“Plug this into your thinking,” I said. I told her what I had learned in my conversation with Lucia and what was going through my head. That took a while, and when I was finished, there was a whispered “Wow,” followed by a long, long silence. It was raining harder now, and I turned up the windshield wipers. Whap whap whap. I peered into the stormy distance, hands on the wheel at two and ten. If the rain kept up like this for very long, it was not going to be a pleasant drive back to Pecan Springs.
After a moment, I asked, “Are you still there, Ruby? What do you think? Does that help at all? Does it—”
A pickup truck passed me, going too fast, spraying sheets of water that flooded my windshield and curtained my view of the road. The woman driver was hunched over the steering wheel as if she were Danica Patrick and this were the Daytona 500.
“Does it help?” Ruby cried with great excitement. “Of course it helps! China, that’s the answer! Why didn’t I figure it out for myself?” She paused, and I could almost see her frowning, turning matters over in her mind. “There was that painting, hanging on the wall right in front of my eyes, and I didn’t see it. Why? Because it isn’t the real thing, that’s why. It isn’t the original. It’s a copy. That’s what I think.”
That’s what I thought, too, and I didn’t need the I Ching to prompt me. The real Muerte llega pronto had been sold at auction for a cool quarter of a million dollars. The painting that was hanging on the wall at the Morris house was a forgery, a fake. If that was true, who else knew? Had Christine known it—was that why she died? I thought of the Sotheby’s catalog in Karen’s briefcase and remembered that Karen herself had produced a documentary on art forgeries. Had she known it? Was that why she was killed?
But wait just a minute. I had Ruby’s intuition—her inability to “see” the painting—to thank for the notion that the Morris’ Muerte was a forgery. How did I know that Sotheby’s Muerte was the real thing?
Maybe it, too, was a forgery, and the real Muerte was on someone else’s wall.
Come to that, how many copies of Muerte might there be, each one seeming to be the real one, the original?
And what about the other paintings in the Morris collection? Were they forgeries? How many? Who put them there? Did Sharyn know? Who had painted—
I reined myself in. I was speculating, guessing, getting too far out front of the available facts. And it was all too confusing, a series of images dancing in my head, combining and recombining like a Cubist painting, or a hall of mirrors, each one reflecting the image in all the others. It was making my head hurt.
“Listen, China,” Ruby said. “There’s something else. I’m really sorry to tell you this, but Blackie called a little while ago. Sheila is back in the hospital.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “She’s still carrying the baby? She hasn’t miscarried?”
“Bad news,” Ruby said. “I’m sorry to tell you, but—”
The Danica Patrick wannabe was now about fifteen car lengths in front of me, still in the left lane, passing another car. Her pickup truck looked like it was hydroplaning, and I tapped the brake, slowing down.
“But what?” I asked.
“But it’s an ectopic pregnancy.” Ruby’s voice changed. “You know—where the baby grows in your Fallopian tube, instead of your uterus, where it’s supposed to.”
“Jeez,” I exclaimed fervently, as the pickup ahead of me fishtailed, slammed into the car it was passing, and knocked both of them off the road and down a steep slope. The pickup rolled twice, bounced, and settled on its roof. I clutched the wheel. “Oh, God, I hope she makes it!” I cried.
“I really don’t think it’s that’s bad,” Ruby said in a comforting tone.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “It’s a killer.”
I was pulling onto the shoulder to see what I could do to help, when behind me, I saw the rotating blue light of a police car and heard the wail of the siren. Ahead of me, in the eastbound lanes, another cop car materialized and bounced across the grass median. Help was already arriving. I would just be in the way, and it was dangerous to stop along here, especially in this rainstorm. I pulled back onto the road.
“But she’s not going to die, of course,” Ruby said comfortingly. “I read somewhere that one out of every hundred pregnancies is ectopic. It used to be terribly dangerous, but not these days.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “There was a wreck, a bad one, right in front of me. Some woman driving too fast for the road conditions. She sideswiped a car and rolled her pickup. Twice. But the cops are on the scene, so I’m going on. There’s nothing I can do to help.”
Of course, I could stop and tell one of the cops that she was driving too fast, but they would figure that out for themselves pretty quick, if they hadn’t already.
“Gosh,” Ruby said. “Sounds bad. I’m glad you weren’t involved.”
“Me, too.” I went back to the subject. “What do the doctors say about Sheila? What are they going to do?”
“They’ve already done it,” Ruby said. “A laparoscopy. It’s a ninety-minute procedure, and when Blackie called, she was already in the recovery room. Everything went just fine and there’s no reason to think she can’t get pregnant again. Blackie said she’d be going home early in the evening.” She sighed. “I’m so sorry about the baby, but—”
She didn’t finish her sentence but I knew what she was thinking. Sheila and Blackie could have another baby. And maybe the next time, things would be a little more comfortable for both of them.
“Yeah. It’s too bad,” I said. “But it could have been worse.” I took a deep breath. “Listen, Ruby, it’s raining pretty hard and I can’t see the highway very far ahead. I’d better pay attention to my driving. We can talk about all this later, when I get back to Pecan Springs.”
And the way it was raining—the clouds had opened and it was pouring buckets now—that might be a while. The traffic had slowed from its usual seventy-plus miles an hour to a more reasonable sixty, and then to fifty-five, which was a very good thing, and I was staying in the right lane. But the rain was coming in such heavy sheets that the wipers were barely coping, and I was worried about somebody smashing into my rear end. I turned on my hazard lights, clenched my teeth, and focused on the road ahead, trying not to think about anything important—about Christine Morris’ murder, about Johnnie’s alternative suspect, about Richard Bowen’s possible homicide, about Karen Prior’s mugging, about the Izquierdo forgery (if that was what it was), about Sheila’s ectopic pregnancy. I cleared my mind as best I could and simply concentrated on driving.
Until Justine Wyzinski called. At which point I had to pull off the road and into a convenience store parking lot. I find it a challenge to talk to Justine under the best circumstances. Driving in a torrential rainstorm, on a busy highway, it would be suicide.
• • •
WHEN Justine and I were in law school, everybody called her the Whiz because she was so smart. She knew the answer to our professors’ questions long before the rest of us, and could come up with a more or less comprehensible theory while we were still sorting out the facts. I was out-of-my-mind jealous of her and worked like crazy to keep her from getting more than a half mile ahead of me, which earned me the nickname of Hot Shot. This competitive insanity went on until we both made it to the relative security of Law Review and could relax a little and grow into a wary mutual respect. When I left the law and bought Thyme and Seasons, the Whiz publicly expressed the conviction that I had lost all my marbles and ought to be committed forthwith, while I privately thought she was nuts to keep on doing what she was doing, at the speed at which she was doing it. But aside from that small difference of opinion, we’ve remained friends, and every now and then, we even manage to be useful to one another.
“So,” Justine said, without preamble, “you’re interested in Roberto Soto. What’s up with that?” Without stopping for breath, she adde
d, “Make it quick, though, China. I’m in the parking garage on my way to a deposition, and I’m already twenty minutes late.”
I was not surprised. The Whiz is a multitasking speed demon who constantly operates on warp drive, which is one reason I find it so hard to talk to her. She is always on her way somewhere, with at least three things to do when she gets there, and she is always running late. (Maybe I find this depressing because she reminds me of the person I used to be.)
I told her the story as succinctly as I could, beginning with Christine Morris’ art collection and her subsequent murder, going on to Mrs. Kern’s excluded testimony and Bowen’s acquittal, and concluding with Bowen’s supposed suicide, Karen Prior’s mugging, and the Sotheby’s catalog I had found in her briefcase with the marked photograph of Muerte llega pronto, which had sold for a quarter million dollars while a possible forgery of that painting hung in the Morris Museum. Quite a lot of facts to tuck into a three-minute summary statement. But I’m pretty good at that.
“Why can’t you bring me something simple?” the Whiz complained when I was finished. I could hear her huffing and puffing—climbing the parking garage stairs, I guessed. The Whiz is five foot two, shaped like a fireplug, and twenty-five pounds over her law school weight. Her usual working costume is a baggy khaki jacket with a missing button and a stain on the lapel, a blouse that won’t stay tucked, and a dark skirt that won’t stay straight. Every day is a bad hair day and her plastic-rimmed glasses are always crooked because she jerks them off and uses them to punctuate her sentences. The Whiz does not dress for success. But that’s because she doesn’t have to. In fact, dressing down is a good thing for her. It gives other people something to feel superior about.
“I know it’s complicated,” I replied. “But that’s why I need your help. If it were a simple matter, I could handle it myself.”
The Whiz raised her voice over the screech of tires and the sound of a car peeling out. A valet, no doubt, returning a parked automobile to its owner, minus several ounces of wheel rubber. “Yeah, but this is even more complicated than the usual tangle of stuff you drag me into, China. And anyway, it’s your turn. You owe me, remember? Not the other way around.”
It was true. The last time I called Justine, I needed her help with Sally, McQuaid’s ex-wife and Brian’s mother, who was a person of interest in her sister’s homicide. Justine isn’t crazy about Sally, but she had rolled up her sleeves and jumped right in, and I was grateful. But I needed her again, regardless of whose turn it was.
“I know I owe you,” I said. “And I’ll make it up to you. But could you—”
“Could I help you collar Soto?” she asked. In the background, a car alarm began whooping and she raised her voice. “I sincerely doubt it. He’s one slick buckaroo, and art fraud is a hard thing to prove. Expensive, too. Expert witnesses don’t come cheap. But what did you have in mind?”
“For starters,” I said, “what’s he up to these days?” I heard a distant car horn, echoing, the way it does in a parking garage.
“He’s still in the gallery business,” Justine said. “Roberto Soto, Fine Art. In fact, he just made headlines, artistically speaking, with a big exhibit—three well-known Latin American painters. The San Antonio art aficionados were over the moon. Google his gallery name and you’ll find the newspaper story.”
“Any indication that he’s back in the art fraud business?”
“He never admitted to that, you know,” Justine replied. I heard the ding of a bell and the whishing of a heavy door. She was getting on an elevator. “He maintained that he had no idea that the painting he sold was a fake. He pled to a lesser charge, paid a fine, and that was it. Period. Paragraph. End of story.”
“You got court costs and restitution for your client,” I reminded her. “It was a forged work said to be by Dr. Atl?” I paused, thinking of something I had wanted to ask her. “Any idea who painted the forgery?” If I had the answer to that question—
“Yeah, that’s right, it was supposed to be a painting by Gerardo Murillo,” Justine said. “A.k.a. Dr. Atl. But people don’t remember that ancient stuff, China. As far as Soto’s art business is concerned, it’s water over the dam. His clients either don’t know that he once sold a forgery—or they don’t give a flying fig.”
Three dings and the sound of the elevator door opening. Justine was getting off at the third floor. “And as far as Soto himself was concerned,” she added, “what he paid my client was simply the cost of doing business. He didn’t admit guilt there, either. He just ponied up.”
“There’s an Atl in the Morris collection,” I said. “Christine Morris acquired almost all her paintings through Soto. He continued to do curatorial work for the foundation after she was dead.” I paused. “And one of the neighbors thinks he’s doing sleepovers with the current head of the foundation, Christine Morris’ cousin.”
I could hear Justine’s heels clicking. She was moving fast. “An Atl painting? A real one, Hot Shot?”
“How should I know?” I replied. “If the Izquierdo painting is a fake, who’s to say that the Atl is real? Both of them likely came through Soto.”
More click-clicks. “So what are you looking for?”
“Motive.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “A motive for murder.” Motive was what had stopped Johnnie. If he’d had motive, he might have gotten Soto in as an alternative suspect, which would have forced the police to take another look at him. “If I’m right,” I added, “there are two dead women—Christine and Karen—and one murderer.” I thought of Sharyn Tillotson, who was either an accomplice or a potential victim, or both. “And if he’s not stopped, there could be a third.” This one would be an accident, probably. A fatal fall down those glass stairs. They looked like the perfect setting to stage an accident.
Justine’s footsteps slowed. “Can’t promise,” she said cautiously. “But I know somebody I can talk to—an insider in the business. Somebody who owes me a lot more than she can ever repay. I’ll call her when I get a minute. Maybe she’ll give us something we can use.”
“Good.” I liked the sound of that we. “Oh, and what about the artist who painted that forged Atl? Any idea who did it?”
“No, but I’ll ask my insider. She keeps her ear to the ground.” The sound of a door opening and the murmur of voices. “Listen, Hot Shot, I gotta go now. There’s a roomful of people waiting for me.”
“Big thanks,” I said, to a broken connection.
• • •
I had gotten as far as Brenham when Aaron called. Brenham is the home of Blue Bell Creameries’ contented cows, who produce the best ice cream in the country—at least according to its advertising campaign. Our family likes the ice cream, although we suspect those cows aren’t any more contented than cows attached to automatic milking machines everywhere in the country.
I had driven out of the rain, the highway was dry, the sun was shining, and I was in a better mood, halfway to Pecan Springs and making good time, when my cell dinged.
“Yo, China,” Aaron said on the speakerphone. “Tiff left the Bowen binder on my desk, with a note to call you. What’s up? Are you still in town? If you are, how about supper? It’ll just be me, and it’ll have to be late. Paula is working tonight, and I have to finish a brief.”
Ah, life in the two-party fast lane. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’m already halfway home,” I said. “Listen, Aaron, what’s up is a little bit sticky. If you’ll open that binder to the back, you’ll find an envelope in the inside pocket. You need to read the letter that’s in it.”
“How about if I do that in the morning? As I say, I have a client—”
“Right now, Aaron, please. You’ll see why.”
I heard an exaggerated sigh, followed by the rustle of paper and, a moment later, a muttered “What the hell—” A longer silence, and then a low whistle. “Jeez,” he said.
“Ye
ah,” I said. “Please see that the letter—you might want to copy it first—gets to the lead investigator in Bowen’s death. He may have turned up something suspicious in the course of his investigation, and what’s in that letter might take him where he needs to go. Give him my name and phone number. I’ve been doing some research into that business about the building code violations. I’ll be glad to answer his questions and put him in touch with one of Bowen’s former coworkers. She can testify to the details.” Florabelle would be delighted to tell her story, especially if she thought it would help to nail Bowen’s killer.
“Okay,” Aaron said. “I’ll get on it right now. I think I’ll give Paula a call, too. The DA’s office might have an interest in this. There was a pause, and his voice grew softer, regretful. “Sorry about the lunch we missed, China. Rain check, next time you’re in town?”
“Rain check,” I said briskly, although by now the sun was shining.
• • •
I was just making the turn off the highway and into Pecan Springs when my cell dinged again.
“Hot Shot,” Justine said, “there’s a bit of good luck—maybe—to report. That artist you were asking about? The one who painted the copy of the Atl painting? I’ve got a possibility for you.”
“Tell me,” I said eagerly. “Who?”
She told me, and I was astonished. And then the pieces fell into place and I wasn’t astonished, just surprised and chagrined that I hadn’t guessed. The clues had been right in front of me all the time. I just hadn’t put them together.
“Well, duh,” I said.
“It’s not confirmed,” Justine warned me. “My informant is only reporting what she heard. The case didn’t go to trial, and the painter was never charged. Don’t forget: it’s not illegal to make a copy of a painting—as long as it’s to be sold as a copy. The state has to prove that the painter intended to defraud, and the evidentiary burden is high. And afterward, Soto seems to have scrubbed everything. He has a whole new client list, other artists, and the whole thing has been forgotten.”
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