Ornaments of Death Page 6

  Ellis sat behind his desk and pointed at one of the two guest chairs. I perched on the edge, impatient and annoyed. I didn’t understand his hesitation.

  “I have a photo,” I said. I handed over one copy of the photograph I’d printed earlier.

  Ellis stared at it. “I’d need a court order to enter his room, and at this point, I don’t have enough evidence to ask for one. While I know you well enough to trust your judgment, I know of no facts that suggest a crime has been committed. I’m sorry, Josie. My hands are tied.”

  “I thought you had to accept a missing persons report and act on it after a certain number of days.”

  “The law changed. Unless the person who’s gone missing has a physical or mental disability that puts him or her at risk, there’s nothing I can do. The actual wording of the statute is that the person has to have a ‘proven physical or mental disability or is senile,’ which Ian doesn’t and isn’t. If something about his disappearance indicated that he was in danger, if people reported that they saw him being tossed into the back of a van, for instance, I could act. But no one has reported a kidnapping. The only other way I could accept your report was if I have reason to believe that his disappearance wasn’t voluntary, and I’m afraid your gut instinct isn’t sufficient.”

  “Can you give me some examples of what it would take to convince you?”

  “If we found Ian’s burned-out car under a bridge or even deserted behind a warehouse. If the maid reported that his hotel room had been ransacked. I need actual evidence that indicates he’s in trouble.” He flipped his palms up. “What if he decided on a whim to take a side trip to Montreal or New York City? He wouldn’t appreciate your making a hoot-and-holler about his vacation.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Josie.”

  “Thank you for explaining the situation to me,” I said, and stomped out.

  * * *

  Back at my office, I considered my next-step options. I was going to try to avoid making Ian’s apparent disappearance public, but I had to do something. I decided to start with his daughter. I was convinced that the only reason Ian would have left Rocky Point ahead of schedule voluntarily was to connect with Becca. I didn’t for a minute believe that was what had happened, but it was a possibility that needed to be eliminated.

  I consulted the genealogical chart Ian had e-mailed. Becca’s legal name was Rebecca Anne Bennington.

  I searched online for her phone number, with no luck. I called directory assistance; they had no record of her. I Googled her name and found a score of scholarly references, articles she’d authored or co-authored, papers she’d presented at conferences, and grants she’d received. However, I could find no indication that she lived in Boston.

  Ian had mentioned that Becca was working on a marine biology research project involving clams. For all I knew, she could have been retained by a commercial supplier to help it improve its clam-shipping methods, but if she was a visiting scholar, no matter what she was working on or who was funding it, she was probably affiliated with a college or university. Since Reynard University had one of the best marine biology programs in the world, I decided to start there.

  I brought up the university’s Web site and went to the Marine Biology Department faculty page. Becca wasn’t listed.

  I looked up the main number for the department and got a woman’s voice mail. I didn’t leave a message. I called the registrar’s office. Whoever answered the phone, a student worker, I guessed, interrupted me before I finished posing my question.

  “Sorry,” she said. “We never release student information.”

  “This isn’t a student. This is a visiting scholar.”

  “Sorry. I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Since most organizations follow a set policy in structuring e-mail addresses, I suspected that if I could discover anyone’s e-mail address, I could follow the pattern to reach Becca, assuming she had some kind of affiliation with the university. I asked the woman to transfer me to IT.

  “We never give out e-mail addresses,” the young man who answered said.

  “Can you tell me the format of e-mails? First name, dot, last name, for instance? Or last name, first initial?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  I randomly clicked on a professor’s e-mail link. Instead of an auto-filled e-mail opening up, though, a contact form popped up instead.

  “Grrrr,” I said aloud. Using my pen, I rat-a-tat-tatted a frustrated drumbeat on my desk. “There has to be a way.”

  I IM’d Sasha and Fred and asked if either of them knew anyone at Reynard. Sasha reminded me that she’d spoken briefly to a professor in the university’s Film Studies Department when we’d been trying to authenticate a series of silent movie posters.*

  She gave me Dr. Marcus Achen’s cell phone number, and I got him.

  “Let me check,” he said, in heavily accented English, once I’d explained who I was and what I was after. After a brief pause, he murmured, “Da ist sie.”

  There she is, I translated, pleased I recalled even that amount of my mostly forgotten middle school German.

  “Her e-mail address is rabennington@reynard.uk.edu,” he said. “She’s based at our Plymouth campus.”

  “Plymouth, Massachusetts?” I asked. “No, of course not—‘uk,’ got it. England.”

  “Exactly. But she’s obviously here, since her phone number is for this campus.”

  He read it off. The number listed for her was the same as the department’s number, not an unusual occurrence, Dr. Achen explained, when a researcher spends most of her time in the field.

  I thanked him, but my sense of accomplishment was short-lived. I didn’t want to e-mail Becca. I wanted to talk to her, face-to-face, to be there for her if Ian wasn’t with her, if I was the bearer of bad news.

  Hank mewed as he walked up to my chair. He stretched, first his top half, then his bottom half; then he jumped into my lap and licked my chin.

  “Do I have a dirty spot?” I asked him, stroking his back. “What would you do, Hank, if you were me?” I scratched behind his ears, one of his favorite spots. “She has to live somewhere. She has to have a phone. How can I find her?”

  He mewed again, louder this time.

  “You know, you’re right. What a smart fellow you are. When in doubt, call Wes.”

  * * *

  “Becca Bennington lives in Boston,” I told Wes, “and I need to find her. Her full name is Rebecca Anne Bennington.”

  “Ian is still missing,” Wes said.

  “Don’t sound so happy about it.”

  “I’m not happy. I’m intrigued.”

  “Don’t sound so intrigued.”

  “You’re the one who called me, remember? Is he missing or not, Josie?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think she knows?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why do you want to reach her?”

  “Because I don’t know what else to do,” I said, my throat tightening as I spoke, causing me to stumble over the last words. “I don’t want to raise a ruckus, but I need to do something. I’m upset.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “Thanks, Wes.”

  It took Wes five minutes to find Becca. His contact at the electric company gave him her address, an apartment on Park Drive, across from the Fens, not far from the Museum of Fine Arts, and only a ten-minute walk to Reynard University. I was out the door and in my car two minutes after we hung up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Becca Bennington lived in a real beauty of an 1850-ish three-story brick town house. Built originally as a single-family home, it had been converted, along with scores of similar homes, into apartments sometime during the mid-twentieth century. Inside the vestibule, I counted buzzers. There were six apartments, two to a floor. The sign next to the 1R buzzer, which I assumed referenced the rear apartment on the first floor, read FERGUSON/BENNINGTON. I pushed the button.

  When the click came, I opened the heavy wooden door and
stepped into a square entryway. The walls were covered with white and gold striped wallpaper. A small crystal chandelier sparkled overhead. Elegantly framed nineteenth-century floral prints lined the long corridor. This was not a budget rental.

  Fifty feet down the corridor, a tall, lean, handsome man about my age wearing jeans and a dark blue collared short-sleeved T-shirt stood in the doorway of the rear apartment. He was barefoot. He had long blond hair, strong patrician features, and a welcoming smile.

  “This way!” he called.

  “Hi,” I said as I walked toward him. “I’m Josie Prescott. Is Becca around?”

  “Sorry … no.”

  “Darn! I really need to talk to her. Any idea how I can get in touch?”

  A door near the front opened, and a middle-aged woman leaning on a silver cane asked, “Is everything all right?”

  “You bet, Mrs. Damori.” He winked at me. “Come on in.” As soon as he shut the door, he added, “Mrs. Damori’s a love … but…”

  “Inquiring minds want to know,” I quipped. “So … about Becca.”

  “I’m sorry, she’s in the field. What was your name again?”

  “Josie Prescott. I’m an antiques dealer.” Diving gear laid out across the hardwood floor caught my eye. Clothes, bathing suits, shorts, and T-shirts were piled on the butterscotch leather sofa. “You’re a diver.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  I smiled, as much in response to his cute crooked grin as his playful words. “I’m smart. Your last name is Ferguson.”

  “You got that from the doorbell label.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “I’m smart, too.” He extended a hand for a shake. “Ethan Ferguson. I just made a pot of coffee—I’m on break. Want to join me for a cup?”

  “Thanks. I’d love to.”

  I followed Ethan into the kitchen, which was located at one end of the expansive open-plan room. En route, we passed three eight-foot-high windows that overlooked what must have been a glorious garden back in the building’s heyday but was now an unkempt wilderness. The kitchen was huge and recently renovated, definitely a step or eight up from typical student housing. Becca could afford it, I knew, and maybe Ethan could, too. The granite that covered the counter and oversized island was black with silver specks. All the appliances were chef-kitchen quality and fashioned of stainless steel. An oak plank farm table was large enough to seat ten. I took a stool at the island.

  Three photographs hung near the front door, all underwater shots. The one closest to the door showed a welter of colorful coral, sponges, and anemones. I recognized golden elkhorn, purple fan, orange-tipped fire, and brain corals; yellow and pink sponges; and countless orange and yellow anemones, waving like beach grass in a gentle breeze.

  I pointed to it. “That’s unbelievably gorgeous. Are you the photographer?”

  “Thanks. I took that one last winter on the Great Barrier Reef.”

  “I’ve snorkeled there.”

  “You don’t dive?”

  “No. I prefer staying on the surface.” I pointed to the next photo. “That’s an oyster.”

  “You’re just showing off.”

  I laughed at his super-dry delivery. I focused on the third image. “And that’s a clam.”

  “Can’t get anything past you.”

  “Becca’s into clams.”

  “I’m not sure she’d like it put exactly that way, but yes, she studies bivalve mollusks, specifically clams.”

  “Are you a marine biologist, like Becca?” I asked.

  “Sort of like Becca.” He poured coffee into matching blue pottery mugs. “I’m an oyster man.”

  I tried to stop myself from laughing but failed. “I’m sorry,” I said, once I regained my composure. “You must know how funny that sounds.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Tell me.”

  I shook my head, embarrassed. “Do you work at Reynard, too?”

  “Like a dog.” He carried the mugs to the table. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Milk is good, thanks.”

  He took a green floral jug from the fridge and slid it across to me, peeling away the plastic film covering the opening.

  “Room with a Brit,” he said, “and you serve milk in a jug. Becca can’t stand plastic containers set out on the table.”

  “I’m with her. I latch on to any excuse to use my nice china.”

  “Do you know Becca well?” he asked.

  “We’ve never met. I heard about her from her dad. Have you ever met him?”

  “No.” He sat two stools down from me. “Tell me about being an antiques dealer.”

  “I love it. I get to spend most of my time researching beautiful objects.”

  “Research is my chief passion, too. Don’t even talk to me about writing.”

  “Is research also Becca’s favorite part?” I asked, hoping my dragging Becca back into our conversation wasn’t too obvious.

  “Becca excels at everything. She’s only about three years out of grad school, but she already has a world-class reputation in the bivalve mollusk community.”

  “Does your work ever overlap?”

  “All the time.” He held up crossed fingers. “Becca is considering letting me piggyback on one of her grant applications, which would be a gift and a half since poor little me has had three grant applications rejected in the last year, and for a tenure-track assistant professor, the only thing that would be worse is if he hadn’t had any publications accepted, either. Oh, wait! I haven’t!”

  His self-deprecating humor was infectious.

  “Why were your grant applications rejected? Do you know?”

  He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “Same old, same old. Shrinking funding. Increased competition. Similar projects. It’s criminal and it’s stupid. My work revolves around helping communities like Florida’s Gulf Coast and the New England shoreline restore their nearly extinct oyster populations—a certain way to boost the economy and feed the people. You’d think they’d be lining up to put their name on a project guaranteed to win awards and acclaim, but they’re not.”

  “Frustrating,” I said.

  He waved it away. “I cope well. I get out of town as often as I can to go diving.”

  I smiled, attracted to his cheerful, breezy attitude toward life. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m just back, actually. From Florida. A friend is tracking lionfish, among the most aggressively invasive species on earth. Just right for my current mood. I figured I could learn something I could apply to academia.”

  “It sounds like you’re having a tough go of it.”

  “Ah! But it’s a marathon, not a sprint, right? I’ll finish the race triumphant, just you wait and see.”

  “I believe you,” I said, smiling, hoping it was true. I finished my coffee. “I need to go. Do you have any idea when Becca will be back?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Is she still in Nova Scotia?” I asked as I placed my mug in the sink and gathered up my tote bag.

  “No. She’s in New Hampshire.”

  “New Hampshire! That’s where I’m from.”

  “Do you know Rocky Point Oceanographic Institute? Reynard partners with them. She often bunks up there.”

  I laughed, buoyed. “I live and work in Rocky Point.” Maybe Becca and Ian had connected on Sunday and he simply forgot his other plans in the excitement of seeing his daughter.

  He laughed, too. “And you drove down here to see her?”

  “And the paintings. She has two seventeenth-century miniatures.” I glanced around. “I don’t see them.”

  “Becca showed them to me once,” he said, walking me to the door. “They’re remarkable. Do you have a card? I work at the institute sometimes, too. Maybe we can get together for a coffee again.”

  “Sounds good.” I extracted a business card from the sterling silver holder Ty gave me for my birthday and handed it to him. “Do you happen to have Becca’s cell phone number?”

 
“Sure.”

  He walked to a triangular cherry table tucked in a corner. A portable phone cradle sat next to a small apple-shaped pad of paper and an old-style answering machine. He wrote on the top piece for a minute, ripped it from the pad, and handed it over.

  “There’s mine, too. In case you need me.”

  I thanked him and told him it was a pleasure to meet him, meaning it, and left.

  The sky was overcast, and it was bone-numbingly cold. Ethan was like any of a gazillion divers I’d met over the years during snorkeling vacations. He was fit, curious, confident, athletic, friendly, technically oriented, and a quintessential risk-lover. I couldn’t recall how many nights I’d spent listening to their stories about cave dives and night dives and how they saw eight sharks circling and dove deeper to gain a better view. Divers were a breed apart. Ethan was as chatty as any of them, exuding the same devil-may-care insouciance that always seemed at odds with their technical expertise. I couldn’t really explain it, but I had always loved to be around them, and nothing had changed. I sure had warmed to Ethan.

  As I got settled behind the wheel, I wondered if Ethan and Becca were an item. If so, it must be hard for both of them to be on such different career trajectories. Sort of like Lia and her ex. I recalled something Oliver Stone, the filmmaker, once said: Never underestimate the power of jealousy to destroy. Never forget that.

  While my car was warming up, I called Becca. She answered on the third ring. Her voice was soft, and she sounded young, younger than she was.

  I introduced myself, adding how much I was looking forward to meeting her, then asked, “I was wondering if you’ve heard from your dad.”

  “What?” she said, her voice strident.

  I paused momentarily, trying to understand her unexpected reaction. “Your dad. Have you heard from him?”

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” she asked, sounding appalled, her British accent more pronounced than Ian’s.