Ornaments of Death (29 page)

“Did you have a good time tonight?” Ty asked.

“Not really. I'm preoccupied.”

“You missed some fun.”

“I know. I liked Reggie.”

“Me, too.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

“Do you want to go cross-country skiing tomorrow?” Ty asked.

“No. I want to track down Thomas and Becca's former neighbors.”

“You sure know how to show a guy you kidnap a good time.”

I opened my eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“I was joking,” Ty said.

“I know. Still, I'm sorry.”

“You're tired.”

“Very.”

“Let's go to bed,” he said.

“You go. I'll sleep here.”

“You'll drown.”

“You'll rescue me,” I said.

“No, I won't, 'cause I'll drown, too.”

“Then I guess we have to go upstairs. You go first and hold my robe for me.”

“I thought you'd go first.”

The jets timed out and shut off. “I guess we both have to go.”

Ty climbed out and put on one of the terrycloth robes we'd found in the closet, then held mine up, ready for me. I followed suit and dashed inside, letting my feet drip on the sisal mat.

“That was sensational,” I said, drying my feet and slipping on flip-flops for the trek back to the room.

“We like a hot tub.”

“Why don't we put one in at home?”

“Good question.”

“You should go cross-country skiing in the morning while I'm tracking down information about Becca. We can connect for lunch.”

“You sure? I could keep you company while you search.”

“No.” I tucked my hand in the crook of his arm, and we walked side by side to the grand staircase. “You ski.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. “I love you.”

I head-bumped his arm. “I love you, too.”

*   *   *

I knocked on Thomas Lewis's front door in case his neighbor was watching, waited a few seconds, and knocked again. I spotted a doorbell and pushed it. The chimes sounded. I looked around as if I were uncertain what to do, then walked to the condo next door and rang the bell.

“I'm Josie Prescott,” I said to the woman who answered. “I have a quick question.”

“I'm Bitsy Mayeaux, who may or may not have a quick answer.”

She was in her late twenties and a little heavy, what my mother used to call pleasingly plump. She had straight shoulder-length brown hair, hazel eyes, a lot of freckles, and an open, friendly expression. A toddler dressed in pink corduroy overalls, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, and white socks with pink bows on the ankles stood next to her, hiding behind her leg, curious but not wanting to engage. Her eyes were cornflower blue. Her hair was short, an adorable mass of platinum blond ringlets. She was sucking her thumb.

I smiled. “I was hoping you might know where your next-door neighbor, Thomas Lewis, is.”

Her expression shifted from affable to reticent. “Do you know him?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, thinking it was true. Just because you've met someone doesn't mean you know them.

“I'm afraid I have bad news. He's dead.”

“Oh, my,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back to stave off the bad karma that came from fibbing. “I had no idea.”

I shifted my gaze to the condo next door, scanning the forest beyond, as if I needed to gather my thoughts. Shards of yellow sunlight striped the deck and dappled the woods. Most of the condos were decorated for the holidays. Some had windows framed in lights; others sparkled with merry window art, like candy canes and Santa's sleigh; almost everyone had a wreath.

I turned back to Bitsy. “I'm an antiques appraiser, and in connection with an important appraisal, I needed to talk to him or his wife—I guess I should say his widow—Rebecca. Do you know where she is?”

“Becca? She hasn't lived here in years.”

“Oh! I didn't know. Are they divorced?”

“Probably. Not that it matters now that Thomas is dead.”

“True. So they moved into the complex together?”

“That's right. They moved here from England. Becca left within a few months, six or eight months, maybe. I don't remember exactly. What's the appraisal you're working on?”

“A seventeenth-century antique,” I said. “British, like them. Why did Becca leave?”

The little girl tugged on Bitsy's sweater, and Bitsy looked down, smoothing her daughter's curly blond hair with such devotion, I felt myself smile with vicarious pleasure. Bitsy looked back at me.

“All I know is they fought a lot, and apparently didn't care who heard them. Not that you can avoid hearing everything; the walls in this place are like paper. I actually called the cops once. Things were being thrown and breaking—” She paused and glanced at her daughter. When she spoke again, her eyes meeting mine, her tone was muted. “I was worried about Becca.”

“What were they fighting about?” I asked in a gossipy tone.

Bitsy gave a little snort. “Money. What else do couples fight about?” She laughed, but not like she thought something was funny, and jerked her head toward the little girl. “G-rated answers only, please.”

I nodded, acknowledging her unspoken request. “Money, honey. The love of which is the source of all evil. I thought they were very well off.”

Bitsy lowered her voice as if she were sharing a secret. “I think it was Becca who had the money. Thomas wanted Becca to sell some paintings, and Becca said no way.”

“Was that what the fight was about the day you called the police?”

Bitsy nodded. “It was about seven o'clock. I remember, because I'd just put Sophie here to bed. Becca shouted that she wasn't going to the lecture, that they were going to have it out here and now and settle it once and for all. It didn't take long before Becca's shouts became screams. Then I heard something shatter, like a vase. No joke. My husband was at work—he's the night manager at the North Conway Diner. I came out here on the porch. A woman was standing here, her mouth hanging open like she couldn't believe her ears. She told me she'd been about to knock on their door but got scared.” She shook her head, remembering, almost wincing. “I hope I never hear anything like that again.”

“Then what happened?” I asked, opening my eyes wide, communicating how absorbing I found her story.

“We whispered back and forth, agreeing that we ought to call the police. She was frightened to make the call, worried, she said, that her cell phone number would appear on the police report, and that Thomas would think she turned on him. I didn't care. Let him think what he wants, that was my attitude. Maybe it would make him think. I went into my place to make the call, and when I came out again, the woman was gone.”

“Who was she?”

“I don't know. I never saw her before, and I haven't seen her since.”

“How old was she?”

Bitsy made a “who knows?” face. “I'm not good guessing ages. Forties, maybe.”

“Was she white?”

“Yes. White. Well dressed. Pretty.” She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“What a situation! What happened when the police came?”

“They were only inside about ten or fifteen minutes; then out they come with Becca. She had two big suitcases. I never saw her again.”

“Was Thomas arrested?”

“Not that I saw. The law up here is funky when it comes to domestic violence cases—it's up to each individual police officer's discretion.” She smiled, a knowing one. “I'm from California. The police have a very different attitude there, I can tell you that. The North Conway cops probably figured that since Becca hadn't been hurt and was leaving, what was the point?”

“Sounds like Thomas got lucky.”

“I'll say. And Becca got smart.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“Would you want to stay with a man who's only after your money, who threatens you if you won't sell some paintings?”

“No, I wouldn't.”

“Me neither.” She ruffled her daughter's hair. “And I want to make darn sure Sophie gets that message loud and clear.”

I smiled down at Sophie. “She's beautiful.”

Sophie disappeared behind her mother.

“Thanks.”

“So Becca left, and Thomas stayed. When did you last see him?”

Bitsy pursed her lips. “A couple of weeks ago, I guess.” Sophie reappeared and tugged Bitsy's sweater again. “I'm being summoned. It's snack time.”

“Thank you.” I waved. “Bye, Sophie.”

Sophie ran into an inner room. Talk about shy.

I left, walking slowly, thinking about divorce. Not the emotional aspects to breaking a relationship apart, but the practical ones. Thomas had not left his marriage quietly. He seemed to have had no pride when it came to commandeering Becca's money—or trying to do so. I looked up at Thomas's condo and wondered just how low he'd sunk.

I sat in my car, extracted my phone from its made-to-fit slot, and called Wes.

“Wes,” I said to his voice mail, “will you do me a favor? I hear Thomas Lewis had a flat in London that was heavily mortgaged. Can you confirm that? What was his financial situation in general? Also, did he travel to the U.K. in the last several months? Thanks.”

I hung up. I stared into the woods for several seconds, then called Sasha. I got her just as she was finishing a turn at Prescott's Instant Appraisal booth.

“I need you to post a request for anyone who has appraised the Cooper miniatures to contact me,” I said. “Word it so it sounds urgent.”

“On all the sites?”

“Yes, and all relevant social media. Get the word out.”

I thanked her and called Ty.

“How was the skiing?” I asked.

“Top ten ever. No wind. Heat wave continuing. Decent snow. I feel invigorated. What's your ETA?”

“About twelve thirty, I should think. Should we meet somewhere for lunch?”

“Why don't you come back to the room? We'll pick a place and go from here.”

I told him I was on my way.

*   *   *

I missed Wes's call because I was skiing alongside Ty on a level trail in back of the inn. I'm not a bad cross-country skier, especially on the flats. Hills kill me.

“You're good,” Ty said, heading for the shower.

“I don't know whether I'm good, but I for sure know I'm hungry. That little frou-frou sandwich we had at that ever-so-cute tea shop is long gone. We need to order up food.”

“Get a bottle of champagne, too.”

“Really?”

He paused, resting against the doorjamb. “Hell, yes. We have things to celebrate.”

“Like what?”

“Like our love. Like skiing. Like your TV show being renewed. Like my being tapped to fill in for Rudy. Like life is good for us right now and we ought to pay attention.”

I walked over to where he stood, went up on tiptoe, and kissed him. He kissed me back and hit the shower.

As soon as I heard the water running, I placed the room service order, a bowl of French onion soup, two spoons, a cheese plate, and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. My next call was to Wes.

“Thomas Lewis was broke,” Wes said. “About ten years ago, he got a line of credit using his London apartment as collateral. He inherited the flat from his grandfather free and clear, by the way. He used the line of credit like a piggy bank, dipping his hand in whenever he needed money. From all accounts he was a good talker, but there was nothing behind the talk.”

“Did he have any other sources of income?”

“Not as near as I can tell. It looks like he never actually earned a dime. Weird, huh?”

“Amazing. What about his travel?”

“He flew to England three weeks ago. He returned, as scheduled, four days after his arrival. A long weekend. There was nothing unusual about it. He visited England once or twice a year ever since he moved to New Hampshire, sometimes for a week or so, often for a long weekend.”

“Do you have the dates?”

“Yup. Got a pen?”

I told him I was ready and jotted the dates down on a notepad the inn had placed next to the phone.

“Ian Bennington died while Thomas was in England,” I said.

“You think there's something there?”

“Maybe.”

“What about Becca?” Wes asked. “Do you think she killed Thomas?”

“I don't know. I bet she wanted to, but I've never met her, so I don't know how well she's able to control herself. Most people wouldn't give in to the impulse. Some would.”

“Why are you so sure she would have wanted to?”

I considered sharing what I'd just discovered from Bitsy, but I didn't. I didn't tell him about Thomas's petition to the divorce court, either. Another time, when I had more time, when my half-formed thoughts had crystallized. “My knowledge of human nature. Thanks for running the story about the paintings and tweeting about it and all.”

“I could have used a quote.”

Give Wes an inch and he expected a yard.

“Thanks for introducing me to Reggie, too.”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing. She gave me a box of clippings, which I haven't read many of yet. I haven't even skimmed through them all.”

“Reggie's pretty special, huh?” he asked, switching gears.

“Absolutely.”

“Are you really telling me you have nothing for me?” he demanded, back in reporter mode.

“I gave you a hot story and leads to others! That's a huge credit on my side of the ledger. Have you heard whether the police got any hits from your articles and tweets?”

“So far nothing. Becca is in the wind. Your credit isn't all that big, by the way. Talk to me, Josie. Give me something.”

I smiled, amused at his transparency. “Sorry,” I said. “I have nothing to give.”

Wes was so predictable.