Ornaments of Death (19 page)

My phone sounded, alerting me that a text had arrived. It was from Ellis.
Call me,
it read. I dialed his number.

“I love good news,” he said.

“Isn't it fab? I found the miniatures. They're gorgeous, Ellis, even more spectacular than the photos. As good as described, maybe better. They're definitely worth biggo-buckos.”

“Worth killing for.”

“Anything is worth killing for if you want it or fear it enough.”

“True. Where are you now?”

I told him, then said, “My plan is to take the paintings back to my place. We can keep them in the vault and have them handy for an appraisal. I'm thinking my first step should be to verify provenance, kind of a backward treasure hunt.”

“What will that tell you?”

“That Becca has the right to own them.”

“Excellent. We need to make your possession of them official—it's a chain of evidence thing. Why don't you call me when you're close to your office? I'll meet you there.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “I'll keep you posted.”

I surveyed the food options—same old, same old. I finally made my choice, a slice of pizza, and settled into a table by the window.

While I ate the better-than-expected pizza, I called Ty.

“I was just about to call you,” he said. “Rudy's in the hospital—he broke his arm.”

Rudy was Ty's boss, a career security pro, and an all-around good egg.

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“Yeah. He was in his backyard sawing off a dead tree limb, and he fell off the ladder.”

“Ouch.”

“Double ouch. He knocked himself unconscious, too. It sounds worse than it is. They're keeping him overnight for observation, but I spoke to him and he sounds fine.”

“How's Rosie? Out of her mind, right?” Rudy was Mr. Calm. His wife, Rosie, was Ms. Drama Queen. I'd witnessed her cry over a hangnail.

“I suspect she's in her element. Rudy was chuckling when he told me two of her sisters and three of her nieces had taken over the waiting room, petting her, and reassuring her, and you know.”

“I do indeed. Good for her. She knows what she needs and she makes it happen.”

“The thing is, Rudy's boss, the deputy director, asked me to cover for him.”

My eyes rounded. “Ty! Out of eight of you at your level, he asked you? You must be thrilled.”

“Except that I'm in Boston, on the shuttle bus from the long-term parking lot to the terminal. I fly out in ninety minutes.”

“Long-term parking? That sounds, I don't know, long-term.”

“A week. Maybe ten days.”

“Starting on a Friday?”

“I get to be on call, which means I can't be more than fifteen minutes from headquarters. Rudy says the doctor told him he'll be good as new in two months. And cleared to go back to work in a week or so, depending on how he's feeling. Knowing Rudy, he'll show up in a suit and tie next Wednesday.”

“I'm really proud of you, Ty, but I miss you already.”

“I miss you, too, Joz.”

“Maybe I'll come visit.”

“We can go to that restaurant you like.”

“And visit the National Gallery.”

“And do some Christmas shopping.”

“I love you, Ty.”

“I love you, too, Josie.”

We promised to talk before bed.

I bought a coffee, returned to my place by the window, and called Sasha. Cara told me she was out on an appraisal inquiry. A recent widow was updating her will and needed to know the value of her antiques so she could divvy them up fairly, finance-wise, among her children.

“How about Fred? Is he there?”

He was, and while Cara transferred me, I e-mailed him the photographs of the miniatures.

“Have some photos arrived?” I asked him after we exchanged hellos.

“Hold on … yup. Got 'em! Very cool. You found them!”

I grinned like a cat confident the mouse didn't have a chance. “I did indeed. It was a fine moment, I must say. So … as far as I know, Ian Bennington bought them as a pair in the last several years and gave them to his daughter, Rebecca Bennington, as a housewarming gift. There's supposed to be an old appraisal, but I didn't find it among her possessions. The police don't have it, either. It may turn up—maybe she scanned it in and they'll find it on her computer. In any event, the police have asked us to help verify provenance. I'm on my way back with the miniatures now, but in the meantime, I'm hoping you can do some preliminary research to get me started.”

“Do you know where Ian bought them?” Fred asked.

“No, he didn't say.”

“I'll check auction records.”

“You have to start somewhere. Thanks, Fred!”

As soon as I was off the phone with Fred, I called Wes.

“Whatcha got?” he asked.

“A lot, but you can't use most of it, at least not now.”

“Josie,” he griped.

“Here's one you can write about right away. Most of Becca's furniture was made by a custom company called Meadow's Village Furniture. They're known for cleverly designing and installing what they call privacy compartments, which you and I would refer to as hidden cubbyholes. The company, which is a family attraction, is located in Franklin, New Hampshire, and for a little color, you can write about how it's on the site of a former Shaker community. The designers have maintained the Shaker style, which as I'm sure you know is identifiable from its simple lines, lack of nonfunctional embellishments, and superb craftsmanship.”

“You want to tell me why you're suggesting that I write a lifestyle fluff piece?”

“Because I promised the owner you would. He wouldn't talk to me otherwise.”

“You got some chutzpah, Josie, I'll give you that.”

“I want to fill you in, but you have to promise that you won't publish a word or a picture unless I tell you it's okay to do so.”

“What pictures?”

“The ones I'm going to e-mail you showing a hidden compartment I found in Becca's bed.”

“What? Talk to me.”

“Promise?”

“Josie!” he sputtered. “I need facts I
can
use.”

“Not now. Not from me.”

He sighed to his toenails, Wes-speak for how disappointed he was in me. I waited.

“Okay,” he said begrudgingly, “I promise.”

“Good. I'll send you the photos in a minute. The information I needed related to the placement of hidden cubbyholes. You can write about the company in general, but you can't say I found one in Becca's bed. Here's the thing … I found the missing paintings, Wes! I don't know how the police plan on playing it, so mum's the word. I have photos for you of the cubbyhole and the paintings.”

“You're the bomb, Joz. The complete bomb.”

“Thanks. What about Becca? Any news?”

“Not a word or a sign. You think she's been killed, too?”

“Oh, God, Wes, I hope not.”

After we were done, I e-mailed Wes the photos of the miniatures and the hiding place. I finished my coffee and walked back to my car.

Where,
I asked myself as I merged back onto the highway,
is Becca?
The more I thought about the situation, the more confused I became.

I spoke to Becca on Tuesday, and by any standard, her reaction to my innocent question was odd—or was it? If Becca had killed her father, the question might have touched her on the raw.

And what about Lia? Did she see Ian with Becca on Sunday, misunderstand their relationship, and flip out? Ashamed of myself for suspecting Lia, my friend, I nonetheless couldn't stop myself from wondering whether she'd been home alone the whole afternoon as she said or whether she'd gone out for some reason, for new makeup or a different color of stockings, for instance.

Lia could have driven into town to do her shopping, taking the scenic route home. I did it all the time. If she'd driven down Ocean Avenue, she might have passed just as Ian and Becca were standing out in the open at the end of Cable Road. She sees Ian deep in conversation with Becca and loses it.

Becca, now a witness to a crime, flees, panicked.

While I'd seen Lia enraged, beyond furious, I'd never seen her violent. Still, I couldn't shake a niggling feeling that seeing Ian with a young woman might have been the straw that broke the camel's back.

Ian was rich, handsome, available, and attracted to her. The idea of losing a man this appealing to a younger woman, especially after losing a husband because of his obsession with, as Lia put it, jailbait-aged girls, might have tipped her over the edge.

Though I felt like a Judas, my incriminating thoughts continued unabated. Lia needs money. She makes no secret of it. Hearing that Becca had vanished, she might have risked breaking into Becca's housing in the hopes of snaring a treasure, the miniatures. She'd heard me talk about how hard it is to sell stolen art—or rather, how hard it is to sell stolen art for top dollar. It's easy to sell if you're willing to work with a sleazy dealer and take pennies on the dollar. It might only be pennies, but pennies on more than one and a quarter million dollars, my quick and dirty estimate of the retail value of the two paintings, wasn't hay. Realistically, she could expect to sell them, no questions asked, for 20 percent of retail, about $250,000. Tax free. Money her ex would never know about, would never be able to claim.

My cell phone rang. I glanced at the display but didn't recognize the number, a 917 area code. New York City. I pulled off to the shoulder, set my flashers, and took the call.

A woman with the husky voice of a smoker said, “A woman I work with said you can tell me if I have an antique that's worth anything.”

“We do our best! What's the object?”

“A pair of wrought-iron chairs. They've got claw feet and gargoyle heads at the ends of the arms and lots of flowers and things woven into the design.”

“They sound beautiful. I'd love to get a look at them.”

“I'm not far from your company. Can you stop by now?”

I was about to ask her to schedule an appointment for tomorrow or Monday when I realized Ty was in D.C., so I had no reason to hurry home. I could connect with Ellis, get the paintings in the vault, then head to her place.

“Definitely!”

She gave me her name, Pat Weston, and her address, 14 Rochand Road. I knew the street. It was the second right after my place, heading to the coast. I calculated the time. I was about ten minutes from my exit. Another ten minutes would get me to Prescott's. It would only take a minute or two to sign off on the evidence with Ellis and store the paintings. Five minutes to her place. I told Ms. Weston I'd be there in forty-five minutes, give or take. I called Ellis, and we agreed to meet at my place in half an hour.

Twenty minutes later, along a dark stretch of road about a quarter mile before the turn-in to my parking lot, my headlights illuminated a gray or silver sedan parked diagonally across the road, as if it had died while the driver was attempting a U-turn, or perhaps something had happened to incapacitate him. I rolled to a stop fifty feet from the vehicle and turned on my brights. No one was visible behind the wheel.

I found my phone and called 911. I told the emergency operator that either the car had broken down and the driver had set off for help or the driver had fallen ill, but regardless, the road was blocked. She said she'd send the police right away. I wondered who'd arrive first, the officers assigned to respond to the emergency call or Ellis.

I pulled off to the side of the road, parking on frozen dirt and low-growing brush, and got out. The woods on either side were impenetrable, thick and near-black. The road in either direction was empty. I jogged to the car to see if the driver had collapsed. I knew CPR, and if I could help, I wanted to. I switched on my flashlight and sent the light around the inside of the car, peering into the back floor. The vehicle was empty. The key wasn't in the ignition. The driver had gone to find assistance.

I had started back to my car when a soft rustling caught my attention.
A rabbit, maybe,
I thought,
or a deer.
Just as I approached the driver's-side door, I heard a whoosh. I spun toward the noise. In the faint light from my headlights, I saw what looked like tree bark, a sturdy limb, aimed at my head. I screeched and cantered right, and the blow landed with a thud on my left shoulder.

Shock waves of pain shot up my neck and down my back to my legs, and I stumbled forward. I screamed in shock and fear and pain, my yells echoing in the cold, dry, dark night. I tried to run, but I could only totter. My legs had gone tingly-numb. I heard another whoosh and knew a second blow was coming. I sank to the ground, the air swirling around me as the tree limb whizzed by my head, thunking on the hood of my car.

I tried to push myself upright, but I didn't have the strength. I lay in a dazed heap, mired in terror.
Roll,
I told myself, knowing that unless I moved, I was a sitting duck, certain to be killed. I raised myself up a few inches, grunting when my shoulder muscles flexed. I sank back to the ground and gyrated sideways, away from my car, and the third strike glanced off my left arm. I scooted away as best I could, scraping my hands on the pebble-laden asphalt. My screams trailed off into whimpers. The pain was dazzling. Gold flecks danced before my eyes. I quit moving, knowing it was hopeless. I rolled over, trying to see something I could use to identify my attacker, but before I could focus, both my headlights and blinkers went out and I was left in the middle of the road in total darkness. I closed my eyes and prepared to die.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I heard footsteps, followed by a slamming door. An engine turned over and a car sped off. Silence settled in like a London fog, punctuated only by occasional forest sounds, a swish of something pushing through dense growth, followed by crunching steps, small paws on brittle leaves. The road to my office wasn't a major thoroughfare, but neither was it deserted. If I didn't get off the road, someone would run over me before the police arrived.