Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

I opened my eyes now, stunned.

  Britt’s arm had been extended over our wineglasses as he passed the papers to Dora. Could he have had the cyanide in his hand, maybe in a fold of cloth or tissue, and dropped it in the wine as his hand passed over the glass?

  That would have required the dexterity of a magician, and no sleight of hand had been possible, because everyone was looking at him. He was standing at the front, the focal point of everyone’s attention.

  Maybe.

  I, at least, hadn’t been looking at Britt. I’d been looking at Dora. She looked so gorgeous with her easy smile and beautiful gown. Her dress was black silk and covered with glittering gold sequins. I’d hoped we might become friends.

  A piercing shriek of seagulls overhead brought me back to the here and now, my mouth hanging open, astonished. Britt could have poisoned the wine and I wouldn’t have noticed. I’d been there with my eyes open and yet saw nothing.

  Murder in plain sight. Was it possible?

  I closed my eyes again, willing more memories to come.

  Dora scanned the bid sheets. I noticed her shimmering shawl, draped artistically, barely resting on her shoulders, drooping low at the back and dangling from her elbows. A small black clutch purse was tucked under her arm.

  I looked at Dora; then I moved the wineglasses, shifting them aside, away from Dora’s shawl. The shawl’s too close; it will dip in the wine, I thought as I watched Dora.

  In the waning afternoon light, the trees visible through my window appeared dense and dark. I allowed my eyes to stay fixed in the middle distance as more freeze-frame memories came to me.

  When Dora had finished reading, she rearranged her shawl a bit and turned toward Britt. She was excited by the results—the Guild had raised a lot of money. He accepted the bid sheets from her and said something to Maisy that I couldn’t recall now, then spoke to me, inviting me to join them at the podium. I declined.

  When did Maisy pick up her glass? I shook my head. I had no recollection. What I did remember was that as soon as Britt approached the platform, Hank’s brass quartet segued into the fanfare, as scheduled. Britt climbed the few steps to the low stage, stood behind the podium, and looked out over the crowd with self-important satisfaction. Was he feeling prideful because of the success of the Gala, I wondered, or because of his handiness at poisoning the wine?

  I didn’t know anything about Britt’s relationship with Maisy, beyond what Wes had revealed. Wes discovered that Maisy had consulted Britt on what we assumed was a non-Guild matter and paid in cash. Why? And was that act related to her death?

  Maisy was far more complicated than I’d realized. Maybe everyone was once you scraped the surface of their veneer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I

  turned toward my computer and Googled Campione d’Italia. Who knows? I thought.

  Campione d’Italia was an Italian tax haven completely surrounded by Switzerland, on the shore of Lake Lugano, a tiny place with huge financial impact. Unique. A little piece of Italy where people could have unfettered access to Swiss services—including Swiss banks.

  I called Wes.

  “What ya got?” he asked as soon as he heard my voice.

  I swallowed, wondering whether I needed to be circumspect on the phone. No. I assumed that Detective Rowcliff had found some reference to Maisy’s overseas account, so even if my phone was tapped, I wouldn’t be revealing anything he didn’t already know. “Maisy had booked a cruise leaving in November.”

  “And?”

  “And she paid for it by electronic transfer from a bank in a place called Campione d’Italia.” I explained what it was and rattled off the bank’s name and Maisy’s account number.

  “We should meet,” Wes said, warning me to keep quiet.

  “I can’t. And I’m sure that there’s nothing I know that the police haven’t already learned.”

  “Fair enough. That’s true for me, too.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, mystified.

  “Great minds,” he said. “After we talked about Maisy paying in cash, I checked with my financial sources. They told me Maisy charges a lot, so the cash payment is unusual, as we speculated it was. Plus, the police apparently found an e-mail on Maisy’s work computer confirming that a Swiss bank account was opened and that a big deposit was received, but there’s no indication of the origin of the money, and the bank won’t say—at least not yet. The police are working on it.”

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Two transfers totaling four hundred thousand U.S.”

  I whistled softly. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Tell me about it,” Wes said, agreeing.

  “She deposited that amount?”

  “Nope. The money came from another source—not from any of her accounts.”

  “What source?”

  “That’s unclear,” he stated, and I could picture his mouth twisted in frustration, hating it that there was something he didn’t know.

  “So you’ve confirmed that someone deposited money in her account, but you don’t know who?”

  “Exactly. The deposit was electronic, from another offshore account.”

  “What do you think it means?” I asked.

  “Maybe Maisy was planning to move there.”

  “No way,” I said. Even a cursory look at Web sites related to Campione d’Italia showed a jet-setting lifestyle, way beyond what most people could afford. “Unless she has more accounts than that one, it’s not possible. This is the sort of place the megarich live. Four hundred thousand sounds like a lot of money, but in that world, it’s not.”

  “So, then, why would she open the account there?” Wes asked.

  “Maybe she wanted the privacy of a Swiss bank.”

  “But if that’s the case, why wouldn’t she just have opened an account in Geneva or Zurich?”

  “It seems that’s the beauty of this place. There’s no tax.” Clever little Maisy. “Wes?”

  “What?”

  “Maybe the money was a blackmail payment,” I ventured.

  “I was thinking the same thing. You knew her. Does that idea fit?”

  “No way. But I shouldn’t speak—the truth is that I didn’t know her at all. It’s almost as if she lived a double life.”

  “Or was getting ready to.”

  “Yeah. Good point.”

  “Except that if Maisy really was blackmailing someone, maybe she was the intended murder target after all,” Wes said.

  “But someone really did try to kill me yesterday.”

  “That’s true,” he replied.

  We agreed to talk later, and as I hung up, I swung my chair toward the window and watched my maple tree as I continued thinking.

  Wes and I speculated that Maisy had blackmailed someone— $400,000 worth of extortion. Was it possible, I wondered, that she had, in fact, done so, and that Britt was her target? If so, maybe I’d found a viable motive. Perhaps the cash payment that someone in Britt’s law office had recorded was a fake, that Maisy went to his office to extort money, not to get legal advice. It was possible that Britt took money out of his own pocket and handed it over to his bookkeeper to create the illusion that Maisy was a client.

  I needed to talk to Max, to get his read on my shocking revelation, and to ask him how he thought I should proceed. Would he believe me? Or would he think I was fanciful, embellishing the facts in my effort to find answers?

  I wondered whether to call Wes back. Maybe. Knowing him, he’d have a source who would be able to ferret out Britt’s financial dealings. A $400,000 withdrawal from any of Britt’s accounts might indicate that I was onto something. As I stood, stabbed by throbbing pain, I decided that I should call Wes. It wasn’t idle curiosity. It was self-preservation. Screw protocol. I wanted to know everything I could that might help me stay alive. My father didn’t just say, Ignorance is never bliss. He also told me, Knowledge is always power. Later, maybe, I’d call him. But not now. Now I needed support m
ore than information.

  As I shuffled across my office floor and walked down the spiral steps one slow stair at a time, slowly limping through the vast warehouse space into the auction venue, I felt weak from the searing intensity of my Gala memories and my brush with death. I had to face the fact that it was entirely possible that Britt was a killer—and that now he was out to kill me.

  When Britt stood next to me, perhaps concentrating on sliding the powdery poison into the wine, he’d have had no way of knowing that I wasn’t paying any attention to him at all. It was entirely possible that he would be surprised to know that my focus was divided between admiring Dora’s stunning appearance and missing Ty, and that, therefore, I hadn’t observed a thing.

  I shook my head as I switched on the lights and adjusted the thermostat to take away the afternoon chill. Surely Britt—or whoever was responsible—knew by now that I was no threat. I hadn’t told the police anything against him, or anyone, and I wasn’t a blackmailer.

  Maybe, I thought with a flash of hope, there will be no further attempt to kill me. My optimism faded soon enough.

  “Hope is the thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson wrote.

  It didn’t matter whether I had seen anything. What mattered was whether the murderer believed that I had. “Perception,” I whispered. “Perception becomes conviction.” I shook my head, confused and troubled, picked up the phone, and dialed the only person I felt I could trust—Max.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I

  s everything all right?” Max asked when I had him on the line.

  “Yes. Thank you, Max. Detective Rowcliff is due at four.”

  “Good. What’s up?”

  “I remembered something. And I think maybe it’s important.”

  “I’m in a meeting, Josie, so I can’t talk for long. Can it wait?”

  I paused, unsure how to respond. Could it wait? Yes. Should it? No. “I think Britt had an opportunity to add the poison. I don’t know that he did, but I recall his hand stretching over the glasses.”

  I heard Max breathing, but he didn’t speak for several seconds. “I’ll stop by about quarter to four and we can discuss this further. All right?”

  My tension melted away. Max would tell me what to do, and he’d be here when Rowcliff arrived to show me the automobile illustrations. What a relief.

  “Thank you, Max,” I said, my voice cracking unexpectedly. “That’s great.”

  I hung up and leaned against the wall, trying to decide what to do next. It hurt to move, and I closed my eyes until the throbbing pain diminished. “Whew,” I said, and glanced at the clock built into the thermostat display. It read 2:45 P.M.

  Soon Mitch and his expert would arrive to pick up the Chinese tureen. I was exhausted, but the high-charge energy racing through my veins made resting impossible. I’ll go to bed early, I thought. Groaning with effort, I stretched and walked toward the front office to wait.

  As I stepped in, I saw Gretchen half-hidden by a pink aluminum Christmas tree that she was holding up. Fred was on his knees, counting branches. A short middle-aged stranger with a Vandyke beard was leaning against the door frame, waiting. He glanced at me and I gathered from his double take that he was shocked by my bruised appearance, but he didn’t comment.

  “Hi, Josie,” Gretchen said with a giggle. “Mr. Dublin is wondering about his tree.”

  “And ornaments,” the stranger added, pointing to an old cardboard box on the floor next to him.

  “I see,” I responded. “I’m glad you stopped by, Mr. Dublin. Anything I can do to help, Fred?”

  “No, I’m okay,” he answered, still counting.

  “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Dublin? Tea? A Coke?”

  “Nope. Thanks, though.”

  I sat on Gretchen’s chair, and in a moment, Fred stood up.

  “You said you don’t have the original box,” he said. “How about the paper sleeves the branches were shipped in?”

  “No. Why? Does that matter?”

  Fred nodded. “Original packaging always enhances value.”

  Dublin shrugged. “We threw all that stuff away when we first got the tree.”

  “When was that?” Fred asked.

  “Mid-sixties.”

  I smiled a little. Fred was so focused on research, he’d forgotten that Gretchen was still supporting the tree. “How did you transport the tree?” he asked.

  I sent Gretchen a private signal, and she nodded, indicating her understanding, and unobtrusively placed the tree gently against the wall.

  “In my truck,” Dublin replied, shooting his thumb over his shoulder toward the parking lot.

  “Loose?”

  “The branches weren’t in the pole,” Dublin responded, “if that’s what you mean. I rolled them in a blanket. The pole was loose.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll just be a couple of minutes,” Fred said, turning toward his monitor.

  Fred was right about the value of original packaging. Most collectors are glad to pay a premium of 20 percent or more for it. But there was another, less obvious advantage to acquiring items in their original packaging. Antiques and collectibles stored in whatever was designed to protect them are much more likely to be in good condition than goods stored haphazardly. Knowing that the aluminum branches were rolled in a blanket meant we’d need to examine them much more closely than if each one had been tucked into its sized-to-fit paper sleeve. Of course, on a two-dollar item, it didn’t much matter, but aluminum Christmas trees were hot right now, especially pink ones, so we were talking way more than two dollars, and determining its value was definitely worth the effort.

  The phone rang and Gretchen reached across her desk to answer in her usually happy tone. “Prescott’s. May I help you?” She listened. “The tag sale runs every Saturday.”

  As she informed the caller about our tag-sale hours and gave directions, Dora arrived in a flurry of excitement and resolve.

  “Oh, Josie!” she exclaimed. “Look at you. Isn’t this just awful?”

  I smiled a little, touched by her concern. “I’m okay.”

  “Are you, really?” she asked earnestly.

  I nodded. “I am. Thank you, Dora.”

  “You have such a good attitude, Josie.”

  Unsure how to respond to the compliment, I introduced her to Mr. Dublin, explaining that Fred was pulling together some information for him about his Christmas tree and ornaments.

  “Don’t you love these things!” she exclaimed, running her manicured nails through the aluminum frills. “I’m too young to remember them, of course! I meant that I loved seeing them on old TV shows!”

  Mr. Dublin laughed. “Me, too! Both about loving seeing them on TV and being too young. It’s my mother’s tree,” he added with a wink.

  “Really?” she asked, her eyes twinkling merrily. “Looking at you, I would have thought it must have been your grandmother’s!”

  He chuckled with delight. Dora had a gift all right.

  Gretchen’s call ended, and as she greeted Dora, Fred ripped a sheet from his notepad and handed it to me as he walked toward the box of ornaments. Under the printed maroon heading that read PRESCOTT’S, Fred had printed “Net retail $700.”

  I folded the note and slipped it in my pocket.

  After a polite exchange of pleasantries, during which Dora declined Gretchen’s offer of coffee or tea, Dora asked me, “Have you heard anything about who did it?”

  All eyes turned toward me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I

  shook my head, feeling conspicuous. “Nothing yet. At least not that I’m aware of.”

  Dora sighed, communicating worry and concern. “You must be terrified,” she said.

  “I’m okay,” I repeated, uncomfortable in the face of her anxiety.

  “Are the police watching you?”

  “They’re increasing their patrols,” I said, casting an embarrassed glance in Mr. Dublin’s direction. He was openly eavesdropping.

 
; “Is that enough to keep you safe?” she asked.

  “Actually,” I said with a small smile, “you’ll probably laugh, and to tell you the truth, it makes me feel a little like a rock star, but I’ve got some extra security.”

  She nodded, satisfied. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. You’re smart.”

  I shrugged. “Well, until we know what’s going on, it’s hard to say if it’s smart or paranoid. But I figure it can’t do any harm, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Dora followed my eyes, and together we watched as Fred separated the ornaments into clusters of three and four. From what I could tell, he was segregating them by the materials used to create them. Some were fabricated of glass, others carved of wood, and a few appeared to be crocheted. I noticed a preponderance of pink.

  She turned to Gretchen. “Britt told me he’s going to call you later to get an update on the auction pickups. How have things been going?”

  “So far, so good,” Gretchen responded. “I’ve either reached everyone in person or left a message. Our first pickup is scheduled for . . .” she said, drawing out the last word as she glanced at her watch, “now.”

  “Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed that everyone shows up,” Dora remarked. “You never know with pledges.” She swung around and faced me. “Josie, I’m actually here for a business reason. Are you certain you’re able to talk? I can wait if you prefer.”

  “Well, it depends. I’m taking painkillers, so anything involving advanced economic theory or existential philosophy will have to wait. But other than that, I think I’m good to go.”

  “All right, but only if you promise to tell me if you want me to go away.”

  “Okay.” I wondered what business she had that involved me. “Should we go to my office?”

  She tucked her blond hair neatly behind her ear and shook her head. “It’s not private and it will only take a minute.”

  I looked questioningly at her.

  “You may know that the Guild isn’t my only interest,” Dora said. “I’m also involved with a wonderful little group called Literacy Matters. Have you ever heard of them?”