A Fatal Appraisal (22 page)

Here Jessica had to pause. Talking about her dutiful sons
and her husband's betrayal was something she had never done, not with anyone.
Emotions were welling up in her chest and making it difficult for her to
breathe.

"Give yourself a minute," Robeson said kindly.
"Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

Jessica shook her head. "No. Let's just get this over
with. This is the second time I've told this story today and I'm not getting
any better at it."

Combs shifted impatiently in his chair.

"Three months ago, a man called me at home, before I
started taping this season's show, and asked me if I could make him six gold
coins. He said he had seen my work replicating Roman coins, and wondered if I
could do the same with some old American coins. He was going to use them to
make a 'special gift' for his wife. He wanted six, three-dollar Dahlonega coins
because his wife was from that part of Georgia. He said his name was David
Smith and that he would pay me eight thousand dollars in cash to make the
coins. He said he didn't care what the coins were really made of, just that
they looked like gold and were as authentic-looking as possible. He mailed me
several excellent photographs of the three-dollar Dahlonega coin he wanted
replicated, detailed dimensions, and a money order for two thousand dollars.

"Now, I know I should have questioned Mr. Smith a
little further on
why
he wanted these coin fakes, but I didn't. I knew
the story about a gift to his wife was garbage, but I needed the money. He gave
me three weeks to get them ready. I made the coins and sent them to a P.O. Box
in D.C. and he mailed me a money order for another six thousand dollars.

"I thought this was the end of my dealings with Mr.
Smith, but a few days after I banked the money order, and just before I left to
start this season's taping in Tampa, I found a small, handwritten note placed
under my windshield wiper. I don't remember it verbatim, but it said something
like, ‘Tell no one about the coins. You will be given more opportunities to
work for us.'"

Robeson lifted his eyes from his legal pad. "Are you
sure that it said
us
and not
me
?" he asked.

"Pretty sure." Jessica frowned in thought.

"Do you still have that note?" Combs demanded.

Jessica swiveled around in her chair and looked at him as if
seeing him for the first time, but she answered the question by refocusing her
attention on Robeson's face. "It's back home in Charlotte. I don't know
why I didn't throw it out. Of course, I knew then that the coins were likely
made for some illicit purpose, but what could I do? I had taken the money. What
was done was done."

Robeson tapped his pencil against his chin. "How did
you make the coins?"

"It wasn't that hard." Jessica shrugged. "I
had all of the raw materials from my days in the jewelry business. Saul took
the entire inventory of jewelry, but I kept all of the tools. First, I created
a model of the original coin out of Plaster of Paris—that took the longest
because I had to do a ton of detailed carving for that step—then I used
silicone rubber to produce a negative mold of the plaster. I made seven of
those. One for each coin Mr. Smith requested and an extra in case I screwed
up."

"Do you still have the molds?" Combs asked
curiously.

"The extra one? No, I tossed them after I banked the
money order. After that, I melted down a bunch of nickels and filled the
silicone molds. Once the coins were out, I dipped them in gold plate and
checked over the fine details. Everything looked good except that they were way
too shiny."

"But you were able to fix that," Robeson stated.

"Yes. I used a tool like the dentist uses to polish
your teeth. With a soft pad, I buffed the finish and removed the shine. I don't
remember making a tail on the letter D, but the smallest slip of the wrist and
any mark could have gotten on the original mold. Alexandra must have really had
a good eye to spot that mistake, but anyone who really knew coins only had to
hold one of my fakes to know both the weight and color was off."

"What did
you
think about the Dahlonega coins
you saw in the Civil War display?" Robeson asked. "Didn't you
recognize them?"

Jessica leaned forward. "That's the thing! I never
checked that exhibit out. I've been pretty busy and frankly, wars just aren't
my thing. I'm tired of battles, Detective." She fixed her eyes straight at
Robeson and said earnestly, "The first I heard of the Dahlonega coins were
at dinner last night. That's why I spilled the wine. I knew that those fakes
were mine. This morning, I was heading for the exhibit to examine them when I
heard about Alexandra... about her death. I
still
haven't seen the
coins, real or fake."

Robeson set his eyes on the small woman sitting before him
and issued the fiercest, most daunting stare in his arsenal of deadly looks.
After a few seconds, which seemed to last forever to Molly and Jessica, he
obviously decided that Jessica was telling the truth. His rigid body relaxed
and his dark eyes returned to his pad. "Are there any other details you
can think of that might tie into this investigation?" he asked.

"Just that the handwriting on my note was the same on
the note Alexandra received. Whoever she met that night, it was the man I knew
as David Smith."

"We need your note, I'm afraid." Robeson turned to
Combs. "Find a man to go to Charlotte. He'll need to leave today."

"Does that mean I'm going home?" Jessica's voice
rose hopefully.

"It does. If we need anything more from you, you'll
have to return to Richmond." Robeson stood. "I appreciate your coming
forward with this information. I cannot say that there will not be
repercussions concerning the forgery of the coins, but I will do my best to
exonerate you in exchange for your help with this investigation." Combs
spluttered until his shock at what he considered his superior officer's
leniency became a spasmodic coughing fit. "However, I must advice you not
to leave North Carolina and to give us your contact information, including home
and cell phone numbers. Regardless of your coming forward, you are still very
much involved with an ongoing murder investigation."

Jessica bowed her head meekly. "I understand. I just
want to spend some time with my boys."

"Officer Combs will be by your hotel with a statement
for you to sign. Please read it over carefully. He will also be bringing with
him an officer who will accompany you to Charlotte. Please give this officer
the note and any materials you used in making those coins."

Molly put her arm around her weary friend and ushered her
from the room. "You did the right thing, Jess. It'll work out, you'll
see." But Molly didn't know whether she believed her own words, and she
turned away so that Jessica wouldn't see the doubt and anxiety flashing through
her gray eyes.

~~~~~

Outside, Jessica paused before getting in Molly's Jeep.
She looked out into the oncoming twilight and allowed one tear to escape down
her smooth cheek. "I've loved Borris for three years, Molly. I didn't want
to, but I do. I swore I'd never be with another man, that I'd never let anyone
threaten the peace I have with my sons, so I've been fighting him off. He kept
trying to show me that I could trust again and I kept driving him away."
She wiped at her face as another tear slipped out and then examined her wet
palm, as if wondering where the moisture had come from. 'Today it looks like
I've finally succeeded."

~~~~~

Jessica was gone by sundown. The Traveller was oddly
still. Borris had not returned and Garrett was nowhere to be seen. Clara waited
for her daughter's return in the parlor. A Welsh mystery set in a remote
mountainous village lay open on her lap and a highball glass filled with Crown
Royal and soda perched on a stand within easy reach.

"How did it go?" she asked, her gray eyes soft in
the lamplight. "I saw Jessica leave with a policeman. She's not being
arrested, is she?"

Molly flopped down in the other wing chair. "No. She
made a mistake, but she's no murderer. She could have been, though, with what
her husband did to her."

"Why don't you tell me over dinner?" Clara asked,
taking a sip of her cocktail. "Mrs. Hewell said there's a neat restaurant
called the Olde Tobacco Warehouse within walking distance. They’re supposed to
have a four-story atrium that takes your breath away. Doesn't a plate of
chicken cooked in sherry sauce sound good about now? And she also highly
recommended the roasted garlic mashed potatoes."

"Yes, let's go!" Molly jumped up hungrily.
"Boy, I'd never survive on one of those no-carb diets."

"Well, there are no carbs in this drink and I'm going
to finish it, so you may as well fill me in on what happened at the station
while you're waiting."

 Molly sank back down into her chair and gave a condensed
version of Jessica's sad tale.

"That poor woman!" Clara exclaimed. "At least
your father took off right after you were born. Her sons must not know what to
think—their father just up and leaving them like that. What scum!"

Molly didn't want her mother to launch into some bad-father
tirade, so she quickly said, "So let's assume that Mr. Smith is really one
of the
Hidden Treasures
appraisers. He commissioned the fake coins,
arranged the blackout, switched the coins, and killed Alexandra."

"Which men do we have to choose from again?" Clara
asked, draining her glass.

Molly stood and beckoned for her mother to follow her
outside. Arm in arm, they strolled down the sidewalk towards the Olde Tobacco
Warehouse.

"Patrice, Borris, Tony, and Garrett. Those are our
suspects."

"Hrmph," Clara snorted. "Patrice couldn't
pull a body up twenty feet into the air any more than I could. It could only be
Borris if he was just pretending to be in love with Jessica while, in fact, the
whole time he was manipulating her into unknowingly help him commit several
crimes."

Molly shook her head. "I don't believe that. Anyone can
see Borris sincerely loves Jessica, unless he is an incredible actor."

Clara frowned. "No. He's the genuine article. And it
simply can't be that charming Englishman, though
he'd
make an excellent
actor. And I don't know anything about this Tony fellow."

"Tony is a big teddy bear. That overgrown kid doesn't
have a malicious bone in his body," Molly said firmly.

"Since we don't know these men from Adam, we can't
really deduce what would drive any of them to murder. That's why there's a
police force, Molly," Clara nagged. "You don't have the slightest
idea what secrets were divulged during today's questioning of the
appraisers."

"That's true, but I do know that the motive revolves
around money. There was a robbery before there ever was a murder," Molly
replied defensively and then abruptly stopped in her tracks in the middle of
one of Shockoe Slip's cobblestone side streets. The sudden lack of movement
caused Clara's linked arm to jerk backward roughly.

"What are you doing, Molly?" Clara snapped.
"I think my arm just came out of its socket!"

Molly stood paralyzed, her eyes wide with the shock of
comprehension. "What would you do with six stolen coins, Ma?" she
finally asked.

Clara shrugged impatiently. "I don't know. Hide them in
the litter box?"

"You can't just put them on eBay." Molly's words
flowed so quickly that she began tripping over them. "You'd have to have a
buyer or know how to pawn them off in a black market."

"Which one of those men would know of a market for
stolen coins?" Clara asked, her interest in the case returning.

"A coin collector!" Molly screeched excitedly, and
then realized exactly what this conclusion meant. She covered her face with
both of her hands and wailed in despair, "Oh my god, and I
kissed
him! I made out with the killer!"

~~~~~~~~~~

Knowing what to look for when buying old or antique
furniture is a skill that may take years—and several mistakes. There are even
some who feel that recognizing a really fine old piece of furniture is an
instinct which cannot be taught.

—The Illustrated Guide to Furniture Repair and
Restoration

"Who did you kiss?" Clara asked excitedly as
they began walking again. She was already imagining herself surrounded by
cherubic grandchildren, all of whom treated her cats with the utmost care and
were always dying to hear the history behind every antique in her historic
North Carolina shotgun house.

Molly tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and then
realized that she and her mother had come to a stop directly in front of Olde
Tobacco Warehouse. The restaurant looked exactly like its name: an old tobacco
warehouse. It was a large brick building with oversized windows framed in aged
timber.

Inside, Molly and Clara were amazed by the unique layout. As
Mrs. Hewell had said, the restaurant was four stories high with an open atrium
in the center. Large plants and tall potted trees peppered the floor and an
enormous chandelier hung down from the distant ceiling. A hostess in skin-tight
black pants led them to a table on the first floor, called the Garden Atrium.
The strains of a jazz band playing on the second floor hung in the air above
and mingled with the hum of clinking silverware and conversation. Dozens of
waiters and waitresses moved among the floors, carrying trays laden with
delicious-smelling food.

Their waiter, a rotund, gray-haired man wearing a black
button-down shirt and a long off-white apron greeted them with a friendly smile
and introduced himself as Peter.

"Would you care to peruse the wine list?" he asked
cordially.