by P. J. Conn
"Then why did he hide it in his sock drawer?"
"I've no idea. If you two are having issues, perhaps you should speak to your minister."
Her laugh ended in a rude snort, and she pushed her frizzy brown hair out of her eyes. "You'll never see Russell in church. All he worships are his precious dogs, while I'm left to clean up after them. He couldn't raise them without my help, but I still have to remind him each year when my birthday comes around. I always bake him a nice cake, and buy him a present. Don't get much back in return though."
Joe checked his watch. "I'm so sorry, Mrs.?"
"I'm Helga Sauter. I should have introduced myself when I came in."
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sauter. I have a lunch meeting with a client, and mustn't be late." He stood and waited while she rose. "I hope I've relieved your mind about your husband."
Another snort. "You're not the only detective in town, are you?"
He couldn't argue with that, and waited for her to reach the bottom of the stairs before he locked up. Even then, he waited another minute to make certain he wouldn't meet her again on the sidewalk.
* * *
Paloma had turned the front room of her home into her studio. At first glance, it appeared to be a colorful mess. With further study, however, Joe found the tall bookcases were filled with the wooden birdhouses she built to serve as models for her paintings. Tubes of paint were organized by color into small bins on a table near her easel. Brushes were gathered in jars. A tarp splattered with paint protected the hardwood floor, and finished paintings were stacked in a row along the far wall. The scent of turpentine hung in the air.
Paloma followed his gaze, and she uncovered the painting on her easel. The two by three foot canvas held a neat sketch of a tall, thin birdhouse she's just begun to fill in with several shades of red and pink paint.
"I use various combinations of yellow, orange, red, and pink, or greens and blues with a touch of lavender. That way, I can produce multiple paintings from a single birdhouse. They can also be turned slightly to show different angles. Do you like it?"
She'd dressed in the long, embroidered turquoise dress she's worn to his studio. Her eyes were puffy from crying, but her expression was so hopeful Joe couldn't disappoint her.
"I like it very much," he replied. "Your work has a fanciful charm, as though the little houses were designed to be homes for magical birds."
"Yes! Thank you. Some people see that right away, others want me to add a robin or blue bird."
"What do you say to them?"
"If they're buying the painting, I add a canary, or whatever they'd like. At this point in my career, I need to sell more than I need to insist on the purity of my vision. Does that sound silly?"
"Not at all. I admire such a practical view. Is there someplace special you'd like to go for lunch?"
"There's a café I walk to when I need to clear my head. They have good sandwiches. Would you mind walking there?"
"Not at all. I often go for walks after lunch."
* * *
Archie's was more deli than café, but they had a few tables. Paloma chose one near the front window. "Now that I'm here, I think maybe I'll have a tuna sandwich."
Joe ordered it and a corned beef sandwich for himself. Pausing occasionally for a bite, Paloma talked through much of the meal, and all he had to do was nod to show he was listening. She knew everything about the Los Angeles art scene, and he knew nothing whatsoever, so it was both informative and entertaining. Once she'd finished her sandwich and eaten her last potato chip, she grew solemn on the walk home.
"Is Detective Lynch as awful a person as he seems?" she asked.
"I'm prejudiced, you understand, but indeed he is. His only asset is a handsome wardrobe. It's best to simply ignore him. Are you feeling well enough to paint this afternoon?"
"Yes, thank you, I do. I'm alone too much, dwell on Matteo's death, and become so depressed, I end up a weepy mess. I should get out and see people every day, even if it's only a trip to the market. Unfortunately, I need to stay in and paint as well."
"Can you strike a balance, paint for most of the day, and go out in the afternoon?"
"You give such good advice. Do you mind if I call you sometime just to talk?"
They were standing on the sidewalk in front of her house, and he hated to depress her again by saying no, but he sure couldn't say yes. "I always try to be helpful, but I must reserve my telephone for conversations with new clients. I'm sure we'll speak again before Matteo's case is closed though."
She smiled and turned toward her home. "I just hope I won't have to call you from jail."
When he became a detective, he'd expected to provide answers and solve crimes, but when advice was desperately needed, he gave it. Usually questions involved romance, and what Paloma needed was an attentive boyfriend. He hadn't said so, because she would have asked him to find her one. He knew better than to start down that slippery incline.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Sean Dermot called Joe and asked if he could come by his office. Joe hoped the cellist had some useful insights, but Sean had thought the same of him.
"I really miss Matteo," he began. "We were comfortable sitting side by side. He was a brilliant musician, and his like won't come again. Have the police said anything about a diary or calendar that might show whom Matteo expected to see the afternoon he died?"
"Not that I've heard, but with so many girlfriends, he must have had a way to keep them from bumping into one another."
"You'd think so." Sean sipped the coffee Joe had poured for him. "He was a genius in many respects, maybe he kept it all in his head."
"The real question is why."
Sean couldn't help but chuckle. "Because he could. All that really mattered to him was being the foremost cellist in the world. Women were merely a hobby, the way some men play golf. He toyed with women's hearts and never looked back. Apparently it finally caught up to him."
"Did he date any of the orchestra members' wives?"
"Other than casual comments about having a date later, he didn't confide details so I don't really know. We all have the same rehearsal and performance schedule, so the husbands would have been free whenever Matteo was. It would have provided an unnecessary complication when he charmed women so easily."
Joe stood to refill their cups with hot coffee. "His reputation as a lady's man didn't make women leery of becoming involved with him?"
"Do moths realize the danger to a flame? But he wasn't actually involved with any of them. Maybe he allotted each woman a limited number of dates and moved on before they expected more of him than what must have been a spectacular afternoon or night."
"I wish he'd left the rest of us some notes," Joe added.
"Me too. He could have sold a million copies." Sean looked up at the clock. "I didn't mean to take so much of your time." He finished his coffee and set the empty cup on Joe's desk. "I need to go home and practice."
"Do you have new music to learn?"
"No, but everything I do know won't sound nearly as good if I don't put in several hours of independent practice each day. It's not a life everyone would enjoy, but I love it."
After he had gone, Joe regretted not asking him if he were taking Matteo's place and moving up to first chair. It had to be a challenge to take the place of the most celebrated cellist in the world. He added Sean's name to his bulletin board, off to the side with those who knew Matteo, but weren't suspects.
If all the orchestra members practiced their instruments at home as devotedly as Sean, their wives could say they needed to do some shopping, or meet a friend for lunch to get away. A conspiracy might have emerged after some of them compared notes. He made a card for orchestra wives, and pinned it to his board.
Constance Remson was a great contact, and he called her. "How well are you acquainted with the wives of the philharmonic members?"
"Not well at all," she replied. "They're not included when we're doing a party for sponso
rs, or publicity for a concert. Do you think one of them might have killed Matteo?"
"Possibly, and they shouldn't be overlooked as suspects."
"I could host a tea to thank them for their support of the orchestra. That would get them together without tipping our hand."
"How much time do you need to arrange it?"
"A simple tea? I can plan one in my sleep. Are you free this Thursday afternoon? No one does anything on a Thursday, so they should all be free. Not every musician has a wife, by the way, so it won't be as large a group as you might think. I can start calling them now to issue the invitations."
Joe's calendar was disappointingly empty. "I do have Thursday free."
"Good, once we have them all together, I'll mention Matteo, and you'll be able to see how they respond."
"That's the plan." Joe hadn't expected Constance to take up the effort so enthusiastically. He said good-bye and penciled in the tea on his calendar. He wondered if he should dress as a waiter to see what he could overhear.
* * *
When Joe picked up Mary Margaret at the end of her shift, she wore such a miserable expression he knew something dreadful must have happened. He wrapped her in a warm hug. "Did you lose a favorite patient?"
"No, it's worst than that, but let's wait until we get home to talk about it."
Joe saw her comfortably seated in his car, and as they drove to the Chrysanthemum Court, he made no effort at cheerful conversation. She was usually such an upbeat, positive person, he hoped whatever her problem might be, he could help to resolve it.
When they reached her home, she dropped her purse on the small table by the front door, and took his hand. "Come sit with me." She pulled him down beside her on the sofa, and kept hold of his arm.
"My mother called this morning just as I was leaving for work. She went to see Arizona Sunrise, and found your brief appearance so frightening she wants me to break our engagement and come straight home."
Joe had hoped her mother wouldn't see the film, but her response was even worse than anything he'd imagined. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. "What did you tell her?"
The threat of tears brightened her pretty green eyes. "I told her I couldn't be late for work, and that I'd call her this evening. What are we going to do, Joe?"
He was relieved she still thought of them as a couple. "Tell her it was a movie role, and not who I really am?"
"I said so this morning, but it didn't lessen her fears." She bit her lip. "She also thought you were too old for me."
He couldn't deny he was eight years her elder, but it had never been a problem, until now. The war had made them all older than their years, but that wouldn't impress her mother.
"Is she hoping you'll meet a cheerful looking guy who just graduated from high school?"
She pulled her hand from his. "This isn't funny, Joe."
"I'm not trying to be funny." He dropped his arm around her shoulders to pull her close.
He wouldn't make her choose between making a quick trip to Seattle to allay her mother's fears a month or so before they'd return for the wedding, and having a honeymoon. It was the actual choice, however. "What do you suppose your sisters and brothers think about me?"
"None have called, but I don't need a committee decision. I'm marrying you regardless of anything they might say."
That she loved him was a constant thrill. "Thank you, but this is your family, love. Maybe you should speak with everyone."
"I think I'm going to be sick." She made a dash for the bathroom, and he handed her a glass of water when she came out. "I'm sorry. You're right, I should speak to all of them before my mother convinces them I've lost my mind."
"Do you want to talk to them in person? We could catch the Coast Starlight train tomorrow."
She placed the glass on the counter with deliberate care rather than hurl it against the cabinets. "I've arranged for time off in December for the wedding, and I can't ask for additional time now. I'll begin with my sister, Sharon, we've always been close."
Before she could look up the number in her address book, a knock came at the door. "Would you see who that is, Joe? I don't feel like entertaining company."
Luke Hatcher stood on the stoop with a measuring cup in his hand. "Hi, Joe. I'm sorry to bother you and Mary Margaret, but I'm making macaroni and cheese and ran out of milk. Could I borrow a cup?"
"Let me check." He left the door partially ajar. "Can you spare a cup of milk for Luke?"
"Yes, but only if he'll come in and offer advice."
That very day Joe had advised Helga Sauter to consult a minister, so he couldn't say no. Joe welcomed him. "Please come in and sit down for a minute."
The minister laughed. "That sounds as though you're going out back to milk a cow."
Mary Margaret gave him a shaky smile. She told him how badly her mother had reacted to Joe's performance in Arizona Sunrise. "I'm marrying Joe regardless of what she says, but there would be no point in traveling to Seattle if my family will boycott the wedding."
Luke nodded and pursed his lips as he considered the problem. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to see the movie over the weekend. That's not the issue, of course, but people often have trouble separating actors from their roles. It might be a good idea to give your mother a few days to cool off before you broach the subject with her."
Joe and Mary Margaret stared at him. "'Broach the subject,'" she repeated. "That's all you've got?"
"Not worth a cup of milk?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Perhaps I understated my mother's reaction, but she was in a furious rage when she called this morning."
Joe tried not to laugh, but Luke appeared to be totally flummoxed by their situation. "You must have an occasional family disagreement with the VA's treatment of a patient."
"It happens," Luke agreed. "For my trouble, I got punched in the jaw in August, and now I avoid those situations unless I'm actually asked to help. We begin in the chapel with a prayer. I can make it so long and tedious tempers have time to cool and people forget why they're there. I'm sorry, but I've not had my own congregation, and haven't had any experience with adults dealing with difficult parents."
"You've not been married either," Joe reminded him.
"Yes, that might be a factor as well," Luke agreed.
Mary Margaret took his measuring cup and carried it into the kitchen. She quickly returned with the requested milk. "You don't want your macaroni to get cold while you're making the cheese sauce."
Luke stood to take the cup. "Thank you. I'm teaching myself to cook, and the dish seemed easy."
Joe walked him to the front door and whispered, "Thanks for trying to help. It's appreciated."
The minister nodded and left. Joe turned back to Mary Margaret. "Is Sharon your married sister?"
"No, that's Rose, and we've never been close. Sharon is more like me." She ran a finger down the numbers in her address book.
"Should I go out for a walk?"
"No, please stay." Her expression brightened. "Maybe you can talk to her after I explain why I'm calling."
Joe figured as long as he didn't mention any murder cases, he might do all right. When Sharon's voice sounded so much like Mary Margaret's, he liked her right away. "I appear to be a much better actor than I thought, but I don't scare children on the street."
"That's good to hear. Why don't you have some photos taken with Mary Margaret and send them to our mom. If you look real sweet, hold some flowers or a kitten if you must, but do your best to look pleasant and friendly. That ought to prompt her to reconsider her initial poor impression of you."
"Did you see Arizona Sunrise?" he asked.
"No, but I'm going to a matinee tomorrow, and I'll take Rose with me. Tell Mary Margaret not to worry about the boys. They don't care whom we marry."
Joe thanked her and handed the telephone back to his fiancée to say good-bye. "I'll talk to Pete about having photographs taken of us tomorrow after work. If he has time to develop the
m quickly, they can be in the mail this week. Do you want me to stay while you talk to your mom?"
"Yes, please, I won't have the courage to call her without your being here." They returned to the sofa for a warm snuggle before she dialed her mother's number. The telephone rang and rang, but no one answered. Mary Margaret hung up and redialed the number, but again, there was no answer.
"That's odd, my mother is usually at home in the evening. Maybe she took several friends to see Arizona Sunrise, and isn't home yet. I'll try later. I don't feel like making anything more involved than a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner. Will that be enough for you?"
"Yes, you make a terrific grilled cheese."
"Oh, Joe, you say that about everything I make."
"It's true." He slid his arms around her waist and gave her a fond squeeze.
She reached up to kiss him. "Having photos taken was a swell idea. It's sure to impress my mother. I've always thought you were very handsome, and she will too."
Joe thought love must be clouding her vision, but he'd not argue.
* * *
When Joe met Mary Margaret the next afternoon, she looked much happier than she had yesterday. "I didn't reach my mother until this morning, and I didn't give her a chance to speak. I told her we were having photos taken we'd send soon so she could see what a truly nice guy you are. I said good-bye before she could insist it would be an unnecessary expense. You gave me a wonderful photo of you in your Coast Guard uniform. I think we should include it."
"Whatever you like." He'd worn a sports coat and slacks, and hoped he looked sufficiently respectable to please her mother. She had changed into one of her favorite dresses after work and looked especially pretty.
* * *
The owner of Pete's Cameras had set up a portrait studio in the back of his shop, and he welcomed Joe and Mary Margaret. Joe had told Pete the situation was dire when he'd made the appointment.
"You want to appear sincere," Pete commented. "A pleasant smile rather than a wide grin should work best. Let's have you sit on the stool, Mary Margaret, and you stand beside her, Joe."