Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  “He’ll deny everything.”

  “Probably. But I have calls in to Rosalie’s lawyer.” She shrugged. “With the right questions, maybe we can get him talking. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll hire a communications expert to analyze who stole what from whom, how, why, and when—if they did.”

  As we approached the industrial-looking building with the orange and purple TIM’S STORAGE sign near the door, Officer Brownley slowed to a near crawl, then pulled to a stop in front of the corrugated steel facade.

  Out of the sun, it was bone-chillingly cold. The building was a prefab windowless metal structure half a block long. The office was the size of a storage room, and the utilitarian metal had been painted canary yellow. It was freezing, nearly as cold inside as out.

  A stocky man of about fifty, wearing a dark plaid flannel shirt and jeans, entered the office from an inner door.

  “Are you Tim?” I asked.

  “Yup.”

  “I’m Josie Prescott. We talked on the phone yesterday.”

  Officer Brownley stepped inside.

  He glanced at her, then back at me. “Hi, Claire,” he said.

  “Hi, Tim. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going.”

  I showed Tim the authorization letter. “We want to look at unit ten, please.”

  He took his time reading it. “This isn’t a court order,” he observed.

  “No,” I acknowledged. “But according to the lawyer, that paper should be good enough.”

  Tim scratched his ear as he assessed my words. “You think so? I’m not so sure ’bout that. This is a sensitive business, and my customers seem to have pretty damn inflexible ideas about privacy.” He handed back the letter.

  “I represent the heir to her estate.”

  “I haven’t acknowledged that she is a customer.”

  I took a deep breath. “Assuming she rented unit ten,” I said, meeting his eyes full on, “her heir wants us to examine the room.”

  “So you say. Even assuming she’s the renter, I don’t know she’s dead.”

  He wasn’t buying it and I couldn’t think of any way to persuade him.

  “Hold on,” I said.

  I got my cell phone from where it rested at the bottom of my bag, called Mr. Bolton, who asked me to put Tim on the line. The two of us stood and listened, mostly to Tim’s grunts.

  “Murder?” Tim asked, and eyed me. “Uh-huh . . . Yup . . . Nope—last time? That’d be last Wednesday. . . . That’s right. . . . Yup . . . Nope . . . Didn’t say . . . Nope . . . Didn’t see anything . . . Sure, if they want to . . . Okay.”

  He handed me the phone. “Mr. Bolton?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m here. It seems that Ms. Chaffee visited her room last week.”

  I wondered why. Was it a regular visit, had she added something to the room, or had she taken something away?

  “Can we go in?” I asked Tim.

  Tim shrugged and led the way down a long corridor. Our steps echoed in the metal chamber. He stopped in front of a padlocked blue metal door with the numeral 10 stenciled on it in white. I tried the smaller of the two still-unused keys, and it worked. Tim swung the door open revealing a metal-walled room, about five by seven, topped by a heavy-gauge wire mesh screen.

  There in the center stood an English Regency-style secretary. It featured satinwood inlay and splay feet, a style popular in the first decade of the nineteenth century. I raised the slant top and counted six small drawers and two cubbyholes, each inlaid with satinwood. An ornate leather-cornered blotter covered the writing surface; an empty, sterling silver ink stand nestled in a rounded indentation; and leaning against the side was a square envelope.

  I uncapped my video camera and described the desk as I recorded it from every perspective. When I was done, I reached for the envelope.

  Officer Brownley said, “Wait—don’t touch it.”

  I stopped midreach and nodded. “Can you see what’s inside?”

  “I’ll try.” She pulled on plastic gloves and used the eraser end of a pencil, just as Ty had done earlier, to lift the flap. She slipped the card from the envelope. She tilted it so I could read it along with her.

  It showed an illustration of a smiling young woman in a gown and mortarboard standing at the top of a hill, arms thrown up to the sky in a celebratory V. Inside was printed Congratulations! You did it! Below, in a feminine script, someone had penned, Rosalie, Dad and I are so proud of you. This desk reflects our view of you—elegant, hardworking and ladylike. Enjoy it, my dear, dear daughter. Mom.

  “Nice, huh?” Officer Brownley said.

  “Way nice,” I agreed, fighting tears. “Sensational.”

  “Is this the valuable thing you were looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Let me take a minute.”

  I kneeled, and used the small flashlight I kept hooked to my belt when I worked to examine the underside. Faintly, in the far corner, I saw a maker’s mark. I didn’t recognize it, but I wasn’t an expert in Regency furniture, so that didn’t mean anything one way or the other. We could look it up. Wearing plastic gloves Officer Brownley handed me, and following her warning to be careful, I opened drawers and searched for secret panels, not unusual in desks from this period, but didn’t find anything. The dovetail construction lent credibility that the piece was genuine.

  I turned to face Officer Brownley. Tim looked on, interested. “It appears to be in excellent and original condition. But unless there’s something special about its provenance or association, it’s not all that valuable, and I doubt that we’ll find anything special.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  I shrugged and gestured toward the card. “From the tone of her mother’s comments, I think she would have mentioned something like that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rosalie was a historian. So if the desk had been owned previously by a famous historian or someone she admired or something, it’s likely she would have written about it.” I shrugged again. “It’s an educated guess based on how people often act, but that’s all it is, you know? There’s a maker’s mark so we can do some more research on it.”

  “If you’re right, how much do you think it’s worth?”

  “Unless there’s something special about it that comes out when we do the research, I’d be surprised if it would sell for more than five thousand dollars. It’s an attractive desk in terrific condition, but it’s not unique.”

  She nodded. “We’ll examine it for forensic evidence—then what will you do with it?”

  They’ll seek out fingerprints and anything that might provide DNA, I thought, in case they need it for later testing.

  “We’ll bring it back to my company and begin the appraisal process.” I paused. “When can I get it?”

  “Chief Alverez says this is top priority, so we’ll do our work today. We’ll examine it here, collect our samples, and turn it over to you.”

  “Okay, then.” I turned to Tim. “You’re open until six, right?”

  “Right.”

  We settled on five-thirty for me to send a truck. I’d need to disturb Eric on his day off, but if I got it to the warehouse today, Sasha could begin the appraisal first thing in the morning.

  “You said you saw her last week. Did she take anything away with her?” I asked as we walked back toward the office.

  “Nope. She just signed in and out.”

  “So if she took something away, it must have been small enough to fit in her bag.”

  “Yup.”

  “Can I get a copy of the contract?” Officer Brownley asked.

  “Sure. I guess she won’t be complaining any.”

  We followed Tim to his office. I stood and watched as Officer Brownley examined a slender manila file and asked for photocopies of various documents.

  We thanked Tim and left. As we rode to the grocery store, I called Eric. I apologized for bothering him on a Sunday and told him what I needed him to do. He assured me that he had t
he time and could get the desk, no problem. I reminded him to reset the alarm on his way out, and he promised he would. I trusted him completely, but he was young.

  I didn’t know about Officer Brownley, but I was white-hot curious. If the desk wasn’t Rosalie’s treasure—and I didn’t think it was—the valuable object she’d talked to Paige about was still missing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  O

  fficer Brownley came inside my house with me. “I’d like to take a quick look around.”

  “Sure,” I said, immediately fretful. “But how come?”

  “An excess of caution.”

  Her tone betrayed her concern. “Do you have any information that I don’t have?”

  “No.” She helped carry groceries inside, and then said, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I had just placed the package of English muffins near the stove when she entered the kitchen. “All clear,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I met her deep blue eyes, which sent a reassuring message of calm. She didn’t look worried, and her confidence transferred itself to me. “Want a cup of coffee or something?”

  “No, I’m going to take off. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  “When do you want to leave tomorrow?”

  “About seven-thirty. I want to get in early.”

  “You have outside appointments?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chief Alverez asked me to have someone accompany you when you went somewhere.”

  They didn’t know if I was in danger, but they obviously thought I might be. “Okay,” I said, hiding my anxiety as best I could.

  “Anything happens,” she stressed, “you call me right away.”

  “You’re on my speed dial.”

  She smiled then and left.

  ______

  “Jake knows a lot about trucks,” Paige told me. “And Emma’s very good at tumbling.”

  Paige sat at the kitchen table as I thumbed through the leather-bound, handwritten cookbook my mother had given me shortly before her death, when she was only forty. I found the entry labeled Jerry’s Chicken.

  “Sounds like you had a good time. Or at least a time that helped counteract the onus of Sundays.”

  She nodded. “It helps to think about other people.”

  Out of the mouths of babes, I thought. “Yeah.”

  Jerry’s Chicken had been created by my grandfather, my mother’s father, Jerry Keas, who was an onion guy. He loved growing them and he loved eating them. He also loved cooking with them and he invented this recipe.

  It’s not easy to make, my mother had written all those years ago. Don’t try it unless you have the time. With Paige by my side, I was looking forward to taking the time. Cooking was, to me, a major stress reducer, and by sharing the recipe, and the experience, with Paige, maybe she’d take away a memory that would offer a respite from tension in the dark days sure to come.

  I set aside the book. “You ready to cook?” I asked.

  “I guess. I don’t know much.”

  “I sure hope you know how to make pizza!”

  She smiled shyly. “That’s easy.”

  “What do we do first? Toast the muffins?”

  “No. First you preheat the oven. Plus, you don’t toast the muffins, you bake them.”

  “Got ya.”

  “We always covered the cookie sheet with aluminum foil. Helps with cleanup.”

  “Good idea.”

  We lined the sheet and preheated the oven. While I watched, she spooned ready-made pizza sauce onto the muffin halves in a pretty spiral pattern.

  “Do you spread it out?” I asked.

  “No. It’ll spread on its own when you cook it. You don’t want to use too much or the muffins get mushy.”

  I nodded. “Now what?”

  “The cheese.”

  “I thought we’d grate fresh parmesan instead of using the stuff in the can.”

  I showed her how to hold the grater.

  “Have a nibble,” I told her.

  “Yum.”

  “Is it better?”

  “Way better,” she said, smiling.

  I watched as she sprinkled the part-skim mozzarella and dribbled the parmesan.

  “I love cheese,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Do you want to use fresh basil? I got some at the store.”

  “First the tomato.”

  “I got these.” I handed her a tub of grape tomatoes. “The others just looked awful.”

  “Tomatoes in January in New Hampshire,” she acknowledged. “Hopeless. That’s something I miss about California. The fruit and vegetables are better.” She examined the grape tomatoes I’d handed her. “These will work fine. We can slice them in thirds, the long way.”

  After the tomatoes were in place, she tore the basil into strips and crisscrossed the surface. “That’s it,” she said as she slid the cookie sheet into the oven.

  “Want some ginger ale?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  As I poured, I told her, “I found Rosalie’s desk.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “In a storage unit near Hitchens.”

  “Wow! Is it the treasure Rosalie told me about?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I’m sorry, Paige. It’s a fine piece of furniture. But it’s not hugely valuable, I don’t think.”

  She sighed and looked down. After a moment, she asked, “What else was in the storage room?”

  “Nothing. Except for a note from your mom to Rosalie when she gave her the desk and an inkstand for an old-fashioned quill pen. Those were on the desk.”

  She nodded. “Now what?”

  “We’ll appraise the desk starting tomorrow—and the inkstand, although I don’t think it has much value either. And I keep looking.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure. We’ll go to the office first thing.”

  The timer rang. She slid the pizza muffins onto a cooling rack.

  “Am I right in assuming you don’t want to go to school until after the funeral?” I asked.

  She nodded. “If it’s all right.”

  “Of course. Is there anything else you want to do tomorrow?”

  “Sometimes I go to ballet on Mondays. There’s an open class for advanced students at five.”

  “Would you like to go tomorrow?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll see you get there. And to the Reillys afterwards.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice so small I could barely hear her.

  “Or you can continue to stay here. I love having you.”

  She smiled tremulously. “I hate being trouble.”

  “You’re no trouble, Paige.” I reached out and patted her hand. “You’re a delight.”

  She teared up and winked the wetness away.

  “We can decide tomorrow,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  We ate the gooey-delicious pizza and chatted, and as the sun sank low on the horizon, we agreed that half a muffin was just enough to carry us through until dinner.

  Ty called as Paige was peeling the aluminum foil from the cookie sheet, and I stepped into the living room for a semblance of privacy.

  “I’m here,” he said. “It’s a nice place. In Georgetown.”

  “I like Georgetown.”

  “Come on down.”

  I laughed. “What time do you start tomorrow?”

  “Eight.”

  “That’s about when I’d get there.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s about right.” He paused. “I just spoke to Officer Brownley.”

  “So you know about the desk.”

  “Yeah. You think it’s anything?”

  “No. I mean, it’s a great desk, but it’s not museum quality, not by a long shot.”

  “So you keep hunting.”

  “Exactly. And since we’re talking business, there’s something else I’d like to ask y
ou about. I know it’s not your jurisdiction, but I’m not sure what to do about a possible attempt at fraud.” I filled him in about Whistler’s palette.

  “And this Lesha Moore wrote the letter?”

  “Not clear. I think it’s more likely that Evan wrote it before he died,” I replied, and explained my thinking.

  “And the palette?”

  “That had to be her. Evan would never have placed the paints in that order. But he might have bought an old palette intending to pass it off as Whistler’s without telling her the palette wasn’t the real one.”

  “But she’s the one who actually submitted the phony palette for appraisal and possible sale, right?”

  “Yes, but she might have thought the palette was genuine. Evan might have been the brains behind the scheme and died before he could execute it. My guess is that he faked the letter and acquired the palette.”

  “Where’s the real palette?”

  “Probably boxed up in his uncle’s house.”

  “Why wouldn’t he have used the actual Whistler’s palette?”

  “ ’Cause Evan was a junkie but he also was an artist, and even if he wasn’t painting for a while, he would have protected it. It was, to him, priceless.”

  “If it was the real deal, how much would Whistler’s palette sell for?” he asked.

  “Lots.”

  “Hundreds, lots,” he asked, “or thousands, lots?”

  “I don’t know. Probably hundreds of thousands,” I replied, “maybe more. One of his palettes is in the Smithsonian.”

  He whistled. “Attempted grand larceny for sure, then. Okay, since your business is located in Portsmouth, this is their call. I’ll fill them in and let you know how they want to proceed. In the meantime, keep everything intact. Don’t return anything to Lesha.”

  After we said good-bye, I stood at the front window for a moment staring out into the night. The moon had risen early and streaks of silver light illuminated the empty world. To silver light in the dark of night, my father often toasted. He died before I could ask him where the toast came from. Maybe he coined it during a moonlit night like this, I thought.

  I returned to the kitchen and asked Paige whether she was ready to start cooking dinner.

  “Yeah,” she said, smiling a little. “It’s fun with you. Rosalie and I mostly tried to do it quickly.”