The police arrived not long after the ambulance.
Officer Stella Johnson found us gathered in the living room, a shocked, stunned, silent group. Bunny, Max, Larissa, Daniel, and the still-unnamed assistant, however, were not so stunned as to fail to take the opportunity to make full use of Rebecca’s bar.
Johnson’s eyes widened when she saw Jayne and me among the group. I gave her a “What can I say?” shrug, and she shook her head. “I’ve called the detectives.”
“What on earth for?” Max said. “The woman had a heart attack. Maybe an aneurysm. Sad, but nothing that requires a police investigation.”
“Let them do their jobs, Max,” Larissa said in a low voice.
I said nothing, and neither did Officer Johnson. We could hear the medics working in the library and police talking in low voices in the hallway. Notably, Madame Lavalier had not been rushed away under full lights and sirens.
“My wife and I would like to be on our way.” Max drained the contents of his glass and pulled out his phone. “I’ll give you my number. Your detectives can contact us in the morning if they need a statement.”
I wondered why he was in such a rush. Was he throwing his weight around, making sure we all knew how important he was? Or did he have more specific reasons to want to avoid police attention?
Larissa put her hand lightly on his arm. “It’s okay, honey. We can wait.”
He sighed heavily, making sure we all knew what a great sacrifice he was making. “In that case …” He reached for the whiskey bottle.
When they did try to leave, I might have a quiet word with Officer Johnson. Max should not be driving anywhere tonight, and Larissa herself had enjoyed a couple of drinks.
Bunny held her own glass out toward Max. “As long as you have the bottle there.”
“You okay, babe?” Daniel asked Eleanor. “You don’t look too good. You want a drink?”
She looked up, gave him a weak smile, and shook her head. Some of her long, dark hair had come loose, and tendrils caressed her face. Her rings caught the light from the lamps when she brushed a lock back. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a few minutes. I’m sorry, everyone, if I overreacted in there. It’s … I’ve been absolutely terrified of thunder ever since I was a little girl.” She gave a choked laugh. “Product of an overactive imagination, my mom used to say.”
Daniel gave her a questioning look and started to say something, but then he shrugged and turned away.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Ashleigh said. “It was terrifying.”
At that moment, an all-too familiar voice came from the hallway. Jayne threw me a frightened look. I might have winced in return.
“We’ll check out the scene first,” Detective Ryan Ashburton was saying. “Tell the witnesses to stay put in the meantime.”
Max finished pouring for Bunny and held up the bottle. “Anyone else?”
“As long as you’re offering,” Donald said. “A wee tipple might help calm the nerves. Gemma, what did you observe once you entered the library following the, uh, incident?”
I didn’t answer. I’d observed a great deal in the short time I’d been in the room, but nothing that led me to any conclusions. I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs, and watched the people in the room while Officer Johnson studied my face.
Rebecca Stanton didn’t react to Max taking advantage of her bar. A touch of color had returned to her perfectly-put-together face, and she sat silently, one arm loosely draped around Miranda’s shoulders. The younger woman played with her phone, but I didn’t get the sense she was typing important messages or spreading the news on social media. Pointedly, she ignored Max and Larissa. Ignored them so much, it was obvious she was paying close attention to them at all times. I wondered why she was so disturbed by them, considering they didn’t seem to even know her.
The medium’s assistant threw back her drink and without another word held her glass out for a refill. The expression on her face was somber, but I saw none of the signs of grief or sorrow I might have expected, and she had not asked to be allowed to stay with Madame Lavalier. An employee, I decided, hired to do a job, not a close friend. And likely not a longtime employee at that. Once she had her drink, she dropped onto the couch next to Bunny and gave the other woman a warm smile. She said something I didn’t catch; Bunny’s mouth turned up in a smile, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes and she shifted, ever so slightly, away.
“We’re staying here, as guests of Mrs. Stanton, my father’s widow,” Daniel said. “My wife and I would prefer to go to our room to wait until we’re needed.”
“I’d prefer if you don’t,” Johnson said. “The detectives will be here soon.”
“In that case,” Daniel said, “top me up, buddy. Eleanor?”
She shook her head.
I found it interesting that Daniel referred to Rebecca as “my father’s widow” not “my stepmother,” but I brushed the thought aside. Rebecca had married Ron Stanton late in his life. She’d never been a mother to his son, and I’d earlier noticed a considerable degree of tension between them.
I continued to study the people gathered in the room. Emotions varied between shock, sorrow, disbelief, and not particularly concerned. No one stood out as having stabbed the woman with a hat pin. But then again, it took a cold-blooded person to commit such a cold-blooded act.
A few minutes later, Ryan and his partner, Detective Louise Estrada, walked into the living room. Ryan was dressed in jeans and a freshly ironed white shirt under a denim jacket. His curly black hair, slightly longer than he normally wore it, needed a trim, but he’d shaved recently. He was on call tonight, so he didn’t look too much as though he’d been dragged into work. Estrada, on the other hand, wore a sleek, elegant, and probably expensive, knee-length blue dress under a black leather jacket that didn’t suit the outfit. She had grass-stained trainers, what Americans call sneakers, on her feet. The shoes, I surmised, had been grabbed out of the trunk of her car to replace the heels that would have been selected to match the dress after much consideration. Her long, dark hair was pulled hastily back into a rough ponytail and secured with a pink elastic band. Her eye makeup was perfect, but she’d missed a spot where she’d dragged a tissue across her mouth in an attempt to remove the bright red lipstick. Her pierced ears were empty. She’d been on a date when she received the call to attend a murder scene. She would not be in a good mood tonight.
The look Estrada gave Jayne and me wasn’t so much angry as simply resigned. “When they told me you lot were here, I thought they were joking. I should have known better.”
“Sorry,” Jayne said.
“Good evening, Detectives,” Donald said. “I hope you weren’t interrupted while doing anything important.”
“Detective Ashburton.” Rebecca, once more the perfect hostess, rose to her feet. “I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but not under these circumstances.”
“Hi, Ryan.” Ashleigh waved from the far side of the room where she was standing next to Bunny.
“What is this?” Max growled. “Old home week?”
“Small towns,” his wife said.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Ms. Doyle, I’ll talk to you first and the rest in turn.”
Max put his glass on a side table and stepped forward. “You can talk to me first. Then my wife and I will be on our way. As you all seem to know each other—”
“I don’t know these people,” Eleanor said softly.
“We don’t want to be caught up in your gossip session,” Max finished.
“In your turn, like the detective said,” Estrada snapped. Yup, not in a good mood.
Larissa put her hand on her husband’s back. He glared once more at Estrada, and then his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. The detective nodded her thanks to Larissa.
Interesting. That was the second time within a few minutes Larissa had calmed her husband down with nothing but a touch. Was he really that highly strung, and did it happen often, or was it an act they played? Did he have a particular reason to be so on edge tonight?
“Mrs. Stanton, do you have a room where we can chat privately?” Estrada asked.
“I’d normally say the library, but …” Rebecca’s voice trailed off. “You can use the dining room. Miranda, dear, will you show them—”
“I know the way,” I said.
“Officer Johnson, please keep these people company,” Estrada said, meaning keep them from fleeing the scene. “Refrain from speculating among yourselves until we’ve taken statements from you all.”
“I have nothing to speculate about,” Eleanor said. “I’ve absolutely no idea what happened. One minute we were sitting around the table holding hands, and then everyone was jumping up and down and yelling, and her —Gemma—was ordering us all out of the library as if this was her house and—”
“When I said no speculating,” Estrada said, “I meant no speculating. Do you want to wait for us down at the police station?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rebecca said. “Eleanor will be quiet.”
“See that she is,” Estrada said to Officer Johnson. “See that they all are.”
Max snapped his heels together and saluted smartly. His wife dug an elbow into his ribs. With his cheerful nautical attire, the salute made him look as though he were performing in an amateur production of the Pirates of Penzance.
Probably not the look he was going for.
“Kind of an odd dining room,” Estrada said as we walked into the room. “No table or chairs?”
The dining room was large and formal and, like the rest of this house, beautifully and tastefully decorated. The top three-quarters of the walls were painted a deep blue, and the wainscoting was white, as was the baseboard and ceiling trim. A glass-fronted cabinet, also painted white, containing glass figurines and fine china, was set at an angle in one corner. The drawn curtains were beige silk shot with blue thread selected to match the paint, and ink drawings of flowers in bright shades of blue, pink, and green hung on the walls. A blue-and-red rug filled the center of the room. The rug was the only thing in the center of the room, as there was no table. Two chairs that matched the ones in the library had been pushed to one side.
“They were moved into the library for the occasion,” I said. “The furniture in there’s also been rearranged.”
“Do you deliberately seek out trouble, or does it find you all by itself?” Estrada said to me once she’d shut the door.
“Considering I came here this evening not knowing someone would be murdered, I can’t claim to have sought it,” I replied as I settled myself comfortably into one of the two chairs. Both detectives remained standing. “Trouble seems to find me.”
“Don’t I know it,” Ryan groaned.
“I hope your date is the understanding type,” I said to Detective Estrada in an attempt to be friendly.
Her eyes narrowed, not looking at all friendly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. You were on a date when you were called into work. Considering it’s now well after ten, the date would have been underway, getting over the initial awkwardness and moving into the comfortable stage. Then you up and left, after making profuse apologies, I’ll assume. Some men are okay with that. Some are not. Ryan doesn’t mind when I have an emergency at the store, although I suppose a failed book delivery doesn’t equal a homicide.”
“It does not. And yes, I was on a date and, not that it’s any of your business, Gemma, I don’t know him well enough to know how he’s going to take being left alone at the restaurant in the middle of dessert. I won’t ask how you know all that, because I truly do not want to know.”
“Sure you do.”
“Shall we begin?” Ryan said. “You used the word murdered, Gemma. I assume you saw what happened?”
“No, I didn’t. I was the only person in this house tonight not in the room when it—whatever it was—happened.”
“I didn’t see that one coming,” Estrada said.
“Where were you then?” Ryan asked.
“Listening at the door. I’d been, uh, evicted from the room.”
“What does that mean?” Estrada asked.
“First things first,” Ryan said. “Before we get to the specifics, what was going on here tonight? The 911 operator says Donald told her a woman collapsed during a séance? Of all the things I’d never expect to find you at that’s got to be top of the list. I saw the draping over the chandelier, an out-of-place table in the library, twelve chairs round the table, a mass of recently extinguished candles in the fireplace. The place did look like a setup for something like a séance.”
I explained the situation quickly, why Jayne and I were involved, and what I’d heard and observed, and they didn’t interrupt.
“Why did this so-called medium ask you to leave the room, do you think?” Estrada asked when I’d finished.
“As a way of heightening the drama, probably. Or not wanting an unlucky number thirteen around the table. I originally considered they might not have had enough chairs for us all.” I indicated the two dining room chairs that had been left behind. “Obviously that was not the case. I don’t know why she singled me out. I’d never seen her or her assistant before.”
“The most obvious question to ask you,” Ryan said, “is if you happened to see anyone toting that sharp object around. It was pointed out to me, but I haven’t examined it yet. Do you know what it is?”
“A hat pin,” Estrada and I chorused.
“You mean like the souvenir state pins my dad puts into his fishing hat to show off all the places he’s been?”
“Not the same. Think about the last big-budget historical drama you saw.”
He gave me a blank look. Not one for historical dramas, Ryan.
“Okay. Hat pins were originally used to keep nuns’ wimples or veils in place in case of a strong wind. By Victorian times, ladies’ hats could be so large and ornate,” I illustrated my point by holding my hands about a foot away on either side of my head and then lifting them up, “and their hair so elaborately fashioned, women needed a pile of pins to keep everything firmly in place. The pins had to be long—sometimes as much as ten or twelve inches—to secure the hat and their hair. And they were sharp in order to pierce the fabric easily. Plus, because the Victorians were never restrained in their sense of decoration or eagerness to display their wealth, the heads of the pins could be elaborately decorated, sometimes with jewels. Such as a nice fat pearl.”
“Gemma’s right,” Estrada said, as though that might possibly be in doubt. “Antique pins are popular collectors’ items these days.”
“That, and they’re used by theatrical costume companies, movie sets, and the like. As an aside, it’s because of the ornateness of women’s headwear that women are still not required to remove their hats on certain occasions, such as the singing of the national anthem. Far too difficult to get off and on, although—”
“I said you were right,” Estrada said. “That doesn’t mean I want to hear a lecture on the origin and customs of women’s hats.”
“Never hurts to have knowledge,” I said. But I refrained from adding any more details that might be of interest.
“I didn’t see a hat in the library,” Ryan said. “Was the dead woman, or anyone else, wearing a big hat?”
“No, and that’s the point. Whoever had the pin brought it with them, and it’s not the sort of thing someone normally carries around in their pocket or purse these days.”
“Can you get protectors for them?” Estrada asked. “Because they’re so sharp?”
“When they were common, hat pins often came with protective covers. In the days before plastic, something as simple as a piece of potato or a cork would do the trick. Hat pins were popular weapons in their time. As a matter of historical interest, the length of the pins was legislated in America in 1908 in an attempt to stop women from using them as weapons during suffrage demonstrations and the like, and a couple of years later, covers became mandatory to avoid accidents.”
Ryan stared at me. “I shouldn’t be amazed at the things you know, Gemma, but sometimes I am.”
“I’m sometimes amazed at the things she doesn’t know,” Estrada said. “All that is beside the point. You didn’t see anything like that pin before the incident?”
“No. Such a thing wouldn’t be hard to conceal.” I didn’t particularly want to, but I summed up an image of the hat pin when I’d seen it. Long and thin and extremely sharp, embedded in the medium’s neck. “The air-conditioning in this house is turned up mighty high. About the only person who doesn’t have room to hide anything on themselves is Jayne. Also Ashleigh, perhaps. Max and Larissa Greenwood, the couple who look like they’ve just stepped off their private yacht, are wearing blazers; Rebecca and Eleanor, her stepdaughter-in-law, each have a jacket; Bunny’s dress is, uncharacteristically for her, roomy enough to conceal a baby elephant; Miranda, Rebecca’s niece, is in jeans with loose pockets; and Daniel, Rebecca’s stepson, has a pocket on his shirt, and he’s wearing the usual men’s trousers with roomy pockets. The women were told not to bring handbags into the library, and Donald had to remove his Inverness cape. I assume that was so we couldn’t conceal anything we might have employed in an attempt to disrupt the séance.”
“Disrupt,” Estrada muttered, “is the word.”
“Anyone wearing gloves?” Ryan asked.
I grinned at him. “No. The house is chilly but not freezing. Gloves would have stood out.”
“We might get prints off the hat pin then.”
“Unlikely, but possible. Anyone who went to the trouble to plan this ahead of time would know about fingerprints. Unfortunately, the situation was such that everyone, except for Jayne and Rebecca, left the library before the police arrived. You’ll likely find a pair of gloves in a plant pot somewhere or stuffed down the back of the couch.”
“You couldn’t keep the suspects together in the library?” Estrada asked.
“I debated doing that. At the time, I decided that preserving the scene was more important. One other thing you have to consider—”
“Only one? Estrada asked.
“One of many. The hat pin pierced the exact spot between the vertebrae which would cause death to be instantaneous. A couple of inches further up or down, to one side or the other, and the result wouldn’t have been guaranteed. Yet all the lights were off in the room. As I said, I wasn’t there, but Jayne should be able to fill you in about that.”
“The drapes were partially open,” Estrada pointed out. “It’s a dark night, with that storm blowing through, but lights at the back of the house are on and they would have shone into the library.”
“Daniel Stanton opened the drapes after I ran in at Jayne’s call. I couldn’t stop him. Sorry. Check with the others as to how dark it was, but I’d say almost totally.”
“Eyes get accustomed to the dark over time,” Estrada said.
“Yes, provided there’s some ambient light for them to work with. No light – no improvement in vision. However, the light in the hall was on, and strong enough for me to read by. You need to ask them if they could make out much of what was going on.”
Estrada was taking notes. I was pleased to see her jotting my suggestions (instructions? orders?) down. “The question then is, was it a lucky strike or did the killer know exactly where to insert the pin to do the optimum amount of damage?”
“You seem to know,” Estrada said. Once, I would have bristled at the apparent accusation. The first time we met, the good detective wanted to arrest me for murder. On the second and third occasions, I was high on her suspect list. Lately, she seemed to be coming around to trusting my instincts. Tonight, I just grinned at her. “Proving you don’t have to be a medical professional to know where to strike. Just a well-read person with a wide variety of interests. As it happens, I read a historical mystery recently, set during the Klondike Gold Rush, if memory serves, in which a hat pin was the weapon. Nothing similar appears in the Holmes Canon though, which seems to be an oversight on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s part, considering how suspicious Holmes was regarding women, and how every woman of any social status would have had—”
“A subject for another day,” Ryan said.
“Not if I can help it,” Estrada muttered.
Ryan pretended not to hear that. “Any possibility the killer came from outside?”
“Crawled through the window and went out that way when the deed was done? Impossible. The carpet beneath the window is still dry and considering the amount of rain that has fallen over the last hour, someone hiding in the shrubbery waiting for the opportune moment would be soaked through. Regardless, I doubt anyone could move so silently as to open the window, reach in and pull back the drapes, climb over the windowsill, cross the floor, wield the hat pin, and then leave by the same route, no matter how dark it might be, without being noticed.”
“Agreed,” Ryan said, and Estrada nodded.
“What can you tell us about that bunch?” he asked me.
“Very little. Bunny, Donald, Jayne, and Ashleigh you know. Rebecca also. Miranda is Rebecca’s niece; she’s staying here for the summer and has a job at Mrs. Hudson’s. Daniel and Eleanor Stanton are Rebecca’s stepson and his wife. I get the feeling they’re not close, but Rebecca’s husband was an older man when they married, so she likely didn’t have much involvement in Daniel’s childhood, if any. Maybe he resents her for his parents’ divorce. That’s common even if the new wife or husband had nothing to do with it. Max and Larissa Greenwood, the couple who look like they stepped out of a community theater production of Gilbert and Sullivan—”
“Who?” Estrada asked.
“Don’t ask,” Ryan said.
“Despite their accents, they now live in Boston and sailed here on their own boat, which is docked at the Cape Cod Yacht Club, conveniently situated not far from here. Larissa attended this séance in an attempt to get in touch with her grandfather, as she’s looking for something and she believes he knows where it is.”
Estrada began to make a note. “Is her grandfather in town?”
“Her late grandfather. Through the medium of the medium.”
“Oh, that. Right.”
“The first thing the Greenwoods did, when the lights came on and we saw what had happened, was attempt to leave. I ran after them and managed to persuade them to stay until you could talk to them.”
“Do you read anything into that?” Ryan asked.
“I’d need to know more about them, but initially I’m inclined to say no. Never mind the way it ended, the séance was an intense experience. They might have regretted attending and decided to take the first opportunity to get out of here. As for the other persons present, I’d never met Madame Lavalier, that’s the late medium, before, nor her assistant. Come to think of it, I don’t even know the assistant’s name. They weren’t close.”
“The assistant wasn’t in the room at the time?” Ryan said.
“I mean not close as in not friends. She’s noticeably not mourning her loss or even pretending to.”
“My head’s spinning,” Estrada said.
“They’re going to be getting restless out there,” Ryan said. “I can’t keep them waiting forever. Let’s get statements from the rest of them. But one more thing. How did this séance come about and why are you—of all people—here?”
“Bunny Leigh organized part of it. You’ll have to ask her and Donald for the specifics, but that’s what they told me. Donald was,” I coughed, “hoping to have a chat with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Ryan rolled his eyes to the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling.
“It would appear Bunny wanted to get in touch with her manager, now deceased, and ask for his help in getting her career back on track.”
“This case is not going to be simple,” Estrada said in a classic understatement.
“Daniel and Eleanor had little to say during the séance and didn’t ask to get in contact with anyone, although, of course, the evening was cut short. So to speak. They may have attended only out of casual interest, because they’re staying in the house in which it was being held. Eleanor seemed to be quite keen on it, but Daniel was skeptical. As for me, I came, reluctantly I must point out, because Ashleigh asked me to. She was afraid she’d be emotionally distraught and wanted the companionship. I asked Jayne.”
“Okay, thanks,” Ryan said. “I’ll leave Donald and Jayne till the end and ask them to sum up.”
“You both know what Jayne’s work schedule’s like,” I said. “She can’t sit here twiddling her thumbs all night. Let her go home, and get the finer details about what happened in the library from Donald. You can talk to Jayne in the morning.” I rubbed my hands together and stood up. “Good, that’s settled nicely. Since Jayne came with me, and I’ve been asked to stay, I’ll find an officer to take her home.”
“Last I looked,” Estrada said, “you don’t run this investigation.”
“I never mind assisting the police with their inquiries.” I opened the door before she could remember that I hadn’t actually been asked to stay. “Shall I send Rebecca in? It is her house, and you can ask her how this all came about before getting details about the dead woman from her assistant.”
“Might as well,” Estrada said.
The storm had moved on, leaving nothing behind but a light rain caressing the windows. Back in the living room, the music had been switched off and everyone sat quietly, either scrolling through their phones or staring into space. Everyone except for Donald, happily immersed in his magazine. The bar things had been put away. Ryan’s orders, Officer Johnson told me.
“Rebecca,” I said. “You’re next.”
She stood up slowly. Her eyes were wet, rimmed red, and I gave her an encouraging smile.
“I hate that this happened here, in my home,” she said.
“Madame Lavalier hates it more,” Eleanor said.
Rebecca flushed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” Eleanor said. “I’m sorry.”
“Detective Ashburton says Jayne can leave,” I told Johnson. “Call a ride for her, will you?”
She nodded and touched the radio at her shoulder.
“What about us?” Max Greenwood asked.
“He didn’t mention you. Come along, Jayne, don’t dawdle.”
I walked with Jayne to the front hall and we stood together, bathed in the gorgeous light from the chandelier hanging above us.
“Are you going to be okay, Gemma?” she asked me.
“I’ll be fine. But I’m more concerned about you. You stayed with Madame while I chased after Max and Larissa and everyone else fled.”
“Rebecca was with me. It wasn’t nice, but I didn’t know her … Madame Lavalier. Do you think that was her real name?”
“Probably not. The police will get the info from the assistant. Did you get her name, by the way?”
“I did. It’s Mary Moffat. She didn’t seem overly upset about what happened. She said she and Madame Lavalier haven’t worked together for long.”
Jayne opened the door, and we peered outside. The rain had almost finished, leaving everything thoroughly drenched. Rainwater dripped from the leaves on the trees and the potted plants, wet grass sparkled in the lights from emergency vehicles scattered everywhere. As we watched, the summoned patrol car splashed through puddles and pulled up to the steps in a spray of water. The air was moist and fresh, the light drops welcome on my face. Jayne ran to the car and hopped into the front passenger seat. I waved and then shut the door. Rebecca’s voice leaked from the dining room; more voices were coming from the library. No one had shut the door so I popped my head in.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a man in a white boilersuit and booties bent over the body on the table gave me a stern look. “You can’t come in here.”
“Carry on,” I said. “Don’t mind me.”
Another man waved a small brush used for gathering fingerprints at me. “Ms. Doyle, do I have to call Detective Ashburton to remove you?”
“Not necessary.” I backed away.
The decor in this home is not entirely to my taste, but obviously carefully chosen. And expensive, such as the two Chihuly light fittings. The furniture was a combined arrangement of comfortable modern and valuable antiques. Outside the library, a small, exquisitely crafted mahogany table, probably Federal, held a tall, slim, blue-and-white Ming vase. My knowledge of Chinese ceramics isn’t extensive, so I wasn’t sure if the vase was an original, but it was beautiful. I peered inside. It was obviously dark in there, so I pulled out my phone and switched on the flashlight app. I shone the light inside and stared down. Something was in there, stuffed at the bottom. I didn’t have any gloves on me nor a handkerchief, so I couldn’t lift the vase to shake it out. I could probably use the sleeves of my jacket, but if my fingers slipped I might destroy a piece of art worth several thousands of dollars. Not to mention render any evidence within useless in court.
I stuck my head back into the library. “Hi there. Me again. Sorry to bother you, but if no one has checked the vase outside this door for clues, you might want to do that.”
“We’ll get around to it in due course, thank you,” the first man said.
“Make her happy, Eddie, or we’ll never hear the end of it,” the second said.
They exchanged resigned glances. Eddie muttered something unintelligible, and they came into the hallway. The three of us formed a circle, staring down at the vase. “Probably Ming,” I said. “Worth thousands, maybe even tens of thousands.”
“It’s nothing more than a piece of evidence to me.” Eddie leaned over and peered into the depths. “Okay, I see what you’re talking about. There’s something in there and, judging by the way this house is maintained, there shouldn’t be. Better call one of the detectives before we fish it out.”
“I heard that!” Rebecca burst out of the dining room, a look of horror on her face. “Don’t you dare touch that.” Daniel and Eleanor had come out of the living room, the rest of the motley crew peering over their shoulders.
“We’ll be careful, Mrs. Stanton,” Ryan said. “But if it is evidence, I have to check it out.”
“That’s a genuine Ming vase,” Eleanor Stanton said. “It’s worth more than a small-town cop will earn in a lifetime.”
The forensic techs hesitated, looking at Ryan for instructions.
“I can’t—” he began.
“Actually,” Rebecca said, “it’s a knockoff worth about twenty bucks, maybe forty on a good day.”
Eleanor’s face was a picture of shock. She threw a questioning look at her husband and he shrugged in return.
“That vase has great sentimental value to me,” Rebecca said. “My late husband bought it from a street vendor in Beijing on our honeymoon because I admired it. It has a hairline crack in the back, and with rough handling it might break.”
“We’ll be careful,” Ryan repeated.
“Thank you.”
“In the meantime, can the rest of you return to what you were doing? Officer Johnson?”
“Back we go, folks. You’ll have your turn to tell your stories soon enough.” Johnson shepherded everyone into the living room.
“What else in this house is fake?” Eleanor said to Daniel as they walked away.
“My dad never cared much for spending money on collectibles.”
“Maybe he should have,” she snapped.
“Mrs. Stanton,” Ryan said, “there appears to be something inside that vase. Do you know what it is?”
“I do not. I don’t keep anything in it.”
Ryan pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on. The forensic techs gathered around. Rebecca peered over their shoulders. No one had asked me to leave, so I didn’t. I attempted to blend in with the wallpaper while still trying to observe what was going on.
Ryan picked up the knockoff Ming vase and, taking great care, turned it upside down over the table. He gave it a small, gentle shake, and something fell out. We all eagerly leaned forward. A crumpled-up, coarse-textured white cloth and a tiny lump of clear plastic about half the size of a golf ball fell out. Earlier, I’d thought we might find gloves stuffed down the back of a couch. It appeared this cloth had been used instead of gloves.
“Get these items to the lab ASAP and this vase and table printed right away,” Ryan said. “Whoever handled these things might have inadvertently touched something. Mrs. Stanton, do you recognize this cloth?”
“I don’t see anything special about it, Detective. It looks like an ordinary cleaning rag to me.”
“I agree,” I said. “We use much the same at the Emporium. Everyone probably does.”
“I’ll need your prints for elimination purposes,” he said. “As well as the others.”
Ryan would know any of the guests in this house tonight might have touched the vase and table on their way between the living room and the library. The vase was attractive—I’d admired it myself, although I hadn’t touched it. Still, it could be one of the mundane details used to slowly and painstakingly build a case.
“Detective Estrada, can you ask Miranda Oberton to join us, please.” Ryan said. His eyes flicked toward me, and he gave me the briefest of nods and a private smile before returning to the dining room.