Ornaments of Death (7 page)

“Where you got it,” I said.

He gave another low rumble. “You know better than that, young lady. Sources are confidential.”

I also Googled “TN Civil War recruiting poster antique buy” and saw there were none for sale. I checked two subscription antiques Web sites with the same inquiry. Nothing, which was both good and bad news. Mitchie Rich wouldn't know its value relative to its competition, but neither would I.

“I can't pay top dollar unless I know the poster is real.”

“It's real all right. I got it out of an attic in Collierville, Tennessee, along with a lot of other old stuff. An estate sale.”

“I'll need the family's name to see what role they played in the war.”

“Well,” he said, “since I bought the entire estate, there's no poaching I need to worry about. If you buy the poster, I'll tell you anything you want to know.”

“What other antiques might I be interested in? I think Cara explained that I'm putting together a show on Southern life. We're open as to period, so long as the objects are at least a hundred years old and reflect some distinctive element of Southern living.”

Mitchie Rich had lots of suggestions, none good. I was a stickler for maintaining our definition of an antique. If an object was less than a hundred years old, we called it vintage or a collectible. We sold plenty of collectibles in the tag sale, but none in our high-end auctions. The cookie jar he suggested had
MADE IN OCCUPIED JAPAN
stamped on the bottom, dating it between 1945 and 1952. The Orrefors vase was Scandinavian, and from his description—squared-off, black-and-white textured glass—I knew it had been produced in the 1960s. He also offered undated, routine pottery pieces, miscellaneous costume jewelry, used furniture, and a quilt, which, he said, was in perfect condition except for a small tear in a corner. I was also a stickler for condition. If it was chipped, ripped, burned, scarred, or otherwise marred, we wouldn't offer it at auction.

“It looks like this one poster is all I'll be buying,” I said, “but that's all right. I'm glad to have it. Eight hundred is too rich for my blood, though. I'm thinking four hundred is fair.”

“No can do. Seven hundred.”

“Less a dealer's discount?”

He paused, thinking it over. “Ten percent.”

“Twenty.”

“You drive a hard bargain, young lady.”

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “You're a shark. Can we settle on five hundred sixty, then?”

“Seven hundred is fair, but I'll give you ten percent. Call it six thirty, and you've got a deal.”

When I said okay, he gave his trainlike rumbling laugh, and I knew he thought I was a sucker. That made our transaction the best of the best—I might not like someone taking me for a patsy, but at the end of the day, we both felt like winners.

*   *   *

At noon, I found myself sinking back into depression, gloomy thoughts about Ian stubbornly refusing to be vanquished. I reheated some roasted vegetable soup I'd prepared over the weekend, using the recipe my mother got from her good friend Linda Plastina, and the rich aroma soothed me a bit. It wasn't enough, though, to dispel my anxiety. I wasn't good at waiting. I needed to act.

*   *   *

The photographer who'd worked my holiday party had sent us all the photos he'd taken. It was Gretchen's job to sort through them and select an appropriate mix for our archives. She also culled any beauties that might appeal to individuals; those were framed as special gifts from Prescott's. I remembered that I'd been cc'd on an e-mail from the photographer giving Gretchen the access codes to the photo storage site.

I found the link and password and opened the folder. I ran through the photos quickly looking for a clear full-face shot of Ian, noting that we never did get a photo of the two of us. Ian must have left before Gretchen could organize it. There weren't many options, but in between a fun photo of me and Zoë toasting the camera with our glasses of Prescott's Punch and a crowd scene where everyone was near the stage listening to Timothy, I found the perfect image. Ian was focused on Lia, unaware of the camera aimed his way. I copied the photo onto my desktop, cropped it to eliminate all extraneous material, including Lia, and printed two copies.

*   *   *

Lia's Spa was located four doors down from Ellie's in a prime location across from the village green. It also occupied an old manufacturer, although not a chocolate factory, and it, too, had been renovated to preserve the original character. A wall of mellowed brick meshed perfectly with the eggplant and turquoise color scheme. Old wooden cross beams accentuated the high ceilings. For the holidays, dark purple and teal plaid bows adorned the windows and walls, Pinecone- and peppermint-scented candles stood on tall wooden stands that ringed the room, their flames twinkling. More of the ribbon twirled around the stands from base to holder. A silvery pink aluminum Christmas tree stood on the reception desk next to an olive-wood menorah. Silver, seafoam green, and purple teardrop-shaped ornaments dangled from the tree's metal branches. Seashell pink crocheted angels suspended on clear filament from the wooden beams drifted in the ambient breeze and appeared to be flying. The overall look was as unexpected and elegant as Lia.

I pushed open the oak door just as Lia was shaking hands with a middle-aged man in jeans and a blue parka.

“Thanks for taking the time to come and take a look at it,” she said. “Maybe I'll be able to swing it later in the year.”

“Anytime,” the man said, and left.

Lia smiled at me. “Look what the breeze blew in! How you doing, Josie?”

“Pretty good. Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Sure,” she said, her eyes growing wary.

She didn't look defensive, exactly, but there was something in her demeanor that made me feel as if I were walking on eggshells, or ought to be.

“Hi, Missy,” I said, smiling at the receptionist.

I'd known Missy for as long as I'd been coming to Lia's spa, which was the whole time I'd been living in Rocky Point. Last spring, Missy had asked my opinion about whether it was safe for her daughter to move to New York City. As if she could stop an aspiring actress who'd landed a full-ride scholarship to NYU from moving.

“How's your daughter liking the big city?”

She looked a little wistful. “She loves it.”

“I knew she would.”

“Allen and I are going down for Christmas. My first visit.”

“New York is very special during the holidays.”

Lia held open the nondescript white door marked
PRIVATE,
and with a “see ya!” wave to Missy, I followed Lia down a long corridor. Lia's office was, I knew, at the rear. The austere stark white walls and muted gray industrial carpeting contrasted sharply with the opulence of the client areas. Her office was equally plain, a place to work, not relax. I couldn't help but notice that the paint was chipped and scratched and the carpet near the threshold was threadbare.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you,” I said. “I'll only keep you a minute.”

“Not at all,” she said. “Have a seat. Tell me what I can do to help.”

“It's Ian. I haven't heard from him, so I thought I'd stop by and ask if you have.”

Lia raised her chin. “No.”

“I'm so worried,” I said. “I try not to be, but I am.”

“I'd be worried, too, Josie. It's worrying. I barely know him and I'm upset. Do you have thoughts about what might be going on?”

“No,” I said, stopping myself just in time from sharing Ty's opinion that Ian might be off with another woman.

As Lia walked me out, we agreed to let one another know the minute we heard anything. I waved good-bye, got in my car, and for the second time in two days drove straight to the Rocky Point police station.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

As I walked through the densely falling snow toward the weathered, cottage-looking building that housed the Rocky Point Police Department, a bitter wind tore off the water. I flipped my hood up, glad I'd parked close to the door. Inside, I approached the chest-high counter that divided the lobby from the working area and waited for someone to look up. Two uniformed police officers were huddled together in the back talking. Ellis was leaning over someone's desk reading from the monitor. Cathy, the civilian admin who served as office manager, was pouring a cup of coffee from a Mr. Coffee machine that lived on a two-drawer file cabinet near her desk.

Cathy saw me out of the corner of her eye and smiled. She was plus-sized, with blond hair teased high and ice blue eyes, and she knew more about the inner workings of the police station than anyone else.

“Hi, Josie,” she said.

Ellis looked up.

“Hi, Cathy.” I met Ellis's gaze, pumping mine full of gravitas. “We need to talk.”

“Sure,” he said.

He unlatched the swinging partition, stepped through into the lobby, and headed to his private office. I trailed along. He swung the door closed, and it latched with a sharp snap.

“Is this about Ian Bennington?” he asked once I was inside. “Nothing's changed, Josie.”

“Sure it has. It's now forty-eight hours, give or take, since anyone has seen him. He's a foreigner, Ellis, a stranger to Rocky Point. Do you need me to raise hell with the British Embassy, or will you act as if I'm a rational person making a reasonable request?”

His lips pressed together. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“See if he's in his hotel room. He may be sick. Maybe he slipped in the bathtub and hurt his head. Trace his car. What if he lost control on black ice and plummeted into a ravine? He told me he was struggling with driving on the opposite side of the road from what he was used to, and I doubt he's ever driven in the kind of winter conditions we have around here. Find him.”

Ellis sat behind his desk and pointed at one of the two guest chairs. I perched on the edge, impatient and annoyed. I didn't understand his hesitation.

“I have a photo,” I said. I handed over one copy of the photograph I'd printed earlier.

Ellis stared at it. “I'd need a court order to enter his room, and at this point, I don't have enough evidence to ask for one. While I know you well enough to trust your judgment, I know of no facts that suggest a crime has been committed. I'm sorry, Josie. My hands are tied.”

“I thought you had to accept a missing persons report and act on it after a certain number of days.”

“The law changed. Unless the person who's gone missing has a physical or mental disability that puts him or her at risk, there's nothing I can do. The actual wording of the statute is that the person has to have a ‘proven physical or mental disability or is senile,' which Ian doesn't and isn't. If something about his disappearance indicated that he was in danger, if people reported that they saw him being tossed into the back of a van, for instance, I could act. But no one has reported a kidnapping. The only other way I could accept your report was if I have reason to believe that his disappearance wasn't voluntary, and I'm afraid your gut instinct isn't sufficient.”

“Can you give me some examples of what it would take to convince you?”

“If we found Ian's burned-out car under a bridge or even deserted behind a warehouse. If the maid reported that his hotel room had been ransacked. I need actual evidence that indicates he's in trouble.” He flipped his palms up. “What if he decided on a whim to take a side trip to Montreal or New York City? He wouldn't appreciate your making a hoot-and-holler about his vacation.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Josie.”

“Thank you for explaining the situation to me,” I said, and stomped out.

*   *   *

Back at my office, I considered my next-step options. I was going to try to avoid making Ian's apparent disappearance public, but I had to do something. I decided to start with his daughter. I was convinced that the only reason Ian would have left Rocky Point ahead of schedule voluntarily was to connect with Becca. I didn't for a minute believe that was what had happened, but it was a possibility that needed to be eliminated.

I consulted the genealogical chart Ian had e-mailed. Becca's legal name was Rebecca Anne Bennington.

I searched online for her phone number, with no luck. I called directory assistance; they had no record of her. I Googled her name and found a score of scholarly references, articles she'd authored or co-authored, papers she'd presented at conferences, and grants she'd received. However, I could find no indication that she lived in Boston.

Ian had mentioned that Becca was working on a marine biology research project involving clams. For all I knew, she could have been retained by a commercial supplier to help it improve its clam-shipping methods, but if she was a visiting scholar, no matter what she was working on or who was funding it, she was probably affiliated with a college or university. Since Reynard University had one of the best marine biology programs in the world, I decided to start there.

I brought up the university's Web site and went to the Marine Biology Department faculty page. Becca wasn't listed.

I looked up the main number for the department and got a woman's voice mail. I didn't leave a message. I called the registrar's office. Whoever answered the phone, a student worker, I guessed, interrupted me before I finished posing my question.

“Sorry,” she said. “We never release student information.”

“This isn't a student. This is a visiting scholar.”

“Sorry. I wouldn't know anything about that.”

Since most organizations follow a set policy in structuring e-mail addresses, I suspected that if I could discover anyone's e-mail address, I could follow the pattern to reach Becca, assuming she had some kind of affiliation with the university. I asked the woman to transfer me to IT.