Ornaments of Death (27 page)

We chatted another few minutes, ending with “I love you.”

I checked e-mail around ten, just before I went to bed. Ellis had forwarded me an e-mail he'd received at nine, two in the morning in Christmas Common. In Ellis's cover note, he explained that Superintendent Shorling had called him back, as promised, explaining that Detective Higgins would be in touch within the next several hours.

Apparently, Detective Higgins had had a fire lit under him, and he in turn had lit others. The e-mail came from a woman in Superintendent Shorling's office, saying he'd asked her to forward on this document. It was a PDF of the purchase agreement Kirk Trevor had mentioned, which they'd found in Ian's desk.

The seller of the miniatures was a couple named Jeffrey and Nancy Cheviot, owners of a textile mill in Leeds, England. Nancy, whose maiden name was Worth, had inherited the miniatures from her grandmother, Mary Knight Worth. As I read the report, following the trail from owner to owner, I was impressed. Kirk Trevor had done meticulous work, and so had I—but the paintings were still missing.

*   *   *

Thursday morning, I woke up with an idea. The only two people who acknowledged seeing the miniature portraits were Marney Alred and Ethan Ferguson. Marney was a dead end, but maybe Ethan knew something more, something that would help me understand what was going on. I had no sense that he was withholding information; rather, I wondered if he might know something without recognizing its significance. I hoped he'd see me.

Just after nine, I called Ethan and asked if he was in Rocky Point, and when he said he was, I invited him to lunch.

“You're the answer to a prayer,” he said. “I'm buried under oyster and clam data, and you're offering me a way to burrow out.”

“Do clams and oysters burrow?” I asked, relieved he seemed to have forgotten that he'd disinvited me for a drink during his police interview.

“Like champs.”

I smiled, as drawn to him as ever. “Then I'm glad I can offer a way out.”

“Do you know Frank's Tavern?” he asked.

“On Route 1?”

“That's the place.”

“I've passed it a thousand times, but I've never been there.”

“They have killer onion rings.”

“I'm in.”

I got there first, just before noon. The oak bar stretched the whole length of the room on the right. Three men, spaced apart, sat on stools. Two had mugs of beer in front of them. One had a highball. I took a booth midway down the row on the left. I slid across the maroon vinyl, avoiding hitting my head on the low-hanging faux-Tiffany glass chandelier. The table was old-style Formica, black with red and white specks. A silver metal napkin holder sat at the far end next to a bottle of ketchup with dried bits on the lip of the bottle, and standard-issue glass salt and pepper shakers. A bored-looking waitress wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray collared jersey with
FRANK'S
silkscreened across the front in black approached me, menu in hand. Her black plastic name tag read
TAWNY
. I told her we'd be two for lunch and asked for an iced tea.

“Sure,” Tawny said, pronouncing it like a good New Englander:
shoo-ah
.

She was delivering my drink when Ethan came in, saw me, and smiled.

“A coffee, darlin',” he said to Tawny as he slid onto the bench across from me.

“You got it,” she said, giving him a sassy grin, no longer the least bit bored. When she walked away, her hips swayed.

“You're not a stranger here,” I said.

“Once again, you prove your observation wizardry.” He settled in and looked me over. “No lasting injuries, I see.”

“True. I got lucky.”

“Luck. The dependence on luck is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

“Foolish consistency,” I said, “not luck.”

“True. Emerson. It's just I've been thinking a lot about luck lately. One man's misfortune is another man's gain. Who said that?”

“I think it's a proverb, the attribution lost across the centuries. Why have you been thinking about luck and other people's misfortune?”

“My work is going well, and it wouldn't be if Becca were still in the picture.”

“That's bittersweet.”

“Not really.” He gave his hallmark half-grin. “When she gets back, we'll both be doing well. The misfortune I alluded to was a reference to whatever is going on with her now.”

He paused as Tawny placed his coffee and a small bowl filled with single-portion tubs of half-and-half on the table. She asked if we were ready to order. I did a quick once-through of the menu, choosing a Cobb salad, honey mustard dressing on the side.

“No onion rings?” Ethan asked me.

“I was hoping I could mooch.”

“For you, anything.”

Ethan ordered the burger deluxe, which came with French fries, and a side of onion rings.

“I love onion rings,” I said. “I've tried to make them, but I can't get it right.”

“That's why God made Frank's.”

I laughed. “Tell me more about what's going on that both you and Becca are doing well.”

“The foundation is impressed enough with my ideas on how I can mesh my research with Becca's without impinging on her data or findings to okay my new role as acting principal investigator.” He grinned. “They've invited me to submit my own proposal. Now that I understand the structure they're looking for, the abstract wrote itself, and they approved it within a day.”

“Holy cow! That's wonderful, Ethan! Beyond wonderful! You must be thrilled. What was different this time around?”

Ethan leaned back and rubbed his nose, thinking about it. When he spoke, his tone was serious, even grave.

“Reading Becca's materials was like having a private tutor. I was unprepared for her process, her writing style, her use of seemingly unrelated research to make new, insightful points. I studied her notes like a freshman cramming for finals, adapted her approach to my material, and just like that”—Ethan snapped his fingers—“it worked. She ought to write a textbook.” He rubbed his nose some more. “I lied to the police, and you, about my alibi for when you were attacked. Stupid of me. I told them I was in my room writing because I didn't want to admit I was here reading.”

“I don't understand.”

“I was ashamed at my ignorance, so I lied. It sounded better to say that I was writing an article, rather than hanging out in a bar cribbing Becca's notes.”

“That's some prideful moment,” I said. “You'd rather pretend you didn't have an alibi for a crime? If you didn't want to admit to using Becca's notes, why not simply say you were here writing?”

“Because I had a spasm of attitude. If I told the cops I was here, I could see them coming in and asking Tawny or checking the security cameras to see what I was doing, to confirm I was here the whole time I said I was. They'd find out that I didn't write a word, and I'd be caught.”

“That doesn't make much sense.”

“Never underestimate the depravity of ambition.” He looked guilty in an unconvincing way, like the proverbial little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It's not like I planned it. Spasms of attitude aren't planned.”

Tawny delivered our food. I nabbed an onion ring as soon as she left.

It was thick and not the least bit greasy. The crust was more orange than golden. It was delicious, moist and flavorful, perfectly cooked and perfectly seasoned.

“Yum,” I said, licking my fingers.

“Told you!” He took a bite of his burger, and as he chewed, he kept his eyes on my face. When he swallowed, he asked, “Do you have any information about Becca?”

“No. I wish I did.”

“I always respected her,” he said, lowering his eyes to his plate, “but I never fully appreciated her. She's a force of nature. I sure hope she's okay.”

“You remember that you told me that you saw the paintings—the miniatures.”

“Sure, like I said.”

“How come she didn't display them?”

“She said it was complicated, that she would at some point.”

I ate for a while, thinking about that. “Complicated” was one of those words that covered a multitude of sins.

“What did she mean by ‘complicated'?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I didn't ask. Why?”

“I'm just trying to understand what's going on. Did you know Becca was married? Now widowed?”

“Becca?” he asked, sounding incredulous.

“She was separated when her husband died. There was a financial dispute holding up the divorce.”

He placed his half-eaten burger on his plate and stared at it as if he'd never seen such a thing before. He looked up and took in my face. “It's funny, isn't it? Sometimes you don't realize how much you care about someone until they're gone.”

Our conversation flagged. Neither one of us seemed to be able to find a new topic of interest. When the bill came, I insisted on paying, telling Ethan I'd invited him.

“Only because you ask so sweetly.”

He stood up and said he had to go. He patted Tawny on the upper arm, and she smiled like she wanted more. While I waited for her to bring my change, I watched Ethan leave. I wondered which of us got more out of our conversation. All in all, I suspected he did.

I sat in my car and texted Ellis about Ethan's change in alibi, saying I'd explain why he'd fibbed when we spoke.

Driving back to work, I wondered if Becca had confided in anyone or whether she was truly as reclusive as Thomas had implied and as I sensed. Certainly she hadn't confided in Ethan. To have no one to confide in would be so hard, I thought, knowing how much I depended on Zoë and Ty. I thought it was kind of creepy that everyone involved in that real estate venture was, it seemed, dead or missing. Ian. Thomas. Becca. Rupert. Where was Rupert's widow, Cheryl?

As soon as I got back to work, I did two things. First, I e-mailed Zoë and Ty. To Zoë, I wrote:
You're so dear to me.
To Ty, I typed:
You mean the world to me.
I didn't want either of them to think I took them for granted, not even for a minute. Second, I Googled “Cheryl Morrishein and North Conway” and got a boatload of hits, all old, all insignificant, mostly one-line mentions.

I called Wes. “I need current information about Cheryl Morrishein.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't know enough about her.”

“Josie,” he said with faux patience, “that's a nonreason.”

“It's all I have.”

“Whatcha got for me?”

“The police superintendent in Christmas Common, Gerald Shorling, located the purchase agreement for the two missing watercolors.”

“Tell me.”

“Where can we meet?”

“At Blackmore's.”

I laughed at the non sequitur. “Why there?”

“I don't know what to get Maggie for Christmas. Maybe you can help me figure it out.”

We agreed to meet in an hour.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Blackmore's Jewelers was the finest jewelry store on the seacoast, bar none. A third-generation family business, Blackmore's carried remarkable items, most of them unique. I pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered another world.

I stood on cushy forest green carpet. The walls were oak, with box molding. The lighting was soft, emanating from recessed lamps hidden behind soffits and elegant crystal chandeliers. Vivaldi played softly in the background. Boughs of holly were draped just under the crown molding. Big red velvet bows adorned the walls in back of the display cases. A Victorian London Christmas scene sat on a round table in the center of the large shop. There were ceramic row houses, each one decorated for the holiday and porcelain characters scattered about, like a woman shopping, her husband a step behind her, carrying her bags, and children skating on a glistening painted glass pond. I stood, transfixed. I loved discovering unexpected details that added to the illusion, like the kitten sleeping under a Christmas tree inside one of the houses.

Nate Blackmore, the thirty-something grandson of the founder, was our go-to jewelry expert. He saw me and smiled. He was waiting on an older man standing at the bracelet display. Two female sales associates were busy, too. One was showing a young woman diamond studs. The other was helping a middle-aged woman choose a watch fob. The founder, Morton Blackmore, who had to be close to eighty, came out from his private office in the back, spotted me, and smiled.

“Josie!” he said, approaching me with both hands extended.

I grasped his hands and squeezed. “Mr. Blackmore. It's so good to see you!”

“You, too. You're admiring our Christmas scene.”

“It's spectacular. I love the details.”

“Thank you. It was Nate's idea, a new tradition. So, what can I show you today?”

“I'm meeting Wes Smith here. He wants advice on a gift for his wife. I don't know whether you'll remember him. He bought her engagement ring here.”

“The reporter?”

“That's right.”

“I do recall the purchase. He was very thorough in deciding which diamond to buy and which setting to choose. A good researcher.”

“That's Wes,” I said.

Wes walked in and joined us.

It was an education to watch Mr. Blackmore work. All he did was ask questions and use the answers to help Wes narrow his options.

What kind of jewelry did Maggie wear? Necklaces and earrings almost every day. No other rings than her engagement ring and wedding band.

What kind of necklaces? Strands of things, Wes said, out of his depth. Mr. Blackmore pointed to a turquoise and silver torsade. Like this one? No, simpler. One strand, usually. She doesn't like fussy things.

How about earrings? Do they dangle? No. Maybe just a little.

What color clothing does she wear most frequently? Black, brown, green. Some yellow.