Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Players—plural. Someone besides Robert Johnson has played it, or is now.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t say.”

  “When will you know if it’s genuine?”

  “Soon, I hope. We’re working with a New York–based expert. I expect to hear from him any day.”

  We walked across the warehouse.

  “Will you be able to learn how Robert Johnson acquired it?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, but that missing link shouldn’t hurt the value. People don’t always keep receipts, and if they do, it’s not unusual that they get lost over the generations. Life isn’t a business, after all.”

  I pushed open the heavy door to the front office.

  “Will you let me know its value when you determine it?”

  “I can’t. The current owner has only asked me to appraise it, not sell it, and appraisals are confidential.”

  “I understand.”

  Dr. Sanford offered her hand for a final handshake, and her grip was firm.

  * * *

  I placed the copies of Estelle Dowler’s documents on the guest table. While I waited for Fred to finish a phone call, I swiveled to face the window. A gust of wind whipped through the fallen leaves, funneling them up as if they were caught in a twister, then, moments later, releasing them, and they twirled to the ground like confetti. I should begin thinking about the wedding. There were so many details, from designing invitations and selecting the music to identifying a theme and choosing the caterer. I had catalogue copy to review, too, and Matt Janson’s business plan to study. I didn’t want to do any of that. I didn’t want to do anything. I was on edge. Don’t think—do. My dad repeated that admonition a thousand times in the months after my mother’s death when I was rudderless, and later when I was in college and overwhelmed. Action might not cure anxiety, he said, but it sure helps manage it.

  Fred hung up. “That was Davy.”

  “From your eyes, I can tell you have news.”

  He grinned. “We’ve got ourselves a real-deal 1930 Martin OM-45 Deluxe guitar.”

  “Hot diggity!”

  He leaned back, a happy man. “Super hot diggity!”

  I pointed to the papers on the table. “Dr. Sanford gave me copies of documents that validate the claim that the guitar was owned by Robert Johnson just before his death.”

  His eyes fired up. “This might really be something.”

  I held up crossed fingers. “Any leads you’re still following?”

  “No. I’ve verified eight extant guitars, and that’s as far as I think we’ll be able to get. I primed every pump I could find.”

  “Eight of fourteen … that’s like a sixty percent success rate, Fred. Unbelievable.”

  He grinned again, more broadly this time. “Why are you surprised?”

  I laughed. “I’m not. I’m awed.”

  I asked Fred to research whether Cloister Studio kept any records about Johnson’s visit, specifically whether he’d brought his own guitar to the photo shoot or used one they had on hand, like a theater prop. If he’d brought the guitar with him, it would go a long way to showing that he’d actually owned it. The odds that Cloister retained records that detailed were remote, but we had to check.

  The phone rang. Trish was on line one.

  Trish sounded agitated. “May I come to talk to you? It’s urgent.”

  I told her yes and gathered the documents related to her husband’s private appraisal into a pile and handed them over to Fred for safekeeping. He placed them in a drawer, out of sight.

  * * *

  Trish didn’t want to go to my private office.

  “Can we step outside instead? It’s so lovely out.”

  “Sure.” I grabbed my jacket.

  I led the way to the bench over by the tag sale venue.

  Trish sat with her knees together, her back board-straight, and her eyes fixed on the distant woods. Sunlight touched her silver hair, setting it aglow like a halo. I sat at an angle, my right thigh resting on the seat. Her expression was austere, her jaw set, her neck muscles rope-tight.

  “Thank you for seeing me with no notice. I needed to talk to you. I need to explain.” She met my eyes. “Frank and I have agreed to a policy of no secrets. Never again will we keep things from one another. Not to protect ourselves. Not to shield Lydia. Never.” After a few seconds, Trish asked, “Do you have some good news for us about Frank’s guitar?”

  Frank told me he didn’t want Trish to know about the appraisal, that he didn’t want anyone to know. If he’d changed his mind about keeping secrets, he hadn’t told me. For all I knew, Trish had found the receipt and was trying to suss out information behind his back.

  “I’m sorry, Trish. I can’t comment. All appraisals are confidential. I can’t even reveal whether we’re conducting one or not.”

  “Really?” I didn’t respond, so she added, “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. We’re leaving New Hampshire. I can’t stay in that house. I haven’t slept since Mo died. I doze a little, then jerk awake. Frank doesn’t even try. He sits in his studio all night, playing guitar or listening to music.”

  “I’m so sorry, Trish. Where are you going?”

  “Mountain climbing to start with. If we get tired enough, maybe we can sleep. We fly to Lucerne in a few days.”

  I wondered if Ellis knew they planned to leave the country. “Does Lydia go with you?”

  “No. I don’t know Lydia’s plans. She’s reeling. We all are, I suppose, but Lydia is less communicative than either of us. So much loss … truly, it’s almost too much to bear. You know that the police think Lydia might have killed Cal?”

  “I heard that, yes.”

  “She didn’t.” Trish studied her hands. “It’s absurd. Horrifying and absurd.” She raised her eyes and scanned the parking lot. “Well, then … you’re probably wondering why I’m here. Three reasons. First, I couldn’t leave without thanking you for Mo’s eulogy, for being such a good friend to her.”

  “I meant every word. Thank you for including me.”

  She patted my hand. “We’re putting all our furniture we want to keep and most of our clothes into storage. I’m hoping you’ll sell everything else, all the outdoor furniture, sports gear, and miscellaneous items, like pots and pans and so on, that sort of thing. Will you take it on?”

  “Of course. We can buy the objects outright or you can consign them.”

  “I don’t want to think about them again, so I’ll ask you to buy them outright.”

  “All right.”

  She paused for a moment. “The third thing I want to say … that I need to say … it’s my fault you were attacked at that social club.” She raised a hand to stop me from interrupting. “I drove Frank and Lydia to do some terrible things.” She paused again, this time for several seconds. “You need context to understand, to forgive me. I was worried about Frank’s gambling, so I put him on an allowance. Doesn’t that sound awful? This was years ago, before we were married even. His royalties and fees are deposited into a bank account that only I can access. He agreed, but still … I dole out money to him as if he were a child. I hate it, but I do it, because it’s the smart thing to do. It was a good system, and we’ve built some impressive holdings over the years, but the system broke down. He needed twenty thousand dollars, far more than his allowance, and he knew I’d demand an explanation before I gave it to him, and he also knew that if he told me the truth, I’d refuse.”

  She stopped talking, and after a moment, I asked, “Was it a gambling debt?”

  “No. Frank told me that he only plays a little nowadays, and that he never loses much. It wasn’t that. He couldn’t tell me because it was a secret. He’d promised Lydia he wouldn’t tell.”

  “Cal. It was Cal’s gambling debt.”

  “Yes … and Frank and Lydia were right—I wouldn’t have paid a nickel to help Cal.” Trish closed her eyes for a few seconds, then took in a deep breath and opened them. She turned toward me. “I’m asking for
your compassion, Josie. Cal owed more than sixty thousand dollars. Sixty thousand! Can you believe it? He lost it in one night at the Colonial Club. Lydia wanted to help him, but her trust is set up to provide periodic payments. She can’t touch the principal without my permission. She gave Cal forty thousand dollars, all the cash she had available and all the cash advances she could get on her credit cards.”

  “Lydia went to Frank for help.”

  “Never underestimate the devotion of a father to his daughter.”

  “What does Frank’s devotion have to do with my getting hurt?”

  “I own that building.”

  “But you didn’t hire those thugs.”

  “No, of course not. But I’ve been a hands-off owner. When the cat’s away the mice will play.”

  “Lydia runs the casino.”

  Trish closed her eyes for a moment. “How did you know?”

  “She mentioned she stopped in now and again. No one else would know that the space was available and the owner wouldn’t catch on.”

  “She started it as a fun surprise for Cal, a birthday present. A pop-up casino, she called it. Then it proved so popular, she let it continue.”

  “Did you know she let Cal stay there when he ran for it?”

  “No. I was outraged. I still am.” Trish stood. “The point is … I wanted to say … the attack happened in my building, under my watch, except I wasn’t watching, and I sincerely hope you weren’t hurt.”

  “Thank you. It could have been worse.” I stood, too. “Do the police know you’re leaving the country?”

  “Our lawyer plans to tell them today.”

  We walked to the parking lot.

  When we reached her car, she paused. “Can you come today? Now? To take everything away.”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  As soon as I stepped inside, Fred said, “Cloister Studio is long gone—they closed down in 1958. Their photo archives and business records are at the University of Texas, San Antonio. The librarian was helpful, but of no help. The photo Dr. Sanford gave you is the only one they have of Robert Johnson, and there are no relevant business records. That said, here’s my estimate of value.”

  He handed me a sheet of paper on which he’d written $500,000+.

  “This is a big number.”

  “And I’m being conservative.”

  “That’s great news. Get the instrument and the extra case ready for pickup or delivery.” I turned toward Gretchen. “Please call Frank Shannon and tell him his appraisal is ready. Ask him to stop by—or I can bring everything to him. I’m going to the Shannon house now. Trish wants to sell some things.” I faced Fred. “In fact, Fred, why don’t you come with me? Get Eric and a couple of other guys, too. Let’s take the truck and plenty of packing materials.” I turned back to Gretchen. “Don’t leave a message—speak only to Frank.” As Fred headed into the warehouse, I congratulated him on his thoroughness, then turned to Sasha. “Where are we with Mo’s print?”

  “Greyson Chemicals expects to finish their materials analysis by the end of business today.”

  “Good.”

  I sat at the guest table. Hank sauntered over, jumped into my lap, and curled up. The sounds of a normal workday combined with Hank’s soft purr soothed me.

  Gretchen hung up. “Frank isn’t home—I reached him on his cell. He says he’ll be here at three.”

  * * *

  Fred and I drove in my car. The part-timers rode with Eric in the truck. Fred and I video-recorded everything outside and in the shed, and the marked items inside, as per our protocol. While Eric and his team loaded the truck, I met with Trish in the living room.

  “Until I’ve done an appraisal on some of the more valuable objects, like your golf clubs, I can’t determine actual value. All I can do is offer you a third of what I expect everything would sell for at the tag sale, and I know that’s going to be far less than what things are actually worth. I encourage you to let me appraise things first.”

  “Thank you, Josie. I appreciate your frankness. As I said, though, I just want everything gone.”

  I did the calculations, Trish approved the number, and I asked Gretchen to prepare the paperwork. When it arrived, Trish signed the e-forms.

  I left the men to their work and drove back to the office.

  * * *

  At three o’clock sharp, Frank thanked Gretchen for the escort to my office and sat on the love seat. I chose the wing chair.

  “You didn’t need to come up.”

  “Trish told me about your conversation.”

  “She said you’re going to Switzerland.”

  “Yeah. It was Trish’s idea, and I think it’s a good one. Better to work our bodies for a while, then light somewhere new.”

  “How’s Lydia?”

  His lips folded together, and he shook his head. “Not good. It’s killing me, watching her suffer. When you love someone, their pain is your pain, except more so because it’s doubled. You feel it as if it’s happening to you, and you see it happening to them.”

  “You’re okay leaving before Mo’s killer is found?”

  “It’s not Lydia, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “If there was anything we could do … if Lydia wanted us or needed us, we’d stay.”

  “It’s a mess.”

  “A big one. Life keeps on coming at ya, that’s for sure. So what do you have for me about my guitar?”

  “Good news. We have great confidence that the guitar is genuine and that it was owned by Robert Johnson. I’ve documented ownership from you back in time to a woman who had a long-running affair with him. She kept a diary. One entry specifies that Johnson was sick, deathly ill, and that he gave her his guitar for safekeeping. So we have it in his hands, then hers. The only missing link is how he came to own it. That gap won’t hurt the value, though.”

  “That’s incredible work, Josie. Lay it on me—what’s it worth?”

  I smiled. “Five hundred thousand dollars, or more, largely because of the associations with star blues players—you and Johnson.”

  “Hot damn.” Frank grinned. “You’ve made my day.”

  “We aim to please, and sometimes we can.”

  Frank stood and extended his hand. “Well, I guess this is good-bye, then.”

  I didn’t stand, and I didn’t take his hand. I kept my eyes on his face. “Before you go, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  His eyes grew wary. He lowered himself to the love seat, perching on the front half of the cushion.

  “I know you broke into my place to steal Mo’s print, Frank.”

  “Whoa, girl. You can stop right there.”

  “Forget the fact that Trish as good as told me—saying you needed twenty thousand dollars to help Lydia settle Cal’s debt and asking for my compassion. I knew anyway. You trained as an electrician, which means you knew where to hit the power line to cause an outage without frying yourself. You also knew how to sabotage my generator.”

  “Trish told you no such thing. She was upset you got attacked in her building, that’s all. As to the rest, you’ve got an active imagination, Josie. Anyone could have mucked with the power.”

  “You’re the only person who asked if my roosters were okay. How could you know the glass in the display case had been broken if you hadn’t seen it? That wasn’t part of any news story or broadcast. Your plan was slick, Frank, but I’d already removed the print from the easel, and my security company and the police got here before you could finish looking around. I know you did it. You probably justified it by telling yourself that Mo would have been glad to help her sister. You’re a the-ends-justify-the-means sort of guy.”

  Frank walked to the window. He stood for several seconds staring out over the trees.

  “I rely on Trish to take care of this sort of thing,” he said, his back to me, “apologies and whatnot. It’s not in my nature. I just don’t have it in me.” Frank turned to face me. “That
said, I hate the thought of your place being burglarized. I’d like to pay for the damage.”

  “You can’t.” I stood. “Glass can be replaced easily and for not a lot of money. Trust can’t be bought at any price.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For doing it? Or for getting caught?”

  Frank didn’t comment, and his expression didn’t change. He didn’t look sorry or ashamed or worried or anything in particular. He just looked like Frank, a man more used to adoring fans than paying the piper.

  “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I sat at the guest table thinking that nothing gelled. Disparate facts whirled in my mind’s eye like dust particles in the sun. I couldn’t stop thinking about trust and betrayal, and about money: earning it, inheriting it, losing it, spending it, protecting it, and gambling it away. And the people. Everything pointed to Lydia as Cal’s killer. Mo’s, too, really, when you considered that Lydia was on the scene and faced a myriad of issues with her sister. I considered alternatives, experimenting with combinations of people and motives, seeking out patterns, looking for clues in the mundane. People kill because of lust, more than love; revenge, more than hate; and greed, more than longing. The question was who fit that profile, and in one fell moment, the pieces snapped together like a child’s puzzle, and I gasped.

  “Josie?” Gretchen asked, concerned. “Are you all right?”

  I blinked myself back to the here and now. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  I allowed myself to sink back into the haze of reflection. Mo had been both a failed romantic and mawkishly sentimental. She viewed the world as she wished it were, with selective vision, whereas Cal had been a realist, astute, intuitive, manipulative, and a deft liar. Mo had loved heedlessly, with all her heart. Cal had been too self-centered to love. Mo had a gentle, trusting soul. Cal had no soul. Steve betrayed Mo, then proceeded to dicker about the terms of their reconciliation. Cal betrayed Lydia, then asked her to bail him out. And she did. Lydia trusted her father. Nora wanted out. The answer was so obvious, I couldn’t understand how I could have missed it for so long. Lust. Revenge. Greed. Put those three motives together, and a witch’s brew of murder boils over.