The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “‘Our’ kids?”

  “Mark—that’s my boyfriend. He’s got a good steady job now. He’s in construction. We’re getting married in the fall. In Vegas. My mom moved there last spring. She says the economy there is booming. She got a great job waitressing at the Venetian in about a minute and a half. Mark can work anywhere … so we’ll see. If I can find something out there, we’ll move. Why not, right?” She raised crossed fingers. “All you need is a good job.”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to find a great job, Tammy. Not everyone is as determined as you are, and that counts for a lot. So can you think of anyone who might have it in for Edwin?”

  “Besides me?” She gave a twisted grin. “Joke. Seriously, no way. Everyone wants him to live long and prosper. He’s loved because he pays so much.”

  “How about someone at Towson’s who needs extra money, despite the good pay?”

  “You just described everyone. You start making more money, you start spending more money, so you need more money.”

  “That’s for sure. I mean someone who’s especially extravagant, though.”

  Tammy took a slug of Dr Pepper, then placed the can on the ground and stood up. I had to tilt my head back to meet her gaze.

  “Like Mr. Towson?” she asked. “He spends a ton of money.”

  “On what?”

  “He owns his own plane, can you imagine? One time, he and his wife flew to Paris for dinner. For real.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “He bought a beach house, too.” She reached for the can and took a sip. “They call it a guesthouse, supposedly for company visitors.” She lowered her voice. “Except visitors almost always stay at the Austin Arms.”

  “What do you think the guesthouse is really used for?”

  “The truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Tammy took a long swig. “I think Mr. Towson keeps a girl there.”

  “Really?” I let my jaw fall open and my eyes grow round.

  Tammy giggled but didn’t say anything else.

  “Who? I’ll never quote you. I promise.”

  “It’s not like I’ve seen him doing the dirty or anything. But a guy like Edwin … come on … rich, middle-aged, likes to flirt. You do the math.”

  “Did he ever make a pass at you?”

  One of the boys screamed, an angry screech. Tammy twirled toward the sound.

  “Timmy!” she shouted. “Don’t hit.”

  “Sorry!” a small voice called.

  “Kids.” She turned back to face me. “What did you ask?”

  “Whether Mr. Towson ever made a pass at you.”

  “Not really, but I can read between the lines. If I’d shown any interest … let’s just say, he made his intentions clear.”

  “Do you think that’s why he fired you? Because you didn’t show any interest?”

  “I wondered about that.” Her shoulders raised an inch, then lowered. “How can you tell?”

  “It’s like any kind of discrimination. It’s not like they tell an older candidate, ‘We don’t want to hire someone over sixty.’ They just don’t hire him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you know where the guesthouse is?”

  “Sure. It’s an easy address to remember. Number one Ocean Avenue, Rocky Point.”

  “That must mean it’s near Rye.”

  “Right across the border.”

  The kids flew by, laughing, still fencing. She smiled as she watched them, proud and pleased.

  “Any employees who gamble?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said, turning back to face me. “There’s an office pool every week.”

  “Anyone go overboard? Weekends in Atlantic City, that sort of thing?”

  “Not that I know of. Everyone was nice. Work-till-you-drop types, a lot of them, but nice. Except Mr. Towson and the bitch who didn’t train me.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “His bookkeeper, Lara Reisch. She’s completely got a stick up her you-know-what.”

  “Not the warm and fuzzy type?” I asked with a sympathetic smile.

  “Not hardly. She’s the type who wants to know everything so she can make everyone else look stupid.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “That’s Lara.”

  “Do you have any other suggestions for me?”

  “Sorry,” Tammy said. “No.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so I thanked her for her time and the information, then left. I followed the road until I came to a small rotary. Heading back to the entryway, I noticed that the boys were still deep in their battle and Tammy was still watching them, her expression dreamy and distant.

  Tammy hadn’t asked me what was stolen. Either she wasn’t curious—or she already knew.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After leaving Tammy’s community, I drove back to Rocky Point. I parked in the Lobster Pot’s oversized lot and checked messages. I had two, an e-mail from Wes and a text from Ty.

  Wes wrote to ask if I had any tips, reminding me that the photos from Jean’s condo complex weren’t enough to equalize our balance sheet. I replied that while I didn’t accept the premise of his statement, I did have a suggestion. I typed: Ask the Towson bookkeeper, Lara Reisch, if anyone at Towson’s is desperate for money. According to my source, she knows everything. I smiled as I hit SEND. I figured it was better that Ms. Reisch shut the door in Wes’s face, rather than mine, and there was always the chance he’d get lucky and learn something that would help.

  Inside, I saw that Marty had added a dessert case, and I selected a small chocolate swirl cheesecake for tonight and a big cherry pie for my barbecue on Sunday. He’d also added a farm stand in a corner of his shop, a store-within-a-store arrangement, run by a local farmer, Al Montgomery, and his daughter, Bonnie. I bought so much, Al helped me carry the bundles to my car.

  Time to cook for my fella. Time to turn off my brain, if I could.

  * * *

  As I was sealing an aluminum-foil-wrapped bundle of clams, the front door clicked closed, and I jumped, my heart shooting into my throat. I dropped the bundle on the counter and spun toward the front. Ty strolled into the kitchen.

  “Oh, my God!” I grasped the counter, waiting for my fright to pass. “You startled me.”

  “Someone’s on edge,” Ty said.

  I pressed my hand to my chest to quiet my pounding heart. “It was the aluminum foil—the crinkling. I couldn’t hear you.”

  Ty spread his arms wide, and I ran into his embrace. I stood with my head resting on his shoulder. I closed my eyes and let the tension that had held me in its crushing grip like a vise evaporate. He kissed the top of my head. I leaned back so I could see his eyes.

  He scanned my face. “You’ve healed nicely.”

  “Good as new.”

  “No sign of danger?”

  “No. It’s just like I told you—whoever shot at me didn’t actually want to hit me. They wanted to stop me from entering the Towson house before they had an opportunity to steal the replacement Tiffany lamp.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Not really. A lot of speculation and conjecture.”

  “Investigating something is a process.” He sniffed, exaggerating the motion. “Just like cooking.”

  “I’ve made all your summer favorites. Sunday, we’ll have burgers and dogs, just like we would have on July Fourth.”

  “I’m a lucky man.”

  “I’m the lucky one. How is it in D.C.?”

  “Better than I expected. I’m making progress.”

  “In the investigation you can’t tell me about?”

  “What investigation?”

  I play-punched his upper arm. “I thought I could get you to admit it.”

  “Ha. You underrate my powers of discretion.”

  I touched his cheek, drawing my finger down to his lips. “I underrate nothing about you. You’re perfect.”

  “I love you, Josie.”

 
“I love you, too, Ty.”

  “Now, cook, woman, cook! I skipped lunch so I could get here early.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And I did. We ate the tomatoes and steamers on the patio and the baked stuffed lobster and corn at the picnic table on the lawn and the chocolate swirl cheesecake back on the patio, enveloped by the sweet scent of cherrywood burning in the fire pit. After dinner, we sat on a redwood-slat porch swing, built for two. I pushed off, setting the swing in motion. Katydids and crickets created a sound barrier, keeping the rest of the world at bay. Strings of Japanese lanterns illuminated our private oasis with a soft orange glow. It was a halcyon night, a perfect interlude.

  “I don’t want to go to work tomorrow,” I said. “I want to stay here with you.”

  “Do it.”

  “I can’t. It’s tag sale day, and we didn’t plan coverage.”

  “Leave early. Let’s go to the beach.”

  “Sold.”

  Ty took my hand in his. “We should plan a vacation. Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you feel like doing something active? Hiking somewhere beautiful? Or are you in a city mood, museums and fancy dinners and so on?”

  I kept my eyes on the yellow flames, dancing in the light breeze. “I know! Let’s go to New Orleans.”

  “Okay. How come?”

  “I saw some photos today of a New Orleans–themed fund-raiser. It made me wish I was there. Have you ever been?”

  “Once. A police chief conference long before I met you. You?”

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to go. Did you like it?”

  “Sure. What did Samuel Johnson say about London? ‘When a man is tired of London, he’s tired of life.’ That’s New Orleans.”

  “And New York.”

  “And Paris.”

  “And anywhere you are,” I said, tilting my head to touch his shoulder. “What will I like best in New Orleans?”

  “Sunday morning coffee and beignets at Café du Monde while reading The New York Times and listening to a sax player across the street in Jackson Square wailing sad. We’ll get there around seven, before the crowds.”

  “It sounds heavenly.” A charred chunk of wood fell through the grate, landing with a soft thud. “I just quoted Samuel Johnson to Olive Winslow, one of the member’s of Ava’s book club.”

  “He’s highly quotable.”

  “I liked her.”

  “You like most people.”

  “True,” I said, and snuggled closer. “What percentage of time do witnesses lie?”

  “Talk about a non sequitur! New Orleans to book clubs to liars. I don’t know … Obviously it depends on the situation and the person. If we’re talking criminals or witnesses with something to hide, even if their secret is unrelated to the case at hand, I’d estimate … ninety-nine, ninety-eight percent of the time … something like that.”

  I skewed around to better see his face. “You’re saying people lie all the time.”

  “Pretty much. But not all lies are equal. A guy tells you a girl is a bitch. Maybe she’s a bitch. But maybe he’s calling her a bitch because he asked her out and she blew him off. The same woman tells you the guy’s a creep. It’s possible he’s a creep, but maybe she’s a stuck-up bitch. Since when does asking a girl out on a date make a guy a creep? And that’s a simple example. If a cop asks you an irrelevant, none-of-your-business question, is it better to challenge his right to ask or lie to make it go away?”

  “I can’t believe you’re suggesting lying to a cop is ever okay.”

  “I’m not. This is the sort of thing we discuss in Homeland Security meetings where we’re planning training. We have to train our investigators for reality, not some idealized version of reality. Why are you asking? Who do you think is lying?”

  “Tammy.” I filled Ty in, then added, “I took everything she said with a large grain of salt since hell truly does hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Ha, ha. Tammy said she thought Edwin was keeping a girl at the corporate guesthouse. Tammy could have been that girl until she got the boot. Stealing the Tiffany lamp would be an elegant kind of payback.”

  “It’s hard to imagine a young woman like you describe pulling off a heist like that.”

  “True, but we know she has a partner. Maybe her boyfriend Mark is pulling the strings.”

  “Does he look right?”

  “Assuming he’s the man in the photo with his arms around her, he’s tall, thin, and white, which is all the description we have. So, yes, he looks right.”

  “Not such solid ground to walk on.”

  “Maybe Tammy told Ava what she and Edwin were up to, a kind of spiteful payback to Edwin after he dumped her. If so, that might have been the straw that broke Ava’s back, thus setting the swindle organized by Ava and Jean in motion.”

  “I see what you mean about everything being conjecture and speculation.”

  “Tammy said something else that got me thinking. She talked about his extravagance. Maybe Edwin was doing a BMOC thing, you know, acting like the big man on campus, but actually, he’s broke. Isn’t it possible that Edwin orchestrated the theft of his own lamp? I mean, he flies to Paris for dinner and bought a beach house no one uses. He spends money like I drink water. But then I realized that’s not logical. I made it clear to him that if he consigned his household goods, he’d earn double or more than if he sold them to us outright. He just wanted everything gone. If he’d needed the money, he would have accepted the consignment offer.”

  “Not if his need for cash was urgent.”

  “True.”

  “You should talk to Ellis.”

  “I will.”

  Ty raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. “But not tonight.”

  I nuzzled his hand with my cheek. “No, not tonight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  We all worked Saturdays, and our days were long. The tag sale ran from eight in the morning to six in the afternoon. Typically, I worked the entire day. Eric and Gretchen got in around seven and left around four. Fred and Sasha got in later and stayed later. Often, though, they all worked the whole day, too. Cara’s hours varied. She was wonderfully flexible, helping us ensure we had phone coverage the entire day. Today, Fred was in by seven.

  While Gretchen and Eric oversaw the final touches to the tag sale setup, Fred took me on a tour of the Towson furnishings.

  “Any news on Aunt Louise’s desk?” I asked on the way to the walk-in safe.

  “Not yet. I’m still plugging away.”

  He punched in the code and pressed his finger against the access pad, then swung open the door. Toward the rear, balanced on a metal easel, was a small, softly colored neutral-hued landscape.

  “Probably the most valuable object is the Nicholson, which, assuming it’s genuine and the provenance checks out, will likely sell for about a quarter of a million dollars, followed by this Marie Bracquemond,” Fred said. “It’s called Nu dans un intérieur, numéro deux.”

  I put my high school French to the test. “Nude in an Interior, Number Two.”

  “Mais oui.”

  I tilted my head, considering the painting. A woman stood next to a deep tub filled with steamy-hot water. Yellow petals floated on the surface. “It’s her brushstrokes.” I pointed to a bluish patterned background, wallpaper, I assumed, barely visible through the mist. “There’s almost no paint here.”

  “It’s an impression, right? Not a depiction.”

  “Which is why they call it Impressionism. If I remember right from the insurance listing, the Towsons acquired it at a Paris gallery about ten years ago.”

  “That’s right. The provenance looks good.”

  “What’s your estimate?”

  “Somewhere around six thousand.”

  We never pay more than a third of our estimated value, to account for all the costs associated with running a business, including the risk tha
t our estimate is wrong. With the arrangement I made with Edwin, I agreed to tally up our estimates for the entire lot and pay him outright. He didn’t want to know any details.

  “I forget … how much did they pay?”

  “Including the buyer’s premium, fifty-two hundred. Mr. Towson will be taking a hit on this one.”

  “The whole situation is sad.”

  Fred continued the tour by leading the way to the roped-off area. Hank came frisking over, wanting to play. I plucked a mouse from his collection—Gretchen kept him deep in mice—and lobbed it across the warehouse. He tore after it. The cordoned-off space held three rows of neatly labeled clear plastic tubs stacked twenty high, furniture organized by room, and wardrobe boxes containing Ava’s gowns, designer outfits, and accessories.

  “Did you find the avocado crate?”

  “No.”

  “They probably threw it out. Rustic is not the Towsons’ style.”

  “Not hardly. They sure have great taste, though. My overall estimate is somewhere around two million, plus or minus ten percent.”

  “A good day’s work, then.”

  “There’s great stuff here.”

  I grinned, pleased as much with Fred’s thorough work as I was with the bottom line. Fred went to help Eric and Gretchen with the tag sale, while I climbed the stairs to my private office. As I started up the stairs, Hank came gamboling over, sans mouse.

  “Where’s your mouse, sweetheart?”

  He meowed, explaining that he’d lost it somewhere.

  “It’s all right, sweetie. We’ll find it later. Do you want a cuddle?”

  He mewed. I picked him up and cradled him like a newborn, rubbing his tummy. He purred and cuddled in deeper.

  “You’re a good boy, Hank. A very, very good boy.”

  I kissed his cheek, and he licked my hand, then burrowed deeper into my arms. I got settled at my desk and turned on my computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I drew my nails gently along his spine. His eyes glazed over. He was rapturous.

  I checked my e-mail. Everything could wait until Monday.

  I swiveled to face my window. The sun hung low to the ground, partially hidden by gauzy streaks of silvery clouds. An orange glow permeated the forest that ringed my property. New Hampshire in summer was like I always imagined heaven must be—more Rembrandt than Renoir, fueled by warm briny breezes, and painted in colors as vivid as love.