The Price of Inheritance (25 page)

Tyler kissed my head, grabbed his towel and a beer, and walked toward Jane.

“You can't just boss everyone around, Carter. It gets very old,” said Brittan by the time Tyler was out of earshot.

“So, is this like showing him how the other half lives or something, Carolyn? Want to put a fire under his ass so he makes something of his life?” Carter asked.

“I'm not that sadistic.”

“Sure you are. You're a plotter. You always have been.”

“You've only known me for six years. Don't make such sweeping statements.”

Carter poured himself a swig of cognac and lit a cigar.

“That smells like old fat men,” said Brittan, pinching her nose. Her brown hair was flying everywhere but she didn't bother to tie it back.

“A smell I'm sure you're more than familiar with, Brit,” he said, blowing the smoke in our direction.

“It's odd that you like to dismiss Tyler being in the military,” Brittan said to Carter in response. “He has a Silver Star for valor. He was telling us about it.”

“Of course he was! What else does he have to talk about. You know the military is a bunch of crap, right? I mean, they have to convince all these young suckers that they're going to be instant heroes when they come home or they would never go. If they thought they were going to come back and still be nobodies, but with the added bonus of PTSD and some holes in their skulls, no one would go. No one. It would be an army of one.”

“Aren't you glad we have a military?” asked Brittan. “You want terrorists to just shuffle step onto our shores and toss a bunch of A-bombs around?”

“I'm thrilled we have a military. I'm just not thrilled it's on our boat.”

“And all this time I thought this was Jane's boat,” I said, lancing Carter with his most detested dig.

“I think he intimidates you a little, Carter,” said Brittan, smiling. I could tell her eyes were shining, even though she still had her sunglasses on.

“Why, because he looks like some muscle-head with bad tattoos who grew up sniffing paint out west?”

“I think they're pretty good tattoos, don't you, Brit?” I asked.

“They're very good. Like Rembrandts on skin.”

“You two are monsters,” said Carter, laughing.

“Oh, Carter. Go take a long swim south, would you?” said Brittan, rolling over onto her stomach.

“I think I'll stay right here. I like watching that buffoon sail.” He puffed on his cigar and let it ash right onto the deck.

Brittan turned her head and watched Jane and Tyler for a few moments.

“You're just mad because he can sail. He lives on a naval base. What did you expect. For him to hang himself from the line?”

“Maybe,” said Carter, laughing. “Fine, you wenches. I give, I give. Carolyn, date an abusive pauper. Brittan, go get gang-raped by football players. You two do whatever you want. I'll just stay here and live the good life with Jane. You two can tell me all about what prison's like every Thanksgiving.”

Carter stood up and walked away from us, toward his wife.

“I hate that he's amusing, don't you?”

“It's his worst quality. Makes it hard to loathe him.”

“I like Tyler, you know,” said Brittan, rising up on her elbows. “He's actually very elegant for someone who grew up on some dirt road in Wyoming and likes bar fights.”

“Isn't he though.”

“He is. He's surprisingly elegant. Probably because he's so good-looking. He's almost too good-looking. Makes you think he made some pact with the devil or something.”

“People probably think the same thing about you.”

“But I'm a girl. It's different with girls. We're expected to be pretty. His looks are a little . . .” She looked at Jane, who looked happy laughing at something Tyler said.

“A little jarring,” said Brittan.

We drank away most of the afternoon with Tyler, leaving the sailing up to Carter and Jane.

“I'm going to marry that cute friend of Greg LaPorte's. Do you know him, Tyler? Mason something or other,” said Brittan.

“You're going to marry Mason Dekker,” said Tyler without breaking his poker face.

“Yes. But don't give him my number. I'm just going to surprise him one day.”

“He'll say yes.”

“I know. But it might have to be a second marriage. He seems more like second-marriage material.”

“What am I, then?” Tyler asked Brittan.

“Oh, you're definitely affair material, not marriage. But some girls like their whole lives to feel like affairs, so you'll be just fine.”

Two days later, the water temperature had gone up five degrees and spring had finally settled in Newport. Tourists were visiting the tennis club, the Vanderbilt Grace hotel was full, and there was a line to get into the Breakers. I smelled the ocean air, lifted toward me. I smelled promise, newness as I walked to work. It was warm enough to open the front window at William Miller's store and I pulled the heavy wooden frames up and anchored them with solid brass hooks.

The world and all its sounds were being let in, so before I saw them, I heard them. They had those types of voices. The ones that were distinctively male. Not the kind of voices you would hear from fathers at a children's soccer game or the ones that spoke sweetly when they had women around them; they were the voices of men who were used to speaking with men. Men like them. And when they came in to speak with me, I didn't grip the table. I didn't hold my breath. I knew, with Tyler, that I was waiting for something to drop. I just didn't want it to be so soon.

CHAPTER 12

T
here were two of them. Both in their forties—one early, one late—with short hair and tough-guy airs of importance. They were wearing suits and frowns. The younger one, with a smaller build, only a few inches taller than me, asked for me first. Before he introduced himself, told me what they wanted, why they came looking for me at the store, I knew I would hear the words
Tyler Ford.

Tyler did not toe the line; he shot the line. Two months ago, I would have stayed away from him, even as attractive as he was. But after Elizabeth, after Christie's and Nina and my big life mess, I wasn't so careful.

“Are you Carolyn Everett?” the younger man asked after the door had closed behind him. He had a few acne marks on his cheeks, which were overshadowed by the prominence of his cheekbones. They looked like right triangles sewn into his skin.

“Carolyn Everett. Yes, I am,” I said, flipping a small end table back over and standing up to meet them. My thighs hurt from being bent for too long while I teetered on the balls of my feet. I had been polishing the table that morning for William, who was on a buying trip in Boston.

“We're sorry to bother you at work, but we were hoping to talk to you about something. And someone. Do you have a few minutes?”

My heart started to pound and my head was full of pressure. I needed to close my eyes for a few seconds, to right myself. It was Tyler. I knew it, but I didn't say it. My asking before they asked me would help nothing at all. I waited for them to say Tyler's name, but all they said was mine.

The three of us sat at the back table. It was glass, built in Venice, and used to hold my books when I worked there in college. We used it for client paperwork now, but I always thought of it as the table I grew up with, the one that took me from studying art, to knowing art, to selling it.

“I'm Josh Wallace and this is Brian Van Ness. We're with NCIS, the Naval Criminal Investigative Service at Naval Station Newport.”

I looked from one to the other and said, “Okay.”

“We have a few questions about something you own. It's a relic of some sort, a bowl.” They knew about Tyler and Hannah. I exhaled quietly and put my hands on the table.

The shorter one, Josh, took a printed picture out of his bag and put it on the table. It was a picture of Tyler's bowl. My bowl. The one that was sitting in strips of muslin in my desk drawer a few feet behind us.

“Where did you get this?” I asked both of them. “I've never seen this photo.”

“Yes,” said Brian, taking out another. “We're aware of that.”

“Can you tell us everything you know about this item?” Josh asked. “Starting with where you bought it, why you bought it? Where it is now. Just every detail you know. And if you have it here, we'd like to see it.”

“Why?” I had no idea about military protocol. Did they have the same power as the regular police? Did I have to answer them? Should I call a lawyer? Could I make them leave?

“We have reason to believe it was stolen.”

“But it wasn't stolen,” I said, looking at the picture. “I bought it.”

“Not stolen by you, stolen by Marine Captain Tyler Ford. We think it could be an Iraqi object, an antiquity that was smuggled to the United States during the war.”

There was no way. Blair Bari had said so. It wasn't old. It was made in the last one hundred years.

“And why would you think that?” I said. The picture in front of me was almost blurry.

“We have some information about it that leads us to believe it is,” said Josh. “So what we need you to do is tell us everything about that object, starting with where you got it, why you got it, and what you did with it.”

“I'm not exactly sure what you want me to say,” I said, trying my best to be vague.

“Where did you get the bowl?” asked Brian.

“Where did I get it? I bought it at a local auction run by Hook Durant in Narragansett for twenty dollars.”

“And where did Mr. Durant get it?” asked Josh, writing notes.

“He got it at a Goodwill. The only one in the state. It's in North Kingstown.”

“And why did you want to buy it?”

“Because I wanted to lap milk out of it.”

They both glared at me. Brian opened his mouth to talk but I cut him off with an apology.

“I bought it because I wanted to sell it. That's my job. I looked into it, made an inquiry to Max Sebastian, who is the chairman of the Middle East and India department at Sotheby's. He's the best in the world and who you go to ask questions about Middle Eastern pottery. He never got back to me, so I spoke to Blair Bari, a professor of Islamic art and history at Brown, and he didn't make anything of it, so I decided to hold on to it because it's nice. It's a pretty piece of pottery.”

“Where is it now?”

I could lie. I'd lied plenty. Not to cops, but to buyers, sellers, dealers, colleagues. I was a good liar. So I did.

“It's not here.”

“Does Tyler Ford have it?” asked Josh. He had a slight South Boston accent, which was unbecoming when he was trying to sound polite. He was one of those people who should just resign themselves to always sounding tough and rude.

“No, I have it,” I admitted. “But it's not here.”

“Is it in your apartment?” said Josh. “The one on Memorial Boulevard.”

“I'm not even going to ask why you know where I live,” I said, standing up from the table. “Is this going to take much longer?”

“Absolutely.”

I walked over to get a bottle of water from our small fridge and didn't offer any to either man.

“Captain Greg LaPorte, you know him?” asked Brian, looking down at his notes.

That was the question that threw me. I must have showed it, too, because Brian asked me again. “LaPorte. Instructor at Mardet. Tell us about your relationship.”

I didn't say anything and finally Brian said, “Listen. It's not a choice right now. Don't lie to cops and don't lie to us. I know you're not stupid enough to do that.”

I already had.

“I know him, not well. We met in February when I moved back to Newport. As far as I know, he brought the bowl to Goodwill along with a bunch of other stuff. What other stuff, I'm not sure. Hook Durant bought it and he sold it at auction to me. Now I'm trying to figure out what to do with it.”

“Let us look at it, then.”

“It's not here, I told you that.”

“When can we see it?”

I shrugged and looked at the wall.

“I don't know what kind of person you are,” said Brian, looking around the room, “but you strike me as someone who cares a lot about these kinds of things. About antiques and looting and the smuggling of goods for profit. You look like a woman who cares about all that.”

“You worked at Christie's? The auction house,” said Josh, taking notes. “But you got fired. Made a big mistake. Something that was stolen.” He looked up at me but I refused to meet his gaze. “Must have been pretty devastating for you. Is that why you moved home? You're from here, right? Smart girl. Went to that nice boarding school on Purgatory Road. That's a rich kids' school. Vanderbilts and Astors. Then you went to Princeton.”

“Yes, all that's right. You know that's right. Why are you asking?”

“We're not asking. We're just kind of surprised we're here.”

“Well, that makes three of us.”

“This doesn't have to happen again if you tell us everything today, drive home, get the bowl, and let us bring it in.”

“It probably will, though. Happen again, that is. Because you look like you're in the mood to lie to us,” said Brian.

“So keep going about the bowl. What happened after you bought it at Hook Durant's auction?” Josh asked.

“I tried to find out more about it. I wanted to sell it. Like you said, I used to work at Christie's. I know a lot more about art and antiques than most people. But I didn't know much about the bowl except that I thought it was beautiful and a few things about it made me think it was older. But after studying it for a while, I changed my mind. I decided it was made in the last hundred years or so. I still think it is. And when I asked around I didn't find out anything that would make me think otherwise. I gave up on selling it for now.”

“You just gave up?”

“Sure. I asked two people who are widely regarded as experts. I didn't hear back from one; the other said it was made recently, so I didn't think I could turn much of a profit.”

“But someone who worked at Christie's must have really loaded buyers. Quiet people who would pay big money under the table for something valuable.”

“Are you insinuating that I know something about that piece that I'm not telling you? Because if I did, I would have sold it, here, in this store. I bought it while working for the owner, William Miller, with his money. I would have sold it while working for him, too, and turned a profit for him.”

“You don't get a cut of profits?”

“I do. I get fifty percent of commission any time it's over two hundred dollars.”

“Fifty, that's a lot. So you and Mr. Miller could be scheming to do some deal with it. Why sell it from the store when William can use your connections to sell it on the black market?”

“I had no intention to do that. I don't sell anything illegally. Like you said, until January, I worked for Christie's. I had, and have, no plans to sell that bowl because I don't think it's worth anything. I think someone gave you a bad tip.” I argued for a living, convinced people to see things my way, to sell things, buy things, get attached to pieces, cut off their attachments, but this was out of my comfort zone. I wanted to get up. To walk outside and feel spring on my face, but they were not leaving.

“Why do you think that bowl is so valuable?” I asked.

“Why do you think it's not?”

“Well, for one, because it's in really good shape. I could go into more detail, but I'm sure it's too inside baseball for you.”

“Try us.”

“Fine. To start with, the bowl is heavy. Most new pieces are heavy; most old ones are not. And for its size, a foot in diameter, it's very heavy. Also the resonance sounds high. When you hit an older piece—gently, a bit of a flick with your fingers—it makes a deep, dull sound. This one sounded higher than I thought it should. Also the glaze, the encrustation, was very even, a sign of a newer piece. Older pieces aren't so uniform, because they were crudely fired. And the color. There are two tones of green used, but they are even. There aren't noticeable changes in the color of the glaze. If it were older, there would be. This is not my field of expertise, but I'm sure I know more than your average NCIS agent. No offense.”

“Right,” said Brian, making a mark on his notepad and flipping it closed before I could see it.

“It's not like I've done petrographic analysis—I'm not an archaeologist and I didn't think it warranted sending it to one—but that's my best guess. If I had thought it was worth looking into further, I would have.”

“And your relationship with Tyler,” said Josh. “You're intimate with him. You're—”

“You're fucking him,” Brian interrupted.

“Excuse me?”

“We know you are, so just say you are.”

“I'm pretty sure you can't talk to me like that.”

“I'm pretty sure we can.”

“Tyler Ford from Mardet,” said Josh, taking the questioning away from Brian. “You two are very close. You're dating.”

“I know him, yes.”

“You're dating. He's your boyfriend.”

“I doubt the nature of our relationship is important.”

“It's very important.”

“Do you know about that trouble he got in last year? What was her name, Brian?”

“Hannah.”

“Right, right, Hannah Lloyd. She was some St. George's girl, too. He must only take the rich ones seriously. The kind of guy who likes money. Doesn't come from money, but likes to keep it around somehow. From girls, or maybe from something else, like selling stolen art.”

They knew about Hannah. It had taken me about five minutes to figure out that Hannah also happened to work in a pottery studio. But if they knew anything apart from what Tyler had done to her, they didn't say so.

I looked at Josh coldly and he smiled at me.

“So, Hannah. You know about her?”

I folded my hands and looked up at them sternly.

“Never met her in my life.”

“Right, well, maybe you two should get together. Talk about yachts and diamonds. Compare notes about Tyler.”

“I think we can end this conversation. That's really all I have to say to you. I don't know what else I can tell you.”

I stood up and they both stood up and looked around the store.

“We're not done, but we'll come back tomorrow morning to get that bowl from you,” said Brian. “You seem . . . tired, but we'll expect you to have it tomorrow. Thanks for your time.”

“You know,” said Josh, pausing at the door. “I know you're an expert from Christie's and all that. You're one of those real smart girls. But this, this might have been worth looking into after all.”

I waited until their car had disappeared down the street, then I left, deserted the shop, slammed the door behind me, and tore down Spring Street toward the base and Tyler's apartment. Because it was the middle of the day, it took me only eleven minutes to drive there. I parked my car badly, ran out, and pounded on his white wooden door. No one came. I rang the bell, but still nothing. I took my phone out of my jacket pocket and called him twice in a row. Both times it rang and went to voicemail. I texted him. I didn't know what to write and settled on “Find me now. Right now.” I walked around to the back of Tyler's place and saw that his car wasn't parked there. There were no lights in his house and the lid was off the recycling bin, like it hadn't been put back on from the night before. I walked back toward my car, started it, and drove to town. I opened all the windows and banged the radio off. My chest was so tight that I untucked and unbuttoned as much of my shirt as I could while holding on to some semblance of decency. Just forty-eight hours ago, I had been sailing through the air, holding Tyler's hand, falling into the cold water, exchanging our first “I love yous.”