Ornaments of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Okay,” I said. I glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall over the refrigerator, a mahogany beauty, a Chessman original. “Half an hour. The Portsmouth Diner.”

  I got there first and ordered coffee.

  Since Wes had hooked up with his Maggie, he’d cleaned up his act. No longer did he breakfast on a double order of bacon and a Coke; instead, he ordered a fruit salad, coffee, and an English muffin, no butter.

  “So … talk,” he said to me, after the waitress had delivered our coffees.

  I did. I told him about the break-in and my paralyzing terror. I described the sounds the glass made as it tumbled to the ground, hiding in the tub curled in the fetal position, and the shambles the burglar left behind.

  I sighed, remembering the anxiety, the fear, the helplessness. “What about Becca? Is there any word on her whereabouts?”

  “Nope. Same old, same old. No sightings. No credit or debit card usage. No E-ZPass records at the tollbooths. Her car is old; it doesn’t have GPS built in.”

  “What about planes?”

  Wes shook his head. “She’s not on any passenger manifest. She could have bought a train ticket for cash. They’re checking security cameras.”

  “How could they? There must be thousands of train riders each day.”

  “They use facial recognition software.”

  “Really? That’s amazing.”

  The waitress delivered Wes’s food and refilled our cups.

  “Do you think Becca has the paintings with her?”

  I thought of the secret drawer in the desk, empty, not quite closed. “Maybe. Any word from the medical examiner?”

  “Based on the points of impact, she’s determined that Ian was struck by a small sedan, and that there is likely to have been significant damage to the vehicle.”

  My eyes opened wide. “Becca drives a small car.”

  “I know,” he said, with relish. “The ME estimates that the car was moving at thirty-five to forty miles per hour at the moment of impact.”

  “On a short dead-end street?”

  “There’s more. From the tire tracks, there’s no way the body could have ended up where it was found, facedown, under a bush, without human intervention. She’s ruled the death a homicide.”

  “Oh, Wes,” I whispered. “How awful.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, sounding bloodthirsty.

  “You should write an article asking people to call the police if they see her, saying that maybe she’s in trouble and needs help.”

  “Do you think she’s in trouble?” Wes asked, intrigued.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you don’t think Becca killed her dad?”

  “I can’t bear to think about it, Wes. I just can’t.”

  I couldn’t stop the image of Ian and Lia laughing and flirting at my party from coming into my mind, either. Lia’s first moment of hope after a year of misery, as dead as Ian. As unseemly and off-putting as Lia’s initial reaction to Ian’s death had been, I understood how she could feel that way. Poor Lia. She seemed unable to yank herself out of the quagmire that was sucking her into a morass of wretched despair.

  “I looked it up,” Wes said. “When a daughter kills her father, it’s called patricide. It’s rare. Only about a hundred occurrences a year.”

  “But it happens.”

  Wes grinned. “Oh, yeah.”

  * * *

  When I got to my office around nine, Gretchen showed me Wes’s tweets. Within minutes of leaving the diner, he tweeted: Becca Bennington, call the Rocky Point police at 603.555.1919. Your help is needed. #FindBecca. The second one read Have you seen Becca Bennington? She may be injured or sick. If you’ve seen her, call 603.555.1919. #FindBecca.

  I didn’t know how to react to Wes’s tweets. He was doing as I asked, but it seemed so out there, I couldn’t imagine anyone responding.

  “What’s the early reaction?” I asked.

  “Good. Lots of retweeting, expressing concern, encouraging people to call in if they’ve seen her. Community support.”

  “I hope it works.”

  I turned to Sasha and asked if there’d been any hits in response to our call for sightings regarding the miniatures.

  “No,” she said, “but I got a call from a dealer in San Francisco wanting to sell one.”

  “Not of Arabella or the king?”

  “No, but it is a Cooper.”

  I smiled. “And of course you got a full description, including price information, for future reference.”

  She smiled back, pleased. “Already filed away.”

  “You’re so good!”

  Her eyes brightened with pleasure. “I have news about the Amberina glass, too. Ms. Gastron accepted our proposal.”

  “That’s terrific! What do you think of the collection?”

  “It’s lovely. The most valuable piece is probably the spooner. It might go for as much as six thousand dollars.”

  “Great news.”

  Upstairs, I tapped through the photos on my phone until I came to the Meadow’s receipt. I e-mailed it to Ellis with a note that I was following up, then called the company.

  “Meadow’s,” a pleasant-sounding woman said. “This is Belle.”

  I introduced myself. “I’m trying to find a secret compartment in a Meadow’s bed, and I’m hoping you can tell me how to locate the latch.”

  “A secret compartment?”

  “Yes. It’s a match piece to a tallboy and a desk. I found those hidden compartments, but I can’t find the one in the bed.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said.

  “Who would?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there a furniture designer there I could talk to, Belle?”

  “What did you say your name was?” she asked, sounding harried.

  “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll stop by. What are your hours?”

  She rattled them off, relieved to answer a normal question, and eagerly got off the phone.

  I was halfway down the steps when Cara’s voice came on the PA system.

  “Pick up, Josie,” she said.

  I grabbed a wall phone.

  “A woman named Marney Alred to see you,” Cara said. “About some miniature paintings.”

  “Bring her up!” I told Cara, and dashed back to my office.

  I was standing by my desk when an attractive woman in her forties stepped into the room. Her light brown hair fell to her shoulders. She had long bangs. She wore a red waffle-knit Henley over sensible black wool pants. She wore no makeup, but she didn’t need any. She looked as if she’d walked off a billboard touting the benefits of wholesome country living.

  “Thank you, Cara,” I said.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Cara asked her. “Coffee? Tea? Lemonade?”

  “No, thank you,” the woman said.

  “Have a seat,” I invited as Cara left, pointing to one of the guest chairs. I sat behind my desk. “I’m Josie Prescott.”

  “Thank you for seeing me without an appointment,” she said. “I’m Marney Alred. I stopped in because a friend of mine, Rebecca Bennington, told me she planned to sell two paintings, and I want to buy them.” She raised a fluttering hand. “At such a time, with her dad dead, and in such a way, well, I don’t want to push. But I don’t want to miss out, either. I thought I ought to come to you directly.”

  “I understand … It’s terrible about Ian. I’d love to facilitate the sale, but I don’t have any of Ms. Bennington’s paintings.” Realizing I shouldn’t reveal that I knew anything about a pair of miniatures, I asked, “Which ones are you interested in?”

  “The watercolor miniatures.” She smiled. “I saw them once—and fell in love with them. You don’t have them?”

  “No.”

  “Rebecca said she was calling you.”

  “When was that?”

  She thought for a moment. “Monday, I think.”

  “Where did you see her?”
r />   Her brow wrinkled. “Why?”

  I grinned. “Occupational hazard for a researcher. I ask whatever occurs to me. I never know what’s important until after the process is over.”

  “Amusing,” she said, with a hint of a smile. “So Rebecca didn’t call?”

  “No. I wish she had. Do you have her contact information? I’ll be glad to reach out to her and let her know you’re interested in buying the miniatures. Sometimes knowing there’s a willing buyer is all it takes to motivate a seller.”

  She rattled off Becca’s number, and I jotted it down on a small sheet of notepaper. I was disappointed to see that it was the same one Ethan gave me. She provided her own contact information, too.

  “You must know her well to have her number in your head,” I said

  “Well enough.”

  I slipped the paper under the glass paperweight Zoë gave me for Christmas last year. It was the kind that had a sleeve built in for a photo. The photo Zoë chose was one of her and me on a sled, tearing down the hill in back of her house on Christmas Day, a year earlier. Ty took it from the flat at the bottom of the hill. We were a blur of legs and arms and open mouths shouting in joyous exhilaration. I wiggled one of my business cards from the leather holder I kept on my desk.

  “Here’s mine. The number on the bottom is my cell. You can reach me anytime.”

  She dropped it into her handbag and stood up. “I’ll hope to hear from you soon.”

  I walked out from behind my desk, swinging my tote bag up onto my shoulder.

  “Thanks for coming in,” I said. “I’ll walk out with you.”

  As we crossed the warehouse, she chatted easily about how lovely Rebecca was, how shocking and upsetting it was to learn that her father had been murdered, and how impressed she was with Becca’s accomplishments. I murmured appropriate nothing-sayings. Marney smiled politely around the office and left.

  I watched her make her way to her silver Lexus, grabbed my coat from the rack, and told Cara, “I’m heading out. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  Someone at Meadow’s knew something. I was sure of it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It took almost an hour and a half to reach Franklin, the birthplace of the renowned statesman Daniel Webster. Nineteenth-century stone buildings sat amid rolling farmland, now covered in snow. I followed the AREA ATTRACTION signs to Meadow’s Village.

  Before turning in, I pulled over to the side of the road and Googled “Meadow’s Village.” The community had been formed as a Shaker village in 1787; it closed in 1973. The current owners, two brothers named Will and Buddy Bisset, had converted the thirty-five-acre property into a multiuse destination site. One factory on the property produced wooden gift products like candlesticks and baskets; another crafted fine furniture. The village also housed a country restaurant, a small museum featuring exhibits from the area’s Shaker heritage, a pick-your-own herb garden, cross-country ski runs, and a gift shop.

  I turned in, passing fifteen-foot-high granite columns connected by a wrought-iron arch. The gilded MV logo was in the center. Gilt letters read WELCOME TO on the left and MEADOW’S VILLAGE on the right. The drive was long, a quarter mile or so. I parked next to the Welcome Center and went in.

  The small octagonal freestanding building was modern in design and construction. Sun streamed in through the skylights and double-paned windows, rhomboids of golden light crisscrossed the hardwood flooring. A sixty-inch flat-screen TV stood on a tall pedestal in the center of the room. The show, a documentary, or a promotional video, perhaps, was muted. I watched for a moment as a middle-aged woman in a mob cap and long gray gown churned butter.

  Racks and display cases scattered throughout the room showcased the various attractions available at Meadow’s Village. Two women and one man sat behind a blond wood, S-shaped counter. All three wore headsets. The man, older than me by a lot, was typing on his computer. One of the women was young, barely out of high school, I suspected. She was talking to someone, giving directions. I wondered if Cara would like headphones. The other woman, about my age, smiled, welcoming me in.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling back. “I have a question about a hidden compartment in one of your beds.”

  Her smile dissolved into nervousness. “We spoke on the phone.”

  “You’re Belle. Hi! May I talk to someone in the furniture department?”

  “Did you want to go to the showroom?”

  “Good idea.”

  Belle gave me directions, and I left through the back door. I walked along a winding pathway, past the now-dormant herb garden, next to the snowshoeing pavilion, and through the brightly lit gift shop. Clever merchandising, I thought, to take me on a tour.

  I reached the wood-framed structure Belle had described. It looked more like a ski lodge than a cabinetmaker’s shop or showroom. The sign over the double-wide doors featured the now-familiar logo and read “MEADOW’S VILLAGE FURNITURE.”

  Inside, the showroom was warm and gently lit. Sample rooms ranged around the perimeter: bedrooms on the right; living-dining room combos against the back wall; dens, game rooms, and media rooms on the left. In the center were additional samples arranged in seating areas, as well as displays of wood finishes and, directly in front of me, samples of hidden cabinets. A wooden sign embellished with gilt letters read MEADOW’S FURNITURE: THE WORLD’S LEADER IN PRIVACY COMPARTMENTS.

  A woman in a burgundy and pink plaid pleated skirt, burgundy turtleneck sweater, and black knee-high boots approached from the left. She was about my age, with chin-length blond hair and dark blue eyes.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Monica. Can I show you anything in particular or did you just want to look around for a while?”

  I nodded toward the privacy compartments. “I’m interested in seeing one of these in action. On a bed.”

  “Sure. Follow me!”

  Monica led the way to a display table in the center of the room.

  “All our privacy compartments are custom designed and fitted, so what I’m showing you are samples that reflect the kinds of work we can do.”

  She reached for a block of golden oak, about 12" x 7" x 6", and held it chest high so I could see it clearly. She tapped a slender piece of molding that ran along the top.

  “Do you see this molding? If you push it here, look what happens.”

  She pushed a spot about halfway across lightly, and a narrow rectangular drawer, only about 4" wide and 3" deep, slid outward.

  “Isn’t that precious?” Monica asked.

  “Precious,” I agreed. “What would someone use it for?”

  “We call it a ring drawer—most often this one’s in a makeup table. Don’t you love it?”

  “I do, but I’m looking for compartments in a bed.”

  “The ring drawer could be in a bed.”

  I didn’t want to interrupt her well-rehearsed and well-staged demonstration, but seeing examples of what might be created wasn’t helpful to either one of us. I wasn’t a customer and didn’t want to waste her time, or my own.

  “It might be easier,” I said, “if I explain why I’m asking.” I pulled out Becca’s receipt. “I need to locate the hidden compartment built into this particular bed.”

  Monica frowned, her eyes on the receipt. “I don’t understand. You bought the bed and now you can’t find the privacy compartment?”

  “I’m an antiques appraiser.” I dug out a business card and handed it over. “I need to find the secret cubbyhole—the privacy compartment,” I said, correcting myself, knowing that using the same words as the other guy was one of the ways you build rapport, “as part of an appraisal.”

  “How interesting!” Monica’s brow smoothed out. “I don’t know if I can help you, though. Since every piece is customized, it could be anywhere. Or nowhere if the buyer chose not to put one in.” She opened her arms, palms up. “Sorry.”

  “Who would know?”

  Monica bit the side of her bottom lip, thinking.

  After several
seconds, I added, “The receipt shows an account number. Surely you can look it up.”

  “I think I’d better take you to the shop foreman.”

  “Thanks!”

  She wove a circuitous path through the displays. Every piece of furniture featured well-oiled matched-grain wood. Between the graceful lines and unadorned style, the designs were modern, yet evocative of Shaker simplicity.

  “Who designs the furniture?”

  “Buddy Bisset, one of the owners. He doesn’t like to be called an owner, though. Or a designer. If you ask him, he’ll tell you he’s a cabinetmaker.”

  “My grandfather was a cabinetmaker.”

  “Mr. Bisset will be glad to know that.” She lowered her voice. “He’s also the shop foreman.”

  She pushed open an unmarked door in the middle of the rear wall and we were on the factory floor, facing a desk and the security guard seated behind it. The guard, who looked Scandinavian, like a Viking, stood up. He was six-five, at least.

  “Hi, Walt,” Monica said. “Ms. Prescott is an antiques appraiser. She needs to talk to Mr. Bisset.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  Walt set off toward the back.

  “You can wait here,” Monica said, pointing to a nearby bench. She extended her hand for a shake. “It was a pleasure meeting you. If I can do anything else, let me know!”

  I thanked her, impressed with her polished professionalism. I sat down.

  The workroom was larger than a football field, with eighteen-foot-high ceilings, and while I saw lots of high-end saws and lathes and dies, there were no assembly lines, no automation of any kind. A boy wearing old-fashioned blue jean coveralls pushed a broom down an open aisle, brushing sawdust along the cement floor. All the workers were men. I counted thirty-seven of them. Light came from fluorescent and incandescent lights high overhead and the transoms on all three outside walls just below the ceiling.