Better Homes and Corpses by Kathleen Bridge

still miffed at being third on the suspect list.
    “Both, I guess.” He knelt next to me, reeking of cinnamon breath mints. “I’d also like to hear your impression of the family dynamics. Any insight you might have. I did some digging and saw your father was on the job in Detroit.”
    “I’m not a snoop.”
    “I’m not asking you to snoop, just to keep your eyes and ears open.” He glanced at the open door leading to the study and pointed to a piece of paper on the floor that had fallen from my notepad. “Looks like you’re not averse to it either.” He winked conspiratorially. “Have a nice day, ladies.” He walked out of the room and the front door clicked closed.
    “What do you think? Is he a good cop or a bad cop?” Elle chewed on the stem of her vintage rhinestone cat-eye glasses.
    “The verdict’s still out.” I had called Elle the night before and told her about the broken video camera and sent her the photos from my cell phone of the tall clock from Tara’s shop and the bookcase hidden under the sheet in the attic. Elle suspected the clock was indeed a Dominy because of the carved crest of waves on the clock’s bonnet
—
Elle’s word—and the saying on the clock face:
Death don’t retreat to improve each beat.
She’d also said it could be a good fake and went on to lecture me about the Dominy family. Starting in 1760, three generations of Dominys worked as artisans and woodworkers, even building the windmill in East Hampton and two more in the surrounding area. They also were credited with adding a copper top to the Montauk Point Lighthouse. The Dominy workshop on Main Street was later dismantled and could now be seen at the Winterthur Museum in Delaware.
    If the clock was a Dominy, I was correct in saying the clock had no business in Tara’s shop. “Is the Spenser family portrait painted by Salvatore over the fireplace worth anything?”
    “It’s not listed, so I assume it has nothing but sentimental value, but the fireplace mantel is worth about a hundred grand. It’s even signed.” Elle reverted to her know-it-all Sotheby’s voice. “Remember, the value of an object signed is worth ten times more than unsigned.”
    It was strange to gaze at Cole’s face knowing he hadn’t posed for the painting; the artist had used his son because Cole had left home. Caroline Spenser created the perfect family—if only on canvas.
    “After we finish this room, I’m going to the attic to videotape everything, including the bookcase.” Elle dropped to her knees and looked under a small chest next to the sofa and examined its dovetail joints.
    “What’s the highest price a piece of American furniture ever went for?”
    “I know of an early eighteenth-century Newport chest that went for eight million. And I saw a Goddard and Townsend secretary desk for sale online for fifteen million.”
    “Wow! Maybe one day we’ll find something like that at a garage sale.”
    “You never know. Can you bring me that bowl in the display box on top of the table next to you?”
    I walked to the table and lifted a glass-and-wood box containing a display item—a gold-paneled drinking bowl with two thumb grips fashioned into the shape of ladies’ heads. I carefully opened the case and removed the bowl, ready to hand it to Elle.
    “New York goldsmith Jesse Kip,” a male voice said from behind.
    The sound in my ears amplified and I jerked forward. The cup slipped from my hands. Adam caught it in midair.
    “Kip was revered for his casting and engraving. This cup is the holy grail of Early American precious metalwork. Caroline couldn’t believe her luck to come across such a beauty, especially with the monogrammed
S
. She passed it off as another Spenser/Seacliff heirloom.”
    I examined the elaborate fleur-de-lis design displayed on each of the six panels.
    “And to think she only paid one hundred fifty thousand for it,” he said.
    “If Mrs. Spenser was killed with robbery in mind, then this room would