Ornaments of Death (33 page)

“I've got to ask, Becca. Please forgive me. Did you kill him?”

She didn't look at me or look away. She stared through me, unseeingly, into the past, or perhaps into the future. After several seconds, she scanned my face, maybe trying to suss out my intentions.

“No,” she said, “but I'm glad he's dead.”

“I don't blame you.”

Her hands curled into fists and rested on her thighs. “I've been struggling with the rage. I can't control it.”

“When you talk to the police,” I said, “I wouldn't mention that part.”

“I don't want to talk to the police.”

“I don't know that you'll have much choice in the matter.”

“Do you think I'll be arrested?”

“For what?”

“For killing Thomas. You asked me if I did it.”

“And you told me you didn't.”

She rubbed her forehead as if she were trying to ease a throbbing headache. “I've been driving aimlessly for days, neglecting my clams, trying to figure out what to do.” She lowered her hands. “I didn't even try to make arrangements about my work.”

“Ethan's been helping.”

Her features froze for the three or four seconds it took for her to respond, but when she spoke, her voice sounded the same as it had before. “He is?”

“So Dr. Bennett says. I understand the foundation has named him the acting principal investigator.”

“That didn't take him long.”

“Everyone was worried about your clams, about protecting your research.”

“Of course.” She paused for a moment, meeting my eyes. “I'm not surprised the police want to talk to me. I've been staying in cheap motels, dreadful places that made me feel as if I'm in a noir film about a woman on the run. I've been buying food from drive-through places, wearing sunglasses or hats so people won't recognize me, and skulking back to my miserable room to eat on the sly. I've been slinking into public libraries to read the news, too afraid that the police could trace me through my phone to even turn it on. To an outsider, I can only imagine how it looks—like I'm guilty.”

“Have you ever been questioned by the police?”

“On the phone, briefly, after my father died. A detective called to ask if he had been suicidal.”

“What did you say?”

Her chin went up an eighth of an inch. “I told him no, never, no way.”

“When else?”

“That's the only time.”

“It's going to be different this time around. The police here are going to ask you a thousand questions. I've been in that position, so you can believe me when I tell you that you're going to feel abused, betrayed, embarrassed, and outraged. It's horrific. What I'm saying is that you need a lawyer, a good one.”

“I know.”

“He'll tell you the same as me, but I'll start in case the police get to you before he has a chance. Don't say a word unless your lawyer says you should reply. Not one word. When you do talk, keep your answers responsive and short. Tell the truth, but don't volunteer any information. Don't let righteous indignation take hold. If your lawyer tells you to button it, button it.”

“Thank you. This is very helpful.”

“Do you have a lawyer in mind? I think you should call him now.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know any lawyers here. Just my father's solicitors in England. I suppose I could call and ask them to find someone appropriate.”

“I can make a recommendation, Max Bixby. He's a rock. He's my lawyer. If you want, I can call him.”

Her eyes brightened. “Thank you. Please do.”

“Do you want to get on my computer and check him out? I don't want you to feel railroaded.”

“I don't.” She tried to smile. “You wouldn't mislead me. You're family.”

I patted her shoulder as I passed by en route to the study. I got Max's home number from my contact list, snatched up the portable phone, and dialed. His wife answered on the second ring, sounding worried, a visceral reaction to a late-evening call.

“Hi, Babs, this is Josie. Josie Prescott. I'm sorry to call so late, but I need to talk to Max.”

“Of course. Here he is. Merry Christmas, Josie.”

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Babs.”

“Josie?” Max said. “Is something wrong?”

“Kind of. Have you been following the Thomas Lewis murder case?”

“I read the paper, sure.”

“Then you know the name Rebecca Bennington. She goes by Becca.”

“Certainly. She's missing.”

“Not anymore. She's in my living room. She thinks there's a chance she's going to be accused of murdering Thomas. They were legally separated at the time of his death, and there was a fair amount of acrimony between them. She asked me to call you on her behalf.”

“Do you think she killed him?”

“She's here with me now.”

“Give me a yes or no.”

“No, tentatively.”

“Can you say why no and why tentatively?”

I fixed my gaze on my kitchen counter, not wanting to see Becca's reaction to my reply. “Becca is whip-smart and would know that to run would make her look guilty. If she was guilty, she would have had the smarts to stay and tough it out.”

“That's pretty convoluted.”

“I know, but you asked.”

“Why tentative?”

“Because that's pretty convoluted. Regardless, she needs a good lawyer, Max.”

“Do the police know where she is?”

“No.”

“Tell her not to talk to anyone about anything remotely related to the case. Including you. As your lawyer, I can tell you that the more you talk to her, the longer your own interview with the police will be.”

“I didn't think of that.”

“That's why you have a good lawyer.”

I smiled. “Can you represent us both?”

“At this point, I don't see why not. Are you in any jeopardy?”

“No. I've been helping the police.”

“Good. I'll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, Max.” I pushed the
END CALL
button. “He'll be here in half an hour. He said you're not to talk to anyone about the situation, including me.”

“Thank you, Josie.” Becca stood up. “I can't tell you how relieved I am, as if I've come out of the darkness into the light.”

“Don't be too optimistic,” I said. “You're going to be spending a lot of time with the police, and I've got to tell you, that can be pretty darn dark.”

“After what I've been through,” she said, picking up the tray, “being able to tell the truth will be a relief. I haven't done anything wrong.” She smiled, a small one. “And now that I have a lawyer, I can walk into your kitchen without fear that someone will see me and report it to the police.”

“You're right, but the need to make your presence known is a bit more urgent than you realize,” I said, following her into the kitchen. I pointed through the big window toward Zoë's house. “Do you see that house? That's where my friend Zoë lives. She dates Police Chief Hunter. He's there now.”

She placed the tray on the counter and turned toward me, her lips forming a big O.

“Don't worry,” I said. “Max will take care of everything.”

I placed the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and put the milk away, then. “There is something else I need to ask you, though.”

Her eyes narrowed as a guarded expression took hold.

“Come back into the living room.”

She followed me without comment.

“Where's your gun?” I asked.

She took a step back as if I'd threatened her. “What?”

“I found the hidden compartment in your bed. The
privacy
compartment. From its shape, I could tell it was built to hold a gun, but there was no gun in it. The company told me all their work was custom, which means you ordered a compartment to fit a gun. Where is it?”

She didn't reply. She didn't move. The only change occurred in her eyes. She was looking at me as if I were a hunter and she were prey.

“Don't be foolish,” I said. “You're about to be invited to the police station, Becca. If they find you carrying a weapon you neglected to mention, a bad situation will get much, much worse. Let me keep it for you.”

“You'll report this to the police?”

“Only if you don't turn it over.”

“And—assuming I have a gun—if I do?”

“I wouldn't tell anyone. Thomas wasn't shot, so it's not relevant.”

Becca walked into the hall, moved her coat around to get it oriented the way she wanted, and dug into a partially zipped outside pocket. She handed me a shiny silver gun, butt first.

The gun had curved edges and decorative grooves of varying lengths and depths stamped into the metal. I'd never seen anything like it.

“An art deco weapon?” I asked.

“Earlier. It's a Dreyse 1907. German made in the early twentieth century. My grandfather brought it back after World War I.”

“How on earth did you get it into this country?”

“I took it apart and shipped the pieces in separate boxes.”

I gaped. “And all the boxes arrived intact?”

“Yes.”

“That is so not reassuring.”

“I know.”

“Why? What made you decide to ship a gun to Boston?”

She walked to the front window and fingered the drapes apart. She stood that way, with her back to me, for close to a minute. “The weather report said we'd be getting a foot of snow,” she said. “When it snows heavily like this, Ethan says it's snowing like a bastard. I tried to discover the origin of the phrase, but I couldn't. It sure is snowing like a bastard tonight.” She turned to face me, apprehension darkening her eyes, as if she sensed that trouble was close by. “I was nearly raped once. I was in college. In Iceland. That's why I carry a gun.”

“Oh, Becca.”

“I was diving the Silfra Cathedral. It was afterward, back at the hotel. We were all exhilarated. It's one of the best dive spots in the world. He was young. He thought I was interested in him, and when he found out I wasn't—” She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she no longer looked afraid. She looked angry. “I had to run for it.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be. I made it out without a scratch. He didn't. I kicked him where it hurts, just like my dad taught me.”

“Sounds like you don't need a gun.”

“He was drunk. The next one might be sober.” She plunked down in one of the club chairs. “I showed the gun to Ethan.”

“Because he had the wrong idea?”

“The best defense is the threat of a strong offense.”

I stared at the jazzy-looking weapon. “I'll put this away until everything is cleared up.”

As I headed upstairs, it occurred to me that if a woman who was known to carry a gun wanted to kill someone, she'd use another weapon altogether, like a fast-moving car.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I didn't get to bed until after one Tuesday morning.

While Max and Becca met privately over freshly brewed coffee, I took a shower, sent Ty a long e-mail explaining what was going on, and got the guest room ready. Just before Max left, around twelve thirty, he texted Ellis that Becca was his client and that she would appear for questioning at ten thirty that morning. Becca told me that she needed to set an alarm, that she was to be at Max's office at nine.

*   *   *

I got up with Becca at seven thirty and made us breakfast, cinnamon cheesy scrambled eggs and ham, and an English muffin with some of the wild raspberry jam Zoë put up last summer. Becca was quiet, introspective.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said.

The snow had stopped overnight. The day was crisp and sunny, a halcyon winter morning. Only about six inches of snow had accumulated, enough to add luster to the world but not enough to cause any inconvenience. The driveway was clear, and Ellis's SUV was gone. He'd shoveled me out before leaving; what a guy.

I drove Becca to her car, helped her dig it out, and headed to work.

Ellis called as I was parking in my freshly plowed lot.

“You may be aware that I have an appointment to talk to Becca at ten thirty. When did she show up at your house?”

“I don't think I should answer any questions about that, but I have another idea I'd like to run by you. Can I come in?”

“If you come now, we can talk before Becca gets here.”

“I'm on my way.”

I called my office and left Cara a voice mail. “I have an errand,” I said. “I don't know how long I'll be, but I expect I'll be able to check e-mail, so feel free to be in touch.”

Then I hot-tailed it for the police station.

*   *   *

“Your Christmas cactus is spectacular,” I said to Cathy while I waited for Ellis. “It's the biggest one I've ever seen.”

The plant took up a quarter of the counter, its flattened stems and cerise blossoms spreading wide and hanging low.

“It's twenty-three years old,” she told me, beaming at it as if it were a child she was especially proud of. “My grandmother gave it to me when I took this job. I started the first week of December that year.”

“What? When you were ten?”

“As if. I was eighteen, right out of high school.”

“All I can say is that working here obviously agrees with you.”

She thanked me again, and I wandered over to the bulletin board. A black-and-white grainy photo from a low-end security camera showed a person of interest in a series of Boston-area bank robberies. All I could tell was that the suspect was a man. The coach of the Rocky Point Little League team was looking for sponsors. I took a photo of the notice, e-mailed it to Gretchen, and asked her to sign us up. A book club was inviting the community to join. I was already a member of the group, which was organized by a librarian named Phoebe Caron. Phoebe listed two e-mail addresses, one a Hotmail account, the other from AOL. I wondered why she used two accounts for the same purpose. I used my Prescott e-mail address for business and had a Gmail address for personal communications. Maybe she was phasing one out, but some of her contacts still used the old address. That didn't make sense. Maybe she had problems accessing each of them periodically, and she was a belt-and-suspender sort of gal.
Ian,
I thought. I dug into my tote bag for my phone and opened up my work e-mail, where Ian had first contacted me. I went back a month or so and found that he'd written from a Yahoo account. I scrolled up until I came to the day he died, then continued scrolling until I came to another of his e-mails. He'd written me the day after he died, this time from a Gmail address.