Ornaments of Death (25 page)

“I think it's nice, Wes. He's not a fraud. He reinvented himself. Do you know how hard that is to do?”

“I guess.”

“That's why he named Andover as his birthplace.”

“Sounds like one heck of a school to have that much impact. I'm trying to get a photo of him when he was at Phillips.”

“Why?”

“To go with the article. Following your lead, maybe I'll call it ‘Fraud or Reinvention?' What do you think?”

“Oh, God, Wes—don't publish it!”

“What?” he asked, scandalized. “Why not?”

“Write about the man he is now, witty and hardworking, not the boy he used to be. Let the past stay past.”

“I thought he was a suspect.”

“Maybe he is,” I said. A small brown bird landed on my maple tree and walked along the bare limb toward me. “That's unrelated to this discussion. Don't diminish his accomplishment by showing how the sausage was made.”

“What's going on, Joz? It sounds like you've gone a little soft for him. You and Ty having trouble?”

“Of course not! My feelings for Ethan have nothing to do with my feelings for Ty.”

“Really?” Wes asked, morphing from investigative reporter to kid brother. “If Maggie talked about another guy the way you're talking about Ethan, I'd be kind of, I don't know, jealous, I guess.”

The little bird stared at me for a moment, then swooped toward the ground, veering left. I lost sight of it halfway across my parking lot. I swiveled back toward my computer.

“I can see that,” I said. “If Ty talked about another woman that way, I'd be jealous, too.”

“So what's the difference?”

“I know myself. I can enjoy a man's company without it meaning anything salacious. I don't flirt or mentally try on a relationship or anything.”

“What does Ty think?”

“I don't know. Ethan hasn't come up.”

“How about other guy friends?”

I thought of Ellis. “He's fine with it.”

“Because he trusts you?”

“Because I'm trustworthy. Because I adore Ty and he knows it. I make him feel secure, not insecure.”

“So doesn't learning this about Ethan make you suspect him more than before? I mean, now you know he's good at hiding secrets.”

“I can't say he was hiding anything. His background never came up.”

An IM window popped onto my screen. Cara wrote:
Chief Hunter on line 2.

“I've got to go, Wes.” I hit
REPLY
and typed:
OK. I'll take it.

“Wait!” he called, back to his reporter self. “Talk to me. You've got to give me
something
I can print.”

“I can't, Wes. Not now. I have another call.”

“Josie! You owe me.”

I thought about whether there was a downside to telling him about Thomas Lewis. I'd discovered Ian's true identity through a simple Google search. My eyes took in Mr. Carlson's fax. Everything I knew was public information, including whatever it was Mr. Carlson had sent. I'd hired him as a time-saver, not to ferret out confidential information.

“Do an online search for ‘Ian Bennington' and ‘Christmas Common.'” I clicked over to Ellis. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem. I am a master of multitasking. I'm eating a ham sandwich, reading the
Seacoast Star,
and thinking about the real Ian Bennington, all at once.”

“You are a master. I'm impressed.”

“Thanks for letting me know what you learned. I had it on my radar to check Ian's background. Now I'll make it a priority.”

“I have a fax I haven't read from England about Becca's marriage to Thomas. I'll e-mail you once I've read it. Any news for me?”

“No one's used your phone or credit cards. I set up alerts, so I'll know if and when.”

“I hate this.”

“I understand.”

“I'm going to buy another phone today.”

“Makes sense.”

As soon as we hung up, I picked up the six-page document Mr. Carlson had faxed. In addition to the cover letter, he'd included a copy of the Lewises' separation agreement. Mr. Carlson wrote that he'd called Mr. Lewis's solicitor for an explanation as to why the divorce hadn't been finalized and learned that Mr. Lewis had filed a petition contending that his wife was hiding assets, specifying that two seventeenth-century miniature watercolors he knew were in her possession weren't listed in her declaration of assets. Ms. Rebecca Bennington's solicitor had countered that the paintings were her father's, not hers. While the court was considering Mr. Lewis's request, he filed an additional petition. This one, submitted a week after Ian Bennington's death, stated that since Rebecca was her father's sole heir, and since, by her own admission, the miniatures were owned by Mr. Bennington, and since he and Rebecca were still married, the paintings were now incontestably marital property. The petition included a demand that the paintings be produced for appraisal.

If I were Becca, I thought, I'd be beside myself with impotent fury, the rage of the righteous. Whether her dad had given her the paintings as a housewarming gift as Thomas said—which seemed credible, given they were in her possession—or whether they were merely on loan from her dad, once Ian died, they were unquestionably hers. If I were faced with the prospect of being ordered by a court to give half their value to a man I was divorcing, I'd be mad enough to kill. I wondered if Becca had been, too. I scanned in the document and e-mailed it to Ellis, then sat and stewed. My radar needed readjusting. Thomas Lewis was not a nice man. After a while, I turned my attention to the catalogue Fred had dug up.

The catalogue photographs appeared identical to the two oval-shaped paintings I'd removed from Becca's apartment. I called the Midlands Art Museum.

I spoke to a young woman with a clipped businesslike tone. Her name was Agnes Wollingford. She was the curatorial assistant, and all she had for me was bad news. She didn't know anything about the 1986 exhibit, Love Lost. She didn't know anything about Cooper miniatures. She didn't know who in the museum might know more. And what she did know didn't help me one bit. I read her the staff names from the exhibit catalogue, the curator and his two assistants.

“So sorry,” she said. “They've all retired. I heard Mr. Janson passed on last year.”

“Do you have contact information for the others?”

“I don't. Perhaps the Human Resources people might, but I shouldn't think they'd give it out.”

“True. What about the records, curatorial notes, and so on? You confirm provenance for every object, don't you?”

“Certainly, although if a loaned object comes with an appraisal from a reliable source, which they usually do, for insurance purposes, you know, then we might rely on that assessment.”

“And the paperwork for this exhibit?”

“Gone, I'm afraid. We sent all records to a document conversion company in 2005, about time, right? Our goal was to go paperless, so we wanted all past documents scanned in. We hoped to create one mega- and searchable database. Before the company started the scanning, there was a fire. Everything was destroyed.”

“That's an appalling loss,” I said, horrified on the museum's behalf, on the art world's behalf.

“I know. We were all shattered. Just devastated. It happened during my first week on the job. Quite an introduction.”

“I can't imagine. I'm so sorry.” I stared at the staff listing in the catalogue. “There's an intern listed, Florence Moore. Have you ever heard of her?”

“Certainly. Dr. Moore is a professor of art history at Baldine College in Manchester and the curator of its small but distinguished collection of Baroque art. She's quite well respected.”

I thanked Agnes for her help, hung up, and Googled the college.

Thirty years is a long time. If Florence Moore had been in her twenties then, she'd be in her fifties now. I found the Web site, clicked through to the Art Department, and dialed the number.

“Dr. Moore, please,” I said to the young woman who answered.

“I'm sorry. Dr. Moore is at a conference. Can someone else help you?”

“No, thank you. What's the conference?”

“Dr. Moore is keynoting,” she said, pride rippling through the phone lines, “at the New England Museum of Contemporary Art conference on ‘The New Baroque: Using Art to Fight Religious Oppression.'”

“That's here! I'm calling you from Rocky Point, New Hampshire. The museum is in Durham.”

“Exactly! Do you know it?”

“Yes, indeed. It's only about half an hour away. The topic sounds fascinating.”

“We're all terribly excited. The speech title is the title of Dr. Moore's new book. She's getting interview requests from all sorts of media outlets. To bring the Baroque into a contemporary sociopolitical context—well, you can just imagine!”

I smiled. She reminded me of Sasha, passionate about art to her core and certain that her enthusiasm was universally shared. I found it endearing.

“When's Dr. Moore keynote?” I asked.

“Tomorrow at ten.”

“What's going on tonight?”

“A cocktail party,” she gushed, “at a restaurant called the Blue Dolphin. I've heard it's ever so smart.”

“You heard right! It's a very special place.” I thanked her again and hung up.

I typed in some keywords and navigated to the conference schedule. The cocktail party was due to start at six.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Blue Dolphin was a world-class restaurant brought back to life after a crash-and-burn meltdown a few years back.
*
The company that bought it brought in a turnaround pro named Suzanne Dyre as general manager. Tall and elegant, Suzanne epitomized gracious hospitality, a perfect fit with the restaurant. She was a perfect fit for Fred, too, and they'd been a couple for a few years now.

The Blue Dolphin was housed on the ground floor of an eighteenth-century brick building wedged into the corner of Bow and Market Streets. A cobblestone alley separated the building from the tumultuous black Piscataqua River. A thick stand of hardwood trees, poplars, maples, birch, and oaks lined the riverbank. By early December, when the glittering gold, red, orange, and yellow leaves had fallen, you could see through the bare branches to Maine.

The restaurant's decor hadn't changed in the ten years I'd lived in Rocky Point. The wide plank oak floors were burnished to a rich golden patina. The drapes were blue and white toile. Crystal drops adorned the wall sconces, chandeliers, and table lamps. The linen was snowy white and crisply starched. Silver flatware gleamed. It was maybe the most beautiful place I'd ever seen. Now, decorated for the holidays with strands of tiny red lights running just below the crown molding, an eight-foot fir tree adorned with sequin-dotted red and gold balls, gold garlands, and red lights taking all of one corner of the entryway, and boughs of evergreen draped along every wall, it was exquisite, like a setting in a play, like a dream.

“Josie!” Frieda, the hostess, said.

Her welcoming smile always made walking into the Blue Dolphin feel like coming home.

“Hey, Frieda. I understand you're hosting a private party here tonight.”

“That's right. It's sponsored by the New England Museum of Contemporary Art, part of a conference. They've taken over the lounge.”

I turned that way. A gold-framed sign read
THE LOUNGE IS CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE EVENT. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE
.

“I came to the right place, then.”

Frieda knew I dealt in antiques. She'd have no suspicion that I wasn't an invited guest. I thanked her and walked around the sign, stepping into the buzz of conversation, clinking glasses, and laughter.

Jimmy, my favorite bartender, was in his usual place behind the bar. Two other men worked alongside him.

The group, maybe seventy-five strong, appeared to be an eclectic mix. One woman wore a purple and gold sari, another a black chador. Two men wore dashikis, one blue and green, the other black and yellow. I spotted Dr. Elizabeth Grayman, the curator of decorative arts at the New England Museum of Contemporary Art in Durham and an expert on Victorian artifacts. I sidled through the crowd in her direction.

Dr. Grayman was close to seventy, one way or the other. She was about my height and stout, with curly gray hair cut short and light blue eyes. She wore her regular uniform, a tweed suit and sturdy shoes. Today's suit was dark orange with nubby brown flecks. Her shoes were brown oxfords.

“Dr. Grayman,” I said, interrupting a young man who had a full beard and was wearing a brown beret. I smiled at him. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Josie!” Dr. Grayman said. “What a surprise!” She glanced at her companion, then back at me. “Josie, this is Bertram Targus, from the University of Illinois. Bertram, please meet one of our local luminaries, Josie Prescott, an antiques appraiser.”

Bertram and I exchanged hellos. “Congratulations on hosting the conference,” I said to Dr. Grayman. “I'm impressed! I took the liberty of popping in because I want to meet Professor Moore, and I was hoping you'd introduce me.”

“I'll catch up with you later,” Bertram said.

“Please do,” Dr. Grayman said. “I want to hear your views on Baroque versus contemporary identity.”

He smiled and walked away.

“Sorry,” I said again.

“No worries,” she said, peering into the crowd, trying to find Dr. Moore. “We have three days to figure out identity.”

I laughed. “When you do, I hope you'll fill me in.”

She smiled. “Ah! There she is.”

Dr. Grayman set off toward the window seats, with me following. A woman with sable black hair stood with her back to us, talking to a crowd that seemed to hang on her every word. She wore a black sweater and half a dozen gold bangles, a brown and black plaid pencil skirt, and high-heeled knee-high brown leather boots.