Ornaments of Death Page 16

  “Like anyone. Could it have been?”

  “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “That about covers it,” Ellis said, half-smiling.

  I turned to Fred. “Will you call the security company here and tell them my bag was stolen? And wait for them to get here to change the locks?”

  “Of course.” He headed to his desk to make the call.

  “Zoë is home,” Ellis told me. “She can take care of the locks at your house.”

  “I need to get Ty’s changed, too.” I leaned down to kiss Hank, and my muscles let me know they existed. “Ow!” The pain was more a spikey throbbing than a sharp stabbing, but the overall effect was intense. Fred took a step toward me. “I’m okay.” I tried to smile but doubted it looked like much. “My shoulder hurts a little, that’s all.” I shook my head, frustrated. “This is such a monumental hassle.”

  “In spades,” Ellis said. “You’re the victim and you end up being the one who has to deal with the fallout.”

  I knew Ellis well enough to know his empathy was genuine, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I was annoyed at the hassle I knew I had to face, irritated that I couldn’t simply blink and make it go away, angry as all get-out that I’d been caught in such a simple snare, and beyond furious that valuable antiques under my control had been stolen.

  “Will you call Ty for me?” I asked. “Tell him I’m okay, just mad enough to spit.”

  “Sure.”

  Hank didn’t like it that I’d slowed down on petting him. He gave a stern kitty-harrumph, jumped off my lap, and sauntered away. At the warehouse door, he mewed imperiously, and Fred, still talking to the security company, opened it for him. Hank had us well trained.

  “Do you want us to add alerts that the paintings have been stolen to our call for sightings?” I asked. “If the thief is smart, he’ll sell them pronto, before the word is out that they’ve been stolen.”

  “Is there any benefit in keeping the theft under our hat?”

  “I can’t think,” I said, “so I can’t help you decide.”

  “You think just fine,” Ellis said. “You’ve just been battered is all.” He stared into space for several seconds before adding, “I think the more publicity we have on this, the better. Let’s make it as hard as possible for the thief to dispose of the paintings.”

  “Wes can publish an article about the theft and tweet about it and so on,” I said. “I sent him the photos, too.”

  “You sent Wes photos?” Ellis asked, his tone suddenly icy.

  “With the promise he wouldn’t use them until I said it was okay.”

  He gave me a long disapproving look. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I said, “Will you explain our ideas to Wes or do you want me to?”

  “I will,” he said, and from his tone, I got the impression that Wes was in for it.

  I wasn’t concerned; Wes could take care of himself. I looked at Fred, just off the phone.

  “They’ll be here in ten minutes,” Fred said.

  Ellis laughed, a quick ha. “Ten minutes? That’s pretty incredible service.”

  “I buy the Platinum Plan for just that reason.” I turned toward Fred. “I need you to work with the police to get the stolen art protocols going.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  I thanked him, then sat quietly while the two men worked, each on the phone, issuing instructions, setting various protocols in motion.

  Three conversations later, Ellis handed me his phone. “Ty wants to talk to you.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Ellis says you’re pretty banged up.”

  “Not really. A few bruised muscles, scraped hands, and seriously wounded pride.”

  “There’s a late flight I can make, which means I could be home by midnight.”

  “Thanks, but there’s no point. The way I feel, I’ll be long asleep by midnight.”

  “Ellis told me your keys were stolen. You shouldn’t be in the house alone, even after they change the lock, not until we know what’s going on.”

  “The thief has what he was after, so I don’t think there’s any risk … but I was thinking of staying in Zoë’s guest room anyway. She’ll make me tea and soup and martinis, not necessarily in that order.”

  “That’ll work.” He paused. “You know if you want me to come home, all you have to do is say the word.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I know. You’re wonderful. At this point, there’s nothing you can do and nothing I need, so while you know I’d love to have you with me, there’s no reason to mess up your schedule and find an emergency replacement and all.”

  He said he understood but was glad to mess up his schedule any time I said the word. We agreed to talk later, once I was in for the night, and I handed the phone back to Ellis.

  “Ty is so great,” I said.

  “So are you. He’s a lucky man.”

  “Wow. Thanks.”

  I heard a car and shifted my position enough to glance out the window. Ellis walked closer so he could look, too.

  A black SUV, a match for the one Ellis drove, rolled to a stop close to the front. When the driver’s door opened and the overhead light came on, I saw Detective Claire Brownley.

  “Once I get Claire up to speed,” he said, “I’m taking you to the hospital for a once-over.”

  “I’m fine. All I want is a hot bath, some Tylenol, a martini, food, and a bed. And maybe tea.”

  He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “I don’t think that’s smart.”

  “I just can’t face the prospect of an examination right now.” I pressed my fingers against my temples. “I’m getting a headache. I need to lie down.”

  “Did you lose consciousness at all, even for a second or two?”

  “No.”

  “Still. It’s better to be safe than sorry. Think about it for a minute.”

  “Okay,” I said, to appease him. I didn’t want to think about it, but neither did I want to argue.

  The two men from the security company, our regular account manager, Russ, and a helper named Terry, arrived eight minutes after they were called.

  “Any chance one of the cameras is aimed at the road?” Ellis asked them.

  “No,” Russ said. “The range stops at the perimeter of the parking lot.”

  I listened in as Ellis described our publicity plan to Wes. I was relieved that my having sent Wes the photos didn’t come up.

  Half an hour later, the two men from the security company had finished changing the door locks, Fred was uploading the photos to the last of the stolen-art Web sites we subscribed to, Detective Brownley was working the crime scene, and Ellis had agreed to drive me to Zoë’s.

  * * *

  “There is no number fourteen Rochand Road,” Ellis told me once we were under way. “There’s no forty-one, either. I checked in case Pat Weston transposed the numbers by mistake.”

  “And I bet there’s no Pat Weston, either.”

  “Not that we can find. We have officers canvassing door to door.”

  “You won’t find her because she doesn’t exist.” I slapped my thigh. “I feel like such a fool.”

  “I don’t know why. You couldn’t possibly have anticipated this, Josie.”

  I turned to watch the night. It was so dark, I couldn’t discern anything, not even the shape of a tree. I looked up. The sky was solid black; not a glimmer of moonlight shone through the cloud cover. “Is it supposed to snow?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “The night is so black.”

  “On cloudy nights, it’s darker up here than anywhere I’ve ever lived before.”

  We drove in silence for several minutes. As Ellis turned off the interstate, I asked, “Is there any word about Becca?”

  “No.”

  “We need to talk to the chair of the Marine Biology Department.”

  “Dr. Bennett? I met him when I was at Reynard. What about?”

  “Becca.”

  He shot me a glance. “That’s pretty
broad.”

  “She drives a silver car.”

  “A 2008 Prius,” he said. “Not much of a car for a rich girl.”

  “But perfect for a girl who cares about the environment and isn’t materialistic.”

  “True,” he said. “What do you think Dr. Bennett knows?”

  “How Becca and Ethan get along.”

  “You think there’s some kind of conspiracy going on?” he asked.

  “No. It’s just, the more we know, the more we know, if you know what I mean.”

  “And we don’t know about their relationship.”

  “I know Ethan told me they were not romantically involved.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  “I don’t disbelieve him. I also wonder if he and Becca are fiercely competitive or friendly competitive. My dad had a friend who was the chair of the History Department at Hitchens years ago. He said his department was filled with well-wishers, colleagues determined to help one another succeed, whereas the Philosophy Department operated like scorpions in a bottle.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.”

  “Jesus. I’ll set up a meeting tomorrow.” He glanced at me again. “In the afternoon, so you can sleep late.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Just a little stiff.”

  Ellis didn’t comment, and I knew why. He thought that by morning I wouldn’t be able to move.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Ellis ran into Zoë’s place to get my new keys and kept me company as I gathered what I needed for the night. We walked across the icy driveway to Zoë’s house. She had hearty chicken noodle soup warming on the stove and a pot of black currant tea steeping on the counter. I swallowed two painkillers with my first swallow of tea.

  Later, after I’d taken a long hot lavender-scented bath, I put on my pink chenille robe and fuzzy slippers. Sitting in her comfy kitchen, I drank a second cup of tea and polished off two bowls of soup. Ellis, she told me, was in her den, working. She sat beside me, not talking unless I did. It was perfect.

  I called good night to Ellis, blew Zoë a kiss, and climbed the stairs to her guest room, one stiff and painful step at a time. The room was painted sky blue. The wall-to-wall carpet was a deep, rich shade of blue, almost navy, but not. I used the phone Zoë kept on the bedside table to call Ty. He sounded worried about me. We told each other we loved one another; then I lay down, sighing with relief. Zoë had converted the Double Wedding Ring quilt her great-grandmother had sewn during the Depression into a duvet cover, creating the softest, most cuddly comforter ever. I snuggled my chin over the soft cotton and fell asleep within seconds.

  I didn’t wake up until nine the next morning, Saturday, tag sale day, which meant I was super late. I reached for the phone, pausing with my arm in midair as knives pierced my shoulder. Ellis had been right. A night in bed was debilitating.

  I sat up, ignoring the pain as best I could, and dialed my office. Cara answered with her usual cheery welcome.

  “It’s me,” I said, and licked my lips. I was parched.

  “Oh, Josie,” she said. “Fred told us what happened. How are you?”

  “Fine. A little stiff, that’s all. I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “You don’t need to worry about anything. Fred is covering for you.”

  We took turns working Saturdays, and today was Fred’s day off. “Please thank him, and let him know I’ll be in soon.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said, her concern apparent, “but are you sure you should?”

  “You know me—I hate coddling myself. Plus, there’s nothing better for stiff muscles than moving around.”

  As soon as I was off the phone, I stood up and tottered, hunched over like an old woman, to the bathroom. Moving around might hurt in the short run, but it was the quickest way to healing. I found painkillers in the medicine cabinet and took two with water I slurped from my hand.

  Getting ready took twice as long as usual. Bending was a penance. Stretching was a nightmare. I was proud that I got myself clean and downstairs without crying. I didn’t so much as whimper.

  Zoë was at the sink rinsing breakfast dishes before sliding them into slots in the dishwasher.

  “You’re alive!” she said, drying her hands on a Santa Claus tea towel.

  “Not really,” I said, easing myself into a chair. “I hurt.”

  “My blueberry pancakes will set you back up. Want a cup of coffee while I get the griddle going?”

  “I can’t. I’m late.”

  “A girl needs to eat.”

  “True. Okay. Thanks. Coffee would be welcome.”

  Zoë poured pineapple juice into a holly-decorated glass.

  “Ouch,” she said, her eyes on my hands.

  “I know. Scrapes hurt.”

  “Can I take a peek at your bruises?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see how badly you’re hurt.”

  “Let’s not know. There’s nothing to be done but let nature run its healing course, so why make an issue of it?”

  “No open wounds that need attention?”

  “None.”

  “Okay, then pancakes are on their way.”

  I watched her add butter to the griddle and lay partially cooked strips of bacon in a roasting pan.

  “Is Ellis gone?” I asked.

  “Yes. He wanted me to let you know that Wes has reported your attack and that the theft is the lead story everywhere. Wes is writing a feature for New York Today on the brazen nature of the attack and another for Antiques Insights magazine on the ease of stealing small objects.”

  “Oh, joy. I’ll be a laughingstock nationwide.”

  “No one is laughing, Josie.”

  I knew what I was in for. The press would be all over me hurling questions like bombs, hoping one would explode inside me, rattling me enough so they would get a juicy quote.

  “What else did Ellis say?”

  “No one has used your phone or credit cards.”

  “I can’t believe I forgot to worry about that.” I started to lift myself up and groaned. “I need to cancel them.”

  “Ty took care of it last night.”

  “Really?” I sank back down. “That’s incredible.”

  “You’re the one who was so organized you gave him a list of your account numbers.”

  “That’s me. Little Miss Organized.”

  Zoë turned toward me, her concern apparent. “What’s wrong, Josie?”

  “Nothing you don’t know about.”

  “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is,” I said. “You’re doing it.”

  Zoë adjusted the flame under the griddle and put the bacon in the oven. She took a bowl of batter from the refrigerator and scooped a half-cupful onto the sizzling surface.

  “What else do I need to know?” I asked.

  “You have an appointment at the police station at three. To talk to someone named Dr. Bennett. I’ll drive you to work. Ellis will send a car to get you at two thirty.”

  “Thank you, Zoë.”

  “Dr. Bennett is Becca’s boss. Do I have that right?”

  “I don’t think ‘boss’ is exactly the way to put it. He’s the chair of the Marine Biology Department at the Boston campus of Reynard, but she’s only here for a year on some kind of grant. She’s based at their British campus.”

  “And you think he might know something about where Becca is?” she asked, flipping the pancake.

  “No, but it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he knows something about Becca’s relationship with Ethan.”

  “How does that figure into things?”

  “I’ve wondered if Ethan was underplaying his relationship with Becca in the hopes that he might get over on me. He is pretty flirtatious.” I started to shrug, stopping when my muscles protested. “If they have an actual boyfriend-girlfriend relationship, it’s worth considering how Ethan might have reacted if Ian didn’t approve.”

  “Why wouldn’
t he have approved?”

  “I have no idea. It’s all just speculation.”

  “It always comes back to the boy-girl thing, doesn’t it?” she asked.

  “Or fear. Or greed. Or revenge.”

  “Do you think Becca and Ethan are an item?”

  “He’s pretty charming.”

  She turned toward me for a moment. “You don’t say that about many men.”

  “Not many men are charming.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” she said, laughing.

  She took the bacon from the oven, rolled it in a paper towel, and added it to my plate beside the pancake. I drizzled the warm maple syrup she’d poured into a jug over the pancake and took a bite. “Ummm. This is incredible. Are these the blueberries we picked last summer?”

  “Yes.” She leaned back against the counter. “Freezing them works like a charm.”

  “I’ll say!” I finished my juice, weighing a new thought. “It doesn’t have to be jealousy. It could be anger. What if Becca doesn’t agree with me that Ethan is all that charming?”

  “Lots of people don’t take rejection well.”

  “Ethan jokes a lot about how much better than him Becca is, you know, teasing in a sardonic kind of way. It’s not snide. He really is funny and sort of cute about it. I’m betting Dr. Bennett will know if his humility is artifice or real.”

  “I’ll look forward to an update.”

  Zoë wouldn’t let me clean up, so I sat and kept her company while she did the work. I left Ty a voice mail, telling him I was stiff but fine.

  Around ten thirty, Zoë dropped me at my office. “Call if you need me.”

  I promised I would and, with doddering steps, made it inside. Gretchen, manning the phones so Cara got a break, leapt up from her desk and ran toward me, her beautiful green eyes communicating anxiety alongside the caring.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, her hands extended.

  “I’m okay. Thanks, Gretchen.” I raised my palms. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I skip a handshake, though.”

  “Of course.”

  She tried to hustle me into a chair.

  “Really,” I said sternly. “I’m fine.” I smiled to rob my words of surliness. “I appreciate your concern, Gretchen, you know I do. Tell me what’s going on with the tag sale.”

  “Things are good. People are three deep at the vintage ornament displays. Sasha told me the clip-on candle holders were all gone by ten.”