by Kira Reese
Okay, I told myself, I will wait another day before I voice vibes of doubt about the curator to Nick. I just wasn’t ready for that conversation, especially since I had no basis for my doubt. But the correlation between Michael Green’s place of study and the French collector seemed more than incidental stuff. I changed the subject and finished eating.
We settled on the sofa to watch a movie. Neither of us enjoyed watching comedies but classics were favorites. We chose Showboat. There was something about those river songs that got to me. I think Nick put up with it by pretending to share my enjoyment. More than once he got up to either refill my glass of iced tea or to grab another beer for himself. When I opted for no more liquids, he retrieved crackers and cheese from the refrigerator. My look told him to sit down and quit interrupting one of my favorite movies. He just laughed and reined in closer to me.
“We have an informal conference for independent realtors coming up next week,” he said. “Can you take the first three days off and go with me? It will be held at the Fox Hollow Inn in Long Island.” He smiled. “We could enjoy its amenities in-between meetings.”
I knew of the exquisite inn he spoke of. Nick and I had searched the Internet to find places for getaways. So far we had not gotten away, but it was our goal.
“I want our getaway to be free time from all business. Though it is very tempting to give it a try, I really can’t go with you. My business is finally picking up, and I have a couple of cases I need to spend more time on. This black-figure urn has consumed me, too.”
“You are right. We should hold Fox Hollow for a time with no distractions. I’ll tell you all about it and bring back information.”
We decided to spend the weekend before Nick left to concentrate on fall cleanup in our backyard. I wanted to give the patio bistro table and two chairs a new coat of paint. I found myself waiting to hear from Ben regarding the mysterious disappearance of the McNamaras. I planned to find Esther again and get the first name of the woman who sold me the pottery from the neighbor.
The weekend came, and I had not heard anything from Ben. I supposed the nameless McNamara woman had simply evaporated. Michael Green had not pushed again to see the urn. Nick and I spent most of Saturday cleaning up our backyard of leaves that had settled against the fence. I pulled a few weeds from the flowerbeds and swept the patio. He removed the cushions from the chairs and set them inside the back door. The hose did a good job of cleaning off the wrought-iron table and chairs. Once dried, Nick helped me give them a new paint job. We surveyed our efforts and decided the job was well done.
“Let’s shower and go out for a good dinner,” he said. I agreed.
“It has been a while since we did that,” I said. “I hope you plan to take me someplace very expensive.”
“Since you are paying, I am all for that.” Crystal blue eyes overflowed with humor.
“You brought it up. You pay,” I said.
When we were dressing, he told me to put on something nice. “This won’t be a casual dinner,” he said.
At the Eleventh Street Restaurant, the host bowed slightly and led us to a secluded table. When we were seated and offered the list of wines, I said, “You meant it when you said dress up. Did you come into a recent inheritance I don’t know about?”
“Don’t ask questions, Miss Private Eye. I have means, and that’s all I’m saying without a lawyer present.”
The dinner went well beyond my expectations and I told Nick that. We were offered dessert when something caught my eye. I glanced at the couple who followed the host to a table in the far corner. Michael Green, accompanied by a beautiful slender woman, took the menu from the host who then lit the candles on their table.
“Don’t look now,” I said, “but Michael Green just came in with a woman.”
“I won’t look yet. Is she pretty?” asked Nick.
I stared across the dimly lit room at the woman who was in my line of vision. Michael’s back was to me. I scrunched my eyes to get a better look. I couldn’t be sure, but the delicate features appeared to be the enigmatic apparition who sold me the infamous urn.
“Why are you staring like that?” asked Nick.
I jerked my attention back to him. “I’m not positive, but if there were bets on it I would win. That woman with Michael sure looks like the woman who sold me the pottery. The corner where they are sitting is shadowed.” Nick started to turn around. “No, don’t look. I don’t want to draw attention. So far neither of them has seen me.”
“Maybe you can get a better look when we walk out. Are they close enough?”
I explained to Nick where the two were sitting. “I’ll try but I definitely don’t want either of them to see me. I’ll walk on your right side until we get to the door.”
With our plan in place, we made it to the glassed entrance door. Hiding behind Nick, I peeked to get a better look. Disappointment flooded over me. They were even more shaded from this vantage point. If I had been alone, my next move would have been to sit in my car and wait for them to come out. It could mean another hour or more since they had just arrived.
“I can see the wheels turning in your head,” said Nick.
“I want to wait in the car for them to come out again. But I won’t do that to you. It could be another two hours,” I said. “I do know one thing for sure: Michael Green will have to be satisfied with the photos of the pottery. Until I know whether or not he is here with the seller of the urn, I don’t plan to give him access to it.”
Nick and I talked about Michael Green and his date. We concluded that there was no proof he was with the McNamara woman.
The day for Nick to leave for his conference came all too soon. I knew he was going to be away for just two nights, but to me it would seem like two weeks. We said our good-byes and each went our separate ways. I reminded him three times to call me when he got to Long Island.
“You can call before you get there, too,” I said.
He laughed and promised he would. For some inexplicable reason, I always became needy when he left for out-of-town meetings. It was the only time I realized that weakness in me. “It’s not weakness; it’s love,” I said aloud as I clicked the seatbelt on.
My thoughts went back to the dinner out when I saw Michael Green. I reminded myself that there are more tall beautiful blonde women in the world than one. Besides, Esther had told me a moving truck had come in the middle of the night and taken everything away. I saw for myself the empty house. The seller of the urn was long gone.
Chapter 7
Shadow in the Night
My day was spent interviewing acquaintances and friends of Ellen and Richard Robertson. Natalie managed to successfully gather information from others the day before. I stood and stretched. Then sat back down and researched more about the origins of the urn.
I found one collector listed from France. He specifically collected Greek pottery. His name was Pierre Sarkis, and he lived in Chartres. I moved down the page to another one who collected Greek artifacts but from a later time than the pottery I owned. Going back to Pierre Sarkis, I noted the photos shown definitely looked as if they were from the same century as mine. There was an excerpt about Pierre. He was a high-end collector who owned an antique store in Chartres called Gallery of Corinth, conveniently translated for me. His parents were from Greece, though he had been born in Paris. They were archaeologists, and their discoveries were listed in Pierre’s collection.
Just as I began to look for the contact information for Pierre’s store in France, Natalie interrupted me. “I’m leaving now,” she said, “unless you want me to do anything else.”
I glanced at the clock. In half an hour we would close the business for the night. I told her to go on home since the day was near the end.
“I could use you tomorrow for most of the day if you want the hours,” I said.
Her answer was enthusiastic. After she left, I made a list of tasks for her to do the next day. I planned to stay home most of the morning on my compu
ter. It was impossible to ignore the fact that the ashes of an unknown person had taken up residence in our home. If I did not find their source, I knew something had to be done with them soon.
Nick called me twice during the day. He promised to call again that evening. “I miss you already, Candy,” he said. “I’ll call to tell you good night.”
I arrived home to a darkened house except for a small lamp Nick left on in the corner of the living room. I wished we had thought to leave an outside light on the porch lit up. Fumbling to find the keyhole, I suddenly felt a presence nearby. I looked over my shoulder and saw no one. A dog barked from next door. On this autumn night, no neighbors were outside. Instead, they were probably in their backyards or inside eating dinner. I found the keyhole and quickly turned the key. The door eased open quicker than usual due to my speed. Whipping around, I hurriedly double-locked the front door only to turn to the black-figure vessel staring me in the face.
Edging into the living room, I turned off the lamp and stood to the side of the front window. The street was empty. Then my eyes caught a shadow near the streetlight in front of our next-door neighbor’s home. It was the figure of a man, but I couldn’t detect any of his features. He did not move from where he stood gazing in the direction of our house. The longer I looked at him, the more I decided he was approximately six feet tall. He had slightly stooped shoulders and wore a jacket that looked like one a motorcyclist wore. Other than that, I picked up nothing more about him.
“Why is he just standing there?” I asked myself aloud. Shivering, I pulled back from the window.
I walked the perimeter of the house and double-checked all the windows and the back door. We had a basement, but there were no windows downstairs. I turned the lock on the basement door to the kitchen anyway. Then I went back to the window and looked out again. He was still there. A short few minutes later, an SUV pulled up next to him and he got in. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was just someone waiting for a ride, I told myself. Never mind that he seemed to have been staring at my house.
“He was watching for his ride, not casing the house,” I said. I laughed at my paranoia.
I closed the blinds and flicked the lamp on again, as well as the larger one at the end of the couch. Then I did the same in the kitchen. There was plenty of prepared food. Nick was the chef of the house, and he had left a pasta salad with grilled chicken, plus his trademark tortilla soup. I knew how to cook; I just did not enjoy it. For Nick, it was his favorite hobby. He was creative, and I had yet to taste something he made that did not reach to every sense inside me. I poured a glass of Chablis wine and sat down to eat alone.
Listless, I returned to the living room and flipped on the TV. I skimmed through channels and then flicked back quickly. CNN announced a large heist of ancient artifacts from a museum in Amsterdam. Some of the objects taken the night before were of Greek origin. I dismissed the news as coincidental to my problem at hand with Achilles. It was time to get involved deep into Gone with the Wind. It was a lengthy movie. I easily got caught up with Scarlett O’Hara and her spunk to recoup her losses in the aftermath of the Civil War. I liked to tell myself I related well with her. I could be relentless, too, when on a mission.
When at last Rhett left Scarlet, I turned the movie off along with the lamps. Once more I looked toward the lamplight on the street. Other than a couple who walked a dog, the street was empty.
My cell rang. Nick’s voice, warm and comforting, sounded upbeat. We chatted for almost an hour before hanging up. I did not mention the lone person I observed earlier. There was no reason to do so. I focused on the anticipated Internet search I planned to do the next morning. If Natalie had issues she could not handle, she would call me. Otherwise, I would be undisturbed.
I awoke with a start. The bedside clock read three o’clock. I wasn’t sure what awoke me, because the house was silent. Something brushed the window pane from the outside. My heart beat as fast as a horse running on the racetrack. I laughed soundlessly when I realized a tree branch scraped against the window. I nestled back under the covers and breathed deeply several times. There was no reasoning to my jumpiness. Everything that unnerved me since coming home from work was easily explained in a logical way. I had been in some tight spots, and scary ones at that when investigating cases, but everything tonight unnerved me.
Then I realized this was different. Fear invaded me in my own home. That was a whole different situation. I laid back on the pillow and ran my hand over the empty spot where Nick should have been, then repositioned on his side of the bed. Drifting off to sleep again, I did not wake up again until seven. I showered quickly and then put the coffee on. The sun was out, and the wind had relinquished itself. I carried my hot coffee in one hand and grasped a sweet roll in the other one. The nook where I kept my home computer was in front of a small bay window that faced the side yard. The wind had blown more leaves from the trees which were caught in the low-growing evergreens against the house. Nick and I would have to start over on yard work when he got home.
For now, I had research to do. I brought up the name Pierre Sarkis again. On a new site, I pulled his biography. In his work he partnered with a Juliette Barbin. She was a well-known professor of ancient history at the American University of Paris. There were no pictures of either of them, but I found the contact information for Pierre’s store, Gallery of Corinth. An e-mail address was listed as well as telephone number and street address. My inclination was always to cut to the chase, so I dialed the number that reached Chartres, France.
After a few rings, a woman picked up the receiver and answered in French. I tried my best to explain I did not know French. Apparently, I was not the first person to call who had no clue of the language. I was transferred to a man who spoke perfect English. His voice was cultured and I imagined him suited up and sitting in a suave office created for upper-class executives. The fact I sat there in sweats and an oversized sweatshirt did not faze me. I explained my black-figure pottery piece to him and asked if that was an urn that had ever been in the Gallery of Corinth.
“It would be hard for me to say for sure,” he said. “I would have to see it to confirm that.”
“I have clear and detailed photos I would be happy to e-mail to you. Are you Pierre Sarkis?”
At first I thought the pause was due to something happening with the communication across the ocean. When he spoke again, he said, “Pierre Sarkis is away for a few months. Send the photographs to the attention of Jacques Lafonte through this e-mail. I must close the call for now. We will get back with you very soon.”
I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. He hung up before I had a chance to say thank you and good-bye. I supposed that was the way they did business in France. I retrieved the photos and scanned them. Then whipped them off to Jacques Lafonte, hoping I spelled his name correctly. In the e-mail, I made sure I told him how the pottery came to be mine. If it was stolen, I did not want to be a suspect. It dawned on me that to prove how I came to own it I had to know the name of the woman who sold it to me. This was getting more complicated than I assumed at first. I prided myself on being smart enough not to tell the man in France that there were someone’s ashes inside it.
Deep down I felt the Gallery of Corinth once owned this piece of pottery.
I stood and stretched. After showering, I grabbed more of the pasta salad and chicken and headed for my office. Natalie accomplished an astonishing amount of work while I was home that morning. Until I solved my own mystery of the rare urn, her actions told me she was hired full-time.
She handed me several messages. I thumbed through them on my way to my office. Natalie left for her lunch break. I told her to take a full hour as reward for her good work. She flashed a smile at me, and I waited until I heard her close the back door of the office. One message was from Detective Ben Johnson.
“I was just leaving for lunch, Candy, but glad you called back.” I heard a slight rustling of papers in the background and his chair scraping the
floor when he sat back down. “I have a little information on the McNamara family. I suppose I should say I have information that a family by the name of McNamara never lived at the address you gave me.”
I sat up straight. “Who were the residents then?” I asked.
“Someone’s executor signed the papers for purchase of the house. It seems the home is tied up in an estate, and we are still tracking a name. I’ll give you what I have, and then you can take it from there. I hope this helps. Get back with me when you make some progress. We still have to know whose cremains you have in the vase.”
I thanked him and looked toward my fax machine as information rolled out from Ben. Like a child in an ice cream shop, I grabbed them hungrily. I caught my breath and looked twice. The executor’s name was familiar to me. Pierre Sarkis’ signature was signed with a flourish. What was his name doing on a document that had to do with a home on a tree-lined street in a suburb of New York City? I should have asked the cultivated voice at the Gallery of Corinth for the date that Mr. Sarkis was scheduled to return to his antique shop.
“He could be in New York,” I said aloud.
I searched for the name Pierre Sarkis in New York City. I was blown away when seven showed up in various areas of the city. I thought that strange in lieu of the fact that the first name was French and the last name was Greek. One was listed with an address in the posh area of Cobble Hill. That was the only address I thought may fit someone who was wealthy enough to collect ancient Greek artifacts. When I dialed the number a generic voice mail greeted me. I did not leave a message.
The sun was dipping into the western sky when I left the office. My mind was on Pierre Sarkis, and so I failed to see the child until he tugged on my sleeve.
“That man told me to give you this,” he said. He turned to point out the person who sent a child to relay his message. There was no one there.