Treasure Trail

by Morgan Brice

  After what happened with Josh, Erik had wondered if he’d ever be interested in anyone again.

  Just his luck, the guy was taken.

  Erik’s phone buzzed in his pocket, reminding him he had an appointment. He looked around at all the work yet to be done and had a moment’s regret about taking time out. Then again, a walk in the sunshine would clear his head, he told himself. Maybe he could be twice as productive once he got back.

  The sunny spring day lifted Erik’s mood as soon as he locked the shop door behind him. He’d been surprised to get an email through the store’s old account from Jaxon Davies, chairman of the Cape May Center for the Arts, asking Robert—the former owner—to come take a look at an item brought in for a new exhibit. Jaxon had been surprised when Erik answered, but seemed happy to get a professional opinion, regardless of whose.

  The Center for the Arts was a new brick building at the edge of Cape May’s vibrant shopping district. The designer had done a good job making the modern structure fit its surroundings, and Erik’s curiosity to see inside caught him by surprise.

  “I’m looking for Jaxon Davies,” Erik told the man at the information desk. “Erik Mitchell. He’s expecting me.”

  While the man placed the call, Erik glanced around. One wall of the lobby was all glass, while an interior brick wall curved around toward the mood lighting of the exhibit areas. Erik had been behind the scenes in every major art museum on three continents, working with some of the best curators and preservationists in the business. But the tingle of anticipation he felt went back to his memories of the first field trip to the Columbia Museum of Art that sparked his interest in the field. Every museum was like an adventure, a treasure to be discovered. Erik felt grateful that he hadn’t lost that feeling.

  “Erik Mitchell. I have to say, I never expected that you of all people would practically be a next-door neighbor!”

  Erik didn’t recognize the tall, slender man striding toward him, but his brain—for just a moment—conjured up an image of David Bowie in his Thin White Duke period. The man was handsome—or maybe beautiful—with high cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a sense of presence Erik associated with the celebrities he occasionally crossed paths with in New York or London. From his Armani jacket to his Prada shoes, Jaxon Davies looked ready to walk the red carpet at Cannes or a gala at the Met.

  “I’m sorry—have we met?” Erik hated to admit it, but his work had left him siloed from most things outside his area of focus.

  Fortunately, Jaxon accepted his admission with a genuine laugh. “Not to my knowledge, though we have run in some of the same circles. Plenty of time to rehash old times later. Thank you for coming on short notice. Let’s do this properly.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jaxon Davies. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Erik Mitchell,” Erik replied, still surprised at the star wattage his host projected. The man’s name triggered a memory deep in the back of Erik’s brain, but it eluded him for the moment. “I take it you didn’t know Robert had sold the store.”

  Jaxon shook his head. “No idea. Then again, as dear as that man was to all of us, he was also very private about his personal plans.”

  “I don’t think the store was on the market long,” Erik confessed. “I seem to have been in the right place at the right time and scooped it up.”

  Jaxon gave him a look that made Erik suspect the man guessed there was more to the story, but he didn’t press for details.

  Erik fell into step beside Jaxon as they headed into the exhibit area. “Robert was an important part of the arts community here in town,” he said with a tone that made his affection for the old man clear. “We host traveling exhibits relevant to the area and put on installations and retrospectives of our own. Robert served as a consultant when we needed to validate the provenance of a piece on display or get an appraisal for insurance purposes. I wished I would have known he was moving. I would have thrown him a going-away party.”

  Erik nodded, making a mental note to see if Robert’s records showed whether he’d been paid for those consultations or if they had been done in the spirit of goodwill and volunteerism. He was beginning to get the feeling that the former owner’s shoes would be big ones to fill if Robert and Trinkets had been fixtures in the community.

  “How can I help?” Erik cast a practiced eye toward the displays they passed as Jaxon led him deeper into the exhibits. Everything was top notch, as professionally presented and curated as he’d expect at a much larger institution.

  “We aren’t going to be able to give you the kind of excitement you might be used to,” Jaxon went on. “No purloined Picassos or rustled antiquities.”

  Erik’s heart sped up. He might not be able to place Jaxon, but clearly the other man knew exactly who Erik was. Not that Erik meant to make a secret of his past; it certainly wouldn’t be under wraps if the PBS show actually went through. He hadn’t moved to Cape May to hide, not exactly. But knowing he’d been made left Erik feeling oddly vulnerable.

  Jaxon must have guessed his thoughts. “I go back a long way with Jacinda Hamilton at the Met, and Lawrence Taylor at the Tate Modern, and there was always an incestuous amount of interplay between the Broadway crowd and the MOMA.”

  Erik’s forgotten memories stuttered to life. Jaxon Davies had been the toast of Broadway in the mid-nineties, starring in a number of celebrated and socially relevant plays that came in the wake of the success of works like Angels in America and Rent. He’d spent a good twenty years in the spotlight, gracing magazine covers and being chased by paparazzi, then suddenly stopped performing and stepped into the role of doyen and patron without missing a beat.

  And if the names Jaxon had just dropped were any indication, he and Erik had a lot of the same high-profile people on speed dial.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t make the connection right away,” Erik said, feeling a blush rise. “I’ve been focused on inventory.”

  Jaxon’s laugh sounded natural and with no hint of wounded ego. “No harm done,” he assured Erik. “I’m glad you’re Robert’s successor. I trusted his judgment, and I can’t say that I would have felt confident about just anyone stepping into his shoes. But you…are definitely a worthy successor.”

  In another setting, Erik might have wondered if Jaxon was flirting. But the diamond band on the man’s left hand suggested otherwise, and Erik seemed to remember hearing about a wedding that managed to elude the press. “Thank you. What can I do for you?”

  Jaxon’s smile was warm and genuine. “We’re putting together our big summer installation, which always celebrates part of the area’s history. This year, the theme is “By the Sea: Where New York Went to Play,” and it’s looking at the Jersey coast’s emergence as the place New Yorkers—of all classes—came to spend the summer.”

  They turned a corner and stepped around a pipe-and-drape barrier and a sign that promised an exciting new attraction. Half-assembled displays and partially-emptied crates littered the large area, but even so, Erik could see the bones of the exhibit and knew it would be a blockbuster.

  “We couldn’t do a retrospective without including the Commodore Wilson Hotel,” Jaxon added, in full impresario mode. “It was the jewel in the crown in its day—although perhaps more like the Hope Diamond, given its bad luck.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “We have some wonderful photographs from its heyday, as well as some exceptional decorative items from the hotel that came into collectors’ hands after everything was auctioned off. And there’s one in particular I’d appreciate your opinion on.”

  Erik followed Jaxon into a side room which held a variety of small items that would no doubt go into display cases. “What do you make of that clock?” Jaxon asked, pointing to a dark rectangular box in the middle of the table.

  Erik stepped closer and bent over to examine the piece without touching it. He didn’t have cotton gloves to keep oil from his fingers from marring the finish, and he also didn’t know what kind of images the clock might trigger. H
e’d already embarrassed himself once by not recognizing Jaxon; he didn’t want to make a fool out of himself again. “I’d need to examine it more closely to be sure, but I’d say it’s an Ingraham. Nice faux marbling on the pillars on either side of the clock face, gold leaf around the face is in good condition, and it’s got both lions’ heads,” he added, noting the decorations that graced both sides of the clock.

  “Authentic?”

  Erik frowned. “An authentic Ingraham? Yes. But I think you’re looking for more than that.”

  Jaxon nodded and picked up a photograph from the table, which he handed to Erik. The black and white picture probably dated to the 1940s, given the clothing styles. A smug man in a tailored suit stood next to a taller, heavy-set man with a cigar chomped between his teeth. They were in front of a fireplace, and two identical clocks graced each end of the mantle.

  “Could it be one of those clocks?” Jaxon asked.

  Erik drew in a breath. “The age on it looks right. You say the clock was sold to a collector?”

  “He bought it when the hotel’s assets were liquidated. But it’s the other clock that’s famous.”

  Erik glanced around but saw no matching piece. “I don’t have it,” Jaxon said. “It’s been missing for almost seventy years. It vanished the same night that Vincente Cafaro was murdered.”

  “Who?”

  Jaxon raised an eyebrow. “The Commodore Wilson financially ruined its first owner, who was shot in the lobby by his wife’s lover back in 1918. The Mob took it over, and all through Prohibition, the Commodore was the best-known secret speakeasy and a big player in the rum-running business. Several high-profile mobsters died there over the years. Vincente Cafaro bought the place at a fire-sale price in the 1950s and owned it until he died in a car bombing.”

  He paused dramatically. “A car bombing that was never solved.”

  Erik frowned. “Great story, but what does it have to do with the clock?”

  Jaxon tapped the photo. “The pudgy guy in the photo is Cafaro. This was taken the night he died. Both clocks are there. But within a week of his death, one of the clocks went missing, reported stolen, never recovered.”

  “You think it’s somehow linked to the murder?”

  “Maybe. It’s certainly suspicious. Might be just coincidence, but who knows?” Jaxon smiled. “But what I do know is that scandal sells. So if I can say that we’ve got one of the two ‘Cafaro murder clocks’ on display, it’ll sell tickets.”

  “And the town fathers are all right with airing the dirty linen?”

  “This is New Jersey. We have cheap linen and expensive linen, but it’s all dirty,” he replied with a sly grin.

  Erik couldn’t deny being intrigued. He also figured that Jaxon Davies was a good ally to have, and he could do a little bridge-building by agreeing to check into the clock.

  “All right,” he said. “How about if I come back tomorrow and I’ll bring some of my appraisal equipment. That way, the clock remains in museum custody, but I can also look it over the right way.”

  “Wonderful!” Jaxon said, with a clap of his hands. “I’m thrilled to have you onboard.” He dropped his voice conspiratorially. “I’ve followed your career for years. This wouldn’t be your first brush with the Mob and artifacts.”

  “They certainly seem to have fingers in everything,” Erik said noncommittally. The less said about the Russians, the better. Although the Sicilian and Corsican Mob were a terror, back in the day. “And I’d like to take a picture of that photo if you don’t mind.”

  “Snap away.”

  Erik used his phone to get a couple of pictures, figuring they might help him research the clock’s provenance. So many pieces had an interesting oral history attached to them, which couldn’t be substantiated. He found himself hoping that this would work out differently. He took a few pictures of the clock, too.

  “When you’re all moved in and ready to do a grand reopening for Trinkets…and that new Treasure Trail blog I’ve heard you’re doing…we’ll have to make sure to hold the proper coming-out party!” The amused glint in Jaxon’s eyes told Erik the double entendre was not accidental.

  “That would be great,” Erik replied. He could certainly do worse than having a mover-and-shaker like Jaxon rooting for him. “What do you want to do about tomorrow?”

  Jaxon inclined his head, inviting Erik to walk with him back toward the foyer. “Brian at the desk handles all my appointments. Work out a time with him. Whenever is best for you—you’re the one doing me a favor. I’m in your debt.”

  Erik understood the conversation for what it was, navigating a complex social web of mutual obligation. “Happy to help,” he replied. Jaxon shook his hand and left him at the front desk, and Erik worked out a time to come back the next day.

  On the walk back to the shop, Erik couldn’t help thinking about the clock, and Jaxon’s tantalizing information. If the TV show came through, the Cafaro clock mystery could be an intriguing possible episode.

  He roused from his thoughts, startled, when he realized a man was waiting in front of Trinkets with a large box in his arms.

  “Are you the owner?” the man asked. He looked to be in his late twenties, with a mop of curly brown hair and a husky build.

  “I’m the new owner,” Erik said. “Can I help you?”

  “Can we go inside please? This box is heavy.”

  Erik unlocked the door and led the way. The man plunked the box down on the counter.

  “I’m Justin Kramer. My grandfather just died, and I’m the lucky guy who gets to clean out his attic.” He sighed. “I’m pretty sure he bought this box of stuff when the old Commodore Wilson Hotel had its bankruptcy sale. He worked there as a bellboy when he was a teenager, and that’s where he met my grandmother. Anyhow, I don’t think anyone else even looked in the box since the day he carted it home and stuck it in the rafters—until now. I took a quick glance—there’s nothing that interests me, but it’s all old. I was hoping you’d want to buy it.”

  Justin looked exhausted, and Erik wondered how much of cleaning out the old man’s house had fallen to him. Before his conversation with Jaxon and the clock incident, Erik might not have been inclined to buy the memorabilia. It probably had little value aside from nostalgia. Now, he couldn’t help indulging his inner Hardy Boys inclination to do a little harmless sleuthing.

  “So you can’t tell me anything more about what’s in there?”

  Justin shook his head. “I had to move half a dumpster’s worth of old magazines just to get to the box. The newest magazine in the pile was from 1996, so I guarantee you no one has been close to that box since then.”

  “What would you consider a fair price?”

  “I’d be fine with a hundred bucks,” Justin replied. “I need to pay the dumpster bill.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” Erik asked. Justin shrugged. Erik picked up a pencil and opened the box, using the pencil to move items around so he didn’t run the risk of getting a touch-magic surprise. “I hate spiders,” Erik said when he saw Justin looking at him. The mystery box intrigued him, and he closed the flaps, then pulled out the shop’s checkbook.

  “Here you go,” he said, upping the amount to one-fifty because Justin’s ask was too low to be fair, and Erik figured he’d still gotten a bargain or at least a few evenings’ entertainment. Who knows? I might even find something Jaxon would want for his exhibit.

  He carried the box into the back and set it on the desk in the store’s office. A ringing noise startled Erik, and it took him a moment to realize the sound came from a landline telephone near the register in the front of the shop. He sprinted for the call, hoping he could grab the receiver before the caller hung up.

  “Hello? Uh…Trinkets and Treasure Trail.” Shit. He still wasn’t used to owning the store, and the blog was barely more than a few hasty articles. Erik knew he had a long way to go.

  “Robert?” The woman’s voice was unfamiliar.

  “I’m sorry—Robert sold the st
ore and moved south. I’m Erik Mitchell, the new owner.”

  “Oh, my. I hadn’t realized. That must have been sudden.”

  “I got the feeling it all came together quickly,” Erik replied. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  She chuckled, getting past the initial surprise. “I hope so. I’m Meg Nolan, of Nolan Resort Real Estate. Robert was my go-to guy for more than twenty years, any time I needed just the right antique or curio for one of our properties, or help with a hard-to-fix piece. Which is why I’m calling.”

  Erik’s thoughts spun, trying to remember if the owner had said anything about long-time clients. Was the shop on retainer? Did they have a contract? He was going to have to dig deeper into that pile of papers Robert had left behind. “Are you looking for something specific?”

  “Actually, we found an antique that had been forgotten about, and I’d like you to look it over, see if it’s valuable, and see if there’s a reason someone might have wanted to hide it.”

  Erik’s training from his old job put him on alert. “Is there any chance it might have been stolen?” There was no good way to ask that question, but best to get it over with up front.

  “If so, it was a long, long time ago. Doesn’t look like it’s been touched in ages. No way to tell, because the house was in the same family for a hundred years, and the owners died shortly after they sold it to us. So there’s no one left to ask.”

  Maybe not, Erik thought, but there were possibly other resources he could tap into, assuming the piece was actually worth the effort. Curiosity zinged through him, and even though he had come here intending to leave his old life behind, it couldn’t hurt to poke around a bit. After all, it’s Cape May. I doubt I’m going to stumble onto an international art theft ring.

  “If you’d like to bring it over, I’m happy to check it out,” Erik replied. “Um, this is awkward, but I haven’t gotten through all of Robert’s notes. Am I on retainer?”