Upstairs, she sat on the yellow brocade love seat with her hands resting in her lap. I sat across from her on a matching Queen Anne wing chair. She didn’t want anything to drink.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I’m rarely so impulsive.”
“I’m glad you did. It gives me an opportunity to tell you how sorry I am for your loss.”
Her eyes filled, and she didn’t speak for a moment, a masterful example of self-control.
“Thank you. You didn’t know Ava.”
“No.”
“The police chief explained it to me. He said they’re looking into whether Ava interrupted a robbery.”
“You don’t think so.”
“I don’t know.” Her fingers ran along the pleat fold, smoothing the satiny fabric. “My first reaction—well, you saw me yesterday. I assumed it was Edwin.” She laced her fingers together. “Do you think someone was trying to steal the Tiffany lamp?”
“It looks that way.”
“Isn’t it hard to sell such a rare object?”
“Yes, especially if you hope to get top dollar.”
She pressed her fingertips against her forehead for a moment.
“Do you have a headache?” I asked. “Can I get you something?”
“Thank you, no. I’m just so confused.”
“Me, too.”
Jean looked aside, taking in my rooster collection. A minute passed, then another. When she finally spoke, her tone was low and dreamy, as if she were alone and thinking aloud.
“Ava was weak, so she stayed in a loveless marriage. I adored her, but she was weak.”
“You’re not.”
“No, I’m not.” Jean turned back to face me. “Ava was always worried about money. Even though she didn’t need to be, not now, she was.”
“She didn’t want to leave Edwin because she’d lose his lifestyle.”
“She signed a prenup.”
“You’re thinking she organized the theft so she could leave him and keep the lifestyle.”
“Ava would never steal. She just wouldn’t.” She stood up. “The police showed me your sketch. I didn’t recognize the woman.”
“It’s not a good reproduction. It’s not the sketch artist’s fault. He was terrific. It’s me. I simply have no picture in my head. It’s frustrating.”
“Maybe you’ll remember more later.”
“That’s what the police think.”
“I loved my sister very much.” Her eyes filled again, and she used the sides of her index fingers to press under them. “Edwin isn’t going to have a funeral. I think that’s just cruel. Ava was loved by the community.”
“Did he explain why?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help.”
When she’d regained her composure, I walked her downstairs.
I turned to Cara. “Cara, this is Ava’s sister, Jean.” To Jean, I added, “Cara was in Ava’s book club.”
“Of course,” Jean said. “Ava spoke of you often. She was very fond of you.”
Cara wiped away a tear. “I felt the same.”
Jean opened her bag and eased a business card from an inside pocket. She handed it to me, and I took it. Her name was in the center in raised burgundy lettering. A phone number and e-mail address were below. The area code was 603, New Hampshire. The e-mail was a Gmail account.
“If you think of anything, please call.”
I said I would.
“She’s lovely,” Cara said, after she’d gone.
“And lost,” I said, watching Jean walk to her car. “She seems all at sea.”
Cara made a tchich-tchich sound. “The poor soul.”
* * *
As I drove out of the lot to keep my appointment with Wes, I tried to focus on the O’Hara marble collection and Aunt Louise’s extraordinary desk, and for a few fleeting moments, my emotional turmoil quieted. I’d never seen anything like that desk, and that fact alone made me think we were dealing with a very special object indeed. Soon, though, the grim reality of Ava’s murder and Jean’s grief crept back into my mind, souring my mood. Ava was dead, and I didn’t have a clue what was going on.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I got to the dune first and clambered up the shifting sand to the top. Along that stretch of coast, the shore was more tumbled rocks and jumbled seaweed than sandy beach. It was a good spot for a private conversation. Clouds had blown in from the west, and only slivers of weak sunlight shone through. A wind-driven white frothy chop charged toward shore. To my left, tall grass shuddered in the light, hot breeze. It was a tease. Even though I wore a lightweight cotton sundress, I felt like a limp dishrag.
Wes rolled to a stop in his shiny Ford Focus. Maggie, Wes’s wife, had executed a campaign to change his image from scruffy upstart to polished professional, and so far, it was working. He was wearing khakis and a blue button-down oxford shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, not dirty jeans and a torn T-shirt. He carried a pocket-sized notebook, not a ratty piece of lined paper. And the Focus had replaced a rusty old rattletrap.
“Talk to me,” Wes said as he sidestepped up the dune.
I did. I told Wes what I knew about the Towsons, sharing my sadness that Ava had been killed, my fury at being conned, my confusion about why someone would undertake such a project, and my frustration at being unable to remember much about the fake Ava’s appearance.
“I’ll send you the sketch,” I said, “but I have questions.”
Wes grinned. “Now who’s negotiating?”
I kept my expression neutral and didn’t reply.
“Okay, okay,” he said.
I sent the e-mail I’d previously drafted. “I just e-mailed you the sketch along with a draft of the press release the police are sending out later today. You’re getting the first look.”
“You’re one hot banana, Joz!” He pulled his smart phone from his pocket and brought up my e-mail sketch. “I need to get this on our Web site.”
“Read the news release first,” I warned him. “The image is only a rough approximation, so the police are asking anyone who thinks the woman looks even a little bit familiar to contact them.”
“Got it.”
I turned toward the ocean while Wes worked. A few faint orange streaks of light deckled the water. The chop was rougher and less organized than when I’d arrived only minutes earlier. The entire ocean surface bubbled like a witch’s cauldron.
I tousled my hair at the back of my neck, hoping for a break from the sticky oppressiveness, but it was useless. While I waited, I patted around in my tote bag until I found the velvet pouch containing the antique bronze hairpins I used to put my hair up on hot days. They were, I thought, adorable, with an etched bee design at the top of each spear. They’d started life as hatpins, but I’d repurposed them years earlier. I removed the mushroom-shaped protective tips, twirled my hair into a loose French twist, threaded the hairpins through, and popped the tips back into place. Far off to the south, a man and a black Lab were playing ball near the water’s edge. The Lab wore a red and white bandana knotted around his neck. His tail wagged so fast, it was a blur. The air was electric, full of barely repressed rage.
“Okay,” Wes said. “Done.” He smiled like he meant it. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What have you found out?”
“Those two phone numbers you had me check? Disposables.”
“As expected.”
“Right. They were sold at a small electronics store in the North End section of Boston four months ago, for cash. The shop only keeps security videos for three months, so that’s a dead end. Rocky Point Chemists is a dead end, too. My police source says the shop’s security camera shows a tall thin man wearing a denim jacket, jeans, sunglasses, and a Red Sox baseball hat with the visor pulled down low. All you can see is that he’s white.”
“A tall, thin white man who knew where the cameras were positioned.”
“Right.”
“I’m assuming t
he Towsons have an alarm system,” I said. “Have they checked with the company? Maybe it’s an inside job—whatever ‘it’ is.”
“The system doesn’t include cameras, so that’s a bust. None of the security company’s employees has skipped out. Besides, they don’t have keys. If the system is breached in any way, the company gets an electronic alert, and they call the owner and the cops. It wasn’t, so whoever the fake Ava is, she had a key, and she knew the security code.”
“The fake Ava has to be someone who knew the dog’s name.”
“Like who?”
“The girl who walked the dog—Merry. Maybe she’s not a teenager.”
Wes chuckled. “You’re in hot-petunia mode today, Joz! I met with Merry myself. She’s a kid, all right, nothing like your sketch.”
“How about her mother?”
“She’s shorter than you.”
“No one is shorter than me.”
“Except Merry’s mom. There’s no grandmother around. Plus, Merry swears the key was never out of her pocket and she didn’t tell anyone the alarm code.”
I shrugged, unimpressed. “Security systems can be hacked.”
“You’re crossing over to the dark side, Joz. The conspiracy is growing.”
Safety is an illusion, I thought. “You’re right. It’s probably not some tech whiz hacking into the system. It’s someone who knew them well enough to have access to their alarm codes.”
“A relative or a good friend.”
“Be careful who you trust, Wes. It’s the people you trust the most who pose the biggest risk. No one else can get close enough to do much damage.”
“Jeez, Joz. You’re in rare form today.”
“Well, it’s true, and Ava’s murder proves it. Someone she knew and trusted, or someone Edwin knew and trusted, killed her.”
“Maybe the murder is unrelated to the scam that you got caught up in.”
“I didn’t get caught up in anything. I got conned.” I waved it aside. I’d learned over our decade-long relationship that Wes liked to twitch the cat. I resisted the urge to respond by showing my claws. “A murder and a con happening at the same time, and they’re unrelated? That would be quite a coincidence. For the sake of argument, let’s assume there’s cause and effect at work. Which brings us back to Edwin. Have the police covered the basics? Money trouble? An affair? Recently fired employees?”
“Yup. Nothing that raised a red flag. His staff reports he’s a slave driver, but they don’t care, because he pays them so much. I wish my boss paid me so much I wouldn’t care that he’s a slave driver. Anyway, Edwin has money up the wazoo. The police checked his credit card receipts, phone logs, and personal e-mail account—all with his permission. No unusual charges. No sign of a mistress.”
“Maybe he has a disposable cell, a separate e-mail account, and pays in cash.”
“Good one, Joz! If so, they haven’t got a whiff of it. They asked to search his office and his car, but he refused, saying he has countless sensitive and confidential documents, which he can’t allow them to paw through, and they don’t have enough evidence to get a search warrant. They were able to search his house because it’s a crime scene, but they didn’t turn up anything incriminating.”
“I wonder if Edwin is telling the truth. You know how it is—rumors can take on a life of their own. It’s possible that Ava was the one having the affair, not him, and it was her guilty conscience that led her to accuse him. Or maybe her accusation was an attempt to deflect attention from herself onto him. After all, everyone knows that a good offense is the best defense.” I opened my palms. “There’s no way to know.”
Wes turned to a fresh page in his notebook and scratched a note, intrigued. He looked up for a moment to add, “Did you know that Jean, Ava’s sister, hates Edwin? ‘Loathes’ is the word she used to the police.”
“I’m not surprised. She accused him of murder in front of them. Do you know why she hates him so much?”
“Protective of her kid sister, maybe. Jean is forty-three, five years older than Ava. If there’s any truth to the rumors of domestic violence, that would do it, right? Jean says Edwin’s temper was escalating, and there’s a neighbor who heard some pretty nasty fights, but Ava never reported anything. The two calls to the cops came from other people, and neither Edwin or Ava acknowledged any trouble. What do you think of her?”
“Jean? I just met her. She seems in shock.”
“Did you get a photo?”
“Of course not! God, Wes! What do you know about her?”
“Not much. She’s a longtime divorcée who lives in a ritzy condo and has a boyfriend with a good job who’s nice to her. She volunteers at stuff.” He slid his notebook into his shirt pocket. “The medical examiner says the murder weapon, the cast-iron frying pan, had been bleached, so there’s no meaningful forensic evidence. They found a half-empty jug of bleach in the laundry room and traces of Ava’s blood on the lip of the dump sink. It looks like the killer balanced the frying pan on the edge of the sink while he bleached it. From the blood coagulation, she pegs the time of death as between eight and eleven that morning. No fingerprints that stand out. The Tiffany lamp had been thoroughly wiped. No prints at all.”
“Does Edwin have an alibi?”
“Yeah, fair to middling. He gave a video presentation from eight thirty to eleven thirty the day Ava was killed for a group of potential investors. His secretary swears he was already in his office when she arrived at eight, but he has a private entrance, and she was busy getting ready for the video conference, so that means nothing. Once the conference started, Edwin was in plain sight of everyone on the video feed the whole time, except for a ten-minute scheduled break in the middle and another five-minute break that came up unexpectedly when one of the participants had to take a call—and ten minutes wouldn’t be enough time for Edwin to get home and back. But he could have whacked Ava before he left home. It’s cutting it close, but it’s doable. He kills Ava at eight and takes, what, five minutes to clean up? Ten? It’s a ten-minute drive to his office. He sneaks in through his private entry. His secretary insists it didn’t happen, but she doesn’t really know, and she’s been with him for years. She’s loyal. She’s the only employee he brought with him when he relocated from New York.”
“When was that?”
“Nine years ago. Right after he and Ava got married.”
“Why would the secretary lie?” I asked. “Loyalty alone wouldn’t explain it.”
“You don’t bite the hand that feeds you. You know that. You see it all the time. A guy lies because his boss told him to. Or because even though his boss didn’t tell him to, or didn’t even ask him to, he sees which way the wind is blowing, and he’s no fool. He needs the income more than he needs lofty ideals like justice. Or maybe the secretary plans on blackmailing Edwin down the road. Regardless, if you believe her, he’s out of it. The police are taking it slow.”
I closed my eyes for a moment, processing the information. “No one in Garnet Cove saw the imposter or her car?”
“Nope. The police are still checking security cameras along likely routes, you know, banks on Main Street, and so on, but so far, nothing that rings any bells.”
Exclusive communities like Garnet Cove prided themselves on providing privacy for their residents, but it was a double-edged sword. The same woods that sheltered them allowed bad guys unfettered access once they were over the outside wall.
“Either the fake Ava got lucky or she snuck in through the forest,” I said.
“If the thief was planning to escape through a forest and climb a wall, he was going for cash and jewelry, stuff he could carry.”
“I keep coming back to the fact that whoever was trying to steal the lamp knew details about Edwin and Ava they could only have learned from them. Who was Ava closest to?”
“Jean. She says so, and Edwin agrees.”
My dress swooped up as a sudden blast of wind tore across the ocean and the dunes. I smoothed it down.
Wes started down the dune. “If you think of what it is, let me know.”
I crab-walked down the dune after him.
I wanted to know more about Ava. Jean was closest to Ava. Jean might not know all the answers, but she was clearly the place to start.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jean didn’t answer her phone. Since I planned on asking questions, not offering answers, I didn’t leave a message. She’d visited me unannounced. I decided I would return the favor.
A simple online search got me Jean’s address. She lived in a chichi condo complex called the Grey Gull that overlooked Old Mill Pond. I’d been there once, years earlier, appraising a Minton dinnerware set. The complex was surrounded by an eight-foot-high, elegantly designed black wrought-iron fence. Mature landscaping precluded easy peeking. Garnet Cove was private; Grey Gull was fortified.
There were two ways in, three if you counted boating across Old Mill Pond as an option. If you were staff or making a delivery, you turned into the Grey Gull from Grove Boulevard, a pretty tree-lined street with a well-groomed center median that dead-ended at the water. Residents and guests used a private entry road, a turnoff from a mansion-lined street named Tucker. That’s how I’d entered when I’d come to assess the china, and this time, I anticipated as easy an entry as then. I passed a neatly planted garden, complete with a waterfall and koi pond. A huge American flag flew overhead. It was flanked by a small triangular Grey Gull flag and a New Hampshire state flag. I rolled to stop at the guardhouse.
The uniformed guard on duty looked like an ex-NFL player, big and wide and tall. At a guess, he was close to sixty. A gold-tone pin-on badge gave his name as A. Henderson. A small microphone was clipped to his collar. He smiled with professional indifference and asked how he could help me.
“Jean Cooper, please,” I said.
“One moment.”
He disappeared into the small enclosure—nearer a shack than a building in size, but elegantly appointed with shutters and decorative trim—and reappeared two minutes later to report Ms. Cooper wasn’t available.
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