Ornaments of Death (3 page)

I squeezed Ty's hand, walked to the stage, climbed up, and took the microphone from Timothy, hugging him briefly and kissing his cheek. He stepped down.

“In fifteen minutes,” I said, “I was scheduled to make a few remarks.” I smiled and paused for a moment, letting the goodwill from people I respected and admired flow into me. “I wanted to welcome you to Prescott's, thank you for coming, and wish you happy holidays. I planned to ask you to raise a glass and join me in a toast. I'll still do that in a moment, but first I want to thank Timothy.” I lifted my glass in his direction and winked away unexpected tears. “Thank you.” I raised my eyes and took in the room. “To the best director-producer in the world. To Timothy.” I sipped my martini, sealing the toast.

“Hear, hear!” someone called from the back.

More applause rang out. Timothy clapped his hands along with everyone else.

“To the entire production team, many of whom are here tonight. Without them,
Josie's Antiques
wouldn't be a success. To the team!” More applause sounded as I raised my glass to the room. I took another sip of martini.

“And to us all,” I said. “Here's to silver light in the dark of night.” I took another sip, smiled, and ended with “Happy holidays, everyone.”

I handed the microphone to the pianist, and as I approached the stairs, Ty appeared to help me down.

“Well done, Josie,” he whispered in my ear. “Sweet, sincere, and short. The perfect speech.”

I rested my head on his shoulder for a moment. I couldn't believe we'd been renewed.

The band started up again, playing “Jingle Bells” this time. I stopped trying to remember who hugged me and who shook my hand and who kissed my cheek. Everywhere I turned, people were smiling and clapping. After a while, the crowd quieted, and my staff came up. We did a private “Oh, my God! Can you believe it!” celebration before Gretchen had me pose for photos with Timothy and the crew.

I scanned the room, wanting to find Ian, when something outside caught my eye, a shimmering shadow crossing the outside spotlights that illuminated the entryway. A woman in a tan cloche hat pulled low and a dark brown coat, with the collar turned up high, stood in profile, her gloved hand covering all of her face except one eye. She peered into the room for three or four seconds before slipping away. A friend of a guest, I suspected, running late, wanting to see if he was here before she came in.

She didn't come in.

I didn't like it. Why would a woman peek in my company's window in the middle of a party, then disappear?

I dealt in high-end antiques, and any anomaly was worrying. The warehouse security system had been alarmed, so on the face of it, there was nothing to be concerned about. Still, with a room full of people, some of whom I'd met for the first time tonight, the risk of robbery, while small, was heightened. I slipped out through a side door by the restrooms and was hit by a blast of teeth-rattling cold.

“Yikes!” I exclaimed. White plumes of icy air encircled me when I spoke. “It's cold enough for ice cream.”

My mom, the original I'll-make-lemonade-from-lemons gal, always used to say that when I'd complain about a particularly bitter cold snap. We tested her theory once and made ice cream outside, using a six-foot-high snowbank outside the kitchen door as our freezer. I smiled a little, remembering more than the yummy ice cream we'd succeeded in producing. Tonight, it was a wind-charged thirty, not incapacitating by New Hampshire standards, but about twenty degrees south of no-coat weather. I dashed around the corner, my heels click-clacking on the frozen pavement. No one was in sight. I ran to the middle of the parking lot, stopped, and listened for footsteps or a motor revving, for any sound of life. All I heard was winter quiet.

Pole-mounted lights lit up the entire lot. I did a slow survey but spotted no unexpected shadows or dark spots. I could see the small red dots indicating that the security cameras affixed to the light fixtures were on. Two men stepped outside, laughing. One thumbed on a lighter while the other leaned in so his cigarette could catch the flame. I took one last look around and headed back inside, calling a cheery hello to the men as I jogged past.

Inside, the shock of warmth was as paralyzing as the blast of cold had been, but in a good way. I smiled at the young woman working the reception table, a temp hired for the evening. She was setting out the goodie bags, aligning them in an attractive diagonal pattern.

Lia saw me and dashed over to give me a congratulatory hug, drawing me into the room, before flitting off toward the bar.

Gretchen came up. “I'm really, really excited the TV show's been renewed,” she whispered.

“Don't tell anyone,” I whispered back, “but me, too.”

She giggled. “It'll be our secret.”

“Here's another one. I want to organize a celebration luncheon for us all, just the key staff—me, you, Sasha, Fred, Eric, and Cara. Here in the dolled-up auction venue. Catered by the Blue Dolphin. Pick a day that's good for everyone. Get a temp in to cover the phones. Book Academy Brass. Don't tell a soul.”

Her eyes lit up like stars. “Oh, Josie!”

“There she is!” Zoë called, talking to Ty, pointing at me. She waggled her fingers like a policeman directing traffic, telling me to come toward her.

I hugged Gretchen and zigzagged my way to reach Zoë and Ty, and just like that, I was swept back into the festivities.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Midway through the party, Zoë said, “Ty and I want to know if you were as surprised your show was renewed as you looked.”

“More.”

“It's kismet,” Zoë said.

“I thought it was hard work.”

“Aren't they the same thing?”

“Now that you mention it…”

Ty brought me a drink, and we made our way to the stage where the band was playing “Blue Christmas.” When they finished, we wove our way across the room, mingling, laughing, chatting, moving on.

Everywhere I looked, people seemed to be having a good time. Zoë rejoined me as Ty disappeared into the crowd, and we stood in companionable silence, our shoulders touching. Across the room, I noticed Ian and Lia, their eyes locked. Ian said something, and Lia threw back her head, laughing, her Titian hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. I smiled with vicarious pleasure. Ian touched Lia's shoulder and nodded at something she said.

“Look,” I whispered to Zoë, jerking my head in their direction.

“Good for her!” Zoë whispered back.

“I love her dress,” I added.

Zoë tilted her head, considering Lia's outfit. Her forest green satin sheath was short, stopping three or maybe even four inches above her knees, and it fit her as if it had been stitched onto her. The long sleeves only served to emphasize the sexiness. She wore black stilettos and dangling diamond earrings. I thought she looked like a million bucks.

“It would look better on an eighteen-year-old,” Zoë said.

“I think she looks fabulous.”

“No question, she looks fantastic. That's not the issue. The issue is what she's trying to prove. She should dress her age.”

“I think you're being unfair. All I see is a seriously attractive thirty-eight-year-old woman maximizing her assets.” I glanced down at my own little black dress. The scalloped hem brushed the top of my knees. The scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves provided modest coverage. The heels on my sturdy black pumps were chunky and only two inches high. I wore a strand of pearls with matching stud earrings. I looked nice, in a conservative, appropriate way. It was my style, and I was okay with that, but secretly I wished I felt comfortable dressing like Lia—sexy and bold and glamorous. “I wish I looked that good.”

“You do.”

“You're just saying that because you love me.”

“No, I'm not. You're beautiful, Josie, but you dress your age, not like a bimbette.”

“Maybe I'll try dressing a little younger. Midthirties shouldn't mean dowdy.”

“You don't look dowdy.”

“Looking at Lia, I feel dowdy.”

I told Zoë I'd see her later and headed off, taking a circuitous route toward Ian and Lia, greeting people as I walked, pausing to chat with various friends and clients.

“Hi, guys!” I said when I joined them.

“I'm glad you're here,” Ian said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, his eyes twinkling. “To impress Lia, I worked that we're distant relations to Winston Churchill into our conversation. Back me up, okay?”

“You got it,” I replied, matching his tone, my eyes twinkling, too. I puffed out my chest. “Ian and I are related to Winston Churchill.”

Lia giggled with delight.

“So is that a yes to dinner?” Ian asked her.

“Yes,” she said, looking happier than I'd seen her in I couldn't recall how long. It was as if she'd shed her year of despair in an hour.

Ian looked at me. “Thanks, cuz.” He puffed out his chest, mimicking me. “She said yes.”

“Winston Churchill is a draw.”

Lia laughed. “Ian knows I would have said yes no matter who he was related to.”

“I take nothing for granted. Expect the best and plan, plan, plan, so you never see the worst. And this”—Ian spread his arms wide, changing the subject—“is definitely the best. What a magical party, Josie! The decor is remarkable. I wish Becca were here to enjoy it.”

“You only have the one child?” Lia asked.

“Yes. She's in Boston for the year, working on a marine biology research project. And you? Any children?”

“None, I'm afraid.”

“Maybe you will one day.”

“Hmmm,” Lia murmured. She sipped her drink, gazing at Ian over the glass rim, holding his eyes. “I bet you're a wonderful dad.”

Ian shifted his attention to the band. The ensuing silence lengthened and grew increasingly awkward.

“Now that
Josie's Antiques
has been renewed,” I said, jumping in, “maybe Becca will let me use those miniatures on air.” I turned to Lia and explained about the pair of seventeenth-century watercolor paintings.

“I'll ask her,” Ian said. “I should think she'd consider it an honor.”

“Lia!” Madge Sweeny called, approaching us from the back.

Madge Sweeny was a much-admired client. She was smart and savvy and hadn't taken a wooden nickel in a year or eight. She was a dedicated collector of anything related to cocker spaniels, and a new member of our kayaking group. She joined our little cluster, and I introduced her to Ian.

“I'm so glad to see you,” Madge said to Lia, leaning in for a butterfly kiss. “I want to organize a spa day event for my daughter-in-law's Christmas present.”

“What a fun idea!” Lia said.

As the two women fell into a discussion of whether a seaweed treatment was a better option than a mud bath, Ian and I separated ourselves a bit.

“I worry about Becca being so alone,” Ian said. He laughed and looked embarrassed. “That's me talking, not Becca. The truth is she's pretty introverted. I keep trying to get her more involved in the world, and she keeps telling me she's happy the way she is, that she's perfectly content keeping her own company.” He held up his hand. “Don't get me wrong. She's a delightful young woman, very friendly. When you meet her, you won't have any sense that she might be feeling awkward. It's just that she prefers quieter gatherings to big parties.”

“Is that why she skipped tonight?”

“No.” He laughed again, this one self-deprecating. “She's in Nova Scotia, monitoring the hibernation habits of clams, if you can believe it. I won't see her myself until Monday.”

“Yesterday when you said she was in Rocky Point because there were a lot of clams around, I thought you meant she liked eating them!”

“Hardly.”

“She studies them,” I said, understanding.

“Devotedly.”

“There are worse things to be devoted to.”

“A long, long list. Still, how a girl from Oxfordshire got interested in clams, well, that's a separate conversation.”

“How did she?”

“I have no idea. One day, when she was about fifteen, she simply announced that she was going to research mollusks. In case you're worried that this aberration might be genetic, I can reassure you. Becca is the first person in our family to earn a PhD in mollusks. In fact, we have no history involving mollusks whatsoever.”

I laughed. “That's hysterical, Ian.”

“Perhaps she's a changeling. I simply can't explain it.”

“There's no need. Our family's tent is large enough to include everyone of all persuasions, mollusk lovers included.”

“What a relief!” he said, grinning.

“Speaking of your schedule, if you're not heading to Boston until Monday, how about dinner tomorrow? Or is that when you and Lia are going out?”

“That's right. Otherwise, you know I'd love it.”

“How about brunch, then, just the two of us?”

He liked the idea, and we firmed up plans.

“There's a concert tomorrow evening at the Congregational church next door,” I said. “Ty and I are going to hear Fred sing. You met him, right? One of my appraisers? It's a Christmas program, starting at eight. Maybe Lia would like to go, or you're more than welcome to join us on your own.”

“Thank you, Josie. Probably the timing won't work, but I'll let you know.”

Wes Smith, the reporter for Rocky Point's local paper, the
Seacoast Star,
approached us, along with his wife of a few months, Maggie. Wes was a buddy, hardworking, diligent, and reliable. Maggie was my banker, the assistant manager of Rocky Point Community Bank. She was cute as a bug, a pixie with curly brown hair and freckles.

“I heard about how you two are connected,” Wes said, after I'd introduced them to Ian. “This will be an inspirational human interest piece. We might even be able to parlay it into national coverage. It's a pretty dramatic genealogical success story.”