The Price of Inheritance

by Karin Tanabe

  “Are you Carolyn Everett?” the younger man asked after the door had closed behind him. He had a few acne marks on his cheeks, which were overshadowed by the prominence of his cheekbones. They looked like right triangles sewn into his skin.

  “Carolyn Everett. Yes, I am,” I said, flipping a small end table back over and standing up to meet them. My thighs hurt from being bent for too long while I teetered on the balls of my feet. I had been polishing the table that morning for William, who was on a buying trip in Boston.

  “We’re sorry to bother you at work, but we were hoping to talk to you about something. And someone. Do you have a few minutes?”

  My heart started to pound and my head was full of pressure. I needed to close my eyes for a few seconds, to right myself. It was Tyler. I knew it, but I didn’t say it. My asking before they asked me would help nothing at all. I waited for them to say Tyler’s name, but all they said was mine.

  The three of us sat at the back table. It was glass, built in Venice, and used to hold my books when I worked there in college. We used it for client paperwork now, but I always thought of it as the table I grew up with, the one that took me from studying art, to knowing art, to selling it.

  “I’m Josh Wallace and this is Brian Van Ness. We’re with NCIS, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service at Naval Station Newport.”

  I looked from one to the other and said, “Okay.”

  “We have a few questions about something you own. It’s a relic of some sort, a bowl.” They knew about Tyler and Hannah. I exhaled quietly and put my hands on the table.

  The shorter one, Josh, took a printed picture out of his bag and put it on the table. It was a picture of Tyler’s bowl. My bowl. The one that was sitting in strips of muslin in my desk drawer a few feet behind us.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked both of them. “I’ve never seen this photo.”

  “Yes,” said Brian, taking out another. “We’re aware of that.”

  “Can you tell us everything you know about this item?” Josh asked. “Starting with where you bought it, why you bought it? Where it is now. Just every detail you know. And if you have it here, we’d like to see it.”

  “Why?” I had no idea about military protocol. Did they have the same power as the regular police? Did I have to answer them? Should I call a lawyer? Could I make them leave?

  “We have reason to believe it was stolen.”

  “But it wasn’t stolen,” I said, looking at the picture. “I bought it.”

  “Not stolen by you, stolen by Marine Captain Tyler Ford. We think it could be an Iraqi object, an antiquity that was smuggled to the United States during the war.”

  There was no way. Blair Bari had said so. It wasn’t old. It was made in the last one hundred years.

  “And why would you think that?” I said. The picture in front of me was almost blurry.

  “We have some information about it that leads us to believe it is,” said Josh. “So what we need you to do is tell us everything about that object, starting with where you got it, why you got it, and what you did with it.”

  “I’m not exactly sure what you want me to say,” I said, trying my best to be vague.

  “Where did you get the bowl?” asked Brian.

  “Where did I get it? I bought it at a local auction run by Hook Durant in Narragansett for twenty dollars.”

  “And where did Mr. Durant get it?” asked Josh, writing notes.

  “He got it at a Goodwill. The only one in the state. It’s in North Kingstown.”

  “And why did you want to buy it?”

  “Because I wanted to lap milk out of it.”

  They both glared at me. Brian opened his mouth to talk but I cut him off with an apology.

  “I bought it because I wanted to sell it. That’s my job. I looked into it, made an inquiry to Max Sebastian, who is the chairman of the Middle East and India department at Sotheby’s. He’s the best in the world and who you go to ask questions about Middle Eastern pottery. He never got back to me, so I spoke to Blair Bari, a professor of Islamic art and history at Brown, and he didn’t make anything of it, so I decided to hold on to it because it’s nice. It’s a pretty piece of pottery.”

  “Where is it now?”

  I could lie. I’d lied plenty. Not to cops, but to buyers, sellers, dealers, colleagues. I was a good liar. So I did.

  “It’s not here.”

  “Does Tyler Ford have it?” asked Josh. He had a slight South Boston accent, which was unbecoming when he was trying to sound polite. He was one of those people who should just resign themselves to always sounding tough and rude.

  “No, I have it,” I admitted. “But it’s not here.”

  “Is it in your apartment?” said Josh. “The one on Memorial Boulevard.”

  “I’m not even going to ask why you know where I live,” I said, standing up from the table. “Is this going to take much longer?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I walked over to get a bottle of water from our small fridge and didn’t offer any to either man.

  “Captain Greg LaPorte, you know him?” asked Brian, looking down at his notes.

  That was the question that threw me. I must have showed it, too, because Brian asked me again. “LaPorte. Instructor at Mardet. Tell us about your relationship.”

  I didn’t say anything and finally Brian said, “Listen. It’s not a choice right now. Don’t lie to cops and don’t lie to us. I know you’re not stupid enough to do that.”

  I already had.

  “I know him, not well. We met in February when I moved back to Newport. As far as I know, he brought the bowl to Goodwill along with a bunch of other stuff. What other stuff, I’m not sure. Hook Durant bought it and he sold it at auction to me. Now I’m trying to figure out what to do with it.”

  “Let us look at it, then.”

  “It’s not here, I told you that.”

  “When can we see it?”

  I shrugged and looked at the wall.

  “I don’t know what kind of person you are,” said Brian, looking around the room, “but you strike me as someone who cares a lot about these kinds of things. About antiques and looting and the smuggling of goods for profit. You look like a woman who cares about all that.”

  “You worked at Christie’s? The auction house,” said Josh, taking notes. “But you got fired. Made a big mistake. Something that was stolen.” He looked up at me but I refused to meet his gaze. “Must have been pretty devastating for you. Is that why you moved home? You’re from here, right? Smart girl. Went to that nice boarding school on Purgatory Road. That’s a rich kids’ school. Vanderbilts and Astors. Then you went to Princeton.”

  “Yes, all that’s right. You know that’s right. Why are you asking?”

  “We’re not asking. We’re just kind of surprised we’re here.”

  “Well, that makes three of us.”

  “This doesn’t have to happen again if you tell us everything today, drive home, get the bowl, and let us bring it in.”

  “It probably will, though. Happen again, that is. Because you look like you’re in the mood to lie to us,” said Brian.

  “So keep going about the bowl. What happened after you bought it at Hook Durant’s auction?” Josh asked.

  “I tried to find out more about it. I wanted to sell it. Like you said, I used to work at Christie’s. I know a lot more about art and antiques than most people. But I didn’t know much about the bowl except that I thought it was beautiful and a few things about it made me think it was older. But after studying it for a while, I changed my mind. I decided it was made in the last hundred years or so. I still think it is. And when I asked around I didn’t find out anything that would make me think otherwise. I gave up on selling it for now.”

  “You just gave up?”

  “Sure. I asked two peo
ple who are widely regarded as experts. I didn’t hear back from one; the other said it was made recently, so I didn’t think I could turn much of a profit.”

  “But someone who worked at Christie’s must have really loaded buyers. Quiet people who would pay big money under the table for something valuable.”

  “Are you insinuating that I know something about that piece that I’m not telling you? Because if I did, I would have sold it, here, in this store. I bought it while working for the owner, William Miller, with his money. I would have sold it while working for him, too, and turned a profit for him.”

  “You don’t get a cut of profits?”

  “I do. I get fifty percent of commission any time it’s over two hundred dollars.”

  “Fifty, that’s a lot. So you and Mr. Miller could be scheming to do some deal with it. Why sell it from the store when William can use your connections to sell it on the black market?”

  “I had no intention to do that. I don’t sell anything illegally. Like you said, until January, I worked for Christie’s. I had, and have, no plans to sell that bowl because I don’t think it’s worth anything. I think someone gave you a bad tip.” I argued for a living, convinced people to see things my way, to sell things, buy things, get attached to pieces, cut off their attachments, but this was out of my comfort zone. I wanted to get up. To walk outside and feel spring on my face, but they were not leaving.

  “Why do you think that bowl is so valuable?” I asked.

  “Why do you think it’s not?”

  “Well, for one, because it’s in really good shape. I could go into more detail, but I’m sure it’s too inside baseball for you.”

  “Try us.”

  “Fine. To start with, the bowl is heavy. Most new pieces are heavy; most old ones are not. And for its size, a foot in diameter, it’s very heavy. Also the resonance sounds high. When you hit an older piece—gently, a bit of a flick with your fingers—it makes a deep, dull sound. This one sounded higher than I thought it should. Also the glaze, the encrustation, was very even, a sign of a newer piece. Older pieces aren’t so uniform, because they were crudely fired. And the color. There are two tones of green used, but they are even. There aren’t noticeable changes in the color of the glaze. If it were older, there would be. This is not my field of expertise, but I’m sure I know more than your average NCIS agent. No offense.”

  “Right,” said Brian, making a mark on his notepad and flipping it closed before I could see it.

  “It’s not like I’ve done petrographic analysis—I’m not an archaeologist and I didn’t think it warranted sending it to one—but that’s my best guess. If I had thought it was worth looking into further, I would have.”

  “And your relationship with Tyler,” said Josh. “You’re intimate with him. You’re—”

  “You’re fucking him,” Brian interrupted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We know you are, so just say you are.”

  “I’m pretty sure you can’t talk to me like that.”

  “I’m pretty sure we can.”

  “Tyler Ford from Mardet,” said Josh, taking the questioning away from Brian. “You two are very close. You’re dating.”

  “I know him, yes.”

  “You’re dating. He’s your boyfriend.”

  “I doubt the nature of our relationship is important.”

  “It’s very important.”

  “Do you know about that trouble he got in last year? What was her name, Brian?”

  “Hannah.”

  “Right, right, Hannah Lloyd. She was some St. George’s girl, too. He must only take the rich ones seriously. The kind of guy who likes money. Doesn’t come from money, but likes to keep it around somehow. From girls, or maybe from something else, like selling stolen art.”

  They knew about Hannah. It had taken me about five minutes to figure out that Hannah also happened to work in a pottery studio. But if they knew anything apart from what Tyler had done to her, they didn’t say so.

  I looked at Josh coldly and he smiled at me.

  “So, Hannah. You know about her?”

  I folded my hands and looked up at them sternly.

  “Never met her in my life.”

  “Right, well, maybe you two should get together. Talk about yachts and diamonds. Compare notes about Tyler.”

  “I think we can end this conversation. That’s really all I have to say to you. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”

  I stood up and they both stood up and looked around the store.

  “We’re not done, but we’ll come back tomorrow morning to get that bowl from you,” said Brian. “You seem . . . tired, but we’ll expect you to have it tomorrow. Thanks for your time.”

  “You know,” said Josh, pausing at the door. “I know you’re an expert from Christie’s and all that. You’re one of those real smart girls. But this, this might have been worth looking into after all.”

  I waited until their car had disappeared down the street, then I left, deserted the shop, slammed the door behind me, and tore down Spring Street toward the base and Tyler’s apartment. Because it was the middle of the day, it took me only eleven minutes to drive there. I parked my car badly, ran out, and pounded on his white wooden door. No one came. I rang the bell, but still nothing. I took my phone out of my jacket pocket and called him twice in a row. Both times it rang and went to voicemail. I texted him. I didn’t know what to write and settled on “Find me now. Right now.” I walked around to the back of Tyler’s place and saw that his car wasn’t parked there. There were no lights in his house and the lid was off the recycling bin, like it hadn’t been put back on from the night before. I walked back toward my car, started it, and drove to town. I opened all the windows and banged the radio off. My chest was so tight that I untucked and unbuttoned as much of my shirt as I could while holding on to some semblance of decency. Just forty-eight hours ago, I had been sailing through the air, holding Tyler’s hand, falling into the cold water, exchanging our first “I love yous.”

  When I got to Bellevue and through Jane’s gates, I was hyperventilating. And when Jane opened the door, I was just panting.

  “I can’t—I can’t breathe,” I said, trying my best to regulate my gasps.

  “Sit down. Right now. Hold your breath, count to ten, and then let it out again. Do it five times. Slowly. Slower.”

  We sat like that for five minutes until my muscles started to relax. I put my hands over my forehead, turned away from the gates, and looked at Jane.

  “You’re fine now. You’re fine,” she said, smoothing my hair.

  “I’m not fine,” I said softly. “I’m so far from fine, Jane.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It’s Tyler. Two NCIS agents came to the store today. They think . . . I mean, I think they think that the bowl that connected us, that bowl I told you about, was stolen from Iraq.”

  “What! NCIS? The naval crime unit? You spoke to them? To whom? To agents?”

  I nodded yes. My panic for Jane was real, but it wasn’t just Tyler I was worried about. It was Hannah, and me. That bowl could not be old. They had to be wrong.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Just now. A few minutes ago. Two agents, stationed on base as part of their NCIS unit, came to the store and started asking me questions. They said they knew everything. That I fucked Tyler Ford. They actually said that. ‘We know you’re fucking Tyler Ford.’ They asked if I was going to sell it privately to a buyer on the black market.”

  “This is really bad, Carolyn. Were you, I mean, did you have plans to do that?”

  “Jane! Haven’t you known me since birth? You think I’m involved in art crime?”

  “No, I don’t. Of course not. But what do they know? I mean, what information do they have to even want to come to the store? They’re clearly in the mid
dle of some full-blown investigation!”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t really know. They were making me talk more than they were talking. But they had pictures. When I first bought the bowl, I thought it could be worth a lot of money. I wanted it to be. So I took pictures of it, from every angle, just like we do at Christie’s or at William’s, of any object we’re intending to sell, and I sent them to Max Sebastian at Sotheby’s.”

  I didn’t need to explain to Jane who Max Sebastian was. Her family knew every important person in the auction industry and they all scrambled to know the Dalbys.

  “Really? Straight to Max?”

  “I wanted an answer about Middle Eastern art, so I emailed Max because he’s the best. But I never heard back from him. I sent him the pictures in February; it’s April, and not a word. I also took it to Brown but Blair Bari, the prof there, said it wasn’t worth looking into. Not an antiquity, he said.”

  “But these guys from NCIS think it is. And they had the pictures?”

  “Not the pictures I sent to Max. They had other pictures. Ones I had never seen before.”

  “Where did they get them?”

  “I have no idea. The only person who has been in my apartment since I bought the bowl was Tyler.”

  “Do you really think it’s worthless?”

  “At this point I don’t know. Now I’m second-guessing every decision I’ve ever made. Islamic art is probably what I’m worst at. I never studied it in college and never dealt much with it at Christie’s. There were a few things that made me hope it was an older piece: the sophistication of the design, the style of the glaze, and the fact that there is a very faint etching on the bottom of the base. A few Hebrew letters that read ‘First and the last.’ I thought Max would be able to help me with that, but like I said, he never wrote back. And you know Max, he’s a seller. He wants every good piece he can get for Sotheby’s, so if he thought it was anything, he would have responded.”

  “I think war trophies and looting happened more than people care to acknowledge. I remember reading something about soldiers taking gold-plated AK-47s from a palace and trying to get them home to Georgia.”