“Got it!” I yelled. But the stoner had slipped sideways on the chair and appeared to be asleep.
I tiptoed past him with the bag going clunkedy-clunk. He seemed not to notice. I wrapped up the remains of the cake and stuffed it into my catering bag. I didn’t want to leave any trace of myself. Then I picked up both bags and walked out the door, gently closed it behind me, and heaved the bags into the back of my van.
Unfortunately, I caught a glimpse of Kris Nielsen’s Maserati in my rearview mirror. He was driving very slowly up Main Street. I debated whether to stay in my parking space or take off. Had he been watching me all along? I put on my blinker and pulled out. I drove slowly so as to make out what Kris was doing. He maneuvered the Maserati into my empty space. Had he seen me? I still wasn’t sure.
Lovely, tall Harriet-the-model-with-odd-jobs got out of Kris’s car. She said a few words to Kris, then walked into Frank’s Fix-It. Hmm.
Ahead of me, the streetlight turned. If I didn’t move the van forward, it would attract attention. Still, I strained to observe Kris in the rearview mirror. Was he waiting for her, dropping her off, or what? I really wanted to know, but had no way to find out just then. At the moment, I did not think a return trip to Frank’s Fix-It was advisable.
I skipped the dry cleaner and the printer, because I was sure I had found what I was looking for. But as I drove home, I wondered why Humberto would leave the diamond-laden chandelier at Frank’s Fix-It, even covered with mud, even for a short time. Okay, the place was a jumbled-up mess, like one of those garages full of what the owner thinks is junk. So the owner has a big garage sale, and a lucky customer pays a dollar for a painting worth two million.
As far as I knew, Frank’s Fix-It Shop was not planning on selling off its dusty merchandise any time soon.
Not only that, but if Humberto knew, or suspected, that Ernest was on his trail, maybe even that Ernest was behind the theft of Norman Juarez’s necklace, the last place he’d want to put something valuable was in a safety deposit box or other obvious storage place. He’d want to get rid of Ernest first and then wait for the heat of the murder investigation to cool.
The other reason he’d decided on Frank’s Fix-It was that he’d needed to stash the diamonds somewhere unlikely, while waiting for the big Fort Knox–worthy metal safe to be delivered.
And what if Osgoode had been Humberto’s partner? Maybe Humberto had wanted to hide the diamonds, just in case, and then get rid of Osgoode, in the event he knew anything about the Juarez fortune.
I called Boyd to ask for lookout duty as I returned. Unfortunately, this meant he would see me bringing in a large, unwieldy bag full of clanking stuff, which would mean questions. So when he answered, I asked if he could meet me in the driveway to help me carry in groceries.
“That’s what you have?” he asked when I pulled in, opened the sliding door, and gestured to the dusty giant-size trash bag. “Somehow, it doesn’t look like food shopping.”
“It isn’t. If you’ll take it inside, we can both have a look.”
He mumbled something about keeping his job as he humped the bag up the ramp. I thanked him pleasantly and said how much I appreciated his being a houseguest.
“Oh!” said Ferdinanda when we came through the front door. “What have you got there?” Yolanda, who was reading a cookbook, gave us a curious glance.
“I don’t know yet!” I said more loudly than I intended. “Maybe I can tell you later.” Like when the police come to get it, I added mentally. Even if Humberto and Ferdinanda had seemed to be at each other’s throats the previous night, I didn’t want our houseguests to glimpse the contents of this sack, just in case it contained what I hoped and feared it did.
“Let’s go upstairs, Boyd.” I scurried upstairs and stopped in Arch’s room for a pair of wire cutters he’d used for one of his projects. Then I led Boyd into Arch’s bathroom and stopped up the bathtub. “All right, lower it in there, as slowly as you can.”
Boyd did as I asked, then untied the top of the bag and gently pulled out the light fixture by its chain. It was a gigantic chandelier that looked as if it had been sprayed with mud. Well, I thought, it probably had been. I wondered what kind of cock-and-bull story Humberto had used when he left it off at Frank’s Fix-It. Probably something along the lines of, “We need to order parts for this from France, and we’ll bring them in when they arrive, so you can do the repairs.”
“Should I rinse this off?” Boyd asked patiently.
“Carefully.” Once the warm water was running, I reached for a pair of cotton towels.
“Goldy?” said Boyd. “This thing is huge. Is it an antique or something? I don’t want to know if you stole it, because I know you probably did. Is it worth a lot of money?”
By way of answer, I reached in and gently cut the wire holding one of the pendants in place. Interestingly, these teardrop-shaped pieces were not drilled through at their tops, but were in tiny individual nylon nets. Once I’d freed the stone from the wire and the net holding it, I held it up to the light.
The fire and brilliance of the gem hurt my eyes. I tried not to contemplate the magnitude of Humberto’s theft.
“No, Sergeant Boyd, the chandelier is not an antique. But each of these sparkling pieces is a diamond. The whole chandelier is worth many millions of dollars. Humberto Captain stole these gems from the family of Norman Juarez.”
“Oh, Jesus,” said Boyd. “Time to call Tom, eh?” He punched in the numbers and was poised to talk but at the last moment pushed his cell toward me. “You tell him.”
“Boyd?” my husband’s disembodied voice said. “You there?”
“It’s me,” I said once I’d taken Boyd’s cell. “I found Norman Juarez’s gems.”
23
“Miss G., what in God’s name are you talking about?”
Ferdinanda’s wheelchair was rolling along the hallway downstairs. “I can’t stand it any longer!” she yelled up the steps. I motioned to Boyd. “Please don’t tell her what’s going on. No matter what,” I added.
“No matter what what?” Tom said impatiently. “Can you tell me what is going on?”
So I did. I knew he would not be pleased when I informed him of Lolly’s job for me, which I called “borrowing” Humberto’s wallet. I told him about my manufacture of the fake receipts, my hunch about the photos that would be at the library, and finally, of retrieving the chandelier under false pretenses.
“And they didn’t give you any trouble at Frank’s Fix-It,” Tom said disbelievingly.
“The guy was so trashed, he had no idea what I was doing,” I said. “I could have gone in there and pulled the Hope Diamond out from under him, and he wouldn’t have known.”
“We’ve known about the pot for a long time,” Tom said. “But we’ve never actually searched the place. I guess we could now.”
“And you could find—oops!—a chandelier made of diamonds. Then you could charge him with receiving stolen goods—”
“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Miss Detective. You’ve already broken enough laws for one day. I’m coming up there now, to get the chandelier from Boyd. Do not let our guests know what you are up to. I’ll tell one of the guys here to get a judge to issue a search warrant for suspicion of drug dealing.” He paused. “You better hope this works.”
“It’ll work,” I said confidently. “Uh,” I said painfully, “I have to meet somebody in a little bit and will probably miss you. Boyd can pack up the chandelier and help you with it.”
“This is when I ask you who you’re meeting.”
“And this is when I tell you it’s none of your beeswax.”
“I’m so glad we have an open, honest, committed relationship,” said Tom, “full of mutual trust.”
“I won’t steal anything valuable,” I promised.
“That does not make me feel better,” he said, and signed off.
Kris Nielsen’s Maserati was parked in the driveway opposite our house when Boyd escorted me to my va
n. I shuddered and concentrated on getting behind my own wheel. Still, if Kris was at the house on our street, then he wouldn’t be at his home in Flicker Ridge, which was my next stop.
I set off just before noon. I wished for another of Ferdinanda’s pork sandwiches, but satisfied myself with a quick stop at the Aspen Meadow café for an iced latte, which I combined with a slice of one of my leftover coffee cakes. I polished both off as I drove through the entrance to Flicker Ridge.
The sky began to boil with dark clouds rolling in from the mountains to our west. A stiff breeze rocked the van and blasted my windshield with dust. Another storm was coming. I wondered if Arch had taken a jacket to school and if he kept a spare pair of boots in his trunk. The answer to both questions was Probably not. And what about his tires? Snow wasn’t in the forecast, but I still worried about him in any bad weather.
Well, I hoped the math test had gone well.
My cell startled me. Penny Woolworth’s scratchy voice said, “Goldy? Where are you? Are you coming over here or not?”
“I’m coming,” I announced as I wound up the paved roads in Flicker Ridge. “What are you worried about?”
“I usually finish here around one. There’s no check here, so he’ll probably come over to pay me. I mean, that’s what he ordinarily does.”
“Is there a place for me to park where he won’t see my van?”
“Try the dead end right below us. Just leave your car on the side of the road. Come straight up through Kris’s property. I’ll be at the door of his study. It opens to the outdoors.”
“I’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
In the encroaching darkness, the huge gray houses in Flicker Ridge took on a silvery glow. Expanses of window glass shimmied in the wind. I looked down at my sweatshirt and jeans. I hadn’t even remembered a jacket. But once I removed the remaining coffee cake, I had an empty canvas catering bag. If I found something useful—like a receipt for work on an electric skillet—I would snag it. I would just have to be fast.
I grabbed the cloth sack, parked and locked the van, and took off on foot. Tom’s and my energetic lovemaking that morning and the previous night had done nothing good for my leg muscles. But I trotted painfully up the hill anyway to where Penny stood, hugging herself in the sudden chill.
“Where have you been?” she asked crossly. “I could so lose my job over this. And it’s not—”
“It’s not what?” I asked as I slid inside the door.
Penny’s shoulders slumped. “Nothing.”
“It’s not what, Penny?” I said with a sudden flash of anger.
She looked down at the wooden floor. “It’s not the first time I’ve let somebody in here. Ernest McLeod was an old friend, from when I was a bartender. He said the same thing you did, that Kris was, you know, maybe going to hurt Yolanda. I thought Kris loved Yolanda. I mean, he kept saying he loved her. But Ernest, well, he was my friend.”
“For God’s sake, Penny. I wish you had told me this sooner.” Yolanda had not been sure whether Ernest had started investigating Kris when he was killed. He had only promised that he would, eventually. I asked Penny, “Did you tell the cops?”
“With Zeke about to get out of prison? No way.”
I shook my head as I moved into the huge study, which boasted scarlet red wallpaper and an oak floor.
A mahogany desk, bookshelves, and filing cabinets lined one wall. On the side opposite, where I stood, were a framed diploma—from Carleton, I noted—and various masks. They looked African, perhaps, or South American. Made of straw or wood and painted garish colors, they made me uncomfortable.
“He collects these?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s like his hobby.”
“So tell me about what Ernest wanted,” I said as I moved to the desk.
“Same as you,” Penny said nervously. “To look at files, mail, stuff like that. There’s a safe in Kris’s closet, and of course I don’t know the combination or what’s in there. I kept asking Ernest, ‘What are you searching for?’ Ernest said he thought that since Kris was obsessing over Yolanda, which is what he called it, Kris might have drawn up a plan of what he was doing, or what he was going to do, or maybe he was keeping a journal. Something like that. He brought a handheld scanner.” Penny exhaled and cocked her ear to the door.
“Did Ernest find anything to scan?” I asked as I pulled on file-drawer handles. A single lock at the top kept them all tightly closed.
“I don’t know, Goldy. My job is to clean, get it? I just left him alone in here. Later, I felt really bad about letting Ernest in. So then when Kris told me how much he loved Yolanda, and that he just wanted to know how she was doing and where she was, I told him. I mean, Kris paid me. Ernest didn’t, but as I said, he was an old friend.”
I turned and faced her. “So I can’t get into the safe. Does he keep the key to these files on a ring or fob of some kind? Or is it separate?”
“Actually,” she said reluctantly, “I think it’s separate, ’cause one time he came barging out of his study, where he’d been working on taxes all morning. He was hollering that he needed to go somewhere, and did I know where his car keys were?”
I rustled through the desk drawer. There was nothing except blank paper, index cards, and writing utensils. No key. “Please, Penny,” I begged, “you need to help me find the key to this file cabinet. And I will pay you for your help here, plus at the Bertrams’ this afternoon.”
“Oh, hell, Goldy, I don’t know how to find one little key.”
“There’s a recession on, Penny. And I pay in cash.”
She grumbled something unintelligible, then yanked open another desk drawer, which revealed more pencils, pens, and another neat pile of paper pads. I asked her to run her hands over and behind the books on Kris’s shelves. She sighed heavily but climbed up on the long desk and starting poking behind the volumes.
I did a visual survey of the room. The door I’d come through was in the wall with all the masks. There were about forty of them.
“So, Penny, did he say these masks were valuable?”
“Huh?” She was prodding the area behind the highest books. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Right, I thought. Because if they were really valuable, Kris Got-Bucks would have had cases built for them, right? A quick glance at my watch said it was half past twelve.
“Couple more questions, Penny. Do you know where any of these masks come from? I mean, does he tell you?”
“Uh, yeah. One is from Kenya.” She wavered on the desktop and pointed uncertainly. “One is from Brazil. Can’t remember which one that is. Oh, and the new one?” She pointed to a red painted mask. “That’s like, voodoo. He told me the word. Something like San Rita.” She pulled out her hand and inspected it with disgust. “I swear to God, I don’t know why I’ve never dusted back here. There are dead bugs and all kinds of crap. And before you ask me, no, I haven’t found a key.”
“Was the word Santería?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”
“Could you point to it again?” She did, and I walked quickly to the new mask. I felt its sides. Nothing. Gently, I lifted it off its hook and placed it upside down on the wood floor. A key was taped to the back.
I peeled the key off the dry clay and said, “Okay, Penny, you can go finish your other cleaning. Call me if he comes.”
“Oh my God,” she said as she jumped down and slapped her palms together to dislodge dirt. “It’s a good thing I haven’t cleaned in here yet.”
I said, “Thanks again.” As Penny raced out the study door, I crossed to the file cabinet, inserted the key, and turned it. The drawers unlocked.
Quickly, go quickly, I thought. I needed to protect Penny, Yolanda . . . and myself. The files were alphabetical. Amenities. Boats. Board Notes. The first two contained pamphlets of things he apparently wanted or was interested in; the third was notes from an alumni board that he belonged to. Media. Miscellaneous. Mother. The final drawer contained
everything from Northwest—a list of restaurants he wanted to visit or had visited in Portland and Seattle—to Taxes, Subscriptions, and Warranties.
There was no file on Yolanda. I didn’t know if I was happy or disappointed.
It was quarter to one. I leafed through Media and found another batch of pamphlets for televisions, cameras, and laptops that Kris either had or was interested in. Mother was a very fat file. Puzzled, I saw it contained numerous letters to and from an insurance company, police reports, and newspaper clippings. On one police report, Kris’s neat handwriting had penned Jackass.
Police reports? Jackass?
It was ten to one. I didn’t have a handheld scanner, so I stuffed the Mother file into my bag. This would warrant further study, and if I could get out of there quickly, I’d be able to peruse it at my leisure . . . provided Kris didn’t notice the file was gone.
The Miscellaneous file was intriguing because it did not, in fact, contain miscellaneous clippings, letters, and other papers that one would expect. Instead it contained neatly penned charts with numbers in columns. Each line on the charts contained dates, with numbers and initials.
Well, I thought as I crammed this file into my bag, too, in for a penny, in for a pound. Penny Woolworth probably wouldn’t appreciate that saying, but—
“He’s coming!” she screamed. “Get out!”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I straightened the now loosely fitting files, closed all the drawers, and relocked the cabinet. Unfortunately, the piece of tape that had held the key in place was clogged with clay particles, so I had to take a moment to find a new roll and retape the key behind the Santería mask. My hands shook as I replaced it on the wall.
I heard the Maserati’s characteristic vroom-vroom. I swallowed hard and looked around the study. My mother had always checked the trash when she returned from shopping, sure that evidence of my misdeeds would have been chucked in there. Penny said she hadn’t cleaned in here yet, so I stuck the used bit of tape in my pocket, emptied Kris’s small garbage can into my canvas tote, and skedaddled. Running back down the hill, despite slipping through patches of snow, proved easier than trotting up. Nevertheless, I was still huffing and puffing when I arrived at the van.
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