“That’s been a long time coming.”
“And I have a second date with a nice fellow. He just moved here from Chicago. He’s never been married—he hasn’t found the right girl, he says.”
“I can tell from your eyes that you like him.”
“He’s different from other men I’ve been attracted to. He’s serious, a technical guy, kind of quiet. He’s a financial analyst for one of the big firms. I met him on Rocky Point Singles. He contacted me.”
“That sounds like a perfect fit for you.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
We agreed to meet at Ellie’s for lunch next Tuesday. I couldn’t wait to hear about her second date.
* * *
The luncheon was as good as I’d expected. Perfect food, including Ana’s Christmas-themed Fabergé egg cakes.* Perfect music from Academy Brass. Excitement and thanks from my staff on seeing their bonus checks, higher than in the past, a reflection of our better-than-expected year. Sasha announced that we’d bought Mitchie Rich’s corn cob plates for $2,000, and that he was thrilled. She was estimating an auction sale in the $6,000 to $7,500 range. Gretchen told us we were now an official sponsor of the Rocky Point Little League. But it was Hank who was the star of the show, rolling over and over on his catnip-infused burlap, running after his new catnip mice, climbing into his condo, demanding cuddles.
I sat with him long after everyone else had gone back to work, petting him and kissing him and thanking him for his love.
“You’re a perfect little cat, Hank.”
He curled up on my lap, his head resting on his paws, ready to stay for hours.
I carried him back to his basket.
“Merry Christmas, baby.”
I walked into the front office. Ethan was perched against the guest table chatting with Sasha. She was laughing. I couldn’t remember ever hearing Sasha laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” she said, a rosy flush coloring her cheeks.
“Hey, Josie,” Ethan said. “I was telling Sasha how much she’d like helping me check my oysters. I think it was the hip boots that sold her on the idea.”
Sasha laughed again, and I smiled, thinking how often opposites attract. An outgoing guy like Ethan might be a perfect match for a bashful gal like Sasha.
* * *
I called Becca to ask whether she’d given more thought to my appraising the miniature paintings. She said by all means, adding that she’d love for me to feature them on my TV show. I texted Timothy then and there, and he texted back that he’d be up with his team in early January to film the promo.
* * *
Sometimes Ty and I spent Christmas at his place so we could have a fire. This year, though, I felt like sticking close to home, especially since Becca was coming for dinner.
At three thirty Christmas afternoon, I stood in the archway between the kitchen and dining room, surveying the table. It was perfect, set with the elegant formality of my childhood. The linen tablecloth and napkins were snowy white. The Minton china was delicate and fine. The Lunt sterling silver flatware shone. The Waterford glassware gleamed. The stout white candles nestled in the driftwood centerpiece flickered gaily.
The bell rang. I felt an unexpected thrill of excitement. Becca was here!
She handed me a small Christmas cactus with orange blossoms. As I placed it on the ledge above my kitchen sink where it would get northern light and I’d see it every day, I thought of Cathy’s decades-old Christmas cactus. Today marked the beginning of a new chapter, one that included family, and the plant would track its progress.
“How is it at the hotel?” I asked as we got settled in the living room.
Becca sat on the sofa across from the five-foot Scotch pine, the same place she’d sat before. I curled up in the same club chair across from her. “Take the A Train,” from Duke Ellington’s Christmas album, played softly in the background. The multicolored, star-shaped lights strung around the windows twinkled in the gathering dusk.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” Becca said. “I needed the respite. I ended up staying far longer than I’d planned. I checked out just now, though. Too much time to think isn’t good for me. I’m heading back to Boston tonight. I need to get back to work.”
“I understand.”
Ty served us Prescott’s Punch in crystal glasses. Becca swirled hers, watching the glimmering light as it flitted across the cranberry concoction.
I turned toward toward the light source, tea-light candles floating in low bowls. The flickering flames made everything glow and shimmer. The silvery tinsel dangling from the tree branches glinted. The ornaments from my childhood, a set of a dozen opalescent glass teardrops; a porcelain pinecone; a Victorian dirigible; and, my favorite, a yellow bird perched on a metal nest. They hung next to the ones Ty and I had bought together, sterling silver hanging picture frames, each containing a picture of us, one for every year we’d been a couple, an annual tradition I cherished. Flecks of light sparked from the silver frames.
“Ethan’s been an enormous help,” she said, looking up.
“That’s great to hear.”
“To your continued success,” Ty said, gently clinking her glass.
“Thank you,” she said. She smiled as she touched her glass to mine. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have connected with you, Josie. To have a new cousin! A wonderful new cousin.”
“I feel the same,” I said, meeting her eyes, smiling back.
We chatted easily until the kitchen timer sounded, letting me know that my turkey had finished resting. I left them comparing Christmas Common and Rocky Point, then called them into the dining room after I’d carved the bird.
As she sat down, Becca pointed at the driftwood centerpiece. “That’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Did you make it?”
“Yes.” As I began passing dishes, holiday favorites like creamed pearl onions and herbed stuffing and new creations like my cranberry-orange relish, I added, “When I was a kid, every November my mom and I would go to the beach and walk until we found the perfect piece of driftwood. It had to be smooth and silvery gray and long enough, but not too long, and thick enough, but not too thick. Add a little holly, some pinecones, a few winter berries, tie it up with a big red bow, wedge in some candles, and boom—you have a great-looking, custom-made Christmas centerpiece. I restarted the tradition a few years ago.”
“My mother and I used to do something similar. We’d go into the woods and collect pretty twigs and leaves and berries and so on, and weave our own wreaths. I haven’t done it since she died. Maybe I will next year.”
“Maybe we can do it together.”
“I’d like that,” she said shyly.
“Starting our own traditions,” I said.
After dinner, Becca offered to help, but I could tell that she wanted to leave, so I declined the offer. Ty got started washing up, and I walked her to the door. I opened the center drawer in the hall table and extracted a yellow padded envelope.
“Here,” I said, handing it to her. “Your Dreyse.”
She accepted it, nodding, and peeked inside the envelope. “I’m glad to have it back. Thank you for taking care of it for me.”
“You should ask Max about getting it licensed.”
She smiled. “I will.”
As she zipped her coat, she invited Ty and me for brunch on New Year’s Day, and I eagerly accepted. She hugged me like she meant it and headed off to Boston. I stood at the window for a minute after she was gone. Her sadness was palpable, but so was her grit.
“I’m stuffed,” I said, as I walked back to the kitchen and picked up a linen dish towel.
“Me, too,” Ty said, handing me a glass to dry. “You’re one heck of a cook.”
“I just follow my mother’s recipes.”
“How about your cranberry-orange relish?”
“Don’t you mean my famous cranberry-orange relish?”
“I stand corrected. Tha
t’s exactly what I meant.”
“You’re right. I invented that one.”
“Your mother would be proud.”
I leaned my head against Ty’s shoulder for a moment, a love-touch. “I think you’re right. She would be.”
When we were nearly done, Ty asked, “You know what time it is, right?”
“Present time!”
We made our way back to the living room. Our big red Christmas stockings dangled from brass holders I’d positioned on a side table. Presents were piled on the floor nearby. We like to give one another several little things and one big thing. My big present to Ty was a weekend gift certificate at his favorite ski resort, a place known for its cross-country trails. He gave me a diamond eternity circle pendant. Eternity. A perfect gift. Becca had snuck a gift bag into the pile. Wrapped in sheets of Christmas-tree-shaped tissue paper was a charming sterling silver filigreed glass jam pot with matching silver spoon. I hoped she’d like the 1937 Sheaffer Lifetime Balance mottled tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl fountain pen I’d tucked into her purse. Great minds, I thought. Neither of us wanted to call attention to her gift.
Later, as Ty and I settled in for the evening, I said, “You know, I’ve been thinking … this whole series of horrible events was Shakespearean—like Hamlet avenging his father’s murder.”
“Shakespeare didn’t make it up. He wrote about emotions that really exist, that really drive actions.”
“Cheryl felt no remorse, not one iota.”
“She was out for revenge.”
“I remember something I learned in a Chinese philosophy course. Confucius said, ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.’”
“You’re very smart, Josie.”
“I love you, Ty.”
“I love you, too.”
We sat like that, close to one another, thinking our separate thoughts.
After several minutes, I said, “Best Christmas ever.”
“How come?”
“I have all the things I’ve loved about Christmas since you and I first got together, plus Becca. Family.”
He kissed the top of my head and I tucked my hand in his, and we sat awhile longer.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to G. D. Peters and Steve Shulman for their assistance with this novel.
Special thanks go to my literary agent, Cristina Concepcion of Don Congdon Associates, Inc. Thanks also go to Michael Congdon, Katie Kotchman, and Katie Grimm. I’d also like to thank Annie Nichol and Cara Bellucci.
The Minotaur Books team also gets special thanks, especially those I work with most closely, including executive editor Hope Dellon; associate editor Silissa Kenney; publicist Sarah Melnyk; director of library marketing and national accounts manager (Macmillan) Talia Ross; copy editor India Cooper; and cover designer David Baldeosingh Rotstein.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane K. Cleland once owned a New Hampshire–based antiques and rare-books business. She is the author of nine previous Josie Prescott Antiques mysteries and has been a finalist for the Macavity, Anthony, and Agatha Awards and has twice won the David Award for Best Novel. Jane is the former president of the New York chapter of the Mystery Writers of America and chairs the Wolfe Pack’s Black Orchid Novella Award. She is a member of the full-time English faculty at Lehman College and lives in New York City. You can sign up for email updates here.
OTHER JOSIE PRESCOTT ANTIQUES MYSTERIES BY JANE K. CLELAND
Blood Rubies
Lethal Treasure
Dolled Up for Murder
Deadly Threads
Silent Auction
Killer Keepsakes
Antiques to Die For
Deadly Appraisal
Consigned to Death
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries by Jane K. Cleland
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ORNAMENTS OF DEATH. Copyright © 2015 by Jane K. Cleland. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07453-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-8624-7 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466886247
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: December 2015
* Please see Lethal Treasure.
* Please see Lethal Treasure.
* Please see Deadly Threads.
* Please see Blood Rubies.
Ornaments of Death Page 30
