Hidden Treasure Page 11

  “Absurd!”

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?”

  “Maudie wouldn’t kill her niece.”

  “Even in self-defense? Sure she would. Anyone would.”

  “Even if Maudie killed her, which I don’t for a minute believe, she wouldn’t run.”

  “You’re on Team Maudie all right. What about security cameras?”

  I reported what I’d learned from Lainy.

  “All right, then,” he said, “if not Doug or Maudie, who?”

  “Ninety-plus percent of art heists are inside jobs—a security guard who games the system, a curator who creates a fraudulent paper trail so she can abscond with a treasure for her personal collection, a trusted docent with sticky fingers. Why not a member of the Belle Vista staff?”

  “Good one, Joz! I’ll see if the facility does background checks.”

  I didn’t want to know how Wes planned on flushing out that information.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Remember, Wes—I’m just thinking aloud. You can’t quote me.”

  “I know, I know. What about pics of the box and cat?”

  “That I can do.” I explained how I came to have them in my possession, adding that we were posting stolen-antiques and -jewels notices, worldwide.

  “Cool beans! Catch ya later.”

  I texted Fred to send me a link to the still shots, and when he did, I forwarded it to Wes.

  * * *

  I pulled into the Rocky Point police station parking lot and parked facing Ocean Avenue and the dunes across the street. The station resembled a sprawling cottage, with shingles weathered to a soft dove gray and trim painted colonial blue.

  Cathy, the civilian admin who’d worked the front desk for as long as I’d lived in Rocky Point, smiled. “Ellis asked me to tell you he won’t be long. He hopes you’re okay with waiting.”

  I assured her I was and sat on the hard wooden bench. I leaned back, resting my head against the unforgiving backrest. I hadn’t heard from Ty all day, and here it was, six thirty-five. After a moment, I texted him, asking how it was going, then stared at my phone for a few minutes, hoping for a quick reply. Nothing.

  To distract myself, I walked across the lobby to the community bulletin board. The eleventh annual beach volleyball competition was slated for next Sunday afternoon. Rocky Point Community Theater was casting for the much-loved musical Chicago. The flyer invited members of the community to come to the open casting calls, which started next week. My favorite brass quartet, Academy Brass, was playing on the village green Saturday evening. Rocky Point Community Center was offering free swimming lessons. As I read about the genial, normal activities that defined us, I felt the tension that had twisted the muscles in my neck and shoulders into steel ease. I loved Rocky Point. I’d come to New Hampshire hoping for a second chance at happiness, and I would always be grateful to the town that had welcomed me.

  “This way,” a woman said.

  I turned toward the front. It was Detective Brownley, and she was holding the door open for Doug, Celia’s husband.

  Doug pushed his way in, tripping on his own feet. He wore a navy-blue suit that seemed too big for his slender frame. His blue-and-red-striped tie was loosened. His eyes were harrowed. He didn’t see me, or maybe he saw me but it didn’t register that he knew me. Detective Brownley, tall and slim, with short black hair and alabaster skin, kept her hand cupped under his elbow as if she were concerned he might collapse. She escorted him across the lobby and directed him down the left-hand corridor toward a series of interview rooms.

  I paced. I was too impatient to sit and too antsy to stand. I texted Ellis that I was going to wait outside, that I’d be in the parking lot or across the street on a dune, and left.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The temperature had dropped into the low sixties, and the wind was biting, so I slipped on the windbreaker I kept in my car for just-in-case moments like this. I crossed the street to the beach. Pink wild roses grew amid the tall grasses and scrub oak that separated the asphalt from the sand. I pushed through the low growth and climbed the tallest dune, and when I reached the top, I zipped my jacket to my neck. The sky was more gray than blue. Whitecaps charged across the near-black water, racing to shore. No one was in sight. It was a lonely scene, isolated and harsh.

  As I watched the roiling ocean, I thought about Doug and desperate men, hoping against hope that Maudie was still alive. After ten minutes, I started shivering and decided to head back inside. While I stood on the shoulder waiting for traffic to pass so I could cross the street, Stacy walked out of the police station. She took a few steps, then paused and closed her eyes.

  I dashed across the street.

  Stacy was as stylishly dressed as the last two times I saw her. Today’s outfit included a cobalt-blue pleated skirt with a matching asymmetrical jacket over a cream collared blouse, and open-toed pumps, off-white with blue trim. She opened her eyes, spotted a wooden bench near the front door, and sat down. A sand-filled canister sat nearby, a concession to smokers. She extracted a water bottle from her Prada tote and took a healthy swig, then clutched the water bottle to her chest like a flotation device. She leaned forward, rocking a little as if she had a stomachache. Her eyes were fixed on the asphalt.

  When I was close enough to be heard, I said, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” She studied my features for several seconds. “You were there.”

  “When the security guard went inside … yes.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I can’t believe it. My big sister. I just can’t believe it.”

  Not wanting to encroach on her space, I stayed standing. “I know.”

  She covered her face with her hands, dropping the bottle, sending it rolling under the bench.

  I picked it up and held it while she cried.

  After a minute, she sniffed loudly, lowered her hands, and wiped away the wetness from her cheeks using the side of her pinky. She dug around in her bag and found a tissue and patted her cheeks dry.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You have nothing to apologize for.”

  She made a fist, scrunching the tissue. “I don’t understand any of it. The police said that Celia called you … that Aunt Maudie wanted to sell the presentation box and cat. Why wouldn’t Aunt Maudie have told me? I spoke to her this morning.”

  I handed over her water bottle, and she grasped it, murmuring, “Thanks.”

  “When was that?”

  “Early … around seven. Just before I left for Boston. Do you have any idea where Aunt Maudie is?”

  “I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  “I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m full up. Just full up.”

  “Losing someone you love is devastating.”

  “Add in the load of bad news I’m facing on the business front, and you’ll understand how I’m feeling—overwhelmed, completely overwhelmed.” Her eyes filled again. She reached into her bag and patted around until she found an old-fashioned silver cigarette case, a relic from another era. She lit up. After a couple of puffs, she added, “It’s not a secret—I wish it were. My chief investor pulled out of the deal last week, leaving me high and dry. I found out about it from a WWD tweet, if you can believe it.”

  “WWD—Women’s Wear Daily?”

  “Right.” She lowered her eyes to the black pavement again. “It was awful … humiliating. Kyle, the investor you met on the beach, bowed out. So did the company in Boston.” She looked into the distance, over the dunes, toward the horizon. “So here I sit, starting a new line of trend-setting tables, with orders in hand, and no way to fill them.”

  “That’s awful. I’m so sorry. What will you do?”

  “Find another investor—fast. My first investor, a venture capitalist who’s been funding my company for more than a year, didn’t like my designs, which is outrageous, since he knows nothing about design. All he knows about is leveraged buyouts. Ky
le couldn’t see the way to profitability, his words, the loser. The investor in Boston, who owns an interior design company, said my designs were derivative.” She slapped the bench, and her water bottle skittered away again. “Why am I sitting on orders if my designs are bad or derivative? Tell me that.”

  I retrieved the bottle again and handed it back.

  She smiled wanly. “Want to invest in an up-and-coming niche furniture brand with verifiable purchase orders?”

  “I’m strictly an antiques girl, but I’m sure you’ll have lots of takers.”

  “You bet. Then I get the call about Celia and Aunt Maudie.” She rubbed her temples for a moment. “This is maybe the worst week of my life—it started bad and has been getting steadily worse.”

  I felt bad for her, but I was also shocked. She seemed more upset by her business setbacks than her sister’s murder and her aunt’s disappearance.

  She took a long drink. “I’m not usually such a wuss. Forget it—chalk it up to momentary weakness, soon to be forgotten.” She drank some more, then pulled back her shoulders, ready to cope. “Are you coming or going?”

  “I’m on hold, waiting for my turn to give my statement.”

  “They’ll ask you about Doug and Celia,” she said.

  “It’s an obvious question.”

  “Not once you meet Doug. One look and you can tell he couldn’t hurt a fly. He’s constitutionally a milquetoast.”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “How many people do you like?”

  Names popped into my head, a lot of names. Zoë and Ellis, and Zoë’s children, Emma and Jake. Gretchen, Sasha, Fred, Eric, and Cara, my key staff. Timothy. Helene, the director of New Hampshire Children First!, where I volunteered; Shelley, my best pal from New York; and others. I liked a lot of people, but I couldn’t say so. Not only was her question rhetorical, it seemed to reflect her own hurt and dismay at being abandoned, dismissed, and left behind more than anything else. Stacy might have an edge sharp enough to slice a loaf of bread, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings that got hurt like everyone else. She seemed to be waiting for my reply, and I realized her question hadn’t been rhetorical after all. She was hoping that I shared her derisive view of people. I understood that she felt lonely or isolated, or both, and that the burden of those emotions was no doubt weightier now; still, her abrasiveness made it nearly impossible to empathize. I knew misery loved company, but I could never understand why miserable people expected me to be miserable, too, as if my despair would help them feel less alone, when to me it only served to accentuate the dearth. All I could do was avoid making a bad situation worse. My dad taught me that if you don’t want to talk about content, talk about process instead.

  “Everyone is different,” I said.

  Stacy waved it away. “Whatever.” She took another drink, then tossed the bottle into her bag. “Celia got what she wanted in Doug, which is something, I guess.”

  “From what I could tell, Celia loved Doug very much.”

  “Celia wanted a puppy dog,” Stacy said, “someone to fawn over her and love her unconditionally.” She stood and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “Don’t mind me. You nailed it when you said people are different. Celia and I were different in every way, but we loved each other. You’re right that she and Doug loved one another, too, and I was truly happy for her. I don’t mean to pooh-pooh it. With everything going on, I’m a mess, but my heart is in the right place, and I’m a survivor. Always was … always will be.” She looked at the sky, pale yellow dimples on slate-gray clouds. “Is it supposed to rain?”

  “So they say. Not for a while, though. Tomorrow, maybe.”

  Stacy stood and stretched, arching her back, rolling her head, reaching for the clouds. “I have to get back into the melee.”

  Before I could respond, Stacy turned and sauntered back toward the entrance. She walked like a model on a runway, a woman who was used to being watched, who liked being watched.

  My phone vibrated, startling me. I’d forgotten I was holding it. It was Ty, calling.

  “How’s my beautiful wife?”

  “Missing her gorgeous husband. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Sorry I missed your text. I convinced the powers that be to let me try it my way—that monitoring remote border crossings with cameras and drones makes much more sense than trying to organize human surveillance. I just landed at Logan. How are you doing?”

  “About as you’d expect. I’m at the police station now, waiting for Ellis or somebody to take my statement.”

  “I should be home by eight or eight thirty, and I’ll be ravenous. If I get home first, I’ll get started with dinner.”

  “I have chicken marinating, ready for the grill, but I don’t know if I can deal with cooking—or cleaning up, for that matter.”

  “Plan B: I’ll pick up a pizza.”

  I felt myself relax a few notches. I loved our life together. “Great idea.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, then Ty said, “I go back to the border Monday morning to meet with the team about our strategy. It’ll take a couple of days, not longer, I hope.”

  * * *

  Ellis stuck his head out of the door and asked if I was ready.

  “More than ready. I’m beat.”

  “This won’t take long. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  He was right. It only took half an hour. Ellis asked about the antiques and the people involved. He confirmed the timeline, then told me I could go. It was twenty to eight when I said good-bye to Cathy and left.

  * * *

  I listened to the local radio station on my way home. Stephanie Bolton, the Hitchens University student who hosted the evening classical music series, introduced Wes, announcing he had an update on the Celia Akins murder.

  Wes reported that Doug was still being questioned by the police. Celia, Wes said, with an air of revealing a seminal fact, had arranged for me to take possession of some of her aunt’s rare objects. The police were investigating whether I had actually received the pieces. I spun the steering wheel sharply and stopped on the side of the road. The way Wes worded it, and from what he didn’t say, it would be easy to infer that something wicked was in the works, and that I was in on the scheme.

  I called him, but his phone went directly to voicemail, which made sense, since he was on air.

  “Wes, you need to correct your story immediately,” I said through clenched teeth. “If Celia didn’t have her aunt’s permission to sell those objects, this is the first I’m hearing of it. I didn’t meet Celia, I don’t have Maudie’s possessions, and you need to stop implying that I was a participant to fraud. Yes, you may quote me.”

  On the off chance he had his phone with him in the studio, I zipped off a text saying the same thing.

  “This just in,” Wes announced portentously a few seconds later. “Josie Prescott is holding firm on her denial, insisting she had no prior knowledge of Celia Akins’s intention to sell her aunt’s objects without permission and that she, Josie, doesn’t have them.”

  Leave it to Wes to make my righteous anger come across as a weak and self-serving denial. Wes had crossed a line, and if I had anything to say about it, he’d be sorry.

  “Are we talking big dollar values here, Wes?” Stephanie asked.

  “Yes. For sure.”

  Sophistry—using facts to tell a lie. Wes didn’t say the objects were worth big bucks. He simply said he was talking about big bucks. Wes was getting out of hand, more than out of hand. Aggressive reporting was one thing. This was something else altogether. He had ventured beyond hyperbole, beyond embellishment—by leaving out salient details, essentially, Wes had told a whopper, and I wasn’t going to be a party to it, not as his victim or his patsy.

  “Thanks, Wes,” the host said. “And now here’s Serena Matthews with the weather.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ty was tearing lettuce for a salad when I got home around eight.

  “You beat me!” I said.


  “No delays, snags, or snafus.”

  “Yay!”

  I leaned in for a kiss, and Ty placed his hands on my waist, his kiss searing.

  When we separated, I snatched a piece of carrot and popped it in my mouth. “What a day.”

  “Tough all around.”

  “It was horrible enough without Wes implying I’m a crook.”

  “I heard his report. He’s on a tear, all right, filled with conspiracy theories and ominous what-ifs. We know he’s wrong about you, but do you think he might be right about Celia? That she set out to rob Maudie?”

  “I wish I could say ‘no, absolutely not,’ but the truth is … yes, I think there’s a chance.” I told him about Celia’s calls to Tom and me. “As to Wes … I’m getting angrier by the minute. His wording was incendiary—he said I was continuing to deny it, not that I didn’t do it.”

  “Your word against a dead woman. Don’t worry about it … everybody knows what Wes is. It’ll blow over.”

  “Not everyone knows what Wes is, and I don’t care if it will blow over. He has no business doing it.”

  “You’re right. So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ll figure it out.” Ty sprinkled sea salt over the salad.

  “And meanwhile, Maudie is missing.”

  “You hit it off with her.”

  “Big-time. So … did your boss agree with your insights? Or did you wear him down?”

  “He was impressed with the evidence. And, yes, he agreed with my analysis—although I wouldn’t call my conclusions insights.”

  “You’re too modest.”

  “You’re biased.”

  “True. So what’s the bottom line?”

  “He approved my funding request. All’s well that ends well.”