Free Ornaments of Death by Jane K. Cleland Page A

pushed the button.
    When the click came, I opened the heavy wooden door and stepped into a square entryway. The walls were covered with white and gold striped wallpaper. A small crystal chandelier sparkled overhead. Elegantly framed nineteenth-century floral prints lined the long corridor. This was not a budget rental.
    Fifty feet down the corridor, a tall, lean, handsome man about my age wearing jeans and a dark blue collared short-sleeved T-shirt stood in the doorway of the rear apartment. He was barefoot. He had long blond hair, strong patrician features, and a welcoming smile.
    â€œThis way!” he called.
    â€œHi,” I said as I walked toward him. “I’m Josie Prescott. Is Becca around?”
    â€œSorry … no.”
    â€œDarn! I really need to talk to her. Any idea how I can get in touch?”
    A door near the front opened, and a middle-aged woman leaning on a silver cane asked, “Is everything all right?”
    â€œYou bet, Mrs. Damori.” He winked at me. “Come on in.” As soon as he shut the door, he added, “Mrs. Damori’s a love … but…”
    â€œInquiring minds want to know,” I quipped. “So … about Becca.”
    â€œI’m sorry, she’s in the field. What was your name again?”
    â€œJosie Prescott. I’m an antiques dealer.” Diving gear laid out across the hardwood floor caught my eye. Clothes, bathing suits, shorts, and T-shirts were piled on the butterscotch leather sofa. “You’re a diver.”
    â€œHow’d you guess?”
    I smiled, as much in response to his cute crooked grin as his playful words. “I’m smart. Your last name is Ferguson.”
    â€œYou got that from the doorbell label.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “I’m smart, too.” He extended a hand for a shake. “Ethan Ferguson. I just made a pot of coffee—I’m on break. Want to join me for a cup?”
    â€œThanks. I’d love to.”
    I followed Ethan into the kitchen, which was located at one end of the expansive open-plan room. En route, we passed three eight-foot-high windows that overlooked what must have been a glorious garden back in the building’s heyday but was now an unkempt wilderness. The kitchen was huge and recently renovated, definitely a step or eight up from typical student housing. Becca could afford it, I knew, and maybe Ethan could, too. The granite that covered the counter and oversized island was black with silver specks. All the appliances were chef-kitchen quality and fashioned of stainless steel. An oak plank farm table was large enough to seat ten. I took a stool at the island.
    Three photographs hung near the front door, all underwater shots. The one closest to the door showed a welter of colorful coral, sponges, and anemones. I recognized golden elkhorn, purple fan, orange-tipped fire, and brain corals; yellow and pink sponges; and countless orange and yellow anemones, waving like beach grass in a gentle breeze.
    I pointed to it. “That’s unbelievably gorgeous. Are you the photographer?”
    â€œThanks. I took that one last winter on the Great Barrier Reef.”
    â€œI’ve snorkeled there.”
    â€œYou don’t dive?”
    â€œNo. I prefer staying on the surface.” I pointed to the next photo. “That’s an oyster.”
    â€œYou’re just showing off.”
    I laughed at his super-dry delivery. I focused on the third image. “And that’s a clam.”
    â€œCan’t get anything past you.”
    â€œBecca’s into clams.”
    â€œI’m not sure she’d like it put exactly that way, but yes, she studies bivalve mollusks, specifically clams.”
    â€œAre you a marine biologist, like Becca?” I asked.
    â€œSort of like Becca.” He poured coffee into matching blue pottery mugs. “I’m an oyster man.”
    I tried to stop myself from laughing but