Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  I nodded, then turned to Paige. “Ready?”

  “Sure.” She stood up.

  “Follow me,” I told her, swinging my arm over my head in a show of fun bravado, and led the way to the warehouse.

  Rosalie’s desk was in the new-inventory area, swaddled in protective padding. I carefully unwrapped the quilted fabric, and when the desk was revealed, Paige exclaimed, “I remember it!”

  Under our bright lighting, the red-dark patina of the mahogany almost glowed. “It’s a beauty,” I said. “Your mom had wonderful taste.”

  She smiled a little at my words and circled the desk.

  I noticed residue from the police examination, powder and something a little sticky. Using a clean white cotton rag that we bought by the bagful, I wiped everything clean. I spotted no variations in the finish, which might indicate refurbishing and is almost certain to diminish value.

  As Paige looked on, I continued my examination.

  I slid each drawer out and examined every surface. Using a handheld spotlight, I illuminated the underparts of the desk. The wood was cracked, but no more than I would expect in a two-hundred-year-old piece of furniture. In dealer’s parlance, it appeared “dry and untouched.”

  “Would you hand me the camera on that shelf?” I asked Paige.

  I photographed the faded maker’s mark, then turned my attention to the blotter. It appeared permanently affixed. It was thin, and the fleur-de-lis pattern etched in gold on the four corner pieces was a perfect match for the silkwood inlay on the slant top and drawer fronts. I wondered if the blotter had been fabricated to match the desk and was, in fact, period appropriate, or someone had commissioned it at a later date. As I ran my finger along the edge, I asked Paige if she knew.

  “My mom had it made for Rosalie’s birthday.”

  “Do you remember when?”

  She nodded. “About a year after Rosalie’s graduation, I think. She got the blotter for her next birthday.”

  I eased my fingertips under the front edge and felt it give and I lifted it. A standard business-size envelope was centered under the blotter. It was labeled Paige. Its presence told me that the police hadn’t looked under the blotter.

  Paige reached for the envelope.

  “You can’t touch it,” I told her. “We need to call the police.”

  “It’s mine,” she protested.

  “I know. But the police need to test for fingerprints and stuff. Then you can read it.”

  She didn’t speak, but I could tell from the tension in her jaw that she was angry. I walked half a dozen steps to a wall phone and, from memory, dialed Officer Brownley’s cell phone.

  “It’s Josie. I found a letter to Paige in the desk.”

  “Where?” she asked, sounding astounded.

  “Under the blotter.”

  After a long pause, “Have you touched it?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks, Josie. I’m on my way.”

  “Will you have to take it? Can you examine it here? It’s addressed to Paige.”

  Another pause. “Tell her I’m sorry, but we will need to take it. We’ll be sure and let her know what it says as soon as we can.”

  I hung up and repeated Officer Brownley’s response.

  Paige stood up, her arms crossed in front of her, her eyes icy.

  I bit my lip. I knew I’d done the right thing, the only thing under the circumstances, but still—it must be awful for her to see the communication and be prohibited from reading it.

  “Come on,” I said, and took her back to the office.

  She sat with her lips pressed together and her eyes down, listening to music. I asked Fred for some papers to sort. He handed me a stack from the files in Rosalie’s house, and while we waited for Officer Brownley, I systematically reviewed each one. I found nothing of interest. Half an hour later, just as Gretchen and Sasha were arriving, Officer Brownley arrived. Accompanied by Paige, I led her to Rosalie’s desk.

  “We didn’t think to look there,” Officer Brownley remarked when I showed her where we found the letter.

  I nodded. “Can you see if the envelope’s unsealed? If so, maybe we can at least read the letter now.”

  Wearing plastic gloves, she flipped it over. The flap was tucked in snugly.

  “We need to let the trace-evidence people examine it intact,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. Paige didn’t respond at all, but she looked angrier than ever.

  Officer Brownley slid the envelope into an evidence bag, promised to keep us posted, and left.

  “How long will it take?” Paige asked once she was gone.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Josie!” Gretchen’s voice crackled on the intercom. “Fred wants to show you something.”

  “Let’s go,” I told Paige.

  As soon as we stepped inside the office, Fred handed me a collection of hand-written notes in a manila folder, and said, “I found it just this way.”

  I nodded and opened the folder. The notes were written on steno-pad sheets, the top of each page frayed where it had been ripped from the notebook. I read:

  Private Richard Windsor

  • recruited Kaskaskia, 1803

  • living in Sangamon River, IL???

  • joined L&C, Camp Dubois, 1 Jan 1804

  More than two hundred years ago, I thought, about the same time as a British carpenter was building Rosalie’s desk. I continued reading.

  DOB—unknown

  POB—unknown

  Woodsman, hunter

  Q:

  1. Where was he from? (And when born?)

  2. Where did he learn to read and write?

  3. Formal schooling? (Records kept?)

  4. Church records?

  5. Harrison Bros. records?

  His date and place of birth were unknown. So, too, it seemed, was his background. Rosalie’s notes went on for several pages. I was reading a scholar’s research. Evidently, Private Windsor was a member of the Lewis and Clark expedition. I wondered why she was interested in him more than any of the others. I skipped to the end.

  Peabody Museum—Harvard

  Nat’l Park Service—Oregon???

  “Take a look at this,” Fred said. “It may relate to the same thing.”

  He handed me a typewritten letter of agreement documenting the sale of a book called The Private Journal of Private Richard Windsor. The letter was dated March 4, 1981. Sarah Chaffee bought it from someone called Hayden Furleigh for $4,000, a huge sum for any but the rarest books back then, and still a substantial chunk of cash. I got an adrenaline rush. Bingo! I thought. Rosalie was right—potentially, the journal was of incalculable value. I glanced at the last entry I’d read:

  Peabody Museum—Harvard

  Nat’l Park Service—Oregon???

  Were those two museums that housed documents Rosalie wanted to consult? I wondered. Or were those two possible buyers of the journal?

  I turned to Paige. “Who’s Sarah Chaffee?” I asked.

  “My mother. Why?”

  “Who’s Hayden Furleigh?

  “My aunt. Rodney’s mother.”

  “Hayden and your mom were sisters?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “We’re going through your sister’s papers, and there was a reference to them. Do you know anything about your aunt?”

  “Not much. We didn’t speak to that side of the family.”

  “I thought the breach was between your sister and Rodney?”

  “I don’t think so. I think they inherited it. I don’t really know. Except that whatever it was about had something to do with money.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, thinking that maybe Rodney would be able to shed some light on the issue.

  “Good work, Fred. Outstanding. Is this everything? Are you done?”

  “Yup.”

  “Put everything in the safe, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “And then go home!”

  “Yeah,” he agreed,
stretching.

  I didn’t want to say anything to Paige until I had my hands on the journal, but I was so energized I could hardly contain myself from hooting and kicking up my heels. It looked like we’d identified Rosalie’s secret treasure. Standard operating procedure for a scholar would be to photocopy the journal to protect the original from wear and tear or harm. Assuming Rosalie had followed this protocol, where were the photocopied pages? And where was the original journal?

  We’d need to go through every book on every shelf to see if she’d disguised the journal by slipping it into an ordinary dust jacket, a simple way to camouflage it from casual observers. I shook my head. From her own journal entry it was obvious that Rosalie hadn’t considered Cooper a casual observer. On the contrary, her assessment was that he was a thief. I wondered if he was a murderer, too.

  My next step was to be certain we hadn’t missed the photocopy, but before I could ask Gretchen to get teams to Rosalie’s office at Hitchens and her house to pack up all of the books and remaining paper materials, the phone rang. It was Officer Brownley.

  “I need to fax you the letter.”

  “Sure.” I gave her the number.

  Almost immediately, the fax machine whirred and clicked and a sheet of paper rolled out.

  Dear Paige,

  If you’re reading this, something’s happened to me. Not that I expect anything to happen to me, mind you, but you know me—I like to be prepared.

  So, kiddo, here’s the scoop: We own a rare journal. Actually, calling it rare doesn’t begin to describe it—it’s darn close to priceless. I had to take it out of storage because Cooper was sniffing around. He saw a receipt from Tim’s where I was storing it and—surprise, surprise—got his own unit. I nearly fainted when I ran into him there! Knowing how much he wants to get his hands on it, I could just see him sneaking in a pair of bolt-cutters to break in and steal it. Anyway, the purpose of this note is twofold.

  First, when you’re old enough, sell it. I hope a museum will buy it, but if you get a higher bid from a private collector, take it! I’m too romantic for my own good and it was a romantic notion to donate it. It’s appropriate to sell it, sweetie, so don’t hesitate. It’ll set you up for life—college, travel, everything. Talk to Josie Prescott. You know who I mean, right? My friend, Josie. She’s as honest as the day is long and will guide you in selling it for the best price.

  Second, here’s where I put it—not ideal because of the harsh weather conditions, but at least it’s safe:

  DZYNVMRL&X.

  Love you to bits,

  I took a deep breath and handed it to Paige. “Here.”

  Paige read it slowly, then gave it back to me and sat in statuelike silence, rivulets of tears running down her cheeks.

  Tears welled as I read her tribute to me, and I closed my eyes for a moment, willing myself to regain control.

  “It sounds just like her,” I said after a moment.

  “Did Cooper kill her?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know, but you can bet the police are checking into it.”

  I called Officer Brownley. “I’ve read it,” I told her.

  “Obviously we’re following up on Cooper’s storage unit. My question to you is, do you or Paige know what those letters at the bottom mean?”

  “Probably it’s the same code as in the kitchen. The artichoke code.”

  “That’s what I figured. Can you decipher it for me?”

  “Sure. I’ll call you back.”

  As I hung up, I asked, “Do you want to decode it, Paige?”

  She shook her head. I patted her shoulder, and said, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Upstairs, I drew a three-row grid. I wrote artichokes across the top and DZYNVMRL&X in the center. One by one, I decoded the characters. Six letters in, I paused, certain I knew the answer.

  I stared at the word. My pulse began to race. I stood up, then sat down, too agitated to stay still. “ ‘Cheese,’ ” I said aloud, took a deep breath, telling myself to focus, to slow down, and then, with a nod, I rushed to finish.

  I hurried back downstairs. Paige hadn’t moved. Her cheeks were wet.

  “Paige, do you have a cheese cave?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, brushing away her tears with the back of her hand.

  Gretchen handed her a tissue.

  “Tell me about it,” I directed.

  “We built it.”

  “You and Rosalie?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where?”

  “In back of the house.”

  I gawked at her. “The hill in the back corner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You made a cheese cave?” I asked, flabbergasted.

  Paige smiled as she patted away more tears, then twisted the tissue into a screw. “It’s not much of a cave. It’s kind of small.”

  “Why did you make it?”

  “For cheese. Rosalie thought it would be fun to make it ourselves.”

  “What got her interested in making cheese?” I asked.

  “A woman named Michelle Grover, I think her name is. Rosalie heard her speak at some lecture somewhere and got kind of excited. We got a book.”

  The book on the kitchen counter, I recalled. “What’s inside the cave?”

  “Nothing. I mean, just the shelves, you know?”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s small. It’s really just a dome covering a hole in the ground with some shelves and a really low ceiling.”

  “A ceiling! That sounds pretty impressive.”

  Paige giggled, her tears, for the moment, dried up. “You wouldn’t say that if you saw it. It’s just chicken wire, cement, and wood.”

  I shook my head. “When did you build it?”

  “Over Christmas break.”

  “You did all that in one week?”

  “It only took a few days—remember how warm it was over Christmas? It wasn’t all that hard.”

  That’s just before Rosalie emptied her storage room at Tim’s, I thought. Tingles of anticipation raced up and down my spine.

  I picked up the phone. “Officer Brownley?”

  “Were you able to decode it?”

  “Yup. ‘Cheese cave.’ ”

  “What is that?”

  “I’ll meet you at the Chaffee house and show you.”

  “No,” she said, and hearing the intensity of her response, I paused, fear returning. “I’ll come get you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I was in appraiser mode, eager to discover Rosalie’s—now Paige’s—treasure, and in my enthusiasm, I’d lost sight of the larger issue. Rosalie had been murdered and her killer was still at large—and, from what I could tell, as we were circling closer and closer, the police thought there was a chance that the murderer had set his sights on me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  O

  fficer Brownley stepped inside, setting the chimes jingling. “All set?” she asked.

  “Give me one sec,” I said, and ran up to my office. I dialed her cell phone. “It’s me from upstairs. I didn’t want to discuss Cooper in front of Paige, but I need to tell you something right away. You know how Rosalie wrote in her diary about catching Cooper with a copy of her journal pages in his hands? We’ve finished going through her papers—there’s no such copy. Apparently it’s missing.”

  She paused, considering the implications. “Thanks.”

  Downstairs, I grabbed my toolbox in case we needed to open a chest or some mechanism in the cheese cave. Officer Brownley drove.

  I’d offered Paige the opportunity to stay at the office and hang out with Gretchen, but she’d chosen to come along. In her shoes, I would have done the same thing.

  It was another sunny day, though not as mild as yesterday. Sunlight warmed the New Hampshire winter colors, various shades of brown and gray, lending them resonance and richness. No wonder Evan Woodricky chose to stay in New Hampshire to paint, I thought. Browns and grays aren’t only the shades that Whist
ler preferred, they’re also the colors of New Hampshire in winter.

  All at once I realized that I hadn’t heard from Wes in response to my question about what happened to Rosalie after she had drinks with Gerry, and then a moment later, it occurred to me that I hadn’t checked my voice mail. I patted around inside my tote bag until I found the disposable cell phone Officer Brownley had bestowed on me. It felt odd in my hand.

  Sure enough, Wes had called.

  “So the answer is that I don’t know and I don’t think anyone else does either. No one admits driving Rosalie anywhere. According to my police source, both Gerry and the driver say that Gerry got in his limo alone and went straight home. I heard that Gerry’s now saying he didn’t see Rosalie that night at all, that it was a different night. Even though the bartender says otherwise, try and prove it’s a lie. The lounge was packed, so how can the staff be a hundred percent certain it was that night she was or wasn’t there? Anyway, that’s it. . . . Whatcha got for me? Call me.”

  I closed the phone and slid it back into my tote bag. I shrugged. I was glad when we turned onto Hanover Street and I could stop thinking about where poor Rosalie had been the night she was murdered—and whether someone, most likely Cooper, had lured her to her death.

  Pulling up to the house, Officer Brownley hit a huge puddle and cascades of water streamed up on either side of her patrol car. She parked close to the banked snow, and we piled out.

  With Officer Brownley and Paige close behind me, I trudged through the yard. I used my arm to sweep away the heavy, wet snow that blocked access to the cheese cave.

  The doors were reminiscent of those used in storm cellars, two wooden panels lying at a moderate angle, hinged on the outside, and braced with a crossbar. In the center of the crossbar was a lock.

  “Okay,” I said, “here goes nothing.”

  The key I’d found hidden in Rosalie’s toiletry box fit, and the doors opened easily. I smiled in eager anticipation, dropped to my knees, and leaned in.