by Jane Tesh
Baseford crossed his fingers over his ample stomach. “According to our own excellent reporting, what happened to Gallant is considered suspicious, but there isn’t a clear cause of death. As for Pierson’s items, of course, if I hear anything at all, I’ll be sure to let you know, Mr. Randall.”
He wasn’t going to dismiss me this easily. “If you’ll recall, I’m the reason you’re now editor of the Herald.”
“Are you speaking of that unfortunate mishap with our former editor who liked to create his own sensational news by murdering people?”
“That’s the one.”
Baseford smirked. He had enjoyed getting the best of his former employer.
“So what you’re saying is I owe you one?”
“A reasonable exchange of information isn’t too much to ask. Why did you leave your ivory tower here and go to Gallant’s museum? One phone call and he’s destroyed. You wouldn’t even have to set foot in the backwoods.”
“I’d heard it was closing and wanted to see for myself. Gallant has always been an irritating presence, a poser, and a nuisance. Always short of money and pestering people to lend him some. Easily led, as well. The man would bet on whether the sun would rise. I knew he’d run the Princeton into the ground.”
“Irritating enough to get rid of?”
“Only in theory, Randall. You can’t possibly believe I’d do something so mundane as murder.”
True, it was hard to imagine Baseford making the effort to stuff a dead body into a closet. “You could pay someone to do it.”
“What exactly is my motive? Many people irritate me. You irritate me. But I’d much rather use my words and my artistic reputation to destroy my enemies. The revenge lasts longer.”
“Any idea who might want to kill Gallant the old-fashioned way?”
“No.” He gave me a long measuring look. “I believe I saw your name in our paper not long ago connected with a certain realtor’s unfortunate dealings in illegal adoptions. You certainly attract interesting cases. I don’t have enough information to solve Gallant’s murder for you, but as to the theft of Pierson’s artwork, I’ll be sure to write an editorial urging our museums and galleries to update their own security systems.”
“How many people were aware of Pierson’s collection?”
“I was aware of it, of course.” Because nothing artistic could exist without his knowledge. “I’d never seen his collection, but then, I never travel to the suburbs if I can help it, unless there’s something I must see, like the demise of the Princeton Gallery. I imagine most of the people at the museum have at least heard about it.”
“You know everything about the art community.” I was rewarded with a regal nod. “Is there anyone who had a grudge against Pierson? Anyone who’d like to set up a scheme, possibly hire Gallant to steal his stuff just to thumb his nose at the guy? Not everything was taken, which leads me to believe the mastermind behind this job knew his Art Nouveau and hit where it would hurt most.”
“As for a grudge…” He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “…I really don’t know Pierson well enough to answer that. The man could have dozens of enemies. Lord knows he makes enough noise.”
I would’ve used the word theatrical. Baseford’s face had turned an odd shade of pink, as if thinking about noisy Mr. Pierson had unsettled his artistic soul.
“Aside from all his wearisome dramatics, Pierson hasn’t a clue about the true value of his collection.”
“What would that be?”
“I suppose he told you some nonsense about his second or third cousin once removed, Isabelle Duvall?”
“He mentioned her.”
Baseford gave a short bark of what might have been a laugh. “He didn’t say anything about the feud or the mysterious treasure?”
“Only that he had a buyer for all the items except the dragonfly, which wasn’t for sale, and the money would bankroll a theater he wanted to purchase.”
Baseford sat back, exasperated. “Good Lord, the man’s a fool.”
I’d had enough riddles. “What are you talking about?”
“Pierson’s family and the Duvall family have been feuding for years over ownership of this Art Nouveau. One accused the other of stealing it, and they’ve been stealing it back and forth forever. What did he tell you it was worth?”
I checked my notes on my phone. “Not counting the dragonfly or sentimental value, two hundred and sixty thousand dollars. He said the dragonfly was worth much more.”
He made a dismissive snort. “Pocket change.”
“I take it this ‘mysterious treasure’ comes in here?”
Baseford was all too willing to enlighten me. “Oh, this is the best part. Separately, these pieces are worth a paltry two hundred thousand dollars, but somewhere along the line, a Pierson or a Duvall took specific marks and letters from the pieces, which, when put together, lead to a hidden treasure supposedly worth over twenty-five million dollars.”
Was he pulling my leg? “Marks and letters?”
He rolled his eyes as if I were too stupid to be believed. “On the bottom of the ashtray and the vase would be a mark for the artist’s name. On the poster would be letters.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Of course I know all this! Leo Pierson definitely doesn’t. Tell him. I’m sure he’ll be amazed.” He made a great show of turning back to his laptop. “Was there anything else, Mr. Randall? I have several reviews to finish. The Parkland Symphony’s concerto last night was a complete disaster, and I can’t wait to share my findings.”
I’d had enough of Baseford. I’ve always hated the idea of some fat pompous ass deciding what movie I should see, what book I should read. Who died and gave him control of the remote? Now I’d found out he was too arrogant and mean-spirited to let Pierson know the key to a possible fortune. I took out one of my cards and put it on Baseford’s desk. “Thanks for your help.”
Another royal nod and I was free to leave his presence.
It was now lunchtime, and I was no further along than before. No return calls from Ms. Piper or Richard Mason. I called Pierson again and once more, the call went to voicemail. Where was he? Had a rogue band of feudin’ Duvalls come down from the hills to wreak revenge on their sworn enemy? Did he know about the feud and the hidden clues?
Damn, I thought as I drove home. Day two of my search and nobody wants to talk to me except Baseford. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I’d be better off selling insurance or fighting forest fires. Even the Black Eagles whomping through the boisterous “Short Dress Gal” couldn’t cut through my current gloom, and I can always count on jazz to shake me out of a mood.
I pulled into the driveway alongside a large van that had “Wally’s Plumbing” on the side in large dripping letters. Uh-oh. This did not bode well for our strained finances. When I walked into the house, I heard loud clanking noises and creative swearing that led me up to Kary’s bathroom. I found Camden and a large unhappy individual in coveralls wedged halfway under the sink surrounded by lots of soggy towels.
I asked the obvious. “Pipes finally break?”
Camden emerged, wet and rumpled. “Nope, but we’ve got a leak.” More clanking and subterranean swearing gurgled from Wally. “What’s the damage, Wally?”
Wally came out, shaking his sparse hair and looking like a mole who’d accidentally tunneled into a lake. He was a portly fellow in his sixties with thinning gray hair. He wiped water from his eyes, pulled his glasses from his shirt pocket and placed them on his short nose. “Okay, Cam, here’s what we’re looking at. You got to replace all these pipes and the pipes in the other bathrooms, all of them. I don’t think they’ve been replaced since the Flood, you’ll excuse the pun. I can give you a price for the whole deal.” He named an amount that made Camden gulp. “I can get started on it today, take me maybe, oh, three days at most. Otherwise, you’re go
nna have these nice little surprises every day. Cost you even more to have them done separately.”
Camden looked as if he were going under the waves for the third time. “Go ahead and fix this one. I’ll check my savings.”
“Sure.” Wally disappeared under the sink again.
I followed Camden as we walked out into the hallway. “What savings?”
He sat down dejectedly on the steps that led to the third floor. “I haven’t got a cent.”
“I’ve still got a chunk of cash from my last case.”
He shook his head. “The house is my responsibility.”
“Yeah, but I’m living here, too, and I don’t want to wake up underwater.”
“But that’s your money. You need it for the agency.”
“Have you thought about asking Ellin to cover expenses? Of course, you know you’ll end up paying in PSN time.”
“Worse than that. She’ll have more ammunition for her Let’s Move Out campaign.”
“Didn’t you sense this was coming on? Didn’t you have a vision of us floating out to sea?’
He put his head down in his hands. “No, I did not.”
Okay, this was serious. “What’s going on?”
He didn’t answer for a long time. Then he raised his head. “I was in my teens when I finally figured how to control the visions, shut them off, or sort through to find the important ones. They’re pushing in harder now and I don’t know why.”
I had no idea what he needed to do. “Have you talked to Kit about this?”
“A little. But this is something I’m going to have to take care of myself, like the telekinesis.”
“Okay, so you’re having power surges. Maybe you’re going through the change.”
He grinned reluctantly. “Change. My favorite thing.” His grin faded. “I don’t want to lose control, Randall. I don’t want to see what happens if I do. I waited a long time to have a family, and I don’t want to ever jeopardize that. There’s Ellie and the children when they get here, and Kary, Rufus and Angie, Vermillion, Kit—even you.”
Sounded like he was taking on way too much responsibility. “I will keep you in line.” The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it.”
I ran down the stairs and saw the pearl gray Mercedes parked in our driveway. Leo Pierson peered his big wide face in the screen door. Well, it was about time he showed up.
“Hello? Anyone about?”
As soon as I opened the door, he launched into impassioned speech.
“The police believe Samuel Gallant stole my treasures! Do you have any clues as to the whereabouts of the rest of my artwork? The police do not. Has Gallant’s house been searched? I need an update on your progress.”
“I have some more questions for you, too. Come in.”
Pierson entered the house, still declaiming. “They say they found proof that he’s the thief. But he didn’t like Art Nouveau! When I showed him the dragonfly, he said it looked like a shiny rock with eyes. He must have been set-up.”
That had occurred to me, too. “Other than the spoon, do the police have any proof Gallant’s the thief?”
“No. The idea of Gallant stealing from me never crossed my mind. The police are calling his death suspicious. I mean, they said the man had been dead two days! Then where are my treasures? Do you have any suspects?”
Rainbow had seen her uncle on Sunday, and the workmen had finished cleaning the main area of the Princeton Gallery on Tuesday. Camden and I found his body yesterday, which was Thursday. Had he been attacked at the museum, or murdered somewhere else and then put into the closet? “Where were you two days ago?”
He drew back with a theatrical gasp. “Good heavens, I didn’t kill him! If he stole from me and hid my treasures, why on earth would I kill him? I’d never find them. If the police have searched Gallant’s home and his museum, then I can only believe he sold my treasures to someone else, or someone killed him and took them.” His tone changed abruptly. “My goodness, who is this lovely little creature?”
Cindy had been watching from the safety of the piano bench. She hopped down to inspect this new visitor. Pierson bent to touch noses with the cat, who regarded him with a long amused stare.
“That’s Cindy,” I said.
“Charming!” He straightened and pointed his silver-headed cane toward Wally’s van outside. “Plumbing issues?”
“A little leak upstairs.”
He gave the ceiling a glance. “This reminds me of my role as Noah in The O’erwhelming Flood.” He struck a pose, one hand over his heart. “‘O, tides of misery and fate! The people cast about their boats too late, and all go under with a sigh, for lo, the end of all is nigh!’”
I wanted to stop this before he performed the whole play. “Pierson, there’s something else you didn’t mention. What’s this feud between your family and the Duvalls?”
“Oh, that’s nothing. A story my father told me once. That happened a long time ago.”
“What about the marks and letters on your artwork leading to hidden treasure?”
He drew back, startled. “Now that sounds intriguing.”
“I spoke with Chance Baseford today. He told me certain marks on the ashtray and vase—and I’m assuming on the silverware and dragonfly, as well—and certain letters on the poster could be put together to lead to twenty-five million dollars.”
Pierson opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish encountering a side of the bowl he’d never explored. “What?”
“That would explain why only certain items were stolen.”
“All the more reason to find them! And all the more reason to employ a solution you have not considered.” He indicated the island. “May I?”
He sat down on the sofa. Cindy jumped up beside him and settled in his lap as if they were old friends.
I sat on the arm of the blue chair. “A solution?”
“Yes. I believe your associate, Camden, the owner of this house, is the psychic?”
Hadn’t we covered this ground already? “If you’d feel better talking to someone at the Psychic Service, I can give you their number.”
“Now, now. Don’t take offense. I was only wondering if he’d be willing to ‘tune in,’ or whatever he does to seek out missing articles. One item in particular the thief will regret he stole. He’s going to be very sorry he tangled with the dragonfly.”
From the way Pierson said this, I envisioned him in a mask and cape, leaping from the rooftops, buzzing like an electric drill. “The Green Hornet’s cousin, right?”
I got a major glare from those protruding eyes. “The dragonfly hood ornament. The centerpiece of my collection.” His booming voice dropped to a stage whisper and his eyes rolled like a goldfish on its last drop of water. “That’s another thing I had to tell you. It’s cursed.”
My first thought was, Oh, this is getting better and better. I couldn’t make up stuff like this if I tried. Then I recalled Lindsey’s warning. Was this what she wanted me to know? Was there any truth to it?
Pierson adjusted his cuffs and looked slightly embarrassed. “I know I should have mentioned this at our first meeting, but I saw no reason to alarm you.”
Besides being a suspect in a murder investigation, hadn’t I had a premonition Pierson was hiding more secrets? Maybe I was getting psychic. “I’m not alarmed.” Except that you’re walking around loose. I looked skeptical and he got huffy.
“Cursed jewels and objets d’art are not uncommon,” he said. “The Regent Diamond, for instance, brought nothing but grief to Thomas Pitt, and we won’t even go into all the problems with the discovery of the treasures in King Tut’s tomb.”
“I know the Hope Diamond was unlucky for some of its owners, but the Smithsonian seems to be doing okay.”
“Exactly. Most curses are quite capricious. They’ll skip a generation or lie dormant for cent
uries. The dragonfly I own is just such a creation. It’s Lalique’s first attempt, the prototype, if you will. Six previous owners have died sudden violent deaths, but four others have managed to survive unscathed, myself included.”
“So we’re looking for a dead thief with a dragonfly clutched in his hand.”
I braced for another bulbous glare, but Pierson laughed. It was a full infectious laugh.
“You’re an amazingly flippant man, Randall. I suppose one needs such a defense mechanism in your line of work. Gallant is dead, but he didn’t have the dragonfly. So where is it? Is there any reason Camden wouldn’t help me?”
I was about to say I can find your cursed dragonfly when Camden came down the stairs to the island and halted as if he’d heard someone call his name. He stared at Pierson. The man stood and extended a hand.
“Mr. Camden? I was hoping I’d get the chance to meet you. My name is Leo Pierson. I understand you can find lost items?”
As Camden slowly shook Pierson’s large hand, there was a whoop and Kit thumped down the stairs barefooted, his tattered black clothes askew and his wiry hair on end.
“Cam! Don’t shake that guy’s hand—oh, damn, too late.”
I could tell by the way Camden gasped and his eyes glazed over something dark and disastrous had burst into his mind. Uh-oh. This was a deep one.
Kit hurried to my side. “Make him let go, Randall.”
I’d already decided that was a good idea. I pried Camden free from Pierson’s hand and he stood, stunned.
Excited by Camden’s reaction, Pierson reached into his pocket. “I’ve lost some very valuable pieces of Art Nouveau. I have some photos.”
Camden didn’t need photos. “I see them.”
“See them? Already? Where? Where are they? Is the dragonfly there?”
