Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “And I want to buy them by the dozen. But first, I’ve got to authenticate them.”

  He looked at me as he chewed it over. “A hundred bucks each.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Nope. I’m breaking up a lot,” he said.

  He had a point, and he had me over a barrel—I wanted to get a closer look at them, and I had no leverage. “Two hundred for three pairs,” I said.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, sounding fed up.

  “Pick them from different lots, okay?”

  While he did as I asked, muttering under his breath, I pulled $220 from the stash in my pocket. He passed over three small jewelry boxes. I opened each one to confirm the cufflinks were there and as expected, then placed them on my front seat.

  “Do you want me to write out our deal?” I asked, handing over the cash.

  He counted the money twice, then stuffed the bills in his jeans pocket. “Hell, no,” he said, then added, with mordant humor, “I trust you.”

  He hitched up his pants and headed around the side of his van without speaking another word.

  I sat in my car with my hands out of sight and jotted down his license plate number. Once the van had turned out of the mall parking lot, I called Chief Hunter.

  “We already got it,” he said as soon as I started to give him the van’s tag number. “I’ve got you in sight. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He pulled into a nearby space and asked me to join him. Once I was settled in, he said, “Start at the beginning.”

  I described my interaction with Sam, quoting our conversation as close to word for word as I could.

  “Don’t touch anything,” he instructed. “We’ll want to check for prints. Officer Meade will be here in a couple of minutes to pick things up. So what did you think of him?”

  “He’s an old-fashioned grump,” I said, thinking that if Detective Brownley had been on-site as planned, she was probably following Sam. “He’s been around the block a few times.”

  “In terms of your arrangement with him … what do you do now?”

  “Wait to hear from him.”

  “Will he get the paperwork?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  Officer Meade, her blond hair tucked up under her cap, rolled to a stop in the fire lane. She walked over to Chief Hunter’s SUV, snapping on plastic gloves. I opened my trunk, and Chief Hunter and I watched as she slid the three small cardboard boxes into individual plastic evidence bags. The bigger box containing the lanterns and pewter tags went into a jumbo-sized bag.

  “Thanks,” she said, removing her gloves, once everything was secured in her vehicle. She signaled Chief Hunter with a quasi-salute and drove off.

  “Have you questioned Curt yet?” I asked.

  “No. We’re checking into some aspects of Eric’s story—whether Curt has registered a business or rented office space, for instance.” Seeing my you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression, he held up a hand. “I know it’s not likely, but I like to be thorough.”

  Like me, I thought.

  He said he’d let me know as soon as the objects I’d purchased from Sam could be returned, and we said our good-byes and climbed into our cars. He headed toward Rocky Point. I turned the other way, toward Portsmouth.

  Waiting for the light to change, my mind a whirl of speculation, I realized that Curt would be picked up soon. I grabbed my phone and called Wes.

  “It’s me,” I said by way of greeting. “Are you at McCory’s?”

  “You bet,” he said. “I got some great photos. Now tell me what they mean.”

  “I have no idea. But I can tell you that Curt is involved in some sort of something, I don’t know what. I think he’s about to be brought in for questioning.”

  “Thanks, Josie.”

  I hoped Wes would get a jump on the story before Bertie put the kibosh on his exclusive. If Bertie got to Curt first, she’d button him up, lulling the poor schmo into trusting her, enveloping him with her faux-motherly concern, convincing him that talking openly to her was as safe as confessing his sins to his priest. I knew. She’d pulled the same routine on me the first time I met her.

  My phone rang, startling me.

  “Slight change of plans,” Chief Hunter said. “Can you go straight to the station?”

  I glanced at the dash clock. It was just after noon. “I can come by after lunch,” I said.

  “This is pretty important.”

  I trusted his judgment. He wouldn’t tell me it was important if it wasn’t. “Okay.”

  I called Maddie, and she was as gracious as ever, insisting that changing our plans was no problem at all, even though I was canceling with just a few minutes’ notice. She suggested we meet for drinks instead, and I agreed. I called work to let them know I might be out all afternoon, then kept my eye on the traffic.

  I parked near the front door of the station. Chief Hunter got out and stood by his car watching as Curt Grimes drove into the lot with Officer Griffin following in his patrol car.

  Wes appeared on foot from the left, shooting photos of Curt as he stepped out of his car. I wondered where Wes had parked. He turned his camera toward Griff and started taking photos of him, too, then Chief Hunter, then me. Wes stopped for a moment to glance at his watch, then resumed his work, shooting several additional photos of Curt as he walked toward him.

  Curt frowned, taking it in. He wasn’t bouncing or jiggling with barely suppressed energy. He didn’t look full of himself at all. He looked uncertain of his ground. He approached Wes and said something. Wes replied; then Curt said something else. Wes nodded and spoke again. I edged closer, hoping to hear what they were saying, but with the thunderous waves pounding the shore just across the street, I couldn’t make out a word.

  Chief Hunter said something to Curt, and Curt nodded and followed him into the station. Wes walked around the building. He must have left his car in back, I thought. I looked over my shoulder as I entered the station and was just in time to see Bertie drive up in her rented Taurus. I smiled, pleased that Wes had been in on the action, and that she hadn’t.

  Inside, Chief Hunter said, “Thanks again for coming in, Mr. Grimes. Officer Griffin will get you situated.”

  As Griff led Curt toward Room One, Chief Hunter asked me, “Can you do your testing of the cufflinks here? I’d like to know if they’re real ASAP.”

  “‘Real’ is a relative term. I can probably tell you if the scrimshaw is etched or pressed, and maybe I can determine something about the materials, but that’s it.”

  “Anything you can tell me will help.” He pushed open the door that led to the back. “When did you call Wes Smith?” he asked, slipping in an assumptive question—not did I call, but when.

  “If the cufflinks need further testing, I can help organize that, too,” I said, taking a lesson from Chief Hunter’s book. If you don’t want to answer a question, change the subject.

  He grinned, and when I smiled in return, he said, “Thanks,” his tone desert dry.

  As I followed him down the corridor, I thought about all the things that might not be as they appeared to be.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I watched as the police tested the jewelry boxes and cufflinks for fingerprints. The boxes showed only two sets of prints, mine and, presumably, Sam’s. The cufflinks showed only mine, which wasn’t unexpected since most jewelers and artisans buff their wares before selling them.

  Cathy, the civilian admin, found a safety pin in the back of her desk drawer, and an officer who smoked lent me his lighter, so I was able to complete the hot pin test. The material wasn’t resin or plastic. The loupe verified that finding—the designs were scrimmed on ivory. An age-dating test would confirm the ivory was fossil, not new, but so far, all signs indicated that Sam had been telling the truth. At Chief Hunter’s request, I had Fred drive over with the magnet, file, and acid that would allow me to test the silver.

  Chief Hunter and I sat in a small room they used as a lunchroom. The windows wer
e open, and the breeze blowing in was fresh. The fluorescent lighting was strong. I worked on a metal tray.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, watching as I ran the magnet over the bezels.

  There was no pull.

  “Lots of materials aren’t magnetic,” I explained, “including silver. Of course, just because these bezels aren’t responding to the magnet doesn’t mean they’re made of silver. They could be painted porcelain, for all I know.”

  I turned the cufflink over and used an ultrathin needle file to scrape through the metal. If the cufflinks were silver-plated, not sterling, my filing would reveal the underlying metal.

  They weren’t plated.

  I placed a drop of acid on the filed spot and watched for the color change.

  “It’s called the acid test,” I said. “This cufflink just passed—it’s made of sterling silver.”

  “So,” Chief Hunter said, “it seems Mr. Holt—we got Sam’s last name from his vehicle registration—wasn’t selling junk. What can you tell about the scrimshaw?”

  “It was either etched via a printing pro cess, which means the cufflinks are machine-made, or traced, which means they’re handmade but not individually designed. All I know for sure is that the image you see was etched in, not painted on.”

  “So they’re real.”

  “Like I said before, ‘real’ is one of those words. It’s like ‘low-fat’—each company defines it differently. There’s no standardization. So far what I can say is that they’re decent-quality scrimmed cufflinks using natural materials. If you want to know more, I’ll need to analyze the materials further, including testing the age of the ivory.”

  He nodded. “I’ll let you know. We’ve asked Mr. Holt to come in and talk to us.”

  “And what did he say to your request?” I asked, having a hard time imagining Sam cooperating with the police.

  Chief Hunter smiled a little. “We can be pretty persuasive. We’ve also asked Greg Donovan to come in to talk to us again.”

  I stared. “Really? Why?”

  “Because he says that Sam Holt sold the Myrick tooth to him. Shortly thereafter, Curt Grimes apparently borrowed the tooth so he could take photos of the design. According to Mr. Grimes’s initial statement, he snuck the tooth out of the gallery at the end of his shift and returned it the next day first thing with no one but Eric any the wiser. As a trusted helper, apparently he has the run of the place.”

  My insurance company would have fits, I thought.

  “Within days,” Chief Hunter continued, “Ms. Morse appraised the tooth, and Mr. Whitestone bought it. After being on display at the light house for several days, it went missing, probably while Mr. Grimes was on-site. It seems to me that there are more questions I can ask Mr. Donovan—and others—about that sequence of events.” He paused, then added, “I’m telling you all this because I’m hoping you’ll help.” He pointed at the cufflinks. “For instance, I could tell Mr. Holt that you’ve tested these cufflinks and that they appear to have been crafted of appropriate, organic materials, and therefore I infer that the tooth he sold Mr. Donovan was also probably real. I can ask for his cooperation based on new evidence suggesting that he has been telling me the truth all along. I’m hoping he’ll become an ally instead of an adversary.”

  I nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “But I can tell from your expression that you don’t think it will work.”

  “Sam struck me as fairly contrary.”

  “Yeah, I have that feeling, too. What else can I do to get him to talk?”

  I thought about his question for several seconds, then shook my head. “I doubt you can.”

  Chief Hunter nodded. “What about Mr. Grimes? You said he offered you repros for sale, so there’s no question about his committing fraud. Based on Eric’s testimony, though, we have the tooth in his car—presumably the genuine article. Maybe he switched it with a phony, or maybe he did just what he told Eric he intended to do. Which doesn’t explain where the tooth is now or why it and it alone is missing. If Grimes stole the Myrick tooth from the lighthouse—where is it? From all reports, he hasn’t tried to sell it.” He paused for a moment. “So, help me think it through. How can I get him to cooperate?”

  I thought about smarmy Curt. “I’d consider offering him a deal. Ask Greg to issue him a get-out-of-jail-free card for telling the truth about taking the tooth from the gallery and/or about whether he substituted a fake when he replaced it. Ask Guy to issue a reward with a guarantee of no prosecution for information leading to the safe return of the tooth—then tell Curt about the dual offer and see what happens.”

  “What if the tooth Mr. Whitestone bought was authentic, but the tooth Curt returns in order to claim the reward is a phony?”

  I nodded, following his logic. “We have no way of knowing whether the tooth Guy bought is real or not. It seems to me the first issue is trying to sort through what happened. Until we get the tooth in our hands, we’re flying blind.”

  Chief Hunter looked thoughtful. “I like it. How much should Mr. Whitestone offer?”

  “Five thousand. Cash. The offer has to be good enough to justify not sitting on the stolen tooth for a couple of years, then reselling it.”

  “I’ll check it out. What do you think—would a promise of no consequences from Mr. Donovan and a reward from the Whitestones work with Mr. Holt?”

  I considered it. “I doubt it. Yes, Sam likes money, but he’s paranoid by nature and skeptical by habit. My guess is that he wouldn’t trust any deal offered by the police even if it was in writing, even if he heard it on the news.”

  He nodded and stood up, smiling again. “You’ve been very helpful—as always. Thanks.”

  “Does that mean I can go?”

  “Yes—but keep your phone on, all right? I expect I’ll have more questions.”

  “Sure.”

  He asked me to leave the cufflinks at the station until they decided whether they wanted to proceed with a spectroscopic and materials analysis, and I agreed. He handed me a receipt they’d prepared for all the objects I’d purchased from Sam.

  I stood up and grabbed my tote bag. I paused midstep as an idea came to me. “I have a suggestion.”

  “Shoot,” Chief Hunter said. He heard me out, then nodded, grinned, and said, “That’s a doozy of a suggestion. I like it. Let me set the scene. I’ll come get you in a minute.”

  When Chief Hunter rejoined me in the lunchroom, he said, “We’re good to go. Mr. Grimes is waiting in the lobby.”

  “Great. I hope this works.”

  “Me, too,” he said, leading the way.

  We turned the corner to the entryway just as Greg stepped in.

  “Josie!” he said, smiling like a politician. “Nice to see a friendly face in this den of iniquity.” He turned to Curt, sitting on the bench. Curt’s sneer was back in place; he looked fully recovered from his earlier bewilderment. “Hey, Curt.”

  “Shouldn’t it be den of iquity?” I joked. “They’re not violating rights; they’re protecting them.”

  “Iquity, huh? I must have been absent from school the day they taught that word.”

  I smiled. “If it’s not a word, it ought to be—like ept! If some people are inept, surely others are ept.”

  Greg laughed and turned to Chief Hunter. “I present myself to your machinations, as requested. I hope to be ept for you today.”

  Chief Hunter smiled politely. “We appreciate it. If you’ll just have a seat, I’ll be with you in one minute.” He turned to me. “Thank you again.”

  He offered a hand, and we shook; then he pushed open the door for me.

  “Curt?” I said, turning to face him.

  Greg, Chief Hunter, and Curt all looked at me.

  “Sorry to break in,” I said, turning on a five-hundred-watt smile, a stock model I hoped would fool him. “Could I talk to you for a sec?”

  Curt cast an assessing glance at me, then another at Chief Hunter, and then he walked in my direction. “
Sure.”

  I led the way outside. “Any chance you have those repros you mentioned with you? I’ve changed my mind—I’d love to take a look. I’m sure the police won’t mind you taking a minute or two to do some business.”

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “You’re in luck—I’ve got my best stuff with me.” He winked.

  His stressing the word “best” was offensive. I followed him to his car, surprised he didn’t scuttle like a bug.

  He unhinged the tucked-in flaps of a cardboard box he had in his trunk, and I saw stacks of hand-painted tiles, the kind people use as trivets. Most of them were florals, intended to replicate Italian designs, and a few were Syrian in design and coloration. They sold in flea markets nationwide for about three dollars apiece. They were wholesaled by every novelty distributor for $108 a gross, or seventy-five cents each. I knew because I’d toyed with beefing up the tag sale inventory with objects of this kind for years, but I’d always resisted because not only weren’t they antiques or collectibles, they weren’t even interesting, uncommon, or particularly well crafted.

  “I can give you a great price. Fifty bucks for a dozen. You pick the ones you want—mix and match.”

  “Thanks,” I said, stepping back. His offer was almost six times the going price. It was an insult. “What else do you have?”

  “Some belt buckles. Scrimshaw. Good stuff.”

  He handed me a sample. The rectangular scrimmed surface, maybe ivory, was encased in silver metal, maybe sterling. The image, two whales diving through rough water, was etched. The whales, complete with overly dark borders, were off-center, just a little.

  “This is machine-made, right?”

  “Yeah. An artist makes the plate, then it’s attached to a scrimming machine. We can pop them out like nobody’s business.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  He winked again, and I had to stop myself from running away, he was so obnoxious.

  “You know I can’t tell you that,” he said, and I could tell that he thought his tone was humorous.

  “The design is a little askew. Are they all like that?”

  “Nah. Learning curve, you know.”