Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
W yatt’s job in ag law enforcement had plenty of distasteful aspects, but overseeing the destruction of Jenny’s orange grove had been the worst day of his career. Furthermore, he had yet to learn anything about the skeleton found on her land. Figuring out the identity of the dead woman and how she got into the hollow of a tree was the sheriff’s job, not Wyatt’s, but he was tired of waiting for answers. It was time to light a fire under the sheriff to get him moving.
His suspicion about the case gathering dust was confirmed when he asked the sheriff’s administrative assistant who was researching the case.
“It’s been assigned to Patrick Smith,” she replied. “He’s out on paternity leave for three more months.”
Wyatt blanched. “Paternity leave?”
“Yes!” she said brightly. “His wife had twins last month. I think it’s great the department lets men take paternity leave, don’t you?”
“Sure, but who’s investigating the skeleton until Patrick gets back?”
“I don’t think anyone’s investigating it. The case is kind of cold, you know?”
Not to Wyatt, or Jenny either. The Fabergé egg would remain locked in a vault until the skeleton was identified. It could take years unless someone convinced the sheriff to get moving on the case.
Wyatt spotted the sheriff through the window in his office door, and he was alone. Wyatt rapped twice and entered without waiting for a reply.
“Three months of paternity leave?” he asked tightly.
Caleb leaned back in his chair. He was built like a fireplug, with his belly straining at the buttons of his shirt. “Welcome to the twenty-first century. Don’t worry, I’ve got Patrick’s cases reassigned.”
“What about the Summerlin Groves case?”
“Not a priority. It’s a fifty-year-old cold case, and we’re understaffed.”
“What about the egg?”
Caleb sat back upright. “I asked one of those professors from the college to see if he could find out how it got here. He called it ‘a provenance.’ That’s some foreign art term meaning the chain of custody for rare things. I don’t know why they don’t just say ‘chain of custody.’ Anyway, the professor said he might have time over spring break to start looking into it. Why the big rush?”
Because Jenny teeters on the edge of financial ruin, and that egg means a lot to her . The case wouldn’t make progress while the sole detective was out on paternity leave and unpaid volunteers “might” have time to help out during spring break. Wyatt didn’t have the funds or the authority to launch his own investigation into the identity of that skeleton, but he knew someone who did.
It was the same person who submitted the anonymous complaint about the disease on Jenny’s grove.
Penny Danvers had never been a good fit for this town. In the highly competitive television news industry, on-air positions were hard to get and ambitious reporters often paid their dues in places like Amity before advancing to a major market. It hadn’t taken Wyatt long to trace the IP address from the anonymous complaint back to the local television news station, and Penny was the most likely source.
The beige brick building housing the news station also contained Amity’s city hall and only radio station. Penny had a private office, even though she had to share it with shelves of lighting equipment, tripods, and computer servers. She didn’t even try to deny sending the complaints.
“Citrus canker is highly contagious,” she said, the picture of innocence as she put her hand over her heart. “It was my civic duty to report it.”
Penny covered the grove demolition for the evening news. Most of the people on site that day took no joy in the task, but Penny looked triumphant. Everyone knew that Hemingway had dumped her a few months earlier, and she seemed delighted to twist the knife to hurt both Hemingway and Jenny in one swift jab.
“You’re familiar with Summerlin Groves,” he said. “What’s your theory about who the woman in the tree is?”
Penny warmed to the subject. “That woman died around the same time the environmentalists started raising the alarm about the dangers of phosphate. Her skeleton was found a few miles from the biggest phosphate mine in the country. A coincidence?”
Wyatt mulled over the idea. He wasn’t at liberty to share the biggest clue, the Fabergé egg that was still sitting in a locked storage vault, and yet, Penny’s theory was a good one. “Have you reported that to Sheriff Eckert?”
“He’s been useless,” Penny said dismissively.
Wyatt nodded. “He’s short-staffed and this is a very cold case, but you could do something.”
Penny straightened, suddenly all business. “What have you got in mind?”
“A forensic artist. The skull is in good condition and we already know the woman’s age and ethnicity. That’s enough for a forensic artist to come up with an accurate rendering of what she looked like. And once you have that . . . ”
Penny’s eyes gleamed. If the sketch resulted in a solid lead, it would give Penny plenty of attention and maybe even the chance to solve a crime. It was the kind of story that could catapult a small-town reporter onto the national stage.
Penny stood and came around her desk to face him. “Can you pay for it?”
He shook his head. “This case is outside my purview. I’ll bet the station would fund it.”
“The station is cheap,” Penny said. “All they care about is local weather and traffic reports. As if traffic is a big deal in a one-horse town with five stoplights.”
Wyatt kept his expression carefully neutral. He and Penny shared similar frustrations with life in Amity. He’d been born and raised here and could criticize its shortcomings. Penny was an outsider and didn’t have that right.
He strolled forward to brace a hand on the wall above Penny’s glossy chestnut hair. “I get it, Penny,” he said with deceptive calm. “When you look at Amity you see an aging town square with cracked sidewalks and empty storefronts. It’s not big enough for a cinema or yoga studio or a decent Thai restaurant. The Friday night football game and church on Sunday morning is the only excitement all week. But if your car breaks down on the side of the road, someone will stop to help before you can even lift the hood. If you get sick, your neighbors will show up with a covered dish. These people work hard, pray harder, and raise the food that feeds people all over the world. This backwater town represents the heartbeat of America, and all those fancy urban hotspots would grind to a halt without it.”
Penny’s eyes glittered with cynicism. “You hate Amity as much as me.”
Wyatt pushed himself away from the wall. Was it possible to love and loathe a place at the same time? Obviously it was, or he wouldn’t feel so compelled to defend his hometown. Even though he never wanted to settle down here, he respected Amity.
“I’ll exercise my right to remain silent regarding Amity, but a good investigative reporter would yank out their own eye teeth to discover the identity of the woman in that tree. It might even get you out of Amity.”
“It will cost a fortune.”
Wyatt shrugged. “How much is it worth for you to make a name for yourself?”
Penny’s smile was wolfish, and he knew he’d come to the right place.
Wyatt’s knowledge of Fabergé eggs couldn’t even fill a thimble, but the best place in Florida to learn more was right here in Amity. Karl Wakefield founded a museum to display his phenomenal personal collection of Russian art and antiquities. He claimed it was to share his bounty with the community, but mostly it was a tax write-off. Over the decades the museum became one of the best private museums in the country. The Wakefield Museum put Amity on the map, and its biggest attraction was two Fabergé eggs.
How did Karl get those eggs? How much did they cost and who did he buy them from? Somehow, the dead lady in the tree came into possession of a rare, missing Fabergé egg, and she’d probably been drawn to the area by Karl.
Wyatt turned into the museum’s parking lot and let out a low whistle as he got out of his car. He’d been to this place a couple of times as a kid on school field trips, but never as an adult. The white limestone building reflected the subdued glamor of 1940s art deco design. Wide steps led up to an expansive portico, and inside was another a huge lobby built to host swanky receptions. Russian icons hanging on the interior walls looked oddly modern with their flat, unsmiling faces looking down on him as he walked toward the reception desk. It was a weekday and almost nobody was here.
To his surprise, he recognized the woman at the reception desk. It was Mrs. Hawkins, everyone’s favorite fourth-grade teacher.
“I didn’t realize you worked here,” Wyatt said as he approached the chest-high counter.
“I volunteer three days a week,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “I always loved this place, and now that I’m retired, I get to be a part of it.”
It would be a nice place to volunteer. The reception area was filled with a fortune in Renaissance tapestries and those gilded Russian icons. “What sort of work do they have you do?”
“Smile at guests as they come in.”
Wyatt laughed. “That’s it?”
She nodded. “It’s a self-guided museum, so there’s not much to do. The real reason they staff a reception desk is because it lowers the museum’s insurance bill.”
“This place carries a lot of insurance?”
Mrs. Hawkins sent him a pointed glance. “Those two Fabergé eggs are worth more than this entire building.”
“Where are they?”
Mrs. Hawkins came around the counter and gestured him into the gallery. “I love showing them to people. I’m afraid one of them is on loan to another museum, but the Blackberry Winter Egg is here.”
Although the gallery walls featured plenty of framed art, the star attraction was two display cases in the center of the room. The freestanding cases were tall enough to bring the eggs to shoulder height. One case was empty, but Wyatt walked to the other. Spot-lit from above and surrounded by bullet-proof glass on all sides, it gleamed with astonishing radiance.
The craftsmanship was staggering. Tiny clusters of blackberries and coiling vines were made of amethyst and jade, twining around an opal egg and looking shockingly realistic.
“I’ll never tire of looking at it,” Mrs. Hawkins said, her voice hushed with reverence. “So much beauty, so much artistry and love and wealth, all contained in that tiny egg that fits into the palm of my hand.”
“Have you ever held it?” he asked.
Her trance was broken. “Oh my, don’t be silly. Visitors are never allowed to hold the egg.”
It wasn’t exactly a denial, but he wouldn’t push. “Where’s the other one?”
Mrs. Hawkins glanced at the empty case. The flicker of annoyance was so fleeting he could have imagined it.
“Mr. Wakefield and his wife took it to Amsterdam for an exhibition. It’s been out on loan for months.”
“You’re talking about Raymond Wakefield?”
Mrs. Hawkins nodded. “He’s on the board of the museum, and he loves taking these eggs all over the world for special exhibitions.” Mrs. Hawkins glanced both ways as if to assure herself they were alone in the gallery. Then she leaned in close to speak in a low voice. “Personally, I think he takes them on the road because he loves getting wined and dined all over the world. He only takes them to glamorous places, where he and the baroness can stay at luxury hotels and dine at Michelin-starred restaurants.”
Mrs. Hawkins led him over to the empty case, where a photograph pasted to the side of the case showed the missing egg, a masterpiece of scarlet enamel that opened to reveal a golden palace inside.
“How does a person come into possession of one of these things?” he asked.
Her expression turned sadly cynical. “You have to know the right sort of people. You could be the richest person in the world, but this sort of treasure hardly ever goes up at auction. It’s almost like the owners are in an exclusive club and they control who gets access to them. Raymond could tell you a lot more. I don’t move in those kinds of circles.”
But she came close. Mrs. Hawkins had been the daughter of the Wakefields’ cook, but once upon a time she was Senator Wakefield’s sweetheart. Did Mrs. Hawkins ever look around at the fortune in treasures that filled this museum and wonder what her life could have been had she married Max Wakefield? Instead of an old apartment on the town square, she’d be living at the Wakefield mansion. Although Mrs. Hawkins never breathed a bad word about the senator, she didn’t bother to hide her disdain for Raymond.
“How did old Karl Wakefield get these two eggs?”
“Probably some sort of back-room deal with the Soviets,” she said dismissively. “The archivist might be able to shed more light on it.”
He followed her back to the reception desk, where she placed a phone call to someone in the archives.
“Belinda will be out in a few minutes,” Mrs. Hawkins said as she replaced the phone. Then she turned to the computer screen and didn’t glance at him again.
Had he offended Mrs. Hawkins? Maybe probing into her knowledge of the Wakefield family had pricked an old, unhealed wound. If she still carried a fondness for the senator, why had she chosen to work in a place where she’d be surrounded by evidence of the Wakefield fortune everywhere she looked?
Most people probably had a long-ago love affair that never panned out. Those youthful flings rarely survived, but their memory could linger forever, a glorious season in the sun against which all other romances would be measured.
It was how he felt for Jenny. Remembering the intensity of those magical few months still carried a wistful, tender longing that was almost enjoyable in its anguish.
The archivist finally emerged, a middle-aged woman in a boxy beige suit who introduced herself as Belinda Cruz. “What can I help you with?”
“I’d like to learn more about the Fabergé eggs you have on display,” he said. “I’m especially interested in how the Wakefields got them and how much they paid.”
“We don’t have a whole lot,” Belinda said as she led him into the archives. It was a grim, windowless room filled with worktables and metal cabinets. “One of the eggs was purchased abroad, and the other was a gift, so there isn’t much of a paper trail.”
Gifts? What kind of person could afford a gift of that magnitude? “Can you show me whatever you have?”
“Certainly.” She began searching through a file drawer, and Wyatt took the opportunity to study the photos on the wall. Most featured Karl Wakefield with world leaders, and it was an impressive lot. How many people had photos standing in between Mahatma Gandhi and Albert Einstein? Others showed him with aging Hollywood stars. Charlie Chaplin and Paul Robeson…both men were known for harboring communist sympathies.
Then came the biggies. Karl Wakefield always considered his efforts to alleviate famine during the twenties and thirties in the Soviet Union to have been his proudest accomplishment, and his efforts were honored with receptions at the Kremlin. One photo showed a young Karl Wakefield shaking hands with Joseph Stalin, both men grinning broadly. Others showed Karl with Khrushchev and Brezhnev.
Joseph Stalin was probably history’s biggest mass murderer of his own people, and a friendship with him wasn’t something most people would be proud to flaunt.
“Karl never tried to hide this?” he asked Belinda as she closed the file drawer.
“The extent of Stalin’s atrocities wasn’t fully brought to light during Mr. Wakefield’s lifetime,” she said in what sounded like a well-rehearsed script. “The terms of his endowment to establish this museum require these photos to be publicly displayed, and we thought the archive was the best place.”
The best to escape attention, anyway. He glanced at the slim file Belinda held. “This is the paperwork for the eggs?”
“It’s all we’ve got. I’m afraid there’s not much.”
Wyatt settled into a chair and opened the file. Belinda wasn’t kidding. The top document was an old mimeographed copy of a Russian form, dense with Cyrillic writing and impossible for Wyatt to read. An English translation was appended. The document was a customs declaration, stating that Karl Wakefield had legally purchased the Blackberry Winter Egg and paid all necessary taxes and fees to the Soviet government before leaving the country. The price was never mentioned. The other document was even shorter, just a simple Christmas card from the Kremlin, thanking Karl for his decades of service with “this modest gift of the Castle Egg.”
Mrs. Hawkins’s assertion about needing to know people in high places had never been more evident than these two forms. Was the dead woman in the tree one of those “people in high places”? The discovery of her body only a few miles from the home of an ardent collector of Fabergé eggs couldn’t be a coincidence.
Other files contained paperwork for failed attempts to buy additional eggs. Both old Karl Wakefield and his grandson Raymond had been insatiable in their attempts to buy a third Fabergé egg, but never succeeded. Raymond seemed particularly fascinated with the glamor of the eggs. One entire file contained photographs of him at museums around the world posed alongside various Fabergé masterpieces, his expression one of awe and admiration. Nowhere in these files was any evidence that Senator Wakefield participated in the hunt for more eggs.
The only thing he learned for sure was that two of the Wakefields had an unquenchable thirst for Fabergé eggs stretching across half a century, and these treasures were almost impossible to win.
What would Raymond do when he learned Jenny had one?