The Glow of Death
Page 30
“I thought you liked summer best.”
“I do. Except for October.”
“And spring.”
“That, too.”
“The first weekend in November is good. I’ll make us reservations.”
“You’re a wonderful man.”
* * *
Timothy called on Monday, just before noon to tell me the Josie’s Antiques regular shooting schedule was set. We were going to resume filming in early August. He needed a list of the antiques I wanted to focus on.
I grabbed a sheet of paper and began making notes. We already had the Tiffany lamp film in the can. We could use the fake one, for comparison. Aunt Louise’s desk, of course. Some Disney animation cells we’d just acquired. A nineteenth-century Chinese opium box with a gorgeous orange patina. My pen flew across the page. It wasn’t until Hank came into the room and meowed, wanting attention, that I looked up. An hour had passed. Angela pushed past him, romping across the floor. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ty: Let’s go to my place tonight. Xo
Sure, I wrote back.
I turned to Hank, waiting for me to reply to his demand.
“I love you, Hank. Come here, baby.”
He walked across the room as if he were in no hurry, which he wasn’t, and arched his back. I picked him up and settled him in my lap. Angela pounced on a pink felt mouse.
I loved my office. I loved my company. I loved Rocky Point. I loved my life. I was in a place where I belonged.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The day before we left for New Orleans, I went for a walk on the beach. Each fall, I selected a piece of driftwood to serve as the star of my Christmas table decoration. A winter chill was in the air. I wore my favorite bone-colored Irish knit sweater, fitted enough around the neck for warmth, yet loose enough around the hips for comfort. My eyes swept the ground from the dunes to the water in a steady, hypnotic back-and-forth motion.
“Ms. Prescott!”
I looked up. Merry and Eleanor were jogging toward me, sand spewing as they ran. Eleanor’s apricot fur was less finely groomed than I recalled. She was almost smiling, her tongue lolling, her tail wagging.
“Merry!” I called.
They slowed to a stop.
“It’s good to see you, Merry. You, too, Eleanor. How are you?”
“Good. I don’t know if you heard, but Mr. Towson moved to London.” She reached down and gave Eleanor a little head-patty. “He gave Eleanor to me. My lucky day!”
Eleanor raised her head as if she understood and lapped Merry’s hand.
“Eleanor looks like she thinks it was her lucky day, too.”
“We’re a good pair. Well, we better finish our run!”
They set off, heading north, and I resumed my hunt.
A length of driftwood that might work was half hidden by sand. It was long, but not too long, smooth and silky, with appealing knots and crooks so I could wedge in candles, berries, and boughs of holly. I smiled.
I reached for it, brushed off the sand that clung to hidden damp spots and little nubs, and considered it from all angles. It was perfect.
* * *
I was sitting in the aisle seat. Ty was at the window. He’d treated us to first class. A tall, thin flight attendant with a big smile wove through the line of boarding passengers to offer us a choice of magazines and newspapers. Her name, Bev, was embroidered on the dark blue apron that protected her red uniform. I eased the Financial Times out from the middle of the fanned-out options. Ty chose The Boston Globe.
“The captain says it’s going to be a smooth and sunny flight the whole way to New Orleans,” Bev said, her eyes sparkling. “I mention it because we made a batch of Dark ’n’ Stormies, in case you’re interested. I promise it won’t jinx the flight!”
Ty and I both laughed and took her up on the offer, and when the drinks arrived, we clinked glasses.
“I can’t believe we’re flying first class,” I said.
“Nothing but the best for you.”
“We went to the Bahamas a few years ago, and we flew coach.”
“You made those reservations.”
“You know what that means, right? I’m never making a plane reservation for us again.”
I was deep in an article about mobile advertising when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Sasha: Lot 18 sold for $1.85 m. I stared at the display for several seconds, then turned back to the article, but I couldn’t seem to focus on the words. I glanced at Ty. He was reading about the Red Sox.
I reread Sasha’s text and, with my eyes still on the message, asked, “May I interrupt?”
“Sure.”
“We sold the Towson Tiffany lamp for nearly two million dollars, a record.”
“Congratulations!”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t seem very happy.”
“Two women died because of that lamp. It feels like blood money.”
“Your success in selling an object for top dollar is unrelated to their murders.”
“I know.”
Ty patted my hand. “You’ll process it in your usual methodical way. Then you’ll be ready to celebrate.”
I leaned back against the leather headrest and smiled, my tension dissipating. “Thank you.”
A conga line of seven travelers semi-danced by, the last of the passengers to board. From what I could tell from their joyful banter as they passed our row, they were the New England branch of a mostly Louisiana-based family on their way to a reunion.
We finished the last sips of our Dark ’n’ Stormies as the boarding door closed. Bev came by and picked up our empty glasses. Ty stuffed his paper into the seat-back pocket.
“I have something for you,” he said.
I was certain I was about to get a temporary tattoo, probably a butterfly, maybe a heart. I touched my neck, remembering the four-leaf clover I got at a carnival last May. Ty thought it was sexy.
He reached into his shirt pocket and came out with a gold ring. A round-cut diamond, maybe as large as a karat, sat atop a simple mounting.
“It’s beautiful.”
“It was my Aunt Trina’s.* When I was a little kid, I used to sit on her lap and play with it. She left it to me when she died, and I’ve kept it in a drawer all these years, until today.”
“I wish I could have met her.”
“You would have liked her, and she would have liked you.” The plane started rolling backward from the gate, and Ty glanced out the window, then turned back to me. “So … I know we’re not ready to get married … but will you marry me?”
My heart began thudding in a staccato beat. My throat didn’t close exactly, but for a few seconds it felt as if I couldn’t breathe. A moment later, my pulse steadied and my breathing returned to normal.
“What makes you think we’re not ready to get married?”
Ty stared into my eyes as if he could see into my soul. “Are we?”
“Aren’t we?” I held out my left hand and smiled. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
He slid the ring onto my index finger and leaned over for a kiss.
We held hands the whole way to New Orleans.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I woke up early on Sunday morning, rolled over, and tried to go back to sleep. At six, I gave up. I was tempted to wake Ty, but he was sleeping solidly, so I left him be. I tiptoed around the room, getting ready. I wrote a note saying I was going to toddle around the French Quarter and would end up at Café du Monde at seven.
It was cool and humid outside, with dew-laden fog drifting along the Mississippi River, and it was quiet. The antiques stores along Royal Street were dark, but the plate glass windows that fronted the street were ungated and open for window shopping.
A few minutes before seven, I was ensconced at a table by the river with a café au lait, an orange juice, an order of beignets, and The New York Times. Just as Ty had told me, a sole sax player stood across the street near the iron fence that surrounded Jackson Square. He wore dark jeans and
a black short-sleeved shirt and flip-flops. I didn’t recognize the song, but I didn’t need to. I could have sat there all day.
Ty swung into a chair right at seven.
“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.
“Just excited to be here.”
The saxophonist picked up the beat with a shoulder-dancing, foot-tapping, finger-snapping rendition of Billy Strayhorn’s “Take the ‘A’ Train.” Thirty seconds into the song, Ty stood up and held out his hand, his hips swaying. We started dancing, just us two, in the corner by the river, and I thought that this had to be the pinnacle, that surely no one had ever been happier than this.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to G. D. Peters for his 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 Cara Bellucci.
The Minotaur Books team also gets special thanks, especially those I work with most closely, including executive editor Hope Dellon; former associate editor Silissa Kenney; assistant editor Hannah O’Grady; publicist Sarah Melnyk; director of library marketing & national accounts manager (Macmillan) Talia Ross; copyeditor India Cooper; and cover designer David Baldeosingh Rotstein.
ALSO BY JANE K. CLELAND
Ornaments of Death
Blood Rubies
Lethal Treasure
Dolled Up for Murder
Deadly Threads
Silent Auction
Killer Keepsakes
Antiques to Die For
Deadly Appraisal
Consigned to Death
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JANE K. CLELAND once owned a New Hampshire–based antiques and rare books business. She is the author of ten previous Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries, 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 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 with her husband and two cats. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Acknowledgments
Also by Jane K. Cleland
About the Author
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.
GLOW OF DEATH. Copyright © 2016 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 Bernstein & Andriulli
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Cleland, Jane K., author.
Title: Glow of death / Jane K. Cleland.
Description: First Edition | New York: Minotaur Books, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016019578 | ISBN 9781250102973 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250102980 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Prescott, Josie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Antiques—Expertising—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | New Hampshire—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.L4555 G58 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016019578e-ISBN 9781
e-ISBN 9781250102980
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First Edition: November 2016
* Please see Deadly Threads.
* Please see Dolled Up for Murder.
* Please see Deadly Appraisal.