Antiques to Die For

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Who gave him the money?” I asked, my heart racing at the thought that I was about to learn my secret admirer’s identity.

  “He doesn’t know. He never saw the man before and he hasn’t seen him since.”

  “But it was a man.”

  “Right.” He paused. “Or a woman wearing a good disguise. He’s looking at photos now. But his attention was pretty much focused on the cash the man was holding.”

  My heart sank. “Another dead end.”

  “Nope. Another opportunity for diligent police work. We’ve just begun to show him photos. Give the process a chance to work.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, trying to hide my disappointment.

  Brown and white, I thought, the color of disappointment.

  Everything on either side of the road appeared to be brown or white—brown bark on trees with a few tawny-colored leaves that somehow still clung to branches; white snow edged in brown soot; sunlight filtering through gray-white clouds and stippling the thick woods with specks of white light; brown roofs from distant homes; and the white spire of a small church barely visible through the trees as we drove past. Shades of January, sharply defined, softly etched on the vista. January, a hard month, a month of disappointments.

  “Change of subject,” he said. “We are staying the week down here.”

  “All week!” I hate this, I thought. I just hate this.

  “Yeah. They’ve planned a dinner for all us new guys—and spouses, partners, significant others, you know the drill. So anyway, one guy’s wife is flying in from Wisconsin, and another from New Orleans. I was wondering . . . I don’t know your schedule and I know it’s not really practical, but what do you think? Want to come for dinner on Thursday?”

  Thursday, I thought. Nothing is on the schedule that couldn’t be changed. Paige will be back with the Reillys. Or maybe she’d be with Rodney, I realized, upset at the thought. I glanced at her again. She was biting her lip, no doubt anxious about the coming meeting with Mr. Bolton.

  “I’d love to. Let me see if I can arrange it.”

  “Great!” he said, and I was gratified by his enthusiasm.

  I finished the call as we pulled into the small parking lot at the back of the law office. Griff said he’d wait for us, and Paige and I went inside.

  The receptionist said that Mr. Bolton would see us in a few minutes. We sat side by side in Windsor-style chairs, waiting.

  I told Paige, “I need to make a phone call.”

  She nodded and I approached the bay window that overlooked the street. I dialed the office and Gretchen answered with her cheery welcome.

  “Is there anything I need to think about if I plan on taking off Thursday and Friday?”

  “You? Take two days off? That doesn’t sound like you. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “I know, I know. . . . I’m living on the wild side,” I said.

  “Nope, you’re all clear! Hey, I just noticed that your number is showing as private on the phone ID. Did you get an unlisted number?”

  “Yeah. It’s just for a while.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yup. Just being careful,” I told her and hoped that it was true.

  The invisible danger seemed to be drawing closer. We were keeping me safe, but not addressing the underlying hazard. It was as if I were treating the symptoms of a disease, but not the disease itself.

  “Mr. Bolton can see you now,” the receptionist called.

  I ended my call with Gretchen and turned to Paige. She looked stricken, and I touched her elbow as we walked.

  Mr. Bolton was standing as we entered and greeted us both warmly, clasping Paige’s hand for a moment as he offered his condolences. He guided us toward a chintz-covered couch by the window and, once we were settled, sat across from us in a club chair.

  He cleared his throat and looked at Paige. “I’ve conducted an extensive background check on your cousin, Rodney Furleigh, and I have good news. He’s an upstanding citizen, a sound engineer for one of the movie studios out in California. He’s married to a woman named Lucille, who does bookkeeping part time out of their home, and they have one child, a daughter named Mackenzie. She’s twelve, by the way, just about your age, and a lovely young lady.”

  Paige’s eyes were huge and frightened.

  “Where do they live? What kind of place?” I asked. “West Los Angeles,” Mr. Bolton replied, glancing at his notes. “On the Santa Monica line. A neighborhood called Mar Vista. They have a single-family home with four bedrooms and two bathrooms and a nice yard.”

  Paige began to cry. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she closed her eyes. Mr. Bolton slid a box of tissues across the coffee table, and I pulled one out of the box. Touching her shoulder, I said, “Paige? Here’s a tissue.”

  She nodded and took it, but didn’t open her eyes or speak or make any sound. Her shoulders shook, then she doubled over, wrapping her arms around her middle and rocking to and fro, just a little.

  It was agonizing to watch. I felt helpless and uncertain. I wanted to rescue her, to stop all this talk about Rodney and California, but I couldn’t.

  “Paige,” Mr. Bolton said softly, “nod if you can hear me.”

  Paige nodded.

  “Everyone wants only what’s best for you. You are in a difficult situation with limited options. What we’re asking you to do is to try living with the Furleigh family. They love kids and are eager to have you as one of the family. If, after you give it a good try, it isn’t working, no one—not me, not the courts—no one will expect you to stay. Other arrangements will be made. We think you’re going to be happy in this environment, but if we’re wrong, we’ll find another solution.”

  “Foster care?” Paige whispered.

  “Yes,” Mr. Bolton replied, “we’d find another family for you.”

  Rip my heart out, I thought, and stomp on it right now. I wanted to offer my house, my home to her—but I didn’t. It was too complex a decision from her perspective, and my own, to be spontaneously offered. Objections rattled around in my brain: What would Ty think; I’m never home; she needs a family, not a single woman in a rental house; I’m not capable; and most cutting of all, I couldn’t help her overcome the loss since I’m still coping with my own losses.

  Paige sat up. “I’m sorry,” she managed, wiping away her tears, and swallowing gulps of air. “May I have some water, please?”

  Mr. Bolton turned to a phone on a side table and made the request to someone named Angie.

  “The Furleighs are here, in the conference room,” Mr. Bolton explained. “They are excited to meet you.”

  Paige nodded. She appeared completely shell-shocked, beyond hope. I reached for her hand and held it.

  Water arrived, and after Paige had several sips, Mr. Bolton said, “I know it’s hard, but are you able to talk about Rosalie’s funeral? The police have told me that it can be scheduled in a few days.”

  She shook her head and looked at me.

  “I think Paige would like Rosalie to be buried in California, near their parents, with a service like the one they had.”

  “Is that true, Paige?” Mr. Bolton asked gently.

  She nodded, then began to cry and covered her face with her hands.

  Mr. Bolton cleared his throat again. “Shall we say next Monday?”

  “Paige?”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  I patted her shoulder. “I’ll be there, Paige.”

  She nodded, but didn’t reply.

  Two tissues later, Paige was able to raise her head and sip more water. Mr. Bolton escorted her out. I stood up, assuming I’d join them, but Mr. Bolton shook his head, indicating that I should stay behind. Paige’s gait was evocative of a death row prisoner en route to the gallows.

  “That was pretty awful,” I said when he returned.

  “She’s in for some hard times,” he agreed. “And there’s no way to ease the transition for her.”

  I shook my head, shattered a
t the thought, yet I knew that he was right. “She can stay with me,” I said, shocked that I was volunteering for a role I’d proven only minutes earlier was impossible for me to accept. “I’d like to be her guardian.”

  He stared at me. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  He shifted in his chair, probably to give himself time to think. “Let me turn that question around. Why do you think you are an appropriate guardian?”

  I took a deep breath. This was an audition and I didn’t want to screw up. “We’ve been together all weekend and we like each other. We care. We fit.” I fluttered a hand. “My parents died when I was young. I understand her.” I took another breath. “She could continue at her regular school, and ballet class, and stay with her friends.”

  He looked dubious.

  “This is a good option. I’m a responsible member of the community. She’s had a lot of upheaval in her life. I could represent stability.”

  Mr. Bolton, whose first name I realized I couldn’t recall, didn’t comment.

  He shifted position again. “If I might change the subject for a moment, could you give me an update on the appraisal?”

  I drank some water, and shifted my thoughts from Paige’s dire circumstances to her sister’s possessions. I closed my eyes, thinking about Paige, trying to listen through the soundproofed walls, and then I switched gears. After a moment, I told him what I knew about the journal.

  “That’s consistent with what Rodney told me when I asked about the breach. He said that his mother sold an old book to her sister for four thousand dollars. A few months later, after a conversation with a rare book dealer, she realized she’d given away the farm for a penny, and asked her sister either to return the volume or give her a more realistic sum. Her sister said no. Rodney’s mother never spoke to her sister again.”

  “So sad,” I said, shaking my head. “Where did his mother get it? Do you know?”

  “According to Rodney, she inherited the book from her first husband who was, she told him, a descendant of the author. She was widowed and about a year later married Rodney’s father.”

  “So Rosalie owned the book legally—free and clear?”

  “Yes. And Rodney understands that and makes no claim on it.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” I remarked.

  “So you’ll complete the appraisal of the journal?”

  “Certainly—and of everything else.” I had another drink of water. “So what do you think about Paige living with me?” I asked.

  He looked at me for a long time, then said, “I think your offer is kind and a viable next-best option.”

  I swallowed, abashed. “What about tonight? Will she stay with me? The Reillys? All her stuff is in the trunk of my car.”

  He stroked his chin. “I think it’s best that Paige stay at the hotel with her cousins.”

  I nodded. “Can I tell her to call me, just in case?”

  “Of course.”

  He pushed a button and told Angie to bring them in.

  I met the Furleighs just long enough to say hello. They seemed nice enough, and Paige wasn’t crying, which I took to be a good sign. I mentioned Paige’s ballet class and Mrs. Furleigh smiled and said that they’d take her if she wanted to go.

  We transferred Paige’s duffel bag and backpack from my trunk to their rental car and then I turned to Paige to say good-bye. She reached for my hand and held it. And then I hugged her, and she hugged me back.

  I leaned into her ear and whispered, “You have my phone numbers, right?”

  She nodded against my shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

  “You need anything, anytime, ever, you call. Don’t hesitate. Forever more, kiddo, okay?”

  “Thank you, Josie,” she whispered, and pulled away.

  She gave a tremulous smile, and with a final wave, I left.

  I didn’t cry until I was in my car and alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  O

  fficer Brownley called just as I was about to step inside my office.

  “Nothing yet about Cooper. A team is at his office now. And his storage unit.” She cleared her throat. “Also, I’m afraid that the man who ordered the flowers didn’t recognize any of the photos.”

  Darn! I thought. Nothing’s easy. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “So now what?”

  “Now we continue to investigate and you continue to be careful. Any other appointments today?”

  Thinking of the trip to take Paige to ballet that I wasn’t making, I fought unexpected sadness. “No, none,” I said.

  “When will you be ready to go home?”

  “About six.”

  “Officer Griffin will escort you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I wanted to say more, to thank her more effusively, to confess how fearful the situation made me and how reassuring it was to have the police nearby, but I couldn’t frame my thoughts quickly enough. Instead, I scanned the parking lot and the forest that surrounded it, seeking out, once again, the source of my anxiety, and as before, I saw nothing odd or out of place.

  “It’s pretty scary,” I said finally.

  “Yeah.”

  She paused, maybe waiting for me to speak, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Okay, then,” she said.

  Inside, Gretchen greeted me with her usual welcoming smile. “How did it go?” she asked, empathy evident in her tone.

  “It was tough. The funeral will be in Los Angeles a week from today, next Monday. A couple of people may be calling to ask about it, so you should call Mr. Bolton’s office and get the particulars. Also, I’ll need them. I’m going.”

  She nodded. “After we know the when and where, you can tell me how long you want to go for.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking I might set up some appointments while I was out there, but then I changed my mind.” I shrugged. “I want this to be just about Paige and Rosalie.”

  Tears sparkled on Gretchen’s long lashes. “You’re amazing.”

  “No. No, I’m not. I’m just doing my best.”

  Words my father spoke came to me: People often say they’re doing their best when what they really mean is that they don’t want to change what they’re doing. I thought about my statement for a moment. No, I thought, my father’s comment doesn’t apply. I am, in fact, doing my best. I just wish my best was better.

  Upstairs, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. I was exhausted. I wondered how Paige was doing, and what she was doing, and then I realized that I hadn’t checked my voice mail in a long time.

  There was one message, from a number I didn’t recognize with a 207 area code. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t swallow. I coughed and finally I opened a bottle of water from the supply stashed near my desk; after several sips, I could breathe again.

  Maybe it’s a potential client, I told myself sternly, a “real” call. Biting my lip, I took a deep breath, and pushed the button.

  “You didn’t listen to me,” the husky voice warned. “You’ll be sorry.” In the background, I heard clanging, an oraclelike sound of impending doom. “Last warning. Back off.”

  I slammed the receiver into the cradle and stared at it, hyperventilating. Calm down, I instructed myself.

  Three deep breaths later, I redialed and listened to the message again. The second time, I heard more than the threatening words—I heard tension in the low-pitched voice and I felt more frightened, not less. My hand was shaking as I replaced the receiver, gently this time. Inchoate thoughts and vague forebodings shrieked in my brain, rattling my aplomb, and I spun my chair half around to stare at my maple tree, trying to ground myself and quiet my roiling agitation.

  Several moments later, after focusing on my breathing and watching the gently swaying snow-covered branches, the noisy terror in my head stilled and I listened to the silence. Think, I told myself. No phones rang, no cars or trucks passed by, not even a bird called, and suddenly, I realized who my se
cret admirer was. I gasped, clutched the chair arms, and said, “Oh, my God!”

  I considered the ramifications, and in an instant I realized with petrifying lucidity a question I hadn’t asked Betty, the hostess at The Miller House.

  I called Officer Brownley, and got her voice mail. “I know who did it,” I said in a rush, then stopped to gather my thoughts. “I for sure know the secret admirer’s identity and I think I know who killed Rosalie. I need to check one thing. What I need is to talk to you—never mind, I’ll call the station.”

  Cathy, the administrative professional, answered the Rocky Point police station main number.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in response to my inquiry. “Officer Brownley is unavailable.”

  “When will she be free?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. Do you want to leave a message?”

  “This is Josie. Josie Prescott. It’s urgent that I speak to her.”

  “I’m sorry, Josie. She’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed. Can someone else help you? Griff is here.”

  A meeting? I wondered. Or an interrogation? I could envision Cooper sitting in one of the interrogation rooms answering unwanted questions about whether he’d appropriated Rosalie’s research and sources. He’d be belligerent and argumentative, sarcastic and contemptuous, and he would deny everything with supercilious confidence. I hoped the police found the journal copy soon—they’d need it.

  I thought of Griff’s stolid demeanor and by-the-book attitude. He’d have endless questions and then I’d be told to back off and let the police do their job. “Thanks, but that’s okay. Would you please tell Officer Brownley that I got another phone call from a two-oh-seven area code and I’m going to check out one thing.”

  I turned to my computer, easily found a usable photo, and reassured myself that I wasn’t being stupid. I couldn’t not act. Years of frustration, trusting others to take care of problems, had taught me that passivity was harder to endure than fear. A quick drive to a public place—how dangerous could that be?

  I took the stairs two at a time.

  “I’ll be back,” I told Gretchen as I grabbed my coat and dashed out the door.