Ornaments of Death

by Jane K. Cleland

  Through the window, I saw Starr, the pink-haired makeup gal on my TV show, Josie’s Antiques, standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette, nodding as she listened to someone out of sight. She rubbed her upper arms and rocked from side to side, trying to stay warm.

  My TV show’s director-producer, Timothy, stood a few feet farther back, toward the trees that ringed the property. He was staring at his mobile phone as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Ellis came into view. Ellis Hunter was Rocky Point’s police chief and a good friend. Since he had begun dating Zoë, my best friend, landlady, and neighbor, I’d gotten to know him well. Ty and I had often gone out with them together as couples. Ellis stepped inside, saw me, and smiled and waved. He said something to the young woman staffing the reception table.

  Zoë came alongside me and asked, “How are you holding up? Ready for your big moment?”

  I was scheduled to say a few words at eight forty-five, and I wished it were over. I hated being in the limelight, which was odd, given that I was the face of Prescott’s Antiques, often giving media interviews, and had just finished a full season of Josie’s Antiques.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Divine party,” Lia Jones, owner of my favorite day spa and a kayak buddy, said as she passed by.

  Lia looked chic, as always. She used her spa’s services, and it showed, from her curvy figure to her cascading auburn hair to her flawless complexion. She smiled and gave an airy wave as she darted away.

  “Lia sounding upbeat,” Zoë remarked. “What a concept.”

  “After the year she’s had…,” I said, letting the half-expressed thought remain unspoken.

  “After the year she gave herself, you should say. Her misery is a self-inflicted wound. Divorce sucks, but you don’t have to drag it out.”

  “You’re harsh.”

  Zoë shrugged. “Experienced.”

  “Your situation was different,” I said. “No alimony was involved.”

  “True,” she acknowledged. “My ex is still back in Oregon, too, whereas Lia’s loser is here in town.”

  Ty and Ellis joined us, each carrying two glasses of Prescott’s Punch, a holiday-themed martini I’d invented. A mixture of cranberry juice, ginger ale, and vodka, and garnished with a sprig of mint, it was sweet and tart and looked like Christmas.

  “I love this martini, Josie,” Zoë said, after tasting it. “I’m thinking you ought to start a side business as a mixologist.”

  Zoë, tall and model thin, was wearing her hair short this year. Ellis, over six feet and built like an athlete, was a perfect physical match to her, but their connection was more than physical. They fit emotionally, too, both wounded birds glad for a safe new nest. Zoë talked tough, but her divorce had drained her confidence. Ellis’s wife’s death had drained him as well. She had been a Broadway dancer, and like so many of them, she’d smoked. After she’d died a gruesome lung-cancer death, Ellis had retired from his job as a New York City homicide detective and taken the police chief job in Rocky Point, to see, he said, if Norman Rockwell had it right about small towns. The jagged red scar that ran next to his right eye was barely visible under the indirect incandescent lighting.

  After we chatted for a moment, Ellis asked Zoë, “Can I steal you for a minute? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  After they left, Ty touched his glass to mine. “Here’s to you, gorgeous.”

  I clinked my glass against his. “And to you, handsome.” I sipped the martini, then asked Ty for the time. I never wore a watch because it always seemed to get in the way while I worked.

  “Eight thirty. Why?”

  “In fifteen minutes I have to say welcome and thank you and happy holidays.”

  “And you’re dreading it.”

  “A little.”

  He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “You’ll do great.” He nodded toward Ian, standing amid a clutch of thirty- and forty-something single women, Lia included. “Do you like Ian?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Knowing he made a fortune in software, I’d expected him to be, I don’t know, reserved. Instead, he’s friendly and funny.” I sipped my drink. “What do you think of him?”

  “He seems like a stand-up guy. I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “You’re both research junkies.”

  “That’s true. I hope I can match his record someday. He’s learned more about his heritage in a year than most professionals could in a decade, and he said it was easy.”

  The music stopped abruptly, and I spun toward the band to see what was up. Timothy stood onstage, holding a microphone against his leg so it wouldn’t pick up his voice. A drum roll sounded. Timothy walked to the riser’s edge and surveyed the crowd, catching eyes, nodding at someone in back of me, smiling, waiting for quiet. He lifted the microphone to his mouth.

  “Excuse me for interrupting everyone’s merry-merry. I’ll only be a moment. I’m Timothy Brenin, and I work with Josie on her TV show, Josie’s Antiques.” He looked at me and winked. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with New York—and for those of you who aren’t familiar with TV lingo, that’s a euphemism. ‘New York’ refers to the big-cheese powers that be who have the ability to green-light a project.” Timothy paused, allowing anticipation to swell and swirl. He grinned, a big one. “The head of network programming just called to let me know that Josie’s Antiques has been renewed.”

  Applause started in back of me and rippled forward until everyone was clapping, including Timothy, who tucked the microphone under his arm.

  “Congrats!” someone called.

  Someone else yelled, “Brava!”

  I wondered if my amazement showed. I’d thought of the show as a lark and had been delighted that it had lasted a full season. Meeting Timothy’s eyes, I put my hands together as if in prayer, chin high, and bowed my head, a silent tribute to the man behind the curtain.

  He nodded, acknowledging my sentiment, and raised his eyes. After a moment, when the applause ebbed, he continued, “As many of you know, Josie’s Antiques has been consistently reviewed as ‘charming, informative, and entertaining,’ What I’ve just been told is that Josie’s Antiques finished the season at number one in its time slot among all cable reality shows.” He looked directly at me. “Congratulations, Josie. You’re number one.”

  The applause started again, louder now, and people surged toward me, patting my back, hugging me, sharing the joyous moment. Someone started a call of “Speech, speech!” and the mantra caught on, growing louder and more insistent.

  I squeezed Ty’s hand, walked to the stage, climbed up, and took the microphone from Timothy, hugging him briefly and kissing his cheek. He stepped down.

  “In fifteen minutes,” I said, “I was scheduled to make a few remarks.” I smiled and paused for a moment, letting the goodwill from people I respected and admired flow into me. “I wanted to welcome you to Prescott’s, thank you for coming, and wish you happy holidays. I planned to ask you to raise a glass and join me in a toast. I’ll still do that in a moment, but first I want to thank Timothy.” I lifted my glass in his direction and winked away unexpected tears. “Thank you.” I raised my eyes and took in the room. “To the best director-producer in the world. To Timothy.” I sipped my martini, sealing the toast.

  “Hear, hear!” someone called from the back.

  More applause rang out. Timothy clapped his hands along with everyone else.

  “To the entire production team, many of whom are here tonight. Without them, Josie’s Antiques wouldn’t be a success. To the team!” More applause sounded as I raised my glass to the room. I took another sip of martini.

  “And to us all,” I said. “Here’s to silver light in the dark of night.” I took another sip, smiled, and ended with “Happy holidays, everyone.”

  I handed the microphone to the pianist, and as I approached the stairs, Ty appeared to help me down.

  “Well do
ne, Josie,” he whispered in my ear. “Sweet, sincere, and short. The perfect speech.”

  I rested my head on his shoulder for a moment. I couldn’t believe we’d been renewed.

  The band started up again, playing “Jingle Bells” this time. I stopped trying to remember who hugged me and who shook my hand and who kissed my cheek. Everywhere I turned, people were smiling and clapping. After a while, the crowd quieted, and my staff came up. We did a private “Oh, my God! Can you believe it!” celebration before Gretchen had me pose for photos with Timothy and the crew.

  I scanned the room, wanting to find Ian, when something outside caught my eye, a shimmering shadow crossing the outside spotlights that illuminated the entryway. A woman in a tan cloche hat pulled low and a dark brown coat, with the collar turned up high, stood in profile, her gloved hand covering all of her face except one eye. She peered into the room for three or four seconds before slipping away. A friend of a guest, I suspected, running late, wanting to see if he was here before she came in.

  She didn’t come in.

  I didn’t like it. Why would a woman peek in my company’s window in the middle of a party, then disappear?

  I dealt in high-end antiques, and any anomaly was worrying. The warehouse security system had been alarmed, so on the face of it, there was nothing to be concerned about. Still, with a room full of people, some of whom I’d met for the first time tonight, the risk of robbery, while small, was heightened. I slipped out through a side door by the restrooms and was hit by a blast of teeth-rattling cold.

  “Yikes!” I exclaimed. White plumes of icy air encircled me when I spoke. “It’s cold enough for ice cream.”

  My mom, the original I’ll-make-lemonade-from-lemons gal, always used to say that when I’d complain about a particularly bitter cold snap. We tested her theory once and made ice cream outside, using a six-foot-high snowbank outside the kitchen door as our freezer. I smiled a little, remembering more than the yummy ice cream we’d succeeded in producing. Tonight, it was a wind-charged thirty, not incapacitating by New Hampshire standards, but about twenty degrees south of no-coat weather. I dashed around the corner, my heels click-clacking on the frozen pavement. No one was in sight. I ran to the middle of the parking lot, stopped, and listened for footsteps or a motor revving, for any sound of life. All I heard was winter quiet.

  Pole-mounted lights lit up the entire lot. I did a slow survey but spotted no unexpected shadows or dark spots. I could see the small red dots indicating that the security cameras affixed to the light fixtures were on. Two men stepped outside, laughing. One thumbed on a lighter while the other leaned in so his cigarette could catch the flame. I took one last look around and headed back inside, calling a cheery hello to the men as I jogged past.

  Inside, the shock of warmth was as paralyzing as the blast of cold had been, but in a good way. I smiled at the young woman working the reception table, a temp hired for the evening. She was setting out the goodie bags, aligning them in an attractive diagonal pattern.

  Lia saw me and dashed over to give me a congratulatory hug, drawing me into the room, before flitting off toward the bar.

  Gretchen came up. “I’m really, really excited the TV show’s been renewed,” she whispered.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I whispered back, “but me, too.”

  She giggled. “It’ll be our secret.”

  “Here’s another one. I want to organize a celebration luncheon for us all, just the key staff—me, you, Sasha, Fred, Eric, and Cara. Here in the dolled-up auction venue. Catered by the Blue Dolphin. Pick a day that’s good for everyone. Get a temp in to cover the phones. Book Academy Brass. Don’t tell a soul.”

  Her eyes lit up like stars. “Oh, Josie!”

  “There she is!” Zoë called, talking to Ty, pointing at me. She waggled her fingers like a policeman directing traffic, telling me to come toward her.

  I hugged Gretchen and zigzagged my way to reach Zoë and Ty, and just like that, I was swept back into the festivities.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Midway through the party, Zoë said, “Ty and I want to know if you were as surprised your show was renewed as you looked.”

  “More.”

  “It’s kismet,” Zoë said.

  “I thought it was hard work.”

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “Now that you mention it…”

  Ty brought me a drink, and we made our way to the stage where the band was playing “Blue Christmas.” When they finished, we wove our way across the room, mingling, laughing, chatting, moving on.

  Everywhere I looked, people seemed to be having a good time. Zoë rejoined me as Ty disappeared into the crowd, and we stood in companionable silence, our shoulders touching. Across the room, I noticed Ian and Lia, their eyes locked. Ian said something, and Lia threw back her head, laughing, her Titian hair falling in soft waves to her shoulders. I smiled with vicarious pleasure. Ian touched Lia’s shoulder and nodded at something she said.

  “Look,” I whispered to Zoë, jerking my head in their direction.

  “Good for her!” Zoë whispered back.

  “I love her dress,” I added.

  Zoë tilted her head, considering Lia’s outfit. Her forest green satin sheath was short, stopping three or maybe even four inches above her knees, and it fit her as if it had been stitched onto her. The long sleeves only served to emphasize the sexiness. She wore black stilettos and dangling diamond earrings. I thought she looked like a million bucks.

  “It would look better on an eighteen-year-old,” Zoë said.

  “I think she looks fabulous.”

  “No question, she looks fantastic. That’s not the issue. The issue is what she’s trying to prove. She should dress her age.”

  “I think you’re being unfair. All I see is a seriously attractive thirty-eight-year-old woman maximizing her assets.” I glanced down at my own little black dress. The scalloped hem brushed the top of my knees. The scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves provided modest coverage. The heels on my sturdy black pumps were chunky and only two inches high. I wore a strand of pearls with matching stud earrings. I looked nice, in a conservative, appropriate way. It was my style, and I was okay with that, but secretly I wished I felt comfortable dressing like Lia—sexy and bold and glamorous. “I wish I looked that good.”

  “You do.”

  “You’re just saying that because you love me.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re beautiful, Josie, but you dress your age, not like a bimbette.”

  “Maybe I’ll try dressing a little younger. Midthirties shouldn’t mean dowdy.”

  “You don’t look dowdy.”

  “Looking at Lia, I feel dowdy.”

  I told Zoë I’d see her later and headed off, taking a circuitous route toward Ian and Lia, greeting people as I walked, pausing to chat with various friends and clients.

  “Hi, guys!” I said when I joined them.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Ian said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper, his eyes twinkling. “To impress Lia, I worked that we’re distant relations to Winston Churchill into our conversation. Back me up, okay?”

  “You got it,” I replied, matching his tone, my eyes twinkling, too. I puffed out my chest. “Ian and I are related to Winston Churchill.”

  Lia giggled with delight.

  “So is that a yes to dinner?” Ian asked her.

  “Yes,” she said, looking happier than I’d seen her in I couldn’t recall how long. It was as if she’d shed her year of despair in an hour.

  Ian looked at me. “Thanks, cuz.” He puffed out his chest, mimicking me. “She said yes.”

  “Winston Churchill is a draw.”

  Lia laughed. “Ian knows I would have said yes no matter who he was related to.”

  “I take nothing for granted. Expect the best and plan, plan, plan, so you never see the worst. And this”—Ian spread his arms wide, changing the subject—“is definitely the best. What a magical party, Josie! The de
cor is remarkable. I wish Becca were here to enjoy it.”

  “You only have the one child?” Lia asked.

  “Yes. She’s in Boston for the year, working on a marine biology research project. And you? Any children?”

  “None, I’m afraid.”

  “Maybe you will one day.”

  “Hmmm,” Lia murmured. She sipped her drink, gazing at Ian over the glass rim, holding his eyes. “I bet you’re a wonderful dad.”

  Ian shifted his attention to the band. The ensuing silence lengthened and grew increasingly awkward.

  “Now that Josie’s Antiques has been renewed,” I said, jumping in, “maybe Becca will let me use those miniatures on air.” I turned to Lia and explained about the pair of seventeenth-century watercolor paintings.

  “I’ll ask her,” Ian said. “I should think she’d consider it an honor.”

  “Lia!” Madge Sweeny called, approaching us from the back.

  Madge Sweeny was a much-admired client. She was smart and savvy and hadn’t taken a wooden nickel in a year or eight. She was a dedicated collector of anything related to cocker spaniels, and a new member of our kayaking group. She joined our little cluster, and I introduced her to Ian.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” Madge said to Lia, leaning in for a butterfly kiss. “I want to organize a spa day event for my daughter-in-law’s Christmas present.”

  “What a fun idea!” Lia said.

  As the two women fell into a discussion of whether a seaweed treatment was a better option than a mud bath, Ian and I separated ourselves a bit.

  “I worry about Becca being so alone,” Ian said. He laughed and looked embarrassed. “That’s me talking, not Becca. The truth is she’s pretty introverted. I keep trying to get her more involved in the world, and she keeps telling me she’s happy the way she is, that she’s perfectly content keeping her own company.” He held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s a delightful young woman, very friendly. When you meet her, you won’t have any sense that she might be feeling awkward. It’s just that she prefers quieter gatherings to big parties.”