Dead Certain (8 page)

He eased back into his chair, an old dark brown leather number he’d bought at a secondhand store for his first apartment, and put his feet up on the ottoman. They were the only pieces of furniture he’d brought with him when he moved to Broeder. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, rejoicing in the silence. No television, no radio. Just—silence. He wanted it to settle around him and linger for a moment or two while he cleared his mind of everything that clamored for his attention. Just for a few minutes, he wanted to be a blank slate. That’s how he’d taught himself to picture his mind anytime he felt headed for an information overload. The skill had come in handy over the years.

He took a few deep breaths and opened his eyes, ready to go back into the Crosby file, when the phone rang.

“Mercer,” he answered.

“Did you see her? Did you meet with her?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Sean said truthfully.

“Did she show you the photos?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Didn’t you recognize anyone?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about the surroundings, then? Didn’t any of it look familiar?”

“I don’t know.” His voice was taking on more of an edge.

“Of course you do.” A pause, then, “Why are you being so difficult about this?”

“I need to think this through. . . .”

“What’s to think about?”

“There’s no proof.”

“You saw the birth certificate. How much more proof do you need?”

“How do you know it wasn’t a fake?”

“Oh, come on, Sean.” His sister, Greer, burst out laughing. “Why would anyone claim to be related to us if they were not? For a share in the vast Mercer fortune? Please.”

“I don’t know what motivates people, Greer.”

A heavy sigh whispered through the phone line. “I’m going to tell Ramona that you need time to digest all this. That it’s all been a bit of a shock, coming out of the blue as it has. But that you’re going to think things over for a while.”

“All right.”

“I just want you to think about it.”

“I said I would.” His nerves were beginning to fray. He was all but out of patience.

“That’s all I’m asking, Sean. Please just keep an open mind.”

He replaced the phone gently into its cradle, then rubbed his temples. He didn’t want to think about Ramona anymore tonight.

After the death of her only child the previous year, Greer’s longing for roots had driven her to search for family until she had found Sean. Greer had traced her brother through the foster system—the records of which were often missing—tricked him into a reunion he hadn’t wanted, then through the sheer force of her will had made him believe they could be a family. Maybe they could still be. He wanted that, or at least thought he did, for her sake if not for his own. He’d been alone for so long that he wasn’t sure he understood what the word
family
really meant. He wasn’t sure either if what he felt for Greer could be called love, but he wasn’t about to let anyone use her big heart to hurt her. Now she was elated to have found what she believed was another of her long lost siblings. She couldn’t understand why he wasn’t as thrilled as she was. As far as he was concerned, Ramona might or might not be the real deal.

He rubbed his temples, then forced himself to put it aside. He had work to do.

He reopened the file at the spot he’d marked earlier and resumed reading the witness statements.

“Well, shit,” he said aloud.

Barely a week before the attack on Amanda, Derek England had called the Broeder police department to report that Archer Lowell had, on three separate occasions, threatened his life.

Complainant alleges that Archer Lowell told him that he had “a bullet with your name on it.” See Incident Report 1497-02, and companion file 1554-02.

Sean stared into space for several minutes, pondering the possibilities, before closing the file and turning out the light.

At dawn tomorrow, he’d be at his desk, looking over the cross-referenced file on the incident involving Derek England. When the warden pulled into his parking space at the prison in the morning, Sean Mercer would be waiting for him, and by then he’d know all there was to know about Archer Lowell.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

“ ’bout time you showed up.” Iona McGowan poked Amanda in the middle of her back.

“Oh, hey.” Amanda turned, smiling. “I had trouble finding a place to park. I thought you said this sale was supposed to be a small one.”

“The auctioneer running it said he didn’t expect a lot of traffic, since the estate insisted on holding the sale on the last day of the month, which just happened to fall on a Monday, which, as you know, is not the most popular day of the week for sales like this. However, there’s reputed to be some Chippendale furniture that’s top-of-the-line. That’s expected to draw the most interest.”

“If the big guns are here for the furniture, maybe there won’t be much competition on the items we’re here for.”

“I wish. In my first hour here, I ran into no fewer than seven other jewelry dealers. Including your friend, Marian.”

“Marian is here?” Surprised, Amanda looked around the large tented area where the offerings were displayed on long tables, with certain items housed in glass cases. Anyone wishing a closer look at an individual piece had to request a special showing from one of the auctioneer’s assistants.

“She was an hour ago. She mentioned there were some miniatures she was interested in as well, and I think I heard someone say that all of the artwork was in the house. She might have gone inside.”

“Well, there are some interesting pieces here, don’t you think?” Amanda scanned the jewelry displayed on the long table.

“Most of this will go intact for resale. There are a lot of nice estate pieces. Lots of excellent silver—lots of art deco pins. Lots of high-end platinum and diamond pieces in that case over there, the one where the guard is posted. But, so far, not a lot of what I’m looking for.”

“I think I saw a large brooch with some stones missing a few tables down. Amethysts.” Amanda frowned, trying to recall exactly where she’d seen the piece.

“Oh? Maybe I should take a look. I have amethysts in mind for a ring I sketched out just last week.” As a jewelry designer, Iona often scoured auctions and estate sales for quality gems that she could reset in her own designs. Her goal was to find pieces from which a stone or two had been lost and would be difficult to match and could therefore be picked up for a song. “I’ll catch up with you for coffee in, say, a half hour?”

“Perfect. I heard there’s a small offering of Hull pottery someplace. I want to check that out.”

Amanda wandered off to the opposite side of the tent, where a vast quantity of art pottery sat on several sturdy wooden tables. There was a fabulous selection of Roseville, which explained the presence of several of the dealers from New York she’d worked with on many occasions. She knew there’d be no point in wasting her time on the Roseville, which was certain to fetch top prices. Though she often bought at smaller sales like this for the express purpose of reselling, the reputation of this particular collection had drawn many out-of-state buyers. She had a good idea of who would be bidding on what and had no desire to get in the middle. Especially since her own working capital was now so limited. This time around, she was out of the running for the prime pieces.

Like so many of the other dealers there, Amanda often shopped the sales with specific clients in mind, but today nothing really caught her eye until she found the table displaying the Hull. The small white bank in the shape of an owl could bring a nice price if she could get it inexpensively. The frog bank would bring even more. There were several jardinieres from the early 1920s that could be profitable. Her eyes continued to scan the selection, coming to rest on the grouping of vases in what she recognized as the Tropicana pattern. Though not representative of the earliest works, this design, popular in the 1950s, had become increasingly collectible. Amanda had a customer who’d pay dearly for the vases. She hoped that with the heavy emphasis on the Roseville, the Hull would be overlooked by the other dealers. She glanced at her watch. The sale would begin in less than forty minutes. She hoped they’d start on time and that the Hull would go early. She wanted to get back to St. Mark’s Village by two. Not having anyone to watch the shop, she’d had to leave it closed in order to come to the sale, but had hoped to open for at least part of the afternoon.

It was just another reminder of how much she missed Derek. They’d shared the duties of both buying and selling. If one attended a daytime sale, the other tended the shop. Very often they’d both attend evening sales or auctions together. Back in the days when she was still easily intimidated, he’d bid for her. Within the past year, she’d become determined to be more assertive, and under Derek’s tutelage she had become a shrewd bidder.

“Want to grab some coffee and a Danish or something before the auction starts?” Iona was at her elbow. “Unless you still want to browse . . .”

“No, I’ve seen what I need to see.”

“Anything of interest?”

“Some vases one of my customers will love,” Amanda said as she wove her way through the ever-growing crowd and headed toward the concession area. “If I can get them cheaply enough, I can make a tidy profit. How about you? Did you find the amethysts?”

“They are so perfect in size and color for the ring I have in mind that I’m pinching myself.” Iona’s dark eyes shone with anticipation. “And there’s also a bracelet with some lovely peridot stones, about a quarter of which are missing.The green would be gorgeous with the purple. There are enough of each for maybe a pin or a pendant as well as the ring. I’m in heaven.”

“Well, then, maybe we should go find seats before all the chairs are gone.” Amanda glanced at the tent where the actual sale would be held. “It looks like it’s filling up pretty quickly.”

“Not to worry. I was here early and left my jacket over two near the front.”

“Let’s hope it’s still there.”

“It will be. People are generally pretty good about respecting a reserved seat at sales like this. But just to be on the safe side, let’s get our coffee now and get ourselves seated.”

They did so, with ten minutes to spare.

“Daria called last night,” Iona said as she fiddled with the lid to her coffee in an attempt to lift the flap up so that she could drink without spilling it all over herself. “She was concerned about your email.”

“Oh, you mean the email telling her that the goblet was not on its way back after all and that I didn’t know when it would be since it’s currently being treated as evidence in a murder investigation but could she please not turn me in to Interpol?” Amanda said dryly. “You mean that email?”

“Yes, that one.” Iona sipped her coffee. “She was upset for you—and sends her condolences on Derek’s death—but she said that as long as the piece is safe, she’s okay with the situation.”

“She’s okay with it? I promised her it would be in her hands within a week, and now it’s sitting in the evidence room at the Broeder P.D. and will be for God knows how long. How could she be okay with that?”

“Because she knows where it is and that it’s intact and in safe hands. Keep in mind that most of the antiquities that disappear do not resurface, and very, very few of those that do are returned voluntarily. She knows she’ll get this goblet back eventually, and that’s more than she knows about ninety-nine percent of what’s been sold on the black market over the past hundred or so years.”

“You know, it just occurred to me. . . .” Amanda lowered her voice to a near whisper. “What if . . . ?”

“What if what? What are you thinking?”

“What if Chief Mercer is right and there is a connection between the pottery and Derek’s murder?”

“You think there could be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I dismissed the possibility at first, but at this point, I’m starting to wonder. It makes about as much sense as anything else, though I think it’s a real stretch. I honestly can’t think of one reason why anyone would want him dead.”

“Then turning the goblet over to the police was probably the smartest thing you could have done.” Iona patted Amanda on the arm. “If someone was after the vase, we don’t need him coming after you to look for it.”

It was almost four o’clock by the time Amanda unlocked the door to her shop, and after five by the time she’d brought in the boxes of carefully wrapped Hull vases and called her customer, who promised she’d be there first thing in the morning to pick them up. Relieved to know that she’d have certain income that week, Amanda cleaned up the pottery pieces in the sink in the back room, dried them, and looked for a place to display them. Deciding on a shelf near but not quite in the front window, she set about the task of moving a row of cut-glass bowls. They were dusty, so she washed them off as well, then arranged them inside the glass counter near the cash register.

Derek was so good at this, she thought as she looked around for a place to stand the onyx bookends she’d removed from the counter to make room for the cut glass. He just always seemed to know exactly where to display things. He had such a great eye.

She wasn’t even aware she was crying until she saw the fat drops begin to puddle on the countertop. She’d shed many tears over the past two weeks, but until now, his death had barely seemed real. Now, after having spent most of the day at a sale without him and returning to the silent shop, she knew the loss of Derek was undeniable. The rituals of death now over, she would have to deal, day to day, with the reality of Derek being gone. Gone from the business—gone from her life.

Numb for most of the days since the murder, she was just beginning to thaw. It hurt terribly, and would, she knew, for a long time.

She was still sniffling when she heard the sound of something dropping outside her door. She peered through the window and saw Marian O’Connor struggling to lift a box that was obviously too much for her. Unlocking her door, Amanda stepped outside and all but tripped over Marian’s purse where it lay on the walk between the two shops.

“Marian, here, let me help you with that.” Amanda, the stronger of the two, grabbed the box and took it. “You pick up your purse there, get your keys out, and unlock the door. I’ll hold this.”

“Oh, Amanda, thank you. I was having a devil of a time with that. It’s not that it’s so heavy, it’s just bulky, and I was having a hard time getting my arms around it.” Marian picked up the dropped purse, then dug in her pockets for her keys, speaking the whole time. “Here we go. . . . There, just bring it in here and you can set it down anywhere.”

“Are you just getting back from the auction?” Amanda asked.

“Yes. I’d hoped to be out of there earlier. I hate to keep the shop closed all day. Such a silly way to lose business. My neighbor’s daughter, who worked for me all summer, left for college on Saturday. But I really wanted this clock.” Marian cut through the packing tape and sorted through the newspaper in the box. Marian always came to sales prepared to buy and prepared to carefully wrap her purchases to protect them on the ride home. She was the most organized person Amanda had ever met. “Look here, isn’t it wonderful?”

“It’s lovely, yes.” Amanda leaned forward for a closer look. “Russian?”

“Yes.” Marian was positively beaming. “I’m so excited. I can’t believe my good fortune. Everyone was knocking themselves out, bidding on the early American works—and they were admittedly fabulous; did you stay for those? The Russian pieces were all but overlooked. Look here—look at what else I got.”

Marian lifted a tissue-shrouded package from the bottom of the box. “One of the last miniatures to be put on the block today. It’s Alexander the First.” She handed the small portrait gingerly to Amanda, turning it over as she did so. “See the signature?” Marian was all but crowing as she announced, “Argunov.”

Amanda whistled. “Wow. The court portrait painter. This is quite a find, Marian.”

“You’re telling me. I have a customer who will faint when I tell him about this. He’ll give me just about anything I want for it. Well, within reason, of course.” She dipped back into the box and pulled out a very small package. “And this . . . do you know what this is?”

Amanda unfolded the wrappings to find a small silver box. “A salt box?”

“An open salt, yes. It was an old Russian custom to give one of these to your guests for good luck.” Marian pointed out the details. “Enamel on filigree. Turn it over.”

Amanda did as she was told.

“See the initials there? G.K. Gustav Klingert.” Marian was all but singing now. “So collectible. He worked for Fabergé in Moscow in the late 1870s. Cloisonné with enamel. This one is marked 1888.”

“It’s remarkable. You really had quite a day, didn’t you?”

“I had a wonderful day. One hell of a day. I also managed to pick up a few choice pieces of jewelry—a pendant, some earrings. All quite fine.” Marian set the salt box next to the portrait on the glass counter. “I can barely wait to call my customer. He’ll be so excited. Oh, and I have a dealer friend in D.C. who will just jump through hoops to get this Klingert piece.”

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” Amanda laughed. “There’s the phone.”

“I am going to call my customer right now. I just can’t wait to see his face when he sees the miniature.” Marian reached behind the counter for the phone and lifted it, placed it next to her prizes. “You know, finds like this are what keep you in this business. You just never know what the next day is going to bring.”

Still beaming broadly, Marian dialed the number.

“Lock this behind me,” Amanda called to her as she left the shop.

“I will. . . . oh, hello? Mr. Peterson?”

Back in her shop, Amanda made calls of her own. To Iona, thanking her again for telling her about the sale and for dragging her to it. To Evan, apologizing for not having been able to meet him for lunch today. She’d had to leave messages for both of them.

She locked the shop behind her, then walked the cobblestone path to the parking lot where she discovered that she had a flat.

“Damn,” she said aloud, her fisted hands on her hips, before kicking the tire a time or two.

“That was mature,” she muttered, and went to the rear of the car. Opening the trunk, she checked for her spare tire. “Great. A doughnut. My tire goes flat and all I have to replace it with is a doughnut. . . .”