Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  Her smile told me everything I needed to know. I laid the pan in the sink, dried my hands, and hugged her. I pulled her to the bench and sat on a chair.

  “Tell me everything,” I said.

  She presented her left hand, palm down. The ruby winked under the incandescent lights.

  “Oh, Zoë! It’s breathtaking.”

  She giggled like a schoolgirl, jiggling her fingers to better catch the light. “Isn’t it remarkable? I can’t tell you how surprised I was.” She reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Ellis told me everything you did—goosing him to propose, the cruise, the dog fostering. I’ll never, ever be able to thank you enough.”

  “You just did. Have you told Emma and Jake?”

  “Ellis and I are driving down to Boston tonight. We’ll take them out to dinner and tell them … and make sure they’re available on the fifteenth. Also, we want the wedding to just be us six, so we’ll pick a date for a bigger reception later, before Emma leaves.”

  “Don’t pick the Saturday before she goes,” I said, explaining that Ty and I planned to host a surprise party for her.

  “I can help.”

  I touched her arm. “I’ll count on it.” I smiled. “You’re getting married!”

  “I’m so excited! Ellis is such a wonderful man.”

  “He really is. Shall we toast your future happiness with mimosas?”

  She slid out of the booth. “Rain check. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had champagne before nine in the morning, but I need to have all my wits about me. I’m going to an information session at the dog place to get the ball rolling.”

  * * *

  I left for work around nine thirty.

  Outside, the air was still damp, although the rain had stopped, and the sun was winning the battle for supremacy over the clouds. I hopped over puddles to reach my car.

  When I got to my office, I pulled into a spot by the front door. Before I got out of my car, Tom pulled up in his pickup. From his gray pallor and numb expression, I suspected he hadn’t slept all night.

  “Did you hear?” he asked without even a hello. “About Julie? She’s confessed as part of a plea bargain.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t heard that.”

  “I can’t … I mean … it just doesn’t … I can’t…”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Julie is so sweet.” He rubbed his brow as if he had a headache. “A killer? Julie?”

  “What was the deal?”

  “Negligent homicide—seven to twelve years. They were going to charge her with manslaughter—up to thirty years. Wes quoted you in his article this morning. He said you figured out that Julie was after money. Is it true? She killed Celia for money?”

  “You need to talk to the police, Tom.”

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I should have realized the burden she was under. Here she was, a nursing student, struggling to pay the bills, while I’m diddling around.” He rubbed his forehead again. “If I’d gotten a full-time job, taken the pressure off, or if I’d gone back to school like she wanted, none of this would have happened.”

  “Maybe you weren’t as aware of her feelings as you could or should have been, but that still doesn’t justify murder. You can’t blame yourself.”

  Tom met my eyes for a moment. “Yes, I can.”

  He got back in his truck and drove away. As I watched him leave, I thought of Doug, another man who blamed himself.

  * * *

  At noon, the district attorney called to set up a meeting. She wanted to discuss a plea deal they were considering offering Lainy.

  When I arrived, Maudie, accompanied by Max, was already there. So was Ellis.

  The district attorney was a woman I’d met before named Cheryl Tavery. She was pragmatic and efficient.

  She squared up her notes. “Thank you all for coming. Mrs. Wilson … Ms. Prescott … I want to talk to you about Ms. Baglio’s alleged crime. You two are the victims. Mrs. Wilson, she burglarized your apartment. Ms. Prescott, she assaulted you. She seems genuinely remorseful. I’d like to know your thoughts if we drop the burglary charge and proceed only with simple assault, a misdemeanor. She could get up to a year in jail and a fine of two thousand dollars, but we’re considering three years’ probation. She’d have to give a full allocution.”

  Max turned to Maudie.

  “Ask Josie first,” Maudie said. “She’s the real victim here.”

  All eyes turned toward me.

  There was no excuse for Lainy’s behavior. She wasn’t desperate for money with small children to feed. She wasn’t under attack, striking out in self-defense. She was greedy, entitled, wanting something for nothing. I got that her behavior was wrong, even dastardly. But I also knew that forgiveness was sometimes transformative.

  “What are Lainy’s plans?” I asked Cheryl.

  “She wants to move to New York City to pursue an acting career.”

  “How will she support herself?”

  “Waiting tables.”

  “She’ll have trouble getting good work with this on her record.”

  “It’s only a misdemeanor.”

  “Still.” I turned to Maudie. “We talked about second chances. We both believe in them.”

  “Yes.”

  I turned back to the prosecutor. “I think you should just let her go.”

  Cheryl looked incredulous. “After breaking into an apartment and attacking you? No way.”

  I stood. “You asked my opinion. That’s it. Give her a second chance.” I stood. “Nice seeing you all.” I walked out.

  Two hours later, Wes posted a breaking-news alert on the Seacoast Star website. The district attorney, citing unspecified mitigating circumstances, announced that all charges against Lainy Baglio had been dropped.

  * * *

  Five days later, the day after Celia’s funeral, I walked through the woods to the church. It was four in the afternoon, another glorious summer day, in the low eighties, with a balmy breeze.

  Winnie and Gretchen had conspired with Pastor Ted’s wife to get him out of town. Peg told Ted she needed a fun day with her husband, so they were going to Boston to walk the Freedom Trail, eat some steamers and lobster, and ride the Swan Boats. Ted, after getting over his astonishment at such an unprecedented request, was delighted to comply. Peg promised to have Ted back between four and four thirty.

  The screens were perfect, unobtrusive and easy to open. I congratulated Winnie and Gretchen on their speedy and excellent work.

  “You do the honors,” I told Winnie.

  “You should. It’s your donation.”

  “Nope, I want to be an observer.”

  Ted and Peg drove into the lot, right on schedule. We all listened to Ted’s amazement that they hadn’t thought about playing hooky before, kissing Peg’s cheek and saying that it was now going to be a regular occurrence.

  “I sense that you’re not here by coincidence,” Ted said, looking from Winnie to Gretchen to me. He took in his wife’s expression and added, “And Peg’s in on it.”

  “It’s a surprise!” Winnie said. “Follow me.”

  We trooped into Ted’s office and stood in a cluster by the entryway.

  “Notice anything?” she asked Ted.

  He took his time, examining the ceiling, the floor, the walls, his desk. When he spotted the screens, he gasped and pointed. “Screens!” He turned to Winnie. “You got us screens!”

  “Josie did.”

  He hugged me, a big warm bear hug, then walked to a window to touch the wire mesh.

  “They’re incredible. So thoughtful. So generous.”

  I smiled. “Now I won’t have to worry about those dragonflies.”

  He extended his hand, and I took it. “Thank you, Josie.”

  We traipsed down to the commercial kitchen, where Peg found a pitcher of lemonade in the fridge, and we toasted the new screens and summer days spent toodling around Boston.

  * * *

  When I got back to Prescott’s,
Maudie was waiting for me.

  I sat across from her at the guest table and asked, “I know you’re not a fan of stairs. Would you like to go outside so we can talk in private?”

  “There’s no need. Thank you, though. Actually, I’m here on business. I’d like you to appraise the presentation box and cat. After you’re done, I’ll decide if I want to sell it. Chief Hunter says I can pick them up anytime. I asked him to release the objects to you or your staff.”

  I grinned, excitement bubbling inside me. “I’m very pleased, Maudie. We’ll get the objects today. Now.” I turned to Fred. “Take Eric.”

  Fred smiled broadly and pushed through the heavy door that led to the warehouse. Hank and Angela zipped out into the front.

  While Cara prepared the appraisal agreement form, including a paragraph allowing me to feature the presentation box and cat on Josie’s Antiques, the cats frisked around Maudie.

  “Are they bothering you? I can chase them away.”

  “Not a bit. I love cats!” Angela sprang into her lap. Hank nuzzled her calf.

  Maudie read the form carefully, signed it, and tucked her copy into her purse.

  “What can you tell me about the objects’ history?” I asked.

  “Not much. Vivian’s husband inherited the box and cat. They had been originally acquired by his great-great-grandfather while he was on his honeymoon in Rome sometime in the early 1900s. Most of the family had assumed the objects were nothing more than attractive collectibles with a nifty story. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

  “It’s a start.”

  Maudie placed Angela on the floor and stood. She smiled. “You know why the cats like me? Because they heard that I own a cat beloved by the gods. Mark my words—the cat sculpture is real. Cats know everything.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Thursday morning around ten, I stood next to Nate Blackmore, Prescott’s go-to jewelry expert, in the cordoned-off work area we’d allocated to the Wilson appraisal.

  Nate slipped on white cotton gloves, standard operating procedure to avoid transferring oils from skin to potentially valuable objects. We knew these had been handled without protection for generations, but once the formal appraisal process began, our protocols kicked in. I wasn’t particularly worried about it. While the oils from skin can break down certain materials like the papyrus ancient Egyptians used as paper, it was unlikely that anything on the box or cat sculpture was vulnerable.

  “The most valuable gems, if they’re real, are the emeralds,” Nate said. “The others are likely to be semiprecious stones common to the era: garnets, onyx, lapis lazuli, and turquoise.”

  “Am I right that it’s easy to tell if an emerald is genuine?”

  “Yes. There are three tests. Assessing value is more complex, as it is in any appraisal, but authentication is fairly straight-ahead.”

  He bent the gooseneck lamp so the light shone directly on one of the emeralds. He fixed a loupe in his eye and bent over to study the stone.

  “Take a look,” he said. “Note the inclusions, the crystals throughout and a needle on the right.”

  The flaws were apparent. “I see them.”

  “That’s a good sign. Essentially all emeralds are flawed. Now I’ll breathe on it. If it’s real, it will begin to evaporate in a second or two, and it will dissipate fast. Fakes take seconds longer, which doesn’t sound like much, until you calculate it on a percentage basis. Fakes take up to five hundred percent longer for a breath to begin evaporating and two to three hundred percent longer for the evaporation process to complete.”

  He breathed on the stone. The film of air was evident, then gone.

  “Another good sign,” I said.

  “The last step is to apply a coating of oil. If it’s real, clarity will be enhanced. If it’s fake, the oil has no effect.”

  Nate used a small brush, the velvety soft bristles certain not to harm the stone. He spread a microscopically thin coating of oil across the surface, then examined it again with the loupe. When he was done, he straightened up and invited me to look.

  I leaned over the box. “I see the crystallization in more detail.”

  “We just proved that this green stone is a genuine emerald.”

  I took a magnet from the worktable drawer and placed it against the side of the box. “I know many metals available to ancient Egyptians contained nickel.”

  “And nickel is a magnetic material.”

  “While silver is not.”

  The magnet tumbled to the table, and I smiled.

  “I’m going to turn the box over to test both the silver and gold.”

  “Nitric acid?” I asked.

  “Yes … the acid test.”

  I helped him access the bottom.

  He changed gloves, replacing the white cotton ones with a heavy protective pair, and he put on safety glasses.

  “I’m going to make a tiny scratch in each colored metal. If they’re genuine, it will be easy to do because both gold and silver are soft.”

  “Don’t we risk hurting the value?”

  “The scratches will be so small they’ll be impossible to discern. We’re watching for a reaction. For the gold-colored metal, green means fake gold; milky white froth, gold-plated sterling silver; and if there’s no reaction—it’s gold.”

  “Am I right that for the silver, a green reaction means it’s not silver, but if it’s creamy white—not milky, just a clear cream color—it’s sterling.”

  “You got it.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  He used an eye dropper to apply the nitric acid. We watched for a reaction.

  Nate smiled. “Look at that—nothing on the gold, and cream on the silver.”

  “The emeralds are real. The silver is real. The gold is real. That suggests everything is real.”

  “That would be my conclusion, but I’ll need to examine every gemstone. A physical examination can verify garnets, lapis lazuli, and turquoise with a high degree of confidence. I can use other tests, like color stability and Mohs hardness, if needed.”

  I left Nate to his work and carried the cat sculpture to another bench. I wanted to examine the material. My first step was to weigh it. Typically, an eighteen-inch bronze hollow-cast sculpture from ancient Egypt would weigh between nine and fifteen pounds. This one weighed twenty-five pounds. The logical next step was to x-ray it, which would reveal if anything was secreted inside, most likely jewelry or loose stones. I was certain there was. The sculpture was simply too heavy for its size and material—assuming the material was bronze.

  I used a wooden pick to scrape along the bottom edge. The patina didn’t scratch or flake off, and the minuscule bit of underlying metal I’d exposed gleamed with a dark golden hue, a sign it was bronze, an alloy comprised largely of copper, the material I expected. I stuck it gently with a wooden dowel and heard the telltale clear ring. Another encouraging sign. The statue wasn’t magnetic. I smiled. A minute examination with a loupe showed there was no rust. My smile broadened.

  The bottom had been sealed eons ago, perhaps upon forging. The seal was also evidently bronze. It was round, six and three-quarters inches in diameter, leaving roughly an inch of the cat’s bottom circling it. We might be able to pry it open without harming the statue—that was a question for Dr. Moss, the San Francisco–based Egyptologist.

  Years ago, when we needed to see inside a doll, we’d used an x-ray machine at Portsmouth Diagnostic Imaging. After that experience, I bought Prescott’s a portable x-ray machine, easy to use and highly reliable. I scanned the cat. To my surprise, nothing was inside. I repeated the test. Nothing.

  “How can that be?” I asked myself.

  Hank mewed, telling me he didn’t know.

  “Let’s consider provenance. What do you think, Hank? If I can find anything about where the objects were created or who owned them, maybe I can find something to explain the extra weight.”

  Hank got bored and ambled away.

  Per our insurance company
’s regulations, no one who isn’t a bonded Prescott’s employee, not even a jeweler of impeccable reputation, is allowed in the warehouse unescorted. I called Cara and asked her to send in Sasha to keep Nate company. As soon as Sasha arrived, I said good-bye to Nate and went up to my private office.

  Using one of the proprietary art library sites we subscribed to, I located an old sales catalogue from a 1915 auction. The auction, titled “Divine Cats: Sacred Animals of Egyptian Gods,” had been organized by a long-defunct Rome antiques auction house. The cat and presentation box featured in a two-page spread were listed as owned by “anonymous,” a not unusual occurrence. Many sellers don’t want savvy thieves to know they possess valuable art or antiques. The catalogue copy was written by an art historian, Dr. Anthony Russo. One of his entries described a cat sculpture and presentation box that exactly matched the size, style, coloration, and appearance of Maudie’s objects—down to the centimeter.

  I called Maudie at the Austin Arms and got her.

  “I have good news. We’ve been testing the materials, and so far, everything indicates that the box and cat are genuine. I’m working on the provenance now, and I was wondering if you’d object to my calling Stacy and talking to her about it. I know you want to keep the appraisal confidential, so if you’d prefer I don’t, I understand completely.”

  “Thank you for asking. I think I’ll say yes. I’m really determined not to let myself be intimidated. I have some good news, too—I’m trying to give myself a second chance. I’m back in touch with Doug.”

  “That is good news.”

  “Very. I called to ask if he’d like some moral support at tomorrow’s sentencing hearing.”

  “For Julie? I hadn’t heard the hearing was tomorrow.”

  “Yes, at ten. I’d planned to go, of course, but now I’ll be able to sit with him, to help, if I can.”

  “You must be distraught.”

  “I should be, I suppose, but I’m not. I don’t think ‘distraught’ is in my emotional lexicon. What I feel is sad. Very, very sad. But I’m determined to put my sadness aside and be there for Doug.”