Hidden Treasure

by Jane K. Cleland

  Maybe the intruder didn’t need to do such fancy handwork. Perhaps he used keys. Harry had keys; probably every security guard did. So did Celia and Stacy. Certainly Mr. Hannigan did, and who knew who else.

  Possibly, Celia had been in Maudie’s apartment and opened the door to a knock. Whoever she let in killed her, took the objects, and left by the window. Or maybe the killer simply slipped the presentation box into a rolling trolley or suitcase, strolled down the corridor, exited via the side door, and left.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ellis said.

  I flinched as if he’d struck me, then smiled. “Sorry.”

  He straddled the bench sideways. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. You know me … I fall apart after the crisis has passed.”

  “Are you sure? You seem kind of keyed up.”

  “I know. For some reason, this has hit me hard.”

  “It’s a terrible situation.”

  At a scraping sound, Ellis looked toward the front. I skewed around in time to see an older woman slide into the receptionist’s chair and Lainy slip her iPad into a canvas tote bag. She said something to her replacement that I couldn’t hear.

  “I’m bringing Lainy to the station,” Ellis said, turning back to face me. “She says she’s too upset to drive. How about you—want a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.” I caught my breath, choking on air. “Oh, wow! I must be shakier than I realized. Has someone contacted Celia’s husband, Doug? Or Stacy, her sister?” I gripped the smooth beveled edge of the bench to steady myself. “Oh, God … what about her kids?”

  “We reached Stacy in Boston. She’s on her way back to New Hampshire and should get to the station no later than six. The kids are with the school principal. Detective Brownley is trying to locate Doug now.”

  “He said he had a job interview today at Jestran’s. I don’t know when.”

  Ellis took his phone from his pocket and texted someone.

  “I just had another thought. Did anyone find a grocery cart? It might be folded up in a closet or under the bed. Maudie used it when she went shopping. If it’s missing, maybe she’s just at the store.”

  He texted again.

  “Ellis, I really must be rockier than I thought. I just realized … I mean, I can’t imagine why it didn’t occur to me before … Maudie might be meeting with an antiques appraiser right now—and she might have the objects with her.” I told him about the list of appraisers I’d emailed Maudie earlier in the day.

  “Can you call them and ask?”

  “Let me get outside for some privacy.”

  We crossed the lobby, pausing at the reception desk so he could speak to Lainy.

  “Josie and I are going to step outside to make a couple of phone calls. Join us when you’re ready.”

  She said she’d be there in a few minutes, once she clocked out, and we left.

  Ellis started for the front, and I touched his elbow to stop him. “Lainy tells me the side door is quicker.”

  We walked past Maudie’s apartment. Her door was open. I spotted two technicians, one squatting near a bloodstain on the floor, the other one photographing the open trunk. Twenty paces farther on, we came to an exit on the left. Ellis pushed open the heavy fire door and held it for me. Once we were through, the door closed with a loud snap. I turned to look back. A sign on the door read THIS DOOR IS KEPT LOCKED AT ALL TIMES. PLEASE ENTER THROUGH THE FRONT. We were in a small vestibule. A stairway on the right led to the upper floors. The outside door bore the same sign, stating it was locked at all times.

  Outside, I stood for a moment, orienting myself. The gardens were to the right. The street was to the left. We followed a winding path edged with tall laurel, designed, I was certain, to provide privacy. A black wrought iron bench was tucked into a setback. Lanterns mounted on tall black poles illuminated the walkway after dark. The path ended at a gate that accessed the parking lot.

  When we reached the lot, I said, “I’ll make the calls from that bench we passed.”

  “Good. I’ll wait by my vehicle.”

  I retraced my steps to the bench.

  I checked messages before starting my calls. Wes Smith, the reporter, had texted twice and left a voicemail demanding an immediate callback. Everything with Wes was urgent. Emma, Zoë’s daughter, had texted, too, asking if I had time to get together. I texted back saying I’d love to see her, and after some back-and-forth, we settled on ten the next morning, Saturday, tag sale day, at my office. Don’t tell Mom, okay? I stared at the words. I hated secrets, although I was good at keeping them. I’m not comfortable with that, Emma. Best friends … you know. Her reply came quickly. Please. Just this once. I said okay, and immediately regretted it. Emma wrote THANK YOU!! in all caps. I leaned back against the hard iron for a moment, considering what Emma was going to ask me to do that she didn’t want her mom to know about, and all the ideas I came up with placed me in a difficult position. Emma might want me to try to persuade Zoë to support her enlisting in the marines; fat chance. She might ask that I convince Zoë to shut up about her objections; another fat chance. It was possible, I supposed, that she wanted to know my opinion, which I’d be leery to give. Any opinion I voiced would please Emma and alienate Zoë. More to the point, I was a believer in independent decision-making. And from all reports, Emma had already made her decision.

  I tapped in the phone number for the Rocky Point–based antiques appraiser, Melvin Farrow, the owner of Farrow Antiques, the first name on the list I gave Maudie.

  I knew Melvin fairly well. He was an old-school gentleman who dealt mostly in fine British antiques but was, as any dealer who operated in a small city had to be, a generalist. He knew a little bit about a lot of things and had access to experts for the rest.

  His assistant said he’d left for the day, and she was just closing up herself. When I explained who I was and that I was helping the police try to locate Maudie Wilson, she gave me his cell phone. He answered on the second ring.

  “I’m sorry to bother you after hours, but it’s really important. I referred Maudie Wilson to you. Have you seen or spoken to her?”

  “Thanks for the referral, Josie. That’s very kind of you. Mrs. Wilson and I chatted for a few minutes this morning.”

  “Did you make an appointment to get together?”

  “I tried, but she said her schedule was in flux and she’d call back when she was ready. I wish I could have nailed something down, but that’s the way that cookie crumbled.”

  I called Lisa Rollins next. Lisa was a rising star at the venerable Brandt-Larkin Antiques auction house in Boston. She was still in her twenties, but between her antiques know-how, media savvy, and gracious style she’d already made a name for herself.

  Lisa was effusive in her thanks. She’d spoken to Maudie for fifteen minutes around ten this morning. Lisa tried to get Maudie to make an appointment, even offering to drive up to Rocky Point, but Maudie said she had plans and would be in touch, probably next week.

  “Mrs. Wilson sounds like a super client,” Lisa said. “Why are you giving her away?”

  “I’m not. She asked for options, and I gave her some. I hope she chooses Prescott’s.”

  Lisa laughed, an appealing tinkling sound. “I’ll do my best to see that never happens!”

  The San Francisco–based Egyptologist, Edward L. Moss, whom I’d known for years, since my days at Frisco’s, looked like an absent-minded professor and spoke with gentle authority until he got his teeth into an antiquity that interested him, at which point he morphed into a pit bull. Dr. Moss said he hadn’t heard from Maudie, so he didn’t know I’d referred her. He thanked me, and I asked him to call me if he heard from her, and he said he would.

  I spotted Lainy by an old silver Ford Focus and Ellis by his big black police-issued SUV. Lainy placed her tote bag in the trunk. She had earbuds in, and her shoulders rotated to the beat. She took a step, then paused to read something on her phone. Ellis was staring into space.

&nbs
p; “So,” I said to Ellis as I drew close enough for him to hear, “nothing.” I summarized the three conversations.

  “Mrs. Wilson told Rollins she had plans.”

  “It might have been a fib—that’s a common white lie to get out of doing something you don’t want to do without going into your reasons.”

  Ellis rubbed his nose. “Knowing who she called this morning doesn’t help us figure out where she is now.”

  “I noticed a laptop box on her desk. Did it contain a laptop, or is it empty?”

  “Why?”

  “If it’s empty, she took the computer with her. She wants to get back to travel writing. I bet she went on a snorkel trip and took her laptop so she could write about it.”

  Ellis texted someone, then asked, “Where would she go?”

  “She mentioned Yap and the Cook Islands, but she’s not doing that as a weekend jaunt. It would take a couple of days at least just to get to either place—they’re in the middle of the Pacific. She said there were plenty of good options in the Caribbean. Can’t you check if she’s used her passport?”

  “No, of course not. The privacy laws are clear.”

  “This is an exception.”

  “Not in the eyes of the law. Adults are allowed to travel freely. You know that.”

  “I’m worried about her.”

  “I know.” He patted my shoulder. “I’m going to ask you to post stolen-antiques notices. Until we know that the objects are safe and sound, I’d rather err on the side of caution. The worst that happens is that she turns up with them and we withdraw the notices.”

  “Okay. Luckily, I video-recorded everything, so we can capture some still shots for the posting.”

  “You took video? Why?”

  “Innate prudence and habit. I think we should send the flyer to jewelers, too, with a note that the thief might have pried the stones loose.”

  He agreed, and I told him I’d take care of it. His phone vibrated, and he read a message.

  “There was no computer in the apartment. The box was empty. There’s no grocery cart, either. I’ll get a canvass going of stores. Good idea.”

  I loved it when someone I respected, like Ellis, told me an idea of mine was good. There is no tonic more powerful than affirmation.

  “Thanks.”

  He caught Lainy’s eye, and she pulled out one of her earbuds.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She said she was.

  I watched them leave, then called Fred, and sure enough, he was there even though it was after six. I asked him to arrange for an international stolen antiques posting. In addition, I asked that he prepare flyers featuring still shots of the presentation box and cat, and close-ups of the jewels, and send it to all local dealers and jewelers.

  Disconnecting, I saw that Wes had left a new message. Before listening to it, I called Ty. My call went straight to voicemail. I gave him the one-minute version of events and said I hoped to be home in an hour or so, which was probably wishful thinking.

  Wes’s message was predictably dramatic. “Call me,” he said. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It’s about you—we need to talk.”

  I called him back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Did you take photos?” Wes asked, skipping hello, like always.

  “I’m fine, Wes. How are you?”

  “Good, good. So have you got some pictures of the corpse? Video? What?”

  “Don’t be crass, Wes. No, I didn’t take photos or video. It was horrible … terrifying … there was so much blood.”

  “Good. What else?”

  Here I was trying to bring him to a sense of real-world misery, and there he was hearing it as useful color for his next article. When on the trail of a hot lead, Wes was like a particularly malevolent yellow jacket, ready to attack. For years I’d put up with him, because the rest of the time he seemed like the kid brother I’d never had, affectionate, protective, and loyal, and while I disliked his in-your-face style of journalism, I admired it, too. Lately, though, Wes’s reporting had edged perilously close to yellow journalism. Still, Wes had a remarkable network of contacts he could tap at will, and I knew the drill. If I wanted information, I had to share information.

  “I’ll tell you what I saw, but only off the record. You can’t quote me.”

  “That’s not how it works, Josie. You know that.”

  We’d had this tussle before. I always won. “I’m hanging up now, Wes.”

  “Wait!” he yelled. “Don’t hang up. I need to be able to name my sources, and you’ve proven fairly reliable in the past.”

  Fairly reliable. I didn’t roll my eyes, but I could have. “I’m not negotiating, Wes. I really am going to hang up.”

  Wes sighed deeply, Wesian for his profound disappointment in me. “All right.” He sighed again, just as loudly. “Off the record.”

  “I’ll tell you, but first, your message said you wanted to talk about me. What about me?”

  “Just this—what you saw.”

  “It was a ploy to get me to call you back?” I asked, aghast.

  He chuckled. “It worked.”

  “That’s outrageous, Wes!”

  “Thanks.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Sure it was. So talk to me. What did you see?”

  I gave up trying to reason with him. Wes had his own worldview. “It looks like Celia was struck on the head. There was a bloody wooden rolling pin on the floor near her body. I’d seen it in the drying rack earlier in the week.”

  “You’re saying the murder was an act of passion. Spur of the moment. Unplanned.”

  “Not necessarily. The killer could have come with a weapon, seen the rolling pin, and used it instead.”

  “Why would anyone kill her?”

  I thought of Doug, out of work, tormented by guilt, bearing the brunt of Celia’s anger. He seemed worn and weary, but still understanding, even after he’d been shoved by his wife. I kept my reflection to myself. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Josie. You paused. You only pause when you know something and don’t want to tell.”

  “I only pause when I think I know something. You know me, Wes. If I don’t have evidence, I don’t say a word.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking. I’ve already promised not to quote you.”

  “Forget it.”

  Wes sighed again. When I didn’t acquiesce, he shifted gears.

  “Why was Eric at Belle Vista today?”

  I recounted finding the trunk in the Gingerbread House, described the contents, and explained the confusion surrounding Maudie’s intentions—whether she planned to have the box and cat appraised, or sell them outright. I could hear Wes scratching notes. He used to write on a ratty old piece of paper. Now he used nice notebooks, a professional upgrade instituted by his wife, Maggie, along with his classy business casual attire, instead of his old scruffy jeans, and a new car, instead of his ancient rattletrap.

  “How about Maudie Wilson. Why did she disappear?”

  “I don’t know that, either, but I’m afraid for her. I’m really scared, Wes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know I never gossip.”

  “This isn’t gossip—it’s off the record. You’re giving me leads so I can do my job. I might be able to help.”

  “I have the impression that Maudie is wealthy.”

  He soft-whistled. “And early reports show that Doug and Celia were in a real financial jam. They’re behind on their mortgage. Their credit cards are maxed out. From what I can tell, they’re close to bankruptcy.”

  Wes’s analysis matched my initial impression—Doug and Celia had seemed desperate for money, flat broke, or close to it. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s always the husband, natch.”

  “I don’t know, Wes. Things might have been on the upswing for them. Doug told me he had a job interview today at Jestran’s.”

  “I’ll check. You’ve met him
. What’s he like?”

  “Salt of the earth … sincere, you know? I simply can’t imagine him killing Celia.”

  “You’re too nice, Joz. You can never picture someone killing someone else.”

  I smiled. “If I have to have a flaw, I guess I’ll take ‘too nice.’”

  “I didn’t say that was your only flaw.”

  “Ha ha.”

  He chuckled again. “If Maudie sold those objects, how much would she get?”

  “Lots, if they’re genuine, which is not at all certain. Replicas can be astonishingly convincing and beautiful.”

  “Let’s say they were the real deal. You’re saying there’d be plenty of cash for everyone.”

  “Only if Maudie offered it.”

  “You’re saying Maudie is selfish.”

  “Not at all. Maybe she’s a believer in self-reliance.”

  “So Doug hears that Maudie is going to sell the stuff out from under them, and he kidnaps her, saying he’ll release her only when he gets the booty Celia deserves. Maudie objects. He tries to whack her, misses, and kills his wife instead.”

  “That sounds like something out of a really bad movie. I suppose it’s possible that Celia and Doug tried to convince Maudie to sell the objects, and if Maudie said no, they decided to steal them instead. Murder? No way.”

  “Don’t be so quick to dismiss it.”

  “Even if you’re right, Wes, you still need to consider the logistics. Sneaking out of Maudie’s apartment isn’t easy. Sure, you could get yourself out through the window or even simply walk out the side door, but Celia was killed in the middle of the afternoon, with plenty of people around, and you’re suggesting Doug managed to escape with the presentation box and Maudie?”

  “How about this? Maudie catches Celia red-handed trying to steal the box and reaches for the phone to call the cops. Celia tries to stop her. They struggle. Maudie grabs the rolling pin—boom, she strikes. Or Celia grabs it and Maudie wrestles it away from her. Same ending. Maudie panics and runs. There aren’t any logistical issues in this scenario. She just walks out.”