Blood Rubies

by Jane K. Cleland

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Officer Meade knocked on my door around ten, shortly after I came downstairs again. Ty had left at seven. Yes, he could stay, but I assured him there was no need to do so, not with Ellis’s promise of police protection, and after a little pull and tug, he went to work.

  “You doing all right?” she asked.

  “Better than I expected.” I raised my arms above my head, elbows out, and arched my back. “Bruised but not stiff.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ve just come on duty. The overnight officer said all was quiet. Do you know your plans for the day?”

  I told her about my participation in Timothy’s TV pilot. “I can drive myself, with you following if you think you should, but you don’t need to stay.”

  “I’m fine with staying.”

  I felt myself blush. “To tell you the truth, I’d feel pretty awkward with you there.”

  “How come?”

  I laughed, embarrassed. “I don’t like to be the center of attention. I freeze and get all stupid. With you there, everyone will wonder what’s going on and I’ll feel even more conspicuous.”

  She smiled. “They’ll think you’re important.”

  “They’ll think I’m pretentious.”

  “We can’t risk your being on your own.”

  “What risk? The place is crawling with people, including an armed guard.”

  “Why do you want your own car?”

  “If I get bored waiting, I can use it like an office. I do it all the time.”

  She tilted her head and scanned my face, trying to decide if she believed me. “You don’t have plans to ditch us, do you?”

  I laughed, a real one. “No way.”

  “I’ll check.” She stepped into an oblong of yellow sunshine on the porch and made a phone call. Two minutes later she came back inside. “Chief Hunter said okay on one condition. I follow you there, and when you’re ready to leave, you call and let one of us follow you to your next stop.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “I’ll be outside in my car if you need anything.”

  * * *

  I got into work before eleven and spent the rest of the morning working with Fred researching Mrs. Albert’s umbrella cane. While he tested the materials, I researched umbrella canes.

  I contacted a New Orleans–based antiques dealer, one of the world’s leading experts on system canes, the formal name for gadget canes. His name was Bo Givens and he e-mailed me photos of two canes he thought might be similar to ours. One was an umbrella cane from 1805 that looked nothing like ours; the other, a painter’s walking stick from 1815 that could have been a twin.

  “Look at that,” I said aloud.

  The painter’s walking stick was thicker than many nongadget canes, but not conspicuously so. It contained everything a plein air artist needed to work outside: brushes, paints, rags, water canisters, and pencils. According to Mr. Givens, the shaft of the walking stick converted into a portable easel.

  I called Fred. “You need to talk to Bo Givens.” I explained why. “Even without the cane’s contents, I think we’re looking at twenty thousand dollars.” I smiled, thinking how happy Walter Albert would be knowing his $440 investment had paid off big-time.

  * * *

  “We’re not going to be able to film me walking up the driveway this time,” I said to Timothy. “I got pretty bruised up the other day. When I walk, I wobble.”

  “You poor thing,” he said, sounding truly concerned. “Are you all right to be here?”

  “It’s better to move around,” I said. “Otherwise, I’ll stiffen up.”

  “We’ll figure it out, then. What happened?”

  “It’s a long story—one you can read about in the paper.”

  His eyes grew round. “Oh, my.” He patted my arm. “As to your wobbling, don’t fret at all. We’ll skip you walking completely. It’s better to have a variety of shots anyway, and we already have you coming up the drive when you placed the cake order. Maybe we’ll start with you knocking on the door, then cut to Ana, then film you already seated for the cake presentation. How does that sound?”

  Awed at the speed with which his director’s eye recalibrated the shot sequences, I said, “Your brain is fully charged, I see.”

  “All in a day’s work.” He squeezed my hand. “You let us know if you need anything, all right?” He scanned the grounds, spotted the young man with the spiky yellow hair, and waved him over. “Nevie! Come here a sec.”

  Ana spotted me and came running up. “Josie! I heard what happened on the news. Are you all right?”

  “Better than expected. Thanks. Good enough to do the show.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks for your concern.”

  Nevie trotted over. He wore black jeans and a black crewneck sweater with the arms pushed up to his elbows. A scuffed black leather pouch attached to his belt hung over his right hip.

  “This is Josie Prescott, today’s costar. She’s a little bruised up. No way can she hop into a director’s chair. Get her something comfy, will you, and keep an eye on her.”

  “Will do.” Nevie pulled a small walkie-talkie from his pouch.

  “Whatever she wants, she gets.”

  “You got it.”

  “That’s so nice,” I said, giggling a bit at the unaccustomed attention, “but completely unnecessary.”

  Timothy squeezed my hand again. “Let us fuss. We’re very good at it.”

  I laughed and turned to Nevie. “A low chair would be good.”

  Timothy beamed at me, then turned to Ana. “As for you—back to makeup!”

  Ana grinned. “He’s such a tyrant.” She gave an airy wave and headed off to the tent.

  Nevie spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Get me a low dirch.”

  I looked at Timothy.

  “Low director’s chair,” he whispered.

  “Of course,” I whispered back. “That would have been my fourth guess.”

  He laughed. Nevie ran to the 18-wheeler as a tall, wiry man with a fringe of gray hair jumped down with a folded-up, short-legged director’s chair.

  “Can you give me a little time after we’re done shooting?” Timothy asked. “To talk?”

  His expression was guileless, but I didn’t for a minute believe he had nothing important on his mind. Over the years I’d learned that when people said they wanted to talk, it was generally because they needed to deliver bad news and knew enough to do it in private.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Put your smile on, honey! It’s all good. I promise. Date?”

  His charm was irresistible. I smiled. “Date!”

  He waved, then walked quickly toward Ana.

  “Where would you like to perch?” Nevie asked.

  “Somewhere I can watch what’s going on while you’re filming outside.”

  Nevie did a 360, considering the options. “How about the gazebo? Is that too far for you to walk?”

  “Not at all. Getting there won’t be pretty, but I’ll be fine.”

  I followed Nevie as he crossed the driveway and set off down the fieldstone path that circled the house and led to the porch. The stones were rounded and uneven, and with my gimpy leg, it made for hard going.

  The security guard stood on the porch, surveying the scene. He was a new one, new to me, younger than the last one. Nevie called hello, and the guard gave a little salute. Nevie cut across the lawn toward the gazebo, with me limping along, trying hard to keep up.

  Nevie ran up the three steps, unfolded the chair, and got it situated under the crossbeam roof. Thigh-high latticework walls created an illusion of privacy. I climbed the steps, moving gingerly, and took a look around. Dappled sun streamed in through the semiopen roof. To my left, past the rosebushes, waves crashed against the boulders below. The stand of birch ran to my right. From where I sat, I had a clear view of the lawn, the trees, the porch, the top of the driveway, and the entrance to Ana’s converted garage. No one could approach
me without my seeing him unless he could scale the hundred-foot-high craggy cliff. It was a perfect spot.

  “This is great, Nevie. Thank you.”

  He smiled and patted the bone-colored canvas chairback. “Come give it a test drive.”

  I sat, using the wooden arms to lower myself gently, favoring my hurt leg, wishing I were back to normal, hating feeling weak, hating being weak.

  “Thanks, Nevie. It’s comfy. Easy in, easy out.”

  “Good. What else can I get you? A cup of coffee? Water? Anything?”

  “I’m all set. Thanks, though.”

  “You need something, you holler.”

  I promised I would, and he jogged off to join the crew hovering around Ana. The security guard set off on his rounds, heading toward the back of the cottage. The sun was warming, more May than March. I took off my sweater, glad I was wearing short sleeves. Nevie said something to the man I recognized as Mack. I recognized Vinnie, too, and the makeup girl with the pink hair whose job was de-shining. It felt good to recognize people, as if I belonged.

  I glanced at the time display on my phone. It was noon, time for more pain meds. I swallowed a big white pill with water I took from my tote and leaned back. I’d come early on purpose to watch the fun, and I was glad I had, but now I was glad to sit. A light breeze fluffed my hair. Early violets were showing near Ana’s commercial kitchen, their deep purple petals still furled. Timothy was lucky with the weather. In New Hampshire, March was typically a snowy month.

  Ana came out of the makeup tent, glowing in a gold sheath and gold and black fleur-de-lis-patterned blazer. She waved at me, and I waved back. She looked fabulous. Nevie led her to the tall grass. Behind her, the ocean shimmered in gilt-tipped blue.

  Timothy shouted, “Rolling!” He followed that with “Action!”

  I couldn’t hear Ana speak, but I could see her smile. In front of the camera she transformed herself from everywoman to wanna-be-that-woman. It was as if she were talking to her best friend, an all-knowing, all-safe confidant. Her love for her work and her respect for her viewers was apparent.

  A glint to my right caught my eye. Peter was glancing at his watch as he climbed the porch steps, and the sun flicked off the silver metal, creating minibolts of fluorescent-bright white light. He didn’t notice me. He must have noticed Ana, but he didn’t pay any attention to her, or to anything. She continued talking to the camera, smiling, gesturing, laughing. Peter disappeared into the house. Last I’d heard, Peter was back at work in Boston. I wondered what he was doing here.

  Five minutes later, Peter came out grasping a kitchen-sized plastic garbage bag by the twirled top. The bag was white but not opaque. Through the semitransparent plastic, I could make out hints of colors. Something reddish brown was at the bottom. A larger, bulkier item, whitish, like the bag, was crumpled up in the middle. Another brown item was on top. He walked quickly, almost running, down the path to the driveway and turned the corner.

  I grabbed my tote bag and limped after him, looking around for the security guard. He wasn’t in sight.

  I got to the driveway in time to see Peter pull out from the curb in a dark blue Toyota Camry. I memorized two digits of his license plate before he took off, heading south.

  I eased myself behind the wheel and set off after him. I peered down each side street as I drove. Three streets down from Ana’s house, on Turner Road, I saw his car in the far distance and turned. Turner led to I-95. I slipped in my earpiece and called Ellis. The call went to voice mail.

  “I’m following Peter. It’s weird. He showed up at Ana’s, went inside empty-handed, and came out with a plastic bag.” I described the bag’s contents and his car and repeated the part of his license plate number I’d memorized. “He didn’t say hello to her or anyone. Now he’s hot-tailing it somewhere, probably back to Boston. I’m on Turner. I’ll keep you posted.”

  I turned onto I-95 south. Peter’s car wasn’t in sight. I speeded up to seventy, then seventy-five, but I didn’t see him.

  Ellis called, and I slipped in my earpiece.

  “Where are you now?” he asked.

  “Heading south on I-95. Passing exit six.”

  “I’ve dispatched Officer Meade to find you and escort you to home or work, wherever you want to go. Pull off into the breakdown lane and set your flashers. Don’t make me regret canceling your protection.”

  “Don’t be silly, Ellis. I’m hanging up now.”

  I squinted, seeking any sign of a blue car. I didn’t see one, but ten minutes later, I saw Ellis’s SUV pulled off to the side. Peter’s car was in front of him. I rolled to a stop a hundred yards behind Ellis’s vehicle. I didn’t want to interfere, but I wanted to see.

  My earpiece still in place, I called Wes. The call went to voice mail. “The police have just pulled Peter over. We’re on I-95, about a quarter mile before exit three. Hurry.”

  A marked patrol car appeared in my rearview mirror, its red and blue lights spinning, its siren blaring, traveling far faster than the flow of traffic. As he flew by, I recognized the driver, the young police officer named Daryl. He veered sharply to the right and pulled up two car lengths ahead of Peter’s car. He cut the siren but left the lights flashing as he backed up, closing the gap between the vehicles. Peter was surrounded.

  Peter stood by his trunk, his arms hanging by his sides, his hands forming loose fists. His eyes stayed on Ellis. His chin jutted out pugnaciously. I saw flashing lights in back of me. Officer Meade had found me.

  My phone vibrated. Wes texted, “In Boston w/ Maggie. Get pics for me.”

  I thought about it for a moment. Why not?

  I raised my phone and started taking photos.

  Officer Meade walked up as I stepped partway out of the car. I banged my thigh against the door jamb and nearly collapsed from the pain. I moaned, then took in a deep breath, and in a few seconds, the pain subsided into a dull thud.

  “Chief Hunter told me to escort you to safety. Do you want to go home?”

  “In a minute,” I said, thinking only about photographs. I turned the phone sideways and zoomed in for a close-up of Peter’s angry profile and another of Ellis, wearing blue plastic gloves, looking inside the trash bag he was holding open.

  “Now, Josie,” Officer Meade said.

  “Okay.” I got a good one of Peter being placed inside the back of Daryl’s car, turned to her, and smiled apologetically. “I’ll go to work, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  Ellis approached Daryl and said something, then listened for a moment. He double-tapped the roof and stepped back.

  “Josie?”

  I ignored Officer Meade for just another moment. Daryl pulled out into traffic. Ellis turned toward his vehicle, spotted me, and marched in my direction.

  “If you’re well enough to be here, you’re well enough to give a formal statement,” he said coldly.

  I glanced at the dash clock. I was due to be on camera in ten minutes. “Okay.”

  “Officer Meade will escort you to the station.” He stomped off toward his SUV.

  “Is the flash drive dry yet?”

  He spun back to face me, his expression fierce.

  “I’m sure Milner kept his client list on it,” I added. “It’s the only place left. The murderer’s name will be on it. That will confirm what I know.” I took in a breath. “It’s just so awful, Ellis.”

  His expression changed from annoyed to curious. “What’s going on, Josie?”

  “I know what happened, and I know why. I can help you get a confession.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The only physical evidence is the mineral-oil-stained pants and shoes and the cowboy hat you just confiscated. Aren’t I right? Isn’t that what was in the bag?”

  “Assume it was. What’s your point?”

  “Any good defense attorney will have a field day with that. You can’t prove that the mineral oil on the clothes is the same as that which came from the snow globe, nor can yo
u prove that it got on the clothes during the commission of a felony. The hat is not unique.” I paused, thinking. “I might be able to get him to acknowledge that he killed Jason.”

  “I won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way. He’s already tried to kill you once.”

  “He won’t try to hurt me if he thinks I can get him three million dollars.”

  A slow grin came over Ellis’s face. “You’ve got a plan.”

  I smiled. “A good one.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I had a double escort to the police station, with Officer Meade in front and Ellis close behind. When we got there, I explained my plan. Ellis approved it and printed out an authorization letter. I faxed it to Max for his review. The gist was that I was to do my best and that I wouldn’t be liable for anything, no matter what.

  While Ellis went to get Peter situated, I made some calls and sent some texts. I asked Cara to let Timothy know that I was called away on police business and that I looked forward to rescheduling. From Gretchen, I learned that everything at work was fine, except that Hank was a bad boy—he’d lost his new felt mouse. Not under the photocopier, obviously, since it now had a skirt. Probably under a shelf in the warehouse.

  “We need to attach some kind of homing device to them,” I said.

  She giggled. “Maybe we can LoJack them.”

  “It’s probably easier to buy him some new ones.”

  “Already done. I ran out at lunch. We don’t want Hank upset.”

  “Of course not.”

  “On a separate subject, Jason’s executor, a Boston lawyer, called about appraising Jason’s chess set collection. When I told him that we didn’t have it, he said he’d arrange for shipment.” Gretchen paused, and when she spoke again, I sensed concern. “He said we were to report only to him. Is that all right?”

  “Probably. Go ahead and call him back and ask him to send the paperwork documenting his authority.”

  “Good,” Gretchen said, sounding relieved. “Sasha is waving at me. She’d like to talk to you.”

  “Good job with the lawyer. You can put Sasha on.”

  “I’ve finished my report on Ana’s Russian skating snow globe,” Sasha said. “Do you want me to e-mail it to you?”