“I found a sale run by Otis Jones. His whole business is auctions, estate liquidations, and closeouts. He had a long list of things that were in the sale—no pictures—and listed a stained-glass panel,” Ben said. “So, I called him.”
“Was he the right guy? Did he sell the window to Randolph?” Erik asked.
Ben nodded. “Yeah. He remembered it. Thought it was pretty, but in his words: ‘creepy as fuck.’ Got it from an estate sale of a guy out in Wildwood who died in his nineties withno family. He mentioned off-handedly that the local gossips thought the old man was a mobster.”
Erik barked a laugh. “Figures.”
“Doesn’t it? Anyhow, Jones said that Randolph spotted the window right away. Jones couldn’t confirm that it was a real Tiffany, so he couldn’t charge top dollar, but Randolph was still willing to pay two thousand dollars for it. Jones didn’t like the window, so he didn’t haggle.”
“Someone else who gives up more money to be rid of it,” Erik noted.
“Uh-huh. Plus an organized crime connection. But if someone from the old guy’s past wanted the window, why didn’t they go to the sale? Or steal it before the event even happened?” Ben replied.
“Did you get the name of the old man? Maybe we can find a connection that will make sense of this,” Erik suggested.
“I’m on it. Given the Wildwood connection, he’s more likely to be Newark Mob or Atlantic City than Bratva,” Ben said. “Be thankful for small favors.”
Ben’s computer pinged, and he leaned forward. “Got a hit on Randolph.” He scanned the information and looked up.
“Interesting. Thirty years ago, Randolph’s business partner, a guy named John Bellamy, was also murdered. The police noted ‘suspected organized crime violence’ but never found the killer. They owned a salvage and liquidation company that was one of several involved in selling off the assets of the Commodore Wilson Hotel before it was demolished.”
Ben and Erik stared at each other for a moment as the importance of that tidbit sank in.
“Holy shit. I swear that damn hotel is a vampire. It keeps coming back from the dead,” Erik muttered.
The Commodore Wilson had once been the crown jewel of Cape May and, in its day, the largest hotel in the world. The hugeluxury property commanded a beach view and offered lodging, meeting services, and food that drew loyal visitors who returned year after year.
Over the hotel’s long life, it had a checkered past, ruining everyone who owned it, whether they were hoteliers, fire-breathing evangelists, or sketchy self-improvement gurus. Rumors circulated from the earliest days of Mafia money behind the scenes. Despite a turn as a fundamentalist Christian retreat center, gossip blamed the bad luck on cursed magic and deals with the devil. Ben and Erik believed the land itself was a dark genius loci, quintessentially evil.
After the Commodore Wilson fell into receivership and disrepair for the last time, no one rushed in to save the aging property. It was stripped of any saleable assets or décor, which were sold in a massive auction, and then imploded. In the thirty years since then, the property had been home to a variety of businesses, none of which prospered.
“Okay, this is a long shot, but hear me out,” Ben said.
“I’m used to your crazy, so hit me up.”
Ben gave him the side-eye. “You said you thought that the book in the stained-glass panel was a grimoire. What if the old guy who owned the window was astrega, a Mob witch? Maybe he worked for the Mafia families who owned the Commodore Wilson property over the years to blunt the curse of the land as best he could.”
“It’s certainly possible,” Erik mused. “But why come after Randolph now? The panel he brought in didn’t have a connection to the Commodore Wilson. And even if it did, the hotel was blown up thirty years ago. There’s something here we’re missing.”
Ben sat back in his chair and twiddled his pencil. “That’s what I’ve got. What made you come looking for me?”
“Oh, that. I always thought of Tiffany windows being in churches and mansions. But it turns out, there’s a dark side,” Erik said. “A Tiffany window could either have been created by Louis Comfort Tiffany himself, or later on, by artisans at the Tiffany Company working under his guidance. According to what I found, there were at least twenty Tiffany windows made celebrating the Confederacy, both in Richmond, Virginia, and elsewhere in the Confederate states. They were put in churches and universities.”
“No shit,” Ben said, eyes widening. “Wait. Wasn’t Cape May part of the Underground Railroad, getting slaves out of the South?”
Erik nodded. “Yep. That’s why the Harriet Tubman Museum is here. Interestingly enough, both well-to-do abolitionists and slave owners liked Cape May, at least before the Civil War.”
“Tiffany didn’t care who bought their windows?” Ben replied.
“Apparently not,” Erik agreed with a disgusted twitch of his lip. “They did a lot of commissions for homes, mausoleums, and private chapels. Either they intentionally destroyed records to ensure privacy, or they were ‘lost’ over the years, but it’s not uncommon for previously unknown Tiffanys to show up even now. Collectors love finding a hidden gem, and the lack of publicity makes the purchase desirable for people with lots of money and something to hide.”
“Like mobsters,” Ben said.
“Yeah. Why does everything always come back to that?”
“Just our luck.” Ben paused. “Mausoleums? Really? Pretty fancy for a place hardly anyone will ever see.”
Erik shrugged. “Maybe it didn’t seem extravagant to someone with a lot of money or guilt.”
