restaurants, the stores where we shopped, even things like my condo’s extra parking space, how pathetic is that. After a few months of glumping around, I said, forget this, and put in for a transfer. So, yes, my being here is a happy fluke.” She shrugged again. “How about you? You’re not a native, are you?”

  “Not hardly. Mine is a similar story. Within a few weeks’ span of time, I lost everything I cared about—my family, my job, my boyfriend. It was bad.” I shook off the memory. “My dad always said that when you feel as if you’re at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on, and if you can’t hang on, move on.” I shrugged. “It took me longer than you to realize it was time to move on. I hung around for more than a year.”

  “Look how wonderfully you’ve settled in,” Suzanne said.

  “That also took me forever. Years. I envy you your ability to assimilate.”

  When I first moved to Rocky Point, I’d struggled with searing loneliness, whereas Suzanne seemed to have found her sea legs effortlessly. I tried to account for the difference. Maybe it was as simple as Suzanne being more outgoing than me. I wasn’t shy, but I was reserved. I shook my head. True, I’d been absorbed by business, so I’d had no time to seek out new friends, but neither had she. Setting up a business allowed you to meet plenty of people, potential employees, vendors, contractors, and service providers, like accountants and graphic designers. My encounters had been uniformly pleasant and businesslike, but not especially warm. Probably everyone had taken their cues from me. I wasn’t feeling warm, so why would they? During my first few years in New Hampshire, I’d focused on coping, not making friends.

  “I had help,” she said, breaking into my thoughts. She laughed and looked down, then up. “I never thought I’d fall in love again, let alone so quickly.”

  “May I ask?” I was trying to keep my surprise from showing on my face, unable to keep my curiosity in check.

  “Sure. You know him … Fred.”

  “Fred? My Fred?”

  “Why are you so surprised?” she asked, laughing again. “Does he have a wife and family stashed away somewhere?”

  “No … of course not!” I laughed, then reached across the table and touched her hand. “I’m delighted, Suzanne. Fred is a wonderful man.”

  “I never knew how easy love could be. God, the years I’ve wasted trying to make relationships work.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. When it’s right, you just fit.”

  “And it’s such a relief to put all the anguish aside.”

  “How did you meet?” I laughed. “I don’t mean to be overly inquisitive, but I’m curious.”

  She smiled, and I recognized the gleam in her eye: She was glad to talk about Fred, could do it all day.

  “We met the old-fashioned way, in person, through mutual acquaintances. Fred is friends with our executive chef, Ray. He came in to meet him for a drink shortly after I got here, right when we were beginning to plan our reopening.” She paused,
remembering. “Not to sound silly, but it truly was a case of our eyes meeting across a crowded room.”

  “Fabulous! I can see how much you must have in common, both of you city folks, both of you transplants.”

  “I think that’s all true. Certainly, we share tastes and interests, even hobbies.” She grinned. “Here’s an example. We both love visiting museums, so we each made a list of the ones we want to visit before we die. I can’t tell you how much fun we’re having merging and prioritizing our lists. My first choice is the Albertina in Vienna.”

  “Drawings, right?” I asked, hoping I was remembering right.

  “You know it? Have you been?”

  “No, I’ve only heard of it. It’s supposed to be fabulous.”

  “Fred is holding out for the Louvre. We’ve both been there, though, so I don’t think that’s fair. I think our list should only include places neither of us has visited. He’s offering a two-for-one deal if I agree to revisit the Louve.” She smiled and her eyes lit up. “I’m holding out for three.”

  I laughed. “It sounds heavenly. I’m happy for you both.”

  “Thank you. But I shouldn’t mislead you. I didn’t fall in love with him because of shared interests or styles.” She smiled again. “One kiss and I was a goner.”

  “A soul kiss,” I said, thinking of Ty, how he looked into my eyes and I’d melt. How he seemed able to see deep into my soul when he leaned in to kiss me. “Once experienced, never forgotten.” I finished my drink and stood up. “Thank you, Suzanne. Next time, how about lunch? Have you ever been to Ellie’s? She makes crepes like you’ve never tasted.”

  “I’d love it, Josie.”

  As I hurried to my car, I remembered the day Suzanne came in to buy the wall art. She said that Fred had told her we had some in stock. Cara had said it was good to see her again. I’d completely missed the implication that, duh, she knew Fred and Cara. It made me wonder what else I’d missed.

  * * *

  Around ten, as I was squatting in front of Ty’s fireplace placing an applewood log on top of smoldering embers, Yvonne called. She sounded young.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice low and appealing. “I was so glad to hear from you. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

  “Not at all. I appreciate your getting back to me. Do you have any time tomorrow to help me with that call?”

  She said yes. We decided that she’d come to my office at eight. I thanked her again, then pushed the OFF button, tossed the phone on the rug, and stretched out on top of one of Ty’s suede-covered body-sized pillows to watch the flickering flames. After a while, I picked up my latest book, Rex Stout’s Three for the Chair, and settled in to read.

  Ty called a few minutes later. We talked for more than an hour, describing our days, detailing key events, comparing notes. I smiled when I heard his good news: His last meeting was scheduled to end by noon the next day; with any luck, he’d be home for dinner.

  “Yay!” I said.

  I read another chapter, then closed my eyes and listened to the crackle and sizzle of sap exploding, some of my favorite sounds.

  * * *

  I woke up to ash and fog. I’d fallen asleep on the body pillow and had no sense of time. I sat up, crinked and befuzzled. A thin layer of tan-gray ash had filtered through the fireplace screen and settled on the hearth. The fire was out. A faint aroma of burned wood and dried apples lingered in the stale air. Outside, thick fog obscured the deck, the railing, the snow-covered lawn, and the trees beyond. I reached for my phone. It was 6:45, but it looked more like dusk than dawn. I tapped some keys on my phone to find the weather. It was forty-two and it was predicted to reach fifty by noon, sixty-three by sunset, a veritable heat wave for New Hampshire in mid-February. The roads would be wet by nine. Low ground would be flooded by two. I, along with everyone I knew, would be talking about our chances for an early spring.

  I lay back, thinking I might doze for another few minutes, but sleep eluded me. I stretched and turned to look out the window. Staring into the fog, I had a sense of shapes but not objects. Wispy tendrils of low clouds swirled over and around the woods. I rolled over, anticipating my day. First up, Yvonne. I needed to reach Pierre, to talk to him, to understand.

  I smiled, thinking that whatever else the day might bring, the day would end well—Ty was coming home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I found Dr. Pierre Dubois’s office number on the Internet and was ready for Yvonne when she arrived. I watched her dial, talk, listen, wait, then talk some more. She pushed the HOLD button and reported that according to his receptionist, Dr. Dubois wouldn’t be available to talk to me until six, Paris time. He was eager, however, to talk to me then.

  “That’s noon our time,” I said. “Can you come back?”

  She said she could and firmed up the date with the woman on the other end of the line.

  I saw Yvonne out and headed back upstairs. Hank came to keep me company. With Hank purring on my lap, I clicked on Dr. Dubois’s office’s Web site. His photograph was a standard business head shot, taken by someone good with a camera, probably, but not a professional. The lighting wasn’t ideal. Father and son didn’t much resemble one another, except perhaps for their smiles and the shape of their strong jaws.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, petting Hank, thinking of loving fathers and of Paris.

  * * *

  Dubois Interior Designs smelled empty.

  “You know where that book is?” Scott asked.

  “Yes. In the back.”

  “Leigh Ann said the plant stand was in the back, too. She said it was light, but if you need help carrying it, let me know.”

  “Thanks,” I said and waited until he’d flipped on all the overhead lights before venturing into the back.

  The book was in the same spot as when I’d last seen it. The plant stand stood off to the side. I’d brought a large plastic sleeve for the book, and I slipped it in. I carried both objects back inside.

  Scott was taping the sign to the door.

  “Need any help?” I asked.

  “Two more pieces of Scotch tape would be great.”

  I placed the book on Leigh Ann’s desk and brought them over, then read the sign. Leigh Ann had used a font that looked like human handwriting. She’d positioned their logo at the top and surrounded the text with a plain gold border, simple enhancements that added style.

  I’m sorry to have missed your visit.

  She asked for e-mail messages, and ended with:

  I hope to see you soon.

  “If you can give me five minutes,” I said, “I’d like to take a few photos of the book and plant stand, notate any markings, that sort of thing. I’d been thinking I’d do everything back at my place, but I’d prefer to do it here, and in your presence. An excess-of-caution sort of thing.”

  “Sure,” he said, his eyes signaling that he got it, that he was in business, too. “Leigh Ann asked me to adjust the automatic timer for the lights. I’ll do that while you take your photos.”

  He slid open the right panel on the credenza. “She said she keeps the timer gizmo in here.” He poked around both sides, then dragged out the wicker box of tools where Leigh Ann had found the loupe and slid it onto the desk. “Maybe it’s in here.” He pawed through the miscellany, then paused to hold up what looked to be a square piece of a flattened Pepsi can with a ragged edge running down one side. He dropped it back in the box and returned the box to the credenza. “Aha! Here it is, on its own, in the back.”

  He sat in her chair to set the timer, and I turned the plant stand upside down.

  The piece was made of oak, with no obvious markings or signatures. The top wiggled a little. There were no embellishments or decorative elements worth noting. I took photos of both objects and e-mailed them to Gretchen, along with my notes and instructions to prepare a consignment agreement for my review.

  “I’m done,” I said.

  “Me, too. May I walk you to your car? I’ll carry your book bag
.”

  “I accept with pleasure.”

  He locked up and walked beside me the half block to my car.

  “I don’t know that I’ll be seeing you again,” he said, placing the book on my backseat and helping me position the plant stand in the trunk. “I’m leaving this afternoon.”

  I couldn’t think of what to say or ask. “Oh.”

  He offered a hand, and we shook. “Nice meeting you.”

  “You, too.”

  Just like that, Scott was gone.

  * * *

  Shelley called at twenty minutes to twelve.

  “You’re not going to be happy,” she said.

  “I’m sitting down,” I said, “and braced.”

  “The sale of that Verdura wrapped heart went through the buyer’s lawyer, so that’s who I called. I spoke to him myself. He refused to put me in touch with the buyer, but as you know, my friend, I can be persistent, so I was able to get a smidge of information. The buyer died ten years ago. He was in retail, very rich, but not a household name. That’s all I could get about him, and I was lucky to get that. The lawyer wouldn’t tell me where the man was from, which means we could be dealing with someone from New York or Paris or Dubai or wherever. The heart was purchased in this circuitous way as a gift for the buyer’s mistress. At my request, the lawyer called her to ask if she would talk to me. She died eight years ago. The lawyer refused to question her heirs, and I can’t say I blame him. In other words, the trail stops there.”

  “You’re right—I’m not happy. I hate half a story.”

  “You and me both, my friend. To say nothing of screwing up provenance. What will you do now?”

  “Cry.”

  “Pass the hankies,” she said. “Then what?”

  “Figure out how to position it. I got it from an abandoned storage locker. They auction them off at between three and six months after nonpayment, depending on the contract. If the mistress died eight years ago, well, in all probability, it wasn’t her locker, so probably she sold it at some point after her lover’s death. Maybe I’ll put out a call for sightings.”