“After what I’ve been through,” she said, picking up the tray, “being able to tell the truth will be a relief. I haven’t done anything wrong.” She smiled, a small one. “And now that I have a lawyer, I can walk into your kitchen without fear that someone will see me and report it to the police.”
“You’re right, but the need to make your presence known is a bit more urgent than you realize,” I said, following her into the kitchen. I pointed through the big window toward Zoë’s house. “Do you see that house? That’s where my friend Zoë lives. She dates Police Chief Hunter. He’s there now.”
She placed the tray on the counter and turned toward me, her lips forming a big O.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Max will take care of everything.”
I placed the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and put the milk away, then. “There is something else I need to ask you, though.”
Her eyes narrowed as a guarded expression took hold.
“Come back into the living room.”
She followed me without comment.
“Where’s your gun?” I asked.
She took a step back as if I’d threatened her. “What?”
“I found the hidden compartment in your bed. The privacy compartment. From its shape, I could tell it was built to hold a gun, but there was no gun in it. The company told me all their work was custom, which means you ordered a compartment to fit a gun. Where is it?”
She didn’t reply. She didn’t move. The only change occurred in her eyes. She was looking at me as if I were a hunter and she were prey.
“Don’t be foolish,” I said. “You’re about to be invited to the police station, Becca. If they find you carrying a weapon you neglected to mention, a bad situation will get much, much worse. Let me keep it for you.”
“You’ll report this to the police?”
“Only if you don’t turn it over.”
“And—assuming I have a gun—if I do?”
“I wouldn’t tell anyone. Thomas wasn’t shot, so it’s not relevant.”
Becca walked into the hall, moved her coat around to get it oriented the way she wanted, and dug into a partially zipped outside pocket. She handed me a shiny silver gun, butt first.
The gun had curved edges and decorative grooves of varying lengths and depths stamped into the metal. I’d never seen anything like it.
“An art deco weapon?” I asked.
“Earlier. It’s a Dreyse 1907. German made in the early twentieth century. My grandfather brought it back after World War I.”
“How on earth did you get it into this country?”
“I took it apart and shipped the pieces in separate boxes.”
I gaped. “And all the boxes arrived intact?”
“Yes.”
“That is so not reassuring.”
“I know.”
“Why? What made you decide to ship a gun to Boston?”
She walked to the front window and fingered the drapes apart. She stood that way, with her back to me, for close to a minute. “The weather report said we’d be getting a foot of snow,” she said. “When it snows heavily like this, Ethan says it’s snowing like a bastard. I tried to discover the origin of the phrase, but I couldn’t. It sure is snowing like a bastard tonight.” She turned to face me, apprehension darkening her eyes, as if she sensed that trouble was close by. “I was nearly raped once. I was in college. In Iceland. That’s why I carry a gun.”
“Oh, Becca.”
“I was diving the Silfra Cathedral. It was afterward, back at the hotel. We were all exhilarated. It’s one of the best dive spots in the world. He was young. He thought I was interested in him, and when he found out I wasn’t—” She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, she no longer looked afraid. She looked angry. “I had to run for it.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I made it out without a scratch. He didn’t. I kicked him where it hurts, just like my dad taught me.”
“Sounds like you don’t need a gun.”
“He was drunk. The next one might be sober.” She plunked down in one of the club chairs. “I showed the gun to Ethan.”
“Because he had the wrong idea?”
“The best defense is the threat of a strong offense.”
I stared at the jazzy-looking weapon. “I’ll put this away until everything is cleared up.”
As I headed upstairs, it occurred to me that if a woman who was known to carry a gun wanted to kill someone, she’d use another weapon altogether, like a fast-moving car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I didn’t get to bed until after one Tuesday morning.
While Max and Becca met privately over freshly brewed coffee, I took a shower, sent Ty a long e-mail explaining what was going on, and got the guest room ready. Just before Max left, around twelve thirty, he texted Ellis that Becca was his client and that she would appear for questioning at ten thirty that morning. Becca told me that she needed to set an alarm, that she was to be at Max’s office at nine.
* * *
I got up with Becca at seven thirty and made us breakfast, cinnamon cheesy scrambled eggs and ham, and an English muffin with some of the wild raspberry jam Zoë put up last summer. Becca was quiet, introspective.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said.
The snow had stopped overnight. The day was crisp and sunny, a halcyon winter morning. Only about six inches of snow had accumulated, enough to add luster to the world but not enough to cause any inconvenience. The driveway was clear, and Ellis’s SUV was gone. He’d shoveled me out before leaving; what a guy.
I drove Becca to her car, helped her dig it out, and headed to work.
Ellis called as I was parking in my freshly plowed lot.
“You may be aware that I have an appointment to talk to Becca at ten thirty. When did she show up at your house?”
“I don’t think I should answer any questions about that, but I have another idea I’d like to run by you. Can I come in?”
“If you come now, we can talk before Becca gets here.”
“I’m on my way.”
I called my office and left Cara a voice mail. “I have an errand,” I said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I expect I’ll be able to check e-mail, so feel free to be in touch.”
Then I hot-tailed it for the police station.
* * *
“Your Christmas cactus is spectacular,” I said to Cathy while I waited for Ellis. “It’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen.”
The plant took up a quarter of the counter, its flattened stems and cerise blossoms spreading wide and hanging low.
“It’s twenty-three years old,” she told me, beaming at it as if it were a child she was especially proud of. “My grandmother gave it to me when I took this job. I started the first week of December that year.”
“What? When you were ten?”
“As if. I was eighteen, right out of high school.”
“All I can say is that working here obviously agrees with you.”
She thanked me again, and I wandered over to the bulletin board. A black-and-white grainy photo from a low-end security camera showed a person of interest in a series of Boston-area bank robberies. All I could tell was that the suspect was a man. The coach of the Rocky Point Little League team was looking for sponsors. I took a photo of the notice, e-mailed it to Gretchen, and asked her to sign us up. A book club was inviting the community to join. I was already a member of the group, which was organized by a librarian named Phoebe Caron. Phoebe listed two e-mail addresses, one a Hotmail account, the other from AOL. I wondered why she used two accounts for the same purpose. I used my Prescott e-mail address for business and had a Gmail address for personal communications. Maybe she was phasing one out, but some of her contacts still used the old address. That didn’t make sense. Maybe she had problems accessing each of them periodically, and she was a belt-and-suspender sort of gal. Ian, I thought. I dug
into my tote bag for my phone and opened up my work e-mail, where Ian had first contacted me. I went back a month or so and found that he’d written from a Yahoo account. I scrolled up until I came to the day he died, then continued scrolling until I came to another of his e-mails. He’d written me the day after he died, this time from a Gmail address.
“Josie,” Ellis said, joining me at the bulletin board.
“Hey,” I said.
He looked far more rested than I would have expected, almost enthused
“Come on in,” he said.
I sat at the guest table. “You look busy.”
“I am. Police Work 101. If you’re out of leads, start over.”
“Have different people interview the suspects,” I said, following his logic.
“Not just suspects, everyone.” He looked at his wrist. “The service manager at the shop where Lia took her car will be here in about fifteen minutes.”
“How come?”
“Turns out the body damage was to the front end. First time she used this shop, too.”
“What did she say about that?”
“She thought she’d give them a try.”
“That could be.”
“It’s farther away than her regular place, and she never complained about the other shop’s service.”
“Oh, God, Ellis.”
He grinned. “I’m looking forward to asking her more about it. We’ll get more details about the damage first, which is why we asked Ace to come in. Ace is the service manager. Very observant fellow.” He shifted position. “Ethan is coming in, too. As I told you, his alibi holds up. He was at Frank’s, but what he neglected to mention was that he was gone for a little more than an hour in the late afternoon. He says he forgot some papers, so he ran back to the institute to get them. He left Frank’s about three thirty and was back before five. The waitress and the security tape confirm the time. Another issue—he rides a bike in Boston and rents cars when he’s working up here. He rented a silver Chevy during the period that includes your attack.”
“Silver.”
“Silver,” he repeated, sounding satisfied.
“Was the car damaged?”
“There’s no record of it.”
“So he’s excluded.”
“Not necessarily. The techs tell me the amount of damage we could expect to see would vary by car model, the height of the bumper, the exact speed the car was traveling, and so on.” He shifted in his chair, settling in. “The two folks who saw a woman running to her car the day Thomas died are coming in, too. We’ll see if they can identify Becca.”
“I don’t think she’ll deny being there.”
“Especially if she knows she’s been ID’d. What did you want to tell me?”
“Three things.” I held up my cell phone. “Someone created a new e-mail account for Ian the day after he died.” I explained what I’d discovered and, at his request, forwarded him an e-mail from each account.
“That’s good, Josie. I’ll let Shorling know so he can get his team on it. What else?”
“Why was Becca with Thomas on Cable Road? I didn’t ask her. I mean, think about it. Thomas is hounding her. She doesn’t want anything to do with him. She’s not going to negotiate with him. Why on earth did she agree to meet him?”
Ellis jotted a note. “Good. Next?”
“I think it’s all right for me to tell you this. Becca is certain that her father didn’t commit suicide, that he wouldn’t, no matter what. She wasn’t defensive about it. She was simply positive. It got me thinking. If Ian Bennington didn’t commit suicide, he was killed. That means someone had to render him unconscious somehow, climb a ladder or high stool, tie a rope around the rafters and hoist his body up—a hundred eighty or so pounds of deadweight—and wrangle him into the noose, tighten the knot, and drop him, all without falling himself.”
“Not so easy to do.”
“How was he rendered unconscious?”
Ellis made another note. “I’ll ask.”
“There’s more. Picture Ian’s house. The article I read said the cleaning lady found his body hanging from the rafters. There you are on the ladder, a man slung over your shoulder. You ease the noose over his neck and tighten it. You’re only able to use one hand, right? You’ve got to brace yourself somehow. What do you hold on to or lean against?”
Ellis focused his eyes on my face, but he wasn’t seeing me; he was visualizing hanging a man.
“The top of the ladder,” he said. “The rafters.”
“Have they checked for fingerprints?”
Ellis nodded. “I’ll ask. Although that’s not how I’d hang a man. I’d put the noose around his neck while he was on the floor, unconscious, then hoist him up. I’d have better leverage.”
“You’ve got the rope around his neck, then what?”
“Then I’d climb the ladder, twist the rope around the rafters five or six times, and let him go.”
“You’re twisting the rope around the rafters with one hand, holding the man, a deadweight, with the other?”
“Right.” He smiled. “I’m very strong.”
“I’ll say. I bet you still touch the rafters.”
“I’m probably wearing gloves, not just to avoid leaving fingerprints, but also to avoid ripping up my hands. Doing a rope pull is hell on skin.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
He consulted his watch again. “Let me make the call now.”
He turned pages in his notebook, found Superintendent Shorling’s number in Christmas Common, and dialed. He reached him and posed his questions, but from the one side of the conversation I could hear, it was apparent that he was going to have to wait for answers.
“He’ll call me back on both points, the new e-mail account and the fingerprints,” Ellis said as soon as he ended the call. “You think Thomas killed Ian.”
“Yes. If Ian died before Thomas’s divorce was final, Ian’s entire estate, inherited by Becca, becomes part of their marital assets.”
“Why was Thomas trying to get his hands on the miniatures?”
“Probate takes time. Selling art for cash is quick.”
“Maybe … Still, you’ve just given Becca one helluva motive for murder.”
“Not really. I’ve just given Thomas’s heirs a helluva motive, not Becca.”
“There are other motives besides money.”
“Like what?”
“Fury.”
I didn’t repeat what Becca told me about feeling so enraged she was, essentially, out of control. She was in enough trouble without me adding fuel to the fire.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I asked Ellis if I could wait for Superintendent Shorling’s call back. I was white-hot curious about what he might discover. He said sure, but he needed his office, so I’d have to wait in the lobby. I told him that was fine and got busy catching up on e-mails. I sat on a hard bench across from the big bulletin board.
Sasha reported that there were no stores in Birmingham that fit Amy’s description of where her great-grandfather Morris Patcher might have purchased the preacher’s-head vessel. Based on the information available, she felt confident validating the object’s authenticity. She attached a draft of catalogue copy, and it was, as always, clear, concise, and descriptive, without being flowery. She assigned an estimated value of $65,000, higher than expected because, she explained in her cover note, rare ethnic folk art was at an all-time high in popularity and the anecdotal history was credible. I congratulated her on a job well done and asked her to start building a list of museums and known collectors who might be interested in bidding on the vessel.
A man about my age looking like he’d stepped out of the 1950s walked in. He had black hair cut in a classic duck’s ass. He wore a scarred brown leather bomber jacket, jeans, and black pointy-toed shoes. He gave me an Elvis smile, ran a hand over his hair, and swaggered his way to the counter.
“I’m Ace Arons, from Durham Motors.”
“Certainly, sir,” Cath
y said, standing. She smiled appreciatively at him.
A police officer named Daryl led him to the corridor on the left. Interview Rooms One and Two were down that way.
As soon as he disappeared, Cathy caught my eye. “Isn’t he cute?”
“Do you know him?”
“He’s in a band called the RP Acers. They played at my sister’s wedding last year. They’re really good. Golden oldies and bebop.”
“Amazing,” I said.
Cathy smiled, remembering the band, remembering the good times. After a few seconds, she sat down again. Soon I heard the tap-tap of her typing.
Sasha had turned over the Gastron Amberlina glass appraisal to Fred, and he’d e-mailed me his report before sending it to the client. The spooner was the most valuable piece, topping Sasha’s off-the-cuff estimate of $6,000. Based on recent sales records, he set the auction estimate at $6,500; he placed a $12,250 value on the entire collection. I suspected that Celeste was going to be a very happy woman. I sent him a “great job!” message.
Gretchen wrote that we were all confirmed for Thursday’s luncheon, asking if there was anything else she could do. I replied that I thought we were all set. I’d write everyone’s bonus check myself, an annual tradition that was among my most favorite activities.
The door opened again, bringing a blast of icy wind in its wake. Officer F. Meade held the door for a young woman and an older man. The woman’s eyes were big with fear. Her teeth were clamped on her lower lip. The man tramped in, his hands curled into loose fists.
“Have a seat,” Officer Meade said. “We’ll be with you shortly.”
Lia stepped in. There were purplish gray smudges below her eyes that made me think she wasn’t sleeping well. Her shoulders were bowed.
“Lia!” I said.
“Josie!” Lia said. “My God, I can’t believe they caught you in their net!”
“Ms. Jones?” Cathy called from the counter.
“Yes?” Lia replied.
“Thanks for coming in. You can have a seat. It won’t be long.”
“I certainly hope not. I have a business to run.”
Ornaments of Death Page 26
