Ornaments of Death (32 page)

“Good,” I said as I turned the sauce up from warm to medium-low. I turned on the toaster oven to preheat. “What do you want to drink? Chianti? Prescott's Punch? Beer?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned.

I laughed and handed him a martini glass. “Start with a Prescott's Punch, the drink of choice for the downtrodden.”

“I sure qualify.”

“Hard day?” Zoë asked.

He sank onto one of the ladder-back chairs across from her. “They're all hard days. Today was just longer than usual.”

I took a bowl of salad from the fridge, added the red wine vinaigrette I'd made earlier, and tossed.

“Bad news about the garlic bread,” I told him. “We finished everything I baked.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Good news about the garlic bread is that I set aside some for you! It'll take about fifteen minutes to heat up.”

“You are a cruel and wicked woman to tease me in my weakened condition.”

“Have some salad, oh weak one. Soon strength will flood your veins.”

He began pecking at the salad, mostly moving it around the bowl.

I sat down and forked the last of my Boston cream pie.

Zoë was watching him with questioning eyes, worried. I didn't blame her.

“You're not acting like yourself,” she said. “Are you sure you're all right?”

He didn't answer right away. He ate some salad and drank some punch. “The truth?” he asked.

A panicky look flashed across her face. She raised her chin, braced for bad news. “Of course.”

Ellis reached out a hand toward hers, and she took it and kissed his palm. “Talk to me,” she whispered.

He looked at me, then at her hand, rubbing his.

“I'm out of leads. I'm out of ideas. From where I sit, it looks like someone is going to get away with murder.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I took one last look around the kitchen to be certain I hadn't missed a dirty glass or forgotten to wipe down a section of counter, then turned out the light, satisfied. The doorbell rang. I glanced at the digital time display on the range—10:20. I smiled, wondering what Zoë and team forgot. When I reached the door and looked through the small window, my smile disappeared. Instead, I gawked. I staggered back, righted myself, and stepped forward for a closer look.

It was Becca.

She was wearing a brown knee-length puffy coat similar to mine, brown jeans, and scuffed hiking boots. Her boots had bits of snow stuck in the cleats. Her coat's hood was up and snapped snugly under her chin. Faux-fur trim encircled her pale face.

I looked beyond her to the driveway. The snow was falling steadily. Three inches, maybe four, lay on the ground.

I brought my eyes back to her face. She was plain, but not homely. She wore no makeup.

She stared directly into the glass, but since I was standing in the dark, I knew she couldn't see me. I didn't know what to do. If she'd shoved a gun under her waistband, I'd have no way of telling. She wasn't carrying a bag, but her coat was large and shapeless.

My Browning 9 mm was upstairs in my bedside table. I was a good shot, but that and a dime did me no good if the gun wasn't at hand. I toyed with running up to get it but dismissed the idea as paranoid. Becca would be a fool to come to my house and shoot me, and if one thing was certain, Becca was no fool. She was a brilliant scientist who'd fallen in love with the wrong man. My long-gone ex-boyfriend, Rick the Cretin, came to mind. We were all fools in our twenties. I opened the door the three inches the chain lock allowed.

“You're Becca,” I said.

She tilted her head slightly so she could see me through the crack. “You're Josie.”

“Where is your car?” I asked.

“Down the hill. I hiked up.”

I looked out over the quiet night, then back at her. “Why are you here?”

Her eyes dropped. “I didn't know where else to go,” she whispered. “I've run out of cash. I'm afraid to use any of my credit cards or my debit card, even my E-ZPass.” She raised her eyes and peered at me through the crack. “According to my dad, you're family.”

I closed the door enough to remove the chain and opened it wide.

“Come in,” I said.

I turned off the porch light and looked across the driveway at Zoë's house. Upstairs lights were on in Jake's room, Zoë's room, and the hall bathroom. I could only hope that Ellis hadn't chosen this moment to check out the snow. He would easily spot Becca's footprints and might even have seen her step onto my porch.

“I can take your coat,” I said, closing and locking the door.

“Thanks,” she said, pulling off her gloves and stuffing them in her coat pocket. She handed it over.

She wore an oversized lilac and green flannel shirt over a lilac cotton turtleneck, She ran her fingers through her hair, not fluffing it so much as scratching her scalp.

“In here,” I said, leading the way into the living room. “I'll close the drapes before I turn on the lights.”

I finished smoothing the last of the curtains, ensuring no crack appeared, and switched on the overhead light, a yellow globe with a fan attachment. I turned the fan on low, just to keep the air moving.

She stood by the couch and took her time looking around the living room and into my study, visible through the open French doors, pausing when she came to my father's favorite painting,
A River Crossing with a Ferry,
attributed to Jan Brueghel the Younger. Then she moved on to my mother's Georgian sterling silver candlesticks, the eighteenth-century Waterford cut-crystal bowl I'd purchased for myself to celebrate my first year in business, the rare books that lined the study shelves—reference books, mostly—the three framed antique maps, and the pair of antique blue floral-patterned Chinese vases.

“Your home is beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you. Have a seat.” I waited until she sat on the couch, then took one of the club chairs that faced it. “Are you hungry?”

“No, thanks.” She smiled, a wan effort. “I used the last of my cash on a sandwich.”

“Coffee? Tea? A drink?”

“Tea would be good. Thank you.”

“There aren't any curtains in the kitchen, so you should stay here while I prepare it.” I pointed to the powder room door. “The bathroom is in there. I won't be long.”

I set the kettle on to boil and took a teapot from the cabinet.

“Can you hear me?” I called over my shoulder.

“Yes.”

“I have herbal tea or black. What would you like?”

“Black, please. With milk and sugar if you have it.”

I heard her go into the bathroom, but by the time I brought the tray into the living room and slid it onto the coffee table, she was back on the couch. I poured her a cup and returned to my chair.

“What about Ethan?” I asked.

“What about him?” she asked, puzzled.

“You said you didn't know where to go … Aren't you two friends?”

“Sort of.” She shrugged. “Roommate kind of friends. I wouldn't trust him with anything like this.”

“Because you don't know him well? Or because he's not trustworthy?”

“Because I wouldn't want him to misunderstand a need for a desire.”

“You were concerned he might think you were coming on to him.”

“Many men would.” She added a thimbleful of milk to her tea. “I owe you an apology. For hanging up on you. I didn't know then that Thomas was impersonating my father.”

“I figured that was what was going on.”

She stared into her teacup.

“It's horrible, isn't it,” I added, “when relationships go bad?”

She raised her eyes to mine. “It didn't go bad. It was bad from the start. I was just too stupid to realize it.”

“Not stupid,” I said, hoping she would recognize the sincerity in my voice. “Human.”

“I fell for the fairy tale,” she said, and I thought of Lia. “Thomas was so much older than me. When he asked me out, I was flattered. Beyond flattered. Blinded. All the girls at the company where I worked were sweet on him. I couldn't believe he picked little nerdy me.”

On the face of it, Lia and Becca had nothing in common. They differed in age, experience, personality, style, and culture. Yet, on some level, they were sisters under the skin, each falling for a handsome gold digger with a good line. Lia's desperation to find a man made her vulnerable to a smooth talker. Becca hadn't been desperate. She'd been ignorant, and thus an easy mark.

“I bet you weren't real experienced with men,” I said.

She made a noise, a soft chortle. “That's an understatement.”

“Thomas took terrible advantage of your innocence.”

“And look what's happened now—a murder, two break-ins, and an assault. I've been reading Wes Smith's postings. You were attacked.”

“And they stole your miniature paintings. I'm sick about it.”

“Me, too.”

“They're insured, right?”

“Yes. My dad used Frisco's appraisal to increase the coverage.”

“Thank goodness for small favors.”

“Do you think they'll be found?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because they haven't been sold.”

“Lots of stolen art isn't sold on the open market.”

“True,” I said. “I don't think the thief is a professional, though, who would know how to go about selling stolen art on the black market. I think it's an amateur who's lying low, biding time. Professionals are better at it. Whoever is responsible for this is stumbling all over himself. Regardless, we've generated so much publicity, even illicit dealers would be leery about buying the paintings now.” I watched her for a moment. “May I ask … will you tell me about Thomas?”

She stirred her tea far longer than necessary. “What is it you want to know?”

“What's going on? Was he holding up the divorce trying to get a better settlement?”

“Yes, but it wasn't only Thomas. Cheryl Morrishein was just as bad. Together, they were simply unrelenting in trying to get me to sell the miniatures. My telling them that they weren't mine to sell, and that I would never sell them in any event, had about as much effect as a … a puff of air in stopping a tornado.”

“When did your dad give them to you?”

“When we moved to New Hampshire. I hung them in our living room when Thomas and I lived together, but since we broke up, well, I've kept them hidden. I was going to bring them back to my dad, actually, on my next visit.”

“I saw your separation agreement, so I know that Thomas tried to get them included as marital property, and failed.”

She nodded. “Thomas's latest effort is utterly galling, and it's not over yet.” She sighed and leaned back against the cushions. “The court will probably allow it. His petition was correct. I do inherit the paintings, and we were still married. Thomas left everything to three cousins in England. I'm certain their solicitor will find the petition and try to get half the paintings' value included in his estate. Damn him! He made my life hell while he was alive, and he's making it hell now that he's dead.”

“I understand Thomas's interest in the paintings, but where does Cheryl fit in?”

Her jaw tightened and her brow creased. “She's the most conniving woman I've ever met. I truly didn't know people like her existed. She manipulates the truth to suit her needs, acting as if her jury-rigged version is true. She blamed Thomas for the partnership tanking—which might be a fair assessment. I don't know enough about the business to say. Certainly Thomas made most of the decisions. Their first investment went south within weeks.”

“What was it?”

“A luxury spa. The project involved getting government permission to build a new island off of Rocky Point. Can you imagine? They invested in the project before the government rendered an opinion, how crazy is that? Once the government said no, the banks pulled out, leaving Thomas and Rupert as the group's only investors. Thomas said their only hope of getting their money out was to put more in. To me it sounded like throwing good money after bad, but he wouldn't hear that.”

“I don't understand. If the group couldn't build the island, wasn't the whole project dead?”

“No, they wanted to try again in Massachusetts. I thought it was insane, but Thomas thought it was a winner of an idea. When Rupert died, Cheryl demanded Rupert's investment back, accusing Thomas of fraud. I had and have no legal standing in Thomas's business dealings, but that hasn't stopped her. She'll probably egg on Thomas's cousins to try to get my inheritance included in the estate, then sue them to get her share before it's divvied up.”

“If you have no ownership of Thomas's business, why would she think you'd pay her off?”

“She tried two tacks, one, a general ‘do the right thing and make me whole' approach, the other that since Rupert died because of the business failure, which occurred because of Thomas's many misrepresentations—the basis of her claim that he committed fraud—Rupert's blood was on our hands.”

“That's some stretch,” I said, tucking a leg up under me.

“Cheryl's morality is as elastic as her pocketbook is empty. It's been a nightmare, an absolute nightmare.”

“How do you cope?”

“I work.”

I smiled at her. “That's how I cope in tough times, too.”

She smiled back at me. “I guess we really are related.”

“Why did you run?”

“I panicked. I'm still panicked. When I heard the news that Thomas had been murdered, I freaked out—I'd been on Cable Road what must have been mere minutes before he was struck and killed.”

I waited for her to continue, and when she didn't I asked, “Were you afraid you'd be suspected of the murder?”

“Of course. I benefit most by his death.” She pressed her fingertips against her cheeks for a moment. “But it's not only that. It's Cheryl, too. I'm powerless.”