The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  Eric came from the loading dock, his work boots clapping against the concrete floor.

  “You wanted to see me?” Eric asked.

  “I wanted to see you both.” I extracted Max’s cards from my pocket and handed them over. “Max is expecting to hear from you. As I told you, this is corporate business, so the company will pay his fee.”

  Eric stuffed the card into his shirt pocket. Fred read it carefully, taking his time.

  “I don’t know why I’m not nervous,” Eric said, “but I’m not.”

  “Maybe it’s because you did nothing wrong,” I suggested.

  Eric smiled. “That’s never stopped me from feeling anxious before.”

  I laughed. “A sign of maturity, then.”

  “I’ll tell Grace you said so. Is there anything else?”

  “No, thanks, Eric. I’m really sorry for this mess.”

  “All in a day’s work.”

  “I hope not. I hope this is unique.”

  Eric turned and left, retracing his steps.

  “The only time I’ve ever spoken to a lawyer,” Fred said, his eyes still glued to Max’s card, “is at a cocktail party.” He slid the card into an inside slot in his wallet. “I don’t own a house—I rent. I’m not married, and I don’t have any kids, so I have a do-it-yourself will. Suzanne and I are talking about getting married, though, so I figured, you know, we’d sit down with a lawyer and go over stuff.”

  “Oh, Fred! That’s wonderful news. I love Suzanne!”

  “Thanks.” He pushed up his glasses. “I guess my first experience talking to a lawyer will be as a suspect in a series of felonies.”

  “I don’t think you’re any more of a suspect than I am.”

  Fred laughed. “Which, if I may say so, isn’t particularly reassuring.”

  I smiled, although I wasn’t really amused.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Both cats followed me upstairs. Hank sat by the love seat. Angela tried to bat his tail. As soon as he sensed her presence, he whisked his tail away. She leapt on his tail, trying, it appeared, to capture it. Hank stood up, shook her off as if she were a feather, and sat back down. From his expression, I could tell that he thought of her the way I perceive a gnat, annoying but not the least bit threatening. He turned toward the stairs, choosing, I conjectured, to nap in his basket rather than on the love seat. Once he’d passed out of Angela’s field of vision, she lost interest and began to clean herself, licking a paw, then wiping her face, over and over again.

  “Are you doing cleanies?” I asked. “What a good girl!”

  Up until now, I’d focused on who could have learned enough about the lamp’s history to pull off the scam. I hadn’t considered the logistics, that just as the fake Ava had to have known that the Towsons were out of town, the man who called himself Orson Thompkins had to have known Cal Miller’s travel schedule. If we could find someone who knew both Cal Miller and one or both of the Towsons, then we had a likely suspect.

  I called Wes and got him. I asked to meet, and he agreed. We settled on the Rocky Point Diner at ten.

  In the ten minutes I had available before I needed to leave, I checked all the stolen art and antiques databases we subscribed to, hoping against hope to see an inquiry from some dealer somewhere asking whether anyone had information about a Tiffany lamp he was considering buying. Sure, we’d posted call-for-sighting alerts everywhere—but people are human, and notices get missed or forgotten all the time. Nothing.

  “Darn!” I said aloud.

  I was fed up to my eyeballs with passively waiting for a posting that would lead to the lamp. I wanted to do something, to make something happen. If only I could come up with a plan.

  While I waited for a plan to germinate, I tackled an unpleasant responsibility and e-mailed Timothy. No news re: the lamp. But no news is just that—no news. It’s not bad news. I remain hopeful.

  He replied almost immediately. Thx, J! I’m working the room on this end. Don’t get me started about lawyers. Issue #2: Any update re: murders?

  My reply reflected my appreciation for Timothy’s unwavering support and was designed to give him a sound bite he could take to the lawyers.

  Thank you, Timothy. No news re: murders, but I would have no reason to know anything since I’m not involved.

  His final reply was short and oh, so sweet.

  You rock, girlfriend.

  * * *

  I got to the diner ahead of Wes, snagged a small booth by a window, and ordered coffee. Wes joined me a few minutes later and ordered a club soda with an orange slice.

  “Most people ask for lime or lemon,” I said, “not orange.”

  “I like oranges.”

  “Me, too.” I waited until his club soda was delivered, then asked, “Any news about Sonny?”

  “The police questioned him straight off but have put him off to the side. He has an alibi. He was installing a custom-made closet system. It took him all morning. He picked up the units at the cabinetmaker’s at seven thirty, then went straight to his client, arriving about eight ten.”

  “He didn’t kill Ava.”

  “And he didn’t pretend to be Edwin.” Wes sipped some soda noisily, like a little boy, his eyes bright with news. “The best part is that he’s not Ava’s baby daddy.”

  It took me a few seconds to respond. “You’re saying the police thought Ava might have been sleeping with the gardener?”

  Wes chuckled. “It’s been known to happen.”

  “Not all things are possible.”

  “He volunteered his DNA. He’s officially out of it.”

  “Ick. All right, then … Sonny’s not involved. Have the police found out who it is?”

  “Nope. He’s flying below the radar. Do you still think it’s that Orson guy?”

  “Who doesn’t seem to exist. Yes, I do. It’s logical. I’m assuming it’s a made-up name, and that if we could figure out who knew Cal Miller well enough to know his schedule and Edwin or Ava well enough to know Edwin’s family history, we’ve got him.”

  “But how can we?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Wes poked at the orange slice with his straw. “Do you think Orson—whoever he is—killed Ava and Jean?”

  “It’s possible. I mean, think about it, Wes. Jean must have known what was going on. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but when she came to my office, she was scared and confused. At the time, I just focused on the confusion. I assumed she was in shock about Ava’s death. Now I think she was terrified that her partners would kill her next—and that’s exactly what happened.”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t help us any.”

  “I know.” I pushed my mug aside, frustrated. “Any news about why Edwin was at the beach house?”

  “None. The police asked him to come in and talk to them about it, and he refused.”

  “I didn’t know you were allowed to refuse.”

  “Sure you are. You know that.”

  I thought of all the times when I’d been called in by the police and Max had reassured me that I was a good citizen cooperating with the authorities, not a suspect under investigation. Edwin was choosing not to cooperate, and I wondered why.

  “You’re right,” I said. “Of course.”

  “I found Alli Rheingold, the woman that Coco Tully sent the card to. She’s a nurse, and she won’t even admit knowing Coco Tully.”

  “That’s bizarre. What do they have to hide?”

  “Edwin told the chief that a desire for privacy shouldn’t imply guilty knowledge.”

  “That’s true, too.”

  “Who knows? Coco isn’t talking either. The Clover Avenue address on the envelope goes to a nice house in a nice neighborhood in West L.A. near the Santa Monica line. No one is home. The neighbors don’t know anything except that a couple moved in recently. The house is owned by a big law firm, and you can forget trying to get information from a law firm.”

  “Maybe Coco is a nickname.”

  “For w
hat?”

  “Charlotte. Colleen. Caroline.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Wes slid out of the booth. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  He placed two dollars on the table. “Catch ya later!”

  I waved good-bye and sat, watching Wes. He walked so fast, he nearly ran. He was always in a hurry.

  Window boxes packed with fuchsia and white petunias rested on ornate brass supports. Hints of sunlight touched the parking lot. I tried again to bring up an image of the fake Ava. The sketch artist, Bryan, and Ellis were hopeful that more pieces of the picture would find their way to my consciousness, adding to the integrity of the image. Then, without warning, a different memory surfaced. The elusive idea I’d been chasing overnight came to me: Ava had been on her high school reunion committee.

  * * *

  Rocky Point High School was housed in a long brick building overlooking Old Mill Pond, not far from the library. From the rear, rolling lawns led to nicely groomed athletic fields, stainless steel spectator stands, and the Pond. A boathouse sat near a long dock.

  “Which way to the library, please?” I asked the guard, a portly man long past traditional retirement age.

  He asked for my ID, then checked a printed list. When he saw my name wasn’t on it, he said he’d need to call someone.

  I waited off to the side. Two people who looked like parents passed through. So did a man with a sample case. All three were on the appointment list.

  About five minutes later, a young woman wearing a mint green sweater set, a white skirt, and white low-heeled sandals spoke to the guard. Her ID badge hung from a yellow lanyard. She nodded at something the guard said, then turned to me.

  “Hi! I’m Edie Bradovich, the assistant librarian. Mr. Peterson said you want to visit our library—is that correct?”

  “Yes, for what I hope will be an easy request. I’m an antiques appraiser, Josie Prescott. In connection with an appraisal I’m working on, I need to consult an old yearbook.”

  I could tell Edie wanted to ask me for more details, not because she needed to know but because she was curious. I put my patient mask on and smiled. My dad always said that the trick to negotiation was to challenge the premise of any question you didn’t want to answer, answer those that passed muster truthfully and simply, and never volunteer information.

  “Sure, come on back.”

  After the guard wrote my name down on his list, I passed through the security checkpoint and followed Edie to the library. The expansive room looked its age in the best possible way, with wood paneling, dentil crown molding, and oak wood flooring, burnished to a lustrous gold. There was a small checkout stand near the entry door, a large reference desk, rows of carrels, and angled stacks of periodicals and books. Thirty or so students were scattered around.

  I followed Edie to the reference desk, where a woman sat reading something on her computer monitor. A black and white sign told me her name was Ms. S. Schaeffer. She was a little older than me, with short, shaggy brown hair and a big smile.

  “This is Josie Prescott,” Edie whispered. “She wants to look at an old yearbook.”

  Ms. Schaeffer looked up. When she spoke her tone was hushed, too. “Sure! I’m Sydney, the head librarian. Follow me.”

  We crossed the room to a corner shelf. “What year are you looking for?”

  “Nineteen ninety-seven.”

  “Oh, no! We only keep them here for ten years. We have such limited space we have to make hard decisions. After that period, they go to the archives.”

  “Where is that?”

  She smiled. “A storage unit.”

  I laughed. “Can you access it for me? Or if you’re short-staffed, I don’t mind doing the hunt.”

  “Sorry, no. Library staff only. You’ll have to complete a requisition form. We’re pretty quick. It will only take us a few days to retrieve it.”

  “Do you know of anywhere else that might have a copy I could get my hands on today? The alumni office, maybe?”

  “We don’t have an actual alumni office. All that sort of thing is run through the principal’s office.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “You might try the public library. I think they have a full set of yearbooks.”

  I thanked her, told her I might be back, and drove straight to the library.

  * * *

  Sydney was right—the Rocky Point library housed a full set of Rocky Point High School yearbooks. I eased the 1997 edition from the shelf and sat at a large wooden table near the reference desk to go through it. An older man sitting across from me was reading the New York Times. A young woman on my side of the table was writing something on a yellow legal pad.

  As soon as I turned to the class entries, I realized I didn’t know Ava’s maiden name. I read every name until I found her entry. Her maiden name had been Collier.

  Ava Collier’s photo was pretty typical for a high school yearbook. The background was pale blue. Her brown hair was cut in short layers. Her smile looked forced, not as if she were uncomfortable but as if the photographer told her to say “cheese,” then snapped the shot before she got into position. She listed her after-graduation goal as “travel.”

  I continued turning pages, pausing again when I came to Diane Hawkins, the librarian who ran Ava’s book club. Her maiden name was Lerner. Her photo was better than Ava’s. She looked sweet and starry-eyed. I recognized her prom date from the photo on her office wall. His name was Mitch Montley. He was a fireplug of a young man, short and squat with a shock of dark red hair. He liked fishing.

  I continued flipping pages. Phillip Wilcox had been Ava’s prom date. I touched his handsome face. He’d been a football player and had planned to join his dad’s car dealership as a sales associate after graduation. I used my smartphone to Google him. Evidently, Phillip had done well. He was now the president of Wilcox Car Emporium. I’d passed their lot on Route 1 a thousand times. His dad was listed as the chairman of the company.

  I navigated to Rocky Point’s community blog and scrolled down until I found the photo where Ava posed with the chair of the high school reunion committee. The chair’s name was Janet Chirling. I turned back to the C’s in the yearbook and found Janet’s listing. Either Janet hadn’t married or she’d kept her maiden name. She was a mousy-looking young woman, with buck teeth and a too-wide nose. She wore a white blouse that washed out her olive complexion. From LinkedIn, I learned she was an emergency room nurse at Rocky Point Hospital, and that she loved her work. I Googled her name and found she lived in a single-family house on Strawberry Hill, the oldest section of town.

  I slid the yearbook back onto the shelf and left. Walking across the parking lot to my car, I wondered what someone looking at my high school graduation photo would think. I went to the prom with T. J. Matthews, one of the cool kids in my class. We stayed in touch the summer after graduation, while he was working at his grandparents’ farm in Maine and I was waitressing in Boston, but then we drifted apart. I went to college in New York. He went to school in Boulder.

  High school. When I first moved to Rocky Point, a typical “nice to meet you” question was where I went to school. Having lived in big cities all my life, I was surprised to learn they were asking where I went to high school, not college. My stock answer evolved to “In a suburb of Boston, where I was one of a thousand students.” For some of the folks I met during those first years, typically the star athletes, high school represented the zenith of their lives. For others, high school was a nightmare of not fitting in, of failure, real or imagined, a nadir, not easily overcome. For most of us, though, Ava and me included, high school was merely a step along the way.

  * * *

  Janet Chirling wasn’t on duty and wasn’t expected back until Wednesday. Her regular schedule had her working the 3:00 P.M. to 11:00 P.M. shift, Wednesday to Sunday. I drove to the address on Strawberry Hill.

  Her Cape Cod–style house was located on a winding road about halfway up th
e hill. Positioned to capture the ocean view, she had a large garden in the front, protected from deer and other critters by chicken wire. I recognized peppers, lettuce, zucchini, pumpkins, and two kinds of tomatoes, cherry and beefsteak. The cherries were an early harvest breed. One look at those plump red beauties and I started salivating.

  She answered the door in a purple and yellow floral-patterned short-sleeved bathrobe.

  “Oh, no!” I said. “I woke you up.”

  “Not a bit. I’m just having a lazy day.”

  Her hair was now chin length and wavy, a good style for her, and she’d had work done on her teeth and nose. She’d never be a beauty, but she was no longer homely. She wore tortoiseshell-framed glasses.

  “Sounds wonderful! I’m Josie Prescott, and I—”

  “I know who you are! I’m one of the volunteer wranglers for the therapeutic horse-ride program. You were honored at last year’s volunteer luncheon.”

  “Isn’t it a terrific organization?”

  “Absolutely. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks, but I only have a minute. I just have one quick question. In connection with an antiques appraisal, I need to know who’s on your high school reunion committee.”

  “You need to know who’s on…” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “This is about Ava, isn’t it?”

  I smiled, aiming for casual and reassuring. “Actually, no. I know it sounds odd, but it’s about an object I’m appraising. How many people are on the committee?”

  “Six of us, five, now that Ava’s passed on. I don’t mind telling you the names.”

  She named them, two women besides her, and Phil Wilcox.

  I thanked her, and left. She stood at the door until I drove around a curve and passed out of sight. From her wrinkled brow, I could tell she thought my question was about as weird as any she’d ever been asked.

  I drove down the hill toward Route 1, determined to get a look at Phil Wilcox. I was confident he was the man I knew as Orson Thompkins.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Multicolored flags attached to crisscrossing rope lines flew high above the cars that filled the Wilcox Car Emporium lot. A six-foot-tall inflatable Uncle Sam bounced around overhead. He held a sign announcing a GRAND JULY 4TH SALE. Three men in summer-weight suits, salesmen, stood around, waiting for customers. I pulled into a grocery store parking lot across from the dealership and rolled to a stop against the low barricade that separated the lot from the sidewalk. From my position, I had an unobstructed sight line into the showroom. A shiny red car was parked inside. Phil Wilcox stood chatting to a woman in a sundress. She nodded at something he said and walked into a back office. Through the glass wall, I could see her settle in behind a small desk.