“Everything I’ve heard about her has been positive. I’m sorry I never met her.” My eyes went to the other photo, then to her ringless finger. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“I’m not. Thank God.”
I turned back to the photo. “You look ecstatic.”
“Which proves that looks can be deceiving. The marriage lasted longer than the flight home, but not by much. Never mind … water under the bridge. Nassau—my biggest adventure.” She laughed devilishly. “So far. I’m a nut about travel. That’s why I created the book club. So tell me about some of your special travel books. Let a girl dream.”
“We have a first edition of Sketches of Japanese Manners and Customs, by J. M. W. Silver. It was published in 1867 and rebound thirty years later. Red leather with gilt stamping. Twenty-eight chromolithographs, including a vignette title page.”
“Why would someone rebind it?”
“Either it was so well used the binding showed signs of wear, or, what’s just as likely, the owner redesigned his library and wanted the binding to match the color scheme. Times change, but people don’t. Interior designers routinely buy leather-bound books by the yard.”
“That’s a hoot! So don’t keep me in suspense. How much will it sell for?”
“Are you sitting down?” I asked.
She clutched her chair’s arms and made a funny face.
“Around nine hundred.”
Her eyes widened. “I had no idea.”
“Supply and demand.” I glanced around her office. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had miles of books.”
“So many books. So little time.”
She paused for a moment, waiting for me to explain why I was there. I hesitated, deciding how to phrase my question. Diane waited me out, a sign of a good listener, a good friend.
“I was hoping you would talk to me about Ava.”
Her brows came together. She looked mystified. “Because…”
“In connection with an appraisal, I need more information about Ava.”
“I read about your appraising their Tiffany lamp. It’s all so horrible.”
“Very. That’s why I’m asking about her.”
“I’m sick about her death.”
“What was she like?”
“She was kind. Intelligent. Calm.”
“How did she come to join the book club?”
“I knew her from high school, of course. We were best buds for a while; then we drifted apart the way you do. I happened to be working at the checkout desk when she borrowed a stack of travel guides to South Africa, and we got talking. We just picked up where we left off. I was so glad to reconnect with her. Then, of course, she’d traveled all over, and she loved the idea of the book club. She was so knowledgeable and articulate, I invited her to sit in with us a couple of times.” The corners of Diane’s mouth turned up, a sort-of smile. “Ava’s stories brought the places we read about to life. We were lucky to have her. When one of our members retired and moved south, I asked her to join. Knowing her schedule, I didn’t think she’d be able to fit us in, but she did.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Just before she left for Europe. She came in for some books to take on the trip. I was surprised by one of her picks. Are you familiar with The Walking Tour? By Kathryn Davis? A woman disappears while on a walking tour in Wales. I thought it was an odd choice for someone about to embark on a walking tour in Wales.”
“I wonder if she was thinking about disappearing,” I said.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“That day, did she seem the same as always?”
“I guess. She was excited about her trip and looking forward to hosting our next get-together. Nothing struck me as off.”
“Was she happy?”
“Is anyone?”
Yes, I thought. Lots of people.
“Was Ava less happy than most people?” I asked.
Diane eased a metal paper clip out of a magnetic holder on her desk. She unfolded the smaller section, then folded it back in. Out and in. Out and in.
“I think she had her struggles,” she said.
“With Edwin?”
“There was quite an age difference between them.”
“Had Ava fallen in love with a younger man?”
“Whoa! Where did that come from?”
“I was just reacting to your comment about their age difference. It happens.”
“I guess … but I have no reason to think Ava was anything but loyal to Edwin. All I meant was … well … as you say, you never know, and Ava was a beautiful woman.” She tossed the paper clip aside. “Tell me again how these questions relate to your appraisal?”
I smiled back. “Fair question. I can’t go into details except to say that someone seems to be taking advantage of me—and the Towsons. It’s important that I discover what happened regarding the lamp. I’m sorry I can’t be more open.”
“Ava was a friend. Anything I can do to help, I will.”
“Thank you. Did you know Edwin, too?”
“I met him a couple of times when Ava was hosting.”
“What do you think of him?”
“I don’t know him well enough to venture an opinion. I can only go by what Ava told us. She had expressed some discontent in the last few months. She said that Edwin was driving her crazy, always wanting to know where she was, hounding her about little things. Ava never said anything negative about him, but I could tell that beneath her lighthearted grumbles, something darker was going on.” She eased another paper clip from the container and began the unfolding process. “I hate to talk about other people’s business.”
“Me, too. You’re not repeating rumors for no reason or to stir up trouble, though. You’re helping me figure out what is going on.”
“No mean-girl snark?” she asked with a crooked smile.
“None.”
“To tell you the truth, I got the impression Ava was afraid of Edwin.” She raised a hand, anticipating my next question. “I can’t tell you anything in particular. She never confided in me. There was a tension that came over her when his name came up. Not anger. Apprehension. As if she felt the need to watch her back.” Diane leaned forward and rested her elbows on the desk. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“I read in the Seacoast Star that Edwin was at work—on July Fourth. Does that sound like a loving husband to you?”
I thought of all the Sundays and holidays Ty worked. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t resent it, and I never took it personally, any more than Ty resented it that I worked at our tag sale almost every Saturday.
“We can’t know how Ava felt about Edwin’s schedule,” I said. “Lots of folks work off-hours.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think there’s any chance she was considering leaving him?”
She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Yes. I’m sad to say I do think she’d reached that point. I don’t know whether she would have had the courage, though. While I did have a strong sense that she was afraid of him, I also had a sense she was afraid of what he might do if she tried to leave him.”
I shook my head and clucked sympathetically. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so I stood and thanked her. She walked me out, chatting about the storm.
My mind was in a whirl. Edwin’s alibi was apparently imperfect, and Diane, who seemed to be a straight shooter, brought to mind something my dad always said. No matter what you think you know about a couple’s relationship, you’re probably wrong. You can’t ever know what goes on behind closed doors.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The rain started slowly, a misty drizzle—mizzle, my mom used to call it. I ran for my car, my stomach rumbling. I was starving. While I waited for the air-conditioning to kick in, I checked my messages.
Wes had texted Jean’s cell phone number, adding: Why?
I texted back: Thx. Wes would be mega-irritated with me, but I
didn’t want to take the time to explain now. If I connected with Jean and got anything Wes could use, all would be forgiven.
I called Jean’s cell. After six rings, her voice mail kicked in. I didn’t leave a message.
“Grrr,” I said, frustrated. “Oh, well. Talking to Jean today is clearly not meant to be.”
I was backing up, preparing to head back to work, when a call came in. I didn’t recognize the number, but from the 603 area code, I could tell it was local. I answered with my usual “This is Josie!” greeting.
A woman’s voice asked, “Josie Prescott?”
“Yes. Who is this, please?”
“Mr. Towson’s executive assistant. Hold, please, for Mr. Towson.”
Her tone indicated she wasn’t used to anyone declining to hold for Mr. Towson.
Half a minute later, he was on the line.
“I’m glad I got you,” he said. “Any chance you’re available for a private chat?”
“Sure,” I said, my curiosity meter whipping onto high alert. I glanced at the dash clock. It read 1:45. “Now?”
We settled on two thirty, at his company.
As I ate a premade chopped salad from a local deli, I tried to imagine what Edwin was feeling. Grief-stricken. Stunned. Confounded. Horrified. Desperate to know the truth. Terrified of the truth. All of the above. If he’d killed her, add panicked. The windows fogged up, and I toggled to DEFROST.
Before heading out to Towson’s, I opened up a browser on my phone, navigated to the Seacoast Star’s Web site, and read Wes’s latest update. The police, he wrote, had shown my sketch to everyone they could think of. They started with the couple’s neighbors and staff—both Edwin’s employees at Towson’s, and Ava’s domestic workers, including Tori Andrews, the housekeeper; Sonny Russo, the handyman/gardener; and Merry Wagner, the dog walker. They moved on to members of the Rocky Point Hospital fund-raising committee where Ava volunteered, her high school reunion committee, and the gourmet grocery store, wine shop, and butcher where she shopped. They even ran it by all Ava’s doctors and their staffs. No one expressed even a glimmer of recognition. No one.
As I tossed the empty salad bowl into the trash bin, an unwelcome thought came to me. If Edwin had killed Ava, he hadn’t asked to see me to discover what I might know that could help him find answers or manage his grief. He was interested in learning if I knew anything that made me a threat.
* * *
The Towson Company corporate headquarters was housed in a contemporary stone structure on Ocean Avenue. I parked in a visitor spot. The double-wide front doors were fashioned from cedar and stained a rich cordovan. The door pulls were large hammered-iron rectangles. I ran through the drizzle to the entry, fluffed my hair to try to counteract the humidity and dampness, and climbed the stairs to the first floor.
A young woman, possibly right out of high school, smiled as I stepped into the reception area. She had straight, strawberry blond hair and round blue-framed glasses. Her desk was made of teak. A brass tented sign read JUDI DAVIDSON. A small American flag was attached to the top of her monitor. The reception area was designed to impress. The muted brick red and midnight blue Oriental carpet was plush. The indirect lighting was diffuse and free of glare. The art was modern, from the Abstract Expressionism school. A wall of windows to Judi’s right offered a dazzling view of the ocean.
“With this view,” I said, “I’d never get any work done.”
She giggled. “Work? No one works around here.”
I smiled. “I don’t believe you.” I stepped forward. “I’m Josie Prescott. Mr. Towson is expecting me.”
She called someone and passed along my message, listened for a moment, then told me it would only be a minute or two.
I thanked her and walked to what looked like a Willem de Kooning, the red and gold hues similar to his Woman V. Another painting appeared to be a Franz Kline Nijinsky, the dancer’s cherry red eyes glowing like the devil’s. A third canvas featured a deceptively simple red line running vertically down a narrow bone-colored canvas. The image was similar to Barnett Newman’s The Wild. If they were genuine, and I had every reason to suppose they were, I was looking at more than a hundred million dollars’ worth of art.
I crossed the lobby to the window wall. The view was awe-inspiring. On a sunny day, I bet you could see clear to Portugal. The rain was still more mist than water, but I could tell a major storm was coming. The sky had darkened to a solid Payne’s gray, and the ocean seethed with tumultuous frenzy.
A woman called my name, and I turned toward her. She was tall, maybe five-nine, and elegant. She wore a navy blue cowl-neck dress with a skinny black leather belt and matching pumps. Her golden blond hair was styled in an old-fashioned chignon.
“I’m Miranda Dowle, Mr. Towson’s executive assistant. We spoke earlier. He’s just finishing a video call to London and asked me to get you settled in his office.” She opened the door and waved me in.
Edwin’s office was big enough for badminton.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “Some water? Anything?”
“Thank you, no. I’m good.”
Miranda left me, and I settled into a sensible blue upholstered chair at the far end of the oversized oak desk. Nice but unremarkable nineteenth-century British landscapes hung on the walls. One depicting a thatched cottage near a pond was reminiscent of Robert Gallon. We’d sold one of his landscapes not long ago for $4,800. Another painting showed cattle grazing near a lake. I could just make out the signature: D. Sherrin. Daniel Sherrin’s paintings routinely sold for around $3,500.
Edwin strode into the room like a man on a mission. I stood and extended my hand for a shake. His grip was firm, his shake practiced. He wore a gray suit, crisp white shirt, and red tie, the uniform of his profession. I was still in my sundress, and still damp from the oppressive humidity and light rain. I felt massively underdressed.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, walking behind his desk.
“My pleasure. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
He acknowledged my comment with one quick nod. “Have a seat.”
He waited for me to sit, then took his place behind his desk. He leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly together, resting on an old-style desk blotter. He stared at them for a moment, then raised his eyes to mine.
“You didn’t know my wife.”
“No.”
“I thought she was an angel.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I stayed silent.
“I haven’t cooked for myself in nine years. Can you imagine? Nine years. That’s how long we were married. Ava handled everything. The bulb in my bedside lamp went out yesterday, and it took me half an hour to find a spare. Never was there a dirty dish in the sink. I didn’t even know the housekeeper’s name or how much we paid her. I don’t like feeling helpless.” He resumed studying his hands. “I left a note on the kitchen counter asking the housekeeper to call me. She said she could help with the grocery shopping and would even cook a little something for me.” He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he pinned me with his gaze. “I’m hoping you can help me understand what happened. This man you talked to. The police told me he recounted what he claimed was my family history.”
“I know all about your Grandma Ruby and how she found the Tiffany lamp in a trunk in her mother’s attic.”
“How could he know that? How could he possibly know that?”
“He’s either someone you know well or he’s associated with someone you know well.”
He shook his head. “No one knows me well. Even Ava didn’t know—” He broke off midsentence. His gaze became distant, his demeanor introspective. I wondered what had come into his mind.
“You’ve thought of something,” I said, hoping he’d tell me.
He shifted his eyes back to mine. “Not thought of, exactly. That happened last night, while I wasn’t sleeping. What I realized just now is that I’m tired of keeping secrets. Ava asked
about Grandma Ruby a month or so before we left for Europe. She knew of her, of course, but we’d never talked about my family much beyond the basic facts.” He looked down at his hands again. “I was flattered. We’d been having a little trouble in our marriage. I thought her interest was a sign that she was trying her best to make things better.”
“Maybe it was.”
He shook his head, and when he raised his eyes, I saw the determined glare of an avenger. Edwin would make a fearsome enemy.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to think so. The only explanation that accounts for Ava’s behavior is that she was planning to leave me—and had been for some time. That’s what I realized overnight.” He crossed his arms and raised his chin, a gladiator ready for battle. “She intended to sell the Tiffany lamp to fund her new life. She saw your TV show, and it got her wondering whether the lamp was real. In order to sell the lamp, she needed an appraisal, and in order to get an appraisal, she needed to be able to recount the lamp’s history.”
He folded his lips together until they formed a long, thin, angry line.
“Maybe someone overheard you telling her about it,” I said.
“Or maybe she told someone. A lover.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I don’t know, either. I’m speculating. Ava got someone to pretend to be her so she could keep an eye on me and make certain I didn’t interfere. Damn her.” He slapped his desk. “She had to have a reason to leave. We weren’t unhappy. At least … I wasn’t unhappy.” He raised a hand, stopping himself. Edwin, I suspected, wasn’t a man often given to emotional displays. “That’s neither here nor there, but it brings me to the primary reason I asked to see you. I’m moving to London. We lived here in Rocky Point because Ava wanted to be near her sister. Rocky Point means nothing to me. I want to sell the Tiffany lamp. I never liked it as much as Ava did, and given the situation, it will only represent deceit and failure going forward. I’ve researched you and your company. You’re supposed to be the best. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you take the lamp on consignment?”
My pulse quickened. It would be unseemly to celebrate Edwin’s loss and disillusionment with a happy dance, so I kept my feet firmly planted, my tone even, and my expression neutral.
The Glow of Death Page 8