“Hi, Max.”
“Josie.” He turned to Officer Shirl and introduced himself.
“Gretchen,” I said, “Officer Shirl was asking about yesterday. Britt, Dora, and I were in here putting up the Post-its—until when? Do you remember?”
“Around eleven thirty, I think.”
“That sounds right,” I agreed. “I left for an appointment not long after that, so I would have no way of knowing if anyone entered later.” I turned toward Gretchen and asked, “Do you? Do you know if anyone came in here after eleven thirty yesterday?”
“Yes,” Gretchen replied, sounding frightened.
“When?” the policewoman asked.
“Who?” I asked simultaneously, then smiled and said, “Her first. When?”
Gretchen paused to think. “Around two.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“You?” I asked, surprised.
“Why?”
“I wanted to be sure the doors were locked. You remember, Josie, Eddie had been in and out and I didn’t even know if the doors were closed.”
“Who’s Eddie?” the police officer asked.
“Oh, sorry. The caterer. He was in taking everything away. You know, tables and plates and things. Cleaning up after the Gala.”
Officer Shirl nodded and made a note. “When you checked, were they locked? The doors?”
“Closed but not locked.”
I looked at Gretchen, stunned. “So anyone could have walked in until you locked them?”
“I guess,” she acknowledged.
“And you’re sure you did, in fact, lock them?” Officer Shirl asked.
“Yes. I turned the dead bolt and moved the sliding bolt into place.”
“At two?” she asked, confirming Gretchen’s recollection.
“About then. Fred might recall. He was in the office, working at his computer. I asked him to cover the phone because I wanted to come back here and check.”
Whether Fred remembered the exact time or not, a doubtful prospect given his absentminded professor–like proclivities, the fact remained that for a period of more than two hours, anyone could have walked into the room from outside, substituted the fake tureen, and spirited away the original.
“Josie left the room at eleven thirty and you entered at two. Are you aware of anyone who came in between those hours?” Max asked, joining the conversation for the first time.
“Just Eddie,” Gretchen replied.
“No, no,” I clarified, “Eddie was here early on. Before Britt and Dora arrived. Max is asking about after they left.”
“Eddie came back,” she explained.
“Really?” I asked. “Why?”
She shrugged. “He said he forgot something. He popped into the office and said he’d just run around back. Actually, that’s why I thought about making sure the doors were locked.” She turned troubled eyes toward me. “That was okay, wasn’t it, Josie? To let him show himself in? I mean, it was Eddie. He’s here all the time. Or he was.”
“What do you mean ‘was’?” Max asked, pouncing on her word choice.
“Well, he moved, right? To Oklahoma, isn’t that what you said, Josie?”
Officer Shirl aimed laser-sharp eyes at me. “What?” she asked.
“That’s right. He called me from the road to tell me good-bye. He said his business went bust and he’d taken a job in Tulsa. I asked if it was okay for him to be leaving in the middle of a murder investigation, and he said he had the police’s permission.”
“Who did he tell?” Officer Shirl asked, sounding as if she disbelieved him—or me.
“That’s a question for Detective Rowcliff, who’s handling the investigation, and,” Max said with a quick glance at his watch, “is due here any minute.”
“You called him about the theft?” Officer Shirl asked, confused.
“No, he scheduled an appointment related to the Gaylor murder investigation,” Max explained. “You probably know that Maisy Gaylor was murdered here last Saturday during the Gala charity event.”
“Got it,” the officer said, nodding. “Prescott’s is hosting some kind of crime wave, huh?”
“As far as we know, the theft is unrelated to any other event,” Max deadpanned. I wondered if he believed it.
“Let me get this straight,” Officer Shirl said. “Eddie, the caterer, had been in this room earlier in the day yesterday, and then he came back—what time?”
Gretchen paused before answering. “Right about one thirty, I think. I was still eating lunch at my desk.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Just a minute or two. I didn’t notice in particular, but I’m pretty sure I heard his truck drive off almost right away.”
Eddie, the glib bastard, had sneaked into my building and stolen the most valuable antique in the room. Probably he took a copy of the catalog home after the Gala, then spent Sunday weighing his options. What did he figure? That this would be an easy way to get a stake for his new life? And that my insurance would cover it, so it was no big deal?
Officer Shirl continued to ask questions, but I stopped listening. I was so angry I could spit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
T
he PA system crackled and Fred’s voice announced that Detective Rowcliff was on the phone. What now? I thought. I cast a panicked look in Max’s direction.
“Would you like me to take it?” he asked, responding to my unspoken plea.
“Thank you, Max. Yes.”
As he walked toward the phone in the cabinet on the back wall, I took a deep breath, preparing for what I was certain would be more bad news. Officer Shirl stood nearby, respectfully silent and attentive. Gretchen’s eager eyes glinted with excitement. I knew her well enough to understand that she wasn’t taking pleasure in my pain—she just loved the drama of the moment.
“Detective?” Max said into the phone.
He stood with his back to us, looking relaxed. I couldn’t imagine talking to Rowcliff and feeling at ease. Gretchen edged closer to Max, the better to hear his side of the conversation.
“This is Max Bixby. Yes, Josie is here, but she’s pretty worn down, so I thought I’d take the call. . . . Yes. . . . No, she’s okay, just tired out. Well, the doctor said she’d be sore for a while, so it’s not unexpected. . . . Well, sure, it’s physical, but also, I’m sorry to report that there’s been a theft here. . . . Of course we did. . . . Officer Shirl. . . . One of the antiques auctioned at the Gala . . . a soup bowl—a Chinese porcelain tureen. . . . I don’t know. I just got here myself. . . . That’s right. Officer Shirl. . . . Yes. . . . Sure. She’s right here. Do you want to speak to her now? . . . Okay. . . . I’ll put her on when we’re done. . . . Okay. . . . Really? . . . That’s great news. . . . Hold on. I’ll ask Josie.”
Officer Shirl’s intelligent eyes followed along as Max turned to face me.
“Josie,” Max called, “good news. Using only forensics, they were able to ID the car that almost killed you. It’s a 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer ES. Black. Does that ring a bell?”
I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “No. I’ve never known anyone who drives a Mitsubishi. How can they know the specific model or year?”
“The paint.”
I nodded, impressed. “Wow. That’s incredible.”
As Max turned back and began to speak into the phone again, I limped over to the wall and sat down on the floor. Stretching out my leg eased the throbbing a bit. I ached and hurt everywhere. My nerves were stretched tight and my emotions were so tangled, I couldn’t even find a thread to try to sort through the mess. I closed my eyes and listened to Max.
“No, she doesn’t recognize the car at all. Maybe the choice of a Mitsubishi was opportunistic—maybe whoever attempted to kill Josie stole it. . . . Really? . . . That’s quick work, Detective. . . . Now what do you do? . . . That makes sense. . . . Already? And? . . . Nothing?”
I wondered what he was referring to.
“Okay. . . . T
hen let’s talk in the morning. . . . I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll check.”
I opened my eyes as he turned to me and asked, “Josie, what’s your schedule tomorrow?”
I couldn’t remember. Tomorrow? What day is that? I asked myself. Wednesday. All I planned to work on was finding Eddie, the bastard.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I mean, I can’t remember. Tomorrow is Wednesday, right? I don’t think I have anything scheduled. Gretchen? Can you remember?”
“No outside appointments,” she concurred, vamping like an actress pleased to finally have a line to speak.
“Okay, then,” Max said. Turning to face Officer Shirl, he added, “When I’m done, Detective Rowcliff would like to talk to you.”
“Of course,” she said, nodding.
He turned back to the wall and spoke to Rowcliff. “Josie is open all day, so why don’t you and I talk in the morning and we can decide from there. . . . Okay. . . .”
He listened awhile longer, then handed the phone to Officer Shirl. Looking concerned, he came over and asked me when I was planning to go home.
“Soon. Once I know our next steps.” I turned to Gretchen. “You can head back to the office now, Gretchen. If Officer Shirl needs more info, I’ll have her talk to you there, okay?”
“Sure. Would you like a cup of tea or something? You look kind of tired.”
I smiled at the understatement. “Thanks, but no.”
She flashed her megasmile, then left. Officer Shirl stood arrow-straight, listening.
“Yes, sir. That’s excellent, sir, thank you.”
“I wonder what he’s saying,” I remarked in a low tone.
“He told me that he was going to offer Officer Shirl support. Whatever resources she needs.”
“That means he thinks the theft is related to the murder.”
“He doesn’t know, Josie, any more than we do. He’s committed to checking everything out.”
I nodded, wondering if the answer wasn’t right in front of us. Eddie. Did Eddie kill Maisy? And steal the tureen? The cretin.
Officer Shirl hung up the phone. I took a deep breath, pushed against the wall, and got up from the floor. Max, towering above me, reached down to help, but I waved him off. “I’m too tender to touch, but thanks,” I explained.
Officer Shirl reached us as I stood. “Whew,” I said from the effort of standing.
“Detective Rowcliff filled me in,” she said. “We’ll be taking a look at things from the dual perspective, theft and murder.”
“Good. Let us know if we can help,” Max said.
“Thank you,” she replied, nodding.
“Do you have any other questions for Josie at this time?”
“No. Not now.”
“Then we’ll leave you to it. We’ll be in her office for a little while if you need us.”
“And after that? When do you close?”
“Normally around five,” I told her.
“The crime-scene work may take longer than that,” she said, glancing at her watch.
“I’ll ask someone to stay as late as you need,” I assured her.
Max and I stopped in the office and I asked Fred to stay until Officer Shirl was done, and then lock up. He was a night owl, so it wasn’t a huge imposition, although I knew it might make for a long day for him.
“Sure. No problem. Maybe I can finish up the silver,” he said, glum.
“Have you run into trouble?” I asked.
“Yeah. One of Mrs. McCarthy’s bowls is French,” he said.
That explained his moroseness. Not every country made it as easy as England to authenticate silver. While France, for example, had standardized its marks since the 1200s, they also allowed a huge variety of symbols. Often the identification process resembled a needle-in-a-haystack hunt more than methodical research.
At a guess, the piece Fred was struggling to identify was one of Mrs. McCarthy’s aunt Augusta’s local purchases. We were relatively close to Quebec, so it wasn’t unusual to find French-produced silver in New Hampshire antiques stores. French silver was often brought to the French-Canadian province by immigrants and later acquired by Americans on vacation.
“Good luck,” I said with an empathetic grimace.
“It’s good that I like a challenge,” he acknowledged, looking content.
“It’s more than good; it’s terrific.” I turned to Gretchen and raised my foot to relieve the pounding pressure on my ankle. “Is Eric still around?”
“He’ll be back in a few minutes. He’s returning the truck.”
I’d been so absorbed in the events in the auction venue, I hadn’t heard the rumble of the rented twenty-foot truck as it rolled out. It made me wonder what else I’d missed.
In business, try hard never to be wrong, my father told me years ago. You’re not allowed a lot of errors in the big leagues. And the easiest way to avoid big mistakes is to consider everything—gather the facts and weigh them appropriately. The biggest trap is selective perception. That’s what happened to me at the Gala, I realized. I’d perceived some things but hadn’t noticed others. Same as now. I’d been so focused on solving the theft of the tureen, I’d missed Eric’s departure. And you can’t avoid it, my father warned. Selective perception happens all the time. So avoid arrogance at all costs. Never be positive—never be wrong.
“Anything for me?” I asked, shaking off the thought.
“A message,” Gretchen replied, handing me a slip of paper.
Pam Field had called. She’d just read about my attack in the paper and wanted to know if I was all right.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“That’s it. I’m all set.”
Upstairs, I saw that it was almost five. Once Max got situated in the yellow wing chair closest to my desk, I asked, “So Rowcliff isn’t coming?”
“Right. No need to show you illustrations, since they’ve ID’d the car.”
“What else did he say?”
“He told me that the car hadn’t been reported stolen, nor was it in a body shop getting worked on.”
“In Portsmouth?”
“In New England.”
“Wow,” I said, “that’s quick work.”
“Gotta love computers.”
“Really. What does he do now?”
“He cross-references ownership records from the DMV and gets a list of owners of black 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer ESes.”
“And then?”
“Then they show you the list and hope you recognize a name.”
I felt my heart begin to pound. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Sounds like they’re making progress.”
He nodded, looked at his watch, and said, “Are you up to telling me about Britt?”
“Yeah.” I paused, refocusing on my earlier revelation. “I remembered something,” I said. “Something that makes me wonder if Britt’s the killer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
W
hat?” Max asked.
“When Britt handed the bid sheets to Dora, his hand passed over my glass and over Maisy’s. He reached across the table, then pulled his hand back. That’s opportunity.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “You saw him do something that makes you think he poisoned the wine?”
“No. No, not at all. Max, the truth is that I was a million miles away, involved in my own thoughts, and sort of watching Dora, but I definitely remember that Britt’s arm stretched across as he handed her the bid sheets.”
“Okay. What else?” he asked, sounding unimpressed.
“I know, I know, it sounds unbelievable, but it’s not. I heard from someone—I don’t remember who—” I said smoothly, looking down to pluck an invisible thread off my thigh, hoping to deflect attention away from the fact that I wasn’t mentioning my source, “that Maisy consulted Britt professionally, and paid in cash.”
“Really?” Max asked, intrigued and surprised.
“So, maybe there’s a motiv
e there somewhere,” I said. “I don’t mean to harp on the point, but as far as I know, Britt is the only person who could have poisoned the wine.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I remember drinking my wine and seeing Maisy drink hers, and we were both fine. Then Maisy put her glass on the table alongside mine, and a few minutes later, she picked up a glass, drank from it, and was dead.” I shrugged. “I was there. No one but Britt could have done it.”
“Whoa! Hold your horses, young lady,” he said lightheartedly. “You remember seeing Britt’s arm reach over the wineglasses—although you say you weren’t actually looking at him—but okay, even if that’s true, there was a roomful of people. Someone would have seen him.”
“I know. Except that no one did.”
He nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “Point taken. But let’s go back to the motive thing. How do you know that Maisy consulted Britt? Or that she paid in cash? How can you possibly know these things?”
Before I answered, I swung my chair to face the big maple tree, which was barely visible in the late-afternoon dusk. The parking lot’s perimeter lights were on, and in the stark white brightness, the autumn leaves glowed an iridescent ruby red.
“I heard from Wes Smith, the reporter.”
“Josie,” Max said sternly, and I knew I was in for it.
“Yeah?”
“Look at me.”
I spun back.
“Why are you talking to a reporter?”
“Wes has access to information I want.”
“It’s not smart, Josie.”
“Why?”
“How can you ask that? Look at the articles he’s written, for God’s sake!”
“We have an off-the-record agreement now.” I shrugged, fighting a wave of fatigue. “I’m scared, Max, really scared, and when I can ask questions and get answers, I feel less frightened.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Well, for instance, Wes and I think maybe Maisy was blackmailing someone. She just got a passport and she put four hundred thousand dollars—not a fortune, but not hay, either—in a Swiss bank account.”
“Wes told you all of that?”
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