Ornaments of Death (12 page)

After Gail Arkin died peacefully at ninety-four, her niece, Sarah Arkin, asked us to buy everything in Aunt Gail's home. Since Sarah was herself in her sixties and had just retired to Scottsdale, she was focused on downsizing, not acquiring. Buying full households was fabulous for us. Inevitably we'd secure valuable stock for the tag sale, and sometimes we'd find a gem. So far, we'd found hundreds of salable items of low to medium value, but no treasures.

We'd cordoned off a section of the warehouse to hold everything. Chairs were stacked, side tables abutted one another, and boxes of china and flatware covered the dining room table. More boxes, these filled with kitchen miscellany and knickknacks, were off to one side next to the contents of the garage. I set up a video recorder on a tripod and opened a box we'd numbered 27.

“This is a brown speckled pottery bowl,” I said to the camera, creating an annotated video recording documenting each piece, as per Prescott's protocol. I talked as I recorded all sides and angles of each object. “It's unmarked, but in perfect condition. Not worth appraising.” I set it aside. “This is a cookie jar, red with white poppy-like flowers.” I held it sideways so the bottom faced the camera. “No mark, but charming.” I came to a set of Susan Winget “Le Rooster” canisters and set them aside. Zoë didn't have a canister set. These would match her kitchen perfectly.
Yay!
I thought.
A perfect Christmas gift for Zoë.
Next up was a Dedham Pottery rabbit soup tureen with cover, a fun retro piece. Because
REGISTERED
appeared with the rabbit mark on the bottom, I identified it as 1929–1943. It too was in perfect condition and would sell, I knew, for about $250. I continued on. Most of the objects were nothing-special vintage decorative items from the 1940s and 1950s, all of them perfect for the tag sale, certain to find loving homes. The redware vessel depicting an African American preacher with clasped hands and a brimmed hat that I extracted from box 28, however, was a different ball of wax altogether. It was crafted with superior artistry and detail, and if it was authentic, it was a rare and extraordinary example of early American folk art.

I turned off the recorder, notated where I was leaving off, and called to the front to ask Sasha to join me.

I held up the vessel as she approached and said, “Looky what I found.”

Sasha didn't reach for it. Instead, she kept her eyes on my face. “I heard about Ian,” she said, “that he was run over and that it might have been deliberate.”

“I hadn't heard that last part.”

“Wes tweets a lot. Anyway, it's just so awful … but I do understand how you're feeling.”

“Thank you.” Sasha was uncomfortable with emotion, so I knew what this expression of sympathy was costing her. I met her eyes. “It's kind of surrealistic, to tell you the truth. I had no family. Then I had Ian. Now he's dead.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I know people say they understand all the time, but I mean it. My best friend's mother was murdered. Katrina Wilson. You've met her.”

My eyes rounded. “What?” I placed the vessel on the worktable. “When?”

She lowered her eyes. “We were ten. We lived next door to one another. We were at Katrina's house playing with our Barbie dolls when her dad shot her mother.”

“Oh, my God, Sasha.”

She nodded, acknowledging my reaction.

“We heard the shot, and talked about it. We figured it was a car backfiring. Jon Myerson was a hot-rod guy. He lived across the street and was always doing something with cars. Mr. Wilson came into Katrina's room and said good-bye, be a good girl. He walked out and we heard another shot. He killed himself. Katrina and I have always wondered why he didn't kill us, too. Katrina says she wasn't worth killing, that he didn't love her as much as he loved her mom.”

“No, no. He must have loved her too much to kill.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I almost never talk about it. It doesn't matter. It's just … I remembered how much I hated it when people told me they understood how I was feeling. How could they? Had their best friend's father killed her mother while they were playing dolls?” She paused. “I wanted you to know that when I say I understand what it means that your family might have been killed, well, I do.”

“I can't imagine what you've been through. I really can't.”

“Please don't tell anyone.”

“I won't.” I smiled, a small one. “Thank you, Sasha.” I turned and focused on the vessel. “So, changing the subject … I think this might have value. Will you check it out?”

“Of course,” she said, her attention riveted. She ran her finger lightly over the hat brim. “It's remarkable, isn't it?”

“Yes.” I glanced around. “I've found some nice things.” I walked back to the staircase, paused with my hand on the banister, and turned back toward the workstation. Sasha was holding the vessel up to the light. “Sasha?” She looked up. “Thank you.”

She nodded, her expression back to normal, detached, but not unfriendly.

Cara's voice crackled over the PA system. Ellis, she said, was on line one and needed to talk to me, urgently.

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“I need you to come to Rebecca Bennington's room here at the institute,” Ellis said. “Can you come now?”

“Of course. Why? What's going on?”

“I'll explain when you get here.”

Five minutes later, as I turned onto Route 1, I slipped in my earpiece and called Wes. If anyone besides the police would know why I was being summoned, it was him.

For a change, I was the one delivering breaking news.

“Why the institute?” he demanded after I'd explained where I was driving and why I was calling.

“Becca works there sometimes,” I said. “It must have something to do with her.”

“She's missing,” Wes said with relish.

“What?”

“Yup. The police canvass identified two people who live on Ocean near Cable who saw a couple—a man who matches Ian's description and a woman who could be Becca—standing at the end of Cable Street by the ocean on the day Ian died, talking. The woman, maybe Becca, ran away from him after some kind of altercation, and she hasn't been heard from since.”

“One sec,” I told Wes. I needed to focus. To think. I spun into a strip mall and parked. “I thought Becca wasn't returning my calls because I'd offended her—don't ask me how, because I don't know.”

“Apparently not. It looks like she's involved somehow.”

“Oh, my God, Wes! I can't believe this.” Dread followed shock, and I felt the color drain from my cheeks. “Did the witnesses see Becca and Ian fighting?”

“Not exactly. There was an older guy outside getting his place done up for Christmas, you know, twirling garlands around the lamppost, that kind of thing. The female witness was inside her house, placing holiday candles in her living room windows. The old man thought it was weird that people would simply stand by the ocean in December, even though it was kind of a warm day, but that was all he noticed. He was more focused on getting his wreath attached securely than on a random couple sightseeing, which is what he assumed they were doing. The woman says she saw the couple talking. There were lots of gestures that, in her mind, looked angry. Then the man reached for the woman to grab her. The woman shook her head, no, no, no, and ran toward a car. The woman's baby started crying, and she didn't think about them anymore until the police asked her what she saw.”

“This was Sunday afternoon?”

“Right. Sometime around three thirty or four. Neither one of them can get the timing closer than that.”

“And neither of them saw Ian get run over?” I asked.

“So they say.”

“Do you doubt them?”

“Nope. Just saying.”

“What makes the police think Becca has vanished? Maybe she's just freaked out for some reason and is holed up in a cabin in the woods somewhere. Ian told me she's pretty private.”

“If the police left you a voice mail and sent you an e-mail telling you your dad was dead, wouldn't you respond?”

“Yes.”

“Plus, she hasn't used her cell phone, a credit or debit card, or her E-ZPass since Sunday. But on Sunday at two minutes after six, she withdrew seven hundred dollars from an ATM near her Boston apartment. That's her bank's daily limit. The police have put out a BOLO for her and her vehicle, a silver Prius.” He lowered his voiced conspiratorially. “They think there's a chance she killed Ian and booked.”

I was appalled. “No. No way.”

“Way,” Wes said ghoulishly.

“It can't be!”

“Why not?”

I had no answer. It was just too horrific to think of a daughter killing her father. I closed my eyes, hoping to chase away the nightmare vision of a girl killing her dad.

“So what does the Rocky Point Oceanographic Institute have to do with anything?” Wes asked.

I opened my eyes and stared at passing traffic, seeing nothing. “Becca roomed there sometimes.”

“Take pictures.”

“Of what?”

“Of whatever I can use. You owe me, Josie. It's time to pay up.”

*   *   *

The Rocky Point Oceanographic Institute had just celebrated its seventy-fifth anniversary. Built in the years before World War II, it had been the brainchild of a Reynard University alumnus, Christopher Foley. A marine biologist, Foley had shepherded the institute from inception to international acclaim bequeathing it to Reynard with an endowment designed to ensure it thrived.

The building itself was a sprawling one-story fieldstone structure built on a high cliff overlooking a hundred feet of rugged coastline. I turned off Ocean Avenue into the parking lot, parked near the front door, and followed the winding pathway to the entryway at the southernmost end.

A young man sat behind the reception desk, a low pine plank counter. As soon as he spoke, I recognized his Downeast twang. He was Nate, the man I'd spoken to when I'd called trying to find Becca. He was tall and thin, in his midtwenties. His hair was brown and crewcut-short.

I told him my name, and he nodded as if he were expecting me. He punched three digits on his phone. “Josie Prescott's here.” He hung up and told me, “Someone will be right out.”

“You're from Maine,” I said.

He grinned. “Calais. Most beautiful place on earth.”

“You embrace the dialect.”

“What dialect?” he asked with assumed innocence,

I half-smiled and turned to look out the window.

A minute later, Ellis pushed through from a heavy wooden inside door. “Thanks for coming,” he said. He nodded at Nate and held the door open until I was through. “You've heard about Ian?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, Josie.”

We were in a long, wide hallway. A wall of windows on the right looked out over a large open room. I saw cubicle-style workstations, long stainless-steel worktables, and chest-high round tanks, their diameters ranging from six to ten feet. Three men huddled by one of the tanks, staring at a meter mounted on the side. A woman stood next to a worktable, her concentration apparent.

“Was it murder?” I asked.

“The ME hasn't announced her findings yet.”

“I know,” I said. “But what do you think?”

Ellis stopped walking and turned toward me. “I think we need to wait for the report.”

“Why am I here?” I asked, giving up.

“We're investigating what appears to be a break-in. You mentioned that Becca had some valuable art, but I don't see anything. I was hoping you might recognize something I don't, or at least, that you'll be able to tell me more specifically what we're looking for.”

Ellis turned to look through the glass panels. I followed his gaze, past the equipment and furnishings to the bank of windows on the other side and the forest beyond. A police officer in uniform stood by one of the workstations that faced the window. He was watching as a beautiful blonde tapped into a computer. The blonde's name was Katie. I'd met her years earlier in her role as the Rocky Point police tech expert.
*

Ellis pointed. “That's Becca's workstation. After we're done with her room, I'll ask you to go through her desk, to see if you spot anything.”

“Sure.”

The corridor ended in a T, and we turned left. Fifty feet farther on, we turned right. Becca's room was sixth in. Officer Griffin, who'd been on the force for nearly thirty years, stood with his back to the door, his arms crossed.

“Thanks, Griff,” Ellis said, and Griff stepped aside. Ellis swung open the door and waited for me to enter before following me in.

“Oh, God, Ellis,” I said.

A window that overlooked the ocean was broken, and an icy chill permeated the space. Clothes were strewn across the floor. The twin-sized mattress was upended and shredded. The plain vanilla white cotton sheets and pillowcases were ripped. The furniture was standard college dorm room. The shelves on the built-in bookcase were empty. Books lay in haphazard heaps on the hardwood floor, some open, their pages crumpled, others splayed, spine up. There were no rugs or pictures or decorative pillows. The room was Spartan, designed for short-term bunking, not for settling in.

“The techs are done. I'll give you gloves, so you can feel free to open anything, look anywhere, touch at will. Take your time. If you find anything, tell Griff.”

“Any security cameras?” I asked.

“No. Not even in the labs or work areas.”

I spun to face him. “How can that be?”

“Other than painting every decade or so and keeping up with whatever technology the scientists need, they see no reason to fuss. That's a quote from the director. This is their first break-in.”

“It's comforting to know this kind of place exists,” I said, scanning the walls, looking for picture hooks, or holes where picture hooks might have been, seeing none. The walls were paneled in old-style knotty pine, and it would require a careful examination to spot thin nail holes amid the gnarly imperfections. If I assumed the paintings were hidden, and if I was in a hurry, the mess I was looking at would be exactly what I'd leave behind. “If the thief was after the paintings, he thought they were hidden.”