CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I
turned toward my computer and Googled Campione d’Italia.
Who knows?
I thought.
Campione d’Italia was an Italian tax haven completely surrounded by Switzerland, on the shore of Lake Lugano, a tiny place with huge financial impact. Unique. A little piece of Italy where people could have unfettered access to Swiss services—including Swiss banks.
I called Wes.
“What ya got?” he asked as soon as he heard my voice.
I swallowed, wondering whether I needed to be circumspect on the phone. No. I assumed that Detective Rowcliff had found some reference to Maisy’s overseas account, so even if my phone was tapped, I wouldn’t be revealing anything he didn’t already know. “Maisy had booked a cruise leaving in November.”
“And?”
“And she paid for it by electronic transfer from a bank in a place called Campione d’Italia.” I explained what it was and rattled off the bank’s name and Maisy’s account number.
“We should meet,” Wes said, warning me to keep quiet.
“I can’t. And I’m sure that there’s nothing I know that the police haven’t already learned.”
“Fair enough. That’s true for me, too.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, mystified.
“Great minds,” he said. “After we talked about Maisy paying in cash, I checked with my financial sources. They told me Maisy charges a lot, so the cash payment is unusual, as we speculated it was. Plus, the police apparently found an e-mail on Maisy’s work computer confirming that a Swiss bank account was opened and that a big deposit was received, but there’s no indication of the origin of the money, and the bank won’t say—at least not yet. The police are working on it.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Two transfers totaling four hundred thousand U.S.”
I whistled softly. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Tell me about it,” Wes said, agreeing.
“She deposited that amount?”
“Nope. The money came from another source—not from any of her accounts.”
“What source?”
“That’s unclear,” he stated, and I could picture his mouth twisted in frustration, hating it that there was something he didn’t know.
“So you’ve confirmed that someone deposited money in her account, but you don’t know who?”
“Exactly. The deposit was electronic, from another offshore account.”
“What do you think it means?” I asked.
“Maybe Maisy was planning to move there.”
“No way,” I said. Even a cursory look at Web sites related to Campione d’Italia showed a jet-setting lifestyle, way beyond what most people could afford. “Unless she has more accounts than that one, it’s not possible. This is the sort of place the megarich live. Four hundred thousand sounds like a lot of money, but in that world, it’s not.”
“So, then, why would she open the account there?” Wes asked.
“Maybe she wanted the privacy of a Swiss bank.”
“But if that’s the case, why wouldn’t she just have opened an account in Geneva or Zurich?”
“It seems that’s the beauty of this place. There’s no tax.” Clever little Maisy. “Wes?”
“What?”
“Maybe the money was a blackmail payment,” I ventured.
“I was thinking the same thing. You knew her. Does that idea fit?”
“No way. But I shouldn’t speak—the truth is that I didn’t know her at all. It’s almost as if she lived a double life.”
“Or was getting ready to.”
“Yeah. Good point.”
“Except that if Maisy really was blackmailing someone, maybe she was the intended murder target after all,” Wes said.
“But someone really did try to kill me yesterday.”
“That’s true,” he replied.
We agreed to talk later, and as I hung up, I swung my chair toward the window and watched my maple tree as I continued thinking.
Wes and I speculated that Maisy had blackmailed someone— $400,000 worth of extortion.
Was it possible
, I wondered,
that she had, in fact, done so, and that Britt was her target?
If so, maybe I’d found a viable motive. Perhaps the cash payment that someone in Britt’s law office had recorded was a fake, that Maisy went to his office to extort money, not to get legal advice. It was possible that Britt took money out of his own pocket and handed it over to his bookkeeper to create the illusion that Maisy was a client.
I needed to talk to Max, to get his read on my shocking revelation, and to ask him how he thought I should proceed. Would he believe me? Or would he think I was fanciful, embellishing the facts in my effort to find answers?
I wondered whether to call Wes back. Maybe. Knowing him, he’d have a source who would be able to ferret out Britt’s financial dealings. A $400,000 withdrawal from any of Britt’s accounts might indicate that I was onto something. As I stood, stabbed by throbbing pain, I decided that I
should
call Wes. It wasn’t idle curiosity. It was self-preservation. Screw protocol. I wanted to know everything I could that might help me stay alive. My father didn’t just say,
Ignorance is never bliss
. He also told me,
Knowledge is always power
. Later, maybe, I’d call him. But not now. Now I needed support more than information.
As I shuffled across my office floor and walked down the spiral steps one slow stair at a time, slowly limping through the vast warehouse space into the auction venue, I felt weak from the searing intensity of my Gala memories and my brush with death. I had to face the fact that it was entirely possible that Britt was a killer—and that now he was out to kill me.
When Britt stood next to me, perhaps concentrating on sliding the powdery poison into the wine, he’d have had no way of knowing that I wasn’t paying any attention to him at all. It was entirely possible that he would be surprised to know that my focus was divided between admiring Dora’s stunning appearance and missing Ty, and that, therefore, I hadn’t observed a thing.
I shook my head as I switched on the lights and adjusted the thermostat to take away the afternoon chill. Surely Britt—or whoever was responsible—knew by now that I was no threat. I hadn’t told the police anything against him, or anyone, and I wasn’t a blackmailer.
Maybe
, I thought with a flash of hope,
there will be no further attempt to kill me
. My optimism faded soon enough.
“Hope is the thing with feathers,” Emily Dickinson wrote.
It didn’t matter whether I had seen anything. What mattered was whether the murderer believed that I had. “Perception,” I whispered. “Perception becomes conviction.” I shook my head, confused and troubled, picked up the phone, and dialed the only person I felt I could trust—Max.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I
s everything all right?” Max asked when I had him on the line.
“Yes. Thank you, Max. Detective Rowcliff is due at four.”
“Good. What’s up?”
“I remembered something. And I think maybe it’s important.”
“I’m in a meeting, Josie, so I can’t talk for long. Can it wait?”
I paused, unsure how to respond.
Could it wait?
Yes.
Should it?
No. “I think Britt had an opportunity to add the poison. I don’t know that he did, but I recall his hand stretching over the glasses.”
I heard Max breathing, but he didn’t speak for several seconds. “I’ll stop by about quarter to four and we can discuss this further. All right?”
My tension melted away. Max would tell me what to do, and he’d be here when Rowcliff arrived to show me the automobile illustrations. What a relief.
“Thank you, Max,” I said, my voice cracking unexpectedly. “That’s great.”
I hung up and leaned against the wall, trying to decide what to do next. It hurt to move, and I closed my eyes until the throbbing pain diminished. “Whew,” I said, and glanced at the clock built into the thermostat display. It read 2:45 P.M.
Soon Mitch and his expert would arrive to pick up the Chinese tureen. I was exhausted, but the high-charge energy racing through my veins made resting impossible.
I’ll go to bed early
, I thought. Groaning with effort, I stretched and walked toward the front office to wait.
As I stepped in, I saw Gretchen half-hidden by a pink aluminum Christmas tree that she was holding up. Fred was on his knees, counting branches. A short middle-aged stranger with a Vandyke beard was leaning against the door frame, waiting. He glanced at me and I gathered from his double take that he was shocked by my bruised appearance, but he didn’t comment.
“Hi, Josie,” Gretchen said with a giggle. “Mr. Dublin is wondering about his tree.”
“And ornaments,” the stranger added, pointing to an old cardboard box on the floor next to him.
“I see,” I responded. “I’m glad you stopped by, Mr. Dublin. Anything I can do to help, Fred?”
“No, I’m okay,” he answered, still counting.
“Would you like some coffee, Mr. Dublin? Tea? A Coke?”
“Nope. Thanks, though.”
I sat on Gretchen’s chair, and in a moment, Fred stood up.
“You said you don’t have the original box,” he said. “How about the paper sleeves the branches were shipped in?”
“No. Why? Does that matter?”
Fred nodded. “Original packaging always enhances value.”
Dublin shrugged. “We threw all that stuff away when we first got the tree.”
“When was that?” Fred asked.
“Mid-sixties.”
I smiled a little. Fred was so focused on research, he’d forgotten that Gretchen was still supporting the tree. “How did you transport the tree?” he asked.
I sent Gretchen a private signal, and she nodded, indicating her understanding, and unobtrusively placed the tree gently against the wall.
“In my truck,” Dublin replied, shooting his thumb over his shoulder toward the parking lot.
“Loose?”
“The branches weren’t in the pole,” Dublin responded, “if that’s what you mean. I rolled them in a blanket. The pole was loose.”
“Gotcha. I’ll just be a couple of minutes,” Fred said, turning toward his monitor.
Fred was right about the value of original packaging. Most collectors are glad to pay a premium of 20 percent or more for it. But there was another, less obvious advantage to acquiring items in their original packaging. Antiques and collectibles stored in whatever was designed to protect them are much more likely to be in good condition than goods stored haphazardly. Knowing that the aluminum branches were rolled in a blanket meant we’d need to examine them much more closely than if each one had been tucked into its sized-to-fit paper sleeve. Of course, on a two-dollar item, it didn’t much matter, but aluminum Christmas trees were hot right now, especially pink ones, so we were talking way more than two dollars, and determining its value was definitely worth the effort.
The phone rang and Gretchen reached across her desk to answer in her usually happy tone. “Prescott’s. May I help you?” She listened. “The tag sale runs every Saturday.”
As she informed the caller about our tag-sale hours and gave directions, Dora arrived in a flurry of excitement and resolve.
“Oh, Josie!” she exclaimed. “Look at you. Isn’t this just awful?”
I smiled a little, touched by her concern. “I’m okay.”
“Are you, really?” she asked earnestly.
I nodded. “I am. Thank you, Dora.”
“You have such a good attitude, Josie.”
Unsure how to respond to the compliment, I introduced her to Mr. Dublin, explaining that Fred was pulling together some information for him about his Christmas tree and ornaments.
“Don’t you love these things!” she exclaimed, running her manicured nails through the aluminum frills. “I’m too young to remember them, of course! I meant that I loved seeing them on old TV shows!”
Mr. Dublin laughed. “Me, too! Both about loving seeing them on TV and being too young. It’s my mother’s tree,” he added with a wink.
“Really?” she asked, her eyes twinkling merrily. “Looking at you, I would have thought it must have been your grandmother’s!”
He chuckled with delight. Dora had a gift all right.
Gretchen’s call ended, and as she greeted Dora, Fred ripped a sheet from his notepad and handed it to me as he walked toward the box of ornaments. Under the printed maroon heading that read PRESCOTT’S, Fred had printed “Net retail $700.”
I folded the note and slipped it in my pocket.
After a polite exchange of pleasantries, during which Dora declined Gretchen’s offer of coffee or tea, Dora asked me, “Have you heard anything about who did it?”
All eyes turned toward me.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I
shook my head, feeling conspicuous. “Nothing yet. At least not that I’m aware of.”
Dora sighed, communicating worry and concern. “You must be terrified,” she said.
“I’m okay,” I repeated, uncomfortable in the face of her anxiety.
“Are the police watching you?”
“They’re increasing their patrols,” I said, casting an embarrassed glance in Mr. Dublin’s direction. He was openly eavesdropping.
“Is that enough to keep you safe?” she asked.
“Actually,” I said with a small smile, “you’ll probably laugh, and to tell you the truth, it makes me feel a little like a rock star, but I’ve got some extra security.”
She nodded, satisfied. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. You’re smart.”
I shrugged. “Well, until we know what’s going on, it’s hard to say if it’s smart or paranoid. But I figure it can’t do any harm, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Dora followed my eyes, and together we watched as Fred separated the ornaments into clusters of three and four. From what I could tell, he was segregating them by the materials used to create them. Some were fabricated of glass, others carved of wood, and a few appeared to be crocheted. I noticed a preponderance of pink.
She turned to Gretchen. “Britt told me he’s going to call you later to get an update on the auction pickups. How have things been going?”
“So far, so good,” Gretchen responded. “I’ve either reached everyone in person or left a message. Our first pickup is scheduled for . . .” she said, drawing out the last word as she glanced at her watch, “now.”
“Well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed that everyone shows up,” Dora remarked. “You never know with pledges.” She swung around and faced me. “Josie, I’m actually here for a business reason. Are you certain you’re able to talk? I can wait if you prefer.”
“Well, it depends. I’m taking painkillers, so anything involving advanced economic theory or existential philosophy will have to wait. But other than that, I think I’m good to go.”
“All right, but only if you promise to tell me if you want me to go away.”
“Okay.” I wondered what business she had that involved me. “Should we go to my office?”
She tucked her blond hair neatly behind her ear and shook her head. “It’s not private and it will only take a minute.”
I looked questioningly at her.
“You may know that the Guild isn’t my only interest,” Dora said. “I’m also involved with a wonderful little group called Literacy Matters. Have you ever heard of them?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you about them now.” She laughed, a musical sound, and leaned forward again to touch my arm with a feathery brush. “I’m hoping you can attend a luncheon I’m giving on the group’s behalf this Friday. If you come, I promise you delicious food, excellent wine, and engaging company, and the only thing I ask is that you listen to a five-minute description of the group’s important work—and that you bring your checkbook.” She laughed again. “But if you’re not feeling up to joining us, I’ll understand completely. I do this periodically, and I’ll invite you again.”
As Dora spoke, a happy memory came to me. It had been a bitter cold February day, with icy gusts bringing tears to my eyes as I hurried along Lexington Avenue in New York. My good friend Katie was hosting a clambake in her tiny studio apartment. She’d organized the elaborate faux beach party in support of a charity. I remembered admiring her commitment to the cause, and the camaraderie I’d felt as I and all of her guests pulled out cash or checkbooks in response to her appeal.
And this is how a supportive society is supposed to work
, I’d thought at the time.
Someone asks and others who are part of that community trust the person’s judgment and say okay
.
I was more than pleased that Dora had invited me—I was elated.
Maybe
, I thought, with fingers crossed,
this week will mark the beginning of the end of the isolation I’ve endured since moving to New Hampshire. Ty is different
, I told myself.
No matter how terrific a man may be, he can never replace a girlfriend
. Maybe Zoe, my landlady and neighbor, would become a friend, and Dora, my covolunteer, another.
Is it possible
, I wondered,
that I’ve found the beginnings of a community that will last?
“I’d love to go,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to—just as long as you don’t think my appearance will scare your other guests away.”
“Don’t be silly, Josie. Everyone is very upset about what’s going on and thrilled that you’re all right.”
“Thank you, Dora,” I said, discomfited at the thought that people were discussing me.
“I’m going now,” she said, flashing a smile in Gretchen’s direction, “I’ll call Gretchen tomorrow and give her all the details.”
“Great,” I said, meaning it. “Thank you for including me.”
Five minutes later, I sat in the guest chair, sipping another cup of tea, resting as Gretchen and Fred worked in companionable silence. Fred was almost done with his on-the-spot appraisal. The phone rang—another inquiry about Saturday’s tag sale. In the midst of all my strife, I allowed myself a private “woo hoo!” Business was good.
“Are you interested in selling the tree and ornaments?” Fred asked Mr. Dublin.
“Nope. It’s my daughter, Irma. She’s getting married next month. As part of her wedding gift, her mom and I thought we’d give her all the Christmas stuff. I just want to know what it’s worth, so when it’s my other daughter’s turn to walk down the aisle, we can be fair to Kenna.”
“Okay, then,” Fred told him, “but you need to help me understand what you mean by ‘fair.’ The thing is that replacement value is different from ‘I gotta get cash’ value, you know?”
“Understood,” Dublin said, nodding. “I don’t need an exact number. I just need a ballpark figure.”
“Well then, you might as well use full retail,” Fred told him.
“Okay,” Dublin agreed.
“Keep in mind, this is the top-dollar price for the tree. I’m not saying you could get this amount, but you might.”
“Got it. And?”
“Full retail is around seven hundred dollars.”
Dublin looked pleasantly surprised. “That’s more than I expected. How about the ornaments?”
“To tell you the truth, there’s nothing special there. I mean, there’s no item that’s worth more than a dollar or two, even though there are some nice things.”
Tag-sale value
, I thought, using our unofficial code to indicate that there was nothing significant.
“So, soup to nuts,” Dublin asked, “you’re talking what? About seven fifty?”
“Not even. Realistically, you should call it seven hundred, seven twenty-five, maybe,” Fred responded matter-of-factly.
Dublin smiled and nodded. “Fair enough. Thanks.” Working together, he and Fred disassembled the tree. He shook my hand, thanked Fred for his work, scooped up his tree pole and branches and the box of pink ornaments, and, with a final smile and a wave, left.
No money changed hands, but with any luck, Mr. Dublin would refer friends to us and return if and when he ever wanted to buy—or sell—antiques in the future.
“Good job,” I told Fred.
Mitch Strauss’s expert, Dr. Miles Kimball, arrived a few minutes later. He stepped into the office and announced to no one in particular, “Please tell Ms. Prescott that Dr. Kimball has arrived.” He looked as snotty as he sounded.
I placed my mug on Gretchen’s desk, stood up, and said, “Hi. I’m Josie Prescott.” I extended a hand and smiled as best I could.
Dr. Kimball took my hand, shock at my appearance registering on his long, bony face.
“Josie,” Mitch Strauss exclaimed, entering the office a moment later. “Good God. Look at you. Should you be here? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital? At least at home?”
“I feel better than I look,” I assured them both, using my stock line, trying again to smile.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Dr. Kimball said coldly.
Mitch wouldn’t allow my disclaimer to stand and said something else about how I ought to be resting. If I’d let it, his effusive concern would have embarrassed me into silent misery. Instead, I deflected the attention. “Thanks for your concern. So tell me, are you excited to pick up your tureen?” I asked.
“You bet! I can’t wait to get it home and on display. Rochelle has cleared out a cabinet—‘the place of honor,’ she calls it.”
During the Gala, Mitch and his wife, Rochelle, had carefully examined each item up for auction, but I’d noted that, like most investors, they seemed to care more about the value of the antique than they did for the item itself. When I started at Frisco’s, I learned quickly that for many collectors, the concept of value is complex. Sure, for some, the beauty, rarity, or cultural importance of the antique matters. And so, too, does its cost, of course. But for most, it’s the status that possessing the item confers on its owner that seems to matter most.
Right out of college and filled with naïve idealism, I’d expected people to buy an antique because of the piece’s splendor or significance, and had been stunned and disappointed to learn that such reasons were, in fact, the exception, not the rule. Most buyers made purchase decisions based on their personal perception of value, and usually that meant some combination of investment potential and prestige.
Perception again
, I thought.
It always comes back to perception
.
I led the way through the warehouse into the auction venue, and I noted that Mitch kept his eyes down, never once glancing toward the stage, where Maisy had stood only three days earlier. I limped over to where the “Birds and Flowers” tureen stood. Mitch and Rochelle had won the object with a bid of $21,800, almost 10 percent above our estimated selling price.
Even before I could lift the Plexiglas cover, Dr. Kimball snorted scornfully. “This is a fake.”