CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
S
hocked, I stared at him for a quick moment, then turned toward the tureen and saw at a glance that he was right. Instead of the vivid rose-themed duck and lotus flower design, I saw a crude illustration in faded pink.
Stunned, I lifted the Plexiglas display case cover and gently rotated the bowl to reveal its bottom. I stared, disbelieving. “Made in China. Not for food use. May poison foods,” the orange legend read, indicating the dangers of lead paint.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. My stomach flip-flopped and I thought I might pass out. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. Not only was the tureen a fake, it wasn’t even a good fake. Notating the country of origin by name didn’t begin until the mid-twentieth century, and adding toxicity warnings was an even more recent development. Even at a glance, I knew its pedigree. It was the sort of import marketed as a “reproduction” through scores of specialty gift shops nationwide, and probably it retailed for about a hundred dollars.
Since no one could possibly think that this fake would fool a professional—witness Dr. Kimball’s immediate recognition—it was a placeholder, nothing more, an item to put on display so our attention wouldn’t be caught by an empty case.
I felt completely mortified.
What must Dr. Kimball and Mitch think?
I wished a trapdoor would open and allow me to escape.
I should have checked it out before bringing them in to appraise it
, I thought, rebuking myself.
How could this have happened?
I stared into space, shocked and ashamed.
It’s my fault
. I could have kicked myself.
Horrified at the potential impact this debacle might have on my reputation and future prospects, I was unable to speak, but my brain was running at top speed. I didn’t know who had stolen the tureen or when. But on the face of it, it didn’t seem like a garden-variety theft. It seemed worse—more carefully plotted—as if someone was trying to ruin me.
Dr. Kimball left, his heavy footsteps pounding across the concrete floor of the warehouse.
“I’m sure there’s some logical explanation,” Mitch assured me. “You know, a misunderstanding of some sort. Or a joke.”
I stared at him and tried to appreciate his efforts at minimizing the situation, but I couldn’t. My initial shock had morphed into white-hot anger, and my wrath was growing by the minute.
“Thanks for the thought, Mitch,” I replied calmly. “But whatever is going on, it’s no joke. It’s a major theft. I’ll be calling the police immediately, of course.” I nearly choked on the words as I added, “I assume I don’t need to tell you that I
did not
substitute a cheap fake for the real thing.”
“No, no, of course not. Please excuse Dr. Kimball’s brusqueness. I’m sure he would never think such a thing, either.”
I didn’t comment. From the look Mitch gave me, I could tell that what he’d just said was a lie. Dr. Kimball was probably already on his cell phone, spreading the word that Prescott’s was a sham and I was a charlatan.
“Well, I guess I’d better go,” he said after an awkward pause.
“Can you find your way out?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said, and headed for the door.
I limped to the wall and sat down on the floor. I needed to think about what I should do, but I was having trouble focusing. My rage ran deep, but it couldn’t eliminate the shock. I felt sucker punched.
Mitch’s footsteps had barely faded away when I heard the familiar click-clack of Gretchen’s heels.
“Josie?” she said as she entered the room. “What’s wrong?”
I looked at her. “Please call the police and report that the Qing dynasty tureen has been stolen.”
“What happened?” She started toward me, concern apparent in her expression.
“Not now, Gretchen,” I replied sharply. “Call them.”
She must have heard something in my tone and seen something in my expression, because she stopped short, turned, and ran to the phone.
“This is Prescott’s,” she said when someone came on the line, then gave the address. “We’ve had a theft . . . a rare tureen—an antique. . . . Oh my God, I didn’t think . . . no, I don’t know. Hold on, please.” She placed the mouthpiece against her chest and said, sounding awed, “Josie, they want to know if the intruder is still here.”
I stared at her for a long moment, numb and frightened; then I turned toward the double doors that gave way to the parking lot. The heavy bolt was in place. That meant that this was probably an inside job. I couldn’t believe it—had one of my employees, Gretchen, Sasha, Fred, or Eric, all of whom had the run of the place, done this terrible thing?
I can’t trust anyone
, I reminded myself.
I’m alone
. I shivered as if it were cold, though it wasn’t. What gave me goose bumps wasn’t the temperature—it was the chill of isolation. The police had asked if the thief was still here.
Maybe
. I turned to look at Gretchen, who was waiting for my reply.
“Tell them I don’t know,” I said.
I was still sitting on the floor, deep in thought, when Gretchen escorted a uniformed policewoman named Officer Shirl into the auction room and introduced us.
It took me a minute to get to my feet. I felt beyond tired and wondered if I could go on much longer without collapsing.
“Are you all right?” Officer Shirl asked, watching me struggle and wince.
“Not really,” I admitted. “But I’m hanging in for now.”
“Shall I bring over a chair?” Gretchen asked.
“No, thanks,” I said, and as she seemed inclined to linger, I added, “I’ll take it from here. You get back to work and hold down the fort, okay?”
“Are you sure?” she asked, looking scared.
Of what?
I wondered.
The situation? Or her role in it?
“I know I can count on you to take care of whatever comes up.”
She flashed a quick appreciative grin. “Okay, then,” she said, and left.
“Whenever you’re ready, please tell me what happened,” Officer Shirl said.
“A valuable tureen was stolen. It’s an antique.”
“What kind of tureen?” she asked.
“It was Chinese. A beautiful piece. Quite rare.”
“Can you describe it?”
“It would be easier to show you. Here,” I said, handing her a catalog, one of a score still piled on a display case nearby. “Turn to page eight.”
She nodded, flipped to the entry, and began reading, her eyes widening when she saw the twenty-thousand-dollar estimate. “Is this right? Twenty thousand dollars?” she asked, sounding as if she wasn’t 100 percent convinced she’d read it right.
“More.”
“Who bought it?”
I gave her Mitch and Rochelle’s names and added, “Gretchen can give you their address and phone number.”
Officer Shirl made a note. “And they arrived to pick up the tureen?”
“Mitch did. He brought an expert named Dr. Kimball.”
“Why the expert?”
I shrugged. “It’s not unusual. He wanted to authenticate the tureen before handing over the check.”
“And Dr. Kimball discovered the theft?”
“Yes,” I replied, mortified at the memory.
“How did Dr. Kimball know it was a substitution?”
“Anyone would have noticed. He didn’t even examine it.”
“But you didn’t notice it, did you?”
Her tone belied the words. She wasn’t implying that I should have noticed anything. She was just asking.
“I noticed it, too,” I told her.
She smiled a little and said, “Tell me about it.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, reliving the shock of the discovery. “Dr. Kimball announced that it was a fake. I looked up and saw it.” I opened my eyes, looked at her, and shrugged. “Really. That was it. One glance.”
“Then how come it took an expert to discover it? How come you didn’t see it before?”
“It didn’t take an expert. It took someone focusing on it, that’s all.”
I explained my theory that whoever had substituted the fake tureen intended to delay discovery, not trick a pro. “No way would anyone who knows anything think that this tureen was an antique.”
“Why do you suppose you hadn’t noticed the substitution before?”
I leaned against the wall, resting my still-aching ankle. “I didn’t look. That’s all. I had no reason to. I wasn’t in this room at all today. If I’d looked at it, I would have seen it had been switched.”
She nodded and asked, “When did you last notice it?”
I paused for a moment, trying to gather my scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. “Yesterday. Britt, Dora, and I put Post-its”—I pointed to a couple of the yellow sticky notes still in place—“on every item. The tureen was where it was supposed to be then.”
“Britt? Dora? Who are they?”
“Britt Epps, the honorary chairman of the Gala. Dora Reynolds, the chair. That’s what all of these antiques were being auctioned for. It was a charity event.”
She nodded. “When were you here with them?” she asked.
“I’m not sure exactly. Morning.”
“And since then?”
“I haven’t been back in here.”
“Who has?”
“I don’t know for sure. I haven’t been here the whole time.”
She persisted. “As far as you know, who?”
“No one.”
“Who else would know?”
“Gretchen. She’s my assistant. The woman who brought you in here. She might have some ideas.”
All at once, I had an unaccountable urge to cry. Anger had degenerated into self-pity. It was just too much. First Maisy’s murder. Then worrying about Ty and Aunt Trina and missing him, when having him around would have been such a comfort. Then my attack. Now a theft. I felt overwhelmed and underprepared to deal with the madness. I took a deep breath, trying to stop. When I opened them, I found Officer Shirl watching me with professional interest.
To her I’m a suspect
, I realized, and all at once, I felt faint.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I
’m sorry,” I said, embarrassed at my emotional display.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Do you want to sit down? Can I get you a glass of water?”
“Thanks. No. I’m okay. Please, just continue. What else can I tell you?”
“You own this business?”
“Yes.”
“How many employees do you have?”
“Four full-time and a couple of part-timers.”
“Their names?”
Officer Shirl was writing down their names when I heard footsteps and Max arrived, escorted by Gretchen. From his solemn expression, I gathered that Gretchen had filled him in.
“Hi, Max.”
“Josie.” He turned to Officer Shirl and introduced himself.
“Gretchen,” I said, “Officer Shirl was asking about yesterday. Britt, Dora, and I were in here putting up the Post-its—until when? Do you remember?”
“Around eleven thirty, I think.”
“That sounds right,” I agreed. “I left for an appointment not long after that, so I would have no way of knowing if anyone entered later.” I turned toward Gretchen and asked, “Do you? Do you know if anyone came in here after eleven thirty yesterday?”
“Yes,” Gretchen replied, sounding frightened.
“When?” the policewoman asked.
“Who?” I asked simultaneously, then smiled and said, “Her first. When?”
Gretchen paused to think. “Around two.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“You?” I asked, surprised.
“Why?”
“I wanted to be sure the doors were locked. You remember, Josie, Eddie had been in and out and I didn’t even know if the doors were closed.”
“Who’s Eddie?” the police officer asked.
“Oh, sorry. The caterer. He was in taking everything away. You know, tables and plates and things. Cleaning up after the Gala.”
Officer Shirl nodded and made a note. “When you checked, were they locked? The doors?”
“Closed but not locked.”
I looked at Gretchen, stunned. “So anyone could have walked in until you locked them?”
“I guess,” she acknowledged.
“And you’re sure you did, in fact, lock them?” Officer Shirl asked.
“Yes. I turned the dead bolt and moved the sliding bolt into place.”
“At two?” she asked, confirming Gretchen’s recollection.
“About then. Fred might recall. He was in the office, working at his computer. I asked him to cover the phone because I wanted to come back here and check.”
Whether Fred remembered the exact time or not, a doubtful prospect given his absentminded professor–like proclivities, the fact remained that for a period of more than two hours, anyone could have walked into the room from outside, substituted the fake tureen, and spirited away the original.
“Josie left the room at eleven thirty and you entered at two. Are you aware of anyone who came in between those hours?” Max asked, joining the conversation for the first time.
“Just Eddie,” Gretchen replied.
“No, no,” I clarified, “Eddie was here early on. Before Britt and Dora arrived. Max is asking about after they left.”
“Eddie came back,” she explained.
“Really?” I asked. “Why?”
She shrugged. “He said he forgot something. He popped into the office and said he’d just run around back. Actually, that’s why I thought about making sure the doors were locked.” She turned troubled eyes toward me. “That was okay, wasn’t it, Josie? To let him show himself in? I mean, it was Eddie. He’s here all the time. Or he was.”
“What do you mean ‘was’?” Max asked, pouncing on her word choice.
“Well, he moved, right? To Oklahoma, isn’t that what you said, Josie?”
Officer Shirl aimed laser-sharp eyes at me. “What?” she asked.
“That’s right. He called me from the road to tell me good-bye. He said his business went bust and he’d taken a job in Tulsa. I asked if it was okay for him to be leaving in the middle of a murder investigation, and he said he had the police’s permission.”
“Who did he tell?” Officer Shirl asked, sounding as if she disbelieved him—or me.
“That’s a question for Detective Rowcliff, who’s handling the investigation, and,” Max said with a quick glance at his watch, “is due here any minute.”
“You called him about the theft?” Officer Shirl asked, confused.
“No, he scheduled an appointment related to the Gaylor murder investigation,” Max explained. “You probably know that Maisy Gaylor was murdered here last Saturday during the Gala charity event.”
“Got it,” the officer said, nodding. “Prescott’s is hosting some kind of crime wave, huh?”
“As far as we know, the theft is unrelated to any other event,” Max deadpanned. I wondered if he believed it.
“Let me get this straight,” Officer Shirl said. “Eddie, the caterer, had been in this room earlier in the day yesterday, and then he came back—what time?”
Gretchen paused before answering. “Right about one thirty, I think. I was still eating lunch at my desk.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Just a minute or two. I didn’t notice in particular, but I’m pretty sure I heard his truck drive off almost right away.”
Eddie, the glib bastard, had sneaked into my building and stolen the most valuable antique in the room. Probably he took a copy of the catalog home after the Gala, then spent Sunday weighing his options. What did he figure? That this would be an easy way to get a stake for his new life? And that my insurance would cover it, so it was no big deal?
Officer Shirl continued to ask questions, but I stopped listening. I was so angry I could spit.