by Kira Reese
CANDACE McCAULEY MYSTERIES
Books 1 to 5
by Kira Reese
Copyright © 2015
All Rights Reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to events, businesses, companies, institutions, and real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
The MYSTERIOUS RARE URN
THE MISSING TYCOON
COMMON THREADS
SECRETS IN THE TREE GROVE
DEAD BODIES IN THE MORTUARY
The MYSTERIOUS RARE URN
Chapter 1
Discovered Bargain
It’s not every day that you get the surprise of a lifetime like I did. It was early fall, and leaves were just beginning to change from summer green to spectacular oranges and reds. It was the perfect day to go antiquing. Sifting through tables of garage sale stuff was something that put me next to heaven on earth. Nothing measured up to nabbing a find worth a lot of money for just a few dollars. Okay, that hadn’t really happened to me, but I am an optimistic person.
The neighborhood boasted of middle-class to upper-middle-class clientele. I noticed there was a distinct difference between bargain prices and high-end ones on certain objects.
My expertise in sorting through the variety was honed in my career as a private eye. I can say to close friends that I am still in the amateurish stage. To my clients, I come across as knowing exactly what I’m doing. My knack for detail played a huge part in that. My shingle reads Candace McCauley, Private Investigator. The sign appears as professional as I hope to be.
“Oh, Molly,” I heard a lady say, “isn’t that quilt just beautiful?”
I glanced at her prize. Unless the cloth looked priceless, I shunned anything made of material. Meticulous that way, I feared carrying something like bed bugs home with me, buried deep inside the fabric.
I looked over a sparse amount of items. Either shoppers beat me here, or this household didn’t have much to get rid of. There were only three tables set up. None of the usual larger objects seen at other garage sales were set out on the driveway surface. What I’m saying is that this was a frugal-looking garage sale if I had ever seen one.
I passed Molly and her friend by and swung my head from side to side. I was on a mission of some sort. It was then I spotted it. The vase with the ring of black figures around it drew me. Bold reds and yellows intricately painted their clothing and weapons. I knew immediately it had to be mine. It looked antique. I knew it would perfectly match the soft yellow wallpaper with faint red lines in our small foyer. The empty space on the shiny rectangular table Nick gave me for my birthday stuck out like a beacon in the night.
“What are you going to put on the table?” he asked me several weeks after he gave it to me. “The shopkeeper told me it was an antique. I knew you liked antiques.” His hopeful eyes tore me apart.
I didn’t want him to think I didn’t like or appreciate his gift. I more than loved it. I told him it would take time to find the perfect object for it. And today was my day. I eyed the vase that I now noted resembled an urn. I knew the terms were interchangeable, but this reminded me of pictures I had seen of Greek urns.
“This has to cost a pretty penny,” I muttered to myself.
As if from the mist, a woman stepped forward from the side of the house. My eyes locked onto her flawless ivory skin. The slender frame measured approximately five feet seven or eight inches. I compared her to my height that nearly matched hers. She looked a little younger than my twenty-eight years, but she could have been older. It was hard to tell since I figured she took very good care of herself.
Perfectly manicured nails touched the object of my desire. “I see you are interested in this urn,” she said. I had yet to see the price tag. “It is something I’ve had in my basement storage room for a while. I can give you a good price.”
The lightly tanned body contrasted beautifully with creamy undertones beneath ivory. She seemed to sway delicately as hands swept over the object without actually touching it. I wondered how such a piece had managed to evade shoppers before me. I asked her how much.
“Ten dollars and it’s yours,” she said. I thought she pushed it a little toward me, but I couldn’t be sure of that. I was too busy wondering if I had heard correctly. I had an eye for antiques. She didn’t have a clue, which suited me fine.
“Sold,” I said. She wrapped it carefully in several sheets of packing paper. She left the top secured to the urn and slipped my prize into a Saks bag. I handed her the ten-dollar bill. I hoped I made it to my car before she remembered she had priced it way below its worth. Any moment she would call me back. “Too late,” I imagined my response to be. “You have my money. I have my prize.”
Sitting behind the steering wheel, I glanced back to see how close the seller was to me. She had vanished as easily as she had appeared. Another woman, dressed in a maid’s uniform, began clearing the card table that held a few books, a set of Christmas placemats and two bookends. She placed them in an empty box. I was astounded they were closing the sale so early. It was only eight thirty in the morning. They could have lasted another two hours or so. I thanked my lucky stars I got there when I did.
Next, a man in work clothes started packing up the second table. A customer moved back quickly as he gathered items for another box. He spoke to her and she left the yard. The other nine or ten potential customers followed.
“This isn’t someone who needs money from a garage sale,” I said aloud. I wondered why she bothered setting it all up to begin with. I decided to leave the mystery of it all behind me. I couldn’t wait to get home and show my find to Nick. I was sure I had an authentic piece of Greek pottery. My uncle collected rare pieces of art. He once told me a specific form of composition caused the real thing to last for thousands of years. Dare I hope this was the real thing? By the time I got home, my breath came rapidly.
“Nick,” I called. “Wait until you see what I found for our foyer table.”
“I’m surprised you’re back so early. Did you spend all your money so soon?”
Nick Adams was the envy of all men while my female friends envied me. His tall athletic body was irresistible. I looked at him now. Sunrays that came through the oval-shaped glass in the front door landed on his reddish blond hair. My heart leapt at the sight of him. I never doubted his good looks easily swayed female buyers to purchase any house he showed them.
I ignored his joke about spending all my money; which he would soon know I hadn’t.
“Come on in here and see for yourself. I’m sure it’s a real antique.”
Eager as a child on Christmas morning, I pulled the wrapped vase from the sack. Once I unwound the paper from it, I set it on the glossy table. “It’s perfect, don’t you think?” I asked Nick.
“I do think so. You found the perfect thing for this table, Candy.” He leaned toward me and kissed me. Then he spun the urn around slowly to look it over.
“I’m going to get it appraised first thing Monday morning,” I said. “I know it’s worth more than ten dollars.”
The look on his face pleased me. “That’s a bargain for sure,” he said.
I looked closely at the facial expressions on the repeating Greek gods that circled the ur
n. Even the reds and yellows of their clothing were impeccable. Each figure held a weapon, also detailed to the finest art form. I had no idea who the Greek gods were, but counted on the appraiser to tell me that.
“I’m guessing you mean Albert Stevens downtown on Fifth Street?” asked Nick.
I nodded. “He’s the best and the most reliable. He specializes in Greek art, you know.”
“Have you looked inside to see if it holds more treasure?” Nick was one who would think of something like that. I was still transfixed with the outward appearance. When I said I hadn’t checked inside, he started to lift the top off. “It’s a little stuck,” he said. “I don’t want to break it.”
“Maybe I should wait until Albert sees it. He’ll know how to get the top off.”
Nick agreed with me. “I would be in a lot of trouble if I broke it, wouldn’t I?”
“You know it,” I said.
We admired the urn a little longer until Nick asked me if I wanted to help him set up a house for a showing he scheduled for Sunday. I grabbed my sweater.
The one case of stolen jewelry I worked on at my office could wait. And there was nothing to do about the urn until Monday. With great pleasure, I glanced at it again in the light of the sun.
Unknown to me, my prized possession held more than Greek history.
Chapter 2
The Appraiser
We awoke to splattering raindrops pummeling the roof Monday morning. Nick rolled over and groaned. Suddenly, I bolted up. I remembered the urn in the foyer.
“Let’s get going, Nick,” I said.
“Why are you wide awake?” He was well aware that mornings weren’t my favorite time of the day.
“I have to get the urn down to Albert’s. I’ll get the coffee on.”
“Okay,” he mumbled. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”
I had sipped my first cup of coffee by the time Nick came into the kitchen. I poured a cup for him and headed to the shower. It would be a quick one. I had a full day ahead. By the time I was dressed, Nick had the urn on the kitchen table. He retrieved the packing I brought it home in.
“I’m going to let you do the wrapping. I think you’d better put it inside several plastic bags, too, with this weather,” he said.
Kissing the love of my life good-bye, I planned to stop at my office first. The rain was relentless. Winds picked up. Once crisp brown leaves scattered across the backyard and the water soaked them. I made sure the urn was secure and placed it on the floorboard of the passenger side of my car.
Natalie had parked her car in the back, and we arrived at the same time at my office. I hired her part-time to take care of phone calls and to set up meetings between me and clients. Some days, she spent her time reading a book or doing her nails. Romance was her favorite genre, and she could get into it so deeply that she easily became one of the characters. Or so she told me.
It wasn’t unusual that I saw tears either held at bay or streaming down her face, especially when the heroine didn’t get the man Natalie thought best for her. I dreaded those times. Natalie expected me to be sucked into the saga along with her. I thought about putting her on an on-call basis, but there were times I had to be someplace unplanned. So her hours worked for me for the time being.
“Natalie, I have to go downtown right away. If anyone calls for an appointment, tell them I’ll be back around ten thirty or so.”
Her makeup was light and she took pride in her appearance. Dark, short hair showed she had a good beautician when it came to haircuts. Her eyes matched her black hair. They were luminous against an olive skin tone. When a client walked through the door, they were met with a good first impression.
“With the way it’s raining, do you think we’ll have anyone coming in with a crime to be solved?” she asked.
I bit my tongue and held back words I wanted to say. Like, crime happens in all kinds of weather, or, can you be a little more encouraging, Natalie? But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I chose to smile at her. “I hope weather doesn’t hold anyone back,” I said.
When I went out the back door, the rain let up a little. Clouds hovered overhead and threatened to break open at any time. I made it to my car relatively dry.
Thinking about the appraisal of my coveted prize, my heart nearly met my throat. I was sure I had a piece of value. “I’ll have to think about insurance on it, too,” I said aloud. I made a mental note to ask Albert if he thought it should be included in our home insurance or separately. I had high hopes of its worth. Thoughts that it was an ordinary urn didn’t enter my head.
Most of the morning traffic had thinned by the time I got to Fifth Street. I spotted the sign on Albert’s shop had a sign that said Fifth Street Appraisers, and in smaller letters it read Specializing in Genuine Antiques. Parking was diagonal. That was a good signal for me that things were going my way. My expertise at parallel parking was in the realm of nil.
The soft tinkle of the bell brought a short wizened man from the back of the shop. He wiped small hands on a rag. Whatever cleaning substance he used reached my nostrils. Just as quickly, it evaporated into the air. In spite of the dreary weather, the shop’s lamps glowed in a way that invited the customer to hang around a while.
His smile widened when he recognized me. “Is it you, Candace?” he asked. “What do you have this time?”
His memory was remarkable. I hadn’t been in the shop for several months. At the time, I brought in a tray I found at a flea market in the Italian district. It was hand-painted, and he determined it was handcrafted about forty years ago. At the time, he told me it held some value. It didn’t meet my grandiose expectations, but I was happy with his appraisal and its outcome.
“I bought something Saturday at a garage sale. I’d like for you to look it over and see what you think about it.”
When I finally reached the urn beneath all the wrappings, he stood back and looked at it. I waited while he shifted the piece from one light to another. He then took it behind a counter in the corner. Neither of us had spoken a word. I stopped my actions when I realized my fingers drummed the edge of the table where I had presented my treasure to Albert. Endless minutes that seemed like hours throbbed like the blood rushing through me.
Finally, he spoke. “Hmmm, uh huh, hmmm.” His voice was low-pitched. “You have something here,” he said. “Come back here and I’ll show you.”
I had to work at keeping my legs in place, but I made it to his worn counter. Sitting behind it made him look even more like a dwarf from the story of Snow White. The light from the lamp emphasized the wrinkles on his face.
Albert looked up at me as he shut off his special lamp. “You have something here, Candace,” he said. The sparkle in his eyes gave life to his face. “You have a black-figure pottery piece. This was made in Greece thousands of years ago.” I gripped the edge of the pockmarked counter and didn’t notice a splinter dug into the palm of my hand. “Yes, this is quite a find for you. The last time I saw one of these was in the Metropolitan Museum of Art right here in New York. I spent several days in and out. There was a showing of ancient Greek art going on.”
I stood stock-still. “What about the gods? Do you know which ones they are?” For the first time, I felt the splinter. It was the only pain I felt right.
“That is a repetition of Achilles.”
I remembered the stopper that sealed the urn. “Do you know how to get the lid off this urn? I didn’t want to damage it.”
“If you can leave it with me overnight, I’ll get it off for you and by tomorrow will be able to give you a little more information.”
I knew I could trust Albert. He was well-known. Besides, I left the tray with him for several days and got it back just fine. I agreed to leave it with him. He handed me papers to sign, acknowledging he had my rare urn. He called his wife, Aya, from the back room. We signed and she notarized the papers. Albert gave me my copy.
“I can give you a value tomorrow, too. I’m sure that is a big question in
your mind,” said Albert. The smile hadn’t left his face. “You had a very lucky day garage-shopping.”
Between the time I left Albert’s shop and the time I got back to my office, I had no idea of my surroundings. I barely recalled stopping when I saw the lights turn red and moving on when they changed to green.
“It’s such a dreary day,” said Natalie when I walked in.
My look of surprise caused her to eye me suspiciously. For me, today was anything other than dreary. “Did anyone call?” I managed to ask.
“Just the Robertsons about their stolen jewelry. I told them you would call them back.”
I would make stolen jewelry my mission for the rest of the day. I was glad I had a case that took some searching; maybe then I could get my mind off the urn. Right, I thought. I turned on my computer and looked at the police report again. No one was home at the time of the robbery. The Robertsons had attended a real shindig the night before it happened. Mrs. Robertson had failed to put her diamond necklace and earrings back into the wall safe that was embedded in the wall of their bedroom. It was discreetly made to look like the rest of the wall. A large decorated wreath hung in front of it. Her diamonds were left on the bureau on the opposite side of the room.
“We’re hoping you can make faster progress than the police,” Mr. Robertson had told me. Success was my goal.
While I worked away on my next move on solving the case, flashes of the Greek urn raced across my mind. Natalie left at one thirty. My phone rang as soon as she drove away.
“Hi, Candy,” said Nick. “What did Albert have to say about the urn? I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”
“I’m sorry, Nick, I wanted to wait until Natalie left before I called you.” I told him what Albert had told me about it. “I think it is a find like no other. He is keeping it until tomorrow when he has more information.”
“Was anything in it?”
“He wanted to use care when opening it. He told me it stuck for him, too. He has something he will use to pry it open. So, I don’t know if there is more treasure inside it or not.”