“Four thousand years. That’s pretty old.”
Astrid sighed at the observation.
“How much?” Libby asked out of curiosity.
“More than you can afford,” Astrid snarked.
“How do you know how much we can afford?” Libby demanded. “We could be ultrarich.”
Astrid looked her up and down, lifted an eyebrow, snorted, and went back to texting. Evidently, Bernie hadn’t done as well outfit-wise as she thought she had.
Now it was Libby’s turn to sigh. To be fair, she supposed that Astrid had a point. Most people who came in off the street didn’t buy a four-thousand-year-old piece of pottery, nor, for that matter, did they sell one. Maybe this place was like the ultraexpensive dress stores Bernie liked to browse in. The more expensive the store, the less merchandise they had on display.
Libby shifted her weight from her left foot to her right. One thing was for sure: She was glad they hadn’t decided to walk down to the gallery, because even though the heels she was wearing were only two inches high, they were killing her. How her sister managed to walk around in her four-inch stilettos and tight skirts was beyond her.
“We need to speak to your boss now,” Libby said in as forceful a voice as she could manage, ignoring her stomach’s rumbling. It had been so busy at the shop, she hadn’t had time to eat lunch.
Astrid lifted her head again. “Well, I’m sorry, but Mr. Peabody is not here,” she said, her eyes betraying her as she glanced toward a door in back of the store. It was a quick glance, but it was enough to call the door to Bernie’s and Libby’s attention.
They hadn’t seen it at first, because the door was unobtrusive, disappearing into the cream-colored wall. The only thing giving it away was a thin line and two hinges. It wasn’t supposed to be noticed, and neither Bernie nor Libby had noticed it when they’d entered, a not-great commentary on their detecting powers, Bernie reflected. But now they had.
“Thanks,” Bernie said as she started toward it.
“You can’t go in there!” Astrid cried, but it was a pro forma cry, one without heat, Bernie noted as she opened the door and she and Libby stepped through it into a different world, metaphorically speaking.
Chapter 39
If the space on the other side of the door was Zen, all space and light, designed to call attention to whatever was in there, the back of the store was tomblike, smelling of dirt and decay. Narrow and dark and crammed with stuff, it concealed by virtue of the sheer volume of the matter within the space. The walls were covered with cheap floor-to-ceiling plank shelving, and all the shelves, in turn, were filled with pieces of statuary and pottery in various states of disrepair.
There were Greek and Roman pieces sitting cheek and jowl with pieces of Egyptian papyrus, alabaster jars, and funerary objects. Olmec masks, jade cats, Aztec statutes, Tang horses, pieces of blue-and-white pottery, clay tablets with cuneiform writing, and fragments of Norse helmets were jumbled together like pieces on a garage-sale table. As Bernie and Libby walked down the narrow corridor, they frequently had to turn sideways to avoid marble hands with hacked-off fingers reaching out to them, noseless heads with blank eyes that seemed to stare at them, and feet with missing toes.
At the end of the room was a workbench, and over it sat a series of cubbyholes filled with various tubes and paintbrushes, rags, small tins, unlabeled bottles with liquids, tiny screwdrivers and hammers, and large drills and bits. Here the air smelled of glue and paint and epoxy, making Libby feel slightly dizzy.
Septimus Peabody was standing in the rear of the room with his back to them. Bent over the workbench, he was holding a piece of a marble pedestal in one hand while he dipped a small paintbrush into a bowl of a liquid on the workbench with his other hand and carefully applied it to the bottom of the pedestal. He had earphones clamped on his head and was listening to Beethoven, which was why he didn’t hear Bernie and Libby come in. Bernie watched him for a moment, then went over and tapped him on the shoulder. Septimus jumped and whirled around.
“Jeez!” he cried, almost spilling the liquid in the bowl.
Bernie apologized.
Septimus was not placated. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, removing his earphones from his ears and hanging them on a red hook sticking out of one of the bottom cubbyholes.
“We need to speak to you,” Bernie explained.
“Make an appointment,” Septimus growled, balancing the paintbrush on the rim of the small bowl.
“This will just take a minute,” Libby said.
“I don’t care if it takes a second. You shouldn’t be back here. Astrid shouldn’t have let you in here.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Bernie replied. “She told us not to come in, but we did, anyway.”
“And now you can get out.” Septimus pointed to the door. “I have work to do.”
Bernie tsk-tsked. “So rude. How about a please with that?”
Septimus’s eyes narrowed. “How about you do what I say before I call the police?”
“On what grounds?” Bernie demanded.
“On the grounds that you’re making a nuisance of yourself.”
Bernie leaned against a middle shelf. A blue-and-white piece of pottery started to wobble. “Sorry,” she said, steadying it just before it fell.
“See?” Septimus cried, shaking a finger at her. “That’s what I’m talking about. This is why I don’t want you in here. Do you have any idea how much that vase costs?”
Bernie shook her head. “I don’t.”
“Thousands and thousands of dollars.”
Libby intervened. “It’s about your partner. . . .”
“Very tragic, but I’m busy,” Septimus snapped.
“This will just take a minute,” Bernie said.
“Nothing ever takes a minute,” Septimus observed bitterly. He looked at his watch. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”
“That will be more than enough time,” Bernie said and smiled reassuringly.
Septimus shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“Wouldn’t you like us out of here?” Bernie remarked. “I can see where we’d make you nervous. Especially since the fumes are making me light-headed.”
Septimus pressed his lips together. “Is that a threat?”
“No,” Bernie said. “Not at all. It’s an observation. I’m just worried I might fall against a shelf when I leave.”
Bernie watched Septimus’s face as he did the math. “Fine,” he said after a minute had gone by. “You win. Happy now?”
“Yes, I am,” Bernie told him.
“I suppose when all is said and done, speaking to you will take less time,” Septimus grumbled. “My office is a better place. Less chance of an accident.”
“I’m sure that Darius would be grateful to you if he were alive,” Bernie told him as she turned and started toward the door.
“And for heaven’s sake, watch where you’re going,” Septimus called after her.
“I’m trying,” Bernie responded as she edged around a large Greek amphora.
Astrid smiled as he came out into the gallery. “I’m so sorry, Seth . . . Mr. Peabody. I tried to stop them, but . . .”
Bernie noted Astrid’s slip, but before she commented, Septimus waved his hands. “It’s fine,” he told Astrid. “Just bring us three bottles of water and come into the office and get me in fifteen minutes.”
Astrid nodded and got up. As she did, Bernie noticed her shoes. They were lime-green suede gladiators that should have been ugly but were stunning instead. Suddenly, Bernie remembered where she had seen her before.
“You were at Darius’s party,” Bernie said to her. “I saw you standing in the common room, waiting to be interviewed by the police. You were wearing a black lace half mask and a strapless gown.”
Astrid nodded.
Bernie turned to Septimus. “She was with you, wasn’t she?” Bernie said, guessing.
Septimus nodded.
Bernie closed
her eyes and visualized Septimus. When she’d seen him, he’d been standing by the open window, staring out, not saying anything, a point of stillness in a room full of people chattering hysterically while they waited to be interviewed. She turned back to Astrid. “I thought you looked familiar when I walked in, but I couldn’t place you. It was the shoes,” she explained. “I recognized the shoes.”
Astrid smiled at Bernie and Libby for the first time. It was, Bernie decided, a nice smile. “They are wonderful, aren’t they?” Then Astrid’s smile dimmed. “I wish I had never gone to the party.” She shook her head. “First, Mr. Witherspoon and then his wife.” Penelope’s death had made CNN. Astrid gave a delicate shudder. “He had to have done something. Opened something. I warned him not to. . . .”
“Not to what?” Libby asked.
Septimus gently interrupted Astrid as she began to talk. “I’ll explain it to them. Just bring us the water, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Of course,” Astrid replied, smiling.
There’s definitely something going on between them, Bernie thought. Then she wondered if what Flynn had said about Darius’s wife and Septimus was true, after all. Septimus sure didn’t look like a player, more like a middle-aged accountant, not that that meant anything. Sometimes guys like that were better in bed than the lookers, because they had to try harder.
Chapter 40
Bernie and Libby were surprised at how ordinary Septimus Peabody’s office was. The place could have been an insurance office. It contained a desk, three chairs, four dark blue metal file cabinets that looked as if they could have come from an office supply store, cream-colored walls, light gray wall-to-wall carpet on the floor, and a large Toulouse-Lautrec poster on the wall.
“The first piece of art I ever acquired,” Septimus explained, gesturing to it. Then he gestured to the furnishings in the room as he sat down. “I find their lack of character very soothing.”
“How so?” Libby asked.
Septimus explained. “Except for the poster, everything in this room is one hundred percent replaceable. And cheap. Given the nature of the things I work with, I find that idea extremely refreshing.”
“I can see that,” Bernie said as Astrid came in with three bottles of water and handed them out. “You two have a thing going, don’t you?” she asked after Astrid left.
Septimus Peabody blushed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yeah. To me it is,” Bernie replied.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Septimus said.
“Tell me,” Bernie commanded.
“You’re thinking she’s hot and I’m anything but. She’s young and I’m . . . older. But we understand each other. We do,” he insisted.
“I didn’t say you didn’t,” Bernie replied. “I guess I was misinformed, because I thought Astrid had something going on with your partner.”
“Hardly.” Septimus drew himself up. “My partner”—he curled his lip—“wanted to sleep with her, and when she said no, he threatened to report her to Immigration.”
“So what did you do?” Libby asked Septimus.
“We got married.” He gave a little laugh. “And that’s when we discovered we really liked each other. So in the long run, I guess you could say that Darius Witherspoon did me a favor. For once in his life.”
Septimus unscrewed the top of his bottle of water, carefully put the cap down on his desk, and took a sip. “So,” he said. “What’s so urgent that you had to bully your way in to see me?”
“I hardly think that bully is the right word,” Bernie objected.
“Fine.” Septimus looked at Bernie. “We can use the word threaten if that will make you feel better.”
“I don’t think that’s particularly accurate, either,” Bernie replied.
Septimus tapped the face of his watch with one of his fingers. “We can debate semantics or we can get to why you came here in the first place. Time’s a-wasting.”
“Okay then,” Bernie said. “Let’s get to it. We’re here because someone went into your partner’s apartment and went through his things.”
If Bernie was looking for an “Oh my God, she knows” moment from Septimus, she didn’t get it. Instead, he put his water bottle on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and rested his hands on his belly. “And this concerns you how?”
“He was supposed to have left a package for us,” Bernie lied. “It wasn’t there. But someone went through the hall closet and the chest of drawers. We think maybe they took it.”
“You were up in his apartment?” Septimus asked, his tone of voice as bland as his office.
“My sister just said that,” Libby replied.
“I see.” Septimus swiveled his chair first to the right and then to the left. “May I ask how you got in?”
Bernie lied again. “As a matter of fact, your partner left us his key.”
“Convenient,” Septimus said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “And I take it your package wasn’t there?”
“Bernie just told you that,” Libby said.
“Which is why you’re here.”
“Exactly,” Libby said. “We wondered if you knew anything about it. Perhaps Darius changed his mind and left it with you instead and forgot to tell us.”
Septimus swiveled the chair he was sitting on around with his foot; then he swung it back again while he considered his answer. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he finally said. “I hope the package wasn’t too valuable.”
“It was important,” Bernie replied, ad-libbing, admiring Septimus’s tone of fake sympathy.
“Perhaps,” Septimus said, postulating, “the person who took your package was someone to whom Darius owed money or some objet d’art? He did that a lot.”
“What?” Libby asked.
“Owed people things.” Septimus coughed and took a sip of water. “Perhaps this hypothetical person took your package in lieu of what was owed him. Or her.”
“Did he owe you anything?” Bernie asked, looking Septimus in the eye.
“My, you are a cheeky little bugger, aren’t you?” Bernie didn’t reply. She squinched her eyes and fixed Septimus with a hard stare, the way PIs did in the movies. He didn’t look intimidated. Far from. Bernie was considering the fact that her outfit might be sending the wrong message when Septimus started talking.
“That’s my business, wouldn’t you say?” Septimus replied.
This is going nowhere, Bernie thought, deciding to try charm and flattery instead. The truth was she and Libby just weren’t the intimidating type. She took a sip of water. “Do you repair the things in the other room?”
Septimus laughed. His laugh filled the room. “No. I restore antiquities. One does not repair items like these.”
“It must require a lot of talent,” Libby said, following her sister’s lead.
“And knowledge,” Bernie added.
“It does,” Septimus agreed. “I have an advanced degree in art restoration.” For a moment, his fingers seemed to caress the air, as if he was still working on the pedestal . . . “That’s really my passion.”
“Was it Darius’s, too?” Libby asked.
Septimus’s face darkened. “No. He fancied himself an expert in other areas.”
Libby and Bernie waited for Septimus to explain. He didn’t.
“So you repaired his things, as well?” Bernie asked, trying to keep the conversational ball rolling.
“That I did not,” Septimus replied. “He sold smaller objects. Ephemera. Coins. Things of that nature. We didn’t overlap. Actually, if I had to characterize him, I’d say he was more of a treasure hunter and less of an art historian.”
That squared with what Bernie had read online. She leaned forward. “So none of the stuff in your workshop belongs to him?” she asked, trying to clarify the matter.
Septimus shook his head. “No. It all belongs to clients or museums. I not only sell antiquities, but I restore them, as well. It’s actually my bread and butter.”
Bernie
took another sip of water. “I get the feeling you didn’t approve of how Darius conducted his business.”
“I didn’t,” Septimus told her. “That’s no secret. Not to put too fine a point on it, my partner was a huckster and a charlatan.”
“If you felt that way, why did you go into business with him?” Libby asked.
“He wasn’t like that when we started out.” Septimus cracked his knuckles. The sound echoed in the room. “And when he offered me a partnership in a gallery on Madison Avenue . . . well, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I knew Darius had these theories. I knew that he had dreams of glory. I knew he was always looking to make the next big find, archeologically speaking. But I never thought he’d go down the direction he’d selected to the extent that he did.”
Bernie and Libby nodded sympathetically.
“Or perhaps he was always like that,” Septimus mused. “And I didn’t see it, because I didn’t want to. But at the time, in the beginning, I thought he was fundamentally sound. And then . . . I don’t know.... After a couple of years he started going down this path. . . .” Septimus’s voice trailed off.
“What path?” Libby asked.
Septimus took a long drink of water. Libby and Bernie waited.
“Does this path have anything to do with what Astrid was talking about?” Bernie prompted.
“In a way,” Septimus said, resuming speaking. “You might say it’s a by-product of it. Darius organized these big treasure hunts—finding Noah’s Ark, looking for Incan gold in the Amazon basin, in short Raiders of the Lost Ark kind of stuff. Big and flashy.” Bernie didn’t say she knew that. She didn’t want to interrupt the flow. “But most of his expeditions were smaller covert affairs.” He gave Bernie and Libby a meaningful look.
“Are you talking about grave robbing?” Bernie asked, taking a guess.
“I wouldn’t put it that crudely, but let’s say that Darius’s procurement policies were more than a little lax. Anyway, there’s a big market among a certain group of people for things . . . fetishes . . . voodoo objects . . . things with power. . . old things.... I don’t know how else to explain it.”
A Catered Costume Party Page 19