Illicit Artifacts Page 4

The deep clanging of the tower bells reverberated through Jil’s breastbone as she stood on the old flagstone path in front of the church. Mourners had gathered, and Jil had been roped into several rounds of small talk with neighbors and friends of Elise she’d met only a few times—most of them years ago.

  She stood apart now, willing everyone to leave her alone. This is why Padraig should have been here—to protect her from having to talk to people. She vowed to give him shit when he got home.

  Who said the deepest loneliness was being surrounded by others?

  She would have talked to Jess, of course, had Jess been able to come. That would have raised too many questions, of course, so she’d had to stay away. Go to work. Be a principal in a board where she could never be free and open and happy.

  The tall oak doors, heavily gilded with wrought iron, were pulled open as the hearse pulled into the circle. It glided smoothly, with no sound, almost like an electric car. Fitting for the formality of the occasion.

  Karrie got out of the passenger side and came to Jil. Her navy trench coat whipped around her ankles as the wind gusted over the parking lot, and she pulled on dark leather gloves as she walked. “We’re all ready, if you are.”

  Jil glanced over as the pallbearers loaded the casket onto the portable trolley. Such a compact box for such a dynamic person.

  “What will happen to her after the ceremony?” Jil asked. “Until she can be buried?” She hadn’t thought that far ahead. Each step seemed to require her full concentration, and she didn’t have the energy for advanced planning.

  “Well, she’ll be going back to the mausoleum until the spring, when we can start burying again.”

  Jil nodded. “Right. And where’s that?” It seemed important to know where Elise was going—that she wouldn’t be disappearing, out of sight.

  “The mausoleum we use is at Beechgrove Cemetery. There’s a large building there on the north side where the deceased are held until burial.” Karrie looked straight at her while she talked, not shying away from any details. Jil admired her for that.

  “But she will be buried here? At her own church?”

  “Yes, that’s right. She has a plot here already. This cemetery is just too small to accommodate a mausoleum.”

  Jil sniffed. Right. Okay. She realized that people were watching her—that they were waiting for her to be ready. As she steeled her shoulders, she caught sight of a petite woman in a blue trench coat slip into the church. She looked familiar.

  Was that Anastasia? The home health care aide? Nice of her to come to a funeral.

  She didn’t have time to say hello before the bells began to ring.

  She looked once more at the casket, then up to the heavy oaken doors. Once again, she faced the crucifixes and kneeling—this time for Elise and not because Padraig had assigned her here.

  Why did the love in her life always come veiled in the impenetrable cloak of Catholic incense?

  *

  What was she doing? Sitting here staring at the clock, ignoring her job? She should be at Jil’s side today.

  She’d considered every possible excuse for ducking out of school and hurrying to the funeral, but then what?

  How could she sit through a Mass, mouthing the words and kneeling, genuflecting, responding in all the right places? All the while knowing God and all the other parishioners could see right through her?

  She couldn’t sit in the back row and watch. Seeing Jil crying and not being able to put her arms around her would be worse than staying away.

  And after every sin they’d committed since they’d been together—some of them in this very room—how could she possibly take communion?

  People would recognize her. If she stayed seated, there would be talk. What sin could have been so great she hadn’t received absolution and confession? And if she took it anyway—

  No, she’d never be able to take Mass lightly.

  Best to stay away altogether.

  *

  After the service ended and the hearse had driven away, Jil walked through the cemetery, hard packed from the early winter. Snow buried many tombstones, and she stopped to brush off a few of the smaller ones as she took the long road from one end of the cemetery to another. In the garden of angels, she read a few epitaphs.

  What would she put on Elise’s?

  Had Elise chosen her own?

  Probably.

  The walk took her an hour, and at the end, her nose had turned numb with the cold, and the salt from her tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving it feeling cracked. She felt cast adrift in a way she’d never expected. Orphaned by Elise’s death. Betrayed by all the questions she’d left behind. But orphaning could really only happen once, and it had happened when she was a little girl.

  She crossed the center garden with the wooden benches and brushed her hand against the water fountain that sat inert for the winter months.

  So why did she feel so alone now? Motherless for the second time in twenty years.

  There, on the hill, would be Elise’s final burial spot. She trudged up and sat on the cold stone bench that would face the headstone that would eventually be placed there.

  “You think I’m going to come talk to you?” she muttered.

  Well, she wasn’t entirely wrong.

  *

  The handyman’s truck idled in the driveway when Jil arrived, and she found him around the side of the house.

  “Hi, Ben,” she called. He waved back, and she noticed he’d gone a little gray around the temples under the white painter’s hat he always wore.

  “Should have come by earlier,” Ben said. “But I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

  Jil gave him a shove on the shoulder. He’d been Elise’s handyman for as long as she’d lived here. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I would have been glad to see you. Especially if this gutter had actually fallen off the house.”

  “It’s loose all right, and looks terrible hanging off like that.”

  “No kidding.” Jil laughed. “I’m supposed to get the house ready to sell.”

  Ben sighed deeply. The lines around his mouth had deepened, and his eyes held a heavy sorrow. “Your foster mother was one hell of a woman. It’s a real shame she’s gone.”

  Jil swallowed hard. “Do you want to come in for some coffee? We can make a list of the must-dos.”

  “Sure. That’d be nice.”

  Jil opened the door to the house and stiffened. The alarm didn’t go off. She looked at the panel on the wall and noticed a green light. Had she forgotten to turn it on? Something else felt wrong. The house seemed too cold. A draft came from somewhere near the back, and the scent of baked muffins and potpourri had dulled, as if carried away on the unwelcome gust.

  Ben stopped behind her, and Jil pushed over the threshold, saying nothing. She kept her short brown leather boots on and strode through the hallway to the kitchen, Ben following close behind her.

  “Let me just get things started. Why don’t you have a seat?” Stalling, she sliced up one of three chocolate Bundt cakes still remaining and set it on a tray while the coffee machine started up.

  “Will you excuse me for a moment, Ben? I just have to grab some paper.”

  Ben settled himself into a chair at the table as Jil ducked out of the kitchen, heading straight for Elise’s library.

  The mood had changed. The familiar smell had been replaced with something colder—fresher. She scanned the room. Something felt off in here. The antique Spode mug that held her pens faced the wrong direction. The files on the bottom shelf were in the correct order, but they leaned slightly to one side instead of vertically.

  You’re being paranoid.

  Jil absently fingered a gold leaf bracelet that lay on the side table next to the door. Elise had loved to collect rare artifacts, particularly if they were well crafted. She’d spent months tracking down this Anglo-Saxon jewelry.

  As an art history professor, nothing delighted her more than history in the flesh. And in the absenc
e of the real thing, convincing replications of history.

  Jil backed down the hallway and turned up the staircase. The draft seemed to be coming from up there. Ben emerged from the kitchen, a piece of half-eaten Bundt cake in his hand.

  “Do you feel a draft?” she asked him.

  “Upstairs window’s open a crack,” he said helpfully. “Saw it from the driveway.”

  Jil jogged up the rest of the stairs, crossed the space to Elise’s bedroom, and found the window slightly open.

  She stared at it for a second, thinking back. The neighbors had bombarded her for hours. She’d come upstairs to get a few minutes of peace…

  Did I forget to close it?

  She paused. Did I even open it?

  She jammed down the windowpane. Instantly, the air around her felt warmer.

  In the hallway, she stopped to look at her favorite painting—the huge Monet replica Elise had loved. Every time the front door closed, the exquisite oak frame shifted one inch up on the left, and every time she passed it, since she’d been sixteen years old, she pulled it back into line. She knew this painting as well as she knew the faded lavender wallpaper in her own bedroom.

  And something about it looked strange…

  Ten years ago, Jil had tripped over the vacuum and accidentally knocked the painting off the wall, producing a three-inch splinter along the right side of the frame. Which was still there.

  “Of course I’m not going to let you buy me a new frame.” Elise had scoffed. “This splinter proves you’ve been here. It’s part of the painting’s new history.”

  It hung the same crooked way. But something about the overall palette looked slightly darker. The signature at the bottom right looked a shade lighter than she remembered. When was the last time she’d really looked at it closely?

  She backed up to examine it, blinked, and stared again. Something in her gut flipped, and she knew with a certainty she couldn’t put her finger on: This painting was not the same.

  Chapter Five

  The glowering detective looked through the whole house, paying particular attention to the doors and windows. “I see no sign of forced entry,” he said, striding back into the kitchen. “Or of anything being stolen.”

  Jil took in his dark blond hair and two-day-old scruff. His open shirt collar and fitted jeans lent a certain casualness to his appearance that his navy blazer couldn’t completely offset. Boots—not dress shoes. Not even sort-of dress shoes.

  And he seemed to be taking this case about as seriously as he took his footwear.

  “How can you tell if I can’t? Elise had hundreds of artifacts. And if I didn’t disengage the alarm system, who did? Someone broke in here, Detective. I want to know who.”

  “You say you found the upstairs bedroom window open?” He leaned against the counter, fixing her with his dark blue eyes. In another life, she might have found him attractive. She felt certain other women did. A good-looking man in his late thirties with that confidence and that swagger probably attracted lots of trophy wives.

  But she wasn’t the trophy wife type.

  “Yes, the back window, leading in from the balcony,” she said.

  “And you can’t remember whether you opened it or not?” His voice held just the faintest bit of condescension, which she supposed she deserved.

  “Detective Fraser—”

  “I think we can skip right to first names, don’t you? Call me Nicolas, or if you’re feeling particularly brave, you can try Nic.”

  “Jil,” she muttered, extending her hand.

  He shook it firmly. “So tell me about this painting.”

  “It’s a Monet replica. Been here as long as I have,” Jil said. “She bought it at an antique sale in Montreal, from what I remember.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it, actually. I’m not familiar with that piece.”

  Jil remained silent. She had looked online the night before, but couldn’t find Evening River Seine mentioned in any of the catalogues she’d searched. Most of Monet’s pieces were in museums or private galleries, but this one hadn’t been listed at all.

  “Okay, Jil, here’s the deal. You say nobody forced their way in?”

  “No.”

  “You say you can’t identify anything that’s actually missing?”

  She sighed heavily and shook her head. She knew how this looked.

  “And you say that you may or may not have opened the window yourself while you were here the other day, being bombarded with neighbors and casseroles?”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”

  Fraser leaned forward. “I’ve looked through the whole house—every room. I don’t see any sign that this place was robbed. There’s a gold bracelet lying on the table downstairs. That Gorham vanity alone is worth looting the place. Not to mention the silver mirror, the seven antique watches, the earring tree, the beautiful—and I mean beautiful—necklaces.”

  She looked away. “Most of those things are costume jewelry.”

  “But not all.”

  Jil shook her head. “No, not all.”

  “And the Monet replica is still hanging upstairs.”

  A different replica. But she could hardly say that out loud. It seemed ludicrous, even to her.

  “You were upset. You weren’t thinking clearly. Isn’t it possible you simply forgot to turn on the alarm system? That you left the window open yourself? It’s natural for everything to feel suspicious and strange after a death.”

  Jil looked back at him, his eyes searching hers for an explanation—a dismissal. “Detective Fraser, I’ve lived in this house since I was sixteen years old. My foster mother was a very gentle woman, but she had one rule in this house—to protect her collection. Her artifacts meant the world to her. Even pieces of clay pots spoke to her in a way that normal people will never understand. They reminded her of her travels and her adventures. She relished them as mementos, but they were also extremely valuable. Never in my life have I left the house without turning on the alarm system. I know someone was here.”

  Fraser nodded, then closed his notebook. “I understand your point of view. But try to understand mine. There’s no way I can make a case of this. We just can’t dedicate resources to a scene of no crime.”

  Jil leaned forward. He was getting the better of her at every turn and it pissed her off.

  “I understand completely. But understand me—I am a PI, and when I smell a rat, something’s usually rotting in the walls. I will find out what’s gone on here, and when I do, I’ll be sure to let every newspaper in the city know that Rockford Police dropped the ball and you were leading the investigation.”

  Fraser’s face darkened. “Is that a challenge?”

  Jil grimaced. “You bet your ass.”

  Fraser’s jaw twitched as he opened his notebook again. “Is there anything you can tell me—anything at all—that will help me make this a viable case?”

  Yeah. Someone impersonated me at the funeral home and took my emerald ring.

  But she’d promised Karrie she wouldn’t report it to the police. She couldn’t have that girl’s job on her conscience.

  Fraser looked at her oddly. “Did anyone come by, anyone unusual? I mean, besides all the neighbors with the Bundt cakes.”

  Jil rolled her eyes. “No. Just the home health care aide.”

  “She came after your foster mother had died?”

  Jil frowned. At the time, that hadn’t seemed odd. “Yes.”

  “Did she go upstairs?”

  To get supplies. “Yes.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Five foot seven, one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Dark strawberry blond hair, medium length. Dark hazel eyes and a cupid’s bow mouth, very pale skin, no jewelry. She wore navy scrub pants and a white scrub top, carried a navy coat with wooden toggles, and a black tote bag from the St. Augustine Agency.”

  The detective raised his eyebrows. “Shoes?”

  “Black leather slip-ons with a ha
lf-inch heel.”

  “The color of the emblem?”

  “White. Would you like me to draw it for you?”

  Fraser lifted his chin. “No, thank you. I can find it online.”

  She tilted her chin to meet his eyes. “Good.”

  “One more question—is there any way she could have known the alarm code?”

  Jil frowned. “I can’t see Elise giving that out to her, but I suppose anything is possible. I didn’t even know she had an aide, to be honest with you.”

  “Very well, Ms. Kidd. I will put this in the report. It’s possible that the aide left the window open to air the room out, that you simply forgot to turn on the alarm, and that’s the end of our mystery. I can’t imagine many home health care workers double as cat burglars at night.”

  Jil didn’t want to discourage the investigation, but she couldn’t imagine how anyone could have climbed into that upstairs window either.

  “Will you be staying here?” Fraser asked.

  Jil frowned. “Maybe,” she replied. “At least until I can sell the place.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Fraser said. “I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble, but I don’t want to make any promises.”

  “That’s okay. I like to get up close and personal with my cat burglars. I’ll probably find her before you do anyway.”

  Fraser narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you have your own cases to be working on?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then I’d advise you to stick to spying on cheating husbands and their lovers, and leave the real crimes to the real police.”

  Not the first time she’d heard that.

  “I was the ‘real police.’ I get more done as a PI. And I will find our friend before you do. Guaranteed.”

  Fraser made a growling sound at the back of his throat, then stalked through the front door.

  Jil locked it behind him, then jogged back upstairs to look at the Monet again. In the daylight, the difference looked clearer than ever. She stood staring at it for a full five minutes, examining every square inch of the canvas.

  Someone had switched this painting, but why?

  The only suspect she had at the moment was Anastasia, but even though her gut told her to be suspicious, she had a hard time imagining a person of her slight stature being able to switch out a painting of that size alone in the dead of night.