Fiona jogged the three-quarters of a mile from her place in SoHo to Rose’s antique shop. It was a cool September evening, the sun had yet to set, and besides, she needed the exercise and the time to clear her head. She’d been so focused on the final details of the ring she’d been crafting for her new collection that, had it not been for the alarm she’d set on her iPhone, she’d probably have missed the appointment. Time was not her friend these days. She was always rushing to keep up. Not that she could complain. The initial pieces of her new Celtic line, Light and Shadows, were selling like crazy and she’d already begun a major marketing campaign for the next wave.
Thank heavens for her mom’s memory box. That’s where she’d found the tapestries that were the inspiration for her latest work. And that’s why she’d gone to Rose for assistance. No one loved exquisite Celtic treasures as much as Fiona did—other than Rose. And when it came to historical knowledge and international contacts on all things Celtic, the gentle woman was the quintessential source.
Fiona had given Rose a full-page print of the photo she wanted her to start with—the largest and most intricate one. The rest would follow. And since she was basing her whole line on the exquisite images woven into the fabric—both the traditional symbols and the symbols she’d never before seen—she wanted to know all there was to know about them.
She found herself becoming excited again, just as she’d been weeks ago when she first asked Rose for her help.
Jogging lightly across the street, Fiona stopped long enough to admire the latest antiques displayed in Rose’s bay window. An Egyptian perfume bottle, a Waterford crystal vase, and a pair of Renaissance statues. All finely detailed, the vase a complex and ornate pattern of Celtic symbols. It even had a fresh bouquet of flowers in it—that would be Glenna’s touch.
With a sense of homecoming, Fiona pulled open the door and stepped inside, her eyes searching the cluttered room she’d visited so many times since she’d started making her own jewelry, back in her teens. Rose had been the one to sell her original pieces—sterling silver earrings with intricately pieced Celtic patterns in the center—crafted in her parents’ basement when she was just beginning her career. That had been nine years ago—nine years of what had become a valued professional relationship. Fiona would be forever grateful to Rose for giving her that crucial start.
As always, the shop was the essence of clutter. It was dimly lit by a single crystal chandelier, and the fine layer of dust that covered everything made it look as if it hadn’t been touched in thirty years. Stacks of papers and old magazines were piled high on the Chippendale desk, behind which were a trio of odd tables haphazardly placed and crammed full of objets d’art—miniature Egyptian statues from three-thousand-year-old tombs, candlesticks from medieval castles, inkwells once belonging to Charles Dickens, and dozens of Celtic stone carvings. Three of the four walls were covered with African masks, ancient scabbards, pieces of Italian frescoes, old rifles, mosaics from Pompeii, and dark Rembrandt-like paintings in gilded frames. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the fourth wall, holding hundreds of worn leather-bound books on archeology, painting, ancient art, and art history. The bottom shelf held a long row of thick three-ring binders, each one filled to the brim with plastic page-protectors holding photocopies of pages from obscure texts that Rose found especially intriguing.
Fiona’s gaze darted back to the desk, noting the bottle of whiskey and sole empty glass sitting on it. Was this going to be some kind of celebration?
“Rose?” she called out, somewhat surprised that the elderly woman hadn’t come out of the back room at the first sound of Fiona’s arrival. Whatever she’d discovered in her research had her so excited that she didn’t even want to discuss it over the phone. She’d practically ordered Fiona to show up at the end of the business day so they could talk in private. And she’d put out her vintage whiskey. According to the antique clock on the wall, it was two minutes past six.
Clearly, this was not a meeting Rose had forgotten, absentminded or not.
This time Fiona yelled louder… and waited. “Rose?”
Something about the silence was unnatural, and it totally creeped her out. She glanced instinctively behind her, not sure what she was expecting to see.
Nothing.
She’d been watching way too many crime dramas.
With a self-deprecating shake of her head, Fiona took a deep, steadying breath—one that ended up making things worse. Yes, her nostrils were accosted by the usual musty smell. Only this time that smell was mixed with another odor, one that was nauseatingly metallic.
The strange feeling slammed back full-force, accompanied by an innate sense of fear.
“Rose.” This time Fiona said her name quietly, tentatively, moving forward as she did. She eased her way around the desk, reached the tables… and tripped. Looking down, she saw Rose’s cane. Why was it there? Slowly, with an eerie sense of reluctance, she raised her head. And what she saw made her stop dead in her tracks, her hands flying to her face to stifle a scream.
At the back of the shop, maybe thirty feet away, Rose was lying, crumpled on the floor, her head against the marble hearth of the fireplace, a stream of blood seeping from beneath her skull and pooling all around her.
For a long instant, Fiona froze, just staring at her friend’s oh-so-still body.
Then she acted. Grasping wildly at her purse, Fiona pulled out her iPhone and punched in 911.
“I’m at Fifty-seven Bedford Street,” she told the emergency operator. “The owner of the shop is on the floor. There’s blood pouring out from under her head.” Tears welled up in Fiona’s eyes and she forced out her next words. “She’s not moving and it doesn’t look like she’s breathing. I think she’s dead. Oh, God, I think she’s dead.”
Fiona sat numbly while the professionals did their jobs. Two uniformed officers arrived simultaneously with a beat cop who’d been three blocks away when the call came in. One of the officers immediately got on his radio and Fiona heard snippets: bleeding profusely… we need bus… we need squad….
EMS, Fiona thought idly. And a detective squad. At least that’s who always showed up in TV police procedural shows.
Shortly, a city block of Bedford Street was taped off. The same officer who’d radioed in now made a phone call, providing more thorough details to his precinct and asking, “Who’s catching tonight?”
EMS burst in. It took them little more than a moment. Rose was declared dead. They then backed off, attempting to not disturb the body further.
Two plainclothes detectives entered the scene, one man and one woman. From the woman’s take-charge manner, Fiona assumed she was the catching detective tonight. Right behind them came a team of four other detectives. The take-charge woman scrutinized the scene for a few minutes, after which Fiona heard her call for Crime Scene and a medical examiner.
Why? Fiona wondered. Why Crime Scene?
Before her dazed, grief-stricken mind could process more, the woman approached her.
“I’m Detective Alvarez,” she said in a calm, straightforward tone. “You’re the person who made the 911 call…” She paused, waiting for something.
My name, Fiona thought stupidly. She wants my name.
Slowly, she raised her head and removed her hands, the heels of which she’d just pressed against her eye sockets. “Fiona,” she whispered.
“Okay, Fiona. So you found the victim and called it in?”
A nod was all Fiona could muster.
Up close, the woman looked even more solid and authoritative, but she gave Fiona a compassionate look. “I’m going to need you to come down to the Sixth Precinct and answer some questions. It’s just procedure. I know you’re very upset right now, and I’m sorry about that. We’ll do our best to make you comfortable and get you out of there as soon as possible.”
Again, she paused.
Fiona forced herself to nod.
“Good. The squad car will take you to the precinct. I’ll follow shortly to interview you.”
Responding on cue, Fiona stood. Almost against her will, she turned her head and—for one brief instant—stared at the hideous sight of Rose’s contorted body, now an impersonal object waiting to be examined and removed. The elderly woman’s cane lay sideways near the chair, where Fiona had tripped over it. Fragments of glass were scattered around the cane with rivulets of whiskey interspersed among them.
Quickly averting her gaze, Fiona took a step and swayed on her feet. She steadied herself in time for one of the officers to come over and assist her to the car.
***
At the precinct, she was settled in a bare-bones interviewing room and offered coffee. Her stomach was in knots and she was trembling like a leaf. Coffee was the last thing she needed. In the end, she took a Sprite. No caffeine but plenty of sugar, which was necessary given how dizzy she felt. It was close to seven thirty, she hadn’t eaten dinner, and the shock of finding Rose’s body was taking its toll.
Detective Alvarez arrived forty-five minutes later. The hour and a half that followed was a Q and A blur.
Where were you coming from? What route did you take to the shop? Did you know this woman? For how long? How often do you go to her shop? Did you have an appointment? What was the nature of your business with her today? What time did you get there? How do you know it was that time? What do you remember seeing in the block or two before you got there? Are you familiar with her clientele? What family does she have? What’s their contact information?
Fiona blinked at the last few questions. The only person she knew who might be able to supply all those details was Glenna. She herself hadn’t a clue if Rose had family or close friends. She gave Detective Alvarez Glenna’s information, hoping that Rose’s assistant could help where she couldn’t. Poor Glenna. Not only would she have to cope with the horrifying news of Rose’s death and be subjected to a lengthy interview, but she’d have to personally reach out to all the numerous clients and colleagues who knew and loved her boss. There’d be a wake and a funeral to arrange. Fiona would share that responsibility with Glenna and any living next of kin. That much, at least, she could give to Rose.
Detective Alvarez was scribbling down Glenna’s data. “I’ll call her right away and find out where she is. What time does she regularly leave the shop?”
“Five thirty,” Fiona replied woodenly. “I think she takes classes at NYU in the morning and works at Rose’s shop until after closing time.”
“Then she might very well be the last person to have seen the victim alive,” the detective said. “Plus, she’ll be familiar with the clients who visited and called today and she can give us a list of the victim’s contacts. Hopefully, she’ll also be able to supply us with the name of the next of kin.”
Tears dampened Fiona’s cheeks. “Glenna adores Rose. She’s been with her for five years. Please be gentle when you tell her.”
“I’ll inform her in person, not on the phone. After that, I’ll bring her in to be interviewed.” The detective rose. “Thank you very much for your cooperation. I have your contact information if we need to talk to you again. Meanwhile, my partner will drive you home, or wherever you want to go.”
Fiona stared at her for a long moment.
Home? Her roommate was out of town. And she couldn’t bear to be alone with the horrifying images still flashing through her mind. She could go up to her parents’ house, but she wasn’t sure she could handle the emotional scene that would erupt.
She needed support, not hysteria.
Suddenly, she knew exactly where she wanted to go.