The Mosaic Murder

by Lonni Lees

  She headed out the door and walked to her car. A soft veil of smoke from the distant fires blurred the outline of the surrounding mountains and the ground was hot beneath her feet. Tucson needed monsoon now more than ever. It would help put out the fires as well as provide relief from the sweltering temperatures. But there wasn’t a cloud to be seen in the hazy skies. Tempers rose with the temperatures and made the city a rumbling volcano ready to explode. Everyone needed a break, Maggie most of all.

  Where were the rain dancers when you needed them?

  Maggie threw the car into gear and headed to the gallery.

  When she arrived she sat in front in her car, looking at the gallery, wondering what had inspired the attack on Armando Salazar. She wanted to put the pieces together as neatly as the chipped and broken tiles on the entryway arch. And she would.

  Once out of the car, Maggie went about the task of pulling down the streamers of yellow tape that had wrapped the gallery like a birthday present. Everyone she had questioned had been in agreement on one thing. This wasn’t the kind of place where one would expect something like a murder to occur.

  Maggie sat beneath the shade of the palo verde tree in the side yard. The place where Barbara Atwell and Adrian Velikson sat the morning the body was discovered. As well as Rocco La Crosse. It was peaceful and serene and Maggie felt more relaxed than she had in a long time. She sat for a few minutes, absorbing the welcome silence.

  Okay, enough goofing off, she told herself.

  Time to get to work.

  She walked back to the car, opened the doors and threw the bundles of yellow crime scene tape onto the floor of the back seat. It was time to be the bearer of some good news.

  She headed west, the early afternoon sun shining in her face. God what she’d give for some overcast to dim the glare. Halfway up the hill she hung a left and punched in Rocco La Crosse’s security code and waited while the gate opened. She drove up the winding streets and pulled up in front of his house.

  Her heart skipped like a teenager when she rang the bell. She was anticipating Rocco’s welcome, but when the door opened Barbara Atwell stood there. She had traded her bathrobe for some real clothes and her eyes were no longer bloodshot. An improvement since their last encounter.

  “I’d like to speak with Rocco,” she said.

  “He’s not here. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “As long as I’m here I have a few questions.”

  “I thought I already answered them,” she said. “But okay, come on in.”

  The two women sat across from each other in the bookcase lined room, Barbara with her back straight and her demeanor composed. She wore a hint of makeup and her blonde hair was pulled into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Where did you meet Armando?”

  “Let me think,” she said. “Oh, it was at a fund-raiser for the women’s shelter. It seems like a lifetime ago now. Almost like a dream. I remember thinking how impressed I was to see so many men giving their support for battered women. After all, it was husbands and boyfriends who were responsible for their dilemma in the first place.”

  “Go on.”

  “There were probably ten or fifteen men there. Rocco had donated one of his works for the raffle, as did several of the artists from the gallery. He’s always been more than generous. In so many ways. We raised a lot of money that night.”

  “And?”

  “I remember I was looking around the room. Armando was standing by a far table holding court with a group of fawning females. When he looked over I was drawn like a magnet. I crossed the room and introduced myself. We were inseparable from that moment on.” Barbara exhaled a long, weary sigh.

  She must have caught the skepticism in Maggie’s eye. “Believe me, if you could have seen him alive, you’d understand. He was irresistible.”

  “Have you contacted his family?”

  “His family?”

  “He must have some relatives.”

  “He never talked about family.”

  “Is he from here?”

  “I don’t know. It never came up.”

  “You said he made frequent trip to Nogales. Do you think...?”

  “I really have no idea, Detective Reardon. He never volunteered and I never asked.”

  Barbara Atwell shifted her weight uncomfortably in her chair.

  Who would marry someone knowing nothing about them? Either this woman had been a love struck fool, as her friend Adrian had suggested, or she knew more about her dearly departed Armando than she was willing to share.

  Maggie rose and thanked Barbara for her time.

  “I still have a few questions for Rocco. Where could I find him?”

  “He’s out at the museum today.”

  “The museum?”

  Barbara looked at her like she was stupid.

  “There’s a lot of museums in Tucson,” said Maggie.

  “The Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum,” she said, as if it were the only museum in town. “He volunteers a couple of days a week.”

  “Volunteers?”

  “He’s a docent. He gives tours, handles animals, gives the occasional lecture.”

  One more surprise from Mr. Rocco La Crosse, thought Maggie. “Interesting,” she said.

  “He believes in giving back to the community.”

  Maggie reached into her pocket and handed Barbara the gallery keys. “Forensics has finished and the crime scene tape is down. You can go back.” Unless you want to spend some more time rolling around here with Rocco, she thought.

  Barbara looked at the keys in her hand. “That’s the first good news I’ve had.”

  “You might want to give Adrian Velikson a call,” she said with a wink as she walked out the door.

  * * * *

  Detective Maggie Reardon drove through the imposing wrought iron gate and headed down the hill. She hung a right at Painted Hills and sped along at twenty over the limit. When she reached Speedway she hung a right and headed back up the hill to Gates Pass and toward the Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum. She passed the International Wildlife Museum on her right and sped up. Funny, she’d been born and raised in Tucson and had never set foot in either one of them. It was like being in Orlando without ever having gone to Disney World. Well, she finally found an excuse to visit at least one of them.

  And her excuse was Rocco La Crosse.

  Surely he held the key to something. He had to be knee deep in the Mosaic Gallery murder mystery. Was that her reason for paying him another visit?

  She squinted her eyes against the afternoon sun and told the butterflies in her stomach to knock it off.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE SNAKE CHARMER

  When the somber-looking woman at the museum gate told Detective Maggie Reardon the entrance fee, she cringed slightly at the ticket price, then flashed her badge.

  “I’m not here for a tour. I need to speak with Rocco La Crosse,” she said.

  The woman gave her a skeptical frown, then waved her through. Being a cop was a double edged sword. The badge always opened the door but she’d be welcomed with about as much warmth as an enemy on someone’s native soil. People avoided eye contact, or ran like rabbits if they were up to no good. But let somebody be on the victim’s side of trouble and they were sure glad to see her. It amused her. And it ticked her off.

  “Excuse me,” Maggie said, “but where exactly would I find him?”

  “Just a minute,” the woman said, thumbing through her schedule and running her finger down the page. “Okay, La Crosse. He’s with the reptiles and invertebrates. You might want to hurry. He’s probably finishing up by now.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Go through the turnstiles and turn right. It’s the first building.”

  Reptiles, Maggie thought as she pushed through the turnstile and entered the building. A house full of snakes. Charming. The cool air hit her like an arctic breeze as she walked into the semi-darkness and adjusted her vision. She stood at
the rear of a group of nine people who were listening intently as Rocco La Crosse spoke. He wore a white dress shirt with a Desert Museum insignia on the sleeve and tan khaki pants. Unlike the scruffy fellow she first saw at the gallery, or the relaxed man surrounded by his books, today he wore an aura of professionalism and looked neat as a pin. Just how many people is he? she wondered. The artist, the sculptor, the reader, the biker, the trust-fund baby, the tattoo freak. Barbara Atwell’s lover? The murderer? How many hats does this guy wear? He was like one of the chameleons in the reptile aquarium behind where he stood. Every time she saw him he revealed another layer cloaked in another shade of mystery.

  Today she watched him capture his audience with the authority of someone who would know the answers to any question they might ask.

  In his hands Rocco held a large snake that coiled itself around his wrist and lower arm. The group oohed and aahed as its tongue flicked in and out of its mouth. Rocco smiled at their reactions and continued speaking.

  “As you can see, this desert king snake is identifiable by its black color and thin cream colored bands, although there are also several other varieties native to this area.”

  “What does he eat?” Asked a little boy.

  “He’s gonna eat you,” teased who must have been his older brother.

  “Is not.”

  “He has a healthy appetite,” Rocco continued. “He likes to eat rodents and other snakes, so if you find one in your yard you probably won’t have a problem with pack rats or mice or ground squirrels. They’re his breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

  “A snake that eats other snakes? I’ll bet he can’t eat a rattlesnake. They’re poisonous,” said big brother.

  “There are no poisonous snakes,” said Rocco.

  “Are too!”

  “No, snakes are venomous, not poisonous. They have venom. But the king snake is immune to a rattlesnake’s venom, so the answer is yes. A king snake can kill a rattler. And eat him too.”

  “Is he vem, vem-inous too?” asked the little brother.

  “No he ain’t,” said big brother. “Can’t you see he’s holding it? Do you see him getting bit? I bet you could pick one up in our yard and pet it.”

  Rocco laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend it. This one is used to people holding it, but in the wild he’d protect himself. And he’s got lots and lots of sharp teeth.”

  “You think you’re such a big know it all,” the boy said to his big brother.

  The mother nudged them both. “Shhh.” she said, “behave yourselves.”

  Rocco looked around the room. When he spotted Maggie standing at the rear he smiled.

  She nodded.

  “That about wraps it up,” he said. “Are there any more questions?”

  “I was wondering how old the snake is and how long they live,” said an elderly gentleman with an east coast accent. His wife stood uncomfortably at his side, holding on to him as if the snake could sprout wings and fly across the room.

  “I don’t know how old this particular snake is,” said Rocco, “but we have an old gopher snake that’s been here over twenty-two years.”

  Rocco got a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Before we move on, who would like to come up here and pet him?”

  “Not me,” said the elderly woman with a shudder.

  “No way,” said the little boy.

  “Chicken,” said his brother.

  “Well, I’ll bet you won’t either.”

  And he didn’t.

  There were no takers, but who could blame them? People have had an aversion to snakes since the Garden of Eden.

  Again Rocco’s eyes went to the back of the room. He gestured to Maggie.

  “How about you, young lady? I’ll bet you’d like to come up here to pet my friend.”

  “Me?”

  “Sure, come on up. I promise he won’t bite.”

  Maggie showed no hesitation as she walked up and stood next to Rocco La Crosse. She was the big, bad cop and she had no intention of weakening her image. She reached over and ran her hand down the length of the snake never looking away from Rocco’s face. He looked impressed as she pet it. Just the reaction she wanted.

  The small crowd gasped in unison.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I’m surprised. I expected it to be—slimy.”

  “Anyone else as brave as this fearless woman?”

  “Me. I am!” said the little boy, rushing up.

  Maggie stood off to the side as he reached over, hesitated, then touched the snake.

  “Haha, I’m braver than you are,” he said to his brother. “Now who’s the chicken?”

  People applauded, then one by one, walked out of the building and into the heat.

  Only Maggie Reardon, Rocco La Crosse, and the king snake remained.

  “Let me put my friend away and I’ll be right back,” he said. “Wait here.”

  So she waited, enjoying the cool air and looking at the snakes and lizards and other creatures housed safely behind their glass enclosures.

  Maggie turned at the sound of the familiar voice behind her.

  “I was beginning to think our paths might never cross again,” Rocco said. “That would be a shame. Are you here on business or for pleasure?”

  “I’m always strictly business Mr. La Crosse.”

  “All’s the pity.”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Let’s take the scenic route,” he said. “Unless you’re in a hurry.”

  “I’ve got a few minutes.”

  The two of them walked along a meandering pathway, surrounded by native desert foliage. Each tree and bush had a placard identifying its species. And what information wasn’t on the sign Rocco filled in for her. She was impressed by his knowledge although he kept testing her, just like he had done with the snake.

  “This one is edible,” he said. “And the local tribes grind it up to a powder and use it in cooking like we use flour.” He pulled a pod off the tree. “Here, taste it,” he said as he handed her a small bean.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not poison.”

  “Then I’m game.”

  Maggie popped it into her mouth and chewed it, not sure what to expect. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t good either.

  “You have a sense of adventure,” he said, “but I wouldn’t have expected less.” Then pointing to a bench, “Why don’t we sit in the shade? I’ve been standing for hours and I’m tired.” They sat down, Rocco just a bit closer than she found comfortable. She inched a little farther away from him so that their legs wouldn’t touch. But once again, she felt that little surge of electricity flowing through her. She cleared her throat, trying to remember exactly why she’d deemed it necessary to see him again.

  She found him so distracting that it took a minute to compose her thoughts.

  Maybe, like him, she was testing for a reaction.

  “It’s regarding the gallery. I stopped at your place to give your house guest back her keys. It’s okay for her to go back home. That is if she wants to.”

  “That’s good news. But I wonder....”

  “What?”

  “Her husband was murdered there. Maybe she isn’t ready to face that yet. I wouldn’t be.”

  It sounded as if Rocco La Crosse would like to keep Barbara Atwell under his roof a little longer.

  “No, I’m sure it won’t be easy. You’re her friend, right? I’m sure you have a sense for what she can handle.”

  “Right now nothing’s easy for her. She’s walking around like a zombie.”

  “I should get going. I have an appointment with,” Maggie pulled her notepad from her briefcase and checked her notes. “Belinda Blume. Wasn’t she the one who bulldozed her way into the gallery the other day?”

  “What can I say? Belinda is Belinda. Not the most diplomatic, for sure, but she’s one mean sculptress, I’ll give her that. And she’d be the first to tell you.”

 
; “I get the impression you don’t like her.”

  “I can take her or leave her. She tends to verbalize anything that pops into her head. Unedited. I find honesty refreshing but hers can be abrasive. Her insensitivity the other day was uncalled for. It was mean-spirited.”

  Maggie reran the episode in her mind. Belinda acted like the most important thing was her missing sculpture and Armando’s death was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. She didn’t know the woman but her first impression had been negative. And the woman obviously resented him. She had made no secret of that. Even in the middle of Barbara Atwell’s tragedy she’d managed to get in a dig or two at Armando Salazar.

  She had motive.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  Maggie rose, not sure where to find the exit.

  “This way,” he said. She felt that same animal attraction as he held her arm and escorted her in the right direction. She’d have to watch herself or he’d steer her right into the danger zone. “Would you like a cold drink or some hot coffee before you hit the road? There’s a little café right over there.”

  “No thanks, I need to get back to work,” she said.

  “All work and no play?”

  “That’s my motto.”

  “You should come back sometime and really look around. There’s so much to see.”

  “Is that a sales pitch?”

  “I’d be more than happy to give you the grand tour.”

  And what about Barbara? Maggie thought.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. La Crosse,” she said, trying to maintain some distance and formality to her tone.

  “I hope you will, Detective Reardon.”

  By the time Maggie reached her car the cell phone was ringing.

  It was Marty.

  She picked up.

  “Marty, I’m busy here.”

  “I’d like to see you.”

  The guy wasn’t good at taking hints. It was time to spell it out for him and end the nonsense once and for all.

  “We do need to talk,” she said.

  “When can I come over?”

  “I think it would be better if we meet somewhere,” she said, determined not to put herself in the same position as last time. If he came over she knew exactly where they’d end up.