“Don’t try to break it to me gently,” she said.
“It’s about your nephew, Frankie Winterelli.”
“What did he do now?” she asked, her eyes shooting sparks. “He’s been arrested, right?”
“Why would you think that?” he asked.
She put her hand on her hip and met his eyes. “Because I’m a natural-born cynic, and as much as I love him, I know the score—bad apples usually rot.”
He shook his head. “He hasn’t been arrested. I’m sorry to inform you that he’s dead. His body was found this afternoon in the kitchen of his employer’s residence, Rocky Point Light. An investigation is ongoing.”
Zoë stared at him for a few seconds, then covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, Zoë,” I whispered, drawing her toward the sofa. “I’m so sorry.”
She sat next to me, thigh to thigh. Her shoulders rose up a half inch, then dropped down—up and down, up and down—but she didn’t make a sound. Silent crying, the loneliest kind. She stayed like that for several minutes, then raised her head. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara-stained wetness.
I reached for a box of Kleenex and slid it toward her.
“Thank you, Josie.” She wiped her face with a tissue, then took a deep breath. “Please—sit. What happened?” she asked Chief Hunter.
He sat on a nearby club chair. “We don’t know yet. It looks like he died from a head injury, but that’s pure speculation on my part. The medical examiner hasn’t even officially ruled it a homicide.”
Lightning bolts shot from her expressive eyes, and in that instant, the atmosphere in the room shifted from slowly mounting grief to sparking outrage.
“A homicide?” she asked. “You mean he was hit on the head? Someone beat Frankie over the head?”
“It looks that way.”
“I’ll bet you my kids’ college fund that I know who killed him—and why.” Her chest heaved. “The son of a bitch.”
Before Chief Hunter could speak, the phone rang. Zoë jumped up and grabbed the portable handset from the coffee table.
“Hello?” Her back tensed. “Are you kidding me?” she shrieked. “What’s your name? Jesus!” She punched the OFF button and slammed the phone down. “It’s that reporter, Wes Smith. Can you effing believe it?”
“That’s the first of what is likely to be many reporters’ inquiries, Ms. Winterelli,” Chief Hunter said. “A murder on the Whitestones’ property is national news—probably international news, given the scope of Mr. Whitestone’s business dealings and the universal interest in his marriage.”
“Oh, joy,” she said. sinking into the sofa next to me. She held up a palm to stop him from replying. “Sorry, I hate sarcasm. Let me start over … Chief Hunter, I appreciate the warning.” A corner of her mouth went up. “I guess you can tell that I won’t have any trouble telling reporters to take a hike.”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I get the impression you can probably take care of business.”
Zoë seemed to focus on him for the first time. Her eyes scanned his face. “Thanks,” she said.
“So … you say you know who killed your nephew. Tell me.”
“Mel Erly.”
Who? I wondered. I’d never heard the name.
Zoë’s eyes filled again, and she impatiently brushed away tears. “I’m sorry … I hate crying almost as much as I hate sarcasm.” She inhaled deeply. “I got a call last night from a lowlife drug dealer named Melvin Erly. He said he was in jail in Portsmouth—no surprise. He needed bail money, so he called his good old pal Frankie. I told him in no uncertain terms that Frankie didn’t want to hear from him, that Frankie was doing great and that as far as I was concerned, Mel could do his time. He said to shut the eff up and put Frankie on the line.”
Zoë took a deep breath. “I told Mel that Frankie didn’t live here anymore and there was no way I was going to tell pond scum like him where he’d gone. Mel called me a … well … let’s just say that he cursed a blue streak and it got pretty personal.” She sighed and shook her head. “All in all, it was ugly. Mel said that Frankie owed him big, and it was time to pay up. I didn’t know what he was referring to, and I didn’t want to know. I hung up on him. But I can add two and two. Mel gets out of jail, tracks Frankie down, and kills him.”
“If he’s out of jail, and if he could track him down,” I said. “Those are two big ifs.”
“All ideas are helpful at this point,” Chief Hunter said to me. He looked back to Zoë and asked, “Have you ever met Mr. Erly?”
“No, but Frankie talked about him some. He once told me—” She broke off as tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Her fingers curled into tight fists for a moment; then she pulled another tissue from the box and wiped the wetness away. “Sorry … Frankie once said that when people talk about getting in with the wrong crowd, they’re talking about Mel.” She shook her head and turned to me. “You know how Frankie got a cell phone with a new number when he landed the Whitestone job?”
“Right, so no one from his past could reach him.”
Jake came running full tilt into the room with unconscious glee. “Shhh!” he said to us and began scouting hiding places. He zipped behind the club chair, then changed his mind and scooted behind the entertainment center, then changed his mind again and ran upstairs.
Emma’s voice came from the kitchen. “… eight … nine … ten.” She burst through the doorway, saw Chief Hunter, and stopped. “Hello.”
“Emma,” Zoë said, “this is a new friend, Mr. Hunter.”
“Hi, Emma,” Chief Hunter said. “Are you playing hide-and-seek?”
“Yes. Do you know which way Jake went?”
“I saw, but I can’t tell. That wouldn’t be fair.”
“Yes, it would, ’cause I’m littler, so I need help.”
“I bet you’re clever enough to find him on your own.”
“You think?” Emma began a systematic canvass of the room, and when she didn’t find him said, “Maybe he went upstairs.” She dashed to the staircase and headed up.
“She’s a doll,” Chief Hunter told Zoë.
“Thanks. She really is—they both are.”
He nodded, then said, “I’ll check out Mel Erly. Who else might have had a grudge against your nephew?”
“No one. Frankie was a nice kid. I mean, he was becoming a good guy, you know?” She turned her face aside and bit her lip to stop herself from crying.
I rubbed her back lightly.
Chief Hunter extracted a business card from a leather case and laid it on the coffee table. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I’ll be talking to you again, but if you think of anything else in the meantime, even something small, or seemingly insignificant, please call me, okay?”
She nodded.
“I’ve asked Ms. Prescott to come back to the station with me so I can get her statement,” Chief Hunter said. “Is there anyone you’d like us to call for you before we go?”
“No, thanks,” she said, gulping, then waving her hand. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”
“Found you!” Emma shrieked from the second floor. “Found you!”
Chief Hunter smiled. “I told her she could do it.”
“Even if she’s littler,” Zoë said with a small sad smile. “Thank you for telling her that.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I said, “and Ty will be at my place by eight. He said to call if you want him to come over.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said, her expression softening as she spoke. “I have to. It’s almost bathtime.”
“If you need anything,” Chief Hunter told her, “you call me, okay?”
She looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a moment. “Thanks,” she said.
I hugged her, fighting my own tears, then hugged her again, wishing I could will her grief away, knowing there was nothing I could do to dull her pain.
When my mom died, I’d been a kid, only thirteen, and I’d had my dad. When my da
d was killed, I’d been a grown-up, in my late twenties, living in New York City on my own, and I’d had no one; my boyfriend at the time, Rick, thought I wasn’t bouncing back fast enough from the shock of his murder, and he’d broken up with me within weeks. I shook my head, dispelling the dreadful memories. Zoë wouldn’t be alone—she’d have me, and she’d have Ty.
I borrowed an umbrella, then dashed through the heavy rain to Chief Hunter’s SUV.
I felt impatient and itchy to do something, to act, not merely to observe or answer questions. I wanted to call Wes. Discovering whether Mel was out on bail when Frankie had been killed was exactly the kind of inquiry Wes excelled at.
I turned to look out the window. The rain continued its constant drone.
I couldn’t call Wes while sitting next to a police official, but I sure as shootin’ could text him.
I got my phone from my bag, and without commenting to Chief Hunter, I typed: “Melvin Erly. Portsmouth jail. Alibi?” After I hit SEND, I kept my phone in my hand, willing it to vibrate. Knowing Wes, there was a good chance he’d have the info I wanted within minutes.
CHAPTER SIX
We drove through the center of Rocky Point’s small village, and as we passed the gazebo where bands played on summer evenings, Chief Hunter asked, “Where’s Sea View Gallery?”
“Over there.” I pointed to a double-wide storefront.
“It’s open,” he said, sounding surprised.
“They want to catch the dinner crowd.”
“Would you be okay with stopping by to introduce me to the owner … Mr. Donovan, right? And Mr. Grimes, if he’s there?”
“Sure.”
He drove around the block and parked in front. Five people, two couples and Greg, stood in the gallery. Dave Brubeck’s “In Your Own Sweet Way” played softly in the background. Spotlights mounted on tracks illuminated specific paintings and objects. One man was whispering into his companion’s ear as they looked at a watercolor of a harbor. The other couple stood in front of a hand-carved replica of a tall ship in a Plexiglas case, chatting with Greg Donovan, the owner. He noticed us as soon as we entered, smiled broadly, and held up a finger, indicating he’d be with us in a minute.
I smiled and mouthed, “Take your time.” Chief Hunter and I gravitated toward a display case in the center of the room filled with scrimshaw objects.
“I hail from Down East … Maine,” Greg said to the couple with an exaggerated a-yup Maine twang. “I moved to the big city—Rocky Point.”
I’d heard him use that sally countless times, and it always worked. This pair, like most tourists visiting from genuinely large cities like Boston or New York, were charmed at the thought that someone from Down East considered Rocky Point a big city. His jocularity wouldn’t have worked with me—at all. Greg’s hearty, hail-fellow-well-met demeanor always set my teeth on edge. I’d never known Greg to be serious, and I wondered whether hearing about Frankie’s murder would make a dent in his unremitting affability.
Greg Donovan was gregarious and astute. About fifty, he was big and broad, and his Norse heritage was evident in his coloring and countenance. He loved art and coastal living, and had found a way to combine the two. He was one of the lucky ones—his talent matched his ambition, and he knew it. When I’d first moved to New Hampshire, I’d visited every gallery, antiques store, and auction house within a hundred miles, introducing myself and feeling out the competition. In that first conversation, Greg had told me that he liked running the little gallery he’d opened twenty years earlier and had no plans to expand. He said he was content to leave high-powered deals to gals like me.
“That’s scrimshaw, right?” Chief Hunter asked in an undertone, pointing to a display case containing scrimmed teeth, belt buckles, earrings, and bookmarks.
“Yes.” I pointed to a tooth featuring a traditional whaling scene. “That’s an Ashley Morse.”
“Really.” He leaned over to study it. “She’s good, huh?”
“She’s a talented technician.”
He squinted at me. “That sounds like damning with faint praise if I ever heard it, as Pope would have said.”
“You like Alexander Pope?” I asked, thinking that a man who liked Norman Rockwell and quoted Alexander Pope bore watching.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
I smiled. “There’s a lot of subjectivity in art,” I said.
“Now you’re avoiding the issue.”
I glanced around. I wasn’t going to say anything to Chief Hunter that I wouldn’t say to a client, but I didn’t want anyone overhearing my commentary to think that I was merely gossiping. No one was paying any attention to us.
“If I were advising a client,” I said, lowering my voice, “I would comment on both the subject matter and the etching pro cess.” I pointed to the tooth. “The maritime theme is typical and appropriate, but the choice of subject—the whaling boat Susan—is derivative. In fact, this specific design might be an actual copy. If I were appraising it, that’s something I’d check. Regarding the technique, do you see that drop shadow etched behind the sail? It’s out of place. It doesn’t enhance the illusion of billowing wind; it diminishes it by calling attention to the etching technique itself. The line is well drawn but fails in its purpose. But I want to stress, I’m giving you the kind of opinion I’d render if called on to value the tooth. That has nothing to do with individual preference—and as I said, there’s a lot of subjectivity in art.”
“So you’re saying it’s not great, but it merits being sold in the gallery?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. I’m an antiques appraiser, not an arbiter of taste. I’d say that it’s probably not going to increase in value over time, so I wouldn’t recommend buying it as an investment, but if you love it—go for it.”
He nodded. “Does she sell many?”
“I don’t know. She sells some. The Whitestones bought one over the summer.”
“How much do they sell for?”
“Around eight thousand.”
He whistled. “That sounds like a hefty chunk of change for something you don’t think is investment grade.”
“That one goes for fifty thousand plus,” I said, pointing to a Lenny Wilton scrimmed tooth showing a young woman in traditional nineteenth-century garb tending a garden. “I’ve talked to Guy about buying it. It’s a remarkable piece.”
He looked from one to the other, then back again, comparing them. “The Wilton features a land-based subject,” he said. “Is that why it sells for more?”
“Not exactly, but the fact that he chose such unusual subject matter certainly adds value. The text, which you can’t see from this side, reads: ‘My beautiful Maribella in our garden at home.’ It’s as if a sailor missing his wife created a romantic image to sustain himself. It’s sweet, it’s quaint, and it’s beautifully executed. Look at the workmanship—Lenny is one heck of a craftsman. Note the detail in the lace trim on the woman’s gown and in the vines. Remarkable.”
“Which is why it sells for so much more than Ms. Morse’s.”
“That and the fact that despite his relative youth, his work has already been included in several important private collections and a couple of museums.” I thought again of Frankie. Lenny’s experience was another example of success begetting success.
Chief Hunter nodded. “Interesting. Will Mr. Whitestone buy it, do you think?”
“Yes.”
Greg waved a final good-bye as the two couples called out their thanks and left. Then he came over to us and kissed my cheek.
“Josie! Sorry to keep you waiting. What a delightful surprise!”
“Hi, Greg. No problem. Have you met Chief Hunter?”
“No. Good to meet you,” he said, offering his hand, ebullient as ever. “I read in today’s paper that we had a new chief. Welcome to Rocky Point. So what can I do you for?”
“Glad to be here. I’m hoping you can help me with an investigation—Frankie Winterelli. Have you heard about his death?”
Greg’s mood changed on a dime. “Just now on the news. Terrible.”
“Did you know him?”
“I don’t think so.” He looked at me. “Did I ever meet him, Josie?”
“Maybe at the light house,” I said. “He was the Whitestones’ caretaker.”
He shook his head. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You know the Whitestones, though, right?” Chief Hunter asked.
“Certainly. They’re good customers, and I hope they wouldn’t think I was overreaching if I said they were good friends as well.”
I cringed inwardly at his unctuous tone.
“How about Curt Grimes?” Chief Hunter asked. “Is he here now?”
“No, sorry. I could get you his number if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Chief Hunter said.
We followed Greg to his desk, which was angled outward from the rear corner of the gallery. I watched as he tapped into his computer, then wrote the phone number and address on a sheet he tore from a memo pad.
“Thanks,” Chief Hunter said, accepting the paper. “Is there anything you can tell me that might help with my investigation?”
“Like what?” Greg asked.
“When you heard the news, did anything come into your head? Something related to the victim, perhaps, or to Rocky Point Light? It doesn’t have to be logical—any thoughts at all might prove useful.”
“Sorry. Nothing came to mind,” he said, answering quickly, “except how shocking it was.”
“What’s Mr. Grimes like?” Chief Hunter asked.
Greg laughed. “Like lots of young men who live nearby. He hunts. He fishes. He’s a hard worker, but not much interested in a full-time gig. He lives with his sister and her family, I believe. He drives an old car. He’s been a reliable helper.” He paused, then raised his hands, showing us his palms. “If there’s any dirt, I don’t know it.”
“Thanks for your time,” Chief Hunter said, proffering a business card. “If something does occur to you, please get in touch.”
Silent Auction Page 5
