And Then You Dye (13 page)

Knowing he was distracted didn’t help. His mind returned to the request again and again during the evening.

It hadn’t been apparent to Randi that her story made it seem he had a motive to murder Hailey. He could not help thinking this Devonshire woman hadn’t missed that point.

But if he refused to talk to her, that would probably make her sure he had something to do with it.

So like it or not, he’d better agree to meet her. He told Phil so as they were leaving. Phil’s triumphant grin left him uneasy. He hoped he could convince the Devonshire woman he was innocent of murder.

Fourteen

I
T
was a sunny Friday in June, and the start of a multistate coin show. It was being held in two big rooms at a conference center at the crossroads—Godwin would have said the armpit—of Highways 694 and 100. The single-story wooden building had a rural theme, down to its barn-red paint and white trim. The Minnesota Organization of Numismatists—MOON—had rented half the big building; a large wedding reception was under way in the other half.

There were about a hundred dealers present in the bourse, or sellers’ room, with tables up against all four walls and two sets of double rows down the center, making three aisles. One of the eight-foot tables, halfway down the first row, had been rented by Rafael. Godwin helped him put out his albums of coins and the one glass case he’d bought for the occasion, about thirty by twenty inches by three inches deep. All the other tables had several cases apiece, the better to display the dealers’ wares.

“We’re going to have to get more glass cases,” said Rafael, looking enviously at the tables on either side of them. He was using a soft cloth to polish the glass of his case.

Godwin knew the cases were expensive, and hoped Rafael didn’t invest too much in his new enterprise before he knew he would make a success of it.

When the show opened to the public half an hour later, there was a brief rush of customers. Rafael, with his good looks and amiable manner, soon had a little cluster of people around his table. But most of the coins he had for sale were oddities—he had all four Canadian bimetallic five-dollar coins, for example, made of silver and niobium, and representing the four Algonquin seasonal moons; and a trio of 1965 British crown coins, each with its evocative portrait of Winston Churchill. There weren’t many collectors of those, so most of the customers soon melted away. He did sell two uncirculated Morgan dollars at a good price, and was happy with that.

Godwin was impressed. Rafael had a merchant’s heart and a natural charm, both necessary assets for a successful businessman.

Along came a dark, Hispanic-looking man, about twenty, with a patchy three-day growth of beard. He was dressed in too-long jeans over shabby cowboy boots, a faded flannel shirt that he had not tucked in, and a worn black leather vest. He carried a wrinkled manila envelope bulging at the bottom. He had been stopping at tables along the row, and stopped again at Rafael’s table to look over Rafael’s assortment of American coins. Several were in clear plastic PCGS holders, called “slabs” by collectors.

“I have some coins I’m trying to sell,” he said, in Spanish-accented English. “My uncle’s”—he hesitated, then said in Spanish—“
suegro
.”

“Father-in-law,” translated Rafael.

The young man brightened at this understanding. “Ah, yes, thank you, my uncle’s father-in-law. He had many coins in . . .” He gestured. “Books? But not books.”

“Albums, I think you mean.”

“Yes, albums. The father-in-law, he died, and my uncle, he sold the, er, albums, but there were some coins . . .” Again he gestured. “
Sueltas?
”

“Loose,” translated Rafael.

“
Si
, loose. My uncle is a busy man, he work every day, so I said I would try to sell these coins. My uncle and I, we are not collectors, so we not know where to bring them. Then I see in the paper about this show, open to the public, so I am here. Some are in . . .” He gestured. “Like those things.” He pointed to the slabs. “Is that good?”

“It’s very good,” said Rafael. “It means they’ve been professionally graded by a top company.”

The young man frowned. “
Que?
”

Rafael said something in rapid Spanish. Godwin recognized the words
monedas
and
valuadas
: “coins” and “appraised.”

The man, greatly relieved, replied at length, concluding, “
Pues, mira estas.
” He opened the envelope and slid eight or ten coins out onto the top of the glass case. Two were in old-style white PCGS holders, and Rafael picked them up first.

“Hmmm,” he said, and Godwin leaned in for a look. One coin he recognized right away as a beautiful silver Morgan dollar, the “king of collectible coins.” The obverse of the coin was the face of a woman with a lot of hair dressed to the back of her head, slightly too much chin, and a serene expression. The date on the coin was 1876. On the back was an eagle with open wings, holding in its claws a bundle of arrows crossed with an olive branch. PCGS had given it a grade of MS-65, Select Uncirculated, a very high grade.

Godwin glanced up and saw the young man watching Rafael very intently. “
Es buena?
” he asked.

“
Si
,” said Rafael. “
Muy buena
.”

“
Pues, cuanto me darías por ella?
” How much would you give me for it? Godwin recognized the question from his happy hours of shopping in Mexico.

Then started the bargaining. Godwin could not follow the words, but he understood the language. He could tell Rafael was going easy on the young man, as they did not bargain hard or for long. They agreed on an amount that made both of them happy—seventeen hundred dollars—and Rafael handed over the money in cash.

The other coin in a PCGS slab was a silver dollar dated 1874 with a seated Liberty on the face and a spread eagle on the back. The words Trade Dollar were around the bottom of the reverse, and above it was spelled “420 grains, .900 fine.”

Again with the intent look, the young man asked, “
Es buena?
”
Is it good?

“
Si, es buena
.” Rafael frowned over it, however. The grade for this coin was EF, Extremely Fine.

“
Que sucede?
”
What’s the matter?

“
No me gustan los
Trade Dollars.” I don’t like Trade Dollars.

“
Porqué?
” Why?

“
Muchos son falsos.
” Many are fake.

“But it is in that holder, right?” The man’s English was suddenly a bit better. “That is a guarantee.”

“
Si.
Yes, it is.” But still Rafael frowned.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to buy it. I will sell it to someone else.” He reached for the holder.

“
No, no. Está bien, me arriesgaré.
” Okay, I’ll risk it.

“
Entonces, cuanto me darías por ella?
”

Again the bargaining began. This time the young man wasn’t as happy with Rafael’s offer, but at last, with a shrug, he took seven hundred dollars.

The other coins the young man offered were loose, ungraded, and somewhat worn. But there was a standing Liberty quarter dated 1917 with the obverse worn but the eagle on the reverse looking clean and sharp. Rafael offered twenty dollars for it and the young man seemed happy to accept. Another coin was a very badly worn Spanish dollar—one of the famous “pieces of eight,” which was legal tender around the world from the seventeenth century to the nineteenth. Spanish-born Rafael, not unnaturally, loved finding them, and had a large collection of them. He made the young man smile with his generous offer of fifteen dollars.

The two parted with words of gratitude, shaking hands, exchanging names.

Business fell off completely after that, and around one o’clock Godwin opened the little cooler he’d packed that morning with sandwiches, pop, and corn chips, and the two sat back to have lunch.

Another dealer came by to talk about how poor business was and to see how Rafael and Godwin had been doing.

“Nothing too much, Jim,” said Rafael. “I am too heavily invested in oddities and medievals for this show. But I did strike it lucky with two PCGS-rated coins.” He reached into a box under the table and brought out the coins. “Take a look.”

Jim looked at the Trade Dollar and said, “It’s a good thing this has been graded by PCGS. There are so many Chinese fakes of this coin that I’ve sworn off buying them.”

“Chinese fakes?” said Godwin.

“But the Chinese fakes are castings, this is struck,” said Rafael.

“You haven’t been keeping up. They’ve gotten damn clever and turned it into an industry,” the man said, his voice warming with indignation. “They bought old stamping machines from the US years ago for their own coinage, and some of them got diverted into making fakes. You’re right about their early attempts, they were just trash, cast instead of struck, but they’re getting better all the time.”

He looked at the PCGS holder, turning it over in his hands, examining the lettering on it. “This is a good-looking dollar. Let me see the other one, would you?”

Rafael produced it, and the man examined the coin. “Uh-oh,” he said.

“What’s the problem?”

“The Morgan dollar was first minted in 1878, and this coin is dated 1876.”

Rafael snatched it out of the man’s hands. “I do not believe it! You are reading the date wrong.”

“No, I’m not, the date is perfectly clear, and you better believe something’s screwy, because it’s true.”

“But this is a PCGS-graded coin!”

“I will bet you the best coin in my private collection that slab is fake, too. It’s an old one, hasn’t got their new holographic emblem on it. Jesus, I’ve been hearing they’re doing that, but I haven’t seen one till now.” He turned and shouted down the room, “Hey, Milo, come take a look at this!” He said to Rafael, “Is the guy you bought it from still here?”

Rafael looked around, standing on tiptoes, looking hard. “Of course not. Damn.”

“What’s his name?”

“Pedro Alvarez, he said, though if he’s selling fakes, that’s almost certainly not his real name.”

“What’s going on?” asked a tall, cadaverously thin man with a slender graying mustache trickling off the end of his chin.

“Our friend here was suckered into buying two fakes.”

“Two!?” exclaimed Rafael.

“If one’s a fake, what do you wanna bet the other one’s not a fake as well?”

“God
damn
it!” Rafael stooped and brought out the other two coins he’d bought. “What about these?”

Jim looked them over. “I’d say they’re authentic. Not high-grade enough to be fake. Did he nick you good on the price of the copies?”

Rafael named the amount and the man said, “If they were real, I’d’ve said you made a heck of a deal.”

“Yeah, I was feeling pretty good about what I paid for them. And so was Pedro—he seemed satisfied with the price—and no wonder!
Pedro me vió la cara
—Pedro made a fool out of me!”

There was a policeman at the entrance to the show, and Rafael filed a report, though without faith he would ever encounter Pedro Alvarez again.

*   *   *

H
E
was still fuming about the loss hours later. “How was I to know?” he grumbled over a late supper that evening at home.

“How did Jim know?” asked Godwin. “What’s he reading that you aren’t? Is there a publication that talks about frauds and fakes?”

“Not one I’m aware of. I’m a member of the American Numismatic Association, and I usually read most of each issue of their magazine. I go to Northwest Coin Club’s monthly meetings but not faithfully. And I’ve only been to two of ANA’s annual meetings. Too lazy. That, I see now, was a big mistake.”

“You’re a lone wolf in a lot of ways,” said Godwin, stacking the plates and carrying them into the kitchen. “That hasn’t been a problem up to now, I guess.”

“I wonder,” said Rafael. “It makes me question a lot of my recent purchases. I’d been thinking I’d become an expert in this coin collecting business—and maybe I am in my own small sphere of medieval coins. But that’s a small sphere, and I see now I only have a shallow understanding of other arenas. I’m a long way from being educated enough to open my own shop, I guess.” He sounded so depressed that Godwin left the dishes in the sink to come and speak words of comfort to him. But his heart was singing and he was careful not to disagree.

Fifteen

B
ETSY
had never spoken with someone as reluctant to sit down with her as Walter Moreham. Though he didn’t say a word about his reluctance, his body language was eloquent. He sat very stiffly in his chair, avoiding eye contact, his hands folded in his lap. He spoke in short, sometimes incomplete sentences, and the cup of coffee she brought him sat untasted on the table in front of him.

They were sitting at the little table in the back half of the shop. It was Saturday. Walter had been at work all morning, had eaten a quick lunch—he had refused to join Betsy for lunch—and had come in with a face like a stone to sit down with her. What made this all a bit strange was that he had called her to offer to talk. All right, it was Phil who persuaded him to do it, but it wasn’t by threats of violence, was it? Nonetheless, clearly he was really spooked.

So Betsy started gently, off topic. “What is it you do, Mr. Moreham?”

“I work at an ad agency.”

“Do you write the ads?”

“I illustrate them.”

“You’re a photographer?”

“A graphic artist.”

“Really? Have I seen any of your ads?”

“Probably.”

“Do you do newspaper or magazine ads?”

“Both. Label designs, too.”

“Label?”

He shrugged. “Cereal boxes, hot dog wrappers, things like that.”

“Interesting. Did you always want to be a commercial artist?”

“No.”

Betsy waited, but he said nothing more. She sighed and got down to business. “Had you ever met Hailey Brent?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She was Randi’s friend, not mine.” Betsy tried her waiting game, and this time he continued. “I have a friend or two Randi hasn’t met.”

“Were you aware that Hailey was encouraging Randi to leave you?”

“No.” But there had been a slight hesitation before the reply.

“You suspected it.”

Walter looked at Betsy with sad eyes, then took a big drink of his coffee. His mouth firmed and he looked down into his lap. He sighed. Betsy waited. He sighed again, the way a person sighs when making a decision.

“My job is very stressful,” he began, speaking slowly and still not looking at her, “with lots of short deadlines and demanding clients with screwy agendas. It’s been like that for me since I started working as a commercial artist. What I wanted when I married was a quiet home, with a wife who was on my side. I had that for almost six years.”

“That sounds really sweet.”

“It was bliss.” He smiled, remembering. “I’d come home from a hellish day and my dinner would be waiting, the house would be clean, and Randi would be cheerful. I wouldn’t complain about my work and she would tell funny stories about her part-time job at the auto parts store.”

He fell silent, and though Betsy tried her waiting game again, he appeared oblivious.

“So then what happened?” she asked, as sympathetically as she could.

He looked up at her, his eyes unhappy. “It started with little things, but pretty soon all I heard was how I wasn’t helping enough around the house, and why was I against having a child, and why didn’t I talk about my job. Everything I did irritated her. My home stopped being my safe house.” His head dropped again and he said so softly it was hard to hear him, “I didn’t understand what was happening. I was sick and scared.”

Betsy’s heart filled with compassion and she let it show in her voice. “That must have been a dreadful time for you.” She paused, then asked, “Did you try couple’s counseling?”

“Not then. I thought maybe it
was
my fault. I thought we could work it out. She was seeing a doctor. I thought he’d prescribe something. An antidepressant, maybe. But he didn’t.”

This was wonderful; he was really opening up to her. She was careful to keep her tone sympathetic, although it wasn’t hard; she was really feeling for the poor fellow. “Who was Randi talking to about your troubles, did you know?”

“No. I didn’t know she was talking to anyone at all. I know I wasn’t. I was just hoping it was some idea she got from a book or television, that she’d get over it. I wasn’t paying that close attention. I should have been, but I wasn’t. I was tangled up in a big project at work; the client was crazy, demanding lots of changes, short deadlines. A new product was being introduced, we couldn’t get anything right, we thought we might lose the client altogether, it was just nuts. And Randi got more and more unreasonable. She started saying maybe I should move out. It was a nightmare. I just about quit sleeping altogether. Then I come home from work and Randi is almost hysterical, her very dearest friend Hailey Brent is dead, shot dead. I was like, Hailey who? But I could see it was a shock to her—hell, even to me. I mean,
murdered.
That just doesn’t happen to people we know. She wants to talk about it, she can’t stop talking about it—and then I begin to understand. Hailey thinks—thought—all men are pigs, that we exist to exploit women. It was Hailey’s idea that Randi should divorce me.

“Now, I love Randi more than any other woman in the world. She’s sweet, intelligent, hardworking, kind, and beautiful. I’m the luckiest man alive to have her for a wife. But she always thinks everyone else’s opinion is better than her own. Once I listened to her talk about Hailey, it occurred to me that this divorce business wasn’t entirely her own idea.

“So I stopped agreeing with her that I was a sexist pig. Stopped sympathizing with her. I reminded her that I worked very hard, lots of extra hours, and didn’t have time to do half the housework, too. I asked her if she wanted me to get an easier job, for less pay, so that I could do more housework. Maybe she could make up for the loss in pay by putting the money her aunt left her into our joint accounts.”

“Now, Walter, that wasn’t very nice,” said Betsy. But she kept her tone sympathetic.

“I know. And I didn’t really mean it; it was more like shock therapy. But it started her thinking, and in a week she agreed we needed couples counseling, and it took only three sessions of that to make her decide maybe she didn’t want a divorce after all.”

He sighed and took another drink of coffee. “When I found out Hailey Brent was to blame for our troubles, I hated her. I was glad she was dead. But you know something? Now, I think our marriage has come out of this stronger than before, so what the heck, maybe she did us a favor.”

“Only by getting murdered,” said Betsy.

“Well . . . yeah, I guess that’s so.”

“Did you murder her, Walter?”

“No! I told you, I didn’t know her. I barely knew she existed until after she was dead, and it was only then I found out she was the one trying to get Randi to leave me.”

But Walter’s alibi was that he was locked in a conference room at a far end of his company’s headquarters in downtown Minneapolis. A big
DO NOT DISTURB
sign was taped to the door, and he was not answering his phone. He was frantically redesigning three illustrations for an ad campaign.

“So you were blocked in, right? Couldn’t leave?”

“I wasn’t a prisoner; there weren’t guards at the door.” Walter wasn’t looking at her again.

“There was a back way out, wasn’t there?”

After a pause: “Yes. The corridor went both ways: One way led back to the offices; the other went to a stairwell to the street.”

“So you could have gone out for an hour or two without anyone being the wiser?”

“No! I couldn’t have done that and gotten the redesign done!”

“Did you get the redesign finished?”

“Yes. Barely, but yes. And it was good; they bought it. And that’s my alibi. I couldn’t possibly have left that room for any reason but to visit the men’s room and still got that project done on time.”

Betsy sighed. She had only Walter’s word for that.

“I assume Mike Malloy asked you if you own a gun,” she asked.

“Yes, he did. I don’t. I had a twenty-two rifle when I was twelve, did some tin can plinking with it, but I gave it to a cousin when I turned seventeen and haven’t even held a gun since then. I was never very good with one anyway. My eyes don’t work well together at a distance.”

“No military service?”

“No. Couldn’t’ve gone if I wanted to with my bad eye.”

Betsy thanked Walter for talking to her and let him go back to work. Then she wrote up some notes on their conversation. His alibi was shaky. And what about his claim not to know until after Hailey Brent’s death that she had been the source of his marital problems? That might be false. Didn’t Randi ever quote Hailey to him? Or wasn’t he listening?

On the other hand, he did come to her, and he didn’t seem evasive once he started talking.

Still, she couldn’t cross him off her meager list of suspects.