“That’s wonderful news, Josie—on a lot of fronts. It’s terrific that the world will learn about my grandfather’s work. It’s great to think the posters are worth paying good money for, and it’s beyond great to think that some of the posters might end up in museums. I’ll tell my mom and brother. They’ll be thrilled to know Granddad’s work is getting the royal treatment. When do you think you’ll schedule the auction?”
“Next winter, probably.”
“I’ll let my brother know. We each might want to consign some posters. We’ll decide after we see that appraisal you’re working up.”
“I hope to have information for you soon,” I said, then asked that he give my regards to his mom and assure her I’d always be available for questions.
He promised he would, then thanked me again, and we agreed to talk again soon.
I finished closing up for the night, stretched, and headed downstairs to say good night to Hank. I found him in his basket, asleep. His water had recently been refreshed. His food bowls were full. Life was good.
* * *
Ty came out to greet me as soon as I pulled into the driveway. He stood under the golden porch light in the soft blue twilight, smiling, waiting for me to join him.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.
“Hey, handsome.”
He smiled, and I felt my breath catch. I loved everything about him, his looks, how he treated me, how seriously he took his responsibilities, how I could talk to him about anything. I trusted him with my life, with my heart. He was kind and tender and competent and as strong as steel. I adored him.
“You okay?” he asked.
“If you’re here,” I said, climbing the porch stairs and stepping into his embrace, “I’m okay.”
* * *
Wes called as I was driving to work the next morning, and I pulled over to talk.
“I can’t believe you didn’t call me,” he said, sounding hurt, not angry.
“Everything happened so fast, Wes. Even if it had occurred to me, there wasn’t time.”
“Tell me now. Let’s meet.”
“I can’t. I have to get to work.”
“Please?” he asked. “Give me ten minutes.”
I agreed to meet him at the Portsmouth Diner, not because I thought I knew anything he hadn’t already learned from his other, better-connected sources, but because he might know details I lacked.
He was already settled in a booth when I arrived, using standard household scissors to cut a wiggly line in a piece of flattened aluminum can.
“This is hard,” he said. “I don’t know how she did it.”
“Probably she used shears designed to cut metal.”
He pushed the aluminum sheet away from him, placing the scissors on top of it.
“So,” he said, “did you get any photos?”
“No!” I said, wondering why I was shocked at Wes’s question. He was always outrageous.
He sighed, Wesian for disappointment. “How did she look? Pugnacious? Defensive?”
“Haggard. Terrified. Cagey.”
“Good ones, Josie! When did you know Leigh Ann was the killer?”
“Yesterday morning, as soon as Scott said he was leaving. The only possible explanation for his sudden decision to leave was that he realized Leigh Ann was the killer. Then other memories came to me, like the bloodstain on the driver’s side of her car, like the aluminum square with the ragged edge in her credenza, other things.” I sighed. “Do you know if she’s cooperating with the police?”
“No way! She’s holed up with her lawyer. The police think they’re in the catbird seat. The DA says she confessed to what they expect will add up to conspiracy to commit immigration fraud, an element of racketeering. They anticipate indicting her on that charge, maybe as soon as today. They have a lot of circumstantial evidence against her for the murder, including physical evidence, but nothing that can’t be explained away somehow.”
“Explained away? How can she explain away buying the murder weapon in advance?”
“She says the tire iron she bought is missing. It’s not like they have serial numbers on them or anything. There aren’t any fingerprints on the tool itself. No one can prove the tire iron she bought was the same one used to kill Henri.”
“Is she trying to implicate Scott?” I asked, astonished.
“Maybe.”
“What does she say about Henri’s blood on the driver’s side of her car?”
“That Henri borrowed her car and had a bloody nose.” Wes took in my shocked expression and said, “What did you expect, Josie? That she’d just roll over? She’s scrappy as all get-out.”
“Do you think she’ll get away with it?”
“No way, but I think there’s a better than even chance that it will go to trial. You know how it works. The DA will dredge up every charge they can think of to try to get her to cop a plea. The DA and her lawyer will dicker back and forth, and if Leigh Ann is stubborn enough, or if she thinks a jury will find it impossible to believe a pretty woman like her could be capable of such a heinous crime, she’ll hold out for a jury trial. I think she’s just that stubborn and just that arrogant.”
“I can see Leigh Ann taking the witness stand in her own defense. She’s a good actress.” I recalled all her oohs and ahhs, how she faked that line about how a French martini must be good simply because it’s French. “Henri was a good actor, too. They were in collusion to project an image of a happily married couple. It was crucial so Henri could get his green card. It was also important for their business—interior design is an intimate endeavor. Customers want to buy more than furniture. They want to buy a lifestyle. They performed beautifully. No one knew the truth. It might work for her on the stand.”
“Do you think you should have been able to figure out that it was all one big lie?” Wes asked.
“No. If people are talented and committed prevaricators, there’s nothing someone else can do to avoid being taken in. It’s why con men succeed.”
“Do you believe that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve gone back over every clue I missed. When you trust someone, you skip over anomalies, you know? You want the reality you hope for to be true.”
“You got snookered again, Josie.”
“Don’t be crude, Wes. I didn’t get snookered. I trusted people.”
“You bought into an illusion.”
Wes was right. I did—and that was something I planned to spend a fair amount of time thinking about.
* * *
Wes’s prediction that Leigh Ann would insist on a jury trial was wrong. I was turning off the interstate en route to work when the local radio station broke into its regular programming to announce that Leigh Ann Dubois had just agreed to plead guilty to second-degree murder in return for a reduced sentence. Instead of facing life without parole, she’d be up for parole in fifty years.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I looked at my handiwork, a two-foot-tall pink heart to which I’d glued a doily border and type I’d printed in a girly font. The front read:
I Love You
I opened the handmade card, my arms stretched wide.
With All My Heart
I nodded, pleased. It was simple and clear and exactly what I wanted to express to Ty this Valentine’s Day. I signed it and slid it behind the sofa, out of sight.
I looked around the room. The candles were lit. The champagne was chilled. The steaks were marinating. I was wearing a new red dress and my mother’s ruby studs. I was ready for Valentine’s Day.
“I feel pretty silly,” Ty said, stepping into the living room, “wearing a red sweater just because it’s Valentine’s Day.”
“You take my breath away,” I said. “Red sweater and all.”
“So do you. You’re so gorgeous, Josie.”
He hugged me, then looked deep into my eyes and kissed me, a soul kiss, leaving me all fluttery inside.
“I love kissing you,” I said.
&
nbsp; He popped the champagne cork and said, “I love kissing you, too.”
I gave him my card.
“I love it,” he said, kissing me again, a longer one this time. “Here’s yours.”
The outside was decorated in red flocked velvet and read, Feel beautiful. Feel treasured. I opened it up. Because that’s what you are and always will be to me.
“Wow,” I said.
“I mean every word of it,” he said, and as he leaned in for another kiss, I knew this would be a moment I’d remember forever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks go to Adèle Bové, an associate at Verdura, who provided invaluable details about Fulco di Verdura and his remarkable jewelry. Thanks also to Verdura’s Patricia Kayne. Ongoing thanks to Leslie Hindman for her guidance about the antiques appraisal process. Any errors are mine alone.
Special thanks also go to Gail Nardin of LIM College for her ongoing support and to Katie Longhurst for her meticulous reading of the manuscript. Thanks also to LIM College’s Claudine Monique, who named this book’s martini. For my pals in the Wolfe Pack and fans of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe stories everywhere, I’ve added my usual allotment of Wolfean trivia to this book. Special thanks to my Wolfean partner in crime, Carol Novak.
Special thanks also go to Jo-Ann Maude, Liz Weiner, and Christine de los Reyes. Thanks to Al de los Reyes, Marci Gleason and James Nield, John and Mona Gleason, Linda and Ren Plastina, Rona and Ken Foster, Bob Farrar, Meredith Anthony and Larry Light, Dave and Cindy Scott, and Wendy Corsi Staub and Mark Staub.
Thanks also to Linda Landigran of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Barbara Floyd of The Country Register, and Wilda W. Williams of Library Journal. Special thanks also to Molly Weston and Jen Forbus.
Since this book is dedicated to librarians, I want to extend special thanks to my librarian friends David S. Ferriero, Doris Ann Norris, Mary Russell, Denise Van Zanten, Mary Callahan Boone with whom I share a love of theater, Cynde Bloom Lahey, Cyndi Rademacher, Eleanor Ratterman, Jane Murphy, Eileen Sheridan, Jennifer Vido, Judith Abner, Karen Kiley, Lesa Holstine, Monique Flasch, Susie Schachte, Virginia Sanchez, Maxine Bleiweis, Cindy Clark, Linda Avellar, Heidi Fowler, Georgia Owens, Eva Perry, Mary J. Etter, Paul Schroeder, Tracy J. Wright, Kristi Calhoun Belesca, Paulette Sullivan, Frances Mendelsohn, Deborah Hirsch, Sharon Redfern, and Heather Caines.
Thank you to my literary agent emerita, Denise Marcil, and my fabulous literary agent, Cristina Concepcion of Don Congdon Associates, Inc. Special thanks go to Michael Congdon and Katie Kotchman as well.
My editor, Minotaur Books’ executive editor Hope Dellon, offered invaluable insights about the manuscript. Special thanks also go to Silissa Kenney, assistant editor, for her shrewd perceptions and thoughtful feedback. I’m indebted to them, and to the entire Minotaur Books team. Thank you to those I work with most often, Andy Martin, Sarah Melnyk, and Talia Ross, as well as those behind the scenes, including my copy editor, India Cooper, and my cover designer, David Baldeosingh Rotstein.
OTHER JOSIE PRESCOTT ANTIQUES MYSTERIES BY JANE K. CLELAND
Dolled Up for Murder
Deadly Threads
Silent Auction
Killer Keepsakes
Antiques to Die For
Deadly Appraisal
Consigned to Death
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JANE K. CLELAND once owned an antiques and rare books business in New Hampshire and now lives in New York City. Her first novel, Consigned to Death, was an Independent Mystery Booksellers Association bestseller and was nominated for the Macavity, Agatha, and David book awards. Her second, Deadly Appraisal, won the David Award for Best Novel of 2007 and her fifth, Silent Auction, was nominated for the David Award in 2011.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LETHAL TREASURE. Copyright © 2013 by Jane K. Cleland. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Cleland, Jane K.
Lethal treasure / Jane K. Cleland. — First edition.
pages cm. — (Josie Prescott antiques mystery)
ISBN 978-1-250-02694-1 (hardcover: alk. paper)
ISBN 978-1-250-02695-8 (e-book)
1. Prescott Josie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Antique dealers—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3603.L4555L48 2013
813'.6—dc23
2013009808
e-ISBN 9781250026958
First Edition: June 2013
*Please see Deadly Threads.
*Please see Dolled Up for Murder.
Lethal Treasure: A Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery (Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries) Page 29