“Am I in trouble?” I asked.
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“A visceral reaction to a police chief saying he wants to talk to me.”
“I want to consult you,” he said. “I need your brains and antiques expertise.”
“Oh … in that case, sure.”
* * *
I parked in the police station lot about quarter to twelve, crossed Ocean Avenue, and climbed a high dune. Looking out over the ocean, I saw dots of white froth whipping across the midnight blue water. The sky to the northeast was gray and seemed to be darkening in front of my eyes. A storm was brewing.
I hadn’t finished saying hello to Cathy when Ellis poked his head out of his office and smiled.
“Come on in.” He stood until I took a seat at the guest table, then sat across from me. “We’ve got a bite. A numismatist in Portsmouth named Vaughn Jones called, responding to the alert your friend in New York posted. A man with blond hair wearing a cowboy hat and sunglasses just tried to sell him some Union currency. Our Union currency, it looks like. Jones asked to keep the money so he could research it, but the seller said no, he was leaving town for his home in California and wanted to make the sale right away. Jones passed, and the customer left.”
“That’s terrific news, Ellis. A real lead.”
“How so?”
I felt my brow furrow and thought it through. “Oh, I get you … not so terrific a lead after all. He was in and out of there in a minute and a half, and in all likelihood he didn’t touch anything, so there aren’t any fingerprints and he didn’t leave any DNA behind. Got it. Did he give a name?”
“Mitchell Davidson. Do you recognize it?”
“No. Should I?”
“No. What else do you want to know?”
“That’s a funny question to ask me. Usually you avoid answering my questions.”
“No, I don’t,” Ellis said. “I avoid revealing confidential information. This isn’t confidential. I’ve already released it to the media. I’m hoping the public can help us identify this man. We did the same thing with Eric’s kidnapper.”
“Have you got any good leads on either so far?”
“No. Ask me questions.”
“Does the dealer have any security cameras?” I asked.
“No. He works out of his house, which is in a mostly residential neighborhood. The closest camera is located at a bank down the street. They have outside cameras for their ATM.”
“Did he call or just show up?”
“He called. From a disposable cell phone, not a number we’ve seen before. Then he knocked. I thought maybe he pushed the doorbell and we could capture a print, but no such luck.”
“Anything odd in his speech? An accent or anything?”
“No.”
“Did he say how he found Jones?”
“Yes, through an online search.”
“So you can expect him to try other dealers who advertise there, too,” I said.
“Detective Brownley is on the phone now, calling them all—all we found by Googling relevant keywords.”
“What about industry associations? There’s probably an online directory.”
His reached to his desk for a pad of paper and took a pen from an inside pocket. “Good idea,” he said. “What else?”
“Does Ian Landers have an alibi?”
He cocked his head. “What’s your thinking?”
“Nothing, not really. Just that he’s involved—or he’s involving himself for some reason.”
“True. So are Lenny and Randall.”
“Also true.”
“Who else are you wondering about?” he asked.
“No one.”
“Why did Mitchell Davidson pick Jones, do you think?” Ellis asked. “Proximity?”
“Are there other numismatists close by?”
“No.”
“Then I guess so. Still, it doesn’t seem very smart to me. If I were him, I wouldn’t try a dealer anywhere from Boston to Portland. There’s been way too much publicity about the kidnapping and too much speculation about the dolls and whether they contain contraband for comfort. To say nothing of Barry’s BOLO about the counterfeit bills, which, while he might not know about it, he should expect.” I shrugged. “Plus, locally, Eric’s kidnapping and the money hidden in the dolls … well, it’s all most people are talking about. Like that print.” I pointed to Norman Rockwell’s The Gossip. “If it were me, I’d stay way clear of the seacoast. I’d go to New York.”
“Maybe he can’t leave Rocky Point. Any ideas why not?”
“Maybe he’s a caregiver who can’t leave the person he’s taking care of. Or he’s a professional whose absence would occasion remark. A doctor just can’t cancel appointments on the fly, for instance, without everyone in his office talking about it.”
“Perhaps. What else?”
“I can’t think of anything else,” I said, thinking that in all probability Mitchell Davidson was an invented name, just like George Shankle, and this lead, which had seemed so promising when Ellis first told me about it, was just another dead end.
* * *
As soon as we were seated in Selma Farmington’s Victorian-influenced living room, Ellis turned to me.
“Please tell Lorna and Jamie everything we know,” he said.
I recounted Barry’s assessment, adding that I’d seen the watermark that indicated modern paper.
As soon as I uttered the word “counterfeit,” Lorna began to cry, and she didn’t stop the whole time we were there.
“I wish I had better news to report,” I said.
Jamie was made of sterner stuff. She heard me out in silence, but her expression made it clear she wasn’t staying quiet because she had nothing to say. By the time I was done, her lips had thinned to one invisible line and her eyes had narrowed to slits.
“We gave you currency that had been in our family for a hundred and fifty years,” she said
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
She turned to Ellis. “I want to call my lawyer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Driving from the Farmingtons’ to Max’s office, on streets that followed three-hundred-year-old cart tracks, passing row houses built just after the Revolutionary War, and hardwood forests far older than that, I thought of how confusing and frightening things must seem to Jamie and Lorna. Tradition and stability were gone. Their mom had just died, they had the depressing and onerous job of cleaning out a fourteen-room house where their family had lived for generations, and they’d just learned that someone had stolen more than half a million dollars’ worth of rare currency.
I parked in the small lot in back of the old mansion that housed Max’s firm, along with an architectural firm and an insurance agency. Every time I entered Max’s private office I felt a jolt of delightful surprise. Although not much older than me, in appearance and demeanor, Max was old-world courtly, yet when it came to furnishings, his taste was completely contemporary, an inexplicable contradiction. His desk was a slab of black granite perched on stainless steel legs. Black solid surface and stainless steel bookcases lined one wall. The guest chairs were black leather and slouchy. The carpet was a red and gray block print. The art was abstract, mostly oils, all black and white geometric shapes slashed with red or purple or gold.
“First things first,” Max said, handing me two copies of the one-page letter of agreement from the federal government retaining my company to appraise Alice Michaels’s household goods. After I signed with a pen from the silver holder on Max’s desk, he handed me an envelope containing a set of keys and a letter authorizing me and my staff to enter Alice’s house and remove anything we choose.
“Is there an alarm?” I asked.
“No.”
“Really? That’s odd.”
“Lots of houses don’t have alarms,” he said. “Rocky Point isn’t exactly crime central.”
“True … and I bet she doesn’t have a lot of antiques around.”
“Which don’t figure on most thieves’ top ten lists,” I said, nodding. I slipped the envelope into my tote bag. “We’ll get started right away. There’s something else, Max. I think I’m about to be sued.” I described the situation with the counterfeit currency and Jamie’s reaction.
“If and when,” Max said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“I don’t think they’re malicious. I think they’re overwhelmed and confused.”
“I’ll be certain to point that out to their lawyer.”
I smiled as I thanked him, relieved, as always, that Max was on my side.
* * *
I decided to treat myself to a late lunch at Ellie’s, a long, narrow restaurant on the village green. Ellie makes crepes far better than anything I can make at home. Her chicken with asparagus in Mornay sauce is my favorite. As I walked across the green I called Wes.
“You know about Mitchell Davidson, right?” I asked. “How he tried to sell some Union currency to a dealer named Vaughn Jones?”
“Yeah. It was on the police scanner. Whatcha got?”
“I saw you take off after Ian this morning. Where did he go?”
“I lost him,” Wes said, chagrined. “We all did. You should have seen him. He pulled stunts straight out of a James Bond movie, spinning sideways down an alley I didn’t even know existed … pulling a whoopee in the middle of the street. Jeesh!”
“‘Pulling a whoopee’ means what, exactly?” I asked.
“You know, a U-turn, but faster.”
“So he was determined to lose you.”
“Not just me. All of us. He definitely didn’t want any company. Why are you asking?”
“We need to know if Ian, Lenny, and Randall have alibis for the visit to Mr. Jones’s house. I’m betting one of them is Mitchell Davidson.”
“How come?”
“Because there’s no one else.”
* * *
When I got back to my office, I asked Fred if he could be ready to leave in ten minutes, and he said sure. He also told me, with a gleam in his eye, that Sasha had news.
I hurried to join her in the warehouse. “So?” I asked.
She smiled, a big one. “Look at this.” She handed me a loupe and pointed to the wooden doll’s inner left ankle.
“Well, well,” I said. Without strong light and magnification, the maker’s mark was impossible to see. With them, it was impossible to miss. It was as if Thomas Whitley had been a humble man, a simple carpenter who didn’t want to put himself forward by highlighting his accomplishment.
“I should have noticed it without prompting,” Sasha said. Her tone conveyed her embarrassment.
“I’m amazed you found it even with prompting.”
“It’s a lesson to examine every inch of everything.”
“Maybe. Or it’s a lesson that we’re only human and we’re going to miss things sometimes.”
“Thank you, Josie.”
I smiled and tilted my head at the doll. “So we have a genuine Queen Anne doll dating from the mid-1600s.” I noticed Alice’s jewelry box at the back of the table. “When did this reappear?”
“With the dolls,” she said. “When Mr. Almonte took the dolls, he took it, too. When the dolls came back, it returned as well. I’ve roped off a section for Alice’s goods; I figure you and Fred will be bringing some objects back here. Anyway, I took it out so everything would be together.” She picked up the doll. “I can’t wait to hear Mr. Streinfeld’s thoughts about valuation.”
I raised my right hand, fingers crossed, then glanced at the wall clock. It was after three. I needed to hurry.
“Fred and I are going to head over to Alice’s now and get started recording everything,” I said, starting to rush back up the center aisle. Then, changing my mind, I veered to the right.
I wanted to say hello to Hank. As I passed the rows of angled shelving filled with antiques and collectibles and the roped-off sections containing consigned goods or objects under review, the niggling feeling that I was missing something continued to taunt me.
“I don’t know,” I said aloud, frustrated. “So close, and yet so far away.”
Hank was curled in his basket, asleep, his right front leg draped over the edge, as if he’d started to get up but hadn’t quite been able to make it before a nap took him away. I sat down next to him and petted him gently so I wouldn’t wake him, and he began purring in his sleep.
“What is it, Hank?” I whispered. “What did I see or hear?”
He didn’t even wiggle.
“I know the kidnapper is someone who’s both a risk taker and methodical. He’s someone who knew how to get fake IDs. He has enough cash on hand to buy three used cars. What else? He was after the currency. He knew that Selma Farmington had Union currency and that she stashed the money in her Chatty Cathy dolls. He didn’t know that someone had already stolen some of it from Selma and replaced it with counterfeit. Hmmm … that might exclude Randall, don’t you think, Hank? I just don’t know, Hank. What a good boy you are, that’s right … You’re such a good boy. I still think it might be Ian, don’t you, Hank?”
He stretched and turned his head to lick my hand, four sandpaper licks, then repositioned himself into a tight little ball.
“You don’t know any more than I do, do you, Hank? Never mind … you’re a good boy. A very good boy.” I stood up. “Sleep tight, baby boy. You’re a good friend, too, Hank. Just being able to sit here for a few minutes and talk to you … well, thank you, sweet boy.”
* * *
Alice Michaels had lived in a twelve-room Colonial on the ocean. Old stone walls marked the property line, and woods of scrub oak, pine, and sycamore blocked the ocean view from the street and flanked each side of the property, providing Alice, and her neighbors, privacy. Across the street, on the inland side of Ocean Avenue, a half acre of woods completed the panorama. The property was as private as anything I’d seen along the shore. The closest side streets were Astor Road, the cut-through from Main Street that Fred and I were on, and the more distant Raleigh Way.
Fred and I took separate cars and parked at the end of the long, winding driveway. We entered through the side door, and I stood and looked around as Fred unpacked the video camera. We were in the mudroom. I lifted the lid of a wooden bench positioned along an outside wall. Four pairs of boots of various styles and colors stood next to one another. They were all size seven, and presumably they were all Alice’s. Across the small room coats hung on hooks. Cabinets revealed piles of hats and scarves and mittens and gloves.
“Ready?” I asked Fred.
“Ready,” he said, and I unlocked the kitchen door.
Prescott’s appraisal protocol requires that we create an annotated video recording before we begin appraising individual objects. I planned on a quick walk-through just to see if anything stood out as special, leaving Fred to do the actual recording. Fred decided to begin in the basement and work his way up.
“I think I’ll head upstairs first,” I said.
The attic was accessed by a door in a small bedroom at the rear of the second floor. I climbed the narrow staircase and found an unfinished, unused space. A single low-watt lightbulb dangled high overhead. The space was gloomy and stuffy.
I walked to a small south-facing window and took in the beach view. A woman was power-walking on the soft sand, her auburn hair streaming behind her. The water was choppy and nearly black. The storm was blowing closer.
By the time I’d returned to the main floor, it was clear that Alice’s taste ran to British Colonial. The furnishings appeared to be modern reproductions and of good quality, but there was nothing that stood out as noteworthy. Her furniture was a mix of heavy, dark wood and rattan. The only custom piece was an empty display case, where, I presumed, Alice’s doll collection had been housed. The key was in the lock. Two rooms on the upper floor were wallpapered, one with a grass-textured paper, the other with a pattern featuring monkeys and coconut palms.
The rest of the rooms were painted in neutral tones, taupe and sand and straw. The artwork was also reproductions. The Queen Anne doll would go a long way to reimbursing investors, but based on my quick once-over, I didn’t see anything else that would contribute much to the cause. I saw lots of places where a diary could be stored, desks and bedside tables and bureaus, but I didn’t bother opening any of them. If Alice had kept her diary where it was easy to find, the police would have already found it.
A room on the ground floor that Alice had obviously used as an office was stripped nearly to the bones. The desk drawers were open and empty. Phone and fax machine cords lay across the desk, but the units themselves were missing. A wireless router sat on a bookshelf, but there was no computer. A mahogany file cabinet was barren. I scanned the book titles that filled the shelves. They were all contemporary and business oriented: investor guides, industry analyses, and economic reports, that sort of thing. There was nothing that appeared to be a diary, but I supposed it could be secreted in a hollowed-out book, which would, as I thought of it, be a great way to hide it in plain sight. We’d need to examine each book individually.
I found Fred recording the contents of the kitchen pantry.
“Anything interesting?” I asked.
“No,” he said, lowering the camera. “No antiques at all.” Fred didn’t wrinkle his nose, but from his tone, he might as well have.
I nodded. “All right, then. I’m going to take off. If you find a diary or a journal or anything that could serve as a diary, like a notebook or something, let me know right away, okay?” I handed him the keys and the letter of authorization. “Don’t feel obliged to do everything today. We can finish up tomorrow.”
“I’ll see how it goes.”
I told him good-bye and left, pausing on the wraparound porch to enjoy the view. Whitecaps swirled close to shore, and the tall grasses near the house lay nearly sideways in the now-strong breeze. The sun was still out toward the west, but looking east, the cloud cover was thick.
* * *
When I pulled to a stop at the end of Fenter Lane, right on time, Ian was nowhere in sight. I parked by the side of a rusted corrugated Dumpster large enough to hold a car and looked around. The packed dirt road was pitted with potholes. Thick tangles of weeds grew along the sides. A decrepit one-story building stood to the north situated on a low rise. The windows were boarded up, and a sign, its paint cracked and peeling, swung from a broken chain. I squinted to make out the words. It read KAT’S BODY SHOP. The wind had died down, and the sun was trying hard to poke through the clouds. The dark green water on North Mill Pond was glassy. Pussy willows, cattails, vines, and thorny bushes grew in wild abandon around the perimeter. Three ducks dipped their opalescent teal heads into the water, then swam past in perfect alignment, as if they were part of a synchronized swim team. I leaned against my car and watched them frolic.
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