“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you about them now.” She laughed, a musical sound, and leaned forward again to touch my arm with a feathery brush. “I’m hoping you can attend a luncheon I’m giving on the group’s behalf this Friday. If you come, I promise you delicious food, excellent wine, and engaging company, and the only thing I ask is that you listen to a five-minute description of the group’s important work—and that you bring your checkbook.” She laughed again. “But if you’re not feeling up to joining us, I’ll understand completely. I do this periodically, and I’ll invite you again.”
As Dora spoke, a happy memory came to me. It had been a bitter cold February day, with icy gusts bringing tears to my eyes as I hurried along Lexington Avenue in New York. My good friend Katie was hosting a clambake in her tiny studio apartment. She’d organized the elaborate faux beach party in support of a charity. I remembered admiring her commitment to the cause, and the camaraderie I’d felt as I and all of her guests pulled out cash or checkbooks in response to her appeal. And this is how a supportive society is supposed to work, I’d thought at the time. Someone asks and others who are part of that community trust the person’s judgment and say okay.
I was more than pleased that Dora had invited me—I was elated. Maybe, I thought, with fingers crossed, this week will mark the beginning of the end of the isolation I’ve endured since moving to New Hampshire. Ty is different, I told myself. No matter how terrific a man may be, he can never replace a girlfriend. Maybe Zoe, my landlady and neighbor, would become a friend, and Dora, my covolunteer, another. Is it possible, I wondered, that I’ve found the beginnings of a community that will last?
“I’d love to go,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to—just as long as you don’t think my appearance will scare your other guests away.”
“Don’t be silly, Josie. Everyone is very upset about what’s going on and thrilled that you’re all right.”
“Thank you, Dora,” I said, discomfited at the thought that people were discussing me.
“I’m going now,” she said, flashing a smile in Gretchen’s direction, “I’ll call Gretchen tomorrow and give her all the details.”
“Great,” I said, meaning it. “Thank you for including me.”
Five minutes later, I sat in the guest chair, sipping another cup of tea, resting as Gretchen and Fred worked in companionable silence. Fred was almost done with his on-the-spot appraisal. The phone rang—another inquiry about Saturday’s tag sale. In the midst of all my strife, I allowed myself a private “woo hoo!” Business was good.
“Are you interested in selling the tree and ornaments?” Fred asked Mr. Dublin.
“Nope. It’s my daughter, Irma. She’s getting married next month. As part of her wedding gift, her mom and I thought we’d give her all the Christmas stuff. I just want to know what it’s worth, so when it’s my other daughter’s turn to walk down the aisle, we can be fair to Kenna.”
“Okay, then,” Fred told him, “but you need to help me understand what you mean by ‘fair.’ The thing is that replacement value is different from ‘I gotta get cash’ value, you know?”
“Understood,” Dublin said, nodding. “I don’t need an exact number. I just need a ballpark figure.”
“Well then, you might as well use full retail,” Fred told him.
“Okay,” Dublin agreed.
“Keep in mind, this is the top-dollar price for the tree. I’m not saying you could get this amount, but you might.”
“Got it. And?”
“Full retail is around seven hundred dollars.”
Dublin looked pleasantly surprised. “That’s more than I expected. How about the ornaments?”
“To tell you the truth, there’s nothing special there. I mean, there’s no item that’s worth more than a dollar or two, even though there are some nice things.”
Tag-sale value, I thought, using our unofficial code to indicate that there was nothing significant.
“So, soup to nuts,” Dublin asked, “you’re talking what? About seven fifty?”
“Not even. Realistically, you should call it seven hundred, seven twenty-five, maybe,” Fred responded matter-of-factly.
Dublin smiled and nodded. “Fair enough. Thanks.” Working together, he and Fred disassembled the tree. He shook my hand, thanked Fred for his work, scooped up his tree pole and branches and the box of pink ornaments, and, with a final smile and a wave, left.
No money changed hands, but with any luck, Mr. Dublin would refer friends to us and return if and when he ever wanted to buy—or sell—antiques in the future.
“Good job,” I told Fred.
Mitch Strauss’s expert, Dr. Miles Kimball, arrived a few minutes later. He stepped into the office and announced to no one in particular, “Please tell Ms. Prescott that Dr. Kimball has arrived.” He looked as snotty as he sounded.
I placed my mug on Gretchen’s desk, stood up, and said, “Hi. I’m Josie Prescott.” I extended a hand and smiled as best I could.
Dr. Kimball took my hand, shock at my appearance registering on his long, bony face.
“Josie,” Mitch Strauss exclaimed, entering the office a moment later. “Good God. Look at you. Should you be here? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital? At least at home?”
“I feel better than I look,” I assured them both, using my stock line, trying again to smile.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Dr. Kimball said coldly.
Mitch wouldn’t allow my disclaimer to stand and said something else about how I ought to be resting. If I’d let it, his effusive concern would have embarrassed me into silent misery. Instead, I deflected the attention. “Thanks for your concern. So tell me, are you excited to pick up your tureen?” I asked.
“You bet! I can’t wait to get it home and on display. Rochelle has cleared out a cabinet—‘the place of honor,’ she calls it.”
During the Gala, Mitch and his wife, Rochelle, had carefully examined each item up for auction, but I’d noted that, like most investors, they seemed to care more about the value of the antique than they did for the item itself. When I started at Frisco’s, I learned quickly that for many collectors, the concept of value is complex. Sure, for some, the beauty, rarity, or cultural importance of the antique matters. And so, too, does its cost, of course. But for most, it’s the status that possessing the item confers on its owner that seems to matter most.
Right out of college and filled with naïve idealism, I’d expected people to buy an antique because of the piece’s splendor or significance, and had been stunned and disappointed to learn that such reasons were, in fact, the exception, not the rule. Most buyers made purchase decisions based on their personal perception of value, and usually that meant some combination of investment potential and prestige. Perception again, I thought. It always comes back to perception.
I led the way through the warehouse into the auction venue, and I noted that Mitch kept his eyes down, never once glancing toward the stage, where Maisy had stood only three days earlier. I limped over to where the “Birds and Flowers” tureen stood. Mitch and Rochelle had won the object with a bid of $21,800, almost 10 percent above our estimated selling price.
Even before I could lift the Plexiglas cover, Dr. Kimball snorted scornfully. “This is a fake.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
S
hocked, I stared at him for a quick moment, then turned toward the tureen and saw at a glance that he was right. Instead of the vivid rose-themed duck and lotus flower design, I saw a crude illustration in faded pink.
Stunned, I lifted the Plexiglas display case cover and gently rotated the bowl to reveal its bottom. I stared, disbelieving. “Made in China. Not for food use. May poison foods,” the orange legend read, indicating the dangers of lead paint.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. My stomach flip-flopped and I thought I might pass out. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. Not only was the tureen a fake, it wasn’t even a good fake. Nota
ting the country of origin by name didn’t begin until the mid-twentieth century, and adding toxicity warnings was an even more recent development. Even at a glance, I knew its pedigree. It was the sort of import marketed as a “reproduction” through scores of specialty gift shops nationwide, and probably it retailed for about a hundred dollars.
Since no one could possibly think that this fake would fool a professional—witness Dr. Kimball’s immediate recognition—it was a placeholder, nothing more, an item to put on display so our attention wouldn’t be caught by an empty case.
I felt completely mortified. What must Dr. Kimball and Mitch think? I wished a trapdoor would open and allow me to escape. I should have checked it out before bringing them in to appraise it, I thought, rebuking myself. How could this have happened? I stared into space, shocked and ashamed. It’s my fault. I could have kicked myself.
Horrified at the potential impact this debacle might have on my reputation and future prospects, I was unable to speak, but my brain was running at top speed. I didn’t know who had stolen the tureen or when. But on the face of it, it didn’t seem like a garden-variety theft. It seemed worse—more carefully plotted—as if someone was trying to ruin me.
Dr. Kimball left, his heavy footsteps pounding across the concrete floor of the warehouse.
“I’m sure there’s some logical explanation,” Mitch assured me. “You know, a misunderstanding of some sort. Or a joke.”
I stared at him and tried to appreciate his efforts at minimizing the situation, but I couldn’t. My initial shock had morphed into white-hot anger, and my wrath was growing by the minute.
“Thanks for the thought, Mitch,” I replied calmly. “But whatever is going on, it’s no joke. It’s a major theft. I’ll be calling the police immediately, of course.” I nearly choked on the words as I added, “I assume I don’t need to tell you that I did not substitute a cheap fake for the real thing.”
“No, no, of course not. Please excuse Dr. Kimball’s brusqueness. I’m sure he would never think such a thing, either.”
I didn’t comment. From the look Mitch gave me, I could tell that what he’d just said was a lie. Dr. Kimball was probably already on his cell phone, spreading the word that Prescott’s was a sham and I was a charlatan.
“Well, I guess I’d better go,” he said after an awkward pause.
“Can you find your way out?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said, and headed for the door.
I limped to the wall and sat down on the floor. I needed to think about what I should do, but I was having trouble focusing. My rage ran deep, but it couldn’t eliminate the shock. I felt sucker punched.
Mitch’s footsteps had barely faded away when I heard the familiar click-clack of Gretchen’s heels.
“Josie?” she said as she entered the room. “What’s wrong?”
I looked at her. “Please call the police and report that the Qing dynasty tureen has been stolen.”
“What happened?” She started toward me, concern apparent in her expression.
“Not now, Gretchen,” I replied sharply. “Call them.”
She must have heard something in my tone and seen something in my expression, because she stopped short, turned, and ran to the phone.
“This is Prescott’s,” she said when someone came on the line, then gave the address. “We’ve had a theft . . . a rare tureen—an antique. . . . Oh my God, I didn’t think . . . no, I don’t know. Hold on, please.” She placed the mouthpiece against her chest and said, sounding awed, “Josie, they want to know if the intruder is still here.”
I stared at her for a long moment, numb and frightened; then I turned toward the double doors that gave way to the parking lot. The heavy bolt was in place. That meant that this was probably an inside job. I couldn’t believe it—had one of my employees, Gretchen, Sasha, Fred, or Eric, all of whom had the run of the place, done this terrible thing? I can’t trust anyone, I reminded myself. I’m alone. I shivered as if it were cold, though it wasn’t. What gave me goose bumps wasn’t the temperature—it was the chill of isolation. The police had asked if the thief was still here. Maybe. I turned to look at Gretchen, who was waiting for my reply.
“Tell them I don’t know,” I said.
I was still sitting on the floor, deep in thought, when Gretchen escorted a uniformed policewoman named Officer Shirl into the auction room and introduced us.
It took me a minute to get to my feet. I felt beyond tired and wondered if I could go on much longer without collapsing.
“Are you all right?” Officer Shirl asked, watching me struggle and wince.
“Not really,” I admitted. “But I’m hanging in for now.”
“Shall I bring over a chair?” Gretchen asked.
“No, thanks,” I said, and as she seemed inclined to linger, I added, “I’ll take it from here. You get back to work and hold down the fort, okay?”
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking scared.
Of what? I wondered. The situation? Or her role in it?
“I know I can count on you to take care of whatever comes up.”
She flashed a quick appreciative grin. “Okay, then,” she said, and left.
“Whenever you’re ready, please tell me what happened,” Officer Shirl said.
“A valuable tureen was stolen. It’s an antique.”
“What kind of tureen?” she asked.
“It was Chinese. A beautiful piece. Quite rare.”
“Can you describe it?”
“It would be easier to show you. Here,” I said, handing her a catalog, one of a score still piled on a display case nearby. “Turn to page eight.”
She nodded, flipped to the entry, and began reading, her eyes widening when she saw the twenty-thousand-dollar estimate. “Is this right? Twenty thousand dollars?” she asked, sounding as if she wasn’t 100 percent convinced she’d read it right.
“More.”
“Who bought it?”
I gave her Mitch and Rochelle’s names and added, “Gretchen can give you their address and phone number.”
Officer Shirl made a note. “And they arrived to pick up the tureen?”
“Mitch did. He brought an expert named Dr. Kimball.”
“Why the expert?”
I shrugged. “It’s not unusual. He wanted to authenticate the tureen before handing over the check.”
“And Dr. Kimball discovered the theft?”
“Yes,” I replied, mortified at the memory.
“How did Dr. Kimball know it was a substitution?”
“Anyone would have noticed. He didn’t even examine it.”
“But you didn’t notice it, did you?”
Her tone belied the words. She wasn’t implying that I should have noticed anything. She was just asking.
“I noticed it, too,” I told her.
She smiled a little and said, “Tell me about it.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, reliving the shock of the discovery. “Dr. Kimball announced that it was a fake. I looked up and saw it.” I opened my eyes, looked at her, and shrugged. “Really. That was it. One glance.”
“Then how come it took an expert to discover it? How come you didn’t see it before?”
“It didn’t take an expert. It took someone focusing on it, that’s all.”
I explained my theory that whoever had substituted the fake tureen intended to delay discovery, not trick a pro. “No way would anyone who knows anything think that this tureen was an antique.”
“Why do you suppose you hadn’t noticed the substitution before?”
I leaned against the wall, resting my still-aching ankle. “I didn’t look. That’s all. I had no reason to. I wasn’t in this room at all today. If I’d looked at it, I would have seen it had been switched.”
She nodded and asked, “When did you last notice it?”
I paused for a moment, trying to gather my scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. “Yesterday. Britt, Dora, and I put Post-its”—I poin
ted to a couple of the yellow sticky notes still in place—“on every item. The tureen was where it was supposed to be then.”
“Britt? Dora? Who are they?”
“Britt Epps, the honorary chairman of the Gala. Dora Reynolds, the chair. That’s what all of these antiques were being auctioned for. It was a charity event.”
She nodded. “When were you here with them?” she asked.
“I’m not sure exactly. Morning.”
“And since then?”
“I haven’t been back in here.”
“Who has?”
“I don’t know for sure. I haven’t been here the whole time.”
She persisted. “As far as you know, who?”
“No one.”
“Who else would know?”
“Gretchen. She’s my assistant. The woman who brought you in here. She might have some ideas.”
All at once, I had an unaccountable urge to cry. Anger had degenerated into self-pity. It was just too much. First Maisy’s murder. Then worrying about Ty and Aunt Trina and missing him, when having him around would have been such a comfort. Then my attack. Now a theft. I felt overwhelmed and underprepared to deal with the madness. I took a deep breath, trying to stop. When I opened them, I found Officer Shirl watching me with professional interest. To her I’m a suspect, I realized, and all at once, I felt faint.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I
’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed at my emotional display.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Do you want to sit down? Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Thanks. No. I’m okay. Please, just continue. What else can I tell you?”
“You own this business?”
“Yes.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“Four full-time and a couple of part-timers.”
“Their names?”
Officer Shirl was writing down their names when I heard footsteps and Max arrived, escorted by Gretchen. From his solemn expression, I gathered that Gretchen had filled him in.
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