"The Case of Peter Roche and the Purloined Pigeons"
I was staring out my office window, wishing it would snow - maybe then I could get into the holiday spirit - when she walked into my office. I quickly spun and stood. I extended my hand, showing her the chair.
She was not a tall woman, shorter than my daughter who stood 5 ft, 5 inches. Her hair was a dark chestnut, beautifully styled. Her eyes were dark brown and showed signs she was crying. She nodded her head as she sat.
“I need your help, Mr. Roche,” she began. “My name is Veronica Masters, and I need your help.” She held a tissue to her nose as tried to compose herself. Ms. Masters sighed and looked down at the floor, before looking up. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but she stopped. She brought the tissue to her left eye and dabbed at the corner.
“What can I do for you?” I asked as I walked to the front of the desk.
“I’ve lost something special to me,” she whispered as she looked at me, her eyes large and pooling with tears. I about melted: I was a sucker for tears.
“What is it?” I asked as I sat on the desk and reached for a legal pad and pen.
“They are very valuable to me, and in reality,” she said fighting back emotions. “They were, are, two statues of birds, small, about 16 inches tall, made of, um, pewter.”
“Are they pewter gray?” I asked. Yes, it was a stupid question. Most items made from pewter are gray, but then some are painted. She wiped her nose and placed the tissue into her purse before answering.
“Yes, they are.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands onto her knee. She looked at me and smiled half-heartedly.
“And what kind of birds are they?“
“They are turtledoves,“ she answered, her eyes avoiding mine.
“Turtledoves,“ I mumbled as I wrote down pigeons in my notes. “Are there any obvious and distinguishing marks on them?” She looked at me blankly, stupefied, before saying anything.
“Oh, I am so stupid,” she quipped as she reached into her purse and pulled out several pictures. “Here they are.“ She handed me the photographs. I looked at them and made several mental notes, most of them on the shape and apparent size.
“Now, do you know of anyone who would want them?”. She looked at me, squarely and deeply in the eyes. For a moment, I thought she was going to answer, but she closed her mouth and looked away. She stood and walked to the windows. I followed her with my eyes, trying to pick up on some body language that would give me a clue as to whether or not if she was hiding something from me, or if she was lying. She sighed heavily and lowered her head before she turned to me. In that brief moment, I gathered nothing.
“There are two,” she answered, her tone still somber. She walked slowly back to the chair, her tears gone and dried. “My sister Katherine. And my cousin Constance,” she added as she sat. She crossed her legs, folded her hands, and began to bounce her leg. She was agitated at something, but I was not sure at what.
“Miss Masters,” I began but was interrupted.
“Call me Roni.” A smile come to her face that would melt the coldest of snowmen. It was very warm, very friendly, and it seemed to put both of us at ease.
“Roni, why would they want those statues?”
“My sister wanted them when our mother willed them to me. She felt as if they were rightfully hers, being that she’s the oldest. And as for my cousin, well, I think she just wants them because I stole her man.” She had an evil smirk on her face as she said stole. I made a note about the other women.
“May I have their addresses?”
“Sure.“ She reached into her purse once more. “Here are their business cards,“ she added. I looked at them quickly before placing them on the desk next to the photos.
“Are there any other reasons why they’d want the doves?“ She looked at me, not flinching, not moving a muscle.
“No,“ she answered firmly. Now I was having a feeling that she was holding something back. Her body went rigid, her back went straight. Her eyes went up and to the left. Definite signs she was lying.
“I’ll talk with them and see where it leads,” I said, giving her the appearance I was considering her idea that one of them took the statues.
“Thank you, Mr. Roche,” she said as she stood and extended her hand.
“You’re welcome, Roni.” I walked her to the door, confident that I could find the birds. “I’ll get on it, right away,” I added as she walked into the lobby and out the door. I stood at my office threshold and stared blankly as she left.
“Something’s up?” Patti, our office assistant, asked as she walked back from my partner Warren Peace’s office. She’s been around me long enough to know when I had an idea of a solution to a case. And I did.
“Just need to make a few phone calls,” I said as I spun and walked back into my office.
“You are wondering why I called you here,” I said as the three women sat in my office, my partner and assistant standing behind them. “I’ve found the turtle doves,” I added as I motioned for Warren to bring them forward. He placed the rather ugly, but heavy, statues on my desk. Roni Masters’ eyes widened as the metal clunked on the oak while Constance Perryman smiled brightly. Katherine Masters looked nervous as she glanced out the window.
“Where did you find them?” Katherine asked as she stood to look at them more closely. Warren placed his hand on her shoulder and held on, not letting her go.
“Right where you had sold them,” I said, not wanting to mince words. She looked at me, stunned. She stood her mouth open.
“I could have sworn you’d never find them,” she said as Warren took her to the waiting police in the lobby.
“Where were they?” Roni asked, relieved that they were found. She stood and grabbed them, holding them tightly.
“The only place I know that would buy objects d’art. I called my friend Anna Partridge at the Pear Tree Shoppe, and she told me they just had what I was looking for.”
