Ornaments of Death (13 page)

“Tell me about them,” Ellis said.

“I've never seen them, so everything I'm telling you is via Ian and Ethan.” I described the two miniatures. “If they're real, they're worth several hundred thousand dollars each.”

He soft-whistled as he looked around. “If you were Becca, where would you hide them?”

“In a safety-deposit box.”

“There's no record of her having one.”

“Ian said she was thinking of having them appraised. Maybe they're safe and sound in some reputable dealer's vault.”

“We'll check.” Ellis made a note. “If you were going to hide them here, where would you put them?”

I pointed to a thick book with an ordinary-looking dark red binding. “I'd get a fake book and place it on that shelf among all the others. You know what I mean, right? A hollowed-out book.”

“These are real.”

“Maybe I'd tuck the paintings in a corner of the mattress.”

“We examined both the mattress and the box spring for a slit among the slashes. I figured that if Becca was going to hide something there, she'd use a sharp blade and create a single incision along a seam, maybe even stitching it up after she secreted the paintings. We didn't find anything.”

“Did you move the furniture?” I asked. “Maybe she taped the paintings to the backside of the chest or desk.”

He nodded. “Nothing.”

“The paintings themselves are watercolor on vellum,” I told Ellis, “probably encased behind protective glass, and most likely, they're in period-appropriate gilt frames. You won't find any trace of paint, but there may be flecks of gilt left behind.”

He made a note. “Good. I'll ask the technicians to check their samples. What else?”

“They should test any residue they find. If the paintings are in silver frames, for example, they may find a bit of tarnish that rubbed off on fabric. If they're in wooden frames, perhaps some furniture polish or wax or oil left a mark on something.”

“Got it.”

I approached a wall, detached the mini-flashlight I kept latched to my belt, and began examining a swath running horizontally at eye level, where art would logically be hung, looking for holes.

Two men came into view through the missing window. They wore matching dark green maintenance outfits. One carried a roll of heavy plastic.

“Quick response,” Ellis said, his eyes on them. “Looks like you won't freeze to death after all.”

“A good thing.”

I continued my inspection. I found scratches, mars, nicks, and nubs galore, but no evidence that anyone had ever hung a picture. Ellis's phone rang, and he stepped out into the hallway to take the call. When he was done, he stuck his head back into the room.

“I've got to go,” he said. “Don't forget to have Griff take you to Becca's desk when you're done here. Call me when you leave, okay?”

I promised I would, doubting that I'd have any news to report.

As I worked, I took a few snapshots. I didn't know whether or when I might give them to Wes, but there was no harm in taking them.

I was right about not uncovering any of Becca's secrets. An hour after I started, as I took one last look at the mess in her room, I was as certain as I could be that either the thief had found the paintings or they'd never been here in the first place.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I told Griff the bad news, that I had no news, that as far as I could tell, Becca's room contained no secrets, and he brought me to her workstation. He paused by one of the glass doors built into the wall, his hand on the knob, and I could see why—he didn't want to interrupt Katie and the police officer. Their conversation didn't look like an altercation exactly, but it sure looked like something.

Katie was annoyed. She pointed at the computer and shook her head no. The police officer said something, and Katie shook her head again, more furiously this time. The officer shrugged and said something to which Katie didn't reply. She tapped some keys, sat at the desk, and began disconnecting cables. Evidently, Katie wasn't mad at the officer; she was irritated at the situation. I gathered she couldn't access something and was therefore taking the machine away.

Griff opened the door.

The room smelled of the ocean, briny. I could almost taste the salt. It was cooler than the rest of the place, and more humid, maybe from the open tanks of ocean water. We walked across the concrete floor to Becca's workstation.

“This is Josie Prescott,” Griff told the officer.

His badge said his name was Officer Pete Rivera. He was young, in his early twenties, with black hair combed back off his forehead and skin the color of honey.

“She's here to look through Becca's desk. You got gloves for her?”

“Yup,” Officer Rivera said. He reached into a side pocket and handed me a pair of blue plastic gloves.

I put them on.

Griff nodded at me but spoke to his colleague. “I've got to get back to the room. Use a separate evidence bag for each thing she finds. Mark them properly. Walk her out when she's done, then come find me.”

“Will do,” Officer Rivera said.

Griff left.

Katie was coiling cords and cables. “I'll be out of here in a minute.”

Officer Rivera and I watched Katie finish up. She lifted the computer and all its accessories onto a wheeled cart and pushed it to the door.

I sat on the desk chair. There was nothing on the top of the desk, not even a pen.

“This was just a temporary office,” I said. “I doubt she kept much here.”

At first glance, it seemed I was right. The top left drawer held miscellaneous office supplies, a pad of yellow Post-it notes, a stapler, a plastic Scotch tape dispenser, and a stapler. The next drawer down held sundry food-related items: takeout-sized paper-wrapped salt and pepper containers, napkins, paper-wrapped straws, and plastic-encased portions of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, and soy sauce. The bottom drawer held personal items, including a lipstick, which I hadn't expected Becca would wear. It was an expensive brand in a dusky pink color called Victorian Rose. I wondered if it was a gift. There was also a ChapStick, a small tube of drugstore brand moisturizer, three purse-sized bottles of hand sanitizer, and a box of Yorkshire Gold tea bags. The center drawer contained paper clips, two no-name ballpoint pens, three disposable mechanical pencils, a No. 2 yellow pencil, and an eraser. The right drawers contained even less. The top one was empty. The middle one contained a wooden box, nicely constructed of ash and rosewood, about 8" x 12" x 6".

I lifted the lid. Inside was a three-inch-deep empty space lined in green felt. I took the box out and turned it over. Nothing. I righted the box and lifted the lid again. Three inches of depth was unaccounted for. I ran my finger along the bottom edge, my heart pounding an extra beat when I felt an indentation. I pushed, and a drawer opened on the left. I eased my index finger in and pulled it all the way out. There were no miniature paintings, but there was a book. I lifted it out. A small oval with the letters
MV
inside had been burned into the wood like a brand, a maker's mark. I placed the box on the desk and turned to the book.

I touched the supple red leather, so soft you could sleep on it, and examined the stitching. It was beautifully bound. Gilt lettering on the cover and spine read “
Poems for My Daughter.
Edited by Ian Bennington.” The title page repeated those words, also in gilt, adding in small print at the bottom: “Privately Published. 2007.”

The dedication page read “To Becca, with your father's love. You are the finest daughter a man could ever have.”

“Look at this,” I said.

“What?” Officer Rivera asked.

I held the book open so he could read it.

He read the dedication and said, “Nice.”

The first poem was an excerpt from Lord Byron's “Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.” It read:

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,

Rising with her tiara of proud towers

At airy distance, with majestic motion,

A ruler of the waters and their powers.

I was reaching to turn the page when Officer Rivera cleared his throat and I looked up.

He held up two clear plastic evidence bags, one larger than the other. “Probably you shouldn't touch the box or the book any more than you already have.”

“Right. Sure. Sorry.”

I slipped them into the bags as he held them open and watched as he sealed and labeled them.

I opened the right-hand bottom drawer, a double-deep one, and came upon two cut-crystal Waterford rocks glasses, a bottle of Pimm's, and another of Royal Lochnager, a single malt Scotch. I stared, my mouth open. That Scotch had been my father's drink.

I touched the label, and I was transported back in time. A memory came to me. We were in our living room. I had a martini. My dad had his Scotch, two fingers, one ice cube, and a splash of water. It was the last time I saw him alive. He asked me what I liked best about living in New York.

“The energy,” I said, not having to think about my answer. “I always have the sense that anything is possible.”

He laughed. “That's not New York, Josie. That's you.”

I sighed and the picture was gone, replaced by an image of Becca, sitting with her dad. She was drinking her Pimm's and lemonade. Her dad sipped his Scotch.
What,
I wondered,
did they talk about?

I closed the drawer and stood up. Officer Rivera took a step forward.

“That's it,” I said.

“Okay, then.”

He walked me to the corridor. I felt his eyes on me as I walked to the reception area, but when I glanced back just before the door closed behind me, he wasn't anywhere in sight.

*   *   *

Nate was reading from a thick book called
The Biology and Conservation of Horseshoe Crabs.
He looked to be about halfway through.

“Nate, right?” I asked.

Nate looked up, blinking the horseshoe crabs out of his head.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I added.

“No problem,” Nate said, smiling. He stuck a thumb in his book to hold his place. “Sorry. I was deep into sperm attachment.”

“Who could resist?”

Nate stood, balancing the book on its spine.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“I don't know if you caught my name … I'm Josie Prescott. I knew Becca's dad. We're cousins, actually. As you might imagine, I'm pretty upset about the whole situation.”

His grin evaporated. He placed the book on the counter, replacing his thumb with a pad of old-fashioned pink
WHILE YOU WERE OUT
message notes. “We all are.”

“Was she particularly close to anyone here?”

Nate shook his head. “Not that I know of. She'd come in, say hi, and go to work. That's what most of us do.”

“When did you see her last?”

“Maybe Monday. The police asked me that, too, and I just don't remember. She signed in on Sunday and she hasn't signed out. I know I haven't seen her today.”

“You don't maintain any kind of records about who's on the property at any given time? No time logs or anything?”

“No. We're pretty old-school, pretty informal. We just keep a list of rooms, so we know what's available if someone wants to bunk down.”

While I tried to think of something else to ask, I nodded toward his book. “You're into horseshoe crabs.”

“Not really.” His eyes twinkled. “They just come along for the ride.”

I laughed.

“Bad pun, right?” he asked.

“Pretty good, if you ask me,” I said.

“My field is lobsters.” He patted the book. “This is just light reading.”

“Tell me you're joking.”

“Sadly, I'm not.”

I laughed again. “Who would you say knows Becca best?”

He paused, thinking. “Maybe Ethan Ferguson. They room together in Boston. They seem kind of tight.”

“I know he comes up here sometimes. Is he here now, by any chance?”

Nate shuffled through some papers, found a room listing, and shook his head. “Nope. Not since Monday.”

“So it's not unusual that no one would see Becca for a day or two or more?”

“Unless you're working with someone on some specific aspect of a project, you have no particular reason to interact with them. As a principal investigator, Becca supervises a bunch of people, grad assistants and so on, but all the fieldwork is conducted autonomously.”

“Might some of her grad assistants know where she is?”

“I doubt it. Up here, Becca's all about being in the field.”

I handed Nate a card. “If you hear from her, will you call me? It's about some paintings. I really need to talk to her.”

“Sure,” Nate said.

He slipped the card into his shirt pocket. I glanced back as I closed the outside door. He had already returned to his light reading. I smiled, but I was also resigned to never hearing from him. I knew that when he took my card out of his pocket probably he wouldn't remember who I was or why he had it.

After a quiet dinner at Zoë's featuring her famous beef stew, Ty suggested we watch some TV, hoping it would help me relax.

“You get the impression I'm not relaxed?”

“I get the impression you're going to bust a gut.”

“Bust a gut?”

“In a ladylike way, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I wish Ellis had been home.”

“He'll be working late for days on this one.”

We settled on a cooking competition reality show, and as I watched, I found myself becoming involved in their stories, rooting for my favorite, enjoying watching their creative choices end up on the plate.

When the show was over, I said, “That really helped take my mind off things.”