“Some red-haired chick asked me about it Sunday night.”
“Jacob...” the woman admonished.
“Lady. Whatever. She caught up to me in the driveway. She was from that house where they had the yard sale and wanted to know if I saw who bought some big painting.”
“Wait a minute,” the man said. “What were you doing in the driveway Sunday night? You’re grounded, remember?”
“Uh...I was fixing my bike. The handlebars were loose.”
“That’s not what it sounded like. You said she ‘caught up’ to you. You went out, after we specifically told you to stay here, didn’t you?”
“We didn’t say he had to stay inside the house, Les.”
“You’re too soft, Ruth. I told you we shouldn’t have trusted him.”
“You could have gone to your Elks dinner alone. I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Maybe I should have. Next time I will.”
“Um, guys?” The boy—Jacob—seemed more aware of their audience than his parents were. He jerked his head toward Hank. “Could we focus here?”
Les pointed his free hand at his son. “Don’t talk to your mother like that.”
“Sor-ry,” Jacob drawled, rolling his eyes.
“Jacob!”
He ducked his head. “Sorry.”
The conversational pattern seemed well established. Hank decided he’d better jump in before it deteriorated further. “You guessed right, son. I did want to ask you about the painting. It was sold by mistake at the Goodfellows’ yard sale.”
“Yeah, that’s what the chi—uh, lady said. She wants it back.”
The woman called Ruth tilted her head, appearing thoughtful. Instead of fluffing her hair this time, she twirled a lock around one finger. “Is it valuable?”
“To be honest, the frame is worth more than the canvas, ma’am,” Hank said. “The painting only has sentimental value.”
“Is that so?” The man lifted his beer and took a long swallow, his version of being thoughtful. “Seems to me, Mr. Jones, it’s got to be worth something for them to hire a private eye to look for it.”
“I can understand how you’d assume that, but I’m working on my own time.” He’d told Amelia the same thing, and it was perfectly true. To be exact though, since he was self-employed, all the work he did was on his own time. “I’m helping out the Goodfellows as a favor,” he added. “I’m an old friend of the family.” Which was sort of the truth, too, since they’d been friendly enough to him fifteen years ago.
“So there’s no reward?”
“I wish there was. It would make my job easier.”
“I don’t know. Seems a lot of trouble to go to for something that’s not worth anything....” Les snapped his fingers. “The redhead who came around here must have been Goodfellow’s sister, right? The one who stole all that money!”
Ruth responded first. “It was her husband who stole the money,” she corrected.
“Same thing.”
“It is not the same thing, Les. A wife isn’t responsible for her husband’s behavior.”
“Sure, I’ll remind you of that next time I’m driving. I could do without the speedometer readings every ten seconds.”
“Well, I feel sorry for her. That man ruined her life.”
“Hardly. She let her husband take the blame and got off scot-free.”
Hank cleared his throat. “Excuse me? I think something’s burning.”
Les glanced at the barbecue. Smoke billowed from the hamburger patties. He swore as he scraped them off the grill.
“I can see you folks are busy,” Hank continued, “so I’ll make this quick. Did any of you go to the Goodfellows’ yard sale?”
Ruth seemed about to say something but as had happened before, it was Les who replied. “No way. We’ve got enough junk in our house as it is.”
Hank kept his gaze on the woman as he drew a business card from his shirt pocket and held it out. “If you remember anything later, I’d appreciate it if you give me a call.”
“Sorry, we can’t help you,” Les said. “Got better things to do than worry about that spoiled rich girl’s painting. If you ask me, she shouldn’t be showing her face in public anyway. It was because of her all those reporters camped out in front of her brother’s place last year. It was a disgrace for the neighborhood, brought everyone’s property values down. Next thing you know we’ll have a Hells Angels clubhouse at the end of the block.”
Hank concentrated on not crushing the card. It wouldn’t do Amelia any good if he lost his temper. If this was a sample of the kind of attitude she had to contend with in her own neighborhood, it was little wonder she’d seemed so tense when he’d seen her.
Ruth got up from the table and came over to take the card. She hesitated momentarily, then unlatched the gate and stepped through. “I’ll walk you out, Mr. Jones.”
“Burgers are ready, Ruth,” Les called.
“I’ll be right back.” She led Hank to the front of the house and stopped beside the bed of petunias. Her gaze darted to the neighboring houses. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about my husband. He has a low blood sugar condition and isn’t himself when he’s hungry.”
He suspected that apologizing for her husband was another well-established pattern of conversation for this woman. “No problem.”
“And we all think the Goodfellows are decent people. We feel sorry for Will’s sister. It’s nice you’re helping them out.”
“I’m doing my best, but so far I haven’t had much luck.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “They’ve had their share of troubles, and with Jenny expecting again, I’d hate to let the family down,” he finished. Then he waited. He could tell she had something else to say.
“I didn’t go to the Goodfellows’ yard sale.”
He nodded encouragingly.
She leaned closer and spoke in a rush. “But I happened to be weeding my flowers on Sunday morning while that sale was going on, and I remember seeing a man putting something flat in his car trunk.”
All right! “Could it have been a painting?”
“Possibly. It looked like a big, folded blanket, but it could have been wrapping something. Now that I think about it, it must have been the painting.”
“How large was it?”
She held her hands about a yard apart. “It was around this long, maybe bigger. I don’t normally pay attention to what my neighbors do, of course, but I couldn’t help noticing that.”
“Because of the size of the bundle?”
“No, it was the car that caught my eye. It was bright yellow. I suppose you could call it canary yellow.”
“Do you remember the make or model?”
“I wouldn’t know the difference. It was old.”
“Was it rusted? Patched? Dented?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t mean old that way. I meant it must have been from the fifties. It was one of those big, bulky sedans, like the kind that used to be used for taxis.”
That certainly narrowed things down. The lead might not pan out, but at least it gave him a starting point. Hank smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been a lot of help. If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Well, actually, there is something else I noticed after lunch that same day, while I was trimming the hedge....”
* * *
HALF AN HOUR later, Hank was climbing the steps to the Goodfellows’ house when he had a flash of déjà vu. The porch light was shaped like a lantern, a popular design, and the screen door was plain, white-enameled aluminum, variations of which he’d already seen in this neighborhood. The inside door was varnished wood and had been left open to allow the evening breeze to help cool the interior, which wasn’t unusual since most people around here would prefer to save the cost of running an air conditioner and let nature do the work. Yet the feeling of familiarity he was experiencing didn’t arise from what he saw, it came from what he felt.
He’d und
ergone the same swooping sensation in his stomach when he’d been a teenager and had called on Amelia at her parents’ house. Their front door had been painted forest-green, and the screen door had been a relic from the sixties, decorated with the silhouette of a flamingo. Rather than a square, cement stoop like the one he stood on here, their house had had a veranda along the front that had been large enough for a swing. Their porch light had been a high-wattage bulb in a glass globe, which had illuminated that swing—and anyone on it—like a spotlight, much to the disappointment of a teenage boy hoping to steal a few extra good-night kisses.
That place had been several miles from here, on the east side of the Ganaraska River that bisected the town. The neighborhood was much older than this one and had developed naturally, with no subdivision master plan. As a result, modest clapboard houses like the one where Amelia’s family had lived were mixed in haphazardly with stately, three-story, brick century homes like his father’s. It had taken Hank less than ten minutes to walk to Amelia’s. Sometimes he would take the junker he’d fixed up in shop class. Amelia had claimed she’d been able to hear it coming a block away, so she’d often be halfway down the walk by the time he’d pulled up. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to hide her eagerness to see him any more than he would have tried to hide his own.
But that was then, and this was now. He took a few deep breaths to calm his pulse, then pressed the doorbell.
Chimes sounded inside the house, followed by high-pitched yapping and the scrabbling of nails on hardwood. A small black mop of a dog skidded to a halt at the screen door. Barred from going farther, it spun in place and yapped faster.
Amelia appeared behind it, carrying a toddler on one hip. The boy was dressed in short pajamas and clutched a tattered yellow rabbit. The dog immediately lost interest in Hank and jumped at the stuffed toy.
“Toto, cut that out!” Amelia ordered, swiveling to turn the boy and rabbit away from the dog. She unlatched the door and moved back so Hank could enter. “Hi,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
Hank pulled the screen door shut behind him, enjoying the picture she presented. Amelia wore cutoff jean shorts that showed off her legs and a flowered blouse that was similar to the one she’d worn to his office, only this one had a smear of what could have been spaghetti sauce on the collar. Most of her hair was caught back by a scrunchie into a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore no makeup, so her freckles stood out vividly against her cheeks, like sprinkles of melted cinnamon on warm pudding.
She had always managed to look beautiful to him, regardless of the circumstances. It used to leave him tongue-tied, or wishing he was so he wouldn’t embarrass himself by making clumsy compliments. Cinnamon? He tightened his lips.
She grasped his arm suddenly. “Did you find it?”
The touch set off another stomach swoop. He reminded himself that her eagerness wasn’t for him, it was for the painting. “Sorry, no. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d give you an update.”
The dog backed up, took a running leap and latched on to the rabbit, yanking it out of the boy’s grasp.
“Mine!” the child yelled. He squirmed violently until Amelia shifted him to her shoulder. He arched his back and screamed. “No! My bunny!”
“Is this a bad time?” Hank asked.
“No worse than usual.” She led him the few steps to the living room. Toys were scattered on the floor. On a corner table sat a computer that appeared even older than his. Bulky, brown leather furniture huddled around an oval coffee table, which was covered with stacks of neatly folded children’s clothes. A wicker basket with more laundry sat on the floor beside it. The Goodfellows weren’t well-off, as Hank had already learned when he’d done the credit check for his father. Nothing appeared to be new here, but the mess was from disorder, not dirt. The sofa set looked comfortable, and the wooden pieces were skillfully crafted from solid oak. The overall effect was inviting and homey.
“Will and Jenny went to the movies so I’m in charge of the circus tonight.” Amelia nodded Hank toward the couch as she jiggled the boy in her arms. “Have a seat and I’ll be with you in two minutes. I just need to get Timmy settled.”
The two minutes stretched into ten. Hank used the time to observe what was visible from the living room doorway. Like the other houses of the same design on the block, this one had a kitchen and bathroom to the left of the hall that ran through to the back door. The staircase Amelia had carried Timmy up was in the center. Hank deduced the older boys were playing video games in the basement, since he heard phrases of the distinctive music from Super Mario emanating from the depths of the house.
Hank turned his attention to the room to the right of the stairs, which had to be the one where Amelia was staying. Through the open door he saw a table with a sewing machine and shelves crammed with folded lengths of fabric and small, plastic storage containers. Beneath the window was a toy box shaped like a treasure chest that stood next to a pine futon with a blue-and-white striped cover. The walls were bare, apart from an empty picture hook and smudged arcs on the paint where the lower corners of the painting would have rested.
He tried to imagine Amelia living here. It was difficult. She’d moved in months ago, yet he could see no trace of her personality in this room. Everything appeared to belong to her sister-in-law or her nephews. This was the room of someone who was passing through, who was marking time, getting from one day to the next. The look was familiar to him, since he’d lived that way himself during the years that had followed Amelia’s departure.
His gaze returned to the empty picture hook. He didn’t want to feel sorry for her, because she would hate that, but how could he help it? This cramped room was a giant step down from the luxury condo in Toronto where she used to live. Not that he had any firsthand knowledge of it—he would be the last person Amelia would have invited to visit. He’d seen pictures of the outside of the building on a newscast last year. None of the camera crews had been allowed past the lobby, but from what the reporters had described, the square footage of her apartment had been greater than this entire house. Amelia would have had closets that were bigger than this bedroom. She wouldn’t have had spaghetti stains on her collar or needed to contend with screaming toddlers or yapping mop-dogs. She would have worn designer outfits and gone to operas or art galleries or wherever it was rich people hung out in the city. That had been the life she’d chosen, after all.
And she hadn’t lived that life alone. She’d had her husband, the man she had chosen over Hank.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Timmy wanted another story.”
Hank started at Amelia’s voice. He hadn’t heard her approach, likely because she was barefoot. She had loved going barefoot during the summer when they were kids. She used to be self-conscious about the size of her feet, but he’d thought they were perfect, long and slender, with a particularly ticklish spot in the center of the arch. He’d loved hearing her laugh....
Hank pushed his memories aside as Amelia returned to the living room. “It sounds as if you settled the dog down, too,” he said.
“He sleeps at the top of the stairs whenever Timmy’s up there. He thinks he’s a guard dog.” She cleared the stacks of laundry off the coffee table by putting them in the wicker basket. “The other two boys have popcorn so they should be good for a while.”
“You’ve got your hands full.”
“It’s Jenny and Will who are the busy ones. I try to give them a break when I can. It’s the least I can do.”
He waited until she sat, then took the chair across from her. “When do you expect them back?”
“Not for another hour at least. Why?”
“I was canvassing the neighbors tonight and hoped to talk to your brother and sister-in-law, too.”
“It would probably be too late. They both get up early, and Jenny needs lots of rest these days. We’ll have to do it another time.”
“I can talk to them on my own.”
“It’s no
trouble. I’d prefer to be present. That way you won’t need to bother giving me updates.” She gripped her knees and leaned forward. “Speaking of which, have you made any progress?”
“I do have a lead I’ll be pursuing. One of your neighbors believes she might have seen the car of the person who bought the painting.” He summarized what he’d learned from Ruth.
“That’s great!”
“It gives me a place to begin, as long as she actually saw what she claimed she did.”
“Oh, you can believe Ruth Talmidge. She’s a sweet lady. I see her busy with her garden most nice days. She always waves hello.”
“She did seem observant.”
“Jacob was the only one I talked to at the Talmidges’. He’d promised to ask his mom but I guess it slipped his mind.”
“He likely didn’t want to get into trouble for leaving the house. He was supposed to be grounded.”
“I’m glad you went back. It’s a good thing you were thorough.”
“I’d like to talk to your sister-in-law to confirm what Ruth told me. Describing a car that distinctive might help trigger Jenny’s memory.”
“Yes, it might. I’ll ask her as soon as they get home.”
“You said it would be late.”
“Well, yes, but that wouldn’t take long. I’ll call you tomorrow if I learn anything, okay?”
That was the second time she’d put him off, as if she were reluctant to have him talk to her sister-in-law himself, but that made no sense. It was true that Jenny would indeed need a lot of rest in her condition, as Amelia had said. “Sure. I’ll see what I can do about tracking down the owner of that car. Even if he didn’t buy the painting, he did attend the sale. That alone could prove helpful.”
“There couldn’t be many canary-yellow classic cars from the fifties around. The problem is finding it.”
“Depends where you look.”
“Can you hack into the Ministry of Transport database?”
He shook his head. “Hacking the MOT would be illegal. Besides, I do have another approach I could take. I heard there was an antique car show at the fairgrounds on the weekend.”
Winning Amelia Page 5