Blood Rubies (27 page)

“I'm sorry you had to wait,” I said to Mel Smith.

“No prob. You called about the boar's head cup?”

The caller was a young woman. Mel must be short for Melanie. I gave her my opening remarks, then asked, “Did you have it appraised?”

“Yeah, and it's worth biggo buckos. I inherited it from my grandfather and wanted to know what I had. Now I have an extra bill—insurance.”

I laughed. “You're smart to get it insured. What did Mr. Milner say about it?”

“It's an Imperial Russian decorative object, probably only used in ceremonies. It's made of enameled silver and agate with cabochon rubies for the eyes—isn't that weird? Red eyes. Ick. It's by Fabergé. There's a double-headed eagle mark. More creepiness.”

“It sounds like you don't like it much.”

“I don't. But it's worth about seventy thousand dollars, so I'm learning to love it.”

“Would you consider selling it?”

“I'd love to, but my mother would kill me.”

“Did Mr. Milner appraise anything else for you?”

“No.”

Neither did Marlborough's. I was learning that Drake Milner was a competent appraiser, respected by his clients, but not much else. I thanked her and ended the call. The next two callers were also pleased to tell me about their antiques and Milner's appraisals. Neither had an issue with my recording the calls. Both reported that Drake Milner was conscientious and personable. I found myself doubting my theory that Milner was somehow involved in replicating the egg. Yet a niggling feeling stayed with me that all was not as it appeared.

Some antiques appraisers found it hard working with spectacularly beautiful objects they adored and appreciated but couldn't afford. Especially when their clients were interested only in value, ignoring or disdaining an object's history, sentiment, and beauty. Year after year, looking at supremely magnificent objects, touching them, researching them, caring for them, while interacting with bored, avaricious, or mean-spirited clients, could eat away at a soul like acid. Doing the wrong thing was easy, and the chances of getting caught were slim. Jewelers could easily replace real stones with paste, and it might be years before a trusting client discovered the switch. Some art appraisers had ongoing relationships with talented artists who could reproduce masters' works so cleverly that only another expert would be able to uncover the fraud. Jealousy and envy combined with the prospect of easy money could wear a person down.

I picked up the sheet listing the names and dialed the next number. George McArthur, from Birmingham, New York, answered on the second ring. I rattled off my spiel.

“A recorded line,” he said, his tone not quite making it a question.

“Yes.”

“Drake Milner.”

I waited for him to say something more, but he didn't. I counted to three, then asked, “Did you have an antique appraised by him?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“My business affairs are, as I'm certain you understand, Ms. Prescott, private.”

I glanced at Detective Brownley. She sat forward, her eyes on my face. I could feel the increase in tension in the room. She nodded encouragingly.

“I'm not a police officer, Mr. McArthur, but I am helping the police.”

“In what capacity?”

“A valuable antique has gone missing. We think Mr. Milner appraised it. Sadly, he has since died, so we can't ask him about it. Instead, we're asking people he listed in his diary.”

“He died because of the antique?”

“I have no reason to think so.”

“How did he die?”

“The ME hasn't finished her examination yet, but I think he drowned. In a car accident.” I glanced at the detective again, and again she nodded at me.

“What's the antique?” he asked.

“A Fabergé egg encased in a snow globe.”

“Sounds valuable.”

“It is. Do you know anything about it?”

Detective Brownley's attention was unwavering—she was staring at me as if she could see through me.

“Yes,” he said. “I spoke to Milner about a Fabergé egg he'd appraised. Someone approached me for a million-dollar loan using it as collateral. Before I accepted his appraisal as the basis of the loan, I wanted to speak to him, to confirm that everything was on the up-and-up. He assured me it was.”

“You have the egg.”

“Yes.”

“It's intact. It's safe.” I leaned back, as relieved as if I'd been the owner.

“Ms. Prescott, would you please tell me what's going on?”

“Who did you give the loan to?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“I signed a confidentiality agreement.”

Detective Brownley waved at me to get my attention. When she had it, she raised her index finger and thumb to her ear, miming talking on a phone, then pointed to her chest.

“Detective Brownley from the Rocky Point police would like to talk to you,” I said. “I'm going to hand her the phone.”

“That's fine, but I can't tell her anything I haven't already told you. I take nondisclosure commitments very seriously.”

“I understand. Here's Detective Brownley.”

She removed her headphones and laid them on the desk. I handed her the receiver and put the headphones on. I didn't want to miss a word.

She introduced herself, then said, “The medical examiner is investigating whether Drake Milner died accidentally or whether he was murdered. We're trying to piece together Mr. Milner's last days. I respect confidentiality agreements, too, but there are times exceptions must be made. This is one of those times.”

“I'm sorry, Detective. You'll need to compel my testimony. I have nothing to add.”

“We can get that court order. Let's just save time.”

“I don't mean to be rude, but I'm ending this call now.”

He hung up.

Detective Brownley passed the phone to me, and I placed it in its cradle.

I handed the headphones back to her. “The last time someone said he wouldn't talk without a court order, he died.”

Her already obdurate expression grew more severe. “I'm going to call Chief Hunter. Then let's make the last calls.”

“They're not going to be relevant.”

“I know. But we need to make them anyway.”

She was on the line with Ellis for less than two minutes. I would be willing to bet that by the time I dialed the seventh name on the list, Ellis would already have ADA Shirley Donovan working on the court order.

“Chief Hunter said to tell you we need to keep this development confidential,” she said, “until we know what's what. Okay?”

“Sure,” I said, understanding.

The next call was similar to the first ones; Frank Quinn had asked Milner to appraise a Russian painting, an Orthodox saint painted in oil on wood. Mr. Quinn was pleased with Milner's work but disappointed with the outcome—his painting was a modern repro, worth about five dollars. The last call, however, was different from all the rest.

Leigh Marlow's area code was 617, Boston. The letter following her name was
B,
another kovsh bowl, I assumed.

Before I finished my opening, Ms. Marlow started laughing.

“Boy, do you have it wrong! I wouldn't know a Russian antique from bok choy. Mr. Milner is a client of mine. I'm a travel agent.”

Croatia,
I thought. I was right all along. “A travel agent! I see. Was he planning a trip?”

“All booked and paid for. Bali. For two glorious weeks. How lucky is he?”

“When was he scheduled to leave?”

“May ninth. Returning the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. He was smart, giving himself an extra day or two to get back in the swing of things.” She laughed. “You gotta do laundry, right?”

“That's so true. It's how you know your vacation is over. Thanks, Ms. Marlow. You've been very helpful.”

“I have? I don't see how—but thanks! And call me Leigh.”

Leigh's peppy style drew a smile from me. I thanked her again and got off the phone.

“He made two replicas—one for his client and one for McArthur.”

“Maybe,” the detective said.

“I bet his return ticket was a sham, a ruse to avoid the red flags raised with Homeland Security when you buy a one-way ticket. If Milner sold the Fabergé egg, he could afford the round-trip fare even though he had no intention of using the return portion. Bali—you know that's in Indonesia, right?—has some of the world's best beaches and friendliest people. It's gorgeous—and Indonesia has no extradition treaty with the U.S.” I smiled at Detective Brownley's surprised expression. “It's amazing the information you pick up in the antiques business.”

“From what little I've seen, that's an understatement.” She handed the headphones to Barry, who was busily disassembling the recording setup, and fluffed her hair. “Surely either the client or McArthur would have noticed that the egg was a phony.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “McArthur wouldn't know what the original looked like. He accepted Milner's word. The client … that's a different can of worms.” I paused, thinking. “Unless the client was in on it.”

Officer Brownley cocked her head, considering my idea.

“Call the client X,” I said. “X made a deal with Milner to pull off a double switch. X gets the original from the Yartsin house in Detroit. Milner has two replicas created, then sells the original, giving some or most of the proceeds to X. X then delivers a fake to McArthur and gets the loan. X sneaks the second fake back into the Yartsin house.”

“Why would X need to get the loan if Milner shared the booty?”

“To account for the influx of cash. A way of laundering money.”

The detective nodded slowly. “That's certainly possible. How can we prove it?”

“Find out who X is, and ask him—or her.” I smiled. “Which isn't a new idea, I know. As a start, get McArthur to talk.”

Detective Brownley smiled, a tight, businesslike smile. “Well, then, let's hope ADA Donovan can convince a judge to grant that court order.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I was sitting in Ellis's office at the police station waiting to answer his questions about approaching McArthur once the court order was granted.

“I'll be right back,” Ellis said as he hung up the phone. “I need to sit in on an interview. I shouldn't be more than five minutes or so. Are you all right to wait?”

“Sure,” I said, thinking of the tag sale running full steam without me.

He used his foot to wedge a rubber doorstop under his office door, then left, heading down the corridor that led to Interrogation Rooms Three and Four.

I walked to the window. The tall grasses that lined the dunes shimmied in the light breeze.

“Where is he?” Peter asked, making his inquiry a demand, not idle curiosity.

I spun toward the open door in time to see Peter stomp to the front counter.

“Sir,” Cathy said, “I need to ask you to lower your voice.”

“Don't tell me what to do. Don't go there, lady. Just don't go there. Where's my father?”

Ana came running up to him and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “Stop it, Peter. This won't help.”

He shook her off like a flea, keeping his eyes on Cathy. “Now.”

“Mr. Yartsin,” Ellis said, coming into view. “Your father has been helping us out. He's just finishing up and should be coming out shortly.” Ellis stepped into his office long enough to kick the doorstop aside. The door eased shut, moving slowly, guided by a hydraulic door closer. “If you'll just have a seat, I'll let him know—” The door closed, shutting off all sounds.

I waited a few seconds, then opened the door a crack, slipping a pencil between the door and the jamb about two inches above the ground. I tilted my head so I could see out. Ellis was nowhere in sight. Ana was standing in the middle of the lobby, her shoulders hunched. Peter stood close to the counter, his hands on his hips, ready for a fight. Officer Meade led Stefan out from the corridor.

“Thank you again, sir,” she said.

“Ana,” Stefan said. “Peter. What are you doing here?”

Peter took a step toward him. “That damn reporter said the police brought you in because they broke your alibi.”

“He didn't say that, exactly,” Ana corrected. “Wes said the police found inconsistencies in the timeline that might impact your alibi. We got worried, so we decided to come down here.”

Stefan sat down on the hard wooden bench. He pressed his head against the backrest and closed his eyes for a moment. “Keeping secrets. Never a smart idea.”

Ana sat beside him and took his hand. “What secret, Dad?”

“What are you talking about?” Peter asked. “They had no right to drag you down here.”

“They didn't drag me. I came voluntarily.” He sat forward and looked at Ana, sitting patiently, her eyes worried, her bearing stiff, then turned to Peter, looming over him. “Sit down, Peter. I'll tell you what's going on.”

Peter sat on his other side and half-turned so he could face him full on.

“I've been seeing a woman, a lovely woman, for several months now. That's where I was the second night. She has a cottage in the Berkshires.”

Ana blinked several times, then frowned. “Why would you keep it a secret?”

“I didn't want you to think I was disrespecting your mother.”

“Oh, Dad, no! How could you think so after all these years?”

He glanced at Peter. “We Yartsin men are known for our fidelity. Even when there's no need. Even when the time for loyalty has long since passed.” Peter lowered his gaze to his feet. “Your mother was an angel. No woman could ever replace her.”

“Of course not,” Ana said, rubbing the top of his hand with her thumb, small strokes, back and forth, back and forth. “I'm happy for you—I have no hesitation in saying that.”