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Beverly Laborde kept staring at him after he dropped his little bombshell question, and Adam Dutton decided to let her sweat for a moment as he looked around the Apple Valley Resort. This was only the third time he’d set foot in the pricey spa where rooms started at two-fifty, and he still wasn’t sure he liked it.
Okay, so it wasn’t the typical folksy decor in the lobby, but this looked more like a set out of a sci-fi film. Clinical, cold, impersonal. Fortunately, the tea room had soft chairs instead of some hard metal contraption. And it smelled like coffee and muffins, not fake potpourri.
Beverly Laborde wasn’t what he’d thought she’d be, either. She was hardly the model of a con artist, with her knee-length gray skirt, starched white blouse, and flat-heeled shoes. Throw in the brunette hair pulled into a bun contrasting against her porcelain skin, and she could have stepped out of a 1930s photo, the demure debutante.
But an air of sophistication about her made Detective Adam Dutton all too aware of his JC Penney suit and tie, complete with a mustard stain from his hot dog lunch. He pushed those thoughts aside. Let the interrogation begin.
“So, you arrived on the Amtrak train this morning and checked in at the Apple Valley Resort, not more than an hour ago. Is that correct, Miss Laborde?”
She smiled and picked up her chamomile tea from the table between them. “Such a lovely view, don’t you think?”
He followed her gaze out the wraparound windows to the Presidentials in the distance, across the New Hampshire border. Ah, that kaleidoscopic quilt of autumn leaves. Easy to take for granted, which is why he never did. “Is that why you’re here—for the view?”
She inhaled the chamomile aroma, then slowly exhaled with a smile. “I’m as much here for the view as you’re here to chat about the architecture of this place.”
Her cornflower eyes studied his face so intently, he felt as if he were the one suspected of passing off fake artifacts. The thick emotional skin he’d evolved, thanks to his ex-wife and a string of ex-girlfriends, wasn’t much of a shield against Beverly Laborde’s soul-piercing gaze.
“I’m here, Miss Laborde, because a disgruntled collector was bilked out of forty-thousand dollars. A woman approached the guy saying she had a genuine Paul Revere silver bowl. Even let it be appraised. Once she sold it to him, he discovered she’d switched it with a replica.”
“What did this woman look like, Detective?”
He leaned back. “The victim, Reginald Forsythe the Fourth, described her as tall, slightly heavyset, with red hair and dark glasses.”
“How tall?”
“About five-ten.”
Beverly set her cup down, took a mirror out of her purse, and held it in front of her. “No red hair. I’m only five-eight. And I do try to adhere to caloric restriction, so I hope I’m not heavyset. Your description doesn’t sound like me, does it?”
“Forsythe got the impression it might be a disguise. At the risk of sounding like a TV crime show, I have to ask where you were two evenings ago, around eight?”
Without hesitation, she replied, “Two nights ago, I was at a play by myself. I think I have the ticket stub around here somewhere.” She dug into her purse. “Here you go.”
He took it from her, wrote down the info, and handed it back. The theater wasn’t anywhere near Boston. She couldn’t have met with Forsythe at his shop there and made the two-hour trip to Hanover in time for that play. Unless she simply tore the ticket in half and never attended the performance.
Laborde added another spoonful of organic honey to her tea and stirred. “Have you ever played Fox and Geese, Detective Dutton?”
“What?”
“Fox and Geese. A board game popular in Colonial days. One piece represents the fox, and thirteen pieces represent the geese. The geese can’t capture the fox but can win by hemming him in. For the fox to win, he has to capture and remove geese one by one, so they can’t trap him.”
Okay, maybe Adam’s first impressions of Beverly Laborde hadn’t been on the mark. Maybe she was one brick shy of a full load. “I don’t see the connection with our female thief.”
“This collector of yours, the one who made the complaint. Do you know much about him?”
“The basics. Middle-aged, very rich. Owner of a successful art and antiques gallery near Boston. Again, I really don’t see—”
“Is it likely that someone that successful could be duped? And why didn’t your female suspect just take the money and run? Why the switch?”
“To sell it twice. Two con jobs with the same item, and you’ve turned forty-thousand into eighty.”
“The art world isn’t all that large, Detective. Don’t you think someone would spot this scheme? The FBI has a division for art fraud now. So I’ve heard.”
“It’s possible our thief is planning to sell the Revere bowl to one of those collectors off the grid. Someone like a rich Wall Street inside trader who buys artworks just to have them around. The status of it all.”
“Sounds like you speak with the voice of experience, Detective.”
An image of Adam’s father sprang to mind, the once-proud carpenter fading into a dried-up husk of a man after sinking all his savings into a Ponzi scheme. He lost every dime. The rich bastard who ran the operation escaped to South America and was undoubtedly living the high life—wine, women, and more gambling. With prized artwork hanging on his walls, and a Paul Revere bowl or two on a credenza, no doubt.
Adam turned his attention back to business. “The buyer told Boston police officers he saw an Amtrak ticket receipt in the con woman’s purse. We’ve been warned to keep an eye out for women arriving on the train from out of town. Primarily those asking about antiques. And you’re the only one so far who fills the bill.”
“I hardly think antiquing is a crime, Detective. If that were the case, then my sainted grandmother and thousands of others like her are guilty.”
“Harlan Wilford, who owns the local Tossed Treasures shop, said you’d telephoned asking about silver artifacts. That you’d been doing some research. What kind of research would that be?”
“It’s quite fascinating. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of Rogers’ Rangers in the eighteenth century?”
He shook his head. History was never one of his strong suits.
“They were dead set on preventing Indian raids on Canadian and New England towns. So, some of the Rangers slaughtered the natives in a French-built Indian village.”
He blinked at her. “I don’t see the connection to a silver statue.”
“The Rangers stole a silver plate, candlesticks, and a solid silver statue of Our Lady of Chartres from a church. As the story goes, an Indian guide leading the Rangers back through Mount Adams abandoned them. Only one Ranger made it out alive, his knapsack filled with human remains.”
“The survivor turned to cannibalism?”
Laborde waved her hand in the air. “There were rumors to that effect.”
“And I take it the silver pieces were in that knapsack, too?”
“No one ever said. However, the candlesticks were recovered near Lake Memphremagog in 1816. The statue was never found.”
“Your research hasn’t turned up anything?”
“Not much other than spirits of the Rangers are said to cry in the woods. And a hunter once had a ghostly vision up on Mount Adams–of Indians in a church under a floating silver statue.”
“Why all this interest in ghost stories?”
“I’m a student of history. I think it’s a fascinating subject, don’t you? I mean it was either that or philosophy. If it hadn’t been for my art history classes at the Hood, I might be another Susanne Langer or Simone de Beauvoir.”
“The Hood? You mean the Hood Museum of Art? Dartmouth?”
“It’s the main reason I got my art history degree. Are you a Darty, too?”
“Too rich for my blood. I worked my way through community college.”
Miss Laborde’s gaze had rarely wavered from his face, and he’d gotten more at ease with her scrutiny. Now he was aware of a change, a look he interpreted as pity. Or amusement. Or both.
Deciding this interview was going nowhere fast, and not entirely convinced it wasn’t a dead-end, he quickly drained his coffee and got up to leave. “I think that’s all for now, Miss Laborde.”
“You’ll be keeping an eye on me, I presume. At least I hope you will.”
He stopped in his tracks. “And why is that?”
She tipped her cup in his direction. “Because you have such nice eyes, Detective.”
He put those eyes to good use to stare at her, to remind her who was in charge here. He nodded at the waitress on the way out, and a quick look back at Laborde told him she remained sitting there looking through the window.
Was she only here for the spa as she’d said? Somehow, he didn’t think so. It was entirely possible she had nothing whatsoever to do with Forsythe and his damned Revere bowl, but her arrival was a thorny coincidence. And having that ticket stub to prove her alibi was too convenient.
Out in the parking lot, he grabbed some Black Jack chewing gum from the glove box and popped one of the aniseed-flavored sticks in his mouth. It was times like this, he missed his Marlboros. He’d have to settle for an after-work beer, or maybe he’d indulge in some of that Cognac he’d been saving.
He cranked up the engine as he took in the landscape. From here, the resort rose up like a miniature city sculpted out of white pine siding, red clay tennis courts, and azure pools. Red, white and blue. Rah. Not the type of place to make him want to stand up and salute.
Okay, so he’d interviewed Beverly Laborde as he’d promised the chief this morning. Why this was the department’s problem all of a sudden, he hadn’t a clue. No, that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
Forsythe reported the bowl switch at his store in Boston, but his primary residence was in this county—or half of it since it straddled the border with Hartford. Everything was local when you were dealing with the Vermont version of William Randolph Hearst. But squirrelly investigations or not, Adam wasn’t about to be outsmarted by a smug high roller. Or a beautiful scam artist.
