Seeing Red

by Dana Dratch

  “Oh, you’re branching out.”

  “Yeah, I’m pissing off editors at both papers now.”

  Walt chuckled. “As long as I’ve known you, I can believe that. OK, what’s the name of this loving relative?”

  I’d done a little online sleuthing on Helen, too. And pumped Marty for more info. I gave Walt her maiden name, married name, mother’s maiden name (Crunk), and her middle name, just in case she was using that. Walt said he’d try them all.

  “People think they’re being cute,” he said with a snort. “But I gotta tell you, Alex, if I check and find nothing, that doesn’t mean there is nothing. Plenty of companies don’t share records. And at a couple of those, I don’t have friends I can call, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “But at least this gives us a place to start.”

  Chapter 48

  Nick walked in with a big smile on his face, a bouquet of pink peonies for Baba and a brand-new green Frisbee for Lucy.

  “I got it!” were the first words out of his mouth.

  “Congrats!” I said, clapping. “All hail the new king of pastry!”

  Baba sniffed her flowers, smiled widely, and gave Nick a pat, pat, pat on the back. “You are a good boy!” she said. “Good man! Very good!”

  “Technically, it’s just a trial run,” he explained. “A couple of pies and a few dozen tarts and galettes every Monday, just to see how it goes. But if the customers like my stuff, after a couple of weeks, they’ll increase the order. A lot. I mean, these people go through pies and tarts like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “What happened to their old supplier?” I asked.

  “Six-month sabbatical in Paris. She might be competition when she gets back, but I’ll have had half the year to win ’em over.”

  “Let’s hope she falls in love with the place and stays there.”

  “Mais oui! Oh man, I’ve got to get over to the inn,” he said, peeling off his shoes. “I’m way behind.”

  Crap.

  “Nick, we’ve got to talk,” I said, pausing. How could I tell him? “Um, well, the truth is Ian is kind of mad at me right now,” I finally said. “Furious would be more accurate.”

  “Hey, whatever’s going on between the two of you, I don’t want to know. I’ve got a business to run. Besides, Ian and I have a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “I get to use his kitchen. He doesn’t hold any of the Vlodnachek craziness against me. Especially that pertaining to the females of the tribe.”

  “Get that in writing, did you?” I said, giving him serious side-eye.

  “Nope. Handshake deal. But I call it the ‘Mom clause.’”

  I spent the afternoon answering Aunt Margie letters. Toward the end, I was mentally composing one of my own.

  Dear Aunt Margie,

  I found a body in a freezer, and I didn’t report it for fear my brother might be blamed. But my fingerprints are probably all over that freezer.

  Because of the first body I found there last week.

  Which is now gone. And I didn’t report that one either. Am I going to jail?

  Signed,

  I Didn’t Do It—Honest

  When the phone rang, I jumped. Remembering what Nick had said, I checked caller ID.

  Ian.

  I picked it up and held my breath.

  “Alex, it’s Ian. I wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior. You did exactly what I asked of you—more than. Much more than. It wasn’t the news I’d hoped to hear, and I’m afraid I blamed the messenger. I hope you can forgive me.”

  I was stunned. So not what I was expecting. A lifetime ban from the inn? Definitely. An announcement that he was barring anyone named Vlodnachek from the premises and my brother and mother were waiting with their possessions on the lawn? Not totally unreasonable. An invitation for a personal tour of the freezer? Possibly.

  But a complete and total apology? Did not see that coming.

  “Ian, I’m sorry. This whole thing is awful. I’m just so sorry.”

  “No need for you to be,” he said evenly. “I’ll just have to trust that, whatever my father is up to, he knows what he’s doing. And I’ll simply have to muster through on my own over here until he returns.”

  OK, that last part made me feel really lousy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’d done it on purpose.

  But he wasn’t my mother.

  “I know it goes without saying, but if you can stand the clutter, you’re welcome over here anytime,” I said, hoping to offer an olive branch. “I know Alistair loves seeing you.”

  “Actually, I’d like to pop by this afternoon,” he said, sounding hopeful. “I believe there will be a bit of a lull in a few hours, if that works.”

  “Any time you want,” I said. “We’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  Maybe Nick’s business acumen had worked its magic after all.

  Chapter 49

  After a dinner of goulash, Baba decided that Alistair needed a nice long walk. She leashed up Lucy and set off. I wondered if they’d get anywhere near Magnolia Circle.

  Marty planted himself in front of the TV. His afternoon PT session had taken a lot out of him. But he was ahead of schedule with his rehab. He told Terri that was because he’d gotten a cute little physical therapist named Lucy.

  I just wanted to curl up and lick my wounds. I changed into sweats and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling for what felt like forever.

  Finally, I gave in and grabbed the phone, dialing Trip. According to my bedside clock, “forever” had been five minutes.

  “Let me guess. Another relative showed up and you want to bunk at my house.”

  “Bunk at your house, no. Eat at your house, yes.”

  “Goulash again?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “Marty loves the stuff. Lucy loves the stuff. And Nick’s eating at the inn tonight.”

  “I’m guessing Marty’ll leave your house about the same time those taste-numbing antibiotics run out.”

  “I keep thinking there has to be some way to help Ian and Harkins and Daisy.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been mulling that one, too,” Trip said.

  “Your guys come up with anything new on Jameson Blair?”

  “Same bastard, different day,” he replied.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “So what did you tell the proprietor of the Bates Motel?”

  “Only what I could tell him that wouldn’t put Daisy and Harkins in danger,” I admitted. “His dad is OK, but he has a situation he has to handle. I feel awful. His father is helping victims of the Holocaust. Now he and his lady and their baby have to go on the run. From some psycho who doesn’t want to share an art collection that isn’t really his in the first place.”

  “I know. It’s lousy. What if you told Ian the truth? Jameson Blair. His ill-gotten art collection. The fact that Harkins and his merry band are stealing from the rich and returning things to the rightful owners.”

  “Ian would try to help him. And then he’d have to go on the run when this is over. Because sooner or later, when Harkins finishes copying those paintings, and his team makes the switch, Blair is going to send another hit man to clean up those pesky loose ends.”

  “I keep wondering what happened to the first hit man.”

  “We know what happened to Raymond Bell,” I said. “We just don’t know who did it. Or where his body is.”

  “What if Harkins refused to pull the job and just went on with his life?” Trip mused.

  “Blair would up the ante,” I said. “Threats. And eventually he’d find Daisy. Or Alistair. Or Ian.”

  “I can’t believe there’s a covert group secretly returning looted Nazi art,” Trip said.

  “It’s brilliant. And elegant. And I want to help.”

  “I know you do, Red. But you don’t have a superpower. You’re not a forger. You’re not an art expert. And I can’t see you as a second-story man. Well, I can, but it’s not pretty.”
>
  “Yeah, my only talent is digging up information and making it public. And that’s the last thing they need.”

  Chapter 50

  The next morning, Lucy and I took a new approach to the agility course at the dog park.

  I unclipped her leash, and she tore around the thing at top speed. She raced up and down the ramps. She whipped through the tunnels. She ran a wide arc, avoiding the entire cluster of weave poles. Twice. And totally ignored the teeter-totter.

  When she crossed the finish line, we bounced up and down like a couple of maniacs.

  “I’m sorry, but your dog didn’t complete the course,” a woman with a leashed Weimaraner stiffly informed me.

  “Sure we did,” I said, as the puppy danced around my feet. “We’re practicing for the freestyle.”

  More like Lucy-style. Too bad I couldn’t tackle my life the same way.

  When we got home, Baba was stirring a suspicious-looking pot on the back of the stove.

  More goulash.

  Marty was keeping her company in the kitchen, coffee cup in one hand, folded newspaper in the other.

  “You got a phone call just now,” he said, sliding a torn piece of copy paper across the table. “Some guy named Walt. Left his number and wants you to call him. Gotta say, he sounds a little old for you. What about that British fella across the street? The one who runs the inn? He seems nice.”

  I ignored Marty-the-matchmaker, gave Baba a peck on the cheek, filled my coffee cup, and spilled in a little milk. Then I looked at Marty and grabbed the Nesquik out of the cupboard. This was gonna be a three-spoonful morning.

  Since I didn’t want to talk about Marty in front of Marty, I parked myself in my office. Or as the real estate agent who’d sold me this house dubbed it, “the cozy dining room.”

  The number Walt left was his direct line. He answered it himself.

  “I think your friend might have a bit of a problem,” he said seriously.

  “How big is ‘a bit’?” I asked.

  “She’s got a $250,000 life policy with Founding Fathers Insurance, and $100,000 each with Yorktown National and Occoquan Life.”

  “Four hundred and fifty thousand?” My mind was numb.

  “In each case, it’s the max she can get without a medical exam. And those are just the ones we could find so far,” Walt said. “I have a few more calls out. But a couple of these companies aren’t going to talk to me.”

  “Will they talk to Marty?”

  “That’s tricky. His niece—she is his niece, right?”

  “Yeah, that part’s true.”

  “His niece is the customer,” Walt continued. “So they don’t have to talk to him. He’s the insured. Best case, the insured and the customer are the same person. When they’re not, it’s up to the companies and the states to set the rules. So you have a lot of different scenarios. Sometimes, companies will talk with the insured. Other times, they won’t. But a couple of people said your Ms. Westwood made it seem like she was doing this for her uncle because he couldn’t take care of things himself anymore.”

  Man, was that ever a lie. Marty had colluded with my brother to order up cable and, at this moment, probably was conspiring with Baba to plan my wedding.

  “This guy is sharp as a tack, Walt. Any way we can cancel these—and make sure she knows about it?” As long as Helen had a motive, Marty was a slow-moving target.

  “Again, depends on the company. Technically, what she did isn’t criminal.”

  “But what she does next might be.”

  “Or possibly what she’s done before,” Walt said somberly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How many uncles does this girl have?”

  “I dunno. I think just the one. But I can find out. Why?”

  “A lot of the places I was able to check didn’t have a policy on Mr. Crunk. But they had paid out a claim to the niece. Only these were for different uncles. And a few aunts. Quite a number of relatives. Also different addresses—often different states. Over many, many years. And using mix-and-match variations of her name.”

  “Helen Westwood is running an insurance scam!”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Walt said. “And that’s definitely the kind of thing that could get an insurance company to talk. To Mr. Crunk and the authorities.”

  Chapter 51

  Marty took the news pretty well. Considering.

  “Beats thinking I’ve lost my marbles,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “So I guess she’s not a whiz with investments after all?”

  Walt had e-mailed me a list of the policies he’d found—on Marty and the others—along with all the relevant information. He thought seeing it in black and white might make it less personal for Marty. And a lot simpler for the authorities.

  We had the printout on the kitchen table, where we’d been studying it.

  “She’s not investing, she’s gambling,” Marty said. “Betting on people’s lives. But here’s the real question: Is she loading the dice?”

  “You mentioned she does a lot of volunteer work with the elderly?” I said.

  “Sure. That’s her thing. Been doing it for years. Took care of her dad when he was sick. Then after he died, she’d pitch in wherever she was needed. Helen is an upright, uptight pain in the backside, but I was proud of her. Sometimes she even took ’em in if they needed special care after surgery and didn’t have anywhere else to go. Wouldn’t take a dime for it, either.”

  “It looks like she’s making her money on the back end. You said her dad left her some cash?”

  “A nice little house and a nice little pile from insurance,” he said. “Enough to cover the taxes and pay the bills for a couple of years. She took good care of the house, then sold it for a bundle and got a bigger place. She’s traded up a couple of times. She might even be renting out some of them.”

  So had Helen killed daddy? Or had his death merely opened her eyes to a new revenue stream? And just what brand of “help” had she really given those many “aunts” and “uncles”?

  At least whoever had killed Bell had a good reason. This was just evil.

  “Marty, we’ve got to go to the cops. It’ll take a police report and possibly a letter from your attorney to cancel those life insurance policies. Until we do . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve got a price on my head.” He shook his head and winced. “Just never thought that price would be nearly a half million bucks.”

  We spent the rest of the morning at the police station. Marty’s lawyer met us there. So I waited in the lobby.

  It was a nice change from last time.

  When I’d run out of magazines (Police Blotter and Law Enforcement Monthly), I checked my phone messages. I got a jolt when I recognized my older brother’s number.

  Last I’d heard, Peter and my sister-in-law, Zara, were on a two-week vacation. Somewhere in the Caribbean. Destination purposely omitted.

  A successful Manhattan tax attorney, he’d just capped the busiest, most stressful season of the year. They both needed to unwind and decompress.

  So why was his cell number popping up on my phone? My heart beat a little faster as I hit PLAY in voice mail.

  Peter’s baritone boomed out of the cheap speaker, accompanied by a tropical drum band in the background. “Hey, Alex, hope everything is going well. Just wanted to check in. Look, I got a call from Mom. She said something about Nick going to business school? Anyway, she wants some references and recommendations. I’m happy to help, but I’m also thinking if Nick wanted that, he’d have called me himself. And I haven’t been able to reach him. So if you get this, just give me a buzz and let me know what’s going on. Strictly on the QT.”

  He paused, and I heard giggling in the background. “Oh, and Zara says ‘hey!’ Love you, sis! Bye!”

  So had Mom called Peter before she and Nick had their little powwow or after?

  When Marty reappeared, hours later, he gave me the CliffsNotes version of what happened in the squad ro
om. Bottom line: The cops were investigating. And while they did, Marty definitely needed to stay away from Helen.

  “What about the insurance policies?” I asked.

  “My lawyer says we can cancel them now and tell her, so she knows she doesn’t get a cent. But the cops say that’ll tip our hand. They want to get a warrant to see what was in those pills she was feeding me. And what else she might have in that house of hers. But that could take a day or two.”

  “This is your rodeo,” I said. “What do you want to do?”

  “If this is who Helen really is, I want to nail her sorry behind. Even if it means shutting my yap and lying low for twenty-four hours.”

  “Hey, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve got the sofa for as long as you need it.”

  He shrugged. “You know what the worst part is?”

  My mind reeled. Sleeping on my lumpy couch? Eating Baba’s cooking? Finding out that a blood relative could be a serial killer?

  “No, what?” I finally asked.

  “I gotta get a new place to eat Thanksgiving dinner,” Marty said sorrowfully. “Helen may be a rotten person, but she makes the best pumpkin pie I ever tasted.”

  Chapter 52

  When we got home, Marty headed out to the backyard with Lucy. He called it a training session. I think he just needed some puppy therapy.

  Baba and Alistair were both down for an afternoon nap. But only one of them was in the bedroom. She was sitting bolt upright on the sofa with a magazine in her hand.

  I was dragging. Between late nights with Alistair and early mornings with Lucy, a nap sounded wonderful. But first I wanted to share what we’d learned at the cop shop with Nick.

  I figured he was at the B&B. I just hoped Ian’s “popping over” concept was a two-way street.

  I headed up the walkway to the inn just as a couple of guys in muscle shirts and jeans angled the freezer out the front door.

  “Wait, stop!” I yelled. “You can’t take that! Put it down!”

  “Lady, we got two more pickups this afternoon. This is a charity, but we still got a boss and a schedule.”