The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Those dresses sound to die for. I’m still in the planning stages, but I may call on you for tips on authentication.”

  “With pleasure, Madge—anytime.”

  “So what can I do for you?” Madge asked.

  “I need to know who posted an online ad and then withdrew it.”

  “I’m sorry, Josie. I’m on the magazine side, and never the twain shall meet.”

  “Darn. Can you give me a name?”

  “I really can’t. I know some of the content folks over there, but no one on the business side. We don’t commingle. We’re not even in the same location—I’m in New York, as you well know, and they’re in Phoenix. The two entities operate as separate businesses.”

  “I guess I didn’t know that. Isn’t that kind of inefficient? I mean, aren’t you each reinventing the wheel?”

  “Not really. They have access to all our material. They rejigger things to suit the different medium. We probably share all sorts of backroom stuff I’m unaware of, like accounting systems, mailing lists, that sort of thing.”

  “Interesting. Well, back to the drawing board for me. Thanks anyway, Madge.”

  She told me she wished she could help and promised to get in touch soon about the vintage clothing article, and I thanked her again. I was spending a lot of time thanking people for nothing. My next call was to Shelley, my pal from my days at Frisco’s in New York.

  Shelley and I met when we were both fresh out of college, thrilled to land jobs at Frisco’s, one of the largest and most prestigious antiques auction houses in the world. During the dark days when I’d been shunned for doing the right thing—I was a whistle-blower, turning in my boss for his complicity in a price-fixing scheme—Shelley had been one of the few people who hadn’t acted like I had a contagious disease. Now, a dozen years later, Shelley still worked for Frisco’s and was still my friend. Calling her was a risk, though. She was intuitive and so clever in slyly drawing me out that I had to be constantly on guard lest I reveal more than I intended.

  “Hey, pal,” I said when I had her on the line. “I’m surprised you’re at work. Shouldn’t you be lounging in the Hamptons?”

  “I should, shouldn’t I? It’s appalling to think my boss won’t let me take the entire summer off.”

  I laughed. “Shocking.”

  “Are you calling me from New Hampshire? Has the snow melted yet?”

  “You’re going to have to come up here sometime, Shelley. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful as New Hampshire in the summer.”

  “You’re such a card, Josie. I saw that you’re selling a Tiffany lamp. Lucky girl!”

  “How did you possibly know that?” I asked, thinking that luck had far less to do with my success than hard work. “It got one small mention in a local paper.”

  “We keep our eyes out. Is it as good as it sounds?”

  “Better. Listen, Shelley, I’m hoping you can help me. I need some info on the QT.”

  “I smell a hot deal,” Shelley said. “Count me in.”

  “Not so hot. Who do you know at the Antiques Insights Web site who’ll give me some semiconfidential information?”

  “No one you don’t know. You made the mag cover, remember? ‘Five Small Houses,’ but it was Prescott’s they put on the cover. Call your contact.”

  “She’s on the editorial side of the magazine. I need someone on the business end of the Web site.”

  “Why?”

  I swiveled to face my window, stroking Hank. A small dark blue bird was perched on a nearby branch. I decided to fib. Since what Shelley didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, I felt no guilt, not even a twinge.

  “There’s an ad I want to follow up on,” I said, “but the sale is completed. You know what that means. They mark the object sold and remove all the details but the sales price.”

  “Don’t you hate that? What’s the object?”

  Shelley reminded me of Wes, inquisitive and persistent. I turned back to my computer and hit the PAGE DOWN button until I found an object that had sold—a set of nineteenth-century jewel-encrusted gold dueling pistols.

  “Some guns,” I said, drawing out the words, hoping Shelley would conclude that my delayed and begrudging response indicated only that I didn’t want to tell her but knew I had to in order to get her help, not that I was making it up on the fly. “Dueling pistols. I have a client who’s hot for them. I want to see if I can convince the buyer to let them go.”

  I heard tapping in the background. “Got it. They’re beauties, aren’t they? Deadly beauty. Hmm, that would be a pretty good name for an auction, don’t you think? ‘Deadly Beauty.’ Call Cormac McKenna at extension 1438. He goes by Mac. Nice guy. Knows everything. Use my name.”

  “Thanks, Shelley. You’re the best.”

  We chatted for another few minutes about men and line dancing and beaches and bikinis and drinks with small umbrellas in them. Then I called Mac.

  * * *

  “I love Shelley,” Mac said.

  “Me, too. We’ve been friends since we both worked at Frisco’s a thousand years ago.”

  “You’re a Frisco’s alum, are you? How long ago for real?”

  “Twelve years. Hard for me to believe.”

  “Not so long. I’ve heard of Prescott’s, of course. You have a wonderful reputation.”

  I smiled, gratified. “You just made my day. Thank you. So … Shelley tells me you might be able to help me.” I explained my request—a client hot after the Tiffany wisteria lamp.

  “We’re not supposed to give out that info. Withdrawn is withdrawn.”

  “I understand, and if you can’t, you can’t. You’d be doing the seller a favor, though. Between you and me and the gatepost, my client is willing to pay top dollar. The worst that will happen is the seller says no. I won’t ever say where I got his name.”

  “I’d hate to have someone miss out on an opportunity like this,” he said.

  I assured him again that I’d never tell where I got the info, and he gave me the name—Orson Thompkins. The phone number started with a 603 area code, New Hampshire. The credit card used was a Visa in Thompkins’s name. The address was 19 Sonille Road in Portsmouth.

  “Portsmouth … that’s close to you, isn’t it? Hard to believe you’re both from the same area.”

  “And my client is from Los Angeles,” I said, hoping to deflect his attention. “Antiques is a cosmopolitan business.”

  “No question about that.”

  “Any idea why Mr. Thompkins withdrew the listing?”

  “There’s nothing in the notes section. Withdrawals are usually seller’s remorse, though.”

  I agreed that was probably the reason, thanked him again, and ended the call.

  No doubt the phone would prove to be a disposable, and the Visa card the kind you get when you lay out cash and can refill if you choose. The address, though, was a genuine lead. Time to reconnoiter.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  If Orson Thompkins had used his home address in the Antiques Insights listing, he lived in the left half of a two-family house around the corner from a small grocery store. The neighborhood was decent, but that was about all you could say about it. It was stable, homely, and working class.

  I parked four houses down and across the street from the address. I had a clear view of the house, the driveway, and part of the backyard. The house looked empty. No lights were on. The shades were drawn. A rolled-up newspaper lay on the front porch.

  Nothing happened. No one went in or out. I wondered if I could see inside through a back window. I scolded myself for the thought. Going to the house alone had been foolish to the point of recklessness. What if Thompkins had seen me drive up? Did I plan to confront him on my own? I knew better. Cornered rats jump high and strike fast. I was lucky no one was home. Five minutes after I arrived, I drove to the nearby grocery store, parked facing the street, and called Ellis.

  * * *

  I looked down at my hands. I was sitting in Ellis’s office, avoi
ding meeting his unforgiving gaze. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to talk to him. I wanted to handle this myself. Knowing that I couldn’t, that I shouldn’t, further soured my already bitter mood.

  Ellis sat at his desk, waiting for me to speak.

  “I promised you I wouldn’t be stupid,” I said.

  “I remember.”

  “I think I know who stole the Tiffany lamp, and I went to his house. I didn’t see him or anyone. I didn’t do anything. But I know it was stupid.”

  “That sounds like an understatement. He might be a killer.”

  “I know.”

  “Tell me.”

  I did. When I finished, Ellis rolled a yellow pencil back and forth across his desk for a few seconds, thinking, then tossed it aside and raised his eyes to my face.

  “Who told you he has the lamp?” Ellis asked.

  “I can’t tell you. I gave my word.”

  “This is a murder investigation.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  He stood up, unsmiling, patently annoyed. “From what I can tell, you think it’s your own personal vendetta. I’m officially asking you to cooperate.”

  “I am. I came in voluntarily.”

  “With half a story.”

  I bit my tongue to stop myself from giving a flip answer. That’s better than no story, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I pushed back my chair. “I did what I thought was right.”

  Ellis opened the door, shooing me out. “If you reconsider, you know where to find me.”

  Detective Brownley pulled into the lot as I reached my car. She smiled and waved, and I waved back. Guilt is a funny thing. I’d felt none in the face of Ellis’s disapproval, but I felt it now. If Claire Brownley knew that I was refusing to reveal a source, she’d be as upset with me as Ellis. I was relieved to turn onto Ocean and drive away. I wasn’t having second thoughts, but even so, censure from people you admire and respect weighs you down.

  * * *

  Back at my company, I ran upstairs to my private office. I paced from my desk to the display cabinet where I kept my rooster collection, and back again. Three laps in, Wes called.

  “I’ve got a complete info-bomb,” he said, his voice pulsating with excitement. “Two of them. Our dune. Ten minutes.”

  I glanced at the time display on my computer monitor. It showed 2:47. “I’ll be there at three.”

  Wes’s excitement was contagious, and I ran for the door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wes was standing on the top of the dune with his back to me. He was wearing what I now took to be his uniform, khakis and a long-sleeved shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. Today’s shirt was pale pink. The sun was strong, not scorching, like yesterday, but hot enough to make me glad I was wearing sandals and a spaghetti-strapped sundress.

  “Aren’t you hot?” I asked as I scrambled up the dune.

  “I’m okay,” Wes replied, turning. He took in my face and arms. “You’re not as banged up as I expected.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  “I’m not disappointed. I’m surprised.”

  “How come you don’t wear short-sleeved shirts?” I asked, eager to turn the subject away from my bumps and bruises.

  “Maggie says it’s more professional-looking to wear long sleeves and roll them up.”

  “She’s a banker. Maybe a journalist can dress a little less formally.”

  “It’s not formal like a suit. Anyway, I like the look.”

  I reached the summit and planted my feet on the shifting sand, then play-punched his arm. “So do I. You look terrific.”

  “So do you.”

  I clasped my right hand to my chest and threw out my left arm, pretending I was about to keel over. “Did I hear a compliment, Wes?”

  He grinned. “You always look good. I just forget to say it.”

  “Maggie’s done wonders for you.”

  “She’s great, isn’t she?” he asked, coloring a bit, as if talking about his love for her disconcerted him.

  “Yes. So tell me your info-bombs.”

  “I shouldn’t,” he said, morphing from awkward kid brother to stern professional in a heartbeat. “One of them is about that Orson Thompkins guy you turned up. You told the police, but not me.”

  “I would have told you, Wes. You know that.”

  “When? I’m in the news business, Josie, not the it-doesn’t-matter-if-I-tell-him-later business.”

  “Don’t yell at me, Wes. I’m having a hard time with all this. I’m so mad I can’t think straight.”

  “Yeah, I can understand that. You got snookered good this time around.”

  “I didn’t get snookered, Wes. I got mixed up with a thief who’s maybe a killer.” I stared at him, feeling fierce and letting it show. “Talk.”

  “Okay, okay … According to my police source, Orson Thompkins doesn’t exist. Whoever is behind the scam piggybacked on the guy who lives in that house. Isn’t that a hoot? The real tenant’s name is Cal Miller. He’s a long-distance truck driver, oil and liquid propane, and he’s often gone for two weeks at a time, sometimes three. Someone commandeered his address for the ad listing, probably figuring that a single guy who’s on the road a lot wouldn’t pay much attention to odd mail, and that’s exactly what happened.”

  “So it’s someone who knows him.”

  “It’s got to be. The police reached Miller in his rig—they got his cell phone number from the property manager. He’s in Illinois en route to Tennessee. He said he has a dim memory about an antiques magazine arriving about a week or ten days ago, but he couldn’t pin down the date. All he remembers is thinking it was weird, since he’s not an antiques kind of guy. At first he assumed the post office messed up, but when he looked at the label, he saw it was the magazine that got it wrong. The address was right; it was the name that was wrong. He didn’t recognize it, so he tossed the magazine. He doesn’t remember the subscriber’s name. The police checked with Antiques Insights. When someone who isn’t already a subscriber to the magazine places an online ad, they send a complimentary issue.”

  “I can’t believe the police learned all that so fast.”

  “There’s more,” Wes said, milking the suspense. “No surprise—the Visa Thompkins used is the kind you can refill for cash, and the phone was a throwaway, bought at a convenience store in Manchester. The place he got it from is a hole in the wall. They only have one security camera, and it’s been busted for a year.”

  “I’m kind of dazzled at how simple it was to pull off,” I said. “Thompkins didn’t need a Social Security number or any credit history. He didn’t even need an address that matched his name. Amazing. So now the police are trying to locate someone named Orson Thompkins.”

  “Who probably doesn’t exist. Orson sounds like a made-up name, doesn’t it?”

  “I think it sounds distinguished,” I said.

  “You do? Anyway, there’s more. The alarm at the Towsons’ house was turned off and on multiple times each day while they were in London.”

  “That makes sense. Merry walked Eleanor. The housekeeper probably came in. Maybe the handyman, too.”

  “Right. On the days you were there, the alarm was turned off about an hour ahead of your visit. Someone was getting ready for you.”

  “I can see that. They had to take the pictures off the mantel and arrange the candlesticks. For something this complicated, you leave plenty of time for triple-checking your work and for unforeseen events.”

  “Right. That security info doesn’t get us anywhere … but this might.” Wes lowered his voice, his eyes on fire. “Ava was pregnant. Almost five months.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. Ideas spun through my head like a whirling dervish, but none resolved themselves into words.

  “That changes everything, huh?”

  I nodded, speechless, and turned toward the ocean. Gold specks twinkled across the surface like fairy dust.

  “Do you think Edwin knew?”
Wes asked.

  “No. Given what he said, he couldn’t.”

  “Unless he’s playing deep.”

  “Unless that.”

  “You have to be a good poker player to be an investment banker.”

  “We keep coming back to his alibi,” I said. “The police haven’t cracked it yet.”

  “Maybe he wrapped Ava’s body in ice or something to throw the medical examiner off.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “No, she probably would have found some trace. Maybe Edwin hired it out.”

  “Hitting someone over the head with a frying pan isn’t exactly what hired killers do.”

  “Which means it would be a clever way to throw the cops off your trail.”

  “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced.

  “So what do you have for me?”

  “What you’d probably call a shockeroonie. I’ll tell you, but only if you promise not to quote me.”

  After our usual tussle in which he insisted he needed to be able to cite a source and I held firm that he was welcome to cite any source but me, he agreed to my terms, and I explained about the switch of lamps.

  Wes’s eyes were ablaze. “Yowza, howza, mala-gadowzer. Do you think Jean is on the lam with the Tiffany lamp?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Maybe she and this Orson guy hit the highway together.”

  “Also possible.”

  “Do the police know?” Wes asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you with finding the real lamp?”

  “Nowhere yet.”

  Wes chuckled. “I bet you hate that.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “What else ya got?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Catch ya later!”

  He shimmied down the dune. Seconds later I heard his engine whirr to life. I stayed a while longer, my eyes fixed on a sailboat whizzing along toward Maine. Ava was having a baby. As the initial shock dulled, sadness settled over me like a veil.

  “Now what?” I asked the breeze.

  I shuffled down the dune, found my phone in my tote bag, and tried each of the numbers I had for Jean again. No answer.