by Kira Reese
That evening, as I peeled carrots and chopped them up, my mind swirled with the events of my bizarre day. Absentmindedly, I chopped the rest of the raw vegetables and dumped them into the large salad bowl.
“You look like you are a million miles away,” said Nick. He leaned down to lift my chin in his strong hands. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He kissed me lightly on my lips.
“I was lost in thoughts and didn’t even hear you come in.”
He washed his hands at the sink and pulled the two thick pork chops from the refrigerator. “Do you want them grilled tonight?”
I laughed out loud. “As if there is more than one answer to that,” I said.
Once the chops sizzled along, we sat on the patio and savored a glass of white wine. The evening was quiet and only distant noises of children’s voices were heard.
“I want to know how it all went at the mysterious urn house,” said Nick. “Did the woman try to lure you to her basement of torture?”
I told Nick every detail of my visit to the vacant McNamara home.
“What do you make of it all?” he asked me.
“It tells me there is more to my purchase than meets the eye. It also explains why the garage sale suddenly closed down once the urn was sold. It was only eight thirty in the morning when they closed it down.”
Nick set his wine glass on the wrought-iron table and went to his grill. He deftly flipped the pork chops over and closed the lid again. I could tell he was mulling things over in his head. It was one of those times I didn’t want to barge in on his thoughts. I waited for his solution to my problem.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Candy,” he said. My shoulders slumped. “One thing I do know is that we have to do something about finding out what this is all about.”
I liked his use of the word we. “We can’t dump the ashes,” I said. “That would be disrespectful, don’t you think?” We both knew the only answer. “I will call Ben the first thing in the morning. I am sure he will ask me to bring the urn to the precinct. I think from the actions of the McNamara family, it could mean there was foul play of some sort involved.”
Detective Ben Jones was someone I had known as a former neighbor on the street where I grew up. My dad hired him to mow our lawn. He was six years older than me, but that didn’t stop me from falling in love with him when I was nine. Then several years later I heard he left town to attend a police academy. When he came back to our hometown, he had a wife. I didn’t mind by then. High school took over my own life, as did college.
Now, as an adult, I called on him sometimes for his input on a particular case that had me stumped. In this case, I hoped he would help me track down the person whose cremated remains were in my Greek urn.
Nick and I ended the evening talking about his work. He was up for an award for his success in selling real estate. “Our office is top in sales of all the companies around here. You know, Candy, I really like selling property. I think of you when I walk into some of those houses, and then I imagine how creative you could get with your antique findings.”
His fingers spread through my hair. His special smile reserved just for me caused my breath to come in short puffs. The warmth that shot through me was like a sudden fire whipping across a dry prairie. That was all it took to know our day would end satisfactorily. Neither of us paid attention to Achilles watching us as we passed by the urn.
The next morning, I groaned when my alarm went off. I reached for Nick. The covers were still warm and I heard the shower going. Once we both finished a couple of cups of coffee, we went our separate ways for the day. Natalie would be in early to open the office, and I headed to the precinct downtown.
Detective Ben Jones was notified I was waiting to see him. He stuck his head out of his office door and grinned. I noticed in the sunlight streaming from the hallway window that his shocking red hair sported a shimmer of light grey streaks in spots. His frame was muscular, and he stood a few inches over me. A few faint freckles spread across his nose.
“Come on in, Candy,” he said. “What’s on your mind this morning?”
I told him of the Greek urn and how I had come to own it. “I know it is valuable according to Albert Stevens, the appraiser. But there is a mystery surrounding the vase itself.”
His eyes looked directly at me. I proceeded to tell him of the contents of the container.
“I think you should go back to the owner and let her know what you found. It could be a case of her forgetting that fact if it was stored in her basement. Maybe she doesn’t know ashes are there to begin with.”
“I am ahead of you on that one, Ben. I did go back to the house where I bought it. The lady, whose name I found out is McNamara, moved out in the middle of the night. According to a neighbor, no one knows where she went.”
Ben gave a low whistle. “I will see what I can do to find her. Give me the address, and I’ll get back to you in a few days.”
“In the meantime Nick and I have the ashes of an unknown person living with us. What about the cremains? That is my main concern right now. I want to know who is in my Greek urn.”
He sat in silence for a few seconds then propped his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face. “For now, they aren’t going any place. We won’t know who they belong to until we find this McNamara lady. I will do all I can to help, but I have to tell you that I have a pile of cases of my own to work on. I know this isn’t helping you any.”
“I came to you mainly for someone to talk to about it. It is my case for sure,” I said. “I plan to concentrate on the source of the ashes. If you find out who this McNamara woman is before I do, let me know.” I hesitated. “Are you sure we should keep the ashes at our house?”
“It is all right for now. They will have to be turned in, of course, but let’s try to track down the lady you bought the pottery from and go from there.”
After leaving Ben, I did feel better that the police were aware of the macabre situation I found myself in. It was time for me to do what I professed to do. My next stop was the coroner’s office. It was in the courthouse and easy to find. The woman behind the counter was in her fifties, I suspected. Dyed blond hair did nothing for the fine lines around her eyes and her chin on the precipice of sagging. Her nametag read Christine. She looked up and smiled. I showed her my private eye badge, which caused a flash of suspicion that came and went across her face.
“I am searching for an unknown person whose remains were cremated in the last six months,” I said.
That was a starting point. Christine looked at me in astonishment. “Do you realize how many people in our files have been cremated in the last six months? Are you looking for a male or female?”
“I need either one; more specifically, anyone who may have been into archaeology.”
Christine asked to see my qualifications again. I added that I had just left Detective Ben Jones’ office and that he was aware of what my search was about. That clinched it for Christine when she said, “Oh, that Benny is a good boy. If he sent you, then let’s get started.”
It was the first I heard him called Benny, but I did not push my luck to find out how she knew him so well. Christine pecked away at her computer. She pushed her glasses to the edge of her nose and said, “In the last six months, no one is listed as an archaeologist. There is a female who is originally from Croatia and was into American history, a professor. All others seem to have originated in the United States or Canada, but no archaeologists.”
I asked her to go back a full year. Two originated from Mexico and one from Russia. No one on the list had been into archaeology. I knew investigation of crimes required a lot of patience. The approach I was taking was like hunting for a needle in a haystack. I had to have more information. I thanked her for her assistance and tucked Christine’s name into the back of my mind for future reference. I felt sure I would be back.
On my way to the office, I spoke aloud to myself, “I have cremains. I know where I got them from.” Then it struck me. I should be look
ing at the original source of the black-figure urn and not the contents. It was time to see Albert Stevens again.
“I have your folder right here,” said Albert. He naturally bent over his file cabinet even though the drawer he pulled out was higher than him. “Ah yes, let me spread the information and pictures out for you.” He brushed the top of the back counter with his hand and displayed the pictures he had taken of the urn. His work amazed me. The photographs were as good as having the Greek urn in front of us.
“Do you have any idea how I can locate the owner of this pottery?” I asked. “I know you told me the history of it, but I need to know who the last owner was. Can you do that, or if not, maybe you can point me to someone who specializes in locating original owners of artifacts?”
“I suggest you talk with Michael Green at the museum. He is the curator there. He tracks origins of pieces and then catalogs the information.” Albert looked at me. “Yes, that is your best bet. If he does not come up with your answer, he will know someone who will be able to do that for you.”
Chapter 6
Deepening Web
When I parked in the visitors’ area at the museum, I checked messages on my phone. I returned the call from Mason Steckler.
“Miss McCauley, I have a name of someone you can talk with about my missing daughter. She is Clarice’s close friend.” I wondered why I had not been given her name before but didn’t ask. “She has been in Europe with her family on vacation. She is home now.” Mason proceeded to give me her telephone number. “The strange part is that Andrea has not called our home to talk with Clarice. This is most unusual since they spend many hours together on the phone. When not on their cells, they are together. My wife and I both have tried to reach Andrea to let her know of Clarice’s disappearance, but she doesn’t answer our calls.”
“I’ll try to reach her today and call you before five this evening.” I jotted down Andrea Johnson’s phone number and saved it in my phone. The Museum of Historical Artifacts was next on my list.
The receptionist at the front desk directed me to Michael Green’s office. When I knocked on the partly open door, he called for me to come in. A man in his thirties stood and extended his hand to me across his desk. His handshake was strong. Blond hair that bordered on white brought out the blue of his eyes. He was tanned, as if he had spent the recent summer season on the beach. The mahogany wood of his desk shone as if just polished. Wall-to-wall shelves on three walls of his office held reference books for the most part. I pulled copies of the photos Albert gave me from my narrow attaché case.
“Albert Stevens suggested I talk with you regarding the owner of this Greek urn.”
The curator pulled a large magnifying glass from his top left drawer. He perused every detail of the black-figure artifact. “I commend Albert for his detail. He has every angle covered. This is a rare vessel, very rare. Where is this urn right now?”
Once again I related the story of the urn and how it came to be in my possession. I told him of my attempts to find the person who sold it to me. “If I can find the owner of the urn, I will hopefully find out whose cremains are in it.”
“The ashes certainly add a mystique to it all. This is a very valuable piece of art,” he said again. “I would like to see it with my own eyes. Can you bring it in?”
“I have no problem with that. Do you think you can trace the owner?”
His face turned what I deemed boyish. Crystal blue eyes lit up. “I certainly will try. It may take some doing but it shouldn’t be too hard to trace. It isn’t often something like this comes up in America.”
On the way to my office I felt I had more to go on than yesterday. Someone in a foreign country must have been the last owner. I had no idea how it came to be in his or her possession, and most importantly of all, how it made its way to the McNamara basement. Of course, maybe it hadn’t been stored in the basement at all, I thought.
“Natalie, I need you to make some calls for me,” I said to my assistant.
She reluctantly placed a bookmark in her book and gave me her full attention. I handed her Andrea Johnson’s phone number and told her to ask her to come in the next morning. “Then call Mr. Mason Steckler and tell him we will reach Andrea soon. Don’t tell him anything else except that I will let him know what we find out after tomorrow, if we learn anything about his missing daughter.”
I also had a list of questions for friends of the Robertsons who attended the gala. From the insurance description, the diamond necklace and earrings would have been hard to miss the night Ellen Robertson wore them.
“When you talk with the people about the Robertson case, don’t give them any details in regard to the theft. Just ask them where they were during the hours we spoke of.” I pointed to the date and time span in question. “Mrs. Robertson told me she slept in the morning after the party until almost noon. She was out for a while in the afternoon. When she returned home the pieces were still on her bureau. She intended to put them into the safe before bedtime that night. She failed to do that for whatever reason and missed them later. Right now I have her word only.”
Natalie could be discreet. Her voice encouraged people to tell her whatever she tried to get out of them. I liked her conversational tone when she spoke on the phone. She proved to be of help to me now that the Greek urn mystery persisted in crowding my mind day and night.
“I may need you to work a few more hours, Natalie. It could be temporary unless we get busier.”
Natalie was more than happy to get more hours. She threw a smile at me that said she was hungry to get into cases. “I want to get more involved,” she said. “I hope you can trust me enough.”
That she couldn’t be trusted had never entered my mind. My investigative work was something I supposed I was too possessive about. If Natalie proved herself in getting information about people who may know about missing diamonds and a missing teenager, she had the potential to be a valuable employee in the true sense of the word.
“I do trust you, Natalie. The business is relatively new, and I haven’t been able to pay you for more hours. Now it looks like we are picking up and I could use you more.”
I decided to set aside a few hours before the week ended to train her in questioning tactics, along with reemphasizing the importance of confidentiality. In the meantime, I went to my office and sat in front of the computer.
The next two hours were spent researching the ancient Greek urn in my possession. I discovered that black-figure pottery originated in Corinth c.700 BC. It was made until c.530 BC. I switched to a site that listed collectors of pottery pieces from this time. Since the artifacts were rare, there were only a handful of collectors listed. This didn’t tell me anything about private collectors not openly admitting to their pieces, I thought. I jotted down sources I found. Natalie knocked on my door.
“Andrea Johnson will be in tomorrow around three. She sounded scared.”
I looked at my assistant. Now was the time for more training. I closed the website and told her to sit down. For the next half hour I told her to take notes on first-time questions to use.
“I will let you interview Andrea. What questions do you think you should ask her? Remember, she is scared.”
By the time Natalie and I completed her strategy techniques, we were both ready to end the day.
My cell rang as I pulled from the parking lot. “I’m glad I caught you, Miss McCauley,” said Michael Green. “The piece you have may be a stolen piece of black-figure pottery from a private collector in France.”
I didn’t allow myself the luxury of asking him how he had found that out so fast. Mentally, I calculated my checkbook balance. I was already flying to France before I thought to ask Michael who the collector was and where in France he lived.
“We are still researching this information to make sure it is authentic. It may take a month or more to get to the bottom of it all. At this point, we are not reporting that your artifact may be stolen. A lot has to be done first. My assista
nt and I are the only ones who have any information at all. Of course, those you have told about the pottery.” He paused as if waiting for me to reveal the names of those with information of the Greek urn and its contents. Giving up, he continued. “You do understand we must first make sure it is the stolen vessel. Sometimes, people report such things and hope to get insurance money as a result. They do not realize there is quite a process to go through first.”
He asked me again to bring the pottery in for him to see it firsthand. Something told me to wait before I did that. I knew Michael Green to be the curator. He appeared as an honest man, but appearances can deceive, and I prided myself on using caution in every matter.
“That will have to wait. I am swamped with work at the office.” I had left copies of the photos with him, and he would have to be satisfied with that for now. Before I handed Achilles over to anyone, I wanted to discuss it with Nick.
Michael’s response was one of silence before he finally spoke. He attempted to sound agreeable, but his voice used a fake tone.
Nick called to tell me he was running a little late. “I’ll grab something for us to eat if you can wait,” he said. We agreed on takeout. The thoughts swarming my head were not ones to speak of on the phone, so I told him I would see him when he got home.
A little later, we sat at the kitchen table eating Chinese. I spilled everything I learned about the urn. “Michael Green may be your best bet,” he said.
“Do you know him personally?”
“No, but I heard he is quite good at his job. He has only been at the museum for a couple of years, but he’s impressed all the right people.”
“Where did he work before he was hired as curator?” I asked.
“I only know he was educated in Paris. Word is he had a falling out with his family and took off for France. I guess once he cooled down, he studied old things, and now he is back in America.” When I questioned Nick on his source of information, he told me he remembered someone in his office telling the story when Michael Green was hired. “He’s turned things around down there and is adding exhibits right and left.”