Death by Dragonfly

by Jane Tesh

“Thinking of getting an alarm system?”

  “Oh, this? Yes, we’re checking out a few different companies for the museum. I doubt we’ll go with them, though, considering Leo Pierson’s experience. As for getting one for my home, I certainly couldn’t afford it. It’s tough being a single mother. Every time you think you’re ahead, something comes up. Usually it’s the car. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to replace something on that old Camry.” She smiled, really turning on the charm. “Enough about me. Your turn.”

  “I moved here about twelve years ago from Minnesota. Divorced but in a relationship.”

  Nancy Piper did not look at all fazed by this. “Congratulations. I haven’t had much luck in that department, but things can always change. Plus my job keeps me busy.”

  We talked about Parkland and other neutral subjects until Nancy said she had a meeting. “Leslie and I like doing things together, going to craft shows, concerts, different things in town. We always check the Sunday paper and see the coming events.” Her gaze behind those red-framed glasses was calm and direct. “You might like to join us sometime.”

  There was that look again. I’d better watch my step. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

  Nancy Piper had gone out of her way to distract me, but I’d fought off women before. I thought perhaps she’d been stalking me, but she said she drove an old Camry, not an SUV. I was almost certain the lamp on her desk matched Isabelle’s. I scrolled through my phone and found the picture of Isabelle in her parlor. The lamp looked exactly like the one in Nancy’s office, but the picture was in black and white. The leaves were probably green, but the grapes could be any color. There was no way to tell if it was the same lamp—unless Nancy had ties to the Duvall family, or Pierson’s. I would find out.

  A phone call from Richard Mason informed me he could meet at the Little Gallery at three o’clock tomorrow, hopefully before the dragonfly got him. Then Kary sent a text that Rainbow could meet us at Gallant’s house in fifteen minutes.

  I’ve searched many houses and snooped in many more. Some are garbage heaps. Some are blindingly sterile. Samuel Gallant’s décor fell somewhere in between, more hotel than home. It was the house of someone who didn’t live there. If Camden had been with us, I doubt he could’ve felt anything other than boredom. A beige sofa and chairs sat in the living room facing a wide-screen TV. The draperies were beige. The carpet was a slightly lighter beige. The kitchen appeared to be unused. Typical toiletries lined the bathroom counter. The bedroom had a bed, dresser, nightstand, and a closet with Gallant’s clothes hanging neatly, his shoes in a row on the floor.

  “Not much to go on,” Kary said. “No pictures, no magazines, no artwork, which is strange.”

  Rainbow followed us as we went from room to room. “He used to have some paintings and small sculptures. As far as I know, he sold it all.”

  I opened the hall closet. Beige towels. Beige sheets. “Was he in debt to someone, or just unlucky?”

  “A little of both.”

  I shut the closet door, resigned to the fact this was another dead end. “Well, thanks for letting us have a look around.”

  She reached into her little fringed and beaded pocketbook. “There was one other thing.” She took out a piece of paper. “It was in the envelope with his will. The lawyer said it wasn’t part of the will and he didn’t need it.”

  The paper had a few written lines that looked like poetry. I read aloud: “‘Alas, that I should be so base. I beg forgiveness for my part for art that’s hidden within art. The cunning means to stun my soul is now unleashed. Revenge will start.’ Was your uncle a poet?”

  “It’s from a song his wife, my Aunt Norma used to sing, ‘The Cruelest Heart.’”

  “Do you have any idea what it means?”

  “No.”

  “Did you show it to the police?”

  “Yes, but I made a copy first. I don’t know. That line about art hidden within art. I thought maybe it might be important.”

  “May we take this with us?”

  Rainbow wanted us to have the paper. I thanked her and said we’d be in touch, and that if she found anything else to call me, whether or not it looked important.

  Kary and I went back to Turbo. We leaned against the little car and read the lyrics again. “It reminds me of an art song,” she said, “which is appropriate, since we’re involved with art collectors. Do you think Gallant’s trying to tell us who killed him?”

  “For someone who was as scattered as everyone claims, that’s a big stretch.”

  She was eager to find a clue, however outrageous. “But he might have been afraid, and writing in poetic code was the only way he could leave a message. ‘The cunning means to stun my soul.’ Did he know someone was going to zap his pacemaker? Sounds like someone threatened him.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of this new angle. “Then why didn’t he go to the police? I think we’re giving him way too much credit. Besides, I have something much more substantial for us to track down.” I took out my phone and found the black-and-white picture. “Nancy Piper has a fancy glass lamp on her desk that looks exactly like the one in Isabelle Duvall’s parlor. She claims she borrowed it from the museum.”

  Kary was immediately intrigued. “That’s a Tiffany lamp. He was part of the Art Nouveau movement. It’s a good connection, but—”

  “But what?”

  “There are lots of Tiffany lamps out there, as well as really good reproductions.”

  We pondered this in silence for a few moments. Nancy Piper was doing her best to distract me. Did she kill Gallant? Did she carry around a portable Taser to zap her enemies? What did he know that was so dangerous? “We need to find out if there’s any family connection. Nancy’s divorced. Maybe her husband was a Duvall. Or maybe that’s her maiden name. There will be records somewhere. If she knows about the feud, then she knows about the money. I’ll look her up while you see what you can find out about these lyrics. I’ve got five more days to find Pierson’s artwork, so any clue is welcome.”

  She gave me a kiss. “I’m on it.”

  I took a picture of the paper so Kary could take the lyrics to the Performing Arts Center to see if anyone at the music festival knew “The Cruelest Heart,” if the song had any more lyrics, and what interpretation she could find. I drove home to an unusually quiet house. I didn’t see Vermillion anywhere and figured she was off on another magical mystery tour.

  I got myself a Coke and some peanut butter crackers for a pre-dinner snack and took my laptop to the porch. I started to sit down in a rocking chair and noticed the squirrel was in the bird feeder again, stuffing his cheeks as if winter were staring him in the face. I snatched up the slingshot we keep on the porch rail.

  “Squirrel want a cracker?” I let him have it with one of the peanut butter crackers. It smacked him in the butt and popped him off the feeder. He hit the ground running and disappeared up the nearest tree. He sat on a branch and told me what he thought of my attack. He eyed the cracker in the grass, but Cindy was quicker.

  “Good girl,” I told her as she climbed up the porch steps, cracker in her mouth.

  I heard more rustling in the hedge and waited for the squirrel’s brother to emerge demanding revenge, but it was only some sparrows. Then I’ll be damned if that same black SUV came slowly down Grace Street as if looking for 302. I grabbed the slingshot and a couple of rocks from the driveway as I ran toward the car.

  “Hey! Hey, you! What do you want?”

  As the SUV accelerated, I fired a rock at the back window and heard the satisfying sound of a crack. My second missile bonked a dent in the back, and my third clanged off the license plate, which was covered with a shiny material that made it impossible to read. The other rocks went wild as I chased the car out of the neighborhood. Take that, Mystery Car! You have been marked.

  As I jogged back to the house, Ellin’s silv
er Lexus pulled up in the drive and she and Camden got out. They came up the walk, arguing about the psychic fair. Ellin must have picked him up at work, because he still had on his shoes. I hoped Tamara had survived the encounter.

  “If you’d just come for an hour, Cam. I think that’s completely reasonable. Now that Graber’s decided to make himself at home at the PSN, the fair has got to be even more of a success. You could earn three times as much with the Service than at Tamara’s. I don’t see how you can work at that shop. Selling clothes has to be the most boring job in the world. Plus you have to dress up. I know you hate that.”

  He did look neater than usual in his light blue shirt and dark blue tie. He even had on dark slacks, probably his only pair. “Yes,” he said, “it’s boring. It’s also calm and stress-free. No pressure. No floating bodies or missing children.”

  This did not slow her down. “If you’re working part-time, you could come to the psychic fair in the evening. You’re always doing things for everyone else.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  That’s when Pierson drove up. Talk about bad timing.

  He flung open the car door and burst forth, holding something aloft, his lion’s mane of red hair billowing. “I’ve brought the perfect thing!” He presented the object with a flourish. “It should be the perfect link to my missing items!”

  Ellin’s eyes swung about like twin lasers. I’m surprised Camden’s head wasn’t sliced off at the neck. “Who Is This?”

  Pierson stepped forward and gave her a sweeping bow. “Leo Pierson, dear lady, at your service. I’m a client of David Randall’s, and Camden here has kindly agreed to help with the case.”

  Well, call the coroner now.

  Camden opened his mouth in a vain attempt to explain, but Ellin let him have it. “I can’t believe this! You said you’d never do this again! You said you hated it! You’ll help Randall solve a case, but you won’t spend a few measly little hours at my fair?”

  “Ellie—” he tried, but it was way too late now. She had gone into overdrive.

  “How could you do this? You stood right here and swore you weren’t using your talents for anyone! Of all the lowdown dirty—”

  “Ellie, I didn’t want to. It’s a piece of art with incredible energy. I couldn’t avoid it.”

  She turned on me. “Then why did you bring this man here? You set this up!”

  I held up both hands to ward off any blows. “Hold on, hold on. I didn’t tell him to get involved. I can find the thing all by myself.”

  Pierson stood with mouth agape, probably wondering how his simple greeting had set off such a firestorm. “Children, children. My heavens! I never meant to create such strife.” He spoke to Ellin. “Young lady, I came here on my own seeking psychic advice. Randall did not encourage me in any way.”

  I knew this wouldn’t satisfy her. “But you’re his client. This is Randall’s case.”

  “Yes,” Pierson said, “but I’m certainly entitled to as much help as I can get. These are my valuable treasures, my lifetime collection. I must use every means possible to find them.”

  Camden got another razor slice glance. “Cam didn’t have to agree to help you.”

  “Ellie, I didn’t have any choice. You know how it is.”

  This was the worst thing he could’ve said, and he realized it the minute he said it. Ellin’s face went to stone.

  “No.” Her tone could have frozen lava in its tracks. “No, I don’t.”

  She flounced back to her car. Camden followed, trying to make amends. They stood out by the Lexus and argued. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from Ellin’s arm waving and Camden’s defensive stance, I knew it was heavy going.

  Pierson rolled his goldfish eyes. “I had no idea I was going to stir up such a hornet’s nest. Should I leave?”

  “They’re like this all the time,” I said. “She’ll get over it.”

  “I take it that’s Mrs. Camden? She disapproves of her husband using his talents in this fashion?”

  “She works for the Psychic Service, and she gets really pissed because she’s not psychic.”

  “She’s exactly like Florence in Spring Takes a Fall. A delightful farce with several mistaken identities. Do you know it?”

  “We have our own delightful farces around here. Come on in. They’ll thrash it out.”

  In my office, I told Pierson what I’d discovered so far and showed him the picture and articles about Isabelle. “You had no idea your relative Theodore Pierson killed her for these items?”

  He drew back, shocked. “Good heavens, no!”

  “You said six people had died because of the dragonfly. You didn’t know who they were or anything about them? You knew about this feud.”

  He sat forward in the client chair and leaned his hands on the top of his cane. “I assure you, the only thing my father told me was Isabelle wanted him to have the Art Nouveau. It was in her will. And as for the story about a treasure, if I believed that, I would’ve solved the mystery by now, wouldn’t I?”

  Camden entered the office, frazzled but whole. “In the interest of peace, I have agreed to attend the psychic fair. Where’s your jewelry, Leo?”

  Pierson stood and reached into his pocket. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  After a session with Ellin, a little psychic journey would be a springtime stroll. “Hand it over.”

  It was a silver peacock brooch set with smooth blue stones. I stood by in case of explosions, but this piece didn’t set him off.

  “It’s beautiful.” He rubbed the stones. “And user-friendly.” In a few minutes, he shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry. No impressions at all.”

  Pierson looked taken aback. “It’s genuine, I trust?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s real. Some objects don’t have any resonance, that’s all.”

  The big man sagged in his chair. “So we’re at another dead end.”

  Camden continued to smooth the blue stones, his expression puzzled. “I really should be getting something. Usually the older objects have a lot to say.”

  He should’ve been relieved the jewelry hadn’t affected him. “Either too much or too little.”

  Pierson’s attention was all on Camden. “Perhaps if you came to my home, to the scene of the crime? Would you come? Would that help you zero in on the missing objects?”

  Camden looked up. He seemed dazed. “What?”

  Pierson repeated his question. “Would you come to my house? I think it would help in the search.”

  He looked back at the brooch in his hand. “Yes. Yes, I think I will.”

  I didn’t like the way this was headed. “Wait a minute. Pierson, you want Camden to come drift in your house, in case of leftover vibes? This brooch is a dud. What makes you think anything else will work?”

  Pierson looked at me with his standard bulging eyeballs. “Could you come around ten tomorrow morning?”

  I didn’t think it would do any good, but Pierson was a paying customer. “Sure, why not? What’s one more wild dragonfly chase?”

  Pierson was delighted. “Excellent! Thank you very much! I’ll see you at ten tomorrow.” He hurried out, his cape billowing behind.

  Camden’s eyes were clouded. There was something else in the deep blue depths, something that looked like doubt. Doubt? What was he doubting? He was always right. The bigger question was how many pills had he taken today?

  He correctly interpreted my skeptical expression. “I should have picked up something.”

  “Maybe you’ll pick up something tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be foaming at the mouth, okay? Have you been into the Tranquillon?”

  “I only took two.” He held up a hand. “And before you start, that was this morning at work, and I had Tamara stand by in case anything happened, which it didn’t. That peacock brooch must not have belonged to Isabelle. Not eve
rything has to have a curse on it.”

  “Well, have a seat because I’ve got a lot to catch you up on.”

  I told him about the possibility of a matching Tiffany lamp in Nancy Piper’s office and the outside chance she might be related to the Duvalls. “So she’d be angry about Isabelle’s decision to leave her belongings to a Pierson. Even more interesting, the same black SUV we saw in the park, the one Kary and I had a close encounter with in Baxter’s parking lot, was cruising down Grace Street this afternoon.”

  Camden sat up. Any threat to his neighborhood set him on high alert. “Did you see who was driving? Get the license number?”

  “No, but I used the squirrel slingshot to make an impression.”

  He went to the window and looked out as if to assure himself no one was spying on the house. “What could they want?”

  “Pierson may believe all this about the artwork holding clues to treasure is a story, but someone thinks it’s real, and maybe they think we have the answer.”

  While I hunted for Duvalls on the internet, Camden sat out on the porch to watch for intruders. To my disappointment, I couldn’t find any connection to Nancy Piper. Piper was her maiden name. Her ex-husband was a Henley. In the vast lists of Duvalls available on genealogy sites, there were no Nancys.

  The mystery SUV didn’t make a return appearance, but Rufus’ bigfoot truck roared up and parked in the driveway. Rufus came in carrying three large boxes. “Brought pizza for supper.”

  “Thanks,” Camden said. “I really didn’t feel like cooking tonight.”

  We followed him to the kitchen, and he set the boxes on the counter. “What’s the problem? You look like you been runnin’ over hell’s half acre.”

  “Leo Pierson was just here with one of the surviving pieces from his collection,” I said. “Camden’s bummed because it didn’t electrocute him.”

  “Was it s’pose to?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t special enough. What’s new on the case?”

  “Another person of interest is dead.”