by Sara Rosett
They stopped at a grocery store and bought sandwiches, a couple of apples, and some water bottles before climbing onto the enclosed chairlift that took them halfway up the mountain. They switched to a second chairlift, this one an open-air lift, which would take them all the way to the top.
With the bar settled in place across their hips, the second chairlift moved away from the base station, rocking gently. A light breeze flicked Zoe’s hair into her face. She caught the long strands as she looked over her shoulder. The chairlift station receded behind them, and the ground dropped away. They floated across a meadow dotted with wildflowers and a small stream that disappeared into a stand of pine trees. The air felt even crisper and sharper than it had in Vail. Everything—the trees marching up the slopes, the dots of wildflowers, the wires on the chairlift—seemed to almost sparkle with a new sort of clarity in the thin air at the high altitude.
“So how was Harrington?” Jack asked.
Zoe brought Jack up to date on what she and Harrington had discussed then said, “So it looks like I’m free to take the Thacker case. Harrington wasn’t offended at all that Thacker wanted to work only with me.”
“Do you want to take it on?”
“It’s intriguing.” Zoe studied the mountain peaks above them as they rose steadily upward to the more barren section near the tree line. The chairlift rocked over one of the support posts with a clatter.
“Phantom art,” Jack said.
“Right, so I might be setting myself up for failure. And there are still the other paintings, the Picasso and the Canaletto, that went missing in Dallas. I haven’t heard back from Evelyn. If she can find anything on her surveillance video, I might have a lead there.”
“You can’t do both?”
“I suppose I could. I do find it a bit odd that Thacker wants to work only with me. Makes me a bit suspicious since everyone else hasn’t wanted to do that.”
“He’s known as forward-thinking. Didn’t he tell you he realizes Harrington will probably retire soon?”
“Yes.”
“So he’s smart enough to realize he should shift his business to the promising newcomer. That’s you.”
“No one else seems to think so.”
“I do.” Zoe gave Jack a look, and he said, “You think I’m humoring you, but I’m not. In a few years you’ll be the go-to person in art recovery. Thacker is smart enough to see it now.”
“I’d like to think that’s it.” Zoe shifted slightly on the seat, causing the chairlift to rock. “So what about you? I haven’t heard much about the conference. I’ve been doing all the talking.”
When Jack arrived in Vail on the shuttle from Denver, they had gone straight to the condo that Thacker had let them borrow. It turned out to be just as nice as Thacker’s cabin. It was furnished with the same streamlined Western-style theme but the whole place was much smaller, only a living room, a kitchenette, and a bedroom. The deck off the bedroom was nearly as large as the whole condo and had a gorgeous view of the slopes as well as a good-sized hot tub. Jack and Zoe had a meal at a nice restaurant, strolled around Vail, and then soaked in the hot tub. Zoe had spent most of yesterday evening telling Jack about the interesting lunch, and the rather strange journey the ballet dancer sculpture had made to Texas and back to Vail. They’d never gotten around to talking about the conference.
“It was a typical conference,” Jack said. “Met some new people. Reconnected with a couple of old friends, picked up a couple of good ideas.”
“Okay, thank you for the summary version.” Zoe gave him a playful punch on the shoulder and the lift quaked again. “Now let’s hear the details.”
Jack told her about the different sessions he attended, then said, “And there was a hacking contest.”
“Now that sounds interesting.” The roof of an open-air building that housed the end of the chairlift came into view.
“A business sponsored a contest to see if anyone could hack into their software. If anyone succeeded and turned over the hack to the company, they got a cash prize.”
“Did anyone do it?”
“Yes. Two teams did.” Jack reached for the bar. “Here we are. Ready?”
They hopped off and scooted out of the way as the chair swept by them. “That looks like the trailhead over there.” He slung his backpack with their lunch onto his shoulders and reached for Zoe’s hand.
They found the trail that they were looking for and set off to see the mountain. It was an easy hike, and Zoe was thankful for that. The altitude made even the easiest trail challenging. The narrow path wound through a treed area where the scent of pine was heavy in the air. They emerged into a wide meadow. Zoe said, “It makes me want to throw my arms out and spin around like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.”
Jack pulled his backpack off his shoulder. “I think this is a great place for lunch.”
They settled down to eat. Zoe devoured her ham and cheese sandwich, then ate her apple down to the core. It was only when they were cleaning up that she noticed her phone, which had been in the backpack, had a new message. “This must have come in when we were down the mountain, and I didn’t hear it. “It’s from Evelyn.” She clicked the message open.
No go on the surveillance tapes. Everything has been erased. Sorry. I’ll keep an eye out though, maybe he’ll come back.
Zoe tapped out a quick reply then said to Jack, “Looks like I’m going after that phantom painting after all.” A buzz of excitement raced through her at the thought of a new case, and one that was all her own, too. But she felt a trace of worry. Working with Thacker could be a huge boost for her career—as long as she was successful.
10
Monday
Tuck05: You’ve been dark for a while. Everything still good?
…
…
Tuck05: Status update? You ok?
Rbn: Not sure. I think someone followed me back from work today.
Tuck05: You better watch your back. Do you have enough to go with it now?
Rbn: No. Incomplete. Only a few more days.
Tuck05: Let me know.
Thursday
Zoe lowered the car window, and the humid air flowed over her. It would have been the perfect temperature and moisture consistency for a sauna. Unfortunately, Zoe wasn’t in a sauna. She was in Tampa, Florida, trying to track down the original sighting of the possible second blue butterfly painting. Once she’d worked out an agreement with Thacker, she contacted the art dealers she knew and told them she was looking for a Martin Johnson Heade painting with a blue butterfly. No one had anything like that for sale, and no one had heard rumors or hints that a painting like that might be available. She told everyone to keep an eye out and let her know if they heard anything.
Since she didn’t have any luck with the dealers, Zoe decided her next move should be to verify whether or not the blue butterfly painting actually existed, which meant going to Florida. The information Thacker had given her said the painting had been part of the estate of a woman who was recently deceased. If there had been an estate sale, Zoe was sure at least a couple of the neighbors would have checked it out. Hopefully, someone in the neighborhood would remember the blue butterfly painting and could describe it for her.
A young man wearing the uniform of a security company stepped out of the gatehouse as Zoe slowed the car. He leaned down to her window, pen poised over his clipboard. “Address?”
Zoe was relieved to see it was a different guard from the one who had been on duty last night. He’d turned her away from the rather ritzy neighborhood when she couldn’t give him an address as her destination. Today she was ready. “I’m going to 17254 Blue Heron Way.”
The guy noted the address then frowned. “That residence is empty. I can’t call and confirm your entry.”
Unlike last night, Zoe was ready today not only with a destination, but she had also figured out how to get around the requirement of the security guard calling the homeowner. “It’s empty because it’s on th
e market. I’m going to look at it this morning.”
He still seemed reluctant to let her inside the neighborhood, so she added, “The agent is Alma Murray.”
He scribbled the name on the clipboard then asked for Zoe’s ID. Zoe handed over her driver’s license with a glance at the rearview mirror. The line of cars behind her waiting to enter Palmetto Palm Estates was getting longer by the moment, curving back around the large pond with its spray fountain.
The security guard handed Zoe her ID, punched a button inside the gatehouse, and the arm barring her way went up. She closed her window, cranked up the AC another notch, then accelerated, but only to twenty miles an hour, the maximum speed limit inside the neighborhood. Helpful signs informed Zoe the speed limit was strictly enforced.
She followed the directions on her GPS, creeping along residential roads. The houses had a Mediterranean flair with red tile roofs and stucco exteriors in pale pastels of ivory, taupe, and pink. Lush plants surrounded the homes. Zoe cruised along the street lined with tall palm trees, their skinny trunks rising to a round burst of palm fronds that resembled giant dandelions.
Palmetto Palm Estates actually had several smaller neighborhoods within the main gates. Zoe cruised by entrances to three separate neighborhoods before she came to the entrance to Blue Haven Preserve. A gate also barred the neighborhood, something Zoe hadn’t counted on. She’d figured once she got past the main gate she could canvas the neighborhood easily. At least there wasn’t another security guard stationed here.
She pulled over to the side of the road a few yards back from the keypad entry box and took out her phone, settling in to wait.
Zoe unfolded the printout of the newspaper obituary that Thacker had sent her. Nancy “Birdie” Martindale’s husband had died five years earlier, and she was survived by a sister and a great niece. The obituary stated that she’d gotten the nickname of Birdie because she loved bird watching. After retiring from a local community college where she had taught English Lit, she spent most of her time adding to her Life List, the comprehensive list of birds she’d seen.
A car approached the gate, and Zoe put away the obit. The driver punched in the code, and the gate labored open in a slow arc. Zoe waited until the car was halfway through the entrance before she put her car in gear and followed. She easily made it into Blue Haven Preserve before the gate closed.
She took a left and followed the curving street, passing houses that looked nearly identical except for their exterior colors until she found the house she was looking for with a For Sale sign planted in the yard. Zoe parked a few houses away. She didn’t have an appointment with the realtor, but she was looking at the house.
Zoe scanned the neighborhood, considering where to start. A woman directly across the street from Birdie’s house came out her front door with a Jack Russell terrier on a leash. Under the woman’s short iron gray hair, her tanned face was lined and dotted with age spots. The Jack Russell terrier sped down the walk, straining at the leash. The woman was lean and looked as if she played tennis and golf—maybe both in the same day. She settled a pink sun visor on her forehead that matched her white tennis outfit that was trimmed in pink piping. As she came down the driveway, she gave Zoe a long look. Zoe waved then quickly picked up her phone. The woman didn’t look like she would welcome questions and certainly didn’t look like the chatty soul that Zoe hoped to find.
As the woman in the pink sun visor moved away, a minivan barreled down the street. It veered into the middle of the street to give the woman in the pink sun visor a wide berth, then swung to the other side to avoid Zoe’s parked car. A final swoop brought it into the driveway of the house that was for sale as the garage door scrolled up.
A heavy-set woman in booty shorts and a flowing tank top hopped out and slammed her car door.
Zoe took a deep breath. After a quick check of the obituary, she stepped out of the car. Zoe didn’t think this was the realtor. If she was the realtor, she was the most casually dressed realtor Zoe had ever seen. No, the woman was probably one of Birdie’s relatives, which was a great opportunity for Zoe, one she hadn’t expected.
Zoe approached the garage, which was still open. The woman had moved her reflective aviator sunglasses to her head, nestling them in her spiky brownish-blond hair. Hands on her hips, she surveyed the mix of furniture and household items crammed in the garage. She blew out a breath and checked her watch.
Spotting several frames propped against one of the garage walls, Zoe picked up her pace. “Rochelle?”
The woman turned. “Where’s your truck?” she asked, her gaze taking in the only car parked at the curb, the compact rental that Zoe had picked up at the airport yesterday.
“Umm, I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Zoe had thought up quite a few different approaches to the people she intended to talk to today, but she hadn’t expected that question.
“Aren’t you here for the charity pick up?”
“Oh, no. Sorry.”
Rochelle’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “So you must read the obits—that’s how you know my name, isn’t it? You’re a vulture, are you? Come to pick over the leftovers? The estate sale was last weekend. You missed it, but you can take whatever you want.” She tossed a suntanned arm at the household goods and furniture filling the double garage, her bracelets jingling around her wrist. “All of it’s going to charity today anyway. Have at it.”
Zoe decided not to waste time correcting Rochelle’s assumptions. Zoe went straight to the paintings, which were turned toward the wall. It only took her a few seconds to flip through them. Most were prints, which was disappointing, but all the artwork depicted birds and wildlife. She leaned the frames against the wall. “Whoever lived here must have liked birds.”
Rochelle rolled her eyes. “That’s practically all Aunt Birdie could talk about.” Zoe moved to the back of the garage. It was packed with furniture of good quality, but it was worn and dated and would have been in style about twenty years ago.
Zoe moved to the other bay of the garage to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. “Do you remember seeing a painting with a butterfly?” She spotted stacks of cooking utensils, pots and pans, piles of clothes still on their hangers, and a precarious tower of paint cans.
“No, but that doesn’t mean that Aunt Birdie didn’t have one. She had all sorts of crap related to birds.”
Zoe stepped on something lumpy and reached down to pick it up. She brushed her footprint off the leather cover of a small book about four inches tall and three inches wide. The name Birdie Martindale was written in elegant script on the inside front cover. Flipping through a few of the pages, Zoe recognized scientific names along with locations and dates.
She walked outside the garage. Rochelle had returned to her minivan. She had the engine running and was sitting in the driver’s seat, scrolling down the screen on her phone. Zoe went to the open driver’s door where blasts of icy air were fanning Rochelle’s face. The overflow felt great to Zoe. The day was getting hotter as the sun climbed higher.
“Can you believe it? They’re running late,” Rochelle said. “They didn’t even call or text. So rude. And it’s not like I have time to run out here and sit around and wait for charity trucks. I live an hour away.”
“I don’t see anything I can’t resist,” Zoe said. “I found this on the floor. I thought you might want it.”
With her attention still fixed on her phone, Rochelle reached out for the little notebook. She dragged her gaze away from the phone as she used one hand to angle the soft leather of the cover into a curved shape so that a few of the pages splayed open. “Perfect. More birding stuff. Just what I need.”
The rumble of a heavy engine filled the air. A truck lumbered down the street, the branches of the water oaks along the sidewalk brushing along the top of it.
“Finally.” Rochelle jumped out of the van. Zoe stepped out of her way. Rochelle went to a rolling trash can positioned at the side of the garage, tossed in the notebook, then walked t
o the foot of the driveway. Rochelle’s voice carried to her as Zoe walked to the trash can and lifted the lid. “I don’t appreciate you keeping me waiting. You’d think that since people are giving you things, you could at least be on time. You’re getting it for free, after all.”
The leather book rested on top of crumpled packing paper. Zoe plucked the notebook from the trash. She tucked it in the back pocket of her jeans, making sure the hem of her white cotton shirt covered it. It just didn’t seem right to throw something like that away.
While Rochelle directed the truck to park so that her van wouldn’t be blocked in, Zoe went to the houses on either side of Birdie’s house. No one answered at the first house. At the second, a woman told Zoe that she had moved in three weeks ago and hadn’t met her neighbors yet.
As Zoe walked down the street to the next house, the woman with the pink sun visor rounded the corner at the end of the block and headed in her direction. The terrier still looked just as perky. Zoe decided that despite the formidable look on the woman’s face, she might as well give her a try.
Feeling that nothing less than the truth would do, Zoe approached her and said, “Hello, my name is Zoe Andrews.” She took out one of her business cards. “I’m an art recovery specialist. I would love to talk to you about your neighbor Birdie Martindale. Did you know her?” The terrier danced around her feet. Zoe leaned down, let him sniff her fingers, and then rubbed his ears.
The woman flexed the business card in her fingers. “I knew her a lot better than that one.” She lifted her chin, indicating Rochelle. Zoe glanced back at Birdie’s house where the men from the charity were carrying a couch up a ramp to the truck. “And Pepper seems to like you.”
At the mention of his name, the dog looked at the woman, tilting his head inquiringly. They exchanged a look, then she said, “Come on. We can talk at my house.”