Ornaments of Death (34 page)

“Josie,” Ellis said, joining me at the bulletin board.

“Hey,” I said.

He looked far more rested than I would have expected, almost enthused

“Come on in,” he said.

I sat at the guest table. “You look busy.”

“I am. Police Work 101. If you're out of leads, start over.”

“Have different people interview the suspects,” I said, following his logic.

“Not just suspects, everyone.” He looked at his wrist. “The service manager at the shop where Lia took her car will be here in about fifteen minutes.”

“How come?”

“Turns out the body damage was to the front end. First time she used this shop, too.”

“What did she say about that?”

“She thought she'd give them a try.”

“That could be.”

“It's farther away than her regular place, and she never complained about the other shop's service.”

“Oh, God, Ellis.”

He grinned. “I'm looking forward to asking her more about it. We'll get more details about the damage first, which is why we asked Ace to come in. Ace is the service manager. Very observant fellow.” He shifted position. “Ethan is coming in, too. As I told you, his alibi holds up. He was at Frank's, but what he neglected to mention was that he was gone for a little more than an hour in the late afternoon. He says he forgot some papers, so he ran back to the institute to get them. He left Frank's about three thirty and was back before five. The waitress and the security tape confirm the time. Another issue—he rides a bike in Boston and rents cars when he's working up here. He rented a silver Chevy during the period that includes your attack.”

“Silver.”

“Silver,” he repeated, sounding satisfied.

“Was the car damaged?”

“There's no record of it.”

“So he's excluded.”

“Not necessarily. The techs tell me the amount of damage we could expect to see would vary by car model, the height of the bumper, the exact speed the car was traveling, and so on.” He shifted in his chair, settling in. “The two folks who saw a woman running to her car the day Thomas died are coming in, too. We'll see if they can identify Becca.”

“I don't think she'll deny being there.”

“Especially if she knows she's been ID'd. What did you want to tell me?”

“Three things.” I held up my cell phone. “Someone created a new e-mail account for Ian the day after he died.” I explained what I'd discovered and, at his request, forwarded him an e-mail from each account.

“That's good, Josie. I'll let Shorling know so he can get his team on it. What else?”

“Why was Becca with Thomas on Cable Road? I didn't ask her. I mean, think about it. Thomas is hounding her. She doesn't want anything to do with him. She's not going to negotiate with him. Why on earth did she agree to meet him?”

Ellis jotted a note. “Good. Next?”

“I think it's all right for me to tell you this. Becca is certain that her father didn't commit suicide, that he wouldn't, no matter what. She wasn't defensive about it. She was simply positive. It got me thinking. If Ian Bennington didn't commit suicide, he was killed. That means someone had to render him unconscious somehow, climb a ladder or high stool, tie a rope around the rafters and hoist his body up—a hundred eighty or so pounds of deadweight—and wrangle him into the noose, tighten the knot, and drop him, all without falling himself.”

“Not so easy to do.”

“How was he rendered unconscious?”

Ellis made another note. “I'll ask.”

“There's more. Picture Ian's house. The article I read said the cleaning lady found his body hanging from the rafters. There you are on the ladder, a man slung over your shoulder. You ease the noose over his neck and tighten it. You're only able to use one hand, right? You've got to brace yourself somehow. What do you hold on to or lean against?”

Ellis focused his eyes on my face, but he wasn't seeing me; he was visualizing hanging a man.

“The top of the ladder,” he said. “The rafters.”

“Have they checked for fingerprints?”

Ellis nodded. “I'll ask. Although that's not how I'd hang a man. I'd put the noose around his neck while he was on the floor, unconscious, then hoist him up. I'd have better leverage.”

“You've got the rope around his neck, then what?”

“Then I'd climb the ladder, twist the rope around the rafters five or six times, and let him go.”

“You're twisting the rope around the rafters with one hand, holding the man, a deadweight, with the other?”

“Right.” He smiled. “I'm very strong.”

“I'll say. I bet you still touch the rafters.”

“I'm probably wearing gloves, not just to avoid leaving fingerprints, but also to avoid ripping up my hands. Doing a rope pull is hell on skin.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

He consulted his watch again. “Let me make the call now.”

He turned pages in his notebook, found Superintendent Shorling's number in Christmas Common, and dialed. He reached him and posed his questions, but from the one side of the conversation I could hear, it was apparent that he was going to have to wait for answers.

“He'll call me back on both points, the new e-mail account and the fingerprints,” Ellis said as soon as he ended the call. “You think Thomas killed Ian.”

“Yes. If Ian died before Thomas's divorce was final, Ian's entire estate, inherited by Becca, becomes part of their marital assets.”

“Why was Thomas trying to get his hands on the miniatures?”

“Probate takes time. Selling art for cash is quick.”

“Maybe … Still, you've just given Becca one helluva motive for murder.”

“Not really. I've just given Thomas's heirs a helluva motive, not Becca.”

“There are other motives besides money.”

“Like what?”

“Fury.”

I didn't repeat what Becca told me about feeling so enraged she was, essentially, out of control. She was in enough trouble without me adding fuel to the fire.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I asked Ellis if I could wait for Superintendent Shorling's call back. I was white-hot curious about what he might discover. He said sure, but he needed his office, so I'd have to wait in the lobby. I told him that was fine and got busy catching up on e-mails. I sat on a hard bench across from the big bulletin board.

Sasha reported that there were no stores in Birmingham that fit Amy's description of where her great-grandfather Morris Patcher might have purchased the preacher's-head vessel. Based on the information available, she felt confident validating the object's authenticity. She attached a draft of catalogue copy, and it was, as always, clear, concise, and descriptive, without being flowery. She assigned an estimated value of $65,000, higher than expected because, she explained in her cover note, rare ethnic folk art was at an all-time high in popularity and the anecdotal history was credible. I congratulated her on a job well done and asked her to start building a list of museums and known collectors who might be interested in bidding on the vessel.

A man about my age looking like he'd stepped out of the 1950s walked in. He had black hair cut in a classic duck's ass. He wore a scarred brown leather bomber jacket, jeans, and black pointy-toed shoes. He gave me an Elvis smile, ran a hand over his hair, and swaggered his way to the counter.

“I'm Ace Arons, from Durham Motors.”

“Certainly, sir,” Cathy said, standing. She smiled appreciatively at him.

A police officer named Daryl led him to the corridor on the left. Interview Rooms One and Two were down that way.

As soon as he disappeared, Cathy caught my eye. “Isn't he cute?”

“Do you know him?”

“He's in a band called the RP Acers. They played at my sister's wedding last year. They're really good. Golden oldies and bebop.”

“Amazing,” I said.

Cathy smiled, remembering the band, remembering the good times. After a few seconds, she sat down again. Soon I heard the tap-tap of her typing.

Sasha had turned over the Gastron Amberlina glass appraisal to Fred, and he'd e-mailed me his report before sending it to the client. The spooner was the most valuable piece, topping Sasha's off-the-cuff estimate of $6,000. Based on recent sales records, he set the auction estimate at $6,500; he placed a $12,250 value on the entire collection. I suspected that Celeste was going to be a very happy woman. I sent him a “great job!” message.

Gretchen wrote that we were all confirmed for Thursday's luncheon, asking if there was anything else she could do. I replied that I thought we were all set. I'd write everyone's bonus check myself, an annual tradition that was among my most favorite activities.

The door opened again, bringing a blast of icy wind in its wake. Officer F. Meade held the door for a young woman and an older man. The woman's eyes were big with fear. Her teeth were clamped on her lower lip. The man tramped in, his hands curled into loose fists.

“Have a seat,” Officer Meade said. “We'll be with you shortly.”

Lia stepped in. There were purplish gray smudges below her eyes that made me think she wasn't sleeping well. Her shoulders were bowed.

“Lia!” I said.

“Josie!” Lia said. “My God, I can't believe they caught you in their net!”

“Ms. Jones?” Cathy called from the counter.

“Yes?” Lia replied.

“Thanks for coming in. You can have a seat. It won't be long.”

“I certainly hope not. I have a business to run.”

“We appreciate your cooperation.”

Lia sat next to me, her coat draped over her shoulders. “They can call it cooperation if they want. A rose by any other name is still fascism.”

“That's quite a statement.”

“Well, I mean, really. I've told them everything I know, several times. Their persistence has passed the level of absurdity and moved into the realm of the ridiculous.”

“I can hear Ellis now … it's a process. What do you think they want to ask you?”

“God only knows. Last time they focused on my car. Yes, I told them. You caught me getting a tune-up! Guilty as charged!”

“I heard your car had some front-end damage. You weren't in an accident, were you?”

“If you must know, I tried to run over Tiffany, the little slut. Not really, but it was fun watching her leap out of the way. I hope she got all scraped up when she fell, the bitch.” She smiled a devil's grin. “I hit my ex's trash cans. Squished them like the bug he is. It was no big deal. No major damage.”

“That's pretty scary stuff, Lia.”

“I hope she was scared.”

“I meant you—how angry you are.”

Lia leaned back against the hard wooden bench and stared straight ahead at the empty wall in front of her.

Officer Meade came and took the frightened young woman away. Daryl came and asked the old man to follow him. I peeked at Lia out of the corner of my eye. Her expression was unchanged.

“Josie?” Ellis said from his office door. He waggled his fingers, inviting me in.

I glanced at Lia as I stood up, but she didn't notice that I was leaving.

Ellis shut the door.

“I just got off the phone with Superintendent Shorling. I'll skip the technical details and terms. Ian's Gmail account, the one used to contact you after his death, was set up on a computer in a London hotel's business center. They have top-quality security cameras. Shorling sent me an image.” Ellis walked to his desk, reached over, and pivoted his monitor ninety degrees. Thomas Lewis was seated at a computer workstation. His face was easy to identify.

“As clear as day,” I said, realizing that as certain as I'd been that Thomas had really, truly pretended to be Ian, seeing him at work creating the fake persona was like hearing a cell door close behind you.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
There was no escape from reality, no spin you could put on it. He'd come up with a plan to trick me, and he'd executed it well. “I can't believe Superintendent Shorling got the information and the photo so quickly.”

“Their laws allow for easier searches than ours do. As to the murder itself, Shorling speculates that Ian was slipped a Mickey—Scotch and chloral hydrate. Chloral hydrate isn't a controlled substance in the U.K., but you still need a prescription. Shorling is checking whether Thomas Lewis filled one when he was there. The rope they removed from the body was one of half a dozen coils they found in Ian's garage. According to Ian's neighbors, he did a fair amount of boating, which accounts for the rope. They can't get any meaningful information from it because it's been so many places and touched by so many hands. Thomas Lewis's fingerprints are all over the house, which might be explained away. He was, after all, his son-in-law.”

“Ian had a housekeeper.”

“The defense would argue she wasn't very good at her job. It doesn't matter, because his fingerprints were also found in two places no one would expect them to be—on a ladder they found in the garage and on the rafters.”

“Thomas could say he was helping Ian with something, painting or patching, which would account for his prints on the ladder.”

“And the rafters?”

I paused, letting the truth sink in. “I was right.”

“You were right.”

“I don't feel good about it. I just feel sad.”

“I can understand that, but don't go getting maudlin on me. You just helped them close a case.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Now help me close one.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Ellis and I crossed the now-empty lobby and walked down the hallway on the left. He opened the door between Interview Rooms Three and Four, and we entered an observation room, a long narrow space with one-way glass on both sides and a small window at the end overlooking the back parking lot. Counters ran under the observation windows. Audio-video listening, viewing, and recording equipment was built in. Ellis faced the window that overlooked Room Four.