Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  As he stepped inside, I read the words on his cap: METAL FOREVER. He wore a leather bomber jacket over a light blue denim work shirt, jeans, and Frye boots.

  “Everyone! You remember Davy Morse.”

  Fred stood and walked around his desk to greet him.

  Sasha, on the phone, smiled, and her eyes lit up.

  Gretchen, a celebrity-gossip junkie, smiled at Davy as if he were a rock star.

  Cara stood and fussed at him. “You must be tired after your long drive.”

  “Heck, Cara, I’m not tired. I’m hungry. Do you have any of those gingersnaps of yours?”

  “I brought in a fresh batch today!”

  “Bless you.” He kissed her cheek.

  Cara laughed. She brought the tin of cookies to the guest table. Davy rubbed his hands together and pried open the lid. He took a cookie and popped it in his mouth. He made yum sounds, his eyes half-closed.

  “Even better than I remembered. You’re a wizard, Cara!”

  Davy ate gingersnaps and chatted with every member of the staff. I stood by the wall and watched their interactions, appreciating Davy’s deft control of the content. He had a gift for making people feel comfortable. When the conversations began to wane, I stepped forward.

  “Davy? Sorry to interrupt. What do you say we go to my office and I fill you in?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Fred, did you set up a studio?”

  “This afternoon at four. We should leave here around three forty.”

  “Good.”

  I pushed open the door and entered the warehouse. Davy followed. Upstairs, we got settled in the seating area, with Davy on the love seat.

  “We’re appraising a 1930 Martin OM-45 Deluxe guitar. Right now, I’m working on the provenance, while Fred is tracking down the fourteen made that year. We need you to authenticate this particular instrument. Fred told me we need to worry that this one might be a counterfeit.”

  “He’s right, and no one knows how many forgeries are out there. To complicate the issue, Martin makes its own authentic replicas, which sell for seventy thousand, by the way, so there’s serious motivation to create fakes.”

  “If ours is real and we can verify provenance, what are we looking at?”

  “Four hundred thousand. Maybe more depending on who owns it, condition, and so on. Whose is it?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Is it for sale?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll play it, and I’ll know.”

  “Fred said you’ll only need two days to know if it’s authentic.”

  “With any luck, I’ll only need an hour, but to make it official, I’ll use my fifty-one-point checklist.”

  “Let’s get you started.”

  I used my desk phone to call Fred and ask him to bring the guitar and both cases to station three, the worktable closest to Hank and Angela, then led the way downstairs.

  Halfway down, I paused and turned to look at him. “Ty and I are getting married in June. Will you and Ruby come up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised!” He took my hand and squeezed it. “You’re the real deal, Josie. I’m your friend.”

  I squeezed back. “What a nice thing to say. Do you think there’s any chance you can bring Shelley with you?”

  “Never say never.”

  Shelley was a friend from my days working at Frisco’s in New York City. After I got caught up in the big price-fixing scandal that rocked the high-end antiques auction world, my so-called friends fled as if I had a contagious disease, all except Shelley.

  We reached the table before Fred.

  Davy squatted beside Angela, sleeping in Hank’s basket.

  “Who’s this beauty?” he whispered. “I haven’t met her before.”

  “She’s our newest baby. Her name is Angela. Isn’t she a doll? She’s a complete love bunny.”

  He eased a finger under her chin and stroked gently. I could hear her sleepy-time purr from where I stood.

  Fred came up, giving Angela a wide berth so as not to disturb her. He hoisted the case containing the guitar onto the worktable and placed the original case next to it. Fred unlatched the working case.

  “See ya later!” Davy whispered to Angela.

  Davy stood five feet from the guitar and examined it with laserlike intensity. He walked to the table and lifted the guitar from the case, setting it in the center of the worktable. He adjusted the light and leaned in close, studying it. Fred was observing Davy’s technique like a disciple.

  When he was done, Davy carried the guitar to a nearby stool. He began strumming a bluesy number I didn’t recognize.

  I moved to stand beside Fred. “Do you know what he’s playing? It’s beautiful.”

  Davy looked up. “‘Devil Got My Woman,’ a Skip James tune.”

  After a few more seconds, I touched Fred’s arm. “I’m going to leave you to your work.”

  Fred nodded, but I wasn’t certain he heard me.

  * * *

  As soon as Ty and I were seated at the Blue Dolphin’s best table, a big one by the window, I reached across the snowy-white linen tablecloth and took Ty’s hand in mine. “So I have an idea. Let’s get married on the beach, just the two of us. Plus witnesses, of course. By a judge. Max can hook us up with a judge. Or Ellis can.”

  “Okay.”

  I laughed. “Just like that? You agree?”

  “Sure. Then we’ll have a blowout party.”

  “Yes. This way, we each get what we want most.”

  “Sold.”

  “This was so easy.”

  He kissed my hand. “I knew we’d figure it out. When?”

  “June twenty-first. It’s a Thursday. We get married on the beach in the morning, then disappear, just the two of us. We’ll check into Wentworth by the Sea. On Saturday, the twenty-third, we have a party, maybe here at the Blue Dolphin. I won’t get stressed. Everything will be perfect.”

  “Done. Except we may have more people than the restaurant can hold.”

  “We’ll put up a big tent in the back, and the Blue Dolphin can cater it.”

  “Good. I’ll think about the invite list. I have a feeling some folks may come up from D.C.”

  “Davy said he and Ruby would come from New York and that he might be able to convince Shelley to come, too.”

  “I want a conga line.”

  I laughed. “You’ve got it.”

  “We’re getting married in June.”

  “I always wanted a June wedding. We need to book the honeymoon suite at the hotel.”

  “I hope it’s available. June weddings are so popular, we may be too late.”

  “Call me Ms. Flexible. I don’t care if we get a suite. Any room will do.”

  “Let’s check out the options now. Today.”

  “Really? Today?”

  He took my hand and kissed it again. “Yes, today. Eat fast.”

  * * *

  Ty turned onto Bow Street while I called Wentworth by the Sea. I clicked through their interactive phone system until I reached Sarah Collins, an event planner. She could see us at five. I made the appointment.

  The dash clock read 2:47. “I’d like to stop by my office for a few minutes. How should we coordinate?”

  “I’ll go home and unpack and check in with my team. How about if you drive yourself home? You can leave your car there, and we’ll go to Wentworth together.”

  “That’ll work! I’ll be home by four thirty at the latest.”

  Ty rolled to a stop at Prescott’s front door.

  I paused, my hand on the door handle. “I’m excited, Ty. We’re making plans for our wedding.”

  “Me, too.”

  “It’s really happening. June will be here before we know it.”

  He stroked my cheek with his index finger, and I closed my eyes, relishing the moment.

  * * *

  I sat at the guest table and stretched out
my legs. When Gretchen was off the phone, I asked, “How did the interviews for a new part-timer go?”

  “Great. We’ve identified two solid candidates.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling like sparklers on the Fourth of July. “Eric has a flair for asking just the right questions worded in just the right way.”

  “That’s good to hear. Will you bring them both in for training?”

  “Assuming their references check out.”

  “Let me know if and when they come in. I want to welcome them and—” I broke off as the wind chimes tinkled. Steve Jullison opened the door. I stood up. “Steve!”

  He closed the door behind him. “Do you have a minute to talk?” His eyes communicated urgency.

  “Sure. Come to my office.”

  Upstairs, Steve stopped at the end of the love seat to assess Mo’s woodblock print. He didn’t approach the easel. He didn’t speak. After a few seconds, he angled his head to the side. After a minute more, he turned to face me.

  “I don’t have long—I came straight from school, and I’m meeting Kimberly and Ryan at four. I thought of something you might be able to use in your eulogy, but I don’t want Kimberly, Frank, Trish, or anyone to know I talked to you.”

  “I’m good at keeping secrets, but why? What’s wrong with the world knowing Mo married a man classy enough to be able to talk about her good points even if their marriage didn’t work out?”

  “None of them would see it as classy. They’d see it as smarmy.” He flipped a palm, dismissing his thorny breakup and possible reconciliation from our conversation. “When Mo and I were first married, I asked her what it was about Japanese woodblock prints that spoke to her. She said it was the duality. Muted colors that communicate vibrancy. Isolated settings packed with life. Two dimensions communicating a three-dimensional narrative. Here’s the thing, Josie … this duality can be seen in Mo herself. You know—she was kind of reserved, a loner, yet she loved being around people, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, Steve, that’s so beautiful. And so true. That describes Mo to a T.”

  “Use it. Just pretend you asked her the question, not me.”

  “But you’re the one who—”

  He held up a hand to stop my objection. “Do it, Josie. Do it for her folks.”

  I smiled. “All right. I will.”

  I walked him out, then ran back upstairs to write it down. When I delivered Mo’s eulogy, I wouldn’t speak Steve’s name aloud, but I’d be thinking it.

  * * *

  I had almost an hour before I needed to go home, so I decided to make another stop to ask about Mo’s print.

  Murphy’s Interiors was Rocky Point’s oldest furniture store. It was known for the quality of its offerings and the knowledge of its salespeople. About five years ago, Murphy’s integrated boutiques within the store, similar to how department stores invited fashion designers to open branded mini retail shops inside their walls. One of the boutiques was an interior design firm named Branson Wills.

  Anita Wills was a licensed interior designer, a favorite of architects. Anita was Chinese American, in her forties. She wore a purple sweater dress and black ankle-high boots. She and Sasha had been classmates at Hitchens, earning their Ph.D.’s in art history the same year. Eli Branson, her business partner, spent most of his time overseas, hunting for unique pieces. They often carried antiques, one-of-a-kind objects. I rarely found bargains in their shop, but I often found inspiration.

  Branson Wills occupied a spot about halfway back on the left, just after Quentin’s Spy Shop. I threaded my way through an array of opulent and utilitarian offerings from Biddington Silk Flowers, Seacoast Living Home & Hearth, French Heart Linens, and Rocky Point Gardens and Patio Furniture.

  Anita stood under a teak pergola talking to a couple I didn’t know. My phone vibrated, startling me. It was Wes. I stepped aside to answer the call.

  “Where are you?” he demanded, as brusque as ever.

  “I’m fine, Wes. Thanks. How are you?”

  “Good, good. So you asked about Chester Randall, the Colonial Twist, and the Colonial Club. I couldn’t find any dirt.” Wes sounded disappointed. “He’s active in Rotary International and at St. Teresa’s Catholic Church. His business is solvent. His charity’s paperwork is up-to-date. People like him. You’re supposed to be giving me leads, not busywork.”

  “Some leads don’t pan out, you know that. I’m glad to hear Chester’s on the up-and-up.”

  “You owe me, Josie. Pay up.”

  I was tempted to wriggle out of answering, but I didn’t. Our relationship chugged along nicely because we honored our unspoken quid-pro-quo arrangement. If I didn’t give Wes some quid pretty darn soon, it wouldn’t be long before he stopped providing the pro quo.

  I told him what I’d learned from Chester about Nora and Cal. “The thing is … she’s married.”

  “That adds a lump of coal in the stocking, doesn’t it? Maybe her husband killed Cal.”

  “I don’t know anything about Nora’s husband, except that he works in construction and his name is Kevin Burke.”

  “I’ll find out. What do you know about her?”

  I filled him in about what little I’d gleaned, and he said, “Talk soon,” and hung up.

  I still owed Wes, but I was catching up.

  I turned back toward Anita. She was sitting at her desk. The couple sat across from her in matching Louis XVI eighteenth-century-style chairs. She placed a book of design options—an idea book—on the desk, facing them, and they began flipping pages, pausing occasionally to comment on various design styles. Anita sat, listening, gathering data for her custom design. I walked toward her, staying far enough away so my approach wouldn’t feel intrusive, but not so distant that she wouldn’t notice me.

  Anita spotted me, smiled, said something to her clients, and stood to greet me.

  “Josie, it’s so good to see you.”

  “And you, Anita. I’m sorry to bother you. I see you’re with clients, so I’ll only take a minute. I’m hoping you can help me with an appraisal I’m working on—a print from Hiroshige’s ‘One Hundred Famous Views of Edo.’ Have you sold any in the last few months?”

  “Josie, you know how much I respect and admire you, but we don’t share sales data.”

  “Let me ask you this—did you ever meet Mo Shannon?”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “You must have read about her murder. Or heard about it.”

  “I don’t follow the news. I get too upset.”

  “I understand, and I’m sorry to have to mention it, but Mo Shannon was a friend of mine. Shortly before she was killed, she bought what is purported to be an original Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill. She asked me to appraise it. She acquired it through a private sale facilitated by a man named Cal Lewis.”

  Anita’s brows drew together. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “How about Nora Burke?”

  “I’m sorry. No.”

  “But you sold one, didn’t you?”

  She met my eyes for a moment. “It’s true that we acquired a portfolio of ‘One Hundred Famous Views of Edo.’ Several images have sold. I’d have to research whether that was one of them.”

  “Is there any way you can look it up now?”

  She glanced at the couple. They were chatting softly.

  “I’m sorry, Josie, but I can’t. I need to get back to them.”

  I lowered my eyes to the time display on my phone. Ty was waiting for me. My impatience would have to be contained. I asked if I could come back at ten tomorrow morning for the answer, and she agreed. I thanked her, and we shook on it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As soon as Ty turned onto Route 1B, he asked, “Do you really like the idea of holding our wedding reception in a tent?”

  “It’ll be a really nice tent.”

  “I was thinking of something more elegant.”

  “We can make the tent elegant, lots of candles and fancy china.”
r />   “Okay, then.”

  “Then on Sunday, we can change out the decorations and have a hoedown, you know, country music and a barbecue, a brunch kind of thing for out-of-towners and our closest friends. We could schedule it for eleven, so people who needed to leave by two or three would still have time to party.”

  “I like it. We’ll have a grand affair to mark the propitious occasion of our marriage, then go back to our jeans and country-dancing roots.”

  “Yee-haw.”

  “We have one more major decision—where do you want to go for our honeymoon? I was thinking Paris.”

  “I want somewhere quiet, where I can just gel. How about St. John?”

  Ty began laughing.

  I joined in, cackling until my sides hurt. We laughed all the way across the bridge and didn’t stop until the sprawling resort appeared in the distance.

  “Now what?” I asked when I could talk again.

  Ty touched my hand. “We’ll figure it out.”

  As our hilarity faded away, I felt a twinge of guilt. How could I be laughing with Mo so recently dead? Because life goes on, I told myself. Because one event has nothing to do with the other. Because I could feel Mo laughing with me.

  * * *

  The Wentworth event planner, Sarah Collins, met us in the lobby. She was effervescent.

  Her smile was bright and constant. She chatted about everything with ease in one long run-on sentence.

  “Follow me … I checked availability, and we have one suite available the days you’re looking for … I’ll take you through the lobby so you can have the full experience. I’m so glad it worked out that I could meet you today … Did you notice the grounds? Don’t you love autumn in New England? The colors … although I love lobster and steamers … I was just thinking that I’m in the mood for some … the chef here does a wonderful thing with steamers … his secret is garlic and vermouth. So here we are!”

  The hotel had been restored to its former glory, and it truly was spectacular. High ceilings with plenty of gilt, huge crystal chandeliers, and cushy rugs. The Eastern Turret Flag Officer’s Suite had a double shower, a whirlpool tub, and a fireplace in case the nights got chilly.

  We booked it for three nights, starting on our wedding day, Thursday the twenty-first.

  * * *

  “It’s only six thirty,” I said. “How about dropping me at home so I can pick up my car? If you don’t mind doing a grocery run, I can do a last-minute check at the office. I should be home by seven fifteen or so.”