Deadly Appraisal (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

T

he PA system crackled and Fred’s voice announced that Detective Rowcliff was on the phone.
What now?
I thought. I cast a panicked look in Max’s direction.

“Would you like me to take it?” he asked, responding to my unspoken plea.

“Thank you, Max. Yes.”

As he walked toward the phone in the cabinet on the back wall, I took a deep breath, preparing for what I was certain would be more bad news. Officer Shirl stood nearby, respectfully silent and attentive. Gretchen’s eager eyes glinted with excitement. I knew her well enough to understand that she wasn’t taking pleasure in my pain—she just loved the drama of the moment.

“Detective?” Max said into the phone.

He stood with his back to us, looking relaxed. I couldn’t imagine talking to Rowcliff and feeling at ease. Gretchen edged closer to Max, the better to hear his side of the conversation.

“This is Max Bixby. Yes, Josie is here, but she’s pretty worn down, so I thought I’d take the call. . . . Yes. . . . No, she’s okay, just tired out. Well, the doctor said she’d be sore for a while, so it’s not unexpected. . . . Well, sure, it’s physical, but also, I’m sorry to report that there’s been a theft here. . . . Of course we did. . . . Officer Shirl. . . . One of the antiques auctioned at the Gala . . . a soup bowl—a Chinese porcelain tureen. . . . I don’t know. I just got here myself. . . . That’s right. Officer Shirl. . . . Yes. . . . Sure. She’s right here. Do you want to speak to her now? . . . Okay. . . . I’ll put her on when we’re done. . . . Okay. . . . Really? . . . That’s great news. . . . Hold on. I’ll ask Josie.”

Officer Shirl’s intelligent eyes followed along as Max turned to face me.

“Josie,” Max called, “good news. Using only forensics, they were able to ID the car that almost killed you. It’s a 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer ES. Black. Does that ring a bell?”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. “No. I’ve never known anyone who drives a Mitsubishi. How can they know the specific model or year?”

“The paint.”

I nodded, impressed. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

As Max turned back and began to speak into the phone again, I limped over to the wall and sat down on the floor. Stretching out my leg eased the throbbing a bit. I ached and hurt everywhere. My nerves were stretched tight and my emotions were so tangled, I couldn’t even find a thread to try to sort through the mess. I closed my eyes and listened to Max.

“No, she doesn’t recognize the car at all. Maybe the choice of a Mitsubishi was opportunistic—maybe whoever attempted to kill Josie stole it. . . . Really? . . . That’s quick work, Detective. . . . Now what do you do? . . . That makes sense. . . . Already? And? . . . Nothing?”

I wondered what he was referring to.

“Okay. . . . Then let’s talk in the morning. . . . I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll check.”

I opened my eyes as he turned to me and asked, “Josie, what’s your schedule tomorrow?”

I couldn’t remember.
Tomorrow? What day is that?
I asked myself. Wednesday. All I planned to work on was finding Eddie, the bastard.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I mean, I can’t remember. Tomorrow is Wednesday, right? I don’t think I have anything scheduled. Gretchen? Can you remember?”

“No outside appointments,” she concurred, vamping like an actress pleased to finally have a line to speak.

“Okay, then,” Max said. Turning to face Officer Shirl, he added, “When I’m done, Detective Rowcliff would like to talk to you.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding.

He turned back to the wall and spoke to Rowcliff. “Josie is open all day, so why don’t you and I talk in the morning and we can decide from there. . . . Okay. . . .”

He listened awhile longer, then handed the phone to Officer Shirl. Looking concerned, he came over and asked me when I was planning to go home.

“Soon. Once I know our next steps.” I turned to Gretchen. “You can head back to the office now, Gretchen. If Officer Shirl needs more info, I’ll have her talk to you there, okay?”

“Sure. Would you like a cup of tea or something? You look kind of tired.”

I smiled at the understatement. “Thanks, but no.”

She flashed her megasmile, then left. Officer Shirl stood arrow-straight, listening.

“Yes, sir. That’s excellent, sir, thank you.”

“I wonder what he’s saying,” I remarked in a low tone.

“He told me that he was going to offer Officer Shirl support. Whatever resources she needs.”

“That means he thinks the theft is related to the murder.”

“He doesn’t know, Josie, any more than we do. He’s committed to checking everything out.”

I nodded, wondering if the answer wasn’t right in front of us.
Eddie. Did Eddie kill Maisy? And steal the tureen? The cretin
.

Officer Shirl hung up the phone. I took a deep breath, pushed against the wall, and got up from the floor. Max, towering above me, reached down to help, but I waved him off. “I’m too tender to touch, but thanks,” I explained.

Officer Shirl reached us as I stood. “
Whew
,” I said from the effort of standing.

“Detective Rowcliff filled me in,” she said. “We’ll be taking a look at things from the dual perspective, theft and murder.”

“Good. Let us know if we can help,” Max said.

“Thank you,” she replied, nodding.

“Do you have any other questions for Josie at this time?”

“No. Not now.”

“Then we’ll leave you to it. We’ll be in her office for a little while if you need us.”

“And after that? When do you close?”

“Normally around five,” I told her.

“The crime-scene work may take longer than that,” she said, glancing at her watch.

“I’ll ask someone to stay as late as you need,” I assured her.

Max and I stopped in the office and I asked Fred to stay until Officer Shirl was done, and then lock up. He was a night owl, so it wasn’t a huge imposition, although I knew it might make for a long day for him.

“Sure. No problem. Maybe I can finish up the silver,” he said, glum.

“Have you run into trouble?” I asked.

“Yeah. One of Mrs. McCarthy’s bowls is French,” he said.

That explained his moroseness. Not every country made it as easy as England to authenticate silver. While France, for example, had standardized its marks since the 1200s, they also allowed a huge variety of symbols. Often the identification process resembled a needle-in-a-haystack hunt more than methodical research.

At a guess, the piece Fred was struggling to identify was one of Mrs. McCarthy’s aunt Augusta’s local purchases. We were relatively close to Quebec, so it wasn’t unusual to find French-produced silver in New Hampshire antiques stores. French silver was often brought to the French-Canadian province by immigrants and later acquired by Americans on vacation.

“Good luck,” I said with an empathetic grimace.

“It’s good that I like a challenge,” he acknowledged, looking content.

“It’s more than good; it’s terrific.” I turned to Gretchen and raised my foot to relieve the pounding pressure on my ankle. “Is Eric still around?”

“He’ll be back in a few minutes. He’s returning the truck.”

I’d been so absorbed in the events in the auction venue, I hadn’t heard the rumble of the rented twenty-foot truck as it rolled out. It made me wonder what else I’d missed.

In business, try hard never to be wrong
, my father told me years ago.
You’re not allowed a lot of errors in the big leagues. And the easiest way to avoid big mistakes is to consider everything—gather the facts and weigh them appropriately. The biggest trap is selective perception
. That’s what happened to me at the Gala, I realized. I’d perceived some things but hadn’t noticed others. Same as now. I’d been so focused on solving the theft of the tureen, I’d missed Eric’s departure.
And you can’t avoid it
, my father warned.
Selective perception happens all the time. So avoid arrogance at all costs. Never be positive—never be wrong
.

“Anything for me?” I asked, shaking off the thought.

“A message,” Gretchen replied, handing me a slip of paper.

Pam Field had called. She’d just read about my attack in the paper and wanted to know if I was all right.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“That’s it. I’m all set.”

Upstairs, I saw that it was almost five. Once Max got situated in the yellow wing chair closest to my desk, I asked, “So Rowcliff isn’t coming?”

“Right. No need to show you illustrations, since they’ve ID’d the car.”

“What else did he say?”

“He told me that the car hadn’t been reported stolen, nor was it in a body shop getting worked on.”

“In Portsmouth?”

“In New England.”

“Wow,” I said, “that’s quick work.”

“Gotta love computers.”

“Really. What does he do now?”

“He cross-references ownership records from the DMV and gets a list of owners of black 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer ESes.”

“And then?”

“Then they show you the list and hope you recognize a name.”

I felt my heart begin to pound. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Sounds like they’re making progress.”

He nodded, looked at his watch, and said, “Are you up to telling me about Britt?”

“Yeah.” I paused, refocusing on my earlier revelation. “I remembered something,” I said. “Something that makes me wonder if Britt’s the killer.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

W

hat?” Max asked.

“When Britt handed the bid sheets to Dora, his hand passed over my glass and over Maisy’s. He reached across the table, then pulled his hand back. That’s opportunity.”

His brow wrinkled in confusion. “You saw him do something that makes you think he poisoned the wine?”

“No. No, not at all. Max, the truth is that I was a million miles away, involved in my own thoughts, and sort of watching Dora, but I definitely remember that Britt’s arm stretched across as he handed her the bid sheets.”

“Okay. What else?” he asked, sounding unimpressed.

“I know, I know, it sounds unbelievable, but it’s not. I heard from someone—I don’t remember who—” I said smoothly, looking down to pluck an invisible thread off my thigh, hoping to deflect attention away from the fact that I wasn’t mentioning my source, “that Maisy consulted Britt professionally, and paid in cash.”

“Really?” Max asked, intrigued and surprised.

“So, maybe there’s a motive there somewhere,” I said. “I don’t mean to harp on the point, but as far as I know, Britt is the only person who
could
have poisoned the wine.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I remember drinking my wine and seeing Maisy drink hers, and we were both fine. Then Maisy put her glass on the table alongside mine, and a few minutes later, she picked up a glass, drank from it, and was dead.” I shrugged. “I was there. No one but Britt could have done it.”

“Whoa! Hold your horses, young lady,” he said lightheartedly. “You remember seeing Britt’s arm reach over the wineglasses—although you say you weren’t actually looking at him—but okay, even if that’s true, there was a roomful of people. Someone would have seen him.”

“I know. Except that no one did.”

He nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “Point taken. But let’s go back to the motive thing. How do you know that Maisy consulted Britt? Or that she paid in cash? How can you possibly know these things?”

Before I answered, I swung my chair to face the big maple tree, which was barely visible in the late-afternoon dusk. The parking lot’s perimeter lights were on, and in the stark white brightness, the autumn leaves glowed an iridescent ruby red.

“I heard from Wes Smith, the reporter.”

“Josie,” Max said sternly, and I knew I was in for it.

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

I spun back.

“Why are you talking to a reporter?”

“Wes has access to information I want.”

“It’s not smart, Josie.”

“Why?”

“How can you ask that? Look at the articles he’s written, for God’s sake!”

“We have an off-the-record agreement now.” I shrugged, fighting a wave of fatigue. “I’m scared, Max, really scared, and when I can ask questions and get answers, I feel less frightened.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, for instance, Wes and I think maybe Maisy was blackmailing someone. She just got a passport and she put four hundred thousand dollars—not a fortune, but not hay, either—in a Swiss bank account.”

“Wes told you all of that?”

“No. I found some out on my own. But Wes told me about Maisy consulting Britt and the cash payment.”

Max nodded and stroked his nose, thinking. “And?”

“That’s it so far. I was thinking that maybe someone could check on Britt—check if he withdrew four hundred thousand dollars, or sold some assets. It would be quite a coincidence if he had.”

Max shifted position and glanced at his watch again. “I’m going to have to go.” He smiled. “I’ve got to pick up Mackenzie, my eldest, at ballet.”

I smiled, too, and nodded, but I didn’t speak.

“We need to tell Detective Rowcliff what you’ve remembered,” Max continued. “And we need to do it now. I’ll call him on my cell en route to the ballet school. But you need to know something. I’m betting that the police know about Maisy’s account—her finances have been scrutinized, I’m sure. And you can bet that they’re using every available means to trace the origin of the money she deposited in Switzerland. But—and it’s an important
but
, Josie—until and unless they trace the money
back
to Britt, they won’t find where it came from.
The police can’t go fishing
. And I’ve gotta tell you this: I can’t imagine how Wes can find out private, confidential, nonpublic financial information like the fact that Maisy paid Britt in cash. It’s
outrageous
.”

I started to respond, to tell him that I didn’t know, either, but he held up a hand to stop me.

“It’s not you doing it, is that correct? It’s Wes, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m an officer of the court and I cannot, and will not, have anything to do with any illegal activity. Which is to say, I’m relieved to hear that you’re not doing anything illegal, and I’m glad that I don’t represent Wes.”

I didn’t speak for a moment. “I have no reason to think Wes is doing anything illegal.”

Max smiled. “Good.”

“So you’re saying that we shouldn’t suggest that Rowcliff look at Britt’s accounts?”

“Of course not. We should describe the incident you remembered—and not interpret it. We should talk about what you know, not gossip that you’ve heard. Short statements that are based on fact. All the same rules apply, Josie.”

“Should I talk to Wes?” I asked.

“It would be completely inappropriate for me to recommend that you talk to a reporter—especially one who apparently uses illegal methods to find out people’s personal financial information.”

I wished my mind was sharper. Given the fear, stress, fatigue, and quantity of information rattling around in my brain, I couldn’t be certain, but I thought that Max had just told me to ask Wes without letting him know about it. Max said that it would be inappropriate for
him
to recommend that I consult Wes—but he didn’t say that it would be inappropriate for
me
to proceed.

“Okay,” I said, meeting his clear-eyed, inscrutable look.

He stood up and shook out a trouser leg. “I’ll call Rowcliff now, and I’m sure he’ll want to meet with you tomorrow about this and to see if you recognize any Mitsubishi owners’ names.”

“Max,” I said, my voice cracking and my eyes watering. “Thank you.”

“Go home, Josie. Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

I nodded.

“Have you met Chi yet?”

“Someone was around and then he wasn’t there. I guess that was Chi.”

“That sounds like him. Good. You think of anything else, you call me. Okay?”

My smile wavered. “Thank God for you,” I managed to say.

“Ah shucks, little lady, you gonna make me blush like a girl.”

I listened to his quick-moving steps as he hurried down the spiral stairs, and only when they faded away did I reach for the phone to call Wes.