Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  Stacy shook her head, refusing to discuss the issue, then took a long drink.

  I lowered my voice. “Someone told me they saw you here having a few drinks starting at noon and that you left around one for a couple of hours.”

  Stacy kept her eyes on her glass, seeming to watch the ice melt.

  “It sounds to me like you were drinking to screw up your courage,” I whispered, “that you must have had to do something you found distasteful or uncomfortable.”

  “Whoever told you that is a liar.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Now that the word is out, the police will be able to find lots of other people to confirm the story.”

  “Let them try.”

  “It’s over, Stacy.”

  She met my gaze for a moment, then lowered her eyes again. She placed her elbows on the table and rested her forehead on the tips of her fingers.

  “You had to push,” she said, signaling Jimmy for a refill. “You just couldn’t leave it alone.”

  “What?”

  “Push, push, push.” Jimmy delivered her old-fashioned, and she took a long drink. “I just couldn’t do it.”

  “What couldn’t you do?”

  “Ask Aunt Maudie for money. That’s what I was doing. Are you happy now? I drove to New Hampshire directly after that disgusting investor meeting in Boston, knowing that I was going to have to do the one thing I most dreaded—beg Aunt Maudie for money—again. It was my only hope of keeping my business alive. I came straight here, had a couple of quick ones, liquid courage, then set out for Belle Vista.”

  I knew Stacy hadn’t signed Belle Vista’s guest book, and she didn’t appear on the security camera footage. “You never went.”

  “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t face Maudie’s contempt. I drove around for an hour or so, then returned to the home of Jimmy’s foolproof cure for whatever ails you.”

  “Asking for money is tough.”

  “I have no problem asking investors for money. That’s business. But Aunt Maudie … She isn’t going to judge my business plan. She’s going to judge me. I was ashamed and embarrassed.”

  “You’re sounding stronger now.”

  “I’m drunk.”

  “Tipsy, maybe.”

  “You do have a way with words, don’t you? I’m not stronger. I just know how to put on a good show.”

  When Stacy went to the ladies’ room, I settled with Jimmy. On her way back, she asked him for another drink.

  Once she was seated, I said, “You need to tell the police where you were on Friday. They’ll understand.”

  “They’ll think I’m a loser just like everyone else.”

  “I don’t think you’re a loser. I think you’re trying to cope as best you can.”

  She tilted her head. “I can’t decide if you’re naïve or dumb.”

  I stood. “Neither. I’m open-minded and fair. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I’ve got to go … Can I drive you somewhere?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m here for the duration.”

  “You shouldn’t drive.”

  “I never drive when I’ve been drinking. That’s why God made cabs.”

  “Good.” I started to leave, then turned back. “I’ll need to tell the police we spoke.”

  Stacy sipped her drink, then took a larger swig. “Everyone does what she has to do.”

  * * *

  Ty arrived at seven, after I’d texted Ellis about Stacy’s alibi, just as I was surveying the refrigerator, weighing options for dinner. Zoë told me she’d be back around ten, ready to spend the night. I walked into his embrace and rested my forehead on his chest, then leaned back to ask, “What are you doing here? I said I was fine.”

  “If I told you I’d been whacked upside the head but I was fine, would you stay away?”

  I laughed. “Well … when you put it that way … I wasn’t hit on the head, though. I got the bump when I crashed into the trunk.”

  He examined each of my hands, kissing my palms, then brushed his lips against my bruised upper arm. “I’m noticing some colorful bruises.”

  “True.” I smiled and kissed him. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Ty left the next morning, Wednesday, at six. I got up to say good-bye, and when he left, I lay down again, falling into a dreamless sleep. I woke again at eight, late for me.

  I called Zoë. “I’m sorry I ran out on you yesterday, then canceled your sleepover. I’m going to soak my weary bones right now, then have breakfast. Come and join me. I’ll make you French toast.”

  “Yum. I can’t, though. Emma and I are making a day of it. We’re going to take in a museum and have a nice lunch. Emma feels sorry for me. Either that or she’s trying to appease her guilt.”

  “I hope you can put all that self-pity and anger aside and have a good time. Live in the moment and all that.”

  “You know me too well.”

  “Not too well—just well. I think it’s really nice that she wants to spend time with you.”

  Zoë sighed, the sound of something artificially inflated deflating. “So do I. Thanks, Josie. Was your errand yesterday a success?”

  “Yes. I realized there was a way to get Stacy to come clean about her alibi. I had to try.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “It’s complicated. What museum are you going to?”

  “Currier. Emma wants to see some of her favorite pieces, the Wyeth and the O’Keeffe.”

  “She always had good taste.”

  “Want to come? You can bridge the communication gaps.”

  “I wish I could. But I’m confident you can avoid communication gaps by reminding yourself how much you love her.”

  * * *

  I got to work by ten. Cara was alone in the office.

  After I greeted her and poured myself a cup of coffee, I asked, “Where is everyone?”

  “Sasha is meeting with a curator about an impressionist painting she bought from a picker. She thinks it might be a…” Cara consulted her notepad for the name. “Jacques Lambert. She says he’s not well known, but his work is excellent.”

  “Early twentieth century.”

  Cara consulted the note. “That’s right. 1902. Fred is meeting with a professor who’s getting ready to retire and wants to know his options about selling some antiques. Eric is out back, overseeing the power washing of the gutters.” She picked up another note. “Gretchen called. She plans on stopping by at eleven.” Cara leaned forward. “And you? How are you feeling?”

  I smiled. “I’m fine. Just a couple of bruises.”

  “When Gretchen told us … well … you can imagine.”

  “Thank you, Cara. I think I’m going to—” I broke off when the phone rang.

  Cara answered with her usual cheery greeting, then said, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Joubert. No, I’m sorry, he’s not here right now.”

  I waved my hand to catch her attention.

  She nodded. “Josie Prescott is here, though. May I put her on?”

  I took the call at the guest table. I introduced myself in French, apologized for my limited command of the language, and asked if she was comfortable speaking in English. She said she was, that she had news, and asked that I call her Yvette.

  “My father found the original bill of sale and the ledger containing the purchase record.” Yvette laughed with delight. “My great-great-grandfather was a very organized man. The chandelier, item number 17412 in the ledger, was sold to a Major Wilson in 1919. It was shipped to a private residence in Rocky Point, New Hampshire.”

  She called out the date of sale and the shipping address, my address now, and a burst of joy and enchantment charged through my veins. I always felt exhilarated when we took a step on the path to provenance, but this was personal, and oh, so meaningful.

  “This is beyond expectation. Do the records indicate how it came into your shop
?”

  “Yes. A young war widow of a most well-respected family named Genevieve Vermandois sold it to us. Madame Vermandois told my great-great-grandfather that the chandelier had been made to her mother-in-law’s specifications by Jean-Charles Delafosse, the preeminent designer of that era. My father said to tell you that in his estimation, it would sell at auction in Paris today for close to a million euros.”

  “I’m speechless, Yvette. Honored, dazzled, and speechless.”

  “I have scanned in these documents, and I will email them to you. My father said to tell you that this was a superb moment for him, to read his great-grandfather’s notes, to verify the provenance.”

  “Please tell your father that if I can ever help him with an appraisal, all he has to do is ask.”

  She laughed again, a sweet, tinkly sound. “I assure you, he will. When he needs help, he is not shy.”

  * * *

  Monte called. He said he wanted to show us something at the Gingerbread House. I told him that Ty was out of town, but I could come.

  I got there around eleven thirty and parked in back of a Dumpster wedged against the hedge. The lawn was covered with materials and supplies, a daunting sight. A steady stream of men wheeled loads of rotten wood and broken bricks along the front walk and up the Dumpster ramp. They flipped the debris into the Dumpster, wobbled back down to street level, and did it again.

  Tom, outfitted with a yellow hard hat and sturdy work boots, came from the side of the house, wheelbarrow in hand.

  Monte was in the backyard, pointing at the eaves, saying something to a tall, thin man who was staring at the roofline and nodding. Both men wore hard hats.

  Monte greeted me and introduced me to Roland Thurston, the master carpenter he’d retained to replicate all the decorative wood elements that had to be replaced.

  “We’re almost done,” Monte told me. “Give me a minute, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I walked to the stone wall at the back of the property.

  It was warmer today, maybe eighty-two degrees, with a light breeze blowing from the west. The ocean was calm, waves gently rolling to shore. Sun-touched sequins skipped across the water.

  The iris beds looked good. The bulbs had been transplanted and the flowers raised their heads to the warm sun, a sheen of water clinging to the leaves. Tom must have watered them earlier. The lawn was cut up where the beds rested, as if the heavy wooden frames had been dragged instead of lifted into place. A spade lay on the grass, half-hidden by the shed. I picked it up and leaned it against the stone wall. The lawn was in worse shape in back of the shed, maybe from heavy tools being tossed onto the grass, a handy place to store things out of sight. I wasn’t going to let myself get upset. Monte had warned us that renovation projects were disruptive, intrusive, and annoying. The shed door was slightly ajar, so I guessed Tom planned on doing some other gardening chores before he left for the day.

  A scraping sound broke into my reverie, and I turned toward the shed in time to see Julie heading in, weighed down by a coiled garden hose.

  “Julie!”

  She spun toward me, so startled she nearly dropped the hose.

  “Hi!” she said. She licked her lips and took a faltering step backward. “Sorry.”

  She looked all around, seeking help or an escape, I wasn’t sure which.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Fine, thanks.” She juggled the hose, trying for a more comfortable position, then lowered it to the ground. “We were so excited to hear about Maudie.”

  Her expression belied her warm and friendly tone, her eyes reflecting fear more than surprise, and I thought I knew why. I’d warned her not to do any work on the property, yet here she was, caught red-handed.

  I smiled and nodded at the hose. “Helping Tom?”

  She stared at the hose, calculating how to best reply. “I’m like a sub,” she said, raising her eyes to my face. “You didn’t like it that I was working without getting paid. Now I’m getting paid. I mean, Tom does the billing, but it’s fair. You can think of us like one unit.”

  I didn’t want to say no. If Tom was doing unskilled construction work, obviously they needed the money. I also admired their work ethic.

  “I’ll tell you what … I’ll add you to our worker’s comp insurance plan, then you’re good to go.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she smiled as if she’d won a Vegas jackpot. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll get it done today, so you can go ahead and work.”

  She flashed me another quick smile, scooped up the hose and placed it in the shed, used a key she extracted from her front pocket to lock it, then called “’bye” and scuttled away, disappearing around the left side of the house.

  I texted Cara to let our insurance agent know he should add her to our personal policy, listing her duties as outside gardening and light maintenance, effective immediately.

  I turned to the left, looking north. A half mile farther up, New Hampshire gave way to Maine.

  Monte walked up. “Sorry, Josie. Roland is booked solid for months, so if he says he wants to get going on your work, you accommodate him.”

  “Terrific news.” I opened my arms toward the ocean. “I’m glad for any excuse to commune with the ocean.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “From the line of men carrying away refuse, it looks like you’re making good progress.”

  “We’re on schedule, which brings me to why I asked you to stop by. We need to talk zones for the HVAC.”

  He said that in our previous discussion we’d decided to install four zones, but he thought we should consider adding more.

  “Let me talk to Ty,” I said, “but I think you’re right. We might as well double it. A little extra cost now, but we’ll save on energy forever.”

  I called Ty, and he agreed. We almost always did.

  * * *

  I had just gotten back to Prescott’s and climbed the stairs to my private office when Ellis called to tell me to stop talking to suspects—in particular, Stacy.

  “I don’t work for you,” I said.

  “That’s my point exactly. Not only is your going rogue potentially dangerous, but you risk messing up a case. You gave her a chance to practice her replies.”

  “I don’t accept the premise of your objection. I didn’t go rogue. I met Stacy in a public place, and I’m not stupid. I didn’t try to trick her or anything. Nothing got messed up.”

  “You might not have been in danger during that particular conversation, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of danger. Likewise, you might not have realized you were helping a witness prepare for an interrogation, but you were. You need to lay off. I mean it, Josie. Your intentions are good. That isn’t the issue.”

  “I still don’t agree with your assessment, but it’s moot because I don’t plan on talking to anyone else.”

  “If you change your mind, you call me before you talk to anyone.”

  “You’re being absurd, Ellis!”

  “Fear festers.”

  That two-word reply brought me up short. He was right—fear does fester, and everyone in Celia’s orbit was afraid of something: losing independence, failure, going broke.

  “Point taken,” I said. “How’s Doug?”

  “Figuring out childcare. He starts his new job on Monday. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine—more or less. Thanks for asking. Any nibbles on who broke into Maudie’s apartment?”

  “Not yet.”

  Not yet, I repeated to myself once we’d ended the call.

  Yesterday I’d been hoping to finally escape the tunnel and see the situation through a wider lens, yet I remained stubbornly stuck inside. Sitting in the hot tub, I’d concentrated on specific facts, seeking linkages or contradictions, finding none, but today I had the sense that something, one of those linkages or contradictions, had jostled loose. That I couldn’t put my finger on it added to my frustration and gnawed at me like hunger.

  I s
pent the next several hours catching up on work and other pending issues. Gretchen told me she’d posted the listing for her new assistant position and already received applications. She also told me that she and Winnie had conspired to get Pastor Ted out of the way for an hour so the window rep could take the measurements.

  Wes called at two trolling for dirt, but I had nothing to share.

  “You were firecracker hot with Stacy—you’re the only person to get the truth out of her. How’d you do it?”

  “I empathized.”

  “No, I mean carrot and stick, you know … empathy might be the carrot … what was the stick?”

  “Wes, you never cease to amaze me. There was no stick. Jeesh!”

  “Give me some color. Did she cry?”

  “No!”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I have nothing to say. I’ve got to go.”

  I touched the END CALL button.

  Hank sauntered into the office. He leapt into my lap and curled up, and I began to pet him, gentle strokes. His purring machine whirred onto high. I was still petting him with one hand, and replying to emails with the other, when Maudie called at ten after four. She was in the car, on Route 95, north of Boston.

  “I’m calling to ask a favor,” Maudie said. “I called my friend Nessie, but she’s out of town. With everything going on, I forgot she and Charlie were off hiking. I thought about who else I’d like to see, and the only name that came to me was yours. I’m booked into the Austin Arms. Would you be able to meet? I know it’s last minute … I hope I’m not imposing.”

  “I’d love to see you, Maudie.” With Ellis’s admonition fresh in my mind, I asked, “What about the police? I know Chief Hunter said he wanted to talk to you as soon as you got back.”

  “I just got off the phone with him. I’ll meet with him in the morning. I’m trying to decide whether to bring a lawyer.”

  “If it makes you feel more comfortable, why not?”