“Maybe.”
“Fingerprints on the thermostat dial?”
“It’s a digital display, and it’s been wiped.”
“So it was the killer.”
“Not necessarily. Look at this place.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. “I think the word for this is fastidious.”
“Or compulsive. It would be like living in a museum.”
I asked Ellis to open the built-in cabinet doors. The unit housed cable equipment, an old CD changer, racks of neatly organized CDs, mostly light rock, and a stack of puzzle magazines. I felt like a voyeur.
Back on the main level, the living room and den were furnished in ornate red, gold, and green tropical floral fabrics; heavy, dark walnut furniture; and lush Oriental rugs—a modern-day interpretation of British colonial furnishings. The kitchen, in contrast, was ultramodern, decked out in black granite, with a red glass backsplash and stainless appliances. Upstairs, the master bedroom evoked the Caribbean sea, the walls pale aqua, the drapes a delicate blue. The guest room was decorated in shades of crimson, yellow, and orange, like a sunset. All the rooms featured gleaming golden bamboo flooring except for one of the two walk-in closets in the master bedroom, which was carpeted in plush ivory wall-to-wall. The drapes throughout were heavy, with blackout linings. The light fixtures matched the decor: sleek red pendants hung in the kitchen; dark wood ceiling fans with built-in mushroom globes turned slowly in the living room; translucent sconces were mounted on the master bedroom wall; a pair of amber glass lamps with matching shades cast a golden glow in the guest room.
“Any thoughts?” Ellis asked, once we returned to the living room.
“I’ve seen more than one floor safe in a closet, and since that’s the only space in the entire condo that’s carpeted, it might be worth a peek.”
“Good catch. Let’s check.”
We returned to the upper floor.
“Can I get on my knees?” I asked.
“I’ll do it. Direct me.”
Ellis extracted a neatly folded clear plastic minitarp from his pocket, shook it open, and knelt on it. With plastic-gloved hands, he peeled back a corner of the carpet, revealing the same golden bamboo hardwood flooring that was in the rest of the apartment. The carpet wasn’t tacked down; it had been cut to fit and wedged in. He rolled the carpet up and laid it on the tarp, off to the side, out of the way.
I pulled my miniflashlight from my belt and squatted as if I were doing a deep-knee bend to conduct an inch-by-inch search. In the far left corner, a triangular piece of wood with the grain running horizontally caught my eye. The grain on the rest of the floor ran vertically. Once seen, there was no missing it.
I pointed, aiming the light beam at the mismatched piece. “Do you see that triangular bit? It may be a latch. Push it.”
Ellis leaned in and pressed down. A floorboard rose slightly.
“Do I push or pull?”
“Push, harder.”
He did, and a 2' × 2' section of the floor slid up and back like an automated hatch, revealing an opening below. He touched the underside of the flooring section, and it raised effortlessly, revealing a cubbyhole. Inside, a stone-colored metal box, about 18'' × 12'', rested on the bottom.
Ellis called down for someone to come take photos, and also to bring him a jumbo-sized evidence bag. A minute later, the younger of the two technicians appeared and took an array of photos. Detective Brownley appeared in the doorway, a supersized clear plastic bag in hand.
When the technician was done, Ellis eased the box out of the secret compartment and stood. The technician took photos of the empty cubbyhole.
As Ellis walked to the bed, he extracted a second plastic tarp from his pocket and spread it over the duvet. He lowered the box to the tarp. The technician continued taking pictures.
The box had FIREPROOF etched onto the hasp. It was unlocked. Ellis opened it. A folded sheet of paper partially covered stacks of rubber-banded hundred-dollar bills.
Ellis unfolded the paper and laid it on the tarp so the technician could get his shots. It was a receipt for a replica Tiffany wisteria lamp dated the day after Ava had closed her bank account. Jean had paid $44,500 to a New York City antiques dealer named Jonathan Swalling, including delivery charges. The lamp had been shipped via Malca-Amit, a top secure-transport company.
“May I take a picture?” I asked. “I’d like to follow up with Mr. Swalling.”
“We’ll make the call together. You know the questions to ask.”
“I’d be glad to. Is that a no to the photo?”
“Yes, no. If and when it won’t compromise the investigation, I’ll see you get a photo. You can tell Wes I said so.”
“I didn’t mention Wes’s name.”
“I noticed that.”
I didn’t reply. My eyes dropped to the currency. I’d been right. Jean and Ava were in it together. Evidently, Edwin had been right, too—as soon as Ava learned she was pregnant, she came up with a plan to fund her new life by selling the Tiffany lamp. She couldn’t wait for the prenup to expire, and she didn’t want to deal with his complaints about how a baby would disrupt their jet-setting lifestyle.
Jean had overseen the acquisition of a replica good enough to fool him, not a hard task given his lack of interest in the details of his home. I considered how Ava might have justified the theft, whether she wanted the money to help ensure her baby would have the best possible life, or whether she thought she was entitled to it as compensation for her years of service. My mom once warned me that if you marry a man for his money, you earn every penny.
Jean brought the replica over to the Towson house the morning the fake Ava contacted me. They’d hired someone using the name Orson Thompkins to speak to me, pretending to be Edwin, then later to sell the genuine lamp. Once Ava was murdered, though, everything changed. Thompkins decided that discretion was the better part of valor and withdrew the ad. Perhaps they planned to relist it in a few months, once the brouhaha died down, or to try their luck in a different location, a place with a strong antiques market, Atlanta or Dallas or Chicago, or even overseas, in Japan, maybe, where the statute of limitations on stolen antiques was a mere two years. I wondered again, not for the first time, if Orson Thompkins was Ava’s lover. I also wondered where Shawn O’Boyle, Jean’s boyfriend, was in all this. Had he really been in Mexico the whole time? Might he have played the role of Orson Thompkins?
The clock radio on the bedside table read 2:51. “It’s nearly three. May I leave?”
“I’ll need you to stop by the station to give us an official statement.”
“What with Ty coming in and all, can’t it wait until Monday?”
“It shouldn’t. Can you squeeze in half an hour tomorrow?”
“It’s tag sale day.”
“During your lunch break.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Detective Brownley can come to you.”
“Sold.” I turned to the detective. “How’s noon? I supply pizza on Saturdays, so come hungry.”
She thanked me and said that noon would work, then handed Ellis the evidence bag. “I’ll walk Josie out.”
The older technician stood in the dining room tapping something into a tablet. The corpse had been removed.
I paused on the stoop, glad to get out of the frigid air-conditioning and into the hot sun. A niggling suspicion that Edwin knew more than he was telling was with me like an itch I couldn’t reach to scratch. Any man whose wife planned to sell a family heirloom to fund her escape from the marriage would feel betrayed. Some men would act out. Others would tough it out. Some would fall apart. Others would cope. A few might go all Machiavellian on her. I could easily see Edwin in that category. Whether Edwin was involved in the murders, or Shawn was, or neither, as far as I could see, there were no winners. Jean had lived alone, and she’d died alone. Her body had been found by a relative stranger—me. Everywhere I looked, I saw something sadder than the place I’d looked before. I hadn’t even met Ava
or Shawn, but my heart broke for them just as much as it did for Edwin and Jean. Ava must have felt like a big cat in a small cage. Edwin didn’t know which way was up. Shawn was coming home from a business trip to nothing. Jean had only wanted to help her sister.
Poor Ava.
Poor Edwin.
Poor Shawn.
Poor Jean.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I drove to the deserted stretch of beach where Wes and I often met and parked on the sandy shoulder. Jean’s murder had left me shaken and fearful, and I needed to take a minute to let the roiling anxiety trilling through my veins dissipate. Whatever plot had been set in motion when the man calling himself Orson Thompkins asked me to appraise his Tiffany lamp wasn’t over yet. Carrying only my keys, I climbed a low dune, then scampered down the other side and pushed past an unruly thatch of brambles and trailing wild roses until I came to soft sand. I took off my sandals, dropping them near a slick ribbon of bottle green seaweed. I placed my keys inside one shoe. The sand was searingly hot.
I ran for the water, stumbling on half-buried rocks, only stopping when I reached the cool wet sand. The ocean was calm. The tide rolled in with a soft swish. I dug my toes into the sand and stood still, letting the cold frothy water lap my ankles. A hundred yards from shore, a motorboat raced by. Gold stars shimmied across the blue ocean surface in its wake.
I needed to do something, but I couldn’t think what. Ty would be home in a matter of hours, the only bright spot in an otherwise dark day. I was going to cook a feast for him: garlic-and-wine-infused steamers, lobsters stuffed with seasoned breadcrumbs and crabmeat, and all the trimmings, including sliced tomatoes and corn on the cob. It was only a little after three, though, so I had a good hour before I needed to drive to the Lobster Pot, where Marty, a third-generation fishmonger, stocked the freshest seafood on the coast.
A kayak swept by, shearing through the water like a knife through soft butter. A woman, digging deep. The sun was hot. When I was a kid, I’d sit in shallow water and dip my head backward. I wished I was in a bathing suit. I wet my hands and wiped the coolness on the back of my neck.
As I watched the gilt-tipped bobbing water, I considered my options. In five minutes, I had a plan.
* * *
I sat in my car with the air conditioner running and researched Tammy Perlow. The first two hits told me everything I needed to know to find her—where she worked and where she lived.
Tammy worked at Mandie’s Candies, a Rocky Point landmark that served up saltwater taffy and easy-to-carry-to-the-beach favorite snacks, like chocolate ice-cream drumsticks and orange icicles. From her photo on the shop’s “About Us” Web site page I could tell she was fully as beautiful as Judi had reported. Tammy had straight ice blond hair that fell below her shoulders, alabaster skin, big brown eyes that seemed to gaze at the world with guileless joy, and ruby lips. She was tall, probably just shy of six feet, and thin, not willowy, like Zoë, but slender and fit, like a long-distance runner. She must have towered over Edwin.
I found a bunch of photos on the Tarleton volunteer fire department’s Web site. Tarleton, an old mill town west of Rocky Point, had been hurting big-time ever since the textile mills moved south in the 1950s, and there was no sign it was making a comeback. She and her mom, Peggy, had attended a charity event for the Tarleton volunteer fire department, a Mardi Gras casino night, and were listed in the hundred-dollar category called “Patrons.” Peggy was a shorter, older, etiolated version of her daughter. In the photos, which were posted on the “Donate” page of the Web site, Tammy and Peggy wore countless strands of purple, green, and gold beads. One image showed Tammy holding a fifty-dollar bill leaning over a roulette table and hugging the wheel. Peggy was in the background applauding. The caption read “Gimme red every time!” Another photo showed Peggy sitting on a tall, thin man’s lap, laughing. The man, who was about her age, looked embarrassed. This caption read “Come on, Uncle Hal! Loosen up!” A third photo showed a handsome man standing behind Tammy, encircling her in an embrace, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head. The pair smiled at the camera, relaxed, confident, content. The caption read “Life is good!”
Lots of people have given up their landlines, so I wasn’t surprised that she wasn’t listed in the Tarleton white pages. I tried general searches for her address without luck. I slid my tablet back into my bag and drove to Mandie’s Candies.
I parked in the back row of the lot. On hot summer days Mandie’s was packed, and today was no exception. I waited in line, and when it was my turn, I ordered a one-pound box of mixed flavored taffy from a short woman about my age. Her name tag said AMY. Tammy wasn’t behind the counter, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t working. She could be in the back or on a break.
“Is Tammy here today?” I asked as she began filling the tissue-lined box.
“No. She’ll be in tomorrow, though.”
“Can you tell me where she lives?”
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry, we don’t give out that information.”
I smiled sweetly. “I understand.”
I paid and left.
I was tempted to give up, but I had one more lead, and forty minutes, so I decided to persevere. I turned right on Macaw, heading inland, and drove through Tarleton’s desolate downtown. Boarded up storefronts nestled amid empty overgrown lots. Tumbles of frayed tires, battered furniture, and rusty old cars up on blocks covered most of the next block. A mile farther on, past deserted houses and fallow fields, I came to a well-lit and clean nineteenth-century brick firehouse. Its well-tended appearance seemed oddly out of place in the midst of such decay.
I parked off to the side and entered through a door painted glossy fire-engine red. A man in his early twenties sat at a card table playing solitaire. He was just as handsome as every firefighter I’d ever known. I often wondered if good looks was a requirement for the job.
“Great!” he said, grinning. “Gin or pinochle?”
“I wish I had time. I’m Josie.”
He stood and offered a hand. “Chris. What can I do you for?”
I glanced around. A shiny red truck sat next to a white ambulance. Gray metal lockers lined one wall. Hoses hung in neat coils on the other side next to shovels and hatchets. Through an open door at the rear, I heard sounds of life, a pot clanging, a door opening, and footsteps.
“I’m looking for Tammy Perlow. You know her, right?”
“Sure. Her boyfriend is one of our volunteers. Did she tell you to meet her here?”
“No.” I looked down, then back up. “I feel pretty dumb. I lost the slip of paper with her address and phone number on it. Knowing she hangs out here, I thought I’d take a chance and stop in.”
“Don’t feel dumb. I lose things all the time. She and Mark live in Seacoast Park, about a mile down on the right. Unit eighteen.”
I gave him my 100-watt smile. “Thank you, Chris. You’re the best!”
“Sure you don’t want to try your luck at gin?”
“I’ll take a rain check.”
“Done!”
Chris stood at the door watching me back out. As I drove past the station, I gave a final wave, and he waved back.
Seacoast Park was a mobile home park. A sign on the left read:
WELCOME HOME!
Seacoast Park
Metallic red, white, and blue pinwheels attached to the sign with clear shipping tape spun merrily. A covey of kids ran through the small gardens that surrounded the trailers playing tag or chasing balls, and half a dozen adults, all women, sat on colorful woven-plastic lawn chairs alone or in pairs.
I drove to number 18, a nicely maintained double-wide mobile home. One parking slot was empty. A rusty old brown sedan was in the other slot, not the car of a rich man’s mistress. If Tammy had ever been Edwin’s mistress, I bet she wasn’t now—not if she lived here and drove that car. I pulled into a parking spot.
I heard kids’ squeals coming from inside the trailer. Moments later, two boys leaped from t
he stoop to the grass, each wielding a plastic sword, engaged in a ferocious galactic dual. One was slightly taller than the other. They looked to be about six or seven. I knocked on the screen door frame.
“Hi,” I said when Tammy appeared at the door. “I’m Josie Prescott, an antiques appraiser from Rocky Point. I’m hoping you can help me.”
She turned toward me, squinting into the setting sun, and cocked her head. “Antiques?”
“I know it seems kind of random, but it’s not. I was working on an antiques appraisal with your former employer, Edwin Towson, when someone stole the object. My research suggests the theft was personal, that someone is out to get him.”
Tammy snorted, an unladylike sound. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“What do you mean?”
Tammy stepped to the left. No lights were on, so despite the open door, she disappeared from view like steam in cold air. Two minutes later, just as I was about to knock again, she came outside carrying a folding stool, the kind people bring to tailgating parties, and a can of Dr Pepper. She used her left foot to kick open the stool and sat, leaning against the trailer, her eyes on the boys. She pressed the can against her forehead, rolled it along the back of her neck, then popped the top and sipped. She pulled a basil leaf from a bushy plant.
“I’ve worked retail since junior high, and I’m trying to get into office work, you know, to better myself. Mr. Towson didn’t even give me a chance. He fired me before I could learn the job. You tell me that’s fair.”
The two boys whizzed by, swords flashing.
“Cute kids.”
“Thanks,” she said with the kind of smile that launches ships.
“I’m really sorry to hear you were fired. What happened?”
“I made too many clerical errors,” she said, punctuating the words with air quotes. “Give me a break. I mixed up some papers. No one told me I needed to keep things in a certain order. What am I? A mind reader? I offered to do the job over, but Mr. Bigshot tossed me out flat. The bastard.”
“And now you’re back in retail.”
“I’m not giving up, though. Our kids are getting older, you know? I need to show them that if you work hard, you get ahead.”
The Glow of Death Page 17
