Ornaments of Death Read online

  “Do you know where Ian bought them?” Fred asked.

  “No, he didn’t say.”

  “I’ll check auction records.”

  “You have to start somewhere. Thanks, Fred!”

  As soon as I was off the phone with Fred, I called Wes.

  “Whatcha got?” he asked.

  “A lot, but you can’t use most of it, at least not now.”

  “Josie,” he griped.

  “Here’s one you can write about right away. Most of Becca’s furniture was made by a custom company called Meadow’s Village Furniture. They’re known for cleverly designing and installing what they call privacy compartments, which you and I would refer to as hidden cubbyholes. The company, which is a family attraction, is located in Franklin, New Hampshire, and for a little color, you can write about how it’s on the site of a former Shaker community. The designers have maintained the Shaker style, which as I’m sure you know is identifiable from its simple lines, lack of nonfunctional embellishments, and superb craftsmanship.”

  “You want to tell me why you’re suggesting that I write a lifestyle fluff piece?”

  “Because I promised the owner you would. He wouldn’t talk to me otherwise.”

  “You got some chutzpah, Josie, I’ll give you that.”

  “I want to fill you in, but you have to promise that you won’t publish a word or a picture unless I tell you it’s okay to do so.”

  “What pictures?”

  “The ones I’m going to e-mail you showing a hidden compartment I found in Becca’s bed.”

  “What? Talk to me.”

  “Promise?”

  “Josie!” he sputtered. “I need facts I can use.”

  “Not now. Not from me.”

  He sighed to his toenails, Wes-speak for how disappointed he was in me. I waited.

  “Okay,” he said begrudgingly, “I promise.”

  “Good. I’ll send you the photos in a minute. The information I needed related to the placement of hidden cubbyholes. You can write about the company in general, but you can’t say I found one in Becca’s bed. Here’s the thing … I found the missing paintings, Wes! I don’t know how the police plan on playing it, so mum’s the word. I have photos for you of the cubbyhole and the paintings.”

  “You’re the bomb, Joz. The complete bomb.”

  “Thanks. What about Becca? Any news?”

  “Not a word or a sign. You think she’s been killed, too?”

  “Oh, God, Wes, I hope not.”

  After we were done, I e-mailed Wes the photos of the miniatures and the hiding place. I finished my coffee and walked back to my car.

  Where, I asked myself as I merged back onto the highway, is Becca? The more I thought about the situation, the more confused I became.

  I spoke to Becca on Tuesday, and by any standard, her reaction to my innocent question was odd—or was it? If Becca had killed her father, the question might have touched her on the raw.

  And what about Lia? Did she see Ian with Becca on Sunday, misunderstand their relationship, and flip out? Ashamed of myself for suspecting Lia, my friend, I nonetheless couldn’t stop myself from wondering whether she’d been home alone the whole afternoon as she said or whether she’d gone out for some reason, for new makeup or a different color of stockings, for instance.

  Lia could have driven into town to do her shopping, taking the scenic route home. I did it all the time. If she’d driven down Ocean Avenue, she might have passed just as Ian and Becca were standing out in the open at the end of Cable Road. She sees Ian deep in conversation with Becca and loses it.

  Becca, now a witness to a crime, flees, panicked.

  While I’d seen Lia enraged, beyond furious, I’d never seen her violent. Still, I couldn’t shake a niggling feeling that seeing Ian with a young woman might have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Ian was rich, handsome, available, and attracted to her. The idea of losing a man this appealing to a younger woman, especially after losing a husband because of his obsession with, as Lia put it, jailbait-aged girls, might have tipped her over the edge.

  Though I felt like a Judas, my incriminating thoughts continued unabated. Lia needs money. She makes no secret of it. Hearing that Becca had vanished, she might have risked breaking into Becca’s housing in the hopes of snaring a treasure, the miniatures. She’d heard me talk about how hard it is to sell stolen art—or rather, how hard it is to sell stolen art for top dollar. It’s easy to sell if you’re willing to work with a sleazy dealer and take pennies on the dollar. It might only be pennies, but pennies on more than one and a quarter million dollars, my quick and dirty estimate of the retail value of the two paintings, wasn’t hay. Realistically, she could expect to sell them, no questions asked, for 20 percent of retail, about $250,000. Tax free. Money her ex would never know about, would never be able to claim.

  My cell phone rang. I glanced at the display but didn’t recognize the number, a 917 area code. New York City. I pulled off to the shoulder, set my flashers, and took the call.

  A woman with the husky voice of a smoker said, “A woman I work with said you can tell me if I have an antique that’s worth anything.”

  “We do our best! What’s the object?”

  “A pair of wrought-iron chairs. They’ve got claw feet and gargoyle heads at the ends of the arms and lots of flowers and things woven into the design.”

  “They sound beautiful. I’d love to get a look at them.”

  “I’m not far from your company. Can you stop by now?”

  I was about to ask her to schedule an appointment for tomorrow or Monday when I realized Ty was in D.C., so I had no reason to hurry home. I could connect with Ellis, get the paintings in the vault, then head to her place.

  “Definitely!”

  She gave me her name, Pat Weston, and her address, 14 Rochand Road. I knew the street. It was the second right after my place, heading to the coast. I calculated the time. I was about ten minutes from my exit. Another ten minutes would get me to Prescott’s. It would only take a minute or two to sign off on the evidence with Ellis and store the paintings. Five minutes to her place. I told Ms. Weston I’d be there in forty-five minutes, give or take. I called Ellis, and we agreed to meet at my place in half an hour.

  Twenty minutes later, along a dark stretch of road about a quarter mile before the turn-in to my parking lot, my headlights illuminated a gray or silver sedan parked diagonally across the road, as if it had died while the driver was attempting a U-turn, or perhaps something had happened to incapacitate him. I rolled to a stop fifty feet from the vehicle and turned on my brights. No one was visible behind the wheel.

  I found my phone and called 911. I told the emergency operator that either the car had broken down and the driver had set off for help or the driver had fallen ill, but regardless, the road was blocked. She said she’d send the police right away. I wondered who’d arrive first, the officers assigned to respond to the emergency call or Ellis.

  I pulled off to the side of the road, parking on frozen dirt and low-growing brush, and got out. The woods on either side were impenetrable, thick and near-black. The road in either direction was empty. I jogged to the car to see if the driver had collapsed. I knew CPR, and if I could help, I wanted to. I switched on my flashlight and sent the light around the inside of the car, peering into the back floor. The vehicle was empty. The key wasn’t in the ignition. The driver had gone to find assistance.

  I had started back to my car when a soft rustling caught my attention. A rabbit, maybe, I thought, or a deer. Just as I approached the driver’s-side door, I heard a whoosh. I spun toward the noise. In the faint light from my headlights, I saw what looked like tree bark, a sturdy limb, aimed at my head. I screeched and cantered right, and the blow landed with a thud on my left shoulder.

  Shock waves of pain shot up my neck and down my back to my legs, and I stumbled forward. I screamed in shock and fear and pain, my yells echoing in the cold, dry, dark night. I tried to r
un, but I could only totter. My legs had gone tingly-numb. I heard another whoosh and knew a second blow was coming. I sank to the ground, the air swirling around me as the tree limb whizzed by my head, thunking on the hood of my car.

  I tried to push myself upright, but I didn’t have the strength. I lay in a dazed heap, mired in terror. Roll, I told myself, knowing that unless I moved, I was a sitting duck, certain to be killed. I raised myself up a few inches, grunting when my shoulder muscles flexed. I sank back to the ground and gyrated sideways, away from my car, and the third strike glanced off my left arm. I scooted away as best I could, scraping my hands on the pebble-laden asphalt. My screams trailed off into whimpers. The pain was dazzling. Gold flecks danced before my eyes. I quit moving, knowing it was hopeless. I rolled over, trying to see something I could use to identify my attacker, but before I could focus, both my headlights and blinkers went out and I was left in the middle of the road in total darkness. I closed my eyes and prepared to die.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I heard footsteps, followed by a slamming door. An engine turned over and a car sped off. Silence settled in like a London fog, punctuated only by occasional forest sounds, a swish of something pushing through dense growth, followed by crunching steps, small paws on brittle leaves. The road to my office wasn’t a major thoroughfare, but neither was it deserted. If I didn’t get off the road, someone would run over me before the police arrived.

  I took stock. The sharp pain of impact had eased, but I felt disoriented and a little woozy, as if I had just awakened from a troubled sleep. I could arch my back and roll my head and lift my arms. I clenched, then spread, my fingers. The heels of my hands were bloodied. Nothing was broken. Lucky for me I’d worn my heavy, puffy coat and my attacker had lousy aim, the blows landing on my shoulder and arm, missing my head and back.

  Using my fingertips, I pushed myself to my knees. I took in a deep breath, got myself upright, and stumbled toward my car. I slid behind the wheel and reached for the key—it was missing. I turned on the map light. In the eerie glow cast by the overhead dome, I saw that the passenger seat was empty. My tote bag was gone.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered. “God, no.”

  I leaned my head against the frozen steering wheel. The police were en route. I could wait and they would help me. I was cold. Too cold to sit. I was wearing a super-warm coat. I got out and started walking. During my slow, painful trek, I realized what must have transpired, and why.

  * * *

  Fred, a night owl who often worked late, was there to let me in.

  “I need you to do something for me,” I said, leaning heavily against one of the guest chairs. “Call Ellis, Chief Hunter, and tell him to come here right away, then go to my office and get my spare keys from my desk drawer.”

  Fred pushed up his square-framed glasses, his brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”

  I sat down. “No.” He made a movement, as if he were going to walk toward me. When I shook my head, he stopped. “Please. Make the call. Get the keys.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Fred looked up the police station number and dialed. When he told whoever answered that he was calling on my behalf and that he had an urgent message, they patched the call through. I listened in.

  “I don’t know,” he said after he explained why he was calling. “No … Okay.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I shook my head. “Tell him to come quickly.”

  He did so, glancing at me. “Maybe an accident. I don’t know.”

  He listened for a moment. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll ask.” He covered the mouthpiece again. “He wants to know if he should send an ambulance.”

  “No.”

  Fred repeated my answer, listened for a moment, said, “Okay,” and hung up. “He said he was close by. He’ll be here in two minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fred pushed open the heavy door that led to the warehouse, and Hank scooted out.

  He mewed. Hello, he was saying. I’m glad you’re back. He pranced toward me and rubbed his jowl against my calf. After a few seconds, he leapt into my lap, allowing me to pet him. My hands throbbed. Scrapes are the worst. Using the tips of my fingers, I stroked his chin and breastbone.

  “You’re such a good boy, Hank,” I murmured. “Such a good friend.”

  He mewled and curled up, resting his head against my tummy.

  “The appointment to look at that wrought-iron furniture was a ruse,” I told him, “to lure me, to ensure I would come down this road.”

  Hank raised his chin, offering me access to his neck, asking for a nice pettie.

  “Good boy, baby.”

  He flopped over, wanting a tummy rub.

  “Someone knew I found the miniatures,” I said. “Neither Wes nor Ellis would tell anyone, which means someone was watching me. He saw me all happy and proud when I left the apartment and knew what it meant. He followed me to the interstate, so he figured I was heading back to Rocky Point. When I stopped for lunch, he continued on and got his plan organized.”

  Hank licked my fingers, a thank-you.

  “Oh, Hank … you’re such a precious boy.”

  He rearranged himself, his thick front paws hanging over my knees. I gently dragged my fingernails along his spine, and his purring machine whirred onto high.

  “He had to know that as soon as I reached my office, the paintings would be beyond his reach.”

  Fred returned with the key ring in hand. I heard a car engine rev up, then idle, then shut down.

  “Is that Ellis?” I asked him. “Chief Hunter?”

  Fred leaned over to look out the window. “Yes.”

  “Good. A quarter mile from here, toward the interstate, you’ll find my car parked on the shoulder. Ellis can drive you there.”

  “I can walk it, Josie, no problem—but what’s going on?”

  Ellis opened the door, setting Gretchen’s wind chimes jingling.

  “Hey,” Ellis said, his eyes narrowing when he saw me, his gaze lingering on my face. “What’s wrong?”

  I raised a hand to my cheek and felt grit. My fingers came away dirty. “It’s nothing, only dirt.”

  “Your hands are bleeding.”

  I looked at them. “It’s dried now. I scraped them.”

  “Talk to me, Josie. I just asked two police officers why they were standing by your car. They explained they were responding to your call that a car was blocking the road. What gives?”

  “I’ll explain, but first, will you drive Fred to get my car? It’ll only take you a minute.”

  “Were you in an accident?”

  “No.” The two men stood and waited. “It wasn’t an accident—it was an ambush.” I closed my eyes. “I was a complete sucker. It never even occurred to me that it was a trap. Whoever did it stole my tote bag. Oh, Ellis. I’m so upset! The miniatures were in it. So were my keys. My phone. Everything.” Tears escaped and ran down my cheeks. “Everything is gone.”

  “Are you hurt besides your hands?” Ellis asked, his tone soft and empathetic, as calm as always.

  “A little. Not much.” I opened my eyes and brushed aside the wetness. “I was a patsy. The more I think about it, the angrier I’m getting.”

  “Tell me—the short version.”

  With Fred listening in, his eyes growing wider as the story went on, I recounted what had transpired.

  “My phone has the Find My iPhone app on it.”

  “Good,” Ellis said.

  “I’m on it,” Fred said, typing at his computer. He asked for my user information. I called it out. Fred tapped it into his computer and rotated his monitor so Ellis and I could see, zooming in on the green dot.

  “That’s I-95,” Ellis said.

  “Near the liquor store, heading south,” Fred said. “It’s not moving, though.”

  “The thief turned it off,” I said, my eyes on the monitor. “That’s the last spot the phone was on. He grabbe
d my tote bag and headed for the interstate. Once he was under way, he turned off my phone in case I had this app.” I raised my eyes to Fred’s face. “Erase the data. I just synched my phone, so I have everything I need.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  He tapped the codes. “Done.”

  “I’m going to get a team to go over your car,” Ellis said. “I doubt we’ll find anything, but you never know. When we’re done, we’ll drive it back to the police garage for further examination. You’ll need to get the dealer to change the locks.” He paused, thinking. “You said you saw the weapon, a tree limb. Probably it just got tossed into the woods.”

  “You won’t find it,” I said, discouraged. “You won’t find the attacker, either. I didn’t see much. Just a hint of a tree branch aiming at my head.”

  “From what angle?”

  My brow scrunched. “What do you mean?”

  “Was the person swinging the branch like a baseball bat? Or was it more straight down, as if he were splitting a log?”

  “More like a bat, I think. It seemed disorganized to me. The swings were wild, kind of uncontrolled.”

  “How about the car? What do you remember about it?”

  “It was gray or silver,” I said. “Normal-looking.” I shrugged. “A sedan.”

  “How about the caller? Did her voice sound familiar?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You said she had a husky voice, like a smoker. How certain are you it was a woman? The name Pat can go either way.”

  “At the time, I didn’t question it. Now, I don’t know. I suppose it could have been a man trying to sound like a woman.”

  “Or a woman you know trying to disguise her voice?”

  “Like who?” I asked.