Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  Rowcliff didn’t appear to be amused. “Who else besides the waiter was nearby or passed by?”

  I thought back. If the truth be told, I’d been pretty distracted at that point in the evening, tired of meaningless chat, missing Ty, and physically exhausted from the twelve-hour days I’d spent preparing for the Gala while maintaining a full schedule of auctions and tag sales. As Britt, Dora, and Maisy climbed onto the low stage, all I wanted was for the evening to be over, and if someone had been nearby, I simply didn’t recall it.

  I shook my head. “Sorry. No one else comes to mind.”

  Rowcliff leaned back considering what to ask next, and gave a quick tap-tap with his pencil. “Okay then,” he said. “I think I’ve got a clear picture of what happened.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “And I’ve got my work cut out for me.” He turned to include Max, who’d been sitting quietly, making an occasional note. “I have plenty of lines of investigation to follow. One, who had access to potassium cyanide. Two, who could have put it in the wineglass. And three, whether I can find anyone who wanted Maisy dead.” He paused, tapping his pencil quietly.

  “That’s a lot,” Max agreed.

  “Yeah,” Rowcliff said. “And there’s one more. Four, why someone might want Josie dead.”

  My heart flipped over. Rowcliff looked at me straight, no sneer, no smirk, and with no challenge in his eyes. “Josie, I’ve got to tell you . . . I’ve been asking a lot of questions of a lot of people since Maisy died, and guess what?” He pointed his finger at me. “I haven’t discovered anything that says you weren’t the target.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  F

  orty-five minutes later, Max and I stood at the open door in the bright autumn sun and watched as Officer Johnston packed up the video camera and placed the carry bag in the backseat of his patrol car.

  Max reminded Detective Rowcliff to get us a copy of the interview notes by the end of the day, and he agreed that I’d be available for further questioning as needed.

  I closed my eyes and soaked in the feel and sounds of Indian summer. The sun was surprisingly warm for October, a nice treat after last night’s icy blast. Fallen leaves rustled as they fluttered across the paved lot. I turned my face full to the sun, finding comfort in the heat.

  “Josie, can I ask you something?” Max said.

  I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Sure.”

  “Just between us—lawyer and client—you really don’t know who might have it in for you, right? You aren’t just doing a head-in-the-sand thing?”

  “Really,” I said, meaning it. “I have no idea.” That someone was out to kill me made no sense. I lived a simple life. I worked hard, played fair, and paid my bills on time. If I had any enemies, I didn’t know it—and I didn’t know them.

  He scratched the side of his nose, seeming to struggle for words. “Okay, then,” he said after a too-long pause, sounding skeptical.

  “Max, I’d tell you if I knew anything. But I don’t. It can’t be me.”

  “I believe you, Josie. But I can’t get it out of my head. You know, no smoke without fire. Plus, I gather that Detective Rowcliff isn’t an alarmist . . . anything but . . . so maybe there’s something to it. I don’t mean to upset you, but I think we need to consider the possibility seriously.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I really do. You know me—I’m a scaredy-cat.” I gave an embarrassed laugh. “If there was any hint of a threat, I’d be running for the hills.”

  “Yeah, I know, but . . .”

  We had a short, circular discussion about whether I was really in danger, until finally I interrupted him, saying, “Until I hear otherwise, I’m going with my gut. I have no enemies! Which means Maisy was the intended victim, and that’s that. Hell, anybody can speculate about anything. For all I know, the world is flat.”

  “You mean it’s not?” he asked, affecting surprise. He gave a gentle tap on my shoulder, allowing me to win the point.

  “Ha, ha,” I said, smiling.

  “You call me if you need me, okay?” he said, his eyes on mine. “Anytime.”

  “I promise.” I took a deep breath and watched as Max walked to his car. He gave a jaunty wave, and turned left out of the lot toward Portsmouth, heading, I presumed, home.

  Watching his car disappear around the bend, I fought off a wave of loneliness and envy. Max had a place to go where people who loved him were waiting. I didn’t. As the only child of only children, now that my parents were dead, I had no family. My isolation was ever-present, but on Sundays, the family day, the pain was more acute.

  I turned away from the sun and locked the auction doors, bolting them on the inside. Walking across the empty room to the inner door, I made a point of not looking at the dirty tables.

  The antiques sat undisturbed. Our display was impressive, well lighted, with ample room for viewers to circle each item. Large pieces stood near the inside wall, and smaller articles were positioned on pedestals under Plexiglas.

  I smiled as I looked at the eighteenth-century egg-shaped sterling silver nutmeg grater. I wondered whether it had sold for more than its estimated thirteen to fifteen hundred dollars. It was a charming piece, a perfect collectible for a cook. My mother would have loved it.

  Next to it sat the single most valuable piece we had up for auction, a Chinese porcelain tureen with a nine-inch diameter, designed for export and dating from the Qing dynasty, Yongzheng period, estimated to sell for upward of twenty thousand dollars.

  Part of its value sprang from simple supply and demand. Not many tureens from the mid-1700s had survived in perfect condition. But it was also dazzlingly beautiful, decorated with the frequently copied “Birds and Flowers” design. Rose-colored enamel lotus flowers and meticulously painted mandarin ducks seemed to float across the shimmering surface of a peaceful lake. The colors were pure and bright and the craftsmanship was flawless.

  I recalled overhearing Dora talking to a couple who seemed to love it, and I wondered if they had bid on it, and if so, if they’d won. I’d been impressed listening to Dora explain how we knew the tureen was intended for export. “Western dinnerware was bigger than Chinese dinnerware,” she said.

  Leaving the room through the back door, I entered the vast storage facility that separated the auction venue from the tag-sale quarters. Goods slated for future auctions were stored in small cubicles to the left and items scheduled to be offered at our weekly tag sales were stacked on plastic shelving to the right.

  My footsteps echoed on the concrete flooring as I headed to the central office, and combined with the dim lighting, the vast space would have felt sinister if I had allowed myself to think about it.

  As soon as I stepped inside the office, I saw that Sasha and Fred were still there, completely focused on their computer monitors.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Huh? Oh, hi. What?” Sasha responded, looking up.

  I smiled. “Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering how things were going.”

  “Oh. Good. We’re making progress. We think Picasso gave the sketch to a friend.”

  Fred ignored the interruption. He was absorbed with whatever trail he was following, typing on his keyboard.

  “Interesting,” I said. With a glance at Fred, I added, “I don’t mean to disturb you.”

  “That’s okay,” Sasha said. “How did it go? Do you have any news? I mean, can you tell us anything?”

  “It’s pretty horrible.”

  “What?” she asked anxiously.

  “It looks like Maisy was poisoned.”

  Fred looked up from the computer. Sasha semi-gasped, a small sound of surprise. I nodded in response to their looks of astonishment. “Yeah. It’s awful.”

  “Who?” Sasha asked. “I mean, do the police know who—”

  I shook my head. “No, not yet. They’re investigating.” After a moment, I added, “I’m going to leave in a few minutes.”

  “Um, we planned on stayi
ng a while longer. Is that all right?”

  “Sure. You’re in charge of closing up. The police are done with the auction site, so when you leave, you should alarm the entire building.”

  “Okay.” As she turned back toward the computer, she spotted a slip of paper. “Oh, you have a message.”

  A woman named Verna had called, explaining that she and her husband were moving to Las Vegas and wanted to sell most of the contents of their house in nearby Newington. I felt a familiar anticipatory thrill. It’s much harder to buy good quality antiques and collectibles than it is to sell them. An entire houseful of goods? I almost salivated at the thought. According to the note, I had an appointment to go through the house tomorrow at twelve thirty.

  I tucked the note into my purse and used Gretchen’s phone to call the caterer, Eddie. I left a brief voice-mail message, telling him that the police were done and he could come and clean up.

  With a quick good-bye to Sasha and Fred, I left.

  In times of trouble, I cook. I derive enormous comfort from using my mother’s recipes. When my mother knew she was dying, she wrote out all of her recipes in a beautiful leather-bound book. On many of the pages, she added special instructions, suggesting what to substitute if I couldn’t locate a certain hard-to-find ingredient, for instance, or recommending ways to balance flavors. “Josie, dear,” she wrote on one, “Orange Chicken is sweet, so be certain to serve it with something salty like long-grain wild rice, properly seasoned.”

  The day she handed me her recipe book, I stood silently beside her bed, trying not to notice her sunken cheeks and downy-soft hair or alarm her with my weeping. But I couldn’t stop the tears from running down my cheeks. Even at thirteen, I understood the importance of this solemn moment. Those recipes were an important part of her legacy to me.

  I shook aside the memory, focusing instead on what to cook today. What was I in the mood for? Consulting my taste buds and cooking something to suit was a luxury. Since moving to New Hampshire, more often than not, I ate whatever was on hand.

  When I lived in New York, it had been different. Most days, I’d stopped at the local market on my way home from work. As Valentino, the butcher, cut and trimmed whatever cut of meat or poultry I requested to my specifications, I strolled the vegetable aisles, and selected whatever looked freshest and most appealing.

  In New Hampshire, I shopped weekly, sometimes even less frequently. I didn’t have a butcher and I used more frozen foods. Adjusting to the new shopping pattern had been part of the culture shock of relocating.

  On a whim, I decided to prepare Lobster Newburg. I hurried into the grocery store nearest my house and bought the fixings from memory, hoping I wasn’t forgetting anything.

  Waiting in the checkout line, idly scanning the magazine rack, I remembered the day, not long ago, when Ty had stood next to me as I waited to pay for the groceries. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you for cooking for me,” he whispered. I touched my cheek, the brush of my fingers on the spot he’d just kissed evocative and sensual.

  And there it was—Wes’s dastardly headline shouted from the front page of the Sunday late edition of the Seacoast Star. PRESCOTT INVOLVED IN SECOND MURDER, it screamed.

  The news-flash e-mail that Detective Rowcliff had shown us earlier was bad enough, but this was outrageous. I wasn’t involved in Mr. Grant’s murder, I silently seethed, or this one. I’d done nothing wrong, yet here I was, publicly humiliated once again. Wes had triumphed, the bastard. I placed the paper on the moving belt upside down and bit my lip, paid for the groceries, and fled.

  As I turned into my driveway, I heard Lassie barking. She was on her hind legs, clawing against an old maple, straining to get to something above her. I looked up into the half-bare branches and saw Jake swinging upside down on a leather strap. Zoe was pouring charcoal briquettes from a big bag into Mr. Winterelli’s ancient grill. Emma sat on a blanket, playing quietly with a wooden push toy.

  I stepped out of the car and called, “Hey, Zoe!”

  “Hi! How are you doing?”

  “Great,” I lied. “Hey, Jake,” I said over Lassie’s barks.

  “Hi!” he responded. “Wheee! Look at me!” He swung back and forth, holding on to the leather, righting himself, then tipping over backward, laughing and exclaiming with pleasure.

  “Pretty impressive, Jake! Hi, Emma!” I called in her direction.

  I carried my bags inside. I was glad Zoe and the kids were having Sunday family fun, but witnessing their pleasure made my loneliness worse. Keep on keepin’ on, I told myself, and put the perishables in the refrigerator.

  I headed upstairs to change into comfortable old sweats, my standard at-home leisure wear. As I entered my bedroom, I saw that the message light on my answering machine was flashing.

  I sat on the bed, ready for bad news, while secretly hoping it was Ty. Don’t hope, I warned myself. Prepare for the worst. My dad always used to say, Expect the best, but prepare for the worst.

  The message was from Wes. “Don’t delete this before you listen to it!” he said in a rush. He laughed awkwardly and added, “I know how you must feel. I didn’t write the headline. My editor did. Sorry about that. Really, the headline I submitted was, ‘Mysterious Gala Death Under Investigation.’ Anyway, I’ve learned something about you. You’ll be surprised—and intrigued. Really, no bull. We need to talk, and I promise I won’t quote you unless you tell me it’s okay. Call me.”

  I replayed the message and listened a second time. He sounded more collaborative than he had the last time he called, less combative. What could he have discovered about me? Against my better judgment, I allowed curiosity to overcome good sense, and I called him back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A

  t seven o’clock the next morning, Monday, I pulled my car onto the sandy edge of the road just beyond the Rocky Point Police Station, where Ty worked, and with an old wool beach blanket in hand, I stepped out into the autumn chill. Shivering from the damp ocean air, I clambered up the dune where Wes and I had agreed to meet and stood amid the tall grass, watching the waves. The water was dark green today, with a black sheen.

  Wes screeched to a stop in back of my car and I flashed back to the nightmare ride I’d taken with him last spring. He was a terrible driver, speeding up for no reason, then slamming on the brakes, jerking back and forth, until I’d nearly gotten sick. I shuddered at the memory.

  He hurried out of his car, notebook and doughnut-shop bag in hand, looking as disheveled as ever. He was probably a decade younger than me, in his mid-twenties, and he looked about the same as he had the last time I’d seen him, six months earlier—soft and a little pudgy. His skin was almost as white as the frothy waves behind me. I bet it had been a long time since he’d spent any time outdoors.

  He smiled as he climbed the dune. “Hey, Josie.”

  “Wes,” I replied, not smiling.

  “Do you want to sit in my car so we can talk?”

  “God no. Are you crazy? I remember your car. Everything is sticky.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Never mind,” I said, not wanting to get into it. “Let’s sit on the beach.”

  “Okay.”

  We walked-ran down the dune toward the ocean. The waves grew louder as we approached. The beach was littered with stones and seaweed, and we walked for a minute until we came to a clear patch and spread out my blanket. Gulls stood nearby, eyeing us, hoping for scraps of food. Far down the beach, I saw two people walking away from us.

  “Want a doughnut?” he asked, pulling a honey-glazed one out of the bag.

  “No, I already ate—real food.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with doughnuts.”

  “Not if you’re having dessert.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny. Be nice or I won’t give you the coffee I brought for you.”

  “I’m always nice,” I said, stressing the “I’m.” I waved a hand to dismiss our fruitless blather and extended my hand
to accept the paper cup. “Thank you. That I’ll accept.”

  I opened the lid so the coffee could cool off while waiting for him to speak. I didn’t admit it, but I was touched that Wes remembered that I took my coffee dark, no sugar.

  He seemed to be having trouble getting started. Ignoring his discomfort, I stayed quiet. I didn’t feel like making it easy for him.

  “I am sorry, you know?” he said awkwardly.

  I shrugged. “Even forgetting the headline,” I answered, “you wrote the article so I’d look bad.” I took a sip.

  “No, I didn’t. It’s a bad situation is all, and that came through. It wasn’t personal.”

  “Whatever.” I looked out toward the horizon. The sky was brighter now and bits of gold flickered on the surface of the ocean. Maybe what he said was true, but it still stung.

  He cleared his throat. “I have a question.”

  “Why? What’s your interest? Pandering to the lowest common denominator?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, hurt.

  I shrugged, secretly pleased that I’d touched a sore spot.

  “I’m doing a serious piece,” he explained. “I plan on calling it ‘Anatomy of a Homicide Investigation.’ And I’ve cleared the title with my editor.”

  I shrugged again, feigning indifference. “Where do I fit in?”

  Wes looked shocked. “What do you mean, where do you fit in? You’re one of the principal players.”

  “I am not!” I protested.

  “Look, like it or not, you’re being investigated as both a potential murderer and a possible target. All I’m doing is searching along with the police. And you know, I’m pretty good at what I do. It’s always possible I’ll turn something up.”

  I took a moment and considered Wes’s words. “What do the police say?”

  He gave a sudden bark of laughter. “What do you think? They say go away and let the professionals do their work.”