Antiques to Die For (24 page)

“I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Not a problem. What’s going on?”

“I got another call—a message—and it was pretty disturbing.”

“In what way?”

“He—or she—spoke.”

“Saying what?”

I closed my eyes, embarrassed. I repeated the message, feeling awkward.

“Did you recognize the voice?”

I thought for a moment. “I don’t know about the voice, but last time there was a sound.”

“What kind of sound?”

“A clang.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You saved it, right?”

“Yes,” I replied, closing my eyes.

“Call me back on your landline, okay?”

“How come?”

After a pause she said, “So I can listen to the message.”

“Okay.” I hung up.

All at once, I had a terrifying thought. Was Officer Brownley telling me the whole story? Was it just that she wanted to listen to the message? Or was it that someone was listening in to my phone calls and she wanted me off that line? I stared at my cell phone. The 207 caller might have heard my message to Wes. What else might he—or she—have heard? I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall for support, fighting panic.

I opened my eyes and dialed her number again from my regular phone.

“First, give me the number,” Officer Brownley said when we were reconnected.

I read off the numbers to her. After I was done, she said, “Hold your cell phone near the receiver and play it for me.”

I did so, and she had me hit replay so she could listen to it again.

“How was that?” I asked.

“Good enough for me to get an idea of what you’re talking about. You said you didn’t recognize the voice, but did it sound like the same caller as before?”

“I don’t know. I think so.”

She paused for a moment. “You okay?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m scared.”

“I understand. I’m going to call your local precinct and request extra patrols.”

“I thought you and Ty already did that.”

“We did. I mean extra-extra patrols.”

“Thanks.” I swallowed. “Someone is listening in to my calls, aren’t they?”

After a chillingly long pause, she said, “Maybe. We’ll check it out.”

I tried to quiet my too-quick breathing without success. I stood off to the side of the window, out of direct view of anyone outside. Methodically, I looked through the hedge, seeking out something, anything, that would explain my accelerating apprehension, but again I saw nothing. I circled the house, watching, waiting at each stop for something to move or catch my eye, my breathing growing faster, not quieting down as I’d hoped. Someone was trying to scare me and it was working. I was worn to the bone with feeling helpless, and I knew that the only antidote for fear was action.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Y

ou’re going to think I’m a scaredy cat, but I don’t want to stay here tonight,” I told Paige.

Paige, standing in candy-striped flannel pajamas, said, “How come you’re scared?”

I didn’t want to reveal the details, but I couldn’t think of how to avoid it. “I got a frightening phone call.” I shrugged and tried to smile. “I think it would be prudent to stay somewhere else tonight.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t need to be worried,” I assured her, wondering if it was true. “I’ve alerted the police and they don’t think there’s any danger.” I shrugged. “As I said, I’m a scaredy cat.”

She smiled. “Me, too.”

I smiled back. “So let’s pack up and head to Ty’s.”

“Is it okay for us just to show up?”

“Yeah.” I smiled again. “That’s what friends are for. He’s not there, but I have a key.”

I kept clothes and various grooming items at his place, so I had no need to pack, but Paige did. She was, presumably, returning to the Reillys’ tomorrow, so she needed to bring all of her stuff with her tonight.

Paige packed in ten minutes flat. Together we swung the heavy duffel bag into the trunk and loaded everything else into the backseat. I didn’t wait for the car to warm up; I just took off, and kept checking the mirrors to see if we were being followed. We traversed back roads thick with packed snow and shimmering ice, and when we arrived, I was confident that we were alone and safe. My eyes still on the move, I used the remote device that I kept in my glove compartment and parked in Ty’s garage. I exhaled, feeling as if it were the first clear breath I’d taken in a while, inordinately relieved that my car was out of sight.

Once we were inside, I reset the alarms that guarded the house and property, turned on lights, turned up the thermostat, and showed Paige to the guest room.

“I’m kind of keyed up,” I said. “I’m going to watch some TV. I know it’s late, but in case you want to join me, you’re welcome.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “I know I couldn’t sleep either.”

I got her busy in the kitchen microwaving popcorn and, using Ty’s landline, called him on his cell phone. I didn’t want to use mine. The thought that someone might be listening to my calls completely terrified me.

The call went to his voice mail and, trying to keep it light so as not to worry him, said, “It’s me. I’m crashing at your place with Paige tonight. No biggy, but another crank call came in and I just plumb don’t want to be at my house, so here we are! I told Officer Brownley all about the call. Talk to you soon. ‘Bye.”

I considered waiting until morning to call Officer Brownley and tell her where to meet me, but then I remembered that the extra patrols she’d arranged would need to be redirected.

“I hope this is the last time I’ll talk to you today,” I joked.

“Not a problem. Actually, I was just going to call you.”

“How come?”

“You first,” she said.

“I’m at Ty’s. I just got too scared to stay at my place. He has an alarm system, so I feel safer here.”

“Fair enough, but you should have called and let me or a local patrol car escort you.”

“Yeah, probably. But it didn’t even occur to me.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re there.” She paused. “Josie? Don’t hesitate to call me. Anytime. Even if you think it’s silly. Okay?”

The compassion and caring evident in her words and tone brought unexpected tears to my eyes, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. “Thank you. That means a lot.” I cleared my throat. “So why were you going to call me?”

She cleared her throat. “Keep in mind, I’m no expert, but I asked someone who is. Basically, someone sends a short message to your phone, that, unbeknownst to you, creates a three-way call. He or she simply listens in.”

Unconsciously, I stepped back until my thighs touched a chair. I sank into it. “You’re kidding,” I said.

“No. It’s easy if you know what you’re doing. There’s a little reprogramming involved, but not much. It seems the three-way call is activated by
your
phone, so they’re alerted when you’re on the phone by their own phone ringing.”

“But wait! If it’s initiated by
my
phone, the three-way call charge will be on my phone bill.”

“Right. Except we already know the phone numbers involved—the disposable cell phones.”

My heart-pounding terror faded, replaced by righteous outrage. “I feel violated.”

“Yeah. Obviously, you shouldn’t use your cell phone until we sort this out.”

Paige came into the room bearing a huge bowl of buttery popcorn.

“Got it,” I said, forcing myself to sound competent, not panicked. “Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope! You’ve given me plenty to think about. See you in the morning.”

As I replaced the receiver, Paige asked, “Are you okay?”

I shrugged. “I won’t lie to you, Paige. This is an anxious time.”

She nodded, but didn’t speak.

“Do you know how to make a fire?” I asked, eager to busy my hands and mind.

“No. Is it hard?”

“Not if you cheat.”

She giggled. “What do you mean?”

“We use a Duraflame log, and stack wood on it. You can’t fail.”

I deputized her to hand me logs and showed her how to crisscross them so oxygen could flow. She observed the process with interest, and within minutes, we had a crackling fire.

Paige sat beside me on the sofa, clutching her knees to her chest as we watched a rerun of one of her favorite TV shows,
Project Runway.
I was pleased that she was animated as she voiced her opinions, but I knew that her grief and shock would return, catching her unawares, and casting her adrift once again. But for now at least, she was having some fun, and I was, too. But my neck and shoulders were aching with tension, and my pulse wouldn’t quiet.

Ty called at six the next morning.

“I just got your message,” he said. “Sorry I missed you last night—I crashed out early.”

“No problem,” I replied drowsily.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“I need you to try to focus. It’s important.”

“Later. Right now I’m in your bed, and you’re not here.”

“Officer Brownley is going to take your cell phone and give you a disposable one. She needs to take yours for audio analysis.”

“Uh-huh. She told me.”

“Make sure you don’t give out the number of the disposable one she’ll be bringing you. It’s important.”

I sat up, pushing aside the duvet, fully awake. “Jeez,” I said. “But if I call someone, they’ll know my number.”

“No, they won’t. It’s unlisted. Their phone ID display will read ‘private caller.’ ”

“Okay.”

“She said she’s meeting you at seven-thirty. What’s your day look like?”

“I’m taking Paige to see her lawyer at two and maybe to ballet at five. And if there’s time, I want to run over to Heyer’s and do some work on the installation.”

“In terms of the disposable phone she’ll be giving you, I’ll know the number and she will, and no one else.”

“What should I do about calls that I might get on my real phone? You know how much I use it. It’s my primary number.”

“Short term, check your voice mail, and tell us if any more calls like this come in. Long term, you’ll get the phone back eventually.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, I like the idea of coming home and finding you in my bed.”

I lay back down. “I was wondering if you were going to respond to that comment,” I said, fishing for a compliment.

“Oh, yeah, and as soon as possible, I’ll prove it to you.”

“Excellent,” I said, smiling, closing my eyes, relishing the moment.

An hour and a half later, Paige and I were in the car en route to my office, with Officer Brownley following close behind.

The threat that seemed so dire last night seemed less frightening this morning. And I was as eager as all get-out to tell Fred about the photocopied pages from a journal and to look at Rosalie’s desk in the light of day.

Fred, his tie loosened, looked up as we entered Prescott’s. Fred was a night owl, so it was surprising to find him at work at seven-thirty on a Monday morning.

“Fred!” I said. “What on God’s earth are you doing here at this hour?”

He glanced at his computer monitor to check the time. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve been here all night?”

“Yeah.” His black, square-framed glasses had slid down and he pushed them back.

I wanted to pepper him with questions, but hesitated. He’d been working on Rosalie’s papers, and I didn’t want to create an awkward situation with Paige.

“Have you met Paige? Rosalie’s sister.”

“No.” He stood up and said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Paige replied.

“Any news about the all-night project?” I minijerked my head toward Paige and grimaced, hoping he would interpret my signal correctly.

“Those papers you wanted me to sort through?”

Appreciating his discretion, I mouthed, “Good job.” Then aloud, I said, “Yeah.” To Paige, I added, “I’ll just be a sec.”

“No problem,” she said, ever patient, and sat down on one of the guest chairs and pulled out her iPod. Melancholy seemed to shroud her, simultaneously insulating her from pain like a protective cloak, yet also rendering her heart-wrenchingly vulnerable.

“I still have about a third of a box to go through,” Fred said.

“You sure you’re not too tired?”

He shrugged and stretched. “It shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

“Have you found any photocopied journal pages?”

“What kind of journal?”

“I don’t know.”

He paused, reflecting. “Nothing like that, I don’t think.”

I nodded, then turned to Paige. “Ready?”

“Sure.” She stood up.

“Follow me,” I told her, swinging my arm over my head in a show of fun bravado, and led the way to the warehouse.

Rosalie’s desk was in the new-inventory area, swaddled in protective padding. I carefully unwrapped the quilted fabric, and when the desk was revealed, Paige exclaimed, “I remember it!”

Under our bright lighting, the red-dark patina of the mahogany almost glowed. “It’s a beauty,” I said. “Your mom had wonderful taste.”

She smiled a little at my words and circled the desk.

I noticed residue from the police examination, powder and something a little sticky. Using a clean white cotton rag that we bought by the bagful, I wiped everything clean. I spotted no variations in the finish, which might indicate refurbishing and is almost certain to diminish value.

As Paige looked on, I continued my examination.

I slid each drawer out and examined every surface. Using a handheld spotlight, I illuminated the underparts of the desk. The wood was cracked, but no more than I would expect in a two-hundred-year-old piece of furniture. In dealer’s parlance, it appeared “dry and untouched.”

“Would you hand me the camera on that shelf?” I asked Paige.

I photographed the faded maker’s mark, then turned my attention to the blotter. It appeared permanently affixed. It was thin, and the fleur-de-lis pattern etched in gold on the four corner pieces was a perfect match for the silkwood inlay on the slant top and drawer fronts. I wondered if the blotter had been fabricated to match the desk and was, in fact, period appropriate, or someone had commissioned it at a later date. As I ran my finger along the edge, I asked Paige if she knew.

“My mom had it made for Rosalie’s birthday.”

“Do you remember when?”

She nodded. “About a year after Rosalie’s graduation, I think. She got the blotter for her next birthday.”

I eased my fingertips under the front edge and felt it give and I lifted it. A standard business-size envelope was centered under the blotter. It was labeled
Paige.
Its presence told me that the police hadn’t looked under the blotter.

Paige reached for the envelope.

“You can’t touch it,” I told her. “We need to call the police.”

“It’s mine,” she protested.

“I know. But the police need to test for fingerprints and stuff. Then you can read it.”

She didn’t speak, but I could tell from the tension in her jaw that she was angry. I walked half a dozen steps to a wall phone and, from memory, dialed Officer Brownley’s cell phone.

“It’s Josie. I found a letter to Paige in the desk.”

“Where?” she asked, sounding astounded.

“Under the blotter.”

After a long pause, “Have you touched it?”

“No.”

“Thanks, Josie. I’m on my way.”

“Will you have to take it? Can you examine it here? It’s addressed to Paige.”

Another pause. “Tell her I’m sorry, but we will need to take it. We’ll be sure and let her know what it says as soon as we can.”

I hung up and repeated Officer Brownley’s response.

Paige stood up, her arms crossed in front of her, her eyes icy.

I bit my lip. I knew I’d done the right thing, the only thing under the circumstances, but still—it must be awful for her to see the communication and be prohibited from reading it.

“Come on,” I said, and took her back to the office.

She sat with her lips pressed together and her eyes down, listening to music. I asked Fred for some papers to sort. He handed me a stack from the files in Rosalie’s house, and while we waited for Officer Brownley, I systematically reviewed each one. I found nothing of interest. Half an hour later, just as Gretchen and Sasha were arriving, Officer Brownley arrived. Accompanied by Paige, I led her to Rosalie’s desk.

“We didn’t think to look there,” Officer Brownley remarked when I showed her where we found the letter.

I nodded. “Can you see if the envelope’s unsealed? If so, maybe we can at least read the letter now.”

Wearing plastic gloves, she flipped it over. The flap was tucked in snugly.

“We need to let the trace-evidence people examine it intact,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I nodded. Paige didn’t respond at all, but she looked angrier than ever.

Officer Brownley slid the envelope into an evidence bag, promised to keep us posted, and left.

“How long will it take?” Paige asked once she was gone.

“I don’t know.”