“Exactly.” He touched the screen with a finger. “Your bird is actually a mandarin duck, oshidori. See the tiny carved feathers?”
The detail on the tiny creature was incredible. Both Mac and Stevie had said Leila had been interested in Asian art. It made sense that she’d had the oshidori.
“The mandarin is a symbol of fidelity,” Mr. P. continued. “Ironic because like most ducks they only mate for a season and then move on to a new pairing.” He gestured at the computer screen. “This one is part of a collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I think it’s possible that it and the netsuke we believe was Leila’s were originally part of the same set. It and of course Leila’s, if I’m correct about it, date from the late nineteenth century.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying it’s not a replica?”
“From what I can tell, no.”
“It’s valuable.”
He nodded. “There’s no question about that. You said Leila always kept it in her desk?”
“Yes. Both Natalie and Mac said she kept it in one of the drawers.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “It seems unlikely she didn’t know what she had. She studied art history at college for two years.”
“Which Erin would have also known.” I exhaled loudly in frustration. “This means something. It has to. I just wish I could figure out what.”
Mr. P. rested his hand on my arm for a moment. “I’m going to see what I can find out about the piece in the museum’s collection. Maybe we can figure out how Leila ended up with her netsuke.” He picked up his laptop and headed back to his sunporch office.
I was too restless to go back to paperwork. I called Jackson to accept his dinner invitation and checked the Web site for orders. It seemed far-fetched to think a tiny little carving, no more than an inch by an inch and a half, could hold the key to the accident that had put Leila in a coma and to the murder of her best friend, but it was all we had right now. I headed downstairs to the shop.
In the following couple of hours I sold a Martin guitar, two quilts and four of Avery’s map-covered lampshades and I polished every mirrored or glass surface in the shop. It was close to closing time when Rose appeared in the doorway to the workroom and smiled at me. I walked over to her. I felt certain Mr. P. had brought her up to date.
“Alfred has something he’d like to show you,” she said. “I’ll stay here and help Avery.” Avery was in the middle of showing the grandparents of a nine-year-old a dressing table I’d refinished about a month ago. Based on the couple’s body language I didn’t think she needed any help making the sale.
Mr. P. was at his desk, making notes on a lined yellow pad with a fine-tipped black pen.
“Rose said you had something to show me?” I said, poking my head around the doorframe.
“I think I’ve traced Leila’s netsuke,” he said. “Elizabeth has a connection to someone on the board of the Metropolitan Museum.”
It really didn’t surprise me that Liz had that kind of connection.
“She put me together with one of the curators at the museum. It turns out they had tried to buy the other ducks when they went up for sale about two and a half years ago.”
I sat on the edge of his desk. “They didn’t succeed.”
He shook his head.
Then it hit me what he’d said. “Ducks.” Plural. “Wait a minute,” I said. “There was more than one duck?”
Mr. P. beamed like he was the teacher and I was his star pupil. “Yes, my dear. Both of them”—he looked down at his notes—“were purchased by a private collector somewhere in New England. It seems that for a time netsuke were popular as a token between lovers and it cut into the museum’s ability to expand their collection. So far I’ve had no luck getting the collector’s name.” He paused for a moment. “There are still a couple of techniques I haven’t tried yet.”
I nodded. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be too crazy about those techniques so it was probably better I didn’t ask about them. I glanced at the computer screen. Mr. P. had several photos open on the computer, one overlapping the other. In one of them I spotted Davis Abbott holding up a beer. “What are those?” I asked.
“The photos that young Mr. Abbott said he would send. He finally did.” He brought the image of Davis holding his beer—and obviously intoxicated—to the forefront. “I have to say I don’t understand some people’s propensity for documenting everything they do with a photograph, but it does make my work much easier sometimes.” He minimized the image and brought up the remaining half dozen one at a time. Davis’s one-night stand was visible in three of them. In one she appeared to be on his lap.
The last photo looked to have been taken in a lawyer’s office.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Remember Davis admitted he got a copy of the trust agreement?” Mr. P. said. “He took it with him when he went to see Leila about challenging the trust.”
I frowned at him. “I remember. How did he do that, by the way? No lawyer would just hand that document over to him.”
“I wondered the same thing. It turns out Stevie asked Marguerite’s lawyer for a copy of the document. Davis picked it up.” He raised an eyebrow.
“So Stevie knew a little more about what Davis was up to than either one of them has been letting on.”
Mr. P. smiled. “I think Stephanie and her young man have a very flexible definition of the truth.”
I studied the image. “Is this Jackson Montgomery’s office?” I asked, squinting at a diploma on the wall behind the office desk.”
“Yes, it is,” Mr. P. said. “He was Marguerite Thompson-Davis’s lawyer.”
I was having dinner with Jackson later. I could ask him more about the trust, if there actually had been any way to break it.
I took another look at Davis Abbott’s selfie. He was sitting on the edge of Jackson’s desk, one hand on a long, brown envelope lying on the polished wood surface, which I guessed held the trust papers. Jackson’s desk was much tidier than mine—a laptop on what would be Jackson’s left, a lamp, a yellow pad of paper, two photos in matte black frames and what seemed to be a couple of paperweights. Something was written on the envelope, I realized. I leaned in for a better look.
My heart began to pound and the sound of rushing water seemed to fill my ears. Something must have shown in my face.
“Sarah, are you all right?” Mr. P. asked.
I pointed to the screen. “You’re uh . . . you’re going to think I’m crazy but I know who killed Erin Fellowes and put Leila McKenzie in a coma,” I said.
Mr. P. studied the computer for a long moment. Then he looked at me.
“Yes?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes.”
We spent the next twenty minutes going back over what we knew, looking for holes in my theory. Everything held together. By the time it was time to close up shop we had a plan.
Rose was folding a crocheted tablecloth when I stepped back into the shop. “I think I may have a sale for this,” she said. “A young woman was looking at it and she asked me for the measurements. I wouldn’t be surprised if she comes back tomorrow.”
“It’s pretty,” I said, moving to grab one end. “But it’s a lot of work to starch and block the thing.”
“My mother used to starch my father’s shirts,” Rose said. “I remember how scandalized her mother was when Mama bought a can of spray starch.” She laughed. “My mother really embraced aerosol cans—spray starch, spray whipped cream, spray cheese. Even hair in a can for my father.”
We folded the lacy tablecloth and Rose put it over the back of a wooden chair. She looked around the room for anything else out of place but between the two of them, she and Avery seemed to have tidied up the space. Avery already had the vacuum going.
“Are you still going to Charlotte’s for dinner?” I asked.