Ornaments of Death (6 page)

I knew men, too, and I simply couldn't believe that Ian wouldn't have called, texted, or e-mailed if he'd changed his mind about seeing us.

“You're just trying to reassure me.”

“Well, yes. But that doesn't mean it isn't true.”

I sighed. “I appreciate it, Ty, I really do, but I just can't imagine Ian picking up a teenager. Maybe Lia did something that turned him off and he left town in a funk.” I shook my head. “Except he didn't check out of his hotel. They would have told me.”

“He's rich. If he left, either with the teenager or in that funk, he wouldn't have worried about checking out. He'll be back in a day or two, get his stuff, and settle his bill.”

When I didn't reply, he added, “I really think he'll resurface in a few hours or a few days, Josie, depending on how hot she is, but why don't you call the hospital, just in case?”

I closed my eyes for a moment. “You're very smart, you know that?”

“I'm a cop,” he said.

“Not anymore. Now you're a Homeland Security bigwig.”

“You think I'm a bigwig?”

“Yes. Do you really think Ian is okay?”

He didn't answer right away. “I did such a good job with my hottie scenario, I almost convinced myself.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

After I hung up, I clutched the phone to my chest for a moment, keeping Ty close, then called the Rocky Point Hospital. I punched through their interactive menu until I reached Patient Information. They had no record of a patient named Ian Bennington. No unidentified male patients had been admitted to the hospital.

I'd tried everything I could think of to find Ian, without success, so I did what I always do when I reach a dead end—I called Wes.

“Whatcha got?” he asked, skipping hello, as always.

“A request. I'm worried about my cousin. This isn't news, Wes. It's personal. I'm asking a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“I don't want to see it on the front page of tomorrow's paper.”

“No problem, Josie. You asked for a favor. You've got it.”

“Wow, Wes. I wasn't expecting that.”

“Jeez, Josie. Why not? We're friends.”

An unexpected wave of emotion washed over me, and I choked and coughed, finally managing a croaking “Sorry.” I pawed around in my tote bag for a bottle of water. “One sec.” I drank some water and tried talking again. “That means a lot to me, Wes. Thanks.” I explained the situation. “I'm hoping you might be able to get more information from the hotel, or whether his credit cards had been used, or something. I'm so worried.”

“Give me an hour.”

*   *   *

I was in my office struggling to read my accountant's latest good-news report, unable to concentrate. I swiveled to stare out my window. An inch or so of snow covered each tiny twig, a brown and white kaleidoscope of winter. I squinted my eyes and tilted my head and watched as reality mutated into abstract art. Finally, right on schedule, Wes called.

“I have some info,” Wes said, “but no shockeroonies.”

I was used to Wes's colorful vocabulary. “I'm ready,” I said.

“Ian's in room two-eighteen. His keycard was last swiped at one thirty-eight Sunday afternoon.”

I didn't ask him how he'd learned that. From past experience, I knew Wes's web of contacts was both broad and deep—and confidential. He might have sweet-talked a hotel employee into revealing Ian's keycard swipes, but it was just as likely he had an in at the security company that monitored the activity.

“We left the restaurant at ten after one,” I said, “so Ian must have gone directly back to his room. Did he leave the hotel after that?”

“The system doesn't record when people leave their rooms, only keycard swipes, so there is no way of knowing when, or if, he left.”

“What about security cameras? I saw a bunch in the lobby.”

“There are none on the guest floors, only where you were, in the lobby, and in the back office. Plus, he could have gone out a side entrance.”

“Can you get his rental car's license plate number? I don't know which company he used, but he was driving a silver Taurus.”

“Got it,” he said, and rattled off a Massachusetts plate number. “It looks like the hotel was right and he's in his room. At least, he hasn't used his charge cards.”

“Thanks, Wes.”

“Anything for a pal,” he said, and hung up.

I rushed downstairs, told Cara I didn't know when I'd be back, and retraced my route to the Rocky Point Sea View Hotel, certain the car I'd seen in the parking would prove to be Ian's.

I found the Taurus parked in the same spot. From the snow cover, I could tell that it hadn't been disturbed since my earlier visit. I drove around the vehicle so I could see the rear plate. The tags were from Vermont. It wasn't Ian's rental.

My eyes filled. I'd felt so hopeful. I brushed the wetness aside with the side of my hand.

I cruised the property and checked the overflow parking lot, which was empty, no surprise in January. There were six cars in the staff lot, none of them a Taurus.

I drove back to the guest lot and parked. Stairs led to the side of the wraparound porch and a door. A laminated sign penned in elegant calligraphy hung from a gold hook near the top of the door. It read:

After ten p.m.,

please use the front entrance.

I stepped inside.

In front of me was a long corridor leading to the ground-floor guest rooms. To my right was a back staircase leading up. Wes said there were no security cameras in the hallways.

I climbed the steps. Room 218 faced the ocean. I knocked, then knocked again. I tore a sheet from my notebook, found a pen, and wrote:
Dear Ian.
I couldn't think of what else to write. I had nothing to add to my request to call me. I stuffed the paper back in my bag, tossed the pen in after it, and knocked one more time. I pressed my ear against the door and held my breath. All I heard was silence.

As I retraced my steps to the staircase, I counted doors. Ian's room was third from the end. Outside again, I counted balconies, found the third one from the end, and tried to see in the windows. The drapes were open, but the room was dark. I saw no movement, no telltale shadows, no glimmer of light from the television, nothing that suggested someone was in the room. An image of Ian's body lying on the carpet came to me unbeckoned and unwanted. He could be ill. He could be injured.
Except,
I reminded myself, my optimism soaring,
his car isn't here.

Not knowing what else to do, I drove to Ellie's and the Blue Dolphin, looking for his car. I even drove around every level of the central parking garage. I cruised the streets, going every which way, looking everywhere and anywhere. A few minutes into my seemingly aimless trek, Ty called to tell me his plane had landed. I pulled to the side of the road and set my flashers.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I've become philosophical.” I filled him in about what I'd learned from Wes and what I'd done to try to see into Ian's room and locate his car. “Ian is either fine or he's not, and if he's not, there's nothing I can do about it that I haven't already done. I'm driving around to satisfy myself I've done all I can, not because I expect to find him or his car.”

Ty told me he thought my attitude was sensible, and we agreed to talk later, just before bed. As dusk descended and the snow picked up, I called it a day and drove home.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Tuesday morning. I woke up just after six, as breathless and befuddled as if I'd run a marathon. I struggled onto one elbow, fighting the haze of sleep, inexplicably twizzled between the top sheet and a blanket like a braid. I tried to recall whether I'd had a bad dream, and if so, what it had been about, but I couldn't. I untwirled myself and sat up.

Ian.

It wasn't a dream.

I grabbed my iPhone and checked for messages. Ty had sent an “I love you” text around midnight, after I'd fallen asleep, but there was nothing from Ian. I texted Ty that I loved him, too, ratcheted up my willpower, shook off the residual mist, and rolled out of bed.

Downstairs, I poured myself a cup of coffee and called Ian's mobile phone and his hotel room, and as expected, he didn't answer either. I didn't leave messages. Instead, I put on my happy face, telling myself that Ty was right, that Ian had hooked up with a super-hot date and would resurface soon. Optimism was my default position in most things, and until Ellis would accept a missing persons report, my best strategy was to wait as patiently as I could. Trying to get media attention and calling Becca and asking her if she'd heard from her dad, the only two proactive options that had occurred to me overnight, were fraught with problems. If Ian strutted in with a cutie on his arm only to find an outraged daughter and a bank of cameras, he'd probably never speak to me again. I got Ellis's point. Grown-ups have every right to do exactly what they want.

*   *   *

Around eleven that morning, Cara called me on the intercom. She had an antiques dealer on the phone she thought I should talk to. He had a piece of Civil War ephemera that sounded good to her.

We were planning an antique auction for next fall called Southern Life. So far, we had two remarkable examples of Southern-crafted furniture, a seventeenth-century pie cabinet and an 1823 hand-hewn rocking cradle, as well as three Alabama-made ornate brass escutcheons dating from the 1730s and an 1859 blue pottery hooded candle holder. Given the enduring popularity of Civil War collectibles and the scarcity of Confederate objects, I was determined to add in as many Civil War–era Southern pieces as I could. To that end we were calling antiques dealers throughout the South. Normally Sasha or Fred would make the calls, but today Sasha was at an appraisal in Rye and Fred was meeting with a Boston museum curator about a Cambodian artifact we were trying to authenticate, so I had Cara calling around, knowing I was on-site and able to jump in as needed.

“I know how silly that must sound,” Cara said, laughing a little. “I don't know enough about antiques to tell you it's good … but, well … you'll understand when you talk to him. His name is Mitchell Glascowl, and he's from Oxford, Mississippi. His company is Glascowl's Junque.” She spelled out “Junque” for me. “He said he has a Civil War recruiting poster.”

“Get out of town. Confederate?”

“Yes. From Tennessee.”

“Thanks, Cara.” I clicked through to the call. “Mr. Glascowl, this is Josie Prescott. I understand you're going to make my day.”

“I don't know about that, young lady. You're in a buying mood, are you?”

“I am if what Cara tells me is true. I understand you have a Civil War recruiting poster. I'd love to hear about it.”

“It's plenty valuable.”

“Only to someone who wants to buy it.”

He made a noise like a train in a tunnel, a low rumble, not loud—a laugh, I guessed.

“I guess that's you,” he said.

“Maybe, if it's real-deal good stuff.”

“That's what I got.”

“May I call you Mitch?”

“Mitchie Rich, if we're gonna be friends.”

“I get a sense we're going to be good buddies, Mitchie Rich. I'm Josie.”

“I never did understand why you Northerners only get one name.”

“Me either. Any chance you can send me a photo or scan of that poster so I can get a look at it?”

“Sure. I'll do that now and e-mail you.”

I sat by my computer, eagerly awaiting the poster's arrival. Most extant Civil War recruiting posters were from Northern states. Finding a Confederate one in good condition would be a real coup. It wasn't merely that it would sell for top dollar as part of an important auction of Southern objects; including a significant Confederate component would also help us generate national publicity for the show itself. Three minutes later, Mitchie Rich's e-mail arrived.

The poster was black on pale ocher, although the paper might have started out white. If so, it had faded fairly evenly, but there was no way to tell for sure until I had it in hand under strong white light. The text was a stirring call to arms. “The Yankee War is now being raged for ‘beauty and booty,'” it read. “To excite their hired and ruffian soldiers, they promise them our lands, and tell them our women are beautiful—that beauty is the reward of the brave.” It went on to ask, “Shall we wait until our homes are desolated; until sword and rape shall have visited them? Never!” It was chilling. It was war.

I called back. “Hey, Mitchie Rich, I got it. Thanks for sending it on. It looks to be in pretty good condition. How much are you looking for?”

“What's it worth to you?”

“Seller names the price.”

He paused, and I could tell he was pricing the customer—me—not the poster. I hated that. I waited, a lesson learned long ago from my dad. Let the silence hang.

“Eight hundred,” he said, almost making it a question.

Considering the impact of overhead, research, and marketing costs, Prescott's policy was that we never paid more than a third of what we thought an object would sell for at retail. This poster would sell for more than $2,400, far more, if it was real. Prescott's had another policy, though. We tried our best to buy cheap and sell high. We never lied, but neither did we do the other guy's job for him.

“What can you tell me about provenance?” I asked, hoping Mitchie Rich would assume I was stunned by the high price and trying to justify it to myself.

“What do you want to know?” he countered.

His question got me wondering whether he was covering that he was unfamiliar with the word, and that got me wondering about his business. He might be a one-man operation, storing his inventory in his garage and attending flea markets on weekends. I tapped “Glascowl's Junque” into Google. Mitchie Rich rented a small space in a shared antiques barn, the kind of place where he paid rent or commission and maybe had to work a shift or two a week to boot.