Jonathan stood near a framed copy of Van Gogh’s Starry Night mounted on the back wall. He was talking to an older man, pointing to a starlit swirl, then the church steeple. The older man said something. Jonathan waved over a middle-aged woman leaning against the front counter. He left her to finish the sale, and I swooped in.
After we exchanged a quick hello, I showed him the flyer. “Have you sold a Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill lately?”
“No. It’s weird that you ask, though, since I just bought one.”
“The one in the bin. I saw it.”
“I thought it might be genuine. It had the look, you know? Fugitive blues.”
“How did you determine it wasn’t real?”
“I removed the backing and found ‘Morty’s Art Prints’ stamped on the back.”
“Ouch. Does the number 918 mean you bought this print this month?”
“That’s right. September 2018. It’s my old-fashioned inventory system.”
“What do you think of Matt’s computerized system?”
“It’s terrific. We get a lot of referrals from the information booth. I don’t care about the reports, though. I’m a Luddite. I like being able to rifle through the bins myself and see how long prints take to sell, refamiliarize myself with the inventory … you know. I’m an art lover, which means I’m visual. I’m in the business because of the objects, not the reports. But those referrals—that’s worth the price of admission.” Jonathan tapped the flyer. “Is this about that dead girl?”
“Mo Shannon,” I said, wanting to speak her name aloud, wanting Jonathan to hear it. “I don’t know. At this point, I’m just trying to track the print. Have you heard of any sales?”
“Just hers.”
Jonathan’s assistant came up. “Excuse me for interrupting. Mr. Donovan has a question.”
I thanked him again and slipped away.
Appraising an antique is like any other detective work—you follow leads and rely on luck and experience to help you navigate unknown terrain, and you expect most of your efforts to fail. While I was used to running into brick walls, I never liked it, and today was no exception. As I walked to my car through the driving rain, I tried to put a positive spin on the situation. I’d moved forward—I now knew where Mo’s Hiroshige hadn’t been purchased. You go through enough false starts, all that’s left is the truth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I reached the Rice Dixon Elementary School at a quarter to three and parked in an empty spot near the rear of the ungated employee parking lot. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the sky remained dark. A line of idling cars ran along Bracebridge Road, parents waiting to pick up their kids. I used the time to call work and check my email. Everything was under control. I texted Ty that I loved him, then checked the Seacoast Star’s website for breaking news. Wes had posted an update about the medical examiner’s findings.
Mo had been strangled, then tossed or pushed off the cliff. From the angle of the contusions on Mo’s neck, Dr. Graham stated that whoever had strangled her had stood in front of her and that he or she was taller than Mo. Or, the doctor added, the killer was standing above her, on an incline, for example. Or a low wall, I thought.
At three, kids started pouring out of the front doors. Two minutes later, the teachers started exiting from a side door. Steve came out about three ten, a large army-green backpack slung over one shoulder. He held the door for the pretty redhead I’d seen at Mo’s garden party and standing behind the police line the evening Mo died. She was laughing at something Steve said. She replied, he nodded, and she walked to a blue Toyota.
I got out of my car and stepped into the traffic lane so Steve would be sure to see me. The drizzle had softened into mist. Steve spotted me and stopped short. His brows raised in surprise, and he smiled.
Steve was just as handsome as the last time I’d seen him, with the same jaunty stride and open demeanor. He looked like the kind of guy it would be easy to talk to, who you wanted to talk to. He was just shy of six feet with nicely trimmed brown hair and brown eyes. He’d played Double-A baseball for the Frisco RoughRiders for two years right out of college and was on his way to the big leagues when he blew out his knee sliding into home.
“Hey, Steve. Long time, no see.”
“I’ll say.”
“You’ve heard about Mo.”
“Sure.” He glanced around, maybe checking for stragglers who might be tempted to listen in. “I’m pretty broken up about it, to tell you the truth. You get divorced, everyone thinks you don’t have feelings for your ex anymore. Not true.”
“Mo said you were back in touch. She was excited about it.”
He met my gaze, but he didn’t reply.
I took a step closer. “It must be awful, not being able to talk about her.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “You got that right.”
“Do you have a few minutes now?”
“I can’t.” He saw my disappointment and glanced at his watch. “I’d love to talk with you, Josie. I just meant I can’t now. I’m on my way to a meeting. It’s the Cub Scouts. Can you believe I’m a Cub Scout leader?”
“Yes. I bet you’re great at it. How’d you get involved?”
“I got drafted. A friend of mine has a seven-year-old son, and their troop leader got a new job in Arkansas.” He looked around again. “I’ve got to go.”
“Trish asked me to give one of the eulogies.”
“Good. Mo deserves the best.”
“Can you talk later?”
He held my gaze for two seconds. “How’s coffee in the morning?”
“Perfect.”
“I need to be to school by seven thirty. Can you meet at Sweet Treats at quarter to seven?”
I told him quarter to seven was great, and he walked to his car. I stood on sodden leaves until he drove to the exit and paused at the top of the driveway before turning. I saw his eyes in his rearview mirror. I waved good-bye, and he waved back. He turned right. A minute later, the redhead in the Toyota drove by. She stared at me as she passed, and I felt the fervor of her curiosity. She turned left out of the exit.
I was glad to get back inside my car. At first the mist had felt refreshing. Now it just felt cold.
* * *
The rain had started up again by the time I got back to my office around quarter to four.
Fred reported that Abbot’s no longer existed. The store was sold after the owner died in the mid-1980s, and the buyer changed the name. He didn’t keep any of Abbot’s business records.
“Who inherited?” I asked.
“Abbot’s sister, Gertrude Joan Mays.”
I offered to call Ms. Mays so Fred could continue tracking guitars, and he agreed.
Gertrude Joan Mays lived in Florence, Mississippi, a nice suburb south of Jackson. I got her number from information and dialed. The man who picked up the phone was laughing so hard, he barely got “Hello” out.
“Ms. Mays, please.”
“Hold on.” I heard a televised laugh track followed by a clatter as the receiver hit a table, then scraping sounds, as if a chair were being dragged across a tile floor, then a shout. “Gertie Joan! Telephone!”
“What’s so funny?” a woman asked him.
“Those sports bloopers. I can’t see straight, I’m laughing so hard.”
“Hello?” she said into the phone.
“Ms. Mays?”
“This is Gertie Joan Mays.”
I explained my reason for calling.
“Abbot’s Musical Instruments. That was my brother’s business.”
“The new owner said he didn’t have the sales records. Do you?”
“I haven’t touched those boxes in nearly thirty-five years.”
I sat up. “Are they organized by date?”
“I don’t know. I had the manager empty the file cabinets and deliver the boxes here.”
“How many boxes are there?”
“Two dozen. Maybe more. How about if I take a gan
der and see what I’ve got there?”
“That would be fantastic.”
“Tell me exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Two things. First, information about how and when Abbot’s acquired a 1930 Martin OM-45 Deluxe guitar. Probably there’s a record that Abbot’s bought it from an individual. Second, the sale of that guitar in late May or early June 1973. I don’t know when Abbot’s acquired it except that it had to be before then. The buyer was a man named Ricky Joe McElroy.”
“McElroy Rubber?”
“That’s the family.”
“I didn’t know Ricky Joe played guitar. It was Frank Shannon, Ricky Joe’s best friend, who was the guitar player in that crew.”
I felt the ice crack beneath my feet. Every town was a small town, and the Jackson metro area was no exception—and I’d just given Gertie Joan a nifty tidbit to share. I needed to cram the genie back in the bottle.
“Gertie Joan! May I call you Gertie Joan?”
“Of course, hon.”
“Gertie Joan, surely you remember what it was like in the early seventies. Everyone was a guitar player back then.”
“Ain’t that the truth! My boy, Charlie Craig, among them. Now he’s a banker. I heard Ricky Joe moved out west somewhere, I don’t know where. Tell me again why you need those receipts?”
“The current owner wants to know what the guitar is worth in case he ever wants to sell it. Without clear title, it’s hard to sell a valuable object for top dollar.”
“I’m on it. It’ll give me something to do besides listen to my husband laugh at ridiculous volleyball bloopers.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sasha asked me to come downstairs, saying she wanted to show me something.
I met her at the worktable housing Mo’s print. She handed me a loupe.
“Look at the woodgrain in the sky behind the snowflakes, on the left.”
I eased the loupe into place and examined the print. “Got it … it whorls to the right, then to the left.” I removed the loupe. “Since woodgrain is like a fingerprint, if you can verify a documented original has woodgrain that matches this pattern, we’re well on our way to authenticating Mo’s print.”
Sasha smiled. “I’ve contacted three museums that have documented originals.”
“Great job, Sasha!” We walked back to the office. “Have there been any responses to our call for sightings?”
“Only fakes or restrikings so far.”
“I’ll keep cruising around asking dealers. Let’s all keep our fingers crossed that—” I broke off when Cara’s voice came over the intercom.
“Josie, it’s a Mr. McElroy from Idaho.”
I grabbed the phone. “Thanks, Cara. I’ll take it upstairs. Tell him I’ll be with him in a minute.”
I thanked Sasha for the update and ran for the staircase.
Upstairs, I pushed the flashing button. “Thanks for holding, and thanks for calling back.”
“Your message was pretty mysterious. What gives?”
“Did you buy a guitar from Abbot’s in May or June 1973?”
“Tell me again who you are.”
I did so, adding in a bit about the importance of provenance.
“You’re working for Frank Shannon. I can’t believe it. I didn’t think Frank would ever sell that thing.”
“My client, whom I can’t name, isn’t selling the guitar. Lots of people want objects appraised for reasons that have nothing to do with selling them, for instance, estate planning purposes or insurance. What can you tell me about the purchase?”
“It cost me two arms and a leg, broke my heart, and got me out of Mississippi. I lost it in a poker game to Frank Shannon and woke up in the real world. You should have heard my daddy on the subject. I haven’t gambled since, not even on lotto.”
“Did you buy it at Abbot’s Musical Instruments?”
“Yup. That’s the place.”
“Do you have the receipt?”
“Hell, no. I burned that sucker. Last I heard about Frank, he made it to L.A., married Trish, and scored a big-time record deal. I follow his tour schedule some, thinking that if he ever got to Boise, I’d stop by and give him hell. How are they doing?”
“I’m sorry. As I said, I can’t reveal a client’s name. Do you recall anything about the guitar—for instance, the brand?”
“Yup. It was a Martin OM-45 Deluxe. I dream about it sometimes.”
“Do you know where Abbot’s got it from?”
“You’re asking about the Robert Johnson connection. I don’t know anything other than what I heard from the owner, that Robert Johnson gave it to some girlfriend, and that woman’s heir sold it to him. I always thought it was just sales hype myself, but Frank sure took it to heart.”
“Thank you, Ricky Joe. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Tell Frank I said hey, no hard feelings.”
“Thanks again. Bye.” I pressed the END CALL button and dialed C. K. Flint’s number. If he was still at the lumberyard, there was a good chance he worked the seven-to-three shift. If so, given the different time zone, he might be at home.
He was. I explained who I was and why I was calling.
“I never was at that store. I don’t know nothing about it.”
“It’s okay, C. K. Everything was on the up-and-up. I just need to confirm what I’ve heard.”
“I don’t remember nothing.” He slammed the phone down.
I stared at the receiver for a moment before I lowered it into the cradle.
C. K. was scared. It didn’t matter why. What mattered was that he hadn’t verified Frank and Ricky Joe’s story. I sure hoped Gertie Joan came through.
I walked downstairs to get a cup of coffee.
“Sasha, are you done with Mo’s print for now?”
“Yes. Should I put it back in the safe?”
“Actually, it reminds me of Mo … I’m working on her eulogy. I’ll take it back upstairs.”
Her eyes softened. “I understand.”
A woman stepped into the office. I recognized her as the petite blonde I’d seen standing with the book club members the day Mo died. Her complexion was creamy. Her eyes were hazel, changing from amber to moss green to cocoa as she moved from shadow to light.
“Josie?” she said. “I’ve seen your photo in the paper. I’m Nora Burke.”
“Nice to meet you.” Mo had asked if I knew Nora, and once again, I wondered why. “I’ve heard your name. You’re in Trish’s book club.”
“For longer than I care to remember. I hope it’s okay that I’m here … I need a birthday gift for my dad. A friend said you’re fabulous at honing in on just the right thing.”
“We try, that’s for sure. Have a seat. Would you like some coffee? Or a cold drink?”
She sat at the guest table. “No, thanks.”
I took the chair across from her. “So tell me about your father. What does he do for a living?”
“He’s an architect. Very cerebral.”
“Any hobbies?”
She flushed. “He writes poetry. I know … weird, huh?”
“I think it’s wonderful. The world would be a better place if more people wrote poetry.”
The phone rang, and Cara picked up. The second line chimed in almost immediately. Gretchen answered that one. Eric walked into the office from the warehouse, reading something from a clipboard. He looked up, saw Nora, and his brow wrinkled. He glanced at the clock. Eric lived with the fear that he’d done something wrong or forgotten to do something or had otherwise let someone down.
Eric took a step toward us. “Am I late? Are you Melissa Sayers?”
“No. I’m Nora Burke, here to see Josie.”
“Sorry.” From his sheepish demeanor, I knew he was afraid I was mad at him for interrupting my conversation with Nora. “Gretchen and I have some interviews scheduled for part-timers.”
I stood up and smiled. “That’s good to hear. We always need reliable workers.” I turned to Nora. “Let’s go to m
y office.”
Nora followed me into the warehouse, pausing to take in the rows of shelves, the worktables spaced along the perimeter, the walk-in safe, and the loading dock at the back. She smiled when she noticed the kitty domain delineated by the comfy rugs abutting the wall not far from the spiral stairs that led to my office.
“This place needs its own zip code.”
I smiled. “We get a lot of work done here, that’s for sure. I was going to bring something upstairs. Let me just grab it.”
“Sure.”
I slipped on gloves and picked up Mo’s print. Upstairs, I placed it on the easel, then tucked the gloves behind it.
Nora stood by the love seat, considering it. “This is Mo’s Japanese woodblock print. I saw the picture in the Seacoast Star.”
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised Mo liked it. It looks so, I don’t know … lonely.”
“That’s how some people react to it. Mo saw it as quiet, peaceful. To me, and I think to Mo, it communicates serenity, not isolation.”
“To each his own. I guess. I’m more a Renoir sort of girl myself.”
“Moments of joy. Lots of music. Lighthearted pleasure on beautiful days.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s why they make both chocolate and vanilla ice cream—people have different tastes.” I stood in front of the wing chair. “Have a seat.”
When Nora sat down, I did, too.
“Back to your dad … Does he write on a computer or longhand?”
“Longhand. He has a leather-bound journal. When he fills one up, he buys another.”
“A traditional man who values traditional things. Let me show you some options.” I reached for the phone and dialed Gretchen’s extension. “Gretchen, would you bring me the Parker and Conklin fountain pens and the rosewood lap desk?”
“Sure! I’ll be up in a flash.”
I cradled the receiver and turned back to Nora. “These pens are more than gorgeous. They’re truly rare. And the lap desk … Well, you’ll see. Just touching it makes you want to write something!”
“Thanks.” She looked at her feet for a moment, then raised her eyes. “That friend I mentioned who recommended Prescott’s … it was Mo. She talked about you all the time. She thought you were so smart.”
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