“The medical examiner will ascertain the cause of death,” he replied, sharing nothing.
I directed him down the side road that led to the two cottages, and he stopped in front of Frankie’s. He left me in the car and approached the front door. He rang the bell, then knocked, then tried the door. He stepped to the right and peered into the window, the same one I’d looked through earlier, then circled the house. When he reappeared, he was on his cell phone. He stood with his back to me and finished his call. I shivered. The temperature had dropped. I looked up. Clouds were thickening as I watched, and I wondered if we were in for a storm.
“I saw another house through the trees,” he said as he climbed back into his vehicle. “Is that Ms. Morse’s?”
“Yes.”
We drove the short distance. Gray-white smoke poured from Ashley’s chimney. Lights were on in the front room. She answered the door wearing a long white smock smeared with brown and black stains—her scrimshander’s uniform. Ashley worked as the White-stones’ house keeper to pay her bills, but her passion was designing and producing scrimshaw objects. I lowered my window, thinking that I might be able to hear what they said.
“What?” Ashley asked, the word floating on the breeze.
Chief Hunter said something I couldn’t hear.
Ashley looked as if she didn’t think she could have heard him right. She was older than me by at least a few years, and she was plain and tall, maybe five-eight or -nine, with a stocky build, limp blond hair, and washed-out blue eyes.
“I can’t,” she said. “Not right now.”
Chief Hunter stepped forward, an aggressive move. Ashley backed up.
The wind swung to the north and whistled through the open window, and suddenly I could hear both sides of their conversation.
“I can’t leave my materials out,” she said.
“I’ll wait while you secure them.”
The wind shifted again, and their voices evanesced. Ashley mouthed words and gestured over her shoulder. It was as if she were a mime. Chief Hunter took another step forward.
It began to rain. So much for the weather forecast of no rain until Thursday, I thought.
The sun was still visible to the west, but looking east, the sky was battleship gray. I raised the window halfway. Chief Hunter flipped up his jacket’s collar. The rain slanted in, pelting me, and I closed the window. Ashley backed out of sight. Chief Hunter followed her in and shut the door. Five minutes later, Ashley reappeared wearing a yellow rain slicker with matching boots. She stomped down the pathway, her irritation evident in her gait. She stopped for a second when she spotted me, then continued on. Chief Hunter opened the SUV’s rear door, and she climbed in.
“Thank you both,” he said as he started the engine. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“I’m glad to help,” I said, staring through the water-streaked wind-shield into the distant woods.
Ashley didn’t reply. “I didn’t know you were here,” she said to me. “Were you at the light house?”
“Yes, to start an appraisal.”
“Oh, right, right. Mr. Whitestone called to tell me you’d be in and out.”
When we passed Frankie’s cottage, I saw the uniformed officer who’d driven Detective Brownley to the light house standing on the front stoop. His cap offered little protection against the rain. He looked miserable.
Chief Hunter came to a stop and lowered his window. “We’ll get a car down here for you,” he called.
“Thank you, sir,” the young officer said, shouting to be heard in the rain.
Back up at the light house, Griff was standing by Frankie’s Jeep watching as a tow truck operator attached his hook.
I transferred to my car, Ashley took my place in the SUV’s passenger seat, and we set off for the Rocky Point police station, a necessary first stop, Chief Hunter told me, before proceeding to Zoë’s. We passed a patrol car idling at the gated entryway, then another at the mouth of Light house Lane. Chief Hunter told the second patrol to join the young man guarding Frankie’s cottage.
Once we crossed over onto the mainland, I found myself driving on autopilot. The rain continued unabated. The storm clouds were spreading; the sky to the west was now mottled gray.
Maybe Frankie surprised a thief, I thought, then shook my head. No way. It had to be someone he knew. I’d seen no sign of forced entry, and a burglar would never wander up to the light house casually or find himself there by accident; it was too isolated. Except … maybe, given that it was general knowledge that the Whitestones only came up for weekends, a robber might have known—or thought—that he’d have clear access. I wondered if anything was missing.
Having killed someone, would the thief stay to ransack the place? Probably not. Then again, if he’d packed up some objects—or everything, for that matter—before Frankie had interrupted him, I might be able to help the police track him down. I nodded. If anything was stolen, and if we could locate it, we’d catch more than a thief. We’d catch a killer.
CHAPTER THREE
Islipped my earpiece in and called Ty. It was four thirty-five. He was in an all-day planning session in Boston, one he expected would run until six, or even later. Most likely, he wouldn’t be available, and he wasn’t. His cell phone went directly to voice mail.
“Ty,” I said, “I have bad news. It’s Frankie. Oh, Ty … he’s dead. He was murdered. I was there to start an appraisal and … oh, God, Ty … I found the body—” I choked, then continued. “I’m going to the police station now. Did you know they’d finally hired someone to replace you? Ellis Hunter. Anyway, I’m just so upset … I wanted to talk to you. I’ll keep you posted.”
Two seconds later, my phone rang, and I flinched, startled. I answered it without looking at the display, assuming—hoping—it was Ty calling me back. It wasn’t. It was Wes Smith, a reporter for the local newspaper, the Seacoast Star.
“Josie,” Wes said, jumping in. “I picked up the news on my police scanner. Didn’t you get my message?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t checked messages.”
“A murder in a lighthouse—great imagery! Fill me in.”
I didn’t take his crassness personally. Wes would always rather hear bad news than good. It wasn’t that he was sordid or malevolent; it was that bad news sold newspapers.
“It’s awful,” I said.
“Yeah. So what do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“You must know something. You called it in. Were you there when he was killed?”
“No,” I replied. “I’m upset, though. It was a bad scene, Wes—very bloody—and Frankie was a good guy.”
“Not from his record.”
“Old news.”
“Come on, Josie. Do you really think he changed? You know the stats. Recidivism is the norm, not the exception.”
“Not in his case!” I protested, stung. “He was doing well, Wes. Really. He’d turned his life around.”
“How do you know he didn’t go back to drugs?”
“He got tested all the time. It was part of his employment agreement,” I replied, realizing that as usual, Wes was drawing more information out of me than I wanted to give. He was one heck of a good reporter.
I was tempted to hang up but didn’t. I knew myself—between Zoë’s certain need to know what happened to her nephew and my innate curiosity, I didn’t want to prematurely shut a door to information that I might later wish were open. Talking to Wes now would create credit for questions I might have later. Our arrangement was fair, but risking the glare of public exposure always made the muscles in my shoulders and neck throb with tension.
“We’re off the record, right, Wes?” I asked, having learned the hard way to confirm our terms before I spoke and not to assume anything.
“Josie, the details about his murder are public info—or they will be soon,” he said patiently, as if he were justifying an unwanted rule to a recalcitrant child.
“His arrangements with hi
s employer aren’t part of the public record. You know our deal, Wes. You can’t quote me, not ever, about anything, unless I explicitly say you can.”
He sighed, Wesian for begrudging acceptance. “Okay, okay. Off the record. Shoot. What do you know?”
“Frankie had to get weekly drug tests, plus unannounced, random ones. He passed with no problem.”
“When was his last one?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about drinking? Maybe he boozed it up with the wrong guy.”
I shook my head. “Not Frankie. He wouldn’t even have a beer.”
“So he goes on a bender. It’s been known to happen.”
“No way, Wes. A couple of hours before he died he was at Prescott’s, and he was stone-cold sober.”
“So maybe he got started right after you saw him. A drunk can down a lot of booze in a couple of hours.”
My heart leapt into my throat. Wes was right—of course it was possible. “I don’t believe it.”
“I guess they’ll find out during the autopsy,” Wes said. “So … give me some background. How long has he been working at the lighthouse?”
“Since July. Ever since construction was done and the Whitestones starting coming up for weekends.”
“You know them, too, right?”
“Yes. I’ve sold them some antiques and helped them buy others.”
“What are they like? I mean really—the story behind the story, you know?”
“Did you read the article about them in the current Antiques Insights magazine? It might be good background for you.”
“I’ll check it out. In the meantime, tell me.”
As I paused to think how to explain the Whitestones’ fairy-tale lives, Chief Hunter exited the interstate and headed toward the shore.
“Guy Whitestone is, if I’m remembering right, forty-eight,” I said. “His is a real Horatio Alger success story. He’s the son of a fourth-or maybe fifth-generation Nantucket fisherman, but he broke away. He won a full scholarship to Yale, then another to Harvard Business School. I’m telling you, Wes, he’s really something. He made his first million on Wall Street before he turned twenty-five—the old-fashioned way, by becoming a trusted adviser to individuals and families. All on the up and up—no Ponzi scheme for him. When he was twenty-seven, he was named one of Kaylin Business Review’s ‘Thirty Under Thirty.’ You know that journal, right?”
“Haven’t run across it. Is it a biggie?”
“Absolutely. It’s a business weekly, really prestigious, and in that world, their annual listing of the most powerful Wall Street up-and-comers is the equivalent of knighthood. You’re not a top dog until Kaylin says you are, and they said he was.”
“Good stuff, Josie. What about Maddie?”
“Maddie—which, by the way, is short for Magdalina—came to America to study business at NYU. She’s from Slovenia.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-nine, I think. She met Guy when she went to work for his hedge fund as an intern, and boom, that was it. Bells rang. Birds sang. The whole nine yards. You must have heard about their wedding—that was six years ago. They got married in one of the mansions up in Newport. You know the places I mean—fifty rooms on the beach. They call them cottages. They invited something like seven hundred people. It was called the wedding of the de cade.”
Their world was filled with opulence and pomp, but their relationship also had a magical flavor to it, as if they lived in the moonlit realm of Fairyland in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Seemingly they were protected by fairy dust.
“Did she marry him for his money?” Wes asked, shattering the romantic aura I was trying to convey.
“I don’t know. I assume she married him for his brains and personality and demeanor—all of which contributed to his ability to acquire great wealth.”
“Fair enough,” Wes said. “They sure don’t look like they fit together.”
I knew what he meant. Guy and Maddie were a study in contrasts. Guy was short and portly. Maddie was tall and ethereal. Everything about Guy was quick. He spoke in a rush, his words tumbling out as if he only had seconds before his time would expire. To him a relaxing walk was an eight-minute mile. Maddie exuded a traditional Europe an sensibility, relaxed and refined. I could picture her strolling through Parisian gardens. “You know what they say: Opposites attract.”
“Do you believe that?” he asked, momentarily distracted.
I thought of Ty. We were more alike than different. “Sometimes, I guess. I don’t think there’s ever only one answer in questions about love. I can tell you this, though, Wes—from what I’ve observed, they adore one another.”
“How did you meet them?”
“They attended one of our auctions last spring. When they decided to spend some time up here, Guy thought it would be fun to build a collection of maritime art and artifacts. It’s part of his personality. He’s not the kind of guy who relaxes by sitting around, if you know what I mean.”
“He’s too competitive,” Wes said, and from his tone, I could tell that he was half-asking if he got it right.
“I wouldn’t say ‘too’ competitive. He’s competitive, of course, but he’s also curious and research-oriented. He doesn’t do anything halfway. He doesn’t just want to buy an antique or two—he wants to know everything about everything, and he wants to build the finest collection in the world.”
“Why maritime stuff? Because he was a fisherman’s son who made good?”
“Probably.”
“What did they buy?”
I told Wes about the Myrick tooth and the ship-in-a-bottle that they’d won at the auction.
“So your relationship is all business?” he asked.
I thought how to put it. “Not really. I mean, yes, but it’s a little more than that. When Maddie came to pick up the objects that first time, she and I just clicked. She’s a wonderful woman, Wes—kind and smart. I like her a lot. Anyway, one thing led to another, and we had lunch. A couple of weeks later, Ty and I went to a cocktail party at the light house. We’re not friends, but we’re more than mere acquaintances or business associates.”
“Gotcha. How good is his collection?”
“Stellar. I don’t know everything he’s bought, but the objects I know about are pretty incredible.”
“Like what?”
“In addition to what he won during that first auction, he’s also bought several nineteenth-century maritime paintings including a rare Fitz Hugh Lane luminescent ocean scene, a pie crimper, several baskets, some ship’s bells, and a ship’s log. I went with them to Sea View Gallery once and helped them by some modern objects, too.”
“Repros?”
“No, contemporary original art. He bought an Eric Holch silk-screen, a Michael Liebhaber oil, and a Lenny Wilton scrimmed tooth.”
“Gotcha. How much is everything worth?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t even started the appraisal.”
“Ballpark it for me.”
I did a quick calculation. “Four million, maybe more.”
Wes whistled. “Maybe Frankie interrupted a heist. I mean, the police say he had his wallet on him with forty-three dollars in it, so it wasn’t a mugging for ready cash, but four million dollars for a few paintings and a handful of other stuff—that sounds like a motive to me.”
I caught my breath. “I had the same thought,” I said, aware that he’d already garnered inside information from one of his many anonymous sources.
“Do you know if anything’s missing?” he asked.
“Not yet, no.”
“When you do your appraisal, keep me posted, okay? Both about the collection’s value and whether there are any missing objects. And take some photos for me. Of the good stuff.”
I paused, considering his request. While I wanted to provide Wes with something of value, I didn’t want to risk compromising the police investigation. I couldn’t see any downside in doing as he asked. “I can do that,
” I said.
“Good. Tell me what you saw when you found the body.”
At his question, my heart began to beat wildly. The imagery was too fresh and too horrific to be casually discussed. “I can’t,” I whispered.
“Come on, Josie. Just a quick-and-dirty so I can get it clear in my head. I promise I won’t ask for all the gory details.”
I took a deep breath and did as he asked, rushing through a description of the wound, the rolling pin and towel, Frankie’s clawlike grip holding strands of something, and the ocean of blood covering his head and much of the floor.
“When you saw that he was dead, what was your first thought?”
“I didn’t think—I felt. I was terrified. It was the most awful thing I’ve ever seen, Wes.”
“Was the place messed up? Did it look as if there’d been a struggle?”
“No.”
“The police put out a BOLO for a car leaving the light house right after the murder was reported. What do you know about it?”
“Did they find it?” I asked, translating Wes’s jargon, BOLO, to words—be on the lookout—and using a trick I’d learned from him years ago. If you don’t want to answer a question, ask one instead.
“No. They think they were too late. What do you know about it?” he asked again.
I told him what little I knew.
“If you didn’t even see it, no wonder they couldn’t find it,” he said. “How about relationships? Was Frankie involved with anyone? Did he have a girlfriend? A boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of, and I think I would have. If Zoë knew, I’m sure she would have mentioned it.”
“If the Whitestones were gone, maybe he invited someone in to show off the place. It’s possible they got into a fight and Frankie lost. Who does he hang out with?”
“The only guy I know of is Curt Grimes. He works for us sometimes.”
“What’s he like?”
I shrugged, thinking that I’d never warmed up to Curt. He had slicked-back hair, a permanent sneer twisting his lips, and eyes that were always on the move, on the lookout for an angle to make a quick buck. He was filled with nervous energy, as if he couldn’t stand still. I couldn’t recall ever seeing him without an exercise ball in his hand, squeezing it as if he wanted to force it into submission. He’d once joked that if he couldn’t get enough work doing odd jobs, he’d hire himself out to single women as a jar opener—he’d never met a jar of spaghetti sauce or pickles that he couldn’t open on the first try. I didn’t want to express any of those thoughts to Wes, though. I’d learned over a lot of years not to judge a book by its cover.
Silent Auction Page 3
