Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  A hundred miles—the distance Eddie could realistically have traveled in the hours between when gift stores likely would open on a Monday morning—10:00 A.M.—and his return that afternoon around 1:30 P.M. Would someone remember selling the tureen to Eddie? I wondered.

  Rowcliff shifted position again, leaned back in his chair, and gave another quick trill of tapping. “Back to the Mitsubishi. Do you maintain customer records?”

  “What kind of records?” I asked, bewildered by his question.

  “Some kind of database? For mailings, that sort of thing?” he asked impatiently.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Let me have it. I want to compare names and addresses,” he said, reaching for the listing. From his tone, I could tell he thought I was dimmer than a twenty-watt bulb.

  “That’s a great idea,” Max said, jumping in, deflecting Rowcliff’s annoyance. “Can you e-mail the file to Josie? Maybe she can do an electronic comparison of some sort.”

  “Sure.” He whipped a cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, pushed a quick-dial button, and barked instructions to someone named Feldman. He picked up one of my cards from the little holder on my desk and read off the e-mail address. Sliding the phone back into his side pocket, he added, “It’ll be here pronto.”

  “We’ll get right on it,” I assured him.

  “Good. We’ll need yours, too.”

  “Why?”

  “So we can compare them as well.”

  Max leaned forward and asked in a semiwhisper why I was hesitating. I whispered, “My customer list is valuable to us. I don’t want it out of my control.”

  “Josie is concerned about confidentiality,” Max said.

  “What is she—a priest? Whoever heard of a customer list being protected?”

  Before I could respond, Max raised a hand to quiet me and said to Rowcliff, “We’re talking about competitive protection here. She wouldn’t want the list to get into the hands of a competitor.”

  Rowcliff shook his head. “We promise not to hand your list over to another antiques store.”

  “I don’t have a store,” I said coldly.

  “Whatever.”

  “With that assurance, Josie will be glad to send her list over. Where do you want it sent?”

  Rowcliff took a business card from a leather case and told me to send it to that e-mail address. I passed the instruction on to Gretchen on the intercom.

  “Next subject. Officer Shirl tells me that except for yours, there were no clear fingerprints on the Plexiglas display case that contained the tureen. Only smudges. I figure that either it was wiped in a hurry or cleaned badly. So, when was it last cleaned?”

  “Gretchen would know for sure, but I think it was Monday. We called Macon, my cleaning service, after you gave the all clear.”

  He nodded and looked at me. After a moment, he said, “Want to give her a call and ask?” His attitude implied that I was either stupid or uncooperative not to have done it already.

  “Sure,” I said, and picked up the phone, hating him. When Gretchen answered, I asked, “Has Macon cleaned the auction room yet?”

  “No,” she replied. “They’re coming tomorrow.”

  “Wow. Why so long?”

  “No reason. I didn’t think there was any hurry, and Macon was busy. Is there a problem?”

  “Nope, no problem. Just curious.”

  I hung up the phone and turned to Rowcliff. I glanced at Max, wanting to include him in my comment. “Macon hasn’t been near the place—and that means it was wiped off sometime after we left the room Monday morning after sticking the Post-it notes on the furniture.”

  With a final tap of his pencil, Rowcliff stood up. “I’m taking over the investigation—the theft of your tureen. Officer Shirl and I agreed that since the theft and the murder are probably related somehow—or might be—it made sense to put the investigations together.”

  “What does this mean to Josie?” Max asked.

  “It means that if she thinks of anything else,” he said, turning to me, his voice low and threatening, “she calls me, not Officer Shirl—and not a reporter.”

  Before I could react to his menace and insult, Max spoke. “As always, Detective, Josie is glad to cooperate.”

  “Call me later,” he said to me, “and let me know what you discover when you compare lists.” Every word Rowcliff uttered was, it seemed, intended to intimidate. Some people would have spoken the words so they sounded collaborative, but Rowcliff turned them into an accusation, as if I’d planned on withholding the information.

  “She’ll call me,” Max said in a friendly voice, “and I’ll call you.”

  “This afternoon,” Rowcliff insisted.

  Max looked at me. I shrugged. “We’ll do our best,” I said. “If the database fields are identical, we can do a merge/purge quickly and easily. If not, and we have to compare lists by hand, it’ll take longer.”

  “I’ll call you later,” Max said to Rowcliff with a friendly smile, “and give you an update.”

  Rowcliff nodded and paused at the door to add, “Call my cell.”

  “You bet,” Max assured him.

  Once his footsteps had faded away, Max turned to me and, still smiling, said, “Down, girl!”

  I controlled myself and forced a smile. “Yeah. He does have that effect on me, doesn’t he?”

  Max shook his head good-naturedly. “Oil and water is all.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” I took a deep breath as I tried to calm myself. “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now we let the police do their work and you get going on identifying the Mitsubishi,” he replied with a reassuring smile as he slid his notepad into his briefcase, preparing to leave. “And you let me ask the tough questions.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Like whether Eddie has disappeared.”

  I nodded, understanding that Max was trying to protect me from Rowcliff’s anger. If Max asked the questions, the detective’s rage would be directed at him, not me.

  The rain began. I turned to look out of the window. The sky was solid gray and the branches on the maple tree swayed in the rain-swept wind. Dark red and gold leaves fell heavily to the ground.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaimed.

  Max stopped what he was doing to look at me. “What?” he asked.

  It was so obvious, I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before: All Eddie would have had to do was spike the wine in advance and deliver it to Maisy. He was on the floor throughout the Gala, overseeing the service and assisting his wait staff. No one would have noticed.

  “I just thought of something,” I replied, shocked. “I just realized that Eddie could have delivered the poisoned wine directly into Maisy’s hands.”

  “But what possible motive could he have had to kill her?” Max asked after I explained, sounding unconvinced.

  “I don’t know,” I acknowledged. “Maybe Maisy saw him steal something at some event. Or maybe she caught him overcharging someone.” I shrugged. “Obviously, I don’t have any idea what she found out—if she learned anything, which is, of course, purely a guess on my part—but I do know this much: If Maisy discovered Eddie doing anything illegal or immoral, and if she threatened him with exposure, his business was doomed. And maybe that was the threat she held over his head to blackmail him—pay or I ruin you.”

  Max nodded, following my logic.

  “And that would have made him desperate . . . maybe as desperate as a cornered rat.”

  “Next time I talk to Detective Rowcliff,” Max said, capping his pen, “I’ll work it into the conversation and see what he says.”

  Something my father had told me years earlier came to me. I couldn’t recall the circumstances leading up to his warning, but I remembered well the apprehension his words engendered. Remember, Josie, he said, cornered rats almost always survive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A

  s Max was saying good-bye, the inte
rcom rang. It was Gretchen.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Josie. Britt Epps is here. I told him you were in a meeting, but he said it was urgent, so I thought I’d better call up.”

  “Give me a sec, Gretchen,” I said, and pushed the hold button. I turned to Max. “Gretchen tells me Britt Epps is here—something urgent, he says. Do you want to stay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What should I do?” I asked him, uncertain of my ground.

  Max sat down again and looked at me as if he’d find the answer on my face. “Do you have any idea what he wants?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Let’s hear him out.”

  “Okay.” I reached for the phone. “I wonder if he ran into Detective Rowcliff. God, if he did, Britt is going to think I’m a suspect myself.”

  “Nah,” Max said, reassuringly. “Whether he says anything or not, I’ll mention that we just were finishing up a meeting with Detective Rowcliff. There’s nothing wrong with letting him know that you’re working closely with the police to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he said, smiling.

  I nodded and pushed the hold button to release Gretchen from telecommunications limbo. “Bring him up, will you, Gretchen?”

  The rain was steadier now, and the wind brisker. The maple tree’s limbs softly pattered against the building. While we waited, I checked my e-mail.

  “Detective Rowcliff’s e-mail has arrived,” I said to Max.

  “Forward it to me, okay? You never know. I may recognize something.”

  “Good point,” I said, and did so, sending it also to Gretchen, adding that I’d explain why later.

  I heard the click-clack of Gretchen’s heels and the solid thud of Britt’s sturdier shoes as they made their way across the warehouse floor and up the stairs. Gretchen politely knocked on the open door before stepping across the threshold.

  “Britt,” I said, pushing myself upright as he entered, his oversized pilot’s case in hand, “welcome. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Just fine. And you?” he asked, nodding to Max. “I hope you got my message, Josie. Terrible. Terrible.”

  “Thank you, Britt. I’m feeling much better today.”

  I gestured to the chair that had recently been occupied by Detective Rowcliff and said, “Have a seat, Britt. What can I do for you?”

  He cleared his throat and glanced again at Max. “Are you sure I’m not intruding?”

  “We were just finishing up,” Max said. “We had a very productive meeting with Detective Rowcliff. You know him, of course, don’t you?”

  “Certainly. A terrible thing, terrible,” he said, and I wondered if he was still referring to my attack or if he was thinking of Maisy’s murder. “Any news?” he asked, lowering his voice portentously.

  “Not that I’m privy to, but apparently, the police have several good leads,” Max responded, sounding as if he knew more than he was telling. “Josie is helping all she can, of course.”

  “As are we all!” Britt said. “Josie,” he continued, giving an awkward cough, “I need to discuss something with you, and I hope you won’t be offended if I’m very direct.”

  My heart began to throb at his words. Oh no, I said to myself, please beat around the bush and drive me crazy with innuendo. “Absolutely, Britt. You know me—I always prefer direct.”

  “All right, then,” he said, nodding, his tone low and serious. He shifted position, crossing his chunky legs and leaning forward. “Have you heard from any of the winning bidders?”

  His question was so completely unexpected, it took me a few seconds to respond. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. Gretchen has been in touch with all the winning bidders.”

  “Well,” he said with a sigh, and a quick glance at Max, “given the scandals that continue to come to light, I just have to wonder if we were going to lose anyone.” He added, “I have to think of what’s best for the Guild. I’m sure you understand.”

  I was appalled, both by the implication that Prescott’s was so riddled with problems that no one would want to do business with us and by the fact that Max was listening. It was humiliating. Yet I knew that he was right. One whiff of scandal and customers flee.

  I was depressingly familiar with both the transitory nature of fads and the insidious influence of snobbery. Right now, it was fashionable to support the Portsmouth Women’s Guild, but if the winning bidders thought that they might be tainted by associating with us, they’d find excuses not to honor their pledges. On some level, I felt grateful to Britt for raising the issue; on another, it just made me mad. But knowing how easily perception becomes reality, I knew I needed to push aside my indignation and fear and switch into crisis-management mode. It was crucial that I convey confidence—step one in trying to change perception. Step two would be to receive official vindication. And step three was to ensure that I received an onslaught of positive media coverage positioning me as a stoic victim. With any luck, Wes would write my story as news, so it wouldn’t read like self-congratulatory fluff. I smiled, thinking that he would be pleased to know I was including him in my plans.

  I gave what I hoped sounded like a reassuring chuckle. “No one’s backed out, Britt,” I said with a warm smile. “Everything looks fine.”

  “What about the theft?” he asked, lowering his voice dramatically. “I heard about it, and it won’t be long before everyone does.”

  Because you’ll tell them, you nosy old Parker.

  “And I wondered what the Guild should do to distance itself from the scandal. You understand, I’m sure, Josie, the difficult position this puts us in.”

  I knew he was correct, but I was livid nonetheless. How dare he insinuate that Guild members need to distance themselves from my company! I wanted to pound the desk, order him off my property, and never speak to the pompous ass again. Instead, I took a deep breath. “I think you’re overstating it, Britt. Sadly, a theft isn’t that unusual—things happen. Plus, the antiques speak for themselves.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Have you heard anything specific?” I asked, praying the answer would be no. “If so, I’d be glad to talk to people directly to reassure them.”

  “Maybe that’s what we should do . . . call everyone and invite them in for some sort of explanatory meeting,” he said enthusiastically, no doubt envisioning another opportunity to be the big man on campus.

  “I really think that’s making too big of a deal of what is, after all, an isolated incident, Britt,” Max said, jumping in.

  “Do you?” he asked, sounding dubious.

  I understood why Max voiced his objection, and I was grateful. Britt seemed determined to whip a minor worry into a frothy witch’s brew of trouble. Max was equally determined to help me maintain control and solve the problem.

  “Why don’t I make some exploratory calls to confirm the pickups? Assuming things are still a go, that should reassure you,” I said, trying not to sound patronizing.

  “That’s a good idea. In fact, let me give you some suggestions about whom in particular you should call. I know everyone, you know,” he added in a semiwhisper, as if he were revealing a secret, “so I’m in a good position to say who’s most likely to run shy.”

  “Sure,” I said without sarcasm, “that would be helpful.”

  “Let me just get the list. . . . It’s right here in my case. . . . I won’t be a second. I have the results here somewhere,” he said as he leaned over, opened the case’s flaps, and began to paw through his files. “I’ll be just one more sec. . . . That’s the downside of having such a big case! I can never find anything in it.” He gave a self-conscious chuckle.

  And then I remembered. My mouth gaped open and Max, watching me closely, leaned forward to catch my eye as Britt continued his hunt. He mouthed, “Are you okay?”

  I couldn’t speak, not to Britt, still rustling through his papers, nor to Max, his concern visibly mounting as he stared at me
. All I could do was stare into the middle distance, a stricken look on my face.

  How could I have forgotten? I thought, rebuking myself.

  After we’d finished applying the Post-its to the displays, Gretchen and I stayed in the front office while Britt went to the rest room, carrying his pilot’s case—his oversized pilot’s case.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  M

  ax got rid of him and said he wanted to call Detective Rowcliff right away. I stood while he scanned through his cell phone’s outgoing-call log looking for Rowcliff’s number. “I’ll tell him about how Eddie could have delivered the wine, as well,” Max said.

  “But wouldn’t Eddie’s fingerprints have been on the glass?”

  “Easy enough to hold it with a napkin or something,” Max said, shrugging.

  My shoulders felt stiff with tension. “I’ll be downstairs,” I said. “I want to get Gretchen started on the Mitsubishi project.”

  “You okay?” Max asked as I started off toward the stairs.

  “About what you’d expect,” I responded with a smile that probably looked more sad than happy.

  “Also,” Gretchen said to Eric as I entered, “you work on the mailings.”

  “Well, not really. I mean, it’s not really part of my job or anything. I just help out.”

  “Eric!” Gretchen protested with a small laugh. “You’ve stuffed more envelopes than anyone else for every mailing we’ve ever done!”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said with a shrug.

  “That’s not the point,” Gretchen told him firmly. “We’re supposed to list everything you do—not just those tasks that you think are important.” Gretchen turned to me and smiled. “You have a message,” she said. “Dora called. Here’s the address for Friday’s Literacy Matters luncheon.”

  I accepted the slip of paper and read the address—Old Locke Road. “I didn’t know she lived in Rye Beach,” I remarked.

  Gretchen giggled, and I could tell she’d love to have a good gossip about it. “She doesn’t. The lunch is at Hank’s place—her boyfriend. Remember him from the Gala? He was so cute. The trombone player.”