“They don’t know what to say, so they fall back on clichés.”
She sighed and inhaled deeply. She used a napkin to pat the corners of her eyes. “I hate that I get emotional. I hate it. Enough of that. Tell me about yourself. Are you a native of Rocky Point?”
“No. I grew up in Wenton, outside of Boston, then lived in New York City for almost ten years after college. When I decided to open my own antiques appraisal and auction house, I knew I wanted to stay on the East Coast and that I needed to be near a major airport and highways. Rocky Point has a lot of charm, so that was a plus. When I saw the abandoned factory building—I don’t know if you know Prescott’s, or if you remember the place before I bought it. It used to house a canvas goods manufacturer. Well, it was the building itself that sealed the deal. It was perfect for the business model I had in mind, with room for high-end auctions on one side and a big tag sale venue on the other and storage galore in the middle. It was near the interstate and priced to sell. I bought the place the first day I saw it.”
“And a great tradition was born.”
“Thank you.” I stood up. “Thanks for the coffee, too. I need to go, but would you tell Heather I stopped by and pass along my sympathy?”
“Of course.” She walked me to the door. “Life keeps on coming at us, right?”
“It does. It surely does.”
I walked back toward the elevator and paused again in front of the big window. Wispy gray clouds hung low in a Delft blue sky. Traffic was steady along the interstate. A maintenance man in a navy blue jumpsuit was on his knees inside the pool work area looking at something on the ground.
Life does indeed keep coming at us.
* * *
I called Wes from the parking lot.
I repeated Allison’s comments about the Yartsin family, then said, “There’s nothing there, Wes. Just normal family angst and typical twists and turns … you know, life.”
“Did you get a photo of her?”
“God, Wes! Of course not.” I shook my head, constantly amazed at his seemingly unlimited chutzpah. “Did you hear anything about the soil from Ana’s house or her key?”
“Yeah … nothing. No usable prints. No sign of nondirt material in the soil. No footprints. Nothing.”
“How about Jason’s finances? Any news there?”
“Not yet. I’m still working on it. It’s complicated because he set up several trusts and seems to have offshore accounts.”
“Shielding his assets from the IRS, probably.”
“Jeesh! What a joker.”
“How about alibis for the afternoon Jason was killed?”
“The police haven’t finished, but here’s what I have so far.” I heard rustling and could picture him flipping through his notebook. “From two thirty on, Ana was at the Blue Dolphin having coffee with Chef Ray in the lounge, then consulting with him in the kitchen. Maurice arrived around four forty-five, saw Ana in his kitchen, and went ballistic. Maurice called her a publicity whore, an inexperienced baker of gimmicks with no soul or heart. Is that a great quote, or what?”
“What a nightmare. Then what happened?”
“Ana turned her back to Maurice and continued her conversation with Ray in a normal voice, as if he wasn’t there, shunning him, and Maurice stormed out. Ray rushed after him, leaving Ana in the middle of the kitchen. Impatient with Ray’s apparent sanctioning of Maurice’s high-maintenance behavior and mindful of her five-thirty appointment with you, she left. She stopped at a grocery store to pick up some tulips, arriving home a few minutes early. They have her on security cameras both at the restaurant and the florist, so her story checks out. She could have got home a few minutes ahead of when she said, though. Early enough to kill Jason.”
“I got to Ana’s house at the same time as she did, which shows she’s out of it.”
Wes chuckled. “Oh, paleeeze. She could have bashed Jason’s head in, then driven around the block, timing her arrival to match yours.”
“We know there were no neighbors around to notice her—but she couldn’t have known that.”
“If the police ever asked her about it, all she’d have to say is that since she was a few minutes early, she drove around looking for landscaping ideas.”
“You’re right. Oh, God, Wes. It’s so horrible to think about!” I sighed. “At some point, she and Ray made up. I just saw them, and they were very sweet together, all lovey-dovey. He seemed especially solicitous.”
“My police source says that Ray called her around five twenty that day, after he finished hunting for Maurice. He apologized and promised it would never happen again.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing until later. His call went to voice mail. She kept the message, so the police were able to verify it.”
“What happened with Maurice?”
“Chef Ray says that he searched for Maurice everywhere he could think of, from a nearby bar that Maurice frequented to the central garage where he parked his car, without luck. Maurice’s car was there, but he wasn’t. After about half an hour, he returned to the Blue Dolphin to find Ana gone. It turns out that when Maurice left, he went straight to the beach, about a ten-minute walk, and sat on a dune watching the ocean. It calms him, he said. He saw no one, and evidently no one saw him. At least no one has come forward saying they did.”
“Maurice would have had plenty of time to get to Ana’s house.”
“Why would he?”
“To have it out with her once and for all.”
“As far as he knew, she was at the Blue Dolphin.”
“Right, right. Oh, my … do you think he could have gone to her house not to confront her, but to do something to hurt her, to burn down the kitchen she built in her garage or something?”
“I can see that. He goes to Ana’s place to do some damage. Jason was there to drop off the check. One thing led to another. They struggled. Jason died.”
“I can’t fathom it.” I swallowed fear mixed with horror. “What about Peter?”
“He doesn’t have an alibi. He says he was in his hotel’s gym, working out, that he used the weights, then was in the steam room. The keycard records verify that he entered the gym at two forty-five, but there’s no way to tell when he left. There is no attendant on duty, and none of the other guests using the facility reported noticing him come or go. The hotel is only a fifteen-minute drive from Ana’s cottage.”
“Security cameras?”
“Easy to avoid, if you want to.”
“What was he doing at the gym?” I asked. “You told me Peter goes in the morning.”
“Just because he goes in the morning doesn’t mean he couldn’t go again in the afternoon. If he was creating an alibi for himself, he could have left one minute after he got there anyway.”
“True.”
“Stefan was at the Rocky Point library, reading investment reports and so on. One of the day librarians remembers seeing him there as she was finishing up around five. The evening librarian didn’t notice him. The library is twenty minutes from Ana’s place. Heather was alone, walking along the beach near Ana’s cottage. She said she was taking a break from the commotion, just spending a little ‘me-time.’” Wes laughed, a tinny sound. “Have you ever noticed that girls seem to need a lot more me-time than guys? Why is that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking it was true. Women succored themselves; men sucked it up.
“I was thinking of getting Maggie a gift card to Lavinia’s Day Spa for her birthday. What do you think?”
“I think she’ll love it.”
“Thanks. So anyway, the police haven’t found anyone who noticed Heather on the beach.”
“Too bad she and Maurice went to different sections of the beach.” Call waiting buzzed, and I asked Wes to hold on. It was Cara telling me that Ana had stopped by, hoping I might have time to talk. The dash clock read 10:40. I told Cara to let Ana know I would be back in ten minutes. I clicked back to Wes and asked if he had anythin
g else, and when he said no, I thanked him for the info, said I had to go, and hung up.
* * *
Ana was standing by the front window staring at nothing. Ray stood close to her. She looked upset. Ray kept glancing at her as if he weren’t sure what to do to help.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” I said.
“I should have called ahead,” Ana said, stepping forward slowly, as if it took real effort to move. “Any chance we can talk for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I said. Something in Ana’s tone, a tightness, a clipped quality, told me all was not well. “We can go to my office.”
Hank meowed loudly as soon as we entered the warehouse, welcoming me back while also complaining about how long I’d been gone.
“Hi, Hank. Have you been a good boy?”
He scampered around my feet, wanting a cuddle.
“Sorry, Hank. Not now, baby.”
He ignored me and climbed the spiral steps alongside me, meowing the entire way.
Ray and Ana sat close to one another on the love seat. I sat on the wing chair. Hank jumped into my lap and starting purring, a husky manly purr. I rubbed under his chin, and he circled around, getting himself situated just as he liked.
I scanned their faces and saw trouble. Ana’s eyes showed confusion and anxiety. Ray kept his eyes on Ana.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Ana leaned forward, her elbows resting on her thighs. “I spoke to the police chief. All of us did. We gave him every name we could think of, people who could have stolen the Fabergé egg snow globe since Christmas. We don’t think the police will get anywhere, though. What is he going to do? Ask our neighbors if they stole it? They say no, then what? Once we have a solid lead to the buyer—a fence, I guess it’s called—then the police can use our list to find evidence against a specific person, but until then…” She took in a breath and glanced at Ray. He nodded, encouraging her to continue. She looked at me. “Do you think Jason was involved? If so, that implicates Heather. I can’t bear it. I just can’t bear it.”
I’d had the same question in my mind when I’d asked Wes to investigate Jason’s financial status. “I don’t know. Do you have any sense of his finances? Was he doing as well as he implied?”
“I’ve wondered. What’s that old saying? He who talks the most does the least.”
I turned to Ray. “What did you think of him?”
He looked momentarily flustered that I was consulting him. “You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
A slow smile crossed his face and reached his eyes. “I thought he was an empty bag of wind.”
I smiled. “And I bet you’re a heck of a good judge of people.”
“I’m not invincible, that’s for sure, but I’ve got some experience.”
“How many people work in your kitchen?”
“All told, with the part-timers, seasonal workers, and the extra hands we bring in for big catering jobs? Close to a hundred.”
“How many let you down?”
He grinned. “Not many.”
I smiled back. “I rest my case.”
He patted Ana’s hand. “Even when an employee is difficult, like Maurice, I can’t say he let me down. I knew what I was getting when I hired him.”
“Speaking of Maurice, how long has he been with you?”
“About six months. He came to us from a very high-profile position in Boston. He said he wanted a quieter environment, less stressful.” Ray shook his head. “Instead of his calming down, we got revved up.”
I looked at Ana. Her cheeks had sunk in a little. She didn’t care about Maurice. “Is there any hope, Josie? Tell me the truth. Is there any chance the egg is still intact?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Certainly there’s a chance.”
“If they’ve destroyed the egg for the jewels,” Ray asked, “how much would they get?”
“Oh, don’t even suggest such a thing!” Ana said.
Ray slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to him. He kissed her forehead.
“We have to face facts,” he said.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Not off the top of my head. Less than if the egg remained intact.”
“But for less risk,” Ray said.
“Maybe, maybe not. The gems are unique.”
Ray gave Ana a final squeeze, then stood up. He extended a hand to help her, and she took it.
“When will you know something?” she asked.
“I don’t know that, either. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific. I’ll call you as soon as I have news.”
Hank leaped to the ground as I stood up. He yawned and stretched his bottom half, then his top half. He looked at me and meowed, then jumped onto the love seat and sniffed around before curling into a tight little ball.
“I know you will,” Ana said as we headed down the stairs.
I waved good-bye at the front door and watched them walk across the parking lot hand in hand. From the questions Ray asked me, the answers he gave to the ones I asked him, the comments he made, and his overall calm and supportive presence, I could tell that he was a practical man, and confident. Watching him interact with Ana, I could see that he was also kind. Ana was in good hands.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ty left for North Conway the next morning, Friday, before I woke up. He was working on a new training exercise that involved tracking off-hour, unauthorized small plane landings at regional airports and private airfields. If everything went well, he would be home late Saturday.
I spoke to Wes that afternoon, and again on Saturday, and both times he told me he had no news. The police, he said, were playing it close to the vest. His own inquiries were leading nowhere. I was glad I had work to distract me.
Ty called around six Saturday evening, just as we were locking up after the tag sale.
“I’ve run into a snafu,” he said.
“Oh, no,” I said. I caught Gretchen’s eye and mouthed “I’ll be right back,” then walked outside so I could talk privately.
The sun was low on the horizon. It would be dark in an hour or so. Slivers of sunlight filtered through the trees and dimpled the pavement with faint yellow streaks. I leaned against my car.
“Yeah,” Ty said. “I’ve got to run one of the exercises again. Maybe more than once.”
“You sound tired.”
“You have no idea. I’m going to hit the hay early, as soon as I eat. Don’t get jealous, by the way, at the thought of me eating in a fancy hotel. Dinner is a turkey sub from a local pizza joint.”
“Poor baby.”
“I miss you, Josie.”
“I miss you, too, Ty. I hope the exercise goes well and you’re home before noon.”
“Me, too. I hate having to work on Sundays.”
We blew kisses through the airwaves, then said good-bye.
The next morning, while I waited for Ty, I used my home computer to research Fabergé eggs. The last time a Fabergé egg sold at auction was in 2007, when the Rothschild egg sold for $18.5 million. Eighteen years earlier, in 1989, Joan Kroc, heir to the McDonald’s fortune, bought one, also at auction, for $3.1 million. Based on past sales alone, the previous appraisal of $4 million was on the mark. But previous sales is only one indicator of value, by no means the sole determinant. In addition to sales records, you also had to assess rarity, scarcity, authenticity, provenance, condition, popular trends, and association. Assuming the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe was authentic, some factors were evident, but others were not. Rarity, check. Scarcity, oh, yeah. Condition, unknown. Popular trends—the eggs’ allure had only grown over time. Authenticity and provenance, not so much. Association, also uncertain. And of course, the underlying assumption of authenticity might be wrong.
I reached for my copy of the eighteen-year-old appraisal. The appraiser, Winston Mackley, who had worked for a company called Zinsser’s Antiques in Chicago, had added a footnote disclaimer that read as if it had been written by a lawyer. I r
ead it through twice slowly and concluded that he had attempted neither to authenticate the object nor to verify its provenance. The note explained that his valuation was based on the veracity of the owner’s statements. In other words, he based his appraisal on undocumented facts, facts given to him by people with a vested interest in receiving a high appraisal. This approach was common and often unrevealed. At least Mackley included a footnote. I shook my head and wrinkled my nose. I found the practice, whether acknowledged or not, distasteful. It was not the way we did business at Prescott’s.
I Googled Zinsser’s, got the phone number, dialed, and promptly hit a temporary dead end. The business was closed on Sundays.
I gave up, reassuring myself that tomorrow was another day, and decided to cook, one of my favorite ways to relax. By the time Ty got home around two, I’d baked double fudge brownies, prepped mustard-thyme chicken, and put coated buffalo wings into the refrigerator to chill, the only way to set the spices.
* * *
On Monday morning, when I called Zinsser’s again, the dead end became permanent. Winston Mackley had died eight years earlier. No one who worked there now had been there eighteen years before. There was no Zinsser, hadn’t been for seventy-plus years. According to the CEO’s assistant, a curt young woman named Lila, their pre-2003 documents weren’t computerized.
“We keep them in a warehouse.”
“I’m hoping to get a look at Winston Mackley’s notes from a 1997 appraisal. Is that possible?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can I find out?”
“You’ll need to send in a written request explaining what you need and why.”
“How long will it take, do you think?”
“Maybe a couple of weeks if we can find the documents. Not everything is labeled right.”
“It’s police business.”
“We do our best,” she said, sounding half defensive and half indifferent.
I got her e-mail address, thanked her, and hung up. I typed up the request, stressing the urgency, reiterating that it was police business, and cc-ing Ellis.
“Do your job, Lila,” I said aloud and pressed SEND.
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