The Glow of Death Page 2

  “Really?”

  “It’s called ‘association.’ That this lamp is worthy of being shown on TV adds allure to some potential buyers.”

  “And we’d stay anonymous?”

  “Yes, but the lamp wouldn’t. The best of both worlds!”

  Ava used the electronic signature function on my device to sign off on it, and within another few minutes, the meticulously packed lamp and I were out the door.

  As I gentled the box into place, the next-door neighbor I’d seen earlier greeted me.

  “Hello there,” she said. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

  “Heavenly,” I agreed.

  She tied a hearty tomato plant to a four-foot-tall wrought-iron trellis and snipped off excess twine.

  “Those are some beautiful tomato plants you’ve got there,” I added.

  “I’m a tomato fiend,” she said.

  “Me, too. My dad used to grow them when I was a kid.”

  “Nothing like tomatoes off the vine.”

  “I have always wondered why scientists can’t get them to taste good all year round,” I said. “Whoever succeeds in doing that will make a fortune.”

  “I doubt they ever will. Mother Nature always has the last word.” Another knot, another snip. “I’m Sylvia, by the way. Sylvia Campbell.”

  “I’m Josie Prescott. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  “I didn’t know you could harvest them so early in the season.”

  “You’ve got to pick the right variety. These are called Fourth of July. Want to guess why?”

  I laughed. “I’m betting it’s not because they explode.”

  Sylvia chuckled. “Nope. They’re all-American and have an early harvest.”

  We chatted for another moment, and then I left. Driving back to work, I recalled those long hot summer days spent with my dad eating tomatoes plucked fresh from the plant, talking about our days. My dad died more than a dozen years ago, yet I felt his presence like a friendly ghost. He was with me, except he wasn’t. I shook off the melancholy reflection and turned on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, a surefire way to improve my mood. I couldn’t wait to get started on the appraisal. I thought there was a real chance that we were about to join one of the rarest of clubs—antiques appraisers who’d authenticated a Tiffany lamp.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The lamp’s base was bronze, filled with lead. The materials showed an age-appropriate patina, the kind of wear and shine that comes from 110 years of use. The turn-paddle off-on knob and General Electric–made socket were as expected. The maker’s stamp was accurate. When the shade was gently tapped, the glass rattled, suggesting that the solder that held the glass in place had dried out over time, another indicator that the lamp was authentic. When illuminated, the shade glowed. The intricacy of the pattern and the luminescence of the translucent lavender and purple blossoms took my breath away.

  “Wow,” I whispered to the air. “It’s real.”

  The absence of documentary proof of ownership was a disappointment, but not a problem. There were no reports of stolen wisteria-patterned Tiffany table lamps that I needed to investigate. I took a step back to gain a wider view of the lamp and smiled in private celebration of another milestone reached. A minute later, I was ready to get back to work. I reached for a phone.

  I asked Fred to do his own assessment, specifically, to confirm that the material under the soldering was copper, and he eagerly went to work.

  A day later, he concurred with my evaluation and started the write-up.

  I called Timothy Brenin, the director-producer of Josie’s Antiques, and told him that if he could get to New Hampshire right away, we could include a genuine Tiffany lamp in next season’s episodes.

  “I’ll be there at eight tomorrow with a crew,” he said.

  I laughed. “No one could ever accuse you of being indecisive.”

  “You snooze, you lose.”

  “I’m so lucky to work with you, Timothy.”

  “I’m the lucky one! See ya in the morning.”

  * * *

  At seven Thursday morning, three days after Ava and Edwin Towson entrusted the lamp to me, and an hour before Timothy was due to arrive, I signed the appraisal, estimating that the lamp, if sold at auction, would fetch as much as $1.5 million. I texted the number listed on the contract, Ava’s cell, and asked if I could drop off the lamp later that afternoon. She texted back saying that would be fine. Ava was going to be a very happy woman.

  Timothy’s limo, followed by two trucks, arrived shortly before eight. I opened the front door and stood in the entryway to greet the team. Timothy stepped out and called hello.

  He pointed to the bunting that adorned all the windows. “Will you look at that? Bunting. I haven’t seen bunting in … I don’t know … forever.”

  “We’re all dressed up for the Fourth.” I gave him a hug. “I’m so glad you were able to come up on such short notice.”

  “When your show is number one in its time slot, the powers that be facilitate rare opportunities happily.”

  He used his thumbs and index fingers to frame the American flag mounted over the front door, creating a mock camera lens. He peered through it, viewing the picture with a professional eye. “What a great opening shot.”

  I greeted Starr, the makeup girl with pink hair and star-shaped tattoos, and Mack and Vinnie and the rest of the crew, escorting them into the section of warehouse I’d had cleared for their use. I stood off to the side while they wheeled in equipment, set up a baby blue backdrop, raised the light mounts, and tested everything from ambient sound to light density.

  Just before noon, they were ready to start filming. Starr gave my nose a final swipe with her feathery powder puff and nodded. I was ready to go. Wardrobe had selected a peach silk shirtwaist dress. The lights flashed on, brighter than the sunniest day.

  “Action!” Timothy called.

  “This,” I said, raising my open palm toward the lamp, speaking to the camera as if it were my friend, “is a genuine Tiffany lamp. The pattern is known as Wisteria, and it’s made from what’s called confetti glass. Let me show you how you can tell the actual from a reproduction—or a counterfeit.”

  We took three takes, two of which Timothy said weren’t needed because I got it right the first time.

  “You know me,” he said. “I’m a belt-and-suspenders sort of guy.”

  “Expect the best, but prepare for the worst.”

  “Exactly. Who’s to say that when we look at the recording you won’t have blinked at exactly the wrong moment.”

  “With three takes you can snip and tuck and make me look better than I am.”

  “I can’t do that … but I can darn well make certain you look as good as you are.”

  I loved working with Timothy.

  I asked Gretchen, a fan of celebrity gossip, to be on hand for the teardown and packing-up process in case anyone needed something, and she eagerly agreed. I went upstairs to wash off the thick makeup, then went back down to pack up the lamp.

  * * *

  As I turned into the Towsons’ driveway, I smiled and nodded at Sylvia. She stood on her lawn, watering her tomatoes. Today’s visor was white with blue polka dots, her T-shirt was white, and her capris featured narrow blue and white stripes.

  “Another gorgeous day!” Sylvia called.

  “We must be living right.”

  “That’s what I think, too!”

  “Come on in,” Ava said, as soon as I reached the stoop. “I can’t stand the suspense!”

  “It’s real,” I told her, relishing one of my favorite parts of my job.

  She raised her hands to her chest as if in prayer and clapped softly, a quiet celebration as befits a dignified woman. When I get good news, I do a half disco, half old-style rock ’n’ roll happy dance. When she heard the appraised value, she gasped and pressed her fingertips to her cheeks.

  “I was hopeful,” she said, her eyes alight, “but this is beyond anything.”r />
  “Some insurance agents prefer to get appraisals directly from the source. If yours is in that category, we’re glad to cooperate.”

  I unpacked the lamp, placing it on the table by the leather chair. The curtains were drawn, and the room was dim. When I switched on the lamp, the room took on a delicate lavender hue. By today’s standards, the light was barely adequate, but the ambience was sumptuous.

  “I feel like I’m in a different time and place,” I said, unwilling to take my gaze off the lampshade.

  “A more civilized place,” she said with a tinge of bitterness. “A time of refinement, when beauty was truly valued.”

  “You appreciate it,” I said.

  “George Bernard Shaw said, ‘Youth is wasted on the young.’ I say, ‘Beauty is wasted on the rich.’ They almost never appreciate it.”

  I ignored what seemed to me to be an unwarranted generalization, focusing instead on a value we shared. “I became an antiques appraiser because I wanted to be surrounded by beauty.”

  “I grew up poor. It leaves a mark.”

  “Which beauty can’t erase.”

  “Not completely.” She extended her hand. “Thank you, Josie.”

  “It’s been a pleasure.”

  Outside, I waved good-bye to Sylvia, still watering her tomatoes.

  * * *

  My best friend, neighbor, and landlady, Zoë Winterelli, and I take turns each year hosting a Fourth of July barbecue. This year was my turn. We hoped to begin by late afternoon, but our actual start time was up in the air since we didn’t know when Ty, my boyfriend, would make it home. Ty, a training guru with Homeland Security, was in the field leading an exercise involving intercepting illicit fishing trawlers as they tried to land surreptitiously along the remote and craggy Maine coastline. I hated it that he conducted training exercises on Sundays and holidays, but I understood his reasoning—it was far less disruptive than running them during standard business hours.

  At about eleven that morning, I was deep in dicing potatoes when Zoë popped into the kitchen.

  “Come to the movies with us,” she said. “We’re going to make a noon show.”

  “What are you going to see?”

  “I forget its name. Some kids’ supernatural animated zombie flick. Jake picked it out.”

  Zoë had two children, fourteen-year-old Jake and eleven-year-old Emma.

  “Tempting, but I’ll pass. Is Ellis going?”

  Her boyfriend, Rocky Point police chief Ellis Hunter, appeared behind her. “No. He’s decided to stay home and offer to be your sous chef.”

  “How can you possibly resist a zombie movie?” I asked in a tone brimming with faux amazement.

  He raised his chin. “I’m a man of iron will.”

  “You guys,” Zoë said, laughing. She waggled her fingers good-bye and kissed Ellis, a quick one, then left.

  “I’m all yours,” Ellis said as he walked toward me. “What’s my first task?”

  “Mincing onions and chopping celery for the potato salad.” I pointed my knife at a wicker basket near the sink. “Onions are there. Celery is in the fridge. Half a Vidalia. Four stalks.”

  He’d finished the onion when his smart phone rang. He glanced at the display, then answered with a crisp “Hunter.” He listened for a long time, two minutes, maybe longer, grunting periodically and jotting notes on a small spiral-bound notebook he extracted from his shirt pocket. “I’m on my way,” he said as he punched the OFF button. “Sorry to bail, but duty calls. There’s been a murder in Garnet Cove.”

  I spun to face him, knife in hand. “I was just there, appraising a Tiffany lamp. A week ago. The Towson family.”

  His eyes held mine for a moment. “You’d better come along.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A patrol car with its lights flashing blocked the street. I recognized the uniformed officer standing watch. His name was Griff, and he was close to retirement. Right now he was facing Wes Smith, a twenty-something reporter for our local newspaper, the Seacoast Star.

  Ellis parked behind a black SUV. The gold Crime Scene Investigation Team insignia stenciled on the side door sparkled in the sun.

  “Nope,” Griff said to Wes, sounding more amused than irritated.

  Wes looked shocked. “I can’t believe you’re keeping a journalist out. What do you have to hide?”

  The medical examiner drove up. I hopped down from Ellis’s SUV in time to see Griff shake his head at Wes, an indulgent smile on his face.

  “Chief!” Wes called, hurrying in our direction.

  Ellis smiled. “Nice to see you, Wes. No comment.”

  Leaving Wes sputtering, Ellis approached Griff.

  “Anything I should know?” Ellis asked.

  “CSI is inside.”

  Ellis thanked him, then turned to greet the medical examiner, Dr. Graham.

  Dr. Graham said something I couldn’t hear. I took a step in their direction, hoping to listen in, but her words were lost amid the crashing waves. I’d seen her before, but I didn’t know her. She was petite and young, and she had a reputation as a stickler for protocol.

  Ellis nodded, his expression grave. He replied. I couldn’t hear him, either, and after a few seconds, I stopped trying. Instead, I shut my eyes and turned my face toward the sun. From the ferocious ocean sounds, I could picture the waves pummeling the boulders that edged the shore. A seagull screeched, fighting for food or maybe complaining that there wasn’t any. An air horn from a faraway tugboat blared, its sound low and mournful, like a widow’s wail. Griff’s in-car radio squawked. I could feel someone staring at me, and I opened my eyes.

  It was Wes.

  Griff turned his back on us as he reached in through the open window to answer the call. Wes took advantage of Ellis’s concentration and Griff’s inattention to send me a silent message. He held his right index finger and thumb to his ear, miming talking into a phone, and mouthed, “Call me.”

  I nodded, one quick up-and-down motion, then looked away.

  Wes and I had our own sort of quid pro quo—if I wanted information, I had to give information. I was an uneasy, albeit willing, participant in our exchange since Wes, who made a swarm of killer bees look lazy, was always in the know.

  Griff hung up his radio, turned toward Ellis, and said, “Detective Brownley just picked up Edwin Towson at his company.”

  Dr. Graham started off toward the Towson house.

  “When they get here,” Ellis told Griff, “send them in.” He turned to me. “Let’s go.”

  Wes shouted, “I have a right to observe the police.”

  Ellis ignored him.

  Sylvia nodded as we passed her house. I nodded back. She was dressed for the holiday, wearing a stars-and-stripes-patterned T-shirt with a matching visor.

  A police officer I’d never seen before stood on the Towsons’ front stoop. He was young and thin with a crew cut, and I wondered if he was ex-military. Dr. Graham listened to something he said, then disappeared inside the house. The officer’s brass name tag read OFFICER A. KILEY. The door was open. I heard a dog barking, desperate, panicky yelps.

  “That’s Eleanor,” I said. “The dog. Where is she?”

  “Upstairs,” Officer Kiley said. “We locked her in a bathroom to keep her safe.”

  “She sounds upset.”

  Kiley was unmoved. “We brought up bowls of food and water.”

  I tried to ignore Eleanor’s yaps.

  “Anything I should know?” Ellis asked Officer Kiley.

  Ellis stood under the peaked porch overhang. Out of direct sunlight, his jagged scar looked darker than it did in bright sunlight, almost brown. I’d never asked Ellis where he got the scar, but I suspected he’d been wounded in a bar fight, against someone wielding a beer bottle or a knife. He never talked much about any aspect of his life before taking on the chief’s job, but I knew he’d been a New York City homicide detective for more than twenty years, until shortly after his dancer wife died of lung cancer. He’d told me once t
hat he’d moved to Rocky Point to find out if Norman Rockwell had it right about small towns.

  “Nothing, sir,” Officer Kiley said.

  I followed Ellis into the living room.

  “Did I hear Griff right?” I asked. “Edwin was at work? On the Fourth of July?”

  “It’s July fourth everywhere, but it’s only a holiday in America.”

  “That’s some kind of work ethic.”

  “Or ambition,” Ellis said.

  “Or zeal.”

  “Wait here,” Ellis said. “I won’t be long.”

  The house was fresh-smelling. A light breeze swirled in through the open windows. I rested my brow against the cool wood frame and gazed out over the ocean. Golden dots danced along the ocean surface. I watched a gull nose-dive into the water, then soar toward the sun and fly away.

  A few minutes later, Ellis called my name from the entryway. I turned to face him.

  “Come into the kitchen,” he said. “I need you to ID the body.”

  “Me? I thought Edwin was on his way.”

  “I like to have independent confirmation.”

  “What about whoever discovered the body?”

  “That was the dog walker, a fourteen-year-old girl named Merry. She saw the corpse through a kitchen window and ran home, screaming like a banshee. Her mother called it in. Merry was—and is—hysterical. All she noticed was rivers of blood. She’s too upset to do an ID, and her mom won’t leave her side. Understandable, but it means we need another set of eyes.”

  “Poor kid,” I said, thinking that Ava’s murder would stay with Merry forever, coloring her view of the world, changing her in ways she couldn’t anticipate and might never understand.

  As we walked down a short corridor that led to the back of the house, I girded myself for the grim task waiting for me at the end of the hall. I dreaded seeing what a violent death had done to the elegant woman I’d only just met. Goosebumps dimpled my arms.

  The kitchen was painted lemon yellow. The white cabinets had been finished with an antiquing glaze to add a distressed look. A woman’s body was sprawled across a small rug in front of the sink. She lay on her stomach, her face turned toward the cabinets, toward the ocean. She wore navy blue linen shorts and a sleeveless orange and blue paisley blouse. She was barefoot. Her short brown hair was stiff with congealed blood. Brown hair. She must have colored it. Her blouse was saturated with it. Rivulets of the copperish brown liquid ran toward the back door, drying in the sun that streamed in through the windows.