Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

“I’ll check this Hank guy out. Anything in particular I should look for?” He dug another handful of nuts out of the bowl and tossed them into his mouth.

  I glanced over my shoulder to be certain no one was eavesdropping, and still I hesitated, wondering if it was all right to state openly what I wanted to know, then decided that I had nothing to lose by telling Wes the truth. “Is there any way you can find out if Hank and Maisy were, you know, an item?” I whispered.

  He nodded, his interest engaged. “Maybe. What else?” he asked.

  “Whether he transferred the money—so we can figure out whether he was the one Maisy was blackmailing.”

  “Hank Avery,” Wes said aloud as he wrote the name down.

  “Henry. His full name is Henry Avery.” I gave him the Rye Beach address.

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a musician,” I told him.

  “Would a musician have enough money to pay Maisy off?”

  “I don’t know.” I thought about it for several seconds while I drank some water. “He owns an oceanfront house in Rye Beach. Dora told me it had been in his family for generations, so maybe he comes from money.”

  Wes nodded. “I can find out.”

  “Also, he owns a small business, repairing brass instruments.”

  As soon as I spoke the words, I knew the answer to the puzzle. Instrument repair—brass instruments. “Oh my God! I remember!” I exclaimed, grasping the bar rail for support. “One of the things instrument repair people do is plating.”

  “What?” Wes asked, his eyes bright with intensity.

  “I’d only been thinking of jewelers! It never occurred to me!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hank repairs brass instruments,” I whispered. “Get it, Wes? He plates things. He told me so himself.”

  Wes was pulsating with excitement. “Now we’re cooking. Okay, so he owns the same kind of car as the one that hit yours, he bought the same tureen as ended up in your place, and he has access to cyanide—the poison that killed Maisy. Looks like we got a killer in our crosshairs.” He was almost salivating.

  “Wes,” I told him, “you sound positively ghoulish.”

  “I’m not ghoulish,” he protested, offended. “I’m diligent and passionate.”

  “Well, don’t be quite so passionate while you’re being diligent. It’s unseemly.”

  “Unseemly? What kind of a word is that—unseemly?”

  “It’s a perfectly good word to describe your morbid fascination with murder.”

  “I thought you wanted to find out who killed Maisy!” he objected, hurt.

  I sighed. “I did. I do. Forget it. Sorry. The one thing we don’t know is motive. Why in God’s name would he have killed Maisy and tried to kill me?”

  “What’s the mystery?” Wes responded, sounding only marginally less bloodthirsty than before. “Same motive, different person. Maisy had something on him. She blackmailed him, and he decided to kill her. Bada-bing, bada-boom.”

  I shook my head, dismayed at the thought that Hank was a killer, but relieved at the implication that Eric was in the clear. Wes ate some nuts. What about Eddie? I wondered.

  “Eddie’s in the clear, too, right?” I asked.

  “It looks that way,” he replied, with a little shake of his head. His feverish excitement had stilled, replaced by a quiet intensity. “I don’t know. What do you think? Remember, his company’s never heard of him.”

  I shrugged. “Bureaucracy. He hasn’t started yet, so the local place hasn’t filed the paperwork with headquarters.”

  “That makes sense,” he acknowledged. “Which leaves us where?”

  “It leaves us with Hank.”

  “Right—so, how about Hank’s opportunity?” Wes asked. “Did he have access to Maisy’s wine?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, he was beside Dora the whole night, except when his group was playing, and Dora visited every table, including Maisy’s. As I recall, Maisy drank some wine and was okay after Hank was at her table—but I’m not sure. It’s all confused in my head. Still, I guess it’s at least conceivable that he poisoned the wine.”

  “So, where are we?” Wes asked.

  I recapped. “We need to know whether he transferred four hundred thousand dollars, and whether he and Maisy were an item. Right?”

  “Right,” Wes said. “And why she might have been able to blackmail him. Or if there’s any other connection between them that might provide a motive.”

  He slid off his bar stool and wiped the palms of his hands on his pant legs. Gross, I thought.

  “I’ll get right on it and call you ASAP,” he said, shrugging into his navy-blue pea coat. “I may even have news tonight,” he added. “You gonna be home?”

  “Yes,” I said, and with a buoyant wave, he left.

  I sat for a minute longer, still shaken. Hank did plating. I couldn’t believe the implication. I was too frightened to move, yet I felt too agitated to sit still. I stood up and leaned against the railing, trying to imagine Hank as a killer.

  “Jimmy,” I said after several minutes. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take that drink after all.”

  “You got it, babe,” he called back cheerfully.

  I sat and sipped my Bombay Sapphire, my thoughts a million miles away from the Blue Dolphin. Hank seemed to dote on Dora. I recalled seeing him with his arm around her shoulders several times during the Gala. And talking to him earlier today, I’d certainly witnessed no consciousness of guilt. I shook my glass, swirling the last of the ice and lemon, and finished the drink. I needed to talk to Max.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I

  arrived unannounced at Max’s door, and immediately second-guessed my decision. I should have called, I thought. I heard canned laughter from a television comedy in the background. I’m here now. It’s important. Taking a deep breath, I rang the bell. The laughter stopped abruptly. Someone must have muted the TV. The door opened. It was Max.

  “I’m sorry to just show up on your doorstep so late,” I said, “but it’s urgent. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. But, I mean, I want to . . . well, I need to—” I stuttered to a stop, incapable, it seemed, of expressing my thoughts clearly.

  “Come on in. Let me introduce you to Babs, my wife.”

  “Another time, Max. Thanks, though. I can’t stay. It’s just . . .” I paused, searching for the words to express my inchoate theory.

  “Step in at least. Let me close the door.”

  We stood on a braided rug in the front hall. The house was warm and smelled of spiced tea, or maybe cinnamon-rich apple cake.

  “What is it, Josie?” Max asked, concern darkening his eyes.

  “I realized something—Hank does plating.” I looked at him, waiting for his reaction. He looked blank. “He uses cyanide in his work.”

  Understanding registered. “How do you know?” he asked.

  “I saw his workshop earlier today—he repairs musical instruments, and instrument-repair people do replating. I just didn’t get the significance of it right away.”

  “This is major,” Max said. “I’ll call Detective Rowcliff. He probably already knows about Hank’s repair business, but it can’t do any harm to remind him how cooperative we’re being.”

  “Thanks, Max,” I replied, and my tension dissipated like mounds of snow in a January thaw.

  “Come on,” he told me, and led the way into a small room off the hall.

  I wondered if Max called it a den or a study.

  Gesturing that I should sit on a love seat, he moved behind a small desk. I sank down into the plaid upholstered cushions and looked around the room. There were bookcases packed with law books and best-selling romance novels, a television with a built-in VCR resting on a wheeled cherrywood cabinet, and a globe atop a tall stand in a corner.

  Max dialed a number from memory, and when someone answered, he introduced himself and asked for Detective
Rowcliff. After a short time on hold, Rowcliff took the call. I could hear his booming voice from across the room.

  Their conversation was brief. After reporting my observation about plating, Max mostly listened and agreed to things. I heard the smacking sound of Rowcliff slamming down his phone. Max turned to face me.

  “Hank’s been arrested,” he announced.

  Hank? “I knew it!”

  Max shook his head in mute agreement.

  “What’s the charge?” I asked softly.

  “Material witness. But that’s probably just until they gather more evidence.”

  I stared at him, speechless.

  “There’s something else,” Max said.

  “What?”

  “Detective Rowcliff asked that we come to the station.”

  “Now?” I questioned.

  “Now. I said okay. I know it’s late, but I think we ought to go.”

  “Why? Do you know what he wants?” I asked, my anxiety level spiking.

  “Not exactly. He said he thinks you can help sort things out.”

  “Me?”

  “That’s what he said.” Max smiled. “You’ve done a lot so far. Let’s see what he has in mind.”

  Suddenly, it felt hard to swallow.

  Wes called as I was driving to the Portsmouth police station. Max and I decided to take separate cars, and he was just ahead of me.

  “You said you were going to be in all night,” Wes complained. “I tried you at home.”

  “Something came up.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you calling, Wes?” I asked, ignoring his question.

  “You asked me to,” he whined.

  “Does that mean you learned something?” I asked, eager for information.

  “One yes, one no.”

  “Tell me,” I said, wishing he’d be less circumspect.

  “Which do you want first, the yes or the no?”

  Bad news first. “The no.”

  “No to the couple,” he said discreetly.

  I’d wondered whether Maisy and Hank had an affair. “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. According to my source—he is a one-woman man and she wasn’t that woman.”

  “And the other one, the one we know about, is, in fact, that woman?” I asked.

  “Yup. The early reports say so.”

  Apparently, Hank and Dora were as much in love as they appeared to be.

  “What’s the yes?” I asked.

  “Money, honey.”

  “Really?” I asked, astonished. Quiet, unassuming Hank had paid off Maisy? It didn’t seem possible.

  “Yup. Two transfers from one of his accounts. One for three hundred K last August, one for a hundred K last week.”

  I couldn’t imagine it, yet I didn’t doubt Wes’s facts. Hard as it was to believe, I’d just learned that Hank had a killer motive for murder.

  _______

  I called Dora, feeling awkward but determined not to desert her as so many so-called friends had deserted me during the price-fixing trial. I didn’t envy her the coming days and weeks, during which she’d learn bit by scathing bit the extent of Hank’s treachery.

  “Dora,” I said, “I heard about Hank. How are you holding up?”

  “Not so well, actually,” she responded flatly. “The police won’t let me talk to him.”

  “That’s tough,” I said.

  “I’m getting ready to go to the police station. I’m going to wait there until they let me see him. I can’t just stay at home.”

  “I understand. If there’s anything I can do,” I said, knowing there was nothing anyone could do.

  “Thank you, Josie,” she said sadly.

  Dora’s dismay communicated itself to me and I found myself becoming increasingly fretful as I drove through the drizzling cold, braced for I knew not what.

  Moving as quickly as my injured ankle allowed, I made my way into the station house, trailing behind Max. Before I could say anything, Detective Rowcliff’s head appeared through a door on the left; he waved his hand to indicate that we should go that way, and I followed Max inside. Rowcliff led us to the same conference room where we’d met before. Officer Johnston was already in place, ready to take notes. A video camera was set up to record our interview.

  Rowcliff stated the date and our names, then said, “I want to talk to you about Henry Avery, known as Hank.”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  “Has he ever been to your house?”

  “No—at least I don’t think so,” I replied, confused.

  “Why are you asking that?” Max interjected, gesturing that I should be quiet.

  Detective Rowcliff tapped his pencil. “We’re checking all angles,” he said, as if we should be satisfied with his nonanswer. “It would be very helpful to the investigation if we could search your house.”

  “Why?” Max demanded while I sat in perplexed silence.

  “Information received,” Rowcliff said importantly.

  “What information?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Rowcliff said. “Can we search?”

  “No,” Max responded.

  I leaned over and said in an angry whisper. “Max! I’m innocent. Shouldn’t we let them look?”

  “Not now. Maybe never.”

  I didn’t argue, just sat back, fuming, my hands clenched into fists.

  “I don’t think you’re the murderer,” Rowcliff said, as if I ought to be grateful. “But what if, for example, Hank Avery managed to plant some cyanide in your place?”

  “Why would you think that?” Max asked as fear prickled the back of my neck.

  After a thoughtful rat-a-tat-tat, Rowcliff shrugged. “I’m not saying I do. But either someone thinks you’re involved,” he said, fixing me with his eyes, “or someone is trying to involve you. And it looks as if that someone is Hank.” He shrugged. “You’re sure Hank wasn’t ever at your place?”

  “Not that she knows of,” Max interjected.

  “Right,” Rowcliff said, sounding as if he was making a huge concession, “that she knows of.”

  “It sounds like you’re convinced Hank’s the one,” Max remarked.

  “Convinced is too strong a word,” Rowcliff said, and shrugged. He looked annoyed and stared hard at Max, hoping, I suspected, to win a change of heart and get Max to agree to the search. “Look, I’m making a reasonable request.”

  “Sorry,” Max responded, dismissing the idea. After a pause, he asked, “So, what can we do for you, Detective?”

  “Other than let us search for cyanide?”

  “Right,” Max said calmly, “other than that.”

  Rowcliff tried to stare me down as he tapped his pencil, and I felt my pulse begin to race. Many people lose their tempers merely from seeing you keep yours. I recalled my father passing on that nugget from The Colby Essays. I half-smiled, assuming a relaxed position in the chair, hoping my seeming insouciance would further irritate him. He looked away, shifting his attention to Max.

  “Means, motive, opportunity. We’ve searched Hank’s house, and we’ve found what we think will test positive as potassium cyanide. As you said, he does instrument repairs and uses cyanide in the plating process.” He glared at me.

  I wondered if he was upset that I hadn’t realized the significance of Hank’s plating business for so many days after Maisy’s murder—or that I’d realized it at all, stealing his thunder.

  “So what you’re saying is, that’s means,” Max said. “According to Josie, Hank stayed close as Dora made her way from table to table, so he was near Maisy’s wineglass—although maybe not in time to poison her wine. And that is, at least, a possible opportunity.”

  Rowcliff tapped his pencil, looking from Max to me, then back again.

  “And what about motive?” Max asked.

  “Maybe money.”

  “Really? In what way?” I asked.

  “Do you know?” Rowcliff countered, his voice dagger-sharp.

&nbs
p; “Me?” I leaned forward, shocked. “No.”

  Rowcliff shrugged and tapped his pencil. “We’re working on it.”

  Max asked who was representing Hank, but I didn’t listen. Instead, I stared into space, my brain in a whirr. The photograph. The angle was wrong. I couldn’t speak. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I tried again. I gasped.

  Think. Breathe. Never be positive, never be wrong, my father had warned. I shut my eyes, forcing myself to think, to remember. I’m not wrong, I thought.

  “What is it?” Rowcliff demanded, his eyes fixed on my face.

  In a flash of clarity, I knew that Hank wasn’t guilty because I’d seen the killer administer the poison. I was positive. And I wasn’t wrong. Better yet, I knew how to prove it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  H

  ank didn’t do it,” I announced.

  Rowcliff and Max stared at me.

  “He couldn’t have,” I declared.

  “Why do you say that?” Rowcliff pressed.

  “I told you, remember? Maisy and I drank wine after she left her table—Hank was already at the back with his quartet, getting ready to play the fanfare. I kept going back over it again and again, thinking that maybe I was confusing one glass of wine with another. But I wasn’t.”

  Max rubbed his nose, thinking.

  Rowcliff said, “That’s what you came up with?” He snorted. “Alibis are rarely conclusive. Until I see a minute-by-minute schedule definitively excluding Hank—well, even then, I want it notarized before I dismiss him as a suspect.”

  “There’s more. Do you have those photos?” I asked. “The ones you showed me before? I think I know what happened, but I can show you quicker than I can tell you.”

  Rowcliff picked up the telephone to make the request. In less than a minute, a uniformed police officer knocked once, then stepped into the room to hand Detective Rowcliff the plastic bag containing the photos. Opening it, Rowcliff shook the photos loose and spread them across the table. “Be my guest,” he said.

  Sorting through them, I quickly found the photo I sought—the one where Dora stood with her head tilted to the left, looking at the bid sheets.