Ornaments of Death (5 page)

Ty and I had listened to the weather forecast on the six-thirty news this morning, and I giggled, recalling our silliness.

I'd said, teasing, “See? I told you it didn't smell like snow last night. You maligned my nose.”

Ty should have been abashed, but he wasn't. He said that all it proved was that his sniffer was more finely tuned than mine.

I was still smiling at the memory as I pulled into Prescott's parking lot.

Lia was waiting for me, sitting in her silver Lexus with the engine running. She was on the stoop before I parked, her face framed by the oversized wreath, a twisty confection of bluish green cypress branches and ice blue juniper berries. I'd had Gretchen order a dozen of them, one for every door and window. Lia's cobalt wool coat fell below her knees. The dark faux-fur collar and cuffs added flair. She wore a matching beret and dark brown, French-heeled, knee-high boots. Her eyes were narrowed. Her expression was severe.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” she said with patently fake bonhomie. “I wanted to tell you what a great time I had at the party.”

I unlocked the front door, setting the wind chimes Gretchen had hung years earlier jangling. As I punched in the code to shift the security system from night to day, I said, “Thanks! I had a terrific time myself, which I always think is a good sign.”

Lia tossed her coat and hat onto a chair at the guest table and fluffed her hair. She'd lightened it since the party, adding delicate copper highlights. She was wearing a black wool pencil skirt with a raspberry cashmere sweater.

“Have a seat,” I said. “I'll get coffee going.”

“Thanks,” she said, pulling out a chair. “I think you're right. If the host is happy, everyone is happy.”

I measured out our house blend of coffee, two-thirds dark roast Colombian to one-third Costa Rican. I pushed the
START
button, and the machine sprang to life with a loud whoosh.

“How was dinner last night?” I asked, sitting across from her.

Lia shrugged and laughed, a hollow, brittle sound, intending, I conjectured, to communicate indifference but having the opposite effect. I inferred her date with Ian hadn't gone well, or hadn't gone as she'd hoped. Poor Lia, a quavering mass of needs all gussied up in a classy package. She lowered her eyes to her knees and smoothed an invisible wrinkle on her skirt.

“It didn't happen,” she said. She waved it aside. “I can't remember the last time I got stood up.”

“Ian?” I asked, incredulous. My mouth opened, but no words came. I stared at her, stunned. I tried again to talk. “I can't imagine him doing such a thing.”

“Maybe he changed his mind.”

“Without telling you?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea why he did what he did. I'm just reporting facts.”

“Perhaps he overslept. I know he was struggling with jet lag.”

She raised her eyes to the big wall clock. “It's more than thirteen hours since we were supposed to meet. You think he's still asleep?”

“When and where were you to meet?”

“At the Blue Dolphin at seven. He made a reservation. I waited until seven thirty before calling his hotel. He wasn't in. At eight, I gave up and drove to the Congregational church—you were there. Ian had mentioned that you'd invited him, so I thought maybe he'd decided to go. I know how stupid that sounds … he skipped dinner with me to go to listen to a church choir!” She paused for a moment. “He wasn't there. I called the hotel again this morning—he's still not there. Or at least, he's not answering his phone.”

“This makes no sense, Lia! There has to be some explanation.”

“You haven't heard from him?”

“No”

Lia stood and shrugged into her coat. “Anything is possible, right? Maybe it will be eighty degrees and sunny by noon. That's just as likely as Ian still being asleep. He's a man. He changed his mind and didn't want the hassle of telling me. Why should he care? He's leaving for Boston today. Who knows if he'll ever be back in Rocky Point.” She tugged on her blue leather gloves. “Sorry to bother you. I've got to go open the spa. No rest for the weary, right? See ya!”

The wind chimes' jingly music sounded, then waned. I stared at the door, listening to the homey hums and pops of coffee brewing, reached for a phone, and called Ian's hotel. The operator connected me to his room. The phone rang and rang and rang. No answer. The operator picked up and asked if I wanted to leave a message. I didn't like it. I'd counted eleven rings, enough to wake the dead.

“Yes, please,” I said. “Ask him to call Josie.”

I wasn't too worried. There were lots of reasons why he might not have answered. Maybe he was in the shower. Or out for a run. Or downstairs eating breakfast. Perhaps Lia was right, and he'd changed his mind about taking her to dinner. It was ungentlemanly not to call her to cancel, but it was certainly expedient. He might simply have wished to avoid Lia's angst. While I was certain I'd hear from Ian within an hour or two, I couldn't quite dismiss Lia's distress from my mind. I decided I needed a hug, and I knew where to find one.

I pushed open the heavy door to the warehouse.

“Hank!” I called. “Hank? Where are you, baby?”

He meowed from off to the left, his domain. I walked in that direction and found him in his basket, half asleep.

“There you are. Good boy!”

He yawned.

“Such a big yawn for such a little boy.”

I changed his water and refreshed his food. He stood up and mewed again, arching his back, his way of asking for a cuddle.

“Are you ready for your morning cuddle, sweet boy?”

He mewed.
Yes, please,
he was saying.

“Good. I need one, too.”

I picked him up and kissed his cheek, cradling him like a baby, rubbing his jowls, scratching under his chin, kissing him behind his ears and on his little forehead.

“I don't know, Hank. I wasn't worried about Ian, and now I am. Lia planted an uncomfortable seed. What do you think? Should I be anxious?”

He purred and nuzzled my cheek.

“I agree. Let's wait awhile and see whether he calls back.”

I placed Hank on his carpet, told him he was a good boy, and hurried up the spiral stairs to my office.

My idea to wait for a few hours was sensible but unrealistic. Ian had given me his mobile number, and I stared at it. I didn't want to overreact. I'd already left him a message. I shrugged and punched in the numbers. My call went directly to voice mail—his phone was off.

I booted up my computer and began scrolling through the e-mails that had come in overnight. A Japanese client had a question about a Van Gogh he bought last year. I forwarded it to Sasha. A curator from a Los Angeles museum was hoping we had additional photos of a lute we'd sold at one of last year's auctions. That one went to Fred. I couldn't stop thinking about Ian. An e-mail from my accountant asking for clarification about our new carpet. Was it truly new, an asset to be depreciated, or a replacement, a repair to be expensed? I replied that it was a replacement. I continued on until I was caught up. When I was done, I called Ian's hotel back and explained to the woman who answered that I was a little worried about him. I asked her to knock on his door. She refused, saying he'd had the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign up since yesterday afternoon and they had a strict policy—if guests didn't want to be disturbed, they didn't disturb them. I thanked her and hung up. I couldn't think of what else I could or should do.

Surely, I thought, Ian would keep our lunch date.

*   *   *

Ian didn't show up for lunch. I'd made a reservation at a restaurant on Route 1. I waited fifteen minutes, apologized to the hostess, and drove through the gently falling snow to the Rocky Point Sea View Hotel.

I parked in the guest lot and walked along the snow-dusted fieldstone walkway to the porch. The wraparound porch provided an unobstructed view of the ocean. Ragged lines of wind-driven whitecaps danced across the surface. The sky was thick with leaden clouds, and waves crashed against the granite boulders that edged the shore, sending sprays of foamy froth twenty feet in the air.

The sprawling Victorian building was one of Rocky Point's finest hotels, a reputation it had enjoyed since it had first opened, and the current owners, a couple named Taylor and Jonah Carmona, were keeping the tradition of excellence alive. Taylor was a fan of our tag sale, often stopping by to see if we had any new vintage perfume bottles, her favorite collectible.

A carved wooden sign hanging on the front door below a wreath of birch twigs and clusters of plump red berries read
COME ON IN!

As I stepped inside, a bell chimed. The lobby was huge, a former warren of small parlors and receiving rooms that had been renovated into one open-plan space about five years earlier. A large arrangement of bloodred roses and silvery fir branches sat on a round oak table in the center of the room. A pair of red and ivory plaid club chairs was angled toward the reception desk on the right. Two love seats covered with a nubby red fabric faced one another at ninety-degree angles to the fireplace. The fireplace featured a fieldstone surround and hearth. A fire was burning, orange and yellow flames curling over and around charred hardwood logs. Brass lamps sat on small oak tables. A wing chair stood alone in a corner under a standing reading lamp. The current issue of
Yankee
topped a stack of magazines; I recognized the
Coastal Living
masthead from the corner protruding under it. Red and white floral drapes were held back by red rope ties, the kind with tassels. Multicolored oval rag rugs were positioned here and there throughout the space. A brass chandelier hung over the flowers, and recessed lamps illuminated the room. Dome security cameras were mounted in each corner. An old-fashioned brass service bell rested on the reception counter. Before I could tap it, Taylor's head popped out from a swinging door behind the reception desk.

“Hi, Josie!” she said, smiling.

Taylor was short and stout, with chin-length curly brown hair and big brown eyes. She wore khakis and a red sweater. She approached the counter.

“Hi, Taylor! I have a favor to ask. Ian Bennington hasn't been seen since yesterday afternoon. He didn't keep a dinner date last night, and he missed lunch with me today. Will you go check on him?”

“Come again?”

“Just knock on his door.”

Taylor tapped into a computer. She raised her eyes from the monitor to my face. “He doesn't want to be disturbed.”

“He might be hurt.”

“Or he might be taking a bath or listening to music through headphones. Do not disturb means do not disturb. You know that, Josie.”

“I'm worried.”

“I'm sorry.”

I looked around, seeking inspiration. None came. “What should I do?”

“If you think the situation merits it, talk to the police. Until then, let him be. Grown-ups are allowed to hole up if they want.”

I knew in my gut that Ian was in trouble, but I couldn't think of how to convince Taylor, so I thanked her and left.

Outside, I studied the parking lot. There was one silver Taurus, but I had no way to know if the super-popular rental model was Ian's.

Taylor said that if I thought the situation warranted it, I should talk to the police. She was right.

*   *   *

Ellis wasn't convinced, either.

I sat in his office under a print of
The Gossips,
one of his favorite Norman Rockwell illustrations, and tried to persuade him that Ian hadn't simply decided he wanted to be alone for a while.

“It's barely been twenty-four hours since you last saw him, Josie,” he said. “Give the guy a break.”

*   *   *

I walked across Ocean Avenue and climbed a sand dune. The snow was falling more thickly now, forming a white scrim through which the churning near-black ocean looked as deadly as it was. The snow was beginning to stick to the bottle green tangles of seaweed that quivered in the steady wind. No way was the storm passing by midafternoon.

As I walked back to my car, I dug my phone out from my tote bag and called Ty. He was at the airport, waiting for his flight to D.C. He told me to hold on while he moved to a quieter area. I got settled in the driver's seat and turned up the heat.

“Is your flight on time?” I asked when he was back on the line.

“So they say. Why?”

“Because up here the snow is picking up.”

“It's all clear here.”

“I don't know. I'm worried.”

“Something besides the snow is bothering you.”

“It's Ian. I'm fretting.” I explained my concerns, adding, “I don't know what to do.”

“He'll turn up,” Ty said without hesitation.

“Why would you think so? You told me once that lots of guys just up and disappear.”

“Disenfranchised guys, not men with a daughter to visit and plenty of money.”

“Then where is he?”

“Maybe he found some female companionship.”

“No,” I said.

“Why are you so certain?”

“Because he's not a horny twenty-year-old. Because he had a hot date with a gorgeous woman. Because he was glad to have connected with me and he wouldn't have simply blown off our lunch.”

“Your logic is sound, but people defy logic all the time. Sure, Lia's good-looking but … well … let me put it this way … if I were a betting man, I'd place all my chips on an eighteen-year-old hottie he ran into at the mall over an almost forty-year-old glamour-puss with a ton of baggage and a PhD in sarcasm.”

“Really?”

“I know men. It's easier to apologize after the fact than explain yourself before you do whatever it is you're going to do.”

“You're not like that.”

“True, but lots of guys are.”