The Glow of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  Phil Wilcox was just as good-looking now as he had been in high school. He hadn’t gained weight, his hair was neatly trimmed, his clothes looked expensive, and he walked with an athlete’s confidence. I wondered what would happen if I popped in and called him Orson. Instead, I called Wes and asked him to get the lowdown on the man and his emporium.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you, but you can’t follow up until I say so. Promise?”

  After our familiar back-and-forth, he agreed.

  “I think he might be Ava’s baby’s father.”

  Wes low-whistled. “That means he might be Orson Thompkins.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

  “But you’re thinking.”

  “So hard, it hurts.”

  Wes promised to call me back ASAP. I continued to watch Phil Wilcox work the room. He patted an inside salesman heartily on the back. He walked outside, smoothing his hair, then joked around with the three salesmen. There was something pathetic about his joie de vivre in the face of no customers.

  “You never know who may be prevaricating, for reasons sly or mighty,” Sasha’s marble expert, Frank Colby, had said. We routinely verified identity in our work, which meant I was well equipped to scam a scammer. As I sat across the four-lane highway, my eyes taking in Phil Wilcox’s smooth moves, the plan I’d hoped for began to evolve. Ten minutes later, as disparate elements began to gel, Wes called back.

  “This was easy-peasy,” he said. “Phil is up to his ears in debt, and so is the dealership. They were profiled in New Hampshire Business last spring, and I just checked with a banking source to confirm it. It seems that Phil replaced his dad three years ago as president and began what the magazine called a ‘too-rapid expansion.’ He opened two additional locations, one in Newington and the other in Dover, but those cities aren’t big enough to support a dealership, and by opening them, he cannibalized on the flagship location’s business, so now all three are in trouble.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bankruptcy looms.”

  “Expansion is tricky. Is he married?”

  “Yup—and he has four kids between two and thirteen.”

  “That makes his financial situation dire.”

  “Which means he had a motive to steal the lamp. But how is he involved?”

  “I’ll tell you everything, Wes, but not now.”

  “Josie!”

  I glanced at the dash clock. It was almost noon. “I’ll be in touch later this afternoon. I promise.”

  I pushed the END CALL button and backed out of the parking spot. I hoped Max was in his office and available to talk.

  * * *

  Ellis sat across from me at Max’s conference table, listening with riveted focus as I described my idea. Max sat at the head of the table taking notes.

  When I finished, Ellis tapped the side of his nose. “Why Fred? Why can’t we use an undercover police officer? Maybe Dawn LeBlanc. You’ve worked with her before.”

  “A couple of times. She’s good. Sure, I could write up a script, but anyone selling a multimillion-dollar object is going to ask a gazillion questions, some of which she—or any antiques novice—wouldn’t how to answer. I can anticipate some, but not all, of them. It’s one thing to pretend to be a customer so you can sneak GPS devices into containers.* It’s another thing altogether to pretend to be an antiques appraiser of some repute.”

  “Give me some examples of questions Dawn would struggle to answer.”

  “How can you know this lamp is real? You say that as part of your appraisal, you’re going to tap the glass in the lampshade—won’t that break it? How many pieces of glass are there in the shade? Didn’t Tiffany use a variety of marks? How many wisteria pattern lamps are extant? Did Clara Driscoll design it? And those are only the questions I thought of off the top of my head. There would be a trap around every corner.”

  “You know the answers to those questions?”

  I smiled, an impish one. “To confirm authenticity, we test the materials, research the marks, and confirm provenance. No, tapping the glass won’t shatter it. We use specific techniques and tools so the shade won’t be damaged in any way. There are about two thousand pieces of glass, each one individually selected and cut. No one knows how many lamps are extant. Clara Driscoll did design most of the lamps, so it’s likely she designed this one, too.”

  “I’m impressed, and I get that you can’t do it because you’re known to them, but why Fred? Why not an outside expert?”

  “We could get someone from outside, but that would require a delay while we think of someone, vet them, get them here, and get them up to speed. With Fred we can begin today.” I soft-pounded the table with my fist. “Right now.”

  “What makes you think he’ll agree? Two people have been killed. You were shot at. That would give many people pause.”

  “Maybe he’ll say no, but I bet he agrees. He doesn’t scare any more than I do. He’s cool under fire, knowledgeable as all get-out, and as angry as I am that we got duped.”

  Ellis transferred his gaze from my face to the far wall. After several moments, he looked back at me. “I can’t see a downside. Worst case, it doesn’t work. Best case, it flushes them out. The room will be wired for sound and video. I want a police officer in the room. Who would accompany Fred?”

  “He could have an assistant.”

  “Good. I’ll call Dawn’s department and see if she’s available.”

  Max laid down his pen. “We need to spell out the liability limitations before we proceed.”

  “I’ll ask an ADA to take care of that with you,” Ellis said. “I’ll also call Detective Brownley and ask her to help with the logistics.” To me, he added, “Call Fred and get him here. Let’s get this party rolling.”

  Ellis made his calls from where he sat at the table. I stood by the window to make mine.

  The ADA, Ellis said, would join us in half an hour. Detective Brownley would arrive sooner. Fred was already en route. For the moment, there was nothing to do. Ellis and Max were chatting about the recently renovated Little League field. I couldn’t fathom chatting. The more I listened in on their friendly, mundane conversation, the more agitation settled on me like fog in a valley.

  “I’m going to stretch my legs for a few minutes,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

  It was still chilly, and the clouds were blowing in from the west. I walked fast, up Bow Street, down Thistle, keeping the river in sight. The water was dark, nearly black, moving fast, and churning. I saw Victor’s Liquor Shop a block ahead and stopped in. Victor was behind the counter. Victor had helped me select wines for cooking and wines for drinking. He was of average height and thin, wearing jeans and a red collared T-shirt with VICTOR’S embroidered over the pocket.

  After we exchanged greetings, I explained I wanted to send a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin with a note.

  “You got it. What’s the occasion? Birthday? Wedding? Anniversary?”

  “It’s a thank-you gift.”

  “Nice!”

  He handed me a small ecru note card and matching envelope. The words Thank you were embossed in silver script.

  I wrote:

  Dear Sylvia,

  Thank you again for the tomatoes. Thank you also for your company. I’ve enjoyed our conversations!

  I recommend you keep this gin in the freezer—it gets all creamy and yummy that way. Add lemon!

  Warm regards,

  Josie

  Thinking of Sylvia sipping gin put a smile on my face, just as she had smiled as she handed over the baskets of luscious tomatoes.

  * * *

  It took about two minutes to get Fred excited about the plan; an hour to persuade John Navarro, the seasoned ADA assigned to oversee the operation, to jump on board; another hour to gain the cooperation of the Austin Arms’ general manager; and the rest of the day to map out an online presence that would pe
rsuade skeptical people that the persona we were inventing was a real person. Figuring out the logistics took even longer than that.

  Fred settled into a corner of Max’s office to begin drafting the script he’d use on the telephone. Mr. Navarro and Max went into his conference room to hammer out the details of our agreement. The hotel agreed to let the police wire up the Presidential Suite—and the lobby, hallway, and elevator. Katie, the IT gal, designed an elegant Website for Fred under the name of his brand-new limited liability corporation, Harrison R. Endicott LLC, while I created a comprehensive backstory for him. The LLC was Max’s idea. If Orson Thompkins checked the domain name ownership records and questioned why Endicott’s Web site was new, he had a good answer: His consulting firm was so successful, he was now dealing with larger and more prestigious organizations, the kind that don’t do business with individuals, only companies.

  We took some photos of Fred. In one he posed with his head back a bit, the better to look down his nose. In another he looked sideways into the camera, his expression aristocratic. In a third, he rested his chin on his laced fingers, staring into the camera with the arrogance that comes from being the scion of a family as old as the Endicotts. If I didn’t know we were inventing it all, I’d be convinced that Harrison was no one to toy with.

  We determined we should all park at the police station, on the remote chance someone might recognize one of our personal cars, plotted out who would be stationed where and when, were fitted with bulletproof vests, and agreed not talk to the press until the operation was over and arrests were made—or not.

  On Tuesday morning, Fred and I met Katie in her office to help her organize the Web site content. Our goal was to create a credible portfolio stretching back five years, so that anyone vetting Harrison R. Endicott would see a distinguished résumé and engaging information, including comments on important antiques appraisal issues of the day, updates on his projects, and photographs of several art and antiques appraisals he’d been involved with. We also included several references to his family’s compound in ritzy Kennebunkport, Maine. The disposable phone the police had bought for Fred to use had a 207 area code, and since his cover story had him based in Chicago, we needed to justify the out-of-state phone.

  At noon, Sasha called and asked if there was any way I could get back to the office.

  “Frank is done with his assessment. He was hoping to say good-bye before he left.”

  “Hold on a sec.” I lowered the phone and looked at Fred. “Are you okay to finish up without me?”

  “I’m almost done,” Katie said, her eyes on her monitor, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

  “Good.” I went back to the phone. “Please tell Frank I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Will I be happy?”

  “Yes.”

  I grinned. “Excellent!”

  “Are we still looking to make the initial call at three?” I asked Ellis as I passed his office.

  He looked up from a bound report he was reading. “Yes.” He smiled, a wise and wily gleam in his eyes. “This is a good idea, Josie.”

  I smiled back. “I know.”

  * * *

  “What a treat this was!” Frank said. “You have some fine examples, young lady. Some very fine examples.”

  “This is wonderful news, Frank. Did you find any surprises?”

  He rubbed his hands together joyously. “You own a large peppermint ribbon marble.” He explained that its 1 and 19⁄32'' diameter made it extremely rare. He held up a clear plastic bag containing the marble. It was creamy white with red and green swirls. “Notice the uniform spacing between the twists and how deep and consistent the color saturation is, more indicators of value. Using the standard marble-grading scale, ranking condition from one, valueless, to ten, perfect, I scored this marble an award-winning nine-point-seven.” He lowered the bag to Sasha’s desk.

  “What did it lose points for?”

  “An incomplete swirl tip on one of the red lines.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tell her the estimate,” Sasha said, her eyes radiating pleasure.

  “That’s the best part—I can’t. No peppermint ribbon marble of this size and quality has ever gone to auction. One rated a nine-point-one sold for $15,200 four years ago. Nothing even close has been offered since then.”

  The marble was shiny and smooth, made by a master. “And it’s beautiful.”

  “It’s magnificent!”

  “Can we take you to lunch, Frank, before you head out?”

  “Thank you, young lady. Sasha made the same offer. I’m going to decline, with thanks. I don’t want to miss the opportunity to visit the Peabody Museum. Marbles aren’t my only interest—I love everything glass, from bottles to inkwells, including flowers.”

  “That’s one of my favorite museums. Seeing those glass flowers when I was young—I’d never seen anything so beautiful. Will you have time? Are you going back to Oklahoma today?”

  “Tomorrow. I decided to treat myself to a night in Boston. I want to try some real New England clam chowder. I mustn’t dally! You can tell I have plans and am eager to be on my way.”

  I extended my hand. “Thank you again, Frank. It was a real pleasure meeting you.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Sasha said.

  Frank said his final good-byes and thank-yous to everyone, and the ill-assorted pair left. I watched through the window as they walked slowly across the parking lot. Sasha was talking, gesturing broadly. At his rental car, she went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He hugged her, and she hugged him back. She stood in the middle of the lot as Frank got situated behind the wheel, and stayed there as he drove away, turning left out of the lot toward the interstate. He raised his left hand and gave a cheery wave. Sasha waved back. She stood there for a moment longer, then turned and walked slowly back to the building.

  “What a nice man,” Cara said.

  “Very,” I agreed.

  “He’s a funny one,” Gretchen said. “I mean that as a compliment.”

  “He’s not a marble guy,” I said. “He’s a glass guy.”

  Gretchen giggled.

  Sasha walked in. Her eyes were moist.

  “That went well,” I said.

  “Better than well,” she said, smiling through fresh tears. She sniffed and looked aside. “He reminds me of my dad.”

  “Oh!” Cara said. “That’s lovely, Sasha.”

  Sasha flashed a brief smile, then quickly slid behind her desk and began typing.

  A loud meow caused all of us to turn toward the warehouse door. Cara, who was closest, pushed it open. Angela sashayed in, wondering why the door wasn’t left open for her convenience.

  “My goodness,” I said, picking her up, “that’s a very big noise coming from such a little girl.”

  She purred and snuggled into the crook of my neck. I kissed the top of her head. Another meow, this one imperative, echoed from behind the door.

  “Hank,” I said.

  Cara pushed open the door, and Hank ran through. He pressed his cheek against my calf, complaining that he didn’t like to be left alone in the warehouse when everyone was in the office, and by the way, he was hungry.

  “I’ll take her,” Gretchen said.

  “PTK!” I said as I passed her over. “Pass the kitty!”

  I scooped up Hank and cuddled him for a moment. “I know, baby, I know,” I whispered, “but don’t you fret. Not ever. Angela is a good girl, but you’re my best little boy.” He started purring. I kissed his cheek and stroked his tummy, and he settled in against my chest. After another minute, I told him, “I need to go now, sweetheart. You be a good boy.” I lowered him to the ground.

  Spending time with cats before entering the fray is like stocking up on essentials during the calm before a hurricane—your survival depends on it.

  “Tell me again,” I said, “how do people live without cats?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  At three o’clock, Ellis, Fred, Detective Brownley
, Officer Dawn LeBlanc, and I sat around the old wooden table in Interview Room One. The human-sized cage loomed large, a warning and a promise. The fluorescent lighting was harsh, coloring the world with a faint green tinge. Red pinpricks of light showing on the three wall-mounted video cameras indicated they’d been activated. A small projectile was attached to the right side of Fred’s cell phone, a wireless recording device. That light was amber. We each had a set of wireless headphones in front of us so when the time came, we could listen in.

  “Tell me my phone number again,” Fred said.

  Ellis called it out, and Fred wrote it down on his notepad.

  I put my headphones on. “Let me try it.” I punched the number into my phone.

  Seconds later, Fred’s phone rang. His ringtone was one of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. He tapped the screen, and the music stopped.

  “This is Harrison Endicott. And you are?”

  “Josie Prescott.”

  He ended the call.

  “Your tone is perfect,” I said.

  “Ready?” Ellis asked Fred.

  “Yes,” Fred said.

  Fred stood up and shook out his hands, an actor’s relaxation technique I recalled from an Intro to Theater course I’d taken as an elective in college. He reoriented his chair so his back was toward us. He consulted his notepad and punched in the number Orson Thompkins had given in the Antiques Insights ad. The call went to voice mail immediately. The message was the default, the automated robotic female-sounding voice stating the phone number and nothing else.