Ornaments of Death (37 page)

Cheryl's eyes shot poisoned darts at Ellis. She didn't notice me, but I wasn't surprised. Cheryl wasn't the sort of woman who noticed many people; she was more used to them noticing her. Her eyes were lined in dark brown with a hint of blue. Her lipstick was brick red. Her mink was open enough for me to see that she wore a Chanel tweed suit with a gold dragonfly brooch. Her hair was short and wavy. I suspected she'd paid someone a lot of money for those waves. I wondered if the hairdo she'd sported when she came to my office—longer, with bangs—had been a wig. She looked astonishingly different. It showed you what a little makeup, fancy clothes, and a supercilious attitude could do.

Her lips were compressed into one thin line. Officer Meade took a place on Cheryl's other side.

“Are you responsible for this outrage?” Cheryl asked Ellis in an educated, nasally tone.

“If you're referring to the search warrant, I'm the officer who signed the petition, yes. It's Judge Torley who signed the order. This way, please.”

He held the door while we trooped out.

“Did she give you the key?” Ellis asked the detective.

“Yes.”

“Good. You and I will examine the inside of the vehicle first, then the trunk.” He turned to Daryl. “Please begin taping.”

Daryl aimed a small video recorder at Ellis.

“Pursuant to the search warrant issued today,” Ellis said, “we are searching the vehicle named in that order, which is owned by and registered to Cheryl Morrishein.”

He clicked open the doors. The trunk lid lifted slightly. I approached the trunk, while Ellis and the detective went through the inside. Detective Brownley slipped the contents of the glove box into a clear plastic evidence bag.

“I'll be reporting this to my lawyer,” Cheryl said, her tone threatening.

No one looked at her. No one replied. Officer Meade stood close behind her, ready to subdue her if necessary. I doubted Cheryl knew she was there.

As Ellis walked to the trunk and raised the lid, Daryl stepped back, still holding the camera at eye level. I stepped closer. The bottom of the trunk was covered with a gray speckled mat. Off to the right was an opaque tub. Ellis removed the lid. Inside was a winter survival kit, similar to the one I kept in my trunk: kitty litter for traction on ice, flares, a thermo-blanket, and a folding shovel. My tote bag wasn't visible. Ellis lifted out the tub and raised the mat. A spare tire and jack lay nestled in a carved-out gully. He swung out the tire to reveal a black plastic trash bag. Ellis reached in and pulled out my tote bag.

I used my iPhone and took a photo of Ellis holding it up and one of Cheryl, her face sagging. Ellis didn't tell me to stop.

“I found the bag on the side of the road,” Cheryl said. “I intended to bring it in to the police, but forgot.”

“Open it,” I requested. “Do you see a black velvet pouch?”

Ellis peered inside, gently shifting things so he could see to the bottom. He extracted the pouch and dangled it in front of the camera.

“This one?” he asked me.

I snapped a photo.

“Yes. May I look?”

“Let's do it inside.” He turned to the detective. “Please secure the vehicle.” To Officer Meade, he added, “Bring Ms. Morrishein back to Room Four.”

“Am I under arrest?” she demanded, her chin up.

“You're being detained,” Ellis told her. He looked at Officer Meade. “Go.”

Daryl continued recording until Detective Brownley had tugged on every door and the trunk lid to demonstrate that they were locked. The four of us made our way inside.

*   *   *

Still wearing gloves, Ellis unfurled the black velvet, revealing the two watercolor miniatures.

“Arabella,” I said. “She's my ancestor.”

“She's beautiful.”

“Winsome.”

“I'll have someone call Max and Becca with the good news.”

“May I call Becca?”

Ellis paused for a few seconds. “We'll call Max. I can't stop you from calling whomever you'd like.”

I took a quick photo of the two paintings and e-mailed it to Becca, then called her.

She answered with a “hello” that sounded more like a question than a greeting.

“This is Josie. I just e-mailed you a good-news photo. The paintings have been found safe and sound.”

“Oh, Josie. Where?”

“In Cheryl's car.”

“I knew it.”

“The police will be calling Max to let him know in a formal way.”

“Thank you, Josie, for calling me yourself.”

“How are you doing?”

“Rallying a bit, I guess. Knowing is always better than not knowing.”

“Even when the truth is hard to hear.”

“Yes,” she said. “Even then.”

“I agree. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye.”

“Is she okay?” Ellis asked.

“More or less.”

*   *   *

Ellis asked me to listen in to his interrogation so I could help him pose questions about how and where Cheryl intended to sell the paintings, if it came up. While we waited for her lawyer to arrive, he ordered us a sandwich lunch.

Between bites, I suggested he call Bitsy, Becca and Thomas's North Conway neighbor. “If you can e-mail her Cheryl's photo, she might be able to identify her as the woman who heard Becca and Thomas fighting about the paintings. That would show that Cheryl knew they existed, and that they were valuable.”

He asked Detective Brownley to create a photo lineup and make the call.

Half an hour later, he asked, “Ready? Let's go see what story Cheryl has up her sleeve.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Two hours later, I sat in the observation room watching Ellis question Cheryl about her role in Thomas's murder and my attack. She denied everything. Ellis wound his way back to the start—her husband's partnership and her lawsuit. Her lawyer was a stranger to me, an older man with a folksy manner named Grover Getty.

“Now let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Getty said with a friendly smile. “This little lady has made an accusation, that part's right enough, but all you have to do is look at court documents to see how she handles her grievances—she files a lawsuit. She's no killer. She's no hooligan. She's a lady.”

“That sounds like a good opening statement, counselor,” Ellis said dryly. He focused on an unrepentant Cheryl. “The morning Thomas died you had a fifteen-minute conversation with him. What did you discuss?”

“I have no recollection of talking to him.”

“An hour after he was killed, you called Becca. Why?”

“I have no memory of calling Becca.”

“I have her phone logs.”

She raised a fluttering hand. “Computers make mistakes.”

Ellis shook his head slowly, half-smiling, as if to say she was some piece of work. “That's not going to fly in front of a jury.”

“Now, now,” Getty chastised. “Don't you be threatening her.”

Ellis didn't even glance at him. He kept his eyes fixed on Cheryl. “Why did you go to Josie Prescott's office pretending to be Marney Alred?”

“I didn't.”

“There are many photos of you. Her security cameras cover the entire property, inside and out.”

“It wasn't me.”

“One of those photos shows you sneaking a peek through a window the night of Josie Prescott's holiday party. What were you doing there?”

“I'm not a peeping Tom.”

“Facial recognition software has confirmed it's you.”

I doubted that was true.

Cheryl smiled, gaining confidence with each denial. “Evidently, the software is not infallible. It can't be me. I wasn't there.”

Her lawyer nodded in approval. I wondered if he believed her. If I didn't know better, I'd have been tempted to believe her myself.

“Do you think a jury will believe all these denials simply because you're an attractive woman?” Ellis asked.

“Chief Hunter,” Getty admonished him, “please. There's no point in personal comments. If you have another relevant question, ask it. If not, we'll be on our way.”

Ellis looked at Getty and shook his head. “It seems there's a little bit of shared delusion going on. Your client isn't going anywhere.”

“Is she under arrest?”

“She will be. Right now, she's cooperating with our investigation, or so I thought.” He turned toward Cheryl. “I get the impression you loved your husband very much.”

Her eyes fell to the table. “Yes.”

“Am I correct that you blamed Thomas Lewis for your husband's death?”

The defiance was back. “Without question. Thomas Lewis killed Rupert as surely as if he'd pulled the trigger of a gun. Thomas's death wasn't murder. It was justice.”

“The word is ‘retribution,' not ‘justice.'”

“That sounds remarkably like an accusation,” Getty said.

“Now that Thomas is dead,” Ellis said to Cheryl, wholly disregarding Getty's interpolation, “you'll never get a payout. He was broke when he died.”

She smirked. “He and Becca were still married when her father died. She's the sole heir. Grover tells me that once probate is granted, my lawsuit can move forward and I'll get my share.”

“Then you didn't hear.… The British authorities have ruled Ian's murder a homicide and declared his killer to be Thomas. Ask your lawyer—a killer can't benefit from his crime.”

Cheryl's mouth opened, then shut. She leaned back in her chair, whip-turned toward Getty, and spoke softly into his ear, her hands flying up and open and in and down. Getty replied, touching her arm, trying to calm her. He said something, patting the air—
relax,
the gesture communicated. They turned back to face Ellis.

Getty spoke. “Miss Cheryl is upset at the news. She had no idea Thomas Lewis was capable of such a heinous crime. The fact remains, however, that she was wronged and Thomas was married when he died. His widow, whom we believe to be an honorable woman, will no doubt do the right thing. If not, the lawsuit, which has named her as a co-conspirator from the start, will go forward.”

“It will be dismissed,” Ellis said. “Becca was not involved. She had no fiduciary interest in her husband's business ventures.”

“If you're right,” Cheryl said, her confidence reinvigorated after Getty's little speech, “it's obvious I have no motive for killing Thomas.”

A knock sounded on the interview room door, and Detective Brownley entered.

“Excuse me,” she said. She handed Ellis a folded sheet of paper and left.

Ellis read it and slipped it under his notebook. He pulled his earlobe and smiled.

“Let me tell you what I think happened,” he said.

“Please do,” Getty said. “Edify us.”

“Becca and Thomas's breakup was ugly,” Ellis said. “Thomas had done everything he could to get Becca to sell the paintings and share the proceeds, including lying to Frisco's that he had the right to sell them. When Becca caught on—perhaps because she discovered they were missing and confronted him, or possibly because she borrowed his smart phone to make a call and saw the e-mail from Frisco's—Thomas flew to England to kill Ian. Thomas staged Ian's death to look like suicide. If he'd thought of it, he would have left a note.”

“All very interesting,” Getty said, “but what does this have to do with my client?”

“Everything. He did it because Cheryl was relentless in her demands. She drove him to it. The DA is looking into whether we can charge her with Ian's murder under the racketeering laws.”

“Absurd.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. The Christmas Common police told me they found an e-mail in Ian's
SENT
folder to Becca saying he'd researched Prescott's, that the firm had a stellar reputation, and since it was convenient to where Becca was working, she should have the miniatures appraised there, that Frisco's, while a reputable firm, had been Thomas's choice, that she should have an independent assessment. Thomas must have read the e-mail when he was in Ian's house after killing him, and immediately crafted a plan to get his hands on the miniatures so he could either sell them under the table, or get them included in the divorce settlement. His lawyer probably told him that probate would take months, longer if Becca disputed his claim, as she was certain to do. Thomas didn't have time to wait—because of you.”

“This is fantasy,” Cheryl said. “Pure fantasy!”

“‘Speculation' is the legal term,” Getty added.

“You want some things we can prove for sure? No problem. You first learned about the miniatures' existence during the knock-down, drag-out fight when Thomas and Becca still lived together in North Conway. We have a witness.” Ellis fingered out the slip of paper Detective Brownley had delivered earlier and waved it. “She just picked you out of a photo lineup. My detective called Becca, too, to ask about that night. That's the evening she left Thomas. She'd planned on attending a lecture at Hitchens University on underwater drones. She remembered it very specifically. You had expected Becca to be out and were coming to spend time with
your
co-conspirator—Thomas.” He turned to Getty. “They'd joined forces to try to get Becca to hand over cash—or the paintings.” He resumed his focus on Cheryl. “Thomas told you he was going to England to take care of it. And he did. He killed Ian. When he got back, he told you all you had to do was be patient. You balked. You refused to wait for probate and the inevitable litany of lawsuits, probably because you were just about out of money. You knew Thomas had mortgaged his London flat and demanded that he give you some of the proceeds. You didn't believe him when he said he was tapped out. The bottom line is that when Thomas refused your final demand, you started following him, reiterating your ultimatum at every turn. One evening, you found yourself at the Prescott party. When you saw how friendly Thomas was with Josie, you assumed he'd lied to you, that he had the miniatures in his possession, that he'd hired Prescott's to handle the sale and was planning to cut you out. That's when ice filled your veins and you decided the time had come to act.”