Ornaments of Death (2 page)

“New Hampshire is a great place to do business. It has a deep core of American history—and antiques. And it's close to Boston. It was an ideal choice.” I walked toward the seating area, a yellow brocade love seat and two matching Queen Anne wing chairs. “Have you always lived in Christmas Common?”

“All my life,” he said.

He sank onto the love seat and leaned back against the cushions, closing his eyes for a moment. He raised and lowered his shoulders.

“Tough flight?” I asked, sitting across from him.

He opened his eyes. “Not especially. I think I'm getting old.”

I knew from the genealogical chart Ian had e-mailed that he was forty-eight years old, but he didn't look it. His hair was solid brown, without a hint of gray. His face was unlined. He looked fit, too, like an athlete.

“You look way younger than I expected.”

“Good genes, I guess.”

Cara came in with a tray and placed it on the mahogany butler's table.

I thanked her and waited until the soft padding of her heels faded away before I asked, “Are we really truly related?”

Ian chuckled. “Questioning my research, are you?”

“Not exactly. It's just that I'm incredulous, gobsmacked, as you might say!”

He smiled. “You pronounced that very well.”

“Thanks,” I said, pouring coffee into Minton china cups. “It's not a matter of doubting your ability. It's the complexity of the project. Documents that are more than three hundred years old … well, they must be filled with errors and gaps.”

Ian had reported that we were both distant relations of Arabella Churchill, a mistress of the seventeenth-century monarch King James II. Once their ten-year affair ended, Arabella married Charles Godfrey, the Master of the Jewel Office. By all accounts, the couple's forty-year marriage was happy. Their eldest daughter, Charlotte, had sixteen children. According to Ian, he and I were descendants of one of those sixteen, a daughter named Lucy.

I handed Ian a cup and pointed to the carefully arranged plate of cookies. “These are Cara's famous gingersnaps.”

He took one from the silver platter and ate it in two bites. “Delicious,” he said. “Actually, there aren't as many missing bits as you might expect. Royal records, including those involving royal mistresses, were meticulously kept and maintained in multiple places, making the process straightforward.”

“I'm pretty excited,” I said, “cuz.”

“Me, too, cuz.”

We smiled at one another for a moment.

“How is it you don't know anything about your heritage?” he asked.

“I know a little. My maternal grandmother, Deborah Austin, she of the Churchill line, was a war bride from London. She married my grandfather, Jed Prescott, an American, in 1945, when she was twenty-one. I think she was an only child, like my mom, and like me. They came back to Jed's home, just outside of Boston, in, I think, 1946. They both died before I was born.” I lifted my hands, palms up. “You now know everything I do about my British ancestors.”

He took another gingersnap. “I see evidence in front of my eyes that you, at least, are truly a descendant of Arabella. I think you look like her.”

I grinned. “She was short?”

“She had intelligent eyes, a high forehead, and a determined chin. She was lovely—just like you.”

I gazed into my coffee cup, embarrassed. “Thanks.”

“You've seen the Sir Peter Lely portrait, haven't you?”

I opened a long-closed file cabinet in my mind. “Yes—if I'm remembering right. The woman in the painting is sitting at an angle, a three-quarters profile view. She's wearing a pale green dress, cut quite low. Her expression is more playful than distinguished.”

“That's it. It's a beautiful piece. There is a miniature of her, too.”

“By Lely?” I asked.

“No. By Samuel Cooper.”

“You're kidding!” I exclaimed. Cooper was the finest miniature artist of his time. “His work is extraordinary. Is it on exhibit somewhere?”

One side of his mouth lifted, a cocky half-smile. “It came on the market a couple of years ago along with a match piece, and I bought them.”

My eyes lit up. “A match piece?”

“King James II commissioned two paintings in 1670 as his Christmas gift to Arabella. One portrait is of Arabella. The other is of himself.”

“Watercolor on vellum?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“How big are they?”

Ian laughed. “The better question is how small are they. They're oval shaped and only one and three-eighths inches high. Like postage stamps.”

“Where are they now?”

“I gave them to my daughter, Becca, as a housewarming gift.”

“That's wonderful! And she's living here, right?”

“In Boston, yes, for the year.”

“Which is why you're in Rocky Point, New Hampshire, this weekend! You're en route to Boston for a visit. If Becca would be willing to let me take a look at them, I'd sure love to get a gander.”

“As it happens, I e-mailed her that she ought to ask you to appraise them. Given how hot the antique miniatures market is right now, I think she ought to update her insurance.”

“That's smart, and of course, I'd love to do the appraisal”—I raised my hand like a traffic cop—“but do tell her that I'll understand completely if she decides to have a Boston-based company do it. There are plenty of excellent options closer to her than Prescott's.”

“As it happens, a lot of her fieldwork is conducted right here in Rocky Point.”

“How come?”

“Rocky Point is home to a lot of clams.”

I laughed. “That's funny! I hope it works out.”

We chatted for another few minutes in the way acquaintances do, about his flight from London and whether the oceanfront hotel I'd recommended was to his liking and how the December weather was less severe than he'd expected. When he'd finished his coffee and two more of Cara's addictive gingersnaps, he stood up.

“My bed awaits,” he said, stretching. “I feel a long nap in my future … jet lag.”

I walked him downstairs, and with a cheery wave, he left.

I scooped up Hank and cuddled him as I watched Ian get into his silver Taurus and drive out of the lot, turning right, toward the Atlantic, toward the Rocky Point Sea View Hotel. I couldn't believe he was really here.

“Mr. Bennington seems very nice,” Cara said. “A new client?”

I kissed Hank on the top of his furry head and told him he was a good boy as I lowered him to the floor.

“Nope,” I said, grinning. “He's family.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

The party was in full swing. I was standing off to the side enjoying a quiet moment, watching the crowd. More than a hundred people milled about, chatting, laughing, drinking, and nibbling on hors d'oeuvres. Tuxedo-clad men carried sterling silver trays of cherry tomato caprese-salad on a toothpick; miniature crab cakes; red and green pepper–stuffed mushroom caps; bacon-wrapped asparagus spears; salmon mousse on pumpernickel bread cut into Christmas-tree and bell shapes; and cheeseburger sliders. The band was playing “The Christmas Song.”

Through the window, I saw Starr, the pink-haired makeup gal on my TV show,
Josie's Antiques,
standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette, nodding as she listened to someone out of sight. She rubbed her upper arms and rocked from side to side, trying to stay warm.

My TV show's director-producer, Timothy, stood a few feet farther back, toward the trees that ringed the property. He was staring at his mobile phone as if he couldn't believe his eyes.

Ellis came into view. Ellis Hunter was Rocky Point's police chief and a good friend. Since he had begun dating Zoë, my best friend, landlady, and neighbor, I'd gotten to know him well. Ty and I had often gone out with them together as couples. Ellis stepped inside, saw me, and smiled and waved. He said something to the young woman staffing the reception table.

Zoë came alongside me and asked, “How are you holding up? Ready for your big moment?”

I was scheduled to say a few words at eight forty-five, and I wished it were over. I hated being in the limelight, which was odd, given that I was the face of Prescott's Antiques, often giving media interviews, and had just finished a full season of
Josie's Antiques.

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

“Divine party,” Lia Jones, owner of my favorite day spa and a kayak buddy, said as she passed by.

Lia looked chic, as always. She used her spa's services, and it showed, from her curvy figure to her cascading auburn hair to her flawless complexion. She smiled and gave an airy wave as she darted away.

“Lia sounding upbeat,” Zoë remarked. “What a concept.”

“After the year she's had…,” I said, letting the half-expressed thought remain unspoken.

“After the year she gave herself, you should say. Her misery is a self-inflicted wound. Divorce sucks, but you don't have to drag it out.”

“You're harsh.”

Zoë shrugged. “Experienced.”

“Your situation was different,” I said. “No alimony was involved.”

“True,” she acknowledged. “My ex is still back in Oregon, too, whereas Lia's loser is here in town.”

Ty and Ellis joined us, each carrying two glasses of Prescott's Punch, a holiday-themed martini I'd invented. A mixture of cranberry juice, ginger ale, and vodka, and garnished with a sprig of mint, it was sweet and tart and looked like Christmas.

“I love this martini, Josie,” Zoë said, after tasting it. “I'm thinking you ought to start a side business as a mixologist.”

Zoë, tall and model thin, was wearing her hair short this year. Ellis, over six feet and built like an athlete, was a perfect physical match to her, but their connection was more than physical. They fit emotionally, too, both wounded birds glad for a safe new nest. Zoë talked tough, but her divorce had drained her confidence. Ellis's wife's death had drained him as well. She had been a Broadway dancer, and like so many of them, she'd smoked. After she'd died a gruesome lung-cancer death, Ellis had retired from his job as a New York City homicide detective and taken the police chief job in Rocky Point, to see, he said, if Norman Rockwell had it right about small towns. The jagged red scar that ran next to his right eye was barely visible under the indirect incandescent lighting.

After we chatted for a moment, Ellis asked Zoë, “Can I steal you for a minute? There's someone I want you to meet.”

After they left, Ty touched his glass to mine. “Here's to you, gorgeous.”

I clinked my glass against his. “And to you, handsome.” I sipped the martini, then asked Ty for the time. I never wore a watch because it always seemed to get in the way while I worked.

“Eight thirty. Why?”

“In fifteen minutes I have to say welcome and thank you and happy holidays.”

“And you're dreading it.”

“A little.”

He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “You'll do great.” He nodded toward Ian, standing amid a clutch of thirty- and forty-something single women, Lia included. “Do you like Ian?”

“Yes,” I said. “Knowing he made a fortune in software, I'd expected him to be, I don't know, reserved. Instead, he's friendly and funny.” I sipped my drink. “What do you think of him?”

“He seems like a stand-up guy. I think you'll find you have a lot in common.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“You're both research junkies.”

“That's true. I hope I can match his record someday. He's learned more about his heritage in a year than most professionals could in a decade, and he said it was easy.”

The music stopped abruptly, and I spun toward the band to see what was up. Timothy stood onstage, holding a microphone against his leg so it wouldn't pick up his voice. A drum roll sounded. Timothy walked to the riser's edge and surveyed the crowd, catching eyes, nodding at someone in back of me, smiling, waiting for quiet. He lifted the microphone to his mouth.

“Excuse me for interrupting everyone's merry-merry. I'll only be a moment. I'm Timothy Brenin, and I work with Josie on her TV show,
Josie's Antiques.
” He looked at me and winked. “I've just gotten off the phone with New York—and for those of you who aren't familiar with TV lingo, that's a euphemism. ‘New York' refers to the big-cheese powers that be who have the ability to green-light a project.” Timothy paused, allowing anticipation to swell and swirl. He grinned, a big one. “The head of network programming just called to let me know that
Josie's Antiques
has been renewed.”

Applause started in back of me and rippled forward until everyone was clapping, including Timothy, who tucked the microphone under his arm.

“Congrats!” someone called.

Someone else yelled, “Brava!”

I wondered if my amazement showed. I'd thought of the show as a lark and had been delighted that it had lasted a full season. Meeting Timothy's eyes, I put my hands together as if in prayer, chin high, and bowed my head, a silent tribute to the man behind the curtain.

He nodded, acknowledging my sentiment, and raised his eyes. After a moment, when the applause ebbed, he continued, “As many of you know,
Josie's Antiques
has been consistently reviewed as ‘charming, informative, and entertaining,' What I've just been told is that
Josie's Antiques
finished the season at number one in its time slot among all cable reality shows.” He looked directly at me. “Congratulations, Josie. You're number one.”

The applause started again, louder now, and people surged toward me, patting my back, hugging me, sharing the joyous moment. Someone started a call of “Speech, speech!” and the mantra caught on, growing louder and more insistent.