Blood Rubies (29 page)

“Whadja think?” a man asked. His accent was solidly Downeast, filled with the twang of upstate Maine.

“Who knows?” a woman said. “Just bag it.” She sounded young.

“One more sector,” the man said. “I'll go left.”

A twig scraped my cheek about two inches below my right eye. I stopped and pressed my fingers against it, whispering, “Ouch.” My fingers came away bloody. I wished I had a tissue, but I'd locked my tote bag in my car. All I was carrying was my key ring. I used a Boston fern frond to wipe my fingers and another as a makeshift gauze pad, and continued walking.

A minute later I had a view of the divers' launching vehicle, a kind of floating raft attached by long braces to a Jeep that had backed down the steep incline to the water's edge. Two pieces of what looked like nylon filament were attached to a four-foot-high stake someone had driven into the ground about five feet to the left of the Jeep. Each length of filament stretched out into the pond, one angling left, the other right, defining the search area, a pie shaped wedge, just like Griff described, a hundred feet across at its widest spot, about two hundred feet straight out. Neon orange plastic flags were tied onto the lines every yard or so.

A woman in her early twenties stood on the grassy shore holding a handful of plastic evidence bags. Her dark red-brown hair was cut as short as a man's. She wore hip-high gray rubber gaiters and an all-weather anorak. A clear deep plastic tub was half filled, not much output for an all-day dive.

A diver popped up out of the water, yanked off his mask and breathing apparatus, and held a rough roundish rock the size of a grapefruit high above his head, waving it like a trophy. Even from a distance and in gloomy light, I could see silvery specks glimmer as he moved the rock to and fro.
Mica,
I thought.

“Hey, Lottie,” he called. “I got it! Mark the bag ‘Marty's pick.'”

She shook open one of the evidence bags and waded into the water to meet him. He sidestroked toward her holding the rock about a foot above the waterline.

“It looks like all the others. What makes you think this is the one, Marty?”

“'Cause I'm all-seeing and all-knowing and I've been doing this for longer than you've been alive, sugar pie.”

She giggled as she slogged farther in, pausing when the water was thigh-high and waiting for him to reach her. He tread water while she held the bag open, spreading her fingers to make the gap as large as possible. Marty dropped the stone in. She sealed it and headed for land.

“One more pass should do it,” Marty said.

“Okay.”

Marty grinned like he'd just won the lottery. “Don't forget—label it ‘Marty's pick.'”

“Will do,” she said, chuckling.

I watched him put his gear back on with unconscious confidence, check his gauges, and slide underwater with such effortless precision, the water barely rippled.

I sat on a boulder just behind the tree line and continued to watch. The scratch on my cheek had stopped bleeding, but it hurt, a kind of dull throbbing. Twenty minutes later, neither diver had resurfaced. Wet cold, the coldest kind, leached through my boots, turning my feet into frozen ice cubes and setting my teeth rattling. Five minutes later, I was shivering nonstop and I was tired of looking at nothing.

I headed back, veering inland as I walked. It was harder going up than down, not just because of the incline but because I was colder and it was darker. I stumbled on a rock, a big one, and fell, sprawling. I landed cheek down, and the scratch started bleeding again. I tore off another fern frond and held it tight against my cheek.

“Okay, then,” I whispered after half a minute. “Let's not do that again.”

I stood up and continued on, moving slowly now, testing the ground before carefully placing each foot. I made it up to more level ground without incident, then passed through a narrow passage with twigs snapping at my arms and face. As I neared the summit, I tripped over a slick patch of moss and fell again. I stayed down on all fours and negotiated a tricky pass. Finally, I popped out about ten feet beyond my car.
Perfect,
I thought.

Wes was standing at the end of the last barricade peering through binoculars. To the naked eye, all that was visible were trees. I wondered what he saw. Griff was tapping something into his smart phone.

I joined Wes, calling to him as I walked. “Hey, Wes. What do you say we get a cup of something warm?”

He lowered his binoculars and spun toward me. “What happened to your cheek?”

I touched the scratch. “A twig got me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Where have you been?”

“Around. Want a cup of coffee?”

He glanced at Griff. “I'm not done here.” He lowered his voice. “I'm about to slip into the woods without him noticing.”

“Griff has eyes in the back of his head where you're concerned.” Griff had put his phone away and was watching us. “Let's go to Sweet Treats,” I said, adding in a whisper, “I'll tell you what I saw.”

Wes grinned. “Coffee would be good.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I waved my hands over the steaming mug of tea, glad for the warmth. Wes was drinking coffee. We were sitting at a small table at the newly renovated Sweet Treats Bakery & Tea Shoppe enveloped in the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla. After my time navigating the rugged outside, I was thankful to be inside and warm.

After eliciting a promise not to quote me, I reported what I'd seen. “I can't believe Marty was certain he found the weapon.”

“I can't believe you snuck down there and back without me or Griff spotting you.”

“You had him occupied. He isn't suspicious of me like he is of you.”

“He doesn't know you like I do. Very slick move, Joz.”

I bowed, a mini-thank-you, then recupped my mug. “What do you know about Marty?”

“Martin Oilu. He's the lead diver on the cold-water rescue team. I researched them last year for a story. Those guys are pros, specially trained for cold-water searches. Mostly rescues, you know, when someone falls through the ice or there's a boat wreck or something, but they're the bomb when it comes to underwater anything.”

“There's so much we don't know. Did you get any further with unraveling Jason's finances?”

“No, and the police are pretty pissed about it. His executor—some lawyer at a hula-hula Boston law firm—won't even officially acknowledge Jason had any trusts.”

“I'm surprised a judge won't compel him to talk.”

“Judges don't like to compel testimony about a victim. It doesn't look good. So first the police tried reasoning with the executor, requesting answers to certain specific questions, you know, limited scope, whatever. Then they gave up and filed the paperwork. So far, the judge says no. The judge says they know who inherits—his parents—and that's enough info, unless they can show that Jason was somehow involved in something illegal or related to a crime.” Wes drank some coffee. “According to my police source, you asked them to check if Milner called anyone right after you left your meeting with him. How come?”

“I thought there was a chance I spooked him about the Fabergé egg. If so, he might well have called his client to warn him—or her.”

“You were right. He called a 617 number, a disposable phone, you know the kind you buy at any big-box or electronics store. You can refill it anytime you want or throw it away. Untraceable. They spoke for fifteen minutes.”

“That's long enough to plan a cover-up.” I refilled my mug. “Can't they tell where and when that phone was sold by matching its serial number to the transaction? Everything is tracked electronically these days. That would let them examine security cameras.”

“They tried. The unit was activated on February eighteenth at a mom-and-pop discount shop called Lucky Electronics, in Boston's Chinatown.” Wes's tone changed from all-business to pals. “Have you ever been there—to Chinatown?”

“Lots of times. Our favorite restaurant there is the Mandarin Star. Why? Are you thinking of going?'

Wes flushed. “Yeah. Maybe. I booked a room at the Four Seasons in Boston next week—it's for our six-month anniversary, Maggie and me. I looked it up. It's not far from Chinatown. I want to take her to a really nice place for dinner. We both like Chinese food. Maybe that would be a good choice.”

“I'm not sure the Mandarin Star is what you have in mind. It has great food, but it's pretty ordinary looking. I wouldn't describe it as romantic.”

“Oh. How can I find a good place for dinner?”

“Call the concierge at the hotel.”

“Thanks!” Wes said. “That's a great idea.”

I smiled at him. “What do you have planned?”

“We're going to spend the day going to museums. The Fine Arts and the Isabella Stewart Gardner. Maggie likes museums.” He looked down for a moment, then back up. “I just told her to take the day off, that I have a surprise for her.” He swallowed hard. “I'm going to ask her to marry me.”

Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. “Oh, Wes. Congratulations.”

“Don't congratulate me yet. She hasn't said yes.”

“She will. How could she not? You're a catch. Do you have the ring yet?”

Concern clouded his eyes. “It's kind of old-fashioned looking. Traditional, you know? The diamond is round with little filigrees, or whatever you call them, in the setting. I'm a little scared the diamond is too small. It's a half karat. Do you think Maggie will think it's too small?”

“No, not at all!” I reached across the table and touched his hand. “I'm sure Maggie will love it, Wes.”

He leaned back and took in a deep breath. “Thanks.” He finished his coffee, pushed the mug aside, flipped through a few pages in his notebook, and said, “So, anyway … the police have already reviewed the security recording from that day. It's lucky Lucky Electronics keeps digital files for three months, huh?” We chuckled. “Get it? Lucky Lucky?”

“I get it.”

He grinned. “That phone and another one were bought by a woman. For cash.”

My heart gave an extra beat. “A woman?”

“Not Ana.”

I sat back. “Really?”

“Yup. It's not Heather, either.”

“Who is it?”

“No one knows. It's hard to tell much about her. She's wearing a hat, one of those furry ones with a big brim, and most of the time, she was looking down at the phones or counting out money. She paid in cash.” He tapped on his phone. “Here. Take a look.” He slid the unit across the table. “The police have asked me to publish this photo, hoping someone can ID her.”

The woman wasn't just looking down, her head was angled away from the camera. The small bit of hair that showed from under the hat looked to be brown and shoulder-length, but it was hard to tell because her fuzzy fur or faux-fur coat collar was turned up. Her face seemed thin.

I handed back the phone. “You can barely see her. I doubt anyone would be able to recognize her.”

“No one will tell regardless.” Wes stared at the photo for a minute, then shrugged. “If she's a friend, you're not going to want to tell the police about her, and even if she's not a friend, who wants to get involved in a murder investigation, you know?”

“Why mention murder? Tell them she's needed to help find a missing antique.” I smiled, my devilish one. “Use me as the contact person.”

Wes grinned. “Good one, Josie! I'll do it. What kind of antique?”

I thought about it for a minute. “A Victorian-era European decorative object.”

He wrote that down. “Very good. What is it?”

I raised my chin. “Given that the object in question was intended to be a gift, I'm sure you understand why I can't reveal any details. We don't want to lose the element of surprise.”

Wes wrote quickly. “You're very good at this, aren't you?”

I smiled. “Yes.”

“I'll get it posted to our news feed this afternoon and feature it in print tomorrow.” He rat-a-tat-tatted his pen against his notebook. “As to whether there was any contact between the woman who bought the phone and Milner … he called that same number several times during the period he was appraising the Fabergé egg. After that, there were two other calls, one right after he saw you in his office and the other the morning he died, at seven thirty.”

I paused, ideas rattling around in my head. “So during that last call, he was confirming his appointment with his client. They planned to meet before he saw the police, which suggests that the woman is from Rocky Point.”

“Or that she lives close enough to get here easily.”

“Were all those calls placed from Milner's office phone?” I asked.

“Yup. There were no calls from Milner's home or cell phones to that number.”

“So the relationship was all business.”

“Some business if it gets you killed.”

“Yeah.”

Wes put his notebook away. “I spoke to Julie, the woman who worked at Marlborough Antiques with Milner, and a gal in accounting. They both said it's absurd to think Milner was anything but on the up-and-up, that he was a complete straight arrow.”

I waved it aside. “That's what people always say. ‘Oh, he was such a nice, quiet young man.' You know that.”

“You think Milner snowed them all?”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Who knows? I'm just saying I don't take people's assessments of one another as gospel. Show me how they act; don't tell me what they say. I can paint a scenario of guilt for everyone as easily as they can deny it. Milner was in his early sixties—close to when many people start thinking about retirement—and alone. He'd been working his whole life, and what did he have to show for it? A small condo in Boston.” I paused. “What else did he have? Do you know?”

“A modest 401(k) and a half-interest in a cottage in Wales he shared with his sister. She inherits everything.”