Blood Rubies (18 page)

“Murder!” He sat forward. “Who was killed?”

“A Boston-based financial expert.” I explained the situation, then added, “Now you see why I've been pushing.”

“Of course. It's a terrible situation. And confusing. I'm empathetic, Ms. Prescott, I really am, and I'd like to cooperate, but the only way I'll talk is if I'm presented with a document signed by a judge.”

“So you can tell your client you had no choice.”

“Do you blame me?”

I shook my head. “No. In your position, I'd be tempted to do the same.” I lowered my eyes to his desk, needing a moment to think. When I raised them again, his eyes met mine unwaveringly. I knew when I'd lost an argument. “Can you tell me how much you appraised it for?”

“Yes—I can talk about that. Five to eight million at auction.”

“Why so low?”

“You're thinking of the Rothschild egg. I discounted from full value, which I assume would be somewhere in the twenty-one- to twenty-two-million-dollar range for two reasons—the Rothschild egg was a gift from the imperial family, adding value through association, and this egg, the one I appraised, did not have an undisputed provenance.”

“Disputed or simply not provable?”

“There's no documentation of the egg itself, period. Not in the Fabergé archives or in any historical or scholarly records that I could find—and I'm confident that if any existed, I would have found them. Neither is there any record regarding the sale of the egg to its current owner. The owner had a credible explanation, but I couldn't verify it. The shop where it was purchased has been closed for nearly seventy years, and its records are long gone.” He paused for a moment, perhaps considering whether he felt comfortable revealing additional details, then continued. “I concluded that it was an actual Fabergé egg based on my physical examination. All wreaths are hand-chased, for instance, not punched from a mold. All diamonds are rose-cut, not single-cut. The enamel colors are vibrant and consistent throughout, including on the inside, not speckled or spotty.” He shrugged and flipped open his hands. “But without clear provenance … I would be leery of recommending its purchase to all but my most passionate clients, and even to them, I'd issue a serious warning.”

“I bet the owner wasn't pleased with your assessment.”

“My job is telling my client the truth.”

“Always,” I said. I needed to know if the egg he was referring to was the Spring Egg, and if so, I needed to know who his client was. I had one arrow left in my quiver, but given his deft deflections, I wasn't optimistic. I leaned back, relaxed, signaling that I was no threat, and smiled a little. “All things considered, you've been very helpful. One thing—was the egg you appraised encased in a snow dome?”

He smiled, a small one. “Are you trying to trick me into revealing more than I'm comfortable with?”

I opened my eyes wide. “Me? Never.”

“I've been in the business a long time, Ms. Prescott.”

“All right. I confess. Mr. Milner, please know that I truly understand and identify with your position. I wish I could let it go, but I can't. I'm an emissary for the police. If you won't tell me, I think they'll try to compel you to tell them.”

“You mean ask a judge for a court order? If they do, I'll fight it.”

“And you'd lose. Can't we just skip it?”

He pushed his lips out, thinking. “If you'll step out into the other room, I'll call my client. If I'm given permission to tell you, fine. If not, not.”

My heart skipped three beats. “God, no! Don't do that. We can't risk revealing we're closing in.”

“Then I'm stymied.”

I stood up. “I suspect you'll be hearing from Police Chief Hunter soon.”

Milner grasped the edge of his desk and rolled back. He stood up.

“He'll do what he needs to do, as will I.”

He held the door for me, allowing me to go first.

As we approached the front of the shop, I heard Julie speaking to someone I couldn't see.

“Notice the uneven nail heads,” she said.

I spotted her squatting next to a middle-aged woman in jeans and a flannel shirt, pointing to something on the underside of a cherrywood side table.

“That indicates they were hand-forged.”

“Thank you,” I said extending my hand to Milner. “I'm glad to have met you.”

“Me, too.” He shook, a good one, just firm enough, and not too long.

As I walked toward the garage under Boston Common where I'd left my car, I went over everything I'd said to see if there was anything I could have done differently to have inspired Milner to confide in me, and concluded no.

“Darn!” I said. “Double darn.”

*   *   *

“I'm sorry, Ellis,” I said after I recounted my conversation with Drake Milner.

“It sounds like I'm going to need a warrant.”

“I think so.”

“I may need your testimony. I'll keep you posted.”

“Should we ask for public sightings? I mean, the thief doesn't know we got to Milner, and we don't have to reveal that. We can make it a broad request—has anyone seen this object, period. Not just to antiques experts. To everyone.”

He paused for several seconds before replying. “It might even help, implying that we have no leads. Do you have an approach in mind?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

*   *   *

As soon as Ellis and I had finished our conversation, I called Wes. He didn't answer, and I left a message. “Want to meet at the Portsmouth Diner at two thirty?”

I sat on a park bench in Boston Common near the entry to the parking lot to think. The sun was warm, and the air smelled clean. I watched a tall, too-thin man about thirty play Frisbee with his black lab. The dog wore a red bandanna. The man whip-spun the Frisbee, and the dog chased after it, spinning and leaping and catching it in his mouth. He ran back to the man and dropped it at his feet, then pranced backward, his tongue lolling, his tail wagging, eager for another go. It reminded me of the man throwing sticks on the beach for the little mutt. Men and their dogs—some things don't change. Once you know how people are likely to act, you have a good chance of predicting the future.

Milner's client selected him after researching and assessing Russian-antiques appraiser options, choosing him based on predetermined attributes he or she had identified as required for the job. The client would have sought out an appraiser known for the quality of his work, the integrity with which he conducted his business, and geographic proximity. The client also would have had to have the money to pay the invoice, which, I knew, would have been in the low four figures. The person we were looking for was methodical, educated, astute, and, seemingly at least, affluent.

Who among the suspects fit that bill? Heather and Ana for sure. Both women were smart and organized, and they earned enough to have discretionary funds—or enough credit to cover a four-figure expense. Ditto Heather's mom, not that she was a suspect. Stefan and Peter fit the profile, too. So did everyone even remotely connected to the situation, including Ray and Maurice. I might be gaining understanding about a thief, but I wasn't narrowing in on a killer. I sighed and was about to get up when my phone rang. It was Ana.

“I know these things take time,” she said, “but I thought I'd call, just in case you have news.”

“I don't. I thought I might, but I don't yet. I just met with a man I think might have appraised your egg, but he wouldn't confirm it.”

“Oh, Josie!” she exclaimed, soaring into optimism. “That sounds like a real break. Why won't he help us? Is he afraid of being accused of being involved somehow in a crime?”

“No, not at all. He's being appropriately discreet. I just wish he weren't.”

“What now?” she asked, her excitement dissipating.

“The police take it from here. If they can compel him to talk, they will.”

“You mean they'll get a court order.”

“Yes.”

“I know you're doing everything you can.”

“Thank you, Ana. It's true—I am. How's Heather?”

“About the same. Blue.”

“Sounds like we're all doing the best we can.”

“Yes.” Ana sighed heavily. “I guess that's all we can do.”

“I was glad to spend a little time with Ray. You and he seem great together.”

“Can you see my smile?” she asked, with a small laugh. “It happens whenever I think of him.”

I grinned. “Yes, I can—it's a big one. Can you see mine in response to yours?”

“Yes, indeed. Thanks, Josie.”

I hung up, thinking as I walked slowly to the parking garage that funding her new life—an oceanfront cottage in Rocky Point, a commercial kitchen conversion in her garage, and a wardrobe fit for a television star—couldn't have come cheap, and it all happened in the last few months. I'd been assuming that everyone was affluent because that's the image they conveyed. Images, I knew, could be faked, and often were.

Not for the first time, I wondered where Ana got the money.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Wes called back as I was crossing the New Hampshire border.

“You bet I want to meet. Whatcha got?”

“News. You're going to be a happy man.”

“Tell me now.”

I laughed. Wes, too, was predictable. “I'll see you soon, Wes,” I said, and hung up.

*   *   *

Wes was on the phone when I arrived at the diner, a glass of pink fizzy something in front of him. He ended his call with a brusque “Catch ya later,” and sat back, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Why are you looking like that?” I asked as I slid into the banquette across from him.

“'Cause when I tell you I have rocket news, I'm not just whistling ‘Dixie.' This ammo is gonna blow the top off the investigation. Whammo! I just got confirmation that all is not as it seems in moneyland.”

“I'm all ears,” I said.

The waitress breezed over. I ordered hot tea and a club sandwich. I waited for Wes to order bacon. He always ordered bacon; sometimes he placed a double order.

“Nothing else for me,” Wes said.

“Don't you want bacon?” I asked.

“No.” The waitress took the menus and left. “I'm cleaning up my act for real, Josie.”

“Maggie must be happy to see her influence at work.”

“I guess. But it's not just for Maggie. It's time I grew up.”

“Then I'm impressed.”

Wes sipped some of the pink liquid through a straw that bent at the top.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing at the glass.

“Sparkling water. Maggie said I should cut back on Coke.”

“Why is it pink?”

“Maraschino cherries. Maggie said I could put fruit in it and it would still be healthy. I tried it with lime, but I like Maraschino cherries better.”

I toyed with the idea of telling him that Maraschino cherries weren't what Maggie had in mind, healthwise, but decided against it. Let Maggie be the heavy, not me.

“So what's your rocket news?” I asked.

“Ana's broke. Busted flat. She's wiped out all her savings and maxed out all her credit cards.”

“What?” I exclaimed, shocked. “That doesn't make any sense.”

“Ana bought her house using money she got from her divorce settlement and by cashing in some stock options she'd received as part of a compensation package at an old job. She used a bonus she got at that job, plus the advance she got for the book, to renovate the garage and has been living on hope and mirrors for a couple of months. With the TV pilot on hold … well, bad news just got worse.”

“I had no idea.”

“Way more people are good liars than you expect, huh?”

“I met someone who appraised what I'm pretty sure is her Fabergé egg snow globe last week.”

Wes's eyes fired up. “Do you think she sold it to raise money? And had the replica made to fool everyone? Like maybe she was embarrassed and didn't want her dad and brother to know.” He leaned forward. “Jason found out and confronted her.”

I met Wes's eyes. “She would have had to travel to Detroit to get it.”

“Which means she would have left a trail. I can find out if she flew by commercial air during the last month.”

“Maybe you can find out if she wasn't around here for a couple of days.” I shook my head. “I can't believe it, Wes.”

“Money, honey. It's the root of all evil.”

“It's the
love
of money that's the root of all evil, not money per se.”

“Personally, I think it's the lack of money that's the root of all evil.”

“You and Mark Twain.”

“Really?” Wes said, grinning. He sat up straighter and puffed out his chest a little. “I'm thinking like Mark Twain. You gotta admit … that's pretty cool.” He sipped his drink, finishing it. “So whatcha got for me?”

I grinned. “Get your smile ready.” I filled him in about the retouched photos and the eighteen-year-old appraisal and invited him to issue a call for sightings. “An exclusive—and you can quote me.”

“Hot banana, Josie!”

I e-mailed him the link to the image-sharing site where he could retrieve the photographs. He opened it and downloaded one of the pictures.

“Will you read my copy for accuracy?”

“I'll be glad to.”

“Thanks,” he said, flashing a grin, a big one.

The waitress slid my sandwich and a bottle of mustard onto the table. “Here you go, hon.”

“Thanks.”

Wes extracted his notebook and wrote a few lines, then looked out the window. I followed his gaze. The parking lot was about a third full, with cars scattered here and there. I glanced at him. He wasn't looking at the cars. He was looking past them, past the service road that led to I-95, into the forest. I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain as he assessed and evaluated and prioritized. He jotted another note. I finished one of the triangular quarters of sandwich and was almost done with a second one before he was ready.