Killing Cousins by Rett MacPherson

am David Newton and I assure you I am an antique dealer.”
    â€œThen why doesn’t your card say that?”
    â€œCan I come in?” he asked.
    â€œNope.”
    He laughed nervously and stuck his hands in his pant pockets. “I understand that your stepfather is handling the Finch estate?”
    â€œYou are mistaken,” I said and started to shut the door.
    â€œNorah’s Antiques is not owned by your stepfather?”
    â€œNorah’s Antiques is owned by my stepfather.”
    â€œThen he is handling her estate.”
    â€œNo, he bought her estate. He owns it. There’s no handling it,” I said. “What do you want, Mr. Newton?”
    â€œI deal in very rare pieces, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said. He looked past me into my house. “Are you sure I couldn’t come in for just a moment?”
    â€œNope,” I said. “And next time, please visit me at my office.”
    â€œPlease,” he said. “I’m looking for a piece…it is said that the last owner of it was Catherine Finch. I would be willing to pay top dollar to your stepfather if he would consider selling it to me.”
    Tobias Thorley drove up the street and honked at me. I waved to him. Mr. Newton looked around, confused. I guessed he wasn’t used to neighborly people.
    â€œWhat piece would that be?” I asked.
    â€œWell, there are two, actually.”
    â€œWhat are they, Mr. Newton?”
    â€œThere’s a necklace, it’s a scalloped piece with a rather large pearl in the shape of a teardrop. The necklace itself wouldn’t be worth that much on its own, if it weren’t for its pedigree. It was owned by Alexandra Romanov. The necklace is worth a mint,” he said.
    I was lost in thought for a moment. It had never occurred to me that Catherine Finch would have had things in her home that would be priceless or have historical significance. It made me wonder a moment if Colin was indeed smart enough to know what he had. If Mr. Newton hadn’t shown up here today and brought my attention to the piece, would Colin have sold it to some unknowing tourist for a hundred bucks? Or, worse, would he have sold it for a hundred bucks to some scalping dealer who would have turned around and sold it for thousands? That seemed much worse.
    â€œMrs. O’Shea?” Mr. Newton asked. “Have you seen the piece of which I speak?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t.” It was the truth. I had not made it to Catherine’s bedroom or office. I had only cataloged the first floor.
    Mr. Newton handed me back his card. “Would you give this to Mr. Brooke—”
    â€œSheriff Brooke,” I corrected.
    â€œSheriff Brooke, and tell him that I will pay him the highest price, if he would sell it to me. I specialize in royal pieces,” he said.
    I took the card and looked into his eyes. “What was the other piece?”
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œThe other piece that you were interested in?”
    â€œOh, a piece of music. Sheet music. It was a piece written for Catherine by Henry Stoddard, although I don’t think she ever recorded it. The music is in Stoddard’s handwriting. Stoddard was my uncle, so it has a personal meaning.”
    That probably didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be willing to sell it, though. “All right,” I said. “I’ll tell him.”
    â€œI appreciate that, Mrs. O’Shea,” he said. He nodded his head and sort of clicked his heels together. I guess that was his way of saying good-bye to me, but it reminded me of Hitler or Colonel Klink, so I chuckled. I sort of waved as he walked down my steps to his car. As he got to the edge of the sidewalk I remembered something I had wanted to ask him.
    â€œMr. Newton,” I said.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHow did you find me?” I asked. He looked at me as if he didn’t know what I meant. “How did you know that I was cataloging the estate for Sheriff