* * *
Still wearing gloves, Ellis unfurled the black velvet, revealing the two watercolor miniatures.
“Arabella,” I said. “She’s my ancestor.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Winsome.”
“I’ll have someone call Max and Becca with the good news.”
“May I call Becca?”
Ellis paused for a few seconds. “We’ll call Max. I can’t stop you from calling whomever you’d like.”
I took a quick photo of the two paintings and e-mailed it to Becca, then called her.
She answered with a “hello” that sounded more like a question than a greeting.
“This is Josie. I just e-mailed you a good-news photo. The paintings have been found safe and sound.”
“Oh, Josie. Where?”
“In Cheryl’s car.”
“I knew it.”
“The police will be calling Max to let him know in a formal way.”
“Thank you, Josie, for calling me yourself.”
“How are you doing?”
“Rallying a bit, I guess. Knowing is always better than not knowing.”
“Even when the truth is hard to hear.”
“Yes,” she said. “Even then.”
“I agree. Talk to you soon.”
“Bye.”
“Is she okay?” Ellis asked.
“More or less.”
* * *
Ellis asked me to listen in to his interrogation so I could help him pose questions about how and where Cheryl intended to sell the paintings, if it came up. While we waited for her lawyer to arrive, he ordered us a sandwich lunch.
Between bites, I suggested he call Bitsy, Becca and Thomas’s North Conway neighbor. “If you can e-mail her Cheryl’s photo, she might be able to identify her as the woman who heard Becca and Thomas fighting about the paintings. That would show that Cheryl knew they existed, and that they were valuable.”
He asked Detective Brownley to create a photo lineup and make the call.
Half an hour later, he asked, “Ready? Let’s go see what story Cheryl has up her sleeve.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Two hours later, I sat in the observation room watching Ellis question Cheryl about her role in Thomas’s murder and my attack. She denied everything. Ellis wound his way back to the start—her husband’s partnership and her lawsuit. Her lawyer was a stranger to me, an older man with a folksy manner named Grover Getty.
“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Getty said with a friendly smile. “This little lady has made an accusation, that part’s right enough, but all you have to do is look at court documents to see how she handles her grievances—she files a lawsuit. She’s no killer. She’s no hooligan. She’s a lady.”
“That sounds like a good opening statement, counselor,” Ellis said dryly. He focused on an unrepentant Cheryl. “The morning Thomas died you had a fifteen-minute conversation with him. What did you discuss?”
“I have no recollection of talking to him.”
“An hour after he was killed, you called Becca. Why?”
“I have no memory of calling Becca.”
“I have her phone logs.”
She raised a fluttering hand. “Computers make mistakes.”
Ellis shook his head slowly, half-smiling, as if to say she was some piece of work. “That’s not going to fly in front of a jury.”
“Now, now,” Getty chastised. “Don’t you be threatening her.”
Ellis didn’t even glance at him. He kept his eyes fixed on Cheryl. “Why did you go to Josie Prescott’s office pretending to be Marney Alred?”
“I didn’t.”
“There are many photos of you. Her security cameras cover the entire property, inside and out.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“One of those photos shows you sneaking a peek through a window the night of Josie Prescott’s holiday party. What were you doing there?”
“I’m not a peeping Tom.”
“Facial recognition software has confirmed it’s you.”
I doubted that was true.
Cheryl smiled, gaining confidence with each denial. “Evidently, the software is not infallible. It can’t be me. I wasn’t there.”
Her lawyer nodded in approval. I wondered if he believed her. If I didn’t know better, I’d have been tempted to believe her myself.
“Do you think a jury will believe all these denials simply because you’re an attractive woman?” Ellis asked.
“Chief Hunter,” Getty admonished him, “please. There’s no point in personal comments. If you have another relevant question, ask it. If not, we’ll be on our way.”
Ellis looked at Getty and shook his head. “It seems there’s a little bit of shared delusion going on. Your client isn’t going anywhere.”
“Is she under arrest?”
“She will be. Right now, she’s cooperating with our investigation, or so I thought.” He turned toward Cheryl. “I get the impression you loved your husband very much.”
Her eyes fell to the table. “Yes.”
“Am I correct that you blamed Thomas Lewis for your husband’s death?”
The defiance was back. “Without question. Thomas Lewis killed Rupert as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger of a gun. Thomas’s death wasn’t murder. It was justice.”
“The word is ‘retribution,’ not ‘justice.’”
“That sounds remarkably like an accusation,” Getty said.
“Now that Thomas is dead,” Ellis said to Cheryl, wholly disregarding Getty’s interpolation, “you’ll never get a payout. He was broke when he died.”
She smirked. “He and Becca were still married when her father died. She’s the sole heir. Grover tells me that once probate is granted, my lawsuit can move forward and I’ll get my share.”
“Then you didn’t hear.… The British authorities have ruled Ian’s murder a homicide and declared his killer to be Thomas. Ask your lawyer—a killer can’t benefit from his crime.”
Cheryl’s mouth opened, then shut. She leaned back in her chair, whip-turned toward Getty, and spoke softly into his ear, her hands flying up and open and in and down. Getty replied, touching her arm, trying to calm her. He said something, patting the air—relax, the gesture communicated. They turned back to face Ellis.
Getty spoke. “Miss Cheryl is upset at the news. She had no idea Thomas Lewis was capable of such a heinous crime. The fact remains, however, that she was wronged and Thomas was married when he died. His widow, whom we believe to be an honorable woman, will no doubt do the right thing. If not, the lawsuit, which has named her as a co-conspirator from the start, will go forward.”
“It will be dismissed,” Ellis said. “Becca was not involved. She had no fiduciary interest in her husband’s business ventures.”
“If you’re right,” Cheryl said, her confidence reinvigorated after Getty’s little speech, “it’s obvious I have no motive for killing Thomas.”
A knock sounded on the interview room door, and Detective Brownley entered.
“Excuse me,” she said. She handed Ellis a folded sheet of paper and left.
Ellis read it and slipped it under his notebook. He pulled his earlobe and smiled.
“Let me tell you what I think happened,” he said.
“Please do,” Getty said. “Edify us.”
“Becca and Thomas’s breakup was ugly,” Ellis said. “Thomas had done everything he could to get Becca to sell the paintings and share the proceeds, including lying to Frisco’s that he had the right to sell them. When Becca caught on—perhaps because she discovered they were missing and confronted him, or possibly because she borrowed his smart phone to make a call and saw the e-mail from Frisco’s—Thomas flew to England to kill Ian. Thomas staged Ian’s death to look like suicide. If he’d thought of it, he would have left a note.”
“All very interesting,” Getty said, “but what does this have to do with my client?”
�
�Everything. He did it because Cheryl was relentless in her demands. She drove him to it. The DA is looking into whether we can charge her with Ian’s murder under the racketeering laws.”
“Absurd.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The Christmas Common police told me they found an e-mail in Ian’s SENT folder to Becca saying he’d researched Prescott’s, that the firm had a stellar reputation, and since it was convenient to where Becca was working, she should have the miniatures appraised there, that Frisco’s, while a reputable firm, had been Thomas’s choice, that she should have an independent assessment. Thomas must have read the e-mail when he was in Ian’s house after killing him, and immediately crafted a plan to get his hands on the miniatures so he could either sell them under the table, or get them included in the divorce settlement. His lawyer probably told him that probate would take months, longer if Becca disputed his claim, as she was certain to do. Thomas didn’t have time to wait—because of you.”
“This is fantasy,” Cheryl said. “Pure fantasy!”
“‘Speculation’ is the legal term,” Getty added.
“You want some things we can prove for sure? No problem. You first learned about the miniatures’ existence during the knock-down, drag-out fight when Thomas and Becca still lived together in North Conway. We have a witness.” Ellis fingered out the slip of paper Detective Brownley had delivered earlier and waved it. “She just picked you out of a photo lineup. My detective called Becca, too, to ask about that night. That’s the evening she left Thomas. She’d planned on attending a lecture at Hitchens University on underwater drones. She remembered it very specifically. You had expected Becca to be out and were coming to spend time with your co-conspirator—Thomas.” He turned to Getty. “They’d joined forces to try to get Becca to hand over cash—or the paintings.” He resumed his focus on Cheryl. “Thomas told you he was going to England to take care of it. And he did. He killed Ian. When he got back, he told you all you had to do was be patient. You balked. You refused to wait for probate and the inevitable litany of lawsuits, probably because you were just about out of money. You knew Thomas had mortgaged his London flat and demanded that he give you some of the proceeds. You didn’t believe him when he said he was tapped out. The bottom line is that when Thomas refused your final demand, you started following him, reiterating your ultimatum at every turn. One evening, you found yourself at the Prescott party. When you saw how friendly Thomas was with Josie, you assumed he’d lied to you, that he had the miniatures in his possession, that he’d hired Prescott’s to handle the sale and was planning to cut you out. That’s when ice filled your veins and you decided the time had come to act.”
“I never did anything like that.”
“I know you’d like to think so, but the reality is that phone and e-mail records don’t lie. We have a trail of calls between you and Thomas going back years. You’re done, Cheryl. Tell the truth. Get it off your chest.”
“I have.”
Ellis shook his head, his expression communicating that he thought she was pathetic.
“Grover,” Cheryl said, “do something.”
“Let him hang himself, Miss Cheryl. Let him stretch that rope out all the way.”
Ellis held Cheryl’s eyes, tightening the vise. “You called Thomas, and he somehow managed to convince you that he didn’t have the paintings—yet. Together you planned the trick that got Becca to meet you on Cable Road, thinking that since she’d just inherited her father’s millions, she’d decide to pay you off rather than continue to put up with the harassment. When Thomas reported that Becca once again said no way, you lost control. You jumped in your car and mowed Thomas down, rolling his body to the curb and covering it as best you could with the bush, aiming to delay the discovery of the corpse.”
“Everything you just said is fabrication,” she said, her voice pulsating with barely contained anger. “You’re trying to twist the facts. I’m the victim here. Me! Don’t you get that?”
“You drove into a tree,” Ellis continued, ignoring her question and evident despair, “hoping to disguise the front-end damage. It didn’t. We have the videotape from the auto dealer. Desperation led to recklessness. You broke into Becca’s room at the institute and her apartment. After you read the article in the Seacoast Star saying that Josie was helping us search for the miniatures, you followed her to Boston, to the furniture maker, and back to Boston. One glance at Josie’s upbeat attitude when she left Becca’s apartment made it clear she’d found the missing paintings. You called her, pretending to be Pat Weston, and arranged the meeting. You zipped ahead on the interstate and got in position. That showed real moxie, quick thinking, and clever planning. I’m impressed. If someone had come along before Josie, all you would have had to do is pretend your car stalled, and drive away. After whacking her, you grabbed her tote bag and headed for the interstate. Probably you pulled over a mile down the road, confirmed the miniatures were there, and tossed the tree limb into the forest.”
Cheryl’s face was growing redder by the second. “You can’t prove any of this.”
“Sure we can.” Ellis smiled and held up a finger. “One: Motive. Locked.” Another finger shot up. “Two: Means. The tech folks are already at work lining up photos of Thomas’s wounds with the photos of your car’s damage and checking Josie’s phone for fingerprints. You turned it off somewhere near the liquor store.” Up came the middle finger. “Three: Opportunity. Ask your lawyer. Honey, you’re cooked. Both cases are about to be closed. Whether or not you’ll also be charged in Ian’s death, that’s someone else’s lookout, not mine.”
Detective Brownley knocked, entered, and handed Ellis another folded piece of paper.
Ellis smiled broadly. “It took a little while to get this report because it comes from another jurisdiction, Portsmouth. They have a series of red-light cameras to catch speeders and people who run the lights.” He waved the paper. “Guess what else they caught? You. Coming and going on the road by Prescott’s at the appropriate times.”
“This is all circumstantial,” Getty argued.
“Look at her. She’s ready to pop.”
Cheryl was rigid with fury.
“What are you going to do next?” Ellis asked, baiting her. “Kill me?”
“I could. Easily.”
“That’s enough, now,” Getty said, his hand on her arm.
She shook him off and stood up. “I’ve had enough. I’m glad Thomas is dead, do you hear me? I’m glad. I may not get the money he owed me, but at least I got revenge.”
“Is that why you did it?”
She clutched the back of her chair. “He lorded over me how he didn’t need Becca’s help anymore, how he could live off the expectations from his share of Becca’s inheritance, how he could wait for probate. He told me to go find another sucker.”
“I’ll take that as a confession.” He stood up. “Cheryl Morrishein, you’re under arrest for the murder of Thomas Lewis and the attempted murder of Josie Prescott.”
I listened as he recited the Miranda warning, and watched as he led her out in handcuffs, Grover Getty trailing along behind. She looked simultaneously righteous and astonished. I felt ill. I sat for a while longer. The blazing anger that had had me in its grasp for days was gone, and in its wake, all I felt was empty.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ty and I were sitting in front of the fire, Prescott’s Punch in hand. Potatoes were baking, the sweet aroma comforting and rich.
“Ellis didn’t need me,” I said. “Cheryl’s attempts to sell the paintings never came up.”
“You were his ace in the hole.”
“I guess.”
“How are you feeling about everything?”
“Sad. Concerned for Becca.”
“Did she decide if she wants to come for Christmas dinner?”
“Yes. She does.”
“Good.”
“I’m looking forward to getting to know her,” I said.
He slid his arm around my shoulder and dr
ew me closer, and we sat like that for a long, long time.
* * *
Thursday morning, I drove to the local card and gift store and bought festive bags and Santa Claus–themed tissue paper and twirly satin bows, then stood at the counter chatting to Sandy, the owner, while I packaged up my staff’s bonus checks. Sandy helped arrange them in a cardboard box for easy transport.
Sunshine glistened off the icicles hanging off the gazebo, shooting sparks of gleaming yellow light across the village green. With Cheryl charged with Thomas’s murder, the circumstances of Ian’s death resolved, and the miniatures recovered, I felt the familiar thrill of festive anticipation. The lights circling the tall Christmas tree sparkled merrily. The electric candles on the menorah flickered with holiday cheer. Everywhere I looked, people filled the streets, smiling, laughing, carrying bags filled with carefully chosen gifts. A car pulled out from in front of Lia’s spa, and on impulse, I grabbed the spot.
Lia agreed to see me, but she had a helper walk me back, and she didn’t stand when I entered her office.
“I wanted to apologize,” I said, “for ever suspecting you. I couldn’t believe it, not really.”
“You didn’t seem ambivalent,” Lia said, her tone cold. “You seemed certain I was involved.”
“I know. I was scared and confused.”
Lia exhaled. “If we’re on a truth-telling spree, I’ll admit that I can see why you might have thought what you did.” She raised her arm and flipped her hand backward, dismissing the issue. She smiled. “I’m feeling too good to hold a grudge. Don’t get me wrong. It hurts—a lot—to think you might have perceived me as a killer, but I do understand how the facts might have looked.”
“Thank you. Why are you feeling good?”
“I never told you—I never told anyone—I petitioned the judge to reconsider the maintenance order. And he did! He ruled that due to the brevity of our marriage and my ex’s ability to earn a living, I owe him nothing more. It’s over.”
“Oh, Lia! What a relief!”
“The mooch is toast.”
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