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

by Jane K. Cleland

  Leigh Ann cupped her mug, seeking warmth, perhaps. “I didn’t kill Henri.”

  “I was in and out of your shop all the time,” I continued. “How long in advance did you plan the murder? I bet you captured my fingerprints that same day you copied my keys. Did you use some I left by touching your desk? No, then the wood grain would have shown in my prints during the police inspection of the love note. The glass mug, I’m thinking … a nice smooth surface … that’s where you got them. I wondered for a while if you had me touch the paper itself, the card stock, before you wrote the note, but no, then your prints would have been on it, or if you’d wiped it clear, you would have removed mine, too. Ditto for the glossy photo paper. It had to be a transfer. Plus, you didn’t write it. You used an actual love note Henri wrote to you. Dark, Leigh Ann. Very dark.”

  Leigh Ann sat forward, concentrating, trying, I assumed, to calculate the odds. Should she flee? Stick around to hear what else I had to say? Attack my logic? She was breathing fast, too fast. Emotionally, she had to be all done in.

  “Did you use a hard-boiled egg for the fingerprint transfer?” I asked. “Or wax? That’s why Henri wasn’t wearing gloves when we found his corpse, wasn’t it? I didn’t realize at the time … I didn’t think it meant anything … but of course it did. You took the love note and wiped it clean. You had to because it had your prints on it. You rolled mine on first, I suppose, then pressed his on after you killed him.”

  “No.”

  “Oh … did you do his first?”

  “Nothing you’re saying is true.”

  “It’s easy to remove gloves from a dead man, or at least, it’s easier than putting them back on. Did you try? Or were you so focused on getting out of there, you took them with you by mistake? Did you even try to put them back on his hands?”

  She looked at me as if she thought I was crazy. She was doing well, I thought, holding it together. “Push,” Ellis told me. “Push.”

  “That love note was beautiful,” I continued, “romantic. ‘Love conquers all.’ Virgil, right? What was the difficulty Henri referred to in that note? My guess is money. It had to cost him something to approach his father. You did a good job on that negotiation. Impressive. Of course, it didn’t work out as planned. You changed your mind. You asked Henri for a divorce, right?”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “There’s nothing illegal about wanting a divorce. Henri was a nice man, just not my soul mate.”

  “That was Scott.”

  “Always.”

  “Henri said no,” I said.

  She didn’t reply.

  “Because of his green card,” I said. “He couldn’t get permanent resident status if you didn’t stay married at least two years, isn’t that right?”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” she said.

  “That was the bad news Henri got that day. He spoke to his immigration lawyer. Not only would a divorce preclude his getting his green card now, it would make his getting it in the future all that much harder. His solution was simple—let’s stay married.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Because Scott was back,” I said, nodding, aiming for a sympathetic tone. “I understand wanting to be with Scott, but why did you have to divorce Henri? Why not just stay married long enough to fulfill your end of the bargain? His father funded the business, and once Henri got his green card, the business would be turned over to you, right?”

  “And the house and cars.”

  “Did you have a prenup?” I asked. “Was that the issue?”

  “We couldn’t. We worried that it would smack of the unsavory to connect financial gain to getting a green card.”

  “I can see that. It’s probably illegal to boot.”

  “I cared about Henri,” she said, her tone defensive now.

  “So why not stay married for a couple of years?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “You’ve met Scott. What odds would you give that he’ll still be single in eighteen months? Some cutie will snap him up faster than a lightning bug can flare.”

  Such is the course of true love, I thought.

  “Did Scott get your car seats cleaned?” I asked, hoping my quick shift of topic would surprise her into revealing guilty knowledge.

  “No … my God! Who’s had time to think of that?” she asked.

  “True. Still, it would seem pretty darn urgent to me. You know you got Henri’s blood on the driver’s side, don’t you? When we found Henri’s body, you collapsed—that was very affecting, by the way—then got in the passenger side of your car. So the bloodstains there can be explained away. This is different. How did his blood get on the other side, on the driver’s side?”

  Her gray pallor whitened.

  “I noticed it at the police garage,” I added, “but didn’t realize its significance until later. You weren’t careful enough, Leigh Ann. You left a boatload of loose ends, and the police are going to find them all.”

  “Stop it, Josie,” Leigh Ann said.

  “Are the scanned images of my keys still on your computer? The police will find them. And the flattened aluminum in the wicker box in your credenza. And the tension wrench. How about the wax or putty or whatever you used to transfer the fingerprints? Where are Henri’s gloves?”

  She pushed aside the mug and stood up. “I don’t know why you’re doing this to me.”

  “You’re not going to your shop, are you? The police are inside already. They have the evidence. Pierre gave them permission. He owns the business now, remember?”

  She sank back down and covered her mouth with her fingers.

  “It’s over, Leigh Ann,” I said softly. “Your best bet now is to tell the truth.”

  She stood up again, and this time, she walked out.

  “Sorry,” I said to the wire, aware I didn’t get a confession, certain I’d ruined everything. “Oh, my God … I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Dawn and Matt left the lounge on Leigh Ann’s heels. I followed, reaching the front door in time to see Leigh Ann marching up Bow Street. Ellis, standing near a row house, stepped in front of her and said something I couldn’t hear.

  I stepped outside and shivered in the chilly air.

  Leigh Ann spun away, dashed across the street without looking at traffic, and disappeared into the alley that ran behind the shops facing Market Street. Two cars slammed on their brakes, skidding on the slick roadway. Horns blared. Ellis started after her, shouting something to Dawn and Matt and pointing right, then left. Dawn veered right and flew down the sidewalk along Market Street. Matt raced up Bow Street, following its left-curving route.

  “What’s happening?” Suzanne asked, standing beside me under the copper overhang. She patted her upper arms for warmth, huddling into herself.

  Droplets of melting snow from the roof pinged the metal before rolling off and hitting the sidewalk.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Leigh Ann ran away.”

  We stood and waited. A car honked for no reason that I could see. A woman wheeling a baby carriage passed by, heading south. Two older women walked by laughing so hard they couldn’t talk. A man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, looked worried.

  Ellis appeared on Market Street heading toward us. He kept two fingers on Leigh Ann’s elbow. Her hands were cuffed. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Dawn walked on her other side. A patrol car drove up, stopping in the middle of the intersection. Starkly iridescent abstract shapes spun up and sideways on the wet black roadway, reflections from the car’s spinning blue and red lights.

  Dawn opened the back door. Ellis said something to Leigh Ann. She didn’t reply. She didn’t move. She didn’t react in any way. Ellis spoke again, and still she didn’t respond. He took a step toward her, closing in.

  Leigh Ann raised her eyes and looked straight at me, standing in stoic silence. I met her gaze and returned it, thinking I was in the presence of evil, that it took a certain breed of devil to kill a man solely because he was inconveniencing you. Henri had exp
ected Leigh Ann to live up to her end of a lucrative bargain. Instead, she killed him, then set out to frame me, her friend.

  Dawn and Ellis maneuvered Leigh Ann into the back, and still she kept her eyes on mine. Suzanne and I stood side by side, our shoulders nearly touching, until the patrol car drove away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “I’m sorry,” I told Ellis.

  The team had removed the microphones. Detective Brownley had taken my official statement, which amounted to nothing more than that I’d done my best, that I hadn’t tried to communicate with Leigh Ann about anything off-wire, and that I understood I might be called to testify.

  “You have nothing to apologize for. Based on her testimony, we have her breaking immigration laws, selling herself in marriage so Henri could get his green card. That gives us the leverage we need to hold her.” He leaned back, relaxed, grinning. “Katie, our IT gal, just called. She found those key scans on Leigh Ann’s computer, plus—and this I love—the original photo of you and Zoë.” His grin faded. “The receipt for the tire iron, the murder weapon, was in her desk drawer. Unbelievable. If she’d murdered him with something she found in the storage room, she might have been able to argue she did it in the heat of passion. That line of defense is gone. She entered the room armed with a deadly weapon. That’s premeditation.”

  My throat closed, and for several seconds I couldn’t speak. “She went out to buy something to kill him with,” I said.

  “She didn’t even clean it,” he said, shaking his head.

  “She didn’t have time. She had to hurry to get to her appointment at Suzanne’s condo, then Scott arrived. It takes time to clean blood away so there’s no residue, longer to find a spot to leave it.” I paused. “A junkyard would be the perfect spot, but this time of year all their piles of miscellaneous parts are covered in snow. If you dumped a tire iron on a mound of snow, it would stand out, black on white.”

  “That’s what I figure, too. She thought it was safer to lay low for a while. Her car was in Henri’s name, too, so we could search it. His gloves were in the trunk. They’re covered with blood.”

  “She’s a fool,” I said.

  “She’s not stupid,” Ellis said.

  “I don’t know that I agree with that. I think she’s wicked.”

  “So do I,” he said. “Just because you’re wicked doesn’t mean you’re not smart. She planned things well.”

  “I hate her. She tried to frame me. I can’t forgive her. Ever.”

  “I’m not in the forgiveness business,” Ellis said. “My job is catching criminals and gathering evidence. Someone else can worry about sinners and forgiveness. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t want to forgive her … don’t.”

  “She betrayed me. We were friends. I liked her, Ellis. I really liked her. I trusted her. I feel so stupid.”

  “There’s nothing stupid about trusting people, Josie.”

  “Sure there is. You can’t just trust. Leigh Ann took advantage of my openness. There’s a lesson there for me.”

  “What? To be less open?”

  I met his gaze. “I don’t know.”

  “You have good instincts, Josie. This time it got away from you. You’re only human, just like the rest of us. Leigh Ann was smart about things, that’s all.”

  “Maybe.” I sighed, ready to think about something else, to skip wallowing in futile anger and dismay. “Did you ever find out why Les used a fake address?”

  “He didn’t. You know how I thought it might have been a transcription error, that instead of 454 West Thirty-fifth Street, maybe it was 445 or 544? I was right, but wrong—it wasn’t the house address that was transcribed, it was the street itself. Lester Markham’s last New York City apartment was located at 454 West Fifty-third Street. The phone number was his, too, back when he lived in New York.”

  “And it got reassigned to that Spanish-speaking woman after a few years’ hiatus.”

  “Exactly,” Ellis said.

  “What about the night Leigh Ann broke into my place? Scott said he was awake.”

  “Funny how that works. You think you’re awake but you’re not. Turns out, Scott was wrong. He’s come to realize he was deeply asleep and only dreaming about Leigh Ann.”

  “What did the DA decide about Drew Bruen and Zach Moore?” I asked.

  “They’re in the clear. Their alibis checked out, not that it matters at this point, and Drew gave the money back to Les Markham’s family. He told the DA how he took it for his brother but never felt right about it. He said he’s really sorry.”

  “You coached him.”

  “I made a few suggestions, that’s all.”

  “And the DA declined to press charges?” I asked.

  “At the family’s request.”

  “That’s great.” I smiled, pleased, then laughed. “I just realized something about Leigh Ann. What you said … that she was smart … maybe … but you know what? All things considered, I was smarter.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Pred was still at work when I got there about six. I was stopping by just to turn off my computer and say good night to Hank before heading home. To my home. Where I would be able to cook for Ty in my own kitchen without fear.

  “Hey, Fred,” I said, smiling. “Anything going on I need to know about?”

  “Hey, Josie.” He pushed up his glasses and grinned. “That guy from Frisco’s, Marshall White, called to speak to you. I took the call. He’s eager to get his hands on those silent movie posters. I told him they’d be available for inspection for several days before the auction, and by appointment anytime.”

  I laughed. “You must have broken his heart. What did he say?”

  “That he wanted to talk to you.”

  “I bet. We have to decide how to market them. What would you think of avoiding the obvious—not marketing them as movie ephemera or commercial art, instead as part of a larger concept … hidden messages?”

  He pushed up his glasses again. “Interesting. Tools of cryptography, that sort of thing?”

  “We still have that Jefferson letter, you know the one I mean, referencing the artichoke code he used in the Lewis and Clark expedition.”

  “Very cool idea.”

  “I haven’t decided yet, but it’s worth considering. It might be more trouble than it’s worth, marketing to all the separate subgroups, movie buffs, Jefferson collectors, and so on. Do you know if Sasha got any hits about the wrapped heart?”

  “Yes. She didn’t.”

  I nodded, resigned. “We’ll keep the notices up and run ads periodically until we’re ready to sell it, but I’m not hopeful. There goes fifty percent of the value. C’est la vie. We’re still looking at the low six figures, which isn’t hay, but it sure would have been nice to pop into the midsix figures.”

  “Words to live by,” Fred said. “‘It sure would have been nice.’ Think of everything that applies to.”

  “My height for starters. It sure would have been nice to be five-seven.”

  He laughed. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

  “Thanks!” I said, then walked toward the warehouse, pausing at the door. I looked back, aware my eyes were twinkling. “I had a fun conversation with Suzanne.”

  Fred laced his hands behind his head and grinned. “So I heard. Don’t tell her, but if you’re okay with my taking the time off, I’m planning a ten-day jaunt in April, before tourist season slams the Blue Dolphin—and us. Our first stop will be Paris for the Louvre, then Austria for the Albertina, then two more stops to be determined based on her finalizing her priority list.”

  “She gets her three-fer,” I said, smiling. “April in Paris. Perfect. Have you ever been during the spring?”

  “No. Have you?”

  I shook my head. “I always wanted to, though.” I smiled, as pleased for Suzanne as if I were the one getting the surprise, not her. “Your vacation is approved. Tell Gretchen so she can get the dates into the master schedule, okay?”

>   “Will do,” he said. “Thanks, Josie.”

  I pushed open the door, then paused again to ask, “Did you know right away that Suzanne was the one? The first time you saw her?”

  He sat forward, grinning again, broader this time. “I knew she was drop-dead gorgeous the first time I saw her, but it wasn’t until we talked for a while that she knocked my socks off. It took a good two, three minutes for me to realize she had brains and heart in addition to good looks.”

  I laughed. “That’s how it was with me and Ty, too.”

  Upstairs, before shutting down my computer, I scanned through my e-mails. One from Sasha got my attention. The Markham silent movie posters Hal Greeley sent had arrived. Sasha was excited. She reported he’d sent eight posters, all painted in different styles, all featuring the artist’s signature, a hidden cat face.

  “Yay!” I said aloud and picked up the phone to call Hal Greeley.

  “You got me with my coat half on and one foot out the door,” he said, his tone jovial.

  “I won’t keep you,” I said. “I just wanted to thank you again for letting us examine some of your grandfather’s posters and let you know they arrived safely.”

  “Good, good!”

  “Also, I wanted to tell you that the posters we’re appraising, the ones from the storage unit, the owner plans on selling them.”

  “How does it work?”

  “In all probability, we’ll build an auction around them, adding in other related ephemera and decorative objects. Once we have that organized, we market the auction extensively, trying to build advance buzz. I contact museum curators and collectors, for instance. We’ll send out news releases and try to get media coverage. I think we’ll attract some attention and command good prices.”