"Sometimes a bargain is not worth the price."
Reviewed by Jennifer Vido
Posted May 7, 2008
Mystery Woman Sleuth | Mystery Amateur Sleuth
Josie Prescott has it all together. A highly sought-after
antiques appraiser, Josie's newly opened business is
thriving in the small town of Rocky Point, New Hampshire.
As she tries to corner the market with her insight,
knowledge and keen know-how, her eclectic group of
employees makes her path to success an enjoyable ride that
will hopefully earn her the finest reputation in the area.
Not only does Josie have the business acumen
desired by many, but also she has an array of friends like
Rosalie and Paige that fill her life and make her feel as
if she is truly one of the town's own. From lunch dates
with the girls to a hot and hunky police chief who just
happens to be her boyfriend, Josie's life is as close to
perfect as she could possibly imagine.
When a secret innocently shared between friends
winds up becoming the driving force behind a senseless
murder, Josie finds herself taking a personal interest in
the case despite her better judgment. Left behind without
family herself, Josie feels a sense of obligation to help
the victim's younger sister despite all she already has on
her plate. Before she knows it, she is knee-deep in a
treasure hunt using her skills as an appraiser to unlock
the missing clues that seem to lead to solving this most
cryptic case. And if things weren't bad enough, throw a
secret admirer in the mix and what unfolds is a bait and
switch that even has Josie the expert shaking her head.
ANTIQUES TO DIE FOR is the third installment of
Jane Cleland's savvy and hip Josie Prescott Antiques
Mystery series. A fascinating look at the behind-the-
scenes goings-on in the antique business, Cleland's novel
combines the best of mystery and romance to bring her
readers a charming tale that entertains as well as
educates. Without a doubt, ANTIQUES TO DIE FOR is a rare
find and definitely worth the bid.
SUMMARY
Since Josie Prescott left a high-paying job in New York to
set up shop as an antiques appraiser on the rugged New
Hampshire coast, her life has not gone exactly according to
plan. In many ways, it's gone better: She has a booming
business, good friends and neighbors, and even a promising
romance. But dead bodies do seem to keep crossing her
path. And now her friend Rosalie has been killed just hours
after confiding a secret to Josie, leaving a bereaved
twelve-year-old sister, Paige, who reminds Josie of herself
when her mother died. It turns out that Rosalie had other
secrets too: a mysterious treasure she told her sister she
was leaving behind—and a secret admirer who now seems to be
turning his creepy attention to Josie! As Josie races
to solve the crime while helping Paige and trying to keep
her business afloat, Jane K. Cleland brings us an
irresistible new blend of coziness, crime, and collectibles
ExcerptChapter 1"Josie? Josie!" Gretchen, my assistant, shouted from the
front office, her voice echoing across the cavernous
warehouse. "Josie? Where are you? Rosalie and Paige are
here." "I'm in the Barkley corner. Send them over!" Her high heels click-clacked on the concrete floor, then
stopped. I could picture her pointing to the far back
corner where the furniture we'd just purchased from Isaac
Barkley's estate was situated. I was squatting to examine the inside of a tallboy drawer,
checking for extra holes that might indicate that the pulls
had been changed. Isaac Barkley had some spectacular
objects, but I'd identified two reproduction pieces as well. "Josie?" Rosalie's sweet voice rang out a minute later. "Here! Behind the tallboy." "You are not!" she said, a bubble of laughter in her
voice. "I'm looking at the tallboy as I speak." I poked my head out and saw her. Her back was to me, facing
a highboy. She wore a dark-blue down parker over jeans. She was
slender and pretty, the kind of pretty that derives as much
a vivacious personality as from facial features. Her kid
sister, Paige, looked just like her, except that Paige's
hair was a lighter shade of blond, almost platinum. Rosalie
and I were about the same age, early thirties, and Paige
was twelve. "That's not a tallboy. That's a highboy!" I said, standing,
brushing the grit from my palms onto my jeans as I walked
toward her. Rosalie turned to face me and rolled her eyes. "Oh, please.
Tallboy, highboy. They're men and they're big. What's the
difference?" Paige grinned. I laughed and shook my head. "Highboys are older, dating
from the mid-seventieth century. They're chests-on-stands.
Tallboys weren't introduced ‘til the turn of the eighteenth
century and are chests-on-drawers." Rosalie nudged Paige playfully. "Learn something new every
day, right, Paige?" "It's interesting," Paige said. "See," I said to Rosalie, nodding in Paige's direction. "A
smart girl." To Paige, I asked, "How's your vacation going?" "Great! We went skating this morning." "Paige went skating," Rosalie quipped, making a funny
face. "I went falling!" Paige giggled. "She's really bad." "Watch it, cutie!" Rosalie said, trying not to
laugh. "Paige is the athlete, that's for sure, not me." She
waved it away. "Never mind all that. Josie, we're here to
kidnap you! I'm dropping Paige off at her ballet lesson and
you and I are going to lunch." "Cool," I said, enjoying their banter. "What's the
occasion?" "No occasion, just a random crime." "Excellent. I'll all grubby from crawling around the
furniture. Go and chat with Gretchen while I clean up,
okay?" "We're always glad to chat with Gretchen." Ten minutes later, as I entered the front office, Gretchen
said, "I know, I know. You're right. I guess it just wasn't
meant to be. But I think it's really too bad." "What wasn't meant to be?" I asked. "Marcus Wetherby is divorcing Angelina for the second
time," Gretchen explained. "Who are they?" "Don't you know anything, Josie?" Rosalie teased,
laughing. "Marcus is the hero on the soap opera Follow Your
Heart. He's a pilot with a girl in every port. Angelina,
his first and his third wife, just caught him with Melina
in Madrid." "Not only did I not know that, but I didn't know that you
watched soap operas." "I don't. I'd never heard of it either until Gretchen
filled me in just now!" I laughed. There was no gossip too mundane to interest
Gretchen and she was glad for a chitchat about the latest
happenings. Sasha, my chief appraiser, sat at her corner desk,
engrossed in a catalogue describing important nineteenth-
century Eskimo artifacts. Fred, my other appraiser, wasn't
around. "Did Fred leave for the McIver job already?" I asked
Gretchen. "Yes. He said that since he was going to be in Exeter for
that appraisal, he thought he'd stop at the university
library." "Oh, yeah?" I asked. "Why?" "Let me find the note." She rustled through a pile of
papers. "Here it is—he's checking that print you found
against a book by Dame Juliana Berners called A Treatyse of
Fysshynge wyth an Angle," she read, stumbling over the
fifteenth-century spelling. "Right," I said. "That's good." Tucked into a box of art prints I'd purchased as a lot was
a slightly foxed woodcut that looked as if it might be a
rare angling print, and I'd assigned Fred, an expert art
historian and my newest appraiser, the job of
authenticating it. He was at the university library to
compare our print to their original. My fingers were
crossed, but I wasn't optimistic that he'd be able to prove
that we had a page from one of only a few extant copies of
Dame Juliana Berners' 1496 book, one of the rarest
publications on earth. "We're off to lunch. Do you need anything from me before we
go?" "Nope," she said cheerfully. "I'm all set. Have a good
time!" I shrugged into my heavy wool coat. Gretchen's wind chimes
jangled as I pushed open the front door. It was a bright,
sunny day and whip-cold, typical for January in Portsmouth,
New Hampshire. "What a doll Gretchen is!" Rosalie said as we crunched
across patches of snow to our cars. "Complete and utter. I have no idea what I'd do without
her. Where am I being kidnapped to?" "Murray's, if that's okay. It's close to Paige's ballet
school." "Perfect." At lunch, we sat and talked with the ease and comfort of
kindred spirits. I'd known Rosalie for more than a year
which qualified her as one of my oldest friends in
Portsmouth. We'd met at an installation I was overseeing at
Heyer's Modular Furniture. Rosalie was a Ph.D. candidate ghostwriting a biography for
Gerry Fine, the newly appointed CEO of Heyer's. I was
installing a boat-load of antiques for him, and we'd run
into one another at his office—literally. Rosalie had been backing out of the little cubbyhole that
served as her office during the rare occasions she was on
site. Absorbed in reading her notes, her mind was a million
miles away, she was backing out, ready to leave. I'd just
installed a bracket that was, according to my level,
properly mounted, but according to my eye, wasn't. I was
backing up to get a wider-lens view of it. Bottom-to-
bottom, we collided. "Oh, my God!" I exclaimed, startled. "That's a heck of a way to meet someone," Rosalie said,
laughing a little. "Well, we obviously have a lot in common—we both walk
backwards." "And we both concentrate so hard we don't even notice our
surroundings." "I'm sorry," I said. "Don't apologize. It makes us sisters under the skin." She
extended a hand. "I'm Rosalie Chaffee." Her radiant smile and laughing eyes drew an answering smile
from me. We shook, completed our introductions, and chatted
in a friendly way. On the face of it, Rosalie and I didn't have a lot in
common. Rosalie seemed to genuinely admire Gerry, the top
executive of Heyer's, whereas I thought he was a pompous
ass. She was in New Hampshire temporarily while finishing
her education. I was a business woman who'd started a new
life in Portsmouth and was eager to put down roots. She was
raising her sister on her own after their parents died in a
car crash years earlier. I lived alone, and had no family.
She was boy crazy. I was in a solid, monogamous
relationship. But we had many common interests. We shared a love of
murder mysteries, cooking, guavatinis, and good natured
debates about politics, love, men, business, and books.
Rosalie was whip-smart and open-minded and loads of fun to
be around. We never ran out of things to talk about or
tired of one another's company. * * * When I arrived at Heyer Modular Furniture the next morning,
I took the hammer, mounting filament, and level out of my
toolbox. I was in a hurry to hang a painting, a small
Joseph Henry Sharp oil called Crows in Montana, and get
back to my office. Before my staff began the laborious process of sorting,
cleaning, and polishing every inch of every item, I
personally examined everything. My warehouse guys would do
the hands-on primping and my appraisers would do the
authentication and write up the catalogue copy, but it was
my responsibility as the owner of Prescott's Antiques:
Auctions and Appraisals to determine whether the contents
merited a stand-alone auction or whether we'd generate more
buzz and realize greater profits if we combined these
objects with others. After years trying to develop a
decision-making model, I'd given up. As far as I could
tell, successful merchandizing was half art and half timing. Tricia Dobson, Gerry's older, pleasant-faced assistant,
looked up from her typing and smiled. "Hi, Josie." "Hey, Tricia. You look awfully happy for this early on a
Thursday morning." "We're two weeks away from Florida." "Oh, that's right. Where are you going?" "Boynton Beach." "Nice." Holding a plastic container filled with various sized
picture hooks, nails and screws, wire, and a screwdriver in
one hand, I lifted the painting, gauging whether I could
carry it, along with all the paraphernalia to install it
properly, to the CFO's office where it was to hang, or
whether it would be more prudent to wheel it on a hand
truck. It was only three by six inches, and light, but I
didn't want to risk dropping it. "Josie, do I hear your voice? Are you there? Tricia!" Gerry
boomed from his inner office, startling me. The plastic
container fell and the clasp sprung open, spilling hardware
on the carpet. "One sec!" I called, squatting to pick everything up. Tricia calmly started toward his office, dictation pad in
hand. "Hurry!" Gerry called. I left the scattered nails and screws where they'd fallen,
slid the painting between the wall and Tricia's credenza,
and stepped to the doorway that connected her anteroom to
Gerry's office. "Yes?" I asked from the threshold. "It's Rosalie… I mean… they just called and told me," Gerry
stammered, looking from Tricia to me and back again. I'd never seen Gerry flustered. On the contrary, typically,
he was smooth, confident, and in control. Now, though, his
anxiety was palpable and contagious. I glanced at Tricia.
She was staring at him, then turned to look at me. "Who called to tell you what?" I asked, my worry meter
whirring onto high. "The police. She's dead." "What?" I asked stupidly, gaping. He jerked his thumb toward the phone. "That was the Rocky
Point police. They want me to come down and identify the
body." "You," I asked, confused. "Why you?" "They can't find any next of kin and since it's still
Christmas break, no one's around at Hitchens. I guess they
found her Heyer's key card and called HR. Since she worked
for me privately, not for the company, HR called me." I looked at Tricia for answers or support. She was
gripping the notebook so hard her knuckles were white.
Still, she didn't speak. "Rosalie's dead?" I repeated. Gerry's tone shifted from hapless confusion to sarcastic
irritation. "That's what they said." My heart began to race. How could Rosalie, my friend, be
dead? "How did she die?" "I don't know. All they said was that she washed up on the
beach." "Oh, my God! That's horrible!" I crossed my arms, covering
my chest, an instinctive, protective gesture. "Drowned? Rosalie drowned?" Tricia whispered. "She was so
young." Paige, I thought. Where's Paige? "Yeah. So, Edie has the limo and I didn't bring her car.
Tricia needs to stay here and hold down the fort. Will you
take me?" Gerry asked me. Gerry had negotiated a car and driver as part of his
compensation package and if he had no outside appointments
scheduled, his wife, Edie, got to shop in style. Sometimes,
when she'd commandeered his company car, he tooled around
in her BMW, but evidently, today wasn't one of those days. I was hot and cold at the same time. Chills ran up my arms
and down my spine, yet my palms were clammy and I was
having trouble breathing. "Sure," I agreed. "Now?" "Yeah," he said, standing up, grabbing the suit jacket he'd
draped over his leather chair. "Let's go." Gerry was tall, with almost-blond curly hair that he wore
too long, and a deep suntan, thanks to the Portsmouth
Suntan Salon. In the year plus since I'd begun helping him
and his wife, Edie, decorate his office suite with antiques
they'd purchased from my company, he'd left during working
hours several times to go to the tanning salon, whispering
his plans to me with a wink, as if he and I were buddies or
co-conspirators. At first I thought he was flirting with
me, but then I realized that he was just vain and bragging. The sun was blinding, reflecting off the bright white snow
that dotted the landscape. The ground was winter brown, and
the ocean was blue-black, glittering with sun-sparked
diamonds. As I drove up Ocean Avenue, I pressed the pre-programmed
button on my cell phone and heard the Chaffee's home number
ring and ring, until finally a machine picked up. My throat
caught listening to Rosalie's bubbly message. I glanced at
Gerry. He stared out of the window toward the ocean. After the beep, I said, "Hi, Paige. It's Josie. Josie
Prescott. If I can do anything, anything at all, call me."
I added my number and hung up. "Paige is Rosalie's sister," I explained to Gerry. "She's
only twelve." He nodded, but didn't reply. In fact, he was quiet the
whole way and I was relieved. It gave me time to think, to
try and assimilate the shocking information—Rosalie was
dead. Yesterday, at lunch, Rosalie was full of weekend
plans and lively conversation. How could she be dead? * * * While I waited for Gerry to finish his grisly duty, I
slipped a George Benson CD into the player and watched the
ocean. Small swells rolled in toward shore. Listening to
George Benson's rendition of "On Broadway," a song that
just tore me up it was so beautiful and mournful all at
once, I wished I could forget all the memories connected to
Rosalie. Twenty minutes later, Gerry returned to the car with a
police officer I recognized called Griff walking beside
him. Officer Griffin, coal-black, in his sixties, gestured
that I should open my window. He leaned in to ask me to
follow him to the Rocky Point police station. "Sure," I agreed. We left the small hospital where Rosalie's body had been
brought from the beach and turned south on Ocean Ave. Rocky
Point, about a fifteen minute drive from Portsmouth,
included three miles of New Hampshire's eighteen-mile
coastline. As we drove, my eyes kept drifting to the dunes,
and I wondered if Rosalie's body had been found among the
tangled brambles near the street or by the thick wash of
seaweed closer to shore. It was just awful to think about,
and I couldn't stop. I waited for Gerry to speak, but he didn't. "Was it her?" "Yes," he answered, sounding stupefied. I took a deep breath to suppress some unexpected
tears. "How did she die?" I asked quietly. "Badly." He gazed out of the window at the gold-specked
ocean, and after a moment, added, "I guess she drowned. Her
face was puffy." I was sorry I asked. Still following Griff, I pulled into the Rocky Point Police
Station lot and parked. The station house was designed to
match the prevailing style in the affluent New Hampshire
seacoast town. It looked more like a cottage than a police
station with shingles weathered to a soft dove gray and the
trim painted Colonial blue. "Are you okay?" I asked him. "Sure." I nodded, speculating that his dismissive tone reflected a
combination of wishful thinking and denial, murmured
something empathetic, and watched as he stepped out of the
car. Officer Griffin approached and told me, "You, too. If you
don't mind." "Me?" I asked, surprised. "You knew her, right? Rosalie Chaffee?" "Yes." Griff nodded. "Come on, then." Tendrils of anxiety rippled up my back, then down again. I
knew nothing about Rosalie's death, but I knew things that
I didn't want to talk about including secrets she'd shared
in private conversations. My experiences with the police
didn't inspire optimism. Interviews were routinely more
intrusive than expected and invariably led to an
unwarranted veneer of suspicion. Feeling powerless and fussy, like a child being sent to the
principal's office for an infraction she didn't commit, I
followed the two men inside.
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