Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  I nodded. “How about her?” I asked, showing Edie’s picture.

  She cocked her head, thinking. “I don’t think so.”

  “This one?” I asked, handing her Una’s photo.

  “Now, this is one the police didn’t show me . . . yes,” she said, tapping the plastic with her finger. “I’ve seen her. But not with Rosalie.”

  “Who with?” I asked.

  “Mr. Fine.”

  Gerry had been involved with Una! It took a heavy dose of willpower to keep my astonishment from showing on my face. “When was that?”

  “Hmmm . . . a couple of times last summer, maybe? I think that’s right—I remember one night she wore a red strapless dress.” She looked at me and smiled. “It looked very good on her.”

  I nodded. “Would you remember if—” I started, interrupted by a man who clomped into the anteroom.

  “Hey, Betty,” he called. “Christ Jesus, it’s as cold as a witch’s tit out there.”

  “Marcus,” Betty scolded, “what are you thinking of, wearing only that light jacket?”

  “I was only going from the house to the car and from the car in here!”

  “You’re going to catch your death of cold! Let’s get you a little something to chase the chill away.”

  “Smart woman,” he said, and she laughed and escorted him into the lounge.

  “I’ll be right back,” she called to me over her shoulder.

  I stood there, distilling Betty’s revelations. Gerry lied about not having seen Rosalie the night she died, and since the police questioned Betty, they knew it, too. Plus, Gerry had, apparently, been having an affair with Una until Rosalie entered the picture, I thought, shaking my head. And poor Edie. I bet that Gerry stayed with her because it was cheaper than divorcing her. What a heel. It was one thing to fall in love with another woman and be unable to resist Cupid’s arrow. It was another to behave like an eighteenth-century rake. Gerry didn’t care about anything or anyone but Gerry. As I stood, waiting for Betty, I tried to figure out why Edie stayed. Does she love him or does she feel trapped? My guess was that she was as self-centered as he was and cared only about protecting her lifestyle.

  Words my father spoke in response to my gushing report about a college friend who’d gotten engaged to the son of one of the nation’s richest men came to me. Marry a man for his money, Josie, and you’ll earn every penny.

  I shook off the sick-sad thought and instead gazed around the anteroom. From where I stood by the hostess podium to the kitchen, running floor to ceiling, there were scores of two-by-two-foot gated cubbyholes—individual wine storage units. I felt my heart lunge. The unit in front of me had a brass plate next to the lock that read, “Jim Thornapple.” On the unit to the left, the brass plate read, “Lisa and Matt Freidman.”

  “Marcus, you’re a piece of work!” Betty chided, chuckling as she returned to her hostess station. “Sorry,” she said to me. “Where were we?”

  “No problem. I was about to ask if Gerry ate at the restaurant often.”

  She considered the question. “Besides the times with Rosalie, maybe once a month. Some larger business dinners—you know what I mean. Six or eight people—department heads, sales people, that sort of thing. But one-on-one dinners with other people? Not all that often. No other women, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Change of subject—did Rosalie have one of these individual wine units?” I asked, crossing my fingers that I’d found the answer to at least one of Rosalie’s extra keys.

  “No.” She looked at a unit on the side wall. “But Gerry Fine does.”

  I turned to her, astounded. “May I see if one of the extra keys on Rosalie’s ring fits his unit?”

  “Customers don’t have keys.”

  “But there are locks.” I pointed to a nearby unit’s ornate iron lock.

  “It’s their wine, but we keep the keys.”

  It makes sense, I thought. “I see. Did Rosalie ever come here with anyone I haven’t asked you about?”

  She thought some more. “I can’t answer that. I mean, not lately that I know about. But she was here a lot. And keep in mind that I don’t work every day, although it feels like I do!”

  I smiled, acknowledging her mild joke. “Anything else you can think of that I should ask you to help jog your memory? Any altercations? Any situations?”

  She considered that, then slowly shook her head. “Nothing comes to mind.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” I said, and extended my hand. “Thank you.”

  “Rosalie was a great girl. You let me know if I can do anything else, okay?”

  I assured her that I would, and as I turned to leave, I saw Marcus, leaning over the bar punctuating the air as he made a point about something to the bartender. The cold outside was brutal and I scrunched up my coat, protecting my neck. All I wanted was to get to my car.

  Gerry is the nexus, I thought.

  Both Edie and Una knew they’d been replaced by a younger model. With Edie’s vituperative tongue, and Una’s status as a single mother on the edge, I wondered how they’d taken the rejection.

  I considered each woman’s personality and attitudes. Edie was hypersensitive, always alert for snubs and perceived offenses. Her anger was defensive; she struck out protectively, shredded by jealousy. Una seemed content with her day-to-day life, but she made no secret of her difficult financial situation, and I knew from my own experience that Gerry was generous to people he cared about or needed. It wasn’t a stretch to suppose that when they’d been together, he’d helped Una pay her bills. And now that they were apart, he didn’t.

  I shrugged. With a little imagination, it was easy to assign motives to anyone about anything. Yet I couldn’t help but notice that for someone as well liked and admired as Rosalie, there sure seemed to be a lot of people who might have wanted to kill her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  W

  es called as I was driving back to my office.

  “I got a dead Evan Woodricky,” he said, all business.

  “Tell me.”

  “Hampton Beach. Two weeks ago. OD.”

  Hampton Beach was a coastal town south of Portsmouth. “Wow,” I said.

  “Got a pen?”

  “Give me a sec. I’m in the car.” I pulled off to the side of the road and turned the flashers on. “I’m ready.”

  Wes rattled off a Hampton Beach address and I noted it in my book.

  “That’s his mother’s place. He shared an apartment with some friends in Salem. From what I hear, it was a real dump,” Wes said, and told me that address, too.

  “What did he OD from?” I asked.

  “Smack.”

  “Heroin?” I said, to confirm that I understood. Heroin in New Hampshire? I asked myself. I shook my head. Everything is everywhere. “Did he leave a will?” I asked Wes.

  “No way to tell. It hasn’t been submitted for probate,” Wes said, “but that doesn’t mean anything. It could be that it’s a small estate being handled privately by some lawyer. Or it could be that it hasn’t been submitted for probate yet.”

  “Was there a police investigation of the death?”

  “Why?” Wes asked, jumping on my question. “Ya thinking foul play?”

  “No, no. I don’t know anything, I’m just asking.”

  “They always conduct an investigation in situations like this. In this case, he was a known junkie, so they probably didn’t dig all that deep. He had two arrests in the last year alone.”

  “Do you know his roommates’ names?” I asked.

  “Yup, I got it right here. Lesha Moore and Sam Dixon. They’re junkies, too.”

  Lesha, I thought, nodding. And Sam was probably the nasty-looking guy in the pickup.

  “Thanks, Wes,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  “You betcha. You got anything for me now?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then. See ya.”

  I called Gretchen.

  “It’s me,” I said. �
��Is everything under control?”

  “Yes. Paige is great—she’s helping me put on the labels for the mailing.”

  “Terrific. Listen, ask Sasha or Fred to pack up the palette we’re investigating, will you? Whistler’s palette? I need to show it to someone. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. I’ll call when I’m closer and someone can run it out to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Also the letter Lesha brought.”

  “Got it.”

  “And tell Sasha that I’m checking something out—to hold off on her research until I get back to her.”

  “Will do.”

  An hour later, with the palette and the letter in hand, I parked half a block away from Evan’s mother’s house, trying to decide on my opening line.

  Mrs. Woodricky lived about three blocks from the ocean in a weathered bungalow with pretty blue shutters. The porch had a much-used, much-loved look about it, even in the dead of winter. There were tarp-covered chairs and tables; window boxes wreathed with evergreen garlands; and a hammock frame bolted to the ceiling, the support chains dangling and swaying in the frigid breeze. A sprig of birch twigs and berries adorned the front door, an after-Christmas decoration.

  I took a final look in my mirrors. Nothing. I didn’t want to bother Mrs. Woodricky, but I needed information that only she could provide—if she was willing to do so. I sat in my car for a few minutes, wishing I could skip this part. I knew that there was no good way to ask a grieving mother about her dead son’s possessions. I also knew that I had no choice, it was part of the appraisal process, and it had to be done.

  I tramped up the unshoveled sidewalk to the house and climbed the steps. From the porch, looking east, I could see a sliver of ocean between the houses, and as I watched, three-foot waves broke with violent claps, sending sprays of white froth into the air toward the shore. Then the wave ebbed and another one broke, splayed forth, and slipped away. It was hypnotic. Finally, I turned away, clacked the shell-shaped brass knocker, crossed my fingers that Mrs. Woodricky would be home and willing to talk to me, and waited.

  The door swung open and a woman of sixty-plus asked, “Yes?” She wore a plaid blazer and forest green slacks.

  “Hi. Are you Mrs. Woodricky?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  Her eyes were gray and watery, and I wondered if she had allergies or had been crying a lot. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and there were brown spots near her nose and on her cheek. She looked worn-out and in-the-bone sad.

  I took a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Josie Prescott. I’m an antiques appraiser and I have reason to think you can help me authenticate an object.”

  “Me? I don’t have any antiques.”

  “It’s about an artist’s palette. James McNeill Whistler.”

  She stared at me, her eyes moist and soulful. “Who are you?” she whispered. “What do you want?”

  I forced myself to stay focused. “It may have been your son’s.”

  She tipped sideways as if pushed and clutched the doorframe.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “Can I help you to sit down or something?”

  “Evan?” she asked. “You knew Evan?”

  “No. But I may have something that was his—Whistler’s palette.”

  She nodded. “Yes, Evan had it.”

  “Really?”

  “Evan was a good artist. Very talented. Everyone said so.”

  A sudden gust of wind blowing off the water pierced my skin, and I shivered. It was cold on the porch—killing cold.

  “May I come in and explain? I promise I won’t take long,” I asked.

  She didn’t reply, but she stepped back, allowing me to cross the threshold. I pushed the door shut and glanced around. The living room was to the left, furnished with a traditional sofa and two club chairs. All three pieces were upholstered in a turquoise-and-mauve flowered print. A big flat-screen TV dominated one corner. To the right was the dining room. A round oak dining room table with four ladder chairs were positioned under a simple brass chandelier. A matching sideboard was against the outside wall. A vase of orange berries sat in the center of the table.

  “Come on in.” She led the way into the dining room, placed her hands on the top of one of the chairs, and indicated that I should sit. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t remember your name.”

  I took out a business card and handed it to her. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  She accepted the card but didn’t look at it. Instead, she dropped it on the table in front of her, keeping her eyes on me as if she were afraid I was an apparition, that if she looked away, I’d disappear.

  “What is it you want?” she asked.

  “My company, Prescott’s, has been asked to appraise a palette. We were told it was Whistler’s by the woman who brought it to us—Lesha Moore. Do you know her?”

  She recoiled as if I’d slapped her, and from the look on her face I could tell that she loathed Lesha. “Yes,” she said, unable to disguise her revulsion, “I know her. She has the palette? Is that what you’re telling me—that she has it?”

  “She told us that Evan willed the palette to her.”

  She shook her head. “No way. Evan didn’t leave a will.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She shrugged. “Of course I’m sure! I have all his things.”

  “Here?”

  “No. They’re at my brother’s. I asked him to go to Evan’s apartment the same day he died and pack everything up. I didn’t want that girl touching any of his things.”

  I nodded. “I want to be sure I heard you right. Evan did own Whistler’s palette?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It was mine and I gave it to him. And if she gave it to you, it’s stolen and I’m calling the police right now.”

  “Fair enough—but the palette I have may not be Evan’s. Maybe it’s a fake.”

  Mrs. Woodricky nodded. “That sounds like Lesha.”

  “Could you explain to me how it came into your possession?”

  “Sure, I’ll tell you. Then you can explain it to the police.”

  I was about to learn the secret of Whistler’s palette—it was a heady moment.

  She rubbed aimless circles on the well-oiled wood tabletop.

  “It came from my mother, Mari Houston.”

  I reached into my tote bag, found Lesha’s letter, and handed the plastic sleeve to her. “Are you familiar with this?”

  “What is it?” she asked, looking bewildered.

  “Lesha said it was Evan’s.”

  She read the letter slowly, shaking her head. “This is crazy,” she said when she was done.

  “In what way?”

  “Well, it’s sort of right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mother was Maribelle Houston, she was called Mari, we did live in Newton, and she did get the palette from her best friend, Stephanie Milhouse.” She tapped the plastic several times. “But I’ve never seen this letter.”

  I nodded. “The letter’s not genuine, but it sounds like it couldn’t have been written without Evan’s help.”

  “I’m ashamed to say that—”

  She broke off abruptly, stood up, turned her back and stood for a minute, her arms hanging by her side, her hands curled into tight, tense fists. She whipped around, nodding, a decision made, sat back down, and looked at me straight on. “Evan was troubled, but never would he have done something criminal like faking this letter.”

  I nodded, struggling to think of what else I could say. I decided to come back to business, not wanting to push, but needing to know. “You said your mom got the palette from her girlfriend?”

  She looked up, her eyes alive with memory. “That’s right. My mom and Aunt Stephie—I grew up calling her Aunt Stephie—were friends from when they were nothing-old. I always knew she was related to Whistler through her mother’s side of the family, but it was never anything we spoke about, and I couldn’t tell you how I first learned of it. It was just part o
f who Aunt Stephie was, you know?” She sighed and idly thumbed the tabletop, her eyes drifting down. “When I was young, my family spent summers at the Cape. My mom took painting classes at a studio in Hyannis every year. Sometimes she took watercolor, sometimes oil, sometimes life drawing. She just loved that place.” She shook off a thought and pointed at an undistinguished oil painting of a marina.

  “She wasn’t very good, but she sure loved it,” she said, gazing at the painting. “Aunt Stephie used to join us at the beach for her two-week vacation every year.” She turned and looked at me. “She was secretary to an important man in finance, I don’t remember his name. Anyway, she did live on East Thirty-sixth Street, in New York just like that letter said. Murray Hill, the neighborhood was called. I visited her once.”

  “When did she move to New York?” I asked.

  “After high school. She went to secretarial school in Manhattan.”

  “When did Ms. Milhouse give the palette to your mom?”

  She frowned, concentrating, then tapped the letter again. “I guess it would have been just about then. The late fifties or early sixties.”

  “Were you there when she handed it over?”

  Mrs. Woodricky smiled. “Was I ever! It was a wonderful moment. My mom nearly fainted with pleasure. It was summer, and Aunt Stephie took the train to Boston like always, and from Boston she took the ferry to Nantasket. We picked her up there and went, right away, to Paragon Park. It was an annual tradition.”

  “What’s Paragon Park?” I asked. I’d grown up in the Boston area, too, but I’d never heard of it.

  “It was an amusement park. Oh, it was fun!”

  “Then what would you do?” I asked, smiling.

  “We’d have lobster rolls and fried clams at the Clam Shack. And then we’d drive down to Hyannis.” She sighed. “That night, once Aunt Stephie unpacked, she told my mom she had a secret, and my mom told her she couldn’t, that they never had secrets between them. I can see Aunt Stephie’s face as clear as day. She was smiling just like the Cheshire Cat.”

  She shook her head. I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. She just stared into space, lost in her memories. After a while I asked, “Then what happened?”