Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “I get the impression they’re focusing more on motive than anything else, but if they’ve identified a specific suspect, I don’t know it.”

  Jimmy came out from behind the bar. “What can I get you?” he asked, flipping a cocktail napkin in front of me.

  Maddie and Guy were drinking martinis.

  “I’m starving, actually, so I think I’ll have one of your fabulous Caesar salads—with chicken. And sparkling water.” Once Jimmy left, I explained, “I missed lunch.”

  “Do you think the missing Myrick tooth is behind the murder?” Guy asked.

  “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” I said. “I don’t know how it figures into anything, but I can’t think of any other reason for Frankie to be killed, at least none that makes any sense. I mean, it’s not like there’s a serial killer on the loose or anything. Someone killed him in particular, you know?”

  “I know you’ve just started, but do you have any news on the appraisal?” Guy asked.

  “A little bit—I can report on two of your purchases. With one, you’re going to be very happy. With the other, not so much.”

  “Guy hates bad news,” Maddie said, sipping her martini, smiling enigmatically. “Be very careful, Josie.”

  “I don’t hate bad news. I hate screwing up. There’s a difference. Start with the one that will make me very happy.”

  I explained Fred’s findings about the ship’s bell, and he whooped and high-fived me as if I’d told him his profit was in the millions, not the thousands.

  “I knew it,” he said. “As soon as I saw it, I knew it.”

  His enthusiasm was contagious, and I smiled.

  “The basket purse wasn’t such a find, I’m afraid.”

  “Really? It was in such pristine condition, I was certain you’d tell me it was a killer buy.”

  “It’s new.”

  “New?” he challenged. “As in, not an antique?”

  “Yeah.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he slapped the table. “Damn! I fell for a fast-talking huckster telling me all about the construction and how well made it was and what a steal he was offering it at. I can’t believe it! He snookered me!”

  “Well, if that’s what he told you, he only spoke the truth. It’s a terrific example of beautifully crafted basket work.”

  “How much did I overpay?”

  “Forty dollars. It retails for a hundred ten.”

  He slapped the table again, frustrated. “I need to determine a price point above which I don’t buy unless you look at it. I’ll have to think about it.” He drank some of his martini, concentrating. “It’s just like negotiating to acquire a company,” he said. “Lots of times, the found er talks big about how much his firm is worth, how many clients he has, you know the kind of guy I mean—cocky and arrogant … and why not? He’s built his company up from nothing, and it’s his baby. You should see his face when I tell them I’m sending in the suits. Half the time, they remember they’re not quite ready for prime time.”

  I stared at him, his words echoing in my brain. Not quite ready for prime time. My mouth opened, then closed. It was as if two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that hadn’t fit no matter which way I turned them suddenly locked into place.

  Maddie was talking, but I didn’t hear her. My salad and drink arrived, and I ate and drank and thought, and then I pushed my dish away. I stared out the window, past the scrubby brush, over the fast-moving Piscataqua River, into the stands of golden poplars and yellow birch and orange maples that lined the riverbank on the Maine side.

  The fraud was all about money. Disparate details flooded my consciousness.

  Neither Myrick nor Homer used an échoppe.

  Neither man etched dark highlight lines.

  Onionskin paper was a historically accurate material.

  Then, like an out-of-focus image resolving itself, the answer came to me, and with the answer, confidence. The missing Myrick tooth was a fake, and I knew who had created it.

  I looked at Maddie and Guy. No one was speaking. They were watching me.

  “Are you all right?” Guy asked.

  “Yes—but I have to go. I can’t explain now. I’m sorry.” I offered money for my meal, but Guy wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll be in touch,” I said.

  Outside, I didn’t even notice the reporters as I ran for my car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  I’ll wait,” I told Cathy at the Rocky Point police station.

  “I don’t know how long Chief Hunter will be, Josie,” she said.

  I needed to talk to the chief, and I needed to talk to him now. “Could someone call him or slip him a note? It’s important.”

  I’d known Cathy for as long as I’d been in New Hampshire, five years. I hoped she’d take me seriously.

  She must have seen the urgency in my eyes, because she nodded. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll see he gets a note. You need some paper?”

  “Thanks.” I accepted the sheet of plain paper that Cathy extracted from a nearby printer and a Rocky Point Police letterhead envelope. I wrote, “I know the missing tooth is a fake—and I know who faked it.” I folded the paper into thirds and wrote Chief Hunter’s name on the envelope.

  “I’ll see he gets it right away,” Cathy told me.

  I sat on the bench across from the bulletin board and waited. The station house was quiet. I wondered if Curt and Greg were still being interviewed.

  Chief Hunter appeared at his office door. “Come on in,” he said.

  I sat on the edge of a guest chair. He sat behind his desk.

  “You got me just before I was going to make Mr. Grimes an offer. Mr. Donovan has agreed not to press charges, and Mr. Whitestone has authorized a reward.”

  Chief Hunter must have called Guy just after I left the Blue Dolphin, I thought.

  “I feel really stupid,” I said. “I should have realized what happened right away—it’s obvious. The Myrick tooth the Whitestones bought from the Sea View Gallery is a fake.” I held up a hand to stop him from interrupting. “I’ve said that it might be phony all along, but I’ve just realized who created it. Ashley.”

  “You told me before it could have been produced anywhere, and that she’d never do it because she was a purist.”

  “I was wrong. I don’t know why she did it, but I know she did because of the highlight lines. Ashley’s scrimshaw designs always include a too-thick line etched with a tool called an échoppe. It can’t possibly be coincidence—the lines are wrong for the designs, so it must be a personal quirk, a signature she can’t resist adding. It’s a private statement of individuality. Like a tell in poker. No scrimshander on a whaling ship ever used an échoppe. They only used what was handy, pocket knives, maybe, and sailing needles, that sort of thing. Ashley had an échoppe on her worktable—we saw it. It doesn’t fit with her scrimming, yet there it was. As soon as I saw it, I should have realized its significance—the bold, dark highlight lines it created were Ashley’s way of branding the nineteenth century-style scrims she created as her own. There is no other reason she’d use a tool that was unavailable to scrimshanders on whaling boats. She wants to be famous, to be successful, but she knows she’s not quite ready for prime time.”

  He rubbed the side of his nose.

  “If you look at all of Ashley’s designs as a group, you’ll see what I’m talking about. I can prepare a visual display and it will be apparent.”

  “Okay. I’m willing to be convinced.”

  The layout would demonstrate how the highlight lines of items we thought were fake matched those of objects known to have been etched by Ashley. My expectation was that, taken together, the lines would stand out as if they were lit in neon.

  I glanced at the time on my phone. It was about five fifteen. Fred was probably still at work, and Sea View Gallery would still be open. I called him. He understood what I wanted before I finished explaining. I e-mailed photos of the cufflinks and belt buckle, then confirmed that Fred knew how to access the photos we alr
eady had of the Homer etching and the three scrimmed teeth in question—the one the Whitestones had purchased as a Myrick from the Sea View Gallery, the Ashley Morse tooth, and the alleged Myrick currently at the Hawaiian museum. I asked Fred to pick up an Ashley Morse bookmark at the gallery and include it, too.

  After I was off the phone, I said to Chief Hunter, “Ashley’s not the organizer of the scheme. She can’t be—she doesn’t have the business sense. Ditto Curt.”

  “Mr. Wilton does.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “he does. I think Ashley will tell us what’s going on. No way could she do a scam like this alone, and no way will she go down alone. And once we clear the brush away about the fraud—we’ll have a clear sight line to Frankie’s killer.” I leaned forward. “I think I know how we can make that happen.”

  Chief Hunter called someone named Rod and told him to offer Mr. Grimes and Mr. Donovan some coffee and ask them to sit tight for a while longer, then led me past Cathy, now busy at a computer, down the corridor past Interrogation Room One, stopping at a door I’d never noticed before.

  The room he led me into was long and narrow, only about eight feet wide, and dimly lit. Opposite the entry door was a window covered with ivory-colored cotton drapes. I could see into the back parking lot through a three-inch gap. Huge two-way mirrors provided unobstructed views into the interrogation rooms on either side. There was a small round table outfitted with two chairs in the center of the space and a watercooler off to one side. Toggles controlled whether audio from the interrogation rooms could be heard in the observation room.

  Chief Hunter pointed to a dimmer switch by the door. “You need to keep the lights low in order to see.”

  Sam was in the room to my left, sitting at a metal table. The other room was empty.

  Sam’s lips were pressed together, forming one thin line. His arms were crossed in front of his chest. A video recorder mounted on a tripod was aimed at him. The red light wasn’t on, so I knew they weren’t recording.

  “Keep the door shut so no one walking in the corridor will see you,” Chief Hunter instructed, then pointed to the transom and showed me how to twirl the attached wand to open or close the slats. “With the slats open, you’ll be able to hear conversations in the hall. Ms. Morse will be here in about ten minutes.” He reached for the doorknob, then paused. “I’ll keep my cell phone handy. If you hear anything that raises a red flag, or if there’s a question you think I should ask, text me.”

  I agreed, and he left.

  With the door shut and the slats closed, I called Ty. He was almost home.

  I kept my conversation brief, merely telling him that something had come up and I was at the police station helping out, that I didn’t know how long I’d be, and that I couldn’t wait to see him. “I’ll fill you in later. They’re about to question people about antiques-related issues, so they think they may need my expertise,” I explained.

  “About the murder?”

  “Not yet. Their focus first is on fraud.”

  “I won’t ask anything else now. You take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I will. And Ty, there’s leftover Orange Chicken in case you’re too hungry to wait for me to get back and broil steaks.”

  “You’re a magnificent woman.”

  I smiled. “Gee, gosh,” I said. “Thanks.”

  As soon as we hung up, a male police officer I’d never seen before entered Sam’s room and sat on a hard-backed chair in the corner. I opened the transom slats and flipped the toggle to listen in.

  Sam glared at him, but the officer kept his eyes on Sam’s midsection, a neutral zone, and neither man spoke. By squinting, I was able to read the police officer’s name tag: D. BROUSSARD. Sam shifted his gaze to the floor. Detective Brownley entered, and Sam looked up and tensed. She stood at the head of the table.

  “What’s taking so damn long?” Sam asked truculently.

  “Sorry for the delay,” she said. “We expect to be ready to resume our interview shortly. We’ve received some very interesting information, and we look forward to hearing what you say about it.”

  “What information?”

  She leaned back and looked at him long and hard. “We’re not quite ready to divulge it. We have a few more things to check.”

  “Check every damn thing you want. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you check. But let’s get it done. I got places to go.”

  “It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  “Maybe I should get a lawyer—how’d you like that?”

  “It’s completely up to you. Would you like to call a lawyer?”

  “Hell, no. I don’t need no lawyer.”

  “I’ll be back shortly,” she said.

  “A bunch of hogwash and a waste of time,” Sam grumbled under his breath. “How’s a man supposed to earn a living, that’s what I’d like to know.”

  She stepped out, leaving the door ajar several inches. The officer noted it but didn’t move from his position. I kept my eyes on Sam. The charade I’d helped design was about to begin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Ms. Morse,” Chief Hunter said, his voice wafting up and in through the slats.

  I could hear with no problem.

  In the next room, Sam looked up, his eyes on the open door.

  “Thanks so much,” the chief continued. “You’ve really cooperated above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ashley said.

  If all went according to plan, Detective Brownley would quickly escort her away, and the chief would speak his next words while alone in the corridor.

  The plan worked.

  “We only have a few more things to go over,” he said. “We need to talk about Sam Holt’s role in all this.”

  At his words, Sam lurched out of his chair and lunged toward the door. Officer Broussard got there first and blocked his way. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and Sam stopped in his tracks. The two men stood five feet apart, facing one another.

  “What’s he saying about me?” Sam demanded.

  Officer Broussard didn’t speak, and Sam glared at him.

  The door in the other interrogation room opened, and Ashley entered, followed by Detective Brownley. I flipped the switch to listen in.

  “If you’ll have a seat, we won’t keep you waiting long,” the detective said.

  “What’s this about?” Ashley asked.

  “It will just be a few minutes,” Detective Brownley said, smiling. “Thanks again.”

  She left, and Ashley sat down, choosing a chair that put her back to the cage. After a minute just sitting, she began tapping the table-top. To my left, Sam sat down again. A muscle in his neck twitched.

  Time passed, several minutes at least, before Chief Hunter spoke again.

  “Let’s see what Mr. Holt has to say now,” he said from the hall. “He can’t just blow us off, not with Ms. Morse filling in all those blanks.”

  “Should I go ahead and call Judge Halpern about the warrant?” Detective Brownley asked, out of sight.

  “Ask him to stand by,” Chief Hunter replied. “We’ll need to consult the ADA about the specific charges, but before we do that, let’s give Sam a chance to talk turkey.”

  Sam’s fingers curled into fists. “What charges? What’s he talking about?”

  Officer Broussard stayed silent. It was unnerving. I could feel Sam’s tension ratcheting up.

  “Mr. Holt, my apologies for keeping you waiting,” Chief Hunter said as he entered.

  “You’re saying there’s gonna be charges? What charges?”

  “Officer, please start the video recorder,” he said.

  Officer Broussard pushed a button, and a light glowed red.

  “Thank you,” the chief told him. “You can go now.”

  Chief Hunter waited until Officer Broussard left the room. I heard the soft click as the door latched. The chief laid his note pad on the desk.

  “Now, Mr. Holt, I have some new information that I’
m hoping you can help me understand. First, though, I need to read you this statement explaining your rights.”

  Chief Hunter slid a sheet of paper toward Sam, who fingered it closer. Sam followed along as the chief read the standard Miranda warning, then asked if he understood his rights.

  “Hell, yes, I understand. I already told that woman I didn’t want no damn lawyer. Let’s just get this done.”

  “Go ahead and sign the form, then, so we can get going.”

  He signed the form and slid it back.

  “Thank you,” Chief Hunter said. “Ms. Morse indicates that you two have been doing business for some time. Is that correct?”

  “I told you already, I don’t talk about my business.”

  “Yeah, but that was before. Now that Ms. Morse has spoken to us, I figured that you might want to reconsider. She’s been very … open.” He paused, letting the implications sink in. “So … she sold you a variety of scrimmed objects. Is that correct?”

  Sam glared.

  I was impressed with Chief Hunter’s acting ability. If I were Sam, it wouldn’t in a million years occur to me that Chief Hunter had been thanking Ashley for agreeing to come in—not for answering questions, as he’d implied. I’d be furious that Ashley was throwing me under the bus.

  “There’s nothing illegal about selling art or artifacts,” Chief Hunter said, smiling disarmingly. “Ms. Morse explained how she told you that the objects were either contemporary art or reproductions, right? All legal and aboveboard.”

  Still Sam stayed quiet.

  Chief Hunter looked at his notes, then touched the page with his index finger. “Here’s where there might be a little problem. You purchased a repro of a Frederick Myrick scrimmed tooth from her. So far, no problem. But when you resold it to Mr. Donovan as a genuine antique, well, Sam, I’m afraid that at that moment, you crossed a line.”

  Silence.

  “That’s fraud,” Chief Hunter said, his tone conversational.

  “No way,” Sam said, and from his crusty tone, I could tell that he was mad as hell.