Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

45

Jesse waited for Henry Wilmott in the lobby outside the curator’s office. The Cain Library was at the center of what used to be all of Paradise. What the townspeople now called Old Town. It was where most of the quaint shops were, the ones that catered to the folks who came in spring for the garden tours and tours of the Victorian houses, the ones who came in summer for the regatta, and the ones who came in the fall for the changing of the leaves. These shops that had once been home to the butcher, baker, dry-goods store, greengrocer, and cobbler were now leased by cafés, antiques stores, art galleries, and tourist shops that sold souvenirs, sunblock, old-timey whaling paraphernalia, and plastic scrimshaw. Old Town wasn’t far from Pilgrim Cove and the old Cain house.

Jesse got tired of sitting. Between his visit to Dix and the press conference, he was full of the kind of energy he got charged with when he did unsettling or unpleasant things. Though his visit with Dix went as he had expected and the press conference had gone off without a hitch, he was wound up. He thought it might be a rebound effect from the day before and that in a few more hours he would begin to feel the drag on his body from the drinking, the nausea, the coffee, and the lack of sleep. It was an edgy, brittle kind of energy he was feeling as he strolled through the museum displays. Although it was called the Cain Library, the building also housed the Cain Museum. The museum told the story of the founders of Paradise and housed collections of art, finery — clothing, jewelry, silverware — family histories, and things like small stained-glass windows removed from their grand houses on the Bluffs before demolition.

“Jesse, Jesse, forgive me,” said Henry Wilmott, scurrying toward him, his right hand extended. “I’m so sorry, but I was on the phone with the broker for one of the Salters. They want to make a contribution.”

Wilmott was shorter than Jesse but not by much, though his hunched posture made him appear smaller than he actually was. His wispy gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and papery white skin gave him the look of a Dickens clerk. Jesse wasn’t fooled. Henry Wilmott had a handshake like a vise.

“No problem, Henry.”

“I saw the press conference on the local news at noon. This is a bad business. I mean, between poor Maude and this fellow. Awful stuff. Just awful.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, Jesse, how can a lowly curator and librarian assist the chief of our local constabulary?”

“Molly tells me you’re the man to talk to about the Cains.”

“I believe I am. Yes, indeed I am. What about the Cains?” Then he talked over himself before Jesse could answer. “Poor Maude. I’m afraid she was the last in the line of a wonderful and generous family. Did you know her?”

“I did not.”

“A shame. She was a lovely woman, really.”

“So, Henry, I was wondering if you knew whether Maude kept any valuables in her house. Something either she or her family hadn’t donated to a good cause or to the museum?”

Henry thought about it for a few seconds, then a light seemed to go on in his gray eyes behind his glasses. He made a hook of his index finger and waved it at Jesse.

“Come with me.”

Jesse followed him back past the waiting area, past Wilmott’s office, down two half-flights of stairs, and into an area that, unlike the wood-paneled walls and creaky-planked floor of the museum and library, was all concrete and steel. Wilmott reached into his pocket for a key and opened the large steel door before them. Inside, a ceiling light popped on. Wilmott tapped a code on a keypad affixed to the wall just below the light and motion sensor.

“Precaution, you know,” he said, turning to Jesse. “We store our most valuable small pieces in here that are not currently on display. We store our artwork at a different facility. Please, have a seat.”

Running down the center of the windowless room was a long, black marble-topped island. Six high stools on poles bolted to the floor were on either side of the island. At the center of the island were six magnifying lamps mounted on spring-loaded articulated arms. The walls of the room were actually drawers of varying sizes. Each drawer had a keypad on its face. Wilmott walked over to a large drawer opposite Jesse and punched in a code. A buzzer sounded, a lock unlatched, and Wilmott pulled out the drawer. He reached in and pulled out a foot-square blue velvet — lined tray and placed it before Jesse.

Featured on the tray were a pair of earrings, a necklace, a brooch, a bracelet, a decorative hair comb, and three bangles. All of the pieces were of a dragonfly motif, but the brooch was especially beautiful. All of the jewelry was exquisitely crafted in gold and featured diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.

“Breathtaking, aren’t they? René Lalique himself designed these pieces for Zachariah Cain Junior, who presented them to his wife, Emma, as a birthday gift. Emma left them to Maude, who donated them to the museum in 1973.”

Jesse had no idea who René Lalique was, but the beauty and craftsmanship of the pieces were undeniable. He noticed something else: an empty spot on the tray. He pointed that spot out to Henry Wilmott.

“Yes, the ring. It was the one piece in the set Maude could not part with. We are to receive it upon the execution of her will.” Then Wilmott made a face, not a happy one. “Oh, no, Jesse. Are you telling me you haven’t found the ring among her possessions? What a tragedy. You see, the endowment the Cains left to us has been drained away over the years as a result of foolish spending and poor investments. The auctioning off of this set was to infuse the endowment with new cash. With the ring, the complete set would be worth millions.”

“But even without the ring—”

“Yes, it is still a valuable collection, no doubt. But the ring and the brooch are the stars of the set. It would be like Casablanca with Bogie and no Bergman. No, no, the ring is of premium importance to the set and the future of the museum. We must get it back. We simply must.”

“Have you got an image of it?”

“I do. Come up to my office.”

Following behind Wilmott, Jesse asked, “Do you know why Maude was selling her house?”

“She was too old to manage any longer and it was falling into terrible disrepair. She knew it was time for her to take whatever funds she could get out of the place and find an assisted-living facility.”

“Did she have any takers?” Jesse supposed he was thinking as much about his inability to sell his place as he was about the late Maude Cain’s prospects.

“You’d have to ask her agent. The fate of the house wasn’t part of our concern.”

Back on the street, Jesse stared at the image of the ring. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Wilmott that the chances of recovering the ring intact weren’t very good, though that wasn’t what was troubling him at the moment. None of what Jesse had learned from Henry Wilmott, nor the questions that information raised, had done a thing to dissipate the buzz of negative energy he’d felt while waiting outside the curator’s office. If anything, it made it worse.