Murder in the Art Gallery (A Pet Portraits Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Sandi Scott

It was followed with the same kind of handwritten note from Iris.

  On and on, the next five letters became increasingly demanding as the total for works of art purchased at the gallery reached a staggering $32,000.

  The last letter signed by both Jamal and Nate said that Iris Fitske’s line of credit at the gallery had been frozen until her account was paid in full. Any future purchases would have to be made in cash with absolutely no exceptions.

  Georgie thought if she ever got a letter like this, she’d feel absolutely humiliated and do whatever she could to pay her bill. Not that this would ever happen to her. She wore her frugality like a badge of honor and found it complemented her artistic leanings greatly.

  “You just don’t buy what you can’t afford.” She shrugged her shoulders as if it were as simple as that.

  But as she unfolded the last letter, she nearly choked.

  “Who starts a letter to anyone using that kind of language?” She clicked her tongue and frowned. Obscenities were the lowest form of communication ranking just below interpretive dance, an art form Georgie could never get behind. As she cleared her throat and read the words, she realized she was holding the paper further and further away from her until it was at arm’s length.

  In a nutshell, Iris Fitske reminded the gallery of how much money she had spent there over the years. She had a relationship with all the major art buyers in the city and if she wanted to, could have them all boycotting the Wyland Art Gallery. It would never see another dime in revenue if they continued this malicious attack against her.

  Enough of this childish letter writing. I must meet with you immediately. Do not ignore my request. There will be severe consequences if you do. Please contact my assistant to make the proper arrangements. At the bottom there were the familiar big letters spelling out, IRIS.

  “Wow. I wonder how that would work with my credit card company. Better yet, the IRS?” Georgie shook her head and looked at Bodhi, who was listening intently, waiting for his next treat. “I know exactly how it would turn out. Welcome to your cell, Mrs. Kaye. There will be a random contraband search within the next forty-eight hours and that may or may not include body cavities.”

  She shuddered just as the timer for her cake went off.

  With mitted hands, she pulled out the cake that had turned a rich brown color with melted chocolate chips forming elegant little swirls throughout.

  The smell lured Bodhi in as he took a few slow steps toward her. He gave Georgie a half snort, half bark.

  “Sorry, handsome. This has chocolate. No good for pugs.” He sneezed and flopped down on the cool kitchen floor looking sad and pitiful like all pugs do.

  Mixing some food coloring into the frosting she pulled from her cupboard, Georgie filled three different plastic baggies, cut off one corner of each, and proceeded to delicately and daintily frost the cake in an impressionist style until from ten feet away, the little dots of frosting blended into the image of a blooming yellow rose.

  “Do you think my darling niece Emily will like this?” she asked Bodhi who sneezed again in reply. “I think so, too. And I think we need to look a little bit further into this Iris Fitske’s background. You be a good boy and watch the house. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Loading the cake into Pablo, Georgie couldn’t help wondering what Iris thought she was doing threatening the art gallery owners. They couldn’t possibly be the only people in town that she owed money to. But were they the only people in town she was threatening?

  6

  “Iris Fitske?” Emily leaned back in her leather chair behind her big oak desk. “What do you want to know? You brought me cake, I’ll spill the beans.” Emily was a natural at her job as CEO at the Kaye & Associates accounting firm her mother had started and passed on to her. When Aleta retired, Emily took over full control, but still had weekly meetings with her mom to ask for her advice. Whether or not she took it was another story, but Georgie always admired the kindness of Emily.

  Aleta, who had taken her daughter for an early lunch, was sitting in one chair at the round conference table in Emily’s office, looking through the letters Georgie had swiped from Nate’s desk. Emily sat across from her mother, cutting the cake into smaller pieces.

  “Don’t get yourself in trouble, honey,” Georgie soothed. “Just whatever I might be able to come across if I paid for PeopleSearch or something.”

  “Good call.” Aleta nodded as she swiped a finger full of frosting. “You don’t want that old biddy to start an ethics investigation. We could already get busted for removing evidence from a crime scene.” She waved the letters but continued to read them intently.

  “Of course not.” Emily cleared her throat. “Well, we had to turn her down for extensions on her credit. That was true. And she threatened us then, claiming some kind of bias, that we had been listening to idle gossip around town, and that we were a know-nothing group of hacks and she’d see us close our doors for good before all this was finished.”

  “She is obsessed with closing places down,” Georgie observed.

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Emily continued. “When I tried to explain to her that it wasn’t us, but the rules of banking, that prevent someone with her credit score from accessing more debt, she said she would be contacting her close, personal friend, Roger Kowliczak, the head of the Department of Finance for the state of Illinois and see about that.”

  “Did you ever get a call from him?”

  “No. But it’s still early,” Emily said sarcastically. “Aunt Georgie, when are you going to give me those shoes?”

  “You like my cowboy boots?”

  Aleta shook her head and continued to read the letters.

  “Yes.” Emily pushed herself up from her desk and took a seat at the conference table.

  “Well, I’ll need your help thinning out my closet again whenever you have some time.” Georgie looked at her sister who cringed. “You can come too, Aleta. Maybe there is something in there you’d like.”

  “Yeah, Mom.” Emily passed her a slice of cake. “Maybe a nice bright blouse and a hat with a giant sunflower on it.”

  “You two are just too funny.” Aleta smirked and took a plastic fork to dig into her slice of cake. “Oh, this is good. Did you add extra butter?”

  “I did,” Georgie gushed. “So, anything else I should know about Iris Fitske?”

  “Well, after all her tough talk, she had her secretary run over her taxes for us to file for her this past year. I guess we aren’t so bad. Other than that, she filed for bankruptcy twice over the past five years. Her husband died and I can’t help but think that is part of her problem,” Emily said while devouring her square of cake. “He may have held the pocketbook when he was alive. Or maybe she’s just lonely and is trying to spend him alive again. I don’t know. If she were a nice person, I’d reach out and suggest some help. But she’s so mean that I think there are probably more deserving people out there to reach out to.”

  Georgie looked at Aleta who understood the grieving process. It had taken her a while to feel even slightly like herself after William died. Maybe she would be the perfect person to bring along when she went to talk to Iris.

  “But for heaven’s sake, be careful or else she’ll make sure the doors close on you for good.” Emily shook her head while taking another piece of cake.

  “I’d tell you you’ve had enough cake but I don’t know where you put it,” Aleta teased her daughter. “You aren’t losing weight, are you?”

  “No, Mom.” She shook her head. “How can I when you and Aunt Georgie are constantly bringing sweets to the house as well as here and anywhere else we all might gather together.”

  “Well, you don’t want to be too skinny. No man likes a woman who is just skin and bones,” Georgie said through a mouthful of cake.

  “Aunt Georgie, I’m so busy. I don’t get a chance to go out and meet any guys like I used to when I was finishing college.” Emily shrugged.

  “What? I saw a cu
te fellow out there making copies. He had curly black hair. Shoulders like a linebacker. What’s wrong with him?”

  “Steve? I hired him. That’s what’s wrong with him.”

  “Oh, come on. He has a job. He’s good-looking. Just ask him out for a drink.”

  “Georgie, are you crazy?” Aleta asked. “Workplace dating is always a disaster. Not to mention how it can end up in a lawsuit. I didn’t build this place with blood, sweat, and tears so some Casanova could ruin it.”

  “Your mother. Always so negative,” Georgie teased. “That’s it. Enough of this. After your mom and I go visit Iris, we’ll put our heads together and figure out who we know that has an eligible son we can fix you up with. You obviously need us to bring in the big guns.”

  Emily laughed as she walked to her desk. “Let me get you that address for Mrs. Fitske.” With a few clicks on the keyboard, she found what she was looking for and wrote it on a post-it note. “But you didn’t get this from me. Family or not. If anyone asks, I’ll deny the whole conversation ever took place.”

  “Attagirl!” Georgie encouraged.

  “Oh, please,” Aleta said. “Honey, if this can get you in any trouble, just say so and your aunt and I will find another way. Aunt Georgie can always call Uncle Stan and ask him.”

  “What are you talking about?” Georgie shook her head. “Ask Stan? Are you out of your mind?”

  “I’m just saying that if your niece was at risk for any kind of issue that might affect the business, you certainly wouldn’t want her to get in any trouble.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” Georgie concurred. “I’ll say I stole the information. I brought cake and told Emily to share it with the office, and when she was gone, you went on her computer and read me the file information.”

  “Me?” Aleta snapped.

  “Yeah?” Georgie stood with her eyes wide and her hands out at her sides. “Look at me. There is no way anyone would believe I could hack into anyone’s computer. Come on.”

  “She’s right.” Emily nodded.

  Aleta sighed. “You both are going to drive me to drink.”

  7

  “Do people really live in houses like this?” Georgie gasped as they entered Iris Fiske’s neighborhood. “I mean we live in a nice area, right? But this is like being on another planet. A weird, perfectly landscaped planet.”

  “When the mayor, the aldermen, and over fifty percent of the retired police force live in Bridgeport, you can bet it’s going to be a nice-looking neighborhood,” Aleta grumbled. “Our tax dollars at work.

  “Okay, what number are we looking for?”

  Aleta opened a piece of paper with MapQuest directions printed on it.

  “5002 Blue Jay Lane,” Aleta offered as she stretched her neck to catch a number on any one of the fancy stone mailboxes that guarded each long driveway.

  After weaving around the street, they finally pulled up in front of the Fitske house. Except it wasn’t a house.

  Aleta shuddered and said, “Why do I feel like I just stepped onto the set of Sunset Boulevard?”

  Georgie nodded her head as she slowly maneuvered Pablo up the long, cobblestone driveway. Weeds had launched an all-out assault on the red bricks pushing them up and out, snaking their way across the driveway in uneven patches.

  Several dead trees lined the driveway. The others were just barely hanging on, giving the entrance to the house a creepy-Halloween kind of look.

  The house itself was a brownstone, the entire stone structure having the look of an elegant fortress. In its prime, this had to be a magnificent display of wealth. But after decades of freezing Chicago winters, humid summers, and regular wear and tear, not to mention neglect, the Fitske mansion looked more like a tired bag lady than a debutante.

  The stone steps leading up to the porch were chipped and crumbling. One of the porch lights hung sideways, having pulled loose from its anchor in the stone. The windowpanes were cracked and jagged, probably letting in a significant draft during all seasons. Some of the tiles of the roof had fallen off and more than one dark patch lead Georgie to believe there were probably buckets strategically placed in the attic under a leaky roof.

  The bushes that reached up the sides of the structure with wildly uneven branches were in desperate need of pruning, and off the eastern side of the house, the gutter had become loose and protruded like a hangnail in the air.

  “I don’t know about this.” Aleta shook her head. “We don’t even know what we’re going to tell her. How are we going to explain why we’re here? Have you thought of that?”

  “Just be cool.” Georgie lifted her chin. “Follow my lead. I’ve got this.”

  Carefully the two women ascended the rickety stairs to the front porch.

  “We still have time to get out of here. Come on.” Aleta tugged on her sister’s sleeve.

  “What do you think is going to happen? Do you think a guy in a mask made out of human skin, toting a chainsaw is going to grab us?” Georgie smiled deviously as she enjoyed torturing her sister. Aleta, who couldn’t sleep for weeks after watching Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas couldn’t understand her sister’s interest in horror movies. Nor did she appreciate it when Georgie tried to scare her like she was doing now.

  “I’m going to leave you to do this all by yourself.” Aleta turned to leave but her journey was cut short when Georgie rang the doorbell and grabbed her hand. “You let go!” She hissed.

  “No. You said you’d do this with me!” Georgie hissed back.

  “This place is too creepy!”

  “No it isn’t! That’s just your imagination!”

  “How can you say that when…”

  Just as Aleta was about to break free from her sister, the heavy wooden door began to creak loudly as it was slowly pulled open from the inside.

  “Sounds like Pablo,” Aleta whispered quickly in Georgie’s ear.

  Georgie let out a sigh then quickly slapped a smile on her face as a serious-looking man with close-shaved gray hair and spectacles, dressed impeccably in black trousers and a black jacket with tails complementing the stark white shirt answered the door. He didn’t look amused.

  “Can I help you?” His voice had about as much emotion as the crumbled bit of brick that lay on the porch, having fallen from the doorframe long ago, it seemed.

  “Yes,” Georgie spoke confidently but nudged Aleta to talk.

  “Oh, uh, we are representatives of C & A Financial. We are making special house calls to our more affluent clients in order to update their accounts. Since Miss Fitske falls into that category, we were hoping she may be able to spare a few minutes to assist us. Otherwise, we are happy to send the update forms in the mail.”

  “Please wait in the parlor,” the butler said as if there was nothing surprising about this ridiculous request.

  Georgie stepped in first and instantly took notice of the mothball smell wafting through the place. After the butler left them alone, Aleta roughly pulled Georgie’s sleeve.

  “Do you smell that?” Georgie asked. “It’s like grandma’s attic with a hint of streetwalker.”

  “You spaz!” Aleta pinched Georgie’s arm. “You said you had this.”

  “I did. I passed it off to you and might I just say you handled it perfectly. I would have never come up with such a brilliant story.” Georgie rubbed her arm and took a couple steps to snoop around. “Wow. Call Iris Fitske what you want. She certainly does have good taste in art. My gosh, she’d just have to sell a couple of these and she could have paid off her debt in a matter of days.”

  “The madam will see you in the sitting room now,” the butler announced, making both sisters jump in surprise.

  As they followed the tall man, both women looked around, taking inventory of the entire place as best they could. The woodwork appeared to be all original dark cherry but it’s dull surface indicated every floor and doorframe was in dire need of cleaning and polishing. The wallpaper was also faded and dark, likely having been put up
no later than 1920,peeling at the seams and along the ceiling where the glue had finally just given up holding it there.

  The butler stepped aside and motioned for Georgie and Aleta to continue into a smaller room, which seemed hotter than the rest of the house. Iris Fitske sat behind a writing desk and looked up when the women entered.

  “Who are you?” she asked in the same snobby voice she had used the previous evening. Aleta went through the same song and dance she had with the butler, hoping that Iris wouldn’t recognize either one of them from the night before and blow their cover. Neither had thought to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find their way out. It would be an awful shame if the place turned out to be like the Winchester Mansion, so maze-like that many who enter never find their way out.

  “And you need to update my account why?” Thankfully, narcissism has a way of making people forget who they’ve met since they focus only on themselves. Georgie felt her nerve grow stronger and took over for her sister.

  “We were informed that you have added new artwork to your assets and we just needed to get the approximate value of the work and where it was acquired.” Georgie smiled. “We know it’s a big bother. That is why C & A Financial decided to come to you and try and make it a little more convenient.

  Iris smirked.

  “A phone call ahead of time would have been better.”

  “We know. But we were in the neighborhood just a few blocks from here evaluating another client’s recent purchase of a vintage car and thought we’d just give your address a shot,” Aleta stated.

  “That had to be the Hoffmeyers,” Iris balked. “The new rich can be spotted by what they buy. Vintage cars and motorcycles are a dead giveaway.” She rolled her eyes as she pushed herself up from the desk.

  She was impeccably dressed in a black pencil skirt and white blouse. Several strands of pearls hung around her neck and her feet were crammed into a very painful looking pair of pumps. Yet she didn’t walk. She sort of glided with her bejeweled left hand swinging elegantly as if she were brushing it over tall wisps of clover.