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

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Don’t mention my name.”

  “Never in a million years, Shelley, would I do that. You know me. You know you can trust me with the family jewels.”

  “You’re right, I do. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have made the phone call.”

  I sighed. “You know what’s hardest about this, Shelley? Coming to terms with the fact that not all questions have answers.”

  * * *

  I told Sasha the bad news about the wrapped heart and asked her to prepare a request for sightings, a notice asking dealers worldwide to contact us if they had any information about the heart. We could specify a window of time, but not much else. I also asked her to place ads in all the local and regional newspapers, in both their printed and online editions, offering a cash reward for information leading to our locating the former owner of the storage unit. Both tactics were long shots, but I’d discovered over the years that sometimes long shots paid off.

  * * *

  Yvonne sat on one side of the desk, and I sat on the other. Once Dr. Dubois came on the line, we placed the phone on speaker, and Yvonne explained who she was.

  “Please tell him that I’m Josie Prescott. I run an antiques appraisal company, and I worked with his son, Henri. Please tell him how sorry I am for his loss.”

  She did so, and he thanked me, then commented that Henri had mentioned my name more than once, that he had been very fond of me.

  The unexpected compliment brought tears to my eyes, and it took me a moment to regain my poise.

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I was very fond of him, too.”

  “Perhaps when I come to New Hampshire,” he said, through Yvonne, “which I hope will be soon, we can meet. I would like to hear your stories about my son. I would like to see where he was … where it happened. To see for myself. To talk to the police. To help them.” He paused. The sound of his breathing echoed over the phone lines. I knew the sound, heavy, raspy, wet with unshed tears. I knew the rhythm, jagged, pained. “My time … my operating schedule is challenging.” Another pause. More husky breathing. More staccato catches of breath. When he spoke again, he said, “My secretary told me you had questions about Henri’s business and some other questions, too. Did she understand you right?”

  “Yes,” I said, appreciative that he was encouraging me to be direct. “I know your son has only been dead a few days. Are you sure you’re all right to talk about business so soon afterward?”

  “Yes. Thank you for your courtesy. Please … begin.”

  “Leigh Ann has asked me to sell some objects, but I understand you’re the owner. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That was our agreement. I was their backer in opening the business. What objects does she want to sell?”

  I told him, and he asked about the estimated value, then said, “Yes. Please do sell them.”

  “Since you’re the owner, you’ll need to sign the consignment agreement. May I e-mail it to you?” I asked, adding, “The form I’ll send is the same one I’ve used for many other consignments with Henri.”

  “That will be fine. Once I sign it, I’ll have it scanned in and e-mail it back.”

  He gave me his e-mail address, and I sent a test message, which he replied to.

  “Hearing your American accent—” Dr. Dubois said in English. He broke off abruptly. After several seconds, he continued in French.

  “Dr. Dubois apologizes for his poor English,” Yvonne said. “He wanted to say that hearing your American accent reminded him how much Henri loved America, how content he felt in Rocky Point.”

  “That’s great to hear,” I replied. “Henri seemed very happy here, very happy in his business.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Dubois said, “he felt comfortable there, more so, perhaps, than in France, where the business climate is so competitive.” He cleared his throat. “It is possible that his father, that would be me, of course, unintentionally cast a long shadow, and for a man as creative and sensitive as Henri, that might have been difficult. I am grateful I learned my mistake in time to have a good relationship, to be close to him, to help him succeed in his chosen career. Henri was determined to be in America, to find a community that would welcome him, and he did.” A pause. “Leigh Ann was a very good friend to Henri. Very understanding.”

  I closed my eyes, stricken. I’d listened hard to discern whether Henri’s father was communicating an unspoken message, one that held the answers I sought to the questions I couldn’t bear to ask, and he was. From what he said and all he didn’t say, I knew who killed Henri, and why.

  I had one last question, but Dr. Dubois wouldn’t know the answer. For that, I needed Wes.

  * * *

  Yvonne was gone. From the look on her face as she left, I had the impression she thought Pierre and I had just spent fifteen minutes speaking in code.

  I reached Wes on my first try.

  “Whatcha got?” he asked.

  “That lawyer, the one who called Henri on the day before he died, what’s his name?”

  “No idea. If the police know, they’re not saying, even on the q.t.”

  “How can they not know?” I asked.

  “The cell phone he was using is one of eighty-three issued to his firm. The police know the firm’s name, but not which person was assigned which phone.”

  “Which firm is it?”

  “Why? You got something?”

  “No. Which firm?”

  “Bailey, Haines, Lockwood, and Pirelli. They’re located on Seventh Avenue in New York, the fashion district. Come on, Josie. Give.”

  I had him spell the name, and as he did, I typed it into Google. Within seconds, I confirmed my worst fears. Bailey, Haines, Lockwood, and Pirelli was a full-service law firm with divisions specializing in estate planning, personal injuries, and family law … and immigration.

  “Come on, Josie. You wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t have something.”

  “I’ll call you later, Wes. Thanks.”

  I heard him sputtering in protest as I replaced the receiver.

  I did another Google search, this one seeking out ways and means of picking locks, and within three minutes determined how the intruder got into my house and car. I knew the how and why, and I could prove it. I reached for the phone to call Ellis. Before I could lift it to dial out, Cara’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Josie,” she said, “Chief Hunter is on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “I need your help,” Ellis said. “If you agree, I’ll coordinate with Max to make sure you’re covered, no potential liability, etcetera.”

  “Sure,” I said, then backtracked, thinking that only a fool agrees to something blindly. “I mean, probably. What do you need?”

  “I need you to wear a wire. I think there’s a decent chance you can get a confession.”

  “Me?” I asked, flabbergasted. “Are you kidding?”

  He wasn’t kidding.

  * * *

  I sat across from Ellis at the round ash table in his office. Cathy had brought us cups of tea.

  “I want to tell you something in confidence.”

  “All right,” I said warily.

  “Not to be repeated,” he said. “Ever.”

  “Okay.”

  “I spoke to Henri’s father, Dr. Dubois, Pierre. He called to tell me what you and he discussed.”

  My pulse sped up, then slowed. Neither of us was telling what we knew.

  “Scott left Rocky Point today,” I said, keeping my eyes on Ellis’s face, alert for subtle changes in his expression. I didn’t see any reaction at all. “Did you know that?”

  “Did you talk to him?” he asked.

  “I should have realized what was going on as soon as Scott told me he was leaving, but I didn’t.” I shook my head. “There were so many clues, but I missed them all.”

  “You know, then,” he said.

  “I do now, yes.”

  “Scott came and talked to us on his way out of town, doing the
right thing.”

  “He’s a brave man. Or righteous.”

  “Maybe. Or covering himself.”

  “Which do you think?”

  “I think he’s an honest man, doing the right thing.”

  “Me, too.” I looked out the window. A small stand of birch lined the parking lot. Glistening drips of melting snow dribbled from the trees’ limbs, puddling on the asphalt below. Drifts were shrinking, almost in front of my eyes, melting, shriveling into themselves. “What is it you want me to do?”

  He told me, listing talking points, explaining the attitude he wanted me to adopt, promising we’d rehearse until I was comfortable, then added, “You can understand why I need your help, can’t you? No way could a police officer have this conversation.”

  “You think I can do it because we’re friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate this, Ellis.”

  “Anyone would,” he said.

  “Did you ask Scott?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why wouldn’t he do it?” I asked, wondering if Scott knew something I didn’t.

  Ellis didn’t speak for several seconds. “His reasons are personal and shouldn’t be taken as an indictment of my plan. He liked the plan.”

  I didn’t want to do it. I hated everything about it. Even thinking about the conversation Ellis was proposing left me feeling achy and hollow, similar to the way I’d felt the day after I’d been shown the door at Frisco’s when I’d awakened at my regular time and realized I had nowhere to go. I’d felt sick, like I was coming down with the flu, and empty, because I had no one to take care of me.

  “You won’t be alone,” Ellis added. “We’ll pick some restaurant. There’ll be a two-man backup inside with you. I’ll be in the van, listening in. Will you do it?”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “I want to talk to Max.”

  “I’ll call him,” he said. “We can hash it out together.”

  “I want to think about it.”

  “Let’s get Max down here, then.”

  Within the hour, I’d agreed to Ellis’s plan.

  * * *

  While Max and Ellis fussed about the wording on the letter of agreement, I called Ty. The call went to voice mail. I left an “I love you” message, wishing it were evening already so he’d be home, then hating myself for wishing time away, knowing time was all we had. Except for Wes’s questions and answers, I thought. There were too many questions that had no answers. No answers I could discover, anyway, and most of them started with “why.”

  I tried Zoë and got her in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store.

  “I need some advice,” I said. “Ellis wants me to wear a wire to try to win a confession from a murder suspect. I’ve agreed, but now I’m having second thoughts.”

  “What’s your hesitation?”

  Good question, I thought. What is my hesitation? Nothing came to mind. You can’t betray a betrayer.

  “Thanks, Zoë. As always, your advice is spot on.”

  “I didn’t give you any.”

  “Yes, you did,” I said. “Talk to you later.”

  * * *

  I sat on a banquette in the Blue Dolphin lounge twirling a cinnamon stick through hot cider. Steam rose and swirled, then dissipated. I took a sip, then another. The cider was rich with spice and warming. Miles Davis’s jazz classic “So What?” was playing softly in the background. The apple-cinnamon aroma took me back to my childhood, to autumns when my mom and dad and I would go pumpkin picking, then stop at a country tea shop for hot mulled cider.

  The two-man backup was really a woman and a man, both on loan from the Portsmouth police force. I knew Dawn from when she’d helped me prepare to deliver the ransom after Eric was kidnapped, almost two years ago.* She was short and stocky, with shaggy brown hair, a wig, she’d told me, dark brown eyes, and freckles sprinkled across her cheeks and nose. Last year, she’d dressed in jeans and leather. Today, she wore a navy blue pantsuit with a peach and blue flowered blouse, very corporate. She was reading the Seacoast Star, and from her demeanor, it seemed the article fascinated her. Her partner, a man named Matt, sat a few tables away. He wore a red sweater and black jeans and was reading something on his smart phone. Both were in profile, their earpieces hidden from view.

  I knew the recording system worked because we tested it twice, first at the police station when the technicians had taped the microphones to my torso, and again once we were situated in the lounge. Someone on the force had arranged which tables we should use in advance. When I’d arrived, Dawn and Matt were already in place, and Suzanne led me straight to a table midway between them. A brass stand reading RESERVED stood on top. Four other tables were occupied, all by groups or couples. No one seemed to notice us.

  “Jimmy will be right over to take your order,” Suzanne said, removing the sign.

  I thanked her, and my voice sounded gruff. I was dry. I cleared my throat, feeling self-conscious, knowing people were listening in. I closed my eyes and mentally rehearsed the key points Ellis wanted me to cover. Since all I had to do was tell the truth and ask questions, Max had okayed everything. When I’d been seven, I’d been secretly desperate to be an actress. Stage fright kept that dream under wraps. Now was my chance to shine by playing the lead in an epic tragedy. I didn’t feel pumped up, though. I felt heartbroken.

  Suzanne entered the lounge, the corners of her mouth pointing to the floor. Dawn raised her eyes for half a second, then lowered them back to her paper. Matt glanced in Suzanne’s direction, then back at his phone. Look happy, Suzanne, I thought, or you’ll blow our cover. As if she could read my mind, she smiled. Leigh Ann trailed along behind her.

  “There she is,” Suzanne said to Leigh Ann, pointing to my table.

  Leigh Ann thanked her, and Suzanne left the lounge, her part over.

  “That smells wonderful,” Leigh Ann said, her eyes on my mug as she slid into a chair across from me.

  “Hot cider. It tastes great, too.”

  Jimmy came over, and she ordered one, then said, “Thanks for asking me to join you, Josie. I’m feeling a little down pin, as Mama would say.”

  She looked down pin, too, her skin gray-white and splotchy, her eyes moist and red, redder even than after Henri died. Her nose and upper lip appeared chafed.

  “Scott told me he was leaving,” I said, jumping in, wanting this conversation over, remembering Ellis’s instruction to push, to take control and keep it, to steer to the pain.

  She turned her head to the side, averting her eyes, and I saw the muscles in her neck tighten.

  “It was a surprise,” she whispered.

  “Yeah. Pretty tough break, his looking through that wicker box.”

  She faced me, opening her eyes wide, communicating innocence and surprise. “What box?”

  “The one in your credenza. I think it was the piece of flattened Pepsi can that got him. That ragged cutout. He knew what it meant.”

  She blinked at me, then gave an awkward laugh. “There’s no mystery about it. I have too much time on my hands.” She laughed again, more convincingly this time. “One February, ten, maybe twelve years ago, Scott and I drove out to the North Fork, you know, on Long Island. A vineyard was open, so we thought, why not take a tour? The tour guide was the owner, a nice man, glad for company. In the tasting room, he showed off his cork covers, cute little crocheted animals designed to snuggle right over the tops of wine bottles. I asked him whatever for, and he told me it’s strange what ideas come to you in February, what with the snow and cold and isolation. He crocheted cork caps. I flatten Pepsi cans and cut out designs to use as stencils.”

  “Where are they? Those designs to use as stencils?”

  She laughed again, confident now. “It seems I’m not as deedy as I’d always flattered myself. None came out in any usable fashion. Not one.” She fluttered a hand. “I’m hopeless.”

  “I saw the YouTube video,” I said. I’d watched two of them, lo
ck-picking manifestos. “You used the aluminum to fabricate keys to my back door and car, then a tension wrench to turn them. The tension wrench is in the box, too.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, feigning innocence, not well. Her narrowed eyes and guarded expression betrayed her.

  Jimmy brought her cider, but she didn’t seem to see it.

  “You got your hands on my keys on Thursday,” I said, “the day before Henri was killed. I went into the back room with him to look at the Merian book. You took my keys from my tote bag, easy enough, since I always keep them attached to that little ring in the inner zippered compartment, and you’ve seen me access them for months now. You scanned in their images. I only have a few keys, so you could do them all at once, spacing them out on the glass. It wouldn’t take you longer than a minute or two, not with the scanner right there by your desk. There’s lots of Pepsi cans around. From there, it was easy—meticulous, but easy. You print out a scan, precisely cut out each key’s shape, trace it on a piece of the flattened aluminum, then cut it out, and voilà, you have a metal key. Pretty clever, if you ask me.”

  “You’re raving, Josie,” she said, her tone earnest. “You’re making no sense.”

  “How did you know how to do it? Probably you just Googled some key words and watched some how-to videos. You’re good with Photoshop, too, and that transferring-fingerprints trick—yowzi—that bit was beyond clever.”

  Leigh Ann scanned the room, seeking out signs that this was a trap, perhaps, knowing she needed to let me finish, to discover how much I knew and what I planned to do with the information. She had to be worried that I was laying the groundwork for blackmail. “Don’t ease up,” Ellis had told me. “Keep the pressure on.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leigh Ann said.

  “I’d invited you and Henri to dinner that night at my place. I was going to make a winter clambake, remember? If you’d been there, it would have been easy to sneak the love note and photo into that drawer. The Blue Dolphin’s reopening messed that up for you, didn’t it? I canceled dinner at my place and invited you here instead, so you had to risk a break-in. In a blizzard. It worked out to your advantage, though. Since you waited until after you’d murdered Henri, you were able to kill two birds with one stone. Two drop-offs, one in my house and the other in my car trunk, and you set me up with a motive and means. Pretty slick. You were smart enough not to drive your own car, too. For a while, the police thought it was Scott who did it, but it was you.”