Blood Rubies (20 page)

“I've been asked to appraise a previously undocumented Fabergé egg, an extraordinary occurrence.” I explained about the rarity of Imperial eggs and Fabergé's escape using the snow globe ruse. The judge's eyes never wavered from my face. “The egg I examined was a fake. The real egg is missing. Drake Milner appraised a Fabergé egg last week. His egg was also undocumented and lacked provenance. That, Your Honor, is, in my expert opinion, impossible.”

Morrison smiled at me, a nasty one. “Didn't I read an article in the
Seacoast Star
about an undocumented Van Gogh you located?” He turned to the judge and shrugged. “Finding rare, previously unknown masterpieces happens.”

“That's right, but those two situations aren't analogous. Van Gogh was so poor, he often traded paintings for food. He kept no work records. Contrast that with Fabergé. He worked for the Russian tzar and was paid top dollar. He kept meticulous work records. For two previously unknown Fabergé eggs to surface at the same time stretches credibility. There's more.” I continued talking without pause, ignoring Morrison. “Both Milner's egg and mine were purchased from stores that closed about seventy years ago. Both owners have an appealing, though wholly anecdotal, narrative to explain their acquisitions.” I shook my head. “It's not a coincidence. It's a pattern. They're the same egg.”

“If I may?” Morrison asked the judge.

Judge Rutherson made a circling motion with his index finger.

“Thank you.” Morrison smiled at me. This one was smarmy. “Ms. Prescott, my understanding is that fewer than ten percent of antiques come with clear provenance. Is that correct?”

“Yes, but—”

He cut me off. “If you please.” He turned to the judge. “Your Honor—how can we possibly think Milner's testimony is material with that kind of a statistic? That both eggs share a lack of provenance isn't a coincidence. It's the way of the world.”

“You're mistaken,” I said to Morrison. I smiled at the judge. “It's an example of an accurate statistic leading to an inaccurate conclusion, and if I recall correctly, that's called sophistry. That ten percent statistic encompasses everything from two-dollar collectibles to multimillion-dollar antiques. If Mr. Morrison asked me what percentage of multimillion-dollar antiques come with clear provenance, the statistics reverse—nearly ninety percent do. Few people would risk paying that kind of money if they didn't have absolute knowledge about an object's pedigree. Consider all the elements my egg and Milner's egg share.” I ticked off my points by raising fingers on my left hand. “One: Two Fabergé eggs brought in for appraisal within a week of each other. Two: There's no record of either one, whereas no undocumented Fabergé egg has ever before been validated. Three: Neither comes with clear provenance. Four: Neither comes with a sales receipt.” I raised my left thumb. “Five: Both were purchased from stores that closed more than seventy years ago.” I started on my right hand. “Six: Both owners provide a charming explanation of the eggs' histories. And you're to believe this is a series of coincidences? Hogwash. No one element may be sufficiently persuasive on its own, but look at the six together and the pattern becomes clear.”

“I said it was absurd at the start,” Morrison said, bridling with amused contempt, “and I'll say it again now. This is all creative fiction, pure speculation based on minor and commonly found elements.”

“No, counselor, I agree with Ms. Prescott. I know cause and effect when I see it.” Judge Rutherson signed the certificate and handed it across the desk to Barton, then stood up. “I'm late. We're done.”

The judge hurried out, leaving the door open. Two seconds later, Ms. O'Neill appeared at the doorway.

“This way, please,” she said, and we filed out.

Morrison paused in the lobby to extend a hand to Barton. Barton shook it without comment.

“Well played, Rusty, old boy. My client instructed me to inform you that in this eventuality, he will not be appealing the judge's decision.”

“Good. We'll be in touch.”

I was surprised Barton didn't call him a loser. Morrison left. We stepped toward the guest chairs, out of the way.

“Well done, both of you,” Barton said. “Now if you'll excuse me, I want to get this certificate to Massachusetts.”

Barton marched down a hallway to the left. Ellis and I went out the way we'd come.

“Now what happens?” I asked when we reached the street.

“I'll ask you to join the meeting once it's set up—now that you're a certified expert.” He smiled. “Thank you, Josie. We wouldn't have been able to do it without you.”

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wes called me at seven in the morning, just as I was scooping cornflakes for breakfast. I had an eight o'clock appointment with a woman thinking of consigning her collection of antique gentleman's gadget canes and a ten o'clock appointment at the Rocky Point police station to listen in to Ellis's interview with Drake Milner, and I was running late. A spring snowstorm had sprung up overnight, catching me by surprise. Driving would be slow going. Already there was a thick coating, two inches deep, maybe three.

“I only have a sec,” I told him as I sliced a banana onto the cornflakes. “I saw your article online. The photos look good, huh?”

“That's why I'm calling. I just got off the phone with Peter Yartsin. He's going to sue the paper—and me.”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure exactly. I don't think he knows exactly. He was ranting something about privacy, then something about obstruction of justice.”

“Peter has anger issues. Once he thinks it through and talks to Chief Hunter, he'll calm down.”

“He says he's going to sue him, too.”

“I don't think you can sue a police official.”

“He also said he was going to sue you. That the photos you sent me were his sister's property and you had no right to allow them to be published without her permission.”

My mouth went dry. I coughed.

“What did he—” I broke off, coughing again. I couldn't speak. I couldn't think.

I poured a glass of water and sank onto the bench behind my kitchen table. I looked out the window past my patio, over the meadow, to the forest beyond as I drank. The grasslands were solidly white, the pines dotted with snow.

When I didn't say anything, Wes added, “I've already spoken to the paper's lawyer. He says we're clear, but you may not be.” He cleared his throat. “That's why I'm calling. To give you a heads-up.”

A robin landed on the flagstone patio, which was protected by an overhang, pecked at something, then flew away.

“Thanks,” I said. I drank some more water. “Are you going to write about Peter's threats?”

“If he actually files suit, or if Ana does, that's news, and we'll report it. Until then, no.”

“Okay. Thanks, Wes.” I hung up.

*   *   *

I found my lawyer's home phone number in an old-fashioned address book I keep in a drawer of my eighteenth-century lady's writing desk, and dialed. Max's wife, Babs, answered, said a cheery hello when she heard my name, and told me to hang on.

“Josie,” Max said, sounding as friendly as ever. “What's the trouble?”

I could hear his daughter, Penny, griping about having to eat breakfast. “I'm not hungry,” she said. I couldn't hear Babs's reply.

I repeated what Wes told me, then asked, “What should I do?”

“Do you know how Ana feels about it?”

“No.”

“Why did you do it?”

I leaned forward, resting my forehead on my hand. “It never entered my mind that Ana might not want them released, or that I ought to ask permission. She talked about the previous appraisal—including those photos—on the set, for instance, and in front of Heather and Jason. The simple truth is that the only thing I was thinking about was that if you don't tell people you're looking for something, how do they know to tell you if they know where it is?”

“What's the downside? Why is Peter so upset?”

“Maybe he's worried that thieves will take notice. If you have one valuable object, a thief might assume you have others.”

“Why else?”

“I don't know. Ana planned on using the egg on her TV show. She's not antipublicity, by any means.”

“She's not anti-
good
-publicity.”

“True.” I sat up. “I don't know, Max. If it was my oldest friend's fiancé who had been murdered, I wouldn't hesitate to allow the photos to be used.”

“And we have no reason to think she will.” He paused for a moment. “Why don't we ask to meet to discuss Peter's threats? She can bring him, if she'd like. It's illegal for a man with no legal standing to threaten people, and he should know that.”

I smiled and exhaled, relieved. No matter what issue I threw at Max, his counsel was always wise. “The best defense is a good offense.”

“Indeed. In the course of our conversation, I'll make certain Ana understands your good intentions.”

“If Peter comes along, brace yourself.”

“I've had many dealings with hotheads. He doesn't concern me at all.”

“I'm so glad you're my lawyer.”

“I'm so glad you're my client. Do you want to ask Ana to meet you at my office, or would you prefer that I make the call?”

“I'll do it. If you're available at noon, I can position it as a quick chat, then let's go to lunch.”

“Excellent idea. Kill 'em with kindness. Let me check my schedule.”

Tips of purple crocuses poked through the snow, a symbol of hope and renewal and progress. Funny that I hadn't noticed them before.

“All right,” Max said. “I'm open. Noon it is. Call my office to confirm as soon as you reach Ana.”

I promised I would and punched the
END CALL
button. I looked up Ana's number and dialed.

She answered on the fifth ring, sounding sleepy and anxious.

“It's Josie,” I said. “I'm sorry to call so early, but it's important. Do you want to take a minute to wake up?”

“No, no. I should be up already. What's wrong?”

“Nothing, I hope. It's just a time crunch/scheduling thing.” I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers. “I was wondering if you're available at noon to go over where we are with the appraisal and the search for the missing egg. Afterward, maybe we could go to lunch.”

“That sounds great. Thanks, Josie. Should I come to your office?”

I opened my eyes, but I kept my fingers crossed. “Have you spoken to Peter?”

“No. Why?”

“He's making some pretty out-there statements.”

“Oh, no. Tell me.”

“We'll talk at noon. Do you have a pen? I'll give you the address of where we should meet.”

“Give me a sec.” I closed my eyes again for the three seconds she was gone. “Shoot.” I rattled off Max's firm's name and location, and she added, “A lawyer? Am I in trouble?”

“I'm hoping none of us is.”

“You sure know how to wake a girl up.”

“I'll see you at noon.”

“Okay,” Ana said, sounding scared.

*   *   *

I got into work two minutes before Marianna Albert arrived with a photo album tucked under her arm. The storm had slowed to flurries, a relief. I'd worn a spring coat, a sure sign of optimism.

“Come in, come in,” I told her.

While she got settled at the guest table, I hung up her leather duster, an unusual choice for a woman her age, which I pegged as closer to eighty than seventy. Otherwise, she was conventionally dressed in a brown tweed skirt, a green cardigan over a white silk blouse, and cordovan-colored knee-high boots. The skirt had green flecks in it. Her gray-white hair was cut short. Her jade earrings matched the flower-shaped pendant that hung just below her collarbone.

I pushed aside the panicky fear that had come over me as soon as Wes told me about Peter's threats and offered her coffee or tea. I was doing what I could, what I should. I was carrying on.

“Thanks, no. I'm off to a hair appointment,” she said, “so I can only stay a minute. Since we spoke, I've checked you out. You have a very good reputation.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Do you have any questions about the consignment process?”

“A thousand,” she said, smiling. She placed her photo album on the table in front of her, lowered her eyes, her expression softening, and patted the navy blue leather cover. She looked up at me. “Walter … that's my husband, I told you on the phone how he passed away last year … Walter loved his canes. He collected them for more than fifty years. I've tried to keep everything the same, but—” She lowered her eyes to the photo album again but didn't resume talking.

“But then you realized that everything isn't the same.”

She shook her head, resigned, not sad. “Nor should it be. I'm moving to St. John.” She grinned. “You know why?”

“Because it has perfect weather and the drinks come with cute little umbrellas in them?”

She laughed. “No. Because I like to snorkel, and I want to live somewhere where I can snorkel every day.”

“Wonderful! I love snorkeling, too. Why St. John?”

“I saw a seahorse there once. I'd never seen one before, and I've never seen once since.” She took in a deep breath. “Walter and I never had children. It's time to let the walking sticks go.”

I nodded. “How many are there?”

“Eighty-seven.”

“Eighty-seven! Wow. That's a huge collection.”

She slid the album across the table toward me. “Take a look and see if you're interested. If so, you can come out to the house and examine them, and then we can discuss terms and see if we want to work with one another.”

I opened the album. Each plastic sleeve held six photos, three shots per cane. The first shot showed the full-length cane on a white background. The second showed the decorative head. The third showed some aspect of the gadget or an abditory.