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Tuesday, September 14
Adam Dutton sat in his office, eyeing a Jenga-like pile of folders. He resisted the urge to pull one out at random and see if the pile teetered over.
During the drive back to the police department from Apple Valley Resort last evening, Adam had considered the enigma of Beverly Laborde. He was pretty sure she knew about the Revere bowl switcheroo. There was the timing of her visit, and her answers too oblique. Plus, she was so maddeningly sure of herself, it was like watching an actress on stage.
When he woke up bright and early, he’d determined to research whatever he could find on her background. It was slow going, but he did confirm her attendance at Dartmouth.
Other than that, she didn’t have much of a paper trail, and he hadn’t found any employment records. An inheritance? He hadn’t uncovered anything about her family background to tell. Still, the two-fifty per night at the resort wasn’t chump change.
That family background thing bothered him. A scant few Labordes were scattered around New England, but no Beverlys. Not a trace. No birth, wedding, or divorce records, no mentions in newspapers or professional directories. He found a few Beverly Laborde death records, but they dated back a couple of decades and beyond. He broadened his search to the entire U.S., but no luck there.
Where had she come from? It would be hard to get a subpoena from a judge for Adam to take at a look at her Dartmouth records without a good reason. And that was pretty much all he had to go on right now.
Beverly had asked what he knew about the swindled collector, so he dug around there. Much more interesting, that. The collector “victim”—Reginald Forsythe, IV, or “Reggie” as he was known to avoid confusing him with his father—was dogged by hushed allegations he dealt in stolen and plundered artifacts.
He was rich, he had an army of lawyers at his beck and call, and he’d sued a few of those gossips for defamation. And won. Maybe it was all sour grapes, then. The antiques world was filled with cutthroat buyers and dealers? Who knew?
Adam found something else interesting. Reginald Forsythe, III, was accused of similar corruption, and like his son—no charges, no jail time. Both Forsythes belonged to the Northeastern Antiquities League, a group that included two other collectors who’d filed reports of being swindled with replicas. Both those collectors also had black clouds of ethical suspicion hanging over them.
What the hell was going on in that organization? And what was Beverly Laborde’s connection? Trying to picture her as a criminal mastermind wasn’t working too well for him. Perhaps she really was a simple history and antiques buff?
He didn’t have time to ponder those questions as his fellow detective Eliot Jinks wandered in and plopped down on the chair in front of his desk. She pointed to the remains of his half-eaten kielbasa breakfast sandwich. “You gonna eat that?”
Not waiting for his reply, she grabbed it and scarfed it down. “My doc has me on a low-sodium diet. He says to me, ‘you know African Americans have an increased risk for high blood pressure, so lay off the salty foods.’ But have you tried unsalted potato chips? I’d rather have that heart attack.”
“Guess I won’t have to throw away that Norwegian lutefisk I ordered for you for Christmas,” he said with a grin. Adam once asked Jinks how a skinny little black girl from the Bronx who’d moved to Vermont could know anything about lutefisk. She’d said her college roommate gave it to her as a gag, but the joke was on her after Jinks got addicted to the stuff.
Jinks got up to get herself a cup of water from the water dispenser in the corner of Adam’s office. “You get anything out of that woman staying at the Dilly Dally resort?”
“Dilly Dally?”
“Seems like a better name to me. It’s on a hill, not a valley, there aren’t any apple trees for miles, and those people have time and money to burn.”
“Yeah, it reeks of pretense when you walk in the door. But to answer your question, I didn’t get anything helpful. Laborde doesn’t fit the description of our scam artist, but she struck me as resourceful. The type of woman who could charm the dilly off a guy if he wasn’t careful.”
“Oh?” Jinks raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like she got under your skin, my friend.”
Adam fiddled with a pen on his desk. “I just think she may know more than she’s telling.”
“Better come up with a concrete clue, because I came here to warn you. I saw the mayor walking into the building a few minutes ago. And he didn’t look happy.”
Her words were underscored by the chief’s administrative assistant, Cherry, who poked her head in with a summons from The Man himself. Jinks gave Adam a sympathetic look, then got up to straighten his tie for him. “Cheer up. Zelda wasn’t with the mayor.”
Adam grunted. “Thank god for small favors.” Not that he’d expect Zelda to come with her new husband this go ’round like she’d made a point of doing after the man was elected two years ago. Adam knew it was for his benefit, one final exclamation mark on that chapter of his life.
When Adam entered the chief’s office, Mayor Lehmann was standing next to the chief, and they were laughing, but the two men got quiet as soon as they spied Adam. Chief Phineas “Phinn” Quinn pointed at one of the overstuffed faux-leather chairs, and Adam took a seat. The mayor continued standing near the chief—a united front, no doubt. Towering over the peon detective to make sure he knew his place.
The chief asked, “Did you interview that woman who’s staying at the resort?”
Adam cleared his throat. “She says she doesn’t know anything about the bowl switcheroo, and she doesn’t match Reggie Forsythe’s description. But I’m checking her out, just in case.”
“You do that. Even if she’s not our thief, we need to be on the lookout for any suspicious woman in our jurisdiction who could be our female Robin Hood.”
“Robin Hood?”
“It’s what Reggie Forsythe called her. Forsythe’s agitating to see this woman is caught and forced to make restitution. I don’t need to remind you Forsythe is a wealthy and powerful man. He could make trouble for our department if he so chooses.”
The mayor piped up. “Yes, but we’re also fortunate to have Forsythe in this part of our fair state. He’s an ally we want to keep on our side.”
Adam bit his tongue to keep from saying, “No, Forsythe is the type of man you want on your sorry-ass side.”
It was no secret Mayor Titus Lehmann had grandiose aspirations. The Mayorship was only the first step. Next, it was the governor’s mansion. And one thing a candidate needed to make it to the top job in the state was some heavy-hitting backers. Feeding Reggie Forsythe’s ego was all part of that plan.
In his research, Adam read that Forsythe had backed several candidates for various offices. Buy them off, and they’ll perform for you on command. It was a formula as old as cavemen, bartering food or trinkets to become the clan elder.
Adam looked both men in the eye in turn. “I’ll pursue every lead I can.”
“You do that.” Chief Quinn studied his face. “If you want me to assign someone else other than Jinks to help out—”
“If I need help, Jinks is fine. She’s working that missing-person case right now. But I know I can count on her if need be.”
The chief seemed somewhat satisfied and turned to Lehmann. “Are we still on for that golf game Sunday morning?”
“Sure thing, Cal. I’ll see you around nine-ish.”
Lehmann didn’t give Adam one look as he strode out of the office. Adam gave the slimy eel plenty of time to slither away before he said, “I don’t understand one thing, chief. Okay, more than one, but why didn’t this Forsythe guy simply go to the FBI since this may be a multi-jurisdictional thing?”
“He said he didn’t want to involve them if he didn’t have to.”
“Did he now? Why not?”
“He didn’t elaborate. But it’s probably a reputation thing. Forsythe is all about reputation.”
“Yeah, I got that. Just like the mayor.” Adam got up to return to his office, but Quinn stopped him.
The chief said, “I meant what I said about Jinks. How are the therapy sessions going?”
Adam’s smile faded. “Fine. I’m down to once a month now.”
“You know the department will continue to pay for those as long as you—”
“I’ve been thinking about stopping them altogether.”
“Whatever you think is best.” The chief rubbed his chin and added, “You know, as rich as Forsythe is, you’d think he wouldn’t be this upset about one silver bowl. Even if it was crafted by Paul Revere himself.”
“Forsythe sounds like a man who doesn’t like to be crossed. Someone got the better of him. He won’t stand for that.”
“Then, I hope we catch this thief before he does.”
“So do I, Chief. So do I.”
Adam stomped down the hallway to his office and dropped into his chair. Jinks poked her head in to see if he was back. “How’d it go?”
“What you’d expect. Quinn’s got a monkey on his back. And the monkey—”
“Is an ass, if you’re referring to the mayor.”
“The brain of a monkey and the tail of an ass.”
Jinks made the sign for “correct.” She’d learned sign language when her father had gone partially deaf from meningitis. Adam had picked up a little bit so they could communicate silently on stakeouts, but he was nowhere near as fluent as Jinks.
He signed back, “Idiot,” and she signed back something he doubted she’d want her kid to repeat. Trust Jinks to make him feel a bit better.
§ § §
Adam made a quick trip to the Amtrak station to see if there’d been any more reports of women traveling alone who might have been seen carrying silver or maybe talked about it. The manager said no, but he did recall Laborde carting one large piece of luggage and a smaller overnight-style bag. He said he’d remembered because he’d thought the unusual blue floral fabric on the bags was perfect for such a lovely lady. Score one for Laborde’s charms over the male sex.
An overnight bag was commonly used by women for toiletries and makeup. But it was sort of bowl-sized, too, wasn’t it? Fat chance of Adam getting a search warrant based on a tourist who happened to be in town and was interested in history and antiques. Forsythe’s clout aside, most judges would laugh Adam out of the courthouse for that.
Adam also stopped by the local library to see if they had any books on silver pieces, mostly those from the Paul Revere era. They had one he checked out and began to read in his car. Hopefully, he’d learn enough to know a real piece when he saw it.
The history of it all was more interesting to him than the actual pieces. He had no idea Paul Revere worked copper and brass and printed currency in addition to his silversmithing—that even included false teeth.
Truth be told, most of the antique silver pieces in the book’s photos looked alike to Adam. It was a mystery to him why some collectibles were valued so much more than others. Rarity was a factor, sure, and ownership history. But other than that, a bowl was a bowl was a bowl.
He needed some advice from someone far more expert at this antiquing thing that he was. There was only one person he trusted about these matters, the “Antiques God,” as Adam called him.
Talk of bowls and antiques aside, he’d told Jinks he believed Beverly Laborde was hiding something. But if it wasn’t this Revere thing, what was it? Adam sighed. He’d almost prefer to have a good old-fashioned murder case right now. He chastised himself for that thought, knowing there’d be plenty more of those in his future. A little bowl-bother might not be so horrible, after all—if only it didn’t have Reggie Forsythe’s paw prints all over it.
