Ornaments of Death (36 page)

“I love it. And it suits you better than Q. So, Josie Kay, I've got me some Harriman Blue Southern Pacific china from the early days of the Houston–New Orleans run of the railroad. About 1905. I've got a set of a dozen corn cob holders, all stamped on the bottom with ‘Southern Pacific Company.' I've taken the photos, and if you're interested, I can send them to you.”

“Yes, please do. What kind of price are you looking for?”

He gave his low train-rumbly laugh. “From what I can see, these pieces are plenty rare. This pattern was exclusive to this rail line. It's passed your hundred-year marker. Corn cob plates are among the scarcest pieces. And every one of them is in perfect condition. No nicks, mars, scratches, chips, nothing. Okay, the e-mail is sent.”

I eased my new tablet from my new tote bag. “Give me a sec to look at the photos,” I said. I turned it on, and by the time I got to my account, Mitchie Rich's e-mail had arrived.

The pattern was lovely, the design timeless. The small oblong plates were edged with a delicate, French-inspired blue band embellished with flourishes and flowery swaths. The logo on the bottom was enclosed in a red circle.

“Let me do some research. I'll get back to you.”

“I'll look for your call, Josie Kay!”

As I ended that call and prepared to dial Sasha, a woman walked in wrapped in a blond mink coat with matching pillbox hat. Her boots and gloves were of black leather. At first I didn't recognize her, but then I did. It was Marney Alred.

I stood up and put on my best customer service face. “Marney! Hello.” I extended a hand. “Josie Prescott. You remember. You stopped by the other day about the Cooper miniatures.”

She froze in sudden, sullen shock. She didn't reply. She didn't shake my hand. She raced to the counter and said something to Cathy I couldn't hear. I stood, stupefied, as Detective Brownley appeared from an inside door, smiled at her with professional disinterest, and led her down the corridor toward Interview Rooms Three and Four.

Ellis's office door opened, and he stood on the threshold. “Come on in, Josie.”

He shut the door.

“I'm just off the phone with Superintendent Shorling. Thomas Lewis filled a prescription for chloral hydrate the day before Ian Bennington died. The doctor who issued it doesn't remember him. His notes are vague. Shorling says that if Thomas were alive he'd arrest him for murder. He was ready to close the case before. Now he's certain. He considers this evidence conclusive.”

“It's so twisted, Ellis. I hardly have the words.” I shook my head. “Becca was rocked sideways.”

“It would be more surprising if she wasn't.”

“I guess.”

He opened the door for me.

“How come you're interviewing Marney Alred?” I asked as I stepped out.

“I know that name … You had me ask Becca about her. Who is she?”

I explained how I knew her: that she'd come into my office without an appointment and told me that Becca had given her my name, and that she wanted to buy the Cooper miniatures, adding, “Detective Brownley took her to an interview room. Three or Four.”

He reached for a formatted listing on his desk.

“Follow me,” he said.

He brought me into the observation room between Interview Rooms Three and Four. Marney sat alone in Room Four, reading something on her tablet.

“That's her,” I said, nodding at Marney.

Ellis picked up the wall phone and tapped in three numbers.

“Who's in Room Four?” he asked whoever answered. “Thank you.” He hung up.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered. I sank into a chair as my blood simmered to a throbbing boil, pulsing against my temple. “That's Cheryl Morrishein,” I said. My breathing sped up as time slowed down. I stared at the woman's face. “I didn't go through everything Reggie gave me. I bet there's a photo of her in the dossier.” I shook my head, disgusted at myself. “Reggie gave me the material on Friday. I scanned enough to get the gist of the situation. I can't believe I didn't go through everything.”

“Fill me in.”

I explained, adding that the dossier was in my car. I handed over the keys, and he called for Daryl to retrieve it from my trunk.

“Put it in a plastic bag in case you drop it,” I said. “It's important that it doesn't get snow on it.”

Daryl was back in five minutes. The dossier was inside an unsealed evidence bag, dry.

I extracted the clippings one at a time. About two-thirds of the way through, I came to one from December of 2010, a brief mention in the
Trumpet
's “About Town” column—Rupert and Cheryl Morrishein held a party at a country club celebrating their ten-year wedding anniversary. The column had published a photograph of the couple. I tapped the photograph with my index finger, barely able to talk, I was so mad. Red flecks swam in front of my eyes. I spoke through gritted teeth.

“I've been played again.” I pointed. “This is the woman who introduced herself as Marney Alred and expressed her eagerness to purchase Becca's two miniatures. When she showed up at my place, she was driving a silver Lexus.”

Ellis picked up the phone again. “Go into Room Four,” he said. “Ask her what kind of car she's driving. If she asks why, you can say a car's lights are on.”

A minute later, Daryl stepped into the room and asked the question.

“A blue Lexus,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said.

“She had body work done and had it painted,” I said to Ellis.

Ellis dialed another three-digit code. “Cathy, get someone to get the tags of a blue Lexus in our lot. Call me here with the owner and date of registration. ASAP.”

I couldn't drag my eyes from Cheryl's face. Her neighbor, Lucy, and Harry, the cheese guy, liked her. They were friends. How could such a hateful woman have friends? Ellis and I stood side by side without speaking until the phone rang.

Ellis listened, grunted, and listened some more. He hung the receiver on its wall mount and said, “This is a new-to-her car, purchased the day after you were attacked.”

“Because I saw that it was silver.”

“The silver one was totaled. She ran into a tree.”

“I don't believe it,” I said.

“It occurred in Portsmouth. She filed a police report.”

“That's a pretty clever way of covering up front-end damage.”

Ellis picked up the phone, punched a three-button code, and said, “Cathy, get Daryl on tracking Cheryl Moorshein's old car. Get the police report from Portsmouth. Have him talk to the responding officer. Find out if she was injured. Find the car.”

With my eyes scorching Cheryl's skin through the glass, I said, “My tote bag is in her trunk.”

“Come again?”

“That's where I'd keep it. Maybe it's in her condo, but I'm betting it's in her trunk. In case I had to run for it, I'd have it with me.”

“That's a stretch.”

“Let's look,” I said.

“There's a thing called probable cause.”

“I hate that.”

“I'll have to get her to incriminate herself.”

“She never will.”

“Then I'll go to Plan B.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Ellis told me to go to work, to shoo and let him do his job. He promised to call me the minute he knew something but said there was no point in my hanging around.

“It's a process,” he said, using his familiar phrase. “Let the process work.”

I told him I'd hang around for a while. He shrugged and disappeared into his office. Half an hour later, I decided I was being silly, asked Cathy to let Ellis know I was going to work, and got myself bundled up.

Detective Brownley and I left the police station at the same time. She got into a waiting, warm patrol car. I leaned into the wind, my hood up and my eyes down, and trudged my way to my frozen car. Inside, waiting for the seat to warm up, I checked my voice mail and looked around. A two-foot-high ridge of snow ringed the parking lot. A plow was clearing Ocean Avenue. The snow was pristine. Everything looked fresh, untouched, innocent.

Wes had called twice. Ty had called from Maine. He was on his way home and he'd stop at the butcher shop en route. He was in a steak mood. I stared at Cheryl's blue Lexus. I pictured myself getting a crowbar out of my trunk and breaking into hers. I sat and stewed.

I called Wes back to learn what he'd discovered.

“You've been latched down all day,” Wes said as soon as he heard my voice. “What do they have on you?”

“Hi, Wes,” I said, resigned to his inflammatory style. “I've been here helping the police.”

“How?”

“I had a thought about Thomas. You know how he said he'd give you an interview about his success as an amateur genealogist? He agreed because it was easier than saying no and making himself conspicuous by refusing. I went through the party photos, too. It's amazing how adroit he was at avoiding the camera. He simply never would have gotten back to you. He couldn't risk having his photo published in the paper under the name Ian Bennington.”

“You sure ate your Wheaties on this one, huh, Joz?”

“It's all so ghastly, Wes. I'm just sick about it.” I looked up at the sky. Streaks of puckered clouds swept across a pale blue sky. A buttermilk sky, Hoagy Carmichael called it. “Lia was here.”

“A-a-a-nd?” he said, stretching out the word.

“She's really upset.”

“No news. Old news.”

“She took her car to a different place for service.”

“Trying to fly under the radar. Good one, Josie!”

“I don't think so. I think she owed her regular place so much money she had to find a new place. Isn't that awful?”

“Yeah, but her appeal is under consideration.”

“What appeal?” I asked.

“Having to pay her ex maintenance. Apparently she doesn't talk about it. I found out because I searched court records.”

“Why wouldn't she have told me? I'm her friend.”

“When I asked her, she said she didn't want to jinx the case by talking about it.”

“I don't think she has a chance to get the ruling overturned. It's a fact-based decision—he's entitled to the money.”

“The judge has some discretion. I didn't look into the details, but it has to do with how short a time they were married.”

“What a relief that would be to her,” I said. “When is the decision supposed to be handed down?”

“Within the week.”

“I'll keep my fingers crossed for her.”

Ace Arons, the car repairman, and Ethan walked out. They walked with similar confident strides, yet it would be hard to find two such different men, one a rocker, the other a scientist. That Ethan was leaving was, I conjectured, good news. Only the innocent walk free. He saw me looking in my rearview mirror and waved. I waved back.

A patrol car pulled into the parking lot, crunching over the packed snow. I followed its progress through my rearview mirror. It rolled to a stop by the front door. Detective Brownley jumped out of the passenger door and hurried inside. I glanced at my dash clock. She'd been gone twenty-two minutes. Something was up.

“I've got to go, Wes.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“I'll call you later.”

I turned off the engine, grabbed my tote bag, and ran for the door.

The lobby was empty.

Cathy stood up as I entered. “Did you forget something?” she asked.

“No. I was hoping to see Ellis.”

“I'm pretty sure he's tied up. I'll check.”

“I'll wait.”

A minute later, Cathy said, “He'll be with you in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said, and resumed my regular seat on the bench.

I e-mailed Ty that steaks sounded ideal and asked him to stop at a grocery store. I typed in a shopping list: potatoes and salad makings and mushrooms and a green vegetable of his choice and wine, a Cabernet, please.

Let's go to your house,
I wrote.
I need a change of scene and a big fire.

I also e-mailed Sasha, forwarding the photos of Mitchie Rich's corn cob plates, asking her to decide if they should be included in our Southern Living auction and to e-mail him with a request for provenance information.

“Josie?” Ellis said, coming from his office. He was buttoning up his coat. “Your timing is good. “We're about to look through Cheryl's car. We got a search warrant.”

Daryl and Officer Meade appeared from the corridor that ran to Rooms One and Two.

“Really?” I said to Ellis. “I thought you said you need a confession.”

“I cobbled together a series of facts, helped along by the car dealer who accepted her silver Lexus in trade. There was significant damage to the front end, no surprise, since she ran into a tree, but it was concentrated on the right side. She had no explanation for the damage on the left side. He took photos, per the dealership's policy when buying damaged cars—a protection against future charges of insurance fraud. Add that to Becca's statement that Thomas told her he and Cheryl had reached a settlement that she needed to sign off on, and Thomas's phone logs, and we had enough to pull it off.”

“You had his phone logs because he was murdered?”

“Exactly. Tracking the victim's recent contacts is routine in any murder investigation. We got Thomas's phone logs a few days ago. We were able to verify several calls between him and Cheryl, including one the morning he died. Thirty seconds after that call ended, he called Becca. A plus B equals C. As we speak, Detective Brownley is asking Cheryl whether she wants to give us the keys to her car or whether she wants us to break in.”

“That's a heck of a choice.”

Ellis smiled.

Detective Brownley and Cheryl entered the lobby from the corridor that led to Interview Room Four. The detective's hand was positioned behind Cheryl's elbow. Detective Brownley seemed the same as always, calm and aloof.