Silent Auction

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” Zoë asked, glancing from Chief Hunter to me.

  “Some collectors are like that,” I said. “They love the acquisition pro cess, the thrill of the hunt, and don’t pay much attention to the objects themselves.”

  “Besides, if either of the Whitestones did notice it, so what?” Chief Hunter continued. “They would ask Mr. Donovan for a replacement receipt and he would say no can do, that he hadn’t kept a copy of the paperwork or a photograph of the tooth. It would be embarrassing but not criminal. He’d look like a doofus is all. It didn’t come to that, though, because of Josie. Ms. Morse was going through Mr. White-stone’s papers in the ground-floor study when she called down from upstairs. Ms. Morse was listening to her iPod. She must have been completely shocked to realize that not only had Josie begun the appraisal, she’d already reached the top floor. She knew what that meant—she was too late. She might even have toyed with the idea of killing Josie to buy herself time to complete her search, but when Josie told her that I would be back momentarily, she decided it was too risky. She figured that her best hope of escaping punishment was to do nothing.”

  I reached for Ty’s hand. He clasped mine tightly.

  “Greg Donovan has put the murder totally on Ms. Morse, and the ADA believes him. Having seen her swing a knife, I believe him, too,” Chief Hunter stated.

  “Did she sell the fakes to Sam herself?”

  “We don’t think so. We think Mr. Donovan took care of that part. Josie had an idea that we believe has merit, right, Josie?”

  “Not that it really matters,” I said, “but yes. Based on the high quality of the cufflinks Sam is selling, I think they’re Lenny Wilton originals. Lenny probably scrimmed them when he first invented his scrimming machine—before he created the Leon line. Sam bought a boatload of them way back when and hasn’t sold them all yet.”

  Zoë nodded. “Will Greg go to jail?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Chief Hunter said. “The only question is for how long. Probably he’ll take a deal. There are about a dozen counts of grand larceny pending, plus some additional charges related to racketeering and fraud that the ADA is still considering. For sure he won’t just walk.”

  “Will Ashley?”

  “No. The evidence is strong. She’ll probably plead out, too.”

  “I hope she burns in hell,” Zoë said.

  “She will,” Chief Hunter said. “But first, she’ll spend most of the rest of her life in prison.”

  Her tears still flowing, Zoë said, “Good.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Wes called the next morning with scores of questions. I stood by my window, looking out toward the ocean, watching the fire-bright leaves dance in the gentle wind, and answered them all.

  “I have an answer for you about that car driving by the other night,” he said at the end. “It was Curt. He was out for a drive and decided to hit you up for work first thing in the morning. The cruise-by was to confirm that he had the address right.”

  “Some things are just what they seem to be,” I remarked.

  “Yeah. So can you sum Ashley up for me? What’s her fatal flaw? Was it that she wasn’t as talented as she thought she was?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It’s more complex.”

  Overestimating her talent hadn’t led Ashley to kill. Underestimating the importance of other factors was her undoing. She was both arrogant and supercilious. She was competent but uninspired, like a musician who never misses a note but whose playing lacks soul. She also disdained business and communication skills, believing her work should speak for itself. Her downfall was due to the “old ego meego,” as a friend of mine named Nancylee once labeled it. When Ashley realized that success required more than technical expertise, she spiraled down into the underbelly of ambition. Her fatal flaw was a deadly combination of ignorance, hubris, and greed.

  “Ashley didn’t overstate her talent, Wes,” I replied. “It’s darker than that.” I described my thinking. “Chief Hunter made a good point, I think, when he said, ‘Who knows what she was feeling? It’s enough to know what she did.’”

  “Good one, Josie! I can use that.”

  He ended the call moments later with a chirpy “See ya!” and for the first time in days, I was able to work.

  On my way home that afternoon, I heard Wes discussing breaking news on the local radio station. Ashley had signed off on a deal. She agreed to plead guilty to second degree murder, conspiracy to defraud, and grand larceny. Her sentence was twenty-five to life. It didn’t seem long enough to me, but no sentence would.

  Once inside my house, I ran upstairs. I wanted to take a shower. I left my clothes in a heap and hurried under the steaming water. The nightmare was finally over, and I wanted to wash away the stink.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The next Monday, Guy called to ask how the appraisal was coming.

  “We’re writing it up as we speak,” I said. “You’ll have it in a few days.”

  “Any other finds?”

  “Not really. But no major misses, either.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Guy said. “How many minor misses were there?”

  “Several,” I said, knowing Guy preferred direct talk. “Building a collection of the caliber you intend requires specialized knowledge that you don’t have.”

  “Like what?” he asked, bristling.

  “Like knowing that Nantucket baskets are still manufactured. Like knowing that if a Myrick tooth is offered for only twenty-four thousand dollars, there’s probably something wrong with it.”

  “I get your point. I knew the price Greg was asking was a steal, by the way. In fact, I thought Greg was ignorant. Pretty ironic, huh? I was the ignorant one.”

  “It happens. You knew enough to know that the price was low, and that’s huge. One thing to think about is that when you’re offered an unrealistically low price by a theoretically reputable dealer … well, that alone is enough of a red flag that you should probably delve deeper.”

  “That’s completely logical. All I can say is that I’m glad you’re in my corner, Josie, and that you’re a helluva teacher.”

  “Wow,” I said, grinning. “That’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve gotten in a long time. Thanks!”

  We chatted awhile longer; then he said, “We’re going to use an agency to hire a new caretaker and house keeper.”

  I told him I thought that approach made sense and asked him to give my regards to Maddie. After we hung up, I got to thinking that Guy wasn’t the only person interested in learning more about collecting antiques. Maybe, I thought, I should start a series of Prescott-branded workshops. We could call it “Prescott’s Antiques & Collectibles: How to Build a Great x Collection.” I’ll start with vintage clothing, I decided, an always popular collectible. Prescott’s Antiques & Collectibles: How to Build a Great Vintage Clothing Collection. I nodded. I liked it.

  I grabbed a pad of paper and began making notes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I snuck out early from the next tag sale to prepare Zoë’s birthday dinner. When I arrived home around three, steaks, baking potatoes, and salad vegetables in hand, I found the house empty and a note on the counter.

  “We’re at Zoë’s,” Ty had written. “It’s chocolate chip cookies war.”

  I put the perishables away and ran next door, interrupting a polite but heated discussion Zoë was having with Ty about butter and chocolate. Zoë insisted that better butter led to better chocolate chip cookies. Ty maintained that what mattered most was the quality of the chocolate. Chief Hunter, who’d asked me to call him Ellis, had volunteered to oversee a blind taste test, the winner to be selected by a committee comprised of Jake, Emma, and me. They were deep in trash-talking one another’s recipes when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, chuckling at the thought of dueling cookies.

  “Winterelli residence?” a tired-looking man with a fringe of white hair a
sked.

  He wore a gray uniform. A white and silver Morris Electronics truck blocked the driveway, its blinkers on. Another man, younger than the man on the porch by a generation, but still older than me, stood by the open back doors watching us.

  “Are you Ms. Winterelli?” the man on the porch asked.

  “No. One sec,” I said. I called, and Zoë appeared in the doorway. “A delivery,” I explained, opening the door wider.

  “Really? I’m not expecting anything.”

  The older man handed her a stylus, angled his electronic clipboard toward her, and told her to sign at line eight.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He glanced at the display. “A Pro-Tech D63 with surround sound.”

  “A flat-screen TV?” she asked. “I didn’t order a TV.”

  He looked again at the display, touched the screen twice, read a remark, then called, “Billy! Is there an envelope attached to that ProTech?”

  Billy’s torso disappeared into the truck. When he reappeared, he waved a clear plastic envelope, the kind shipping departments use to attach packing slips to boxes. “Yeah.”

  Zoë looked at me, a question in her eyes, and I shrugged.

  “Bring it up.”

  Billy handed the envelope to Zoë. Inside was an orange greeting card envelope. “Zoë Winterelli” was written on the outside.

  “That’s Frankie’s handwriting,” Zoë whispered, staring at the writing as if she were looking at a ghost.

  I watched over her shoulder as she eased her finger under the flap and wiggled the card out. The outside showed a vase filled with chrysanthemums and autumn leaves. Under the vase were the words “For You.” She opened the card, and a white slip of paper fluttered to the ground. “Happy Birthday” was printed near the top. Frankie had written:

  Dear Aunt Zoë,

  Thanks for everything.

  You’re the best aunt a guy could have.

  Happy Birthday.

  Love, Frankie

  P.S. I’ll put the receipt in here in case you need it.

  She pressed the card to her chest. “Oh, my God!” Zoë whispered. “What did he do?”

  I couldn’t imagine the feelings that must be rocketing through her head. She’d just received a message from the grave. I bent over and picked up the receipt.

  “I need you to sign,” the man on the porch said.

  She scrawled her name with the stylus, then stood back as the two men wheeled and hoisted the components of her new surround-sound TV system into her living room. One of the boxes barely fit through the door. She decided to have them install it in the den.

  Hearing the commotion, Jake and Emma came running in, followed by Ellis and Ty.

  At the sight of the biggest box, Jake jumped up and down. “Open it! Open it! Let’s open it!”

  Emma stood to the side, as subdued as her mother.

  Ellis cocked his head, asking a question without speaking. Zoë handed him the card. He read it. “Where’s the receipt?” he asked.

  “I have it,” I said, handing it over.

  “Another mystery solved,” he said.

  I nodded. The receipt was for $1,998.99; the two thousand dollars Frankie had withdrawn was now accounted for.

  “Isn’t this just the nicest thing you’ve ever heard of?” Zoë asked, still misty-eyed.

  “Yes,” I said and hugged her.

  “I’ll oversee the TV setup,” Ellis said, “while you guys bake.”

  “And while I cook,” I said. “Steaks are beckoning.”

  “May I come with you?” Emma asked.

  “Don’t you want to help bake the cookies?” I asked.

  “I’m a judge,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair if I helped.”

  “That’s a very good point,” I said.

  “Do you want to watch me set up the TV?” Ellis asked.

  She shook her head and reached for my hand. “I want to go with Josie.”

  “I do!” Jake shouted joyfully. “I do!”

  “Done,” Ellis said.

  Emma and I left through the front, crossing the little patch of lawn to reach my house.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to a crimson maple leaf on the ground.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Let’s pick it up and press it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Will we use a cookbook? That’s what Mommy does, because she says she never opens them anyway.”

  I laughed.

  She laughed, too, and together we walked into my house, ready to cook.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Our booth at the Harvest Festival was in a prime location—abutting the village green, across from the bandstand where the festival organizers would be auctioning off food grown or produced by local farmers and vendors and seasonal decorations made by area craftspeople. I’d spied bushels of crisp, tart apples, wedges of cheddar cheese so rich and flavorful it would give any Vermont cheese maker a run for his money, and tubs of thick, aromatic dark and amber maple syrup. There were countless gourds, rattan and wire cornucopias, boxwood and dried-leaf wreaths, and clusters of gold and brown Indian corn. It was a perfect autumn day, sweater weather, sparkling bright with fluffy clouds floating in a bright blue sky. Fallen leaves in opalescent hues crunched underfoot.

  Sasha, Gretchen, and I, along with six part-timers and temporary workers, had our hands full. I wished I could have had Fred, Eric, and Cara with me, too, but it was a Saturday, tag sale day, and running two full-out events in two separate locations, we were stretched thin.

  Zoë sat on a bar stool in a corner of the booth, her hands flying as she folded paper into origami figures. She wore a rhinestone tiara. Sasha and I sat on matching stools at the other end of the booth painting faces. Our signage indicated that 100 percent of the day’s proceeds would go to the literacy charity the festival was sponsoring, and we were packed.

  “I saw you at Frankie’s funeral,” a woman I didn’t recognize said as she led a boy of about three up for his turn. “I’m Christine Leblanc.” She was in her twenties, with strawberry blond hair cut in a soft bob. She had a smattering of freckles on her nose. “I knew Frankie from church. I liked him a lot.”

  I stood up to greet her. “I’m so glad you introduced yourself. Frankie was special.”

  “Is that his aunt?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Please tell her how much I enjoyed knowing him.”

  “I will,” I said, then asked Christine’s son what he had in mind for his face painting. He wanted to be Spider-Man, and I smiled, relieved. He’d be my fifth Spider-Man of the day, and I had it down.

  Later, Ty joined the face-painting line, and when it was his turn, he handed me a twenty-dollar bill and said, “Make me a superhero.”

  I slipped his money through the slot in the money jug. “Too late! You’re already a superhero. You’re my superhero.”

  He reached his hand out and stroked my cheek. “I’m going home to make a batch of my award-winning chocolate chip cookies.”

  I laughed and glanced at Zoë. “Don’t tell her. Every time she thinks about losing to you, she gnashes her teeth and grumbles something about a fix being in.”

  He smiled and said he’d see me at home. I watched him weave his way through the crowd, thinking as I always did that he was the answer to a prayer and a dream come true.

  “You look like you’re a million miles away,” Ellis said, coming up from behind and startling me.

  “Oh, hi!” I laughed. “I was just thinking sweet thoughts about Ty.”

  He turned to look at Zoë. “I understand,” he said smiling.

  “Are you glad you moved to Rocky Point?”

  “Hell, yes. Cities are great, but I’m thinking that Norman Rockwell had it right.”

  I watched Zoë’s eyes light up when she spotted him.

  “Josie!” Sasha called. “This little girl wants to be a tiger.”

  “Excellent! That’s my specialty,” I said, laughing as I waved goodbye to
Ellis. “Come on up, sweetie! You’re going to be ferocious!”

  After we broke down the booth, loaded the van, and unloaded everything onto the loading dock back at Prescott’s; after I thanked everyone for their above-and-beyond efforts and secured the building for the night; and after I got home and showered, Ty handed me a cookie.

  “Sweets for the sweet,” he said.

  “Yum,” I said.

  “I’m taking you out to night.”

  “You are? How come?” I asked.

  “’Cause we’ve been working hard and not playing enough. It’s time to go dancing.” He reached out his hand, and I took it. He pulled me upright and toward him.

  “Can I wear my new green lizard cowboy boots and my black skirt with the flirty flounce?”

  “I wouldn’t know a flirty flounce from a feather, but I sure as shootin’ like the sound of it.”

  I fed him the last bite of cookie. “Just you wait. I’m going to dazzle you with my new side-wrapped V-neck silky top.”

  “You don’t need to wear a side-wrapped top to dazzle me,” he said. “You dazzle me no matter what you wear.”

  I hugged him hard, then hugged him again, then hurried upstairs to change.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Special thanks go to Leslie Hindman, who, with her team at Leslie Hindman Auctioneers, continues to appraise antiques for me to write about. Please note that any errors are mine alone.

  As a member of the New York chapter of Mystery Writers of America board of directors and the chair of the Wolfe Pack’s literary awards, I’ve been fortunate to meet and work alongside dozens of talented writers and dedicated readers. Thank you all for your support. For my pals in the Wolfe Pack and fans of Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe stories everywhere, I’ve added my usual allotment of Wolfean trivia to this book.

  Thank you to Jo-Ann Maude, Katie Longhurst, Christine de los Reyes, and Carol Novak. Thank you also to Dan and Linda Chessman, Marci and James Gleason, John and Mona Gleason, Linda and Ren Plastina, Rona and Ken Foster, Sandy Baggelaar, and Liz Weiner. Special thanks also go to George Stanko, who helped me understand the legalities of getting search warrants.