Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Sure. You can call us anytime after Monday. Gretchen will know.”

  Eric followed me, and when we were some distance away, indicated with a nod of his head toward the side wall that he wanted me to stop.

  “What do you think about Cara? Should we offer her a permanent job?”

  “It’s up to you.” I smiled. “You’re the boss.”

  “Me?” he asked, worried at having to voice an opinion. He swallowed awkwardly. “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. Did she make any mistakes today?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did she comment on whether she liked the work?”

  “Yeah. She said she loved it and hoped we’d call on her again.”

  “What’s the downside?”

  “We just met her on Thursday. We don’t know much about her.”

  “Fair enough. What could you do about that?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I nodded. “You could tell her that we’d like to consider offering her a permanent position and have her fill out our job application. Then we can check her references. Gretchen can help you with the paperwork.”

  “That’s a good idea! Should I talk to her now?”

  “How about taking her aside after we close?”

  We finalized the details, and I was pleased to see him walk away with a bounce in his step.

  As I went to rejoin Fred, I had a thought about Rosalie and her Regency desk. She hadn’t intended to stay in New Hampshire once she finished her degree, so it was logical that she’d rent a furnished house and leave her good stuff somewhere else. The question was, where?

  I found Fred, elbow-deep in Rosalie’s papers.

  “Have you found any reference to a place where Rosalie might have stored anything? Somewhere large enough for furniture?” I asked.

  He pushed up his glasses and shook his head. “Nothing so far.”

  “Let me help go through the paperwork.”

  “Sure.”

  He hoisted a still-sealed box containing files and folders stuffed with papers I’d collected from her office at Hitchens. There was a sheaf of notes about communication models that we’d need to examine in more detail, drafts of proposed presentations, and an accordion file holding unpaid bills. Apparently Rosalie had paid her bills while she was at work.

  Recalling that Officer Brownley had asked whether Rosalie owed anyone money, I looked into the dated slots one by one. She’d scheduled her next car payment for the tenth of January. Renters’ insurance was due on the eighteenth.

  “Holy cow!” I exclaimed, extracting a sheet from the slot labeled 28.

  “What?” Fred asked.

  “Looks like I found a storage room.”

  Evidently Rosalie had rented a storage room, unit ten, at a place called Tim’s Storage, located on Tenth Road in Rocky Point. I felt my heart begin to race in anticipation of finding the desk, which was maybe the museum-quality antique that Rosalie had told Paige existed. Regency period furniture was in fashion, and good examples with interesting associations could demand hundreds of thousands of dollars.

  I knew you wouldn’t lie to Paige, I thought. I just knew it.

  I dialed the number of Tim’s Storage right away. A gruff-sounding man answered on the second ring sounding as if I’d interrupted him. I wondered if it was Tim.

  “Hi,” I said. “How late are you open?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  Darn, I thought, my eyes on the Mickey Mouse clock on Gretchen’s desk. It was after five-thirty. No way could I get there before six. “How about tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Same. We open at noon on Sundays.”

  “Can you tell me anything about unit ten?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like when the owner last visited.”

  “Who is this?” he retorted, instantly suspicious.

  I didn’t blame him. I could have kicked myself for asking such a direct question. “My name is Josie Prescott. I’m an antiques appraiser based in Portsmouth. Never mind.” All I’d done was put him on the defensive, and I couldn’t think of how to explain the situation over the phone. “I’ll stop by and explain why I’m asking.”

  He grunted something, and I took it to mean that he doubted I could explain my interest to his satisfaction.

  “Who are you, please?” I asked.

  “Tim.”

  “Hi, Tim. Will you be there tomorrow?”

  “Yup.”

  After I hung up, I stared at the phone, debating whether I needed to report my discovery to the police. Yes, I thought. I’ll tell Ty tonight. Wanting to cover all bases, I also called Mr. Bolton.

  At six, I said good-bye to the staff, and left Sasha in charge of closing. At 6:05, I waved hello to Ty as Paige and I hurried across the parking lot to my car.

  As we pulled into traffic, my cell phone rang. I slipped in my earpiece and looked at the number on the display—it was Wes.

  “Hey, Wes,” I said.

  “I’ve got info,” he said, his tone low and mysterious sounding.

  “What?”

  “Not on the phone.”

  “I have no time, Wes. It’s got to be on the phone.”

  I glanced back and saw Ty two car lengths back. It was reassuring to have him nearby.

  “Josie!” Wes whined.

  I shot Paige a look to see if she was listening, but I couldn’t tell. She was leaning back, her head turned, staring out of her window. “I just can’t, Wes. I’m betting that whatever you tell me will be in the morning edition—am I right?”

  “Of course!” he replied, shocked at my suggestion that he would be a laggard when it came to reporting the news.

  “So I promise not to reveal what you tell me until tomorrow morning.”

  He sighed deeply. “It’s about the murder weapon. They’ve finished the test, the one on the wood. It’s apple wood. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  Apple wood, I thought. I glanced at Paige again. She couldn’t help but hear my comments, but as near as I could tell from her expression, she wasn’t listening in particular. “Not really,” I said to Wes. “It’s everywhere around here.”

  “Yeah.” Wes sighed. “So I expected a call today. What about Whistler’s palette?”

  Finally something I could talk about in front of Paige. “It’s not genuine.”

  “So it’s fraud?”

  “Well, attempted fraud, anyway. I still need to do some research.” Saying it aloud grounded me. I didn’t want to call the police on Lesha if she was a victim of Evan’s deceit.

  “How come?”

  “I’m not convinced that the woman who asked us to appraise it is in on the scam. It’s possible that the con was set up by her now-dead boyfriend, and that he gave her the palette and letter before he died. She may think she has the genuine article, and if he told her it was hers, she may think that she has the right to sell it.”

  “Even without a will?”

  “If he gave it to her before he died, whether he had a will or not is irrelevant. I don’t know . . . I just want to arm myself with as much knowledge as possible before I decide what I should do.”

  “Makes sense . . . but don’t forget, I’m your first phone call.”

  “Once I’ve decided how to handle it,” I agreed, “I’ll call you first. I promise.”

  “Okay, then,” he said, and was gone.

  Apple wood, I mused. New Hampshire had acres and acres of apple orchards. Gnarled limbs sometimes ended up at the beach, where, over the years, they weathered into gray driftwood. But that doesn’t explain the varnish, I thought, and shook my head.

  Ty parked in front of the tall hedge and I pulled into the driveway. The little light I always left on in my bedroom glowed, welcoming me home. Ty opened the door with the key I’d given him more than a year earlier and flipped the switches that lit up most of the ground floor.

  “It’s good to see you again, Paige,” Ty said.

  “Thank you.�
�� Her voice was barely audible.

  “I want to change into sweats,” I said, referring to my usual at-home attire. “See you guys in the living room in five minutes, okay?”

  “Would it be all right if I lie down before we go to Zoë’s?” Paige asked. “Just for a few minutes.”

  “Sure,” I said. “You want something to nibble first?”

  She shook her. “I’m just tired.”

  “Okay. Go on ahead. But it won’t be for long—I figure we should leave here in about half an hour. Is that okay?”

  She nodded.

  As I stepped out of my dirty jeans and sweater and into comfortable, warm sweats, a picture of Ty came to me. In my mind’s eye he was relaxing on the sofa with a beer in his hand and his legs resting on the coffee table, ankles crossed, frowning at the news. I love you, I thought, sending the vibe downstairs.

  When I walked into the living room, I saw that Ty had closed the drapes and was sitting on the sofa just as I’d envisioned, a bottle of Smuttynose in hand. He muted the TV.

  “Hey,” he said. He placed his beer on a copy of Architectural Digest and stood up.

  “Hey,” I said, approaching him.

  He tucked my hair behind my ear, leaned down, and kissed me.

  “Would you make me a drink?” I asked.

  “Sure. What’s your pleasure?” he asked as he led the way into the kitchen.

  I thought for a moment. “A guavatini.”

  I sat at the table and watched as he mixed the guava nectar with vodka and swirled the shaker.

  “I’ve got some information,” I said.

  He handed me the glass filled to the brim with the frothy orange-pink mixture, and I repeated Cara’s story about the desk, then handed him stapled copies of the letter and attachments documenting Cooper’s alleged plagiarism and Rosalie’s storage unit.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Paperwork suggesting a humdinger of a motive for Cooper Bennington to have killed Rosalie and evidence that she maintained a storage unit in Rocky Point.”

  He read through everything, nodding periodically, then called Officer Brownley and filled her in. From what I gathered, listening to their brief conversation, there was some reference to Cooper in Rosalie’s diary that was related to the lawsuit and they decided that Officer Brownley would reinterview him in the morning. My curiosity was fired up.

  “There’s a storage unit, too,” he told her. “Yeah . . . Josie found it in her papers . . . Tim’s, you know the place, off Madison. . . . I don’t know, let me ask her.” He turned to me. “How long has she had the unit, do you know?”

  “No.”

  “I assume you want to check out the storage unit tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want Officer Brownley to accompany you.”

  “Sure. I already spoke to Mr. Bolton about it.”

  He nodded and arranged for Officer Brownley to pick me up at my house at noon. I’d ride with her to Tim’s Storage.

  “I want to tell you something that Rosalie wrote in her diary,” he said when he was off the phone, “because it might be relevant to items you find—or, more to the point, items that should be there. About two months before she died, Rosalie wrote that she caught Cooper nosing around her office. She saw him sitting at her desk with drawers and files open. What seemed to really gall her was catching him red-handed with a photocopy of her journal pages.”

  “Her diary?”

  He shrugged. “That’s all we know. What do you think? When she wrote ‘journal,’ did she mean ‘diary’?”

  “I don’t know. In some contexts, the words are synonyms. I know she referred to her entries as ‘journaling,’ so maybe. It might help if I could read the actual entry.”

  He shook his head. “That’s all it said. Have you found any photocopied journal pages?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I’ll ask Fred.” I shook my head, dismayed. I looked at him, and as always, his striking brown eyes revealed nothing. “Cooper going through Rosalie’s desk is unbelievable! Trying to steal her work is . . . is . . . wicked!”

  “Yeah. I don’t mind admitting that we’re looking forward to talking to him about it.”

  His matter-of-fact words sent shivers up my spine. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, I thought spitefully.

  I finished my drink and at ten to seven, I ran upstairs and knocked on the guest room door. “Ten-minute warning, okay?”

  “Okay. Can I wear jeans?” she asked through the door.

  “Jeans will be fancy. I’m wearing sweats.”

  “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Downstairs, I discovered Ty leaning against the wall, grinning.

  “What is it?” I asked. “You’re smiling.”

  He didn’t reply. Instead, he came to me, set down his beer, and enveloped me in his arms, hugging me for a long time, rocking just a little.

  “Wow!” I said when he let me go. “What’s that about?”

  “I love you.”

  “Hot damn!” I said, and standing on tippy toes to reach, I kissed him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  T

  hree-year-old Emma tugged on my arm. “Josie!” she screeched, jumping up and down. “Want to see what monkey bear did?”

  “Sure, sweetie. In a sec. First, meet Paige. She’s staying with me for a couple of days.”

  “Hi,” Paige said, smiling.

  “Want to meet monkey bear?” Emma asked her.

  “Okay.”

  “Monkey bear climbed a chair. Come.”

  “And this is Jake,” I said, waving to Zoë’s six-year-old son.

  “Come look at monkey bear!” Emma insisted, tugging the hem of Paige’s sweater.

  “Sure,” she said, extending her index finger. Emma gripped it in her pudgy little hand. “Do you want to come, too, Jake?”

  “Not to see monkey bear. He’s stupid. I have a truck that can back up.”

  “Really? Show me.”

  “Monkey bear! Monkey bear!” Emma sang.

  “We can do both,” Paige said diplomatically.

  Zoë chuckled. “Nice to see you, Paige. Welcome! Throw your coats over the banister—you know the routine. And you haven’t met my cousin Frankie. Frankie, this is Josie, Paige, and Ty.”

  We all said hi, but he didn’t speak.

  Frankie had slicked-back black hair and acne and he looked surly. When he turned to walk away, I saw the back of his T-shirt. It read:

  Ass

  Grass or

  You Pay the Gas

  Nobody Rides for Free

  Jake was clamoring for attention, and I told Paige that she could follow the kids into the front room. Emma tugged her finger and laughed. Jake insisted that she watch his truck back up first.

  “Oh, God, Frankie, change your shirt,” Zoë said.

  “Me?” Frankie protested, whipping around. “What the fuck’s the matter with my shirt? Haven’t you ever heard of free fuckin’ speech?”

  “Frankie, please,” she said, then half smiled, trying to take the sting away, and repeated her request. “Please?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Ty?” Zoë asked, turning to face him, her hands on her hips. “Help.”

  Ty met her troubled gaze and nodded.

  “Frankie,” Ty said in a restrained, rational tone, “no one’s looking for any trouble here.”

  “Better fuckin’ not be.”

  Ty stared at him for a five-count. “Would you do me a favor, Frankie? Go up and change your shirt, okay?” he said, his tone deeper and more menacing.

  “Who the fuck you think you are?” Frankie asked ferociously, his ugly little button eyes blazing a warning.

  Ty placed his arm on Frankie’s shoulders, an apparent gesture of camaraderie, then slid his hand back and pincer-gripped his neck. “Let’s talk about it, just you and me, okay?” Ty said, and hustled Frankie up the steps to the second floor.

  “Zowie! I’ve never seen Ty like that,” Zo�
� whispered, big-eyed.

  “You’ve never worn a disrespectful T-shirt,” I countered.

  “I guess not. But I’m plenty disrespectful all the same.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re irreverent and outrageous, but you’re always respectful about it.”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  I waggled the bottle of guava nectar I’d brought, and she said, “Excellent! Let’s make a pitcherful.” She poked her head into the living room. “Hey, Paige! Are you a Coke girl? Ginger ale? Apple juice?”

  “Ginger ale, please,” Paige replied.

  “Apple juice for me!” Jake called. “I can help!”

  “Thanks, Jake. How about Emma?”

  “She’s with monkey bear,” Jake explained, as if that was responsive.

  Jake dashed ahead into the kitchen. Five minutes later, after Jake and I delivered their drinks, including an apple juice for Emma, I asked Zoë about dinner. She stopped shaking the cocktail mixer and looked over my shoulder. I turned around. Frankie was wearing Ty’s sweatshirt.

  “Frankie here agreed with me that with women and kids around, he really shouldn’t be wearing shirts with sayings like that, right, Frankie?” Ty said, entering the kitchen in his corduroy shirt, the cuffs rolled up.

  Frankie looked shell-shocked. I looked carefully at his neck, but didn’t see any marks.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “He’s going to get some more appropriate duds tomorrow.”

  “Right,” Frankie agreed.

  “And he’s going to watch his language.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, tell me, Frankie, you’re from Boston, right?” Ty asked as if the altercation had never occurred. He accepted the beer I handed him.

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “You a Bruins fan?”

  “Sorta.”

  “So what do you think of their chances against the Penguins?” Ty asked, leading Frankie to the small table off to the side of the kitchen.

  Frankie started to answer, and Zoë resumed shaking the guavatinis. “Wow!” she whispered. “Way to go, Ty!”

  “See if it lasts,” I replied in an undervoice.

  “It’s got to. Forget that I don’t want to see that BS, but I don’t want him near the kids unless he cleans up his act.” She poured our drinks, cocked her head, listening, then said, “I think I’ll go check on them. They’re awfully quiet.”