“Of course, we’ll be glad to arrange transport,” he said.
He wanted my business, big-time. “What about the other three, the ones with the cat?” I asked.
“A. P. Markham,” he said, not letting my dismissal ruffle his feathers, “known as Al Markham. He painted in tempera on colored poster board for the Ioka Theater in Exeter, New Hampshire, and was known for using multiple styles—he was a commercial artist by training, which meant he was expert in adaptation. Markham didn’t sign his work-for-hire pieces, thinking of them as ephemera, which is to say, as throw-aways, not art. This idiosyncrasy, combined with his chameleonlike talent, makes his unsigned work significantly harder to validate than his signed work—except for the cat’s face. Everything he painted, signed and unsigned, featured that cat.”
“What sort of work did he sign?” I asked.
“Portraits, some in tempera, others in oil. During the 1920s, he was the go-to portrait artist for families and corporate executives in New Hampshire. He also has a solid reputation in the ‘works on paper’ arm of the art world. One of his signed lithographs recently sold at auction for twelve thousand five hundred dollars.”
“Interesting,” I said. “What do you think the Markham posters are worth?”
“I don’t know,” Marshall said, his breathless excitement mounting, “but I think it may be a fair amount, perhaps as much as forty or fifty thousand dollars each. They’re so scarce. I’d love to get a look at them.”
Shelley chimed in, laughing. “Forget it, Marshall,” she said. “I know Josie. Think barnacle. No way is she letting those posters out of her sight.”
“I might,” I said. “You never know. If I need more help, I’ll know who to call, that’s for sure!” I thanked them both again, told Shelley I’d be in touch, and promised to keep them updated.
With the artist’s name in hand, my research path was clear. I removed my headphone, told Hank I’d talk to him later, and ran for the stairs. Settled in my office, I called Fred to pass on the good news about Madalena and asked if he had any questions about my e-mail, the one containing the bulleted list. He didn’t.
I went to the large proprietary Web site and searched for “A. P. Markham.”
“Yay!” I said aloud as a bio appeared on my screen alongside a photograph.
The photo showed a distinguished-looking middle-aged man, around sixty, holding a pipe. An artist’s easel stood in the background, partially hidden by his torso. His expression was thoughtful, communicating that he was a serious man, a serious artist.
Markham had lived and died in Manchester, New Hampshire. Born in 1885, he’d been eighty-three when he’d died in 1968. He’d married Rose G. Odell in 1922. They had two children, Katrina, born in 1930, and Lester, born in 1932. Markham had learned commercial art during a stint in the U.S. Army, serving as a publications specialist, and by the time he married he was a well-established freelancer working with local ad agencies and small businesses throughout the Manchester area. He also dabbled in fine art, experimenting with materials, subjects, and styles. He was known for his versatility.
So far, so good. It looked like we’d identified our artist.
Now I needed to demonstrate that these posters were originals and that they could be sold with clear title. I e-mailed Sasha explaining what I’d discovered and asking her to take charge of the Markham posters’ authentication process, explaining that I’d assigned the Madalena to Fred and adding that I’d take a crack at confirming provenance.
We had two options: We could trace the posters from the artists’ hands forward or we could trace them from the storage locker backward. The latter approach was the best hope, but there was a glitch. I didn’t know who’d owned the storage locker where Henri had found the posters, and Vicki had made it clear she’d never tell me. I pursed my lips, thinking. Ellis would have needed to know the owner’s name as part of his murder investigation, and if he’d had to get a court order to get the information, he would have done so.
Cara’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Josie, pick up line one, please.”
When I had her on the phone, she added, “Chief Hunter is here with some men in a truck. Eric is meeting them at the loading dock.”
Perfect timing, I thought.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ellis and I stood near the roped-off area Eric had set up to receive the contents of Henri’s storage unit watching Eric and the two police helpers wheel in dollies and rolling flatbeds of boxes, furniture, bags, and tubs. The area was about triple the size of the storage unit, which would allow ample room to maneuver. He’d labeled this section number 31, writing the numerals on one of the dozens of standing whiteboards we used for the purpose.
“You know how you asked me to let you know if I identified anything that might be worth killing for?” I asked, keeping my voice low. “I think maybe I just did.”
“Tell me,” he said, matching my tone.
I explained about the posters, describing why I needed to know who’d owned the unit.
“We’ve already submitted paperwork to compel Vicki Crawford to provide that info. You’ve just given me a good reason to turn up the heat.”
* * *
Once everything was unloaded, Ellis sent his men back to the police station and turned to me.
“Now what happens?” he asked.
I glanced at the wall clock. It was just after four.
“Now we record everything, then begin our object-by-object review.”
“Good. Call me on my cell if there’s anything I should know.”
I promised I would and escorted him out. In the front office, I asked Sasha to join me at section 31.
“Bring a camera,” I said, “and ask Fred to join us, too.” I noted his empty desk. “Is he in the warehouse?”
“Fred stepped out. He said he wouldn’t be back until seven or so. Do you want me to call his cell?”
“No,” I said. “No prob.” I wasn’t concerned about Fred’s absence. Unless a meeting or conference call required Fred’s or Sasha’s presence at a certain time, they were free to set their own schedules, and Fred, I knew, was a consummate night owl, often starting his day at noon and working well into the evening. I turned to Gretchen. “You’re drafted. Get Eric and a second camera. This is an all-hands-on-deck situation.” To Cara I added, “You’re in charge of holding down the fort.”
Cara gave a two-finger mock salute. “Will do.”
I considered how best to proceed as I scanned the stacks of boxes and tubs and the piles of bags. Gretchen and Eric could work the cameras, but our protocol required that only antiques experts could provide the narration, naming objects and describing any markings, nicks, mars, or dents we observed.
“Gretchen and I will start on this side,” I said, pointing to the left. “You guys work from the other end, and we’ll meet in the middle. I know it’s late. Let’s see how much we can get done in an hour.”
We dug in.
Box after box, tub after tub, and bag after bag revealed more of the same sorts of things I’d discovered in Henri’s van. We unpacked serving dishes; kitchen utensils; a nice collection of sterling silver booze labels, the kind that hang around cut-glass decanters on silver chains; and men’s clothing, pants sized 38/32, and sweaters, sized large.
Just after five, Cara came in to tell me she was leaving. I asked Gretchen, Sasha, and Eric if they could stay for another hour or so, and they all could. No one needed to call anyone. No one needed a break. Gretchen and I were three boxes from running into Eric and Sasha when I spotted a tightly rolled paper cylinder wrapped in a red and cream-colored crocheted afghan.
“Look at what I found,” I said, waving it in the air like a trophy. “Anyone want to bet on what it is?”
Sasha and Eric stepped closer to watch as I slid the rubber band off and unfurled it, revealing a silent movie poster advertising Johanna Enlists, starring Mary Pickford. The painting showed the young beauty, her skin flawless, her cheeks rose-petal
pink, striding toward something on the left, her gait and demeanor evoking a soldier marching in formation. She wore a long-sleeved white dress.
“I want to look for the cat’s face,” I said and headed for the nearest worktable.
“What’s that?” Gretchen asked.
“A tell,” I said, explaining about the artist’s visual signature. “I’m betting this is another Markham.”
With Eric and Gretchen standing on my left and Sasha on my right, I switched on the overhead work lamp, placed glass weights on the corners to keep the poster flat, grabbed a loupe, and started examining the folds of Mary Pickford’s white dress.
Nestled in the shadows of the collar was a delicately rendered cat’s face.
* * *
I set aside the last empty box and glanced at the clock; it was nearly six.
“That’s it,” I said. “Thanks, everyone, for staying late. You all go on ahead. I’ll close up.”
They offered to stay, and I told them there was no need, and they left.
I transferred all the empty containers to the far end of the roped-off area—nothing would be discarded until the police investigation was completed—then went to my office to call Ellis.
“What do you do now?” Ellis asked me as soon as I’d reported on our initial assessment: We’d identified another potentially valuable silent movie poster and hadn’t found any fireplace tools or golf clubs, nor anything else that could have been the murder weapon.
“Hope you’re able to get the name from Vicki Crawford and that it helps me trace the Markham posters.”
“I should know more in the morning. You going to be there for a while? I want to ask you something.”
“What?”
“It’s a show-and-tell thing. I’m ten minutes away.”
The time display on my monitor read 6:17. “I have half an hour.”
“I’ll see you in ten.”
Downstairs, I changed Hank’s water and added food, getting him set up for the night. He was in his basket, napping.
“What do you think Ellis wants?” I asked him.
He opened one eye, then closed it.
“I don’t know either. Good night, little fellow. Be a good boy.” I leaned in to kiss his furry cheek, then went to the front to greet Ellis.
Ellis stepped into the office, setting the wind chimes jangling. I offered him a cookie from the batch of chocolate chips Cara had made for me and a drink, and he said no to the cookies, a masterful example of self-control, and yes to a lemonade.
“You going to your place tonight?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“We checked security cameras in the area. There aren’t many, but there is one at the end of your street. Rocky Point Community Bank has cameras mounted on its light poles. One unit caught a partial of a car passing at 12:50 A.M., the only vehicle on the road in either direction after a police patrol car went by at one minute after twelve. Nothing else passed until a snowplow at one fifteen. Twelve fifty is twenty-eight minutes before you say you were awakened by the break-in. That sounds like about the right amount of time to get from the bank to that farm stand, park, and hike the rest of the way to your place, doesn’t it?”
My throat closed and my eyes opened wide. I’d known Ellis was investigating. I’d hoped he’d find evidence. Yet here I was, astonished.
“Sorry to come at you with this without warning,” he said, “but you need to know. I need your help.”
“I’m okay,” I said, managing to smile. “I just wasn’t expecting news so soon. I’m impressed. What else can you tell me?”
He eased a black-and-white photograph from an inside pocket and handed it to me. The photo showed a sliver of car, the left side, a sedan, not a van, SUV, or truck. It was driving north, toward my street. The storm was in full force. I tried to look through the white haze, but whirling streams of snowflakes distorted the view, and I couldn’t see much beyond vague shapes.
“Do you recognize it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, but it’s such a small image, and it’s so hard to see through the snow…” My voice trailed off.
“We have enough to identify the car model, at least I think we do. I have a man on it now.”
“The license plate isn’t visible.”
“True,” he acknowledged.
“What color is the car, do you think?”
He looked down, frowning, his lips pushed together. “Hard to say … not white … not dark colored … metallic, maybe.”
“Silver is the most common car color, I think.”
“Know anyone who drives a silver car?”
“Sure,” I said. “Lots of people, including Zoë. Can the tech guys use Photoshop or something to enhance the driver’s face?”
“They’re working on it, but they told me they weren’t optimistic. It’s not the highest-quality photo to start with.”
“Can I keep this?” I asked. “I’d like to show it to Ty.”
“Yes.” He tilted his glass high, finishing the last drops of lemonade, then slid the glass onto the table. “Nothing wrong with letting lots of people see it. Just ’cause you and I don’t recognize the car doesn’t mean someone else won’t. It’s pretty unusual to be out driving at that hour in the middle of a blizzard. Someone might have remarked it.”
I looked at him, surprised. “Are you releasing it to the media?”
“No. That would be inappropriate at this point in the investigation. No one knows your place was broken into, and I don’t want to call attention to it. It’s one thing to ask your neighbors if they heard a car or saw someone walking in the area. We can be discreet when it’s one-on-one. But this … I can’t release it without telling reporters why. You could, though.”
“What would I say?”
He reached into his pocket again and extracted a single sheet of paper. “I took the liberty,” he said, “of jotting down a few thoughts.” He glanced at it, then handed it over.
I gave him a sideways glance to let him know he wasn’t pulling any wool over my eyes, that I understood he was orchestrating our conversation like a puppeteer manipulates a marionette. I read his paragraph-long suggested statement.
When conducting antiques appraisals, you never know where your research will lead. In this case, I have reason to believe that the driver of this car can help me appraise a valuable nineteenth-century painting. If any of your readers know who was out late at night during this past weekend’s blizzard, please ask them to contact me.
“This is a lie,” I said, looking up, meeting his eyes.
“How do you know? Maybe the person who broke in was after that painting you told me about, the Jan Brueghel the Younger. It’s possible he knows something about it that you don’t know.”
I stared at him for several seconds trying to figure out his agenda. “Do you think the break-in is related to Henri’s murder?” I asked.
“Let’s just say that I mistrust anything that looks like a coincidence.”
I nodded. “I’m grateful, Ellis, for the seriousness with which you’re taking this.” I reread his statement. “When you talked about releasing the photo, you specified ‘readers.’ Does that mean you don’t want me to contact the broadcast media?”
“Do you have a buddy on TV?”
“No.” A lightbulb in my head flashed on. “Oh … you’re thinking of Wes.”
“Wes Smith? Good idea, Josie. He does a solid job. As far as I can tell, he’s an honest man.”
“You don’t really think this will work, do you?”
“You never know what will work until you try it.” He picked up his coat. “I’ll e-mail you the photo so you can forward it on. Save it to your computer, will you, so when you send it to him, it will come from you, not me?”
“Will do. What do I say when Wes asks where I got it from?”
“A security camera.”
“He’ll ask which one and how I got it,” I said.
“Tell him he’s not the on
ly one with sources.”
“You’re devilishly clever, Ellis.”
He stood up and shook out his pant leg. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
I smiled, relaxing a bit. Ellis wouldn’t joke about it if he thought I was in danger.
* * *
I downloaded the photo to my shared folder, renamed it “mystery car,” and called Wes. He was tickled that I’d contacted him and cooperative, promising to highlight the reader challenge both in tomorrow’s printed paper and on the newspaper’s Web site starting now.
I checked the time on Gretchen’s Mickey Mouse clock. It was 6:48, time to go. I gave Hank a goodbye cuddle, turned out the lights, set the security alarm, and headed out to meet Ty for dinner.
* * *
As I pulled open the Blue Dolphin’s heavy oak door, Fred was just leaving, shrugging into his coat as he walked, and we nearly collided.
“Sorry,” he said, pushing his glasses up.
“Great minds, right?” I said, smiling. “Did you have an early dinner?”
He didn’t blush, not exactly. The color that flooded his cheeks resembled a pale pink flush of surprise more than the deep red of mortification, but it was enough for my gossip antennae to whip up and begin vibrating. I had the sense that I’d just caught Fred with his pants down.
“Yeah,” he said, with impressive aplomb, “I did. It was great. I’m heading back to work now. Is there anything I should know?”
I was tempted to drag him into the lounge and, under the guise of filling him in about Markham, elicit answers that would quench my gossip thirst, but I didn’t. What Fred did on his own time was none of my business. It took discipline, but I managed to swallow my curiosity.
“Just the e-mail I sent you about Madalena,” I said, waving good-bye. “You might be able to get a start on your part of the appraisal. Regardless, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Suzanne was hovering near the hostess stand. She looked as lovely as she had before, but her mood was different, distressed.
Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries) Page 16