The Glow of Death Page 20

  “He was thinking more about black bears, but yes.”

  “Who was he to you?”

  “My Boy Scout leader.”

  “I have a suspicion you were a terrific Boy Scout.”

  One side of his mouth shot up. “Still am.” After a moment of silence, he turned to face me. “I want to tell you something, but you’ve got to keep it confidential.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Ava was pregnant, and according to the medical examiner, Edwin isn’t the father.”

  Both hands flew to my lips. “Oh, Ellis.” I closed my eyes for a moment, reeling. As soon as I’d read that Edwin had had a vasectomy, I knew this was a possibility, but I hadn’t wanted to believe it. I opened my eyes and lowered my hands. “Did you tell him?”

  “Yes. Just before he disappeared. He said he didn’t even know she was pregnant.”

  “You don’t believe him.”

  “I don’t believe anyone.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you?” Ellis asked. “Believe Edwin when he talked about Ava?”

  “Yes. My God. I think he was hoping to save his marriage.”

  “People who have a good reason to lie tend to do it well.”

  “You’re saying that Edwin might have killed Ava, that he might have prerecorded the video conference, snuck out of his meeting, and mucked with the air-conditioning to confuse the medical examiner about the time of death.”

  “All the participants on the video conference, and I mean all of them, swear it wasn’t staged. One man had to take an unexpected phone call, and the meeting went on hiatus for five minutes. Towson’s records all calls and meetings to ensure no future misunderstandings, but we don’t have enough evidence to get a court order for it, and Edwin won’t give it up because of the confidential information that was covered.”

  “I can’t imagine that Edwin has the technical wherewithal to pull off a scam like that, even without that unexpected hiatus.”

  “I agree.”

  “So he didn’t kill her,” I said.

  “He’s got the mother of all motives, so I’m not ready to give up on him. Maybe he arranged for someone else to kill Ava and got himself a world-class alibi.”

  “Maybe his mistress did it, if he has one.” I felt the heat of Ellis’s attention. “It’s possible the woman on the Grey Gull security tape is his cookie.”

  The corner of his mouth shot up again. Ellis was amused, probably at my diction. “Maybe he’s with her now.”

  “You still haven’t found him?”

  “No trace.”

  My throat closed as a terrifying thought came to me, and when I started to speak, I choked. I tried again. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Oh God, Ellis, it’s just awful. Ava, Jean, now this.”

  “There’s no reason to suspect Edwin has been killed, Josie.”

  “Look at the timing—he disappeared right after we reached an agreement to sell his possessions and you told him about his not being the baby’s father. Two horrific experiences coming right on top of one another. Maybe he … you know … maybe he decided he couldn’t…” I shuddered and hugged myself. “It happens, Ellis.”

  “Sales of ice cream cones go up in the summer, and so do incidences of rape, but no one thinks eating ice cream leads to rape.”

  I took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Ellis was right about ice cream and rape, but that didn’t mean he was right about the potentially debilitating effect on a proud man of having humiliating bad news heaped on top of mortifying perfidy.

  “Do you have any idea who Edwin’s mistress is?” Ellis asked.

  “No, and I don’t know that he has one, but if he does, I could see her being white-hot angry. I mean, look at it from her side—Ava gets pregnant, and whether Ava knows the baby is Edwin’s or not, that isn’t the point. The point is that while Edwin is open about not wanting kids, he’s a man who takes his responsibilities seriously, so he tells the cookie, now that he’s about to be a papa, their relationship is over. From the cookie’s point of view, Ava is about to screw up her future.”

  “So the lamp doesn’t come into play in this scenario.”

  “Sure it could, if Edwin had previously told the cookie about it.”

  “Are you certain you don’t have any ideas about who she might be?”

  I tapped a long-hanging strand of leaves, sending it swinging.

  “What is it, Josie?”

  “Have you spoken to Judi, Towson’s receptionist?”

  “Why?”

  “Or Tammy, an employee who got fired?”

  “Talk to me, Josie.”

  Muscles running along my shoulders tightened. I didn’t appreciate Ellis’s obdurate tone. I met his eyes. “I am.”

  He nodded, one crisp nod. “And I appreciate it. Why did you name those two women?”

  I lifted, then lowered my shoulders. “I think they know things.”

  “Why did you talk to them?”

  “Are you interrogating me?”

  “Interviewing, informally.”

  “Why did you tell me about Ava’s baby not being Edwin’s child?”

  “To get your opinion. You know Edwin better than most people.”

  “What are you talking about? I just met him.”

  “He has no friends. His employees, colleagues, and investors all have agendas. No one will tell me anything about him except that he’s a smart, hard-nosed, straight-arrow businessman that they’re proud to know.”

  “Maybe that’s what he is,” I said.

  “True. For both gut- and fact-checking purposes, I need your help. Do you think Jean knew about Ava’s baby?”

  “Sure. Don’t you.”

  “They seemed close. Do you think Jean helped Ava steal the lamp?”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.”

  “Before Jean died, I asked her whether Ava was excited about being pregnant, and she told me she was, and that Edwin was, too.”

  “Someone’s lying. Who’s the baby’s father, do you think?”

  “Who do you think it is?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. Can’t you use DNA to trace him?”

  “He’s not in any DNA database, so he hasn’t been convicted of a serious felony, or even, in some jurisdictions, arrested. He hasn’t applied for a gun permit or a liquor license, and he hasn’t served in the military.”

  “Is there any chance Ava conceived the baby on one of their trips?” I asked. “Maybe she had a fling on her walking tour in Wales.”

  “No, the timing is off. She was almost five months pregnant. Except for their recent trip to Europe, she was in Rocky Point full-time for the last six months. So in all likelihood, the baby’s father was someone in her circle. A friend of hers. Or of Edwin’s.”

  “Poor Edwin,” I said. “He must be crushed. Just crushed.”

  “You think so? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who gets crushed.”

  “Come on, Ellis. Any man would.”

  “Some would. Others wouldn’t.”

  “Maybe the father is the man we know as Orson Thompkins,” I said.

  “That’s logical. We’ve scoured Ava’s phone logs, e-mails, and social media accounts. Nothing stands out. Any other ideas about how we can find him?”

  “No.”

  Ellis used the back of his hand to push aside enough willow branches and leaves to make a doorway.

  “Okay, then,” he said, “let’s go make a video.”

  People change, I thought, as I walked across the lot to the front office. An agreement you happily make in your twenties shackles you as forty comes into view. My eyes filled as if it were me Ava had betrayed, not Edwin, and I blinked away the wetness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Upstairs in my private office, sitti
ng at my desk with Hank in my lap, I watched Ellis fuss with the tripod and camera he’d retrieved from his vehicle.

  He flicked it on, stated the logistics of where we were and why we were talking, and thanked me for agreeing to talk to him. I didn’t like that. There was a formality to his tone that I found disturbing. He started by asking me to recount why I’d been at the Grey Gull condo complex yesterday afternoon, moved on to why I’d knocked on Jean’s door, then snuck in an unexpected question.

  “Do you have any sense that Edwin Towson might have staged the theft of the Tiffany lamp?”

  “No,” I said, thinking that his question echoed my own speculation. I explained about consignment versus selling and the effect on the bottom line. “I understand that if he was desperate for cash, he might have thought that selling outright was his only option, but I have absolutely no sense that he was anywhere close to desperate.”

  Ellis spread his arms wide. “How about you? Your business seems great. Is it?”

  My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “I think you just asked me if I switched out the genuine Tiffany lamp, maybe in cahoots with Ava and Jean, so that I could nab a chunk of a million-plus bucks for my personal coffers. Did I get that right?”

  “I had to ask, Josie.”

  I’d asked Fred the same question, in almost the same way, and Fred had reacted in an almost identical fashion. I turned toward the camera, wanting to be certain that my answer was recorded, full face.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Indulge me. I know you wouldn’t have done it unless there was an emergency. How many employees do you have?”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a lot of mouths to feed.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  When Fred answered, he’d had to restrain himself since I was his employer, but I didn’t have to restrain myself at all. I cared about Ellis the man, but I didn’t give a flying hoot about Ellis the police chief.

  “Bite me.”

  Ellis laughed. “Say again?”

  “Yes, my business is doing great. We’re in the middle of our best year ever. No, I didn’t steal Edwin Towson’s Tiffany lamp.”

  “Who else might have had an opportunity to substitute a replica for the Towson lamp?”

  His bland expression did nothing to comfort me. The smoldering anger I’d endured since I’d learned that I’d been conned fired up anew, lit by fresh fuel. I glared at him, my lips pressed together, my arms crossed in front of my chest.

  “Fred,” I said, not trying to hide my disdain. “And Eric. But neither one stole it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I asked Fred, pro forma, and he told me he didn’t.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it?”

  “What about Eric?” Ellis asked.

  “He doesn’t know anything is wrong.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t want to upset him needlessly.” I shoved my chair back, preparing to stand. “I need to go now. If you have any other questions, feel free to contact me again.”

  “Thank you, Josie, for your cooperation.” He tapped a button, and the camera’s red light faded out.

  I stood, not trying to hide the scorching disdain sparking from my eyes. I didn’t say a word to him the whole way out, and he didn’t say anything to me, either. We didn’t need to speak for our mutual messages to be clear.

  At the front door, he said, “Thanks! See you tomorrow.”

  I didn’t reply. I stood at the window and watched him leave my property. He signaled a left turn, heading, no doubt, for the interstate. I glanced at the clock. It read 9:49. In eleven minutes, I was on duty at Prescott’s Instant Appraisal booth, where I needed to be more than informative; I needed to be charming. Charm had deserted me. I doubted I could talk at all. I could barely breathe. I was so outraged at Ellis’s implication that I—or a member of my staff—might be a thief, I was beside myself. How dare he?

  My dad always said that sometimes in life you might have to eat dirt, but no one says you have to call it ice cream. I pulled a can of ginger ale from the minifridge and took a long swig, hoping it would quiet my agitation the same way it quiets nausea, and much to my surprise, it worked. By the time the can was empty, I was ready to assume my role as Prescott’s charismatic leader.

  First, though, I had to warn Fred and Eric that an ice floe had broken free and was heading their way.

  * * *

  I asked Sasha to cover for me at the instant appraisals booth for a few minutes and tracked down Eric. He was rearranging a collection of vases.

  I asked him to join me in the warehouse, and his expression reflected his fretfulness at being singled out.

  “I want to start by telling you that you did nothing wrong. The Tiffany lamp is a fake, and no one knows when it was switched out, so the police are investigating everyone who had any contact with it. That includes you.”

  “You always videotape antiques before we pack them up. I didn’t do that.”

  “You’re not supposed to. It’s not your job. I shouldn’t have let you go alone. This is all on me, Eric. I expect the police to call you to schedule an interview. Max—you know, our lawyer—will go with you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry, Eric.”

  “It’s no one’s fault. None of us stole the lamp.”

  “That’s exactly right, but it sure brings home the point about why we need to be so careful.”

  “I’m not worried about talking to the police, so I don’t want you to worry about me.”

  I touched his arm. “Thank you, Eric.” I asked him to send Fred in.

  “Police Chief Hunter—Ellis—questioned me about the murders and the theft,” I said to Fred, aiming for a neutral tone. “He asked me the same questions I asked you, about whether I stole it myself. I resented it the same way you did. I still do. Frankly, I’m steaming mad about it. One of his questions was who else had access to it, and I named you in addition to Eric. Do I need to explain why I gave him your name?”

  “Of course not. I did have access to it, and our records reflect that, but regardless … we’re truth tellers.”

  I smiled. “Always. Have you heard from Ellis yet?”

  “No.”

  “You will, and when you do, I want you to bring Max Bixby, our lawyer. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  At noon, Gretchen called to let us know she was about ten minutes away. I got Eric, and we met her at the loading dock. Together, the three of us carried in a new 9' × 12' rug. Gretchen explained that she chose seashell pink because the new kitty was a girl. She also bought two new litter boxes because Peter said that in multiple-cat families, it’s best to have one per cat, plus an extra; porcelain pink and white zebra-print food and water bowls, along with a bubblegum pink place mat; and a brown, cushy kitty bed and a round wicker basket with a pale pink pillow, the same brands as Hank’s. Hank’s pillow was black, very manly. Also in the box were two packages of noisy, catnip-free mice, because Peter reminded her that the new kitten was too young for catnip, and two large bags of kitten food.

  We unrolled the rug, aligning it with Hank’s dark green carpet, placed the food and water bowls as far away from Hank’s as possible, and positioned the kitty bed and basket so the edges touched Hank’s.

  “So they won’t get lonely in the night,” Gretchen said.

  “What about a second kitty-condo?”

  “It’s on order. It should be here within a week.” She giggled. “I ordered the one with perches big enough for two in case they feel like sharing.”

  “Let’s hope Hank feels like sharing.”

  While Eric and I went to collect all the catnip toys scattered throughout the warehouse, Gretchen drove back to Peter’s to pick up our new cat.

  * * *

  Cara, Gretchen, Eric, and I stood in the center of the pink carpet. Hank sat nearby, incensed yet curious.
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br />   Gretchen placed the kitty carry-bag in the center of the pink rug, unzipped the side flap, and laid it flat. Our new kitten stuck her face out and sniffed around. She meowed, then scampered out. She was all black except for a small white triangle on her breastbone, just below her neck. She had big eyes and big ears, and I thought that she was maybe the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

  “Will we call her Carrie?” Gretchen asked. “That’s what the woman whose son was allergic called her. That was only for a few days, though.”

  She didn’t look like a Carrie.

  Hank stood up, pinning her with a fiery glare. His back arched, and his tail puffed to twice its normal size.

  She meowed again and started poking around, sniffing along the rug, finding her food and water, and walking into and out of the bed and basket. She batted a mouse, and the bells inside tinkled. She seemed comfortable and engaged. She stepped over the line and continued her sniffing on Hank’s rug. He growled, a low steady message of discontent. She went right up to him and licked his side. He turned to look at her as if he couldn’t believe what she’d just done. She licked him again before resuming her sniffing exploration.

  “I guess Hank had a dirty spot,” I said.

  Gretchen giggled.

  I reached down to give Hank a pat and a kiss, then knelt down and called to the new girl.

  “Come here, little one,” I said, holding out my hands, palms up.

  She raised her head and turned toward me.

  “Come here. Give me a whiff.”

  She walked toward me slowly. Hank turned around to watch her. She sniffed my palms, my wrists, and my knees. She placed a paw on my thigh. What a sweetie.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Josie.” I pointed at Gretchen. “You know Gretchen.”

  “Yes, you do, don’t you, darling?”

  “This is Cara.”

  Cara leaned over to give her a little head pat. “You’re precious, like a jewel.” She stood up and turned toward me. “Maybe we should call her Jewel.”

  “Maybe.” I opened my hand toward Eric. “This is Eric.”

  “Hi, kitty,” Eric said.

  “And this is Hank.” Hank growled, just a little. “You can ignore that. He’s just surprised to see you.”

  She licked my hand. “Thank you, baby. That’s a very good girl.” I picked her up. She was almost small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Her purring machine whirred onto high, and her little eyes began to close. I used one finger to stroke the white fur on her chest. I looked up at Cara, Gretchen, and Eric, looking on with vicarious pleasure.