Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  “No. I found some out on my own. But Wes told me about Maisy consulting Britt and the cash payment.”

  Max nodded and stroked his nose, thinking. “And?”

  “That’s it so far. I was thinking that maybe someone could check on Britt—check if he withdrew four hundred thousand dollars, or sold some assets. It would be quite a coincidence if he had.”

  Max shifted position and glanced at his watch again. “I’m going to have to go.” He smiled. “I’ve got to pick up Mackenzie, my eldest, at ballet.”

  I smiled, too, and nodded, but I didn’t speak.

  “We need to tell Detective Rowcliff what you’ve remembered,” Max continued. “And we need to do it now. I’ll call him on my cell en route to the ballet school. But you need to know something. I’m betting that the police know about Maisy’s account—her finances have been scrutinized, I’m sure. And you can bet that they’re using every available means to trace the origin of the money she deposited in Switzerland. But—and it’s an important but, Josie—until and unless they trace the money back to Britt, they won’t find where it came from. The police can’t go fishing. And I’ve gotta tell you this: I can’t imagine how Wes can find out private, confidential, nonpublic financial information like the fact that Maisy paid Britt in cash. It’s outrageous.”

  I started to respond, to tell him that I didn’t know, either, but he held up a hand to stop me.

  “It’s not you doing it, is that correct? It’s Wes, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m an officer of the court and I cannot, and will not, have anything to do with any illegal activity. Which is to say, I’m relieved to hear that you’re not doing anything illegal, and I’m glad that I don’t represent Wes.”

  I didn’t speak for a moment. “I have no reason to think Wes is doing anything illegal.”

  Max smiled. “Good.”

  “So you’re saying that we shouldn’t suggest that Rowcliff look at Britt’s accounts?”

  “Of course not. We should describe the incident you remembered—and not interpret it. We should talk about what you know, not gossip that you’ve heard. Short statements that are based on fact. All the same rules apply, Josie.”

  “Should I talk to Wes?” I asked.

  “It would be completely inappropriate for me to recommend that you talk to a reporter—especially one who apparently uses illegal methods to find out people’s personal financial information.”

  I wished my mind was sharper. Given the fear, stress, fatigue, and quantity of information rattling around in my brain, I couldn’t be certain, but I thought that Max had just told me to ask Wes without letting him know about it. Max said that it would be inappropriate for him to recommend that I consult Wes—but he didn’t say that it would be inappropriate for me to proceed.

  “Okay,” I said, meeting his clear-eyed, inscrutable look.

  He stood up and shook out a trouser leg. “I’ll call Rowcliff now, and I’m sure he’ll want to meet with you tomorrow about this and to see if you recognize any Mitsubishi owners’ names.”

  “Max,” I said, my voice cracking and my eyes watering. “Thank you.”

  “Go home, Josie. Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

  I nodded.

  “Have you met Chi yet?”

  “Someone was around and then he wasn’t there. I guess that was Chi.”

  “That sounds like him. Good. You think of anything else, you call me. Okay?”

  My smile wavered. “Thank God for you,” I managed to say.

  “Ah shucks, little lady, you gonna make me blush like a girl.”

  I listened to his quick-moving steps as he hurried down the spiral stairs, and only when they faded away did I reach for the phone to call Wes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  W

  es,” I said when I had him on the line, “it’s me—Josie.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I can’t meet in person, so I’m going to be discreet.”

  “Okay,” he said, “shoot.”

  “You know the appointment we discussed? The one Maisy paid cash for?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I’m wondering if there’s a chance that he’s the victim?”

  After a pause, he asked, “What do you mean by ‘victim’?”

  Damn, I thought. How can I be clearer without naming people? “Wes, do you remember the European place we discussed?”

  “Yes,” he replied, sounding excited.

  “Right,” I said, reassured that he understood my reference to Britt and the Campione d’Italia bank account. “Maybe he was the source of the funds.”

  “Yeah, okay, got ya. Why? What do you know?”

  “I remembered something that I can’t tell you now.”

  “Josie,” he whined, “I need to know.”

  “No, you don’t. I’ll tell you later, when we’re back on the record. Now we’re off the record, right, Wes?” I said, allowing myself to sound intense and, I hoped, almost threatening.

  “Okay, okay,” he agreed, backing down.

  It was empowering to try to intimidate quick-talking Wes and, in my battered and weary condition, succeed.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to find out?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Oh yeah, I’ll get the goods. No sweat.” He sounded bloodthirsty.

  “Good. Okay, then.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

  If he could find out whether Britt Epps had transferred $400,000—or had gotten that amount in cash—I might be that much closer to finding answers that would help keep me alive.

  Ty called and got me on my way home. I pulled off to the side of the road, which was banked by pine needle–covered grass under an arbor of elms and sycamore. I kept the motor running for warmth and turned on the blinkers for safety. The night was dark. Clouds were thickening, promising more rain.

  “I heard the news. How are you?” he asked.

  “Okay. I’m okay. But it’s been pretty much a nightmare from start to finish.”

  I felt the familiar rush of electricity course through me just hearing his voice. I wished I could see his eyes. I loved his craggy, rough-hewn appearance. He looked weathered, as if he’d been buffeted by harsh storms and survived, with the brown patina and self-confidence to prove it.

  Until I moved to New Hampshire, I’d counted on men taking care of me, but I’d learned the hard way that it doesn’t work that way. Having lost my father, my boyfriend, and my boss within months of one another, I knew that being independent wasn’t an option; it was mandatory. Still, listening to Ty’s deep voice, the truth was that all I wanted to do was have him take charge.

  Chi passed me, then backed up and pulled even with my car.

  I gave him a thumbs-up and pointed to my phone. He nodded and backed up a ways farther. He turned his headlights off and disappeared into the night.

  “How come you didn’t call?” Ty asked.

  “I didn’t want to worry you. I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Medium-sure,” I said, adding, “how’s Aunt Trina?”

  “She’s having a tough time.” He filled me in about her condition, and his concerns. He sounded tired. “I just heard about the theft,” he said, changing the subject.

  “So fast?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I called into work and it was on the scanner.”

  “It’s horrible, Ty. I just can’t believe it.”

  “Any ideas?” he asked.

  “Eddie, the caterer.”

  “How come?”

  I shrugged and winced at the motion. I needed this day to be over. “I’m just worn to a nub, Ty. Can I explain details later? I need to get home and eat and go to bed.”

  “Sure,” he said, immediately empathetic. “Just tell me that the police know everything you know.”

  I pictured surly Detective Rowcliff. “Are you kidding me? Detective Rowcliff?” I joked. “He
knows way more than me. Just ask him.”

  I was starving. After the blissful relaxation of a lavender-scented bath, I was so ready for bed that I debated skipping dinner, then quickly dismissed the idea. The aromas wafting upstairs from the leftover chicken soup I’d put on the burner to warm up enticed me back downstairs. Wrapped in my pink robe, I sat at the oak dinette table to eat. The storm had started as misty drizzle, but the rain quickly became steady. Inside, warm and at ease, I felt cozy.

  Ty called. “Are you eating?”

  “Just sat down. Why?”

  “I thought I’d keep you company.”

  “What a great idea. Thank you.”

  “Are you able to answer questions?”

  “Able? Sure. Willing? Oh, please don’t make me!”

  “You sound completely worn out.”

  Empathy, I knew, was an effective investigative technique. Had Ty called with a professional, not a personal, agenda?

  “When did you last see the tureen?” he asked as I blew on a spoonful of soup to cool it. “I mean, when are you certain you last saw it?”

  “When I was with Britt and Dora reviewing the auction winners. We looked at each item one by one.”

  “When was that?”

  “Monday morning.”

  “And after that?”

  “I didn’t see it again until Mitch arrived with Dr. Kimball—that’s the winner and his appraiser—a little after three today.”

  “Who had access to the auction venue between Monday morning and when you discovered the fake?”

  “My entire staff—Eric, Gretchen, Sasha, and Fred—and Eddie.”

  “Eddie’s the caterer, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Have I ever met him?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, considering the question. “But you’ve heard me talk about him a lot.”

  “He’s the guy with the midlife crisis.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And that’s it? What about part-timers?”

  “No part-timers were on-site, but I suppose anyone could have entered. Gretchen didn’t lock up until after Eddie’s second visit in the afternoon. But that’s a pretty big stretch. Someone would have had to know the place was open and know the value of the tureen and acquire a fake. Not likely.” I took another spoonful of soup.

  “What would motivate Eddie to steal the tureen?”

  “Money. Did I tell you that he closed his business and moved to Oklahoma to take a job?”

  “He did?” I could imagine Ty’s face—it would reveal only mild curiosity. Ty wasn’t a gambler, but he could have been. Even when he felt things deeply, he didn’t show it.

  “With Rowcliff’s permission, apparently.”

  “It happens.”

  “So maybe Eddie needed a stake to start over out west and figured to grab the most expensive piece in the auction. Estimates were listed in the catalog, so he could have easily figured out what to take. Find a Chinese-style tureen, and bada-bing, bada-boom, he’s done. Probably he didn’t even attempt to replicate the actual tureen. He just wanted something that would delay discovery long enough for him to get out of Dodge. And guess what? It worked.”

  “What could he get for it?”

  “Quickly? A few thousand. If he got it appraised and advertised it in the right circles, more. Maybe as much as ten thousand.”

  “What was your estimate?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “Why the discrepancy?”

  “Stolen art and antiques have a limited market. Most collectors would be leery of buying such a valuable piece without a detailed provenance.” I shrugged. “Some wouldn’t.”

  “If he advertises it, wouldn’t he risk getting caught?”

  “Probably not. Most likely, he’d offer it to a shop on consignment, so they’d be the one advertising it, not him. And the tureen isn’t unique. Even with the police sending out alerts, there are so many small antiques stores and so many small newsletters and Web sites that it would be like trying to find a ceramic teapot hidden in a pottery store. Pretty much, it would be a long shot.”

  “And you told Rowcliff your suspicions about Eddie?”

  “Officer Shirl—she was the police officer assigned to the theft—I told her. But I didn’t go into any detail or anything. Max has drilled it into my head that I should give only brief, directly responsive, fact-based answers when speaking to the police. Sad to say, at this point, I seem to have a fair amount of experience with doing so.”

  “So that’s what he tells you, huh?”

  “No comment.” I pushed my soup bowl aside. “Back to Eddie,” I said, “I have his cell phone number. I was thinking of calling him myself.”

  “And saying what?”

  “Well, that’s the problem, actually. I can’t figure out what to say or ask him. I mean, after ‘Did you steal my tureen?’ then what? I can’t figure out a follow-up question when he says, ‘No, I didn’t.’ ”

  “Leave it to the police,” he said. “They know the questions to ask.”

  I shrugged and stayed quiet, unwilling to agree, but lacking the strength to argue.

  “How hard would it be to acquire the phony tureen?” Ty asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. The fake isn’t a high-quality one. There are thousands of them out there.”

  “Where would you buy it?”

  “Specialty gift shops. Like Weston’s on Market Street,” I added, naming a local example.

  “How does the theft connect to Maisy’s murder?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. I don’t understand any of it.”

  “What does Max say?”

  I thought about my recent conversation with Max and my subsequent call to Wes. I didn’t want to tell Ty about it, and I knew why. I wanted to avoid an argument I knew I couldn’t win. If I revealed my take on Max’s strictures—including what I perceived as Max’s faux outrage and veiled encouragement and my call to Wes—Ty would be upset. I could hear him telling me to leave it to the experts—the police. I understood his position, and I disagreed. As Max had said, the police were limited by the law. And from all I could tell, Wes was not. But while I was confident in my decision, I felt too frazzled, overwhelmed, frightened, and exhausted to debate the issue.

  Ignoring my father’s oft-repeated warning, If you have to rationalize it, it’s probably the wrong thing to do, I selected part of the truth. “Nothing,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I

  slept from eight o’clock Tuesday evening to seven o’clock Wednesday morning, and I would have slept even longer if I hadn’t set the alarm. With my eyes closed, I felt around until I located the clock radio’s button and quieted the buzzer. After a long minute of drowsing, I slowly sat up.

  As I stood in the bathroom, looking at myself under the merciless fluorescent glare, I realized that I wasn’t distracted by the throbbing of my ankle. The sharp pain had been replaced by a mild, pulsating ache. When I shrugged, it didn’t hurt. The purple surrounding my left eye had faded to a mottled gray, and a greenish yellow hue had been added to the mix. The swelling was down and I could see just fine. My scrapes were still somewhat painful from the recent abrading, but my smile would no longer frighten small children. I was getting better and it felt good to see and feel improvement.

  I took a quick shower to wake up, and while I still leaned on the banister as I made my way downstairs, I was relieved that movement hadn’t led to wincing or tears. I’d need less grit to get through the day.

  I was just about to put my coffee cup in the dishwasher when the phone rang.

  “Josie,” Zoe whispered, “I’m on my porch watching some guy sneaking around the back of your house. He’s in the flower beds by the kitchen. Jesus, Josie, I think you got a stalker.”

  I pressed my back against the wall and edged toward the hall. I’d left the curtains drawn overnight, but that didn’t quell my panic. I couldn’t breathe, I was so frightened. “What’s he
doing now?” I asked.

  “He’s testing one of the windows, but don’t worry, I got my Beretta 391 aimed at the MF’s head, the son of a bitch. He tries to get in, he’s dead.”

  I clamped my eyes closed. “Zoe, who is he?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Asian.”

  “Chi!” I exclaimed, opening my eyes and moving away from the wall.

  “What?”

  “My bodyguard. He’s Chinese. His name is Chi.”

  “What kind of name is Chi?”

  “It means ‘energy.’ But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that you need to stop aiming your gun at him!”

  “Okay, okay. But are you sure? Because he’s out of sight. He just turned the corner, circling the house.”

  “I’m sure it’s him. Who else could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But I don’t like it that I can’t see him.”

  “You’re scaring me, Zoe,” I said. “Where do you think he went?”

  “Either into the woods or on the other side of the house. But why was he in the backyard anyway?” she asked.

  “Checking things out, I guess. Still, you’d think he would have told me first before he started skulking around.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a small laugh, “that way, you could have told me what he was up to and I wouldn’t have aimed a—uppp . . . uggh . . .”

  I heard a click, and nearly fainted. “Zoe?” I stupidly called into the phone. “Zoe?”

  The doorbell rang a moment later, and I ran to the door. I saddled up to the door and peeked out at a handsome Asian man who stood calmly facing me. He was taller than I expected and lean, like a runner.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “Chi.”

  I swung open the door and saw that he was gripping Zoe by the upper arm. He held her shotgun, business end pointing down, in his other hand.

  “You know her?” he asked.

  “Of course! Zoe, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I got surprised in a rear attack,” she said, making a funny face. But it was clear from her wavering voice that she was shook up, too.

  I stared at him, shocked. “What are you doing? Let her go.”