Antiques to Die For (22 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

M

elting snow dripped from the gutter and roof, and the meadow visible from the big window over the sink seemed to undulate as snow liquefied in the early January thaw. I was glad for the temporary reprieve from the numbingly cold and long New Hampshire winter.

Paige came downstairs just as I was finishing mixing the batter for blueberry pancakes.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

Her eyes were puffy and sort of red and her skin was pasty white. My heart cracked a little. I poured two glasses of orange juice and walked through the slanting yellow sunlight that spilled across the floor to the table and sat down.

I patted the chair next to me, and said, “Come and join me. Have some juice.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know about you, but I hate Sundays.”

“You do?” she asked, surprised.

I shrugged. “Without family, it’s hard.”

Paige nodded and turned away, looking out toward the meadow, and sipped some juice. “Rosalie and I always spent Sundays together.”

She began crying, tears spilling over and running down her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Paige,” I whispered, and got her some tissues.

As I rubbed her shoulder, I stared out the window. Everything in sight was white, blue, or green. White snow, blue sky, and green conifers. Sometimes there was brown, but not today. No deer streaked across the meadow, nor was there wind that allowed bare limbs to show. Everything was still. After a while, Paige’s tears slowed and she grew quiet and finished her juice.

“What do you do about Sundays?” she asked.

“Keep busy.”

“Doing what?”

I shrugged. “Fun things that absorb my mind, not just my hands.” I smiled. “I cook. I read. I work. I go to museums or movies or plays.”

Paige nodded, listening hard.

“Want to know the things I
don’t
do?”

“Sure. What?”

“The worst things for me are to go for a walk alone, or listen to ballads, or crochet, or knit—anything that lets me spend too much time thinking in isolation is bad. Not ‘bad’ bad, if you know what I mean.” I paused, trying to find the words to express my thoughts. “I mean, thinking is good, but not when I’m feeling sad and lonely—then it’s brooding, not thinking.”

Paige nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you still want to babysit today? ’Cause I’m sure Zoë would let you off the hook if you’re not up for it.”

“No, I’d like to do it. It’s just what you said. It’ll keep my mind occupied, not only my hands.”

“Okay, then. You’re going at eleven?”

“Yeah.”

“I have an errand, and then I’ll go grocery shopping, but I should be home by about three or four.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve got my cell phone number if you need anything, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Zoë will have lunch for you, but I’m thinking we should have a nibble in the late afternoon. You know, something light, ’cause Jerry’s Chicken takes a while to cook.”

“Okay.”

“What’s your favorite snack?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you a carrot and cucumber sort of girl? Potato chips? Cookies?”

“Anything.”

“Paige!” I objected, laughing a little. “Stop being so agreeable! I want to know
your
favorite.”

“Pizza.”

“Done! What kind of pizza? Thin crust like we had at the store yesterday? Deep dish? What toppings?”

She smiled shyly. “My favorite favorite is Pizza Quickies.”

“Yum. How do you prepare it?”

“Sauce and cheese. Plus fresh tomatoes. And sometimes Rosalie added a green thing on top—an herb, but I forget its name.”

“Basil?”

“Yeah, that’s it! How’d you know?”

“It’s yummy and it goes great with tomatoes. What kind of cheese? Do you remember?”

“I’m not sure. One came in little pieces in a plastic bag and the other one we shook from a can.”

“Mozzarella and parmesan. Sounds delish.” I nodded. “Okay, then. We got us a plan.”

I heard a thump as a clump of wet snow fell from the roof. I watched the drips for a moment, then got up to cook breakfast.

“I just realized that I don’t know if you’re a churchgoer,” I said. “I’d be glad to take you if you want.”

She shook her head. “I’m mad at God.”

I cocked my head. “Maybe you want to go to church and tell God how you’re feeling.”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“If you change your mind, let me know.”

“I won’t. I haven’t been to church since my parents died.”

“What did Rosalie say to that?”

“She said that I shouldn’t be mad at God, that He took them because they were so wonderful and He needed them in Heaven. I don’t know if she believed it or just thought it was one of those things you have to say.” Paige shrugged. “I’m just plain mad.”

I hugged her then. And she hugged me back. And later, she ate three pancakes.

Just before eleven, Paige went next door to Zoë’s to babysit. I wanted to talk to Shelly, my New York appraiser buddy, before Officer Brownley came to get me.

It was a good time to call. It wasn’t so early that I’d wake her, nor so late that I’d miss her. Shelley was a die-hard party animal, typically booked to the teeth every nonworking moment. As far as I knew, it was she who invented the disco nap, an after-work two-hour-long snooze intended to allow her to club-hop long into the night and still show up at work on time and perform at peak level. I also knew that she never skipped Sunday brunch at the Water Club.

“Shelly!” I said when she answered. “It’s Josie. From New Hampshire.”

“Jesus, Josie! What time is it?”

“It’s almost eleven. I wanted to be sure and catch you before brunch. Aren’t you awake yet?”

“God, no. Hold on. Let me throw some water on my face.”

I giggled and thanked her, then glanced at the clock to time her. Two minutes later, Shelly was back on the line.
Not bad,
I thought.

“So what’s up?” she asked.

“Whistler’s palette. What do you know?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a twentieth-century American art expert,” I protested. “You must know something.”

“I don’t know everything about everything, but I’m flattered that you think I do. You should talk to Aaron.”

“Aaron Goldmark? Why?”

“Aaron’s Ph.D. dissertation was on Whistler. Hold on. I’ll find his number for you.”

I heard rustling, then Shelly said, “Got a pen? If you call him now, you’ve got to promise not to tell him you got his number from me.”

“God, Shelly, you are a hoot!”

“I miss you, too, Josie. How is it up there in the frozen tundra?”

I turned to the window. Rainbows of refracted light streaked across the pristine meadow. “Sunny and beautiful.”

“Isn’t it like a gazillion degrees below zero?”

“Shelly, you really have to get out and about more. It’s gorgeous up here. And no, it’s not a gazillion degrees below zero. We’re above freezing already today.”

“Oh, joy! You should come for a visit,” Shelly said. “There’s a new country place in the Village. We can go line dancing.”

I loved line dancing, and was good at it, and it pleased me that Shelly remembered. “One of these days,” I warned her, “I’ll turn up on your doorstep wearing cowboy boots.”

“You got it, girlfriend.”

“You need to come visit me, too,” I told her.

“Josie, you’re a peach, but I don’t like the country. I don’t even like the suburbs.”

We chatted for another few minutes. She told me about her recent promotion, our former boss’s efforts to rehabilitate his reputation after spending time in prison for conspiring to fix prices, and a new club in Tribeca. I told her about my company’s expansion, my growing friendship with my neighbor and landlady, Zoë, and Ty’s new job. She didn’t mention if she was dating anyone, and I didn’t reveal that Ty’s likely travel schedule worried me.

I always enjoyed our conversations, and as I hung up, I realized that I missed her. I wondered if the dilution of our friendship was inevitable or whether I could have done something to prevent it.

I eyed Aaron Goldmark’s phone number. I didn’t know him all that well, but I decided that there was no time like the present, and dialed. A woman answered and I heard her call, “Aaron! Aaron?”

He got on the line. “Hello?”

“Aaron,” I started, “this is a blast from your past. It’s Josie Prescott. We worked together a couple of times when I was at Frisco’s.”

“Josie!” he exclaimed. “It’s been years! Good to hear from you. How are you?”

After a couple of minutes of catching up, I told him that Shelly said he was the man to ask about Whistler.

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll tell you whatever I can. What do you need?”

“I have a palette that’s alleged to be Whistler’s, but apparently isn’t. But a real one may exist. So I have a few questions, if I might.”

“Yes, please,” he said, his interest fully engaged.

“First of all, Whistler used palettes, right?”

“Yes.”

“Poplar or maple?”

“Typically, but not exclusively, maple.”

“How did he arrange the colors?”

“Lead white in the center, with browns and grays ranging out.”

“Always?”

“Always. This is exciting. How did the palette come into your hands?”

I promised to tell Aaron everything as soon as I was at liberty to do so. After I hung up, I sat with the phone in my hand, picturing the fake palette. There were smudges of gray at one end and white at the other.

Mrs. Woodricky had said that Evan was a devoted fan of the artist. If that was true, and he’d laid out the paints, he would have gotten it right. The case against Lesha just got stronger.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

O

utside was a mess. The melting snow had nowhere to run off, so pools of ice-cold water stood everywhere. My knee-high waterproof boots got a workout as I slogged through ankle-deep puddles to Officer Brownley’s car, looking and listening purposefully. Nothing registered as trouble. It was a relief to slide into the passenger seat. I was glad to see that someone I knew was on my side.

“That legal thing with Cooper Bennington is something, huh?” I said as we drove away.

“Yeah. Makes me wish I knew more about Ms. Chaffee’s research, you know?”

“You and me both. What’s your next step?” I asked.

“I’m meeting with him later today.”

“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 the 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.