Ornaments of Death (15 page)

Ellis stood in front of Ethan's photo of the neon coral and sponges, his head tilted to the left, his hands on his hips, concentrating.

I knocked twice and walked in.

He looked up and smiled. “You made good time.”

“No traffic.” I nodded at the photo. “What do you think?”

“Do you really see that when you snorkel?”

“Not often. This is what you see in deeper water. How come you've never tried it?”

“It's never come my way.” He stared at the photo. “It must be something to spend time in this world. Maybe this is why Becca is a marine biologist.”

“Ethan, too. He's the photographer.”

He turned his back to the photo. “Thanks for coming, Josie.”

“You're welcome.”

“You look upset,” he said.

“I feel upset.”

“About what?”

“I liked Ian so much.”

“Me, too. Okay, then … the apartment is comprised of one large open-plan room, two bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom, and a powder room. Our court order allows us to search Becca's known property and any other place we have a reasonable expectation she might have stored or hidden things. We've defined that as anything in her room and bath or the public areas of the apartment. Don't go into Ethan's room or his bathroom. The half bath is fair game.”

He walked to an open door on the left, Becca's bedroom, and stood aside so I could enter first. I took a long look around. Evidently, she was a fan of fine midcentury and Shaker-style furniture. The bed and matching desk and tallboy were constructed of maple. The rug, 12' x 15' or so, was of high-quality wool, in a mod beige and cream color-block pattern. Oak hardwood flooring showed around the perimeter of the room. Bone-colored Roman shades were lowered halfway.

I got down on my hands and knees and used my flashlight to examine the underside of a triangular-shaped side table. With its urbane feel and distinctive crossed legs, I wasn't surprised to learn it was a David Hicks original.

“This was crafted by a top designer, probably in the 1960s. Assuming it's genuine, it's worth thousands of dollars.”

“But not tens of thousands.”

“Probably not.” I stood up, brushing a few stray dusty bits from my knees.

“Nice art, huh?” Ellis asked. Three paintings, a Renoir, a Cézanne, and a Matisse, all presumably copies, hung on the walls. No empty picture hooks were visible.

I approached one to study the brush strokes.

“I bet they're modern replicas,” I said. “If I can take them back to my office, we can confirm it.”

“Sure.”

He lifted the Renoir down so I could examine the back.

“See,” I said, pointing to a glue-on label. “It's from an outfit called Masterpiece Replicas.”

I confirmed there wasn't a false backing. The other two were also from Masterpiece Replicas.

“They probably sell for a few hundred dollars,” I said.

“They look pretty good for knock-offs.”

I agreed. A silver-framed photograph caught my eye. Becca was standing next to an older man. The man was tall and slim, with thinning gray hair combed to cover a bald patch. He wore thick black glasses and looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. They seemed happy being together.

“Who is he?”

“No one knows. We asked Ethan and sent a scan to Becca's departments at both Reynard and the institute. So far, no one recognizes him.”

I put the photo down and turned toward Ellis. “Does Ethan know I'm here?”

“Yes. I tracked him down at Reynard after you and I spoke. I explained that you consult for the department.” Ellis glanced at his watch. “He'll be back sometime after five—he's in an all-day Assessment Committee meeting until then.”

“Does he know where Becca is?”

“He says he hasn't seen her since before she left for Canada. Ditto everyone at the university.” Ellis scanned the room with a professional eye. “Where will you start?”

“The desk. I want to see the hidden compartment you found.”

“We dusted it for fingerprints and found several latents. They're probably Becca's. We're checking if she's in any database.”

“What about Immigration?”

“That's on the list. There's certain paperwork that needs to be completed.”

His tone communicated his unspoken words: “… and it will take days, not hours.”

The three main pieces of furniture were all interpretations of a traditional Shaker style, minimalist and functional, without adornment. The desk legs were squared off and tapered. A raised attached cupboard that ran the length of the desk provided easy-to-access storage. There were no drawers.

I slid my tote bag under the desk and extracted my video recorder and the metal measuring tape I always carried. Ellis handed me a pair of plastic gloves. I snapped them on and began the process of recording everything I saw. I wrote down the dimensions in a spiral-bound notebook I carried for the purpose.

The desk measured 60" x 30" x 30". The raised panel was two feet tall and one foot deep. Three sets of asymmetrically arranged doors took up all the space except for a narrow panel between the door on the right and the two doors on the left.

“That's where the drawer is,” I said, pointing.

Ellis nodded. “Right.”

I pushed against the panel, and the drawer glided out effortlessly. It was empty.

“A spring-loaded latch, smooth as silk.” I noted a logo burned into the bottom of the drawer, a small oval with the letters
MV
inside, similar to the one burned into the box I found in Becca's desk drawer at the institute.

“It's beautifully made,” I said. “Someone knew what he was doing. What do you figure was in here?”

“The missing miniatures.”

“A kind of cash equivalent. Like gold or diamonds.”

“Can she sell them easily?” he asked.

“Sure. According to Ian, she owns them.”

I opened the three cupboard doors. Each cabinet held a white square plate filled with clamshells. I recognized steamers and Manilas and razors and big dark purple ones I'd seen on Nantasket Beach when I was a kid, quahogs, I thought they were called.

“Now what?” Ellis asked.

I did a slow survey, considering the options. Ellis was right: Since the furniture matched, it was a good bet that whoever built it added secret cubbyholes to each piece.

“The tallboy.”

I began taking measurements. The tallboy wasn't, actually, all that tall, only five and a half feet. The body stood on the same tapered legs as the desk and bed. There were five large drawers topped by a pair of small drawers, all featuring round wooden pulls. Side braces added a bit of visual interest to the otherwise plain design.

“The bottom drawer is filled with papers,” Ellis said, pointing at it. “Receipts and so on. We didn't see anything relating to the paintings.”

“Ian said there was an old appraisal.”

“We didn't find it.”

“Maybe she took the paperwork with her. Being able to confirm provenance would help her get top dollar. Having an appraisal, no matter how old, gives you a starting place to negotiate price.”

I pulled it open. It was, as Ellis had said, stuffed with receipts and letters.

“I would have expected her to be more organized,” Ellis said, his eyes on the papers.

“I suspect she's super-organized about clams but not about much else.”

“That's funny.”

“I know.”

The other drawers contained clothing: jeans and khakis, sweaters and T-shirts, workout gear, socks, all-white cotton underwear, standard-issue floral-patterned nightgowns, and pajamas. Becca was not a clotheshorse.

“Would you like us to issue a call for sightings on the miniatures? If I ask people to contact me, they'll think I have a buyer, not that it's a police matter.”

“Good idea. Let's do it right away in case selling them tops Becca's to-do list.”

I called work, asked Cara to put me on with Sasha, and explained what I wanted her to do.

“Got it,” she said.

“Thanks, Sasha.” I ended the call and turned toward Ellis. “We subscribe to proprietary Web sites and forums, where we'll post the notice. We'll also send out a general alert to all antiques dealers in the country.”

“Good deal.” Ellis looked around. “Now what?”

“Now I continue working.”

I turned back to the tallboy and began pushing on things, seeking out another spring lock.

After a minute, Ellis said, “Nothing personal, Joz, but watching you work is like watching tomatoes ripen. Can I do anything to help?”

I laughed. “Watch many tomatoes ripen, do you? No, there's nothing you can do. It's a process.”

“Then I'll leave you to it.” He handed me a small zip-close bag containing some plastic gloves. “In case you need a spare pair or three. Call me if you find the paintings, or need me, and when you're done.”

I promised I would. He left, and I heard the door latch catch behind him.

I continued my meticulous examination, moving methodically across each surface, seeking out anomalies or latches that would reveal another hidden cubbyhole. I pushed a spot toward the bottom of the rear left brace, and a narrow drawer popped open.

Inside was a pair of dazzlingly beautiful diamond drop earrings resting on a miniature black velvet pillow. If I moved my head slightly to the left, I could get the overhead light to spark a prism, sending cascades of radiating rainbows out and over the small pillow. It was a miracle of light and color.

I lifted the pillow out, and saw the same oval-shaped logo burned into the bottom. It also read
MV.
I took photos of the logo, replaced the pillow and diamonds, and took more photos before closing the drawer. I notated where to push to pop the latch and continued my examination. Just because I found one secret drawer didn't mean there weren't others. I pushed and prodded every inch of wood, front, back, bottom, and sides, without finding a second cubbyhole.

I turned my attention to the bed. I tapped and jabbed along the bed's headboard. Nothing. I moved to the sideboards. Nothing. Given that the desk, tallboy, and bed matched, and that I found cubbyholes in two of them, I felt a high degree of confidence that there must be a hidden compartment in the bed as well. Lying on the rug, flashlight in hand, I performed an inch-by-inch inspection without success. I stood up and stretched.

“It's here,” I said aloud. “I just can't find it.”

I moved my search to the moldings, an unlikely option in a rental apartment, but not impossible. I found a stepstool in the kitchen pantry and used it to check every seam in the crown molding. Nothing. I tapped every inch, without luck. The hardwood flooring reaped no reward either, nor did the closet. Becca had two dresses, both black, four pairs of nice wool slacks, four blazers in various colors, and eight silk blouses. To my surprise, she also had a pair of black leather pants and a color-coordinated zip-up leather jacket. She had only one pair of high heels, and they were red and very high—four-inch stilettos. If she wore those with the leather, she'd be making quite a statement. I tapped the walls and tried prying up drawer bottoms.

The phone rang. I went into the great room, thinking maybe Becca would leave a message for Ethan, perhaps revealing her location. Five rings in, the answering machine clicked on, and the caller hung up. I was five paces short of Becca's room when the phone rang again. I stood where I was, watching the machine. The red light meant it was ready to record, but again, as soon as the message clicked on, the caller hung up. A wrong number, perhaps, or a sales call, or someone who simply didn't want to leave a message. I went back to work.

I opened the bottom drawer in the tallboy, the one filled with paperwork. I sat cross-legged on the floor and began going through things. Ten minutes after I started, I found what I was looking for: a receipt for all three pieces of furniture and the box, from a company in Franklin, New Hampshire, called Meadow's Village. The logo on the top of the receipt matched the ones I'd found in the secret drawers. I wrote the name down in my notebook and took a photo of the receipt.

Wanting a change of scenery, I took Ethan's photographs down in the great room and examined the walls where they'd hung. No hidden safe. I repeated the process I'd used in the bedroom, tapping walls, prodding and prying, to see if I could find a hidden compartment. I examined the ice cube container in the freezer and checked whether anything, from a pint of frozen yogurt to a can of free-range chicken soup, had a false bottom. I didn't find anything, but I learned a lot about Becca and Ethan.

They stocked mostly organic products, used Spode bone china as their everyday dishes, and kept a store of four different kinds of loose tea in airtight containers. I checked, but there was nothing in the containers except tea.

I examined the powder room carefully. I looked in the toilet tank, medicine cabinet, and vanity, but if Becca had fabricated a hidden compartment behind the tiles, the police would have to find it.

Back in Becca's bathroom, I looked in all the same places, then pushed aside the burgundy and forest green tartan shower curtain. The tub looked like a tub, except jetted. I scanned the burgundy walls, examined the pewter light fixture, and lifted the shaggy cotton dark green rugs. Nothing.

I heard a knock, then another, soft taps. I started for the door, thinking it might be Officer O'Keefe. I paused midstep and gently lowered my foot to the floor. Those taps weren't knocks. Another tap sounded, a sharp rap, the kind of noise a glazier makes when he's removing glass from a windowpane. Another tap, much louder, reverberated through the bathroom, followed immediately by tinkling glass. Someone was breaking in.

I gasped and covered my mouth with my hands to stop myself from making any noise. I stood in petrified rigor, unable to move, barely able to breathe. I could picture the glass piling up under the window. It went on and on and on, ending with a final cataclysmic crash. My mouth went dry and I fought the urge to cough. Standing with my mouth agape, my heart pounding, and my pulse throbbing, I stared at the bathroom door. It was mostly closed. I risked a gentle push and the door swung closer to the jamb, leaving only a sliver of clearance. Footsteps grew louder, moving closer, and my heart jumped into my throat before plunging to my knees. I felt dizzy. I thought I might be ill. I exhaled slowly, breathed in consciously, purposefully.
Get a grip,
I told myself.