Ornaments of Death (30 page)

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Monday morning I got into work about seven. By nine, I'd reviewed the tag sale financial and inventory reports, caught up with e-mails, and spent some time with Hank. At ten past, I called Lia and asked if she had time for a cup of coffee. She did, and we agreed to meet at ten thirty at Sweet Buns, a new tea shop not far from her spa.

I left at nine thirty and drove to Cheryl Morrishein's ho-hum condo complex. It backed a nice wooded chunk of land and faced the service road that paralleled the highway. Her unit was in the middle of the section closest to the street. I buzzed but got no answer. I tried knocking. A college-age young woman stepped out of the unit next door, slinging a backpack over her shoulder. She had chin-length black hair held off her face with orange barrettes.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm Josie Prescott. You live next door to Cheryl Morrishein?”

“That's right.” She extended a hand and we shook. “I'm Lucy Hillard.”

“You don't happen to know where she is, do you?”

“Sorry. No. I haven't seen her in a few days.”

“I need to see her about an antiques appraisal. It's pretty important that I speak to her. Any ideas?”

“She said she was going to Florida to escape the cold.” She scanned the lot, pointing to a blue Lexus. “That's her car. Maybe she's left already.”

“Wouldn't she have driven herself to the airport?”

“We talked about that. I'm at Hitchens studying physical therapy. I intern at Mass General twice a week, so I drive right by Logan. I offered to drop her if our schedules lined up, but she said it was just as easy to cab to Portsmouth Circle and take the bus.”

“When did she plan on leaving?” I asked.

“I thought she said after New Year's, but what do I know? My head is full of ROMs.” She made a silly face, crossing her eyes momentarily and scrunching up her mouth. “Range of motion—a little student humor. Sorry I can't be of more help.”

I smiled, acknowledging her joke. “Is there anyone you can think of who might know more about Cheryl's schedule?”

She tilted her head for a moment, thinking. “She's pretty friendly with the cheese guy, Harry. Cornwall Cheese, do you know it? It's a dairy farm on Route 16. They sell their own cheese. They also have a little restaurant. She goes every morning for breakfast. I went with her once, and Harry made it pretty clear he thought she was hot, if you know what I mean.”

“I do indeed,” I said.

“They're cute together.”

“Nice!”

I thanked her, watched her get into an old tan Honda, rang Cheryl's bell one more time, and drove to Cornwall Cheese.

I parked on gravel in front of Cornwall Cheese's long, low retail building. Inside, I took stock. Tables and chairs dotted the left side of the big, open room. The café offered walk-up service. A nice-looking middle-aged woman in a pink uniform stood behind a counter at the rear. In back of her were a coffeemaker and an iced-tea dispenser. Large chalkboard menus were mounted high above her head.

On the right side, self-service refrigerated cabinets and handcrafted shelving units allowed easy shopping. The refrigerated cases stocked cheese. The shelves were filled with boxes of crackers and jars of farm-made jams. Three women stood near one of the cheese cases discussing whether to try the hickory-smoked cheddar. A grandfather clock standing against the rear wall chimed the hour. It was just ten. Thick silver garlands were draped along the wall near the ceiling. Shimmering red balls were strung on silver wire in a crosshatch pattern above my head, creating a crown of glittery warmth.

“Howdy,” a friendly-looking man said.

He wore a blue cotton shirt, the cuffs rolled up nearly to his elbows, and jeans. A white apron covered his clothes from neck to knees. He looked to be in his late fifties. From his receding hairline, I guessed he'd be completely bald in another year or two. He was about five-ten and thin, with an open, good-natured countenance.

“Are you Harry?” I asked.

“So my mother tells me,” he said with a smile. “How can I help?”

“I'm Josie Prescott, and I hear that you know Cheryl Morrishein.”

“I sure do. Glorious woman.”

“I need her help with an antiques appraisal. By any chance, do you know where I can find her?”

“Home, maybe. She left about an hour ago.”

“Oh, she had breakfast here?”

“Same as most days. Eight sharp.”

“I'll try her there,” I said.

“Tell her I told you she's beautiful, which she is.” He winked. “Help me out some.”

I smiled. “Harry, I have a feeling you don't need a bit of help when it comes to the ladies.”

He puffed out his chest a little and chuckled.

I thanked him, then drove to Sweet Buns to meet Lia. I wondered why Cheryl hadn't answered her door, then recalled the list of reasons Taylor gave why Ian might not have answered his at the hotel. Maybe Cheryl was taking a bath or listening to music on headphones. Or maybe she just wasn't in the mood for company. I dismissed the question from my mind. That she drove a blue car was comforting.

*   *   *

Sweet Buns smelled of apples, cinnamon, and vanilla, the aroma of home. I ordered my new favorite flavor of tea, black currant, and a cinnamon roll-up. Lia had coffee. We paid at the counter and carried our trays to a small round table by the front window. A bright red poinsettia served as the centerpiece. An electric candle twinkled cheerfully on the windowsill. Across the street, the colorful lights twirled around the Christmas tree in the gazebo gleamed. Seven lights on the menorah were aglow. Wispy clouds sailed across a pale gray sky.

“Any news about your attacker?” Lia asked as we got ourselves situated.

“No, not that I've heard. I know they're talking to everyone they can think of.”

“Me included,” she said, shaking her head as if she couldn't believe the police considered her a suspect. “They called it an interview, but it felt more like the third degree. God only knows what they thought I could tell them. They even asked to see my car!”

“You drive a silver Lexus. The car that blocked the road was gray or silver—a sedan.”

“Just about everyone drives a silver car.”

“True. Did they satisfy themselves that your car was innocent?”

“It's in the shop for a tune-up. I told them they were welcome to go see it, or they could wait a few days until it was finished.” Lia snorted, a soft huff that wasn't nearly as ladylike a sound as she probably thought it was. “I realized they seriously considered me a suspect when they asked where I took it.” She waved it aside. “I told them that if I was going to kill anyone it would be my loser ex-husband, not my good friend Josie.”

“What a mess,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “Have you ever heard the name Thomas Lewis?”

Lia stared at me for a moment. She sipped her coffee. “No. Should I?”

“I think Wes might have reported it by now—that's the fake Ian's real name.”

“Thomas Lewis,” Lia repeated, as if she were trying recall why the name sounded familiar. She looked out the window. “Why do you figure he picked me to snooker?”

“I doubt it was a setup, Lia. I suspect he was sincere.”

She half-laughed; her lips twisted into a semisneer. “Right.”

I didn't know how to respond to her derision. Maybe she wanted reassurance. Maybe she wanted to indulge in some man bashing. I stayed quiet.

After a moment, she asked, “Was he British or was that a lie, too?”

“He was from England. London, I think. But he lived in North Conway.”

“So close and yet so far away. I was there last year for that spa expo.”

“I remember.”

“This year it's in Pawtucket. Jeesh!”

“A long drive.”

“And then you're somewhere you don't want to be,” she said. “Pawtucket. Pa-leeze. So what are you and Ty doing for Christmas?”

“Nothing, I don't think. We like to keep holidays low-key. How about you?”

“Same old, same old. Nothing.”

I couldn't think of what to say to that either. I finished my tea and the last bit of roll-up, licking the cinnamon sugar from my fingers. “I'm like a little kid with these roll-ups. If I weren't a mature adult, I'd lick the plate, too.”

Lia laughed and stood, prepared to leave. “I love them, too, but I don't eat them anymore.” She vamped a little. “I have to be careful to maintain my girlish figure.”

“You look fabulous, Lia, so whatever you're doing is working.”

“Too bad no men are noticing.”

I stood up, loaded our dirty dishes onto a tray, and carried it to the receptacle.

“I'm sure I'll see you before the holiday,” I said, putting on my coat.

“Thanks for calling,” she said, and headed out.

I found her negativity exhausting, more so than I recalled. Either she was getting worse or I was becoming less tolerant.

*   *   *

I'd only been back at my computer for ten minutes when my good buddy Shelley called from New York.

“Our paths keep crossing,” she said.

“A good thing! I miss you, Shelley.”

“I miss you, too, Josie. Are you ready to end your sweet little field trip up north and come back to New York?”

I glanced around my office, taking in the framed cover from the issue of
Antiques Insights
magazine where Prescott's was named a “small house to watch” in its annual roundup of the fastest-growing antiques auction houses in the nation, the plaque from the Chamber of Commerce commemorating Prescott's role as a business partner during Career Development Day at Rocky Point High School, and the nicely mounted certificate of appreciation from one of my favorite charities, New Hampshire Children First!, honoring my fund-raising skills. The charity offered innovative programs designed to help children with disabilities, like therapeutic horse rides and computer skills training.

“I think I'm here to stay, Shelley,” I said. “You need to come up and visit. See what all the hoopla is about.”

“Hoopla!” she repeated, chuckling. “So talk to me about your interest in the Cooper appraisal.”

“Don't tell me you did it.”

“All right. I won't. But our Boston location did. Jeremy Maran is the managing director there now. You remember Jeremy, don't you?”

“Suave. Saturnine. Sensible.”

“You've got him pegged. He still dresses like an Italian count, talks about the impending end of the world, and runs the place like a well-oiled machine. He knows we're friends, so when he saw your posting, he called me. What gives?”

“When did he do the appraisal?”

“Clever, Josie. Instead of answering a question, ask one.”

I smiled. I'd learned the information-gathering technique from Wes. It usually worked well.

“Just doing my due diligence. I'm getting ready to do an appraisal on what I'm guessing is the same pair of miniatures. The last appraisal I've seen is from a Chicago-based consultant in the mid-1980s as part of a purchase agreement, so yours is new to me. When did you do it?”

“These are the miniatures you listed as stolen.”

“I'm confident they'll be found. When did Jeremy do the appraisal?”

“October 2014.”

“Who was your client?”

“You know I can't reveal that information!”

“Sure you can. Just between us girls.”

“And the next thing I hear is how you've poached a client. Jeremy will never forgive me.”

“First of all, you know I'd never in a million years do such a thing. Second of all, there are complexities that make it a matter of some urgency. I need the name, Shelley.”

“Oooh, you're scaring me.”

“You scared.” I laughed. “That's something I'd like to see.”

“Have you ever seen me around a spider?”

“No, what happens?”

“I've been known to leap out of moving cars.”

“Poor baby. So who's your client?”

“No can do.”

I swiveled to face my window, assessing whether I had any leverage to pry the name loose. The still-fast-moving clouds had thickened and darkened, and the swirling sky looked bulbous, full of moisture and ready to burst.

“Was it Thomas Lewis?” I asked.

“Jeez, Joz, what are you, psychic?”

“He's dead. He was murdered. His wife's apartment in Boston was ransacked. Both the Rocky Point and Boston police think the crimes are connected and that the miniatures are involved somehow. Fill me in and I promise I'll never reveal my source. If you don't, I'll have to tell the local police and they'll have to tell the Boston police and court orders will be issued and the next thing you know—”

“—the next thing you know, Frisco's name will be splashed all over the media as a company that rigorously protects its clients' privacy,” Shelley said, interrupting. “If any of those police officers are cute, remember I'm single.”

“I can get you publicity. The good kind, how you're helping the police. I'll ensure your name is spelled right.”

“What kind of press?”

“Local. The minor mention that gets retweeted and goes viral.”

“Here's what I know from Jeremy: Thomas Lewis walked into the Boston office saying he wanted the paintings appraised for insurance purposes. The pair of miniatures was valued at $1.29 million. If sold separately, Arabella would go for less than the king. Once the appraisal was complete, Mr. Lewis indicated he was interested in selling them. Jeremy e-mailed him the contract, and about a minute and a half later, Jeremy got an angry e-mail from a woman identifying herself as Thomas Lewis's wife, Rebecca Bennington. The paintings, she stated, were her property, not Thomas's, and she had no intention of selling them. She said she'd be there in an hour to pick them up. You can imagine the sticky wicket this put us in.”