Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Do you recall signing the consignment documents?” Chief Hunter asked.

  “I don’t know—I sign lots of things for him.”

  “This one explicitly states that the objects you consigned were authentic antiques.”

  Ashley didn’t respond. She stood immobile, her chest heaving. Her eyes moved to my face as if she were seeing me for the first time.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “She’s helping us out,” Chief Hunter said.

  She turned to him. “If you’re trying to humiliate me, you’re succeeding.”

  “That’s not our intention. Please step back so we can enter.”

  She crossed her arms and pursed her lips but did as he instructed.

  “Officer Meade, will you please stay with Ms. Morse?”

  Ashley sidled to her worktable, then stood in icy silence, as rigid as a post, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip and her hands clenched into tight fists by her thighs.

  I stood beside Chief Hunter in the center of the living room, then followed him as he walked from room to room. The options where her designs and objects could be secreted were limited. Open shelving built into the worktable provided space for works in progress and spare materials, and a bookcase in the bedroom housed partially scrimmed teeth, but there were no storage or filing cabinets anywhere. In fact, the house was austere. There were no photographs, knickknacks, or personal touches. It looked and felt more like a utilitarian efficiency unit in a boarding house, the kind rented by the week to transients, rather than a young woman’s home.

  In the bathroom, everything—the floor, walls, fixtures, and ceiling—was white. She used only a clear liner as her shower curtain.

  The small galley kitchen was equally minimalist. There were standard-issue discount-store sets of dinner dishes, flatware, and glasses. She had a five-piece set of aluminum pots and pans, a toaster, and a Mr. Coffee machine. The refrigerator contained half a head of iceberg lettuce, an unopened jar of yellow mustard and another of grape jelly, and three English muffins.

  In the bedroom, a chipped pine dresser stood against an inside wall. There was no mirror or chair. Nothing hung on the walls. A double bed rested on a metal frame—there was no adornment. The bed was unmade. There were no decorative pillows. The dresser was haphazardly stuffed with underwear, socks, T-shirts, and jeans. One dress, a short-sleeved, to-the-knee black sheath, hung in the closet.

  I watched as Chief Hunter peered in back of the worktable and under the love seat. He removed drawers, tapped walls, wiggled fireplace bricks, removed the toilet tank cover, examined ice trays for foreign objects and soup cans for false bottoms, and sought out secret cupboards and cubbyholes hidden in the wood flooring and closets.

  He walked the rooms slowly one last time, perusing every inch of space, then said, “That’s it.”

  “Are you satisfied?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “I’m going through your car.”

  “No.”

  “Read the warrant,” he said. “Do you want to give me the key?”

  She shook her head slowly, as if she were trying to shake off the drowsy residue of interrupted sleep. He didn’t ask again. She stood at the doorway and watched as we approached her vehicle. It wasn’t locked. He did a quick once-over of the inside, then popped the trunk. Wedged into the space were a large blue plastic storage box and a cardboard tube, the kind used to ship posters.

  Chief Hunter opened the tube. Inside was a rolled-up print of The Herring Net.

  “Is this the same as the one you’re appraising for Mrs. White-stone?” he asked me.

  “It looks like it. I can’t tell for sure without comparing them and testing the paper and ink.”

  He nodded, eased it back into the tube, and then bagged it, tube and all, in a jumbo evidence bag. I glanced at Ashley. She was gripping the doorjamb as if she might collapse without its support.

  He opened the storage box and extracted an archival file folder. In the folder were eight sheets of onionskin paper, separated from one another by slip sheets. Six showed traced drawings of typical Myrick design elements—a compass, a waving banner, a fishtail border, sails. One showed the design on the missing Myrick tooth, telltale highlight line and all. Looking at it, I was struck by how clever she had been to combine an exact copy of Myrick’s rendering of the Susan with several other known Myrick elements. The overall design was evocative of his work, but because it wasn’t an exact copy of any extant tooth, an appraiser might find it credible that it was a previously undiscovered example, not a fake. The last sheet showed a similar compilation of elements, this one featuring the ship Ann to create the illustration that had been, apparently, scrimmed onto the tooth currently under review in Hawaii.

  “I was asked to help a museum in Honolulu appraise a tooth attributed to Myrick,” I whispered, explaining my role. “That’s the design. I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Ashley scrimmed the teeth and handed them off to Greg, who handed them off to Sam, and it’s he who arranged for their sale.”

  “You said that Mr. Yamamoto got the tooth from a Boston art gallery. Would Mr. Holt have contacts at a place like that?”

  “I doubt it. My guess is that Greg orchestrated it all. Like calling Maddie about the Homer etching. No way does Sam read Antiques Insights magazine—the idea had to come from someone else. Sam said that a guy he knew took the photos. You should ask your tech guys to check the camera we found at Greg’s gallery. I bet the photos are in Greg’s camera.”

  He nodded, made a note, and then asked me to e-mail him Mr. Yamamoto’s contact information. He transferred the items to his SUV and walked toward Ashley.

  “You see what we’re taking,” he said. “I’ll write out a receipt.”

  “You have no right … I created repros, that’s all.”

  “Do you have any information that will help us locate the missing tooth, Ms. Morse?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I want to remind you again of the plea bargain arrangement you signed off on. Your active assistance is required.” He stared at her for several seconds. “If I find out you’re withholding information, you’ll be charged with fraud and grand larceny. And obstruction.”

  She raised her chin defiantly. She looked both indignant and apprehensive, the very picture of a damsel in distress.

  My first thought as we headed back was how disappointed Wes was going to be that I didn’t get any photos for him.

  My second thought was of Frankie. There he’d been, living his life, doing his work, staying on the right side of the law, while all around him people were skirting the line or crossing it full on.

  My third thought was of Ashley. How could she have done such a thing? I recalled something she’d said to Maddie the day they met at Sea View. She’d said that she considered herself a storyteller as much as a scrimshander, and since her designs memorialized a moment in time, she felt an enormous obligation to communicate the truth. I’d loved that view of art. Her betrayal was profound—she was a traitor to her calling.

  I turned to look at the ocean. Past the dunes and the wispy tall grass blowing in the light breeze, frothy whitecaps dotted the midnight blue water. I spotted tiny twinkling lights far out to sea. A ship was on the move.

  My fourth thought was to wonder about the missing Myrick tooth. Facts came to me.

  Ashley created repros.

  Greg committed fraud. Maybe she knew his intention all along, maybe not.

  The only object stolen from the Whitestones’ light house was the Myrick tooth.

  The police had just finished searching Ashley’s house and car, and the tooth hadn’t been found. It hadn’t been found in Greg’s possession either. Of course, in the days that followed the theft, either one of them could have stashed it anywhere—it could have been buried in the backyard, shipped to a friend in a distant state, or secreted in a safe deposit box or mini storage unit.

  I couldn’t imagine that either Ashley or Greg would
have disposed of it. An artist with an ego the size of Ashley’s would never destroy work she’d slaved over and loved, and an opportunist like Greg would have been loath to miss the chance to double dip by reselling it. Yet as I thought of it, I began to wonder if I was right—wouldn’t it have been smarter for them to cut their losses and destroy the fake tooth? No. Destroying this one counterfeit tooth wouldn’t keep the police from discovering other fakes. In order to totally eliminate the risk of exposure, they would have had to track down every object they’d sold, an impossible task in a business where resales were common and frequently anonymous. Pandora’s box had been opened, and there was no turning back. But some mythology experts believed that at the bottom of Pandora’s box lay hope—had Greg optimistically expected the to-do to blow over?

  I looked at Chief Hunter. As if he could feel my eyes on him, he glanced in my direction, met my eyes for a moment, and smiled.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

  I looked back out over the ocean. “I’m feeling sad.”

  “Why?”

  “Mostly, ’cause of Frankie.” I sighed. “Also, not like it matters compared to Frankie, but I hate thinking how an artist like Ashley has wasted her talent by creating bogus objects. And Greg—his business seemed to suit him so perfectly.” I sighed again, then shook my head a little to dispel my gloom. “It’s awful—and it’s awful in a lot of different ways. For them, for the people they cheated, for all the honest artists and dealers trying to make a go of it.” I sighed again. “I understand how people become cynics.”

  “Why aren’t you?” he asked.

  The distant lights I’d seen far out to sea only a minute earlier were gone. The ship had passed, or we’d passed it.

  “My dad, I guess. He once told me that the most common reason people become cynical is that they’re surprised by an unexpected turn of events, a lie, or a betrayal. If you expect the best but prepare for the worst, the only surprises you’ll ever experience are good ones.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and from his sardonic tone and the tension that tightened his jaw, I wondered what example had come into his mind. “Easy to say. Hard to do.”

  “Not so hard, not really,” I said. “At this point in my career, having worked with feuding heirs, divorcing couples, lying dealers, and scheming collectors, I’ve seen enough to never be shocked by people’s ability to rationalize doing the wrong thing.”

  “How about in your personal life?” he asked.

  “Ditto.” I shrugged. “I don’t get surprised, but still … it makes me sad.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  I’m back!” I announced as I walked into the front office. I greeted everyone, asked how things were going but didn’t really listen to their answers, then climbed the stairs to my private office. I knew I should go to the tag sale to relieve someone, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat by my window, watching the xanthous and flame-red leaves on my old maple shimmy in the soft breeze, thinking about Frankie and the missing tooth and Frankie’s two thousand dollars and blackmail and Lenny Wilton and Harlow’s.

  I scanned my desk and saw a printout of catalogue copy ready for proofing, a financial report ready for analysis, and a proposal to expand our database management contract ready for review. I didn’t even try to work. Instead, I thought some more, methodically reviewing facts and sources.

  Suddenly, I gasped. I hadn’t asked Eric about Frankie’s two thousand dollars. Surely he would know if Frankie had withdrawn the money for an innocent purpose.

  I dashed downstairs, ran across the ware house, my footsteps echoing on the concrete, yanked open the tag sale door, and stood, seeking him out. More than a dozen customers were poking through our inventory. Three others were in line to pay. Eric stood near the front.

  I caught his eye and gestured that he should join me. He hurried in my direction, his brow furrowed.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, no. It’s just that I have a question,” I said. I kept my tone low. I took a step back and gestured that he should follow me. “Frankie took two thousand dollars cash out of his bank on the Friday before he died. Do you know what he did with it?”

  He looked at me and swallowed, a troubled look clouding his eyes. He took a deep breath as if he were bracing himself to confess a sin.

  “Maybe.” He looked down. When he met my eyes, he looked worried. “There’s a chance he used the money to buy a motorcycle. A guy around the corner from where I live was selling one at a great price. I thought it would be fun, but Grace said she’d worry every minute I was on it, so I decided not to get it. Frankie offered to buy it without her knowing anything about it, so I could ride it. He was just joking, you know? I told him no. I didn’t want to lie to Grace, and I didn’t want her to be scared.” He swallowed. “Do you think he bought it anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Did it cost two thousand dollars?”

  “Twenty-three hundred. Maybe Frankie talked him down.”

  “Can you check with the seller for me?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Can you do it now?”

  I waited while he called. When he hung up, he said, “The motorcycle hasn’t sold. He never spoke to Frankie.”

  Another dead end.

  Cara announced that Wes was on the line. I ran upstairs to my office to take the call.

  “Listen, I’ve got news,” he said. He lowered his voice. “We’ve got to meet.”

  “I can’t, Wes. I have too much to do. I’ve been out all day.”

  “I know. You’ve been helping the police.” Wes’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They arrested Greg for fraud and grand larceny and some other charges relating to conspiracy.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said.

  “Yeah. He’ll be out on bail within hours, probably.”

  “So?” I asked. “That’s not a surprise either.”

  “Do you remember how the phone records showed that Frankie called Greg at eight thirty on the day he died?” he asked. “And Greg denied it? Well, guess what? Greg was telling the truth. He didn’t speak to Frankie because Frankie didn’t call. Curt did. When Curt got to the light house at eight thirty to help Frankie with the door, he called Greg to see if he had any work for him that day. He called from the light house phone. The police assumed it was Frankie who called because it came from the light house and they knew he was on-site—but it wasn’t. It was Curt.”

  “Is Curt involved in the fraud somehow?”

  “No. It looks as if he has nothing to do with anything. The police have been pecking away at him since yesterday. You know how Curt said he didn’t return Frankie’s noon call? That was true, too—he didn’t need to. Frankie left him a message telling him to come back to the Whitestones’ at three thirty. The phone log shows the call. Frankie thought you were smart to clean the gutters before it rained, so he called Curt to ask him to come back and do the same at the light house and at the two cottages. When Curt got there, he recognized Frankie’s Jeep, but not your car. He thought it was probably the Whitestones’ and wasn’t any too keen on meeting them. But Frankie had told him to be there, so he soldiered on. He rang the bell, and when there was no answer, he gave the door a little jiggle to see if it was locked. It was, and he figured that if the White-stones had shown up, Frankie was otherwise occupied, and if not, they could clean the gutters in the morning, so he just blew out of there.”

  “The timing’s right—but why wouldn’t he have told the police that? What’s the big secret?”

  “He didn’t want to admit being anywhere near the murder scene that day. He said he knew he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but neither was he the dullest. He said you hear all the time how innocent guys get convicted of crimes they didn’t commit, and he damn sure wasn’t going to be one of them.”

  “What about the drive-by at my house?”

  “What drive-by?” Wes asked.

  He jotted notes as I filled him in on the mysterious car that had
spooked me Thursday evening.

  “I’ll get back to you,” he said.

  “Do you have any more news about the fraud case? Specifically, do you know if the police discovered if Lenny Wilton is involved in any way? He tried to sell a tooth to Harlow’s and has consistently refused to say who he was acting for.”

  “Chief Hunter went to see him, told him that Greg had been arrested, and got him to admit whom he’d been acting for … are you ready? Greg. Lenny was doing Greg a favor, which he explained he’d been glad to do since Greg had given him his first break.”

  “So when Lenny couldn’t sell the tooth, he gave it back to Greg, right? And Greg, having at that point met the Whitestones, sold it to them.”

  “Right,” Wes agreed. “Which leaves the murder. You have any new ideas?”

  “No,” I said. “Do you?”

  “Nope,” he said, sounding frustrated. “I don’t think the police do either. I do have a little good news, though. I sent in a first draft of my article about the investigation to date to Metropolitan. Mr. Austin loved it.”

  “Oh, Wes, that’s wonderful!” I said, and I realized that I wasn’t just glad to have confounded Bertie, I was also genuinely thrilled for Wes.

  Zoë called.

  “Ellis just left,” she said. “I gotta tell you, Josie, I think he’s pretty special.”

  “I have a very good feeling about him,” I said. Ellis, I thought, finding the sound of his first name odd.

  “Yeah. I’m liking him a lot, but I’m also concerned … do you think I’m attracted to him for real or is it just ’cause of Frankie and I’m an emotional wreck and he’s offering a strong arm and a shoulder to cry on?”

  “He quotes Alexander Pope and hangs Norman Rockwell illustrations in his office. If you ask me, that’s pretty solid evidence that he’s a good guy, so … I think it’s real.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think, too. I’d like to invite him to my birthday party.”