Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  The question remained: Could she have staged a fit—yelling and throwing things to create the illusion that she had just learned of her husband’s betrayal—to set the stage for a later denial in case she needed to prove that she had no prior knowledge? I knew the answer—hell, yes. If she was Rosalie’s killer, she would act her heart out.

  Rosalie’s office at Hitchens was in Webster Hall, an ivy-covered building located on the far side of the campus overlooking a small summerhouse. A mountain of snow heaped at one end of the horseshoe-shaped parking lot blocked the western view. When Officer Brownley and I turned into the lot, I saw only three cars. The new semester hadn’t yet begun.

  Inside, an old-fashioned directory was mounted on the wall. Small white plastic letters nestled in black rubberized grooves. Rosalie’s listing read R. CHAFFEE 308.

  “There it is,” I said, pointing.

  It was cold and still. Our footsteps echoed on the marble flooring. The staircase was huge, probably twelve feet across, with banisters as thick as a man’s thigh. On the first landing, Officer Brownley and I paused to take in the vista.

  Stiff grass and a tangle of winter-bare bushes circled the summerhouse and flanked what was probably a meandering walkway stretching a hundred yards or more to the north before disappearing into a stand of birch. Nearer to the building, covered with a blue tarp, was a huge stack of wood, three cords or more, I guessed. I wondered where the fireplace was and whether it was on as large a scale as the stairway. Looking east, I saw an endless stretch of thick, dark evergreens.

  “That’s quite a view,” I remarked.

  “Yeah,” Officer Brownley agreed.

  The place was eerily quiet.

  Rosalie’s office was located halfway down the third-floor corridor on the right. The door was locked. Shapes, probably a desk and chair, were visible through the wavy frosted glass. I knocked, just in case. There was no response.

  Using one of Rosalie’s keys from the ring Mr. Bolton had given me, I entered with Officer Brownley on my heels. The room was small, about ten by ten. Its one window faced the summerhouse. The office was set up for two people, with a pair of desks back-to-back jutting out from the outside wall. A series of narrow cabinets were positioned on either side of the window, and bookcases filled the remaining wall space. Everywhere I looked, journals, books, and papers were stacked haphazardly.

  A framed photograph of Rosalie and Paige stood on one of the desks alongside an artichoke-shaped paper clip holder.

  “Is it normal for a student to have an office?” Officer Brownley asked.

  “I think so when you’re a Ph.D. candidate with teaching responsibility.”

  I began recording.

  “Excuse me,” a man said, sounding outraged.

  I spun around and bumped into Officer Brownley, who was also turning to confront the newcomer.

  It was Cooper the Condescending. He looked petulant.

  “Who are you?” Officer Brownley commanded.

  “I’m the assistant chair of the department,” he answered, sounding shocked that anyone didn’t know he held such a lofty position.

  “Your name?”

  “Dr. Cooper Bennington.” He turned to me. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  I was livid that he didn’t remember me. When I’d met him last fall, he’d insulted me by implying that antiques appraisers were neither professionals nor historians, and now he didn’t even recall doing so! “Yes,” I said, matching his tone. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  His face revealed that he couldn’t quite place me—the bastard.

  “And I’m Officer Brownley here on official business.”

  “What official business?” he asked, turning back to Officer Brownley, ignoring me.

  “We’re here to inventory Ms. Chaffee’s possessions.”

  “By what authority?”

  “The lawyer representing her heirs.”

  “Let me see your authorization.”

  I handed him the letter Mr. Bolton had provided and he read it carefully, his skepticism apparent.

  “I’m going to check this out. Step outside, please.”

  “No.” Officer Brownley turned to me. “Ms. Prescott, please continue.” To Cooper, she added, extending her hand, “The letter?”

  Cooper tried to stare her down, finally gave up, and slapped the paper into her hand. He stormed away.

  “Whew!” I exclaimed once he was gone.

  Officer Brownley shook her head, unimpressed. “Guys like that—,” she said, then cut herself off.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Give me a royal pain.”

  I smiled, liking her more than ever. “You are obviously a woman of stupendous insight. He has, one might say, an exaggerated idea of his own importance.”

  “Yeah. That too.”

  I switched on the video recorder, quickly canvassed the bookcases, then swung toward the desk and memorialized the scattered papers. Under Officer Brownley’s watchful eyes, I rearranged papers so that they all were recorded, pausing only when I discovered a spiral-bound document entitled “Methods of Communication During the Lewis and Clark Expedition: An Analysis of Ways and Means.” The author was Rosalie Chaffee.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed.

  “What is it?” Officer Brownley asked.

  Of course, I thought. Lewis and Clark. That explains it! “This must be a draft of Rosalie’s dissertation.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Oh, does it ever! I silently shouted, maintaining a poker face. I didn’t want to share my conclusion until I’d checked it out, even though I knew I wasn’t wrong. It felt as if the tilting earth had righted itself, and everything now made sense. Artichokes.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  C

  ooper tells me you’re raiding my office.”

  It was Paul Greeley, and his tone was conversational, as if he and I were sharing a silly little joke. I laughed despite myself. His allure was irresistible even as my internal warning system whirred loudly. Who said a killer can’t be charming? I reminded myself. With the memory of finding the greeting card fresh in my mind, I was extra glad that Officer Brownley was there.

  “Raiding? Hardly,” I replied.

  “Good. I still haven’t had any coffee, so I’m not yet prepared to stop a pillaging intruder, even one as, how shall I say, petite, as you.”

  I felt myself blush. Think business, I told myself. A book straddled the crack between the two desks, and I picked it up to ask, “Is this yours? Or Rosalie’s?”

  He stepped forward and guided my hand to rotate the book so he could read the spine. His touch electrified my hand, and I caught myself breathing shallowly, exhaling more than I was inhaling.

  “It’s mine,” he said. “But you can have it if you want.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but no thanks.” I replaced the volume and prepared to begin recording again.

  Paul squeezed my arm near my wrist and didn’t let go when I tried to pull back. “Is she with the police?” he asked in a undertone meant just for me, jerking his head in Officer Brownley’s direction.

  “Yes.”

  “Siccin’ the cops on me already?”

  Before I could deny the charge or introduce them, my cell phone rang. Recognizing Ty’s number on the display, I felt a sudden slash of guilt, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and turned my back to them, hoping for a semblance of privacy. “This is Josie.”

  “It’s me,” Ty said.

  “Hi.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. We’re making progress.”

  “Anything yet?”

  “I’m not sure. How about you? Any news for me?”

  “About the card and envelope? I’ll have the preliminary lab report later today. I’m not optimistic that there’ll be any forensic evidence. But you never know.”

  “Really? That’s a disappointment.”

  “Early days. We’l
l see what the test results show.”

  I couldn’t think of how to respond knowing that Officer Brownley and Paul Greeley both stood within easy earshot. “I’m in Rosalie’s office at Hitchens. Can I call you in a while?”

  “Sure.”

  After we signed off, I turned to find both Officer Brownley and Paul watching me. “So, Officer, shall I finish up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I in the way?” Paul asked, and I wondered if he was being sarcastic.

  “I think I’m okay,” I told him. “Did you two meet one another?” They hadn’t, and I performed the introductions. Officer Brownley, I noted, seemed utterly unimpressed with Paul’s smile.

  He kept his eyes on me the whole time. He was impossible to ignore, and equally impossible to deal with. I wished he’d go away, and I felt weak and embarrassed that in spite of everything, I remained aware of his appeal.

  “That’s it,” I told Officer Brownley when I was done.

  I packed up my gear and Rosalie’s papers and gave a final wave to Paul as we left. Throughout, he continued to observe me with a smile that conveyed all sorts of possibilities, but I found it disconcerting, and not the teeniest bit enthralling.

  ______

  I wanted to return to my office, and Officer Brownley wanted to check in at her station house, so we agreed to meet at the Heyer’s reception desk at three.

  She dropped me off, and inside, I was greeted first by the soft tinkling of Gretchen’s chimes and second by Sasha’s expression of relief.

  “Oh, good!” Sasha said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Lesha dropped off this letter, and I was hoping you’d look at it.” She handed me a plastic-covered document.

  Miss Stephanie Milhouse

  210 E. 36th Street

  New York, NY 10016

  July 17, 1959

  Mrs. Donald Houston

  119 Ellison Road

  Newton, MA 02159

  Dearest Mari,

  Thank you to you and Don for a wondeful vacation. Everyone at work is admiring my tan!

  I’m so pleased that you feel the magic working! You’re so talented that you deserve all the success Whistler’s palette can bring you. Take good care of it!

  So I’ll look for you next Thursday–around five, right? I have the tickets, so we’re all set.

  Love,

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  She shrugged, twirling her hair. “It’s on Southwick paper. . . .”

  I nodded. Southwick Paper Company had been around forever.

  “If it’s counterfeit, it’s well done,” I said. “Very detailed.”

  “I agree. The content has the ring of authenticity.”

  “What will you do now?” I asked.

  “Check out the paper stock.”

  “What’s your instinct tell you?”

  “It’s a definite maybe.”

  “Keep me posted!” I said, smiling. “Remember to look into Whistler’s work habits, too. I mean, we don’t even know if he used a palette.”

  She nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.” She sat down at her computer, her attention immediately directed to the challenge. Her intelligence and concentration were apparent in everything she did, and I found myself excited imagining what she might discover.

  I skipped checking in with Fred or Eric because I was eager to follow up on my idea about artichokes, but before I could begin my research, Gretchen called up to tell me that Wes Smith was on line one.

  I thanked her, and hesitated as I reached for the phone. I could ask Gretchen to take a message, but I knew what the message would be—an urgent request to return his call. Should I or shouldn’t I? I debated. I didn’t want to talk to him, yet I very much wanted to know why he was calling. I waged a quick internal battle between prudence and curiosity, and curiosity won.

  “Wes?”

  “You didn’t return my call,” he complained.

  “I’m fine, thanks. You?”

  “Ha, ha. I’m okay. Why didn’t you call back?”

  I sighed. He was hopeless. “I didn’t get a message.”

  “I left it on your cell phone,” he said.

  “When?”

  “About a half an hour ago.”

  “That’s not very long, Wes. Give me a break. I haven’t even turned it on in the last half hour.”

  “Okay, then. Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “I have news. And a question for you.”

  “For me? Why me?”

  “Not on the phone,” he said conspiratorially.

  “I don’t have time today, Wes. If it’s important, tell me or ask me now.”

  “It’s about how Rosalie Chaffee died. Don’t you want to know?” He sounded offended.

  “Of course I do. Tell me.”

  “Not on the phone,” he repeated.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t risk compromising my confidential sources by discussing the situation on the telephone,” he said haughtily.

  “Then we’re at a standstill. I just can’t get away right now.”

  He sighed dramatically, as if I’d let him down, then went on, “Let me ask you something—can you identify wood by sight?”

  “It depends. Sometimes. Why?”

  “The murder weapon. You’re an important resource. We need to talk,” Wes repeated, his voice low and intense.

  My worry meter spiked. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but his intensity and conviction came through loud and clear. I did a quick calculation. “Four o’clock,” I told him. “I can meet you in Rocky Point at four.”

  “Great!” he exclaimed. “At the regular place? The dune?”

  I pictured the sandy hill where we’d met so often in the past. “Same place,” I agreed. “It’s private.”

  I swiveled toward the window. The snow on my maple’s branches was softening. I looked out, past the church spire, into the distant woods. I shivered. What in heaven’s name does Wes want? I wondered. I shook off my vague worry and turned back to my computer. I entered “Lewis and Clark” and “code” and “artichoke” in the search engine and got 759 hits. It took about five seconds to confirm my dim memory of a college history lesson.

  President Jefferson had adapted a polyalphabetic coding system so Lewis and Clark could communicate with him secretly. According to most experts, the coding system was first created in the sixteenth century by the French mathematician Blaise de Vigenere.

  I shook my head as I read, amazed. It was hard to picture life without computers, let alone life without telephones. Back then, if you wanted someone to know something, you either went there yourself and told them or you arranged for the message to be delivered—and there was no postal service in the vast frontier Lewis and Clark explored.

  President Jefferson’s system was intended to allow Lewis and Clark to communicate urgent information in a timely manner, but as near as anyone can tell, it was never used—they were unable to spare a man to carry messages.

  I could easily envision Rosalie playfully using the president’s coding system. I was willing to bet big money that I’d just discovered the answer to the mystery of the tilting letters in Rosalie’s kitchen, and the irony wasn’t lost on me. Rosalie was a communications expert, and her field of expertise was communicating while exploring. How amusing that she would choose a system to encrypt her message that in actuality had proved useless.

  I printed out what was commonly referred to as President Jefferson’s Artichoke Matrix.

  I transcribed the characters that I’d recorded earlier that day: WGTSERH&XCYXSJUWGNFTJFEJQSBPHIBO.

  The only unknown was where Rosalie’s message began. Without that information, all using the matrix would accomplish would be to exchange one set of jumbled symbols for another set of jumbled symbols. I shrugged and decided to sequence the characters as I had written them down. I had to start somewhere.

  I copied them into the middle row of a three
-row grid, with the word artichokes written over and over again in the top row. Then I found the first letter of artichokes on the x axis, across the top of the artichoke matrix, and followed the column downward until I found the first letter of the encoded message. Then I followed that row all the way to the y axis, the first column of letters, and filled in the square with the corresponding character. In this case, starting with the A along the x axis, I found the W of the encoded message near the bottom of that column. The W was situated next to the letter V on the y axis. I continued decoding the next few letters until it became apparent that my guess as to where I should start was wrong.

  I turned back to the small video monitor and viewed my recording again. What could I have missed? I asked myself. Rosalie must have left a clue about where to start. I observed nothing.

  I counted the characters per wall—there were eight on each, thirty-two total. I decided to experiment by starting with the first character that appeared at the left-hand corner of each wall, a logical assumption, I thought, since it followed the English reading pattern of left to right.

  The wall facing the front read: WGTSERH&. The wall facing the outside on the right read: XCYXSJUW. The back wall contained the letters GNFTJFEJ. The characters over the door that led to the dining room were QSBPHIBO.

  A truck rumbled by, breaking my concentration. I glanced at the time display on my computer. It was almost noon.

  All I knew so far was that the message didn’t start with WGTSERH&. I tried beginning with XCYXSJUW.

  “Leopard!” I said aloud, and continued.

  I sighed and started again, this time beginning with GNFTJFEJ.

  “No way,” I said, frustrated. “‘Fwmk’ isn’t possible.’ ” At least not in English. What if it’s a double code, I wondered, where after decoding it you still had to take another step, reading it backward or using every other letter or something? I shrugged. If that’s the case, I’d have to find a professional cryptographer.