Blood Rubies (5 page)

“I know.”

I set the globe down. “Let's call Dr. Grayman and see if she'll take a look at it.” Elizabeth Grayman was the curator of decorative arts at the New England Museum of Contemporary Art in Durham, and an expert on eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European decorative artifacts. “Do you want to go, Sasha? Or would you rather work on the ice-skating snow globe?”

“Either way.”

“You stay, then. I'll go.” I turned to Cara. “Would you call and ask if Dr. Grayman can see me today? Then ask Eric to pack it up.”

While Cara called the museum, I picked up the second snow globe and shook it gently, creating the illusion that I was watching the couple skate in a brisk snowstorm. The figures were beautifully rendered in what appeared to be porcelain. The young woman had an aristocratic cast to her face; her chin was held high, and she looked down her nose. Her hair was light brown, shoulder length, and wavy. Her eyes were celestial blue. She wore a traditional midthigh-length red skating dress. White lace at the chest and sleeves glittered thanks to the clever placement of crystal-embedded red beads. The fluttering flare of her skirt showed the craftsman's ability. The man was handsome, with thick brown hair and dark brown eyes under bushy eyebrows. He was half-smiling, pleased at his own skating, perhaps, or glad to be with such a beautiful woman. His outfit was as traditional as hers, loose-fitting blue slacks and a red and blue cropped jacket. I shook the globe again. They were both full-figured—not fat, even by today's twig-thin standards, but well-fed, a symbol of affluence in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century art; in an age when most people survived on a subsistence diet, only the rich got plump.

I looked at Sasha. “The couple is not skinny.”

She smiled. “I had the same thought. Maybe eighteenth century.”

“Do you recognize the maker?”

“No. I'll need to take it apart to look for a mark under the skaters. If we're right in dating it, obviously, the globe was added after the fact.”

“What makes you so certain?” Gretchen asked, fascinated.

“Snow globes weren't invented until about 1900,” Sasha explained, “when a surgical instrument repairman named Edward Perzy set out to invent a brighter light for operating rooms. His idea was to use glass balls filled with water and semolina. It didn't work, but seeing the semolina float and spin in the water gave him an idea for a novelty—and presto, snow globes were born. His company, Vienna Snow Globes, won the first patent for one.”

Gretchen nodded, understanding the implications. “So if the skaters were sculpted earlier than 1900 … got it.”

Cara swiveled toward me. “You're all set, Josie. Dr. Grayman can see you at eleven.”

“Thanks, Cara.” I glanced at the clock. It was just after nine. I'd need to leave by ten thirty. I was half-listening as Cara called Eric to explain the packing job when the door opened, setting the wind chimes jangling.

Jason stepped in, smart phone in hand. He wore a navy blue sport coat, gray slacks, and a crisply ironed and starched blue shirt. I could picture him on a billboard in an ad for a luxury car or expensive cruise. The modern man of distinction. I wondered how much of his facade was an act.

“Am I too early to do that paperwork?” he asked after I introduced him around. “It seems Timothy isn't quite done with us. I need to get over to the film site by ten.”

“Oh, no! Did something go wrong with what he shot yesterday?”

“No, they just want to add in some romantic bits. It's the same on my show—everything is staged.” He smiled, a good-natured one. “I heard rumblings about walking hand in hand on the beach, that sort of thing. Heather and Ana are already putting their heads together with Timothy about how best to communicate romance.”

“I'm sure it will end up looking natural.” I asked Gretchen to print out a copy of our appraisal agreement. Jason read the document carefully, then signed it.

“Here you go,” he said, handing back my copy. His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. “Business. I've got to take this. I'll have my assistant contact you about shipping and so on. Thanks again.”

He strode across the parking lot to his SUV, gesticulating angrily as he talked on his phone.
He's got an edge,
I thought,
a real edge
.

*   *   *

“Are you going to be a good boy, Hank?” I asked, petting under his chin. He mewed and nuzzled my neck. “I won't be long, baby.” He raised a paw and patted my cheek. “You're such a love bunny, aren't you!” Another mew.

The door opened, and Ana stepped inside, saw me cuddling Hank, and burst out laughing. “I'm noticing a theme!”

I kissed Hank on the top of his furry little head. “Caught in the act!” I let him down, and he rubbed my calf before sauntering off to the warehouse door. I opened it for him, and he disappeared inside. “As you can tell, I'm at his beck and call.”

“Anyone would be. Hello, everyone!”

Gretchen and Cara said hello. I was familiar with the nuances of their greetings, and I could tell they had both warmed to her.

Sasha murmured hello, a coolish welcome, which didn't imply anything negative. Unless she was talking about art or antiques, Sasha was both shy and reserved. Only when discussing an object she knew about was she confident and animated. Sasha was brilliant, kind, honest, and skillful. The only thing she lacked was confidence.

“I only have about a minute and a half, but I thought I'd pop in to see those chess sets.”

“I'm on my way out, but Sasha will take care of you.”

As if a switch had been flipped, Sasha's entire manner changed. She stood up, smiling, her eyes alight. Her voice, when she spoke, showed no hesitation. “I have them ready. They're both fabulous, in different ways. I can't wait to show them to you. I'll get them now.”

Sasha pushed into the warehouse, and I leaned against the guest table.

I chuckled. “A whole minute and a half—wow! I didn't even think you had that long. Jason said you were deep in planning romantic add-in shots.”

“Not I, my friend. That's Timothy's bailiwick and involves only Heather and Jason.”

Eric, my jack-of-all-trades helper, stepped into the front office, a sturdy box and bubble wrap in hand. Although he was now in his midtwenties, he was still teenage thin. Eric had started working for Prescott's part-time when he was in high school, going full-time right after graduation. Recently, I'd promoted him to operations manager, his second major promotion in three years. Deciding who should be responsible for what was one of the biggest challenges of my job.

“You're packing up my snow globe,” Ana said.

“I'm taking it for an outside expert consultation. Research. We do whatever is necessary to learn the truth.”

Ana smiled, a sad one. “I wish more people valued the truth.”

I wondered what she was referring to, what memory my innocuous comment roused. I wanted to ask but didn't. Instead, I watched Eric wrap the snow globe.

“What makes the snowstorm?” she asked, also watching him work.

“Glycerin,” I said. “Or mineral oil. Both are heavier than water, so the dots and slivers of silver or white metal move more slowly than they would in water.”

“Will you take it apart?”

“Yes. There's no other way to examine it properly.” I smiled at her. “We're as careful as possible.”

“But losing some of the oil is inevitable, right?”

“Right,” I said as Sasha reappeared wheeling a cart holding the two sets of chessmen, one made of ivory and black glass with sterling silver embellishments, the other made of cherry-colored and black Bakelite.

“Aren't they beautiful?” Sasha asked, her tone reverential.

Ana leaned over to look. “Totally.”

“Notice the art deco influence,” Sasha said, holding up a black glass knight whose shape evoked the lines and structure of the Chrysler Building in New York City.

I accepted the box Eric handed me, thanked him, and said, “Good seeing you, Ana. Sasha, I'll leave you to it.”

I doubted that Ana would buy either set. Both were distinctive and rare, and therefore pricey, more than most people would want to spend for a wedding gift. The decorative glass set Sasha was showing her now was priced at $1,200; the Bakelite set, $850.

*   *   *

When I was three miles away from the museum, I hit a detour. The police had cordoned off a section of Route 108. Turning onto Washington, I caught a glimpse of Timothy checking a camera angle and shouting directions. That stretch of Route 108 led to a bed-and-breakfast known for its lovingly nurtured grounds featuring rare plants, formal flower gardens, and Italianate fountains, and I suspected that he'd selected it as one of his romantic settings.

Despite the detour, I arrived a few minutes early. I used the time to stretch my legs along a portion of the museum's well-maintained five-mile-long nature trail. The museum sat in thirty-five acres of donated land. Positioned high on a plateau, the sprawling glass and stone contemporary building overlooked low hills of hardwood and conifer forests, a stream that meandered over and around granite outcroppings, and sweeping meadows and marsh set aside as preservation land. Ty and I often walked the entire trail.

I paused to admire a mossy rock, and my thoughts drifted to Ana. When listing all the life events that made her a likely candidate for a reality TV show, she'd spoken of a breach with her father. Yet while we were planning my role in the pilot, Ana had mentioned that her dad was going to be featured in a scene expressing his pride in her entrepreneurial accomplishments. I was glad to think their rift had been repaired. I'd asked whether her mom would be in the pilot, too, and Ana's mood changed. She became subdued, explaining that her mother had died of breast cancer when she, Ana, was nineteen, describing it as an unspeakably devastating loss. She'd been inconsolable, she said, adding bitterly that her grief was made worse when her father had turned almost overnight into a tyrant. Losing beloved mothers to cancer when we were young was an experience we shared. My mom had died a ghastly cancer death when I was thirteen. Unlike Ana, though, her death brought my dad and me closer. We'd circled the wagons, solidifying our tight-knit family of two. I know that everyone grieves differently, but I couldn't imagine how much harder my loss would have been had my dad not been loving and supportive.

I set off again, passing a black cherry tree, its delicate white blossoms just beginning to show, circled back along the short route, and popped out by the museum's outdoor patio. I went inside, told the receptionist why I was there, and took a seat in the lobby, as directed.

I hadn't seen Dr. Elizabeth Grayman, a no-nonsense woman who'd been in the job forty years, since she'd been awarded emerita status, three years earlier. I sat on a long backless leather bench facing a wall of windows, watching three small gray birds peck at something on the ground.

Ten minutes later, a young woman wearing black leggings and a peach silk tunic called my name. I followed her down a long hallway that led to the administrative offices. Dr. Grayman's corner office had six oversized windows. Bookcases covered two walls, one filled with exhibit catalogues and catalogues raisonnés, the other with books. Her desk was bare except for a laptop computer, a telephone, and a framed photograph of her accepting an award. A printer and a fax machine sat on a credenza positioned against the wall in back of her desk.

She came out from behind her desk to shake hands and led me to an oval conference table by the windows. She was short and stout, with curly gray hair and light blue eyes. She wore a gray tweed suit I'd find too warm for March.

“Good to see you, Josie. It's been a while. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I appreciate your squeezing me in last-minute.”

I unwrapped the snow globe and placed it on the table, explaining what Sasha had discovered and why we were concerned about its authenticity. She leaned over the table, peering through the glass.

“Whom did she talk to?”

“Hans Micher. An account manager at the company.”

“Did she call the museum?”

“No. I didn't know they had one.”

“They do, and it's a good one. Even if the curator doesn't know this object in particular, he should be able to help identify the materials. They maintain a careful accounting of materials and processes used for historical purposes.” She turned the snow globe around slowly, then lifted it to examine the bottom. She gave it a shake and watched the silvery bits spin and settle. She raised her eyes and smiled. “It's precious, isn't it?”

I smiled back. “Yes.”

Using a loupe and a high-wattage work light attached to the table by a clamp, she examined the snow globe methodically, quarter-inch turn by quarter-inch turn. When she finished, she removed the loupe, turned off the lamp, and sat back. “My gut tells me it's real. The level of detail and craftsmanship is noteworthy.” She pointed to a town house in the middle. “Take this as an example—the moldings on this unit's door are carved out, not nailed on. Look at the doorknobs. The metal hasn't tarnished. They might actually be gold.”

“If it were you, would you open it?”

“You have to. Do it in a plastic tub to preserve the fluid. Wear gloves.”

She stood as I repacked it, then walked me out. I thanked her again and left. I couldn't wait to tell Sasha the good news.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

I took the scenic route back, wending my way along the ocean. Dark clouds were blowing in, east to west. The ocean was seaweed green, the waves tipped with white. Just beyond the Rocky Point police station, a one-story building designed to fit in with the affluent community, not stand out, I came upon Timothy and the film crew and pulled to the curb to watch.

Ana, wearing navy slacks, a yellow and blue patterned blouse, a navy blazer, and black low-heeled boots, was walking next to Chef Ray close to the shoreline.