“Lots of times. Our favorite restaurant there is the Mandarin Star. Why? Are you thinking of going?’
Wes flushed. “Yeah. Maybe. I booked a room at the Four Seasons in Boston next week—it’s for our six-month anniversary, Maggie and me. I looked it up. It’s not far from Chinatown. I want to take her to a really nice place for dinner. We both like Chinese food. Maybe that would be a good choice.”
“I’m not sure the Mandarin Star is what you have in mind. It has great food, but it’s pretty ordinary looking. I wouldn’t describe it as romantic.”
“Oh. How can I find a good place for dinner?”
“Call the concierge at the hotel.”
“Thanks!” Wes said. “That’s a great idea.”
I smiled at him. “What do you have planned?”
“We’re going to spend the day going to museums. The Fine Arts and the Isabella Stewart Gardner. Maggie likes museums.” He looked down for a moment, then back up. “I just told her to take the day off, that I have a surprise for her.” He swallowed hard. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. “Oh, Wes. Congratulations.”
“Don’t congratulate me yet. She hasn’t said yes.”
“She will. How could she not? You’re a catch. Do you have the ring yet?”
Concern clouded his eyes. “It’s kind of old-fashioned looking. Traditional, you know? The diamond is round with little filigrees, or whatever you call them, in the setting. I’m a little scared the diamond is too small. It’s a half karat. Do you think Maggie will think it’s too small?”
“No, not at all!” I reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m sure Maggie will love it, Wes.”
He leaned back and took in a deep breath. “Thanks.” He finished his coffee, pushed the mug aside, flipped through a few pages in his notebook, and said, “So, anyway … the police have already reviewed the security recording from that day. It’s lucky Lucky Electronics keeps digital files for three months, huh?” We chuckled. “Get it? Lucky Lucky?”
“I get it.”
He grinned. “That phone and another one were bought by a woman. For cash.”
My heart gave an extra beat. “A woman?”
“Not Ana.”
I sat back. “Really?”
“Yup. It’s not Heather, either.”
“Who is it?”
“No one knows. It’s hard to tell much about her. She’s wearing a hat, one of those furry ones with a big brim, and most of the time, she was looking down at the phones or counting out money. She paid in cash.” He tapped on his phone. “Here. Take a look.” He slid the unit across the table. “The police have asked me to publish this photo, hoping someone can ID her.”
The woman wasn’t just looking down, her head was angled away from the camera. The small bit of hair that showed from under the hat looked to be brown and shoulder-length, but it was hard to tell because her fuzzy fur or faux-fur coat collar was turned up. Her face seemed thin.
I handed back the phone. “You can barely see her. I doubt anyone would be able to recognize her.”
“No one will tell regardless.” Wes stared at the photo for a minute, then shrugged. “If she’s a friend, you’re not going to want to tell the police about her, and even if she’s not a friend, who wants to get involved in a murder investigation, you know?”
“Why mention murder? Tell them she’s needed to help find a missing antique.” I smiled, my devilish one. “Use me as the contact person.”
Wes grinned. “Good one, Josie! I’ll do it. What kind of antique?”
I thought about it for a minute. “A Victorian-era European decorative object.”
He wrote that down. “Very good. What is it?”
I raised my chin. “Given that the object in question was intended to be a gift, I’m sure you understand why I can’t reveal any details. We don’t want to lose the element of surprise.”
Wes wrote quickly. “You’re very good at this, aren’t you?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“I’ll get it posted to our news feed this afternoon and feature it in print tomorrow.” He rat-a-tat-tatted his pen against his notebook. “As to whether there was any contact between the woman who bought the phone and Milner … he called that same number several times during the period he was appraising the Fabergé egg. After that, there were two other calls, one right after he saw you in his office and the other the morning he died, at seven thirty.”
I paused, ideas rattling around in my head. “So during that last call, he was confirming his appointment with his client. They planned to meet before he saw the police, which suggests that the woman is from Rocky Point.”
“Or that she lives close enough to get here easily.”
“Were all those calls placed from Milner’s office phone?” I asked.
“Yup. There were no calls from Milner’s home or cell phones to that number.”
“So the relationship was all business.”
“Some business if it gets you killed.”
“Yeah.”
Wes put his notebook away. “I spoke to Julie, the woman who worked at Marlborough Antiques with Milner, and a gal in accounting. They both said it’s absurd to think Milner was anything but on the up-and-up, that he was a complete straight arrow.”
I waved it aside. “That’s what people always say. ‘Oh, he was such a nice, quiet young man.’ You know that.”
“You think Milner snowed them all?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Who knows? I’m just saying I don’t take people’s assessments of one another as gospel. Show me how they act; don’t tell me what they say. I can paint a scenario of guilt for everyone as easily as they can deny it. Milner was in his early sixties—close to when many people start thinking about retirement—and alone. He’d been working his whole life, and what did he have to show for it? A small condo in Boston.” I paused. “What else did he have? Do you know?”
“A modest 401(k) and a half-interest in a cottage in Wales he shared with his sister. She inherits everything.”
“So he gets an opportunity of a lifetime, pulls a double cross, selling the Fabergé egg privately to a Russian mobster, and flies off to Bali, where he plans to live happily ever after on the proceeds. As I said, it’s all speculation, but it fits.”
“Do you think he did it?”
I drank some tea, then shook my head. “No. I think he was a good guy who never would have thought of such a thing.”
“I don’t know, Joz … you’re pretty persuasive.”
“I know. Beware the good talker.”
“True. So what do you have for me?”
“A question. When Ana left McArthur Evergreen Technologies, did she take a chunk of money with her?”
“Huh?”
I filled him in about McArthur’s loan and Ana’s former role at the company, and Wes extracted his notebook again and jotted some notes.
“I’ll check,” he said. “Anything else?”
“No.”
Wes pushed back his chair and shrugged into his down coat. “Catch ya later.”
I finished my tea as I watched him stride across Bow Street heading for the Central Garage, a man with a purpose.
* * *
That afternoon, Hank curled up on the love seat while I settled in at my desk. Ty texted he’d be home around six, so I figured I might as well try to catch up at work. I read a good-news accounting report, revised catalogue copy for an upcoming auction, and got through enough e-mails to make my eyes blurry. One check of my new e-mail account, though, and I perked up. I had seven replies to my ad.
Three were from jewelers and four from metal workers; none had ever worked on a Fabergé egg snow globe replica, but all were eager to give it a whirl. I sighed, deleted them, got Hank organized for the night, and drove home.
* * *
The next morning, Monday, I was sitting at my kitchen table finishing a bowl of cereal when I checked the e-mail account I�
��d created for the ad.
Hello,
I’m Ralph Kovak. I made that Fabergé egg snow globe replica you asked about. I’ll be at home after four if you want to call. 555.952.0852.
Sincerely,
Ralph Kovak
“Wow,” I said aloud. I reached for my phone and called Ellis. I got him at his desk. “You’re in early.”
“Lots to do.”
“My idea worked. I’ve got the guy.”
“Tell me.”
I read him the e-mail. I knew better than to expect any whoopin’ or hollerin’, since that was not Ellis’s style, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Can you come to the station around three?”
“Sure.”
I drove to work through the rising sun thinking I couldn’t wait to see how Ellis planned to play it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I figured 8:30 A.M. was a decent hour, so at 8:31 I called Marianna Albert to ask if I could come look at her husband’s gadget cane collection. She said she would be home all morning and I should come on ahead. I left a note for Cara and headed to Durham.
The Albert home was a traditional Colonial, painted white with cherry red trim. A long driveway curved to the right, ending at a two-car garage. I parked before the curve.
“This way,” Marianna called. She was holding open the storm door.
“Hi!” I said. I reached into the back for my tote bag. I walked up the narrow pathway. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Of course. Are you all right after your ordeal?”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I just wish I could have done more to help that poor man.”
She made a clucking sound and led me across a square entry hall to a large study. One wall was solid with built-in bookcases. Another showcased the canes and walking sticks. Each one was mounted horizontally, held in place by two brass rings. The arrangement was asymmetrical and awe-inspiring.
“What a remarkable display,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Hearing you, Walter is beaming down on us.”
“Did he arrange them by date of acquisition or value?”
She laughed. “He didn’t have a system. He placed them in whatever order pleased him aesthetically. When he got a new one, he spent hours trying it here and there, until he found the spot he liked best.”
“His care shows. It’s a terrific arrangement.” I extracted a video camera from my bag. “May I record the collection?”
“Certainly.”
I followed Prescott’s protocol, annotating what I saw as I created the video. When I was finished, I placed the camera back in the bag. “I’ll be sending you a proposal, of course, but let me tell you what I recommend.”
“Come into the kitchen. We can have some coffee while we talk.”
Her kitchen was farmhouse contemporary, with butcher-block counters and antique white cabinets. I sat on one side of an old wood plank farm table. Marianna sat across from me. The coffee was strong, the steam soothing.
“If you select Prescott’s, which of course I hope you do, we’ll examine each cane looking for hidden cubbyholes, measuring and weighing each, confirming the accuracy of the catalogue entry. We’ll then research each one, confirming or discovering all records of ownership, starting with the maker and the date of manufacture or fabrication and following the trail until we reach Walter. Once we’ve completed these two steps—ensuring we have an accurate and complete description of the object and confirming provenance—we move on to the final step, valuation. This step is part science and part artistry. We research sales records and consumer market trends, then use our experience and expertise to come up with an auction sales estimate. It’s not an exact science, but we’re right far more often than we’re wrong.”
“This is exactly the information I wanted. Thank you. Now all I need to know is the price.”
“And that requires me thinking it through, estimating how long it would take us to conduct the appraisal, anticipating likely snags, and so on.”
“How much would you charge to appraise one of them? I’d like to see what you do with one before I commit to letting you handle the entire collection.”
“Interesting idea. You tell me which one, let me read the catalogue entry so I can see what is known about it, and I’ll give you a price.”
We returned to the study. Marianna faced the wall of canes, then began walking the length of the room and back again, considering her options.
“This one,” she said, pointing to one close to the window at eye level. “That’s one of the ones Walter didn’t know much about.”
“May I?” I asked, reaching for it.
“Sure.”
I freed it by slipping it through the rings. It was heavy, made of dark burled wood, maybe walnut, possibly chestnut or maple. The elephant head handle was fashioned out of brass and fit my hand surprisingly comfortably. The bottom was protected by a three-inch-high brass plate.
While I looked at it, Marianna went to the desk, extracted an accordion file, and flipped through the pockets, wiggling out a half-page-sized sheet of white paper. She scanned the contents, then read it aloud. “Elephant head walking stick, circa 1820. Probably British, maybe East Asian. Burled maple and brass. Two openings. The entire head screws off to reveal an opening that held an umbrella (missing). The bottom tip also unscrews to reveal a small opening, perhaps to hold some folded money. Purchased in London at Mitchum’s Haberdashery, 1987, for £140, roughly $215 then, or $440 now. No information about its history was available. The shop owner didn’t typically deal in antiques; this was his deceased brother’s cane, and his sister-in-law didn’t know anything about it. He was selling it on her behalf.” She looked up. “As I said, Walter didn’t know much about it.”
I lifted the walking stick up and studied it for a moment. I told her our hourly fee, estimating that it would take as many as ten hours to research it properly.
“How long will it take, do you think?”
“A week or more. I already know I’m going to want to contact several experts, and scheduling calls takes time.”
“I appreciate your thoroughness. You’ve got a deal.”
I took a photo with my phone and e-mailed it to Gretchen, asking her to prepare a receipt and an appraisal agreement and e-mail the documents to me. She IM’d to confirm receipt. While we waited, Marianna led me outside to the backyard.
“Walter’s passion was his walking sticks. Mine is my garden. Come look.”
Marianna had created a wonderland with eight-foot statues and a fountain reminiscent of the one in the Place de la Concorde in Paris. Ten-foot-high boxwoods wound through the yard, forming a private walkway.
“I’m speechless,” I said. “All I can do is stand here and marvel.”
She laughed. “Thank you. It’s taken forty years of work for it to look like this.”
My phone vibrated. Gretchen had sent the receipt and contract. “Let me read through these documents to be certain they’re correct.”
“Do you want to come inside?”
I smiled at her. “Something tells me that somewhere in this garden, there’s a bench.”
She laughed. “I knew you were a woman of discernment the first moment I met you.” She started down the path, and I followed. “You won’t be too chilly?”
“No, it’s downright balmy today. What a difference a day makes.”
The path curved to the left, then to the right, circling back on itself. An opening, marked by a latticed arched trellis, gave access to a secret garden. Four stone benches surrounded another, smaller fountain.
“Spectacular,” I said. Ten minutes later, I asked for her e-mail address and forwarded the documents. “Everything is in order. If you can print them out, we can sign the forms and I can get started on the appraisal.”
“Thank you, Josie.”
She printed out a copy of Walter’s notes; then we signed the documents and shook on the deal. I was back at work by ele
ven.
I carried the walking stick into the office and held it above my head. “We get to do a test appraisal. Who wants to get started?”
“Me,” Fred said, before Sasha could reply.
“You all right with that?” I asked her.
She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sure. I’ve got plenty to do.”
I handed it and the paperwork over. “Let me know what you discover as you discover it, okay?”
“Sure,” he said, his unerring focus already activated. He was running his index finger along the underside of the elephant’s trunk.
I headed upstairs, white-hot curious about what Fred would learn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
At five of four, I was sitting alone in Interrogation Room One waiting for Ellis to signal me, when my phone vibrated. It was a text from Fred.
“I found another opening. The elephant’s trunk hides a trick latch.”
I replied, “Wow.”
“Double wow.”
I smiled, put my phone back on the table, and glanced at the one-way mirror. Ellis was in the observation room talking with a technician, a different man than the one who’d come to my place. I couldn’t decide which was worse, looking at myself in the one-way mirror or looking away. In either case, I felt conspicuous, and knowing people were watching me, or could be, was unsettling.
Ellis came in and sat across from me. He had a stack of blank index cards and a pen. He placed a metallic blue water bottle emblazoned with the Rocky Point Police Department logo beside the pen. The logo was fancy, a gold and black triangular shield with the words “integrity,” “courtesy,” and “service” running along the sides. A phone unit sat off to the left, with a set of headphones attached by a long black cable that snaked across the table and down the side.
He asked if I was ready, and when I said yes, he put on the headphones and used his index finger to shoot at the one-way mirror, signaling “Go.”
I glanced at the printout of Ralph Kovak’s e-mail and dialed. It rang four times, a hollow, echoing sound, before he answered.
“Mr. Kovak?”
“This is Ralph.”
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