The Glow of Death Page 3

  Dr. Graham stood near the woman’s feet, tapping notes into a tablet. “No info yet,” she said without looking up.

  “Can we do an ID?” Ellis asked.

  “Sure.”

  She finished a note, then joined Ellis by the body. They squatted near the woman’s head and rotated her face toward me.

  My mouth fell open. I stepped back, bumping into the center island. I couldn’t drag my eyes from her face. She looked to be in her thirties, and it was easy to see she’d been a knockout. Her eyes were open. Her mouth was closed. She looked relaxed, as if she were thinking beautiful thoughts. I blinked, then blinked again, trying to understand what I was seeing—a gorgeous woman, a stranger.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I stood there staring at the bloody and battered corpse, my mouth agape.

  Ellis eased his hands from under the woman’s head and stood up. “Josie?”

  I transferred my gaze to his face. Dr. Graham moved a few steps away and resumed typing on her tablet.

  “What is it?” Ellis asked.

  “That’s not Ava.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.”

  He looked down at the body, then touched my arm and led the way into the living room.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m close to speechless.”

  Ellis glanced around. “You were in this room before, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything the same?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and let the picture come, then opened them and compared my memory to what I saw in front of me.

  “Look,” I said, pointing at the mantel. Four silver-framed photographs stood in a symmetrical row. In all of them, a smiling brunette in her thirties stood next to a stern-looking bald man in his fifties. He was half a head shorter than she was. One photo showed them standing in front of a pyramid. Another had them bundled in parkas on a snowy mountaintop. In the third, they were nestled together on a porch swing. In the last one, the woman cradled an apricot toy poodle, Eleanor, I presumed.

  I shivered as my blood turned to ice. “If that’s Ava Towson, the woman I met must be an imposter.”

  “Work the logic for me,” Ellis said. “What’s the point?”

  I gasped. “Oh, God! The Tiffany lamp.” I dashed across the room toward the study, skittered on the threshold, and grasped the doorjamb to steady myself. The lamp was in place, the wisteria petals gleaming where the sun hit the glass. “It’s here. It’s safe.”

  Ellis joined me at the door. “So that’s a Tiffany lamp.” He cocked his head. “How rare is it?”

  “Very. The shades are super fragile.”

  “Isn’t it … I guess the word is ‘unusual’ … that it’s here, out in the open?”

  “Yes, but it’s not unique. The lamp wasn’t designed as a decorative object. Tiffany intended it to be used. Lots of people share that utilitarian attitude.”

  “Is this Tiffany the same guy who started the jewelry store?”

  “No. That was his dad, Charles Lewis Tiffany. The lamp fellow is Louis Comfort Tiffany.”

  “He didn’t join the family business?”

  “No. He was trained as a painter but got into glassmaking in his early twenties. He figured out how to create three-dimensional effects in glass—he received a patent for his opalescent glass.”

  “What’s this one worth?”

  “I just appraised it at one-point-five million dollars.”

  He whip-turned to face me, his eyes wide, ready to laugh. He thought I was joking. “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  I shrugged. “That’s business.”

  He did a 360, taking in the desk, the walls, and the bookshelves. “Does anything look different?”

  I glanced around. “No.” We walked back to the living room. I stopped in front of the fireplace. “Those photos weren’t here before.”

  “What was in their place?”

  “Candlesticks. Silver candlesticks.” I scanned the tabletops. “Those.” I pointed to a pair of tall, elegantly gadrooned candlesticks sitting on a side table. “I noticed the scalloped rim and reeded feet. It’s a remarkable set.”

  “So someone replaced the photographs with candlesticks. Why?”

  “Because it’s odd to have a bare mantel. The fake Ava made sure that nothing would call attention to the fact that she was impersonating Ava Towson. She played me.”

  “Looks that way. Don’t take it personally. If a clever con man—or woman—wants to play you, you get played.”

  “That’s unacceptable. I’m experienced and knowledgeable. I should have smelled a scam.”

  “Chief?” a woman called from the front.

  We turned. Detective Claire Brownley, a woman I’d known for years, stood next to the man in the photos on the mantel. She’d cut her blacker-than-black hair into an asymmetrical wedge, very au courant. The man had aged some since the photographs had been taken, and he’d gained some weight.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, sounding more like an executive out of patience than a husband worried about his wife. “This detective won’t tell me anything.”

  I heard a faint hint of some Slavic language in his voice.

  “Wait here,” Ellis told me.

  I hung back as Ellis explained that he had bad news, news he’d wanted to deliver personally. Ellis asked to see the man’s ID, and after a brief protest, Edwin Towson slapped open his wallet, showing his driver’s license. Ellis thanked him, calling him by name, Mr. Towson.

  “A woman has been killed. I’m hoping you can identify the body so we can proceed with the investigation.”

  “Killed?” Edwin repeated, as if he were unfamiliar with the word.

  “This way.”

  Ellis guided him into the kitchen. Detective Brownley stayed close. I trailed along, reaching the kitchen door in time to see Edwin Towson kneel by the corpse.

  “Oh, my darling,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “Ava, Ava, Ava.”

  I swallowed unexpected tears and turned away. Edwin’s grief was palpable, his anguish raw, and I was touched.

  I hurried outside and took in a deep breath, glad for the warmth, glad for the fresh, sea-scented air. Officer Kiley stood with his back to me near the driveway, reading something on his smart phone. I sat on the stoop. A small brown bird flew by, low and straight, perching on a forsythia bush. It wiggled its tail feathers for a few seconds, then took off toward the ocean. It was about eighty with low humidity, a perfect summer day, a perfect day to celebrate our nation’s independence. The sun was partially hidden by the red maple, its rays dappling the front lawn with amber lace, the backlit crimson leaves glowing with an iridescent sheen. I heard a lawn mower, a big one, but I couldn’t see it. A car backfired. I couldn’t see the car, either. Laughter floated through the still air from somewhere down the block. I thought about the woman who’d hired me, replaying our conversations, seeking out anomalies, trying to identify anything that should have warned me that I was being conned. I was so mad I could spit.

  I took my tablet from my tote bag and did an image search for Ava Towson. An array of photos appeared. The most recent came from the July issue of Rocky Point Hospital’s newsletter. The article described last June’s annual fund-raising gala, which Ava had helped organize. The photo showed her in an off-the-shoulder celery green gown standing next to Edwin, in a tux. Ava looked regal; Edwin looked bored. I’d never met Ava. I’d never spoken to Edwin. Prescott’s always verified the identity of people who walked in wanting to sell antiques, but we never did when appraising objects in the client’s home. Now, staring into Ava’s sloe-colored eyes, I wondered if we should. I navigated back to the search results page and clicked on the link to a community blog. Ava used the blog like a diary. There were annotated photos of thatched cottages and verdant gardens from a recent walking tour in Wales; the ballroom at the Austin Ar
ms, Rocky Point’s finest hotel, where her high school class planned to hold its twentieth-year reunion; Ava posing with a woman named Janet Chirling, the chair of the high school reunion committee, with a note saying how excited she was to be asked to serve on it; Ava and Edwin dancing at a New Year’s Eve party on a cruise ship; and Ava and Edwin lying on chaise lounges in their backyard, raising flutes of champagne in a silent toast to the unseen photographer or someone standing nearby. I went back to the photos from Wales and checked the dates embedded in the postings. Ava had been in Wales during the week I’d been appraising the Tiffany lamp.

  Ellis came out and sat beside me. Officer Kiley slipped his phone into his pocket. He began a slow walk around the yard.

  “That has to be one of the worst parts of your job,” I said to Ellis.

  “It is.” He raised and then lowered his shoulders in what I suspected was a futile effort to ease tension. “So this woman we’ll refer to as Ms. Doe calls your office.”

  “Mr. Doe called. I spoke to him at some length.” I shielded my eyes with the side of my hand, blocking the sun, so I could see into Ellis’s eyes. I kept my voice low. “He’s an imposter, too. Way different voices.”

  Ellis’s eyes rounded. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared into the middle distance for a moment, then said, “Tell me about it.”

  I recounted our conversation and explained about faxing the contract. “Edwin signed it within minutes, and I drove here right away.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Insurance. If the lamp was real, he wanted to update his policy.”

  “I’ll need the fax number. And the fax. Also, the phone numbers.”

  “Of course.”

  “While you were here getting the lamp, did she touch anything?”

  “The doorknob, when she let me in and out. And the lamp. She held it while I recorded the bottom. The dog. The chair arms.” I paused, checking my mind’s eye to see if I’d missed anything. I hadn’t. “That’s it.”

  “I’m going to have one of the police officers take you to the station, to sit down with a sketch artist, okay?”

  “Can he take me home first, so I can get my own car?”

  “Sure.”

  Ellis passed along his instructions to Officer Kiley, then turned back to me. “When you sit with the sketch artist—” He broke off and spun toward the street at the sound of Griff shouting, “Stop. Police. Stop.”

  A woman ran down the street with Griff in pursuit. She veered to the right, zigzagged past Officer Kiley, and aimed directly at us. I leapt up, astonished. She kept coming. I backed away, onto the lawn, out of the line of attack.

  “Is it Ava?” the woman shrieked, her eyes fixed on Ellis’s face.

  “Whoa!” Ellis said, thrusting out his arm like a tollgate, stopping her. “What’s going on?”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “My sister.”

  She wore a white diaphanous cover-up over a gold and black leopard print one-piece bathing suit and gold sandals. She looked to be somewhere around forty.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jean Cooper.”

  “Do you have any ID, ma’am?”

  Her fingers trembled as she patted her pockets. She found what she was looking for, a small gold metallic zippered case, and handed it over. Ellis opened it and looked in, then handed the purse back.

  Her chest heaved. “I just heard … on the radio … there was a murder at this address. Was it Ava?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  She swept her tears away. “He killed her. Edwin. Her husband.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She was afraid he would.” Her shoulders bowed. “And he did.”

  * * *

  Ellis told me to wait for my ride and escorted Jean Cooper inside.

  I shut my eyes for a moment, half shocked, half numb, then looked around. Sylvia stood amid her tomato plants in mute sympathy.

  “Are you all right?” she asked in a stage whisper.

  “About as you’d expect.”

  “Is it Ava?”

  I glanced at Officer Kiley. He stood facing the street, speaking into a mic attached to his collar. I walked across the lawn and joined Sylvia at one of the forsythia bushes that separated the properties.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Ava dead?” I asked.

  “I don’t like to say.”

  “It’s not gossip.”

  She sighed. “I did hear an argument about a month ago.”

  “Between Edwin and Ava?”

  She pressed her lips together, her eyes on her sneaker-clad feet. “I was watering my tomatoes.”

  “And the Towsons’ windows were open.”

  Sylvia nodded and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ava accused Edwin of cheating, then Edwin accused Ava of being as warm and loving as an iceberg.” Sylvia raised her eyes to my face. “Ava told Edwin not to touch her. I heard a slap, then a scream. I thought about calling the police, but then she ran to her car and drove away.” Sylvia looked over my shoulder into the distant woods. “It was awful.”

  “Frightening and awkward all at once,” I said. “No one wants to hear neighbors arguing.”

  I turned back toward the Towson house. Ellis stood by the front door. He was on his phone, glowering at me, no doubt irritated at what he perceived as my messing with a potential witness. He kept his eyes on me as he finished his call.

  “Your ride’s ready,” he said coldly.

  I told Sylvia good-bye and walked across to join him, shaken to realize that two women in the know—Jean and Sylvia—both assumed Edwin was the killer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wes was still standing next to Griff, and when I breezed past him, he gave me a fish-eyed glare. I shook my head, a tiny shake, then looked away. I was going to fill him in, but I wasn’t going to say a word in front of a cop, and he should have known that.

  Daryl Lucher, a police officer with a blond crew cut, drove me home.

  “Are you going to the fireworks tonight?” he asked as he turned onto Main Street.

  Rocky Point organized the display from a pair of barges a hundred yards out in the ocean. You could see the show from anywhere along the three-mile stretch of beach. We brought blankets to sit on and baskets filled with nibblies.

  “I was, but now I don’t know. How about you?”

  “Like you. I was, but now I’ll have to see. The chief might need us. We were going to have a barbecue.”

  “And I bet you’re the magic man in your family.”

  He grinned. “You got that right. I’m the only one who knows the recipe to the barbecue sauce. I invented it.”

  “Ketchup, brown sugar, and spices?”

  His sly grin told me his recipe went far beyond the ordinary. “Nope. You use ketchup, you’re using someone else’s flavors.”

  “I’m intrigued,” I said. “Fess up.”

  “I won’t tell you everything, but I’ll let you know some. I start with a jar of last year’s tomatoes my wife and I put up. Then I add vinegar, honey, brown sugar, and onion juice. And lots of spices: allspice, cloves, red pepper. Garlic. And salt. You’ve got to let it simmer for a full day so it tastes right, something to do with the flavors coming together. But you’ll never guess the secret ingredient.”

  “Is it sweet or savory?”

  He chuckled but didn’t answer.

  I smiled. No way was Daryl spilling the beans. “How long did it take you to perfect it?”

  “Years,” Daryl said as he rolled to a stop in front of my house. “My grandpa got me started on the quest. He challenged me to make one better than his. I’m still trying.”

  Daryl walked me to my door. I thanked him for the lift, and he touched his cap with old-world courtesy. Even though it was only a momentary respite, it was a relief to talk about normal things, not murder, to picture a fun backyard barbecu
e celebrating America’s birthday, not a woman covered in blood.

  * * *

  Zoë and the kids weren’t back yet. Neither was Ty. I left him a voice mail telling him what was going on and that I loved him. I left Zöe a message, too, explaining why the barbecue had to be postponed. I suggested rescheduling on the ninth, next Sunday.

  Before heading to the police station, I remoted into my work computer from my home office and opened the Towson folder on my desktop. As per Prescott’s protocol, we had scanned in the contract that the fake Edwin had faxed back. He’d listed two phone numbers, one to reach him, the other to reach Ava. Both started with 617 area codes, which meant they’d originated in Boston. I zoomed in so I could read the fax’s header. The fax had been sent locally, from somewhere with a 603 area code. I used a reverse directory to locate the owner, Rocky Point Chemists. I knew the shop. It was a family-owned, old-style drugstore on Main Street that so far, at least, had resisted being gobbled up by a chain. The time stamp matched my recollection—the fax had arrived just after ten last Monday, June 26. I e-mailed the contract to Ellis, as promised.

  Before leaving, I took a few minutes to steady my still-shaky nerves. I walked around my house, finding comfort in the familiar. I rearranged the small jewel-colored bottles on the windowsill over my kitchen sink, moving the ruby one forward, pushing the cobalt one back. I touched the shimmering rim of the antique cut-glass Waterford bowl I’d bought for myself to celebrate my first year in business, a private acknowledgment of my business success, and of my personal success, too. The bowl sat beside my mother’s favorite Lunt silver candlesticks. I walked into my study and picked up the photo I kept on a corner of my desk. My dad. He’d been a handsome man, confident and competent, loving and kind, smart and determined. After my mom’s ghastly cancer death when I was only thirteen, we’d looked to each other for solace, and we’d found it. We’d been a team until the day he died. I didn’t want to think about that. I replaced the photo and headed back to the kitchen.