Ten minutes later, I lowered Hank to the ground. He meowed angrily. If he had his druthers, I’d do nothing but pet him.
“Duty calls, Hank.” I stood up, and he meowed again. “We’ll have another cuddle later.” I went down to the tag sale to go to work, and he sauntered off, annoyed.
* * *
Eric was standing three feet away from a vintage wooden printer’s cabinet, the kind built to hold a printer’s fonts when type was set by hand. He’d arranged some thimbles to showcase its decorative potential. His head was tilted and his lips were pursed, his standard position when thinking hard.
“It looks good,” I said, assuming he was assessing whether his display was up to snuff.
I startled him. Eric was eager to please, sometimes too eager, and the omnipresent fear that he was failing made him edgy.
“Someone did yeoman’s work in dusting all these minuscule cubbies,” I added. “Was it you?”
He smiled, relaxing. “I gave it to one of the temps.”
“Smart man.”
He flushed a little. “I was thinking Grace might like it.”
I pictured Eric’s girlfriend, gentle, sweet Grace, studying to become an elementary school teacher.
“For a shadow box?” I asked.
“She’s begun collecting miniatures, you know, small porcelain cats and birds and things.”
“Cute. This might be perfect. What’s her design style?”
“I’m not sure. She lives with her parents. Their house is … I don’t know … I guess you’d call it contemporary.”
“And you’ve never talked about it.”
“No. I can ask her, I guess.”
“Subtly, so she’ll be surprised if you decide to get it. What’s your style?”
“Me?” he asked, sounding astonished that someone wanted to hear his opinion.
Having met Eric’s mother, with whom he lived, I understood. She was a difficult woman, domineering and unforgiving, a sharpened knife all too ready to prick. Yet having worked alongside him for a dozen years, I also knew that he was neither weak nor meek, merely reticent.
“Yes! Do you like contemporary furniture?”
“Not so much. I like the things we call country or farm style.”
“So you must like this type case a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d call it country rustic, if I were writing it up for a catalogue. Why don’t you take it back to the warehouse? If you decide against it, we can put it out next week.”
His smile widened. “Thanks.”
Printer’s cases were popular items, and we stocked them as often as we could find them. In excellent condition, like this one, they retailed for twenty-five dollars. After his employee discount, the cabinet would cost Eric twenty dollars, a more than fair price, but not an impulse purchase.
I glanced at the big round clock mounted over the front door. It read 7:53. My stint at Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth would begin at ten, but I liked to look around before we opened. We decorated the tag sale venue for every season or holiday. From mid-June until mid-August, when we morphed to a back-to-school, early autumn theme, we focused on Americana.
A series of 7'' × 3' wooden signs were affixed to the wall about six inches below the ceiling, circling the entire space. The signs featured the Declaration of Independence, the First Amendment, and the Pledge of Allegiance, all written out in elegant black lettering over a folk-art-style flag. The signs were new but designed to look vintage, with muted paint and worn corners. Flag-inspired banners crisscrossed the space, ten feet overhead. Red, white, and blue burlap triangles hung from lengths of rope. The blue triangles were decorated with white stars. A carefully crafted and painted plaster of Paris eagle was mounted over the front door, just below the clock. The room looked perfect, not ostentatious but warm and welcoming—and uniquely American. I turned toward the entryway. Often there was a line waiting to get in, and I loved, loved, loved looking at the row of people so eager to have first dibs on our collectibles that they got there early. The ragged line seemed longer than usual, a good thing.
I joined Gretchen at the front. She was sitting on a stool at the cash register, looking more resplendent than ever.
“You look all excited-peppy,” I said.
She glanced around to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard and crooked her index finger, beckoning me closer. I gave her a questioning look before positioning my ear close to her mouth.
“Jack got recruited for a new job. We’re so completely thrilled, I can’t even tell you!”
My heart plummeted to my toes. A new job meant a new city. What would I do without Gretchen? My better self rose to the occasion, and I opened my eyes wide and smiled as if I were happy.
“Oh, Gretchen! That’s wonderful! What is it?”
“Assistant director of research and development for Eliot Pharmaceuticals. I know I shouldn’t think about money so much, but oh my God, he’s going to earn thirty percent more than he is now. Thirty percent! Do you know what that means?”
“Eliot with one l?”
She blinked, focusing on what seemed to her an out-of-the-blue question.
“Yes. It’s a branch of a big British firm, based just over the bridge in Maine. Why?”
I closed my eyes and gripped the counter, partially a genuine reaction to the relief that threatened to topple me, and partially for show.
“Because I thought for a minute you were going to relocate to somewhere like New Jersey or England or France. You know, big pharma.”
Gretchen laughed and hugged me, nearly falling off her stool. “I’m never leaving Prescott’s. Not ever.”
I hugged her back. “Never say never. Don’t ever pass up a good opportunity, Gretchen. But talk to me before you commit to moving. I’ll always try to beat someone else’s offer.”
Gretchen’s eyes filled, and she winked tears away. “Thank you.”
I touched her wrist. “Tell Jack congrats, okay?”
She nodded and wiped away a tear with the back of her hand, not yet trusting herself to speak.
“Do you mean that?” she whispered as I started away.
“You’re the lynchpin here, Gretchen. Prescott’s depends on you.”
Her bottom lip trembled. I squeezed her hand, gave her a “see ya later” wave, and joined Fred at the front door. It was eight o’clock.
He swung the door wide and said, “Welcome to Prescott’s! Come on in.”
I stood off to the side, smiling and saying hello and how are you, silently counting the number of people who flooded the tag sale venue, early birds eager to start their hunt. Eighteen. I enjoyed a private atta girl moment. Eighteen was impressive, beating fourteen from last December, during the holiday season, our busiest time. It was a cloudy, foggy day, with the moist smell of rain in the air, good for business.
Once the initial crowd was in, I stepped out, circling the building to enter the office from the parking lot. I wanted a cup of coffee. I set Gretchen’s wind chimes jangling as I entered the main office.
“She just stepped in,” Cara said to someone on the phone. “Hold, please.” She punched a button. “It’s Hank’s vet, Dr. Cross.”
I took the call at the guest table. “Tell me you didn’t misread Hank’s test results, that he’s as perfect as we think he is.”
Peter Cross chuckled. “Nope. Hank is officially and scientifically perfect. Did Gretchen report that I thought Hank wasn’t getting enough exercise? I recommended that you get him a playmate, someone to run around with, a companion. Well, I have one. She’s about fourteen weeks old and cute as a bug.”
“A cat?” I asked, stunned. I hadn’t realized he was serious about Hank getting more exercise.
“A kitten. She’s had all her shots. She’s spayed. She’s got a great personality, very outgoing and cuddly.”
Cara was listening in, her eyes alight with excitement.
“Where did you get her from?”
“A neighbor who adopted
her only to discover her son is allergic.”
“I don’t know, Peter.”
“What’s your hesitation?”
I loved Hank. Hank was, to me, family, and when a newcomer arrives, family dynamics inevitably shift. I didn’t want anything to change. I wanted Hank to continue to love me the way he currently did. What, I wondered, if Hank loves the new girl more than me? I bit my lip.
“I need to do what’s best for Hank, and I trust your judgment. If you think we should adopt her, we will.”
“I do. You’ll love her, Josie.”
“Gretchen will be there to pick her up sometime early this afternoon.” I forced myself to smile, to act the part I needed to play. “We need to get set up for the new kid.” After we ended the call, I swiveled to face Cara. “I gather you heard.”
She clapped her hands softly. “We’re getting a new baby. I’m thrilled! Hank will be so excited!”
“I hope so.”
“He’ll adjust quickly. Just you wait and see.”
I stood up, my fake smile painted on like makeup. “I’ll go tell Gretchen the good news.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
About eight thirty, Olive Winslow came into the tag sale venue. She scanned the space, then smiled and beelined for the display of porcelain near the back. She joined a younger woman and leaned down to peer into the cabinet. I walked over to join them.
“Olive!” I said. “Nice to see you again. On the hunt for more teacups?”
“Josie! Nice to see you, too! This is Charlotte, my daughter-in-law. She was here first thing, and when she saw what she thought was a hand-painted Sèvres cup and saucer, she called me. Naturally, I ran to the car. May I look at it?”
“Of course.” I used my key to unlock the glass display cabinet and extracted the cup and saucer. A small tent card perched nearby read “Incised numbers and letters on both bases. Cup, ‘S 74’; saucer, ‘S 63.’ Sèvres. Circa early 19th c. $75 for the set.”
Charlotte and I watched as Olive assessed the cup and saucer. The cup featured an elaborate landscape, an attractive young couple reclining on an ornate white iron bench in a formal garden. The multicolored painting was embellished with touches of gilt. The saucer included panels of red and yellow flowers with a gilt rim. There were no chips, cracks, spider-cracks, or signs of restoration, but the pieces didn’t match, and the gilt on the saucer showed slight signs of rubbing, a minor imperfection to some, a knockout factor to most serious collectors. If it were a matched set in perfect condition, it would have been included in an auction and sold for hundreds or thousands of dollars.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Olive said, holding the cup up to the light, talking mostly to herself.
“Most of your collection is English bone china, isn’t it?” Charlotte asked.
Charlotte was thin and petite, with short ash blond hair. She looked to be about thirty.
“Yes, and the truth is, I prefer it.” She handed over the teacup and saucer. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass on this one.”
“Too overwrought?” I asked as I returned the set to its place in the cabinet.
“Yes. It’s just a bit too elaborate for my taste.”
“And the saucer doesn’t match the cup.”
“To say nothing of the wear on the saucer rim,” Olive said, smiling like a wily collector.
“There is?” Charlotte asked, leaning in to examine it.
“Just a little,” Olive said.
“Just enough to make it undesirable to serious collectors,” I added. “Condition is one of the most important considerations in assessing value and desirability, along with provenance, rarity, scarcity, popularity, and association.”
“Provenance I know,” she said, “because I’m a lawyer—clear title. What’s the difference between rarity and scarcity?”
“Rarity is how many were created. Scarcity is how many are extant.”
“And association?”
“Association looks at whether anyone intriguing owned it or used it or commented on it, or whether it holds any historical significance.”
“Valuation is complicated,” Charlotte said.
“Very. How about you? Do you collect anything?”
“Not really.” She looked around for a moment. “While I was waiting for Olive, I peeked at the botanical prints. I’m going to take a closer look. I want one in green and yellow for the powder room.”
“Any news about Ava?” Olive asked after Charlotte walked away.
“Not that I know of. Have you thought of anything else that might help?”
“Diane and I chatted a bit about it. We just can’t imagine who would do such a thing.” She clucked a bit, empathy mingled with unease. “I wish I could do more.”
“Me, too.”
“And now Ava’s sister. It’s just so horrific.”
Charlotte was busily flipping through the art prints.
“Are you going to hold this quarter’s meeting?”
“No. We decided to wait until September, when Diane is back from vacation.”
Charlotte held up a plastic-encased botanical print, a lithograph created by Anne Pratt in 1860. “Look what I found! It’s called Common Daffodil, the Poet’s Narcissus, Pale Narcissus, and Snowdrop. I love it!”
“Anne Pratt is largely responsible for popularizing botanical prints,” I said. “Sometimes prints this old have stains or tears. This one is in wonderful condition.”
“But it’s not rare,” Charlotte said, her eyes alive with interest. “Or scarce.”
I laughed. “True. And while they’re always popular, they’re not a hot item right now.”
“No one famous owned it, either, so there’s no association.”
“You’re a quick learner.”
“You’re a good teacher. Put it all together, and I understand why it’s selling for fifty dollars, not five hundred.”
I turned to Olive. “I sense a collector in our midst.”
Charlotte lowered her eyes to the print. “You may be right. I certainly love this one.”
Before I could respond, I felt eyes on me, a magnetic pull. I turned around. Ellis stood by the front door. He nodded, acknowledging contact, then jerked his head to the left, toward the door. I excused myself and threaded my way through the crowded aisles to reach him. The clock above his head told me it was 8:47.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as I reached him.
“Let’s step outside.”
I had no idea what Ellis wanted, but I knew it could only be bad news. Police chiefs didn’t stop by in the middle of murder investigations to chat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Eric was manning the cash register, talking with an older man with a full head of starkly white hair. I called to him that I was stepping out for a minute. He glanced at Ellis, then me, and nodded.
Ellis pushed open the wood-and-glass door and held it ajar until I’d stepped through. The fog was, if anything, thicker than before. Without the sun beating down on us, it didn’t feel steamy or sticky—just good. I could sense my pores opening up.
I walked a few steps away from the entryway, stopping beside a wooden slat-back bench I’d had Eric install at the beginning of the summer. We’d positioned it under a stand of birch trees in the middle of clusters of orange tiger lilies.
“I like the fog,” I said.
“Zoë thinks it’s romantic.” Ellis inspected the area with narrowed eyes. “I need to talk—privately.”
“My office?”
“We can go there later. I’ll be taking your statement.” He sent his eyes around. “Anywhere outside?”
I gave a little bow and swept open my arm toward the bench. “My outside office awaits.”
“Josie!” a woman called. “Anything good today?”
I swung around. Elaina Lee, a serious collector of Victorian perfume bottles and a favorite customer, was coming up the flagstone pathway.
“Elaina! Hi! There’s a ruby-glass beauty you’re going to love.�
�
“Cut glass?”
“Yes, with a silver neck and cap.”
“Ooh! I’d better hurry!”
“Good luck!”
She nearly ran inside.
“If she’s so hot on them, why didn’t you hold it for her?”
“She has idiosyncratic taste. Some objects we think she’ll love miss the mark. Others we’re certain aren’t right for her, she loves. We can’t hold objects unless we’re confident we know what a client is looking for. Don’t get me wrong. I admire her conviction and commitment. I just don’t understand what pushes her buttons. Also, she likes the hunt.”
He smiled. “Which brings us back to the business at hand—hunting. If we sit in your outside office, I’m afraid customers will continue to interrupt us, so I guess we better go inside.”
“If you don’t mind standing, I know just the spot. Follow me.” As we walked down the pathway toward the parking lot, I said, “I thought Detective Brownley was coming at noon to take my statement.”
“She’s tied up with something, and I had the time, so I volunteered.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“Being a savvy detective, I looked out the window and saw your car was gone. Knowing it was tag sale day, I was optimistic I’d find you here.”
I led the way to the weeping willow tree at the western edge of the parking lot. The tree soared thirty feet into the air and was nearly as wide. Pale yellow branches and slender green leaves swept the ground. I picked my way through the lacy curtain to reach the gnarled trunk. Ellis followed.
He did a slow 360, peering through narrow openings in the foliage.
“When I was a kid,” I said, keeping my voice low, “we had a weeping willow in the backyard. One of the branches, about five feet off the ground, shot out sideways for a few feet, then turned upwards, a perfect perch for reading.”
“When I was a kid, a man named Devon taught me how to track. He always said to look up as often as you look down.”
“Because you might see a girl with a book?”
The Glow of Death Page 19