* * *
Gretchen IM’d to alert me that Matthew had sent over his retouched scans.
Matthew’s work was masterful. The Polaroids weren’t changed, just enhanced. The dull yellow that had washed over everything was gone. The faded colors were brighter, the hues truer, the resolution crisper. The pink enamel I’d thought of as seashell was more opalescent, almost translucent. The gems were vivid: The red was closer to apple than cherry; the green was Kelly bold, not celery pale; the blue was more like cobalt than sky. Even the gold was truer to reality, appearing to be the darker, richer shade of 18 karat, not yellow, like cheap plate.
I uploaded the scans to our image-sharing site in case I needed them when I was away from my computer, sent the link to Fred and Nate and asked them to update our various call-for-sightings postings by replacing the photographs, and IM’d Gretchen to go ahead and pay Matthew’s bill.
* * *
It occurred to me that I had been thinking only about the Fabergé egg, not the snow globe. Time for more research.
I searched for sales of rare snow globes and got twenty-six hits, none of which was relevant. Now what? I asked myself. I swiveled toward my window. I couldn’t see the ocean past the birches and white pine and maples that ringed my property, but I knew it was there. Despite our being five miles inland, seagulls often circled overhead, and when the wind was strong and from the east, the air smelled as salty as if I were standing on the sand. If I wanted to get money from a Fabergé egg encased in an antique snow dome, how would I do so?
I might use it as collateral for a loan—but only if I had an appraisal the bank would accept. Thinking that an appraiser who been fortunate enough to work on a Fabergé egg might be eager to parlay his experience into another commission, I posted a call for appraisers on our proprietary Web sites, asking anyone who’d appraised a Fabergé egg in the last six months to contact me, giving no reason for the request.
“Okay, then,” I said. “How else might I get money from the egg?”
We hadn’t had any hits from Nate’s jewelry postings, which, while a disappointment, wasn’t a surprise. Less than reputable jewelers—the only ones that would buy rare jewels from a stranger for cash—probably didn’t subscribe to pricey Web sites; even if they did, they wouldn’t want to advertise they’d bought rare gems at a discount. No matter how good a story the seller told about falling on hard times and needing quick cash, any doofus would suspect that something was fishy. Receiving stolen goods was a serious crime.
My cell phone rang. I recognized the number. It was Shelley, my good buddy from my days at Frisco’s in New York, before I got caught up in the price-fixing scandal, before I blew the whistle on my boss and lost my friends, my job, and life as I’d known it. Shelley was one of the few people from those dark lonely days who stayed in touch, who was still my friend.
“Shelley! You’re calling because you’ve finally scheduled your New Hampshire visit.”
“You’re such a card, Josie. No, I’m calling because you have a question about a Fabergé egg, asking for people who’ve appraised them recently. You know me—Ms. Curiosity. What’s your interest?”
“Hi, Shelley, I’m fine. How are you?”
“Cute, Josie. Deflecting a question. Very cute.”
“I’m not deflecting anything. I’m awed. I posted that inquiry about five minutes ago.”
“And a notice about a missing egg yesterday. What gives, my friend? Do you have it back already? Are you selling it?”
“I swear I can’t believe you’re calling me so fast. I exaggerated before. I posted the notice four minutes ago.”
“And in that time, three people have run in here wanting to know if I’ve called you yet. If you’re getting ready to sell a Fabergé egg, you need us, Josie. Prescott’s is a wonderful house, but we can help maximize value.”
“You can tell your coworkers that if Prescott’s is going to auction off a Fabergé egg, I’ll make certain they get invitations.”
“One of those three people works in the Russian artifacts division. He has a client, a Russian oil mogul, on the line now—on an open line. I could hear the client begging for the opportunity to bid. I’m not joking, Josie. I know it’s only been four minutes, but the hordes have crossed the moat and are pounding at the door. Talk to me.”
A haunting memory of the bleak isolation I’d endured during those seemingly endless days a decade ago washed over me. Unquestionably, I’d been on the right side of the law and morality, yet I’d found myself battling for my job and my reputation. I’d spent hours locked in cheerless rooms while my boss’s lawyers challenged my memory, my motivation, and my integrity. Shelley often surprised me by showing up outside the lawyer’s midtown office during my lunch break, serving up pretzels or hot dogs fresh from a cart. We’d sit on the cold green slat-back chairs that fill the walkways in Bryant Park chatting about country music and line dancing and whether hem lengths would stay long and whether Pierre, her favorite masseuse at her favorite spa, was single. She’d helped make the nightmare bearable.
“You’re such a good friend, Shelley.”
“You, too, Joz. So talk to me.”
“Have you ever heard of the Fabergé Spring Egg?”
“The Winter Egg, yes. The Spring Egg, no. Don’t tell me you have your hands on a previously unknown Fabergé egg.”
“Actually, I’m not going to tell you anything at all. Not now.”
“Will you promise me that I’ll be your first call?”
“I can promise you that if I call anyone, you’ll be first.”
“Why wouldn’t you call?” she asked.
“Maybe I have a client who just wants an appraisal.”
“You’re planning on auctioning it yourself, aren’t you?”
I chuckled.
“You can’t do that on your own. It’s too big. You can’t do it in New Hampshire. Do you realize you’ll have a thousand million people invading your sweet little country town? The natives will hate you. The police will bill you extra for security. Half the high rollers won’t show up because they’ll get lost en route. The other half will be on the phone, and you don’t have that many lines. You’ll never pull it off. You need us.”
I bristled at the implication that my firm was small potatoes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Really, Josie. We can help.”
“Prescott’s isn’t that small, Shelley. We can afford to pay for security. We have plenty of phone lines. New Hampshire isn’t the backwater you seem to think it is. We even have highways and signs and airports. But thanks for the thought.”
“Sorry, sorry. You know me … I get enthusiastic and speak without thinking. I’m so used to teasing you, I forgot we’re having a for-real business conversation.”
“Apology accepted. But I still have nothing to add at this point. If and when, I’ll be in touch.”
It took an additional five minutes to get her off the phone without offending her. As I replaced the receiver in the cradle, I couldn’t help but smile. If I ever found myself with a Fabergé egg to auction, whooey, would we have fun!
* * *
Cara buzzed up just before five that a Drake Milner, a Boston antiques dealer, was on line two. So far, I’d received sixteen calls from dealers, curators, and collectors from within the U.S. and from Paris, Moscow, Riyadh, and Hong Kong wanting information about my inquiry, hoping I had a Fabergé egg to sell, but I was no closer to finding the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe than I was before I’d posted my request to talk to appraisers who’ve worked on Fabergé eggs. I figured Milner would be more of the same.
After exchanging greetings, he said, “I saw your inquiry. Naturally, I was curious.”
He sounded British, refined. “Have you worked on one, Mr. Milner?”
“May I ask about the nature of your interest?”
“I’m working on one and was hoping to be able to consult with an experienced appraiser.”
“Smashing, then. I apprais
ed an Imperial egg just a week ago, so perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“Which one?” I asked, firing up Google.
Drake Milner hailed from Cambridge, England. He’d worked for the London Institute of Art and the Russian Historical Society before immigrating to the United States in 2008. He was now an appraiser with Marlborough Antiques in Boston.
“Perhaps you could tell me about your project.”
I didn’t find Drake’s hesitation unusual. None of us volunteers information.
“I can do even better than that. I just Googled you. You’re in Boston, is that right? May I come down to see you?”
“I’d welcome it. Did your search tell you I’m with Marlborough Antiques on Newbury Street?”
“Yes. In fact, I know your company. I worked with Edmond Marlborough, gosh, it must be ten years ago, when I was with Frisco’s.”
Quickly scanning a few of Marlborough’s past catalogues, I saw that Milner was an expert on a wide range of Russian antiques, from paintings to soup tureens.
“It truly is a small world, isn’t it? We work with Frisco’s frequently. I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news, though. Mr. Marlborough passed on four years ago … no, it’s five years, now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a fine man. A real gentleman.”
“Yes, indeed. His son took over. He’s more business-oriented than antiques-oriented, which works out well for us all. He gives us free rein.”
“That’s great to hear. Many new managers feel the need to change things. You’re Marlborough’s Russian objects expert, is that correct?”
“Russian art and decorative objects, yes.”
We made an appointment for ten o’clock the next morning.
Without question, Milner was a good choice to appraise a Fabergé egg. What was less evident was how anyone not immersed in Russian antiquities would have known to hire him.
If I was familiar with the antiques appraisal process, I might go to any of the various professional organizations’ Web sites and do a search. Most sites allowed those of us in good standing to state up to three categories of specialization. But if I was unfamiliar with the antiques appraisal process, I might not know that such listings existed. Instead, I might simply conduct a standard search.
I Googled “Fabergé egg” and “appraisal,” and more than three hundred thousand listings appeared. The first several were from major auction houses, places I’d want to steer clear of because of the potential notoriety. If I were a thief—a buyer or seller of stolen goods—I’d want someone reliable but way less famous. Neither Marlborough Antiques nor Drake Milner appeared in the first two pages of listings. I noted that many of the entries referred to Russian art, however, though not specifically Fabergé eggs. That was interesting. In Google’s algorithm, Fabergé eggs led to Russia.
I tried a new search: “Russian art” and “appraisal.” Poof, first up was a white paper posted on Marlborough Antiques’ Web site about how to identify “Fauxbergé eggs,” intentional fakes created in the twentieth century as decorative objects for the middle class. The article’s author was Drake Milner.
I raised my brows as the implications rattled around in my head. Out the window, fast-moving clouds streaked across the twilight blue sky. Whoever hired Drake Milner thought of his object as Russian art, not as a Fabergé egg. That was, perhaps, telling.
I glanced at the time display on my monitor. It read 6:35. I texted Ty that I would be leaving within the next fifteen minutes, then called Ellis and got him in his office.
“I have news,” I repeated my conversation with Drake Milner and explained my logic in Googling information about Russian artifacts.
“Great that you got an appointment. Should I go with you?”
“I don’t think so. I think it would spook him. Right now, he’s acting normally—he’s a little reticent, but not overly so. He’s in information-gathering mode, and he’s discreet.”
“You think so? The way you described that conversation, he seems cagey to me.”
“Context is everything. High-end antiques dealers don’t gab. Pretty much we keep secrets for a living.”
“That’s an interesting spin on your job.”
“People trust us. If I sell something to a man, I can’t be talking about it to his wife. What if it’s not for his wife? And vice versa. I might learn that one sibling was favored over the others. Or that someone in gambling trouble has to sell his antiques. If we tell tales out of school, the next guy won’t trust us, and we’re screwed.”
“As with everything important in life, the subtleties rule. So we’re holding me in reserve?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Call me the minute you’re out of his shop.”
I promised I would. I hung up, stretched like a cat, and headed downstairs to get Hank settled in for the night.
I was willing to bet I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep. I was champing at the bit to get to Boston. With any luck, I’d learn enough from Drake to identify his client—and I was willing to bet that person was a thief, and probably a killer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marlborough Antiques occupied a street-level shop on Boston’s swanky Newbury Street. A search of public records showed that the company owned the building and that the business had operated out of that location for fifty-one years. Impressive. That kind of stability implied good things about the company—and its employees.
A young woman with chestnut-colored hair that hung to her shoulders greeted me as soon as I stepped into Marlborough Antiques. Looking at her and glancing around the super-refined shop, I felt excruciatingly underdressed. My khakis and maroon sweater set didn’t hold a candle to her midthigh-length white silk shirt, black leggings, and ankle-high black leather stiletto-heeled boots. She looked like she worked on Newbury Street. I looked like I drove in from the country.
She smiled warmly. “Welcome. May I help you find something?”
“Thanks. I’m Josie Prescott, here to see Drake Milner.”
“Oh, yes. He told me to expect you. This way.”
I followed her on a serpentine trek around a pair of exquisite gold ormolu Regency tables and a six-foot-high leather giraffe and a tall double-wide display cabinet filled to the brim with Edwardian silver coffee and tea sets and shelves of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century red, brown, blue, and gold leather-bound books, the kind interior decorators buy by the foot based on color and size, and side tables and tallboys and chairs. At the back, we went through a heavy oak door and down a short corridor and paused at an open door on the right.
Drake Milner looked up from his laptop and stood. “Thank you, Julie.”
Julie left.
“Come in, come in.”
Drake Milner was short and portly with thin wisps of gray hair draped over his bald pate. He wore a lightweight wool suit, gray with faint blue stripes, a pale blue shirt with a white collar, and a blue tie that matched his eyes.
His office was pristine. His window probably overlooked an alley or a parking spot, but the hunter green velvet drapes created a wholly different impression. So did the walnut-paneled walls and the thick green carpet and the brass sconces and coordinating table lamps that cast a golden glow throughout the room. Behind his desk was a built-in wall of open shelving and walnut cupboards. Reference books filled the shelves. The only things on his desk were his laptop, a telephone, and two lamps. There were no papers, photographs, stacks of catalogues, or Post-it notes in sight. Evidently, his style of work was opposite to mine.
“Your office is beautiful,” I said. “An inspirational place to work. My office is never this neat.”
“I confess it’s not usually this tidy. I cleaned up for you.”
I laughed. “Why?”
“Please, have a seat.” He waited for me to sit, then got himself settled in his high-back black leather chair. “It’s not every day we get a visit from the owner of one of Antiques Insights’ ‘Small Houses to Watch.’”
“Is
it that? Or is it that I’m interested in Fabergé eggs?”
“It’s both … but touché. I am, of course, burning with curiosity.” He smiled and leaned back. “Is yours one of the Imperial eggs?”
“This is a little awkward.” I smiled and shrugged. “I can’t tell you anything about the project.”
He raised his brows. “That makes it a bit difficult to consult in a meaningful way, doesn’t it?”
“You’d think so, but you’d be wrong. I need to know about the egg you appraised last week.”
He shook his head. “We never reveal confidential dealings.”
“I understand. I don’t either.” I paused. His expression communicated nothing but mild interest. “I need to trust you.”
“You may.”
“There’s a Fabergé egg that’s gone missing. It was replaced with a bad repro, presumably to delay the discovery of the theft. The real egg had been in a private collection for nearly a hundred years. It’s called the Fabergé Spring Egg. Am I warm?”
Something on his laptop caught his eye. He tapped some buttons and extracted a flash drive, dropped it in his shirt pocket, and closed the laptop’s lid. “Sorry … I’m paranoid about backups. One computer crash is all it took.” He rubbed his nose, thinking. “I can’t tell you whether I worked on that egg in particular since my client requested confidentiality and it’s in a private collection.”
“Please.”
Milner shook his head.
“Can you tell me this? Was the egg you appraised genuine?”
“That I can answer—yes.”
“If you appraised the Spring Egg, you were hired either by the thief or by a buyer of stolen goods. My client is the owner. How can you justify maintaining confidentiality about an illegal act?”
“First of all, I don’t accept the premise of your question—I’m not acknowledging or disavowing that I appraised that particular egg. Second, even if I did appraise that egg, I have no reason, beyond your statement, to think anything illegal occurred.” He shrugged and opened his palms. “Maybe the thief and the owner are one and the same.”
I nodded slowly as the implications ricocheted through my brain. Was it possible that Ellis had been right all along, that someone—presumably Ana—had concocted this whole scam for the insurance money? Get a new appraisal, say the egg was stolen? Or get a new appraisal and a new fake egg, sell the real egg on the black market, and destroy the fake egg for the insurance payout? Maybe, except the insurance company would catch you dead to rights. Plus, that’s not what happened. Unless Jason interfered with her plans. I shook my head. There was too much I didn’t know.
Blood Rubies Page 13
