Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “We think it’s a phony. We’re consulting a Homer expert on Monday.”

  “Any ideas how to get him to talk? He wouldn’t have to go into details. I just need the name.”

  I stared across the room. “You know how I said before that you don’t have any leverage?”

  “What about it?”

  “You do. You have the ability to give him something he’ll value—your ironclad commitment never to talk to him again,” I said, smiling. “Promise him that.”

  “It can’t hurt to try,” Chief Hunter said, grinning. He tapped the SPEAKER button, then dialed. Sam answered on the first ring. “Don’t hang up—it’s Chief Hunter. I need to know how you got the Winslow Homer etching you offered to Mrs. Whitestone. I just need the name of the person you got it from. I don’t need any details. I never will. Just the name.”

  “I already told you I’m not talking.”

  “If you give me the name, I’ll be able to stop bugging you. Permanently.”

  He snorted. “You say that now.”

  “It’s a promise.”

  “You think I trust you?” he said, his tone making it clear he never had and never would.

  “No, but I think you know a low-risk deal when you hear one. What’s the worst that can happen? I’m lying, and I’ll call you again. Maybe, though, just maybe, I’m telling you the truth. What have you got to lose by giving me the name? Nothing. And you might gain something you want—me out of your hair.”

  There was a long silence. Then Sam said, “Greg Donovan gave me the damn etching,” and he hung up.

  Chief Hunter replaced the receiver and double-tapped his desk. “Now I can talk to the judge,” he said, smiling.

  “Do you have enough to get a warrant?” I asked.

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s late. I’m sorry to have kept you here so long.”

  I got the message and didn’t ask anything else. According to the big round clock mounted over Cathy’s desk, it was two minutes to nine.

  What a waste, I thought, as I drove home. A waste of Ashley’s talent. A waste of Greg’s well-established business. I was glad to know the origin of those scrimmed and etched objects, but I didn’t feel any sense of closure. The most pressing questions remained unanswered—who killed Frankie, and why?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I parked in back of Ty’s SUV, turned off my headlights, and leaned over the steering wheel, resting my head on the cold leather, worn to a nub.

  I sat back and looked at my little house, my home, through fog and drizzle. I felt the familiar rush of gratitude at being able to come home to a place I loved. I got out and stretched, then saw that Ty was standing at the door watching me.

  “Hey,” he said. “Come on in out of the rain.”

  “Hey, yourself,” I said, walking toward him. “It’s not raining that much. It feels good. Fresh.”

  “Sounds like you had quite a day,” he said, holding the door for me, allowing me to pass by.

  “You have no idea. Pretty much, I’m reeling.”

  He opened his arms, and I stepped into his embrace. I stood there listening to his heart beating, my face buried in the flannel of his shirt, enveloped by his love.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I want soup.”

  “Do you have any?”

  “No.”

  “Am I going out to the store?”

  I leaned back and gazed into his eyes, then touched his cheek, my blues fading away.

  “Thanks, but no. I think Zoë will have some—and I want to bring her up to date. That’s the wrong way to put it. I don’t want to, but I know she’d want me to. Oh, Ty, it’s all so tragic and sordid and sad.”

  He raised my chin with his finger and kissed me, then kissed me again, then stepped back to look deep into my eyes. “Drink or tea?”

  “A Lemon Drop, please. If ever there was a dark night in which I needed some silver light, to night’s the night.”

  “I’ll make a shaker-full. Zoë will probably want one, too.”

  “Did you eat?” I asked, following him into the kitchen. “I was supposed to grill you a steak.”

  “I’m fine. I ate everything in your refrigerator.”

  I smiled. “Good.”

  I sat in Zoë’s kitchen, stirring steaming chicken noodle soup, waiting for it to cool off. Ty sat next to me.

  “How does this relate to Frankie?” Zoë asked after I explained what the police had learned about the fraud.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t.”

  She nodded and played with the stem of her martini glass. “My birthday’s coming up,” she said. “I don’t feel much like a party.”

  “I don’t blame you. We’ll have one anyway, though—I insist on celebrating the day you were born.”

  Zoë reached her hand across the table to touch my arm.

  “Frankie wanted to bring the cake,” I said.

  “What a sweet kid he turned out to be, you know?” Zoë said, staring down into her drink.

  “Yeah,” I said, and then we sat in melancholy silence until my soup was gone.

  Chief Hunter showed up just before eleven the next morning and pulled me out of the tag sale.

  “We got the warrant for Donovan’s house, gallery, and car,” he said, “to look for the etching plate, forged designs, scrimmed objects, business records, and scrimming machines and tools. I need your help to ID the items.”

  I grabbed my tote bag, told Cara I was leaving, and was out the door at a trot.

  The police tackled Greg’s car first. It was parked in the Rocky Point police station lot.

  “Did you keep him here all night?” I asked Chief Hunter, astounded at the thought.

  “Yes.”

  I waited for him to explain, but he didn’t. The single word hung in the air like a threat. I glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking in my direction. He was watching Griff.

  Using tools I thought were illegal to possess, Griff opened the car in about five seconds flat. Chief Hunter turned to me and must have seen something in my expression, because he said, “According to the warrant, we don’t need either his permission or his key.”

  Officers Griffin and Meade crawled inside the car and peered under it and poked through the upholstery with a probe. In the white glare of the bright late-summer sun, the silver metallic paint shimmered. The glove compartment contained only the own er’s manual and a small ice scraper. Detective Brownley ran a sensor over the inside door panels. Chief Hunter examined the inside of the trunk. In addition to the spare tire and jack, there was a set of flares, a wool blanket heaped off to one side, and a half-full bag of kitty litter, emergency supplies for winter—the flares to get attention, the blanket for warmth, and the kitty litter for traction in snow. He tapped the sides and lifted the carpet. They found nothing related to art or fraud in, under, or on the car.

  Chief Hunter issued hushed instructions to his team, telling me to ride with him. When we arrived at Greg Donovan’s beachfront Colonial, the chief entered first, flipped on the overhead lights, put on plastic gloves, and warned me not to touch anything.

  Greg’s house was decorated in a traditional Americana style with rag rugs, maple furniture, speckled pottery, and folk art. To my eye, it looked stilted, not homey, as if a decorator had styled it for a magazine, not for real people who actually lived there.

  “I want us to do a quick once-over,” Chief Hunter stated. “I expect the objects we’re looking for will be at the gallery, so consider this a preliminary sweep and notate any areas you think require more attention later.”

  I watched as the police examined the contents of drawers, cabinets, closets, custom-built shelving in the cellar, and trunks stored in the attic. To no one’s surprise, they didn’t find anything suspicious anywhere.

  Our little convoy drove to Sea View Gallery.

  Suzanne Jardin greeted us. She had straight chestnut-colored hair that hung almost to her waist. Her eyes were brown. S
he wore a red dress and knee-high black boots.

  “Hi, Josie,” she said as I approached the desk with Chief Hunter. Her eyes opened wide as I introduced them. She glanced at him, then looked back at me. “Greg called around eight to ask me to open up, but he didn’t say why. Do you know what’s going on?” she asked me.

  “No, not really,” I said.

  Chief Hunter explained the search warrant and asked if Suzanne had any information that might help us locate the items listed.

  Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat. “Me? No. I just work here. Part-time. I mean, the scrimming machine is in the workroom at the back. There are tools there, too. I guess the financial records are on the computer. I don’t know.”

  Chief Hunter looked toward the rear. “What’s back there?” he asked.

  “The office, a little storage room, and the workroom. Across from the workroom is the kitchen and the bathroom.”

  “Where do you do framing?” I asked.

  “In the basement,” she said.

  Officer Meade began a methodical search of the office. Officer Griffin began searching in the storage room, and I accompanied Chief Hunter into the workroom.

  The scrimming machine attached with vises to the worktable appeared similar to the ones I’d seen at Lenny’s. Scrimmed objects sat in neat stacks nearby. An architectural file cabinet contained scores of prints, silkscreens, and etchings, none an Ashley Morse original or repro.

  Narrow stairs near the kitchen led to an unfinished basement room. Uncovered sixty-watt bulbs dangled from electric-tape-wrapped wires. Settling cracks covered the concrete walls and floor like spiderwebs. The furnace and water heater stood in a corner. It was eerie. Two doors, one open, one closed, were on the left. The open door led to a fluorescent-lighted framing room. It was bright and cheerful. The Sheetrocked walls were painted lemon yellow. A huge worktable sat in the center. Work lights clamped to all four sides provided ample illumination. Officer Griffin finished searching the storage room and joined us downstairs just as we were looking through the racks of mats and samples of wood that covered one long wall. A storage cabinet contained cutting and mea suring tools, wood, pieces of glass, and sheets of Plexiglas. The table was clear. Nothing was in pro cess or waiting to be framed.

  Chief Hunter asked Griff to run up and ask Suzanne if she had the key to the locked door. She didn’t, and Griff reported that she said she’d never seen the door open and knew nothing about it. He’d searched through the desk but hadn’t found any keys.

  They used a crowbar to gain access.

  A full-sized printing press was positioned against the back wall. A copper plate sat on a table across the room.

  “Look,” I said, pointing to it. “It’s The Herring Net.”

  “Can you tell if it’s a fake?” Chief Hunter asked.

  “Probably,” I said, “but not here, not without tools and equipment.”

  Griff tugged on a tan metal cabinet’s handle. “This one’s locked,” he said.

  “Open it,” Chief Hunter instructed.

  Griff wedged the crowbar into the space between the two doors and snapped them apart. A laptop sat on a shelf. Next to it sat a digital camera and cell phone.

  “Sweet,” Chief Hunter said, holding up the phone so we could see it. Laminated tape affixed to the back of the unit read: SAM. “Can you believe it? He labeled it.”

  “In a kind of creepy way, that’s really or ganized,” I said.

  “You gotta love it,” he remarked.

  The evidence was damning. I couldn’t believe that Greg could have been so devious—or so stupid.

  Back in the Rocky Point police observation room, I watched Greg for several seconds before I sat down. Even through the two-way mirror, I could see the red rimming his eyes and the worry lines wrinkling his forehead. A young man in a brown suit sat nearby, a yellow-lined pad in front of him. His lawyer, I thought. He looked tired, too. The video camera was on. Chief Hunter sat at the head of the table. Chief Hunter pushed a legal-looking document encased in a blue cover across the table.

  “Mr. Davis,” he said to the young man, “we’ve just executed this warrant.” To Greg he added, “We’ve searched your car, gallery, and home.”

  Greg glanced at the document but didn’t pick it up. Mr. Davis did. He scowled as he read it.

  “What were you looking for?” Greg asked.

  “Evidence of fraud.”

  “Fraud,” Greg said. “That’s a good one. Did you find anything?”

  “Yes. Yes, Mr. Donovan, we did. Here’s an inventory.”

  He slid another document toward him. Greg kept his eyes on the chief as he reached for the paper. He scanned the listing, then slid it toward his lawyer and looked up again. “Why didn’t you just ask? Sure I have bookmarks, teeth, etchings, and a printing press. I own a gallery. I market artists’ and artisans’ wares, lots of them reproductions. So what?”

  “Did you notice the laptop and cell phone on the list?” Chief Hunter asked.

  “Please,” the lawyer said, raising his hand to stop the questioning. He placed his hand on Greg’s arm and whispered something in his ear.

  Greg replied in a hushed tone, then nodded and looked back at the chief. “Mitch here says to tell you the truth. I want you to know that’s all I’ve done—everything I’ve told you is the truth. Did I notice the laptop and cell phone on the list? Sure. I keep some private records on the laptop and lock it up so my staff can’t access it.” He shrugged. “I use disposable phones to help me keep business relationships separate and straight. What’s the point? You don’t like how I do business?”

  Chief Hunter looked at him as if he thought he might be joking. “Let’s start with the Homer etchings.”

  Greg seemed completely at ease. “What about them?”

  “They’re fakes.”

  “They are? Then I’ve been snookered. They were consigned to me by Ashley Morse.”

  Chief Hunter nodded sagely as if he’d expected that reaction. Maybe he had. I hadn’t. I was astonished to see Greg keep his cool.

  “I don’t know,” Chief Hunter said. “They’ll be proven to be counterfeit—and we found them in your place, not hers.”

  “Have you looked in hers?”

  “Can you give me a reason to?”

  The lawyer raised his hand again, stopping Greg from answering. They whispered back and forth; then Mitch Davis said, “Mr. Donovan is eager to answer, but I’m hesitant to allow him to say things that, while true, implicate others.”

  “He’s your client, Mr. Davis, but from where I sit, a little cooperation wouldn’t be a bad thing along about now,” Chief Hunter said, shrugging. “Plus, if he’s telling the truth, it’s a no-brainer—and if it can’t be proven, we can’t act on it. What’s the downside?”

  Mr. Davis whispered to Greg again, tapping his finger on his note-pad, making a strong point. Greg listened and nodded, then looked across the table at Chief Hunter. “I can prove that Ashley consigned the objects to me as antiques. I’ve got her signature on consignment forms.” He took his cell phone from his pocket. “Shall I call my gallery? I can tell Suzanne where to find the paperwork. She can fax the docs to you.”

  “You mean these?” Chief Hunter asked, sliding a manila file toward him. “We found these forms in your office.”

  Greg’s eyes darkened. “Of course,” he said. “I forgot you went through everything.” He opened the file and thumbed through the papers. “Yes, these are the forms I meant. As you can see here, Ashley Morse signed a consignment agreement for each object or lot.” He held up a sheet of paper. “The etched plate is listed here. See? It’s described as a Homer original. The form authorizes me to sell it or to print etchings and sell them.”

  “I’ll be asking her about these forms.”

  Greg shrugged again. “Please do.”

  Maybe he isn’t stupid after all, I thought. He might just have crafted a foolproof plan to lay the entire blame on Ashley.
r />   Chief Hunter left Greg and came to see me.

  “What do you think?” he asked me. “Why would she sign those forms? It puts her in the crosshairs.”

  “Because she has absolutely no business head and Greg was paying her good money. Probably she didn’t even read what she signed. She did the same thing when you asked her to sign that she understood her rights. She didn’t even glance at it.” I shrugged. “My dad made me promise never to sign something I haven’t read. Most people never met my dad.” I paused. “Probably Greg simply told her to sign it, and she did.”

  “Smart man, your dad,” Chief Hunter said.

  I smiled and nodded. “What do you do now?”

  “Call Judge Halpern about another warrant.”

  I glanced at Greg. “What do you do about him?”

  “Get the details of how his operation ran, clarify the whereabouts of the other ‘originals,’” he said, punctuating the air with finger-quotes, “and determine who else, if anyone, was involved.”

  “You don’t need me for any of that. May I go back to work?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “’Cause Judge Halpern’s going to say yes.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  We had a deal,” Ashley said from just inside her front door. Her cheeks were flushed.

  “We still do—if you told the truth,” Chief Hunter replied. “If not, by the terms of your plea bargain, the agreement’s null and void.”

  She looked down at the warrant Chief Hunter had handed her. “I can’t believe this. What are you looking for?”

  “Mr. Donovan showed us the forms you signed, consigning goods to him. There’s no mention of repros. We’re looking for counterfeit objects and designs—including the Myrick tooth that’s missing from the Whitestones’ collection.”

  “Are you saying that you think I sold Greg fakes and stole the Myrick tooth?” she asked, growing pale.

  “We’re investigating that possibility, yes.”

  She began breathing fast, her fingers gripping her smock. “If he sold my objects as real—that’s his business. I had nothing to do with the selling. Nothing.”