Pint of No Return Page 23

  Even a Sox or Reds fan would be hard-pressed to pay a million for a game bat, she figured.

  They ticked on through the list. “How about the clock?” She scanned an item halfway down the column. “It says on the list the model is undetermined. Are there priceless clocks?”

  Stan nodded. “I believe so.”

  Papa agreed. “I saw one at a museum once. Your mother insisted I go with her. Some sort of treasures from China exhibit. They had a rare clock. It had music and automata.”

  “Was it valuable?”

  He shrugged. “Worth four million, as I recall. I wanted to see inside, but no one would open it up for me.”

  Papa Luis, like her own father, always wanted to see the innards of machines to understand how they worked. In his days an electrical engineer in the sugar mills and copper mines, he was always pondering the “how” of things. An engineer’s mind, through and through.

  “This clock isn’t worth much, I’m afraid,” Stan said, zooming the screen. “See the battery compartment in the back? You can just make it out. Too modern to be valuable.”

  They scanned another half hour of footage. After a fifteen-minute stretch break, they watched the whole thing again. Going on hour two, they still had found nothing of note. What was a broom worth? A scarred kitchen chair? A crate of wooden bowling pins?

  Trinidad massaged the kink forming in her neck. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “Wait, rewind a moment,” Papa said.

  Trinidad’s pulse jumped.

  “There, I’ll bet that’s it,” Papa said triumphantly.

  They crowded close. “What?” Quinn said. “That ceramic pot?” The wide-mouthed squat piece was blue on the bottom and yellow on the top. In the center was a round area with two fish painted on what looked like choppy waves.

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, spooning up more ice cream. “I saw something like that at the museum also. Some expensive thing from Emperor Qianlong’s dynasty, as I recall.”

  The pot was lying on its side, but they could not gauge height. Maybe eighteen inches or more?

  “What was it worth, Papa, the one you saw in the museum? Do you remember?”

  “More than I would ever pay for a pot.”

  Quinn looked at Doug. “Hey, brother. Can you do a search on your phone?”

  In under a minute, Doug handed over his cell. Quinn held the tiny screen next to Lupin’s video. They stared. Quinn broke the silence with a long low whistle. “Sure looks like the same type of pattern to me, the coloring and the fish.”

  “And how much is that pot worth, the one in Doug’s picture?” she asked.

  He scrolled down and swallowed hard. “Seventy million dollars,” he said.

  Seventy. Million. Dollars. It was so quiet in the shop she could hear the soft whir of the ice cream mixer.

  “That’s a lot,” Doug said.

  “It sure is.” Quinn’s face was pale, and he gulped. “Almost too much to be believed. Seventy million dollars for a pot.”

  Her theory came into focus, sharp and clear. “Tanya Grant loves roses. Her yard is full of them. Kevin had a Pink Princess rosebush on his porch when he was killed. Princess was Tanya’s stage role in one of the theater productions they did together. I think…” Trinidad squeaked before she got her vocal cords back online. “Kevin bought something at the garage sale to plant the rosebush in for Tanya. He thought it was just a plain old pot.”

  “But someone figured out it wasn’t,” Stan said.

  She nodded slowly. “So they killed Kevin at the Popcorn Palace, but, when they were stealing the pot from the boxes out back, I interrupted them. My scream caused Warren to rush into the shop. The killer ran from the back and stowed the pot in Warren’s van. That’s how the flyer came to be floating around. It flew out when the killer opened the van’s rear doors to hide the pot so they wouldn’t be seen with it.”

  “It wouldn’t do to be caught lugging a pot out of Kevin’s yard,” Stan said. “Impossible to explain.”

  Trinidad connected the dots. “Warren drove the van to the theater where Cora demanded he clean it out. The pot probably got unloaded into the storage room, though Cora doesn’t remember exactly what was in there, and neither does Warren, or so he claims.”

  Trinidad fumbled for her phone and dialed Chief Bigley. She answered on the third ring.

  “We’ve been going over the video,” Trinidad said breathlessly, “and we think Lupin had a rare piece of Chinese Qianlong pottery.”

  “Describe it for me and text me a photo,” she snapped.

  Trinidad texted a screenshot of the blurry pot from the video and the image of the Qianlong on Doug’s cell.

  She heard the chief blow out a breath. “Then we have a problem,” she said. “Because Chang and I have gone through the storage room inch by inch, and there wasn’t anything like that to be found.”

  “Maybe you missed it.”

  “I don’t see how we could have. I’ll call Cora now that we have an object. She might remember a pot like that, and maybe it’s in another part of the theater. I don’t think she’ll pick up her cell until she arrives at her destination, though. In the meantime, Chang and I will go through the whole theater after we’re clear of our Fourth of July duties. I’ll bring some others on to assist and interview Warren again and call in an officer on overtime to keep the scene secure.”

  “Do you think the pot might have already been removed from the theater?” she asked.

  “Plausible, but perhaps the killer is unaware of that fact. They broke into the theater, remember? And why was an intruder after the tapes at the tiny house? Had to be to cover their tracks or prevent anyone else from finding the pot. I have a feeling the murderer hasn’t yet been able to retrieve it, or maybe your theory is wrong and it was never there in the first place.”

  The murderer…Trinidad swallowed. As exciting as it was to consider a priceless treasure, it had cost a man his life, his girlfriend her future, and Kevin’s parents their son.

  And what if she was wrong? What if the pot was just a cheap garden-variety type or a reproduction? No one had been inside Warren’s van. Perhaps it all added up to another fat zero.

  She was relieved that the next part of the investigation would be handled solely by the police. Positive thinking was the order of the day. The pieces were falling into place. They’d find the Qianlong, or Cora would surely remember where it might have gotten to. It was a matter of time now before Juliette would be released from prison.

  Chief Bigley’s somber tone poked through Trinidad’s daydreaming.

  “Don’t expect miracles, Trinidad. As soon as we get the fireworks display area and the parade details sorted out, I’ll go through it again with whomever I can round up, but I’m telling you I would have noticed a pot like that. It’s pretty distinctive.”

  “Do you know much about Chinese pottery?”

  There was a long pause. “All right. Fair point. My entire experience with pottery is the clay ash tray I made at reform school summer camp. At least we know what it looks like now, so I’ll have a better shot at finding it.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” She paused. “And thanks for the help.”

  Trinidad disconnected with a gusty sigh and reported what she’d heard from the chief.

  Quinn shook his head. “But if it’s not in the theater, then where could it be?”

  “That’s what the killer is trying to find out,” Stan said, closing up his computer. “At least we have the ‘what,’ now. I will start working on some angles to pressure the chief about releasing Juliette. I’m not sure we have enough to poke holes in her case, but it’s something, anyway.” He paused at the door. “Will I see you all at the town concert this evening?”

  “Doug and I are handing out lemonade,” Quinn said. “As a matter of fact, we’d better head
over there now.” He looked hopefully at Trinidad. “Are you coming, too? You both, I mean,” he said, gesturing to her grandfather. “And Noodles.”

  A sweet invitation. She could not resist. “Yes, absolutely. We’ll be along in a while.”

  They departed, and Papa drummed thick fingers on the table, apparently lost in thought.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He’s a nice boy, good to his brother, but Len the seafood man…”

  She held up her palm. “Papa, now is not the time to worry about my love life.”

  He shrugged as a delivery man popped his head in the shop. “Got some more mangoes for you.”

  “Excellent,” Papa said, hustling over to accept the fruit. Trinidad bit back a comment. Now was not the time to worry about an overabundance of fruit, either. With a smidge of luck, the chief would find the pot and lift prints from it—anything that might free her friend.

  Finally, she could focus on her mission, to make sure the Shimmy and Shake Shop was ready for the grand opening.

  Let it rain mangoes, for all she cared.

  Rolling up her sleeves, she set to work.

  ***

  “It’s not there,” Bigley said over the phone two hours later.

  She gripped her cell. “It has to be.”

  “I am telling you there is nothing remotely resembling a priceless Chinese pot at the Vintage Theater. Closest we came was an ugly plaster urn and a set of stacking Rubbermaid containers with the lids missing.” Her frustration crackled through the phone connection.

  “Did you call Cora?”

  “I left messages, but she isn’t answering. It’s spotty coverage where she’s going, so it might not have gone through. I showed Warren a picture, and he claims never to have noticed it in the van or the theater. Says it could have been tucked in some of the boxes he unloaded, but there’s no telling for sure. And, before you ask, I sent an officer to the flea market to scour the property just in case, and there’s no sign of it there, either.”

  The priceless pottery, if there was such a thing, was more elusive than the proverbial haystack needle. Not in the storage unit? Not in Kevin’s yard? Nor the van, nor the theater, nor at the flea market. Poor Edward Lupin wasn’t even sure where he’d put it. Perhaps he did not really understand its value in the first place. It seemed like nobody did. Almost nobody.

  Like her priceless penny-in-the-candy-machine theory, it had turned out to be nothing. She had to be the worst sleuth on the planet. All she’d dug up was a worthless coin in a vintage candy machine.

  Candy machine.

  Something from her memory clamored for attention.

  She pictured the old sturdy relic that Cora had stripped and repainted. Red paint to yellow. She recalled a snippet of conversation.

  “…underneath that old chipped red paint…”

  Hang on.

  An idea began to churn through Trinidad’s mind. It was too incredible, but it allowed all the loose ends to settle into a tidy knot. But what if she was wrong? This would be more than just egg on her face. If she followed up on her idea, she would be accusing a longtime Sprocketerian of murder. Reputations, hers most of all, hung in the balance.

  She sat at her lovely pink table, thinking, alone with only the whir of the mixing machine. Should she, or shouldn’t she? Right or wrong? Risk it all or stay quiet? She did not like risk. She was not brave. Was she? The old Trinidad was not one to step up and be counted, but the new woman she’d become? Was she willing to risk everything for the sake of Juliette?

  She spent several more minutes enveloped in the comfort of her shop. She knew what she had to do. Jittery and cold, she called the chief.

  “I think I know who killed Kevin.”

  The chief sighed. “There’s nothing to contradict the proof that it’s the person already in jail for the crime. Yes, all this treasure business is interesting, and obviously there’s a criminal at work, but as far as murder goes… I’m sorry, but it’s still your friend on the hook.”

  “Please. Just listen to me. I know we’ve not gotten along very well, and things are…awkward between us, but I’m asking you to hear me out. Ten minutes. That’s it.”

  The chief heaved out a tortured sigh. “All right. You have ten minutes. Start talking.”

  Trinidad shared her suspicions with the chief in painstaking detail. Her speculation had to sound bizarre, outrageous even. Her words were met with silence. Trinidad’s pulse rocketed with each tick of the ice cream treat clock. Finally, the chief cleared her throat.

  “As much as I don’t like to admit this, I think your theory may hold water.”

  Trinidad smothered a victory shout.

  “But we need proof.”

  She scooted to the edge of her chair. “I have an idea. It seems to me that the easiest way to draw the killer out is to offer them something so sweet they can’t resist.”

  “Hmmm. It’s a long shot.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re willing to risk it? For Juliette?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  “I am trying to be. So, Chief Bigley, are you in the mood to set a sticky trap?”

  “Do you agree to let me handle things and not try to go all ‘Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine’ amateur sleuth on me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then I’m in with both feet,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty

  Everyone in Sprocket had turned out for the concert in the town square. It was a long-standing tradition, she was told, increasing in popularity with tourists over the last few years. What had started out as a neighborhood performance was now a full-on event with folks filling the seats for patriotic tunes from the high school band. It was also the perfect scenario to set her plan to catch a killer in motion. The gazebo, which had so recently been the setting for a memorial, was now decked out with flags and red, white, and blue balloons. People brought picnic blankets or their own camping chairs. A kiddie area offered bubbles and a pinwheel-making station. Several people had brought their dogs along. Noodles sported a festive star-spangled kerchief around his neck as he greeted humans and canines alike. At least he was relaxed. Trinidad felt like there were a half dozen elephants trampling through her innards in search of a way out. She offered polite hellos and small talk, but all the while her pulse was stampeding.

  Quinn waved a cup at her in greeting before he began to mix up another giant vat of lemonade. The table next to him was festooned with every kind of cookie imaginable. She was not surprised to see that Papa had contributed an enormous bowl of chunked mango to the sweets. He was moving among the chairs, shaking hands and introducing himself as if he were running for office. The band warmed up as they prepared to offer up John Philip Sousa’s finest marches to kick off the weekend festivities.

  She wished she could sit back and enjoy her first celebration in her new town, but the job ahead left her coated in cold sweat.

  Carlos and Diego hustled over, cookies in hand. “We’ve been telling all the tourists about the break-in at your house and stuff. Figured it would be good for business if people thought there was somebody still searching for Lupin’s treasure.”

  “Well,” she said, raising her voice one notch, “As a matter of fact, I think I know where that treasure is. The chief has an officer posted there until seven, but as soon as he leaves, I’m going to see if I’m right.”

  “Really?” Carlos’s eyes popped. “Can we come?”

  “No, but I’ll let you know right away if I find it. Are you ready for our big day tomorrow?”

  They both nodded. Diego’s cheek bulged with a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie. “Oh yeah. We’ll be there at nine a.m. sharp. Are you still gonna work if you find something priceless? I wouldn’t. I’d go to a ball game and buy a motorcycle and a completely off-the-hook sports
car.”

  She laughed. “Even if I find it, it wouldn’t be mine to keep. I’m satisfied having the world’s best ice cream shop.”

  They ambled off towards their friends, whom she figured would hear all the news in a matter of minutes. Harnessing the Sprocket gossip wheel could be tricky, and she hoped it would pay off. Step one, complete.

  She walked around handing out flyers for the Shimmy and Shake Shop, especially targeting the campers who had arrived from Three Egg Lake in scores to attend. They would hopefully buy an ice cream the next day when they came to town to stock up for their Fourth of July grill out by the lake. She stopped next to Papa and Pastor Phil.

  “I am ready to report for duty at the shop as soon as I finish dessert,” Papa said. She eyed his napkin, stacked with uneaten cookies. He was no doubt so busy chatting that it might take a good long while for him to finish.

  She squeezed his shoulder. “You take your time, Papa, and enjoy. You’ll be on your feet all day tomorrow scooping ice cream, so rest up while you can.”

  Pastor Phil saluted her with a half-eaten brownie. She meandered on.

  Warren sat in a row of chairs with Vince Jr. and his mother. At the other end, Tanya picked at a macaroon, and Sonny and Candy chatted, heads close together. Mr. Mavis marched in dizzying circles dispensing plastic cups of iced lemonade that Quinn and Doug filled.

  It was as good a time as any to put step two into action. She strolled over to Quinn.

  She waited a beat and made sure her whisper was just loud enough, with an edge of contained excitement. “I can’t tell you the details, but I know where it is.”

  “You do?” Quinn said, a little too loudly. “Lupin’s treasure?”

  She waited a beat and then answered in an appropriate volume for those who might be listening. “Yes. It was hidden in plain sight this whole time. I’m going over there at seven after I close the shop and the cops leave. I’ll call you as soon as I find it.”

  Scooby-Doo would be impressed. The second piece of bait had been delivered.