The Price of Inheritance (34 page)

CHAPTER 18

I
t wasn't until a month later that I heard from Captain Jeff Ambrose with the Newport police. It was almost mid-June and the town was swelling with tourists and the boats that cut through the water for the America's Cup qualifying races. The town looked perfect, but my Newport was desolate. I had given the Dalbys, Carter, and William very thin versions of the real story. I hadn't heard from Tyler. I hadn't been able to get back on Jane's boat even with the perfect summer weather. I didn't think I'd ever get on it again.

“Do you want me to sell it?” she'd asked after I'd declined for the fourth time. I'd shaken my head no and said, “I think I'll take up windsurfing instead.”

The day Captain Ambrose called was one of the days I'd declined Jane's invitation, but I had stayed on the harbor. I couldn't get on the boat, but I could watch it from the shore, the white sails cutting through the wind. I could picture Carter and Jane in her white shorts and thick linen sweaters, her gold bracelets not bothering anyone. But all I could hear when I looked at that boat was Tyler's voice daring me into something with him. “You always have to jump if someone tells you to jump.” I had definitely jumped.

“I've got a question for you,” said Captain Ambrose over the phone.

“Yes, what is it?” I said, looking at the boats cross the water in front of me. I had lost sight of Jane's dark blue boat. It was gone, in the water at the point that I liked best, when the shore was just out of view and you knew everything was still close by but you felt lost at sea.

“We've had someone in London paying attention to Max Sebastian. I told you that, I believe?”

“You didn't.”

“Well, we do. We didn't think there would be any interest, but I guess he's kind of a big deal over there.”

“Has anything happened?”

“I can't really go into the details. We've been watching him for a few weeks now and there hasn't been anything worth calling about but today he booked a plane ticket to Houston. Do you know anything about that? Or have any guesses?”

My heart dropped.

“Houston, Texas? Are you sure?” I asked, my voice rising like the tide.

“Definitely. Tomorrow at nine
A.M
. Any idea why Mr. British would be going to Houston? There's a Sotheby's consultant in Houston but that doesn't seem to fit. Would he be going there for work?”

Houston. I hadn't talked about Texas since January.

“I don't know,” I said, stretching out the last word. “I have a weird hunch but it's a very far-fetched one. Can you give me a few hours to look into it before I tell you about it? I need to look at an auction record.”

“Yeah, okay. He doesn't fly before tomorrow morning, but call me sooner rather than later if you think it's anything.”

I promised him I would and then dialed a number that I hadn't used in six months.

Nicole picked up her phone on the first ring. I realized as soon as she said hello that I missed her. I was still mad at her, but I missed her more.

“Nicole, I imagine you're still banned from talking to me, but I could really use a favor,” I said quickly.

“Oh, hello, Aunt Irene. How are things in Maine?”

“Fine. I'm Aunt Irene and you can't say anything because I'm guessing you share an office with someone new. Someone who is far more boring than me.”

“Rain! How devastating,” said Nicole. She sounded far too convincing. She had probably spent half her time having fake conversations when I was in that office.

“I would be forever indebted to you if you could send me Adam Tumlinson's auction record. The whole thing, every department, from his first bid to his last. Could you do that for me? I know it's a huge ask but it will help me immensely. I can't explain now, but—”

“No explanation needed. You should go to your favorite hotel in town. The one you told me about all those times. I think they have just the remedy for the bad weather at the bar. Why don't you go there in an hour or two?”

“Fine, fine. Castle Hill Inn in an hour or two. Thank you so much, Nicole.”

“Let's say two. Lots of love, Aunt Irene. Keep in touch.”

Maybe it was because she knew she'd been deplorable and owed me a favor, but as soon as Nicole hung up the phone I forgave her for forgetting I had a heartbeat all these months.

The Castle Hill Inn was the most charming hotel in Newport. If you liked luxury you stayed there. If you liked something quaint you stayed there. And if you were broke, you didn't even come for lunch. I walked up the familiar stairs and went to the concierge, who knew me well.

“I think someone faxed something here for me,” I said.

“Just let me check, Ms. Everett. It's nice to see you back at the hotel.”

The Castle Hill Inn was one of the places where if you grew up in Newport, you knew everyone who worked there, and everyone who worked there knew you, especially if you were best friends with the Dalbys and their money.

“Here you are,” he said, reaching out and handing me a very thick manila envelope. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“That's all. Thank you very much.” I walked out the front door of the gray storybook property and onto the wraparound porch that overlooked the water and rocks. I walked halfway down the big grass hill and sat alone in a slightly weathered white Adirondack chair. There was no one near me and even the people far away didn't seem to notice me. They were too busy absorbing old New England through their pores. I unhooked the string loop of the envelope and placed the pages on my lap, gripping them tightly so they didn't fold or fly away with the wind.

Line by line, I went through the nearly fifty-page document that Nicole had faxed over. It was full of Adam's buying and selling records for decades. He had died last year but he'd been buying from Christie's since the fifties. American furniture, American painting, American photography. The man was more patriotic than Nathan Hale. It wasn't until 1988 that I saw something that wasn't American. That year, he not only bought Sargent's portrait of Mademoiselle Suzanne Poirson but three pieces from a Middle East auction, including a jar from the late twelfth century. I looked carefully at the entry, “Stone-paste painted in black under turquoise glaze H: 31.1 W: 21.6 cm Raqqa, Syria.” Holding my breath, I put the papers back into the manila folder, shoved the folder into my bag without sealing the top, and called Captain Jeff Ambrose back at the Newport police station.

“It's Carolyn Everett. I know why he's going to Houston.”

“Can we meet? I can come to William Miller's.”

“I'm not that close right now. I'm at the Castle Hill Inn. Can you come here?”

“You do your prying at very tony establishments.”

“Well, this is Newport. It's hard not to. I'm on the main lawn; you can't miss me.”

I couldn't sit still as I waited for Captain Ambrose to appear. I walked down to the water. I walked toward the private cottages and when I couldn't walk anymore, I went to the bar, lapped up a Maker's Mark on the rocks, and headed back outside. Five minutes later, I saw him walking down the hill, looking for me. He turned my way after a few seconds and waited for me to reach him.

“How about here,” he said, pointing to two Adirondack chairs together. “This is a very nice place, isn't it,” he added, taking in the view.

“It is.” I opened the folder. I knew already what he was going to say after I explained about Elizabeth. He'd say I had a hunch and a hunch wasn't enough to do anything. But I would try.

“What is all that?” he asked, looking at the thick stack of paper in my lap.

“These are buying records from Christie's, fifty years of buying records, sales all to the same person, Mr. Adam R. Tumlinson. Have you ever heard that name?”

“I haven't. Who is he?” He was peering at the sales figures.

“Was he. He died last year. Before that, he was an important art collector, mostly American art, furniture, portraiture, militaria, but he had a few other interests, too. I asked Christie's to send me his buying record because I wanted to see if he had ever bought Islamic art, especially pottery.”

“And has he?”

“He did in 1988. He bought a significant piece from Syria.” I flipped to the page where I had underlined the entry and showed him.

“Three hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars,” Jeff read out loud. “That's not chump change.”

“Well, for Adam Tumlinson that was chump change. I haven't finished going through this record, but I will and I was hoping you might be able to get his records from Sotheby's, too. I don't have anyone who—”

“You don't have a mole in there who can send them to you.”

“This is art. Not Stalingrad. But yes, I don't know anyone who would send them to me.”

“I'll see what I can do. We don't have anything on Max Sebastian right now except your story, so—”

“And you think my story is false?” I protested. “Tyler Ford flew to Turkey! He disappeared. You think that's because we had a bad breakup and he needed a
hamam?
I'm right about this, I know it.”

I shifted in my wooden chair and looked back toward the hotel. It had a large turret covered in gray shake shingles that made the property look a little more whimsical than most in the area.

“I worked with Adam Tumlinson's wife, Elizabeth, on my last sale at Christie's,” I explained. “We sold the couple's storied American furniture collection. One of the pieces in it, a table, was contested after it was sold and returned to a family in Baltimore. Several people said it was stolen and that's why it was given back so quickly without legal involvement or an attempt on Elizabeth's part to save face. You don't just return a table that sold for two hundred and sixty thousand dollars because of one thin accusation. I am sure she knew she owned stolen goods and I'm sure she didn't care.”

“Fine,” said Jeff, making a note. “Anything else?”

“In the papers, there was talk about certain people Adam worked with. Corrupt dealers. It's hard to find them now that he's dead, but there's been a hum about it since January. A source told the
Baltimore Sun
that since Adam started collecting in the fifties, he'd been paying people off to acquire items that weren't exactly for sale.”

“So they'd steal them.”

“That's what I gathered.”

“You left Christie's after you worked with Elizabeth? Isn't that what you said?” asked Jeff, making more notes.

“Yes. I was fired because of her sale. I didn't notice what I should have about the table.”

“And this wouldn't be some vendetta you're carrying for the outcome of that sale.”

“Vendetta? Certainly not. This is me trying not to make the same mistake twice.”

“But you said Adam is dead. If Max is going to Texas, then who is he going to see? Elizabeth?”

“Exactly. Max is going to see Elizabeth Tumlinson.”

Jeff kicked his legs out straight in front of him and leaned back in the chair. “I would like to believe you.”

“But you don't.”

“I mostly don't. A little part of me thinks it could be something.”

“You also have to consider the actual sale of her collection in the first place,” I pointed out. “We're not talking a trestle table and a few Queen Anne chairs. She had the best collection of American furniture in the world and all of a sudden she wanted to sell it, all of it, and fast. Why? She's not dying, her kids aren't trying to steal from her, her interests haven't changed. Why did she need that money, eight figures, all of a sudden? Maybe it was to create a diversion.”

“Who else are the big collectors of Middle Eastern pottery in Texas?” asked Jeff, writing down my theory.

“I'm not sure.” I tried to think back to my early days at Christie's when I was in sales and appraisals. Who was there in Texas? “I can only think of two right now. Afif Adil, he's Saudi Arabian and works in oil down there, and Jill and Hadi Basir. She's Texan, he's from the UAE. He works in oil, too. I remember them in the New York office. I've met all three before, but I can't think of anyone else.”

“You haven't gone through all the records and we don't know what the Tumlinsons' buying habits were at Sotheby's, but it doesn't look like they bought much from the Middle East, right?”

“No, I don't think much.”

“And there are probably many other art collectors in the state of Texas who have bought something, just one or a few pieces, from the Middle East from Christie's or Sotheby's.”

“Sure. It's a big state. But we're not talking photography or modern art here. This is Middle Eastern pottery. There are fewer buyers. Plus, those sales are always in London, not New York.”

“How is Elizabeth Tumlinson any more of a suspect than anyone else who collects that kind of art in Texas?”

“I don't know,” I said, crossing my ankle over my knee. “Because none of those other collectors have lied to me.”

“Can I take this?” said Captain Ambrose, looking down at the folder in my hand.

I handed it to him and we both stood up.

“I'll look into it,” he said, holding the envelope out slightly at me.

“But you think nothing will come of it.”

“Probably not. But I'll still look into it.”

I didn't tell him that even I thought I was putting pieces in a row that fit together too easily. Still, it was possible.

I watched hours of bad TV that night. Reality TV, old TV, even an infomercial for scrambled egg molds. When my phone rang at 8
P.M.,
I jumped. It was the detective from the Newport police.

“Carolyn, nothing at Sotheby's. Adam Tumlinson never bought one piece or painting or anything from the Middle East department. Never even attended one of their auctions in London,” said Jeff.