Antiques to Die For (26 page)

“You’re a good saleswoman.”

“I don’t mean to be,” I said, lowering it. “Gerry asked me to find out if you want it. If not, he said I could buy you a Western art object—more in keeping with your taste.”

“Sold,” he said, slapping the desk. “We kill two birds with one stone that way. I get an object I actually want and you’ll earn another commission. Please thank Gerry for me—and for you.”

“That’s not why I suggested it!” I protested. He was making me sound like an ambulance-chasing lawyer.

“Of course not,” he said as if we were in league together, grinning.

His cuckoo clock clanged once, marking the quarter hour.
Time to leave
, I thought.

“Okay, then . . . you go ahead of me, Paige,” I said, hoisting the painting. “See you later.”

“Wait a sec,” Ned said.

“What?”

“When will I hear about
my
art?”

I lowered the painting to the ground again and looked through the open door into his office, reviewing the diverse mix of special items—the nicely mounted arrowheads, the knob-handled walking stick, the bear-teeth necklace, the Remington repro.
Maybe he’d like a
real
Remington
, I thought. I’d just read about a sale. One of Frederic Remington’s pieces, weighing in at one thousand pounds, called
Heroic Bronco Buster
had sold for $16,000. That was in the ballpark of what Gerry had in mind to spend, comparable to the Tyler.

“Soon,” I replied. “Let me put together some ideas for your review. Is later this week all right?”

“Art before business!” Ned said as if that meant something.

With a final “See ya,” Paige and I left.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” Paige asked as we walked back.

“Nah. It’s heavy, but it’s my responsibility, you know?”

Back in Tricia’s office, I leaned the painting against the far wall, then used the key Tricia handed me to open the door to the little storage room that had served as Rosalie’s office. Nothing looked disturbed.

“Can I go in?” Paige asked.

“Yes,” I said, “and you can look through things, but you can’t take anything away yet. And you should try not to disturb anything, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed.

In Gerry’s office, I reviewed the location I’d selected. There was ample space for the painting. The mounting moldings and lighting tracks were already installed, so all I had to do was ensure that the painting was level and position the light fixture properly. I dragged the small ladder into place and lugged my toolbox into the room. It took several minutes to adjust the wires, but when the painting was hung and the diffused incandescent light turned on, I was thrilled with the result.

I stretched and glanced at the crystal clock on Gerry’s desk. Soup to nuts, it had only taken me twenty minutes to complete the installation.
Not bad
, I thought.

I peeked into Rosalie’s office. Paige was sitting in the desk chair holding the photograph of her and Rosalie eating ice cream, staring as if the image could provide answers.

“Paige?”

She whipped her head around, startled.

“Sorry to disturb you.”

“No, it’s okay.” She slid the photo onto the desk. “I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

She stood up. “I was thinking how Rosalie loved ice cream. We always had three or four flavors in the freezer, even in winter.”

“What’s your favorite?”

She smiled. “Black cherry.”

“What do you think? Should we get some for lunch?”

She laughed a little. “Okay.”

“The empty crate isn’t too heavy. Do you think you can carry it?”

“Sure.”

I picked up the toolbox, said good-bye to Tricia, and led the way to the front. Standing by the door, I called Officer Brownley, as instructed, to tell her we were ready to leave.

“Officer Griffin is there. He’ll take you to the station house so you can talk to the forensic guys and then he’ll bring you back to your place.”

“Okay. Where are you?”

There was a long pause and I thought she wasn’t going to answer. “I’m en route to Cooper’s house to execute a search warrant. I’ll let you know if we find anything that relates to your appraisal.”

“Wow!” I exclaimed, wishing I was riding shotgun and could help in the search.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A

t the Rocky Point police station, I showed the forensic examiner how to open the book without breaking its spine, how to turn pages without risking ripping the paper, and how to slide the journal out of the plastic bag without marring the leather.

“We’ll treat it with kid gloves,” the man assured me as he wrote out a receipt.

Feeling as if I were allowing a stranger to babysit my infant, I watched as the man packed it up. I stood in the entryway buttoning my coat, chatting to Cathy, when Cooper appeared from an inside corridor.

“It’s outrageous,” Cooper stated, his voice pulsating with impotent wrath.

I watched as he was led into the small alcove where they took fingerprints. I knew where it was located because two years ago, they’d walked me into the same place and taken mine.

Cooper didn’t notice me. He was too busy abusing the police officer, a longtime veteran of the force, for his stupidity and for overstepping his authority. I noticed that not a hair of Cooper’s carefully coiffed mane was out of place.

“Ready?” Griff asked me.

I waved good-bye to Cathy, and with a final glance toward the alcove where Cooper’s rant continued, said, “Absolutely.”

“Fred’s finally gone?” I asked, seeing his empty desk.

Sasha laughed and I turned to her. “Sorry,” she said, apologetic as ever, for no reason. “He got interested in the Barkley tallboy and wanted to start researching it, but I made him go home.”

“Good—he was half asleep when I left.” I turned to Gretchen. “I’m going upstairs to do some work. Do you need any help with the mailing?”

She rolled her eyes. “Always!”

“Paige? Can we draft you again?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” I headed toward the warehouse. “Oh, one more thing, Gretchen. Get us all ice cream for lunch, okay? Paige, I know, wants black cherry. I want marble fudge.”

Her astonished look made me laugh.

Ty called as Paige and I were driving to Mr. Bolton’s office—the first phone call I’d received on my new phone. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Griff followed close behind.

“I only have a minute,” he said. “We’re on break. But I wanted to tell you we’ve picked up the man who ordered your flowers.”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed.

“Nope. The florist did a good job in describing him. He was, in fact, homeless. He received money to take a cab, make the drop, and cab back.”

“Who gave him the money?” I asked, my heart racing at the thought that I was about to learn my secret admirer’s identity.

“He doesn’t know. He never saw the man before and he hasn’t seen him since.”

“But it
was
a man.”

“Right.” He paused. “Or a woman wearing a good disguise. He’s looking at photos now. But his attention was pretty much focused on the cash the man was holding.”

My heart sank. “Another dead end.”

“Nope. Another opportunity for diligent police work. We’ve just begun to show him photos. Give the process a chance to work.”

“Okay,” I agreed, trying to hide my disappointment.

Brown and white
, I thought,
the color of disappointment
.

Everything on either side of the road appeared to be brown or white—brown bark on trees with a few tawny-colored leaves that somehow still clung to branches; white snow edged in brown soot; sunlight filtering through gray-white clouds and stippling the thick woods with specks of white light; brown roofs from distant homes; and the white spire of a small church barely visible through the trees as we drove past. Shades of January, sharply defined, softly etched on the vista. January, a hard month, a month of disappointments.

“Change of subject,” he said. “We are staying the week down here.”

“All week!”
I hate this,
I thought.
I just hate this.

“Yeah. They’ve planned a dinner for all us new guys—and spouses, partners, significant others, you know the drill. So anyway, one guy’s wife is flying in from Wisconsin, and another from New Orleans. I was wondering . . . I don’t know your schedule and I know it’s not really practical, but what do you think? Want to come for dinner on Thursday?”

Thursday,
I thought.
Nothing is on the schedule that couldn’t be changed. Paige will be back with the Reillys.
Or maybe she’d be with Rodney, I realized, upset at the thought. I glanced at her again. She was biting her lip, no doubt anxious about the coming meeting with Mr. Bolton.

“I’d love to. Let me see if I can arrange it.”

“Great!” he said, and I was gratified by his enthusiasm.

I finished the call as we pulled into the small parking lot at the back of the law office. Griff said he’d wait for us, and Paige and I went inside.

The receptionist said that Mr. Bolton would see us in a few minutes. We sat side by side in Windsor-style chairs, waiting.

I told Paige, “I need to make a phone call.”

She nodded and I approached the bay window that overlooked the street. I dialed the office and Gretchen answered with her cheery welcome.

“Is there anything I need to think about if I plan on taking off Thursday and Friday?”

“You? Take two days off? That doesn’t sound like you. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

“I know, I know. . . . I’m living on the wild side,” I said.

“Nope, you’re all clear! Hey, I just noticed that your number is showing as private on the phone ID. Did you get an unlisted number?”

“Yeah. It’s just for a while.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yup. Just being careful,” I told her and hoped that it was true.

The invisible danger seemed to be drawing closer. We were keeping me safe, but not addressing the underlying hazard. It was as if I were treating the symptoms of a disease, but not the disease itself.

“Mr. Bolton can see you now,” the receptionist called.

I ended my call with Gretchen and turned to Paige. She looked stricken, and I touched her elbow as we walked.

Mr. Bolton was standing as we entered and greeted us both warmly, clasping Paige’s hand for a moment as he offered his condolences. He guided us toward a chintz-covered couch by the window and, once we were settled, sat across from us in a club chair.

He cleared his throat and looked at Paige. “I’ve conducted an extensive background check on your cousin, Rodney Furleigh, and I have good news. He’s an upstanding citizen, a sound engineer for one of the movie studios out in California. He’s married to a woman named Lucille, who does bookkeeping part time out of their home, and they have one child, a daughter named Mackenzie. She’s twelve, by the way, just about your age, and a lovely young lady.”

Paige’s eyes were huge and frightened.

“Where do they live? What kind of place?” I asked. “West Los Angeles,” Mr. Bolton replied, glancing at his notes. “On the Santa Monica line. A neighborhood called Mar Vista. They have a single-family home with four bedrooms and two bathrooms and a nice yard.”

Paige began to cry. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she closed her eyes. Mr. Bolton slid a box of tissues across the coffee table, and I pulled one out of the box. Touching her shoulder, I said, “Paige? Here’s a tissue.”

She nodded and took it, but didn’t open her eyes or speak or make any sound. Her shoulders shook, then she doubled over, wrapping her arms around her middle and rocking to and fro, just a little.

It was agonizing to watch. I felt helpless and uncertain. I wanted to rescue her, to stop all this talk about Rodney and California, but I couldn’t.

“Paige,” Mr. Bolton said softly, “nod if you can hear me.”

Paige nodded.

“Everyone wants only what’s best for you. You are in a difficult situation with limited options. What we’re asking you to do is to try living with the Furleigh family. They love kids and are eager to have you as one of the family. If, after you give it a good try, it isn’t working, no one—not me, not the courts—
no one
will expect you to stay. Other arrangements will be made. We think you’re going to be happy in this environment, but if we’re wrong, we’ll find another solution.”

“Foster care?” Paige whispered.

“Yes,” Mr. Bolton replied, “we’d find another family for you.”

Rip my heart out,
I thought,
and stomp on it right now.
I wanted to offer my house, my home to her—but I didn’t. It was too complex a decision from her perspective, and my own, to be spontaneously offered. Objections rattled around in my brain: What would Ty think; I’m never home; she needs a family, not a single woman in a rental house; I’m not capable; and most cutting of all, I couldn’t help her overcome the loss since I’m still coping with my own losses.

Paige sat up. “I’m sorry,” she managed, wiping away her tears, and swallowing gulps of air. “May I have some water, please?”

Mr. Bolton turned to a phone on a side table and made the request to someone named Angie.

“The Furleighs are here, in the conference room,” Mr. Bolton explained. “They are excited to meet you.”

Paige nodded. She appeared completely shell-shocked, beyond hope. I reached for her hand and held it.

Water arrived, and after Paige had several sips, Mr. Bolton said, “I know it’s hard, but are you able to talk about Rosalie’s funeral? The police have told me that it can be scheduled in a few days.”

She shook her head and looked at me.

“I think Paige would like Rosalie to be buried in California, near their parents, with a service like the one they had.”

“Is that true, Paige?” Mr. Bolton asked gently.

She nodded, then began to cry and covered her face with her hands.

Mr. Bolton cleared his throat again. “Shall we say next Monday?”

“Paige?”

“Okay,” she whispered.

I patted her shoulder. “I’ll be there, Paige.”

She nodded, but didn’t reply.

Two tissues later, Paige was able to raise her head and sip more water. Mr. Bolton escorted her out. I stood up, assuming I’d join them, but Mr. Bolton shook his head, indicating that I should stay behind. Paige’s gait was evocative of a death row prisoner en route to the gallows.

“That was pretty awful,” I said when he returned.

“She’s in for some hard times,” he agreed. “And there’s no way to ease the transition for her.”

I shook my head, shattered at the thought, yet I knew that he was right. “She can stay with me,” I said, shocked that I was volunteering for a role I’d proven only minutes earlier was impossible for me to accept. “I’d like to be her guardian.”

He stared at me. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Why?”

He shifted in his chair, probably to give himself time to think. “Let me turn that question around. Why do you think you are an appropriate guardian?”

I took a deep breath. This was an audition and I didn’t want to screw up. “We’ve been together all weekend and we like each other. We care. We fit.” I fluttered a hand. “My parents died when I was young. I understand her.” I took another breath. “She could continue at her regular school, and ballet class, and stay with her friends.”

He looked dubious.

“This is a good option. I’m a responsible member of the community. She’s had a lot of upheaval in her life. I could represent stability.”

Mr. Bolton, whose first name I realized I couldn’t recall, didn’t comment.

He shifted position again. “If I might change the subject for a moment, could you give me an update on the appraisal?”

I drank some water, and shifted my thoughts from Paige’s dire circumstances to her sister’s possessions. I closed my eyes, thinking about Paige, trying to listen through the soundproofed walls, and then I switched gears. After a moment, I told him what I knew about the journal.

“That’s consistent with what Rodney told me when I asked about the breach. He said that his mother sold an old book to her sister for four thousand dollars. A few months later, after a conversation with a rare book dealer, she realized she’d given away the farm for a penny, and asked her sister either to return the volume or give her a more realistic sum. Her sister said no. Rodney’s mother never spoke to her sister again.”

“So sad,” I said, shaking my head. “Where did his mother get it? Do you know?”

“According to Rodney, she inherited the book from her first husband who was, she told him, a descendant of the author. She was widowed and about a year later married Rodney’s father.”

“So Rosalie owned the book legally—free and clear?”

“Yes. And Rodney understands that and makes no claim on it.”

“Thank goodness for small favors,” I remarked.

“So you’ll complete the appraisal of the journal?”

“Certainly—and of everything else.” I had another drink of water. “So what do you think about Paige living with me?” I asked.

He looked at me for a long time, then said, “I think your offer is kind and a viable next-best option.”

I swallowed, abashed. “What about tonight? Will she stay with me? The Reillys? All her stuff is in the trunk of my car.”

He stroked his chin. “I think it’s best that Paige stay at the hotel with her cousins.”

I nodded. “Can I tell her to call me, just in case?”

“Of course.”

He pushed a button and told Angie to bring them in.

I met the Furleighs just long enough to say hello. They seemed nice enough, and Paige wasn’t crying, which I took to be a good sign. I mentioned Paige’s ballet class and Mrs. Furleigh smiled and said that they’d take her if she wanted to go.

We transferred Paige’s duffel bag and backpack from my trunk to their rental car and then I turned to Paige to say good-bye. She reached for my hand and held it. And then I hugged her, and she hugged me back.

I leaned into her ear and whispered, “You have my phone numbers, right?”

She nodded against my shoulder. “Uh-huh.”

“You need anything, anytime, ever, you call. Don’t hesitate. Forever more, kiddo, okay?”

“Thank you, Josie,” she whispered, and pulled away.

She gave a tremulous smile, and with a final wave, I left.

I didn’t cry until I was in my car and alone.