Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  I replaced the photo, calmer just for looking at his picture and recalling his tenderness and caring.

  There was nothing I could do for Zoë except be with her when she wanted company, listen if she wanted to talk, offer opportunities for her to distract herself like being the origami queen at the Harvest Festival, and help the police in any way I could. I sighed and turned back to the mound of paperwork.

  The first item I picked up was last week’s sales report, and I flipped through it without seeing a thing. The question I’d posed to myself as I was drifting off to sleep last night nagged at me. Why had Greg arranged such a superficial appraisal of a tooth alleged to be a Myrick? That he believed Ashley’s appraisal to be sufficient made no sense—and if something made no sense, usually it wasn’t true.

  If Greg had been able to authenticate the tooth as a genuine Myrick, it would have added tens of thousands of dollars to his selling price and brought him priceless publicity as the discoverer of a previously unknown Myrick. And if it had been shown to be a phony, well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles sometimes in the antiques biz. Not doing a proper appraisal was a surefire way to tarnish your reputation—why would people allow you to sell their objects if they didn’t have confidence that you’d get them the best price? He had to have a good reason to have skipped such a crucial step.

  Maybe he didn’t have the cash to pay for an appraisal. I shook my head. That wasn’t the answer.

  Greg had owned and operated Sea View Gallery for more than two de cades. Even if he was in a cash crunch, he would have done what we all do as a matter of course under those circumstances—spread the risk by sharing the potential reward. Just last week, I’d agreed to appraise what the owner of the Darling Gallery in Bangor, Maine, and I hoped was a Rembrandt etching. They lacked both the expertise and the cash on hand to handle the appraisal themselves, and my company had both. Prescott’s agreed to pay all the costs—including sending the print to Milan for chemical testing, if we got that far—and in return, the Darling Gallery agreed to pay us 19 percent of the final selling price, subject to a reserve we’d agree on later, once we knew the object’s value. Those kinds of partnerships were standard operating procedure in the industry.

  Greg hadn’t done that. Instead he’d hired Ashley Morse, a scrimshander, not an antiques appraiser or maritime artifact adviser. The only logical answer was the first one that had occurred to me: The tooth was counterfeit, and he knew it. He didn’t bother with faking the provenance because he had a live one about to leave town—Guy Whitestone.

  Either his picker, Sam, and he were in it together, or he’d bought the tooth as a repro and cooked up the scheme on his own. Greg probably decided that it would be flying in the face of providence to pass up an opportunity to make more than seventeen thousand dollars overnight—assuming he really had paid Sam seven thousand—for little work and less risk. He might have rationalized it by telling himself that not only wouldn’t it hurt anyone, no one would ever be the wiser.

  If that’s what happened, if Greg intended to deceive Guy, choosing Ashley to do the appraisal was understandable.

  As a novice in the ways of high-end antiques appraisals, Guy would have no reason to question Ashley’s bona fides as an appraiser. Her background as a scrimshander would be reason enough for him to have confidence in the appraisal. Certainly Ashley wouldn’t question Greg’s choice; that would be to bite the hand that fed her, and if nothing else, Ashley was no fool. She’d know that her three-step appraisal was cursory at best, but she’d also recall the lean times, the years during which she’d only earned a subsistence wage and had struggled to get a gallery to represent her. The last thing she’d do would be to suggest that her savior—the gallery owner who took her on—was a scammer. Probably if Greg said jump, Ashley’s only question would be how high.

  I swiveled and looked out my window. An antique copper weather vane mounted on the church roof across the way shifted with the wind.

  The only question remaining was who else knew the Myrick tooth was bogus. Was Greg operating on his own? Had he partnered with Sam? Or was he part of an even larger conspiracy?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I called Wes and got him.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “Hi, Wes. I have a question. Have you learned anything about alibis yet?”

  “Yup. Ready? Greg had breakfast at the Rocky Point Diner, arriving about eight thirty and leaving about nine thirty, the same as he did almost every morning. His gallery alarm was turned off at nine forty-five, and he opened for business at ten. His first customer arrived around eleven, and from then until twelve thirty, he was with one or more people every minute. At twelve thirty, after his assistant Suzanne Jardin arrived, he drove to various galleries in Maine, assessing the competition, he says. He didn’t go into any of them—he just looked through the windows, seeing how busy they were, getting a feel for their inventory, and so on. He went as far north as Ogunquit, then turned around, getting back to his place at two thirty.”

  I considered the timeline. Greg’s gallery was only about a ten-minute drive from Rocky Point Light, so he would have had plenty of time to get to the light house, kill Frankie, and still drive to Maine and back, peeking into shops not so he could suss out the competition but so the shop keepers could see him peeking in and alibi him if it came to that.

  “Curt Grimes was at the light house with Frankie from eight thirty to nine or so,” Wes said, “hanging the door. He drove to Frankie’s cottage to borrow a DVD.” Wes chuckled. “It’s called The Ten Most Outrageous Sports Bloopers of All Time. Doesn’t that sound totally zez?”

  “What does ‘zez’ mean?” I asked.

  “Jazzed. Awesome. Bonzo. You know … zez?”

  “Oh,” I said, smiling at Wes’s colorful language, “that zez.”

  “Yeah. So anyway, Curt hung out there for a few minutes. Around nine thirty, he went home—he lives in an apartment in the basement of his sister’s house. He had something to eat and watched the DVD. Around noon, he visited three companies, trolling for work. No one needed him, and he got back to his apartment around three. He washed his car, then around four, he took his sister shopping. The police were able to verify his alibi from his sister and staff at the three companies, but it doesn’t prove anything because there was enough time between stops for him to have detoured to the lighthouse. He says he just drove around, that he likes driving, that it relaxes him.”

  “Interesting,” I remarked.

  “Who else should I look at?” Wes asked.

  “I can’t think of anyone.”

  “Got any news for me?”

  “No, not now,” I said.

  “Okeydokey—catch ya later,” he said and hung up.

  As I gazed at the weather vane’s green patina, I realized that the most logical explanation was probably the correct one—Frankie interrupted a burglary. Was Curt the thief? I asked myself.

  Apparently, Curt needed money. He’d driven to three companies that day without getting work. Was that typical? Was he desperate?

  I made a note to ask Wes about Curt’s finances.

  After striking out with the third company, maybe he decided that desperate times required desperate measures. According to Wes, Curt would have had ample time to get to the light house. Maybe he called Frankie to say that he’d lost something—his wallet or a tool, for instance—and that he must have dropped it in the light house that morning. Frankie, helping his buddy out, would have let him in. Frankie would have run upstairs to look in the sitting room at the top where they’d been working, while Curt pretended to look by the entranceway, where he’d left his stuff. While Frankie was upstairs, Curt grabbed the Myrick tooth, thinking that if he rearranged the other items on the shelf, the theft wouldn’t be noticed right away—and it wasn’t. He chose that Myrick tooth either at random or because, for what ever reason, he thought it was the most valuable one. Maybe he heard Greg quote the price to Guy, for example, and didn’t know that othe
r easily accessible objects were priced even higher.

  Boom—he’s caught red-handed. They argue. They fight. Curt kills him.

  What happened next? I asked myself.

  Probably Curt tried to sell the tooth right away. Had he stopped at a pawnshop or at one of the dozens of antiques shops with WE PAY CASH FOR ANTIQUES & COLLECTIBLES signs in their windows? Had he discovered how little money a scrimshaw tooth unaccompanied by proper documentation would sell for? If so, perhaps he decided that his best shot at avoiding a murder rap was to return it. Would he have driven back to the light house without making an appointment? How could he hope to get in? Unless Frankie had told him he was meeting me at three and would be around the rest of the day. Or unless Curt knew the back door was open.

  If Curt drove up and saw my car in addition to Frankie’s, what would he have done? He would have rung the doorbell, and when there was no answer, he would have tried the doorknob. Why did he just drive away at that point? I asked myself. Either he didn’t know the kitchen door was open, which means he’s not the killer, or he didn’t remember leaving it open, or he just got spooked.

  I shrugged. I was weaving scenarios based on what-ifs, and that kind of conjecture often led nowhere.

  My eyes took in the sun-streaked patterns on the church parking lot next to Prescott’s while my brain was busy. I spotted a squirrel darting into the bushes that ranged along the near side. From the set of his jaw, I could tell that he was carry ing an acorn. Stockpiling for winter started early in New Hampshire.

  Was Curt the kind of person who would steal a valuable object while Frankie was on-site and responsible? It would take a real snake to deceive a friend like that. Recalling Curt’s sordid offer to sell me fake goods, I found it easy to cast him in that role.

  I needed information. I swiveled back to my desk and called Wes again.

  “Wes,” I said. “It’s me.”

  Wes’s lightning rod, the one he used to capture news, sparked as soon as he heard my voice. “Whatcha got?” he asked.

  “Nothing except a few more questions. First, money—can you find out some financial information? I want to know about Curt’s overall condition.”

  “Spell it out for me. What are you looking for?”

  I didn’t want to voice my suspicions without evidence. I looked out the window again. The weather vane had spun to the east.

  “I have nothing to tell you. I want information to help guide my thinking—that’s why I called.”

  “Sketch it for me,” he persisted.

  “No,” I said. I’d been in sixth grade when I learned that secrets, once divulged, were lost forever. Curt might be, in my opinion, a sleaze-bucket, but I didn’t want to start a rumor that he was a thief, and maybe even a killer.

  “Why not?” Wes asked, sounding shocked.

  “Because people’s reputations are at risk.”

  He sighed heavily. “All right. If I learn anything, and if it leads somewhere, I’m your first call, right?”

  “I can’t promise that, Wes. If I uncover a crime, I’ll need to report it to the police.”

  He sighed again. “Then I’m your second call—and you make it soon enough after the first one so I’m in on everything.”

  I nodded. “That’s fair.”

  “Okay, then. What else do you want to know?”

  “The names of the companies Curt visited the day Frankie was killed.”

  “Heyer’s, Jumbo Container, and Mandy’s Candies,” he rattled off, “in that order.”

  I knew them. They were all in Rocky Point. “Thanks, Wes. One more thing … I’d like to know everyone Frankie spoke to the day he died. I know he talked to Guy Whitestone midmorning because he told me so when he stopped by my office that day. I also know that I left messages on his cell phone around three thirty. Going back a few days, can you find out the details of all calls in and out, and how long each one lasted?”

  “Yup. What’s his number?” Wes asked.

  I read it off to him, adding his home number, too. “I don’t think he used his home phone much, but we ought to check.”

  “No problemo. I’m on it.”

  “Thanks, Wes. You know I’ll fill you in when I can.”

  “Yup, thanks. So, I was getting ready to call you. I’ve got a real shockeroonie. You know that picker, Sam? He’s refusing to cooperate. He won’t talk to the police. He keeps hanging up on them.”

  “Why?”

  “He says it’s none of their beeswax who he does business with and they can go jump in the lake. Or words to that effect.”

  “He sounds real personable.”

  “Yeah. The police figure he’s one of those off-the-grid, antigovernment loner types,” he said, unaware that it was my explanation of pickers that the police were using as a guide. “So, any word on Frankie’s replacement?”

  “He isn’t even buried yet, Wes.”

  “Yeah, I know. They’re releasing the body tomorrow. Do you know about funeral plans?”

  I blinked away sudden tears. Poor Zoë, I thought. “No.”

  “I’ve submitted the proposal to Metropolitan.”

  “I’ll be sending good wishes south.”

  “How long do you think it will take them to respond?” he asked.

  “With this story? I think you’ll hear very soon.”

  “Thanks again, Josie.”

  We said good-bye, and I pushed the disconnect button to get a new dial tone. I called Zoë. She sounded as if she’d been crying.

  “You must be a mind reader,” she said, her voice laden with grief. “I just heard from the police. They’re releasing Frankie’s body tomorrow.”

  “Oh, Zoë. It’s all so horrible.”

  “No one teaches you how to handle stuff like this, you know?”

  “All you can do is just keep on keeping on.”

  “Except that I have no idea what keeping on looks like when it comes to planning Frankie’s funeral. I mean, who thinks to ask a twenty-three-year-old what kind of funeral he wants? Jeez.”

  “Eric told me that he and Frankie went to the Congregational church together a few times, and Frankie liked it. Maybe you want to talk to the minister there.”

  “Frankie went to church?”

  “Yeah. It started because they wanted to meet nice girls,” I said.

  “I’ll be darned. Did they?”

  “Eric did.”

  “Good for him. But not Frankie.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It figures. That kid never caught a break in his life.”

  “Yes, he did. He had you for his aunt.” Zoë began to cry. After a moment, I asked, “Do you want me to call the minister and ask him to contact you?” More tears. “Or I can make an appointment, then come get you, and we can go to the church together.”

  “Thank you, Josie,” she managed after several seconds. “I just had a thought … I’ll call the funeral parlor I used when my uncle died. They were terrific to me. Kind, you know? They were kind to me.” I heard her inhale. “They’ll know who to talk to at the church.”

  “That makes a lot of sense,” I said, then offered again to accompany her.

  Zoë said she’d be okay, that having a plan of action was the best medicine.

  After I hung up, I kept my hand on the receiver for a moment wishing I’d been more articulate, wishing I had the words to express how much I cared about her, and how much I empathized with her loss.

  I shook off the thought, struck by something Wes had just revealed—Sam, the picker, wasn’t talking despite the fact that he was the source of the missing tooth. Somehow, in some way, whether as an innocent seller or as an accomplice to a crime, Sam was deeply involved in what ever had led to Frankie’s death.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Cara buzzed up to tell me that Maddie was on the phone.

  “Thank you for working with the police about the antiques. This whole thing,” Maddie said, “it is so … so … I don’t know the word. Beyond bad and
sad.”

  “Heartrending. Wicked.”

  “Yes. It is those things. Guy and I are so thankful you are helping. I spoke to him just now. Except for that one tooth, the inventory you sent is correct. Would you please tell Chief Hunter for me?”

  “Certainly. I’ll report the tooth as stolen, too.”

  “Do you have any news from the police about who killed Frankie—or who stole the tooth?”

  “No,” I replied. “I wish I did.”

  She sighed, then said, “The man who owns the Winslow Homer etching agreed to meet me at your office. We said one this afternoon. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” I said.

  “He asked how long the appraisal would take. I told him you’d explain everything.” She sighed again. “Guy is flying in tomorrow morning. I will be so glad to have him here. The reporters—they are like … like those yellow bees that don’t let us eat on the patio, what do you call them?”

  “Yellow jackets?”

  “Yes! That’s exactly right. They are like those yellow jackets around syrup.”

  I smiled at her simile. When I was a girl, my dad would pour a half inch of Campari into a bowl and place it fifty feet away from our picnic table. Within seconds it would be covered with yellow jackets, and we were able to eat in peace.

  “With all those reporters—you feel trapped in your hotel, right?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  I recalled the feeling well from my New York days. This time around, I wasn’t this story’s primary target—the Whitestones were—so I was spared the worst of the harassment.

  “Chief Hunter has a police officer here,” she said. “Still …”

  “I understand,” I said, knowing how she was feeling—hunted. “I’ll see you at one.”

  “Of course. Thank you again, Josie.”

  As soon as I hung up, I listed the missing Myrick tooth on the three stolen art and antiques sites we subscribed to, one sponsored by an industry association and the other two run by international law enforcement agencies, one based in Europe, the other associated with Interpol. I described the tooth and uploaded the photograph, listing myself and Chief Hunter as contacts. I also e-mailed Wes that the theft was confirmed.