Ornaments of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  I looked beyond her to the driveway. The snow was falling steadily. Three inches, maybe four, lay on the ground.

  I brought my eyes back to her face. She was plain, but not homely. She wore no makeup.

  She stared directly into the glass, but since I was standing in the dark, I knew she couldn’t see me. I didn’t know what to do. If she’d shoved a gun under her waistband, I’d have no way of telling. She wasn’t carrying a bag, but her coat was large and shapeless.

  My Browning 9 mm was upstairs in my bedside table. I was a good shot, but that and a dime did me no good if the gun wasn’t at hand. I toyed with running up to get it but dismissed the idea as paranoid. Becca would be a fool to come to my house and shoot me, and if one thing was certain, Becca was no fool. She was a brilliant scientist who’d fallen in love with the wrong man. My long-gone ex-boyfriend, Rick the Cretin, came to mind. We were all fools in our twenties. I opened the door the three inches the chain lock allowed.

  “You’re Becca,” I said.

  She tilted her head slightly so she could see me through the crack. “You’re Josie.”

  “Where is your car?” I asked.

  “Down the hill. I hiked up.”

  I looked out over the quiet night, then back at her. “Why are you here?”

  Her eyes dropped. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered. “I’ve run out of cash. I’m afraid to use any of my credit cards or my debit card, even my E-ZPass.” She raised her eyes and peered at me through the crack. “According to my dad, you’re family.”

  I closed the door enough to remove the chain and opened it wide.

  “Come in,” I said.

  I turned off the porch light and looked across the driveway at Zoë’s house. Upstairs lights were on in Jake’s room, Zoë’s room, and the hall bathroom. I could only hope that Ellis hadn’t chosen this moment to check out the snow. He would easily spot Becca’s footprints and might even have seen her step onto my porch.

  “I can take your coat,” I said, closing and locking the door.

  “Thanks,” she said, pulling off her gloves and stuffing them in her coat pocket. She handed it over.

  She wore an oversized lilac and green flannel shirt over a lilac cotton turtleneck, She ran her fingers through her hair, not fluffing it so much as scratching her scalp.

  “In here,” I said, leading the way into the living room. “I’ll close the drapes before I turn on the lights.”

  I finished smoothing the last of the curtains, ensuring no crack appeared, and switched on the overhead light, a yellow globe with a fan attachment. I turned the fan on low, just to keep the air moving.

  She stood by the couch and took her time looking around the living room and into my study, visible through the open French doors, pausing when she came to my father’s favorite painting, A River Crossing with a Ferry, attributed to Jan Brueghel the Younger. Then she moved on to my mother’s Georgian sterling silver candlesticks, the eighteenth-century Waterford cut-crystal bowl I’d purchased for myself to celebrate my first year in business, the rare books that lined the study shelves—reference books, mostly—the three framed antique maps, and the pair of antique blue floral-patterned Chinese vases.

  “Your home is beautiful,” she said.

  “Thank you. Have a seat.” I waited until she sat on the couch, then took one of the club chairs that faced it. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, thanks.” She smiled, a wan effort. “I used the last of my cash on a sandwich.”

  “Coffee? Tea? A drink?”

  “Tea would be good. Thank you.”

  “There aren’t any curtains in the kitchen, so you should stay here while I prepare it.” I pointed to the powder room door. “The bathroom is in there. I won’t be long.”

  I set the kettle on to boil and took a teapot from the cabinet.

  “Can you hear me?” I called over my shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  “I have herbal tea or black. What would you like?”

  “Black, please. With milk and sugar if you have it.”

  I heard her go into the bathroom, but by the time I brought the tray into the living room and slid it onto the coffee table, she was back on the couch. I poured her a cup and returned to my chair.

  “What about Ethan?” I asked.

  “What about him?” she asked, puzzled.

  “You said you didn’t know where to go … Aren’t you two friends?”

  “Sort of.” She shrugged. “Roommate kind of friends. I wouldn’t trust him with anything like this.”

  “Because you don’t know him well? Or because he’s not trustworthy?”

  “Because I wouldn’t want him to misunderstand a need for a desire.”

  “You were concerned he might think you were coming on to him.”

  “Many men would.” She added a thimbleful of milk to her tea. “I owe you an apology. For hanging up on you. I didn’t know then that Thomas was impersonating my father.”

  “I figured that was what was going on.”

  She stared into her teacup.

  “It’s horrible, isn’t it,” I added, “when relationships go bad?”

  She raised her eyes to mine. “It didn’t go bad. It was bad from the start. I was just too stupid to realize it.”

  “Not stupid,” I said, hoping she would recognize the sincerity in my voice. “Human.”

  “I fell for the fairy tale,” she said, and I thought of Lia. “Thomas was so much older than me. When he asked me out, I was flattered. Beyond flattered. Blinded. All the girls at the company where I worked were sweet on him. I couldn’t believe he picked little nerdy me.”

  On the face of it, Lia and Becca had nothing in common. They differed in age, experience, personality, style, and culture. Yet, on some level, they were sisters under the skin, each falling for a handsome gold digger with a good line. Lia’s desperation to find a man made her vulnerable to a smooth talker. Becca hadn’t been desperate. She’d been ignorant, and thus an easy mark.

  “I bet you weren’t real experienced with men,” I said.

  She made a noise, a soft chortle. “That’s an understatement.”

  “Thomas took terrible advantage of your innocence.”

  “And look what’s happened now—a murder, two break-ins, and an assault. I’ve been reading Wes Smith’s postings. You were attacked.”

  “And they stole your miniature paintings. I’m sick about it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “They’re insured, right?”

  “Yes. My dad used Frisco’s appraisal to increase the coverage.”

  “Thank goodness for small favors.”

  “Do you think they’ll be found?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they haven’t been sold.”

  “Lots of stolen art isn’t sold on the open market.”

  “True,” I said. “I don’t think the thief is a professional, though, who would know how to go about selling stolen art on the black market. I think it’s an amateur who’s lying low, biding time. Professionals are better at it. Whoever is responsible for this is stumbling all over himself. Regardless, we’ve generated so much publicity, even illicit dealers would be leery about buying the paintings now.” I watched her for a moment. “May I ask … will you tell me about Thomas?”

  She stirred her tea far longer than necessary. “What is it you want to know?”

  “What’s going on? Was he holding up the divorce trying to get a better settlement?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t only Thomas. Cheryl Morrishein was just as bad. Together, they were simply unrelenting in trying to get me to sell the miniatures. My telling them that they weren’t mine to sell, and that I would never sell them in any event, had about as much effect as a … a puff of air in stopping a tornado.”

  “When did your dad give them to you?”

  “When we moved to New Hampshire. I hung them in our living room when Thomas and I lived together, but
since we broke up, well, I’ve kept them hidden. I was going to bring them back to my dad, actually, on my next visit.”

  “I saw your separation agreement, so I know that Thomas tried to get them included as marital property, and failed.”

  She nodded. “Thomas’s latest effort is utterly galling, and it’s not over yet.” She sighed and leaned back against the cushions. “The court will probably allow it. His petition was correct. I do inherit the paintings, and we were still married. Thomas left everything to three cousins in England. I’m certain their solicitor will find the petition and try to get half the paintings’ value included in his estate. Damn him! He made my life hell while he was alive, and he’s making it hell now that he’s dead.”

  “I understand Thomas’s interest in the paintings, but where does Cheryl fit in?”

  Her jaw tightened and her brow creased. “She’s the most conniving woman I’ve ever met. I truly didn’t know people like her existed. She manipulates the truth to suit her needs, acting as if her jury-rigged version is true. She blamed Thomas for the partnership tanking—which might be a fair assessment. I don’t know enough about the business to say. Certainly Thomas made most of the decisions. Their first investment went south within weeks.”

  “What was it?”

  “A luxury spa. The project involved getting government permission to build a new island off of Rocky Point. Can you imagine? They invested in the project before the government rendered an opinion, how crazy is that? Once the government said no, the banks pulled out, leaving Thomas and Rupert as the group’s only investors. Thomas said their only hope of getting their money out was to put more in. To me it sounded like throwing good money after bad, but he wouldn’t hear that.”

  “I don’t understand. If the group couldn’t build the island, wasn’t the whole project dead?”

  “No, they wanted to try again in Massachusetts. I thought it was insane, but Thomas thought it was a winner of an idea. When Rupert died, Cheryl demanded Rupert’s investment back, accusing Thomas of fraud. I had and have no legal standing in Thomas’s business dealings, but that hasn’t stopped her. She’ll probably egg on Thomas’s cousins to try to get my inheritance included in the estate, then sue them to get her share before it’s divvied up.”

  “If you have no ownership of Thomas’s business, why would she think you’d pay her off?”

  “She tried two tacks, one, a general ‘do the right thing and make me whole’ approach, the other that since Rupert died because of the business failure, which occurred because of Thomas’s many misrepresentations—the basis of her claim that he committed fraud—Rupert’s blood was on our hands.”

  “That’s some stretch,” I said, tucking a leg up under me.

  “Cheryl’s morality is as elastic as her pocketbook is empty. It’s been a nightmare, an absolute nightmare.”

  “How do you cope?”

  “I work.”

  I smiled at her. “That’s how I cope in tough times, too.”

  She smiled back at me. “I guess we really are related.”

  “Why did you run?”

  “I panicked. I’m still panicked. When I heard the news that Thomas had been murdered, I freaked out—I’d been on Cable Road what must have been mere minutes before he was struck and killed.”

  I waited for her to continue, and when she didn’t I asked, “Were you afraid you’d be suspected of the murder?”

  “Of course. I benefit most by his death.” She pressed her fingertips against her cheeks for a moment. “But it’s not only that. It’s Cheryl, too. I’m powerless.”

  “I’ve got to ask, Becca. Please forgive me. Did you kill him?”

  She didn’t look at me or look away. She stared through me, unseeingly, into the past, or perhaps into the future. After several seconds, she scanned my face, maybe trying to suss out my intentions.

  “No,” she said, “but I’m glad he’s dead.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Her hands curled into fists and rested on her thighs. “I’ve been struggling with the rage. I can’t control it.”

  “When you talk to the police,” I said, “I wouldn’t mention that part.”

  “I don’t want to talk to the police.”

  “I don’t know that you’ll have much choice in the matter.”

  “Do you think I’ll be arrested?”

  “For what?”

  “For killing Thomas. You asked me if I did it.”

  “And you told me you didn’t.”

  She rubbed her forehead as if she were trying to ease a throbbing headache. “I’ve been driving aimlessly for days, neglecting my clams, trying to figure out what to do.” She lowered her hands. “I didn’t even try to make arrangements about my work.”

  “Ethan’s been helping.”

  Her features froze for the three or four seconds it took for her to respond, but when she spoke, her voice sounded the same as it had before. “He is?”

  “So Dr. Bennett says. I understand the foundation has named him the acting principal investigator.”

  “That didn’t take him long.”

  “Everyone was worried about your clams, about protecting your research.”

  “Of course.” She paused for a moment, meeting my eyes. “I’m not surprised the police want to talk to me. I’ve been staying in cheap motels, dreadful places that made me feel as if I’m in a noir film about a woman on the run. I’ve been buying food from drive-through places, wearing sunglasses or hats so people won’t recognize me, and skulking back to my miserable room to eat on the sly. I’ve been slinking into public libraries to read the news, too afraid that the police could trace me through my phone to even turn it on. To an outsider, I can only imagine how it looks—like I’m guilty.”

  “Have you ever been questioned by the police?”

  “On the phone, briefly, after my father died. A detective called to ask if he had been suicidal.”

  “What did you say?”

  Her chin went up an eighth of an inch. “I told him no, never, no way.”

  “When else?”

  “That’s the only time.”

  “It’s going to be different this time around. The police here are going to ask you a thousand questions. I’ve been in that position, so you can believe me when I tell you that you’re going to feel abused, betrayed, embarrassed, and outraged. It’s horrific. What I’m saying is that you need a lawyer, a good one.”

  “I know.”

  “He’ll tell you the same as me, but I’ll start in case the police get to you before he has a chance. Don’t say a word unless your lawyer says you should reply. Not one word. When you do talk, keep your answers responsive and short. Tell the truth, but don’t volunteer any information. Don’t let righteous indignation take hold. If your lawyer tells you to button it, button it.”

  “Thank you. This is very helpful.”

  “Do you have a lawyer in mind? I think you should call him now.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know any lawyers here. Just my father’s solicitors in England. I suppose I could call and ask them to find someone appropriate.”

  “I can make a recommendation, Max Bixby. He’s a rock. He’s my lawyer. If you want, I can call him.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Thank you. Please do.”

  “Do you want to get on my computer and check him out? I don’t want you to feel railroaded.”

  “I don’t.” She tried to smile. “You wouldn’t mislead me. You’re family.”

  I patted her shoulder as I passed by en route to the study. I got Max’s home number from my contact list, snatched up the portable phone, and dialed. His wife answered on the second ring, sounding worried, a visceral reaction to a late-evening call.

  “Hi, Babs, this is Josie. Josie Prescott. I’m sorry to call so late, but I need to talk to Max.”

  “Of course. Here he is. Merry Christmas, Josie.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too, Bab
s.”

  “Josie?” Max said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Kind of. Have you been following the Thomas Lewis murder case?”

  “I read the paper, sure.”

  “Then you know the name Rebecca Bennington. She goes by Becca.”

  “Certainly. She’s missing.”

  “Not anymore. She’s in my living room. She thinks there’s a chance she’s going to be accused of murdering Thomas. They were legally separated at the time of his death, and there was a fair amount of acrimony between them. She asked me to call you on her behalf.”

  “Do you think she killed him?”

  “She’s here with me now.”

  “Give me a yes or no.”

  “No, tentatively.”

  “Can you say why no and why tentatively?”

  I fixed my gaze on my kitchen counter, not wanting to see Becca’s reaction to my reply. “Becca is whip-smart and would know that to run would make her look guilty. If she was guilty, she would have had the smarts to stay and tough it out.”

  “That’s pretty convoluted.”

  “I know, but you asked.”

  “Why tentative?”

  “Because that’s pretty convoluted. Regardless, she needs a good lawyer, Max.”

  “Do the police know where she is?”

  “No.”

  “Tell her not to talk to anyone about anything remotely related to the case. Including you. As your lawyer, I can tell you that the more you talk to her, the longer your own interview with the police will be.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “That’s why you have a good lawyer.”

  I smiled. “Can you represent us both?”

  “At this point, I don’t see why not. Are you in any jeopardy?”

  “No. I’ve been helping the police.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you, Max.” I pushed the END CALL button. “He’ll be here in half an hour. He said you’re not to talk to anyone about the situation, including me.”

  “Thank you, Josie.” Becca stood up. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am, as if I’ve come out of the darkness into the light.”

  “Don’t be too optimistic,” I said. “You’re going to be spending a lot of time with the police, and I’ve got to tell you, that can be pretty darn dark.”