I thanked her again and hung up.
I sat for a while with my hand on the phone thinking that Polly Davidson-Fox was one of the kindest people I’d spoken to in a long time.
I dialed England again, this time reaching Ms. Earling’s law clerk, a young man named Samuel Wellster.
“We’re waiting on word from the coroner,” he said when I asked where they were in the process of settling Ian Bennington’s estate. “We filed for probate, of course, but the courts are leery to finalize things when the cause of death is up in the air.”
“Who is his beneficiary?” I asked, understanding Mr. Wellster’s unspoken message: A killer can’t benefit from his crime.
“Give me a minute to look it up.”
I sat listening to silence for several minutes until Mr. Wellster came back on the line.
“Mr. Bennington made some charitable donations. Everything else goes to his daughter, Rebecca.”
“Is the estate substantial?”
He chuckled. “Yes.”
“Are you Becca’s solicitors, too?”
“I can’t say. I can tell you about the will because that’s part of the public record. Ms. Bennington’s affairs are not.”
“I understand,” I said. “Are divorce records public?”
“Usually. In certain circumstances, they can be sealed.”
“Can you tell me, then, if you handled Becca’s divorce?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“What charities did he donate to?”
He rattled off a list that included Reynard University, his local parish, a birdwatching club, and an organization that researched innovative treatment options for pediatric cancer. I tried to think of other questions to ask Mr. Wellster, but I couldn’t. I thanked him and ended the call.
Learning the real Ian’s preferences felt slightly voyeuristic. I hadn’t ever met the man, yet here I was getting to know him after his death. From what I could see, Ian Bennington might be a semibillionaire, but essentially he was a simple man, loyal to the university that hired his daughter and fond of his community.
I brought up my work contact list and called a British lawyer I’d worked with in the past, Derek Carlson.
“In connection with a potential appraisal,” I said, after we exchanged greetings, “I need information about a divorce. Would you please review the Bennington-Lewis divorce records and let me know its status?”
“Certainly.”
He took down the specifics and told me that, unless there was something untoward in the case, he’d be able to report his findings within a few hours. I glanced at the time on my computer monitor—4:37. I thanked him, and we chatted for a minute before hanging up.
I e-mailed Ellis a bulleted list detailing the additional facts I’d learned, then made my way on weary legs up the stairs to bed.
It felt as if I’d done a good day’s work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I awakened to a screech. I groaned and rolled over.
It didn’t stop.
I slapped the pillow, and when that didn’t quiet the noise either, I tossed the pillow across the room, I don’t know why. By then I was awake enough to realize that the sound was coming from my old alarm clock, a relic from my childhood. I hoisted myself onto one elbow, moaning a little as my muscles objected to the move, and tapped the button to turn off the cacophony. I collapsed back onto the mattress.
It was nine thirty. Late for an early riser like me. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to get vertical. A memory came to me.
Midway through my senior year in college, I’d called home in a panic. I had three midterms to study for and two papers to complete and I couldn’t figure out differential equations and I’d already met with my professor and understood the concepts when he explained them but couldn’t apply them when working on my own, and I felt overwhelmed and upset and disgruntled, and I didn’t know what to do.
“Go to the library,” my dad told me, as assured and unruffled as always, “and look at different texts on the subject. Since different authors describe the same things differently, often one explanation gets through whereas others don’t. Once you find a book that speaks to you, do the exercises.”
“That all sounds logical,” I said, snuffling, “but I can’t. I just can’t! I don’t know what to do. I’m completely freaking out.”
“Are you ready for my final words on the subject?”
I stopped snuffling. I didn’t like the sound of that. “Final” sounded bad. “Yes.”
“Don’t think—do. Get through this week, then come home for the weekend, and I’ll take you out for dinner.”
I did as he recommended. I stopped thinking about how hard things were and started focusing on getting things done. It made all the difference. I aced everything, except for math, where I got a B. I’m pretty proud of that B.
Smiling at the memory, I stood up and tested my range of motion. Not bad. I made my way to the shower.
“I’m doing. I’m doing,” I said aloud.
I stumbled into the bathroom, ready to face the day.
My dad’s keep-on-keeping-on approach saved me in college, and it saved me now.
* * *
I pulled Derek Carlson’s fax regarding Thomas and Becca’s marital status from the machine while Fred filled me in about Becca’s watercolor miniatures.
We’d had no hits on our stolen-art postings, but he’d discovered that the two paintings had not been sold at auction since 1924. They had, however, been featured in a 1986 exhibition at the Midlands Art Museum in Newark-on-Trent, England, with the loan credited to “Anonymous.” The exhibit had been called Love Lost.
“That’s the most recent information I can find,” Fred said.
“Almost thirty years. That’s not recent by anybody’s standard.”
The phone rang. I paused as Cara answered it. She put the caller on hold.
“It’s Wes,” she said, her eyes clouded with worry. “He says it’s urgent.”
I wasn’t concerned. To Wes, everything was urgent.
“Ask him to hold on for a minute.” I turned back toward Fred. “Did you find the catalogue?”
“Just now. It was archived, with access limited to scholars only. Luckily, Sasha’s PhD covers us.” He grinned and pushed up his glasses. “I’m her research assistant.”
I smiled. “You clever man, you. Well done! Send me the link, will you?”
“I’ll e-mail you the document. I downloaded the PDF.”
I gave him a thumbs-up and ran for the stairs, pleased that the stiffness and soreness on my left side had mellowed enough so that I could move with familiar ease.
* * *
“Ethan Ferguson is a fraud,” Wes said, jumping in.
“What are you talking about?” I asked, dropping the fax on my desk and sliding into my comfy leather chair.
“He was born and reared by a single mother, a waitress, in the City Center section of East St. Louis, Illinois, which according to NeighborhoodScout is the most dangerous neighborhood in America. No joke. Not one of the most dangerous neighborhoods—the most dangerous. His mom died when he was sixteen. That same year, he graduated high school, won a scholarship to do an extra year at Phillips Academy, the hoity-toity prep school in Andover, Massachusetts, moved east the day after graduation, and never looked back. It was after he left that he acquired his middle names. Until then, he was just plain Ethan Ferguson. He wrote an article for the alumni blog explaining what happened. Two of his teachers helped him—I’m quoting here—‘understand that the past doesn’t need to dictate the future.’ That’s good, right? Well put. Anyhow, Ethan named them: Ms. Klein and Mr. Quinn. He was so grateful, he went to court on his eighteenth birthday to take their names, so his legal name is now Ethan Klein Quinn Ferguson. Isn’t that a hoot?”
“I think it’s nice, Wes. He’s not a fraud. He reinvented himself. Do you know how hard that is to do?”
“I guess.”
“T
hat’s why he named Andover as his birthplace.”
“Sounds like one heck of a school to have that much impact. I’m trying to get a photo of him when he was at Phillips.”
“Why?”
“To go with the article. Following your lead, maybe I’ll call it ‘Fraud or Reinvention?’ What do you think?”
“Oh, God, Wes—don’t publish it!”
“What?” he asked, scandalized. “Why not?”
“Write about the man he is now, witty and hardworking, not the boy he used to be. Let the past stay past.”
“I thought he was a suspect.”
“Maybe he is,” I said. A small brown bird landed on my maple tree and walked along the bare limb toward me. “That’s unrelated to this discussion. Don’t diminish his accomplishment by showing how the sausage was made.”
“What’s going on, Joz? It sounds like you’ve gone a little soft for him. You and Ty having trouble?”
“Of course not! My feelings for Ethan have nothing to do with my feelings for Ty.”
“Really?” Wes asked, morphing from investigative reporter to kid brother. “If Maggie talked about another guy the way you’re talking about Ethan, I’d be kind of, I don’t know, jealous, I guess.”
The little bird stared at me for a moment, then swooped toward the ground, veering left. I lost sight of it halfway across my parking lot. I swiveled back toward my computer.
“I can see that,” I said. “If Ty talked about another woman that way, I’d be jealous, too.”
“So what’s the difference?”
“I know myself. I can enjoy a man’s company without it meaning anything salacious. I don’t flirt or mentally try on a relationship or anything.”
“What does Ty think?”
“I don’t know. Ethan hasn’t come up.”
“How about other guy friends?”
I thought of Ellis. “He’s fine with it.”
“Because he trusts you?”
“Because I’m trustworthy. Because I adore Ty and he knows it. I make him feel secure, not insecure.”
“So doesn’t learning this about Ethan make you suspect him more than before? I mean, now you know he’s good at hiding secrets.”
“I can’t say he was hiding anything. His background never came up.”
An IM window popped onto my screen. Cara wrote: Chief Hunter on line 2.
“I’ve got to go, Wes.” I hit REPLY and typed: OK. I’ll take it.
“Wait!” he called, back to his reporter self. “Talk to me. You’ve got to give me something I can print.”
“I can’t, Wes. Not now. I have another call.”
“Josie! You owe me.”
I thought about whether there was a downside to telling him about Thomas Lewis. I’d discovered Ian’s true identity through a simple Google search. My eyes took in Mr. Carlson’s fax. Everything I knew was public information, including whatever it was Mr. Carlson had sent. I’d hired him as a time-saver, not to ferret out confidential information.
“Do an online search for ‘Ian Bennington’ and ‘Christmas Common.’” I clicked over to Ellis. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No problem. I am a master of multitasking. I’m eating a ham sandwich, reading the Seacoast Star, and thinking about the real Ian Bennington, all at once.”
“You are a master. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks for letting me know what you learned. I had it on my radar to check Ian’s background. Now I’ll make it a priority.”
“I have a fax I haven’t read from England about Becca’s marriage to Thomas. I’ll e-mail you once I’ve read it. Any news for me?”
“No one’s used your phone or credit cards. I set up alerts, so I’ll know if and when.”
“I hate this.”
“I understand.”
“I’m going to buy another phone today.”
“Makes sense.”
As soon as we hung up, I picked up the six-page document Mr. Carlson had faxed. In addition to the cover letter, he’d included a copy of the Lewises’ separation agreement. Mr. Carlson wrote that he’d called Mr. Lewis’s solicitor for an explanation as to why the divorce hadn’t been finalized and learned that Mr. Lewis had filed a petition contending that his wife was hiding assets, specifying that two seventeenth-century miniature watercolors he knew were in her possession weren’t listed in her declaration of assets. Ms. Rebecca Bennington’s solicitor had countered that the paintings were her father’s, not hers. While the court was considering Mr. Lewis’s request, he filed an additional petition. This one, submitted a week after Ian Bennington’s death, stated that since Rebecca was her father’s sole heir, and since, by her own admission, the miniatures were owned by Mr. Bennington, and since he and Rebecca were still married, the paintings were now incontestably marital property. The petition included a demand that the paintings be produced for appraisal.
If I were Becca, I thought, I’d be beside myself with impotent fury, the rage of the righteous. Whether her dad had given her the paintings as a housewarming gift as Thomas said—which seemed credible, given they were in her possession—or whether they were merely on loan from her dad, once Ian died, they were unquestionably hers. If I were faced with the prospect of being ordered by a court to give half their value to a man I was divorcing, I’d be mad enough to kill. I wondered if Becca had been, too. I scanned in the document and e-mailed it to Ellis, then sat and stewed. My radar needed readjusting. Thomas Lewis was not a nice man. After a while, I turned my attention to the catalogue Fred had dug up.
The catalogue photographs appeared identical to the two oval-shaped paintings I’d removed from Becca’s apartment. I called the Midlands Art Museum.
I spoke to a young woman with a clipped businesslike tone. Her name was Agnes Wollingford. She was the curatorial assistant, and all she had for me was bad news. She didn’t know anything about the 1986 exhibit, Love Lost. She didn’t know anything about Cooper miniatures. She didn’t know who in the museum might know more. And what she did know didn’t help me one bit. I read her the staff names from the exhibit catalogue, the curator and his two assistants.
“So sorry,” she said. “They’ve all retired. I heard Mr. Janson passed on last year.”
“Do you have contact information for the others?”
“I don’t. Perhaps the Human Resources people might, but I shouldn’t think they’d give it out.”
“True. What about the records, curatorial notes, and so on? You confirm provenance for every object, don’t you?”
“Certainly, although if a loaned object comes with an appraisal from a reliable source, which they usually do, for insurance purposes, you know, then we might rely on that assessment.”
“And the paperwork for this exhibit?”
“Gone, I’m afraid. We sent all records to a document conversion company in 2005, about time, right? Our goal was to go paperless, so we wanted all past documents scanned in. We hoped to create one mega- and searchable database. Before the company started the scanning, there was a fire. Everything was destroyed.”
“That’s an appalling loss,” I said, horrified on the museum’s behalf, on the art world’s behalf.
“I know. We were all shattered. Just devastated. It happened during my first week on the job. Quite an introduction.”
“I can’t imagine. I’m so sorry.” I stared at the staff listing in the catalogue. “There’s an intern listed, Florence Moore. Have you ever heard of her?”
“Certainly. Dr. Moore is a professor of art history at Baldine College in Manchester and the curator of its small but distinguished collection of Baroque art. She’s quite well respected.”
I thanked Agnes for her help, hung up, and Googled the college.
Thirty years is a long time. If Florence Moore had been in her twenties then, she’d be in her fifties now. I found the Web site, clicked through to the Art Department, and dialed the number.
“Dr. Moore, please,” I said to the young woman who answered.
>
“I’m sorry. Dr. Moore is at a conference. Can someone else help you?”
“No, thank you. What’s the conference?”
“Dr. Moore is keynoting,” she said, pride rippling through the phone lines, “at the New England Museum of Contemporary Art conference on ‘The New Baroque: Using Art to Fight Religious Oppression.’”
“That’s here! I’m calling you from Rocky Point, New Hampshire. The museum is in Durham.”
“Exactly! Do you know it?”
“Yes, indeed. It’s only about half an hour away. The topic sounds fascinating.”
“We’re all terribly excited. The speech title is the title of Dr. Moore’s new book. She’s getting interview requests from all sorts of media outlets. To bring the Baroque into a contemporary sociopolitical context—well, you can just imagine!”
I smiled. She reminded me of Sasha, passionate about art to her core and certain that her enthusiasm was universally shared. I found it endearing.
“When’s Dr. Moore keynote?” I asked.
“Tomorrow at ten.”
“What’s going on tonight?”
“A cocktail party,” she gushed, “at a restaurant called the Blue Dolphin. I’ve heard it’s ever so smart.”
“You heard right! It’s a very special place.” I thanked her again and hung up.
I typed in some keywords and navigated to the conference schedule. The cocktail party was due to start at six.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Blue Dolphin was a world-class restaurant brought back to life after a crash-and-burn meltdown a few years back.* The company that bought it brought in a turnaround pro named Suzanne Dyre as general manager. Tall and elegant, Suzanne epitomized gracious hospitality, a perfect fit with the restaurant. She was a perfect fit for Fred, too, and they’d been a couple for a few years now.
The Blue Dolphin was housed on the ground floor of an eighteenth-century brick building wedged into the corner of Bow and Market Streets. A cobblestone alley separated the building from the tumultuous black Piscataqua River. A thick stand of hardwood trees, poplars, maples, birch, and oaks lined the riverbank. By early December, when the glittering gold, red, orange, and yellow leaves had fallen, you could see through the bare branches to Maine.
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