Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  She’d been with Paul for a while, and recalling the tiger’s gggrrrr she’d playfully growled when describing him to me the first time we’d seen each other socially, she was a hottie. She was with Gerry when she died. Had there been other men as well?

  When Officer Brownley had asked if Rosalie had been involved with Cooper, I’d dismissed it out of hand. Now I wondered if it could have been true. My nose wrinkled. Not in this lifetime! I thought. But I’d said the same about Gerry.

  “Have you run into any references to someone named Chief?” I asked.

  “No. Who’s Chief?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe an ex-boyfriend.”

  “Tell me,” Wes instructed.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I ran into a reference to someone named Chief, that’s all.”

  “Where?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It might. Where?” he pushed.

  I cocked my head, thinking about what, if anything, to reveal. I decided that the scrapbook, which I’d seen in the course of my official work, was fair game, but not the diary.

  “Rosalie kept a scrapbook,” I said. “There were a couple of cards from someone who signed his or her name ‘Chief.’ That’s all I know.”

  “How did you get to see the scrapbook?” Wes asked, sounding as if he resented what he perceived as an investigative coup.

  “I’m doing a comprehensive appraisal.”

  He nodded. “ ‘Chief,’ huh? No other clues to his identity?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  I turned again to look out the window. It was streaked with salty residue. “I’m trying to understand what’s going on, Wes. Nothing makes sense to me—there seems to be no pattern to anything.”

  “Specifically . . . what sticks out in your mind?”

  “I don’t know.” I thought about Wes’s question as I picked at a sad-looking chunk of honeydew melon, then shrugged. “Have the police learned anything else about the splinters?”

  “They’ve sent samples somewhere for analysis. Nothing yet.”

  “Have you heard any speculation on why she was at the jetty in the first place?”

  “No.” Wes spoke the word as if he hated admitting that there was something he didn’t know.

  “You said Paige didn’t know where Rosalie went?” I asked. “Doesn’t that seem weird?”

  “Not necessarily. Rosalie gave the age-old answer to avoid telling. She said she was ‘out with friends.’ ”

  I couldn’t help smiling. The mere thought of Wes, who was about a dozen years younger than me and so naive when it came to women he’d had to ask me where to take a girl to dinner, recounting an age-old answer as if he were a grizzled old wise man, was a laugh and a half.

  “What else would you ask if you were me?”

  What else? I repeated silently. We know almost nothing. We know the manner of death but not the means or whether it was murder or manslaughter. We know the likely motive—jealousy. Or was it? What about Rosalie’s treasure? I asked myself. And as for opportunity, everyone, it seemed, had—or might have had—opportunity. What else do we need to know? My mind was a blank. I looked at Wes and shrugged. “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  “I think the smartest thing I can do right now is to get back to my tag sale.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A

  s I merged with traffic on I-95, I noticed a boxy, dark-colored sedan two cars back that seemed to be pacing me. If I pulled out into the passing lane, it did, too.

  When I returned to the middle lane, it followed suit. My worry meter whirred onto medium alert. The car looked similar to the one that had been close when Paige and I drove through the snow, but I hadn’t got a good enough look to know for sure. It looks the same as the one that idled by my hedge, too, I realized, and the thought spawned bristly apprehension.

  I tried to see who was driving, but from such a distance, and at such a speed, I couldn’t. I couldn’t make out if there was a front license plate, let alone determine if it was registered in New Hampshire. The reflecting sun dazzled me and made my eyes tear.

  I tried to lose him.

  I quick-zipped into the passing lane without signaling, slammed my foot onto the gas, passed three cars in seconds, and as an exit ramp approached, confirmed that the lanes next to me were clear. I spun the steering wheel hard to the right and slowed as if I intended to get off the interstate.

  The car mimicked my actions. What do you want? I silently asked him, then I shouted the words aloud. “Tell me! What do you want?”

  I cruised past the exit and considered my options. I didn’t feel threatened exactly. The driver didn’t tailgate or try to intimidate me by pulling up alongside me or dashing in front and slowing down. I wanted him to go away, but not until I discovered his identity. If I can lead him onto surface roads where we’d go slower, I thought,

  I’ll have a better chance of identifying the car or the driver, or both. I sought out a reference point, trying to calculate how far it was to the next exit. I recognized a minimall visible through the leafless trees. About three miles, I thought.

  I glanced at the rearview mirror. The car had disappeared. Has it slipped back? I considered and scanned the highway. No. I looked ahead and there it was, far ahead of me and speeding up. While I was busy planning an exit strategy, the other guy up and got himself out of Dodge. Damn, I thought. I began to wonder if the whole situation was only my imagination at work. Maybe, I told myself, it’s just a false alarm. But as soon as I had the thought, I discarded it. It wasn’t a false alarm. Speeding ahead that way was a clever ploy by someone determined to scare me while avoiding exposure. Impulsively, I hit the accelerator. Two can play at this game.

  I gained on him, pulling closer as I carefully weaved through the morning commuters. Soon I was going seventy, then seventy-five. My car was older and smaller, and I was struggling to keep up, and as I pushed toward eighty, it felt too risky to continue the pursuit. Instead, I tried to memorize the car’s shape, seeking out distinguishing features, but I couldn’t.

  The entire vehicle was smeared with mud and salt residue. At first the car appeared black, but sometimes, when a glint of blinding sunlight hit it, it looked dark green, and then a moment later, navy blue. Even the car’s brand and logo were masked, and despite concentrating hard, I couldn’t make out a single digit of the license plate, but it was definitely a New Hampshire tag. The person driving was huddled over the steering wheel. He—or, I realized, with a start, for all I knew, she—wore a watch cap, pulled low; unstylish, wraparound sunglasses; gloves; and a thick, dark overcoat.

  A minute later, I gave up. Watching with impotent frustration as the car disappeared around a bend, I tried to think what I should do next. As the crisis passed from the initial, critical phase to the assessment phase, I started breathing fast. The car was long gone, and I had no meaningful description. Paralyzing fear enveloped me.

  ______

  I parked around the side of my building, near a stand of birch. My hands were shaking from the aftereffects of the panic-fired episode, and my mind was churning with agitated thoughts.

  There were three people whose identity was unknown: the person in the car I now thought of as my stalker, the secret admirer who’d left me a greeting card, and Rosalie’s murderer. I shivered. Was one person responsible for all three acts?

  I leaned my head against the steering wheel.

  Something exploded on the roof and I jerked upright, then sank down, hunched over, my mouth falling open, looking everywhere at once and seeing nothing but the unplowed expanse of my back parking lot and the impenetrable forest beyond. Another explosion rattled the back window. I ducked, scooting sideways to the passenger’s side, and rolled onto the floor under the dashboard. I hit my head and scraped the side of my hand. My heart was thumping so furiously it felt as if it were trying to escape my chest. I had no idea why, but it was clear that I was under attack. I couldn’t swallow and I could
barely breathe. I clenched my eyes shut and tried to think how to escape. There was no way out.

  Another bursting thump. And another.

  Time passed.

  I kept my head down, huddled in a ball, with both feet jammed under the seat.

  Is the attack over? I wondered. With no way to tell whether my unknown, unseen enemy was gone or merely regrouping, I stayed where I was, unable to think of anything to do to save myself.

  Three more shocks punched the car in quick succession, then there was another letup, longer this time, and after what felt like an hour but was probably only a few minutes, I opened my eyes, elbowed my torso high enough to peek, and saw starbursts of snow scattered on the rear window.

  I shut my eyes, then opened them again. I’d panicked because someone had chucked snowballs at my car, I thought, embarrassed. I hoisted myself up onto the seat and sat for a while longer, taking deep breaths, and then I was fine. I spent a minute rubbing and stretching my limbs to help my blood flow.

  Squatting backward on the front seat, I had a clear view of most of the parking lot, and I saw two teenage boys horsing around, running and jumping, and hurling snowballs at each other. Probably their parents were shopping at the tag sale.

  I reviewed the time line. Just before the first strike, I’d rested my head on my steering wheel, so they hadn’t seen me. They thought the car was empty, and they were just having fun, probably competing over which of them could hit it from the greatest distance.

  I remembered something my father told me when I was in college. I’d been struggling to maintain a decent grade in a required course on statistics. After my dismal showing on the midterm exam, my father said, When you have clear evidence that you’re not able to accomplish something on your own, stop pretending that you’re more talented, experienced, or skilled than you are, and get help. I signed up for tutoring, worked like a dog, and nailed an A on the final. Achieving that A was among my proudest accomplishments.

  I remained ambivalent about whether the car that had frightened me had, in fact, been following me. Deciding to err on the side of caution, I called Ty. He was unavailable, I was told, and I wondered whether he was interrogating someone, and if so, whom.

  The engine had been off for a long time, and I became aware of the encroaching cold. I needed to either turn on the heater or get inside. I leaned back against the headrest for a moment, watching streaks of pale clouds floating high in the bright blue sky. I heard a high-pitched squawk close by, then saw a gray-white bird swoop and rise and fly away. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw two cars enter and one leave the lot.

  Tag-sale day was well under way. Time to get to work, I told myself. I called Officer Brownley and got her voice mail. I left an awkward-sounding message half apologizing for having no information to share but wanting to alert her to a possible stalking event. The message sounded convoluted and stupid to my ear, and I wished I hadn’t called.

  After another minute, girding myself to put on my professional face, I got out of the car and trekked over crusty snow toward the front.

  Paige was licking her fingers as I entered the office. The pizza had arrived.

  “You’re kidding!” she said to Gretchen, her eyes alight with pleasurable interest.

  “I’m not either! It’s true.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Paige said, laughing.

  It was a delight to hear Paige laugh, and the joyous sound drew a smile from me. “What don’t you believe?” I asked.

  “The pizza diet!” Paige said.

  “What’s that?”

  The Teenager’s Best Way to Lose Weight, Gretchen quoted.

  “For real?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m with Paige. It sounds hard to believe,” I remarked, scooping a still-warm slice of mushroom pizza out of the box.

  “I just read about it in Celebrities Up-Front. Twenty-two percent of teenage actresses use it as their number-one form of weight control,” Gretchen said earnestly.

  I knew that Gretchen’s addiction to gossip, celebrity and otherwise, wasn’t all that unusual. Lots of people enjoy the innocent pastime of keeping up with other people’s doings. But it never ceased to amaze me how much of it Gretchen believed.

  “Go figure,” I said to avoid an argument.

  Gretchen stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Not that it hasn’t been fun discussing strategies for maintaining our girlish figures,” she said, vamping a little, winking at Paige, “but I’ve got to relieve Eric.”

  “Thanks, Gretchen,” Paige said shyly.

  “Oh, please, are you kidding me? I’m the one who should be thanking you.” To me, she added, “Paige finished stuffing the envelopes.” She smiled at Paige. “When you’re done eating, come and join me at the cash register if you want. You can help bag.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Gretchen’s just great, isn’t she?” I asked after she’d gone.

  “Oh, yes! She’s so nice. And so funny!”

  Listening to Paige recount Gretchen’s gossip-addicted discourse, I realized that I, for whatever reason, had assumed the mantle of protector. Gretchen was all about fun. I didn’t feel jealous exactly, but I was aware of wishing that Paige would interact with me with the same joie de vivre that I’d just witnessed in her exchange with Gretchen.

  After we were done eating, I brought Paige to the cashier’s station. I needed to relieve Sasha in the Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth. Sasha, in turn, would rotate into the front office to cover the phone while Gretchen was at the cash register.

  I stepped in through the waist-high door and sat behind the desk, and turned to greet the first person in the queue. “Come on in,” I said to an attractive, fifty-something woman. She had intelligent eyes, short, wavy gray hair, and an easy smile. As I welcomed her, I kept one ear and half an eye on the activities and people milling about on the sales floor. “I’m Josie Prescott,” I said to the woman sitting across from me.

  “Hi. I’m Barbara Evans.”

  “Welcome. Let’s get a look at your object. What do you have?”

  “A vase.”

  She handed me a lovely ivory-colored ewer, hand painted with pink and red flowers, and stamped LIMOGES on the bottom.

  “How did you come to own it?” I asked as I peered inside, and slowly rotated it, examining the entire surface.

  “It was my mother’s. She got it from her mother, my grandmother, who always said it was hand painted.”

  I noted some minor paint flecking on the spout and rim and a hairline crack along the bottom.

  “Yes, that’s true.” I smiled to mitigate the impact of my next comment. “But it’s not unique—or even, I’m afraid, particularly rare.”

  “How do you know?”

  I pointed to the barely visible line that ran along the handle and spout. “Do you see this?” I asked. “It’s a seam. It indicates that the pitcher was manufactured using a mold.”

  “Which means it was mass produced,” she said, understanding the implication.

  “Exactly. The Limoges region of France has been a major porcelain exporter for more than two hundred years. A lot of the work done there is mass produced.”

  “What’s this one worth?”

  I stroked the satiny finish. It might not be rare, but it was certainly lovely. “I would expect it to bring about thirty dollars at auction.”

  “Thirty dollars!” Barbara exclaimed. “I can’t believe it! That’s all?”

  “It’s worth more than that to you, am I right?” I asked, smiling.

  She laughed. “Are you kidding? To me, it’s priceless. . . . I’d never sell it!”

  “You think of your mom and grandmother every time you look at it, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her tone serious and thoughtful. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Barbara Evans stood up and shook my hand, and cradling her grandmother’s vase like a baby, she le
ft the booth.

  The next person in line, a tall old man with a cane, stepped forward.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  “Hi. Melvin Isaacson.”

  “Welcome. What did you bring today?”

  With a trembling hand, he rested his cane against the table and extracted a folk art cabin cruiser from a large canvas boat bag and rested it on the table.

  “Wow!” I said. “It’s a beauty.”

  It was a good size, about eighteen by twelve inches, and crudely carved out of walnut. It gleamed from careful polishing. The maker’s mark read: MISTY MISS, REGISTERED STATE OF MAINE, 1824, JOSIAH DRAKE.

  “Look inside,” he said proudly.

  I squinted, trying to see through the tiny windows. The interior was accurately rendered. There was a miniature captain’s chair and steering wheel, benches and drop-down tables, a brass railing, and light fixtures. It was charming. I examined it carefully, seeking out signs of rot, insect infestation, cracks, or other damage, but there were none. It was a magnificent example of American folk art, in stellar condition.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Not much of anything. My wife found it in her aunt’s attic about a month ago. We had to clean it out after she died. We never saw it before.”

  “How about her husband?”

  “She was a maiden lady.”

  I nodded. “Give me a minute,” I said, and turned to the computer.

  I brought up a browser and logged on to one of the many proprietary sites we used to keep current with prices. I knew that folk art was popular right now, and in our region, maritime artifacts were always popular, but I didn’t know the name Josiah Drake, nor did I know whether cabin cruisers held any special allure. The sites I consulted gave me significant information, but of a general nature, and I had a hunch that this object was special and worth more research.

  Mr. Isaacson waited patiently as I searched three separate sites and IM’d Shelly, a former colleague from my Frisco days. Shelly had remained neutral during the meltdown that followed the whistle-blowing debacle, a far kinder reaction than that showed by most of my so-called friends. While Shelly and I were no longer close, she called on me periodically for tips on how to approach off-the-wall appraisals and was always accessible when I needed specific information likely to be in her head or at her fingertips. Since I knew that Shelly was more likely to go somewhere without her purse than without her BlackBerry, I figured there was a good chance that I could reach her immediately. I crossed my fingers that she was online.