Blood Rubies (16 page)

I scanned their faces and saw trouble. Ana's eyes showed confusion and anxiety. Ray kept his eyes on Ana.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Ana leaned forward, her elbows resting on her thighs. “I spoke to the police chief. All of us did. We gave him every name we could think of, people who could have stolen the Fabergé egg snow globe since Christmas. We don't think the police will get anywhere, though. What is he going to do? Ask our neighbors if they stole it? They say no, then what? Once we have a solid lead to the buyer—a fence, I guess it's called—then the police can use our list to find evidence against a specific person, but until then…” She took in a breath and glanced at Ray. He nodded, encouraging her to continue. She looked at me. “Do you think Jason was involved? If so, that implicates Heather. I can't bear it. I just can't bear it.”

I'd had the same question in my mind when I'd asked Wes to investigate Jason's financial status. “I don't know. Do you have any sense of his finances? Was he doing as well as he implied?”

“I've wondered. What's that old saying? He who talks the most does the least.”

I turned to Ray. “What did you think of him?”

He looked momentarily flustered that I was consulting him. “You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

A slow smile crossed his face and reached his eyes. “I thought he was an empty bag of wind.”

I smiled. “And I bet you're a heck of a good judge of people.”

“I'm not invincible, that's for sure, but I've got some experience.”

“How many people work in your kitchen?”

“All told, with the part-timers, seasonal workers, and the extra hands we bring in for big catering jobs? Close to a hundred.”

“How many let you down?”

He grinned. “Not many.”

I smiled back. “I rest my case.”

He patted Ana's hand. “Even when an employee is difficult, like Maurice, I can't say he let me down. I knew what I was getting when I hired him.”

“Speaking of Maurice, how long has he been with you?”

“About six months. He came to us from a very high-profile position in Boston. He said he wanted a quieter environment, less stressful.” Ray shook his head. “Instead of his calming down, we got revved up.”

I looked at Ana. Her cheeks had sunk in a little. She didn't care about Maurice. “Is there any hope, Josie? Tell me the truth. Is there any chance the egg is still intact?”

“Honestly, I don't know. Certainly there's a chance.”

“If they've destroyed the egg for the jewels,” Ray asked, “how much would they get?”

“Oh, don't even suggest such a thing!” Ana said.

Ray slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to him. He kissed her forehead.

“We have to face facts,” he said.

I shrugged. “I don't know. Not off the top of my head. Less than if the egg remained intact.”

“But for less risk,” Ray said.

“Maybe, maybe not. The gems are unique.”

Ray gave Ana a final squeeze, then stood up. He extended a hand to help her, and she took it.

“When will you know something?” she asked.

“I don't know that, either. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. I'll call you as soon as I have news.”

Hank leaped to the ground as I stood up. He yawned and stretched his bottom half, then his top half. He looked at me and meowed, then jumped onto the love seat and sniffed around before curling into a tight little ball.

“I know you will,” Ana said as we headed down the stairs.

I waved good-bye at the front door and watched them walk across the parking lot hand in hand. From the questions Ray asked me, the answers he gave to the ones I asked him, the comments he made, and his overall calm and supportive presence, I could tell that he was a practical man, and confident. Watching him interact with Ana, I could see that he was also kind. Ana was in good hands.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ty left for North Conway the next morning, Friday, before I woke up. He was working on a new training exercise that involved tracking off-hour, unauthorized small plane landings at regional airports and private airfields. If everything went well, he would be home late Saturday.

I spoke to Wes that afternoon, and again on Saturday, and both times he told me he had no news. The police, he said, were playing it close to the vest. His own inquiries were leading nowhere. I was glad I had work to distract me.

Ty called around six Saturday evening, just as we were locking up after the tag sale.

“I've run into a snafu,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I said. I caught Gretchen's eye and mouthed “I'll be right back,” then walked outside so I could talk privately.

The sun was low on the horizon. It would be dark in an hour or so. Slivers of sunlight filtered through the trees and dimpled the pavement with faint yellow streaks. I leaned against my car.

“Yeah,” Ty said. “I've got to run one of the exercises again. Maybe more than once.”

“You sound tired.”

“You have no idea. I'm going to hit the hay early, as soon as I eat. Don't get jealous, by the way, at the thought of me eating in a fancy hotel. Dinner is a turkey sub from a local pizza joint.”

“Poor baby.”

“I miss you, Josie.”

“I miss you, too, Ty. I hope the exercise goes well and you're home before noon.”

“Me, too. I hate having to work on Sundays.”

We blew kisses through the airwaves, then said good-bye.

The next morning, while I waited for Ty, I used my home computer to research Fabergé eggs. The last time a Fabergé egg sold at auction was in 2007, when the Rothschild egg sold for $18.5 million. Eighteen years earlier, in 1989, Joan Kroc, heir to the McDonald's fortune, bought one, also at auction, for $3.1 million. Based on past sales alone, the previous appraisal of $4 million was on the mark. But previous sales is only one indicator of value, by no means the sole determinant. In addition to sales records, you also had to assess rarity, scarcity, authenticity, provenance, condition, popular trends, and association. Assuming the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe was authentic, some factors were evident, but others were not. Rarity, check. Scarcity, oh, yeah. Condition, unknown. Popular trends—the eggs' allure had only grown over time. Authenticity and provenance, not so much. Association, also uncertain. And of course, the underlying assumption of authenticity might be wrong.

I reached for my copy of the eighteen-year-old appraisal. The appraiser, Winston Mackley, who had worked for a company called Zinsser's Antiques in Chicago, had added a footnote disclaimer that read as if it had been written by a lawyer. I read it through twice slowly and concluded that he had attempted neither to authenticate the object nor to verify its provenance. The note explained that his valuation was based on the veracity of the owner's statements. In other words, he based his appraisal on undocumented facts, facts given to him by people with a vested interest in receiving a high appraisal. This approach was common and often unrevealed. At least Mackley included a footnote. I shook my head and wrinkled my nose. I found the practice, whether acknowledged or not, distasteful. It was not the way we did business at Prescott's.

I Googled Zinsser's, got the phone number, dialed, and promptly hit a temporary dead end. The business was closed on Sundays.

I gave up, reassuring myself that tomorrow was another day, and decided to cook, one of my favorite ways to relax. By the time Ty got home around two, I'd baked double fudge brownies, prepped mustard-thyme chicken, and put coated buffalo wings into the refrigerator to chill, the only way to set the spices.

*   *   *

On Monday morning, when I called Zinsser's again, the dead end became permanent. Winston Mackley had died eight years earlier. No one who worked there now had been there eighteen years before. There was no Zinsser, hadn't been for seventy-plus years. According to the CEO's assistant, a curt young woman named Lila, their pre-2003 documents weren't computerized.

“We keep them in a warehouse.”

“I'm hoping to get a look at Winston Mackley's notes from a 1997 appraisal. Is that possible?”

“I don't know.”

“How can I find out?”

“You'll need to send in a written request explaining what you need and why.”

“How long will it take, do you think?”

“Maybe a couple of weeks if we can find the documents. Not everything is labeled right.”

“It's police business.”

“We do our best,” she said, sounding half defensive and half indifferent.

I got her e-mail address, thanked her, and hung up. I typed up the request, stressing the urgency, reiterating that it was police business, and cc-ing Ellis.

“Do your job, Lila,” I said aloud and pressed
SEND.

*   *   *

Gretchen IM'd to alert me that Matthew had sent over his retouched scans.

Matthew's work was masterful. The Polaroids weren't changed, just enhanced. The dull yellow that had washed over everything was gone. The faded colors were brighter, the hues truer, the resolution crisper. The pink enamel I'd thought of as seashell was more opalescent, almost translucent. The gems were vivid: The red was closer to apple than cherry; the green was Kelly bold, not celery pale; the blue was more like cobalt than sky. Even the gold was truer to reality, appearing to be the darker, richer shade of 18 karat, not yellow, like cheap plate.

I uploaded the scans to our image-sharing site in case I needed them when I was away from my computer, sent the link to Fred and Nate and asked them to update our various call-for-sightings postings by replacing the photographs, and IM'd Gretchen to go ahead and pay Matthew's bill.

*   *   *

It occurred to me that I had been thinking only about the Fabergé egg, not the snow globe. Time for more research.

I searched for sales of rare snow globes and got twenty-six hits, none of which was relevant.
Now what?
I asked myself. I swiveled toward my window. I couldn't see the ocean past the birches and white pine and maples that ringed my property, but I knew it was there. Despite our being five miles inland, seagulls often circled overhead, and when the wind was strong and from the east, the air smelled as salty as if I were standing on the sand.
If I wanted to get money from a Fabergé egg encased in an antique snow dome, how would I do so?

I might use it as collateral for a loan—but only if I had an appraisal the bank would accept. Thinking that an appraiser who been fortunate enough to work on a Fabergé egg might be eager to parlay his experience into another commission, I posted a call for appraisers on our proprietary Web sites, asking anyone who'd appraised a Fabergé egg in the last six months to contact me, giving no reason for the request.

“Okay, then,” I said. “How else might I get money from the egg?”

We hadn't had any hits from Nate's jewelry postings, which, while a disappointment, wasn't a surprise. Less than reputable jewelers—the only ones that would buy rare jewels from a stranger for cash—probably didn't subscribe to pricey Web sites; even if they did, they wouldn't want to advertise they'd bought rare gems at a discount. No matter how good a story the seller told about falling on hard times and needing quick cash, any doofus would suspect that something was fishy. Receiving stolen goods was a serious crime.

My cell phone rang. I recognized the number. It was Shelley, my good buddy from my days at Frisco's in New York, before I got caught up in the price-fixing scandal, before I blew the whistle on my boss and lost my friends, my job, and life as I'd known it. Shelley was one of the few people from those dark lonely days who stayed in touch, who was still my friend.

“Shelley! You're calling because you've finally scheduled your New Hampshire visit.”

“You're such a card, Josie. No, I'm calling because you have a question about a Fabergé egg, asking for people who've appraised them recently. You know me—Ms. Curiosity. What's your interest?”

“Hi, Shelley, I'm fine. How are you?”

“Cute, Josie. Deflecting a question. Very cute.”

“I'm not deflecting anything. I'm awed. I posted that inquiry about five minutes ago.”

“And a notice about a missing egg yesterday. What gives, my friend? Do you have it back already? Are you selling it?”

“I swear I can't believe you're calling me so fast. I exaggerated before. I posted the notice four minutes ago.”

“And in that time, three people have run in here wanting to know if I've called you yet. If you're getting ready to sell a Fabergé egg, you need us, Josie. Prescott's is a wonderful house, but we can help maximize value.”

“You can tell your coworkers that if Prescott's is going to auction off a Fabergé egg, I'll make certain they get invitations.”

“One of those three people works in the Russian artifacts division. He has a client, a Russian oil mogul, on the line now—on an open line. I could hear the client begging for the opportunity to bid. I'm not joking, Josie. I know it's only been four minutes, but the hordes have crossed the moat and are pounding at the door. Talk to me.”

A haunting memory of the bleak isolation I'd endured during those seemingly endless days a decade ago washed over me. Unquestionably, I'd been on the right side of the law and morality, yet I'd found myself battling for my job and my reputation. I'd spent hours locked in cheerless rooms while my boss's lawyers challenged my memory, my motivation, and my integrity. Shelley often surprised me by showing up outside the lawyer's midtown office during my lunch break, serving up pretzels or hot dogs fresh from a cart. We'd sit on the cold green slat-back chairs that fill the walkways in Bryant Park chatting about country music and line dancing and whether hem lengths would stay long and whether Pierre, her favorite masseuse at her favorite spa, was single. She'd helped make the nightmare bearable.