Ornaments of Death (28 page)

Does she have pearls? Yes, she loves them. The pearl earrings have little diamonds where they go through her earlobes; the pearls dangle. The pearl necklace has only one strand, but the pearls go all the way around. Her parents gave her the set when she graduated college. Mr. Blackmore smiled knowingly and led us over to a counter near the back wall.

“These are Tahitian pearls,” he explained, extracting a pair of simple green-black earrings from the case. “The color is called pistachio. They're rare because the color occurs naturally. It's not dyed or chemically treated.”

He took a necklace out as well and laid it on a black velvet cushion. A single iridescent dark green pearl hung from a diamond-encrusted setting.

“They're beautiful,” Wes said solemnly. He turned to me. “What do you think?”

“I think they're spectacular.” I looked up at Mr. Blackmore. “The term ‘Tahiti pearl' refers to a black pearl, doesn't it?”

“That's right, but as you can see, it's not a literal term. Even the blackest pearls generally have undertones or overtones of other colors, pink, yellow, cream.” He smiled at Wes. “Since your wife wears brown, yellow, and green, she'll get a lot of use out of these. Are most of her settings gold or white?”

“Gold.”

“Like this pair. What do you think?”

Wes's shoulders stiffened. “How much are they?”

“The earrings are two hundred and ninety-nine dollars. The necklace is only one ninety-nine.”

Wes looked at me. “What do you think?”

“Is the price higher than what you had in mind?” I asked. “Because they may have smaller pearls.”

“I think three hundred is okay. If it's all right with you, Mr. Blackmore, I could buy the earrings now for Christmas, and make payments on the necklace between now and March. Maggie's birthday is in March.”

“Certainly. We'd be pleased to put the necklace on layaway for you.”

“Should I do it?” Wes asked me.

“Yes!” I said.

Wes turned to Mr. Blackmore. “I'll take them.”

He handed over his credit card. Mr. Blackmore said he'd be back in a moment and left for a semienclosed workstation off to the side.

“I did what you said about Googling Ian Bennington and Christmas Common,” Wes said while we waited. “Top-of-the-trees tip. What else have you found out?”

“Nothing yet, except the purchase agreement, which is useful to validate ownership, but doesn't help find who stole them, or who killed Thomas, or anything. How about you? Were you able to find out anything about Cheryl Morrishein?”

“I'm going to put you in touch with a friend of mine. Her name is Reggie Campbell. She's kind of a ski-bum whiz-kid who works part-time for the local North Conway paper, the
Town Bee
. She said she'll be glad to talk to you.”

“That's great, Wes,” I said. “Thanks.”

“I vouched for you,” he said in a warning tone.

I grinned. “I won't let you down.”

He grinned back. “See you don't.”

He e-mailed me Reggie's contact information as Mr. Blackmore reappeared with the elegantly wrapped box. It jangled. The box was covered in shiny red paper and gold stretchy ribbon. Tied on were three small silver bells.

“That's beautiful,” I said.

“It's awesome!” Wes said. “Maggie's going to love it.”

I left him filling out forms for the layaway. Outside, as I walked toward the Central Garage, I called Reggie Campbell.

*   *   *

Reggie Campbell's phone went to voice mail.

“Hi, Reggie,” I said. “I'm Wes's friend, Josie Prescott. I look forward to talking to you about Cheryl Morrishein. I really appreciate your help.” I left my phone number and e-mail address.

By the time I got back to work, both Zoë and Ty had replied to my e-mails. Zoë e-mailed me saying I was dear to her, too, and asking if I was okay. I replied that I was fine. Ty called and left an “I love you” message, saying he wasn't going to be able to get away as early as he'd hoped and would keep me posted.

Reggie had left a message, too. “We're now officially playing phone tag,” she said, her words riding a riffle of laughter, “and I'm going to be tough to reach because the ski conditions are killer. Forty degrees and awesome snow, deep and packed.” A chuckle. “Now you know my priorities. In between runs, I'll manage to squeeze in a little research. I'll put together a dossier for you. Why don't you come up here for the weekend? We can talk in person. Let me know if you want help booking a room. Give Wes my love. Ta-ta!”

I scanned the rest of my e-mails. Nothing was pressing. I considered the piles of work on my desk. Nothing that couldn't wait. Ty and I hadn't been away for a weekend in months. North Conway was a postcard-pretty resort town. Why not?

I texted Ty:
You can split logs tomorrow morning. At noon, I'm kidnapping you.

Hank appeared with sleepy eyes and mewed, clearly wanting to know why I hadn't let him know I was back.

“I'm sorry, baby,” I said. I held out my arm toward him and rubbed my thumb and fingers together. “Come here, little boy.”

He walked toward me as if he might or might not be interested in a cuddle. He sniffed my hand with studied indifference, then deigned to leap into my lap. I kissed his head and thought about kidnapping Ty.

*   *   *

Ty texted:
What should I pack?

I replied:
Winter wear. One sport coat/slacks outfit. Two nights. A bathing suit.

He answered:
Done. Do you realize this is my first kidnapping?

I wrote:
Me, too.

I gave Hank a final pet-pet and picked up the phone. I reached Ellis on his cell phone.

“So was Ethan telling the truth about his revised alibi?”

“Yes. He got to Frank's at eleven, just as they were opening, took over a booth in the back, and didn't leave until after seven. The waitress said the table was covered with books and magazines and papers and she doesn't know what else. They didn't try to nudge him away because he kept ordering food and drinks and he tips big.”

“I didn't think he was my attacker,” I said. “As fit as he is, he would have crushed me.”

“Eliminating someone as a suspect is progress.”

“I understand. And just because he didn't ambush me doesn't mean he didn't kill Thomas. Have you made any progress on that front?”

“We have several viable leads,” he said, saying nothing.

He might not, but I did.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

At four Friday afternoon, I twirled in front of the full-length mirror, trying to check my rear view. I was wearing a black sheath with a black sweater dotted with red sparkly bits and black knee-high boots.

“What do you think? I asked Ty. “Is this dress too fancy for these boots?”

Ty finished knotting his tie and looked at me. “You look gorgeous.”

“What about the boots?”

His eyes lowered to my feet. “They look like nice boots.”

I laughed. “Never mind.”

Reggie had somehow gotten us in on an otherwise sold-out weekend. The White Birch Inn was a renovated mansion ten minutes out of town and fifteen minutes from the ski resort bar where we were scheduled to meet Reggie at five thirty. Our room had a king-sized bed, a gas fireplace, and a Jacuzzi tub. The hotel had a twenty-four-hour outdoor hot tub. I was a happy girl.

We left the inn at ten past four. I wanted to stop in the village to try to find a tote bag I liked. I hadn't given up hope on getting my other one back, but I needed to face the fact that for now, at least, it was gone. I found a black leather beauty in the first boutique we tried. It was big, with cubbyholes for my phone and tablet, two zippered compartments, and a built-in latch for my key ring.

We walked into Après Ski, the bar attached to the main chalet at the White Mountain Ridge Resort, at five twenty-five. The place was packed and loud. I stood in the entryway, uncertain where to go. There were no open seats.

“Now what?” I asked Ty.

“What does Reggie look like?”

“I have no idea. I forgot to ask.”

“Maybe she'll recognize you. Look—there.”

I followed his gaze. A woman with kinky red hair was standing near a club chair to the right of the fireplace, her eyes on my face, her arms high above her head, crisscrossing back and forth, like an aircraft marshaler signaling a pilot to make an emergency stop. Her grin was huge. The flames shooting off the six-foot logs leapt high and hot, and the gold and amber light glinted on her hair.

Ty and I hurried in her direction.

“Reggie?” I asked when we reached her.

“Josie! Welcome!”

I introduced Ty, and she turned to a college-age couple sitting on a love seat at right angles to her chair, their heads together, deep in conversation.

“Scoot,” she said to them. “I told you I was holding it.”

“Sure, Reggie,” the man said.

The young woman gave her a hug, and they disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd surging toward the bar.

A waitress in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, wearing a white hash-slinger apron, appeared out of nowhere to take our order. I ordered champagne. Ty got his usual, Smuttynose. Reggie asked for another cognac.

“You must have some pull around here,” Ty said as we got situated on the couch.

Reggie laughed but didn't respond to his unspoken question. Instead, she said, “It's so nice to meet you. Wes is such a cutie-pie, isn't he?”

I stopped myself laughing. Not once had I ever thought of Wes as a cutie-pie. “He is. Totally adorable. I can't thank you enough for helping me.”

“This is about an antiques appraisal?”

“Right. Some seventeenth-century paintings.”

“Wicked cool.” She stretched her hand behind her chair and brought out a black leather portfolio box. “Here you go!”

I took the box, raising and lowering it an inch or two several times, indicating its heft. “When you said a dossier, I expected you to hand me a manila envelope.”

Reggie grinned again. “We do it up right around here.”

“If you don't mind, I'd like to take a quick look through this.”

She fluttered a hand. “Sure. I'll talk to the boyfriend.” She smiled radiantly at Ty. “That's you, right?”

Ty smiled back at her and said, “That's me.”

“So talk to me. What do you do?”

I opened the lid and found two inches' worth of documentation about Cheryl Morrishein and Thomas Lewis and anyone connected to them. There were bios of Cheryl and her husband, Rupert; his partner, Thomas Lewis; and Thomas's wife, Rebecca. One page was a list of magazines and blogs where Thomas Lewis had published articles and essays on cross-country skiing—according to his bio, he was a leading proponent of the sport. Newspaper clippings went back to 2010, shortly after Thomas and Becca moved to North Conway.

I tilted the first clipping I picked up toward the sconce, trying to find an angle where I could read it. The overall illumination was dim, appropriate for a bar but not helpful to a reader. The flickering fire didn't help.

As I perused the dossier, I half-listened to Reggie and Ty's conversation and wished I could participate. It sounded fun. Ty didn't like downhill skiing, and they were hot on the pros and cons of downhill versus cross-country as I got lost in scanning the contents of the box. One article discussed Thomas and Rupert's enthusiasm about their new venture; another looked at how their relationship degenerated while their partnership struggled to find traction; and several others analyzed the accusations and countercharges they'd flung at one another. Also in the box was the first announcement of Rupert's lawsuit; an update about Rebecca's work at the Rocky Point Oceanographic Institute; Rupert's obituary; and a follow-up article focusing on his widow's determination to pursue the case. I flipped through the remaining articles, impressed.

“I'll read these later. I can't thank you enough, Reggie. Any chance you have last known addresses for everyone?”

“Would a dossier be complete without them? Look at the bottom sheet.”

I eased out the last sheet of paper and found a contact list.

“You're fabulous,” I said. “Tell me about these places.”

Reggie leaned forward. She pointed at Cheryl's address. “That's your neck of the woods.”

“So it is,” I said. “Those are yawner condos. Small, uninspired, builder grade.”

She read the next name, Thomas, and address, local. “I bet Thomas decided to stay here in North Conway because of the cross-country skiing.” She gave me a saucy look. “We're known for our adventurous trails. I've given you his London address, too. He owned a flat there. My preliminary research indicated it's mortgaged to the hilt.” She tapped the paper again and handed it back to me. “Since you're not going to follow up on any of these addresses tonight, may I suggest that we retire to G's Steakhouse, a restaurant where they make killer steaks, natch, and to-die-for shrimp, flown in fresh from the Gulf, and where I took the liberty of making us a reservation.”

Ty stood up. “You don't have to ask me twice.”

“Food, baby,” Reggie said.

I watched them fuss about who would pay the bill. Ty won. I followed them out of the lodge and half-listened to their banter as we waited for the valet to bring up our cars. I was with them, but I wasn't. It was the same through dinner.

I answered when I was asked a question, made such comments as occurred to me, and ate every bit of my meal, but my mind was in a whirl. I was more than distracted. I was deeply disturbed, and I wasn't liking the dark thoughts that loomed in front of me like an abyss.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ty and I sat in the hot tub under a canopy of twinkling stars. A single spotlight mounted near the roof at the far end of the deck facing the woods provided the only illumination, a faint golden glow, enough to discern objects but not enough to differentiate subtle variations in color or texture. I slouched down so the water came up to my chin. It was deliciously sultry. I pressed my back against the jet, allowing the pulsating water to massage my spine. The night was clear and silent and cold. We could have been the only two people on earth.