The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “About that. And once you’re over the wall, you’ve got perfect cover. You’re surrounded by thick woods and five feet from the hiking path.”

  “What hiking path?” I asked.

  “It runs through the woods surrounding Garnet Cove.”

  “The flash I saw—the shooter had a gun in his hand. He was on the hiking path.”

  “Who carries a gun in the rain?” Ellis asked.

  I looked out my window. The rain had stopped overnight, and pale sunlight dappled the patio. The thermometer mounted to the window frame read 62.

  “Someone about to use it.”

  * * *

  Between the bath, my hearty breakfast, and the ibuprofen, I was feeling almost as good as new, or at least mobile enough to work. I got into the office earlier than I’d expected and greeted everyone.

  Fred pushed up his glasses. “I have news.”

  “I love news. News is progress.”

  “Aunt Louise worked for News and Views for more than twenty years.” He leaned back and grinned. “They’re old-school. They have an archivist on staff.”

  I slid into a guest chair. “Do they, now?”

  “She and I have become pals. Her name is Karla. There’s thousands of photos taken during Aunt Louise’s tenure showing her at various parties, meetings, and events. Karla is going through them, trying to identify the men in the pictures.”

  “That sounds impossible.”

  “She’s loving it.”

  “Amazing.” I turned to Cara and asked if anything demanded my attention. She said no, so I headed straight for the safe.

  Hank came running up, mewling and dragging a rainbow-colored felt banner, wanting to play. The banner was attached to a long clear plastic wand. To see Hank balance the wand in his mouth, carefully navigating his way around obstacles, the banner trailing behind him, was a sight to behold. He dropped the banner at my feet, expecting me to hurl it as far as I could.

  “Hi, baby,” I said. “Not now, Hank. Later. I promise.”

  He mewed.

  “I know, baby, I know. It’s not fair. You need someone to play with.”

  He nuzzled my leg, assuring me he understood.

  I punched in my personal security code. When the green light appeared, I pressed my thumb against the fingerprint reader and waited for the click that told me I’d been cleared. I lugged open the heavy metal door. It wasn’t usually so heavy. Yesterday’s attack had taken a toll on me.

  I logged out the lamp and carried it to a worktable near Hank’s basket. I plugged it in and turned it on, ready to repeat the appraisal Fred and I had completed just days earlier. I booted up the computer and checked the records. Eric signed the lamp in at twenty after eight last night. Fred entered the safe at ten but didn’t log anything in or out. No one had been in the safe yet today. I signed the lamp out to myself.

  The barklike trunk was familiar, but the purple glass was less confetti-like than I recalled. The solder that held the glass in place was more worn than I remembered. On the inside of the shade, I saw a wink of copper and something that might be wax.

  My heart plunged to my knees.

  In making the lampshades, Tiffany’s artisans used all three materials, solder, copper, and beeswax, and after a hundred years, wear and dryness were the norm; however, the wear pattern here was not the same. I lifted the lamp high above my head and used my small flashlight to examine the bottom. The stamp read TIFFANY.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered.

  I lowered the lamp to the table and stared at the delicate glass shade, the muted lavender and lilac wisteria blossoms, the pale and dark green leaves, the brown branches. I switched off the light, walked to the green nubby carpet that marked Hank’s territory, eased myself down to the ground, and leaned back against the cold concrete wall. I stretched my legs out straight and kept my eyes on the lamp. Hank climbed onto my lap and curled up. I stroked his cheek, and he started purring. I concentrated on my breathing, and just like always, crisis-calm came over me. I was good in an emergency, able to focus with absolute clarity. Once a crisis passed, I fell apart, at least a little, but that was something I’d worry about later. Now, I had to navigate the disaster confronting me.

  Eric hadn’t videotaped the Tiffany lamp before removing it from the Towson house, which meant there was no way to prove the lamp I was staring at was the same one Eric had packed up. If Edwin sued, he’d win. I considered my options, none of them appealing, some of them appalling.

  I scooched Hank into his basket and got myself upright. He grumbled. I used the computer on the closest worktable to bring up the lamp’s record, then called Fred and asked him to join me.

  “What’s up?” Fred asked, unaware of the quagmire looming in front of us.

  “I need you to do a full appraisal on this lamp. It’s the one Eric brought in from the Towson house.”

  Fred shot it a glance. “What’s the matter?”

  “I want to ensure we have an unbroken chain of possession,” I said, ignoring his question. “When you check the computer file, you’ll see that he placed it in the safe and entered it into our log. I entered the safe and checked it out just now. If necessary, we can confirm this with the security cameras.” I typed into the computer. “I’m now signing it over to you.”

  Fred tapped the screen, activating his electronic signature. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “No.” I started up the spiral stairs that led to my private office, pausing halfway up I looked over my shoulder. “Hurry. Let me know the minute you determine anything. The second.”

  Fred, picking up on my gravitas, nodded solemnly.

  I sat behind my desk and swiveled to face my window. The leaves on my old maple were as large as my hand. I wandered into my private bathroom and looked at the scratches on my face and neck. They were red and tender to the touch. I returned to my desk. I waited.

  Three minutes later, I heard Fred bounding up the stairs, and I swiveled to face him.

  “It’s a fake,” he said.

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “It looks to be a good reproduction, probably mid-twentieth century, based on the age-appropriate patina and wear patterns. At a guess, it’s worth about fifty thousand dollars.”

  “You entered the safe last night.”

  “Yeah. To check on the lamp.”

  “Is the lamp we’re examining now the same one you looked at last night?”

  Fred held my gaze, his eyes stony. I understood. I’d just asked him if he’d switched out the genuine Tiffany lamp for this nice fake. A vein in his neck throbbed.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Find out everything you can about that lamp. Who made it. When. Who owned it. I’ll work on figuring out who sold it during the last couple of months—and who they sold it to.” Fred started off, then paused when I called his name. “I had to ask.”

  He met my gaze. “No, you didn’t.”

  “You’re right—you wouldn’t work here if I couldn’t trust you absolutely. But this is a legal issue.”

  His eyes softened a bit, and his shoulders lowered. “I know.”

  “It isn’t Eric’s fault. He didn’t know he was supposed to video-record it. I shouldn’t have sent him alone.”

  “Will you tell him?”

  “No. He has no need to know. It will just upset him.”

  “You’re right.”

  “One more thing—don’t tell anyone. Not yet.”

  “Understood.”

  After Fred left, I sat and stared out the window, thinking it through. I’d interrupted a burglary, all right, but they weren’t after the genuine Tiffany lamp. That one had been stolen earlier, probably immediately after my appraisal. This break-in was to prevent me from discovering they’d switched out the real lamp for a replica. Their plan was clear to me now. With any luck, Edwin, a man who didn’t care about domestic issues, would never have noticed the difference, so the real lamp would never have been reported stolen. As soon as the
thief learned I was picking up the lamp, the die was cast—the fake lamp had to be removed.

  Anyone looking at me or talking to me would see a woman in complete control, but on the inside I was ready to explode, I was so angry.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I called Ellis, and Cathy said he was unavailable.

  “Tell him it’s an emergency.”

  He came on the line.

  “I have bad news,” I said. “The Tiffany lamp we took from the Towsons’ house yesterday is a fake. Sometime between the time I returned the real lamp and yesterday, someone pulled off a switch.”

  Ellis didn’t respond right away. I could hear him breathing. I could hear him thinking.

  “How?” he asked, his tone as unperturbed as always.

  “I don’t know, but I guarantee you, I’m going to find out.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  I chortled, one unamused chuckle. “I’m done being stupid.”

  I hung up, sat, and stewed.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I knew my next step.

  Edwin didn’t answer his cell phone, and Judi, Towson’s receptionist, told me he was unavailable, so I called Miranda Dowle, his assistant, explaining that I needed to see him urgently, that it would only take five or ten minutes, and she squeezed me in. I considered asking my lawyer, Max Bixby, to join the meeting, but didn’t. There would be time enough for lawyers if it ever came to that.

  I arrived at Edwin’s company to find Judi behind the reception desk. She greeted me like an old friend.

  “I’m so glad it worked out that you can meet with Mr. Towson.”

  I smiled as best I could. I wasn’t in a smiling mood. “Thanks, Judi. Me, too.”

  “Yesterday when you were here it was pouring,” she said, “and you still loved the view. What do you think now?”

  I turned to face the ocean. Sun-sparked diamonds skipped along the sapphire water with the same hop-and-a-jump motion as the flat rocks I’d flicked across the ocean surface when I was a kid. Five skips was my record. The tide ebbed, then flowed, like a gently rocking cradle.

  “It’s stunning,” I said.

  “Josie?” Miranda said, her tone both refined and welcoming. She stood at the entry to the office wing.

  I waved at Judi as I passed. Miranda led the way into Edwin’s office. He was on the phone. I took the same chair as before.

  “Coffee?” Miranda whispered.

  “No, thanks,” I whispered back.

  She left.

  “Do it,” Edwin said in a tone that made ice seem warm. “Do it now.”

  He hung up and looked at me, and just like that, his mood shifted. “What can I do to help?”

  “I’m the bearer of bad news. Someone switched out the Tiffany lamp. The one I picked up yesterday is a fake.”

  His gaze became electrified, dangerous. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes. It’s a good reproduction, probably from the mid-twentieth century, worth about fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Okay, then. I have the confirmation I didn’t want about how Ava planned to support herself. She stole the lamp, probably with help from her bitch-queen sister. Can you get it back?”

  “Maybe. I hope so. If she sold it to a reputable dealer, I’ll find it by the end of the day. If it was a private sale or if she sold it to someone who knew it was stolen, it will be harder to locate. The FBI has a team dedicated to stolen art and artifacts. We may need to bring them in.”

  “I hope not. That kind of notoriety is good for no one. Let me think about it before you report it stolen.”

  “I already have. Because of the lamp’s possible connection to Ava’s murder, I had to alert the local police,” I said.

  “Understood.” He pinched his lips together and swiveled toward the window, fixing his gaze on the distant horizon.

  “I recommend that you let me report it as stolen, to alert dealers.”

  “Bad publicity.”

  “We can do it anonymously. It’s done all the time. No one wants to admit to losing a valuable object.”

  He swung back to face me. “Think of all the stolen objects that never turn up. I figure they’re in the hands of Colombian drug lords or oil sheikhs, don’t you? There’s no point in reporting it stolen if the thief is out of reach.”

  “Whoever stole your lamp isn’t a professional, which means they have no way to reach a Colombian drug lord or oil sheikh. It’s someone close to you, or someone who was close to Ava. They expect to get more than a million dollars. Let’s say they get lucky and find a fence with deep pockets. On the black market, they might get half a million—tops. I think they’d be stunned at that low offer and walk out to regroup.”

  “Jean.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Edwin nodded slowly, listening well, thinking hard. “All right. Do it.” His fingertips tapped on his desk for a moment; then he adjusted his position, leaning back. “If tracking the thief down requires cash, let me know. I want you to do everything you can to find out who’s behind this—and to find the lamp—and I don’t want you to consider the cost.”

  “Thank you.”

  Edwin stood up, so I did, too.

  “There’s one more thing,” I said. “At some point, you might wonder whether I pulled a fast one. I want to assure you, I didn’t.”

  “Of course not. You wouldn’t be in business if you pulled fast ones. You’d be in jail. I bet you feel nearly as bad about this as I do.”

  I’d been braced for his condemnation and contempt, not empathy. The relief was physical. My knees shook for a moment. “Maybe more.”

  “Not possible. Close, I’ll grant you. More—no way.”

  “We can leave it that we both feel awful.”

  “Catch the son of a bitch and I’ll feel hunky-dory, and I bet you will, too.”

  “I’ll do my best. Thank you for your confidence.”

  He nodded his dismissal, and I showed myself out.

  * * *

  I called to Hank as I crossed to the staircase that led to my office, and he sauntered in my direction.

  “Do you want to keep me company while I work?” I asked.

  He mewed and scampered up the steps. As soon as I got settled in my chair, he sprang into my lap, but he didn’t settle down. He sat up and looked at me expectantly.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I told you—I need to work.”

  He huffed and curled up.

  I e-mailed Ellis:

  Hi Ellis,

  I spoke to Edwin about the theft. He’s eager to keep his name out of it.

  I’ll go ahead and post a call for sightings anonymously.

  I’ll list my name as the antiques contact and your name as the law enforcement contact.

  If I hear anything, I’ll let you know right away, and I hope you’ll do the same for me.

  Thanks, Ellis.

  Best, Josie

  I sent another e-mail to Fred, asking him to take care of the postings, then reached for my water bottle. Hank complained about the disruption.

  “Sorry, baby,” I said, stroking his back.

  He settled down again, and I brought up Antiques Insights’ online marketplace, the most respected outlet for private sales of high-end antiques in the country. Anyone able to afford the hefty fee could buy a listing, and the cost might be worth it since you saved the buyer’s and seller’s premiums that auction houses, including Prescott’s, routinely charged. For objects that required complex marketing plans, you were usually better off going the conventional route, but if you had a low-ticket item that didn’t require a certified appraisal, or if you knew potential buyers frequented the site and you had an appraisal in your pocket, it might be a smart way to go.

  I entered “wisteria Tiffany lamp” in the advanced search field, and four ads popped up. Three touted high-quality reproductions; the fourth offered a genuine Tiffany lamp. The ad, which referenced an appraisal from an IAAA-certified professional, had been posted the day
Ava was killed, then withdrawn a day later. I clicked through the various menus, trying and failing to find a way into the original listing. I did another search looking for replica Tiffany lamps sold in the last two months. None turned up. Progress of a sort. At least I knew one place where the thieves hadn’t bought the fake lamp.

  I called the customer service number listed on the banner that ran along the bottom of the Web page and got a perky young woman who explained they never released seller information when ads were withdrawn. I didn’t bother to try to convince her. She was working off a script, and that was that. I thanked her and pressed the END CALL button, releasing it a moment later to call a staff writer I knew at the magazine. Madge Garcia and I had worked together a few years back when the magazine selected Prescott’s for inclusion in an article called “Five Small Antiques Auction Houses to Watch,” still one of my greatest honors.

  “Antiques Insights. Madge speaking.”

  “Madge! It’s Josie. Josie Prescott. Long time no speak.”

  “Sheesh! No kidding, Josie, I was just thinking of you. I’m writing an article on vintage clothing from the forties, and I remembered you added a specialization a few years back, am I right?”*

  “Yes, we bought out a shop. We have some beautiful pieces in stock now, an unbelievable Mainbocher pale pink satin gown. You know him, right? He horrified the world with his corset lacing up the back. The lacing on this one is black. Very sexy against the pale pink. We also have a color-block Bonnie Cashin day dress. It’s fabulous. Suede, in muted fall colors.” I laughed. “You can tell how much I love vintage fashion—but before I just keep rambling on … tell me, how can I help?”