Deadly Appraisal

by Jane K. Cleland

  “She had a weapon pointed at your back door,” he said.

  “I was on the phone with her. She was pointing the weapon at you.”

  He released her, broke open the gun and examined it, then swung it in her direction. “It’s unloaded.”

  She rubbed her arm and took the gun. “Of course it is!” she said to him. “I’ve got kids.”

  “Zoe, you crack me up. Protecting me with an empty shotgun.”

  With the hand not holding the weapon, she pointed her index finger at me. “I meant what I said before. You need me, you call. Okay?”

  “You bet.”

  Chi and I both watched Zoe’s progress down the steps and across the October-brown grass to her yard.

  “What were you doing around back?” I asked, my heart still racing.

  “Looking.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “Just looking.”

  “You scared us to death! Why didn’t you call and tell me what you were doing?”

  “I did. Twice.”

  “What?” I asked, surprised. “Oh, wow, I must have been in the shower.”

  “May I come in for a minute?”

  “Sure.” I stepped back to give him room to pass, wondering what he wanted. Inside, he blinked a couple times, his eyes adjusting to the dim inside light, then scanned the entryway and looked through the arch into the kitchen. I had the sense that he was memorizing the layout. His intensity was both frightening and reassuring.

  “Do you have a weapon? A gun?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  He met my eyes, unsmiling, for what felt like a long time. “Mr. Bixby said you wanted protection. I’m trying to provide it.”

  I nodded, a little discomfited by his stern attitude. “Makes sense. Yes, I own a gun.”

  “Do you carry it?”

  “No.”

  He nodded and reached for the doorknob.

  “Should I?” I asked.

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “Think you’d be able to use it for real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got a permit?”

  “Not to carry.”

  “Up to you, then.”

  I paused to consider how I felt. My Browning 9mm was upstairs in a drawer of my bedside table. Would it feel empowering to know I had the means to protect myself from my unknown enemy? I asked myself. No, I decided. The last thing I wanted was something else to be concerned about, and if I had a gun in my purse, I’d worry all the time.

  “No,” I said, smiling. “I won’t take it with me.”

  He nodded indifferently. “Are you ready to go?”

  “In a minute,” I responded, thinking I wanted to tidy up the kitchen before I left.

  At the sound of a car approaching, I looked up, beyond Chi, and recognized Dora’s gold Jaguar. She turned into the driveway.

  “Hi, Dora!” I called as she got out.

  “Hi there! You got a sec?”

  “Sure,” I responded, “come on in.” She started up the porch steps and I introduced Chi, who nodded coldly in her direction.

  “I’ll be in my car whenever you’re ready,” he said.

  “Thanks. I won’t be long.”

  “Is that your . . . you know . . . your guard?” Dora whispered as she watched, wide-eyed, as he walked toward his car.

  I nodded. “Yes.” I held open the door for her to enter. “You’re up and about bright and early,” I added, eager to change the subject.

  “And I’m already done with a meeting!”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope.” She laughed a little, embarrassed. “When I saw you on the porch, I couldn’t resist stopping. I have good news.”

  “Excellent!” I said. “I love good news. Come into the kitchen. Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks. My meeting was a breakfast meeting.”

  “That’s important-sounding.”

  She smiled again, opening her purse as she followed me into the kitchen. She extracted a slip of blue paper and handed it to me.

  It was a personal check made out to the Portsmouth Women’s Guild for ten thousand dollars. The signature was neatly written and easy to read, and it was a name I thought I ought to recognize, but I couldn’t place it—Marcus Boyd.

  “Wow,” I said, handing it back. “Who’s he?”

  “Didn’t you meet him? He was at the Gala. He’s the CEO of Armitage Flooring,” she explained, lowering her voice dramatically.

  I nodded, recognizing the company and Boyd’s name—the firm was one of the area’s largest employers, located near where I lived, and his name had been on the Gala invitation list.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “You’re quite a fund-raiser.”

  She smiled. “I am, aren’t I?” she responded with a soft giggle.

  “It’s great,” I said. “The Guild is lucky to have you.”

  I slipped my coffee cup into the dishwasher and used a paper towel to wipe down the counter.

  She sighed. “Now especially, when there’s no one at the helm.”

  “Have you heard the board’s plans?”

  “They’re meeting tonight to discuss it. Maisy’s shoes will be hard to fill.”

  I nodded, thinking that this, at least, was true. Maisy had been a dedicated employee, seemingly sincerely devoted to the cause.

  “You know that the funeral is scheduled for tomorrow?” Dora asked.

  Thursday. Only five days since she died. It already felt like weeks. “No. I hadn’t heard. When and where?”

  “St. John’s,” she said, “at ten.”

  “I want to write that down. Where’s my purse?” I asked rhetorically. “On the stairs!” I limped over to the staircase, where I’d left my handbag, then dug out my calendar and a pen and noted the time and place on the block labeled THURSDAY.

  “Josie, I’m shocked!” Dora mocked as she joined me in the hallway. “You use an actual calendar? I didn’t know anyone still wrote things down.”

  “I know, I know. I’m completely old-fashioned.”

  Dora smiled. As she reached for the front doorknob, she paused and turned back to face me. “It’s so good to see you up and about,” she said.

  I watched through the window until she drove around the bend and disappeared from sight.

  When I stepped outside, ready to go, Chi approached me. “What route do you normally take?” he asked.

  “I-95.”

  “Go another way today. You can get there by taking Route One, right?”

  “Yeah. Or Ocean Avenue,” I said, preparing to slide into the front seat of my rental car.

  “That’s fine. Take whichever route you want, Route One or Ocean Avenue. Just not 95. Not today.”

  I agreed and started the engine. He thinks someone has been watching me, and now, knowing that I almost always take I-95 to get to Prescott’s, thinks that whoever wants to kill me might be lying in wait. With a fresh stab of fear, I wondered if he was right.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I

  took Ocean Avenue for the view. Dune grasses lay almost flat, blown sideways by the strong easterly wind. Fast-moving gray clouds streaked by, leaving the sky dark and foreboding, and whitecaps dotted the midnight blue ocean waters. From the look of it, we’d have more rain before noon.

  I pulled into my usual parking space and made my way across the leaf-strewn lot to the door. As I entered, the phone rang. According to the clock on Gretchen’s desk, it was eight twenty-five. I started speaking the routine Prescott’s greeting, when the caller interrupted.

  “You suddenly remember that Epps could have poisoned the wine and you decide to keep it to yourself?” Detective Rowcliff barked.

  “No,” I sputtered, “not at all. I mean that I told Max as soon as I remembered and I’m—” I stopped and took a deep breath. Don’t defend reasonable behavior, I told myself.

  “Well, what did you remember?” he asked sarcas
tically.

  I took another deep breath. “Let’s talk later. Right now, I’m hanging up and calling Max.” And I did.

  At ten o’clock, Max and I sat across from a still-wrathful Rowcliff. We were upstairs in my office. I was behind my desk. Max and the detective sat in yellow guest chairs angled to half-face each other and half-face me. Together, our chairs formed a comfortable conversation triangle, but there was little comfort in the room.

  “I’ve read Officer Shirl’s report,” Rowcliff said, his tone icy. “And I’ve spoken to her. So I’m up-to-date. Unless you’ve remembered some other detail about the theft that you neglected to tell her?”

  “No,” I said, doing a good job of ignoring his sarcasm, “nothing.”

  “Are you in the habit of leaving twenty-thousand-dollar antiques out in public?”

  “No, of course not. The tureen wasn’t in public. My auction venue is secure.”

  “Except that it wasn’t. It was wide open.”

  “Right. It was an oversight—the doors should have been locked.”

  “But you let people in unsupervised all the time,” he said combatively.

  “Only people we know and trust.”

  He snorted derisively, and I felt stupid in the face of his contempt. Worse, I knew that he was right. It was inexcusable that the outside doors had been left open, and it was probably unwise to let people in unsupervised—even people I knew well, like Eddie, or employees of companies that were bonded, like Macon Cleaners. Worse still, and I hoped I’d never have to tell him, we had a vault that we rarely used, since it was inconvenient to access. I knew better, too. At Frisco’s, neglecting to place an object in the vault was a fireable offense.

  He took a pencil from an inside pocket and began tapping on his thigh. “Tell me what you remembered about Britt Epps.”

  I glanced at Max for support, and he nodded encouragingly. “My memory is hazy, but I do remember his reaching across the table.” With halting words, I explained what I’d seen.

  Rowcliff stopped tapping and listened. “Tell me how the theft and the murder are connected,” he said.

  “I have no idea.”

  I met his eyes, waiting. I was telling the truth, but under his uncompromising gaze, I began to feel guilty, as if I were withholding information or lying.

  “Do you recognize any of these names?” he asked, pulling a sheaf of papers from an inside pocket.

  I accepted the packet and smoothed the fold lines. “Are these the owners of Mitsubishis?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He turned to Max. “Still no reports of stolen vehicles or bodywork.”

  “Max?” I asked, waving the papers.

  Max nodded. “It’s okay. Take a look.”

  “What am I looking for?” I asked Max.

  “Detective?” Max asked.

  Rowcliff looked as if he’d rather drink beer laced with horseradish than solicit my help, but he did so. “First, see if you recognize any names. The car might be owned by someone who lives with someone you know, so, second, see if any address looks familiar. Third, see if any of the tags—the license plates—mean anything to you. Maybe there’s a clue in a vanity plate. You know, SNO BUN means ‘snow bunny’ and GRT CHF means ‘great chef.’ ” He shrugged. “Keep an open mind and see what strikes you.”

  I nodded and looked down, flipping pages. “How many names are there?”

  “A hundred and forty that fit our profile.”

  “Including all of New England?” I asked.

  “Mostly New Hampshire. Other places, too.” Rowcliff shrugged.

  There were five pages, twenty-eight names to a page. I began to read. Rowcliff shifted position so he could tap his pencil on my desk.

  In my first scan through the names, I recognized nothing. Karl Abington was first on the list. He lived on Greene Street in Hanover, and he had an all-number license plate. Marcus Wiggins of Main Street in Manchester, who also had a numbers-only plate, was last.

  I shut my eyes for a moment, disappointed, and began again.

  Britt, I knew, lived and worked in Portsmouth, and I spotted three cars with in-town addresses. Surely, I thought, if his address is on the list, Rowcliff would have flagged it. “Did you check if any of the Portsmouth names have anything to do with Britt Epps?”

  “Not just the Portsmouth listings. We looked at Epps, your staff, and Trevor Woodleigh.”

  “How about Eddie?” I asked.

  “Sure. All your vendors. And you.”

  “Me?” I asked, startled.

  He leaned back, smirking. “You never know.”

  “Josie,” Max said quietly, “continue looking. See what you notice.”

  I nodded, pushing my outrage aside. I knew that Max was right: The quickest way to get rid of Rowcliff was to do as he wanted. Righteous arguing or fussing in any way would only delay the inevitable. I took a breath, looked down, and started at the top.

  I decided to focus on local names first. Someone named Vivian Bodier from Grove Court in Exeter had license plates reading LDY N WHT. I wondered what it meant. Lady in white? Lindy and Whitey?

  Also from Exeter were Saul Panzer on Summer Street and Fred Durkin on Haven Lane, both of whom had numbered plates. Henry Avery on Old Locke Road and Sam Rhodes on Sea Road were both from Rye Beach and had numbered plates. Marlie Blanders lived on Wallis Road in a nearby neighborhood known as Wallis Sands. Her license plate read MFB LV DS, and it made me wonder the name of the person she loved. Edward Roland of Pine Road in North Hampton owned one with numbered plates, as did Brooke Stadler, who lived in Newington. Nothing rang a bell.

  I took one last look, name by name, and finally gave up. “I’m sorry,” I said, putting the pages on my desk, and looked up, trying to hide my disappointment. “Nothing.”

  Half an hour later, Rowcliff was still at it. I was becoming increasingly irritated and achy, and after a while, I dug the bottle of painkillers out of my purse, shook one into my hand, and swallowed it with water.

  “So,” Rowcliff said, “I’ve checked out your staff’s backgrounds and cars. No one has any history of arrest, and no one, including your part-timers, drives a Mitsubishi. What do you think of them? Do you like them? Can you imagine any of them involved in any way in any aspect of the murder, the theft, or the attack on you?”

  I answered truthfully. “No, I can’t. It’s incredible to even think about. I’ve known everyone for years, except Fred, and he came to us with recommendations from a highly respected employment agency that specializes in placing art and antiques professionals.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Six months,” I responded.

  “Do you know any of them outside of work?”

  “Not really. We don’t socialize, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why do you think Eddie is in Oklahoma?” he asked, shifting gears.

  “Because he told me he’d accepted a job in Tulsa.”

  “Have you any new thoughts about why someone would attack you?”

  “No. I wish I did.”

  Rowcliff paused, marking the time with a steady rapping of his pencil.

  “Can I ask you something?” Max asked, looking at Rowcliff.

  “Sure.” The detective narrowed his eyes.

  “Does anyone have an alibi for Monday evening when the attack on Josie occurred? Has anyone been eliminated?”

  “Just her old boss from New York, Trevor Woodleigh,” Rowcliff replied. Max seemed surprised, and I stayed quiet. “We checked out whether anyone rented a car for him last Saturday, and no one did that we can find. But that’s pretty much beside the point, since we discovered that he was front and center at some charity event on Monday—the evening you were attacked.” He shrugged. “So he’s out of it.”

  “How about Eddie? Have you reached him yet?” Max asked.

  Rowcliff twisted his lips, apparently irritated by the question. He leaned forward, aiming his eyes in my direction but speaking to Max. “No. That’s why I asked Josie why she though
t he went to Oklahoma. We have him in Arizona.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “I don’t understand.”

  Rowcliff turned his laser focus in my direction. “What don’t you understand?”

  “What it means. Do you think he lied?” I asked.

  “We’re looking into it,” Rowcliff replied sharply.

  Max caught my eye just as I was about to ask a follow-up question, and shook his head a little, signaling that I should back off: Short answers, Josie. Don’t volunteer information. How often had he repeated those words to me? I was champing at the bit to get details about what seemed, potentially, a huge break in the case, but I was prepared to obey Max’s unspoken instructions, so I simply nodded instead.

  “All right, then. Let me ask you this. Are you certain that you don’t know the origin of the fake tureen?” Rowcliff asked out of the blue.

  “That’s correct—I don’t.”

  “Yet you recognized it as a reproduction right away. How?”

  “I’m an antiques appraiser. Part of what I do is recognize fakes.”

  “Just because she recognized the tureen as a fake doesn’t imply she knows where it comes from,” Max said sternly.

  Rowcliff tapped his foot for a long beat, then said, “We tracked down the importer, and from them, the distributor. Seems they have a policy of limited distribution. They sell only to specialty shops and interior-design studios—no mail order or Internet sales, although there may be some secondary sales on-line. Turns out there are two design firms and six specialty stores within a hundred miles that stock those tureens. Do you know any interior designers?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who?”

  “Several—we sell them things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  I swept my arm wide. “All sorts of things. Period antiques and bindings, mostly.”

  “Bindings?”

  “Leather-bound books. Collectors care about the book. Designers care about the binding. Will it look pretty on the shelf? We sell them by the yard.”

  Rowcliff’s lip curled and he shook his head.

  “When do you expect to have information about where it was purchased?” Max asked.

  “I have two people making calls tracking sales. We’ll know where we stand by the end of the day, tomorrow at the latest.”