“I’m getting ready to write an intro to an appraisal,” I replied, coming up with a credible excuse on the fly, “and I’d like to add that scrimming was—and is—labor-intensive, but only if it is, of course.”
“It’s one of the most labor-intensive crafts there is.”
“Have you ever timed yourself?”
“Of course. Work records are crucial to artists. It takes me forty hours, minimum, to scrim a tooth.”
I thanked her, and she hung up without saying good-bye. I would have bet that by the time I tossed my phone into my purse, she was already back at her worktable, deep in the zone.
I contrasted my brief conversation with Ashley with my longer one with Lenny. She was moody, a function of her artistic temperament, I supposed, unlike Lenny, who was as even-tempered as he was talented.
An article in Smithsonian. From a promotion perspective, it didn’t get much better than that. Way to go, Lenny, I thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I’d barely finished drafting the e-mail reporting my findings to Mr. Yamamoto—findings that would neither validate nor invalidate the authenticity of his object—when Wes called with an urgent request to meet. It was almost five thirty.
“I’ve got news about what you asked me—a real info-bomb, but I can’t tell you on the phone,” he said, his tone hushed and urgent.
I glanced around my desk. The mounds of paperwork had grown higher. Tomorrow’s another day, I rationalized. “Do you want to meet at our dune in twenty minutes?”
“Yes,” he said, and hung up.
The temperature had dropped, and standing high above the shore on top of the dune with a stiff breeze blowing in off the ocean, I felt the chill of coming winter. No one was on the beach.
Wes drove up, jerking to a stop on the sandy shoulder. As soon as he stepped out of his car, I saw the fervor in his eyes.
“I got news about your pal Zoë,” he said when he’d reached me at the top of the dune. “It looks like she might be implicated in Frankie’s murder.”
My mouth opened, then closed. “That’s ridiculous!” I said, when I could finally speak.
He nodded, thrilled at my reaction. “When I say I have an info-bomb, I’m not just whistling Dixie, huh? Like you asked, I checked Frankie’s phone logs. Just for the heck of it, I went back a week.” He paused for effect. “The night before Frankie died, remember how that lowlife friend of his, Mel Erly, called Zoë trying to get Frankie’s number so he could ask him to bail him out? Well, guess what … Zoë forgot to mention that as soon as she hung up from Erly, she called Frankie to give him hell for ever in his lifetime having had a friend as disgusting as Mel Erly.”
“How do you know why she called him?” I asked.
“Apparently, now that the police have cleared away a lot of brush they’re going back and reinterviewing everyone. Including Zoë. Today is the first time they’ve asked her specifically about that phone call. According to my police source, she admits that she and Frankie really got into it. He was completely pissed at an accusation that felt to him like old news, but she couldn’t stop herself—she was rip-roaring angry—and the call ended on a more than sour note. Because she hid that she spoke to him that night, the police are wondering if she has something else to hide, like maybe she went to see him the next day and her harangue turned physical. Maybe Frankie tried to get away from her. He pushes past her. Now she’s feeling dissed on top of everything else. She pushes back. He shoves her. She shoves back. It escalates until finally she whacks him.”
I laughed. “That sounds like a bad made-for-TV movie script, Wes. It’s not the least bit believable. Sure, Zoë has a temper, but she flares up, and that’s that. I guarantee you that as soon as she vented, it was over and forgotten.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he said, unpersuaded by my out-of-hand dismissal. “The police think it’s believable.”
“They can’t! It’s farcical.”
“A single mother worn down by life—”
He broke off and shrugged, and I began to wonder whether he could possibly have persuaded himself that there was even a grain of truth to such a ludicrous assertion. Sure, Zoë was a single mother. Of course, that was tough, and some days, when her kids were non-stop demanding, I’d see the strain in her face. But to think that having a hard day could lead to murder was preposterous.
I looked deep into Wes’s eyes. He wasn’t joking around. Bad just keeps getting worse, I thought. His sober demeanor made me want to leap off the dune and rush to Zoë’s side, to check that she was okay, to see whether she needed me, to offer my unconditional support.
“If you publish any hint of this, Wes, I’ll never talk to you again. You heard it here first—Zoë didn’t do it.”
He nodded, unperturbed by my threat. “I don’t know whether they really consider her to be a suspect or not, but I do know they’re interviewing her again—and as you know, that’s always serious.”
I shrugged, eager to get to my phone and call her. “What about other calls to or from Frankie’s phone?” I asked.
“Frankie called Greg from the light house at eight thirty the day he died.”
“He did? What does Greg say about it?”
Wes’s eyes fired up again. “Greg is denying it. He insists he never spoke to Frankie ever, that he never met him.” Wes consulted his notepaper. “Frankie called Curt just about noon from his cell phone. It looks like Frankie called while he was still at your place, or close by.” He looked up. “They can tell by which cell phone tower routed the call.”
“What does Curt say the call was about?”
“He doesn’t. He said Frankie left a message asking him to call him back, and he hadn’t gotten around to it by the time he heard Frankie was dead.”
I looked at Wes. “That seems off, doesn’t it? I mean, Curt went to all those businesses hoping for work … Frankie often had jobs for him … wouldn’t he have called him back right away?”
“Yeah. The police think so, too. They’ve pushed him on it, but so far, no dice. Curt didn’t call from his cell phone, that’s for sure.”
“What other phones could he have used?” I asked.
“Who knows? Any pay phone en route, I guess. But neither his cell nor his home phone showed any callbacks. He didn’t use his sister’s phone either. Plus, why would he try to hide that he called Frankie back?”
I nodded, my brain reviewing the possibilities.
“What are you thinking?” Wes asked, interrupting my ruminations.
“Nothing … just trying to see how it all might fit together. Were there any other calls?”
“Nope—but I have some info about money. You asked about Curt. While I was at it, I checked out other people, too. Let me start with Frankie.” He consulted his notes. “He wrote two checks a month, one to his cable TV company and one for his cell phone. He paid his car insurance annually. His residence and health insurance were covered by the Whitestones, his car was paid for, and for everything else he used cash. He had twenty percent of his pay automatically transferred to a savings account, and he withdrew five hundred dollars in cash from his checking account at the start of every month. He tried to make it last for the entire month, but it rarely did. Toward the end of some months he withdrew another fifty dollars. Other months he took out an extra hundred.”
“So?” I asked. “That all sounds pretty reasonable—and it looks as if my instinct was right. Frankie was showing real maturity.”
Wes grinned. Here came another of his infamous shockeroonies, I could just tell.
“The Friday before he was killed—the Friday before Labor Day—he withdrew two thousand dollars cash from savings. The cash is missing. There’s no sign of it.”
I stared at him, stricken.
“You’re thinking blackmail, right?” he asked. “Tell me how it might work.”
“No.”
“No you’re not thinking of it? Or no you won’t tell me about it? ’Cause you don’t need to accuse anyone of anything.” When I
still hesitated, he added, grinning again, “You have to. It’s part of our deal—I got the Metropolitan gig.”
“Oh, Wes! I’m so pleased. That’s just great.” I play-punched his arm. “Way to go, Wes!”
“So …?”
“I don’t have any idea how a scheme might work where Frankie ends up being blackmailed to the tune of two thousand dollars. That would require him being involved in some kind of criminal act—and getting caught by an associate or having an associate turn on him.” I shrugged. “Was the Myrick real and Frankie somehow got hold of a repro and switched them? If so, where’s the fake now? Why did someone steal it?” I held up my hand as Wes began to speak. “I can make up scenarios to answer my own questions, but that’s all it is—invention. You want supposition? Okay, here goes … just remember you can’t ever quote me about it, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wes said.
“Curt learns that Greg plans to sell the Myrick to Guy for a boatload of money. One day while he’s working in the gallery, Curt takes photos of the tooth. Curt knows Lenny can do anything and commissions a repro based on the photos. Curt convinces Frankie to switch them. Curt then tries and fails to sell the real Myrick and puts it … somewhere … the trunk of his car, his closet, his sister’s pantry … somewhere. Curt then tells Frankie that he taped their conversation about switching the teeth and Frankie better pay up or else.”
Wes, furiously taking notes, paused and looked up. “Do you think that’s what happened?”
“No. It seems pretty darn far-fetched to me, and out of character for both of them. Curt doesn’t have the wherewithal to pull it off, and Frankie wouldn’t have done it. I’m telling you, Wes, Frankie was a changed man.” I thought for a moment. “Any news from the police about fingerprints?”
He nodded. “None are on the display case or objects except those that should be there—Guy Whitestone’s and Ashley Morse’s. They found Ashley’s and the Whitestones’ prints all over the light house, ditto from the weekend’s guests, including Lenny Wilton, who was there for a barbecue on Labor Day. Curt’s and Frankie’s are in various places, too.”
“And nothing had been wiped down?”
“Right.”
“What about other people’s bank records? Did Curt’s—or anyone’s—account go up by two thousand dollars?” I asked, although I knew extorted money would more likely get slipped into a sock drawer than deposited in a bank.
“Nope. Curt doesn’t have one.”
“Curt doesn’t have a bank account?” I asked.
“Lots of people don’t. He helps his sister out with the bills by giving her cash. If he needs a check for something, she writes it for him out of her account.” Wes consulted his notes. “He told the police he was thinking of opening a checking account after hearing from Frankie how easy it was, but he hadn’t got around to it yet.”
“Interesting. Frankie was a good influence in a lot of ways.” I sighed. Thinking aloud, I added, “Couldn’t Frankie have used the two thousand dollars to buy something?”
“Sure. What?”
“I don’t know … clothes … a vacation … a new sound system for his car … something.”
“Except that he doesn’t have any new clothes, and his car hasn’t been in the shop for months, and there were no receipts or work orders or airline tickets in his house. If he bought something—where is it?”
I nodded, heartsick. “I don’t know.”
“I hear you talked to Sam, the picker,” Wes said.
I shook my head, amazed once again at the breadth of Wes’s contacts, and filled him in. “We’ll know more tomorrow. I’m scheduled to meet him at four.”
“This is great stuff, Josie,” he said. “Where will you meet him? At your loading dock, right, because you don’t bring strangers into the ware house?”
“Probably, although if it’s cold we might meet in the front office. Why?”
“’Cause I want a photograph, and if you meet him out back, I can be in the woods with a camera.”
An image of the nonoutdoorsman Wes perched in a tree popped into my head, and I chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Wes asked.
“A picture of you … in a tree,” I said, giggling.
“It’s not funny,” he said with dignity. “It’s good journalism. Besides, Metropolitan pays extra for photos.”
“That’s excellent! Really, Wes, I’m so pleased for you.”
“Thanks. Are the police going to be there?”
“What happened to your police source?”
“I’m confirming a report,” he said with dignity.
“Yes.”
“Call me as soon as you confirm the location, okay?”
“Okay—and you’ll tell me if you learn anything else?”
“You betcha,” he said, jiffling down the dune. “You, too, right?”
I agreed, and watched as he drove away. I stood looking out over the near-black ocean. Two thousand dollars. Where was it? The situation was confusing and distressing, and the more I thought about it, the more dismayed I became. I wished I could see Ty, but he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. I sighed and headed home to my empty house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Chief Hunter’s SUV was parked in back of Zoë’s car. With no other car in sight, I concluded that she didn’t have a lawyer with her. She was meeting with the police, and as emotionally upset as she was, it might not have occurred to her to get one. I needed to intervene, but I didn’t want to intrude. I called her.
“Zoë,” I said, “it’s me. I just got home. That’s Chief Hunter’s SUV, isn’t it? Is he with you?”
“Yes. We’re talking about things.”
“You should have a lawyer, Zoë. Do you want me to call Max?”
“I don’t need a lawyer. We’re not having that kind of conversation.”
“What kind of conversation are you having?” I asked.
“The kind I haven’t had with a man in years,” she said, whispering. “Years and years and years. We’re talking about stuff that matters.”
“Like what?”
“Like losing things you love.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I am. I’m good.” I could hear the sounds of her puttering, a soft clap as a cup was placed on a saucer, the refrigerator door opening, then closing, and water running. “He’s a widower. His wife died two years ago of lung cancer. She was a dancer. On Broadway. She was only thirty-three when she died. He said a lot of dancers smoke.”
How heartbreaking, I thought, picturing him as I knew him, in command, strong, and reliable, and thinking that competence can be a great cover for grief—when you’re capable and adept, no one questions what’s going on inside of you. “I’ve heard that before about dancers,” I said. “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Athletes smoking? It’s nuts.”
“Yeah. Anyway. I’m fine … he’s an interesting man.”
“I’m glad, Zoë.” I looked at the golden glow of the lamp in my bedroom. Leave a light on for me. “I’ll be home all night. You shout if you want me, okay?”
Inside, I turned on lights, put on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and made myself a Lemon Drop. I stood at my kitchen sink staring out over the meadow and into the nearly impenetrable, distant woods, thinking about loss and love. “Here’s to silver light in the dark of night,” I toasted aloud, thinking of my father and my mother, and the life I lost in New York City, and Ty and Zoë and the life I’d gained in New Hampshire.
Ty called around nine. “How’s Presque Isle?” I asked.
“The place is beautiful, and my training’s going well. I’ll be home by six tomorrow.”
“That’s great. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. You sound, I don’t know … preoccupied.”
“I am. I’ve been sitting here thinking.” I told him about recognizing Sam’s voice and my conversations with Lenny, Ashley, and Wes, then added, “For the last hour or so, I’ve been thinking of secrets. Frankie had a secr
et … he took two thousand dollars out of his bank account, and no one knows why. Two thousand dollars! That’s a huge amount of money for a young man … heck, it’s a big number for most everyone. I can’t imagine what he did with the money—except pay a blackmailer, and I can’t believe Frankie did something blackmailable.”
“Have you asked Zoë?”
“No. I was going to, but she’s busy. Chief Hunter is there.” I got up and peeked out the side window. “He’s been there for hours.” I repeated what Zoë said about their conversation, and Ty chuckled.
“He’s a quick mover,” he said.
“You waited until after the investigation to ask me out.”
“You were a suspect.”
I cringed, remembering the horror of finding myself a suspect in Mr. Grant’s murder. “So that means that Chief Hunter doesn’t think Zoë is one?”
“Hard to say. He could be trying to loosen her tongue.”
“Why didn’t you try that?”
“I knew I couldn’t trust myself around you. You’re too damn hot. I didn’t want to socialize unless I knew I could, well, socialize.”
I laughed. “I love you so much, Ty.”
I could feel his smile. “Me, too.”
“I wish I could talk to her,” I said. “I don’t even know what funeral plans she’s made. I feel completely out of touch.” A car engine fired up, and I returned to the window. “He’s leaving.”
“So now you can call her and find out that I’m right. If she tells you anything important, call me back.”
“I’ll call you back regardless.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“’Cause I want to kiss you good night.”
He told me that while that was an excellent idea and he’d look forward to it, he preferred the real thing. Then our call ended, and I sat for several seconds savoring the solace and security of his love, and then I called Zoë.
“Come over,” she said, “and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Tea or Lemon Drops?” I asked.
“Lemon Drops.”
“Done.”
As I poured ingredients into a thermos, I thought once again how lucky I was to have a friend like Zoë.
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