My little flashlight lit up white-washed, dimpled concrete walls and a single row of wooden shelves, maybe ash. Not bad, I thought, for two amateurs and a few days’ construction. Within easy reach, I saw a tan metal box.
“There’s a box,” I called, my words muffled and echoey in the airless chamber.
“Don’t touch it without gloves,” Officer Brownley instructed.
Gingerly gripping the handle on the top, I slid it toward me and shone my light around one last time to be certain I hadn’t missed anything. I stood up and relocked the doors while clutching the metal box to my chest, as if it were gold.
“Got it,” I said.
I sat in the front seat next to Officer Brownley. The box rested on the seat between us. Paige was in the back.
Wearing plastic gloves, Officer Brownley unhitched the latch. Inside was an unsealed, padded envelope, the kind used to mail fragile items. She wiggled it out. Inside the envelope was a see-through plastic baggie, and inside the baggie was a leather-bound book. She reached into her coat pocket for another pair of plastic gloves. Once I had them on, she handed me the baggie.
I extracted the butter-soft volume from its plastic container, and carefully opened it. The title page read, The Journal of Private Richard Windsor. It was hand numbered, in an elegant hand, 12 of 20, and it had been printed by Harrison Brothers of Boston in 1809. I turned a few pages. Even through the gloves I sensed that the paper felt right, heavy and cottony. At first glance, the volume appeared to be in mint condition. I opened to page one and began to read.
“Not one among us knows that I can read and write,” it began, “and I do not intend to tell them. The less the others know, the better it will be for me. When they think you are less educated and knowledgeable than they are, they talk more openly and with less discretion.”
“What is it?” Officer Brownley asked.
“I’m not sure.”
This one slim volume was, without question, valuable. But whether it was worth a few hundred dollars, as any leather-bound book in excellent condition from that era would be, or tens or hundreds of thousands—or more—required research.
Officer Brownley watched as I repackaged the book.
“I’ll need to take the book in for forensic examination,” Officer Brownley stated.
I chose my words carefully. “I understand that there may be forensic evidence that you need to collect. But you should have an expert there to ensure that you don’t damage it.”
“Like you?”
“Yes.”
Paige asked, “May I see it?”
“Sure.” I carefully extracted it from the metal container and padded envelope. I held it up, still inside the plastic bag. “We shouldn’t touch it any more until after the police finish with it.”
She nodded and stared at the cover.
“It’s old, huh?” Officer Brownley said.
“Yeah.”
“So why is it rare?” she asked. “Because it’s from the early eighteen hundreds?”
“Certainly that’s one reason. And it’s in pristine condition. And, evidently, only twenty copies were printed, which means it’s scarce. Who knows how many of the other copies exist, so it’s also probably rare.”
“Does it matter what the book is about?”
“Absolutely. We need to research it, but if Richard Windsor did, in fact, write this journal while on the Lewis and Clark expedition, it’s priceless. It’s of indescribable historical importance.”
“Which is why Cooper wanted to steal it,” Paige interjected, sounding angry.
“We don’t know for sure that he did want to,” Officer Brownley cautioned.
“Rosalie said so in her letter.”
“I know, and we’re investigating it. But we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”
Paige, sitting in the backseat, her arms folded across her chest, seemed utterly unpersuaded by Officer Brownley’s reasonable comment. From the look on Paige’s face, she was ready to round up a posse and lynch him before nightfall.
“Do you think Ms. Chaffee told anyone about the journal?” Officer Brownley asked me.
“Her book editor,” I replied, easing the journal back into the padded envelope and sliding it into the box. “My guess is that’s it.”
We discussed logistics and Officer Brownley agreed to drop us at Heyer’s so I could hang another painting. She glanced at her watch. “I’ll call the tech guys while you’re there and set something up so you can talk to them before they begin.”
“Can I come inside?” Paige asked. “I’d like to see where Rosalie worked if that’s all right.”
I agreed as Officer Brownley pulled to a stop at the front door. “Call me before you come out,” she instructed, and the hair on the back of my neck bristled.
Inside Heyer’s, Paige and I signed in at the reception station.
“Hey, Josie! Aren’t you an early bird!” Una said.
“Am I? What time is it?”
“A little after nine—not so early, I guess.”
“Well, let’s hope I catch a worm regardless,” I replied, then realized how stupid that sounded, and laughed. “Well, actually, I don’t want a worm. I’m just here to hang a painting. Have you met Paige?”
“I think so. At last summer’s company picnic, right?”
“That was a fun time,” Paige said, leaving it open as to whether they’d ever met.
“I liked Rosalie a lot and I’m really, really sorry for your loss,” Una said.
“Thank you,” Paige murmured, looking down.
“Why don’t you wait over here until I see if it’s all right for you to take a look at Rosalie’s office, okay? I won’t be long.”
“Okay,” she said, taking a seat in the far corner.
I greeted Tricia, then pointed to the still-crated James Gale Tyler seascape. “Would you let Gerry know I’m here? I’d like to hang it if I can.”
She picked up her phone and buzzed through. “Josie’s here to hang the painting.”
“Josie!” Gerry shouted, sounding as buoyant as ever. Tricia hung up the phone as Gerry poked his head out of his office. “Great to see ya, doll,” he told me, winking. “Go to work!”
I pried open the crate, then wrestled the painting out. As I set aside the container, I suddenly had a thought. After Gerry left The Miller House, perhaps Edie followed Rosalie home. Edie could have suggested that they talk about the situation calmly, like adults, and Rosalie, naive and optimistic and deeply in love, agreed, and got in Edie’s car.
Edie might have taken her to a quiet place—the Rocky Point jetty, for instance. Maybe she intended only to talk, but Rosalie, euphoric and thus reckless, refused to give up Gerry; probably she even refused to discuss it, instead suggesting that Edie resign herself to the inevitable, and so from Edie’s perspective, there were no other options—Rosalie had to die.
Then I thought about Cooper. He had no alibi, which meant that the same time sequence would work for him, too. If he was desperate to get Rosalie to stop her legal actions against him, he might have wanted a private talk. Maybe he followed her, waiting for an opportunity to persuade her to discuss the situation one-on-one, without lawyers. Rosalie, riding high with a book contract and secure in the knowledge that the journal was safe, might have stepped voluntarily into Cooper’s car. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Cooper’s jealous rage exploding in one disastrous strike.
I shook off the frightening image and breathed in deeply. Finally I turned to Gerry and forced myself to focus on the task at hand.
“So I’m still going to hang the Tyler here, right?” I asked, pointing at an area above two club chairs set off to the side.
“What do you think? Should we hang it in Ned’s office?” he asked, squeezing my arm. “He said he likes it.”
“Ned?” I repeated, surprised. “Ned likes Western themes, not maritime art. Did Ned say he wanted this piece in particular?”
“Not directly,” he replied with a wink. “He admired
it, so I said to myself, let him have it. Ned’s a helluva trooper, ya know? CFO of a company like this with a CEO like me . . . ,” he said, trailing off into a guffaw. “I owe that dude a lot.”
“It’s up to you, of course, but the Sharp was a very generous gift.”
“Thanks, doll. But with the board meeting coming up, well, let me just say that he’s risen to the occasion—really acted above and beyond the call, you know what I’m saying?”
I didn’t have any idea what he was saying and paused to give myself time to think. “Whatever you want is fine with me. How about if I offer him the choice—the Tyler or another Western scene?”
He smiled broadly. “That’s a killer idea, doll.” He rubbed my arm and I drew away.
“If he chooses a Western-themed object, we could sell the Tyler to pay for it.”
“Nah, it’s only money, right, doll? But I like the idea of asking him. It’ll be a sign of respect.” He chuckled, amused at I didn’t know what. “Whatever you think is best, you go ahead and do. I know you won’t rook me.”
“Sure. I’ll take it over now,” I said, glad for an excuse to leave Gerry’s presence. He gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“I’ll catch ya later, doll,” Gerry said, swinging his coat over his shoulder. To Tricia he added, “I’ll be at that meeting. Should be back after lunch. Ya need me, ya call.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
I selected the tools I’d need to hang the painting from the toolbox I kept near Tricia’s desk, then carefully picked it up and headed out of the anteroom. “Tricia, would you ask Una to send Paige back here? Paige is Rosalie’s sister, and wants to see where she worked.”
“Poor thing.”
I stepped into the corridor and waved to Paige as she turned the corner. “I need to show this painting to someone,” I told her, pointing toward the seascape. “Would you keep me company? You can see Rosalie’s office in a few minutes.”
By the time we got to the other side of the building, my arms were feeling it and I was glad to lean the painting against Ned’s assistant’s desk. I greeted her, introduced Paige, and surveyed the anteroom. There was no obvious place to hang it. The walls were full, overdecorated, in fact. There were three paintings of the Rocky Mountains, one of cowboys sitting by a camp fire, another of a cowboy on a cliff, and several framed artifacts.
“Josie!” Ned said, stepping out of his office. “Paige,” he added, “long time no speak.”
“Hi, Ned,” Paige said.
“Sorry about Rosalie. Quite a shock.”
She nodded and looked down.
“Sorry I couldn’t make the tag sale on Saturday, Josie.”
“You will sometime,” I said.
“Gerry said you were going to be working in his office this morning. Did our faithful leader chase you away?”
“No,” I replied, wishing his sarcasm was less biting. “He wanted to know whether you’d like the Tyler.” I picked it up and held it high so he could see it at eye level.
“What do you think of it?” Ned asked.
“I love it,” I said. “Tyler’s one of the best. He really captures the feel of life at sea. Look at the billowing sail—can’t you just hear that wind?”
“You’re a good saleswoman.”
“I don’t mean to be,” I said, lowering it. “Gerry asked me to find out if you want it. If not, he said I could buy you a Western art object—more in keeping with your taste.”
“Sold,” he said, slapping the desk. “We kill two birds with one stone that way. I get an object I actually want and you’ll earn another commission. Please thank Gerry for me—and for you.”
“That’s not why I suggested it!” I protested. He was making me sound like an ambulance-chasing lawyer.
“Of course not,” he said as if we were in league together, grinning.
His cuckoo clock clanged once, marking the quarter hour. Time to leave, I thought.
“Okay, then . . . you go ahead of me, Paige,” I said, hoisting the painting. “See you later.”
“Wait a sec,” Ned said.
“What?”
“When will I hear about my art?”
I lowered the painting to the ground again and looked through the open door into his office, reviewing the diverse mix of special items—the nicely mounted arrowheads, the knob-handled walking stick, the bear-teeth necklace, the Remington repro. Maybe he’d like a real Remington, I thought. I’d just read about a sale. One of Frederic Remington’s pieces, weighing in at one thousand pounds, called Heroic Bronco Buster had sold for $16,000. That was in the ballpark of what Gerry had in mind to spend, comparable to the Tyler.
“Soon,” I replied. “Let me put together some ideas for your review. Is later this week all right?”
“Art before business!” Ned said as if that meant something.
With a final “See ya,” Paige and I left.
“Are you sure I can’t help?” Paige asked as we walked back.
“Nah. It’s heavy, but it’s my responsibility, you know?”
Back in Tricia’s office, I leaned the painting against the far wall, then used the key Tricia handed me to open the door to the little storage room that had served as Rosalie’s office. Nothing looked disturbed.
“Can I go in?” Paige asked.
“Yes,” I said, “and you can look through things, but you can’t take anything away yet. And you should try not to disturb anything, okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed.
In Gerry’s office, I reviewed the location I’d selected. There was ample space for the painting. The mounting moldings and lighting tracks were already installed, so all I had to do was ensure that the painting was level and position the light fixture properly. I dragged the small ladder into place and lugged my toolbox into the room. It took several minutes to adjust the wires, but when the painting was hung and the diffused incandescent light turned on, I was thrilled with the result.
I stretched and glanced at the crystal clock on Gerry’s desk. Soup to nuts, it had only taken me twenty minutes to complete the installation. Not bad, I thought.
I peeked into Rosalie’s office. Paige was sitting in the desk chair holding the photograph of her and Rosalie eating ice cream, staring as if the image could provide answers.
“Paige?”
She whipped her head around, startled.
“Sorry to disturb you.”
“No, it’s okay.” She slid the photo onto the desk. “I was just thinking.”
“What about?”
She stood up. “I was thinking how Rosalie loved ice cream. We always had three or four flavors in the freezer, even in winter.”
“What’s your favorite?”
She smiled. “Black cherry.”
“What do you think? Should we get some for lunch?”
She laughed a little. “Okay.”
“The empty crate isn’t too heavy. Do you think you can carry it?”
“Sure.”
I picked up the toolbox, said good-bye to Tricia, and led the way to the front. Standing by the door, I called Officer Brownley, as instructed, to tell her we were ready to leave.
“Officer Griffin is there. He’ll take you to the station house so you can talk to the forensic guys and then he’ll bring you back to your place.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
There was a long pause and I thought she wasn’t going to answer. “I’m en route to Cooper’s house to execute a search warrant. I’ll let you know if we find anything that relates to your appraisal.”
“Wow!” I exclaimed, wishing I was riding shotgun and could help in the search.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A
t the Rocky Point police station, I showed the forensic examiner how to open the book without breaking its spine, how to turn pages without risking ripping the paper, and how to slide the journal out of the plastic bag without marring the leather.
“We’ll treat it with kid gloves,” the man assured me as he wrot
e out a receipt.
Feeling as if I were allowing a stranger to babysit my infant, I watched as the man packed it up. I stood in the entryway buttoning my coat, chatting to Cathy, when Cooper appeared from an inside corridor.
“It’s outrageous,” Cooper stated, his voice pulsating with impotent wrath.
I watched as he was led into the small alcove where they took fingerprints. I knew where it was located because two years ago, they’d walked me into the same place and taken mine.
Cooper didn’t notice me. He was too busy abusing the police officer, a longtime veteran of the force, for his stupidity and for overstepping his authority. I noticed that not a hair of Cooper’s carefully coiffed mane was out of place.
“Ready?” Griff asked me.
I waved good-bye to Cathy, and with a final glance toward the alcove where Cooper’s rant continued, said, “Absolutely.”
“Fred’s finally gone?” I asked, seeing his empty desk.
Sasha laughed and I turned to her. “Sorry,” she said, apologetic as ever, for no reason. “He got interested in the Barkley tallboy and wanted to start researching it, but I made him go home.”
“Good—he was half asleep when I left.” I turned to Gretchen. “I’m going upstairs to do some work. Do you need any help with the mailing?”
She rolled her eyes. “Always!”
“Paige? Can we draft you again?”
“Sure.”
“Great.” I headed toward the warehouse. “Oh, one more thing, Gretchen. Get us all ice cream for lunch, okay? Paige, I know, wants black cherry. I want marble fudge.”
Her astonished look made me laugh.
Ty called as Paige and I were driving to Mr. Bolton’s office—the first phone call I’d received on my new phone. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Griff followed close behind.
“I only have a minute,” he said. “We’re on break. But I wanted to tell you we’ve picked up the man who ordered your flowers.”
“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.
“Nope. The florist did a good job in describing him. He was, in fact, homeless. He received money to take a cab, make the drop, and cab back.”
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