“You told him it wasn’t worth what he thought,” Lexy said.
“I told him it was worth twenty-five dollars. Because it was worth twenty-five dollars.” She paused. “Did it also happen to take him down a peg? Yes. But the number was real.”
“Very,” Helen said, in her gentlest voice, which somehow landed harder than if she’d shouted it.
Beatrice set the letter opener down.
“Everett was insufferable,” she said, with the calm delivery of someone stating a well-established fact. “He came to every estate sale and every yard sale in a fity-mile radius and always acted like he’d personally discovered the concept of antiques. He talked over sellers, he lowballed widows, and he once told me in front of a room full of people that I’d misdated a piece of Limoges.” She paused. “He was wrong about the Limoges.”
“Tell us about the cat,” Nans said.
Beatrice reached under the counter and produced a large catalog — the kind with a cracked spine and dozens of bookmarked pages, the reference material of someone who’d been in the trade a long time. She set it on the counter and opened it to a marked page.
The photograph showed a porcelain cat, elegant and detailed, seated on an ornate gilt base with fine hand-painted markings. The caption beneath it listed a maker, a date, and an auction estimate that made Ruth look up from her iPad.
“That,” Beatrice said, “is the original. Meissen, circa 1880. If Everett had walked in with that, I’d have told him to drive straight to Boston and not stop.”
“But he didn’t have that,” Lexy said.
“No. What Everett had was this.” She turned two pages to a second photograph. A similar cat — same general shape, same seated posture — but the differences were visible even to Lexy. The markings less refined. The base heavier, simpler. Bronze instead of gilt. “Decorative reproduction. Made to look like the real thing for people who wanted the look without the price. It’s only about sixty years old. Pretty enough and has a secret compartment in the base. Worth twenty-five dollars to someone who liked cats on their mantelpiece.”
“So whoever took it from Everett probably thought they had the valuable one,” Ruth said.
“If they knew about the original at all.” Beatrice closed the catalog. “Most people wouldn’t. You’d have to know what you were looking at.”
“The secret compartment,” Nans said. She was still looking at the photograph of the reproduction. “The one Everett bought had one of those?”
Beatrice glanced at her. A small pause — the kind that meant the question was more interesting than expected. “I assume so. People used them to store small items. A key, jewelry.” She shrugged. “Usually empty. Usually nothing.”
“Usually,” Nans said.
Beatrice looked at her. “I wouldn’t know what was in Everett’s.”
The room was quiet for a moment. Ida had stopped chewing.
“What about the rest of what he had?” Helen asked. “The cocktail shaker, the sugar tongs, the class ring?”
Beatrice leaned on the counter. “Cocktail shaker — depends on the maker, could be fifteen dollars, could be forty. Sugar tongs, were they monogrammed?”
“Jack didn’t say,” Lexy said.
“If they were they’re worth next to nothing. Monogrammed stuff sits forever. But Everett knew that so I doubt he would buy anything monogrammed. Still only worth about thirty bucks.”
“Why kill him then?” Ida said, with a cheese cracker halfway to her mouth.
Nobody had an answer.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Beatrice said.
“Not today,” Nans said. “Thank you, Bea.”
Outside, the cold hit them all at once. Ruth pulled her coat closed. Ida located a wrapped mint in her coat pocket and looked pleased about it.
“So,” Lexy said. “Twenty-five dollars.”
“Which means either the killer had no idea what they had,” Ruth said, “or the cat wasn’t the point.”.
“The compartment,” Lexy said.