Blood Rubies

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Josie,” Max said, sounding as friendly as ever. “What’s the trouble?”

  I could hear his daughter, Penny, griping about having to eat breakfast. “I’m not hungry,” she said. I couldn’t hear Babs’s reply.

  I repeated what Wes told me, then asked, “What should I do?”

  “Do you know how Ana feels about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  I leaned forward, resting my forehead on my hand. “It never entered my mind that Ana might not want them released, or that I ought to ask permission. She talked about the previous appraisal—including those photos—on the set, for instance, and in front of Heather and Jason. The simple truth is that the only thing I was thinking about was that if you don’t tell people you’re looking for something, how do they know to tell you if they know where it is?”

  “What’s the downside? Why is Peter so upset?”

  “Maybe he’s worried that thieves will take notice. If you have one valuable object, a thief might assume you have others.”

  “Why else?”

  “I don’t know. Ana planned on using the egg on her TV show. She’s not antipublicity, by any means.”

  “She’s not anti-good-publicity.”

  “True.” I sat up. “I don’t know, Max. If it was my oldest friend’s fiancé who had been murdered, I wouldn’t hesitate to allow the photos to be used.”

  “And we have no reason to think she will.” He paused for a moment. “Why don’t we ask to meet to discuss Peter’s threats? She can bring him, if she’d like. It’s illegal for a man with no legal standing to threaten people, and he should know that.”

  I smiled and exhaled, relieved. No matter what issue I threw at Max, his counsel was always wise. “The best defense is a good offense.”

  “Indeed. In the course of our conversation, I’ll make certain Ana understands your good intentions.”

  “If Peter comes along, brace yourself.”

  “I’ve had many dealings with hotheads. He doesn’t concern me at all.”

  “I’m so glad you’re my lawyer.”

  “I’m so glad you’re my client. Do you want to ask Ana to meet you at my office, or would you prefer that I make the call?”

  “I’ll do it. If you’re available at noon, I can position it as a quick chat, then let’s go to lunch.”

  “Excellent idea. Kill ’em with kindness. Let me check my schedule.”

  Tips of purple crocuses poked through the snow, a symbol of hope and renewal and progress. Funny that I hadn’t noticed them before.

  “All right,” Max said. “I’m open. Noon it is. Call my office to confirm as soon as you reach Ana.”

  I promised I would and punched the END CALL button. I looked up Ana’s number and dialed.

  She answered on the fifth ring, sounding sleepy and anxious.

  “It’s Josie,” I said. “I’m sorry to call so early, but it’s important. Do you want to take a minute to wake up?”

  “No, no. I should be up already. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I hope. It’s just a time crunch/scheduling thing.” I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers. “I was wondering if you’re available at noon to go over where we are with the appraisal and the search for the missing egg. Afterward, maybe we could go to lunch.”

  “That sounds great. Thanks, Josie. Should I come to your office?”

  I opened my eyes, but I kept my fingers crossed. “Have you spoken to Peter?”

  “No. Why?”

  “He’s making some pretty out-there statements.”

  “Oh, no. Tell me.”

  “We’ll talk at noon. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you the address of where we should meet.”

  “Give me a sec.” I closed my eyes again for the three seconds she was gone. “Shoot.” I rattled off Max’s firm’s name and location, and she added, “A lawyer? Am I in trouble?”

  “I’m hoping none of us is.”

  “You sure know how to wake a girl up.”

  “I’ll see you at noon.”

  “Okay,” Ana said, sounding scared.

  * * *

  I got into work two minutes before Marianna Albert arrived with a photo album tucked under her arm. The storm had slowed to flurries, a relief. I’d worn a spring coat, a sure sign of optimism.

  “Come in, come in,” I told her.

  While she got settled at the guest table, I hung up her leather duster, an unusual choice for a woman her age, which I pegged as closer to eighty than seventy. Otherwise, she was conventionally dressed in a brown tweed skirt, a green cardigan over a white silk blouse, and cordovan-colored knee-high boots. The skirt had green flecks in it. Her gray-white hair was cut short. Her jade earrings matched the flower-shaped pendant that hung just below her collarbone.

  I pushed aside the panicky fear that had come over me as soon as Wes told me about Peter’s threats and offered her coffee or tea. I was doing what I could, what I should. I was carrying on.

  “Thanks, no. I’m off to a hair appointment,” she said, “so I can only stay a minute. Since we spoke, I’ve checked you out. You have a very good reputation.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Do you have any questions about the consignment process?”

  “A thousand,” she said, smiling. She placed her photo album on the table in front of her, lowered her eyes, her expression softening, and patted the navy blue leather cover. She looked up at me. “Walter … that’s my husband, I told you on the phone how he passed away last year … Walter loved his canes. He collected them for more than fifty years. I’ve tried to keep everything the same, but—” She lowered her eyes to the photo album again but didn’t resume talking.

  “But then you realized that everything isn’t the same.”

  She shook her head, resigned, not sad. “Nor should it be. I’m moving to St. John.” She grinned. “You know why?”

  “Because it has perfect weather and the drinks come with cute little umbrellas in them?”

  She laughed. “No. Because I like to snorkel, and I want to live somewhere where I can snorkel every day.”

  “Wonderful! I love snorkeling, too. Why St. John?”

  “I saw a seahorse there once. I’d never seen one before, and I’ve never seen once since.” She took in a deep breath. “Walter and I never had children. It’s time to let the walking sticks go.”

  I nodded. “How many are there?”

  “Eighty-seven.”

  “Eighty-seven! Wow. That’s a huge collection.”

  She slid the album across the table toward me. “Take a look and see if you’re interested. If so, you can come out to the house and examine them, and then we can discuss terms and see if we want to work with one another.”

  I opened the album. Each plastic sleeve held six photos, three shots per cane. The first shot showed the full-length cane on a white background. The second showed the decorative head. The third showed some aspect of the gadget or an abditory.

  “Is this silver?” I asked, pointing to the filigreed embellishment near the grip in the first photograph.

  She leaned over to look. “Yes, with ebony. That was the first walking stick Walter ever purchased.” She raised her eyes. “I have complete records. All receipts, appraisals, and the catalogue entries Walter wrote.”

  I smiled. “That’s very good news indeed.” I studied the third photo. “Is this aperture for cigarettes?”

  “Yes. It doesn’t show in this photo, but there’s a second opening on the other side for matches.”

  “Fabulous. Which one was Walter’s favorite?”

  “Ooh, that’s a tough one. He loved the violin walking stick made by Augustus Johnson because it was so rare, but I think he was proudest of his binocular cane. It’s made of perfectly matched bird’s-eye maple, with professional quality, full-sized binoculars tucked in so cleverly you’d never see them if you didn’t know they were there.”

  My pulse speeded up, a sure sign I had a winner on my hands. �
��I know you’re in a hurry, and I don’t need to look in detail to know I want to see the collection. Even at a quick glance, I’m impressed and excited.”

  “Wonderful. How’s this afternoon?”

  My stomach sank as I recalled my noon appointment. Even if Ana didn’t intend to sue me, it was certain to be an angst-filled time. Once again, I forced myself to ignore that and concentrate only on what was within my immediate control.

  “This afternoon is perfect. Where do you live?”

  “In Durham.”

  I did some mental calculations on how long it would take to drive to Durham after lunch. “Will three thirty work for you?”

  “Perfect,” she said, standing. “I’ll make tea.”

  * * *

  Drake Milner didn’t show up. He didn’t answer his phone. He didn’t respond to texts or e-mails.

  At ten forty-five, Ellis called Marlborough Antiques and spoke to Julie. He put her on speakerphone so I could listen in.

  “He’s not there?” Julie asked, surprised.

  I could picture her elegant demeanor and her reddish hair.

  “Do you know when he left Boston?” Ellis asked.

  “He called around eight this morning. His message said that he was en route to New Hampshire and that he expected to be back to the shop after lunch, somewhere around three. He should be there by now.” Julie’s surprise changed in a flash to worry. “He should have been there an hour ago.”

  “That’s true. If you hear from him, ask him to call me right away.”

  “All right.”

  Ellis tapped the button to end the call and looked at me. “Where is he?”

  “Maybe his client got to him and bribed him to keep him quiet.”

  Ellis shook his head. “He would have invented facts to avoid talking to us. A variation on ‘the dog ate my paper,’ like the records got put through the shredder by mistake or the computer crashed and there was no backup, something like that.”

  I gazed out the window. The sky had brightened into a soft dove gray.

  “Drake’s left town,” I said. “Either his client threatened him or he’s been involved in the fraud from the start.”

  He raised his brows.

  “Yup,” I said. “I betcha—he’s on the lam.”

  “You seem very positive.”

  “What else could it be? If he had a flat tire or something, he would have called. He’s at the airport and checked in for his flight, either because he’s terrified to talk to you or because he planned it this way all along.”

  “Where is he flying to?”

  “Somewhere without extradition.” I shook my head as pieces of the puzzle fell neatly into place. “He’s the scammer, Ellis. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to us until now, but look at it. Someone delivers the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe to him for appraisal. He replicates it, gives them an appraisal showing a high value, and hands over the fake egg. Based on the inflated appraisal the person can get a secured loan. He sells the genuine egg to a collector and disappears. It’s slick.”

  “If he knew we were working on a subpoena, why would he stick around? Why wouldn’t he have left the country the minute I filed the paperwork?”

  “He didn’t think he’d lose. And maybe he didn’t call from the highway at eight this morning. Maybe when he agreed to this appointment, he was zipping up his suitcase, eager to make the night flight to Croatia.”

  Ellis pursed his lips, thinking. “Croatia has no extradition treaty with the U.S. It has a stable government, cheap prices, and gorgeous scenery. He could do worse.” He paused. “You’ve almost got me convinced. Is it realistic to think that he sold the egg to a collector? I mean, I know we’ve talked about it. But if it’s black market, would he have those contacts?”

  “Yes. When you deal in high-end antiques, you meet lots of people with lots of money. Not all of them acquired their money legally. He could have sold it for several million dollars, which has already been deposited in a Croatian bank account.”

  “I need to check it out.”

  “We’ve been snookered.”

  “Why would he call you and offer his services?”

  “Greed. He thought that if he could pull off a switcheroonie once, he could do it twice.”

  Ellis grinned. “He didn’t know you.”

  “He still doesn’t. I don’t like being snookered.”

  “Leave it to me, Josie.”

  I stood up, anger that had been simmering just below the surface beginning to boil. I marched to the window, spun around, stomped back to the table, then repeated the trek. Ellis watched me silently.

  “I’m mad,” I said.

  “Yeah.” He reached for the phone. “Pace if you want to, but stay quiet. I need to make some calls.”

  I paced, half-listening as Ellis called the FBI, Interpol, and someone called Rocco. I kept my smart phone in my hand, waiting for Drake’s callback or text. I felt foolish, like a mark choused out of her life savings by a fast-talking con man.

  At eleven forty-five, Ellis got a call, listened for a full minute, then thanked the caller and hung up.

  He looked at me. “Drake Milner didn’t fly out of the country under his own name.”

  “If I were him, I wouldn’t either. I’d pick an all-new name, one no one knew about.” I glanced at my smart phone. “I have to go. I have an appointment at noon.”

  “Who brought him that egg?”

  “Ana. She wanted it appraised, maybe for insurance like she said, or maybe so she’d have collateral for a loan, like we’ve been speculating. She hired Drake because her father thought anyone who wasn’t a Russian artifacts expert was Mickey Mouse. She was going to let me appraise it, too, because she’d already signed a deal with me. Ana and her father have a complicated relationship. They had a falling-out because he didn’t approve of her choice of career. You were there when she saw her dad round the corner of her house—she looked at him like he was her total hope and comfort, her rock. No way would she risk his disapproval, not at this stage of their relationship. He tells her to go to Drake, she goes. What does she care? So she double pays. If she can win back a little more of her dad’s love, I bet she’d count it cheap at double the price.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “Yes, but not on impulse. Something Drake said—that maybe the owner and the thief were the same person—stayed with me. At first I couldn’t see how the scam could work. Now I can.” I held up a palm. “There’s still too much we don’t know. I don’t know who replicated the Fabergé egg and snow globe. I haven’t got a clue who killed Jason, or why. I don’t know whether the egg is related to the murder or not—but I know it’s possible that I’m right because I know a lot about how women interact with their dads.”

  “If you were me, what would you do next?”

  I glanced at my phone again. I was going to be late. “I’d ask me to call you after my lunch with Ana.”

  Ellis leaned back in his chair. “Will you call me after you have lunch with Ana?”

  “Sure.”

  He stood up and walked toward me until he was standing only inches away. He looked down at me.

  “I have a better idea … May I join you?”

  I gazed into his eyes but learned nothing. “How come?”

  “Curiosity.”

  I met his eyes. They didn’t look intrigued. They looked worried. “You think I might be in danger.”

  “In a public place? Unlikely.”

  “Yet you want to join me.”

  “Excess of caution.”

  “I’ll learn more if I’m alone.”

  Ellis shook his head. “Don’t question her, Josie. Your job isn’t to learn anything. Chat about the weather.”

  “The situation is bound to come up.”

  “Don’t let it.” He raised a hand to stop me from replying. “Ana might be a killer.”

  I paused, trying to picture Ana bashing Jason’s head against the fieldstone hearth. The image did not com
pute. Ana was reserved, pleasant, polished, elegant, and calm. I’d seen her sad and anxious and angry, but I’d never seen her lose control. No matter how bad her financial situation was, I couldn’t envision Ana as a murderer. A thief, possibly. A killer, no.

  “Do you suspect her more than anyone else?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Me either. I was just talking.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Josie.”

  “Me? Never.” When he didn’t respond right away, I touched his upper arm. “Really, Ellis, I’m a scaredy cat. I’d never do anything stupid.”

  Outside, streaks of pale blue sky showed through the dense gray cloud cover. The storm had passed. I walked across crunchy snow to my car. Ana, I thought.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Max Bixby’s small law firm was housed in a big white house on Brook Street, just outside Rocky Point’s main shopping area. He owned the building, which used to be a private residence, and rented out suites to other professionals. His current tenants included an independent insurance agent, two psychotherapists, a title company, and a nutritionist. Max kept the sprawling ground floor for his company.

  Max was just what a lawyer should be: smart and knowledgeable, objective and fair, protective and flexible. Today he wore a blue and brown tweed jacket with brown slacks and shoes, a yellow shirt, and a blue bow tie with brown polka dots. He was tall and thin, and his eyes twinkled when he said something he thought was funny, which happened a lot.

  He opened his office door in response to his secretary’s buzz. I didn’t recognize her. I wondered what happened to his longtime assistant, Gloria.

  “Josie!” Max said.

  He extended a hand. We shook. He stepped back and waved me in.

  His office was as modern as I recalled, an odd variance to his courtly old-world appearance and manners. His desk had been created from a slab of black granite. Smallish diamond-shaped glass-topped tables were positioned on either side of the black leather and chrome sofa. A glass-topped conference table stood near the windows. The iron gray curtains had gold and silver threads running vertically through the fabric. The rug was charcoal gray. The walls were light gray, a sort of pale blueberry color. Abstract paintings, mostly geometric shapes, hung on every wall. Some contained slashes of red or purple.