The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “What should I do, Hank?”

  Hank was in heaven. He was sprawled across my lap as if he were lounging on a recliner, his eyes mere slits.

  “You’re not going to help me, are you, baby?”

  I glanced around, waiting for inspiration. The love seat and matching wing chairs faced one another, creating a cozy conversation area. The butler’s table I’d positioned between them was mahogany. So was the display cabinet at the end of the room. My roosters were mostly crafted of porcelain, but two were carved out of wood, and one was forged from pewter. Five black-framed photos covered the rest of that wall, candid shots of me and my parents during the happy times. On the long wall, I’d hung business-oriented objects, plaques and magazine covers and carefully posed photos of the staff, retouched so we all looked good. The framed certificate of appreciation I’d received from one of my favorite charities, New Hampshire Children First!, caught my eye. The charity was founded to fund innovative programs to help children with disabilities reach their full potential. I’d received the award last year at their annual volunteer lunch. I was their fund-raiser of the year.

  “Bingo,” I said.

  I called the director, Helene Roberts.

  “Where are we on funding the therapeutic horse-ride program?” I asked after we’d exchanged greetings.

  “Close. We only need five thousand more to meet this year’s goal.”

  “I have the program description you e-mailed last month. Has anything changed?”

  “Nope. What’s up your sleeve, Josie?”

  “Only good things—I have a meeting with a potential donor. Wish me luck!”

  She thanked me warmly as she always did and told me that she didn’t know where the organization would be without me. There is no motivator as powerful as affirmation.

  Gary’s phone went to voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. Marsha’s just rang and rang. Penelope answered on the third ring.

  “Penelope, this is Josie. Josie Prescott.”

  “Hi, Josie! Tell me you have a fabulous Dutch cabinet with burl walnut parquetry.”

  I laughed. “That’s a very specific wish.”

  “I know. I was just going through a museum catalogue and saw one. I’m twitching with envy.”

  “I wish I had one for you. You know I’d call you right away.”

  “I count on it. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m helping New Hampshire Children First! raise money for a new program, and I was hoping I could stop by and tell you about it.”

  “By all means. I so admire their work. I’m heading out now but will be back at one. How’s that?”

  “Perfect,” I said. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you do that.

  I spent the next two hours reading reports and catalogue copy, responding to e-mails, and preparing the release form I hoped Edwin would sign.

  “Time to go, Hank,” I told him.

  He ignored me until I lowered him to the ground. He meowed his complaint, but recovered quickly when he spotted a catnip mouse on the love seat. He pounced, picking it up in his teeth and shaking it the way his brethren in the jungle shake prey, then tossed it at my feet and mewed.

  “Are you a good boy, Hank? You are. You’re such a good boy.” I picked up the mouse, and when we got to the bottom of the stairs, I threw it as far as I could into the center of the warehouse. Hank shot off after it like a cheetah in the savannah.

  * * *

  As I drove to my meeting with Edwin, I considered whether Ava’s murder was as simple as it seemed. It was completely possible that Edwin was right: Ava had a falling-out with her partner, and he killed her. I supposed it was equally possible that two people set out to steal the Tiffany lamp, and when Ava walked in on them, they murdered her. All we knew for certain was that whoever was behind the theft knew enough about Edwin’s background to pull it off. Who, besides Ava, and by extension Jean, was close enough to have learned the details?

  Edwin swore he hadn’t told a soul about his family history except Ava, and that only recently. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps he’d mentioned it to someone years earlier, so long ago he’d forgotten. Or maybe he’d mentioned it casually after a few drinks and didn’t remember doing so at all.

  Edwin was a workaholic, spending most of his time at his company. Was he all business, as I’d assumed, or was there someone with whom he was close? Edwin was a tough boss. Everyone said so. Wes said that he was a slave driver, but no one cared because he paid them so much. Maybe. But I knew how seemingly minor slights could fester, chafing until your emotions are rubbed raw. Selling a Tiffany lamp meant you’d have the means to never have to see Edwin again. Whom had he offended or outwitted or fired?

  Receptionists, I’d discovered over the years, knew everything about what really went on in a business. They knew who was seeing whom, who was angry at whom, who was working late, who was sneaking out early, who was the boss’s favorite, and who was one error away from being canned.

  Judi.

  * * *

  I arrived at Towson’s at a quarter to twelve, as scheduled. Judi, at her regular place, greeted me with familiar warmth, ignoring my scrapes and scratches with studied detachment.

  Miranda brought me back to Edwin’s office and left.

  “I can give you one minute,” Edwin said.

  “That should be enough for you to tell me about the avocados Sylvia dropped off while you and Ava were in Europe.”

  “What avocados?” he asked impatiently.

  “Sonny helped Sylvia carry in a crate marked ‘avocados.’ Maybe it was just a vintage avocado crate she was using to transport something else. I need to track it down.”

  “Because maybe it held the lamp.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Edwin tore a sheet from his memo pad and scrawled for a moment. On a second sheet, he listed some numbers. He opened a mahogany box, a humidor, and extracted a key.

  “Here,” he said, handing everything over. “You now have the run of the house. I was going to call you next week, but today’s as good a time as any. You said I could consign everything to you or sell it outright. I want to sell. Everything. Inside and out. I’ve already removed my clothes and a few other things that I want. How does it work?”

  “We’ll make a video recording so you and I both know and agree on the scope of the sale. We calculate how much we can offer, and if you say yes, we move everything to our warehouse.”

  “Good. Do it. You’ll find an additional key in a fake rock by the kitchen door. I’ll have Miranda call Tori, Sonny, and Merry, so they’ll know what’s going on. You may run into any of them—they’re still working for me, and will be until the house is sold.”

  I picked up the two sheets of paper. The first was a note authorizing me and my staff to enter his house. The second was a seemingly random list of numbers.

  “Is this the alarm code?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll get going on the video today. I should have an offer in a few days. There’s one more thing.” I felt my cheeks redden. “The fake Ava signed a release authorizing me to use the Tiffany lamp on my TV show. The crew came up, and we filmed the episode.” I slid the release across the desk. “Obviously, that release is null and void. I’m hoping you’ll sign this one so we can use the footage.”

  Edwin read the form, then slipped it under a cut-glass paperweight. “If it airs, it may end up as part of a criminal investigation.”

  “It may anyway.”

  “If it’s on television, the risk of bad publicity increases geometrically.”

  “We can run it anonymously.”

  “Not if the police get a court order.”

  I explained the potential value of association.

  “You can’t sell what you don’t have, so considering potential value is a waste of time.”

  I knew when I’d reached the end of an argument. “Will you reconsider when we find the lamp?”

  He stood up. “All I’ll commit to n
ow is that I won’t reconsider unless you find the lamp.”

  “I understand,” I said, and left.

  It was eleven fifty. I’d stretched his one minute to five.

  Without betraying either my disappointment and frustration that he wouldn’t sign the release or my excitement at the prospect of acquiring a mansion full of objects, some antiques, others collectibles, and everything of the highest quality, I said good-bye to Judi.

  Downstairs, I moved parking spots so I had a clear view of the exit but was not in anyone’s line of vision. While I waited, I took photos of the two sheets Edwin had given me and e-mailed them to Gretchen, then called into work.

  Sasha was on the phone, but Fred was available. I described what I wanted him to do at the Towsons’ house, including letting me know the instant he located a vintage wooden avocado crate, explaining that he should take a copy of the authorization note and the alarm code, and where he could find the key.

  “The whole houseful?” he asked, sounded dazed.

  I grinned. “And the outside.”

  My call-waiting buzz sounded, and I glanced at the display. Wes. I ignored it.

  “Why an avocado crate?” he asked.

  “It’s too long a story for the phone. If and when you find it, don’t touch it. Call me.”

  “Okay. Before I go, I’ll tell Eric to cordon off a triple-wide section.”

  “Alert him to the possibility. At this point, all we’re doing is making an offer.”

  “I know you. The offer will be fair, and therefore, it will be accepted.”

  I was touched. “Thank you, Fred.”

  We ended the call with his promise to keep me updated. Knowing the call to Timothy wouldn’t get easier with age, I dialed his cell and got him.

  “I don’t have the release signed yet,” I said, jumping in, “but neither did the owner refuse outright. He says he won’t consider it until the lamp is found.”

  “I’ll fly up today. I can be very persuasive.”

  “Thanks, but no. He’s not a lukewarm sort of person. He was very clear. I’m sorry, Timothy. I don’t want anything to put the show at risk.”

  “You and me both. Setting aside the lamp, the lawyers want to know whether your involvement in the theft and murder is likely to become a problem. I assured them it wouldn’t, that your so-called involvement is simply a case of wrong place, wrong time. Tell me that’s so.”

  “Of course!”

  “Where are you with finding the lamp?”

  “Doing everything I can.”

  “Give me odds.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Give me an educated guess.”

  I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Talking to Timothy was far harder than I’d anticipated, and I hadn’t expected it to be easy.

  “I’m hopeful.”

  “Really?” he asked, brightening.

  I sat up. “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s go with that. Keep me posted.”

  I promised I would. After our call, I reviewed everything I was doing to find the lamp: the postings, the database alerts, and the coordination with law enforcement. Frustrated with the lack of progress, I made a fist and soft-pounded the steering wheel.

  While I was on the phone with Timothy, Wes had left a message announcing that he had mega-news and I should call him right away.

  “So the police decided to spread out their search for the fake Ava,” he said as soon as he heard my voice. “Both Tori and Sonny have a woman of the right age and build in their lives. Tori’s sister, Jennifer, is forty-five, but she lives in Jacksonville, Florida. I spoke to Jennifer’s neighbor myself, and she confirmed that Jennifer hasn’t been away in months. Sonny is married to a woman named Noreen who’s also forty-five. She’s a cafeteria worker at Rocky Point Hospital, and she was on duty both days when you met the imposter—and the morning Ava was murdered.”

  “Which means they’re both eliminated. Did you find out anything about Jean’s finances?”

  “She’s loaded. She got a sweet deal in her divorce. So … what do you have for me?”

  “Nothing now.”

  Wes sighed to let me know my IOUs were stacking up. “When Jean was twelve and Ava was only eight, their parents were killed in a traffic pile-up. A drunk driver on I-95 heading the wrong way.”

  “That’s awful!”

  “I know. It really changed their lives. They moved in with a cousin in Wisconsin until Jean turned eighteen, at which point she became her sister’s legal guardian. They left Wisconsin within days of her birthday, midway through her senior year in high school. Apparently, they hated living with the cousin. They chose Rocky Point because that’s where they spent summers before their parents died. Jean finished high school here and got a gofer job working for a law firm. She attended night school to become a paralegal. She worked for the same firm until she married one of the partners. She sure knows how to take care of business, right? Meanwhile, Ava worked in a doctor’s office while she went to school at night. She got her degree in English lit. She always loved to travel. She met Edwin while she was on vacation in Italy, some kind of foodie tour. Edwin was meeting with investors in Rome. They found themselves sitting next to one another at a café and got talking, and the rest is history. They married eight months later, at which point he moved his New York City–based company to New Hampshire.”

  “That’s so romantic!”

  “I guess. A year or so later, Jean’s husband left her for a … wait for it … young paralegal in his office and moved to Miami. Jean got a fat settlement and maintains a six-figure balance in her checking account. She doesn’t work, but she’s active in a number of charities, blah, blah, blah. She’s been dating an engineer named Shawn O’Boyle for nearly two years. Jean was serving brunch to him and another couple when she heard the news that her sister had been killed. Shawn had spent the night, so that confirms her alibi.”

  “What about the other couple?”

  “They arrived around ten, so they can’t say what she was doing before they got there.”

  “Thanks, Wes,” I said.

  He ended the call with his regular “Catch ya later.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Judi popped out of Towson’s front door two minutes after twelve and walked to her car, shoulder-dancing to what looked like a jazzed-up hip-hop beat. I noticed earbuds.

  Two minutes later, she set out south on Ocean Avenue. I counted ten before following. Once I made the turn, I could see her car, a blue Toyota, easily, so I slowed up. She drove steadily, and we passed a short street on the right named Richter that I knew ended at a scrub oak forest, the police station, and the dune where Wes and I often met. The sun angled into the car, and I lowered my visor. A Jeep turned onto Ocean between us, providing a welcome buffer. Just before we entered Rye, we passed a strip mall, and Judi took the next right. By the time I followed suit, she had parked in the lot that ran behind the stores. I idled at the curb watching until she started down a narrow passage that led back to Ocean Avenue, and the shops.

  I parked facing out, then walked slowly along Ocean, peering into each store’s plate glass window. I passed a pizza joint, the front window decorated with red, white, and blue stenciled stars, and a tchotchkes tourist trap displaying Americana-themed baseball hats and fanny packs alongside bumper stickers and T-shirts emblazoned with New Hampshire’s state motto, “Live Free or Die,” before spotting her standing in the middle of the Clam Shack, a local beachside dive, popular with teens and surfer dudes. Her back was to me as she read the menu board mounted high above her head.

  I hoped she was in a chatty mood.

  The Clam Shack was paneled in rough-hewn wood, the kind you’d find in any of a thousand fishing shacks that dot the New Hampshire and Maine coastlines. It was decorated with fishing nets that drooped artfully from the ceiling, red and white buoys and used lobster traps affixed to the walls, and hurricane-style lamps overhead and on the tables. Also on the tables were red glass vases f
illed with red, white, and blue aluminum pom-poms.

  I stepped inside and glanced around. The place was more than half full, with all but a handful of tables taken. Most stools at the counter were available, though, and that’s where Judi headed.

  She had her earbuds in place, and her shoulders were moving to the beat as I slid onto the stool next to her.

  “Hey,” I said, smiling.

  Judi’s eyes opened wide, and she pulled out an earbud. “Tell me this isn’t one heck of a coincidence.”

  “It’s not. I followed you.” I smiled. “It’s nothing urgent, but I wanted to talk to you privately, and this seemed the most efficient approach.”

  A waitress, about Judi’s age, wearing cutoff jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and Keds, sauntered over to us. I looked up at the board. Standard beachfront fare: lobster rolls, fried clams, burgers, hot dogs, and fries. Nary a salad in sight.

  I turned to Judi. “Order anything you want—my treat.”

  She shot me a speculative look, more wary than appreciative, then turned back to the waitress. “A lobster roll, please, and a Coke.”

  “I’ll have an iced tea,” I said.

  “No problem,” the waitress said. She tapped the screen, entering our order.

  “How come?” Judi asked, stuffing her earbuds into her purse.

  “I don’t mean to be mysterious. Here’s the thing … I think someone has taken advantage of me—and of Edwin. Whoever it is got me to appraise one of Edwin’s rare antiques under false pretenses. Their plan all along was to steal it and sell it for top dollar. Only someone who knew Edwin well could have pulled off such an elaborate hoax. My question to you is, who at work is close to him?”

  “No one that I know. He’s a great guy and all, but he’s not the kind of person you get close to.”