by Jennifer Joy
I clutched Mammy’s arm. “What did you say?”
Gus repeated with more detail, “Last night. I got the call right after I left you here.” He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “You got that going for you, Jess. You have a rock solid alibi.”
I glared at him. “I’m not a jewel thief.”
“All the same, it’s a relief to have proof of it. Seriously, Jess, stay out of my jail — you and your friends.”
He turned to talk to Angel Flores, who currently glared daggers at me. For a guy named after a peaceful, celestial being, he sure held a lot of hate.
Chapter 19
After a long shower and a pot of supercharged coffee, I was functional. I needed a nap, but when I couldn’t stop thinking about the paintings, Eduardo, my mixer and Sal, the jewels, Dr. Montalvo and his wife, Angry Art Man and his stinky eye … I gave up on sleep.
Was there a connection? If the paintings were found, would they lead to the jewels? And what did Eduardo have to do with all of this? He didn’t seem like the burgling type, but I’d been wrong before. And then there was my shop and the missing mixer. More likely the jewels and the paintings were linked than the attempt to sabotage my doughnut shop.
Unfortunately, the fact that I had an airtight alibi also meant that Sal did too. Abuelita’s gut had been wrong yet again. Sal was a thief, but he wasn’t a jewel thief.
Mammy and I went downstairs to my shop. It was like nothing had happened inside. Not a speck of dust remained from the mess.
The only fly in the ointment was Sal. He was inside my shop bugging Martha again. Did they do restraining orders in Ecuador? I aimed to find out.
It irked me how he stood in the doorway of my kitchen like he had every right to be there.
I caught part of his conversation before he saw me. “The shop can’t open. Come back to work for me, and I won’t press charges against Señorita James,” he said.
I gritted my teeth at the weasel for using me against Martha. “But you didn’t press charges, Sal.”
“You should thank me,” he said, puffing out his chest.
“Thank you,” I said with enough sarcasm, nobody could accuse me of being sincere.
Mammy crossed her arms and huffed beside me. That was as much gratitude as she would muster, and it would have to be good enough for the guy we were still convinced had my mixer.
Sal sneered. “I can always change my mind.”
“And I can always knead dough by hand. I’ll do that before I let you ruin my opening and leave Martha without a job.” My arms quivered at the prospect of kneading enough dough to fill the empty display cases, but I meant it.
He didn’t mock me or even chuckle derisively, so he must have known I meant it too.
Mammy added, “I’ll help,” looping her arm through mine.
Martha said, “Me too,” and took my other arm.
Sal stepped forward, pointing his finger at my nose so that I went cross-eyed. “I did not steal your mixer, but you will not last a week without it. And I am glad for that.”
I waved my hand in front of me, smacking his finger out of my face. Didn’t anyone teach him that pointing was rude? “Yeah? I’ve had enough of you, Sal. You’d have more friends if you showed an ounce of support instead of taking everything as a personal attack. You should take responsibility for your own business instead of casting the blame anywhere but where it belongs.”
He tried to interrupt me, but I was caffeine-charged and sleep-deprived. Pointing out my door, I said, “If you can’t say something nice, then I encourage you not to say anything at all. And if keeping quiet is too difficult, then I suggest you leave.”
I cringed that the best zinger I could come up with was inspired by a cartoon bunny rabbit. But it was a beloved classic, and Sal got my meaning. He left.
Mammy clucked her tongue at me. “You’re too nice, Sugar, but that’s what I love about you.”
“Thanks, I guess?”
We went into the kitchen with Martha. Everything was ready. She’d even polished the wire whisks and frosting bowls.
With as much confidence as I could muster, I told Martha, “We’ll be fine. Tomorrow will be great.”
She nodded. “I know it. Trust me.”
I sensed she wanted to say more but didn’t trust my Spanish or her English enough to say it. She smiled and squeezed my hand, then went home to spend the rest of the day with her kids before our grand day the next morning.
I locked up, and Mammy and I headed to Dr. Montalvo’s office.
“Will he be at his work today after what happened?” she asked.
“He never misses a day, and his wife uses his office as a hub for her social activities. I’ll bet the mayor is camped out there with his camera crew,” I said, bracing myself psychologically for our visit. I could handle the cameras today, but I’d rather not. Hopefully, they’d take one look at my tired aspect and point in the opposite direction.
Speaking of preparing psychologically, there was something else Mammy needed to know before we arrived at the good doctor’s office.
Clearing my throat, I began, “There’s something you should know about Dr. Montalvo. He’s a bit of an alarmist.”
She nodded. “I think that comes with the profession, Sugar.”
Mammy had no idea, but I tried to clue her in. “He can see a paper cut, and he’ll fret that it’s gone septic and worry that you have gangrene. Next thing you know, he’s saying that amputation is your only salvation.”
She looked at me dubiously.
“I’m not exaggerating. The last time I went to him was when I’d been scratched by a wire, and he was convinced the wire would give me lockjaw. And this was after he’d pulled out the longest needle I’d ever seen, insisting he needed to give me a tetanus shot in the stomach,” I said.
“Sounds charming. Why do you go to him?” she asked.
I’d asked myself that question a few times, too. “He’s Jake and Adi’s pediatrician.”
“Aren’t you all a little old for that?”
“Dr. Montalvo gives his patients suckers.”
Mammy laughed. “That explains everything.”
Dr. Montalvo lived up to everything I’d told Mammy about him.
Not three steps into his office, he had his palm on my forehead and his stethoscope on my back, instructing me to breathe in.
The wrinkles on his grooved face multiplied as he considered me. “You look terrible. Ah, this is terrible. You’re white like my toothpaste.”
I looked down at my arm and my tan-resistant skin. Nope, that was my normal shade. White with freckles.
He raised his penlight, waving it back and forth in front of my eyes while he grabbed my wrist with his other hand, feeling for my pulse. “Last time I saw a case this bad was in 1978. A girl came in with pasty skin, red eyes, and low blood pressure.” He clucked his tongue and led me over to his examination table, slipping the blood pressure cuff that would seal my fate on my arm.
“What happened to the girl?” Mammy asked.
He shook his head gravely. “She died the next day.”
Mammy raised her eyebrows. “I see what you meant,” she said to me.
I let him finish taking my blood pressure, which I guessed was perfectly normal from the look of consternation on his face when he read the gauge.
“Dr. Montalvo, I’m not sick.”
He straightened up, took off the cuff, and reached over to his desk for the big, glass jar of assorted flavored suckers. Taking off the lid, he held it out to me. “Here, then, have one of these. I just knew with the way today has gone so far that one of my favorite patients would die on me.”
I smiled and selected a red sucker. “Not today.”
The ancient doctor finally noticed Mammy. Holding out his hand to shake hers, he said, “You must be related. You’re not sick, are you?”
She grinned and snatched an orange sucker from the jar he held out. “I’ve never been better. I’m Mammy, Jess’ grandma.”<
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“We heard about what happened with your wife’s jewels, and we came by to see if you’re okay. How is Señora Montalvo?” I asked.
He walked around his bulky desk and sat heavily, motioning for us to occupy the seats in front of his desk.
Resting his head against his hand, he replied, “It’s very difficult for her. The diamonds have been in her family since the late eighteen hundreds.” He pointed to a large family portrait painting mounted on the wall. “She wore them here.”
I got up to take a closer look. The artist had captured the detail of the delicate floral filigree beautifully. I could see the sparkle reflecting off the teardrop diamonds in her ears matching the centerpiece of her necklace. “They’re gorgeous,” I said.
“My poor, dear wife. She’s devastated.” Dr. Montalvo sighed deeply just as the subject of our conversation entered the room in a waft of Chanel perfume, dressed in a tailored designer suit and kitten heels, looking like she’d just come back from a visit to the salon.
She was on her telephone. “Yes, Mr. Mayor. I cannot thank you enough for your help,” she said, clicking off. She fluffed her hair where the phone might have crushed it and dropped the device into her Coach purse.
Señora Montalvo wiggled her fingers at us in greeting while she tried to smile at her husband — what the “facial treatments” she took would permit. She fought her age with every penny her husband made. “That was the mayor. He’s going to come by with his camera crew to interview me about the stolen jewels.” She crossed the room to pose by the portrait.
“Mi Corazón, can we use your office for a few minutes? How does this look?” She raised her hand and pointed to the diamonds in the portrait with her manicured nails like a presenter on The Price is Right.
Dr. Montalvo grumbled a bit, but he conceded and was rewarded with a peck on the cheek (after which she pulled out a hand mirror to check her lipstick for smudges).
Dr. Montalvo looked at me and shrugged. “Who am I kidding? She loves all the attention.”
Señora Montalvo jumped into the conversation as if she knew what we’d been speaking about before she entered the room. “It’s not every day I get to be on television, Dearest. Besides, if Jess is here, she must be helping the police with their investigation. She’ll get my diamonds back.”
She smiled at me confidently, and I heard the mayor behind me say, “Jessica James is on the case? Then it’s as good as solved!”
I cringed. I was no Nancy Drew.
Dr. Montalvo, Mammy, and I were quickly forgotten as the mayor moved his crew around the doctor’s office to take advantage of the natural light and both his and Señora Montalvo’s “best sides.”
It being too cramped to remain in the office, we moved outside to the waiting room. There was one more thing I wanted to ask Dr. Montalvo before we departed.
“You mentioned the last time I came that you knew a man in Cuenca who sold Panama hats? I’d like to get one for my dad to send back home with Mammy.”
He pulled out his wallet, extracting a wad of business cards. “I know it’s here somewhere,” he mumbled as he sorted through them, raising each card up and moving it forward and backward until he could read it through his bifocals. Finally, when most of the pile was exhausted, he held one up. “This is it. You take the card. I have another. If you mention my name, maybe he’ll give me a discount on my next hat,” he said with a wink.
“Thank you, Dr. Montalvo. I hope your day improves.”
He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward his office door. “Surrounded by this circus?” He shook his head in mock defeat, adding, “It makes my wife happy. And as every old dinger knows, when the wife’s happy, everyone’s happy.”
I shook his hand, surprised when he closed both of his hands over mine and said, “I’m relieved to hear you’re assisting the police in their investigation.”
I raised my finger to correct him, but Mammy slapped it down before I could utter a peep.
“That’s our Jess. She’ll find your wife’s diamonds. Make no mistake about it, Dr. Montalvo.”
When we had made our way out of his building, I turned to her. “Why did you say that? My grand opening is tomorrow, I don’t have a mixer, and now, I’m supposed to catch a jewel thief?”
Mammy raised a shoulder. “You were thinking about it anyway. Besides, I’m convinced that all this practice solving these difficult cases is going to help you find out what really happened to my Eddie.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise.
She clasped her hands around mine. “First, let’s find the jewel thief and make your grand opening a huge success. If we can’t find your mixer, I’ll stand with you in front of the store and hand out goofballs when the doughnuts run out. We’ll make it work.”
Her faith in me squeezed my chest.
“Then,” she continued, “when things calm down … maybe then, you can find out what really happened to my boy. I just know he’s still alive. I feel it in my bones.”
Knowing what she expected of me added an urgency that would’ve freaked me out had it been from anyone else but her.
But this was Mammy. I couldn’t let her down.
I just hoped her bones were more reliable than Abuelita’s gut.
Chapter 20
Abuelita and Tia Rosa were on kitchen duty under Sylvia’s watchful eye when Mammy and I swung by the restaurant for lunch.
After filling the ladies in on the details of the busy morning between bites of Sylvia’s seco de pollo, Tia Rosa poured the coffee, and we sat around the kitchen island to stew on what we knew.
Abuelita broke the silence. “Sal do it. He ruin business. He steal the painting and the jewels for to distract Jessica from the doughnuts. Is conspiracy! He guilty. I feel it in the gut.”
She was tenacious, I’d give her that.
She looked at me with all the intensity of a sugar addict in the throes of a craving. Grabbing me by the shoulders and squeezing them too tightly, she said, “Focus on the doughnuts, you must. Is very important.”
Okay, Yoda. “I will,” I said, trying to extract myself from her pinching grip. “However, I promised Miss Patty I’d help her look out for Eduardo, and I don’t feel like I’ve done a very good job of that. I’d like to be able to put my painting up in my living room sometime soon, too. The wall looks so sad and empty without Illari.”
Mammy set her napkin down and asked Sylvia if she could use the phone. “I’ll call for the hat, Jess. I know what size your father wears.”
I half-listened to her introduce herself and fall into pleasant conversation while I struggled to focus on one thing at a time when my mind was pulled in a hundred different directions.
Maybe it was my brain seeking relief in simplifying things, but I couldn’t help but think that the paintings and the jewelry were connected. As crazy as it sounded, I was even beginning to think my mixer played a role in the painting thefts.
Had I been so intent on Sal, I’d failed to consider Angel Flores? Like a bad penny, he kept showing up. Why had he been at the police station that morning? Was he trying to throw them off his trail by hanging around, pretending to cooperate? Or was he waiting for an opportunity to nab my painting? It was the only painting of Eduardo’s that hadn’t been stolen besides his own. How convenient. He was obsessed enough to try it. But why? Sure, the paintings were beautiful, and anyone who could get the whole collection would have a treasure, but were they worth stealing? And what did all of this have to do with my missing mixer? Most likely, nothing at all. I was just overly tired and grasping at straws.
Pulling out my cell, I called Miss Patty. I imagined her scrambling to find her phone as I counted eight rings. When she finally did pick up, she was breathless.
“Hi, Miss Patty,” I greeted, trying not to sound as overwhelmed as I felt.
“Oh, Jessica, I’m so glad it’s you. Sorry it took me so long to find my phone. It was in my dish drainer of all places.”
I didn’t ask
how it had gotten there, knowing she wouldn’t have an explanation for it. Instead, I asked, “How’s Eduardo doing?”
She sighed. “The police have been sniffing around and asking him about his paintings, but he doesn’t seem to be a suspect.” Her tone changed dramatically as she added, “Even more important, he’s painting again! He said he’d have something for me very soon.”
I shook my head at Miss Patty’s priorities. If Eduardo did get arrested, she’d make sure he had an easel and paintbrushes in his cell.
“I’m glad he’s painting again. I can’t wait to see what he does,” I said, mentally measuring the wall behind my couch and concluding that there was, indeed, enough space for two paintings … if I could beat Angel to it.
“You and me both!” she said.
“Have you had any more trouble from Angry Art Man lately?” I asked.
She huffed. “I don’t know what his deal is, but I refuse to sell him anything. I’ve been careful not to lead him to Eduardo because I don’t trust the man at all. I wouldn’t put it past him to steal Eduardo’s latest painting and disappear. Oh, did I tell you that I found my ledger?”
It took me a second to adjust to the abrupt change in subject. “Wonderful! Where was it?” I asked. Not that it mattered much with all of Eduardo’s previous paintings stolen.
“In my desk drawer of all places. Exactly where it should be,” she replied.
Little alarm sirens (that had nothing to do with the vestiges of last night’s air horns) went off in my head. “Miss Patty, we both looked there. I think someone took it.”
“Then why did I find it there today?”
“They must have replaced it after they’d taken what they needed. Did you look through it? Is anything missing or altered in any way?”
I heard pages rustling. “I’m looking right now. Nothing appears to be missing. If they were after the list of purchasers of Eduardo’s paintings, then they were too late. They’ve all been stolen, except for yours and Angel’s.”
Unless the person who stole the ledger and the art thief were one and the same. Angry Art Man was looking guiltier by the second. He was the only person I’d seen snooping around Miss Patty’s art gallery. And he still had his painting. He’s probably have mine, too, if it hadn’t been at the framers when he broke into my apartment.