Blood Rubies (11 page)

“Hopefully she'll agree to stay for a while, to rest and talk some more.”

“She told me she was concerned about her mom, that she left the hotel without telling her she was going. And some friends. Jason's best friend and his wife. She said she blew off lunch with them.”

“I'll ask if she'd like us to call them.”

“When she's ready to go, I'll be glad to drive her.”

“Thank you, Josie. We can see she gets back safely.”

“You're a wonderful man, Ted.”

His cheeks reddened at the compliment, and his eyes brightened. “I don't know about that. I just empathize. Losing someone you love suddenly—I think it's among the hardest things we have to endure.”

Memories of loss pricked my heart.
Oh, Dad.

“She'll be fine,” Ted continued, and from his expression, I could tell he was trying to reassure me. “We all learn to cope. We all have a far greater capacity to cope than we realize.”

“Coping takes such energy,” I said.

Ted patted my arm. “It does, doesn't it? Have you ever noticed, though, how you cope and cope and cope, and then one day, you realize you're not coping anymore? You've pushed through the grief or whatever and you're on the other side, back in the land of the living.”

“The land of the living—to be awake, to be aware, to care once again.”

“To be with God. Psalm 27. If you'll wait just a moment, let me ask Heather if she'd prefer that you call her mother, not us. She might want her presence here to remain private. You can honestly say that she decided to spend a little time chatting with you.”

“Of course.” I smiled, amused at his earnest effort to stick to the truth. “And what will I say when her mom asks to speak to her?”

He smiled back. “That she asked you to call since she doesn't feel like explaining anything just yet.”

“And her mom will be in the next cab across town.”

“Where you can greet her with the news that Heather decided to go for a walk.”

“You're a smooth talker for a preacher-man.”

“Thanks,” Ted said, smiling, pleased. “I'll leave you here while I check with her.”

He went upstairs, and I sat at the table to wait, idly stroking the satiny, well-rubbed wood. The old-style white tiles that ran from the floor to the ceiling gleamed. The oak floor was covered here and there with cheerful multicolored rag rugs. The stainless steel tables and appliances—the only upgrades in the place—glistened.

Pam came in, smiling. “Heather's calmer now. She asked Ted to call her mom. Before you go, would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks. I need to get back.” I stood up. “How is she, really?”

“Jason's death hit her hard. She seems to think she should be able to carry on as usual with no break in her routine.” Pam shook her head and sighed. “She just keeps saying she's sorry.”

“She's lucky to be here with you and Ted.”

We shook hands, and I made my way to the pathway, glad to have a little time to think, glad to smell the fresh new leaves and budding bushes, the scent of hope. As I walked, I wondered what exactly Heather was sorry about—her emotional meltdown, her unbridled anger, or something else.

 

CHAPTER NINE

I was still at the church when Ellis stopped by my office, and he didn't leave anything except a message—call him ASAP.

“I'm sorry I missed you,” I told him and thought of Heather. Her apologies stood out because she repeated the words over and over again and because no one knew what she was referring to, but lots of people, especially women, use those words as filler, as accommodation. “Something came up. I'm here now.”

“Great. I'm on my way.”

Ten minutes later, Ellis delivered the shattered remains of what I feared was the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe. He'd placed five one-gallon clear plastic evidence bags in a cardboard box large enough for boots, which he lowered onto the guest table in the front office. He held up one of the bags and read the label.

“Enamel.”

He returned the bag to the box and picked up another.

“Metal.”

He repeated the process with the other three bags: “Wood,” followed by “Gems,” ending with “Glass.”

He slid the box toward me. “The techs asked me to tell you that while they tried to segregate the pieces by material, they're certain there are crossovers.”

“Understood.” I eyed the bags. “This is even worse than I expected.”

“All you can do is the best you can do.”

“So true. Any news about Ana's house key? Or the soil?”

“The technicians tell me they're working as quickly as they can.”

“Any progress with the interviews?”

“Everyone is being cooperative.”

Ellis had a gift for nonanswers.

“Even Peter?” I asked, smiling, teasing him.

He smiled back. “People get emotional. We understand that.”

I couldn't think of a way to phrase a question so he'd answer it. Instead, I took photos of the bags and printed out a receipt.

Ellis sat to read it. He signed it and handed it over. “Are you going to be able to tell anything from this junk?”

I smiled, a cocky one this time. “Oh, yeah.”

*   *   *

I started with the enamel. Wearing plastic gloves and using tweezers, I extracted the largest piece, about the size of my thumbnail. The topside was pink, and the reverse side was shiny gold. Using the faded photographs attached to the previous appraisal as a reference, I compared the color. It was impossible to tell if they matched. The enamel I was holding was a delicate seashell pink. The one in the photos had yellowed, as expected from eighteen-year-old Polaroids.

“What do you say, Hank?” I asked. “Shall I get right to the acid test?”

He'd flopped over in his basket and was lying on his back, with his four paws sticking up in the air. He was solidly asleep. I had to resist an impulse to give him a tummy rub.

I applied a drop of nitric acid to the gold back and watched it turn milky.

I gawked. “What?”

I tweezed out a second piece, this one the size of my pinky nail, and applied the nitric acid. It, too, turned an opaque cloudy white.

I leaned back in my chair, my mouth hanging open, stunned. The metal wasn't gold.

I opened the bag labeled
WOOD.
The cracked and split pieces were mostly the size of large splinters. Holding one sideways to view a cross-section, it was evident I wasn't looking at solid wood. A thin veneer of what appeared to be mahogany covered what I was certain was medium-density fiberboard.

“MDF?” I said aloud. “How can that be?”

It was possible that Fabergé used a base made of cheap wood to support the illusion that his egg was an inexpensive novelty, but there was no way he could have used a product that wasn't invented until the 1960s, more than forty years after his death.

I turned the splinter over, staring at it. It was possible that the base had been replaced. Why? Had someone broken it at some point over the years? I consulted the past appraisal. The base was listed as solid mahogany. How could the base have broken without damaging the glass dome and the egg? I shook my head. It didn't make any sense. I looked back at the enamel pieces. It seemed that the entire thing was a fake.
But why?
I shook my head. I didn't know enough to begin figuring out the why of the situation; what I needed to do was finish analyzing what I had in front of me. I needed information, not conjectures.

I picked up the phone and dialed Nate Blackmore, our first call for jewelry appraisals. He was in and could see me right away.

*   *   *

Blackmore's Jewelers, the finest jewelry store on the seacoast, bar none, had been in its current location, across from the village green, for ninety-four years. It was still owned and operated by the Blackmore family. Although they'd brought it up to date with recessed lighting and new, thick carpet, not much else had changed, not the cherrywood paneling, the comfortable plush seating, or the Bach sonatas playing softly in the background. Nate, the current owner's grandson, was about thirty. He looked older because of his professional grace and polished manners.

“Can we go in the back?” I asked, after exchanging greetings.

He pretended my request was routine. “Sure.”

The back office at Blackmore's was a large room designed for work, not show. Tall file cabinets lined one wall; two computer stations ranged along another. Four blue upholstered chairs and a small round table were positioned off to the side, and an oversized cherry desk was littered with papers, folders, and sample books.

Once we were settled on guest chairs, I extracted the plastic bag labeled
GEMS
and placed it on the table between us. Shards of bloodred, iridescent pink, creamy white, and pale green stones jostled one another in the bag.

“Are any of these real?” I asked.

He lifted the bag and stared at the colorful, broken pieces, twirling the bag this way, then that way. The stones glimmered as they caught the light.

“I'll need some time. Not too long. I'll call you this afternoon.”

I thanked him, accepted his receipt, and returned to work, eager to continue my examination, to see if I could figure out what I had. I was pretty sure I knew what I didn't have—a genuine Fabergé egg.

*   *   *

By the time Nate called around four to report that all of the gemstones were, in fact, colored glass, cheap crystals, and painted rocks, I'd found additional anomalies. Comparing the materials in my possession with those listed on the previous appraisal, I was able to confirm that the object I was assessing was different in every way, from the MDF and veneer used on the base to the glycerin inside the dome to the Harber clasp attached to the egg. I called Ellis and told him what I'd discovered.

“The oily substance found at the crime scene was glycerin, so now we know where it came from,” he said. “Is there any way you can date the replica in your possession, assuming that's what you have?”

“Not any closer than post-2005, which was when the Harber Fastener Company opened its doors. The screws are modern, but impossible to date exactly. They adhere to the Unified Thread Standard, which came into play in the late 1940s, but obviously, that doesn't help us. The other materials are also modern, but even using the most scientifically advanced chemical dating technology, it's unlikely we can narrow it down further than 2005.”

“So all we know is that we've dealing with a phony.”

“Right, or rather, all we know is that I'm not looking at a Fabergé egg or a snow dome fabricated by Fabergé. It might be a replica of the Spring Egg snow globe—as you say, a phony—or it might be some other object. There's no way to know. I tried piecing together the dome and the egg, but I can't. Too many of the pieces are too small.”

“How is this related to Jason's murder?”

“I don't know … but…” I paused, thinking how to express my hesitation. “Coincidences are funny things. I mean, I know they happen, but…”

“Yeah … ‘but' is the right word. Obviously, I need to tell Ana about this, to get her take on it, to see if she has an explanation. I'm certain she'll have questions I can't answer. Stefan, too. Technical questions about how you verified the egg and snow globe weren't real, what the materials actually are, and so on. I'd prefer to interview them in a neutral environment, not the police station. I'm thinking the hotel might be a good choice. They've checked into the same hotel where the bridal party and most of the wedding guests are staying, the Pelican. If I set something up, will you join me there?”

“Of course.”

He paused. “What do you think is going on?”

“I think someone created a replica of the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe during the last nine years so they could sell the real egg or the jewels without anyone catching on. We should publicize the theft. This is major.”

“How much are we talking?”

“A known Fabergé egg, and by known, I mean authenticated and with clear title, would sell for around twenty million dollars, maybe more.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty million?”

“Or more.”

“I'll call the FBI giving you as a contact for further information about the object. Will you notify the appropriate antiques sites?”

“Yes. Listing you as the contact for details about the theft. I'll ask Nate Blackmore to post a listing of the jewels, too, on sites he knows about. They're unique.”

“In case someone destroyed the egg to get to the jewels.”

“Exactly.”

“Twenty million?” he asked.

“Hard to imagine, isn't it?”

“Impossible, actually. You used the word ‘known' before. Is Ana's egg known?”

“No. It comes with a great narrative, but there's no evidence it's true.”

“What would someone be able to sell it for?”

“A few hundred thousand, maybe as much as a million.”

“Who'd buy it?”

“Megarich people without ethics. Drug lords. Gangsters. Modern-era robber barons.” I shrugged. “There are a lot of Russian megamillionaires who might be interested in repatriating it on the QT.”

Ellis didn't speak for several seconds. “This is a mess.” I could hear him breathing. “Shouldn't Stefan have noticed that it's a fake when he packed it up?”

“Only if he actually looked at it. You know what I mean, right? You see something every day for enough years, you simply don't notice it anymore. In a rush of packing, I can see how he might have placed a sheet of bubble wrap on top of it, taping it as he rolled it up, which means he might well have never actually looked at it.”

“What a situation.” Another pause. “It was on display in the family home … is that right?”