Ornaments of Death (24 page)

No way the partner would give up anytime soon.
Becca was the only thing standing between him and a fortune.

“Oh, Becca,” I said aloud. “I hope I'm wrong.”

Stop it,
I chastised myself.

Just because something was logical didn't make it true. Maybe the attempts to steal the miniatures were unrelated to Thomas's murder.

If Ethan and Becca were romantically involved, it was possible that he got a glimpse of Becca and Thomas talking and went ballistic. If Ethan exploded and ran Thomas down in a fit of passion-charged rage, Becca, witnessing the horror, might well have fled, hoping to escape his wrath.

Who knows?
I e-mailed the photo of the mystery woman to Ellis. I explained what I'd discovered about Ian and where the photo came from.

I got up and stretched—or started to. My shoulder and arm were still tender to the touch, and my muscles shrieked if I tried raising my arm. I paced, ignoring the discomfort, walking from my small study through the living room to the front hall and back.

I returned to my computer and brought up Reynard University's Web site. According to his listing on the Marine Biology faculty page, Ethan used two middle initials,
K
and
Q
. He'd graduated from the University of California, Los Angeles, and done postdoc work at Tulane in New Orleans. I Googled his name, including his initials, and learned from his byline on an article about oyster propagation that he hailed from Andover, Massachusetts.

From what I could tell from my checks of public records in California, Louisiana, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire, he had no arrest record, he'd never been married, and he didn't own any property.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but I couldn't think of anything else to research.

I was out of ideas, so I e-mailed Wes.

Hi Wes,

I'm okay, and no, I didn't take any photos of my bruises.
☺

Can you find out the skinny on Becca's roommate, Ethan Ferguson? His full name is

Ethan K. Q. Ferguson. He's from Andover, MA.

Thanks!

Josie

I was tired, but not sleepy. I paced some more. Finally, I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of pomegranate tea. I settled on the living room couch and read a chapter of my current Nero Wolfe novel, Rex Stout's
Over My Dead Body,
ideas percolating on the back burner of my mind. By the time I finished the tea, I had a next-step idea.

I needed to know more about the real Ian Bennington. I rinsed my teacup and placed it in the dishwasher. Back at my desk, I brought up the listing of all the Oxfordshire government offices.

Using the time difference to my advantage, I decided to start with the police.

A constable named Brewer answered with businesslike precision.

“Hello,” I said, aiming to match his tone. “This is Josie Prescott, calling from America. I have a question about the death of Ian Bennington. Who can I talk to about it?”

“Regarding what, ma'am?”

“The details. I'm a relative.”

“I see. One moment, please.”

I heard papers being shuffled and the distinctive tap-tap of a keyboard.

“Detective Higgins is assigned that case. Shall I ring him for you?”

“Yes, thank you. Before you do, though, what's his direct number, in case we're disconnected?”

He gave it to me, and I silently thanked my dad for the tip. A salesman always tries to gain direct access to the decision maker.

Detective Higgins was brusque, impatient, and uninterested in talking to a distant relative from a distant land about an unimportant (to him) case.

“Why haven't you closed the case?” I asked, ignoring his attitude. “The newspaper said it was a probable suicide.”

“It's the coroner's job to determine the cause and manner of death.”

“And he hasn't. Why not?”

“You'd have to ask him. Dr. Glaskin.”

“What's the number, please?”

A sigh of exasperation rattled across the miles, but he gave me the number.

Dr. Glaskin wasn't available, but his assistant, an elderly-sounding woman named Polly Davidson-Fox, was, and she was glad to talk to me.

“I'm terribly sorry for your loss. We try to keep relatives in the loop as much as possible,” she explained. “I don't see your name on our information sheet.”

“Can we add me now?” I asked, avoiding the temptation to explain why I was coming late to the party. That was one can of worms I didn't want to open.

“Certainly.”

I gave her my contact information. “Can you give me a status report?” I asked.

“While we can't release confidential information, of course, I can share what the detective assigned to the case has revealed to the media. Would that be helpful?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Mr. Bennington didn't leave a suicide note. Many poor souls don't, of course. But there was nothing to suggest the kind of despondency one expects to hear about with a suicide. He was in perfect heath, and Detective Higgins reports that he discussed his holiday plans with his neighbors the day before he died. He was looking forward to the trip, to meeting a relative he'd just located.”

My throat tightened, and I couldn't speak.

“Would that be you, dear?”

I nodded, still unable to speak. I knew she was more than three thousand miles away and couldn't see my nod, but I did it anyway. I coughed, then tried again.

“Yes,” I managed. My voice sounded odd, guttural and low.

“What a tragedy.”

“Thank you. So the coroner is waiting for … what exactly?”

“More information.”

“I know I'm probably sounding as dumb as a doormat, but what information is the coroner waiting for?”

“You're not dumb! Hardly. It's a complicated situation. Dr. Glaskin hopes the detectives will provide some additional information, something that will shed light on whether Mr. Bennington killed himself. Until then, the case remains open.”

“Thank you. That helps me understand what's going on. I wonder … do you have a contact number for anyone? His daughter, maybe?”

“Let me look.” Two minutes passed before she said, “Mr. Bennington's solicitor, Marcia Earling, is the family representative.”

She gave me her number, and I said, “I can't thank you enough.”

“You call me anytime, dear. I know how hard it is not to have answers. If I have no news to report, I'll tell you so.”

I thanked her again and hung up.

I sat for a while with my hand on the phone thinking that Polly Davidson-Fox was one of the kindest people I'd spoken to in a long time.

I dialed England again, this time reaching Ms. Earling's law clerk, a young man named Samuel Wellster.

“We're waiting on word from the coroner,” he said when I asked where they were in the process of settling Ian Bennington's estate. “We filed for probate, of course, but the courts are leery to finalize things when the cause of death is up in the air.”

“Who is his beneficiary?” I asked, understanding Mr. Wellster's unspoken message: A killer can't benefit from his crime.

“Give me a minute to look it up.”

I sat listening to silence for several minutes until Mr. Wellster came back on the line.

“Mr. Bennington made some charitable donations. Everything else goes to his daughter, Rebecca.”

“Is the estate substantial?”

He chuckled. “Yes.”

“Are you Becca's solicitors, too?”

“I can't say. I can tell you about the will because that's part of the public record. Ms. Bennington's affairs are not.”

“I understand,” I said. “Are divorce records public?”

“Usually. In certain circumstances, they can be sealed.”

“Can you tell me, then, if you handled Becca's divorce?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“What charities did he donate to?”

He rattled off a list that included Reynard University, his local parish, a birdwatching club, and an organization that researched innovative treatment options for pediatric cancer. I tried to think of other questions to ask Mr. Wellster, but I couldn't. I thanked him and ended the call.

Learning the real Ian's preferences felt slightly voyeuristic. I hadn't ever met the man, yet here I was getting to know him after his death. From what I could see, Ian Bennington might be a semibillionaire, but essentially he was a simple man, loyal to the university that hired his daughter and fond of his community.

I brought up my work contact list and called a British lawyer I'd worked with in the past, Derek Carlson.

“In connection with a potential appraisal,” I said, after we exchanged greetings, “I need information about a divorce. Would you please review the Bennington-Lewis divorce records and let me know its status?”

“Certainly.”

He took down the specifics and told me that, unless there was something untoward in the case, he'd be able to report his findings within a few hours. I glanced at the time on my computer monitor—4:37. I thanked him, and we chatted for a minute before hanging up.

I e-mailed Ellis a bulleted list detailing the additional facts I'd learned, then made my way on weary legs up the stairs to bed.

It felt as if I'd done a good day's work.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I awakened to a screech. I groaned and rolled over.

It didn't stop.

I slapped the pillow, and when that didn't quiet the noise either, I tossed the pillow across the room, I don't know why. By then I was awake enough to realize that the sound was coming from my old alarm clock, a relic from my childhood. I hoisted myself onto one elbow, moaning a little as my muscles objected to the move, and tapped the button to turn off the cacophony. I collapsed back onto the mattress.

It was nine thirty. Late for an early riser like me. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to get vertical. A memory came to me.

Midway through my senior year in college, I'd called home in a panic. I had three midterms to study for and two papers to complete and I couldn't figure out differential equations and I'd already met with my professor and understood the concepts when he explained them but couldn't apply them when working on my own, and I felt overwhelmed and upset and disgruntled, and I didn't know what to do.

“Go to the library,” my dad told me, as assured and unruffled as always, “and look at different texts on the subject. Since different authors describe the same things differently, often one explanation gets through whereas others don't. Once you find a book that speaks to you, do the exercises.”

“That all sounds logical,” I said, snuffling, “but I can't. I just can't! I don't know what to do. I'm completely freaking out.”

“Are you ready for my final words on the subject?”

I stopped snuffling. I didn't like the sound of that. “Final” sounded bad. “Yes.”

“Don't think—do. Get through this week, then come home for the weekend, and I'll take you out for dinner.”

I did as he recommended. I stopped thinking about how hard things were and started focusing on getting things done. It made all the difference. I aced everything, except for math, where I got a B. I'm pretty proud of that B.

Smiling at the memory, I stood up and tested my range of motion. Not bad. I made my way to the shower.

“I'm doing. I'm doing,” I said aloud.

I stumbled into the bathroom, ready to face the day.

My dad's keep-on-keeping-on approach saved me in college, and it saved me now.

*   *   *

I pulled Derek Carlson's fax regarding Thomas and Becca's marital status from the machine while Fred filled me in about Becca's watercolor miniatures.

We'd had no hits on our stolen-art postings, but he'd discovered that the two paintings had not been sold at auction since 1924. They had, however, been featured in a 1986 exhibition at the Midlands Art Museum in Newark-on-Trent, England, with the loan credited to “Anonymous.” The exhibit had been called Love Lost.

“That's the most recent information I can find,” Fred said.

“Almost thirty years. That's not recent by anybody's standard.”

The phone rang. I paused as Cara answered it. She put the caller on hold.

“It's Wes,” she said, her eyes clouded with worry. “He says it's urgent.”

I wasn't concerned. To Wes, everything was urgent.

“Ask him to hold on for a minute.” I turned back toward Fred. “Did you find the catalogue?”

“Just now. It was archived, with access limited to scholars only. Luckily, Sasha's PhD covers us.” He grinned and pushed up his glasses. “I'm her research assistant.”

I smiled. “You clever man, you. Well done! Send me the link, will you?”

“I'll e-mail you the document. I downloaded the PDF.”

I gave him a thumbs-up and ran for the stairs, pleased that the stiffness and soreness on my left side had mellowed enough so that I could move with familiar ease.

*   *   *

“Ethan Ferguson is a fraud,” Wes said, jumping in.

“What are you talking about?” I asked, dropping the fax on my desk and sliding into my comfy leather chair.

“He was born and reared by a single mother, a waitress, in the City Center section of East St. Louis, Illinois, which according to NeighborhoodScout is the most dangerous neighborhood in America. No joke. Not
one
of the most dangerous neighborhoods—the
most
dangerous. His mom died when he was sixteen. That same year, he graduated high school, won a scholarship to do an extra year at Phillips Academy, the hoity-toity prep school in Andover, Massachusetts, moved east the day after graduation, and never looked back. It was after he left that he acquired his middle names. Until then, he was just plain Ethan Ferguson. He wrote an article for the alumni blog explaining what happened. Two of his teachers helped him—I'm quoting here—‘understand that the past doesn't need to dictate the future.' That's good, right? Well put. Anyhow, Ethan named them: Ms. Klein and Mr. Quinn. He was so grateful, he went to court on his eighteenth birthday to take their names, so his legal name is now Ethan Klein Quinn Ferguson. Isn't that a hoot?”