Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Thank you—all of you,” I said, walking closer.

  Gretchen turned at my voice. Her eyes radiated concern. “Are you all right?”

  I patted her arm. “I’m fine. Thanks for taking care of everything.”

  I picked my way to the display case at the end of the room. The damage wasn’t as severe as I’d feared. The wood was as Eric described, and only two panes of glass in the display case had shattered. The only rooster that had been broken was a no-name vintage cartoony-looking one I’d bought a year earlier because I’d thought it was cute, but I had no emotional attachment to it. A wooden one had also fallen to the ground, but it wasn’t even chipped or cracked.

  I squatted and reached into the back of the bottom shelf where I secreted the most valuable of the roosters—my mother’s favorites. Her first acquisition, a yellow-and-red ceramic beauty, was among my most cherished possessions. I stroked the rooster’s breast and felt my mother’s love.

  I eased it back into place, then stood and turned around. Ellis and the tech were talking in a low voice. Eric was gathering up his tools. Ty nodded at something Gretchen said. Fatigue weighed down on me. The crisis had passed, and I’d coped well, as always. Gretchen said something to me about covering for me in the morning, and I nodded. People left. After placing Mo’s print in the walk-in safe, which Gretchen had offered to do, but which I insisted on doing myself, Ty and I left, too.

  Russ semisaluted as we drove toward the exit. I nodded, acknowledging the gesture. I looked to the left, the fast way home. The road was blocked. The utility people didn’t seem to have made much progress. Fluorescent orange wooden horses blocked the road. SOUTHERN NEW HAMPSHIRE ELECTRIC was stenciled on the crossbeams in navy blue. Two utility vans sat across the road. Spotlights mounted on the vans’ roofs illuminated the road like day. A police cruiser, its rooftop red light spinning, blocked the other side. Ellis’s SUV sat nearby. A long, thin, knobby branch lay in the center of the road amid downed wires. The limb was silky gray and spotted with moss. Two men wearing company-branded windbreakers and hard hats stood on the leaf-covered shoulder talking with Ellis.

  I dug around in my tote bag for my phone. “Stop for a sec.”

  He did so, and I jumped out. I walked in front of the SUV and shot a video, panning slowly left to right. I touched the STOP button, then took a few still photos of the men, the vehicles, and the log. I tapped through the options to upload the video and photos to the cloud.

  “How come?” Ty asked when I was back in the car.

  “Posterity. Trust no one. My dad was a skeptical man, and he taught me well.”

  “What caught your eye?”

  “Ellis said he had to jog through the woods because the branch was in the road, tangled in downed wires. That was two hours ago.”

  “And you wonder why it’s still there.”

  Ty pulled out, turning right, the long way around.

  I closed my eyes and leaned back. I was exhausted, to-my-bones weary.

  * * *

  As soon as we got home, I put on my bathing suit, ready for food, drink, and a long soak in my newly installed hot tub. As I shrugged into my heavy red cotton to-the-ankle bathrobe, a cover-up selected more for warmth than glamour, Wes called. I let it go to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. Instead he texted: Your break-in is tomorrow’s lead. Call me. Or text answers: Is it connected to Mo’s murder? Was your security sloppy? Any comments?

  I went downstairs and poured myself a martini from the shaker in the fridge, took a sip, and texted back: I’m fine, thanks. No, my security wasn’t sloppy. You may quote me as follows: “No one was hurt. Nothing was stolen. The police and my alarm company responded within minutes, and I’m very grateful.”

  He called again, almost immediately, and this time he did leave a message.

  “Josie,” he said, his tone both aggrieved and impatient, “you didn’t respond to my question about a possible connection to Mo’s murder. I have a source saying the intruder never left your office, that he had expected Mo’s woodblock print to be there. Is that true? And what about your generator? Why didn’t it start up when the electricity went off? Also, my source says that the thief didn’t tape the window when he broke it, so it shattered, and there was glass everywhere. Confirm it for me, okay? Broken glass everywhere—I love it! That’s a great image! Send me a photo!”

  Gretchen, I thought. Eric would never talk to a reporter. He was too shy and too scared of making a mistake. Gretchen was effusive and chatty by nature. It wouldn’t occur to her to withhold facts.

  I texted back: I have no reason to think Mo’s print was involved, and if you write that there is a connection, you’re likely to have to print a retraction. Re: generator—no comment. I can confirm that there was glass everywhere. No photos available.

  An hour later, after I’d finished my martini and decimated a bowl of Zoë’s minestrone soup and a gooey grilled cheese sandwich, I was snuggling up to Ty in the hot tub. I rested my head against his chest, and as the steamy water bubbled against my back and neck, I felt myself relax for the first time since I’d heard that metallic scraping hours and hours ago.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I woke before the alarm went off, momentarily confused about where I was. I sat up, clenching the sheet to my chin. The green luminous dial on the old-style alarm clock next to my bed, a relic from my childhood, read 5:52. I heard water running downstairs. Ty was making coffee.

  “Hey,” I said as I stepped into the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sunshine! I’m going to make you banana pancakes.”

  “You’re a man for the ages. Want to marry me?”

  “Too late. The girl of my dreams has already got me latched down.”

  I poured us glasses of orange juice and slid onto the bench on the window side of my farm-style kitchen table. I fluffed up two of the orange-and-blue-plaid pillows and leaned back into the corner, stretching out my legs.

  Ty began pulling ingredients from the cupboard. “How are you feeling?”

  Billowy clouds floated in a cerulean sky. I touched the window. The glass was cold. September mornings often started with a shuddering chill.

  “Angry. Frustrated. Confused.”

  “Because of the break-in?”

  “Did Cal really think we wouldn’t figure out that he was behind the theft? He must think I’m a fool.”

  “He doesn’t think you’re a fool. He thinks you’re naïve and gullible.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ty smiled as he delivered a cup of coffee.

  “What a man.”

  “Just because I poured you a cup of coffee? Talk about a cheap date.”

  “Does Cal think Chester is naïve and gullible, too? That he could skip out on a six-figure debt and Chester would simply let it go?”

  “Maybe he still plans to pay. Didn’t you tell me that Chester let him settle his losses over time before?”

  “Only because Cal had a viable plan to sell Japanese woodblock prints.”

  “From what I can tell, Cal’s a narcissist, and narcissists have seriously inflated ideas of their own capabilities and importance.”

  A bantering comment died on my lips as a stunning realization startled me into silence. Chester said Cal sold Japanese prints. Plural. I needed to ask Anita about all sales of prints from One Hundred Famous Views of Edo, not only Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill. If I was right, I might be able to find a shop or gallery offering one in the same stellar condition as Mo’s and learn the source. If it was Cal, they might have contact information that would lead us to him, especially if they were repeat customers. It was also possible I could find his ad. He might even have one running now. If so, I could respond to it, pretending to be a collector. The clock mounted above the refrigerator read 6:10. I had nearly four hours to wait before my appointment with Anita.

  “How long until pancakes?” I asked.

  “About an hour, probably. The batter has to rest.”

  “I’m going to d
o some research.”

  I hurried into my study and brought up the Seacoast Star’s website. Wes’s article read:

  Break-in at Prescott’s

  Police Investigate a Possible Connection to Mo Shannon’s Murder

  An unknown intruder shattered Prescott’s Antiques & Auctions’ mezzanine-level office window at 7:02 p.m. yesterday, according to Russ Barstow, account manager at King Security Corporation (KSC). Josie Prescott, Prescott’s owner, was in her private office at the time, but managed to avoid detection. “No one was hurt,” Ms. Prescott stated. “Nothing was stolen. The police and my security company responded within minutes.” A Prescott’s staff member who saw the office after the break-in described it as horrific. “There was glass everywhere.”

  Southern New Hampshire Electric reports that a downed wire on Ellerton Street, which runs directly in front of Prescott’s, caused a widespread loss of electricity, starting at 6:53 p.m. Prescott’s was among the nearly 1,000 users who lost service. All service was restored by midnight. When asked why Prescott’s generator didn’t work, both Prescott and Barstow refused to comment.

  A Japanese woodblock print by the celebrated artist Utagawa Hiroshige, titled Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill, which had been owned by murder victim Mo Shannon, was on display in Josie Prescott’s private office prior to the break-in. A police source has confirmed that the print, which is valued at more than $25,000, is safe and undamaged.

  The police don’t know whether the intruder was after that print in particular, but they are working on the assumption that there might be a connection between Mo Shannon’s murder and the break-in. “We’re pursuing multiple lines of investigation,” Rocky Point Police Chief Ellis Hunter said. “It’s premature to announce a connection that might not exist.”

  Anyone with information about Mo Shannon’s murder, the downed wire, the nonworking generator, or the break-in at Prescott’s Antiques & Auctions is asked to call the police at 603–555–3900.

  I emailed my entire staff:

  Hi All,

  If you’ve seen today’s Seacoast Star, you know that Wes is quoting someone on our staff. If you’re Wes’s source, please let this be the last time you speak to him on or off the record. Please don’t speak about Prescott’s business to him, or to any reporter—or anyone—without talking to me first. No harm has been done here, but I want us all to remain tight-lipped. Remember the old navy adage: Loose lips sink ships.

  Thanks,

  Josie

  I shut my eyes for a moment. Running a business was so complicated. I shook off the momentary apprehension that threatened to distract me, opened my eyes, and got back to work.

  I Googled “Buy original 100 Famous Views of Edo print” and got more than 300,000 hits. I went through the first three pages of listings. Despite my search criterion specifying an “original,” every one was a repro.

  I visited the three largest art auction sites but found no ads for original Hiroshige prints.

  I navigated my way to all ten of Antiques Insights’ most recent “Best of Asian Art” dealers, auction houses, and galleries. I thought I was onto something when I read the promotional copy from a gallery in Zurich offering a near-perfect print, but it was a false alarm. Their “near-perfect” wasn’t even close to the vibrant colors found in Mo’s print.

  I slapped my chair arm, frustrated.

  Dealer-to-dealer sales were, universally, the largest component of the antiques market, yet evidently, Cal hadn’t gone in that direction. Why not? Probably because he figured he had a better chance of pulling the wool over an amateur collector’s eyes than he would a professional dealer, and he wouldn’t have to offer any discounts. That made sense.

  If I wanted to sell an original Hiroshige for top dollar, I’d advertise on Antiques Insights’ website. It was expensive, but it was worth it. I opened their search box and asked for an original Hiroshige print. Nothing was available.

  I frowned at my monitor, racking my brain for additional alternatives.

  It was possible, although unlikely, since I doubted Cal wanted the world to know about his side business, that he had created a website to sell prints directly to consumers. I typed his name into Google. All the listings were connected to his faculty page at Hitchens and his staff listing at the museum. He did, in fact, have a website, but it was simply a shell, a profile of him and a list of his published writing, with links to Hitchens and the museum.

  I was missing something. I leaned back and shut my eyes, thinking.

  Could Cal have promoted the offering to collectors of Japanese prints, maybe by sending an email to the Langdon Art Museum’s house list? Since he was the assistant director, it was reasonable to assume he had access to that list.

  I could call the museum director on Monday or even email him now. Lots of people checked their work emails over the weekend. I decided to hold off. I couldn’t think of a way to pose the question without risking damaging Cal’s reputation, and no way would I do that on spec. Maybe I wouldn’t have to wait, though. Ellis might know the answer now. I emailed him and asked if in the police search of Cal’s various email accounts they found any record of a sale of a Japanese woodblock print, or a negotiation, or even an inquiry. I also asked if they’d checked with the museum about whether Cal had sent a mailing to its list offering a print for sale.

  I stared at my monitor, thinking. Had Chester used the plural “prints” as a figure of speech or a slip of the tongue? Maybe the sale to Mo had been Cal’s one and only deal. No. Chester was clear—Cal had spoken about avoiding flooding the market, which meant Cal had more than one print to sell. If I were Cal, how would I go about selling one or more additional prints without making waves, while still maximizing my take?

  I remembered Mo’s exhilaration at acquiring her print. If a year later Cal approached her saying he’d found another print from the One Hundred Famous Views of Edo series, she would have snapped it up. Cal didn’t need to advertise if he could go back to satisfied customers.

  Assuming he had some, how could I locate them?

  I searched Antiques Insights’ archives and found that fourteen prints from the One Hundred Famous Views of Edo series had sold during the last year. I scrolled through the list. Only two were described as originals in perfect condition. New Fuji Meguro, number 24, sold in January. The seller was a California gallery. The buyer, who paid $22,750, lived in New Mexico. The second one, Benten Shrine, Inokashira Pond, number 87, sold in late June. Both the seller’s and buyer’s names had been redacted. Typically, galleries and antiques dealers wanted their names to show—it was good for business. Individual sellers and collectors usually did not. Sometimes they were trying to avoid the tax man. Other times they didn’t want to alert thieves to where they could find valuable art. The sales price was listed at $24,000.

  I had a contact at Antiques Insights, Cormac McKenna, known as Mac, who could look up the redacted information, and if I came up with a good enough story, he might pass along the name, but he wouldn’t be at work on a Saturday. Still, it couldn’t do any harm to email him. Mac might be one of those people who stayed connected to his work email 24/7.

  I drafted a subject line that I hoped would get my email read right away:

  Urgent. “Benten Shrine, Inokashira Pond,” #87

  For the text, I wrote:

  Hi Mac,

  I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend, but I’m investigating a potential fraud case. It’s urgent that I know who sold the print “Benten Shrine, Inokashira Pond,” #87 listed in your archives.

  Thank you,

  Josie

  I reread it, my finger hovering over the SEND button, fretting that Mac would hesitate to respond to what might be a police matter. Then I realized I had no reason to think he would shy away from doing the right thing any more than I would, and sent the email on its way.

  I opened a new document and began writing my own ad. After several false starts, I ended up with Wanted: Any original print from Utagawa Hiro
shige’s “100 Famous Views of Edo.” Must be original in perfect condition. Will pay top dollar. I created a new Gmail account, using “HiroshigeFan” and some numbers as my name. I also opened a new Antiques Insights account. Before posting my ad, though, I needed a phone.

  I called Shelley, in New York City.

  “’lo.”

  “Shelley? It’s Josie.”

  “God, Joz. What time is it?”

  I glanced at my monitor. It read 6:50. “Oh, Shelley, it’s ten to seven. I’m so sorry.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Have you gone insane?”

  “I need a favor. I didn’t even look at the clock.”

  “You’ve got to get out of New Hampshire, Josie. It’s not healthy to be up this early.”

  I laughed. “Early birds catch worms, Shelley. That’s me, an early bird.”

  She groaned. “Go away, Josie. You just called me a worm. I was out dancing until four. Call again at noon. Or better yet, one.”

  “That’s definitely something I miss about New York. Dancing till four. Where’d you go?”

  “Same old, same old. We started at the Flamingo, then went to the Roadhouse.”

  “Big band, then country. You’ve got to come up here sometime, Shelley. We have a fabulous country-dancing joint, twice as big as the Roadhouse. The Diamond Cowboy.”

  “You’re such a card. Can I go now?”

  “It’s urgent. I need a phone. A throwaway with a New York City area code. I’m hoping you’ll buy it for me and send it overnight. Use the post office—they deliver on Sundays.”

  “Okay. Good night.”

  “The post office closes at one. I’ll send you a text to remind you.”

  “Come for brunch. You can buy it yourself.”

  “I wish I could. You come for brunch. You can bring the phone with you.”

  She laughed and hung up.

  Shelley was a peach, and I missed her. I sent the text summarizing my request, adding that our next brunch was on me, then, with my ad on hold until I had the phone number, I thought about what I should do next. I might not be able to post my ad, but I could prepare for my talk with Anita.