Ornaments of Death Page 3

  “Is that why she skipped tonight?”

  “No.” He laughed again, this one self-deprecating. “She’s in Nova Scotia, monitoring the hibernation habits of clams, if you can believe it. I won’t see her myself until Monday.”

  “Yesterday when you said she was in Rocky Point because there were a lot of clams around, I thought you meant she liked eating them!”

  “Hardly.”

  “She studies them,” I said, understanding.

  “Devotedly.”

  “There are worse things to be devoted to.”

  “A long, long list. Still, how a girl from Oxfordshire got interested in clams, well, that’s a separate conversation.”

  “How did she?”

  “I have no idea. One day, when she was about fifteen, she simply announced that she was going to research mollusks. In case you’re worried that this aberration might be genetic, I can reassure you. Becca is the first person in our family to earn a PhD in mollusks. In fact, we have no history involving mollusks whatsoever.”

  I laughed. “That’s hysterical, Ian.”

  “Perhaps she’s a changeling. I simply can’t explain it.”

  “There’s no need. Our family’s tent is large enough to include everyone of all persuasions, mollusk lovers included.”

  “What a relief!” he said, grinning.

  “Speaking of your schedule, if you’re not heading to Boston until Monday, how about dinner tomorrow? Or is that when you and Lia are going out?”

  “That’s right. Otherwise, you know I’d love it.”

  “How about brunch, then, just the two of us?”

  He liked the idea, and we firmed up plans.

  “There’s a concert tomorrow evening at the Congregational church next door,” I said. “Ty and I are going to hear Fred sing. You met him, right? One of my appraisers? It’s a Christmas program, starting at eight. Maybe Lia would like to go, or you’re more than welcome to join us on your own.”

  “Thank you, Josie. Probably the timing won’t work, but I’ll let you know.”

  Wes Smith, the reporter for Rocky Point’s local paper, the Seacoast Star, approached us, along with his wife of a few months, Maggie. Wes was a buddy, hardworking, diligent, and reliable. Maggie was my banker, the assistant manager of Rocky Point Community Bank. She was cute as a bug, a pixie with curly brown hair and freckles.

  “I heard about how you two are connected,” Wes said, after I’d introduced them to Ian. “This will be an inspirational human interest piece. We might even be able to parlay it into national coverage. It’s a pretty dramatic genealogical success story.”

  “I’m game,” I said, thinking the publicity couldn’t hurt my company or my TV show one bit.

  “I don’t know,” Ian said. “I thought when I sold my company I was done with the media.”

  “It will be painless,” Wes said. “Just a few questions.”

  “What do you say, Josie?” Ian asked me.

  “I like the idea.”

  “For Josie, anything.” He smiled, a weak one, his expression somewhere between resigned and longanimous. “E-mail me your questions and I’ll do my best to get you answers quickly.”

  “Thanks!” Wes said. “I’ll get your e-mail address from Josie.”

  We all chatted for another minute before we dispersed. Ian eased himself into a small group nearby. Ellis joined in, followed by Madge and Lia. Lia maneuvered herself next to Ian, but Ian seemed unaware of her presence. He was nodding, listening to something Ellis was saying. I couldn’t tell if Ian was purposefully ignoring Lia or not.

  I gave Maggie and Wes a little good-bye wave and moved aside, still watching Ian and Lia, trying to see if the dynamic between them had shifted as a result of Lia’s comment about Ian being a good dad. Lia smiled at him and he smiled back, and watching the exchange, I smiled, too. My worry that she’d moved too fast for his comfort seemed off the mark. Sometimes it happens that way, I thought, a real romance that comes out of nowhere. For both their sakes, I hoped it would last a lifetime. Gretchen came up with the photographer, and she and I posed for him. Gretchen drew me away and staged additional photos: me with the staff; me with Timothy; me with Ty; me with Zoë, me with various clients and combinations of clients. I asked her to find Ian, and she said she would. Among Gretchen’s many skills was ability to organize anything. The photographer assured me that he’d taken hundreds of candid shots, too. When Gretchen was satisfied, I made my way to the bar for another drink, and Lia sidled up next to me.

  “So, what do you know about him?” Lia asked in an undertone.

  “Ian? Not much. He’s a widower who lives in Christmas Common, a hamlet located about half an hour outside Oxford, England.”

  “What a fabulous name for a village!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s retired. He designed some kind of software application for the trucking industry and sold it to a computer giant for a quarter of a billion dollars.”

  “B as in ‘billion’?” she asked, incredulous.

  I nodded. “So the newspaper report said. You’d never know it to meet him, though.”

  “I’ll say. And I thought he was a catch before I knew he was a megamillionaire.” Lia smiled provocatively, fanning herself with her hand. “As hot as it is around Ian, you’d think we were in Hawaii.”

  “You’re a fast worker,” I said, laughing.

  Gretchen appeared out of nowhere to tell me that Timothy was leaving. I thanked her, excused myself to Lia, and hurried to the door to say good-bye.

  “We’ll talk,” he said, squeezing my hand. “Time to begin planning the new season.”

  “I can’t wait!”

  Other people began to trickle out, and soon the trickle became a steady stream. I stood by the door, accepting thanks and congratulations and holiday good wishes, and then the party was over. I couldn’t stop smiling. What a day—a newfound relative, a second season for my TV show, and a successful party. I was revved up like a turbine.

  Later, as I sat in a green-tea-and-peppermint bubble bath, relaxing before bed, I thought again about the mystery woman I’d seen peering in my window.

  A jealous wife, perhaps, wanting to see if her no-goodnik husband was at the party with another woman. It was possible, maybe even likely. I knew my clients personally, but I rarely knew them well, and I certainly didn’t know the details of their personal lives. I tried to keep above the fray, avoiding asking questions that might prove embarrassing or gauche. When you deal in high-end antiques, you need to be discreet so wives won’t learn what their husbands buy for other women and husbands won’t learn what their wives buy for other men. Or how much things really cost. Or that one sibling was favored over another. She hadn’t tried to rob the place and she hadn’t made a scene, and in the final analysis, that was all I cared about.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I took Ian to Ellie’s, my top-choice restaurant for brunch. Ellie’s was housed in a nineteenth-century chocolate factory, long since renovated into various upscale retail venues and professional offices. I got lucky and found a parking space directly in front of the restaurant, across from the village green. Evergreen garlands dotted with blue lights stretched across the street. Candy-cane-striped ribbons twirled up the lamp poles. A pinecone wreath adorned Ellie’s front door. Inside, miniature Christmas trees bedecked with tiny red and gold velvet bows adorned every table.

  I never looked at Ellie’s menu since I always ordered the same thing—a crêpe filled with chicken and asparagus in a Mornay sauce. Ian ordered eggs Benedict.

  “What’s your favorite part about conducting research?” I asked after our coffees had arrived.

  “The surprises. How about you?”

  “Not being surprised! In my business, I try to confirm facts I’ve been given and hope are true, so when I’m surprised, that’s rarely good news. What’s the biggest surprise you’ve run into so far?”

  “Finding you. What’s your
biggest disappointment?”

  “An American-made maple table that I thought I could prove had been in a hotel frequented by members of the Continental Congress. I spent nearly a month researching it, including two trips to Pennsylvania to review documents in historical societies and museums.”

  “All this for one table?”

  “It was a beauty, meticulously crafted with matched-grain wood and peg-and-dowel construction, lower than current tables, suggesting that it was made when people were shorter—perhaps in the eighteenth century. It was a little scratched, but no more than you would expect of a well-used object more than two hundred years old. Can you see where I’m heading with this?”

  “A valuable piece.”

  “Worth a little research, that’s what I told myself. Especially after I found a maker’s mark tucked up under a side brace.” The waitress came with our food. After I’d enjoyed a few bites of the creamy mixture I’d tried and failed to replicate, I continued. “To make a long story short, I was able to identify the mark as coming from a Philadelphia-based company that produced custom-designed furniture from 1752 to 1784. Their records indicated they sold a dozen tables that were described exactly like mine, down to the millimeter, to a Philadelphia hotel in 1775.”

  “It’s like a detective story. What did you do?”

  “I went pit bull learning about that hotel. It was a fairly posh place, with a dozen rooms. Apparently, in 1775, the hotel’s owners ordered a new table for every room. I had a lot of confidence that my table was, at one time, in one of those rooms.” I smiled, remembering the exhilaration I’d felt when I got a look at the hotel’s records. “Thomas Jefferson stayed in that hotel for nearly two years, including the period during which he wrote the Declaration of Independence. Can you imagine?”

  His eyes widened. “The table must be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

  I sighed, exaggerating it for effect. “Sadly, it was all for naught.” I caught the waitress’s eye and raised my mug, requesting more coffee. She nodded and headed for the kitchen. “In any appraisal, there are two parts—authentication and valuation. I made an amateur mistake. I was so hot on the valuation trail, I didn’t pay enough attention to authentication, to the table itself. Under the pegs and dowels were screws. Manufactured screws. Can you believe it? I nearly fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book.”

  “Screws in the eighteenth century would have been handmade.”

  “If they were used at all. I learned my lesson. We authenticate first. Only then do we move on to valuation.”

  “Complicated,” Ian said, as the waitress refilled our mugs.

  “Everything of any substance is complicated. Creating software for the trucking industry can’t be simple.”

  “Do you think that’s true? That everything is complicated?”

  I sipped some coffee and thought about his question. “Yes, but that doesn’t make it bad. It’s popular nowadays to say that simplicity is a virtue, but I don’t believe it. At least, it’s not a virtue in my life.” I smiled. “Between you and me and this two-hundred-year-old brick wall, I relish complexity. Simplicity bores me.”

  “You have real depth, Josie.”

  “I don’t know about that, and I don’t mean to imply that people who prefer a simple life lack depth.” I smiled again. “It’s why they make both chocolate and vanilla ice cream, right? People have different tastes.”

  “I agree on all accounts. When I retired I thought I’d relish a simple life. Instead, I got bored. That’s why I began dabbling in genealogy.”

  “Gee,” I said, “maybe we’re related.” We grinned at one another for a few seconds. “Ty said he thought we’d have a lot in common.”

  Ian reached across the table and patted my hand. “He was right.”

  “So do you agree that everything of substance is complicated?”

  Ian gazed out the window, past the gazebo where local bands played familiar tunes on warm summer nights, into the far distance. This time of year, the gazebo housed Rocky Point’s Christmas tree, a ten-footer all decked out in multicolored lights, icicle-shaped ornaments, and shimmering silver garlands. A huge gold-toned menorah shared the space. One electric candle flickered, marking last evening’s start of Hanukkah. After several seconds, he turned back to face me.

  “No, I can’t say I do. I think many things are simple, but it is our nature to perceive them as complex. Sometimes we do it to delude ourselves that our lives have importance. Other times we do it because we can’t handle something, so we conclude it must be complicated—to do otherwise implies we’re stupid or inept.”

  “Or ill prepared. Or inexperienced.”

  “Exactly. Don’t you agree?”

  “I see your point, but I stand my ground. A baker thinks baking a cake is simple, but that’s only because she knows how. Life used to be simpler, and I think people crave that simplicity. I just don’t think it’s available, not today, not unless you want to go off the grid. I think people who want to live a simple life often romanticize the good old days, forgetting the inconveniences they’d endure if they could go back and undervaluing the advantages we enjoy today.”

  “And now we know something else,” Ian said. “In addition to having a lot in common, we’re able to agree to disagree respectfully.”

  The waitress placed the vinyl folder containing the check on the table with a thank-you, and Ian whisked it away.

  “You’re on my turf,” I protested, reaching for it.

  “It’s my pleasure, Josie.”

  “But I invited you!”

  “Next time.”

  “How about lunch tomorrow before you head to Boston?”

  “Sold.”

  “Good, but I don’t trust you … I’ll prepay.”

  He laughed. “Deal!”

  We sat there through one more coffee until Ian said he needed to leave, to take a nap so he would be in top form for his date with Lia.

  * * *

  I often walked the quarter mile from Prescott’s to the Congregational church, taking the meandering pathway that runs through the woods. The walk provided a perfect mind-clearing break during a hectic day. Sunday evening, though, Ty parked his government-issued SUV at the church.

  “My boss left a message,” Ty said as we walked across the lot. “I may need to go to D.C. tomorrow for a meeting first thing Tuesday morning. New training protocols for unmonitored coastal areas. He wants me on the committee.”

  I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. “That sounds impressive.”

  “You think? Maybe. Anyway, even if it happens, I’ll be home in time for dinner Tuesday. He’ll let me know in the morning if the meeting is on.”

  The temperature had dropped into the low twenties.

  “Do you think it’s going to snow?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I sniffed. “It doesn’t smell like snow.”

  “Sure it does. Your sniffer is out of order.”

  I sniffed again. “You’re teasing me. My sniffer’s fine.”

  “Mark my words.”

  I squeezed his arm playfully as we climbed the steps to the entryway.

  Ted, the pastor, greeted us as friends, which we were. He was one of my best buddies, a gardening enthusiast, and I’d often find him planting or weeding in the lush gardens surrounding the church. We stepped into the candlelit nave.

  Inside, we walked down the center aisle, past pews decorated with sweeping boughs of evergreens and big red velvet bows. The dark wood seemed to glow. Tall white tapers, tucked into hanging metal holders, flickered throughout the church.

  For most of the concert, I watched the choir, mostly keeping my eyes on Fred. He brought his laserlike focus to everything he did, singing included. It was inspiring to watch his performance. Occasionally, I let my eyes wander to the night-dark, backlit stained-glass windows and soaring cathedral ceiling, trying to follow glints of candlelight.

  It was during the choir’s rendition of one of my most
-loved songs, “Carol of the Bells,” that I glanced behind me, curious as to whether there were empty seats, and spotted Lia standing alone in a corner, half hidden by a thick arching beam. She seemed to be looking for someone, craning her neck, her eyes on the move. I gently pushed up Ty’s sleeve to get a peek at his watch. It said 8:15. When I looked back a second time, she was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I normally get into work around eight, and Monday morning was no exception. My sniffer proved to be in working order after all—it hadn’t snowed overnight, and now it smelled like snow. The weatherman concurred, stating that a light snow would be starting within the hour, with a few inches accumulating before the snow ended midafternoon.

  Ty and I had listened to the weather forecast on the six-thirty news this morning, and I giggled, recalling our silliness.

  I’d said, teasing, “See? I told you it didn’t smell like snow last night. You maligned my nose.”

  Ty should have been abashed, but he wasn’t. He said that all it proved was that his sniffer was more finely tuned than mine.

  I was still smiling at the memory as I pulled into Prescott’s parking lot.

  Lia was waiting for me, sitting in her silver Lexus with the engine running. She was on the stoop before I parked, her face framed by the oversized wreath, a twisty confection of bluish green cypress branches and ice blue juniper berries. I’d had Gretchen order a dozen of them, one for every door and window. Lia’s cobalt wool coat fell below her knees. The dark faux-fur collar and cuffs added flair. She wore a matching beret and dark brown, French-heeled, knee-high boots. Her eyes were narrowed. Her expression was severe.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” she said with patently fake bonhomie. “I wanted to tell you what a great time I had at the party.”

  I unlocked the front door, setting the wind chimes Gretchen had hung years earlier jangling. As I punched in the code to shift the security system from night to day, I said, “Thanks! I had a terrific time myself, which I always think is a good sign.”