Dead Certain (5 page)

“I would have asked to see some documentation on the piece. In archaeological terms, I’d have questioned its provenance. Its pedigree, if you will.”

“Isn’t that sometimes difficult to obtain?”

“When you’re dealing with important pieces, there should be some kind of paper trail. A record of its excavation, for example, or a record of its chain of ownership.”

“Generally speaking, would a sixty-five-thousand-dollar piece be considered important?”

“Not necessarily,” she conceded. “At least, not on the international market, where artifacts can command hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

“Then what should he have done differently?”

“He should have passed on the offer to buy.”

“Because you suspected the piece was stolen.”

“I know the piece was stolen. It’s been confirmed.”

“By?”

“By a noted expert in the field.”

“When did you receive the piece?”

“Four days ago.”

“And you’ve already confirmed its origins? My, that was fast.”

“I have a friend whose sister is in the Middle East. She’s an archaeologist, part of the international team currently evaluating the losses in Iraq. We emailed some photos of the goblet to her. She confirmed my suspicions.”

“When did this take place?”

“On Sunday.”

“The day before yesterday,” he noted. “The day before Mr. England returned from his trip.”

“Yes.”

Mercer touched the goblet and shook his head. “Crazy, isn’t it, what some people will kill for?”

It took a long moment for his words to sink in.

“Kill for?” She straightened up slowly, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “You think someone killed Derek for this?”

“Someone might have.” He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. “Let’s start with you, Ms. Crosby.”

“Me?”

“You have to admit, you make a really good suspect.” His dark eyes studied her carefully. “Mr. England had just spent your cash cushion on a piece of stolen pottery that you’re going to have to send back, which puts you out a great deal of money.”

“That’s absurd.”

“And then there’s this little matter. . . .”

From his pocket he withdrew a cell phone. Amanda recognized it as Derek’s. Mercer scrolled down the screen, then pushed a button. He needn’t have bothered. Amanda knew full well what the message was.

“Derek, you are so dead. If you have any sense at all, you’ll stay in Italy, because the minute I see you, I am going to kill you.”

Mercer turned off the phone. “Do I need to play it again?”

She shook her head.

“And that is your voice?”

“Yes, of course it’s my voice,” she said, exasperated. “I was infuriated with him. Yes, I said that I would kill him, but that doesn’t mean I was really planning on
killing
him. And I did not. I wouldn’t have.”

“I have only your word for that. You had motive; you had opportunity. We only have your word that he didn’t arrive at your house last night. For all we know, he was there, or you met him someplace.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Let the evidence prove that. Ms. Crosby, I’m going to need you to come down to the station to give me a statement. I’d also like to stop at your house and pick up the clothes you were wearing last night.”

“Looking for gunshot residue, right?” She began to seethe. “Want to test my hands with a metal detection reagent to see if I’ve fired a gun?”

“If you’ll let us, sure.” He hadn’t expected this. “Watch a lot of
CSI,
do you?”

She ignored the question. “The sooner you eliminate me, the sooner you’ll start to really investigate Derek’s murder and make a legitimate effort to find his killer. Of course, then you’ll have to do some real work.”

“Well, then, point me in another direction, Ms. Crosby. Who else would want to see Derek England dead? Who else stood to profit from his death? I see you now as sole owner of the business with a very valuable piece of pottery in your hands.”

“Why would I be sending it back, if I intended to sell it?”

“What proof do we have that you are sending it back?”

“Hang around for a while,” she snapped. “The courier should be here any time now.”

“Well, it’s easy enough to confirm through the company,” Mercer conceded, “though of course if he shows up now, it will be a wasted trip from his standpoint.”

“What do you mean?”

“Evidence,” he said as he began to secure the goblet in its wrappings. “The only place this is going is down to the station.”

She stood and stared while he placed the goblet into the smallest of the wooden boxes.

He looked up at her. “Am I doing this the right way?”

“No.” She pushed him aside and took over the task, fighting an urge to do him bodily harm.

She reminded herself that an assault on a police officer would get her jail time. She knew this for a fact, because her brother was a detective in a Philadelphia suburb and had recently testified against a woman who had attacked his partner with a baseball bat. His partner hadn’t been badly injured, but the woman still got time.

“Hello?” a voice called from the door. “Amanda?”

Marian O’Connor, the owner of the shop next door and a very good friend, poked her head in. “Oh. You’re busy. I . . . I can stop back. . . .” The woman backed up slightly at the sight of the police officer. “I can see you’re . . . well, I just wanted to say how terrible I feel about Derek. I just saw it on the news. . . .”

She began to cry. Amanda went to her. “Marian, thank you. I know that you and Derek were such good friends. I know you’ll miss him, too.” Amanda attempted to comfort her.

“I just don’t know how anyone could do such a thing. I truly don’t. Derek was such a good soul. . . .” Marian wiped the tears away with tissues she pulled from the pocket of her sweater. “I just wanted you to know that I’ll be at the funeral. We all will be. Everyone’s going to close their shops whenever the services are held so that we can attend.”

“Oh, that’s so good of you. All of you.” Amanda fought back the lump in her throat. “I know that Derek would have loved that you, well, that you all thought so highly of him.”

“We certainly did. We all did. . . .” Marian dabbed at her face again, then turned to Chief Mercer. “Do you know who . . . ?”

“Nothing to talk about yet,” he told her.

Marian nodded her head and backed toward the door. “I’m sure you have things to do here, Amanda. I won’t take any more of your time. I’ll see you later.”

“Thank you, Marian.” Amanda walked her to the door.

“Ms. Crosby, are you certain that no one else knew about the goblet?” Mercer asked as she returned to the counter and resumed wrapping the pottery.

“No, I am not certain. I do not know who Derek might have told. I assumed that he told no one, but I can’t be sure. I hadn’t seen him since he left for Europe. I never got to ask if he’d discussed it with anyone. You might ask Clark.”

“I already did. He wasn’t aware of anyone, either.”

“If you’re thinking someone killed Derek because they wanted the goblet, that makes no sense. For one thing, he didn’t have it.
I
had it. Why didn’t someone come after me?”

“Would anyone know that you had it? Maybe Derek bragged about it, and someone overheard and followed him home, not realizing that he didn’t have it in his possession. Maybe someone tried to get him to give up its whereabouts, and when he refused, that someone killed him.”

She looked at him skeptically. “Do you really believe it happened that way?”

“Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t suggest it yourself. All things considered . . .”

She smiled wearily. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what
things
he was considering. Or who his prime suspect was.

She reached for her phone and hit number three on her speed dial.

“Calling your lawyer, Ms. Crosby?”

“Calling my brother, Chief Mercer.” She counted the rings until someone picked up. “I’d like to speak with Detective Crosby. This is his sister. Yes, I’ll hold. . . .”

CHAPTER
FOUR

Derek England’s memorial service took place on a high bank overlooking the Delaware River one week and two days after his death. There were prayers led by a nondenominational minister and gospel music provided by a choir from a nearby church to whom Clark had offered a hefty donation to sing “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” while he and Derek’s family and friends scattered handfuls of his ashes on the river below. White orchids, tossed down to float upon the surface of the water, followed the ashes as the mourners then passed into the bar set up under a striped tent to toast Derek and drink to his memory.

“This is more like a cocktail party than a funeral.” Amanda’s brother, Evan, sidled up to her.

“Exactly what Derek would have wanted,” she replied. “Oh, he would have wanted all the weeping and wailing. God knows he loved a good drama. But at the end of the day, he’d have wanted a party. Good champagne and some good hors d’oeuvres served by good-looking young men in tuxes. That was Derek’s idea of a great party.”

Evan’s eyes scanned the crowd. “I see your local police chief is here. Mercer.”

Amanda leaned a little closer to Evan. “He thinks I did it, you know.”

Evan knew. He’d paid a visit to the police department on his way through town last night. He hadn’t been very happy when he left.

“Well, you know that murders are usually committed by someone known to the victim. It is true that, statistically, the closer you are to the deceased, the more likely it is that you’re involved.” He tried to remain calm, but every time he thought about the absurdity of his sister as a murder suspect his blood pressure spiked.

“Do you think I need a lawyer?” she asked.

He hesitated. He’d seen the statement she’d voluntarily given to the police. He’d heard the voice mail she’d left on Derek’s phone. He had to admit that, even to him, it had sounded pretty bad. He wished she’d spoken to him before she’d talked to Mercer, but the damage was done. Evan hadn’t been in when she called, and so she had done what she thought was right. He knew that on paper, Amanda looked like a damned good suspect. Worse, he knew that if he was on the investigating team, he’d be doing everything he could to build the case against her.

“I think it’s a good idea. I know a few good criminal defense lawyers at home, but none up here. Unless you have someone specific in mind, I’ll check around, find out who has a good rep.”

“I’d appreciate it. I hate that anyone would think I was capable of killing Derek—or anyone else, for that matter—but I understand why they need to consider the possibility.” She looked grim. Then, seeing one of Derek’s sisters in the crowd, she patted her brother on the arm. “There’s Jessica. I didn’t have time to speak with her earlier. . . .”

Evan watched his sister walk away, wondering if she realized how serious the situation really was.

The fact was, on paper, she just looked too damned good to ignore.

Then there was the matter of her clothing she’d voluntarily given up, and the fact that she’d submitted to a GSR swabbing at the hands of the local CSI team. He’d almost hit the ceiling when he’d found out about that, though it would definitely act in Amanda’s favor when the tests confirmed that no fragments of unburned gun powder were found on her hands or clothing.

Evan sighed deeply. He knew that Amanda was incapable of killing anyone. It was unthinkable.

They’ll railroad her over my dead body,
Evan vowed as he accepted a glass of champagne from one of the waiters.

“So. Detective Crosby, was it?”

Evan turned to meet the eyes of the police chief.

“Chief Mercer.” Evan acknowledged him with a nod.

“Call me Sean,” he offered. “Evan, isn’t it?”

“Actually, it’s Detective.”

“Professional courtesy?” Mercer asked dryly.

“Sure,” Evan responded in kind. “So, you’re here lining up your suspects?”

“Looking over the crowd,” Mercer conceded.

“Got anyone in particular in mind?”

Mercer’s eyes drifted to Amanda, who was holding the hand of Derek’s older sister.

“Oh, come on, Mercer. You know she didn’t do it,” Evan told him tersely.

“You’re her brother. I would expect nothing less from you.”

“You don’t understand. Amanda just isn’t capable of doing something like that.”

“You’ve been in law enforcement how many years now?” Mercer asked.

“Fifteen.”

“How many times, over the course of those fifteen years, have you heard someone say those words? Be honest, Crosby. How many times?”

Evan stared at him hard. Of course, he’d heard those words a thousand times. He’d been in Mercer’s shoes a thousand times himself.

“She didn’t do it,” Evan repeated.

“I hope you’re right. I really do.” Mercer paused to watch Amanda console the grieving family. “But I have to consider her a suspect until the evidence rules her out.”

“Well, I expect you’ll be able to do that real soon. We both know the GSR tests will confirm that she hasn’t fired a gun recently.” Evan nodded confidently. “And of course, you’re keeping an open mind. . . .”

“Of course.” Mercer’s eyes scanned the crowd in the same manner Evan’s had. “There’s way too much we don’t know yet. And there’s the matter of that pottery vase. Goblet. I still like the theft angle. And frankly, I don’t see your sister there. She told me she’d arranged to send it back, and that all checked out. The courier she hired confirmed that it was to go back to Dr. McGowan. So yes, we’re keeping the investigation totally open, following up every lead. Besides, it just seems . . .” Mercer shook his head the slightest bit.

“Seems what?”

“Oh, a little too . . .” He appeared unwilling to complete the thought.

“Too easy?” Evan replied.

“Yeah. Maybe. Your sister’s too easy a suspect. And that does bother me a bit. Things rarely turn out to be that pat.” Mercer watched Clark Lehmann throw back yet another martini. His third, by Mercer’s count. “Though Lehmann there stands to inherit financially. The house here in town as well as a summer place. The boat. And I understand that England carried a hefty life insurance policy.”

“Clark doesn’t need the money. There’s a lot of money behind him.”

“Where’d it come from, do you know?”

“Lehmann’s Candy. He’s a grandson of the founder, owns a big chunk of stock. And he’s done well—very well—with his investments.” Evan drained his glass. “But I’m sure you’ll find that all out for yourself when you scrutinize his financials.”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Mercer noted.

“Derek England and my sister were friends long before they were business partners. I knew him—and Clark Lehmann—pretty well.”

“So I guess your sister knows Lehmann well, too. Would you say they’re pretty close, the two of them?”

Evan stared at Mercer for a long time before he burst out laughing. “Right. Clark and Amanda conspired to kill Derek.” He shook his head and deposited his empty glass on a silver tray as a waiter passed by. “You will have no more contact with my sister unless she’s accompanied by her attorney, or by me.”

Evan turned and walked away before he acted on his inclination to land a fist in the middle of Mercer’s face.

“That went well,” the chief muttered to himself.

He stepped back to the edge of the tent to watch the interaction of the crowd from the sidelines. It was a real mixed bag. Several same-sex couples gathered with Lehmann near the bar, while a group of older professional types stood off to one corner. The deceased’s fellow antiques dealers, he supposed, recognizing Marian O’Connor in their midst. His eyes settled on Amanda Crosby from across a space of thirty or so feet. As if she were aware of his gaze, her eyes met his briefly before turning back to her companion, an older man in a dark suit with a red carnation in his lapel.

Mercer continued to study the faces of the mourners, returning to Amanda’s several times before he realized he’d unconsciously been seeking her out as she moved around, stopping to chat with a young woman here, a small quiet group there. Her face was softened with sorrow, her eyes red, the circles under them deeper, darker than they’d been all week. Guilt or grief? he wondered.

At one point he’d caught the gaze of her brother again. Mercer had looked away abruptly, though he’d not totally understood why he’d felt compelled to do so. He’d be as protective of his own sister, wouldn’t he?

Hard to tell, since they didn’t have much of a history together, he reminded himself. Evan Crosby might know his sister well enough to state with total conviction that she was not capable of murder, but could he, Mercer, make that same declaration? How well did he really know Greer, anyway?

Not all that well, he sighed. They were trying to change that, but too many miles had separated them for too many years. They were still just getting to know each other, still learning to measure each other’s character. It was a hard admission for him to make, but if Greer Kennedy was a suspect in a murder, her own brother wouldn’t be able to swear that she was innocent.

The Crosby siblings looked like they were close, the way they leaned toward each other to chat under the conversation level of the crowd. They even looked a bit alike, both dark-haired and green-eyed and a little edgy. The angles of the brother’s face were softened on the sister, her mouth fuller, her cheeks pinker.

Evan’s eyes saw more, his expression had a harder edge, and his movements were sharper, as one might expect given his profession. Brother and sister seemed to share a wariness, though it was more pronounced in him than in her, another concession to the job. There was a gentleness in her that surfaced every time she took someone’s hands and offered a hug to a mourner who needed one. There was no such softness apparent in the brother, who was constantly scanning the faces, looking for the odd man, the one who didn’t seem to belong, committing as many of those faces to memory as he could, much as was Mercer himself, silently questioning whether this face, or that, might be the face of a killer.

Mercer’s eyes drifted back to Amanda Crosby once more. In spite of all the evidence, in spite of all he’d said, he found himself hoping that, in the end, that face wouldn’t prove to be hers.