CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
W
es,” I said when I had him on the line, “it’s me—Josie.”
“What’s up?”
“I can’t meet in person, so I’m going to be discreet.”
“Okay,” he said, “shoot.”
“You know the appointment we discussed? The one Maisy paid cash for?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“I’m wondering if there’s a chance that
he’s
the victim?”
After a pause, he asked, “What do you mean by ‘victim’?”
Damn
, I thought.
How can I be clearer without naming people?
“Wes, do you remember the European place we discussed?”
“Yes,” he replied, sounding excited.
“Right,” I said, reassured that he understood my reference to Britt and the Campione d’Italia bank account. “Maybe
he
was the source of the funds.”
“Yeah, okay, got ya. Why? What do you know?”
“I remembered something that I can’t tell you now.”
“Josie,” he whined, “I need to know.”
“No, you don’t. I’ll tell you later, when we’re back on the record. Now we’re off the record, right, Wes?” I said, allowing myself to sound intense and, I hoped, almost threatening.
“Okay, okay,” he agreed, backing down.
It was empowering to try to intimidate quick-talking Wes and, in my battered and weary condition, succeed.
“Do you think you’ll be able to find out?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Oh yeah, I’ll get the goods. No sweat.” He sounded bloodthirsty.
“Good. Okay, then.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.
If he could find out whether Britt Epps had transferred $400,000—or had gotten that amount in cash—I might be that much closer to finding answers that would help keep me alive.
Ty called and got me on my way home. I pulled off to the side of the road, which was banked by pine needle–covered grass under an arbor of elms and sycamore. I kept the motor running for warmth and turned on the blinkers for safety. The night was dark. Clouds were thickening, promising more rain.
“I heard the news. How are you?” he asked.
“Okay. I’m okay. But it’s been pretty much a nightmare from start to finish.”
I felt the familiar rush of electricity course through me just hearing his voice. I wished I could see his eyes. I loved his craggy, rough-hewn appearance. He looked weathered, as if he’d been buffeted by harsh storms and survived, with the brown patina and self-confidence to prove it.
Until I moved to New Hampshire, I’d counted on men taking care of me, but I’d learned the hard way that it doesn’t work that way. Having lost my father, my boyfriend, and my boss within months of one another, I knew that being independent wasn’t an option; it was mandatory. Still, listening to Ty’s deep voice, the truth was that all I wanted to do was have him take charge.
Chi passed me, then backed up and pulled even with my car.
I gave him a thumbs-up and pointed to my phone. He nodded and backed up a ways farther. He turned his headlights off and disappeared into the night.
“How come you didn’t call?” Ty asked.
“I didn’t want to worry you. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Medium-sure,” I said, adding, “how’s Aunt Trina?”
“She’s having a tough time.” He filled me in about her condition, and his concerns. He sounded tired. “I just heard about the theft,” he said, changing the subject.
“So fast?” I asked.
“Yeah. I called into work and it was on the scanner.”
“It’s horrible, Ty. I just can’t believe it.”
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“Eddie, the caterer.”
“How come?”
I shrugged and winced at the motion. I needed this day to be over. “I’m just worn to a nub, Ty. Can I explain details later? I need to get home and eat and go to bed.”
“Sure,” he said, immediately empathetic. “Just tell me that the police know everything you know.”
I pictured surly Detective Rowcliff. “Are you kidding me? Detective Rowcliff?” I joked. “He knows way more than me. Just ask him.”
I was starving. After the blissful relaxation of a lavender-scented bath, I was so ready for bed that I debated skipping dinner, then quickly dismissed the idea. The aromas wafting upstairs from the leftover chicken soup I’d put on the burner to warm up enticed me back downstairs. Wrapped in my pink robe, I sat at the oak dinette table to eat. The storm had started as misty drizzle, but the rain quickly became steady. Inside, warm and at ease, I felt cozy.
Ty called. “Are you eating?”
“Just sat down. Why?”
“I thought I’d keep you company.”
“What a great idea. Thank you.”
“Are you able to answer questions?”
“Able? Sure. Willing? Oh, please don’t make me!”
“You sound completely worn out.”
Empathy, I knew, was an effective investigative technique. Had Ty called with a professional, not a personal, agenda?
“When did you last see the tureen?” he asked as I blew on a spoonful of soup to cool it. “I mean, when are you
certain
you last saw it?”
“When I was with Britt and Dora reviewing the auction winners. We looked at each item one by one.”
“When was that?”
“Monday morning.”
“And after that?”
“I didn’t see it again until Mitch arrived with Dr. Kimball—that’s the winner and his appraiser—a little after three today.”
“Who had access to the auction venue between Monday morning and when you discovered the fake?”
“My entire staff—Eric, Gretchen, Sasha, and Fred—and Eddie.”
“Eddie’s the caterer, right?”
“Right.”
“Have I ever met him?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, considering the question. “But you’ve heard me talk about him a lot.”
“He’s the guy with the midlife crisis.”
“That’s the one.”
“And that’s it? What about part-timers?”
“No part-timers were on-site, but I suppose anyone could have entered. Gretchen didn’t lock up until after Eddie’s second visit in the afternoon. But that’s a pretty big stretch. Someone would have had to know the place was open
and
know the value of the tureen
and
acquire a fake. Not likely.” I took another spoonful of soup.
“What would motivate Eddie to steal the tureen?”
“Money. Did I tell you that he closed his business and moved to Oklahoma to take a job?”
“He did?” I could imagine Ty’s face—it would reveal only mild curiosity. Ty wasn’t a gambler, but he could have been. Even when he felt things deeply, he didn’t show it.
“With Rowcliff’s permission, apparently.”
“It happens.”
“So maybe Eddie needed a stake to start over out west and figured to grab the most expensive piece in the auction. Estimates were listed in the catalog, so he could have easily figured out what to take. Find a Chinese-style tureen, and bada-bing, bada-boom, he’s done. Probably he didn’t even attempt to replicate the actual tureen. He just wanted something that would delay discovery long enough for him to get out of Dodge. And guess what? It worked.”
“What could he get for it?”
“Quickly? A few thousand. If he got it appraised and advertised it in the right circles, more. Maybe as much as ten thousand.”
“What was your estimate?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“Why the discrepancy?”
“Stolen art and antiques have a limited market. Most collectors would be leery of buying such a valuable piece without a detailed provenance.” I shrugged. “Some wouldn’t.”
“If he advertises it, wouldn’t he risk getting caught?”
“Probably not. Most likely, he’d offer it to a shop on consignment, so they’d be the one advertising it, not him. And the tureen isn’t unique. Even with the police sending out alerts, there are so many small antiques stores and so many small newsletters and Web sites that it would be like trying to find a ceramic teapot hidden in a pottery store. Pretty much, it would be a long shot.”
“And you told Rowcliff your suspicions about Eddie?”
“Officer Shirl—she was the police officer assigned to the theft—I told her. But I didn’t go into any detail or anything. Max has drilled it into my head that I should give only brief, directly responsive, fact-based answers when speaking to the police. Sad to say, at this point, I seem to have a fair amount of experience with doing so.”
“So that’s what he tells you, huh?”
“No comment.” I pushed my soup bowl aside. “Back to Eddie,” I said, “I have his cell phone number. I was thinking of calling him myself.”
“And saying what?”
“Well, that’s the problem, actually. I can’t figure out what to say or ask him. I mean, after ‘Did you steal my tureen?’ then what? I can’t figure out a follow-up question when he says, ‘No, I didn’t.’ ”
“Leave it to the police,” he said. “They know the questions to ask.”
I shrugged and stayed quiet, unwilling to agree, but lacking the strength to argue.
“How hard would it be to acquire the phony tureen?” Ty asked.
“I don’t know exactly. The fake isn’t a high-quality one. There are thousands of them out there.”
“Where would you buy it?”
“Specialty gift shops. Like Weston’s on Market Street,” I added, naming a local example.
“How does the theft connect to Maisy’s murder?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea. I don’t understand any of it.”
“What does Max say?”
I thought about my recent conversation with Max and my subsequent call to Wes. I didn’t want to tell Ty about it, and I knew why. I wanted to avoid an argument I knew I couldn’t win. If I revealed my take on Max’s strictures—including what I perceived as Max’s faux outrage and veiled encouragement and my call to Wes—Ty would be upset. I could hear him telling me to leave it to the experts—the police. I understood his position, and I disagreed. As Max had said, the police were limited by the law. And from all I could tell, Wes was not. But while I was confident in my decision, I felt too frazzled, overwhelmed, frightened, and exhausted to debate the issue.
Ignoring my father’s oft-repeated warning,
If you have to rationalize it, it’s probably the wrong thing to do
, I selected part of the truth. “Nothing,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I
slept from eight o’clock Tuesday evening to seven o’clock Wednesday morning, and I would have slept even longer if I hadn’t set the alarm. With my eyes closed, I felt around until I located the clock radio’s button and quieted the buzzer. After a long minute of drowsing, I slowly sat up.
As I stood in the bathroom, looking at myself under the merciless fluorescent glare, I realized that I wasn’t distracted by the throbbing of my ankle. The sharp pain had been replaced by a mild, pulsating ache. When I shrugged, it didn’t hurt. The purple surrounding my left eye had faded to a mottled gray, and a greenish yellow hue had been added to the mix. The swelling was down and I could see just fine. My scrapes were still somewhat painful from the recent abrading, but my smile would no longer frighten small children. I was getting better and it felt good to see and feel improvement.
I took a quick shower to wake up, and while I still leaned on the banister as I made my way downstairs, I was relieved that movement hadn’t led to wincing or tears. I’d need less grit to get through the day.
I was just about to put my coffee cup in the dishwasher when the phone rang.
“Josie,” Zoe whispered, “I’m on my porch watching some guy sneaking around the back of your house. He’s in the flower beds by the kitchen. Jesus, Josie, I think you got a stalker.”
I pressed my back against the wall and edged toward the hall. I’d left the curtains drawn overnight, but that didn’t quell my panic. I couldn’t breathe, I was so frightened. “What’s he doing now?” I asked.
“He’s testing one of the windows, but don’t worry, I got my Beretta 391 aimed at the MF’s head, the son of a bitch. He tries to get in, he’s dead.”
I clamped my eyes closed. “Zoe, who is he?”
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Asian.”
“Chi!” I exclaimed, opening my eyes and moving away from the wall.
“What?”
“My bodyguard. He’s Chinese. His name is Chi.”
“What kind of name is Chi?”
“It means ‘energy.’ But that’s neither here nor there. The point is that you need to stop aiming your gun at him!”
“Okay, okay. But are you sure? Because he’s out of sight. He just turned the corner, circling the house.”
“I’m sure it’s him. Who else could it be?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I don’t like it that I can’t see him.”
“You’re scaring me, Zoe,” I said. “Where do you think he went?”
“Either into the woods or on the other side of the house. But why was he in the backyard anyway?” she asked.
“Checking things out, I guess. Still, you’d think he would have told me first before he started skulking around.”
“Yeah,” she said with a small laugh, “that way, you could have told me what he was up to and I wouldn’t have aimed a—uppp . . . uggh . . .”
I heard a click, and nearly fainted. “Zoe?” I stupidly called into the phone. “Zoe?”
The doorbell rang a moment later, and I ran to the door. I saddled up to the door and peeked out at a handsome Asian man who stood calmly facing me. He was taller than I expected and lean, like a runner.
“Who is it?” I called.
“Chi.”
I swung open the door and saw that he was gripping Zoe by the upper arm. He held her shotgun, business end pointing down, in his other hand.
“You know her?” he asked.
“Of course! Zoe, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I got surprised in a rear attack,” she said, making a funny face. But it was clear from her wavering voice that she was shook up, too.
I stared at him, shocked. “What are you doing? Let her go.”
“She had a weapon pointed at your back door,” he said.
“I was on the phone with her. She was pointing the weapon at you.”
He released her, broke open the gun and examined it, then swung it in her direction. “It’s unloaded.”
She rubbed her arm and took the gun. “Of course it is!” she said to him. “I’ve got kids.”
“Zoe, you crack me up. Protecting me with an empty shotgun.”
With the hand not holding the weapon, she pointed her index finger at me. “I meant what I said before. You need me, you call. Okay?”
“You bet.”
Chi and I both watched Zoe’s progress down the steps and across the October-brown grass to her yard.
“What were you doing around back?” I asked, my heart still racing.
“Looking.”
“Looking for what?”
“Just looking.”
“You scared us to death! Why didn’t you call and tell me what you were doing?”
“I did. Twice.”
“What?” I asked, surprised. “Oh, wow, I must have been in the shower.”
“May I come in for a minute?”
“Sure.” I stepped back to give him room to pass, wondering what he wanted. Inside, he blinked a couple times, his eyes adjusting to the dim inside light, then scanned the entryway and looked through the arch into the kitchen. I had the sense that he was memorizing the layout. His intensity was both frightening and reassuring.
“Do you have a weapon? A gun?” he asked.
“Why?”
He met my eyes, unsmiling, for what felt like a long time. “Mr. Bixby said you wanted protection. I’m trying to provide it.”
I nodded, a little discomfited by his stern attitude. “Makes sense. Yes, I own a gun.”
“Do you carry it?”
“No.”
He nodded and reached for the doorknob.
“Should I?” I asked.
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “Think you’d be able to use it for real?”
“Yes.”
“Got a permit?”
“Not to carry.”
“Up to you, then.”
I paused to consider how I felt. My Browning 9mm was upstairs in a drawer of my bedside table.
Would it feel empowering to know I had the means to protect myself from my unknown enemy?
I asked myself.
No
, I decided. The last thing I wanted was something else to be concerned about, and if I had a gun in my purse, I’d worry all the time.
“No,” I said, smiling. “I won’t take it with me.”
He nodded indifferently. “Are you ready to go?”
“In a minute,” I responded, thinking I wanted to tidy up the kitchen before I left.
At the sound of a car approaching, I looked up, beyond Chi, and recognized Dora’s gold Jaguar. She turned into the driveway.
“Hi, Dora!” I called as she got out.
“Hi there! You got a sec?”
“Sure,” I responded, “come on in.” She started up the porch steps and I introduced Chi, who nodded coldly in her direction.
“I’ll be in my car whenever you’re ready,” he said.
“Thanks. I won’t be long.”
“Is that your . . . you know . . . your guard?” Dora whispered as she watched, wide-eyed, as he walked toward his car.
I nodded. “Yes.” I held open the door for her to enter. “You’re up and about bright and early,” I added, eager to change the subject.
“And I’m already done with a meeting!”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope.” She laughed a little, embarrassed. “When I saw you on the porch, I couldn’t resist stopping. I have good news.”
“Excellent!” I said. “I love good news. Come into the kitchen. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. My meeting was a
breakfast
meeting.”
“That’s important-sounding.”
She smiled again, opening her purse as she followed me into the kitchen. She extracted a slip of blue paper and handed it to me.
It was a personal check made out to the Portsmouth Women’s Guild for ten thousand dollars. The signature was neatly written and easy to read, and it was a name I thought I ought to recognize, but I couldn’t place it—Marcus Boyd.
“Wow,” I said, handing it back. “Who’s he?”
“Didn’t you meet him? He was at the Gala. He’s the CEO of Armitage Flooring,” she explained, lowering her voice dramatically.
I nodded, recognizing the company and Boyd’s name—the firm was one of the area’s largest employers, located near where I lived, and his name had been on the Gala invitation list.
“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re quite a fund-raiser.”
She smiled. “I am, aren’t I?” she responded with a soft giggle.
“It’s great,” I said. “The Guild is lucky to have you.”
I slipped my coffee cup into the dishwasher and used a paper towel to wipe down the counter.
She sighed. “Now especially, when there’s no one at the helm.”
“Have you heard the board’s plans?”
“They’re meeting tonight to discuss it. Maisy’s shoes will be hard to fill.”
I nodded, thinking that this, at least, was true. Maisy had been a dedicated employee, seemingly sincerely devoted to the cause.
“You know that the funeral is scheduled for tomorrow?” Dora asked.
Thursday. Only five days since she died
. It already felt like weeks. “No. I hadn’t heard. When and where?”
“St. John’s,” she said, “at ten.”
“I want to write that down. Where’s my purse?” I asked rhetorically. “On the stairs!” I limped over to the staircase, where I’d left my handbag, then dug out my calendar and a pen and noted the time and place on the block labeled THURSDAY.
“Josie, I’m shocked!” Dora mocked as she joined me in the hallway. “You use an actual calendar? I didn’t know
anyone
still wrote things down.”
“I know, I know. I’m completely old-fashioned.”
Dora smiled. As she reached for the front doorknob, she paused and turned back to face me. “It’s so good to see you up and about,” she said.
I watched through the window until she drove around the bend and disappeared from sight.
When I stepped outside, ready to go, Chi approached me. “What route do you normally take?” he asked.
“I-95.”
“Go another way today. You can get there by taking Route One, right?”
“Yeah. Or Ocean Avenue,” I said, preparing to slide into the front seat of my rental car.
“That’s fine. Take whichever route you want, Route One or Ocean Avenue. Just not 95. Not today.”
I agreed and started the engine.
He thinks someone has been watching me, and now, knowing that I almost always take I-95 to get to Prescott’s, thinks that whoever wants to kill me might be lying in wait.
With a fresh stab of fear, I wondered if he was right.