Another Day, Another Dali

by Sandra Orchard

  “Tanner, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later.” I disconnected before he could protest and hurried toward the ambulance.

  An officer caught me by the arm. “Where do you think you’re going? We need to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m Serena Jones, St. Louis FBI.” I showed him my badge. “I need to talk to the victim.”

  “The victim is unconscious, so how about you talk to me first?”

  A news crew careened to a stop at the end of the street, and a cameraman and a reporter poured out of the doors.

  “Can we talk inside?” The last thing Mom needed was to see her daughter in the middle of a shooting spree. Not to mention whoever sent Tanner the note.

  The officer motioned me into the pawnshop ahead of him.

  “I won’t be long,” I called back to Zoe and Terri, who were now huddled at the edge of the tape, watching my exchange with the officer.

  The same clerk I’d met earlier was talking to another officer inside. There was still no sign of Ted.

  I told the officer who I was and what I’d seen, which wasn’t much. “I have no idea who was behind the shooting or what motivated it. I didn’t even know my suspect was in this shop until I saw the paramedics wheel him out.”

  “So you don’t think the shooting is connected to your investigation involving the victim?”

  “I can’t imagine how. It’s an art burglary. The only reason he’s a suspect is he’s a relative of the theft victim and has unfettered access to the house. But I’d like to question the clerk about his visit, if I may.”

  “Sure, go ahead.” The officer signaled to the one interviewing the clerk, then headed toward the evidence-recovery team, photographing the bullets and glass spatter at the front of the store.

  “Oh, officer,” I called after him. “Was there anyone else in the store?”

  “No. But a second employee was supposed to be in today. I sent an officer out to locate him.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Ted something.” The officer glanced at his notepad. “Vale. Ted Vale.”

  I bit down on a grin. “Thanks.” I turned to the clerk. “Special Agent Serena Jones.” I showed him my badge. “Want to start by telling me why you lied about Ted?”

  The clerk held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, you didn’t tell me you were an agent then. Ted came in, said his ex-girlfriend was stalking him and was outside and that if she came in, to tell her he didn’t work here.”

  “So why didn’t he return to work after I left?”

  “We weren’t busy, so I said he might as well take the day off.”

  “What about the victim? Did you know him?”

  “Sure, he’s a regular.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To buy back the jewelry he’d pawned a couple of months ago. But he was out of luck. We sold it.” The clerk reached below the counter and set a gold pocket watch on the display case. “So he was about to buy this back when that maniac started shooting.”

  The watch had Lucas Watson—for 25 years of service inscribed on the back. Lucas wasn’t old enough to have worked anywhere that long, so the watch had likely been his father’s or maybe his grandfather’s. I whipped out my phone and called Nana. “Quick question. Do you know if Gladys’s son-in-law’s parents are still alive?”

  “Both dead. He has a sister still living.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Do you have a lead?” Nana asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.” In my experience, most people didn’t peddle a pocket watch if they’d lifted a million-dollar painting. But a couple of months ago, he could’ve had a forger to pay before making the score.

  I found Zoe and Terri waiting for me outside, both still looking shaky. “Do you mind if we cut our shopping trip short?” I asked.

  “That’s fine with me,” Zoe said. Getting shot at had evidently killed her enthusiasm. That and the fear of being within twenty feet of me.

  “I wasn’t the target,” I repeated as Zoe dropped me off at my apartment.

  “You tell yourself whatever you need to. Just please make sure it’s true before you are standing beside me on my wedding day.”

  Yeah, Tanner was already on that, so I saluted, and she drove off. I went straight to my car and drove to the hospital. The staff directed me to the waiting room for surgical patients.

  Pete and another officer, both in uniform, emerged from the room, looking somber.

  “How is he?” I asked, ignoring for the moment my suspicions about his connection to the Dali theft.

  Pete didn’t seem surprised to see me there. Had Gladys told him about my investigation after all? Or maybe he’d heard that I’d been caught in the shooting spree too. “He’s still in surgery.” Pete exchanged glances with his fellow officer. “My mom and sister are in there.”

  When I stepped in, they were pacing. “How are you holding up?” I asked.

  “Oh, Serena,” Gladys said. “How nice of you to come by. I guess you heard Tasha’s husband got caught in the middle of some gang shooting. We don’t know what on earth he was doing in the pawnshop. Saw something in the window that caught his eye, I imagine.”

  Tasha’s almost-imperceptible snort suggested she had other ideas.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Shards of glass embedded in his skin. I figure he passed out at the sight of his blood,” Tasha chimed in. “He’s always been kind of squeamish. The doctor says he’ll be fine once they remove all the fragments.”

  “Were you aware he frequented that particular pawnshop?” I asked.

  She cut short a sudden intake of breath and shot her mother a quick glance. “I could use a cup of coffee. Mom, you want us to get you anything?”

  “Oh, I’ll come along.”

  “No, no,” Tasha protested. “One of us needs to stay here in case the doctor returns, and I really need to get out of this room for a few minutes.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Bring me back a tea, then.”

  Tasha steered me out of the room, toward the elevator.

  “Mind if we take the stairs?” I asked.

  Tasha swerved toward the stairs door, and I had to almost jog to keep up with her. The instant the door closed behind us, she blurted, “Yeah, I knew. I saw him go to the pawnshop a couple of months ago. He’d been slinking around, acting cagey for a while, so I decided to follow him.” She stomped down the stairs, gripping the stair rail in a stranglehold. “The lowlife pawned my jewelry! Can you believe that? I bought it back, but of course, it didn’t help me, because I couldn’t wear it without him figuring out I was onto his deception.”

  “Why didn’t you confront him?”

  Her step faltered. “I don’t know. I guess I was afraid he’d just up and disappear with the rest of our money.”

  “How long have you been seeing Ted?”

  She blushed. “My husband makes phone calls and clandestine trips at all hours. I’m sure he’s cheating on me again. He’s already had one woman file a paternity suit against him. For all I know, that’s who he’s still skulking around with.” She lowered her voice. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole Mom’s painting to build their little love nest. I mean, if he’d hock his wife’s jewels behind her back . . .”

  “You know about the missing painting?” Had Gladys changed her mind about keeping the theft from her children?

  “The housekeeper told me after your grandmother got Mom so worked up the other day. That’s why I asked Ted to follow your grandmother, to see if he could find out what she was going to do.”

  “And how long have you been seeing him?”

  She let out a resigned sigh. “A couple of months. I met him in that pawnshop I’d spied Lucas in. Ted works there.”

  “I see.”

  “But you know what? I’m not sure Lucas is smart enough to pull off such an elaborate ruse. He’s impulsive, you know? He gets himself into trouble and then looks for a quick fix, like hocking my jewelry.” Tasha yanked open t
he door that exited to the coffee-shop level. “No, the more I think about it, the more I think Mom’s so upset because, deep down, she’s afraid Pete made the switch.” Tasha picked up a tray and, leaning closer to me, lowered her voice. “Of course, talking your grandmother out of doing what she’s set her mind to is like talking to a brick wall . . . at least that’s what the housekeeper said.”

  I refrained from commenting. Tasha was doing a good job of talking, and the way I saw it, the more she tried to fill in all the blanks, the closer we were likely to get to the real truth.

  Tasha added a couple of plastic-wrapped muffins to her tray and ordered a tea and a coffee. “And you know, Pete would know where to find a forger, right? And a fence. I bet he knows all kinds of bad guys who could help him make a quick buck on a stolen painting. You want a coffee?”

  “He always seemed honest to me,” I said, declining the coffee offer.

  Tasha shook her head. “Desperation makes you do desperate things. Mom has already bailed him out of financial hot water a couple of times, but she doesn’t have a lot of liquid assets anymore. That old house costs a fortune to keep up. And the taxes.” She rolled her eyes skyward. “Woowee. Ridiculous. I keep telling her she should move. But she and Daddy lived there for forty-five years, and she can’t stand the thought of leaving it for something more affordable.”

  Okay, Tasha had thrown just about every name into the suspect pool except her own. Which edged her closer to the top of my list.

  11

  I climbed my exterior stairs and examined the door and window for signs of forced entry or booby traps. Nothing.

  Erring on the side of caution, I jogged back down and rounded the building to go in through the front. I stopped by Nate’s apartment first to find out what his brother had to say after we left yesterday. He wasn’t home. I wandered around the building looking for him, figured he must be doing repairs in one of the apartments. He was always here on Saturdays.

  But today he wasn’t. Strange.

  Okay, I’d put off entering my place as long as I could. No note on the door. That was a good sign. I walked closer. No evidence of tampering on the lock or around the frame. I tapped the door with my knuckles. “Harold? You okay in there?” I pressed my ear to the door. “Harold?”

  “Meow!”

  Good, no toxic gases inside primed to take me out. I unlocked the door and scooped up Harold. “Good boy,” I cooed, nuzzling him against my chest until my heart stopped knocking around inside and Harold started clamoring to be released.

  “Okay, okay, I guess the shooting rattled me.” The police interrogation hadn’t helped. “Sure, an FBI agent should’ve had the presence of mind to get a description of the guys shooting at her and the vehicle they were driving. Because hey, we’re not like sane people who duck the second they hear gunfire!”

  Harold paused long enough from his face-cleaning regimen to give me a Grumpy Cat frown.

  “What? I’m a little rattled. Okay?”

  One thing was for certain: I’d better get unrattled before tonight’s dinner. I changed into an old T-shirt and jeans and pulled out my paints. Painting always calmed my mind. I was currently working on a still life of a bowl of fruit. Never mind that I’d eaten two pieces from the bowl—the banana and an orange—since starting it over a week ago.

  It was a good thing I didn’t intend to let Aunt Martha wangle information about the Dali theft out of Nana tonight, because I sure didn’t want to give a rundown on my prime suspects. Not with Gladys’s kids and Tasha’s probable lover topping the list.

  A blob of paint smeared the banana skin, making it look rotten, along with my painting skills. Ugh. This wasn’t working. I was getting tenser instead of relaxed!

  I shook out my arms, willing my muscles to become as flaccid as Dali’s dripping clocks, and suddenly inspiration struck. I could paint a surrealistic bowl of fruit. The image of Ramaz Razmadze’s scowl-faced apple chomping into a slice of another apple came to mind.

  Hmm, something less . . . cannibalistic would be better. Something cheerful. I tried transforming the banana’s bruise into a tuxedo so I could paint him dancing with a pear, but he came out looking more like a disgruntled zucchini.

  Oh, forget this. I jabbed my brush into the paint thinner.

  A pithy Scott Adams quote I’d once seen on an art poster came to mind—Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which to keep. Well, this was definitely not a keeper.

  I finished cleaning the brush and opted for a hot shower instead, since I hadn’t had time for one this morning. I brought my iPod into the bathroom and cranked up the volume to drown out the thoughts of what Nana would think about the direction of my investigation. And I locked the bathroom door. I’d seen Psycho.

  I turned on the water and waited for it to get to the right temperature. Okay, now visions of Norman Bates slashing my shower curtain were plaguing my mind. Suddenly the loud music didn’t seem like such a smart call. I flicked off the iPod.

  A shower didn’t seem like a great idea either. I put the plug in the tub and switched the water to the tub spout. A nice, quiet bath—that’s what I needed.

  I dutifully arrived at my parents’ house at a quarter to six. Early enough to help calm down Mom before Dad arrived with Nana, but not so early that Aunt Martha would have time to grill me about my progress on the case. My parents still lived in the same modest, 1940s two-story I grew up in in University City, just west of St. Louis. The street had been loud and full of bikes and skateboards when I was a kid, but my generation had grown up and moved out, leaving behind a quieter street with more flowerbeds and lawn ornaments than ever would’ve survived my childhood.

  I pulled into my parents’ empty driveway just as their neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, burst out her door, chasing after a half-dressed tyke. She scooped him into her arms and smacked a big kiss on his cheek, then scolded him for running out. Only it sounded more like a playful game than that he was in trouble. No wonder Mom had grandkids on the brain. Half the neighbors were entertaining them these days.

  Those flowerbeds’ days were seriously numbered.

  I let myself inside. “Hey, where’s Aunt Martha’s car?”

  “She finally listened to your father and sent it to the shop to have that pinging noise checked,” Mom said from the dining room off the entrance.

  How Dad had distinguished a ping from the pongs and plufts it’d been making for years was a mystery to me.

  I dropped my coat onto the hook by the door and joined Mom in the dining room. I knew we were in trouble when she didn’t even lift her head as she circled the table, polishing and laying out silverware. “Everything okay?” I whispered so Aunt Martha, who sounded as if she were leading a marching band of pot bangers in the kitchen, wouldn’t hear me.

  Mom spun around, slicing the air with the last fork in her hand. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been baking and cooking all day, going on and on about how much your grandmother is going to love the meal. Malgucci even delivered fresh beef from his brother’s butcher shop.”

  Malgucci was either Aunt Martha’s newest male friend or her pet project. I wasn’t sure which. His selfless donation of one of his kidneys to save Mrs. Burke’s life seemed to convince Aunt Martha he was a reformed man, despite his mob ties.

  Mom gasped. “You don’t think she’s planning to poison your grandmother, do you?”

  I laughed. Then abruptly clamped my mouth shut at Mom’s frown. She was serious.

  “Aunt Martha despises your grandmother. For a wedding gift, she gave me a tiny ‘Stella’ doll and a package of pins.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed again.

  Mom pulled a stack of her best china plates from the hutch and handed them to me. “Martha can’t stand your grandmother’s pretentiousness, but that’s just the way Stella is. I figure why fret over what I can’t change.”

  “But be honest. Did you ever poke a pin or two in the doll?”

  Mom grin
ned. “The whole package. The first day of our honeymoon, when she called our hotel room and kept your father talking for close to an hour.”

  “No way!”

  “Yes way. I hid in the bathroom and vented on that ridiculous doll so I wouldn’t be tempted to say anything negative to my new husband about his mother.”

  I gaped. Wow, my mom was pretty amazing. I think I’d have read Dad the riot act. Or worse, blown up long before the wedding day and forced him to choose who he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with. “Did Dad know about the doll?”

  She nodded. “After he hung up the phone, he came looking for me and saw it, pins and all.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Apologized. Tossed the doll in the dustbin. And whisked me out of the hotel.” Mom got a far-off look, and a serene smile slid to her lips. “We sightseed our way around the western states, never staying at any hotel more than one night.”

  “Sightseed?”

  “Sightsaw?”

  She wrinkled her nose, and I had to agree it didn’t sound any better.

  “You know what I mean,” she went on. “And we unplugged the phone the minute we checked in each night.”

  Ha. My dad, the romantic.

  Mom lifted a crystal tumbler from the cupboard and seemed to lose herself in watching the light dance off the decorative pattern. “I decided that week if his mother wanted to spend the rest of her life finding fault with me, that was her choice, but I wasn’t going to ruin another minute of my life fretting over her opinion of me. Or give her more ammunition. She’d raised the man of my dreams, and for that, I could never thank her enough.”

  Tears clogged my throat.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Did you invite more people to dinner?” I asked, quickly finishing setting out the plates.

  “Oh no.” Mom hurried to the front window. “You don’t think Aunt Martha invited Malgucci?” She peeked past the curtain. “It’s Tanner.”

  My heart jumped. What was he doing here? He’d given me the green light to come. Said he was sure no drive-by shooters would serve up appetizers before the meal. Had he changed his mind? He should’ve called. Now he was going to get Aunt Martha speculating and Mom worrying and . . .