The Body in Bodega Bay by Betsy Draine

then went back on the second day to bid on the icon. Why? I’ve checked his files and found the bill of sale. That’s the sequence, all right. First he bought the storyboards, then he bought the icon, then he asked the auctioneer how to contact the consignor.”
    â€œWhat does that tell us?”
    â€œI wish I knew. Then, when he speaks to Rose, she tells him that the icon and the storyboards both came from her.”
    â€œAnd a few days later, Charlie turns up dead, and both the icon and the storyboards go missing,” Toby summed up. He shook his head. “It still doesn’t make sense. I’m going to search the shop one last time.”
    Toby set out again, prying into drawers and nooks and crannies, and I began working on an e-mail to Dan. I tried to summarize our interview with Rose. I recounted what she had told us about her phone conversation with Charlie, her relationship with Peter Federenco, the circumstances under which he had given her the icon, including Peter’s report of a threatening cousin, and what we had discovered so far about a link between the icon and Peter’s artwork for The Birds .
    An hour later I was almost finished when the bell tinkled above the door and a man entered. He was elderly, well dressed in a cashmere sport jacket and slacks, carrying a cane, yet walking briskly. He had close-cropped gray hair and a pencil-thin gray mustache. “Are you Mr. Sandler?” he asked Toby, who was going through a bookcase at the far end of the shop.
    â€œThat’s me,” said Toby, approaching him. “Is there something I can help you with?”
    â€œI came by this morning, but you were closed,” said the potential customer in a neutral tone, without accusation.
    â€œI’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
    â€œNot a problem,” returned the man, “I’m used to dealers who keep odd hours.” His eyes made a slow sweep of the gallery.
    â€œSo you’re a collector,” Toby said. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”
    â€œIt so happens I am. I’m looking for something very particular.” There was a pause. Toby waited for him to continue. “But then my tastes are broad within the general category of my interest.”
    â€œWhich is?” queried Toby.
    â€œRussian decorative arts—silver, jewelry, Fabergé eggs, pre-Revolutionary objects. And religious art,” he added, narrowing his eyelids meaningfully. “I have a small but to me very precious collection of Russian icons.”
    Toby tensed. “And you’ve dropped in today because you happened to be passing by?”
    â€œNot exactly. I saw a story on the news last night in San Francisco about the murder of your partner. It mentioned the robbery of your gallery. I’m very sorry. You have my condolences.”
    â€œThank you. So the story made the TV news in San Francisco,” said Toby, angling for additional information. “I didn’t know that.”
    â€œYes, and there was mention of a Russian icon that might have been the object of the robbery,” continued the stranger. “That was the first time I was made aware that any gallery outside the city handled material of that nature, so I drove up for the day to see what else you might have along those lines. Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
    â€œI see. Then I have to disappoint you. I don’t have anything else at the moment that would meet your needs.”
    â€œNothing at all in the category of Russian icons or antiques? Imperial porcelain, perhaps?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. We don’t usually carry items of that description. The icon was a one-off find. A chance purchase, you might say.”
    â€œOh. Well in that case, I must be disappointed. May I ask if you were the one who made that purchase?”
    â€œNo, my partner did, and as a result, I know very little about it.”
    â€œAh. Out of curiosity,