Candace McCauley, P.I Mysteries (5 Cozy Mystery Books Collection)

by Kira Reese

  We chatted like that for a few minutes. After I gave my order to the server, I got down to things on my mind.

  “Esther, can you tell me more about the family in the house I visited?”

  “There was no family, dear,” she said. “A beautiful lady lived there. On occasion a man who was dark-haired and very handsome came and went during the summer months for the most part.” She winked and a smile spread across her perfect features. Her cheeks turned a little rosier. “He was not someone who came for the night. He would spend most of the summer, though they did sometimes leave for a week together during that time.”

  “That is interesting. What is her first name? I mean the McNamara woman,” I asked.

  “She told me her name was Aria McNamara. That was the only time I ever spoke to her. It was the day she moved in. She kept to herself. She often left for several months of the year, and the house was empty in those periods. Along with other curious neighbors, I determined she must be a teacher someplace too far for her to stay around.”

  I held my raspberry iced tea in midair. “What made you think she was a teacher?”

  “Well, we finally figured out that she did not live here during the school months.” Esther dabbed the thick paper napkin on her lips to rid them of an imaginary crumb. “Usually she was gone from late August all the way through until late May. Sometimes, she and her companion would come back for the Christmas holidays, but not often. Only the maid and gardener could be seen on occasion taking care of the place for her.”

  “Do you have any idea where she teaches?”

  “It must be in a foreign country. Otherwise, why would she have stayed away for such long periods at a time?”

  I wanted to pull my phone out and take notes but settled for the casual conversation. Esther and her neighbors thought it all out well. Their conclusions may not be so far off base. I picked up Esther’s tab. I did not tell her that it was payment for the valuable information she gave me.

  “I want to treat you,” I said. “I hope we can meet again sometime.”

  She invited me to her home at any time. “It is good for us older people to be around the young,” she said. “It keeps us in the modern world.” She emitted another fetching chuckle.

  We went outside to our cars, which were parked next to each other. She turned to me, and I saw the inquisitiveness spring up. “I want to ask you your interest in Aria McNamara, but perhaps we can save that for future visits.”

  “Now is fine with me. I simply wanted to let her know she sold me an antique urn at her garage sale just before she moved out. I feel a little guilty about paying such a minimal amount for the real thing. I had it appraised, and I believe she may not know its true value.”

  “That is very sweet of you, Candy,” said Esther. “She may have known and just had no interest in it.”

  “That is a possibility,” I said. “I suppose I should just give up on finding her.”

  We said our good-byes and I drove off. “No way am I giving up on finding Aria McNamara any more than I am giving up on getting to the bottom of everything about Achilles,” I said aloud. “Nor does Esther have to know the contents of the pottery piece.”

  It dawned on me I had not asked Ben the name of the thief being held in the jail. I dialed him, and he answered right away. He told me the prisoner’s name was Speck Andrews, someone I knew nothing about as it turned out.

  Chapter 10

  Professor of Ancient History

  When I arrived home, I put on a pot of coffee and settled at my computer. After over a half hour I still had not located an Aria McNamara.

  The only conclusion I came to was Aria McNamara was nonexistent. I wanted to find out where she may teach, but with no specifics available, I was at a dead end. I stood to close the shades on the bay window. The west sun was beaming in and heating up my area. I then poured another cup of coffee and walked into the living room. A grayish blue Seville passed by the house. Nick and I lived in a nice neighborhood, but I did not know anyone who owned a Seville. I let the fact slip away from my mind until I glanced through the window a couple of minutes later only to see it pass by, going in the opposite direction.

  The driver was a woman who had blond hair and wore large sunglasses. Other than those details, nothing else was visible regarding her appearance. I wanted to think she was looking for a specific house and was lost. If I clung to that premise, suspicions would keep at bay in my head. Not that I didn’t tuck the information in my brain, in case it came in handy later down the road.

  Nick called and told me he wanted to eat out when he got off work. “I’ll be finished by six, Candy. If that works for you I’ll come home and pick you up.”

  “Is this going to be another fancy dinner?” I asked.

  “Only if you have struck gold for this one.” Nick had a sense of humor which certainly kept me evened out. I could get overly serious about my work. Since the purchase of the Greek pottery he had to work harder to keep me on a level plane. I watched when Nick swung into our drive. He kissed me on the cheek and moved his lips to my mouth. Then he left me dangling with emotions I couldn’t control and leapt up the stairs. A few minutes later he came back down. We chose a café that served dinners in the evening. Nick ordered chardonnay for both of us. He looked into my eyes with expectancy. I began telling him about my day.

  “Have you ever heard of Speck Andrews?” I asked him.

  “Why would you think I hang out with someone with a name like that?” His eyes laughed.

  “He is our thief. I never know who you hang out with. It’s not impossible that you associate with someone named Speck or Nabber or whoever.”

  “No, I have never heard that name. What is he telling the police?”

  “Get ready for this one,” I said. “He is trying to pin it on Michael Green, the curator of the museum. He is telling the cops Michael hired him to steal the piece.”

  A low whistle escaped Nick’s lips. He leaned back. The server interrupted his response and we placed our orders for grilled salmon. When the server was out of earshot we each took a drink of wine.

  “Do the cops believe that story?” asked Nick.

  “According to Ben, no, they don’t believe him. As yet, he has produced no proof. They are calling Michael in for questioning.”

  I explained everything the detective told me at the precinct. “I wanted to talk to Speck myself, but his lawyer has advised him to not speak with anyone and so I didn’t get to him. I drove over to the museum to feel Michael out without telling him anything. I told him I planned to bring the pottery in to him today but it had been stolen.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  I laid out my impressions of the curator’s reception to the news. “I have no idea if he is behind it all or not. But remember, we saw him with a woman who resembled the seller of the urn.”

  Nick sat in silence. “This may all connect after all, Candy,” he said. “But I have heard nothing but good about Michael Green.”

  In my business, I knew people were not always who they appeared to be. For now I decided not to voice that opinion.

  “I don’t know, Nick, but there could be something here. I just have to find out what it is.” We sat in silence. “If I could be sure the woman Michael was with was the seller, it would tell me a whole lot more.”

  “Do you have any other ideas how to track her down?”

  I shook my head. “I do believe she may have used a fake name when she moved into that house. The question is now how to find her real identity.”

  That premise hit me for the first time. She must not be Aria McNamara. She and the dark-haired man remained mysterious. Nick watched me closely.

  “It just dawned on me that the woman named Aria McNamara and the man who occasionally lived there were people who used the house to fit into the neighborhood only. I think they had outside interests that may or may not have to do with her teaching somewhere.”

  We finished our dinner with no real conclusions on
the deepening mystery of the rare urn. The next day I returned to work. I had to let Natalie know my business was important enough for me to show up and get work done on the cases at hand. She had a wealth of progress done on the case of the missing daughter. I listened and commented. She took to detective work like a fly to honey. I concentrated on everything except the rare urn and the fake Aria McNamara until lunchtime. I told Natalie to take her lunch first. When she left, I dialed Ben.

  “He is out until early afternoon,” said the clerk.

  I asked for an appointment with him around four. In the meantime, I made calls concerning my case of the stolen jewelry, though my heart wasn’t in it. I reminded myself that cases other than the urn were my bread and butter. The mysterious urn didn’t pay my bills.

  On impulse, I dialed Chartres, France, specifically the Gallery of Corinth. The French accent was soothing. I asked to speak to Jacques LaFonte. Surprisingly, he answered right away. I explained who I was and asked if he had received the photos of the Greek pottery I inquired about. He spoke perfect English with a slight French accent noted at times.

  “Oui,” he said. “I received them. You are correct in thinking the pottery once was a piece procured by Pierre Sarkis for the gallery. I cataloged it myself. I did not want him to remove it from the shop. It was so pleasing to my eye.”

  “My question is this,” I said. “Do you know how it ended up in America?” The friendly tone of Jacques egged me on, and something told me he knew more than anyone so far in regard to the piece.

  “Pierre took it with him to his home in New York. Juliette fell in love with it and he told me it was a gift for her.” I asked when that had occurred. “She finished her year as professor at The American University of Paris, and they were returning to America. That would have been one year ago.”

  Dots began to connect in my head. “Did Juliette use an American name?”

  Silence ensued for a second or two. “I do not believe so. Why do you ask?”

  “I have no idea why I asked that question.” I attempted a genuine chuckle. “What does Juliette teach?”

  “She is most interested in ancient history, and so that is her field.”

  I did not want to lose my cooperative connection with Jacques. I thanked him and told him I hoped we could meet at the gallery in Chartres sometime soon. When he inquired as to my timetable for travel to France, I gave him a fictitious date and thanked him profusely for his time with me. Next, I canceled my appointment with Ben. Nick beat me home that evening. When I came in the door, aromas of sizzling steaks reached me. I followed the scents to the patio. The evening wind was crisp. The warmth of his arms took care of the chill that overtook me. We opted to eat inside which was fine with me. I could not wait to spill what I learned, and one sip of wine was all I could swallow before telling Nick my latest news.

  “I am certain Aria McNamara is this Juliette that Jacques spoke of.” Nick agreed. “I will find her easily since he told me her field and where she teaches.”

  “Why did they close up the house here?” he asked.

  “I don’t doubt the urn was the reason. That piece of pottery holds the answer to that.”

  Excitement surged through me. I did not realize I ate everything on my plate until I heard the fork scraping the dish where the last bite of steak should have been.

  “I see there is no ‘us’ time tonight,” said Nick. When my look told him my regret he laughed. “Go ahead and start your research. I have a magazine to read that is a month-old already. Besides, I know that fleeting look of regret bordered on fake itself.”

  I nudged him on the shoulder when I stood to clear the table. He pushed me aside and told me to get busy on the computer. It took only five minutes or less to find there was a Juliette Barbin who was a professor of ancient history at the American University of Paris. Her accolades were numerous. She studied Greek artifacts, in particular, when not teaching. She and Pierre Sarkis often led groups in Greek archaeologist digs in Corinth. Later, much later, I searched beyond the first site I looked at concerning Juliette Barbin. At the moment, I thought I knew all I needed to know about her. The elation I felt took away any reason to dig deeper at the time.

  Chapter 11

  The Meeting

  I refrained from calling Ben the next day, though I was curious about the interview with Michael Green. Questions abounded in my mind regarding his background. I wondered where he had studied in France and why he went there in the first place. Of course, I knew the story of how he wanted to get away from home, but he could have chosen anywhere in America. Alaska would have been far away as would Texas for that matter. If Detective Ben Johnson had not been a close friend, I doubted I would be getting the information I was privy to from him. He was a busy man and had more cases to deal with than the case of the urn.

  I drove by the home of Juliette Barbin, a.k.a. Aria McNamara, once more. Everything remained as it was the last time I was there with one exception. The lawn was recently manicured. The gardener I saw gathering garage sale objects hovered over an azalea bush. I watched as dead blossoms were deftly clipped away. He then scooped up the debris and deposited all clippings into a lawn bag. On impulse I drove up the driveway. He stood up and kept an eye on me until I parked. Before I stepped from my car, he was at my window. I lowered it partway.

  “You are trespassing, miss,” he said. His accent was not one I recognized, though without a doubt it was foreign. For sure, it was not a French accent. “You will have to leave.”

  “I will leave, but may I ask you a question?” His dark eyes bored through me, but the fact he did not take over the steering wheel told me he may answer. I pushed on. “Who is the lady who lives here?”

  “She is Miss Aria McNamara. She is not home and you must leave.”

  I shifted the gear in reverse when I noted he pulled a cell phone from his pocket. I did not want the law against me and so I left. Juliette Barbin trained her employees well. I decided in this case, money did indeed talk.

  Once on the street again I glanced back at the mansion. I jerked to attention when I saw that all but one of the second-floor blinds were closed. That opened one closed as soon as I rested my eyes on it. It told me Juliette or someone other than the gardener was at the home. I drove a block away and turned my car around. Large trees bordered the edge of the empty lot where I parked. From this vantage point I observed the house. I saw the gardener push a large trash cart to the curb. At second glance, other bins lined the street. In a few minutes the large trash truck rumbled along the quiet street and emptied the cans. As soon as the truck moved along, the gardener hurriedly retrieved the can and wheeled it to the back of the house. A half hour passed with no activity from Juliette’s house.

  The choice to become a private investigator required patience, and I had plenty of that. A full hour and forty minutes passed. The gardener drove down the driveway in his dark green pickup truck. That truck had to cost more than a gardener could afford, I thought. Then I recalled who he worked for. It was a fringe benefit for his sense of confidentiality. He drove off in the opposite direction from where I sat. There were no immediate houses to the empty treed lot where I parked and waited. I glanced at my watch. It read ten minutes until three hours had passed. Thirst edged into my throat. My water bottle was empty. I decided whoever was in the upstairs of the house intended to remain there. I started the engine. Just as I started to turn the signal on that I was pulling onto the street again, a grayish-blue Seville pulled from the driveway. It turned and went in the same direction the gardener had gone. I waited and then slowly followed it. An intersection appeared a couple of blocks from where we started. There was an upscale strip mall, several restaurants and a few professional office buildings.

  I turned right when the Seville did. Luckily, I had the green light. After approximately ten more blocks, the car turned into the large parking lot of the Museum of Historical Artifacts. My heart raced as she got out of her car. The long blond tresses were unmistakable. The s
lender body swayed gently when she walked. My eyes drifted to the front door of the museum, and for a split second I lost her when she turned and walked on a cobbled stone walk along the side of the museum. At the far door, her fingers punched the code and she entered.

  I vacillated between thoughts of entering the front door and asking for Michael Green and sitting where I was to see what would happen next. She obviously was allowed access to the museum whenever she wanted. The code she knew so well answered that. Again, patience entered in my role as private eye. I swallowed several times in hopes of hydrating my throat and sat back to observe the next scene. My car was lost in the middle of several others. Children disembarked from two school buses. Parents continued to park their cars on the lot and joined the tour group of elementary school children and their teachers. One bus almost hid my view of the far side door of the building. No one parked behind it, and I switched my eyes to that section of the museum.

  Forty-five minutes passed before I was rewarded. Juliette walked toward her car. She reminded me of a model on a walkway. The light wind blew her flowing hair across her face. She brushed the glistening strands away and got into her car. I followed her back to her home and then left. Thirst had overpowered my senses, and it was getting late in the day.

  When Nick came home I told him what had happened. Before he arrived, I spent my time thinking about plenty of possibilities of why Aria, or Juliette had easy access to the museum.

  “I wonder if Michael Green is Pierre Sarkis,” I said. “He and Juliette know each other.”

  Nick agreed it was a possibility. He suggested I research Michael Green’s background. “I don’t know what you will find that the museum board didn’t find before hiring him,” he said, “but who knows what may turn up.”

  I laid the facts I knew regarding Juliette on the table. “She owns the Seville I saw going down our street. She was casing our house without a doubt. Now she knows me and knows where I live. She must know by now the pottery was stolen. If she wanted it, why didn’t she just keep it?”