The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “She’s not home?”

  “She didn’t answer her phone, which might mean she’s not home, or it might mean she doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Or the ringer was turned off so she could nap, or she turned it off so she could sleep late and she forgot to turn it on. How about if I go knock on her door?”

  “That’s not allowed, miss.”

  “It’s important.”

  “Sorry,” he said in a tone that didn’t invite argument.

  “Would you go? Or send someone?”

  “Also not allowed.”

  “Let’s slip a note under her door.”

  “You’re going to have to try later. Or call and make an appointment.”

  “There has to be a way.”

  “Sorry.”

  He wasn’t surly, exactly, but he was clearly losing patience, so I thanked him, which felt silly since he hadn’t been the least bit helpful, and with no options left, I followed the circular turnaround and drove out.

  I backtracked to Tucker and turned right onto Grove. At the pond end, I executed a three-point turn that would have made my driving instructor proud and parked with my back to the water. I had a clear view of the Grey Gull staff entrance.

  There was no guard, but there was an iron gate as tall as the fence that blocked vehicle access. I was certain it opened and closed slowly enough that I could easily scoot through when a vehicle entered, assuming I could dodge whatever surveillance they had in place.

  I lowered my window so I could see clearer, and sticky air whooshed in. I couldn’t see any cameras. I examined the top of the fence inch by inch. If I were planning security, that’s where I’d attach cameras—high enough to be out of reach and low enough to capture detailed images. I didn’t see a thing. Inside the compound, mature trees nearly blocked my view, but when I tilted my head to the left, I could see a modern streetlight, a replica of an old-style flickering gas lamp. If a security camera was attached to it, it was camouflaged.

  I got out of my car and stepped onto the median. I looked around inside the Grey Gull and at the nearby houses. No one was out and about. This wasn’t that kind of neighborhood. This section of Rocky Point was too dignified for block parties, or even casual conversations. I was glad I didn’t live there. I called Jean again, and again the phone went to voice mail. This time, I left a message.

  “Hi, Jean,” I said. “This is Josie Prescott. I was hoping we could get together. I’m in the neighborhood if you’re available.” I stated my phone number and rang off. In case she was checking e-mail but not voice mail, I sent a quick note duplicating my phone message.

  I assumed I’d hear from her soon. If I were Jean, I’d be curious. I was too impatient to wait, though. If I could get into the complex, I would.

  I resumed my study of the gate as I considered how to gain access. A camera was attached to a standing intercom system aimed to see the driver of a car or truck. I could just make out a list of residents and codes. Someone who wanted in would look up the code that corresponded to the name and punch it in on the keypad. No doubt there was a code to reach the guard house at the main entry, too. Owners, looking at an image of who had rung, could push a button to activate the gate. To the left, there was a hundred-year-old walnut tree with big knurly roots that would be perfect to hide behind. When the gate opened, I could scurry in, staying low to avoid the camera. I nodded, plan made.

  Locking my tote bag in my trunk, I pocketed the key and my phone. As I stepped behind the tree, I hoped I wouldn’t have too long to wait.

  No such luck.

  * * *

  Ellis called an hour into my vigil, just as I was deciding how much longer I should wait. I was hot and frustrated and bored. The only person I’d seen was a man in a blue pickup pulling out of a driveway and heading farther into the complex.

  “We’ve been going through Ava’s laptop,” Ellis said, “and there’s an inventory labeled ‘Insurance List.’ It includes those candlesticks you mentioned and some paintings and so on. I’m hoping you can stop in to tell me if there’s anything there for me to look into.”

  “Can you e-mail it to me?”

  “Not at this point. We’re not releasing anything from her computer.”

  “I understand. I’ll come now.”

  He thanked me, and I gave one last look around inside the complex. From this vantage point, I had an unobstructed view of the lampposts that lined the road.

  My lips went dry.

  A camera had been placed inside the ornate finials that topped the lamps. From the familiar iridescent reddish glow, I concluded they were the same kind that I used at my company. They snapped photos every three seconds, which were sent digitally to the security company charged with monitoring activity. There was no way to disable them unless you were already inside and had a tall ladder, at which point, it was too late.

  A bird cawed, startling me. I looked up. He was settling into his nest. I gasped, not believing what I was seeing. A security camera mounted in a branch twenty feet above my head was aimed at the intersection of Grove and Tucker, a perfect way to monitor who was driving in. I had been tracked since I turned onto Grove. No one had come to question me, which meant the complex hadn’t bought the same Platinum level service package as I had. They would only go to the footage as needed.

  Now that I knew what I was looking for, it didn’t take me long to find two more cameras. One was tucked into a pine tree branch on the other side of the entryway. A second camera was cleverly hidden in my tree. This one was angled toward the pond. I’d been joking when I’d thought of rowing over, but whoever set up the Grey Gull’s security was one step ahead of me.

  I gave up. There was no way in.

  * * *

  I sat in Ellis’s office sipping iced tea and skimming through the inventory Ava had prepared for the insurance company.

  “We’ve confirmed that everything on this list is included in their insurance policy,” Ellis said. “What I’m hoping you can tell me is whether anything seems undervalued or overvalued, or anything else that strikes you.”

  “Got it.”

  The inventory was three pages long and included nearly $500,000 worth of jewelry. The chess table was valued at $15,000, which seemed about right. The Nicholson was listed at $250,000. There was also a small painting by Irene Rice Pereira, which was insured for $5,200. A set of Lunt sterling silver flatware was assessed at $7,000, a bargain. The Towsons had eclectic taste. It was impossible to judge pricing accuracy on even the most cursory level without viewing the objects.

  “I’d like to see photos,” I said.

  “I don’t know anything about photos.”

  “I’m sure they exist. I would expect there to be a document that includes appraisals, too.”

  “Let me get Katie down here.”

  “I can search the computer.”

  “Protocol.” He picked up the phone and dialed.

  I’d met Katie before. She was the Rocky Point police’s IT whiz.

  “We need to check for photos and appraisals on Ava Towson’s computer,” Ellis said once he reached her. “How long, do you think?… Did you make a backup?… Okay then, thanks.”

  He hung up and said, “She’s tied up, but she’s backed everything up, so you can search away. Wait here. I’ll go get the laptop out of the evidence room.”

  While I waited, I reviewed the rest of the inventory. The candlesticks were listed at $225, the least valuable objects included in the policy. There was a Marie Bracquemond painting I hadn’t seen, several rare books, and other pieces of furniture. I was intrigued that the Towsons owned a Bracquemond. Marie Bracquemond was a highly respected Impressionist artist, but she wasn’t well known.

  Ellis returned with the computer and set it up for me on the guest table. He went back to his desk and started typing something. I started with the picture section of the library but didn’t find any images that corresponded to the inventory. I opened Adobe and navigated to recent documents. Th
e first one listed was called “Prenup.” The second was labeled “June bank statement.”

  I opened the search function and typed “insurance.” The top item listed was a PDF filed in a folder called “Other.” The document’s name was “Updated ins.” It ran twenty pages and included photos and appraisals, in addition to the master list.

  I glanced at Ellis. He was absorbed in his work, reading something on his monitor. I went back to the Recent list and clicked on the document called “Prenup.”

  The PDF was only one page long. I skimmed it quickly. If Edwin and Ava divorced before their tenth anniversary for any reason except infidelity, a felony conviction, or any conviction related to a domestic violence charge, Ava would get a lump sum payout of $500,000. If those exceptions came into play on Edwin’s end, the prenup would be null and void. If Ava was the guilty party, she’d get nothing. The next paragraph stated that they agreed not to have any children.

  I wondered why they’d include a clause like that, then answered my own question. Edwin loved his life—lots of international travel with a beautiful, younger wife on his arm. He had no interest in domesticity. Ava must have felt the same—after all, she signed it.

  The document went on to state that Edwin had had a vasectomy, so if Ava got pregnant, she agreed to allow a paternity test. If it proved Edwin wasn’t the father, they would divorce and Ava would get nothing. I clicked on the x, and the document disappeared.

  Ellis was still working on his computer, so I opened Ava’s bank statement. It was a regular savings account in her name only. The only transactions in June were the addition of a small amount of interest and the withdrawal of the balance, more than $125,000, in cash. Ava closed the account on June thirteenth.

  Ava was getting ready to leave Edwin.

  New Hampshire isn’t a community property state. She was worried that Edwin’s income was so much larger than hers, the court would toss her savings into the marital pot.

  The question was, why would she leave him with only a few months before the prenup was scheduled to go away? Maybe Edwin had been beating her, and the attacks were getting worse, unbearable. She figured she could get the prenup tossed out for cause, but in case he cut her off without a dime, canceling all her credit cards and so on before a judge ruled, at least she’d have some cash to fall back on. Or Ava wanted to buy Edwin a special gift like a Rolex or a Porsche and didn’t feel right using his money to do it. Or she got in trouble gambling. Or with drugs.

  Ellis stood up. “Any luck?”

  I closed the bank statement and brought up the inventory.

  “Yes. I found it. Everything looks right. Someone should confirm that each of these items is in the house.”

  He looked over my shoulder at the monitor. “Great. Thanks, Josie.”

  * * *

  As I walked to my car, I called Jean again. Still no answer. I didn’t leave another message.

  There has to be a way into the Grey Gull, I thought. When in doubt, ask Wes. If anyone knew how to reach Jean, he would.

  I called and got his voice mail. “Any chance you have Jean’s cell phone number?” I asked it.

  As I waited for a break in the traffic so I could turn onto Ocean, I considered what to do next.

  Cara said Diane, the librarian who organized her book club, had selected Ava as a member. Cara had been glad for the opportunity to talk about Ava. Maybe Diane would feel the same.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Rocky Point Library was housed in a century-old edifice constructed of local granite, mottled gray flecked with sparkling mica.

  A huge circular customer service desk sat in the middle of the ground-floor atrium. Countertop racks held community event notices and flyers. Reference librarians and checkout staff were at the ready. On the right, a reading room, furnished with the kind of chairs you’d find in a modern living room, overlooked Old Mill Pond. The chairs were upholstered in an eggplant and sage geometric print. I gazed across the water. The Grey Gull’s fence was partially blocked by scrub oaks and pussy willows.

  A “Happy Birthday, America!” display was positioned near the entry to the reading room. The table was covered with a plastic July Fourth–themed tablecloth. A framed copy of the Declaration of Independence rested on a nearby easel. A computer setup played a video of a docudrama telling the story of the Revolution, and six pairs of headphones allowed multiple people to listen to the movie at once. A dozen books on the subject were available for checkout. I recognized Ruth Chessman’s Bound for Freedom, a middle school mystery set in colonial America. It had been one of my favorites. On the left, a row of individual computer stations flanked shelves of books, a sampling of all sorts of genres, selected to entice readers into the upstairs stacks. Toward the rear, an oversized spiral staircase led to the turret that housed the children’s department. I smiled. I loved libraries.

  I stood behind a PLEASE WAIT HERE sign attached to a black and gold stanchion, waiting my turn. A man in a conservative navy blue suit told a woman behind the counter that he needed information about using a Monte Carlo simulation, which told me he was working on enterprise risk management, a subject I knew well. One of my most important responsibilities as Prescott’s CEO was minimizing risk in all its forms.

  I recognized Diane from her theater program photo and stepped out of line.

  Diane was a pretty woman in her forties, with short black hair, gelled into trendy spikes, and big honey-brown eyes. She wore summer-weight Dockers trousers with a pale blue sleeveless linen blouse and black Tom’s espadrilles. My work required me to wiggle under furniture and crawl through dusty, sometimes stifling attics, so most of the time I dressed in jeans and T-shirts. The cotton pink-flowered sundress and thin-strapped sandals I wore today was, for me, going formal.

  Diane stood near the staircase, nodding at something an older woman was saying. The older woman leaned on a silver walker. I didn’t want to break into their conversation, so I stood about ten feet away, but facing them, hoping Diane would notice me. After a few seconds, as if she could feel my eyes on her, she looked in my direction. I smiled and nodded. She did the same, then turned her attention back to the older woman.

  Two minutes later, the woman using the walker touched Diane’s arm, a friendly thank-you, and lumbered off toward the reading room. Diane smiled again, took a step in my direction, and raised her eyebrows, silently inviting me to join her.

  “Hi,” I said, extending a hand for a shake as I walked up. “I’m Josie Prescott. Cara, my company’s receptionist, speaks very highly of you. She loves being in your book club.”

  “How nice to meet you, Josie,” Diane said. “I love Cara!”

  “Do you have a minute to talk? I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Of course,” she said, not allowing her surprise, if she felt any, to show. “If you don’t mind sitting amid mile-high stacks of books, we can talk in my office.”

  “It sounds heavenly. I love books.”

  She led the way across the hall toward a closed, unmarked door.

  “Me, too,” she said, laughing a little. “Which is a good thing, since I’m a librarian. Cara’s told me a bit about your business, some of the delicious-sounding antiques you sell. Do you deal in many books?”

  She opened the door, and I followed her down a long hallway full of administrative offices. Some doors were open, providing a clear view of people sitting at desks and tapping into computers or talking on the phone. Brass signs on the closed doors read HUMAN RESOURCES and ACCOUNTING.

  “We sometimes sell nice but undistinguished books during the weekly tag sale,” I said, “what we call reading copies. Rare books wind up in our high-end auctions. We run those monthly. They’re all themed, so the books are merely one element in a multifaceted collection. For instance, we’re gathering objects right now for an auction next spring called ‘The World as Seen Through the Eyes of Explorers, Travelers, and Cartographers.’ We’ll be including some rare travel and exploration books we’re just now cat
aloguing.”

  Diane unlocked a door toward the rear of the hall using a key attached to a curly plastic bracelet she wore on her left wrist. Her name was on the brass plaque, which told me she was pretty high up in the library pecking order. Private offices make a statement.

  Her lady’s desk was charming, old-school, but the double monitor all-in-one computer setup showed she was also high-tech. The Seacoast Star’s Web site was up, and I saw the familiar red lightning bolt, alerting viewers to a news flash.

  I pointed at it. “I recognize the symbol. What’s going on?”

  She glanced at the monitor, then hit REFRESH. “The sky looked so ominous, I was checking the weather report.” She met my eyes. “They’ve just posted a storm warning. Have a seat and I’ll see what they say.”

  I took the chair across from her desk as she turned back to the monitor.

  “It looks like we’re in for a thunderstorm, maybe with hail.” She smiled. “I like a good rainstorm, don’t you?”

  “I love them—if I’m home, all curled up with a good book. Do they say when the rain will start?”

  While she read on, I took a look around. The whitewashed shelving that covered three walls held scores of books. Additional stacks sat on the floor and covered her desk. Two silver-framed photos hung on the back wall. In the first photo, Diane was standing in an outdoor market under a scorching sun. With her arms thrust upright in a perfect V, she looked like a gymnast who’d nailed her dismount. She wore a fuchsia and yellow sundress and a big floppy straw hat. She was smiling as if she’d just won the lottery. The second photo showed a younger Diane with her arms linked around a younger Ava. Two young men stood in back of them. Diane wore a blue satin minidress. Ava’s was longer and rose colored. The men wore tuxes. All four of their expressions brimmed with promise and hope.

  “Sometime after six. Good, we can get ourselves all cozy.”

  “Those photos are terrific,” I said, pointing.

  “Senior prom. And Nassau. My honeymoon.”

  “You went to high school with Ava.”

  She nodded, her eyes on the photo. “She was a dear friend.”