In front of me was a long corridor leading to the ground-floor guest rooms. To my right was a back staircase leading up. Wes said there were no security cameras in the hallways.
I climbed the steps. Room 218 faced the ocean. I knocked, then knocked again. I tore a sheet from my notebook, found a pen, and wrote: Dear Ian. I couldn’t think of what else to write. I had nothing to add to my request to call me. I stuffed the paper back in my bag, tossed the pen in after it, and knocked one more time. I pressed my ear against the door and held my breath. All I heard was silence.
As I retraced my steps to the staircase, I counted doors. Ian’s room was third from the end. Outside again, I counted balconies, found the third one from the end, and tried to see in the windows. The drapes were open, but the room was dark. I saw no movement, no telltale shadows, no glimmer of light from the television, nothing that suggested someone was in the room. An image of Ian’s body lying on the carpet came to me unbeckoned and unwanted. He could be ill. He could be injured. Except, I reminded myself, my optimism soaring, his car isn’t here.
Not knowing what else to do, I drove to Ellie’s and the Blue Dolphin, looking for his car. I even drove around every level of the central parking garage. I cruised the streets, going every which way, looking everywhere and anywhere. A few minutes into my seemingly aimless trek, Ty called to tell me his plane had landed. I pulled to the side of the road and set my flashers.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
“I’ve become philosophical.” I filled him in about what I’d learned from Wes and what I’d done to try to see into Ian’s room and locate his car. “Ian is either fine or he’s not, and if he’s not, there’s nothing I can do about it that I haven’t already done. I’m driving around to satisfy myself I’ve done all I can, not because I expect to find him or his car.”
Ty told me he thought my attitude was sensible, and we agreed to talk later, just before bed. As dusk descended and the snow picked up, I called it a day and drove home.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday morning. I woke up just after six, as breathless and befuddled as if I’d run a marathon. I struggled onto one elbow, fighting the haze of sleep, inexplicably twizzled between the top sheet and a blanket like a braid. I tried to recall whether I’d had a bad dream, and if so, what it had been about, but I couldn’t. I untwirled myself and sat up.
Ian.
It wasn’t a dream.
I grabbed my iPhone and checked for messages. Ty had sent an “I love you” text around midnight, after I’d fallen asleep, but there was nothing from Ian. I texted Ty that I loved him, too, ratcheted up my willpower, shook off the residual mist, and rolled out of bed.
Downstairs, I poured myself a cup of coffee and called Ian’s mobile phone and his hotel room, and as expected, he didn’t answer either. I didn’t leave messages. Instead, I put on my happy face, telling myself that Ty was right, that Ian had hooked up with a super-hot date and would resurface soon. Optimism was my default position in most things, and until Ellis would accept a missing persons report, my best strategy was to wait as patiently as I could. Trying to get media attention and calling Becca and asking her if she’d heard from her dad, the only two proactive options that had occurred to me overnight, were fraught with problems. If Ian strutted in with a cutie on his arm only to find an outraged daughter and a bank of cameras, he’d probably never speak to me again. I got Ellis’s point. Grown-ups have every right to do exactly what they want.
* * *
Around eleven that morning, Cara called me on the intercom. She had an antiques dealer on the phone she thought I should talk to. He had a piece of Civil War ephemera that sounded good to her.
We were planning an antique auction for next fall called Southern Life. So far, we had two remarkable examples of Southern-crafted furniture, a seventeenth-century pie cabinet and an 1823 hand-hewn rocking cradle, as well as three Alabama-made ornate brass escutcheons dating from the 1730s and an 1859 blue pottery hooded candle holder. Given the enduring popularity of Civil War collectibles and the scarcity of Confederate objects, I was determined to add in as many Civil War–era Southern pieces as I could. To that end we were calling antiques dealers throughout the South. Normally Sasha or Fred would make the calls, but today Sasha was at an appraisal in Rye and Fred was meeting with a Boston museum curator about a Cambodian artifact we were trying to authenticate, so I had Cara calling around, knowing I was on-site and able to jump in as needed.
“I know how silly that must sound,” Cara said, laughing a little. “I don’t know enough about antiques to tell you it’s good … but, well … you’ll understand when you talk to him. His name is Mitchell Glascowl, and he’s from Oxford, Mississippi. His company is Glascowl’s Junque.” She spelled out “Junque” for me. “He said he has a Civil War recruiting poster.”
“Get out of town. Confederate?”
“Yes. From Tennessee.”
“Thanks, Cara.” I clicked through to the call. “Mr. Glascowl, this is Josie Prescott. I understand you’re going to make my day.”
“I don’t know about that, young lady. You’re in a buying mood, are you?”
“I am if what Cara tells me is true. I understand you have a Civil War recruiting poster. I’d love to hear about it.”
“It’s plenty valuable.”
“Only to someone who wants to buy it.”
He made a noise like a train in a tunnel, a low rumble, not loud—a laugh, I guessed.
“I guess that’s you,” he said.
“Maybe, if it’s real-deal good stuff.”
“That’s what I got.”
“May I call you Mitch?”
“Mitchie Rich, if we’re gonna be friends.”
“I get a sense we’re going to be good buddies, Mitchie Rich. I’m Josie.”
“I never did understand why you Northerners only get one name.”
“Me either. Any chance you can send me a photo or scan of that poster so I can get a look at it?”
“Sure. I’ll do that now and e-mail you.”
I sat by my computer, eagerly awaiting the poster’s arrival. Most extant Civil War recruiting posters were from Northern states. Finding a Confederate one in good condition would be a real coup. It wasn’t merely that it would sell for top dollar as part of an important auction of Southern objects; including a significant Confederate component would also help us generate national publicity for the show itself. Three minutes later, Mitchie Rich’s e-mail arrived.
The poster was black on pale ocher, although the paper might have started out white. If so, it had faded fairly evenly, but there was no way to tell for sure until I had it in hand under strong white light. The text was a stirring call to arms. “The Yankee War is now being raged for ‘beauty and booty,’” it read. “To excite their hired and ruffian soldiers, they promise them our lands, and tell them our women are beautiful—that beauty is the reward of the brave.” It went on to ask, “Shall we wait until our homes are desolated; until sword and rape shall have visited them? Never!” It was chilling. It was war.
I called back. “Hey, Mitchie Rich, I got it. Thanks for sending it on. It looks to be in pretty good condition. How much are you looking for?”
“What’s it worth to you?”
“Seller names the price.”
He paused, and I could tell he was pricing the customer—me—not the poster. I hated that. I waited, a lesson learned long ago from my dad. Let the silence hang.
“Eight hundred,” he said, almost making it a question.
Considering the impact of overhead, research, and marketing costs, Prescott’s policy was that we never paid more than a third of what we thought an object would sell for at retail. This poster would sell for more than $2,400, far more, if it was real. Prescott’s had another policy, though. We tried our best to buy cheap and sell high. We never lied, but neither did we do the other guy’s job for him.
“What can you tell me about provenance?” I asked, hoping Mitchie Ric
h would assume I was stunned by the high price and trying to justify it to myself.
“What do you want to know?” he countered.
His question got me wondering whether he was covering that he was unfamiliar with the word, and that got me wondering about his business. He might be a one-man operation, storing his inventory in his garage and attending flea markets on weekends. I tapped “Glascowl’s Junque” into Google. Mitchie Rich rented a small space in a shared antiques barn, the kind of place where he paid rent or commission and maybe had to work a shift or two a week to boot.
“Where you got it,” I said.
He gave another low rumble. “You know better than that, young lady. Sources are confidential.”
I also Googled “TN Civil War recruiting poster antique buy” and saw there were none for sale. I checked two subscription antiques Web sites with the same inquiry. Nothing, which was both good and bad news. Mitchie Rich wouldn’t know its value relative to its competition, but neither would I.
“I can’t pay top dollar unless I know the poster is real.”
“It’s real all right. I got it out of an attic in Collierville, Tennessee, along with a lot of other old stuff. An estate sale.”
“I’ll need the family’s name to see what role they played in the war.”
“Well,” he said, “since I bought the entire estate, there’s no poaching I need to worry about. If you buy the poster, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“What other antiques might I be interested in? I think Cara explained that I’m putting together a show on Southern life. We’re open as to period, so long as the objects are at least a hundred years old and reflect some distinctive element of Southern living.”
Mitchie Rich had lots of suggestions, none good. I was a stickler for maintaining our definition of an antique. If an object was less than a hundred years old, we called it vintage or a collectible. We sold plenty of collectibles in the tag sale, but none in our high-end auctions. The cookie jar he suggested had MADE IN OCCUPIED JAPAN stamped on the bottom, dating it between 1945 and 1952. The Orrefors vase was Scandinavian, and from his description—squared-off, black-and-white textured glass—I knew it had been produced in the 1960s. He also offered undated, routine pottery pieces, miscellaneous costume jewelry, used furniture, and a quilt, which, he said, was in perfect condition except for a small tear in a corner. I was also a stickler for condition. If it was chipped, ripped, burned, scarred, or otherwise marred, we wouldn’t offer it at auction.
“It looks like this one poster is all I’ll be buying,” I said, “but that’s all right. I’m glad to have it. Eight hundred is too rich for my blood, though. I’m thinking four hundred is fair.”
“No can do. Seven hundred.”
“Less a dealer’s discount?”
He paused, thinking it over. “Ten percent.”
“Twenty.”
“You drive a hard bargain, young lady.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said. “You’re a shark. Can we settle on five hundred sixty, then?”
“Seven hundred is fair, but I’ll give you ten percent. Call it six thirty, and you’ve got a deal.”
When I said okay, he gave his trainlike rumbling laugh, and I knew he thought I was a sucker. That made our transaction the best of the best—I might not like someone taking me for a patsy, but at the end of the day, we both felt like winners.
* * *
At noon, I found myself sinking back into depression, gloomy thoughts about Ian stubbornly refusing to be vanquished. I reheated some roasted vegetable soup I’d prepared over the weekend, using the recipe my mother got from her good friend Linda Plastina, and the rich aroma soothed me a bit. It wasn’t enough, though, to dispel my anxiety. I wasn’t good at waiting. I needed to act.
* * *
The photographer who’d worked my holiday party had sent us all the photos he’d taken. It was Gretchen’s job to sort through them and select an appropriate mix for our archives. She also culled any beauties that might appeal to individuals; those were framed as special gifts from Prescott’s. I remembered that I’d been cc’d on an e-mail from the photographer giving Gretchen the access codes to the photo storage site.
I found the link and password and opened the folder. I ran through the photos quickly looking for a clear full-face shot of Ian, noting that we never did get a photo of the two of us. Ian must have left before Gretchen could organize it. There weren’t many options, but in between a fun photo of me and Zoë toasting the camera with our glasses of Prescott’s Punch and a crowd scene where everyone was near the stage listening to Timothy, I found the perfect image. Ian was focused on Lia, unaware of the camera aimed his way. I copied the photo onto my desktop, cropped it to eliminate all extraneous material, including Lia, and printed two copies.
* * *
Lia’s Spa was located four doors down from Ellie’s in a prime location across from the village green. It also occupied an old manufacturer, although not a chocolate factory, and it, too, had been renovated to preserve the original character. A wall of mellowed brick meshed perfectly with the eggplant and turquoise color scheme. Old wooden cross beams accentuated the high ceilings. For the holidays, dark purple and teal plaid bows adorned the windows and walls, Pinecone- and peppermint-scented candles stood on tall wooden stands that ringed the room, their flames twinkling. More of the ribbon twirled around the stands from base to holder. A silvery pink aluminum Christmas tree stood on the reception desk next to an olive-wood menorah. Silver, seafoam green, and purple teardrop-shaped ornaments dangled from the tree’s metal branches. Seashell pink crocheted angels suspended on clear filament from the wooden beams drifted in the ambient breeze and appeared to be flying. The overall look was as unexpected and elegant as Lia.
I pushed open the oak door just as Lia was shaking hands with a middle-aged man in jeans and a blue parka.
“Thanks for taking the time to come and take a look at it,” she said. “Maybe I’ll be able to swing it later in the year.”
“Anytime,” the man said, and left.
Lia smiled at me. “Look what the breeze blew in! How you doing, Josie?”
“Pretty good. Do you have a minute to talk?”
“Sure,” she said, her eyes growing wary.
She didn’t look defensive, exactly, but there was something in her demeanor that made me feel as if I were walking on eggshells, or ought to be.
“Hi, Missy,” I said, smiling at the receptionist.
I’d known Missy for as long as I’d been coming to Lia’s spa, which was the whole time I’d been living in Rocky Point. Last spring, Missy had asked my opinion about whether it was safe for her daughter to move to New York City. As if she could stop an aspiring actress who’d landed a full-ride scholarship to NYU from moving.
“How’s your daughter liking the big city?”
She looked a little wistful. “She loves it.”
“I knew she would.”
“Allen and I are going down for Christmas. My first visit.”
“New York is very special during the holidays.”
Lia held open the nondescript white door marked PRIVATE, and with a “see ya!” wave to Missy, I followed Lia down a long corridor. Lia’s office was, I knew, at the rear. The austere stark white walls and muted gray industrial carpeting contrasted sharply with the opulence of the client areas. Her office was equally plain, a place to work, not relax. I couldn’t help but notice that the paint was chipped and scratched and the carpet near the threshold was threadbare.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” I said. “I’ll only keep you a minute.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Have a seat. Tell me what I can do to help.”
“It’s Ian. I haven’t heard from him, so I thought I’d stop by and ask if you have.”
Lia raised her chin. “No.”
“I’m so worried,” I said. “I try not to be, but I am.”
“I’d be worried, too, Josie. It’s worrying. I barely kno
w him and I’m upset. Do you have thoughts about what might be going on?”
“No,” I said, stopping myself just in time from sharing Ty’s opinion that Ian might be off with another woman.
As Lia walked me out, we agreed to let one another know the minute we heard anything. I waved good-bye, got in my car, and for the second time in two days drove straight to the Rocky Point police station.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As I walked through the densely falling snow toward the weathered, cottage-looking building that housed the Rocky Point Police Department, a bitter wind tore off the water. I flipped my hood up, glad I’d parked close to the door. Inside, I approached the chest-high counter that divided the lobby from the working area and waited for someone to look up. Two uniformed police officers were huddled together in the back talking. Ellis was leaning over someone’s desk reading from the monitor. Cathy, the civilian admin who served as office manager, was pouring a cup of coffee from a Mr. Coffee machine that lived on a two-drawer file cabinet near her desk.
Cathy saw me out of the corner of her eye and smiled. She was plus-sized, with blond hair teased high and ice blue eyes, and she knew more about the inner workings of the police station than anyone else.
“Hi, Josie,” she said.
Ellis looked up.
“Hi, Cathy.” I met Ellis’s gaze, pumping mine full of gravitas. “We need to talk.”
“Sure,” he said.
He unlatched the swinging partition, stepped through into the lobby, and headed to his private office. I trailed along. He swung the door closed, and it latched with a sharp snap.
“Is this about Ian Bennington?” he asked once I was inside. “Nothing’s changed, Josie.”
“Sure it has. It’s now forty-eight hours, give or take, since anyone has seen him. He’s a foreigner, Ellis, a stranger to Rocky Point. Do you need me to raise hell with the British Embassy, or will you act as if I’m a rational person making a reasonable request?”
His lips pressed together. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”
“See if he’s in his hotel room. He may be sick. Maybe he slipped in the bathtub and hurt his head. Trace his car. What if he lost control on black ice and plummeted into a ravine? He told me he was struggling with driving on the opposite side of the road from what he was used to, and I doubt he’s ever driven in the kind of winter conditions we have around here. Find him.”
Ornaments of Death Page 5
