“Please pick up, Josie. . . . Josie, please. . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know why I froze exactly, but—”
I picked up the phone. “It’s me, Ty.”
“Josie.”
“It’s okay. Apology accepted.”
“Thanks.” He paused, then added, “I got a second opinion this afternoon.”
“Good.” After an awkward silence, I added, “That gives you more confidence, I’m sure.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Reach out
, I thought. “Are you okay?”
He gave a nonfunny laugh. “I’ve been better. But, yeah, I’m okay. How about you?”
“Yeah.”
“When this is over—well, I was thinking—”
“What?” I asked, my heart beginning to race.
Tell me!
“Let’s go away.”
“Away like sell our possessions, change our names, and move to Vegas? Or away like a vacation in the Bahamas?”
He laughed a little, this time sounding amused. “The latter. I’m thinking heat, water, drinks with little umbrellas, tropical nights.”
“Oh God, let’s go now.”
“Soon,” he said.
I smiled. “Date.”
We ended the call promising to talk in the morning, and I lay back down, pleased but still concerned. Could I meet his expectations? Ty was reserved, but when he opened up, he had a lot to give. If asked, would he say the same about me?
I forced myself to be still and try to sleep, but instead, I thrashed and rolled from side to side until the sheets were tangled around my neck, the quilt was on the floor, and my pillow somehow had ended up under my feet. Resigned to wakefulness, I sat up in bed and rested my head on my hands.
How will I endure the night?
I wondered.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I
must have slept, because when I awoke, I was cold to my bones. The quilt was once again on the floor. Hurrying into the bathroom, I caught a look at myself in the mirror in the gray morning light. I looked like hell. My skin was white-blue pale, my eyes were rimmed in red, and my bruises had faded to a sickly green.
I took a fast hot shower, then went back into the bedroom, wrapped in my pink chenille robe. After putting on some makeup, trying to disguise my green-tinted, too-pale skin, I dressed for Maisy’s funeral. The black slacks, moss-colored blouse, black-and-green tweedy blazer, and black leather ankle boots were appropriate for church, but not for work, so I packed jeans and a flannel shirt, my standard work wear, along with my work boots, in a large tote bag.
As I walked slowly downstairs, leaning heavily on the banister, I felt overwhelmed with fatigue and barely controlled panic. I was in no shape to cook. Instead, I treated myself to breakfast at the Portsmouth Diner.
I bought a
USA Today
from a vending machine just inside the front door—I didn’t want any local news—and sat in a small booth at the rear of the restaurant for almost an hour, relishing the companionable hum of early-morning customers.
I decided to call Ty, just to check in, but didn’t reach him. It was early. I left a message on his cell phone, reminding him that I’d be at Maisy’s funeral until around noon.
When I got to my building, I sought out Eric and found him in the warehouse, loading inventory onto a cart for transport to the tag sale. I wanted to be certain he included the six boxes of highly sought-after 1950s vintage barware, all in good shape, I’d recently acquired.
“Perfect,” I said, “for Christmas gift buying.”
We discussed display ideas for about ten minutes; then I went upstairs to my office, fighting the anxiety and fear that threatened to paralyze me. It took all of my willpower to sit and review last month’s financials.
I had gotten to Maisy’s funeral a few minutes early and I sat alone in a pew near the back. I scanned the room for people I knew, recognizing several.
Mitch and Rochelle, the winning bidders of the stolen tureen, sat fairly close to Maisy’s husband, Walter, in the front row. Walter looked shell-shocked. Pam sat alone, about halfway back. Dora was off to the right, near the front, skewed around, chatting earnestly with a couple I’d never seen before. Britt was nearby, sitting next to a couple I’d seen at the Gala but hadn’t met.
No one spoke to me until Detective Rowcliff slid into my pew. I felt my heart begin to thump, and I scooched my purse toward me, as if it were a buffer that could somehow protect me from him.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispered fiercely.
“Sure,” I responded.
“Later today.”
“I’ll talk to Max and we’ll arrange something.”
“I’ll call him,” he said. “Let’s try for two o’clock. We have a lot to talk about.”
Ominous
, I thought. “Sure. If Max is available,” I said.
Rowcliff got up and moved to the far corner—the better to see everything that was going on. I kept alert, too, but noticed nothing that provided a clue. Still, my anxiety level continued to rise, and I didn’t know why.
I left the church as soon as the service was over. It was still raining, and it, along with the mournful hymns and sorrowful eulogy, left me feeling sad in addition to panicky. I noticed a patrol car three cars back, following me. I was glad to get to work, and gladder still when I saw the glint in Fred’s eye.
Let there be good news
, I thought.
“What?” I asked him as I placed my dripping umbrella in the stand near the door.
“One of Mrs. McCarthy’s bowls isn’t just a bowl,” he said. “It looks like a bowl, but it’s not. I called her and asked about it. She looked around and called me back.”
“And?”
“And she found something in an old trunk.”
“How intriguing. What?”
“A nearly black centerpiece with lions and tigers and other figures positioned around a palm tree. Eight black supports extend from the tree and lead to black circles. Seven supports have black bowls with cut-glass inserts suspended from the circles—one black bowl is missing.” He pushed his glasses up, smiling. “I had her describe them.”
“And?”
“And she said that they all were simple in design, with only a fancy pattern along the rim for decoration. Here,” he said, handing me a silver dish, “look.”
I reached for it, noted the gadrooned border, and turned it over. On the bottom were three hallmarks—an anchor, a lion passant, and a lower case
a
.
“Birmingham,” I said, recognizing the anchor. “Nineteenth century?” I guessed.
“Right.”
“Cut to the chase, my friend. What have you got?” I asked him, smiling, handing back the bowl.
“I don’t know, but I think we ought to get our hands on that piece quickly.”
I understood the implication. If Fred’s instincts were correct, the black centerpiece would metamorphose into silver when polished. Lions and tigers? The piece sounded like a nineteenth-century epergne, perhaps unique, and potentially valuable.
“Is she interested in selling it?” I asked.
“Yes.” He smiled, looking proud of himself.
As well he should be. “Great catch, Fred,” I said, impressed.
I glanced at the Mickey Mouse clock on Gretchen’s desk. “Give her a call, will you?” I asked. I wanted to get my hands on it before Mrs. McCarthy called another dealer. “See if I can stop by today. Four, four thirty?”
“Sure,” he said.
The phone rang and Sasha answered it. “Prescott’s,” she began, “how may I help you?”
I was pushing through the door to the warehouse, intending to see how Eric was faring with the tag sale, when Sasha gestured for me to come back.
“It’s Max,” she said, her voice hushed.
I nodded and took the call at Gretchen’s desk. “Max,” I said.
“I understand you saw Detective Rowcliff this morning.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Sorry to break it to you, but we have an appointment with him at two thirty.”
“Two thirty?” I questioned. “I thought he wanted two.”
“He asked for two. I held out for two thirty.”
“How come?”
“ ’Cause he seems to think we’re at his beck and call, and I decided it was time to show a little independence.”
I laughed and brushed hair out of my eyes. “I knew it was only a matter of time before he got to you.”
“Yeah. Well, I made my point.”
“What’s his problem?” I asked.
“Persistent jerkitis, as far as I can tell.” He chuckled a little, and added, “Don’t get me wrong—Rowcliff has a reputation as a top detective, diligent and creative, but no one ever said he was personable.”
I laughed again and felt a slight lightening of the melancholy weighing me down, but I didn’t comment.
“Do you know what he wants to discuss?” Max asked.
“No clue.”
“Well, we’ll know soon enough.”
As I hung up, I turned to Fred. “Mrs. McCarthy—four thirty.”
The phone rang again, and Sasha said that I had a call from Wes on line one.
“Josie,” Wes said, without even a hello, “I have news. We have to get together right away.”
My heart skipped a beat. “That will be difficult,” I said.
“If you can’t get away, let’s meet at your place, same as before. I’m right around the corner and can be there in two minutes.”
“Okay,” I said after a moment’s consideration.
“Two minutes,” he repeated, and hung up.
As I walked toward the tag-sale area, Sasha’s voice came over the PA system. “Eric, Gretchen on line one,” her voice crackled.
Odd, I thought, that Gretchen would be calling Eric on her day off.
I opened the door that led into the tag-sale room and spotted Valerie, a long-term part-timer, putting the final touches on a sewing display. Quilts hung on black bars, and thimbles and pincushions were encased in a glass-topped cabinet. We chatted for a moment. Eric hung up the phone, saw me, and hurried over, looking worried.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, walking to join him.
“Yeah, why?”
“You look concerned,” I said.
“I thought maybe I did something wrong,” he replied.
“Why?”
“You don’t usually come in to check on me this early in the setup.”
Wow
, I thought,
am I that intimidating?
“Nah,” I told him, and play-punched his arm, “you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m heading outside to see about something is all.”
I smiled and continued down the center aisle. I noticed that Valerie was now sorting art prints by subject matter.
The rain had tapered off to a thick mist, not quite a drizzle, yet more than fog. It felt good on my skin, rich with moisture. Still, it was cold. Wes was waiting outside the locked gate, and with a glance over my shoulder to ensure that no one had followed me, I unlocked it and let him in.
“There are people working just inside, so we ought to be quick,” I explained, leading him to a corner, out of the direct line of sight.
“Sure, sure,” Wes agreed. “Listen, here’s the thing. It’s about Eddie.” Wes exuded excitement, and I knew the look—he was hot on the trail of something.
“What?” I asked.
“The police can’t reach him,” he said.
“That’s not news. The police think he’s in Arizona, and he told me he was going to Oklahoma. So . . . ?”
“So, he’s not returning phone calls.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“The police have decided that he’s officially off the radar.”
“Really?”
“Yup. Completely gonzo.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.
“Nope. It’s true.”
My head was spinning as I considered possible repercussions. “Why? Just because he’s not returning phone calls?” I shrugged. “Maybe he lost his phone.”
Wes shook his head. “It’s not that, or not only that.” He nearly vibrated, he was so animated.
“What else?” I asked eagerly, his enthusiasm contagious.
“The company he told the police he was going to work for—you know, that big hospitality company?”
“What about them?”
“They say they’ve never heard of him,” he stated dramatically.
It took several seconds before Wes’s words registered. “How can that be?”
“Bingo. That’s the question. Sounds like he’s on the lam,” he said, excited.
“Wow,” I said, “I just can’t believe it.”
“Kind of amazing, huh?”
“Now what?” I asked, nodding.
“Now the police get serious about locating him. They’ve applied for search warrants—they’re going to try to track him down by his cell phone info, his bank accounts, his change-of-address forms, and so on. If he’s filed any change forms at all,” he said doubtfully. “But I figure it’ll be a washout even if Eddie’s on the up-and-up, ’cause if he’s relocating, he probably doesn’t even have a new address yet.”
I nodded. “Good point, Wes. That sounds right.” I thought of my conversation with Max.
The police are limited in what they can do, but I’m not
.
Wes started to speak and I held up a hand to stop him. “Wait,” I said, thinking, passing my idea through a sieve of potential obstacles.
“What is it?”
I shook my head and turned away. I could see no objection and no difficulty. “It’s possible,” I said aloud.
“What?” Wes asked eagerly.
I smiled like a cat who swallowed a canary. “I’ve got an idea.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
F
ifteen minutes later, I implemented my plan—calling Eddie from my office phone so his phone would display a number he’d recognize.
I escorted Wes in through the rarely used side door, peeked into the warehouse and saw no one, and, with my heart pounding, led Wes across the concrete span and up the spiral staircase to my office. We made it unseen.
As I got settled at my desk, Wes stood in the middle of the room, examining my office with interest.
“You like chickens, huh?” he asked, pointing to a bamboo and glass cabinet filled with a collection of metal, wood, and porcelain roosters.
“They’re roosters,” I responded, “not chickens.”
“Oh, yeah?” he said indifferently, then turned toward me. “You ready?”
“Piece of cake,” I assured him, and picked up the phone.
I dialed Eddie’s cell phone number and, as expected, got his voice mail. “Hi, Eddie, it’s Josie. How ya doing? Listen, you know how we always pay you right away upon receipt of the invoice, right? Well, looks like we were too quick off the mark this time. My accountant tells me we shorted you for five people at the Gala, and since I got the full amount from the Guild, we need to be sure you get your share. Call and tell me where to send the money, okay? Talk to you soon!” I said, and gave my phone number.
I hung up, turned to Wes, and said, “And now we wait.”
“How long do you think it’ll be before he calls back?”
Even before I could respond, Sasha called on the intercom to tell me that Eddie was on the line. I blew on my nails and rubbed them on my lapel, bragging.
“I bow before you,” Wes said, and did so. “As a con woman, you’ve got potential.”
“You know, I’ve often thought the same thing about myself. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”
“You all set?” Wes asked, smiling a little at my comment.
I was jump-out-of-my-skin excited, focused, and ready. “You bet,” I said with confidence. I punched the line-one button and activated the speakerphone function. “Eddie?”
“Sorry I missed the call, Josie, I was just walking out of the john. So how’s it going?”
“Pretty good, Eddie. Pretty good. Well, truth be told, you know how it is—things are actually kind of crazy around here, what with the murder and all.”
“Sure, sure. Any news?” Eddie asked, his tone solemn.
“Nope. Nothing yet.”
He sighed but didn’t respond. I heard the muffled blare of a truck’s air horn in the distance.
“How about you?” I asked. “Are you with the cowboys yet?”
He chuckled. “You’re kidding me, right? According to the sign on the highway, I’m only in Springfield, Missouri. This is one big country we’ve got here, you know?”
“Well, all things considered, you sound pretty good, Eddie.”
“Thanks, Josie.”
“So, Eddie, for when we figure this thing out and I need to send you something, do you have a forwarding address?”
“Not yet. I’ve got the post office holding my mail until I get a place.”
“Tell me again where you’re going.”
“Briar Ridge.”
“That’s in Tulsa, right?”
“You got it.”
“So do you want to call me when you’re settled in?”
“Sure, I could do that. Or you could send the check directly to my bank in New Hampshire,” Eddie said.
“No, we can’t make deposits. Why don’t I just send it to you care of your job? That’ll work, right?”
“Yeah, I guess. That would be fine.”
“Briar Ridge,” I repeated. “You got the street address?”
“Sure, just a second.” I heard rustling papers; then Eddie said, “You ready?”
“Yup.”
“Briar Ridge Inn, 5862 Dalworth Street.”
“Tulsa, right?”
“You got it.”
“What’s the zip code?” I asked.
“It’s 85353.”
“Perfect! Let me talk to my accountant tomorrow and I’ll call you. Okay?”
“Sure,” Eddie said. He lowered his voice to a radio-persona pitch and added, “This is your friend Eddie, heading west and signing off. Good night and good luck.”
Without speaking, I brought up a browser and entered the zip code into the search window. When Tolleson, Arizona, came up, my mouth opened but no words came. I looked up at Wes, his eyes fiery-alive.
“Well?” he asked.
“He’s going to Tolleson, Arizona. I guess it was my mistake to hear it as Tulsa and fill in Oklahoma.”
Wes spread his hands and shook his head. “What do you think it means, Josie?”
“I don’t know.”
He paused. “Now what?” he asked.
“We look at him—but we look at other people, too,” I said as I stood up and started for the stairs.
Wes paused at the outside door and said, “Like Britt, right? As a suspect, I mean.”
I thought about his question. A droplet of water dripped on me from the gutter above the doorway. I stepped back inside, shaking my head, shivering in the afternoon chill. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained thick with dense clouds.
“I thought Britt was out of it. You told me that there was no indication that he transferred the money to Maisy, right?”
Wes nodded, deep in thought. “Right.”
He marched toward the parking lot. He looked less rotund from the rear, and less young. After a few steps, he turned to face me. “We’re back to knowing nothing, you know?” he said.
I nodded but didn’t speak. I couldn’t think of what to say.
“Let’s talk soon,” he said, and stomped away.
I called Max as soon as I got back to the office and filled him in about Eddie.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Max said.
“Yeah,” I agreed.
When he arrived later, about a minute ahead of Rowcliff, I asked him if he had any new thoughts.
“No,” he said, “but we’re close to answers. I can smell it.”
I smiled at his unwarranted optimism.
“I’ll tell the detective about Eddie’s call,” he said.
“Okay.”
When Rowcliff arrived and we were settled upstairs, Max turned to the detective and said, “Josie spoke to Eddie a little while ago.”
Rowcliff tapped his foot for a moment and glanced at me. “Oh?” he asked, turning the word into an accusation.
“He called about a money issue,” Max explained.
“What did he say?” Rowcliff asked me.
Max nodded, indicating I could respond.
I took a deep breath. “Not much. Except that he’s still on the road. He said he was just passing Springfield, Missouri. And I was wrong—he
is
going to Arizona, not Oklahoma. I heard Tulsa, when what he was saying was ‘Tolleson.’ ”
Rowcliff nodded and paused. “He just called for no reason?” he asked.
“I’d left him a voice mail and he called me back.”
“Why did you call him?”
“I might owe him some money,” I fibbed, “so I needed his new address.”
Rowcliff’s eyes narrowed and I sensed heightened interest as he leaned forward. “Did you get it?”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t have one yet. But I got his business address.” I handed over the paper on which I’d written the Briar Ridge Inn’s address. “He said I could send a check to him there.”
Rowcliff transferred the information into his notebook and handed the paper back to me.
“When was this?”
“About an hour ago.”
He excused himself to make a call. I heard him give Eddie’s address to whoever answered on the other end. “Call them now and find out when he’s supposed to start work,” he instructed.
While he spoke, I turned and looked outside. The sky was brighter and it looked as if the mist was lifting.
Rowcliff slapped his phone closed and slid it into his jacket pocket. “What else?” he barked.
“Nothing,” I responded, hiding my irritation at Rowcliff’s confrontational attitude. “I’m glad to have helped.”
His face reddened, and I got the impression that thanking me wasn’t high on his “to do” list.
“Detective?” Max piped up, apparently trying to head off sparks.
“Yeah? What?”
“You asked to meet with us. Why?”
Rowcliff shifted position and his leg began to jiggle. “There are two things I want to discuss with you,” he said to me. “I’d appreciate your assistance,” he added, as if he’d rather jump off a cliff than ask.
“If I can, I will,” I said.
“First thing I need is a list of who was at the Gala.”
“I don’t understand. You got the list right after the murder.”
“No, what I got was a seating chart. What I need is to know who was actually there—you know, maybe someone brought a friend because his wife got sick, or maybe someone forgot to RSVP and just showed up. That sort of thing. I need to know exactly who was there and who wasn’t.”
I nodded. “I don’t know everyone. Actually, I don’t know most of the people, so I can’t help. To tell you the truth, I don’t think that anyone tracked it that closely.”
Rowcliff nodded. “Who might have noticed?” he asked.
“Britt Epps.”
“Who else?”
I thought for a minute. “I’m not sure. Probably, there were lots of people there who could help you—people who were more involved with the Guild, or who’ve lived in Portsmouth longer than I have. But I don’t know them.”
He sighed deeply, signaling disappointment. “Turn my question around. Was there anyone you expected to see at the Gala who
wasn’t
there?”
I didn’t know what he was driving at. “No,” I said. “Why?”
“Just looking for anything out of whack. Okay, then. Next subject: We found what we think is the source of the fake tureen.”
“That’s great!” I exclaimed.
Max shot me a
be quiet
look.
“It’s only great news if we can ID the buyer,” Rowcliff said sharply. “There was one sold locally—at Weston’s here in town—on Friday, for cash. None was sold at any of the other stores and shops located within the hundred-mile range we set within the last week.”
“Who bought it?” Max asked.
“A man, and since it was bought for cash, there’s no record of his name. But the store’s register tracks the time of every purchase, so we know that the sale occurred between noon and one.”
“Lunchtime,” Max said.
“Right.”
“Do you have a description?” Max asked.
“Yeah. He’s tall, young, kind of gangly, with sandy-blond or even lighter-colored hair. And he’s soft-spoken.” Rowcliff turned to me. “Does that ring a bell?”
Eric?
I thought, shocked.
No,
I protested to myself. Pushing aside my instinctive objection, I reminded myself to consider the possibility objectively. Was it conceivable that Eric could and would do such a thing? Self-deprecating Eric? It was hard to imagine that he’d have the wherewithal to pull it off. But still, the description fit.
“How young is ‘young’?” I asked, hoping Rowcliff would state an age older than twenty.
“Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty-five. But that’s not a sure thing. Could be younger. Could be older.”
“How come the description is so vague?” Max asked.
Rowcliff stopped tapping and shook his head, looking disgusted. “The clerk is nearsighted and her glasses are out of date. We’re lucky to have what we got. All I can tell you for sure is that he was a tall, thin, young Caucasian male with light-colored hair.”
I was having trouble breathing. The description exactly matched Eric. But
why
would he do such a thing? What possible motive could he have?
“From the description,” Max said, “it doesn’t sound like either Britt or Eddie.”
“Right. We showed the clerk their pictures. Not even close.”
I felt sick and turned to look out the window. Fog was thickening, obscuring the view. The storm wasn’t over.
“Josie?” Max asked gently. “Does the description ring a bell?”
I stayed still, trying to think what to say.
“What?” Rowcliff urged when I didn’t immediately respond.
“Eric,” I whispered. “But it’s absurd,” I said, meeting Rowcliff’s eyes. “I know him. He’d
never
do such a thing.”
Right,
Rowcliff’s face conveyed,
and the check is in the mail and I’ll love you in the morning.
My eyes smarted at unexpected tears.
“Where was he last Friday, at lunchtime?” Rowcliff asked.
I breathed deeply until I felt able to answer. With Max and Rowcliff staring at me, I called up our on-line schedule. “Friday, he was here all day—setting up the tag sale.”
“When did he take lunch?”
“I don’t know. I don’t track it that closely.”
“Got a photograph of him?” Rowcliff demanded.
Without commenting, I reached into my bottom desk drawer and sorted through miscellaneous photos. I found one from about four months ago, taken by a waiter. I’d treated my staff to a night out, and you could tell by our unposed smiles that we were having a good time. I handed it over. “That’s him. On the left.”
Rowcliff took it, and after a quick glance, he slipped it in his pocket. He stood up. “I’ll be in touch.”