Blood Rubies (23 page)

Fred, leaning against the desk table, listening in, said, “And we think our bureaucracy is slow!”

“I know. It's amazing. He opened on the sly, but to hide what he was doing, he used the Meissen logo.”

I laughed. “No way!” Meissen was a famous German porcelain manufacturer whose objects were popular and prevalent. Over the years, we'd appraised scores of them. “How can we have never known this?”

“It's only just come to light.”

“This throws a real monkey wrench into the works,” Fred said.

“I know,” Sasha said. “He was super sneaky about it, too. He'd brought a Meissen craftsman with him to Russia, so re-creating Meissen's dual crossed-swords mark was easy.”

Fred pushed up his glasses. “We'll need to look at materials.”

“Agreed,” Sasha said. She looked at the snow globe. “Gardner received authorization to open in 1766 and started using his own logo—a capital
G
—right away. So it's safe to assume that this sculpture was created after that.”

Fred shook the snow globe and watched the silvery bits settle. “Any chance it was created earlier, right when he opened, before he learned he needed permission?”

“No. There's ample documentary evidence Gardner knew what he was doing, that he came because he recognized a market opportunity and was prepared for delays.” She flipped open her hands. “Maybe not for twenty years, but still.”

“Amazing,” I said. “Now what?”

“Now I contact the State Hermitage Museum in Russia to see if they have any information about the kind of porcelain Gardner used.”

I congratulated her again on her thorough work, then turned to Gretchen. “And you? How are you doing?”

“Fabulous! I've finished talking to all the carpet companies interested in bidding on the new carpet, and Jack and I finally picked colors for the baby's room—spring green and lemon yellow.”

“Perfect spring colors for a baby born in spring,” Cara said.

“They're happy colors, too,” I said. “I'm going to run up to my office for a minute. I'll be leaving around three to meet the woman with the gadget canes.” I smiled devilishly. “Eighty-seven of them.”

Amid cheers and wishes of good luck and more applause, I pushed open the fire door and stepped into the warehouse. As I approached the spiral staircase, Hank came running up. He mewed, rubbing his jowl against my calf. I scooped him up, and he placed a paw on my cheek and tucked his head under my chin, purring.

“Hi, baby,” I murmured. “Are you having a good afternoon?”

He purred louder.

“Good. I'm glad to hear that.”

He repositioned his head against my chin, settling in. I sat on the bottom step and shifted him into a cradle position. I had an accounting report to read and e-mails to answer, and I decided to skip it all. Time spent with cats is never wasted.

“You're
such
a good boy, Hank. You're my little love bunny, aren't you, sweetheart?”

We sat like that, cuddling one another, until it was time for me to go.

*   *   *

The radio said that a storm they'd expected to go south of us had stalled and we were in for it. The flurries now falling were the front edge of a major storm; by midnight, snow would be falling heavily and steadily, and we could expect close to a foot by morning, with temperatures plunging to the single digits. I pushed the
INFO
button on my dashboard; the outside temperature was 18.

With the windshield wipers on low intermittent, I drove down Ocean Boulevard to Cable Road and turned left onto the extension that dead-ended at the ocean. I got out of the car, turned up my coat collar, and watched frothy white waves crack like corn popping as they crashed against the rocky shore. I called Ty and got his voice mail.

“Hey, Ty … apparently we're in for a storm, as much as a foot of snow by morning. I'm thinking let's go to your place and make a big fire and I'll make us something warm and yummy for dinner. Okay? I love you. See you later.”

I got back in the car, held my chilled hands over the heat vent for a minute, then headed west on Central Road to Love Lane. Ridges of snow lined the road, growing higher as I moved inland. The snow fell heavily for a few seconds, then backed off into sputtering flurries, then became more intense again, swirling down into a dense wall of white.

Just before Love Lane jigged to the left, past Bailey Brook, near Locke Pond, I spotted the kind of black marks left by a skidding car. I slowed to a crawl. The tire marks slithered for twenty feet, then cut hard to the right, slicing through the snowbank and disappearing. I rolled to a stop, edging as close to the snowy ridge as I could. I punched the button to activate my blinkers, stepped out, and looked around.

Love Lane ran along the west-most edge of Rocky Point, cutting through a multiacre patch of conservation land. Nothing but trees and water and the winding two-lane asphalt road was in sight. I shivered. The temperature was dropping as the clouds thickened. I followed the tire tracks to the precipice.

I gasped.

A car, a metallic gray Audi with Massachusetts plates, rested on its front end in the murky near-black water. The trunk was sticking into the air at a crazy angle. I started down the snowy incline, then stopped and scrambled back up the hill, ran for my car, and grabbed my phone. I dialed 911, reported what I'd seen, then called Ellis. I got his voice mail and left a message, only saying that I was at the scene of a car accident and needed him to join me as soon as he could.

I tossed my phone and the car keys on the front seat, ran back to the hill, and started down, stopping just short of the water. I squatted to plunge my hand into the icy water, testing whether wading in was a possibility. Immediately, my fingers went numb.

“Oh, God,” I whispered and whipped my hand out of the water.

No way could I make it.

Shivering, I wiped my hand on my pants.

I pulled the retractable cord attached to the flashlight I wore on my belt and aimed the white light into the back window, but the car was canted in such a way that all I could see was the rear of the front seats.

Tears ran down my cheeks. Someone was in there, maybe still alive, and there was nothing I could do.

The falling snow was wetting my hair, freezing my head and neck. Flakes drifted down my collar, melting as they hit my back, sending chills running up and down my spine like spiders. I guessed it had been about ten minutes since I called for help. Ten minutes wasn't an unreasonable response time in such an isolated area, but it was too long for someone immersed in frigid water to live. It was also too long for someone—me—to be outside in a medium-weight coat, with no hat or gloves. I shivered again and flapped my elbows against my sides in a futile effort to generate warmth. My teeth chattered.

I needed to get out of the wind-driven bitter cold. I had to stop standing in knee-high snow.

I started up the incline. Three steps up, I tripped on a snow-covered something, a broken tree limb maybe, and spilled onto the ground. I rolled downhill toward the shore. Before I could stop myself, I hit a mogul and flew into the water face-first.

I sat up, breathless, disoriented, and terrified.

Pushing against the muddy bottom, I tried to stand, but my hands got sucked into a tangle of slippery algae. I waddled backward on my knees, each lumbering step a weighted nightmare, thrashing and dragging through the water-laden grasses that didn't want to let me go.

Finally, I made it to land. I sat on the snow, heaving for air, trembling uncontrollably.

I knew I shouldn't wait to catch my breath before making my way to my car, to warmth, to safety. It was dangerously cold. I crawled up the hill, one draggling step at a time, feeling my way around obstacles. When the road came into sight, I began to cry, I was so relieved. I made it to my car.

I reached over the driver's seat to start the motor and turn the heat on high, then found an old wool blanket I kept in the trunk for picnics. I stripped off my sodden clothes, leaving them in a heap on the road, wrapped myself in the dry blanket, and slid behind the wheel.

I hit the lever and the seat snapped back. I closed my eyes, waiting for the paralyzing cold to pass, waiting for help. Spiky needles pricked at my head and my back and my feet. I opened my eyes and looked out the window. The clouds were more gray than white, like a dove, I thought, flying freely. Earlier, I'd thought the sky was dove gray. Now I saw it was, in fact, an actual dove. I coughed, then coughed again. I was dry, but too tired to reach for the water bottle I kept in the console. I lay still and watched the dove swoop and soar and glide.

I heard sirens and sighed. I tried to sit up, to push the lever to raise the seat back, but I couldn't. My muscles seemed to have disappeared.

“I'm tired,” I told the dove.

I hugged myself, rocking a little. I closed my eyes again, wishing I could fly like a dove, and waited to be rescued.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

At nine that night, I lay curled up on Ty's oversized sofa in front of a raging fire, wearing fuzzy, warm pale pink pajamas and a thick rose-colored chenille robe. I'd taken a hot shower, then sat in a hot bath, and was, oddly, ravenous. And desperately thirsty, craving, of all things, lemonade. I was on my last glass from the first pitcher and was relieved to hear Ty whisking up a fresh batch.

Ty was also making dinner. I could hear him rattling around the kitchen, reheating the chicken noodle soup I'd made two nights ago, with grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches to follow.

He came in with a folded-up plastic-coated tablecloth and shook it out. I'd bought it for us to use when we ate outside. The pattern was called Italian Kitchen and featured purple and green grapes and frilly bunches of herbs and ripe red tomatoes and jugs of red wine.

“I thought we'd have a picnic so we could stay near the fire. What do you think?”

“I think that's a fabulicious idea. This afghan is perfect. So is the fire. I may never move. For whatever reason, I'm dreading even the slightest prospect of being cold.”

“Understood. Hot soup to follow.”

He shook the tablecloth out, then spread it along the floor in front of the sofa.

I looked at him, tears welling in my eyes. “How did I get so lucky to find you?”

“I'm the lucky one.” He touched my cheek. “Plus, you didn't find me. I found you. Let me get the soup.”

“Good.” I smiled, aware it was forced. I was tired to my bones. “Can I ask you something?”

Ty stopped at the doorway and turned to face me. “Sure.”

“Was it Drake?” I asked, knowing the answer, dreading it nonetheless.

“I'm sorry, Josie. Yes.”

Poor Drake. He arrived in New Hampshire a stranger and died alone. “Do the police know why he was at Locke Pond? I mean, talk about wandering off the beaten path.”

Ty shook his head. “I haven't heard anything.”

“I should call Ellis,” I said.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? I can help—that's why.”

“Not tonight, you can't.” He smiled. “Don't fret.” He left the way he'd come, through the butler's pantry that connected the dining room to the kitchen.

I stood, feeling shaky on my pins, clutching the blanket to my throat, not willing to relinquish any heat, not even for a moment. I found my tote bag by the front door and brought it back to the sofa. I rooted around until I located my phone. Wes had texted twice and left three voice mails, no surprise. I called Cara at home.

“I hope I'm not calling too late,” I said when I had her.

“Not at all. Are you all right? I heard what happened on the news. They said you found him, the poor soul.”

“It's awful. Unthinkable. I can't talk for long, Cara. I need you to do something for me. Would you call Marianna Albert and explain what happened? You'll find her contact info in my work calendar. Apologize for me, will you? And reschedule our appointment for anytime next week. I can go tomorrow, but what with the storm and a three o'clock appointment I already have—”

“Excuse me for interrupting, Josie. Of course I'll call Mrs. Albert first thing in the morning, and I'm sure she'll understand. But you shouldn't even think about going out tomorrow!”

“Thank you, Cara. I'm fine. No lasting damage. When you talk to Mrs. Albert, stress how disappointed I was not to get there. I don't want another dealer swooping in and stealing the deal. Do whatever you can to get her to promise to wait until we meet before making a decision.”

“I'll explain everything. You just take care of yourself, and don't worry.”

Ty told me not to fret. Cara told me not to worry. I was noticing a theme. “Call me as soon as you speak to her.”

“I'll e-mail. I don't want to risk waking you in case you're sleeping.”

I smiled and sighed. “Thank you, Cara.” I punched the
OFF
button and leaned back, closing my eyes, relieved. I must have drifted off to sleep, because I woke up with a start as Ty placed a stack of three plastic trays on the coffee table, one for each of us and one to hold a plate of crackers.

“I fell asleep,” I said, stretching.

“Do you want to sleep some more? I can keep the soup hot.”

“No. I'm hungrier than I am sleepy. It smells great.”

“No surprise. You made it.”

“Thank my mom. It's her secret ingredient that makes the difference. Fresh thyme brined in stone-ground mustard and soy sauce. How did she even think of such a thing? For chicken soup? That's crazy.”

“Crazy good.”

“Crazy awesome.”

We sat side by side leaning against the couch, facing the fire, eating soup, dipping crackers in the rich aromatic broth. I sipped lemonade. Ty had beer, Smuttynose. The fire spit and crackled; the flames that licked the wood were yellow and red. Outside, all was densely black except where the roof-mounted lights illuminated twirling, fast-falling snow.