“Of course,” I said.
“Good. Let’s do it.”
While I texted Gretchen to prepare the consignment agreement, Edwin had Miranda call Merry to see if she was around and could let me in, then lock up after I’d left with the Tiffany lamp. When the two-page contract arrived, Edwin printed it out and read it slowly, then read it again, flipping back from page two to page one, reviewing the wording in some earlier paragraph.
“Is there any wiggle room on your commission?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “My fee structure rewards us for developing a marketing plan that results in the highest possible sales price. If you make more, we make more.”
“Fair enough,” he said. He signed with a flourish.
His phone rang. Miranda had arranged with Merry to meet me at the house in thirty minutes. Edwin and I shook hands, and I left.
As I sprinted through the now lashing rain to my car, I considered the possibility that Ava was having an affair. If so, it seemed likely that her lover was the man who’d impersonated Edwin on the phone, but the question remained—who was the fake Ava? Someone her lover had deputized? Perhaps Ava hadn’t even known the woman’s identity. Ignorance in the face of accusations could be a powerful defense. Had Ava planned out the scheme so thoroughly that she had even prepared for getting caught?
Had her lover killed her? Had the fake Ava?
What drove her to the affair in the first place, if she’d been having one? Had she been motivated by loneliness? Lust? Love? Revenge?
Or was she motivated by bald avarice? If Ava needed a man to pretend to be her husband in order to sell the Tiffany lamp without fielding awkward questions about its pedigree, she might have negotiated a deal that satisfied both parties. She got a willing partner. He got her body. Merely thinking such a sordid thought made me sad, and to make matters worse, I knew that idle speculation didn’t get me any closer to understanding what was going on. Was Ava simply greedy—or desperate?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As I latched my seat belt, a crack of thunder startled me.
“Wow,” I exclaimed, looking up through the windshield at the pewter sky.
Jagged lines of lightning ran along the shoreline. The storm was blowing in from the east. Within seconds, hail began pelting the roof and hood, and gossamer fog rolled in off the ocean.
I called Cara and arranged for Eric to meet me at the Towson house with packing material.
I sat for a few minutes watching the whitecaps leap along the high chop, thinking about how I could best market the Tiffany lamp. When it comes to selling high-end antiques for top dollar, buzz is key. You need to create a groundswell of excitement, the sooner the better. I scrolled through my photos and found a terrific one of the Towson lamp, the multihued wisteria aglow. I e-mailed it to Wes, then called him. He answered on the first ring.
“Did you reach Jean?” he asked as soon as he realized it was me, skipping hello and how are you, as always.
“No, just her voice mail. Have you spoken to her?”
“No,” he said, sounding chagrined. “Her condo’s like a fortress.”
“With a moat—the pond.”
“You were there?” he asked, his tone implying I’d gone rogue.
“I told you. I want to talk to her.”
“When you do, I’m your first call, all right?”
Wes was half steamroller. Luckily for our relationship, the other half was adorable kid brother.
“So let me tell you why I called,” I said, avoiding a commitment. “You know how I appraised the Towson Tiffany lamp?”
“Sure. It’s worth megabuckos.”
“I’m giving you a heads-up. Edwin Towson is selling it. I’m handling the sale. I e-mailed you a photo. You can announce all that, including my involvement, but only if you attribute it to an anonymous source in the antiques world.”
“Why?” Wes whined. “I need to quote you.”
Give Wes an inch and he wants a football stadium. “It’s better this way. You’re making a hush-hush announcement that will rock the art and antiques world. All the big magazines, including Antiques Insights, will be annoyed, to say the least, that you scooped them. No joke, Wes. This is a big deal. Be prepared to field dozens of calls from reporters who are über-annoyed.”
“Really?” he asked, sounding skeptical. “If you say so. When will the sale be?”
“I don’t know. I’m picking up the lamp today. Now. Edwin is moving to London, soon, I think, and he wants it gone. It takes time to organize a sale like this. Three months at least. Remember—you didn’t get this from me. Promise?”
“Jeesh, Josie! I already said okay. What else you got?”
“Nothing.”
“Catch ya later!” he said.
I touched the END CALL button, smiling to myself. I checked messages. Nothing urgent. My accountant wanted to discuss his quarterly report, all good news, he said. Sasha had sent an e-mail about the marbles. Nothing specific yet, but the early signs looked good. She was scheduled to talk to a man named Franklin Colby, based in Oklahoma City. He was, by all accounts, the top-dog marble man. Ty had left a sweet I-love-you message.
I called Ty and said, “We’re now officially playing phone tag. Let’s set a phone date. I want to chat, just like we would if you were home.” I added an “I love you” and hung up, holding the phone to my chest for a moment, keeping him close.
The rain was steady, pounding, the ocean, a deadly vortex. The distant horizon was nearly black. Slashes of lightning shot into the water, sending ten-foot sprays exploding upward. There was anger in the air.
I clicked open the Seacoast Star’s Web site. Wes had exceeded my expectations. His article was laced with innuendo about his mysterious source, describing the person as a high-ranking, world-class expert. I blushed. He referred to Edwin Towson as one of the world’s leading financiers who was downsizing in anticipation of his move to London. He added that I was refusing to confirm the story—thank you, Wes—but his source told him I was picking up the lamp today. If I knew anything about people, gossip would soon be rocketing through the art, antiques, and financial worlds. I refreshed the site. Already there were three comments, two people wondering how much the lamp would sell for and one asking Wes how he—a potential buyer—could get more information. Buzz.
I turned the wipers to high and set off. The rain swept across the windshield, and I could only see a few feet in front of me.
While I waited at the light to make the turn from Islip Street into Garnet Cove, a flash of silver from inside the fog-and-rain-shrouded woods caught my eye. I leaned in closer to the window, trying to see through the rivulets of water running down the glass, hoping to discern a shape, a better sense of color, anything to explain the unexpected glint. The light changed. It was probably nothing. I turned into the community.
I was the first to arrive, and I parked at the curb. Ava’s Mercedes was in the same place as last time, taking up the left side of the driveway, leaving the right side available for Eric. I wiggled my umbrella out from the passenger-door cubbyhole and stepped out into the rain. The humidity was, if anything, worse. It was a good day to be inside. When I reached the front door, I stood under the overhang, my umbrella dripping by my side.
Sylvia’s tomato plants looked content. My dad always said that the secret to tomatoes is to water them every day, even when it rains. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to see Sylvia come outside with a hose in her hand.
A sharp muted crack startled me, and I whirled, trying to locate the source. An engine revved somewhere down the street. A car backfiring, I thought. Another bang, this one louder, closer. Kids shooting off firecrackers left over from the Fourth. A third blast hit a window frame a foot from where I stood, splintering the wood. I gasped as the truth dawned on me—someone was shooting at me.
I dropped my umbrella and tote bag and squatted, trying to make myself small.
The shooter had to be in the forest, which meant there was onl
y one way out—I had to reach Sylvia’s house, a sanctuary if she was home, a barricade if she wasn’t.
If I could survive the run across open lawn.
In one motion, I stood, grasped the cold, wet, metal handrail, and catapulted myself into the garden, wrenching my knee as I landed on sodden mulch. The next shot shattered a brick inches from my head, and chunks of masonry rained down on me. I scooted along the perimeter of the house, trouncing the phlox, scraping my hands and knees on twigs and gravel, ignoring the stabbing pain that radiated from my knee to my calf, and had almost made it to the end of the house when I heard an engine. I turned to look, terrified the shooter had called for backup.
My company’s van slid into view. Eric, driving directly into the line of fire.
Before I could warn him, another shot landed in the bricks over my head.
“Run!” I yelled. “Eric! Run!”
Tears of frustration blurred my vision. No way could he hear me through the unremitting rain.
The van slowed, then stopped. Eric was peering through the driver’s window. When he spotted me, he gawked. I could only imagine what I looked like, a drowned rat.
I risked sitting up a bit and flapped my hand like a third-base coach signaling the runner to go for it, to try to make it home. Please, God, I thought as I scampered away, keep Eric safe. Our van backed up, tires screeching. Another shot sounded, this one farther away. Glass shattered.
I pushed through one of the forsythia bushes that ran along the property line, my arms out straight, hands pressed together, as if I were about to dive. Spiky bits on the branches tore at my arms and neck. A siren sounded, then another, almost in sync, but not quite. I stopped moving, using the bush as cover. Help was on the way. The rain pummeled me. The sirens’ faint whine became a blaring keen, then abruptly stopped.
The cavalry had arrived, and I was safe.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Nothing’s broken. I’m fine,” I told Ty, grating nutmeg into simmering squash soup. I wedged the phone between my ear and my shoulder. “I’m making soup.”
“I don’t like that answer. How are you really feeling?”
I placed the wooden spoon on a little plate near the soup pot and glanced at Zoë, sitting on the bench that ran under my kitchen window, her eyes clouded with fear. I slid onto the cushion beside her.
“The truth?” I asked, leaning my head against Zoë’s shoulder for a moment. “A little battered.”
“Zoë’s there, right?”
“Yup. With the kids, who are watching yet another zombie movie as we speak. This one is animated.”
“I know you, Josie. You joke to reassure the people who love you that you’re okay.”
“Truly, I’m okay,” I said.
“Put me on speaker.”
I tapped the button. “Ty?”
“I’m here. Can you hear me, Zoë?”
“Loud and clear,” she said.
“How does Josie look?”
“Rumpled and a little banged up. But she’s clean. Before, she looked like she got caught in a downpour, then rolled around in mud-covered twigs and rocks and such.”
“Guess why?” I interjected.
“Because you got caught in a downpour and rolled in mud-covered twigs and rocks and such?” Ty asked, sounding less worried.
“Yes.” I laughed. “I’m shocked that Zoë didn’t describe me as a hottie-tottie wrapped in a soft pink chenille robe. Nothing was hurt except the house, but the shooter got away. Three bricks. One window. And one window frame. Eric is my hero. He got out of Dodge and called the cops. They were there in like a minute. Two, tops. Even Merry is fine. Eric saw her walking up and chased her away.”
“Who shot at you?” Ty asked.
“I don’t know.”
“How many shots were there?”
“Five, I think. Maybe six.”
“Spaced how far apart?” he asked.
“Ellis asked me that.” I closed my eyes for a moment, trying again to recall, but I couldn’t. All I remembered was the fear and the dank, musty smell of the soaked mulch and sticky mud. And the rage. I was growing angrier by the minute. “I don’t know.”
“Someone shot at you, Josie. It’s got to be related to the Towsons, either the lamp or the murder. Did anything out of the ordinary happen in the last day or so? I mean, obviously, this whole situation with Ava’s murder is out of the ordinary—but what got someone jumpy now?”
I sat up with a start. “Oh, my God! Edwin decided to sell the Tiffany lamp today. Wes publicized it. He wrote that I’d be picking it up immediately. I came along and interrupted the robbery. They shot at me to give themselves time to get it. I have to check if Eric went back for it, if it’s safe. I’ll call you back as soon as I know something.”
“What can I do?” Zoë asked as soon as I ended the call.
“Stir the soup,” I said, scrolling through my contacts until I got to Eric’s home number. Ten seconds later, I had the answer. The police questioned him at the scene, then sent him home.
“The police said I couldn’t go inside,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about. I just needed to check. Don’t worry, Eric.”
I called Edwin, and he answered with a curt “Towson.”
“I’m checking on the lamp.” I explained my concern, that I might have interrupted a burglary. “Are you home?”
“Yes. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Just a little dinged up. Can you see if the lamp is there?”
“I’m walking to the study now. That noise you hear in the background is Sonny, the fellow who helps around the house, boarding up the broken window.”
“Did anything get ruined with the rain pouring in?”
“No. Luckily it was just a pane in the kitchen door, so only the floor got wet. I’m in the study … The lamp is here.”
I fell back against the cushions and breathed. “Thank goodness. If it’s all right, Edwin, I’d like to send someone to pick it up now. I’ll feel better when it’s in our safe.”
“Good. I decided after you left that I’m moving into a hotel. There’s no reason why I should stay here, but I’ll wait for whoever you send.”
I tried the office, thinking I might reach Fred. It was only seven, and Fred was a night owl, often coming in close to noon and working until eight or nine, or even later. He often took time off in the late afternoon to have an early dinner with his girlfriend, Suzanne. She was the general manager of my favorite restaurant, the Blue Dolphin, so her late-night hours matched Fred’s. If we had an early morning appraisal, Fred mainlined coffee.
Fred wasn’t there. I tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. I called Sasha, too, but her phone went to voice mail as well. I called Eric back.
I apologized for bothering him and explained why I was calling. He said he’d go to the Towson house right away, stopping at the office for packing materials.
I called Edwin back and told him Eric was on his way to pick up the lamp.
“That’s fine. In case you need me, I’ll be at the Austin Arms until I leave for London.”
“You’re moving out permanently?”
“Yes. I’ll be glad to be out of here. The house is riddled with ugliness and lies.”
“I’m sorry about all your trouble.”
“Thank you. It’s been quite a week. I’ll be glad when the killer and shooter are caught and the house is sold and I’m settled in London. I need to decide what I want to keep. Not much. Some of the books in the study have sentimental value for me. My dad gave them to me as gifts. Ava chose the furnishings. Do you buy household goods?”
“Yes. We can buy everything outright or take it on consignment.”
“I’ll be in touch in a week or two about selling the household furnishings,” Edwin said.
“And I’ll be in touch about the lamp.”
Why now? I thought as I placed the handset in the cradle. That’s what Ty had wanted to know. The Tiffany lamp
had been in the news since Ava’s murder. If someone wanted to steal it, they’d had days to do so. Why hadn’t they?
* * *
Thursday morning, I slept late and awakened stiff. I e-mailed Cara that I’d be in by noon, then decided to treat myself to a hot bath and a big breakfast, eggs Benedict, my favorite. I’d texted Ty before I went to bed, then crashed, and I’d awakened to an I-love-you reply text. Lying in orange-blossom suds, with my head resting on my blue terrycloth-covered waterproof pillow, I tried to imagine what Ava’s life had been like. From all reports, she was not in any way a bubblehead. She read literary novels. She went on walking tours in historic districts. She had decorated her home with taste and refinement. I wanted to know more about her, and that meant talking to Jean. As soon as I was dressed, I called both numbers I had for her, without luck. I left a simple message, just giving my name and number.
Ellis called while I was poaching eggs.
“We’ve checked surveillance cameras everywhere around Garnet Cove,” he said. “There are eighteen attached to private houses, but their aim is on the owners’ driveways and property, so the only footage we might garner is a car passing by. We tracked you and Eric as you passed by three houses, but no one else. Garrison Bank has two, covering their parking lot and part of Islip Street, but nothing rang a bell. The community maintains two as well, one at each of the turn-ins to the property. No unexplained vehicles were parked anywhere near either entrance to Garnet Cove, at least not within the cameras’ range.”
“I didn’t know there were two entrances,” I said.
“The one off Islip and another off Hastings.”
“Hastings … that’s that little road off Ocean, right?” I asked, picturing the turnoff. Just before the Portsmouth line, Ocean Avenue drifted inland, wrapping around a no-man’s-land of craggy cliffs and desolate stretches of seaweed-strewn rocky shoreline until it merged with Route 1. A mile farther on, it broke off again, wending its way back to the coast. At the point where Ocean first turned inland, a secondary road snaked along the coast for a quarter mile or so before dead-ending at a rocky precipice. That was Hastings, the shortest road in Rocky Point. The road had been cut into the stone by a real estate developer with big dreams of creating another condo community like Garnet Cove, but the land won. The developer learned the hard way that it was too expensive and time-consuming to tame the wild coast. “What’s the point of looking at camera footage? Anyone trying to sneak in would know enough not to park near an entrance. You could park anywhere along the perimeter and climb over the stone wall. What is it? Three feet high?”
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