Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  I knew who killed Mo, and why.

  And I thought I knew how to prove it.

  I grabbed my tote bag, called out a general “Bye” to my staff, and drove straight to Branson Wills.

  * * *

  I sat in the Murphy’s Interiors parking lot searching for a headshot to show Anita. It took less than five minutes to download and crop an appropriate image.

  Anita was standing on a low stool twirling an elegant artificial vine around a decorative column. I waited until she stepped down to speak.

  “I have another photo to show you.”

  She took my phone and stared at the photograph, then raised her eyes to my face. “I hate this.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s the customer who bought Flower Pavilion, number sixteen.”

  I felt like cartwheeling out of the place.

  * * *

  Ellis was on the phone when I poked my head into his office just before five. He pointed at the blond-wood table by the front wall, and I sat facing the window.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Seven o’clock … two people … thanks.”

  “You’re going out to dinner.”

  He joined me at the table. “You’re some deductive whiz.”

  “Tonight’s Wednesday. What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s sort of a celebration.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “Police chiefs don’t blush.”

  “Should I mind my own business?”

  “Yes, but I know you won’t. It’s Zoë’s and my ‘I love you’ anniversary.”

  “Tonight’s the anniversary of the first time you told her you loved her.”

  One side of his mouth shot up. “And she told me.”

  “So you’re taking her to dinner. That’s maybe the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Is it a surprise?”

  “No. I told her I think we ought to celebrate more. Life is so busy, it’s easy to get into a rut. Better to celebrate the small things.”

  “I love that, Ellis. I really do.”

  “Thanks. Dinner isn’t a surprise…” He reached behind him for a small maroon box. It was from Blackmore’s Jewelers, the finest jeweler on the Seacoast. “… but this is. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s fabulous.”

  He laughed. “Open it.”

  I lifted the lid. A gold bangle embedded with diamonds rested on a white satin pillow. “Oh, my God, Ellis! This is magnificent!”

  “Do you think Zoë will like it?”

  I touched his wrist. “I think she’ll love it.”

  “Thanks.” He closed the lid and placed it back on the desk. “So, back to business. What can I do for you?”

  “I have information about Mo’s and Cal’s murders.”

  His tone sharpened. “Talk to me.”

  “At first, Mo’s murder seemed inexplicable. Shift your perspective, though, and the answer is apparent.” I explained what I knew, what I suspected, and what I concluded.

  “Thank you, Josie. This is incredibly helpful.”

  “Are you going to let the meet with Pat Durand go forward as scheduled? At five, in the gazebo?”

  “Yes. I’ll need to verify your information and talk to the DA about a search warrant, but I don’t anticipate any problems. Will you be able to help me out tomorrow after the meet? I may need your expertise when it comes to the woodblock print.”

  I assured him I would, and left.

  * * *

  Fred was alone when I got back to the office around six thirty.

  He was reading from a thick sheaf of papers. He handed me a note Sasha had written before she left for the day.

  Mo’s woodblock print is a fake. A clever fake, but a fake nonetheless.

  I raised my eyes. “Have you read the report?”

  Fred nodded. “Yes. The ink is good. The production methodology is consistent with known originals. The woodgrain appearing on the paper is accurate—but there were no lees.”

  I leaned against the table. “No lees means no wood.”

  “Right.”

  “So instead of using a woodblock made of cherry or whatever, someone transferred the real woodgrain pattern onto plastic or Formica or something, and printed from that. What about the paper?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  I slid into a guest chair.

  “The nuclear residue found in the paper fibers proves that the paper was produced in Japan—but during the years following World War II.” He tossed the papers onto his desk. “Why would a counterfeiter think it was worth so much effort?”

  “Greed. Let’s do the math. All the effort is in the preparation. Once I have the plastic or whatever, I can print at will. Just for the sake of argument, let’s say I printed a hundred and twenty copies to start. I keep my inventory out of the light and only sell a dozen prints a year, one a month or so. At twenty thousand dollars each, we’re looking at nearly a quarter of a million dollars a year. Each year. For ten years. When I run out, I print more.”

  “What are you going to tell New Hampshire Children First! about the print’s value?”

  “Nothing. We’ll send this print to the tag sale, priced to move. What do you think? Fifty dollars?”

  “It’s so beautiful … maybe seventy-five.”

  “That’s fine. Work with Sasha to buy us a genuine print in perfect condition.” I laughed. “Make certain it comes with an unimpeachable pedigree. New Hampshire Children First! gets a valuable print, and we’ll all put this episode behind us.”

  “That’s really great of you, Josie. We’ll get started tomorrow.”

  I thanked him, elated that my business was doing well enough that I could fund the contribution to New Hampshire Children First! I dashed off a note to Anita, telling her that the copy of Hiroshige’s Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill that she sold was a fake, and I explained why. I suspected the prints she had held back would be back on the shelf first thing in the morning. I also suspected that she wouldn’t change her pricing strategy. Why should she? She was selling them as decorative accessories, in the same way some antiquarian booksellers sell rare books by the yard, not for the content but for the colorful leather bindings.

  I wrote Mac at Antiques Insights, too.

  Hi Mac,

  You asked me to let you know the outcome of our appraisal of the Japanese woodblock print I told you about, Hiroshige’s “Meguro Drum Bridge and Sunset Hill.” Based on a materials analysis, we have concluded that it’s a counterfeit. Specifically, the apparent woodgrain is nothing more than a visual effect—there are no lees. Further, the paper, while Japanese, was produced after World War II.

  This print was sold by Cal Lewis (who is, apparently, partnering with someone using the name Pat Durand) to my client. While I have no knowledge that other objects sold by Cal Lewis or Pat Durand are fakes, it would seem prudent to have everything he sold under either name appraised. I should mention that Cal Lewis died recently. He was murdered, a crime currently under investigation by the Rocky Point police. You may be hearing from them.

  Thanks again, Mac.

  Josie

  I was sorry to open up such a hornet’s nest, but it had to be done.

  * * *

  Ty texted that he was running late; he was about to leave work and was in the mood for Italian. He wanted to know what I thought about going to Abitino’s and suggested we meet at eight thirty. I replied that was fine. I took advantage of the time to stop by Rocky Point Paper Palace. I parked across from the village green and went inside.

  Racks of greeting cards ran the length of the shop, samples of specialty papers hung on rods against the walls, and binders of special occasion options rested on a long wooden table at the back. At Prescott’s, we used Rocky Point Paper Palace for all our invitations and special announcement cards. They were expensive, but their attention to detail and the quality of their workmanship were unparalleled.

  The shop’s owner, a voluptuous blonde named Brenda Cragan, was a forme
r rock ’n’ roll singer who’d traveled with cover bands throughout Asia in her twenties, then quit and used her savings to set herself up in business in Rocky Point. Now, twenty years later, her shop had been featured in national magazines and on lifestyle design TV shows. I’d asked her why she hadn’t capitalized on the publicity to expand, and she said she loved her life just as it was.

  The shop was busy, even at seven thirty. Brenda was just finishing up a special order at the back.

  “Josie!” She leaned forward for a butterfly kiss. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need help, Brenda.” I felt suddenly shy. “Ty and I are getting married.”

  “Oh, Josie! That’s wonderful. You need wedding invitations.”

  “Party invitations. We’re going to have a very small private ceremony, followed by a very large party.”

  “Nice. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Something simultaneously elegant and casual. I know that’s an oxymoron.”

  “How do you want people to feel when they open the invitation?”

  “Oh, golly, I don’t know. Like it’s going to be fun! But, you know, not silly. And not stuffy, either.” I laughed. “In other words, I have no idea.” I took a moment to gather my thoughts. “I want something they haven’t seen before, yet more on the traditional end of the spectrum than cutesy.”

  Brenda reached for a book on a low shelf and flipped through to the back. She peeled back a plastic protector and eased out a sheet of parchment with a deckled edge.

  I stroked it. The pale yellow paper was luscious, butter soft, and thick enough to sleep on. “It’s gorgeous, but parchment feels too formal.”

  She flipped forward, pausing at a pale ochre sheet, embossed with flowers. “This might be perfect for a June wedding.”

  “Too … I don’t know … fussy.”

  I didn’t like a pink flax paper with laser heart-shaped cutouts, either. Or a blue-and-beige-marbled paper.

  “I don’t want to keep you, Brenda. Maybe I should just flip through.”

  “It’s my pleasure to float ideas, Josie, but if you’d prefer looking on your own, let’s do that.”

  “You know me well.”

  I started at the beginning and quickly discovered it was easy to eliminate options. What wasn’t simple was finding any I liked. At ten after eight, five minutes before I needed to leave to meet Ty, I found the perfect paper. I looked over my shoulder, and as if Brenda could feel my excitement, she turned and met my eyes.

  I held up my choice, translucent vellum decorated with a border of miniature poinsettias.

  “I want tiger lilies and hydrangeas instead of poinsettias,” I said as she walked up.

  “I love it. It’s exactly what you described, traditional yet welcoming.”

  “Do you have a sample I can take? I want to show Ty.”

  “Of course. Take this one. I have spares in the back.” She slipped the vellum into a white envelope. “I’ll have a mockup for you in a few days.”

  “Sounds good!”

  As I drove around the village green heading for Abitino’s, I passed Ellie’s Crêpes,* one of my favorite restaurants. Ellie’s was located directly across from the gazebo and would serve as a perfect vantage point to watch Dawn meet with Pat Durand. If I got there by four, I’d have no problem nabbing a window seat.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I woke the next morning, Thursday, at six. Wrapped in my favorite pink chenille robe, I yawned my way downstairs and joined Ty for coffee.

  He poured me a cup. “You’re up early.”

  “My brain is busy. I get to start planning the merger with Janson’s Antiques Mall today.”

  “What’s your first step?”

  “Studying his business plan and coming up with a list of questions.”

  “Are you comfortable taking on a project this big?”

  “Yes. Even if we move to D.C., it’ll work out fine. Max pointed out that by acquiring Matt’s company, I’ll be acquiring a top operations guy.”

  “What do you think about moving to Washington?”

  I drank some coffee. “I think I had enough trouble choosing that vellum paper to make any decision bigger than that right now. Except for buying out Matt. That feels like a no-brainer. How about you?”

  “I like our life in New Hampshire, but I never want to turn my back on an opportunity.”

  “If they offer the job and it has to be based in Washington, we can decide then. What’s their timeline?”

  “Soon.”

  * * *

  I reread Matt’s business plan just after lunch. Assuming we could come to terms on a buyout, I didn’t see how we could lose. He’d thought of everything, from personnel needs to marketing plans and from construction timelines to financing options. He recommended appointing or hiring a general manager for each location to handle the day-to-day, with him overseeing everything. His plan called for me to step back from operations and work more on high-level strategy and promotion. For instance, he thought I could—and should—write a monthly column for Antiques Insights magazine, with each article focusing on demystifying some element of the antiques appraisal process. I stared across the room. I would begin by writing about the difference between rarity and scarcity.

  I saw the time on my computer monitor—3:30—and leapt out of my chair. I’d been so immersed in Matt’s ideas for expansion, I’d completely lost track of time, but there was no way I was going to be late to Ellie’s.

  * * *

  I got to Ellie’s just before four and found Detective Brownley sitting at the table closest to the front window, reading something on her smartphone.

  “Detective … may I join you?”

  Her eyes showed neither surprise nor annoyance. “Sorry. This is Ellis’s table. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Okay.” I glanced around. The place was empty. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A favorite waitress, a young French woman named Juliette, stood near the kitchen chatting with a cook. I walked to join her.

  “Hi, Juliette. Would it be all right if I moved a table near the window? It’s so beautiful out—I want to enjoy the view.”

  “Of course. Will anyone be joining you?”

  “No. Just me today.”

  Juliette selected a table next to the brick wall and rolled it to the front. Detective Brownley looked up but didn’t say anything. I carried a chair and ordered a cappuccino.

  My view was perfect. The gazebo, which was draped with plastic, was directly across the street. WET PAINT signs had been taped to the tarp.

  Ellis arrived half an hour later, spotted me, and stopped short.

  I smiled at him and tapped my forehead. “Great minds.”

  He met my eyes for a moment, then turned to the detective. “All set?”

  “We’re good to go on all fronts. Katie’s upstairs.”

  Ellis walked to the back and said something to Juliette I couldn’t hear. She opened a door on the side, revealing a staircase I hadn’t known existed. Ellis crooked his index finger at me, and I joined him, carrying my cappuccino.

  We climbed a steep flight of steps. I paused at the top to look around. The room was set up as a living room, so I inferred that we were in Ellie’s home. I hadn’t realized she lived above the restaurant.

  Katie, the police IT expert, sat at a card table near the front. She wore oversized headphones. A stack of equipment rested on the table. Yellow and blue lights flickered on the bottom box. A man I didn’t recognize stood by the window. A Nikon camera hung from a leather strap around his neck. A video recorder rested on a tripod. A pair of earbuds sat on the table.

  Ellis pointed to a chair at the far end of the table. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” I sat.

  Ellis took another chair and turned it around. He sat backward, resting his forearms on top of the backrest. He lowered his voice. “I told you to stay away.”

  “You told me to stay away from the v
illage green. I haven’t been near the village green all day.”

  “You’re quibbling.”

  “I am not. More to the point, no one knows I’m here, or as far as I know, that I have any reason to be here.”

  “Good.”

  “Did you talk to Anita?”

  “Yes. She confirmed what you told me, and we got the search warrant.” Ellis’s phone rang, and he glanced at the screen, then back at me. “Don’t move.”

  “Why would I? This is the best seat in the house.”

  He walked toward the staircase and leaned against the wall. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I dug around in my tote bag for my phone to check the time. It was twenty minutes to five.

  Katie tapped the microphone clipped to her collar. “Go inside, Curt. Tell me whether the paint is dry.”

  A lanky man in his forties with sandy hair and a goatee appeared from behind a tree and sauntered to the gazebo. He found a separation in the tarp and climbed up and in.

  “The paint is dry.”

  Katie spun a dial. “Good. Talk to me.”

  “The paint is dry. The paint is dry. Oh why oh why is the paint so dry?”

  “Stand by.”

  Katie spun around and dipped her head, trying to catch Ellis’s attention. He got the message and nodded. A moment later, Ellis finished and returned to the worktable.

  “We’re ready,” she told him.

  “Good. Dawn is going to touch base with Pat Durand now, confirming the time and telling her the place. She’ll call as soon as they connect.”

  Katie spoke into the mic. “Curt? You can leave the gazebo.”

  Ellis leaned against a front window frame. Curt stepped out from behind the plastic and ambled along the path. When he reached an old oak, he stretched. He looked for all the world like a worker on a break.

  Sun filtered through the trees. Two men in suits walked across a fresh layer of crunchy leaves and sat at one end of a wooden-slat bench. An older couple sat on the other end, their shoulders touching. A young woman pushed a baby stroller along a distant path.

  Ellis’s phone rang. He swiped the display to accept the call.