When Ellis and I reached the street, he asked if I’d heard anything or thought of anything that might help in the investigation.
“The German word for a mixing spoon is Kochlöffel. When someone was a busybody, you know, always sticking their noses in other people’s business, my dad called them a Kochlöffel. Mo told me Lydia tried to convince her not to waste money having the print appraised, that it wasn’t valuable enough to bother with. Mo told Theo Lydia thought Steve was a loser, that Mo shouldn’t get back with him. If my dad were here, he’d say that Lydia was a Kochlöffel, always wanting to stir the pot. Are you surprised that you can’t find Cal?”
“Are you?”
“Yes. It’s not so easy to disappear nowadays, what with computers tracking our every purchase and security cameras everywhere.” I waited a moment for him to comment, but he didn’t. “Do you think he’s on the run?”
“I think it’s too early to say.”
“Is Mo’s death going to be ruled a homicide?”
“It looks that way.”
“It’s possible that whoever killed Mo killed him, too.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Nothing. I mean, nothing specific. It’s logical, though, isn’t it?” My phone vibrated. I rustled around in my tote bag until I found it, then glanced at the display. I didn’t recognize the number. “I should take this.”
“Sure.”
With my eyes steady on the pink rambling roses that grew in the sandy soil near the dunes, I answered the call. It was Theo Caswell, and he wanted me to know that Helene Roberts looked forward to talking to me. I thanked him, and that was that. I repeated his message to Ellis, promised I would keep him posted, and we headed for our cars.
* * *
Helene Roberts had taken the reins of New Hampshire Children First! nearly two decades earlier, when she was in her late thirties, and she had transformed it from a one-program charity into a leading medical research and treatment institution. The nonprofit’s mission to help children with emotional, physical, and learning disabilities hadn’t changed; the vision of how to achieve it had, and both the overarching strategy and the detailed tactics had been designed and implemented by Helene. I admired her as much as anyone I’d ever known. She was a leader and a mentor, and good through and through.
I arrived at Helene’s office around two. The administration building was housed in an old farmhouse. Jasper Jackson, the last survivor of his family, had donated the thirty-five-acre property to New Hampshire Children First! in the 1970s.
Helene met me in her private study, which had originally been the back parlor. She looked the same as always—polished and professional. Her light brown hair was cut short. Her blue eyes radiated intelligence and kindness. She wore a blue-and-white checked blouse, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and navy-blue slacks. Her only jewelry was a simple pearl pendant with matching earrings and a gold wedding band. Blue plastic-framed reading glasses hung from a thin black nylon lanyard around her neck.
Helene placed her hands on her old-fashioned green leather desk blotter. “I’m devastated about Mo. Just devastated.”
“Me, too. It’s beyond awful.”
“I couldn’t believe it when Mr. Caswell told me we were her beneficiary. I’ve already asked the board to begin brainstorming ideas—I want to come up with a special way to acknowledge her generosity, maybe renaming the horse-training grounds for her.”
“That’s a lovely idea.”
“And I understand we’re now the owners of an important Japanese woodblock print. Would you recommend we sell it?”
“It hasn’t been appraised, so I don’t know its value. If you’d like, I’ll complete the appraisal, pro bono, of course. Then I can make a recommendation.”
“That’s wonderful of you, Josie. Please do.”
I explained I’d need her to sign the authorization, then called Gretchen to explain how to word it. Twenty minutes later, the form had been signed, and I was on my way back to my office.
* * *
As soon as I stepped inside, Gretchen told me that she’d read on the Seacoast Star blog that Mo’s funeral was scheduled for Tuesday at two, and I asked Cara to put it into my calendar.
“Why the delay?” I asked.
“The teachers at Mo’s school get out early on Tuesdays. This way, they can attend the service.”
“That’s sensible and thoughtful.” I shook my head. “You all know how much I cared about Mo, so you can understand how I’m feeling right now. I understand that life goes on and work needs to continue. I appreciate your patience if I’m scattered for the next little while.”
“Of course,” Gretchen said.
There were other sympathetic reactions, too, and I acknowledged them all, grateful for their support.
After a moment, I caught Sasha’s eye. “So … we’re back on with the Hiroshige print. Have you heard anything from those curators you contacted?”
“Yes,” she said, “and it’s about what I expected. There’s no master list, so tracing a print’s history is nearly impossible. Since we have no information except Cal’s statement, which seems to have no backup, we’re in a tricky spot. I’ll start researching the Barnes family now. It’s possible someone will know something. Fred and I are talking about various digital analyses options. Other than that, I suspect we’ll need to test the materials.”
The phone rang, and we all turned toward Cara.
She put the call on hold. “It’s Frank Shannon, Josie.”
“I’ll take it upstairs.” I jogged through the warehouse and dashed up the steps.
“I hope this isn’t a bad time,” he said.
“Not at all. How are you?”
“Worse than you can imagine. You always hear that the death of a child is a parent’s worst nightmare, but that’s not the half of it. It’s a nightmare you can’t wake up from. I need to think about something other than my darling daughter for a bit, so I was hoping that maybe I could tell you some about the guitar’s history. I know it would help me to get out of my own head.”
“Oh, Frank, I’m so sorry. I wish I could do more. It was on our list to ask you about the guitar, but we planned to wait until after the funeral to schedule a time. Are you sure you’re ready? We can put it on hold for a week or so.”
“Like I said, I’m a hot mess, and doing nothing makes it worse. If you have the time, I’d like to do it today.”
“I can come to the house now, if you’d like.”
“Nah. Let’s go out. If Trish sees me doing business, she’ll get upset. She has her way of grieving, and I have mine, and that’s that. To tell you the truth, I could use a drink. Do you have a favorite watering hole?”
“The Blue Dolphin lounge is a good place to talk. Do you know it?”
“Sure. Trish is a fan of the restaurant. Four thirty work for you?”
I told him it did, and I felt a familiar rush of adrenaline, the one I always felt at the start of a complex appraisal. I hoped Frank had juicy secrets to share.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Blue Dolphin was my favorite restaurant. The three-story brick building had been designed in the mid-eighteenth century to fit into the slender, rounded corner lot. I pushed open the heavy wooden door and greeted Frieda, the hostess.
I paused at the arched entry to the lounge. Frank wasn’t there. The lounge was a wood-paneled room with an oversized fireplace and bay windows overlooking the Piscataqua River. I nabbed my favorite table, a small one in the corner. From where I sat, I could see clear across to Maine. A light breeze was blowing, and in the glare of the late-afternoon sun, the burnt-sienna and gold leaves blazed like fire.
Jimmy, the bartender, greeted me by name and called that he’d be right over.
Jimmy had red hair and freckles, and he smiled a lot. He was just that kind of guy. He’d been one of the first people I’d met when I’d moved to Rocky Point, and one of the most welcoming.* Frank’s reflection appeared in the window, and I look
ed over my shoulder, smiled, and waved. He wore black Dockers and a white linen shirt, very urbane, but he walked with the rolling gait of a country man.
Jimmy came out from behind the bar, said hello to Frank like he knew him well, flicked cocktail napkins toward us as if he were skipping rocks on the surf, and took our order: a dry martini, Bombay Sapphire, up with a twist, for me; a double Johnnie Walker Green on the rocks with a splash for Frank.
Frank’s eyes followed Jimmy as he walked back to the bar. “Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.”
“I’m glad it worked out.”
Frank reached a hand up and massaged the back of his neck. “I’m stiff from not sleeping.”
“It’s horrible losing someone you love, but it’s worse when it’s unexpected, I think.”
“Sounds like you have experience. Who’d you lose without notice?”
“My dad.” I looked out the window. The sun was sinking fast. I could make out the trees across the river, but barely. I didn’t want to talk about my dad. He’d died the year before I moved to New Hampshire, and despite the passage of time, or maybe because of it, since no one I knew now had known him, the wound still festered. “It was a long time ago.”
Jimmy arrived with our drinks.
Frank raised his glass. “May the road rise up to meet you.”
I touched my glass to his. “May the sun shine warm upon your face.”
“God help me. God help us all.” He took a healthy swallow. “I never thought I’d have to bury one of my daughters.” He drank some more. “I adored Mo. She never said a bad word about anything or anyone, including Lydia. Not one. And Lydia gave her plenty of cause.” He jiggled his glass, propelling the ice into a ferocious whirlpool. “They never got along, not really, not like sisters.” He drank some more. “Sorry to be maudlin. Hell, look at me, using a word like ‘maudlin.’ The first time I heard that word was when Tommy Gale died. Tommy was my bass player, best in the business, and he died in his sleep at age thirty-one. Whoever heard of that? He had some kind of heart condition no one knew about. After a week or so, I was still moping about, and Trish told me to stop being maudlin. I waited until she went in the other room and looked it up. Foolishly sentimental. That’s what it means. Foolishly sentimental.” He shook his ice again. “The next day I drank a toast to Tommy and hired a new bass player.” He tilted his glass toward me. “To Tommy.”
I clinked. “To silver light in the dark of night.”
He clinked. “Hear, hear.”
“Tell me about the guitar. How did you come to own it?”
“It came from Abbot’s Musical Instruments in Jackson, Mississippi. Man, I wanted that guitar. Looking at it through the window, I could tell it was the best I’d ever play, and I was right. I tried it out and knew I had to have it. It was Ricky Joe who bought it, though, ’cause he had the cash beans. My career took off the day I got hold of it. When you play the blues with a guitar like that, work finds you.”
“When was that?”
“Nineteen seventy-three.”
“Do you have a receipt?”
Frank finished his drink. “Well, now we’re getting down to it.”
I waited. Waiting was an important part of listening.
He finished his drink and set it down. “You ready for another?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
He raised his glass to catch Jimmy’s attention, pointed to his chest, indicating he was the only one ordering a refill, then focused on me. “No, I don’t have a receipt.”
“How much did you pay?”
“It was priced at twenty-eight thousand dollars, a fortune at the time.”
“You didn’t buy it, did you?”
“You got good ears.”
“I noticed how you worded it, if that’s what you mean. Was it a gift? From a woman you don’t want Trish to know about?”
“Let’s just leave it that I got it from Abbot’s in the seventies. Can’t you appraise it without a receipt?”
“Sure, but it’s completely possible that Abbot’s records go back that far.” I sipped some of my martini. “We can call them.”
“Maybe it’s best you don’t.”
“Why?”
“Let’s let it lay and talk about what you can do, not what you can’t.”
“Come on, Frank.”
“I never got in trouble keeping my mouth shut.”
“If I can’t confirm provenance you’ll never be able to sell your guitar for top dollar—or insure it for fair market value.”
“Explain to me about provenance. What do you need, and why does it matter?”
“In the antiques world, provenance means that we can document a clear trail of ownership from the moment of creation to now. There’s two options. Go from the producer forward or from the current owner backward. From what we’ve learned so far, it looks like the first option is closed to us. That leaves only the second approach: to work from the current owner—you—backward.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Without clear title, you’re leaving money on the table. You’ll lose half the value, maybe more. Plus, the Robert Johnson association probably goes down the tubes.”
Jimmy swung by with Frank’s drink. Frank thanked him and swallowed a third of it in one long gulp.
“Did you steal it, Frank?”
His eyes shot daggers at me. “Hell, no!”
“You can tell me—the statute of limitations has long passed.”
“I’ve never stolen nothing in my life.”
“Then what’s the big secret?”
“Trish can’t know. Not ever.”
“I can create a side document for the appraisal, but if you ever want to sell it, the world will have to know.”
“Give me a minute to think on this.”
Frank stood, took another long slug of whiskey, and walked out of the lounge with an unconscious swagger. Two middle-aged women sitting at a table near the front pointed and whispered. It wasn’t every day you saw a local celebrity strut by.
While I waited for Frank to return, I checked messages. Wes had emailed asking if I had any new information. Ty had texted that he missed me and would call just before bed. Given that a lot of Ty’s work was top secret, I hoped he’d be able to tell me why he’d been called down to Washington, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t say a word. I opened my photo management app and scrolled through the images until I found some from last summer’s New Hampshire Children First! volunteer picnic. My eyes filled, and I closed them for a few seconds. I understood the term “heartache.” Frank came back into the lounge. I slid my phone into my bag.
One of the women at the table near the front, a full-figured brunette, reached out an arm to touch Frank’s hand and said something. Frank paused to chat, smiling and laughing. He’d been a professional charmer for a lot of years, and he still was, despite the fact that his daughter had just died. It took a certain kind of man to steel himself like that. I’d learned the hard way that most people who use charm as currency do so because they have nothing else of substance to offer. Charm disarms and can minimize a multitude of sins. Watching his performance made me wonder if I could trust him.
Frank sat down and drank some whiskey, a sip this time. “There are only three people in the world who know how I came to own this guitar: Ricky Joe McElroy, C. K. Flint, and me. I’m telling you because I want to know the truth about the guitar’s value. I’m trusting you to keep the information private until and unless I pull the trigger.”
“We’ll need to contact the store and those two people, and maybe others, but I can absolutely promise we won’t release the information to the public without your okay.”
“You trust your staff that much?”
“It’s what we do, Frank. We keep secrets for a living.”
“I’m probably being silly, anyway. For all I know those boys spread the story all over Mississippi.” He finished his drink in two long swallows and slapped the glass on t
he table. “It’s more than forty years ago, but a lie started has to be maintained. I promised Trish the year before I’d never gamble again. That was after I got into some trouble, it doesn’t matter what kind, and got roughed up some. She told me she wanted no part of a gambler, period, end of story, and I promised her that my gambling days were over. I kept that promise for a while, a few months, I guess. I told Trish I bought the guitar at Abbot’s for a hundred and twenty bucks, all I had and then some, that the owner was dumb as a doornail and didn’t know what he had, that it was probably worth double what I paid. If Trish knew I’d been lying to her for all our lives, there’d be hell to pay. Maybe worse than hell. Here we go, then—I won the guitar fair and square in a poker game on June fifth, 1973. That’s a date I’ll never forget. My life got changed that day. Ricky Joe’s family owned McElroy Rubber Corporation. Mostly, they made tires. About two months later, Ricky Joe took himself off to Idaho to go hunting and never came back. Last I heard, he married a girl from Boise and they’re living the good life on the trust fund his granddaddy set up. C. K. was a good guy, not too bright, but a hard worker. He got himself a job at the local lumberyard right out of high school, and as far as I know, he’s still there. I came from the other side of the ditch. I got myself licensed as an electrician, but I hated the work. All I ever wanted was to play the blues and get out of Mississippi. That night, I was down thirteen thousand, can you believe it? I didn’t have a pot to piss in, but I was drunk, and I had the gambling fever on me. Ricky Joe offered me double or nothing. C. K. wasn’t playing. He was sitting in a corner shaking, just hearing the numbers we were tossing about. I said I wouldn’t do double or nothing, but I’d do double or give me that Martin guitar you just bought at Abbot’s for twenty-eight thousand dollars. Ricky Joe said done. When I won, Ricky Joe cried like a baby, pissin’ and moanin’ about how he didn’t mean it, how he couldn’t do it, how his daddy would skin him alive, how he’d give me thirty thousand, thirty-five thousand, but I wasn’t having any of it. I wanted that guitar so bad I could feel the strings under my fingers. I’ll tell you this, though—the thought that I might have lost sobered me up and straightened me out. I made Ricky Joe take me to his house there and then, and he made C. K. come as a witness. I grabbed that guitar and the case it came in, and told both those boys sayonara. I went home, convinced Trish that our future was waiting for us out west, and we caught the next bus to L.A. That was an easy sell because Trish was starting to think she had a future in golf, and L.A. was a happening place back then for that dream. And that’s the end of that tall tale.”
Antique Blues Page 6