Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “What a day,” Zoë said.

  She’d built a small fire, and I was sitting cross-legged on the floor near it. The temperature had dropped into the low forties, and the warmth was welcome. She sighed, her eyes steady on the flickering flames.

  “The funeral will be Monday. Your idea of contacting the minister at the Congregational church was a good one. The funeral parlor put us in touch. His name is Harold Emery. Even though Frankie hadn’t been a regular churchgoer, he considered him one of his flock. That’s what Reverend Emery said, one of his flock. Kind of old-fashioned, you know? I like that. He told me Frankie had been quite active in the Singles Club … who knew? The woman who runs it—she’s the activity manager at the church, her name is Ellen. She’s asked if she can deliver a eulogy, and I said okay. Do you think that I did the right thing? I mean, if she talks about how Frankie wanted to meet girls, it has the potential to be really embarrassing, you know, and Frankie would hate that. What do you think?”

  “I think it will be lovely.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I think, too. Chief Hunter said Frankie must have made quite an impression for her to be volunteering like that, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s just any young man showing up, you know? There are always more women than men at those sorts of events.”

  “No, I think he’s right. Frankie was a really good kid, Zoë.”

  Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. She nodded, still watching the orange flames as they licked the wood. I forgot to tell them I spoke to Frankie the night before he died.”

  How does Wes do it? I wondered yet again.

  “Did he suspect you of hiding it on purpose?”

  “No. At first I was a little scared that they might think there was something to it, but talking about it wasn’t hard at all. I don’t know why. I guess because Chief Hunter seems so understanding and all I had to do was tell him the truth. I can’t believe I forgot to mention it. Maybe I wanted to forget because it’s the last time I spoke to Frankie, and all I did was yell.” Wetness striped her cheeks and she took in a deep, mournful breath.

  “Frankie knew you—he knew you never simmer, you explode, and that once it’s over, it’s over for good, that you never hold a grudge. I bet that by the time he hung up the phone, he’d forgotten all about it.”

  “That’s a really kind thing to say, Josie. I hate my temper.”

  “It’s part of who you are. I’d always rather know where I stand with someone than wonder about it.”

  “God, you’re about the best friend a girl can have—you take a major fault and reposition it as a virtue.”

  “Yeah, that’s a little much,” I said, smiling. “You do have a temper.”

  “I’m emotional in all ways. Mercurial. Chief Hunter said his wife was like that, too. She’d cry at the drop of a hat.”

  “He must like that quality. I do, too.”

  “Thank you, Josie.” She finished her Lemon Drop and slid the glass out of harm’s way. “Have you spoken to Wes?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned to me. “I don’t want to talk to him, but I want to know everything.”

  “It’s all pretty confusing,” I said. “It’s possible Curt Grimes is involved somehow.” I shrugged. “I’m meeting with Sam, the picker, tomorrow.” I paused. “There is one thing Wes told me that’s pretty odd. Frankie withdrew two thousand dollars a few days before he died. The police can’t find any record of a purchase, no receipts or anything—and the cash is gone. Do you have any idea what he did with the money?”

  Zoë stared at me for several seconds, then shook her head. “No. Two thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money.” She took a deep breath. “Are you thinking he was getting back into drugs?”

  I shook my head. “No. There’s no sign of it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Maybe he lost money gambling.”

  “Frankie? He didn’t know a club from a spade!”

  “That would explain his losses.”

  She laughed, one short burst, then sobered up and said, “You’re thinking something else, aren’t you? Something worse. Tell me.”

  I didn’t want to reveal my dark thoughts, but I knew that if I were in her place, I’d want to know.

  “What is it, Josie?” she asked, reading the ambivalence on my face.

  “The only other thing I can think of is blackmail. I don’t think Frankie was involved with stealing the Myrick tooth, but if he was, maybe someone else, maybe Curt, found out about it and put the hard touch on him.”

  Zoë sighed. After several seconds, she remarked, “I guess I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

  “You can’t say that yet, Zoë.”

  “Sure I can. Where’s the missing money?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, turning to look into the red and yellow embers of the dying fire. I finished my drink. “I’ve got to go. I’m beat.”

  She stood up and stretched, a panther move, sleek and long and dancer-smooth. “Thanks, Josie. I may not like the news, but I’d hate not knowing more. And it means the world to me to have you here.”

  “One day at a time, right?” I asked.

  She saw me to the door, and we hugged; then, thermos in hand, I stepped onto the porch and stood for a moment listening to the night sounds. It was so cold that I could see my breath. Winter was definitely on its way. An owl hooted, low and loud, close by. I heard a car engine drawing near, slowly, as if it were crawling along looking for an address.

  Suddenly, I felt conspicuous. I was standing in the circle of pale yellow light cast by the overhead lamp. I scurried behind a porch column, out of the direct illumination.

  The car’s headlight beams penetrated the tall, thick bushes that Zoë’s uncle, my original landlord, Mr. Winterelli, had planted along the road as a privacy hedge. The car stopped, its engine idling. After several seconds, it inched along, pausing just short of our shared driveway, next to our mailboxes. If the driver was looking for Zoë or me, he’d found us.

  It was terrifying.

  Slices of moonlight stippled the street and lawn. Unnatural-looking shadows striped the forest across the way. The owl hooted again.

  I shivered, more from fear than cold.

  Taking in a deep breath, and holding it, I peeked around the column trying to identify the car or its driver. Only the hood was visible. I could tell that it was medium-sized, boxy and dark. The driver was tall and narrow, and he—or she—seemed to be alone in the front. The car backed up, pulled a U-turn, and drove off the way it had come.

  I didn’t hesitate—I leapt off the porch and sprinted across the driveway and my tiny lawn. Inside my house, I double-locked the door, set the night alarm, and leaned against the wall waiting for my pounding pulse to quiet.

  “Probably the driver was lost,” I said aloud to the empty house.

  My bracing comment had no effect on the fear rippling up and down my spine. It was absurd, I chided myself, to allow a slow-moving car to so completely discombobulate me. Somehow, though, it didn’t feel as if the driver was lost and searching for an address. It felt as if someone was stalking me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The next morning, I was sitting at my kitchen table, sipping orange juice and waiting for my toast to pop, when the doorbell rang. I glanced at the wall clock. It was seven fifteen, too early for anyone except Zoë to be calling, and she would have used the kitchen door.

  With memories of last night’s mystery car fresh in my mind, I crept down the hallway, edged sideways to the front door, and moved my right eye just enough to see out. Standing on my porch was Curt Grimes. He saw me through the door window at the same moment that I saw him. He smiled like we were buddies and waved.

  I opened the door the two inches the chain lock allowed.

  “Hey, Josie,” he said. “I’m an early bird hoping to catch a worm.”

  I didn’t respond. Yesterday he called me a liar. Today he called me a worm.

  “I knew you’d be up
already. CEOs always get an early start.” He winked.

  When I didn’t comment, he added, “I thought I’d check if you had any work you needed doing.” He glanced around the porch and toward the side yard. “Here, or at your office.”

  “Here, no. At work, you need to talk to Eric.” I took a step back. “Bye-bye,” I said, closing the door.

  I reached the front window just in time to see Curt disappear around the hedge. From this angle, I could see his car parked next to the bushes. It was dark green and boxy shaped. He got behind the wheel. Within seconds, he’d driven off. Glancing toward Zoë’s house, I saw that she was outside already, buckling the kids into their car seats. I stepped outside to say hey.

  Chief Hunter turned into our driveway and parked in back of my car. He said hello to me, then turned to Zoë and smiled at her. She smiled at him over the roof of her car, and in that moment, watching as their eyes connected and held fast, seeing their expressions soften, I felt the depth of their newly forged bond.

  Sometimes it happened like that, I knew. It had happened like that with me and Ty. I could still recall the instantaneous and irresistible tug of attraction I’d felt the first time I’d met him, an overpowering pull of like-minded souls that had drawn me toward him, like steel to a magnet. I wanted Ty with me now. I wanted to feel his arms around me, to have him hold me fast and secure.

  “I’ve got to go,” Zoë said.

  “I’ll call you later,” Chief Hunter said to her, and she smiled again and nodded.

  He leaned over to speak to the kids through the open back door, then turned to me. “Do you have a minute? Want to go inside?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I looked back at Zoë as I closed the door. She smiled at me and I smiled back, and although nothing was said, much was understood.

  My conversation with Chief Hunter was brief. He said he’d stopped by on his way to the station to ask if I’d thought of anything else or had any new ideas they could look into. He sat with his back to the wall and crossed his legs, his right calf resting on his left thigh. He held a mug of coffee in both hands.

  “No,” I said, “except maybe. Curt Grimes was just here. He said he was looking for work.” I explained about the car that had spooked me last night, and said that the one Curt was driving today looked similar.

  “Why didn’t you call us last night?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “The car left. Nothing happened.”

  “If you see that car again, or if anything scares you, call me. Even if you think it’s no big deal.”

  I met his eyes and saw concern. “Okay,” I promised.

  “So … What do you think Mr. Grimes really wanted this morning?”

  I shrugged again. “I have no idea. Maybe work, just like he said.”

  “You think he’s involved somehow. How?”

  I shook my head. “That’s too strong. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s involved, that’s all.”

  “Frankie withdrew two thousand dollars a few days before he died. What do you think he did with it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, thinking that Wes had, once again, scooped the police. “That’s a lot of cash. Do you think he was being blackmailed?”

  “No!” I said, aware my tone had sharpened.

  He finished his coffee and slid the mug into the center of the table. “Thanks for the coffee.” He stood up.

  “You’re welcome.” I walked his mug to the sink. “I know you released the photograph of the tooth yesterday. Are you surprised no one has reported having seen it?”

  “Someone will,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because someone has worked with it or owned it or considered buying it.” He grinned. “And most people want to help the police, so they’ll call.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Good point.”

  “About this afternoon,” Chief Hunter said. “We need to go over the details. The judge still won’t give us a warrant, so Detective Brownley and I need to be close enough to hear but hidden from sight. Where would you normally meet a picker?”

  “Since the weather is fairly mild, my usual procedure would be to meet with him outside by the loading dock. That will work in this case, because I can leave the sliding door up. You and Detective Brownley can stand just inside, behind a stack of crates. With the lights off, no one will see you, but you’ll see us and you should be able to hear everything.”

  “Would you normally leave the door up?”

  “No.”

  “Won’t he be suspicious?”

  “He doesn’t know us,” I said. “All he’ll see is the staging area—there are worktables, some shelving, boxes and crates.” I shrugged. “I don’t think it will look odd at all.”

  He nodded. “Okay, then. You know what to do, right?”

  “Look at what he’s brought me and try to find out as much about the history of the objects as I can without arousing his suspicion.”

  “Don’t just try to not arouse his suspicion—don’t. Don’t ask anything you wouldn’t normally ask a picker. If he’s skittish, and I have every reason to think he will be, ask less.”

  I nodded. “It’s all right to buy things, right?”

  “Would you normally?”

  “Almost certainly. At least something, no matter how junky the stuff he brings is.”

  He looked mildly amused. “After all you’ve told me about only buying quality, now you tell me you buy junk?”

  I smiled. “Only sometimes. If I don’t buy something now he might not call on me again.”

  “If he’s selling subquality goods, why would you want him to?”

  “We’re not dealing with set items of predictable quality. About a year ago, a picker who’d been stopping by our place about once a month with a boxful of dreck—chipped china, books with missing pages, that sort of thing, unsalable objects—brought in a black metal coffeepot with a hinged lid and claw feet. It turned out to be sterling silver. God only knows if it had ever been polished. I’d always found something to buy from him. I’d spend a dollar or three, no more. I was respectful—I never accused him of bringing me trash. I looked at everything, selected something, and paid in cash. You never know what they’ll bring in, and when dealing with a picker, your goal is to get first dibs.”

  “That’s a helluva way to earn a living.”

  “For him or for me?”

  He smiled and didn’t reply. “Good coffee,” he said.

  As we walked to the door, I asked, “Do you think anything will come of the meeting with Sam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s something there to be discovered. We just need to get at it, and I think your insider knowledge will give us the advantage we need.”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m betting your best is pretty darn good.”

  I smiled. “Ah, shucks.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Maddie Whitestone called and invited me to lunch at my favorite Portsmouth restaurant, the Blue Dolphin, and I happily accepted. It would be good to see her again. We agreed to meet at twelve thirty. I knew she’d want an update on the appraisal, so I headed down to the front office.

  Sasha was on the phone. Gretchen was showing Cara a shortcut for entering data on spreadsheets. Fred, looking as sharp as always in a gray suit and starched white shirt, with his narrow black tie loosened, was talking to a gray-haired woman he introduced as Ginny Meadows.

  Fred explained, “Ms. Meadows brought in these two botanicals.”

  “Watercolors, right?” I asked as I approached the two gilt-framed paintings. One was a precise rendering of lilies of the valley; the other showed a close-up of leaves.

  “Yes,” Ginny said, “but they’re unsigned, and no one we’ve asked recognizes the artist. We bought them ages ago at a flea market.” She smiled as she looked at them. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me about them?”

  Fred’s
eyes gleamed, and I wondered what surprise he had up his sleeve.

  “From the style,” he said, “I’d say that they were painted in the eighteenth or nineteenth century by a gardening hobbyist. Many young ladies sketched and painted—it was considered a necessary accomplishment for a woman of refinement. Probably these were painted to memorialize a particularly successful growing season, and were intended either to provide a record of the garden or simply for her own plea sure. My guess is that she considered herself more of a horticulturalist than an artist.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Probably if the paintings were more important to her than the subject matter, she would have signed them. I’m guessing that they’re a kind of visual journal.”

  “Interesting!” Ginny said. “I love that idea!”

  “We’ll never know for sure—it’s an educated guess, is all.”

  “How much would you value them at? Not that it matters, since these two beauties are going right back up on the living room wall, no matter what you say.”

  “Based on what I’ve told you thus far, without knowing more about the artist, the provenance, or the materials, we would only sell them ‘as is.’ I would expect them to fetch somewhere around fifty dollars each.”

  Ginny cocked her head and kept her eyes on Fred. “‘Based on what I’ve told you thus far’ … are you saying there’s more?”

  “There is indeed. Since the first issue was to try to identify the painter, I removed the backing. Some artists sign their work on the back side,” Fred explained. “I didn’t find an artist’s signature … but I did find this.” He drew a plastic-encased sheet of paper out from under a stack of files. “It’s a letter to a Frenchwoman, Madame de Tessé, dated August 14, 1808, from President Thomas Jefferson. In it he says that he will do his best to get her the plants she requested.” Fred pushed up his glasses and grinned. “She asked for some magnolias from South Carolina.”

  Ginny turned her astonished gaze to the letter. “President Jefferson?”