Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Why don’t I just drop you at work and pick you up after I’m done shopping?” Ty asked.

  “Even better!”

  “Any chance you’ll make grilled chicken, with your mom’s special barbecue sauce?”

  The sauce was dark and rich, tangy, and sweet, and spicy hot.

  “That’ll work if you don’t mind a late dinner. I have some of the sauce stashed in the freezer. The chicken only needs half an hour to marinate, then boom, it’s on the grill.”

  He said he’d get us a nibble as a starter and dropped me at Prescott’s front door.

  Everyone had left for the day, and the building was dark, except for the night-lights, low-wattage ceiling lamps inside and harsh white lighting aimed at the front door and loading dock.

  I stepped into the office, entered the code to turn off the alarm, and pushed open the heavy door to the warehouse. Motion sensors activated a few overhead lights, throwing eerie shadows along the cement floor and shelving. It wasn’t bright enough to see much detail, but it was more than adequate to find your way to wall switches for additional lighting if you wanted.

  Upstairs, I checked my email. Wes had sent instructions for completing his justice-of-the-peace reference. I agreed with Maggie that Wes would be terrific at taking depositions. The directions said it would take eight to ten weeks for a decision. I did the math. Wes would hear right around Thanksgiving. I was certain he’d be approved, which meant there’d be something else to be thankful for this year. I completed the form and wrote two paragraphs in the comments section stating that I’d known Wes for a dozen years and that he was detail-oriented, hardworking, and ethical. I sent him a copy and submitted the form.

  I’d hoped to find a good-news email from Fred telling me he’d tracked another one of the 1930 Martin guitars, but he hadn’t written anything. There was nothing from Sasha about Mo’s print, either. No one knew better than I did that appraisals took however long they took, and that there was no way to rush the process, but that didn’t mean I had to like it. I checked my voice mail. Gertie Joan hadn’t called back from Mississippi. Sometimes no news represented good news. Nothing bad had happened, or a bad situation hadn’t gotten worse. This was not one of those times. I swiveled to face my window, suppressing my impatience. The sky shone with a soft pink blush as the sun sank below the trees and the autumn-ripe foliage trembled and glimmered in the breeze. As I sat there, twilight faded to dusk.

  I brought up the notes I’d scribbled for Mo’s eulogy and typed my remarks like a script. I read it to myself, then read it aloud, making eye contact with Mo’s print as if it represented the congregation, tweaking it both times. I read it aloud again. It was good. I printed it and turned off my computer. Positioning Mo’s woodblock print in clear sight of my desk had served its purpose, helping me connect with her. I was ready to deliver my eulogy, which meant the print could go back to the safe. I switched off my desk lamp, but there was enough light filtering in from the outside lamps and the warehouse night-lights for me to unearth a protective cover, essentially an acid-free, oversized padded envelope, from the supply closet behind my desk and make my way to the easel. I found the gloves I’d placed behind the print, put them on, slipped the print into the envelope, and removed the gloves.

  I was three steps from the exit when a close-by clunk, metal on metal, made me jump and spin around. It was loud, too loud to be from the street, the sound floating in the air. I tiptoed to the outside wall, staying clear of the window, and listened carefully. With the window closed and the ventilation system humming, I barely heard the evening sounds, and no traffic, yet I was certain I hadn’t imagined the grating thump.

  I sidestepped to the left of the window and peered into the night. Bright white light emanating from the rear, where the loading dock was located, illuminated a slice of parking lot on my side of the building. Between that and the rising moon, I was able to see an acorn skitter across the asphalt and a few leaves sweep by, but nothing else. I edged forward to peek the other way, but it was so dark I couldn’t even make out shapes. A truck rolling by on Ellerton had hit a rock or a branch, and the cargo, pipes, maybe, crashed into one another. That was as logical a conclusion as any.

  I was halfway across the room when the lights flickered, then went out.

  “Whoa!”

  I was standing in total darkness. I waited for the generator to kick in. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. It never took longer than half a minute for the generator to spring into action.

  Another metallic clank, this one louder, followed by a sharp, metallic grinding, a sustained metal-on-metal rasping. A metal ladder. Someone had perched a ladder against the wall leading to my office. They’d cut the electricity and sabotaged the generator.

  It wasn’t even seven o’clock. Why would someone break in so early?

  Scuffing, the sound heavy boots make on metal.

  Think.

  I could probably make it downstairs before they got in, but then what? When the electricity went off, the doors to the high-end auction venue, tag sale room, loading dock, front office, and safe latched automatically, a fail-safe redundancy. The good news was that the alarm company would be automatically notified. A real person would contact me via office phone and cell within a minute, hoping to hear our safe word. We’d have a good chuckle at the random power outage. If I didn’t pick up or they didn’t hear the word, they’d alert the police that someone was burglarizing Prescott’s, or that we were otherwise under attack.

  Another sound, this one more a clomp than a scuff. The intruder was closing in.

  The phone rang. It went immediately to voice mail, our night message. My cell would vibrate momentarily. It did so, and a soft light emanated from my tote bag, resting on my desk.

  I needed to do something. Go downstairs or stay. Hide or fight. With the doors locked, if I went downstairs, I’d be trapped, a sitting duck. I owned a gun, a Browning 9 mm pistol, and I was a good shot, but it was at home, in my bedside table, so it did me no good here.

  Still holding the print, I scooted across the room, grasped my tote bag, dropped to my knees, and crawled under my desk. I positioned the covered print against the modesty panel, centering it so it blocked the view under part of the middle section. If the intruder looked down, he’d see what appeared to be a to-the-floor modesty panel with tapered openings on the sides, not a woman’s foot. I felt around in my bag for my phone, saw I had voice mail from the alarm company, and texted 9-1-1: Break in @ Prescott’s. My office. Help.

  Glass shattered, and the thunderous roar was so loud I ducked as if the fusillade were directly overhead. It took all my self-control not to shriek.

  My phone! If it vibrated again, the intruder might hear it. I could turn it off, but I might need it. I tapped twice to stop the vibrating. Knowing that the screen would still illuminate, I poked it down to the bottom of my tote bag. I pulled my knees to my chin. My heart battered my ribs. My mouth was arid, and I kept swallowing to fight the urge to cough.

  More glass broke, tinkling this time. I pictured little pieces falling to the floor, landing on top of one another.

  I opened my eyes and took a breath.

  It was happening, and it was happening now.

  White light shone below the parts of the modesty panel that remained open. A flashlight. More crackling of glass, followed by a heavy thud. The intruder had stepped or fallen over the sill and landed hard. Footsteps crackled until they were at the bathroom door. I scrunched in closer to the modesty panel, trying to make myself invisible, terrified that as the person moved around the light would fall on me.

  I peeked.

  Someone tall, a man, I guessed, dressed all in black, wearing a ski mask and gloves, stood at the threshold to the bathroom, observing. He stepped back and aimed his light at the open door that led to the spiral staircase, pausing for a moment, perhaps to listen. He walked past the seating area to the far end of the office.

  “What the—?” he m
uttered.

  I didn’t recognize the voice, but who could from a two-word whisper? I was still pretty sure it was a man, but it could have been a woman with a deep voice.

  Wood from my rooster-collection display case cracked. Something tumbled to the ground, porcelain or glass, and shattered. Tears spilled onto my cheeks, and I bit my bottom lip to keep myself from crying out. My rooster collection had started as my mother’s rooster collection. If he’d broken one of my mother’s roosters, I’d kill him. I’d hunt him down and kill him. I sat hunched over, weak and feckless, weeping silently into my thighs. I told myself to stop crying, to toughen up, to think. I used the sides of my hands to wipe away my tears.

  A siren’s squeal broke into my futile thoughts. Finally, the cavalry was on its way.

  The air grew still, then loud again as the intruder bolted across the shards of glass to the window, an oscillating stream of light marking his path. A moment later, the light went out. I heard his feet hit the ladder, followed by his pounding retreat. Ten seconds later, there was one last cacophony of metal crashing into metal and dragging along asphalt, then utter silence.

  I held my breath and listened.

  Within seconds, my brain registered the chirr of katydids and crickets, and I exhaled. I didn’t move. I didn’t trust that it was over. A brisk wind chilled me, but still I didn’t move.

  Cal, whose hobby was rock climbing, had come for the print. It had to be Cal. Nora, his lover, told him the print was in my office, and he came for it. Or Trish mentioned to Lydia. Maybe it was Trish herself. She knew it was on display, too. Trish was tall for a woman, a world-class athlete. Even in her sixties, she’d easily be able to climb a ladder and hop a windowsill. But she had no reason to steal the print. Steve did. Steve, who was, according to Lydia, always short of money. He was an athlete, too. He’d seen it just the other day.

  I scrambled out from under the desk and stood with my back to the wall, clutching the print to my chest. The darkness was deep and frightening, and there was nothing I could do but wait.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “It looks like a branch fell on a wire,” Ellis said, “knocking out the electricity.”

  “My generator didn’t work.”

  “Someone cut the connection.”

  We sat on stools on the landing outside my office. The techs had been inside for about twenty minutes. I was hungry and tired and irritable.

  “You’re saying this was deliberate sabotage?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So the loss of power was a coincidence? Doesn’t that seem hard to believe?”

  “Not necessarily. Think it through. How long was the intruder inside?”

  “It’s hard to say. It seemed to last forever, but it was probably only two or three minutes.”

  “Which means he didn’t need the electricity to go off. Our normal reaction time to a call from your security company would be seven to eight minutes. Still, it’s a question worth asking, because while the electricity zapping out probably was just a lucky break for him, it did delay our reaction time by about an additional five minutes. The tree branch was lying in the middle of the road, tangled in the downed wires.”

  “How did you get past it?”

  “The guys from your security company were ahead of us, and I followed their lead. We left our vehicles on the side of the road and jogged in. What are the chances that it was an inside job?”

  “Zero.”

  “Your loyalty to your staff is admirable, Josie, but you know better than that. More than ninety percent of art heists are perpetrated by someone who has the key or code or knows his way around the security system.”

  “No one used a key or security code.”

  “Still … with stats like this, I have to ask.”

  “My staff is not involved.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Someone after Mo’s print.”

  “Cal.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “So you think he’s around.”

  “Don’t you?”

  Ellis didn’t answer right away.

  I skewed around to see inside my office. Ty and Eric stood in front of the broken window. Ty held a sheet of plywood in place while Eric pounded nails. Gretchen leaned against my desk watching them work.

  Ellis’s phone rang, and he took the call. His end was mostly grunts.

  Gretchen was number two on the alarm company call list. When I hadn’t responded to their calls and texts, they’d called her, and she whipped into action, activating our emergency plan with calm confidence. She called Ty and Ellis to let them know I wasn’t responding. She called Sasha, Fred, Eric, and Cara to tell them to stand by for further instructions. She drove to the office to ensure the security company and police were on scene, and she sent me a text saying: I’m here.

  During the time that Ellis had been consulting with the forensic team, Eric had called Floyd, our glazier. He left a message, and Floyd had called back, promising to be here by nine in the morning to replace the glass in the window and in my display cabinet. Eric assured me he could do the carpentry repairs himself, that the display cabinet hadn’t splintered, that only one side panel had broken.

  I’d arranged with Russ, our security company’s account manager, to station security officers in the parking lot all night, some sitting in cars, others walking the perimeter. I doubted such vigilance was needed, but I’d sleep better knowing the place was secure. He’d already sent over the security camera footage. No one was visible from any of the camera angles. We’d placed cameras to take in all outside access doors and the loading dock, but nothing else. Rocky Point was not a high-crime zone.

  My phone vibrated. It was a text from Zoë. She wrote: Are you ok? Hurry home. Soup is simmering. I texted back: I accept!

  I closed my eyes and let a picture of the outside of my building and the surrounding area come into my consciousness.

  The generator was housed in a metal shed positioned on a concrete slab on the side of the building farthest from the Congregational church. We’d laid asphalt from the back parking lot to a six-foot-high fieldstone wall that separated the entry to the tag sale from the back. On the rear side of the wall, the unadorned blacktop allowed us access to the shed. On the front side, a flagstone path led from the front parking lot to the tag sale venue door. I’d had the wall built for aesthetic reasons, not for security. An unintended consequence was that anyone working on the generator wouldn’t be seen from the front. It simply hadn’t occurred to me that someone might sabotage the generator or break into my mezzanine-level office.

  A muscle on the side of my neck twitched, and when I realized I was clenching my teeth, I opened my mouth wide. My jaw would be sore in the morning. The intruder had planned the attack carefully. I’d been scared. Now I was angry, but there was no one to be angry at. The best antidote to impotent rage was action. I emailed Gretchen:

  This may be a case of closing the barn door after the horse escapes, but let’s get bids on adding additional security cameras so we see everything, a 360 view of the building, parking lot, and grounds.

  “Maybe,” Ellis said, tapping the END CALL button.

  I spun back to face him. “Maybe what?”

  “You asked if I thought Cal was around. Maybe. How could he have known that the print was in plain sight?”

  “Trish might have mentioned it to Lydia. Lydia might have told him.”

  “You think Lydia is in touch with Cal?”

  “I think it’s possible. She loves him.”

  “She insists she hasn’t heard from him since the morning of the day Mo was killed.”

  “Either she’s telling the truth or she’s lying to protect him. If she’s in touch with him, I doubt she would have fessed up. She probably thinks he’s being railroaded.”

  “How else could he have found out?”

  “Nora Burke.”

  “How is she involved?”

  “I hate to gossip.”

  “Tel
ling the truth to a police officer during an investigation isn’t gossip.”

  “I told you about the Colonial Twist. Did you talk to Chester about Cal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Nora’s name come up?”

  “Come on, Josie. Tell me what you know.”

  “You’re right. Nora went to the Colonial Club with Cal. Chester got the vibe that they were more than mere friends. Nora is married.” I gave him her address.

  “Who else besides your full-time staff, Nora, and Trish knew the print was on display in your office?”

  “Steve.” I explained the circumstances of his visit.

  “How about regular people? You know, the folks you do business with on a daily basis who might have been in your office while the print was in plain sight.”

  “Like who?”

  “Your accountant.”

  “No.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “No. Just Davy, our guitar expert. No one else.”

  “Ty?”

  My hackles rose. “No.”

  “A salesman.”

  “No.”

  “A customer.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you want new hardwood and Eric brought up the guy to measure the space.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He stood up and shook out his pant leg. “I have enough for now. Let’s plan on talking in the morning.”

  “I’ll be here around eight thirty, or earlier.”

  Ellis walked into the office to talk to the last remaining crime scene tech. I followed along. Russ leaned against the back wall, ready to escort Ellis and the tech out. No one, not even a police chief conducting an official investigation, was allowed in the warehouse unescorted. I stood just inside the door watching as Ty and Eric finished boarding up the window.

  Ty stepped back to assess Eric’s handiwork. “Good job, Eric.”

  Eric flushed, embarrassed at the praise. “It’s okay, I guess.”