The Glow of Death Page 16

  “She didn’t say. She was planning a long trip, that’s all I know.”

  “Thank you.” Ellis waggled fingers at Detective Brownley, calling her over. “Detective Brownley will take your preliminary statement.”

  “But I need to know about Jean!”

  Detective Brownley led Kirk away.

  An oversized black van pulled up. ROCKY POINT CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION was painted on the sides in gold and white. Two men carrying pilot-style square black cases with the division’s name stenciled on the sides in gold joined Ellis.

  “Anything we need to know?” the older of the two asked Ellis.

  “Dr. Graham’s already inside.” He pointed to the pass-through. “Behind that tree. Up the back stairs.”

  “Okeydokey,” he said, and started off.

  The younger man followed.

  Ellis turned toward me, pressing the side of his hand against his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare. “Any news about that missing Tiffany lamp?”

  “No.”

  “Have you spoken to Edwin recently?”

  “Just now. This morning. How come?”

  “What about?”

  “A couple of things. Mostly we talked about Prescott’s buying the contents of the Garnet Cove house and grounds. We discussed the arrangements.”

  “Did he tell you anything about his plans?”

  “He’s moved into a hotel, if that what you mean. He’s relocating his business to London.”

  “How about today? Did he discuss his plans for the day?”

  “No … why?”

  Ellis lowered his hand and squinted into the sun like a sheriff in an old Western. He surveyed the scene, his focus absolute.

  After a minute, he turned back to me. “Because he’s gone missing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Because of the incline, Ellis’s and my eyes were level even though I was sitting on the second step of the stairway that led to Jean’s condo and he was standing on the walkway.

  “Edwin is missing? What do you mean, missing?”

  “I sent Detective Brownley to bring Edwin in to talk about Jean. He wasn’t at his company.”

  “I was just there. I talked to him.”

  “The receptionist saw him leave about noon. He’s not answering his phone or responding to texts or e-mails, which, according to his assistant, is unprecedented. Where do you think he went?”

  “Me? I have no idea. I barely know him.”

  “You were, it seems, the last person to speak to him. Your conversation was on a hot-button issue—selling all his worldly goods. How did he seem?”

  “The same as always, impatient and annoyed. This time, I felt bad for him. What you call all his worldly goods were things his wife selected. He was pretty bitter about Ava’s apparent betrayal, but who wouldn’t be?”

  Ellis cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “What betrayal?”

  “Selling the lamp out from under him. What else?”

  “Chief?” Officer Meade called.

  She lifted her phone above her head and moved it back and forth a bit—she wanted him to take a call.

  “Wait here,” he told me and strode off.

  The two neighbors hadn’t moved. Both women were watching the police like spectators at a tennis match, their gazes moving back and forth, keeping tabs on all the action. The police tape separated Jean’s town house, the surrounding lawn, and the gravel passageway from the rest of the complex. I was inside the crime scene. Ellis stood with his back to me talking on Officer Meade’s phone.

  Edwin was missing.

  I checked my phone. It was twenty after two. I had two voice mails, three texts, and eight emails. Zoë had called, saying she missed me and that she was excited our July Fourth barbecue was back on the schedule. Lucky me, I thought, to have a friend like Zoë. The second voice mail was from Wes, along with two of the texts. The voice mail message was short and to the point: “Call me. Now.” The first text, sent seconds after the call, read Call. The second text read Josie. Call, URGENT. The third text was from Ty telling me that he was on his way and that he loved me. I texted him: Another woman is dead. A minute later, I realized how cold and uninformative that must sound and sent a second text: I’m so glad you’re coming home. xxxxoooo. All eight e-mails were work related; none required immediate attention.

  Ellis, still on the phone, turned to face me, caught my eye, and raised his left index finger. “I’ll just be a minute,” the gesture communicated. I nodded, then called work.

  “Oh, I’m glad you called in, Josie,” Cara said. “Sasha would like to talk to you.”

  “Sounds good—but before you put her on … how are you doing?”

  “Better. Thank you. Working helps.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Is anything going on I should know about?”

  She said no and transferred me to Sasha.

  “The news from the marble expert is better than good. I spoke at length to Mr. Colby. The marble I thought might be a Banded Oxblood Swirl—it is. For the last seventy years archaeologists have been digging at old glassworks sites in Germany, and a few examples have surfaced. As far as Mr. Colby knows, though, all of the examples have been damaged by the recovery process, or were discarded in the first place because they were marred during or after production.”

  “Could he date it?”

  “Yes, 1850 to 1880.”

  “Do the typical factors that determine value apply here?”

  “Yes, and all are in our favor. Not many Banded Oxblood Swirls of this size were made, so it’s rare. Only a handful seem to have survived, so it’s scarce. And it is highly prized by collectors.”

  “I’m sitting down—give me a number.”

  “Marketed properly, Mr. Colby thinks it might sell for as much as thirty thousand dollars.”

  Anyone looking at me must have wondered why my eyes and mouth opened wide. I took a breath, then said, “That’s a good number. Didn’t you say none has ever sold at auction?”

  “That’s right, but he cited two examples of other extremely rare marbles that had, and he thinks our marble will appeal to the same collector niche. For instance, a seven-eighth-inch split ribbon glass swirl Lutz marble, pink with green and oxblood lines—a color combination Mr. Colby says no expert had ever seen before—sold for more than twenty-five thousand dollars, the most ever paid for a marble smaller than one inch. The other example was what he described as a very rare opaque purple banded Lutz with a lavender core and a one-and-three-quarters-inch diameter. It sold for seventeen thousand dollars. Mr. Colby says everything seems to be in excellent condition, and that’s the most important aspect. He thinks none will sell for less than a few hundred dollars.”

  “This is great news, Sasha. What’s your next step?”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to bring him in for two days to examine the marbles in person. He’ll write the catalogue copy. His fee is within our expert consulting range. He doesn’t want us to send them to him because he doesn’t have a secure facility. He works out of his home office and keeps his own collection in a bank vault.”

  “I love that idea. Tell Gretchen I’ve approved it so she can arrange his travel. Any news from Fred about Aunt Louise’s desk?”

  “He’s still at the Towsons’, but he brought me up to date earlier. The situation is complex. Karla, the archivist he’s working with, has finished reviewing the News and Views photographs and has found fifty-seven that include a man with whom Aunt Louise seems particularly cozy. She’s turned over the names to Fred. So far, he has confirmed that forty-two of them are deceased, no surprise given the timeline. Of the remaining fifteen, he’s spoken to eight of them, all Aunt Louise fans, two of whom happily acknowledge having been her lover back in the day, but no one so far who knows anything about the desk.”

  “And we don’t even know that anyone she met through her work is the buyer.”

  “Not good odds.”

  “No,” I agre
ed. I thanked her for the update, then asked if anyone else needed me, and when she said no, we ended the call.

  I was so fortunate in my staff. I’d discovered early on in my career that the secret to business success came from hiring the best people, ensuring they had the resources they needed to do their jobs, and staying out of their way.

  The light breeze had dwindled to nothing, and the humidity had increased. I was sitting out in the open, and the sun beat down on me like fire. I fanned myself with my hand in a failed attempt to stir a cooling breeze. I stretched like a cat, stood up, and strolled across the lawn to the shade of a maple tree.

  Ellis was still on the phone.

  I glanced around. No one was paying any attention to me. Griff was still talking to Henderson. The two women were watching as the bevy of uniformed officers, F. Meade included, knocked on doors and chatted with whoever answered. Keeping one eye on Ellis, I called Wes.

  Before I finished saying hello, Wes interrupted me, sounding both chagrined and suspicious.

  “How did you get into the complex?” he demanded. After I explained, he added, “Go tell the guard to let me in. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  “Forget it, Wes. I’m inside the police line, waiting to be interviewed.”

  “Then take pictures. Lots of them. Record conversations. Be my eyes and ears.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  Twenty seconds later, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Wes. Take photos.

  I thought about it for a minute, then walked slowly to the gravel walkway, acting as if I had no particular purpose and all the time in the world. Using the tree as cover, I photographed the condo; the police canvass; Griff, as he shrugged in response to something Henderson said; and Ellis, who was still talking on the phone. I e-mailed Wes the photos, then waited some more. I turned my back to the street so I could see the pond and watched a duck dip its face into the cool water, shake off the excess, and paddle away. The water was glass-smooth, but only for a moment. Off to the left, concentric circles grew ever wider and fainter until they were nothing but a memory. A fish, probably, disturbing submerged duckweed or sea grass as it flitted through the water. Overhead, a bird chirped, la-oop, la-oop, a happy sound.

  “Josie?” Ellis called.

  I stuck my head out and waved, and he walked my way.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “No prob,” I said.

  He pulled his elbows back, arching his back, turning left, then right, loosening up, I guessed.

  “Where were we?” he asked.

  “You were telling me that Edwin has gone missing. Have you found him yet?”

  “No. Have you thought of anything that might help us locate him?”

  “No. You said you had him on camera in the parking lot. Then what?”

  “He got in a red Mercedes and drove north on Ocean. That was at twelve fourteen. A camera mounted in a condo-complex parking lot picked him up about five miles from his company, continuing north. That’s the last anyone has seen or heard from him.”

  “I thought he used a driver.”

  “Apparently he drives himself sometimes.”

  “Is the Mercedes Ava’s?”

  “Yes. What’s north of here he might want to visit?”

  “It has to be a person, not a place,” I said. “He doesn’t like New Hampshire. He’s eager to get out. He’s meeting someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The two women who’d been observing the police edged closer to the police tape, and their movement caught Ellis’s eye. He turned toward Detective Brownley. She was leaning on her vehicle’s hood writing something in a spiral bound notebook.

  “Detective!” Ellis called.

  The detective pivoted to face him. He jerked his head toward the women. She looked at them, then back at Ellis, and nodded. She flipped her notebook closed and marched off toward the pair.

  “Have the crime scene guys found the Tiffany lamp in Jean’s condo?” I asked.

  “Not yet or they would have called. It’s not in plain sight. Will you help me look?”

  “Of course.”

  He punched a number into his smart phone. “Can I bring someone in?” He listened for a moment, then said, “Will do.” He tapped the END CALL button and slipped the unit into his pocket. “You’ll wear booties and not touch anything. Nothing. If you want a drawer opened, tell me, and I’ll open it. If you want to look under a table, you ask me before you get down on your hands and knees. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked side by side down the gravel pathway.

  “What are you doing here anyway?” he asked.

  “I wanted to talk to Jean. I’ve tried calling for a while now without reaching her. I was in the complex for another reason and thought I’d try knocking on her door.”

  “What other reason?”

  “Fund-raising.”

  “That’s pretty convenient,” he said, sounding skeptical.

  “But true.” I reached into my tote, found Penelope’s check, and held it up. “Ms. Hahn was very generous.”

  He gave the check a thorough viewing, not merely a glance. “What did you want to talk to Jean about?”

  “The fake Ava. I’m still trying to find the stolen lamp and figure out who played me.”

  “What do you think she knew?”

  “The truth? I think she was involved.” I held up a hand. “No, I didn’t expect her to confess, but I did think I might have been able to guilt her or frighten her into returning the lamp, no questions asked. Once I had the lamp secured, then I planned to turn everything I’d learned over to you.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You thought she was simply going to hand over a stolen lamp worth more than a million smackers?”

  “Little Miss Optimism, that’s me.”

  “That’s completely naive, not to say, foolish.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask her about her sister’s murder. Just about the lamp.”

  “What made you think Edwin would agree to a no-questions-asked-if-you-return-the-lamp deal?”

  “He doesn’t want the publicity that comes with a criminal investigation.”

  We climbed the back stairs. At the first landing, Ellis asked, “What makes you think Jean was involved?”

  “The thief referenced details about Edwin’s family that only Edwin and Ava knew. I think Ava and Jean cooked up this plot together.”

  A technician greeted us at the door.

  The booties were turquoise plastic, elasticized to fit snugly around the wearer’s ankles. We paused at the archway that led into the dining room. Jean lay on her back, her gaze seemingly fixed on the ceiling. She appeared as attractive as ever.

  “She hasn’t been dead long,” I whispered.

  Ellis spoke in hushed tones, too. “A few hours, according to preliminary reports. The a/c is cranking, so it will take Dr. Graham a little time to confirm it.”

  “What killed her?”

  “She was shot once in the back of her head, execution style.”

  I stared at the corpse, appalled. My heart stopped for a moment, then hammered against my ribs. “Could it be suicide?”

  “No. No gun. The tech guys are fairly certain the weapon was a .45, though. Who do you know who has a gun of that caliber?”

  “No one. I mean, I don’t talk about guns with people.”

  “There’s no sign of forced entry, no sign of a struggle, and no sign that anyone ransacked her condo. She had eighty-two dollars in her bag, which was on the dining room table, in plain sight. The security log indicates that her front door opened at nine thirty-two, then again at nine fifty-six.”

  “Who passed through the guardhouse around nine twenty-five?”

  “Orson Thompkins.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “The security photo shows a woman wearing a big straw hat and big sunglasses. We can tell she’s white.”

  “A woman.” I lowere
d my eyes for a moment, then raised them to Ellis’s face. “Did the cameras pick up a license plate?”

  “Yes, but it was smeared with mud. The car was a white Impala.”

  “A rental.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did the guard check ID?”

  “No. He got the name and called Jean to get permission for her to enter. Jean gave it.”

  “So she was alive at nine twenty-five.”

  “Nine twenty-six, yes.”

  “When did the Impala leave?”

  “Nine fifty-seven, through the back exit.”

  “The one with no guard.”

  “Right. The photos show the same person. A white woman in a floppy hat.”

  “You can’t be certain it was a woman,” I said.

  “Nor can we be certain she was alone in the car.”

  “What about Jean’s boyfriend?”

  “Shawn O’Boyle. He’s listed as one of Jean’s emergency contacts, along with Ava. He’s in Mexico City on business, been there for a week.”

  “And you’ll be checking whether he flew in and out again.”

  “Of course. I bet he didn’t.”

  “No bet. Why are you telling me all this? You’re not usually so open.”

  “Everything I’ve just told you has already been released to the press.” Ellis led me to the stairs that went down to the basement. “We might as well start at the bottom and work our way up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The rooms in Jean’s condo were spacious, the ceilings high, the fit and finishes top-of-the-line throughout. The basement was tricked out as a media room with a 100-inch TV mounted on the long inside wall, a butterscotch leather sectional couch in the middle of the room, and a popcorn machine in the corner. I walked closer. The machine had an “add butter” option. Ty loved popcorn, and I made a mental note to check out getting him a machine like this one for Christmas, then chastised myself for thinking such a thing while I was in a murder victim’s house with the body lying overhead.

  “It’s freezing in here,” I said, rubbing my upper arms.

  “Yeah. Either Jean liked living in a meat locker or someone was trying to mess with the time-of-death analysis.”

  “Will it?”