Vultures At Twilight Part 5

'But I can't-'

'Then neither can I,' Ada said.

Delia's lower lip curled, and her forehead would have furrowed had it been possible. Her frustration was palpable as she tried to find a way around Ada's resistance. 'I'll have to speak with our CEO.'

'Who's that?' I asked.

'Mr Warren,' she said, clearly unhappy with the direction this was going.

'Jim Warren?' I asked. 'The attorney?'

'Yes,' Delia admitted. 'I'll have to check with him.'

'Then good,' Ada said, and she pulled out a card with her numbers. 'If you could either email or fax that would be great.'

When we finally freed ourselves from Delia, and were heading toward the car, Ada stopped. She turned and faced the towering Georgian brick facade of Nillewaug's central residential building. She ran a hand through her hair and took a slow turn. I stood at her side, taking in the stately outer buildings like spokes on a wheel, where the six hundred unit residential building formed the ma.s.sive hub. All around lush and perfectly maintained landscaping with rustic stone walls, woods with walking paths and benches and the built to impress man-made lake and waterfall, where giant koi flashed beneath flowering lilies.

'It's nice enough.' Her tone was less than enthusiastic. 'Did you see how quiet everyone was? And why was she so squirrelly about letting us see the agreement? I don't know . . .' She sighed. 'I just don't know.'

SIX.

As Mildred Potts punched in the security code for her shop, Taffy ran excited circles around her ankles. It had been a long day with a lot of Lookyloos, but no buyers. The end of the month was approaching, and even with her robust markups, if things didn't improve . . . Well, she wouldn't think about that. The down economy had hurt everything and the antique business was no exception.

She slid the deadbolt as Taffy started to yip. Mildred looked up and saw a lone figure at the end of the alley that separated Aunt Millie's Attic from the Grenville Historical Society.

She smiled. 'You came back to look at the cameo? Well . . .' She quickly disarmed the security system and unlocked the door. Normally she wouldn't have done this, but the cameo in mention was a spectacular Victorian lapis lazuli set in fourteen carat gold with large rose-cut sapphire and diamond accents. At ten grand it could go a long way toward pulling the month out of the c.r.a.pper.

She ushered her late-afternoon customer into the showroom with its outstanding collection of antique jewelry and expensive bibelots, all purchased at a fraction of their value. Mildred Potts prided herself on never paying more than ten cents on the dollar. It had given her a reputation, but this was a tough business and considering how many of her colleagues had recently closed shop, or were in jeopardy of doing so, only the shrewd survived.

With Taffy under her arm, Mildred gushed, 'Now, I've been dealing in jewelry for . . . well, for more years than I care to say, but this piece is outstanding. You have a sophisticated eye.'

She unlocked the display case and lifted the jewel from its velvet-lined box. As she slid it toward the customer, her index finger lifted up the tag, letting her see the asking price, as well as her carefully encrypted code that told her what she had paid for it. The latter information she rarely needed. This piece in particular had been part of a major score. It was included in a liquidation she'd gotten on a low-ball bid, with heirs who were both eager and ignorant, a delicious combination. All said and done, the brooch had cost her less than a hundred dollars.

'Of course,' she offered, watching as the customer fondled the pin, 'I could do a little better on the price.'

'How much better?'

Mildred rechecked the price and inhaled deeply, as if experiencing sharp pain. 'I could go nine even, but I have a lot of money in that piece. I know I shouldn't have paid what I did for it, but sometimes you have to if you want quality.'

'Of course,' the customer said, and then uttered the one small sentence that was music to Mildred's ears, 'I'll take it.'

Taffy squealed excitedly, sensing his mistress' elation.

'Such a sweet dog,' the customer commented as Mildred wrote up the sale.

'Yes,' she replied, while figuring the six and a quarter percent sales tax. 'She's my little Taffy-waffy.'

'I'm sure she is.' And with that the customer pulled out a delicately engraved, Lady Beretta 21A and shot Mildred Potts at close range between the eyes.

As Mildred crumpled to the floor, still clutching a terrified Taffy, the customer snapped on disposable cream-colored latex gloves, grabbed Mildred's keys that dangled from the case where she'd retrieved the cameo, and systematically went through the shop liberating the jewels.

SEVEN.

Tolliver waited numb and stiff on a scarred oak chair as the police conferred behind the soundproof gla.s.s of the interrogation room. Born and raised in Grenville, he'd only been inside the red-brick nineteen-twenties police station as part of a third-grade field trip. He felt unreal and disconnected, and in his chest a hollowness as if some vital part of him had just been ripped out.

Yesterday, at the Medical Examiner's office in Farmington, he had been shown a body and told that it was Philip's. He needed to be told, because the bloated and mangled remains in the refrigerated drawer bore little trace of the man who had shared his life for nearly two decades. Hours later, he still smelled the stench that had flooded over him as they'd unzipped the s.h.i.+ny black bag. He could still see his face, or what remained of it after three days in the Nillewaug river, the flesh ripped away in places, one eye puckered and closed, the other a hollow socket from where some animal fish, racc.o.o.n, crow? had dined.

Nothing made sense, but connections had emerged. It was now clear that the human finger found at McElroy's auction had been Philip's. They'd taken a print from the severed digit; it matched.

One day later and Tolliver still had to fight back waves of nausea. Who did this? Had Philip suffered? The coroner had a.s.sured him that the finger had been severed after he was dead. But why? And why plant it in an auction where any one of a hundred dealers could have discovered it? Nothing made sense.

'Tolliver?' Officer Kevin Simpson opened the door. 'You can come in.'

The small town irony was that Tolliver and the heavyset and balding Kevin had grown up together, cla.s.smates at different ends of the academic spectrum. Where Tolliver was second in the cla.s.s, Kevin, with his even nature and dogged determination, had struggled to graduate.

Already in the small, windowless interview room was Detective Mattie Perez with the state's Major Crime Squad. Kevin made the introductions, and Tolliver felt the intensity of the detective's dark brown eyes as they shook hands. She was a squarely built early-forties woman with tightly curled black hair shot through with silver. She wore no makeup and her boxy navy suit and b.u.t.ton-down oxford gave her a masculine feel. As soon as Tolliver sat, her questions began.

'Mr Jacobs, while you are not officially a suspect, you may have an attorney present.'

'I understand,' said Tolliver, noting the digital recorder on the table. 'I also understand that if I choose not to answer specific questions, that's within my rights.'

'Of course,' she replied, keeping eye contact. 'If you could start by telling me the nature of your relations.h.i.+p with Mr Conroy?'

'He was my husband.' The word was still new, after years of being partners and significant others.

'I see. Now when did you last see your husband?'

He didn't hesitate. 'Last Friday.'

'You're certain of that?'

'He didn't come home, or at least I don't think he did.'

'Wouldn't you know?'

'Generally, yes. But there was an auction that night and he had been out looking at an estate and hadn't come home. So rather than wait and miss the preview, I went to the auction myself.'

'The one where the finger was found?'

'Yes.'

'And if that finger belonged to your husband,' she continued, 'then I think it's safe to say he did not make it home, but in fact, was already dead.'

'Yes,' said Tolliver dully. 'That must be right.' He felt the room swim as memories of Philip his first and only love flooded his brain.

Kevin Simpson's pale blue eyes looked at his old cla.s.smate. 'You all right, man?'

'A little dizzy.'

'I'll get you some water,' Kevin said and left him alone with Detective Perez.

She eyed him coldly and silently jotted down questions.

As soon as Kevin returned with a cup of water, she proceeded.

'The Friday of the auction . . . You're sure you saw him that day?'

'We had breakfast together.'

'That would make it October the first?'

'Yes.'

'Forgive me for sounding confused, but today's the sixth. Didn't you wonder what had become of your husband, who had gone to look at an estate?'

'Of course.' He looked down at his hands.

'Well?' she prodded. 'Where did you think he was?'

'I wasn't sure.' Tears welled; he didn't want to cry in front of this woman. He hated that stereotype of the weepy gay man. 'We were having problems. I thought . . .'

'You thought what?' she prompted.

'I thought he might have gone away.'

'Was that something he did?'

'No.'

'Then why would this be different?'

'We were having problems,' he repeated. 'At least Philip was.'

'You said that before,' she commented tersely. 'Please be less vague.'

'He said he might go to the Cape. He wanted some time alone.' He looked up and met the dark-eyed gaze of the intense detective. And it hit him; he was a suspect. He looked at Kevin, who seemed sympathetic, but ineffectual in the face of this woman who had already tried and convicted him.

Finally, he spoke. 'I think I would like my attorney.'

Detective Perez nodded, and with what could have been a spark of compa.s.sion in her voice. 'Yes,' she said, 'that would be best.'

EIGHT.

Ada fumed as she reread the bottom-line figure on Mildred Potts' handwritten offer that had arrived in the morning mail. 'Twenty-five thousand dollars! She should be shot!' Sitting at her kitchen table she reviewed the evaluation, wondering if a zero had been omitted.

It wouldn't have been so bad if either Mr Jacobs or Mr Caputo had gotten back to her. Neither had returned her calls, after a.s.suring her that they'd get her at least a verbal quote within twenty-four hours. It was now Thursday and the twenty-four had turned into forty-eight. Caputo, she'd been told by his answering machine, was on the road and wasn't expected back till the middle of next week. And he can't leave a cell phone number? And Tolliver, who had seemed so pleasant . . . not a word. His secretary, probably sick of her calls, but promising 'he'll get back to you just as soon as he can.'

She wanted out of this mess, and the nasty calls from Evie's heirs. Each one more eager than the next to have the estate liquidated. She was sick of them, the subtle threats, and the not-so-subtle attempts to flatter and ingratiate. It nauseated her. Is this what it's all about? Relatives fighting over the remains? Is this it?

At least that Potts woman had gotten back to her. It would almost serve them right if she accepted the offer. She wouldn't, of course, but the thought gave her a needed chuckle. The worst part was now she had to get quotes from another dealer or two.

She thought of Delia Preston from Nillewaug, who had provided her with a list of antique dealers. 'I keep lists of everything and everyone,' she'd remarked. Bet she gets a kickback, Ada mused as she fished through her bag for Preston's card.

A knock came at the door. Followed by the bell.

'Coming,' she said, hoping it was Lil, but still checking the peephole. She'd lived in New York too many years to dispense with that basic caution. She was shocked to see her grandson, her attention riveted to an angry black-and-blue over his right eye. 'Aaron,' she said, opening the door. She hugged him tight, noting his black knapsack on the ground, how thin he felt, and the fact that it was too cold to not be wearing a jacket. 'What happened?'

He shrugged and winced. 'I ran into a wall.'

She grabbed on to his shoulders. He was a good head taller; she stared into his dark hazel eyes. 'Tell me the truth, Aaron Matthew. Who did this?'

'Grandma.' He stepped back. 'What do you think happened?'

'I don't know,' she said, formulating a number of hypotheses, most of which involved her son-in-law, Jack Gurston. 'But come in. And why aren't you wearing a jacket?'

'You talked to Mom?' he asked, ignoring her question.

'Yes.'

'What did she tell you?'

'That you and your dad weren't seeing eye to eye on some things.' As always careful to not let her true feelings slip about her son-in-law. If he hurt you I'll kill him.

'That's a laugh,' he said, then changed the subject. 'Got anything to eat?'