Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  “My mother and Aunt Stephie were laughing about what her secret could be and then she ran into her room and came back out with the palette. She handed it to my mom and said that she just knew that the magic would transfer.”

  She shook her head and tapped the plastic sleeve again. “Just like in the letter. It’s nauseating that Lesha would fake a letter like this.” She pushed it away as if it were poison.

  I nodded, thinking that it was more likely that her drug-addicted son wrote the letter, probably to help him sell the palette and get money for drugs. I’d bet that when he died, Lesha just capitalized on the opportunity. For appraisal purposes, it didn’t matter. I knew the letter was a fake. What I didn’t know was whether the palette was bogus, too.

  “Would you know the palette by sight?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, thinking. After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to mine. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  I extracted the plastic bag containing the palette and slid it across the table. Mrs. Woodricky picked it up.

  “This isn’t Evan’s palette,” she said, pushing it across the table. “I mean, this isn’t Whistler’s palette.”

  I nodded, not surprised. “How do you know?”

  “Ours has a scorch mark—here,” she said, tapping a spot near one side. “We figured someone who used it at some point smoked and a cinder fell on it.” She looked at it again, and I followed her eyes. “The wood looks right.” She looked up at me. “Do you know how Whistler arranged his paints?”

  “No. Do you?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I know he did it in some certain way. Evan researched it. He really thought he could absorb Whistler’s genius if he followed his routine. It sounds stupid, but it was real to him.”

  “Thank you for the information. You’ve been very helpful. May I ask you one more question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know where the real palette is now?”

  “It must be in one of the boxes at my brother’s place.”

  I nodded. “Would you ask your brother to check? I don’t mean to add to your grief, but it would be very helpful to know that the real palette is extant.”

  “I’ll ask him. I want to know, too.”

  I stood up, palette and letter in hand, preparing to leave. “Will you call me and let me know whether your brother finds it?”

  “All right.” She stood up and we walked toward the front door. “What are you going to do?” she asked, nodding toward the palette.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Mrs. Woodricky nodded. I could see ridges of tension along her chin and neck.

  “You should call the police,” she said. “If you do, tell them to call me,” she said. “I’ll be glad to talk to them.”

  What she meant, of course, was that she’d be glad to do Lesha whatever harm she could, and having met Lesha, I didn’t blame her a bit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  G

  retchen was so keyed up she could barely contain herself. “Josie!” she exclaimed as soon as I was inside.

  “What?” I asked, hanging up my coat.

  “They arrived!” She stepped aside to reveal a breathtaking bouquet of two dozen wine-colored roses in an etched glass vase.

  I felt the blood drain from my face. The floor seemed to tilt and I grasped the lip of Gretchen’s desk, glad for the feel of solid wood. Don’t panic, I told myself. “Did you call Officer Brownley?” I asked calmly.

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Not to touch them and she was en route. She was calling from Durham, so she said she’d be about half an hour.”

  I nodded, my eyes held fast by the crimson nightmare. When you can’t think of what to do, breathe, my father instructed. Stop, think, breathe. I took a deep breath, and then another.

  “There’s a card,” Gretchen reported.

  “We’ll wait for Officer Brownley.” I took another deep breath and felt the world begin to right itself. “Who brought them?”

  “A delivery guy. From Floral Expressions.”

  “When?”

  “About fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

  While I was carefully checking my car’s mirrors, I thought bitterly, my secret admirer had been ordering flowers. The son of a bitch. I hated the flowers, and hated the man who’d bought them for me.

  “They’re really unbelievable looking,” she commented, wanting, in typical Gretchen fashion, to accentuate the positive, a personality quirk that made her a delightful employee, but was as irritating as all get-out now.

  I took a step back and pressed my hips and shoulders into the outside wall. I was unable to look away from the flowers. I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe, then opened them. “Where’s Paige?”

  “Upstairs, reading,” Gretchen said as her wind chimes jingled.

  Officer Brownley entered the office carrying an empty cardboard box. She saw me, then the roses.

  “Have you touched them?”

  “No,” I replied. “Gretchen said there’s a card.”

  Officer Brownley stepped forward, spotted it, snapped on plastic gloves and edged it out of the green plastic trident where it was lodged.

  I watched as she gently eased the card out of the envelope, mindful of fingerprints. She held it up so I could see it. The message, pencil-written in all-capital block letters, read:

  YOU’RE MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN THESE, THE

  MOST SPECTACULAR ROSES AVAILABLE. I

  KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. I KNOW WHERE YOU

  WORK.

  LOVE,

  YOUR SECRET ADMIRER

  “It’s so completely creepy,” I whispered. I turned to face her. “I thought the florists were on alert. Ty said they weren’t supposed to deliver flowers to me without calling you first.”

  “They weren’t. Human error. The florist had a new employee.”

  “Human error,” I repeated, stunned. If not for a new employee, the police might have the man responsible in custody.

  “We’ve already recontacted all florists within fifty miles to reiterate the warning and instruct them about training their staffs.”

  “Does the florist have a record of when the order was placed?” I asked.

  “Yes. The flowers were ordered in person by someone who dropped off the vase and the card. The order was placed just after the store opened, around ten this morning.”

  “Was the florist able to identify the customer?” I asked.

  “Yeah. A guy who looked like a homeless bum handed the clerk an envelope and the vase, and left. The instructions and card were in the envelope. Along with cash.”

  “A dead end,” I said.

  “Not necessarily. Patrols are out now, looking for the homeless man. We have a description.”

  I nodded and glanced at Gretchen, her eyes big with interest, then looked carefully at the vase. “The vase,” I said. “It’s unusual.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s etched glass.”

  Officer Brownley made a note, then, still wearing plastic gloves, carefully braced the vase in the box, using padding she’d brought along.

  As she was heading out the door, Gretchen handed me a message. Ty had called to say he’d be at Prescott’s about six and we were to wait for him before leaving.

  Heading up the steps to my office, I held on tight to the railing. The entire situation felt surreal to me, as if I were an actor in a play I hadn’t read. I paused on the upper landing and looked out over the warehouse, breathing deeply.

  “Hey, Paige,” I said as I stepped inside.

  “Hi.” She looked up from her book.

  “I’ve got to go back to the tag sale. Ty is coming here around six, so we’ll be leaving then. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Bored?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve been having trouble concentrating.”

  “How come?” I asked, sitting next to her.

&n
bsp; “Mr. Bolton.”

  “What about him?”

  “I’m scared about the meeting. I’ve never had a meeting with a lawyer. I’m not going to know what to say and I don’t know how to pay him.”

  “Since he’s your lawyer, you can tell him anything. It’s called a privileged communication.”

  “What should I tell him?”

  “Well, that depends on what he asks you, of course. But you should tell him the truth.”

  “Do you know what he’s going to ask me?”

  “I know a couple of things. He’s going to ask you about Rosalie’s funeral.”

  Paige began to cry. Soon, silent sobs racked her slender frame and she seemed to sink deeper into the love seat, almost disappearing into the folds of the pillows. I sat beside her and touched her shoulder, prepared for an embrace that never came. I kept my hand in place until the sobs abated.

  “I don’t think I can,” she whispered, her hands covering her eyes, rocking to and fro, to and fro. “I just don’t think I can.”

  “Can you tell me? So I can tell him?”

  “Okay.”

  Asking a twelve-year-old about her sister’s funeral was about as horrific a task as I could imagine. I took a deep breath and jumped in. “Did Rosalie ever tell you anything about her wishes?”

  “No.”

  Of course not, I said to myself. Rosalie was only thirty-two when she died.

  “How about your parents? Do you know where they’re buried?”

  She nodded but didn’t speak.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “California.”

  “What part?”

  “Santa Monica.”

  “Is that where you lived?”

  “Yes.”

  “Near where Rodney is now?”

  She nodded again.

  “We can ask Mr. Bolton what he thinks about having Rosalie buried near your parents.”

  “Okay.”

  She spoke so softly, I could barely hear her.

  “That way, if it ends up that you move out to stay with Rodney, you’ll be nearby.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I know,” I said lamely.

  “Can they make me?”

  “I don’t know. We can ask Mr. Bolton. I know he was doing a background check to make sure Rodney wasn’t a criminal or anything.”

  Paige began to cry again, making little mewing sounds, and I felt my heart crack in tiny pieces all over again. I slipped my arm over her shoulders, and her tremors radiated up my arm. After a long minute, her crying grew quieter, then stilled.

  “Do you know why Rodney and Rosalie had a falling-out?”

  “Not really. Something about money.”

  Money, honey, I thought. “So what we’re deciding is that you want to talk to Mr. Bolton about burying Rosalie in California, near your parents. And about where you’re going to live.”

  “You’ll go with me?” she asked, uncovering her eyes for the first time, her voice cracking.

  “Yes. Absolutely,” I replied, patting her arm. “Paige, I’m so sorry you’re in this situation.”

  She began to cry again, and this time she leaned into me and let me hug her. I rested my chin lightly on top of her head and held her until her convulsive weeping slowed.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, choking on the words.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I said, meaning it.

  She began to cry again, softly this time, and then she sat up and wiped her wet cheeks with the side of her hands. “I miss her so much.”

  I nodded. “And you probably will forever.”

  “Like my folks.”

  “Yeah. Do you miss them as much now as when they first died?”

  “Sort of, but it’s not the same.”

  “Like me. Missing my parents has gotten less sharp, but the hurt is always there.”

  “How do you handle it?”

  “I cook.”

  “Really?” Paige skewed around on the love seat to face me.

  “Yeah. Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to make Jerry’s Chicken. Jerry was my grandfather.”

  Paige looked at me, one wounded soul to another. “Thank you, Josie.”

  Fred called up. “I’ve got something,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Maybe a motive for murder.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I

  escorted Paige into the tag-sale venue, then crossed the concrete expanse into the main office.

  Fred handed me a sheet of fine stationery, letterhead from a Boston-based attorney. It was dated a month before Rosalie’s death. From reading the letter, I gathered that Rosalie had inquired about a colleague’s unauthorized use of her unpublished primary research in an article he had submitted for peer review. While the lawyer agreed that the use of her research was clearly inappropriate, the gist of his opinion had to do with the complexity of assessing and proving damages. Attached to the letter was a copy of a cease-and-desist demand that the attorney had sent at Rosalie’s request to the offending colleague, Dr. Cooper Bennington.

  “Wow,” I said softly. Professional jealousy was an understatement, I thought. With Rosalie dead, might Cooper do more than use her research? Might he claim it as his own? “Any sign of a reply from the accused or his attorney?” I asked.

  “No.”

  That must have made for some tense departmental meetings, I thought. But good for Rosalie. It was a ballsy move to stand up for herself that way.

  I tried to assimilate the meaning of what I’d just learned. Cooper had a reason to kill Rosalie, I thought. A powerful one. Not only would he be likely to avoid a charge of plagiarism but he might be able to claim her research as his own. If Paige hadn’t requested an appraisal, he might have gotten away with it.

  I nearly gasped as I remembered something else. Rosalie called him Chief. I shook my head. It’s true, I thought, but it couldn’t possibly be relevant. She referred to him as the chief cook and bottle washer. But her tone had been disdainful and the references to Chief in the scrapbook were adoring, not ridiculing.

  I shrugged helplessly. I couldn’t go back in time to figure out what had been in Rosalie’s head when she spoke those words, but I did know that Cooper Bennington had one heck of a solid motive for murder. I’ll tell Ty about Cooper tonight, I thought.

  “Make me copies of those papers, okay? I’ll take them with me.”

  “No problem.”

  “Good work, Fred,” I said.

  “Thanks.” He flung his arm backward indicating three boxes. “There’s still a lot to do.”

  “Yeah, well, keep at it. The faster we get through it, the better.”

  I found Sasha working the floor in the tag-sale room and reported what I had learned from Mrs. Woodricky.

  “We’ll have to call the police,” she said, stricken.

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “I want to think about it some more. If we need to report it, we’ll call them on Monday.”

  “It’s awful, what Lesha did.”

  “Yeah.”

  I took another turn in the Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth, and afterward when Sasha relieved me, I weaved my way through the dollhouse display to talk to Cara, the new temp.

  “Hi, Cara. How’s it going?”

  “Good. This is a marvelous business you have.”

  “Thanks.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” I said, immediately on guard. Her question might appear innocuous, but my experience is that if someone feels the need to ask permission to inquire about something, the question is often unwelcome.

  “Is that Paige Chaffee?”

  I glanced at Cara, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was gazing beyond the cashier stand, toward the stool where Paige sat.

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “No, but I knew Rosalie a little. I recognized Paige from her photo on Rosalie’s desk at Heyer’s. How is she holding up?”

&n
bsp; I shrugged. “About how you’d expect.”

  Cara turned to face me. “I only met Rosalie once, but we really hit it off.” She smiled and added, “Desks.”

  “Desks?” I repeated.

  She nodded. “I met Rosalie last fall when I was temping at Heyer’s. I was admiring Mr. Fine’s office suite—it’s so elegant, and she told me that yours was the inspiration—all those marvelous antiques. Anyway, I mentioned my antique desk, or maybe she mentioned hers first, I don’t remember. Regardless, one thing led to another and we discovered that we had them in common.”

  “Rosalie talked about an antique desk?” I asked, aiming for a neutral tone, not wanting to reveal my tingling excitement. Cara had unknowingly provided independent confirmation of the desk Paige had alluded to as “special.”

  “Yes. But what’s most remarkable is how we acquired them. My grandfather chose one for me based on my personality, and her mother did the same for her based on her personality. Until I met Rosalie I thought my grandfather was the only person who’d ever done such a thing.” She shook her head. “Rosalie and I had a good laugh over the different styles they picked. Her mom bought her a secretary from the Regency period, very delicate and feminine. My grandfather chose a big, sturdy rolltop for me. He said that I always had a lot going on so I needed a big desk, and since I wasn’t the neatest girl around, he picked one with a lid that closed so I could hide my mess.”

  “That’s charming, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “Not really! Not when your own grandfather calls you a slob!”

  I smiled. “Did Rosalie tell you where hers was?”

  “Isn’t it at her house? I just assumed—” she said, breaking off as Eric joined us.

  “We sold the set of milk glass bowls,” he said proudly.

  “Good job,” I told him, then turned back to Cara. “You were saying that you just assumed her desk was at her house?”

  “That’s right. I use mine all the time. We only spoke that one afternoon.”

  I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll see you both later.”

  “Would you let me know about the funeral?” Cara asked as I moved away.