Antique Blues Page 5

  “There must be an echo in here.”

  Ellis walked to the stove. “This soup sure smells good.”

  I could take a hint, so I let it go.

  The soup was as soothing and satisfying as always. The reheated chicken was moist because Zoë had long since adapted my mom’s technique—she warmed it in gently simmering poaching liquid, a combination of white wine, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, and minced garlic, with a dash of hot sauce and more than a dash of onion powder.

  I texted Wes as soon as I got home: Where’s Cal Lewis? Do you know? As you ask around, make it clear that Cal is a family friend who might have insights into what happened to Mo. He’s not a suspect or even a person of interest.

  I was glad to sow the seed Ellis planted, not only to help him but because I wanted to know, too. I trudged up to bed, exhausted, angry, and sad.

  * * *

  The next morning, I stopped at my favorite bakery, Sweet Treats Bakery & Tea Shoppe, en route to work. I wanted a blueberry muffin, and no one made them like Sweet Treats. The owner, a woman named Noeleen McLoughlin, told me that they flash-froze blueberries picked locally in July. Maybe that was the trick. I got in line, and with one whiff of the cinnamon and vanilla wafting throughout the shop, I was transported back to my mother’s kitchen, to before she died when I was only thirteen. Sweet Treats smelled like love. I unzipped my jacket. The bakery was deliciously warm, a welcome respite from the morning chill.

  I checked my iPhone as I waited my turn. Wes had texted an urgent request to meet. I replied that anytime after ten worked for me. That would give me ample time to get updates from my staff. When my turn came, I ordered a dozen blueberry muffins because everyone loved them as much as I did, then spotted a honey-dipped doughnut, golden brown and dripping with sticky glaze, and ordered a dozen of those, too.

  Just before I reached my car, with ideas for authenticating Mo’s print whirling in my head, I stopped short. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but with Mo dead, I didn’t know who owned the Japanese woodblock print. We’d need to put our appraisal on hold unless Ellis asked us to continue as part of his investigation. Frustrated at the thought of anything slowing me down in my effort to help find Mo’s killer, I called Ellis and explained my concern.

  “Do you know Theo Caswell?” he asked.

  “Not well, just to say hello to at Chamber of Commerce meetings and summer concerts on the green, that sort of thing, but he seems like a good guy. Family law, right?”

  “He’s Mo’s lawyer. I’m meeting him at noon. I’ll call you afterward and let you know what he says. If the heir doesn’t want to go forward with the appraisal for some reason, I’ll get a court order.”

  “Maybe I should come with you, in case either of you has questions about the antique.”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind hanging out in his reception area until and unless.”

  I assured him that I didn’t mind a bit. “On a different topic … Zoë told me you’re moving in. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks. I’m psyched. Zoë’s a catch.”

  I smiled. I loved a man who told the truth.

  * * *

  As soon as I walked into my company’s front office, Gretchen said, “Oh, Josie … I was so sorry to hear about Mo. It’s shocking.”

  “Thank you, Gretchen.” I made eye contact with my staff, one at a time. “I’m not going to pretend I’m feeling fine. I’m not. Mo’s death is a terrible loss. She was a good friend and a truly remarkable woman. I’m pretty shaken up.”

  Gretchen’s beautiful emerald eyes moistened. “What happened?”

  “I wish I knew, but I don’t.” I turned toward Sasha. “We need to hold off on appraising Mo’s print. I hope to learn who inherited it soon.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m assuming it’s in the safe.” She nodded. “Where are you with the appraisal?”

  “All I’ve done so far is reach out to museums that have Hiroshige prints in their collections. I want to hear how they approached authentication.”

  “Good. If you hear back from anyone you’ve already contacted, go ahead and talk to them, but keep our interest vague.”

  She tucked her baby-fine brown hair behind her ears. “All right.”

  I turned to Fred. His black square-framed glasses sat on his desk. He was experimenting with contacts.

  “Talk to me about Frank’s guitar.”

  “I doubt it’s real.”

  I leaned against the guest table. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Martin is one of the most highly respected guitar brands in the world, which makes it among the most copied.”

  “Copied, sure. But counterfeited?”

  “Yup.” He tapped a paper on his desk. “Martin is aggressive in quashing illegal copies, so if you’re going in that direction, you need to counterfeit. So far, I’ve located three guitars that made their way into reputable antiques auctions and were later revealed to be fakes.”

  “Like Matisse—he said he painted fifteen hundred canvases, and twenty-five hundred of them were sold in America.”

  “I think that’s a perfect analogy. I’ve verified that only fourteen OM-45 Deluxe guitars were produced by Martin in 1930 because the economy tanked in ’29. Before then, in the mid-1920s, the guitar market was booming, and Martin employed the most innovative designers and the finest craftsmen in the world. The minute the stock market crashed, demand for high-quality guitars plummeted. Martin laid off all but its most skilled workers, which explains both why there were only fourteen built that year, and why the quality is so high. For this appraisal, I think we need to locate every one of those fourteen.”

  “Can you?”

  “Probably not. Martin keeps good records. All the inventory was sold to various shops around the country, but every one of those stores is out of business. None of the owners or their heirs is popping up in any search, including those done by the security company that does our background checks. I’ll keep plugging away, but I’m ninety percent sure tracking sales from Martin is a nonstarter.”

  “That’s terrific work, Fred. And impressively fast. What’s your plan B?”

  “I’ll start by posting a request for information on guitar forums and blogs. The online community is large and enthusiastic.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Also, we need to ask Mr. Shannon where he bought it and whether he has a receipt or a prior appraisal. For obvious reasons, I didn’t want to bother him.”

  “Agreed. Do you have any context yet for determining value?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “Get ready to have your mouth water. One of the fourteen sold at auction a few years ago for three hundred and sixty-six thousand dollars. If we can confirm that Robert Johnson, one of the first inductees in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, had owned and used Frank’s guitar, its price will skyrocket.”

  “Let’s get Davy up here to examine the instrument itself, but since this is a private appraisal, not preparation for a sale, keep it on the qt.”

  Davy Morse was our go-to expert on plucked or strummed string instruments. Based in New York, he was an expert’s expert: experienced, knowledgeable, insightful, and ethical. He was a Juilliard-trained guitar player, and he’d gone on to earn a certificate in sound engineering. After spending eight years touring nationally with two Broadway shows, he’d hung out his shingle as a consultant. His projects varied from serving as a guest curator to designing a guitar for wheelchair players and from appraising vintage instruments to helping video game designers get the music right.

  I smiled at Sasha to include her in my comment. “Good job, both of you.”

  I left them to their work and pushed through the heavy door into the warehouse. Angela came romping up the center aisle to say hello, and I gathered her up. As I kissed the top of her furry little head, I thought, not for the first time, that there was no greater solace than cuddling a cat.

  * * *

  Wes stood on top of the dune with his back to the s
treet. I drove onto the sandy shoulder and rolled to a stop. At the sound of my door closing, Wes turned around. He watched me crab-walk up the shifting sand.

  “How come you asked about Cal Lewis?” Wes asked, skipping hello, as always.

  “Hi, Wes. Nice to see you.”

  “You, too. So what gives?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Wes grinned. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “Not yet. I’ve only been working on it a few hours, but I reached enough people who should have seen him to be able to report that he disappeared around four thirty yesterday.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “So it seems. He left Hitchens just after his three o’clock class. That’s around four fifteen. He told the department secretary that he was going to grab some sushi but would be back in time to meet with a student. No one on campus has seen him since. Do you think he killed Mo?”

  “I don’t know. He overheard Mo hire me to appraise the woodblock print he sold her. If he was aware it was a fake, he’d know that meant the jig was up.”

  “Did he really think Mo wouldn’t get it appraised?”

  “Never underrate the power of arrogance. Cal thought his stamp of approval would be sufficient. Mo’s sister, Lydia, told her the print wasn’t worth appraising. I haven’t asked her, but I bet he primed her naysaying pump.”

  “What a doofus.”

  “Did the police figure out where he went for sushi?”

  “Not yet, but I learned that he was a regular at Little Tokyo, in Durham, about ten minutes from campus.”

  “I’ll bet he didn’t go there yesterday.”

  “No bet.”

  “Even assuming the print is a fake, why would he disappear? If he got called out on it, all he’d have to say is sorry, I screwed up, and return the money.”

  “How much money are we talking?”

  “Twenty-eight thousand, more or less.”

  “Then I know why he took off—he’s broke. He has thirty-one dollars in his checking account.”

  “How can you possibly know that? Banking information is confidential.”

  “Thanks,” Wes said as if I’d given him a compliment.

  I didn’t push it. “Maybe he has another account.”

  “I’ll keep digging, but he uses direct deposit for his paychecks, and this account is where they go.”

  “Then he must have planned his escape.”

  Wes pulled a spiral-bound notebook from his pocket and flipped it open. He tapped a minipen out of the wire casing and scrawled something. “I’ll check on withdrawals and whether he has other accounts. Why would he kill Mo? Just because he couldn’t refund her money?”

  “Not exactly. Because it would have been humiliating to admit he didn’t have the money.”

  “Money’s the root of all evil.”

  “Not according to the Bible. The love of money is the root of all evil, not money itself, and that’s exactly what I’m saying about Cal.”

  “You used the word ‘escape’ earlier. Did Cal escape or flee? Is there any chance he’s a victim here?”

  “What kind of victim?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just asking.”

  “I don’t know either, but it’s a good question, Wes. What about the Shannons’ neighbors? Did anyone see anything?”

  “Nope. We’ve got us a big fat doughnut hole. Everyone was at work or otherwise occupied. One guy is out of the country on a business trip to Brazil—he left the night Mo died. I’ll follow up when he gets back. A few of them have security cameras, but they’re all aimed at their own houses, not the street. Then there’s Mo’s phone. According to my police source, three calls came from the faculty lounge the day Mo died, one at three ten, one at three eighteen, and one at three twenty-four. The first one came from Edna Fields, Mo’s principal. She says that she wanted to give Mo a heads-up about a new student transferring in the next day. When she learned Mo had already skedaddled, she decided to call her. She left Mo a message. Steve Jullison, Mo’s ex-husband, made the second call. He volunteered that he called to ask about a lesson plan—Mo had mentioned a nifty new exercise she’d come up with, and she’d offered to share it with him. They spoke for about three minutes. The third call lasted only one minute, but no one is admitting making it. I figure Steve called her twice. He didn’t call about any lesson plan—paleeze! He was trying for a little nookie with the missus. She agreed, but he had to check his calendar. He did so, then called her right back to confirm the date. What do you think?”

  “Where is that coming from, Wes?”

  “Logic. Why else wouldn’t someone admit calling her?”

  “I have no idea. Neither do you.”

  Wes chuckled.

  “God, Wes, you’re something like something I’ve never seen. Why did the principal call Mo from the faculty lounge, not her office?”

  “When she didn’t find Mo in the lounge, she decided to cross that item off her to-do list then and there. There’s a faculty phone listing tacked to the wall, so it was easy to do.”

  “I can’t believe your police source gave you all this detail. Or that they got it so quickly.”

  “They can move fast when they need to. And why wouldn’t they give it to me? They’re trying to nail a killer, and they know media exposure can help.” Wes wiggled the pen back into place. “What else you got?”

  “Nothing. You?”

  He pocketed his notebook. “Nada. Catch ya later!”

  Wes jiffled down the dune, hopped in his car, and drove off, traveling north, toward the town center.

  I stood a while longer, thinking about family dynamics. There was some weirdness between Mo and Lydia.

  The sun disappeared behind a tendril of fast-moving gray clouds, and I shivered as a blast of unexpectedly cold air blew in off the ocean. Time to go.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Theo Caswell was in his late thirties. He was movie-star handsome, with longish brown hair and penetrating brown eyes. His office was in a new, all-glass building on Ocean Avenue, not far from Rocky Point’s police station.

  Theo stood behind his mahogany desk, which was angled to provide a sweeping view of the ocean.

  He smiled at me. “Josie! This is a surprise. A good one, but a surprise.”

  Ellis offered his hand for a shake. “Thanks for meeting with me so promptly. I asked Josie to join me in case a question came up about any antiques. She’ll wait outside.”

  “Josie’s welcome to stay. Mo’s beneficiary has already informed me that she plans on making the contents of the will public. Have a seat.”

  Ellis and I got ourselves settled in matching blue guest chairs; then Theo sat down behind his desk.

  “Mo’s will isn’t complicated. She bequeathed all her clothing to Goodwill, and all her jewelry, financial assets, and household goods to New Hampshire Children First! She estimated that her jewelry was worth about ten thousand dollars. She had around fifty thousand in cash and mutual funds. She thought her household goods would sell for a few thousand dollars. A trust that had been set up by her mother when she was a child provided a monthly income of roughly three thousand dollars. That income was also willed to New Hampshire Children First! Should the organization cease operations or fail to meet certain ethical metrics, the income would revert to her sister, Lydia Shannon, or Ms. Shannon’s heirs.”

  Ellis rubbed the side of his nose. “Who assesses the ethical metrics?”

  “I do.”

  “So there’s some arrangement for ongoing compensation for you.”

  “Yes. A token amount for what is expected to be minimal work—a yearly look at their tax filings and annual report, and a review of whether any complaints had been filed against the organization. I don’t anticipate any problems. New Hampshire Children First! has been in existence since 1922. It’s well funded by multiple sources. There haven’t been any complaints filed, ever. There’s no reason to expect this record of excellence to change.” T
heo crossed his legs. “Mo called me last Friday to tell me she’d acquired an antique print, planned to ask Josie to appraise it, and would send me a copy of the appraisal when it was done. I explained that there was no urgency, from my perspective, since the print would be included in the category of household goods.” He swiveled to face me. “How much is it worth?”

  “I don’t know. Mo asked us to appraise it, but I put it on hold when she died. It’s in our safe. If it’s real, it’s worth around twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars, maybe more because it’s in remarkable condition. Christie’s sold the same print a few years ago for a little more than ten thousand dollars, but it was quite faded.”

  “If it’s real?”

  “It hasn’t been properly authenticated, so there’s no way to tell.”

  “I’ll alert New Hampshire Children First! that it’s in your possession.”

  “I know the director well. Helene Roberts. I’d be glad to talk to her about the appraisal.”

  “I’ll let her know to expect your call.”

  “When did Mo prepare the will?” Ellis asked.

  “She revised her will the same day her divorce was final, last October.”

  “Was the divorce contested?”

  “Nominally. They filed jointly based on irreconcilable differences, but there were some skirmishes.”

  “What about?”

  “I got the impression that her ex would have been glad to reconcile.”

  “Mo wasn’t interested?”

  “No way, no how.”

  “Was adultery involved?”

  “So Mo claimed. Steve denied it.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  Theo flipped his palms up, a “who knows” gesture. “I gave up long ago trying to get a handle on other people’s relationships. My impression, for what it’s worth, was that Mo adored him.”

  “Then why wouldn’t she reconcile?”

  “Pride, probably. That’s usually the reason. She quoted her sister a lot. ‘Lydia says I’m a fool,’ that sort of thing.”

  Ellis asked a few more questions: who Steve’s lawyer had been, did Theo know any of Mo’s friends, and did Mo have any enemies. All he got for his effort, though, was the name of the lawyer. When Ellis was done, he stood, so I did, too. He thanked Theo for his time and asked for a copy of the will, which Theo had already prepared for him.