Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries)

by Jane K. Cleland

  “To Little Boston. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” I said, “but I’ve never been there. What’s it like?”

  “Well established. All residential. I think it was built as a development in the eighties. It’s called Little Boston because all the street names are from Back Bay—the alphabet streets, you know? Arlington, Boylston, Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, and so on.”

  “I gather it’s not a gated community with a private security force or anything like that?”

  “Hardly. I’d be surprised if any of those houses have alarm systems or security cameras, let alone armed guards. It’s quiet back there, and safe.”

  Safe, I thought. Nowhere is safe.

  “Who was the new guy at the auction?” I asked. “The one wearing the Red Sox cap.”

  “Andrew Bruen. He just showed up, paid his deposit, same as everyone.”

  “A newbie. I wonder what his story is.”

  “I don’t know anything about him but his name, and that he came back around four to get his refund.”

  “He sure looked upset when he lost out.”

  “Whatever,” she said, shrugging.

  “Whose unit was it, anyway?” I asked. “The one Henri won?”

  “That I don’t talk about. People expect privacy, even when they forfeit their lockers.”

  “That’s another whole mystery, isn’t it?” I asked. “I mean, why would someone just stop paying for a locker?”

  “Beats me.”

  “Maybe they die and their heirs don’t know about it.”

  “Not likely. I send notices and certified letters and so on, so even if the heirs didn’t know about it when the person died, they’d learn about it soon enough. I send four letters. Three are required by my contract, but I send the fourth because I don’t want anyone griping that I didn’t try hard enough to notify them about losing their unit.”

  “Smart,” I said. “You sound like a belt-and-suspenders sort of gal.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Me, too.”

  Ellis stepped into the lobby. “Ms. Crawford, thanks for coming in. Someone will be with you in just a couple more minutes. Josie, if you’ll come with me.”

  “’Bye,” I said to Vicki.

  “See ya,” she said.

  I followed Ellis down the corridor that led to Room One. Inside, I took the same seat as before.

  “The subpoena for the phone records has been issued, so we’re all set on that front. I’ll go get Leigh Ann.” He headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “Don’t be shy, Josie, okay? If you know something, pipe up. If you have a question, ask it.”

  I nodded, and the already tight muscles in my shoulders twisted yet another turn.

  * * *

  While I waited, I checked my voice mail. Zoë had called back offering sympathy and soup at Ellis’s house.

  “I’m so sorry, Josie, to hear about Henri,” Zoë said, her voice rich and textured, her caring resonating with every word. “You must be beside yourself. I’m at Ellis’s, though, for the duration of the storm, so I won’t be around later. Too bad, because a French martini and dessert sound wonderful. The thing is, I figured you’d be at Ty’s and I didn’t want to risk being snowbound alone. Again. What a winter, right? So I wrapped the kids up and here we are, close enough to the beach to listen to the waves. Very cool. If you want to come over, I’ve made tomato soup. Jake’s request, poor little fellow. His cold is better, but he still feels kind of punky. In any event, know you’re welcome. Ellis has that extra guest room downstairs. Poor Leigh Ann. What a nightmare. If you think it’s appropriate, please tell her how sorry I am. I can’t even imagine how she must be feeling. You, too, my friend. Call when you can.”

  I clutched the phone to my chest for a moment, beyond grateful that I had a friend like Zoë in my life. The door opened, and I slipped the phone into my bag, bracing myself for unpleasantness. My only hope was that I would actually be of help to Ellis, and that when it was over, Leigh Ann would still be my friend.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Leigh Ann’s skin was sallow, and her eyes were dull. She looked decades older than she had the day before. She sat across from me, leaning heavily on her forearms, staring at the table. Officer Meade, the tall blonde, sat in a corner, keeping her eyes on Leigh Ann, holding an old-fashioned steno pad.

  “I’m so sorry, Leigh Ann,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said, her voice all trembly and low.

  Ellis placed a manila folder on the table in front of him, then used remote controls to activate the video recorders. I watched the tiny red lights flick on. When he stated the who-what-why information, he spoke to the camera. When he was done, he turned to face Leigh Ann.

  “Leigh Ann,” he said, waiting for her to raise her eyes, “as I’m sure you understand, the sooner we get facts, the better. Which is a long way of saying thank you for your cooperation.”

  Leigh Ann nodded.

  “You asked for Josie to join us,” he continued, “but I want you to know that if anything comes up that you’d prefer to talk about in private, all you have to do is say the word.”

  “I’m glad she’s here,” she said, glancing at me. She pressed the tips of her fingers into her forehead and rubbed. “I’m having trouble…” She lowered her hands and tried to smile, but her eyes filled with tears. “Maybe she can help me remember things.”

  “If you need anything,” he said, “water, a break, whatever, just let me know.” He waited for a moment, but she didn’t respond. “Let’s start with this list.” He extracted three sheets of paper from his folder. He slid one across the table to Leigh Ann, handed me the second, and kept the third for himself. “This is a list of your husband’s effects, those things found on his person. Is anything missing? Is anything a surprise?”

  Leigh Ann took in a deep breath, girding herself for an ordeal, then picked up the list with a shaky hand. I looked down at my copy. The list wasn’t long. They’d recovered his wedding band, a Montblanc pen I’d seen him use countless times, and $13.18; that was it. I looked at Ellis, then Leigh Ann. Lots of stuff was missing. Surely Ellis knew that, but from his neutral expression, you’d think he was asking nothing more provocative than if Henri’s shopping list had been complete.

  “Those are his things,” Leigh Ann said, wiping tears away with the side of her hand. “He would have had more cash than that, though.” She raised her eyes. “For the auction.”

  “He did,” I said, following Ellis’s instructions to speak up if I had something to say. “He had a wallet full of cash. I saw it when he paid for his unit. Although, as I think about it, I don’t know how much cash he had left after he paid for the unit. It cost him two thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Do you know how much money he took with him?” Ellis asked Leigh Ann.

  “Five thousand dollars, or at least that’s what he told me he planned to take. I didn’t count it or anything.”

  Ellis nodded slowly, calculating. “Assuming he took five thousand as planned, twenty-seven fifty is missing.” He tapped his pen on the table, thinking. “Where did he get the cash from?”

  “Our safe. We keep a lot of cash on hand. Henri stopped by the showroom this morning en route to the auction to get the money.”

  “Does the safe open with a key?” Ellis asked.

  “No. There’s a combination keypad, palm-print thing. You enter a four-digit number, then place your hand on the sensor.”

  “Who had access to it?” Ellis asked.

  “Just us.”

  Ellis nodded and wrote a note. “What else did he carry in his wallet?”

  “The regular stuff.”

  “Like…?”

  Leigh Ann closed her eyes to concentrate. “Credit cards,” she said, her eyes still closed. “He carried a MasterCard for personal charges and an American Express for the business. He had an emergency notification card with my contact info on it, his insurance card, a debit car
d, a grocery store discount card, and his driver’s license.” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes for a moment, then blinked. “I think that’s it.”

  Ellis jotted notes as she called out the list, then asked, “What about his keys?”

  Leigh Ann’s eyes flew open. “Oh, my God—his keys! He carried a silver and turquoise key ring. Navajo … we went to Arizona on our honeymoon. The keys to his van and my car were on it. Plus one for the shop and two for home, one for the front door and one for the back. Someone has keys to our house!”

  “We’ll take care of it.” He half-turned toward Officer Meade. She nodded and left the room. He swung back to face Leigh Ann. “So there are five keys total?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Plus he’d have the key for the padlock he used on the storage unit. Probably, though, he wouldn’t put that on his ring because it’s temporary. He’d just slip it in his pocket.”

  “Make a note,” Ellis told Officer Meade as she walked back into the room. “Padlock key.”

  She nodded and picked up her pad.

  “He wore a Patek Philippe watch, didn’t he, Leigh Ann?” To Ellis, I added, “It was a real beauty.”

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes and mouth opening wide. “He always wore it.”

  “Can you describe it?” Ellis asked.

  “It’s a split seconds chronograph, in platinum. I don’t know the model number.”

  “Was it inscribed?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Our initials and our wedding date are inscribed on the back. His father bought it for him as a wedding present. He bought me a gold and diamond bangle with the same inscription inside. So thoughtful. So generous.” She gasped. “Oh, my God! Pierre … Henri’s father! I can’t believe I forgot … they were so close … I need to call him.”

  He asked Leigh Ann to confirm the initials, got their wedding date, then turned to Officer Meade. “Issue a BOLO for the watch.” She left the room again. He turned to Leigh Ann. “A BOLO is shorthand for ‘be on the lookout,’ a notification that alerts police, pawnshops, and secondhand dealers that someone may try to sell stolen goods.” He met my eyes. “Josie, will you notify antiques dealers?”

  “Yes, right away.” I reached for my phone and e-mailed Sasha, who would know which associations to call, how to upload photos, and so on. I typed instructions and hit SEND, then placed the phone on the table in front of me.

  “Pierre is in Paris,” Leigh Ann said. “What time is it?”

  “It’s close to five,” Ellis said, glancing at the big wall-mounted clock over Leigh Ann’s head. “Eleven in France. I’d like to talk to him, too. I can arrange an international call. It’ll just take a few minutes to get it organized. As soon as Officer Meade gets back, she’ll see to it. Pierre, your father-in-law … you said he’s in Paris. What does he do?”

  “He’s a doctor. For many years, he worked with Doctors Without Borders traveling to places without proper medical care, war zones usually. Now he’s with a hospital, a very important place. I forget its name. He consults with a television station there, too. You know, he’s their on-air expert. He’s a lovely man. Very supportive.”

  “How so?” Ellis asked.

  Leigh Ann didn’t answer right away, and when she did, her words seemed carefully chosen. “Pierre was very disappointed when Henri decided against becoming a doctor, and even more disappointed when Henri decided there was no place for him in Paris. They didn’t speak for a year, but Pierre got over his anger, and they grew closer than ever. When Henri decided to marry me and make his move to America permanent, Pierre didn’t try to convince him to return to France. That’s pretty darn rare, I think. When I told my mama I was moving to New York, she said, ‘If you leave, you’re gone.’ Pierre wasn’t like that.” She paused for a moment, then sighed. “He was kind to me, too.”

  “Thank you,” Ellis said, glancing at the clock again. “I’m going to get that phone call figured out. There’s no need to wait for the officer to get back. I won’t be long.”

  He left the room. I noticed the video recorders were still running. Leigh Ann pulled her wallet from her purse, opened an inner flap, and flipped through a dozen or more plastic cards until she found what she was looking for, a folded piece of paper. She laid it on the table, smoothed out the wrinkles, then leaned back and closed her eyes. Neither of us had moved when Ellis stepped back inside, carrying a phone, its plastic-coated cords looped around the unit. He unraveled them, plugged one into the outlet and the other into a wall jack, then asked Leigh Ann for the number.

  She opened her eyes and pushed the paper toward him.

  Ellis dialed and put the call on speakerphone. In less than a second, a double-whir ring, an unmistakably European sound, filled the space.

  A man answered, his voice deeper than Henri’s.

  Leigh Ann closed her eyes, gripping the tabletop so tightly her knuckles turned white, and said, “It’s me, Pierre … Leigh Ann.” Her voice cracked and she began to cry.

  I pulled a tissue from the minipack I kept in my bag and pressed it into her hand. She didn’t know it was there, and it fluttered to the table.

  “Leigh Ann?” Pierre said. “What is it? Tell me.”

  “It’s Henri,” she managed. She spoke through tears. “He’s dead. Oh, my God, Pierre. He’s dead.”

  “Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé? Mon Dieu!”

  What happened? My God, I translated, my high school French barely adequate to the task.

  Leigh Ann collapsed onto the table, weeping, unable to continue.

  Ellis eased the phone from her grasp and said, “Docteur Dubois? Est-ce que vous parlez anglais?”

  “Un peu. Some.”

  “I speak almost no French—I will try to be clear. I am Rocky Point Police Chief Ellis Hunter. I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Docteur Dubois. As you can imagine, Ms. Dubois is too distraught to continue. She’s here at the police station helping us try to understand what’s happened. So far, all that’s known is that your son, Henri, was attacked in a storage unit he won at an auction. His wallet, phone, keys, and watch are missing.”

  “Merci, monsieur. Forgive me … my English … it is not as good as I need. Are you saying my son was killed during a … I do not know the word … a steal?”

  “A robbery. I don’t know. It’s possible. We’re looking into it. We’re notifying everyone—other police departments and stores—about the stolen watch.”

  “My poor Henri.”

  “I’m sorry to have to bother you with questions at a time like this, but do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your son?”

  “Non. Mon Dieu! He was a good man. A gentle man.”

  “When did you speak to him last?” Ellis asked Pierre.

  “I do not know … two, maybe three days ago. We had a short conversation. I am a doctor, and my time is not always as much my own as I would like. My poor Henri.”

  “Is there anything you can think of that might help us?”

  “Non. Not now. I will think more.”

  “Thank you, Docteur Dubois. Please do.”

  I touched Leigh Ann’s shoulder, and she sat up, her tears still flowing, her cheeks wet, her nose red. I pointed to the phone, then at her chest. She shook her head.

  Ellis gave Pierre his contact information, and Pierre gave Ellis his office number, and then he was gone. A green light flashed on my phone, signaling that I had an e-mail. Sasha replied to my request with one word, “Done.” I told Ellis and Leigh Ann.

  Officer Meade stepped into the room. Leigh Ann had stopped crying, but she looked miserable, broken.

  “Are you able to continue?” Ellis asked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”

  “May I ask you to take another look at the list? Can you think of anything else that might be missing?”

  She stared at it, the skin surrounding her eyes puffy. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Josie?”

  “Nothing occurs to me.”
>
  “All right, then. What about the broken things in the unit?” He extracted some Polaroid snapshots from his folder and lined them up so Leigh Ann and I could both see them. They were close-ups of the damaged objects. “Do either of you recognize anything?”

  “I didn’t notice anything but Henri,” Leigh Ann said, staring at the photos.

  “This appears to be an Asian vase,” I said, “or maybe a garden stool. The blue and white porcelain is distinctive. From this photo, there’s no way of telling if it’s an antique or a reproduction. These pieces of wood could be from anything—a bookcase, for instance, or a shelf.” I looked up at Ellis. “When we were bidding on the unit, nothing like either object showed. Which doesn’t mean anything. Maybe the bookcase was hidden by the stacks of boxes. It’s certainly not unusual that Henri opened boxes right away. We want to see what we bought.”

  “That takes care of that, then. I have a few personal questions to ask you, Leigh Ann. Would it be all right if I talked to you one-on-one?”

  “Of course,” Leigh Ann said.

  “Josie, Officer Meade will escort you to the lobby.”

  “I’ll hang around until you’re done,” I told her, swinging my tote bag onto my shoulder and standing up. “If you want me to come back in, you just let me know, okay?”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  Officer Meade led the way back to the entry area. Cathy was still busy at her computer, and the two uniformed officers were talking to one another, their voices muted. I sat on the hard wooden bench and stared at nothing. Witnessing Leigh Ann’s despondency had darkened my mood.

  Detective Brownley brought Scott into the lobby and thanked him. He nodded at me, then walked to one of the double-wide windows overlooking the front parking lot and stood, watching the snow.

  Wes once told me that when I tried to analyze situations or find logical reasons to understand nonrational behaviors, I was wrong a lot, and he was right. I was—but I was right a lot, too. Now, though, I was neither right nor wrong because I didn’t have a clue. I looked at Scott. Wes had chortled at the idea that Scott and Leigh Ann were just friends. Perhaps he was right. Maybe Henri’s murder wasn’t random after all.