Ornaments of Death (18 page)

I followed Walt's progress as he wended his way to the back. He towered over everyone. He spoke to an older man, glancing at me periodically.

The other man shook his head. He was only about six feet, taller than average, but dwarfed by the guard. He looked over seventy, possibly over eighty. His hair was gray with a white streak cutting diagonally from right temple to crown. He looked grumpy and impatient. The guard said something else, and the old man looked at me, hitched up his jeans, and headed my way.

“I'm the shop foreman,” he said when he reached me. “Walt says you need to see me.”

“I'm helping the Rocky Point police in an investigation,” I said, matching his no-nonsense manner. “I found two of your hidden compartments, one in a desk, the other in a tallboy, but I can't find the third. It's in a bed.” I showed him my phone display. “Tell me how to access it and I'll be out of your hair.”

His eyes dropped to the phone, then raised up again.

“There's no set place. Each one is different.”

“Surely you keep records.”

“Confidential records. People build in privacy compartments because they want, you know, privacy.”

“This is an official request,” I said, hedging a little.

“It doesn't sound official to me. I don't know you from Adam.”

“You're Mr. Bisset, right? One of the owners?”

“What's it to you?”

“Because it seems to me you're looking at my request like a shop foreman, not an owner. You don't have a privileged relationship with your customers. You're not a lawyer or a preacher. If you won't help me now, I'll have to ask Rocky Point's police chief, Chief Hunter, to get a court order requiring your cooperation. Do you really want it on the public record that you refused to help the police?”

“Sounds like good publicity to me.” He turned toward Walt, the guard. “This little lady's leaving.” He walked away.

“Wait!” I called.

Bisset paused.

“It's urgent,” I said. “Please don't force us to delay. If you help me now, I'll make certain your company gets glowing mentions in every report I give to the police and the press. I work with a reporter from the
Seacoast Star.
I guarantee you'll get fabulous coverage. I'll be sure and talk about your furniture's clever designs.”

I could see the wheels turning in his head.

“You're a smooth operator, aren't you?” he asked.

“No, sir. Just a woman on a mission.”

He reached out a hand. “Give me that phone.”

I handed it over.

“Walt, take this number down.” He read off the account number.

“Got it,” Walt said.

Mr. Bisset handed back my phone. “Go wait in the front, in the reception lobby. I'll get the information you want.” He tramped off. Before I'd done more than turn around, he called, “I'll be checking for that story!”

“You have my word.”

“Guess we'll know what's it worth soon enough.”

I watched him disappear through a door on the right, nodded at Walt, and retraced my steps to the reception area.

I sat on another wooden bench to wait.

*   *   *

Five minutes later, a young man with a clipped goatee walked into the reception area. He wore jeans and a blue and green plaid flannel shirt He didn't look my way but headed straight for Belle. She nodded in my direction.

He handed me a photocopy of a schematic. The hidden compartment was accessed by sliding open a hinged faux dowel positioned where the headboard joined the frame and pushing a spring latch.
Clever,
I thought. The triangular opening was larger than the other two. As I walked slowly to my car, I stared at the drawing trying to figure out why it was shaped as it was.

I was on the interstate heading back to Boston before I answered my question. The privacy cubbyhole was shaped to hold a gun.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The police officer on guard at Becca's apartment wasn't inclined to let me in. His name badge read
L. LAWSON.
He was somewhere in his twenties. His cheeks were red and chapped, wind-burned. His collar was turned up and his earflaps were pulled down. He looked cold.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can't watch your car.”

“I'll get Chief Hunter on the phone,” I said. “He's the police chief in Rocky Point, New Hampshire.” I smiled, colleague to colleague. “He'll tell you I'm okay.”

“Nothing personal,” Officer Lawson said, shaking his head, “but I don't work for him.”

I stopped smiling. “Good point. Chief Hunter can give us the name of his contact in the Boston Police Department, though.”

“Even if he did, I don't have the keys. I can't let you in.”

I shifted my gaze from Officer Lawson's face to the Fenway. The snow along the curb was streaked with soot. The sky was dull pewter. The temperature hovered around freezing. I scanned the street in both directions. Cars were parked bumper to bumper.

I turned back to the police officer. “I'll only be a few minutes. No matter what, I promise it won't be on you.”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

I dug around in my tote bag for my phone and dialed Ellis's cell phone.

“Hi,” I said, when he answered. “It's Josie. I have the answer about the bed. I'm at Becca's apartment. There's a new police officer on duty, and he's a cautious man. He doesn't feel comfortable watching my car while I knock on the door to see if Ethan will let me in. Who can blame him? No one told him about me, or about you, for that matter. There's nowhere to park, so I'm kind of up the creek.”

“Let me talk to him for a moment.”

“Sure.” I handed Officer Lawson my phone. “Here. Chief Hunter wants to talk to you.”

I listened to a series of grunts, then, “Yes, sir.”

Officer Lawson pushed the
END CALL
button and handed back my phone.

“I'll be getting instructions shortly,” the officer said.

“Good.”

“Chief Hunter told me I was doing the right thing, that he wished more of his officers followed the rules.”

“Chief Hunter recognized one of his own,” I said, “a good cop.”

Officer Lawson's red cheeks flushed a warmer pink. “Thanks.”

I waited in my idling car for word to come down from on high. I kept peeking at Officer Lawson, so I saw him slide his iPhone from an inside pocket, talk, listen, and nod. He leaned over and caught my eye. He nodded and waggled his fingers, signaling that he had his official authorization to help.

*   *   *

“We have to stop meeting this way,” Ethan said, as he stepped back to let me in.

A green duffel bag sat next to a tan leather backpack.

“You're going somewhere,” I said.

“You're still sharp as a tack.”

I laughed. “Sorry. I don't mean to be inquisitive. I need to check something in Becca's room. I'll only be a minute.”

“Help yourself. You know the way.”

Becca's door was closed. I paused with my hand on the knob and looked back. “Still no word from her?”

“Not as far as I know. But I'm not sure I'd be her first phone call.”

I turned to face him. “Why is that?”

“We're roommates, not lovers, you know?”

I recalled my college roommate, a pleasant young woman named Robyn something. I hadn't thought about her in years, despite our having roomed together for three of my four years on campus.

“You're acquaintances,” I said, “not friends.”

“Friendly colleagues,” he said, “not buddies.”

“Who's her best bud?”

“I don't know.”

“I'm worried about her.”

“Me, too.”

I glanced at his luggage. “Do you need to leave? I can let myself out, if you want. I'll make certain the door is locked.”

“What does it matter? People who want in come through the window.”

“It's awful. Terrifying.”

“Disconcerting, at the least. That's why I'm leaving. I've got to work, and to work I need quiet. I'm heading up to the institute for a few days. Maybe you'll take pity on a stranger to those parts and share a meal with me while I'm there.”

I couldn't tell if he was hoping I'd be a friendly acquaintance like Becca or whether he was interested in a romantic relationship. Either my radar was on the fritz or he was sending mixed signals. I was tempted to invite him to join Ty and me for dinner as a way of letting him know that I wasn't available romantically, but I wasn't so sure I wanted him in my life at all, even as a friendly acquaintance. His jocosity was amusing, but I knew from past experience that keeping up with constant repartee was exhausting.

“Maybe,” I said, wanting to avoid committing myself.

“I'll let you know when I leave,” he said in a colder tone, taking my response as a brush-off, which I guess it was.

*   *   *

Someone had nailed plywood over the broken window, so standing in the room was no longer like being inside an ice cube. I closed the door.

The fake dowel worked exactly as the drawing indicated, swinging aside soundlessly. I sprang the latch, and the privacy compartment fanned out. I aimed my flashlight into the aperture. A good-sized black velvet pouch looked small in the large space. There was no gun. I worked my hands into a pair of the plastic gloves Ellis had given me and eased the pouch out. I loosened the ribbed tie strings and gently shook an inner piece of velvet into my hand, unfurling it carefully.

My throat closed, as it always did in the presence of inordinate beauty. Moments like this were why I'd gone into the antiques appraisal business. The watercolor miniatures were exactly as described, oval shaped and tiny, yet so meticulously rendered that even the subtlest details shone through. The gilt frames were fitted with flourishes and curls.

I sat back on my haunches and stared at my ancestor. Arabella Churchill was classically beautiful, with soulful eyes and a knowing smile. Her skin was nearly pure white, not pallid; rather, the color of fine vanilla ice cream. Her hair was golden blond and fell in loose ringlets to her shoulders. Her eyes were cerulean. She wore a celery green low-cut dress with short bouffant sleeves, trimmed in ornate white lace, a sign of opulence, then and now. Her lover, King James II, had a long narrow face, with features to match. He wasn't exactly handsome, but he exuded masculinity. He wore a rich burgundy coat and stood at a slight angle, with his chest pushed out. I wondered if Arabella had enjoyed her time with him, or whether she'd endured it.

A double-knock rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the door, and I jumped, startled.

“Coming!” I called.

I quickly rolled the paintings into the velvet, slipped them into the pouch, slid the pouch into my tote bag, closed the secret cubbyhole, and ran to the door.

Ethan looked over my shoulder, his eyes pausing for a moment on the wood-blocked window.

“Find what you're looking for?” he asked.

“It's a process,” I said, avoiding answering. “Are you off?”

“Like a prom dress,” he said, surprising another laugh out of me.

“I'll be a few more minutes. Do I need a key to lock up?”

“No. The door locks automatically when you shut it. I ought to know. I've locked myself out often enough.” He glanced around again. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Searching for secret compartments in the furniture.”

“Get out of town. Did you find any?”

“If so, it's Becca's secret to tell, not mine.”

One corner of his mouth shot up. “You're cute as a bug, smart as paint, über successful, and to top it all off, you're discreet. Want to marry me?”

I laughed again. “I'll have to introduce you to my boyfriend some time.”

“Does he travel a lot? I'm discreet, too.”

I shook my head, embarrassed at the direction our conversation was taking. “I've got to get back to work, Ethan. And you need to hit the road.”

“Story of my life.” He gave a cheery wave and left.

I closed the door again, just in case Ethan decided he'd forgotten something and came back in. With Wes in mind, I took a series of photographs: the pouch inside the compartment, the paintings side by side on the black velvet, and close-ups of each painting. I redid the packaging and placed the miniatures at the bottom of my tote bag, closed the hidden compartment, texted Ellis the good news, e-mailed the photos to myself and him, and took one last look around to ensure I hadn't forgotten something. Words to live by, my dad once told me: Always look back.

I closed the apartment door, testing it to confirm the lock caught, and joined Officer Lawson on the stoop.

“You look happy,” he said, handing me my keys.

“Oh, baby,” I said, giving a cocky grin, “you have no idea.”

“Good.”

“How long do you have to stay here?” I asked, looking out over the barren Fens.

“Another hour or so.”

“What's the point? The break-in was at the back.”

“Perception, I guess. Seeing a police presence reassures people that they're safe.”

Perception,
I thought,
trumps reality every day of the week.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

He touched his hat brim, an old-world gesture of respect. “Just doing my job, miss.”

I smiled and walked to my car, aware as I moved that there was a jaunty bounce to my step. I opened the car door and allowed myself the pleasure of doing a fist pump to celebrate my find. I was just doing my job, too.

“Yes!” I said aloud, punctuating the word with a second fist pump.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

I pulled into a service area off I-95 just north of Peabody to grab a late lunch, glad I'd worn my heavy coat. The temperature was sinking fast and had already fallen into the low teens.