Ornaments of Death (26 page)

“You notice I'm not asking why you're crashing our party,” Dr. Grayman said over her shoulder as we wended our way through the guests.

“It's nothing more mysterious than an appraisal I'm working on.”

Dr. Grayman's sidewise glance indicated disbelief.

“Really. I know she's keynoting tomorrow. I didn't want to risk missing her.”

“Something urgent, it seems.”

I blushed and tried to avoid her penetrating gaze. “A little.”

“Excuse us,” Dr. Grayman said to the group surrounding Dr. Moore. “Flo, may I spirit your away for a few minutes?”

“Certainly,” Dr. Moore said in a well-modulated British accent. To the group, she added, “More later!”

She turned to face us. Dr. Moore was classically beautiful with a hint of the exotic. Her cheekbones were high and prominent. Her almond-shaped eyes were amber, flecked with a darker brown and sparks of gold. I'd never seen eyes that color. Her lips were full. Dr. Grayman introduced us, and Dr. Moore smiled at me politely.

“Josie is a well-known antiques appraiser. She says she has an urgent question.”

I thanked Dr. Grayman and turned to Florence Moore. “I'm sorry to crash in like this. May I pull you aside and ask you what I hope will be a quick question?”

“Certainly,” she said. “I'm intrigued.”

I led the way out of the lounge and turned right. “This way,” I said, stepping into an alcove enclosed by burgundy velvet curtains.

Dr. Moore followed me into the narrow space that used to house three wall-mounted pay phones. Now it stored high chairs and booster seats.

“I'm trying to track a pair of Samuel Cooper miniatures. You were an intern at the Midlands Art Museum in the mid-1980s when an exhibit called Love Lost was mounted. I need to know about a pair of Cooper's watercolors, one of Arabella Churchill, the other of King James II.”

“If you'd asked me to guess what your question was, never in a million years would I have lit on that exhibit. That was thirty years ago.”

“It's not a random question, though. The loan of those miniatures was ascribed to Anonymous. I need to know Anonymous's identity.”

“You're appraising those paintings.”

“Yes.”

“I remember them. They were charming. But I'm not going to be able to help you, I'm afraid. As you correctly stated, I was but a lowly intern. I wasn't privy to donors' or contributors' names.”

“Darn! I can't find anyone who can help me. The curators have retired or passed away. The paperwork was destroyed in a fire a decade ago. Can you think of anyone I could talk to who might be able to help? Shall I try to track down the retired staff?”

She pursed her beautiful, shapely lips and stared at the crown molding for a moment. “There was a consultant … What was his name?” She shook her head slightly, thinking. She remembered and looked at me full on, her luminous topaz eyes alive with delight. “Kirk Trevor. I haven't thought about him in years. I had a little crush on him.”

“I don't suppose you know where he is now?”

“No, I'm afraid not. He's an American, though, so more than likely he's somewhere in your country.”

“You've been very helpful.”

We stepped out into the hall, and she started back toward the party. She gave me a good-bye smile and disappeared into the crowd.

I smiled at Frieda as I left, thinking about memory and love lost.

*   *   *

By ten Wednesday morning, I had all my data reloaded on my new iPhone and had configured my new tablet to my liking. The tablet was the newest model, an actual computer, equipped with all the latest bells and whistles. I hated change but had to admit that some changes were less onerous than others.

*   *   *

I reached Kirk Trevor in Chicago on my third try, at eleven Wednesday morning, ten his time.

“I got your name from Dr. Florence Moore, who was an intern when you consulted on the Love Lost exhibit for the Midlands Art Museum in 1986. I tracked you down through the Association of Art Historians.”

“Love Lost. I remember it. It was an important show. What can I do for you?”

“I'm hoping you can help me confirm the provenance of some paintings.” I explained who I was and what I wanted.

“Don't see why not. Who owns them now?”

“Rebecca Bennington. She recently inherited them from her father, Ian Bennington. Do you remember who the donor was?”

“Sure. The sellers didn't want their names made public, though.”

“How come?”

“The usual. They don't want thieves to know what they own.”

“Do you know if they sold the paintings?”

“I do. I co-brokered the sale to Mr. Bennington.”

I smiled at Hank, ambling into my office. “Good. You must have told Mr. Bennington their names.”

“Certainly. It was in the purchase agreement, and, of course, listing the names was necessary in providing proof of provenance. Mr. Bennington didn't want his name made public either. Since it was a private sale, there was no issue.”

“And you can't give me the sellers' names? Even after all this time?”

“Sorry. No.”

“You said you co-brokered the deal. Who was the other broker?”

“Are you trying an end-around?”

I laughed. “I guess I am.”

“I'm not at liberty to reveal anything else, I'm afraid.”

“Let me just ask—”

“Sorry. Best of luck.”

He ended the call just as Hank jumped into my lap. I put the phone down and scratched Hank behind his right ear. He began purring and dipped his head into the motion, signaling he wanted me to rub more, more, harder, please. I followed his instructions.

“What do you make of that, Hank?” I asked.

Hank licked my hand, a kitty kiss.

“I love you, too, sweetheart, but I was asking about Kirk Trevor. Was he being cagey or circumspect? What do you think?”

Hank purred louder.

“I think you're right. He was simply honoring a promise of confidentiality.”

I reached across Hank's flank for the phone and called Ellis.

“Did you find anything on Becca's computer about the portraits?” I asked.

“No. Nothing personal at all. Why?”

“I need to know where her dad got them.”

“If the paperwork wasn't in that drawer of receipts and things, and if it wasn't stored as a file on her computer, where would she keep it?”

“On a laptop or a tablet,” I suggested. “Or a flash drive.”

“That she has with her. We didn't find anything like that.”

“Presumably. Maybe her dad kept a copy. Could you call the police in Christmas Common and ask them?”

“Come here and we'll do it together. You can explain why we're asking.”

“I'm on my way.”

I nuzzled Hank for a moment, then placed him on the floor, ignoring his protesting mew.

“Sorry, baby. I've got to go.”

He stretched, a half-stretch, lengthening his back paws in a dancer's extension, and strolled off.

*   *   *

Just before noon, 5:00
P.M.
in Christmas Common, Ellis called the police superintendent, Gerald Shorling. When he came on the line, Ellis punched the
SPEAKER
button so I could listen in.

“What's your interest?” Mr. Shorling asked, his voice reverberating through the speaker, after Ellis introduced himself and me and explained he had questions relating to the Ian Bennington case.

“In the course of an investigation, the murder of a British citizen named Thomas Lewis, I need to know the details of Ian Bennington's purchase of two antique miniature paintings. This might have relevance into your investigation of his death as well. My question to you is this: Did you find the purchase agreement among Ian Bennington's possessions or on his computer? We've been told that there was a list of past owners attached to it.”

“Provenance, it's called,” I added.

“That's a question for the detective on the case.”

“That would be Detective Higgins,” Ellis said. “I've left two messages about other issues. He hasn't called me back.”

“Is that so?” Superintendent Shorling asked. “When was your last call?”

“Yesterday about ten, East Coast time, three in your part of the world.”

“Twenty-one hours is long enough to get back to a fellow police official who is conducting a murder investigation.”

“That's what I'd say to my staff, too.”

“I'll be in touch shortly.”

Ellis thanked him and pushed the
END CALL
button.

“What do you think?” he asked me.

“I think Detective Higgins is in trouble. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.”

Ellis smiled and shook his head. “Will Superintendent Shorling find what you're looking for?”

“Probably. Most dads would keep copies of the paperwork before giving the original to a young daughter.”

“Becca's not that young.”

“Midtwenties,” I said. My shoulders went up half an inch, then down. “How old were you when you matured?”

“Nineteen. February 24, 1991. Desert Storm. Kuwait.”

“You were in the army.”

“The marines.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing good. It was over in a few days.”

“Not for you.”

“True. I grew up quick and stayed grown up.”

“That's not the same as maturity.”

He grinned. “It was for me. War changes you. It worked out all right for me.”

“I saw a billboard once, an ad for the marines. It showed a handsome, wholesome young man, wearing his dress uniform, staring out with such earnestness. The headline read ‘The change lasts forever.'”

“That's about right,” Ellis said.

*   *   *

Back at my office, I checked whether any sales of Cooper miniatures had been reported on the various proprietary Web sites we subscribed to since Fred's last posting. They hadn't. If Becca had sold them in the few weeks since telling Marney Alred that she intended to do so, the sale was private and unrecorded. If the thief had sold them, the sale was private. I called the number Marney gave me, her cell phone.

“Hi, Ms. Alred. This is Josie Prescott. You asked that I contact you if I had any information about Becca Bennington's watercolor miniatures.”

“Yes, thank you. Do you have news?”

“Not exactly. I was hoping you did. Have you spoken to Becca?”

“I don't understand.”

“I have reason to think a sale might be in the works. A private sale. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. Why would you think they're being sold privately?”

“There's no public record of the sale, so that's the only alternative. It's very common with high-value objects.”

“You're calling me to find out if I've heard from Becca, aren't you?”

“I'm looking for information, yes, about Becca and about the paintings.”

“Please call back when you have some to share,” she said, her tone sharp. She hung up with a snap.

*   *   *

By two o'clock, I was too antsy to work. Time to go Christmas shopping.

I drove to Lia's spa.

Missy, the receptionist, was as warm as ever.

“Hi, Josie! Are you here to book a massage? We have a winter special you're going to love. Paraffin for your hands and feet to counteract winter dryness!”

“That sounds incredible. Next time. Right now, I'm looking for a gift for Ty, a stocking stuffer. I'm thinking of some manly dry skin cream. What do you recommend?”

Lia appeared from the spa area, smiling warmly. “I think Ty would love our Your Skin product line for men. It's new, all organic, and very popular.” She pointed to shelves filled with steel gray and ice blue tubes.

I picked up one called Wake Up Call. The label said it was a mixture of green tea, glycerin, and menthol, to refresh and moisturize men's skin.

“Perfect,” I said. “Sold.”

While Missy rang it up, Lia asked, “I read about the attack. You look fine, but are you? Really?”

“I am. I got very lucky.”

“No word on the missing paintings?”

“No. Nor about Becca. She's still missing. How are you doing?”

“Same old, same old.” She smiled, the kind that turned up her lips but didn't reach her eyes. “Bitter. Hopeless. Angry.” She leaned in for a butterfly kiss. “See ya!”

She moved off to greet another customer. I took the tube from Missy, wishing I felt more, rather than less, connected to Lia.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Ty called Wednesday evening as I was taping a big red bow on his gift-wrapped moisturizer. I finished and slipped it into his stocking.

“I'm sitting here brooding,” I said. “I'm worried about Becca. I'm worried about the paintings. I want my tote bag back. I'm feeling feckless.”

“You always say that when you have more questions than answers, find something to research.”

“About what?”

“What don't you know?” he asked.

“Everything.”

“Well, that's certainly comprehensive.”

“I'll think about it,” I said. “What are you getting me for Christmas?”

“I'm not telling.”

I smiled. “Will I like it?”

“Yes.”

“I miss you, Ty.”

“One more day. I'll be home tomorrow. I'm taking Friday off.”

“Oh, yeah? How come?”

“To sleep late. To finish my Christmas shopping. To split logs. I have that pile of logs out back from when they took down the old apple tree last spring. I've been cooped up in an office for too long. I want to do some physical work.”

“I'll be the beneficiary,” I said. “I love the way applewood smells when you burn it.”

“Appley.”