by Scott, D. D.
“I can help you find the vase,” I said, “if you’d like.”
“I might just call the police.”
“Call them if you want,” I said, “but from my experience at Grayson Investigations, I’ve learned that the police are just going to take your report, put a description of the vase in a national crime database, and move on. They don’t have enough manpower to investigate a missing vase.”
“Not enough manpower to track down an antique family heirloom appraised at $50,000 a few years ago?”
I shrugged. “I’ve seen them not have enough manpower to look into a vandalism and burglary that cost a homeowner $150,000. It was a mess.”
“The Ice Queen is a French piece from the early 1820s. It’s been in my family for nearly two centuries. It’s rare, precious.”
“Sweetwater PD is small. And they focus on what they can do and on solving violent crimes. All I’m saying is, if you want, give Grayson Investigations a chance. If I retrieve the vase, I’ll only charge a $1,000 finder’s fee.”
She nodded. “That vase is priceless to me. My father gave it to me. Want to know how it received its name?”
“Sure,” I said, even though I recalled the magazine photographer’s detail of the engravings of the woman and the snow on the handles.
“It’s not just the obvious, like you’re probably thinking,” she said. “Any time we touched it, even in the dead of summer, even if the vase had been standing hours in the sunshine or had been placed near a heater, the glass was cold to the touch—ice cold, like it was enchanted.”
“So it appears that Tara stuffed it in her bag,” I said. “But you have many guests here tonight.”
“Who else would it be? All of the doors to our house are locked, with the exception of the door the caterers are using. All the guests are using the pool house facilities.” Penelope pointed to the pool house, a building about the size of a two-car garage with walls constructed more out of glass than plank siding. Inside, blazing lights revealed plush, pink couches I’d be afraid to sit on in my clothes—let alone a damp bathing suit.
“How did your family get inside?”
“They all know the code to unlock the side door when the house alarm is unarmed.”
“Why would Tara steal the vase?”
“Ricky’s been out of work for a year now. Like Olivia said, they need money. Tara probably figured she wouldn’t get caught and that I’d think one of the guests had stolen it. But I caught Tara trying to walk out with it, and she wouldn’t let me look inside her bag.”
“I’ll let you know what I find.”
**
“Cutting it close, aren’t you, O’Reilly?” Mack adjusted his already perfectly straight gold desk clock with the plaque honoring his service with the Sweetwater PD. Most likely he did it to draw my attention to the mere four minutes remaining before the mandatory morning meeting for Grayson Investigations’ employees.
After a couple seconds, Mack repositioned the clock to its previous location in the corner, next to his precisely aligned stapler, pencil sharpener, hole puncher, and nameplate: Lt. L. McKenzie Blackmon. Each item on his desk was separated exactly a half inch from its neighbors. Looking at the nameplate always drew a smile to my lips and not just because our office only employed four investigators and each of us could identify our desks without needing to label them.
The “L” on the nameplate stood for Leslie. Mack was a man who refused to back down from any opinion he formed, whose facial expressions seemed chiseled in seriousness, whose body retained the brick-wall formidability of a linebacker despite his thin, crew cut white hair and age spots. But the abbreviation pointed to an embarrassment Mack felt toward his first name—a chink to a soft vulnerability behind his imposing façade. Remembering I was speaking with a Leslie who felt ashamed enough to abbreviate his first name took away some of Mack’s bluster.
I slid my black leather messenger bag under my desk and powered up my laptop, leaning against my desk and facing Mack instead of sitting in my chair. As usual, Mack wore a plain black tie knotted too tightly around his thick neck, a crisp white buttoned shirt smoothed over his wide girth and tucked neatly into black slacks, and a black jacket. I supposed, since he couldn’t wear a police uniform as he’d chosen retirement from the force after a gunshot wound in a leg, Mack thought dressing like a federal agent was the next best thing.
“You noticed me,” I said. “That’s all I wanted, Mack-a-roni!” I smiled, watching him fight a grimace at my usage and distortion of his common name. If we were both cops, he’d report me to the captain for harassment or for failing to be dutifully intimidated by him.
Mack pointed to his last name on his nameplate. “How about some professional behavior here, O’Reilly? This is an office, after all, though your attire may not suggest it.”
I looked at my long-sleeved T shirt and jeans, which revealed wear at the knees, and fingered the ragged beginnings of a small hole near one hip pocket. I shrugged. Rex didn’t care, and Rex was the boss. Mack had joined forces with Rex a decade ago and could be considered the most senior employee and Rex’s go-to man. While Mack never hid his dislike toward me, for some reason Rex liked me. I think I amused him.
“I’m doing fieldwork today,” I said. “Sometimes wearing clothes like these helps a PI blend in with the surroundings, helps a PI get more on the side of the people she—or he—is interacting with. Just a little free tip from one professional to another.” I winked at Mack.
“I thought Captain had you on desk duty working the background checks this week.”
“Rex,” I said, not captain as Mack liked to call him, another relic from Mack’s time on the force, not even Mr. Grayson. My boss had asked me to call him by his first name, and I was sure he’d asked the same of Mack. “Rex won’t mind if I take a little time for this case.”
“What’s that?”
I walked over to Mack’s desk and tapped his clock, just enough to move it out of alignment a few centimeters.
“I’ll tell you at the meeting,” I said, “after I get some coffee.”
Every weekday morning, Grayson Investigations’ employees attended a quick meeting. Since Rex, too, served with the Marines and then on the Sweetwater police force before opening his PI business, I figured the morning meetings were a throwback to his service days. The police had roll calls, checks on uniforms and equipment, and updates on crime. We received assignments at our meetings. And the time spent together allowed Mack and me another opportunity to spar. I sat down at the conference table and readied myself for another round with Mack. I didn’t wait long.
“Mack tells me you’re looking for some time off desk duty,” Rex said as he strode into the room, tailed closely by Mack. “Are background checks not entertaining enough for you?”
I knew my supervisor, Rex Grayson, was in his 40s, a couple decades older than me and a couple decades younger than Mack, but his tanned complexion and dark brown, short-cropped beard, and compact, muscled body, helped him appear younger. I also believed the beard helped extract information from people during investigations. The facial hair softened his face and counteracted his composure, which always seemed primed for action. So instead of being wary of his penetrating gray-brown eyes and discerning intellect that was as sharp as his namesake’s teeth, and instead of tensing and acknowledging the threat of Rex’s obvious physical training, most people relaxed and forgot they were speaking with a seasoned interrogator.
“Mack.” I shook my head at him and smiled. “Is that what you told Rex? That I just wanted some time off? A more accurate description,” I said, redirecting my comments toward my boss, “is that I’m tracking down a missing vase for a $1,000 finder’s fee.”
“For a vase?” Rex asked.
“Penelope Bouleneau-Baker’s vase,” I clarified, “which is priceless to her.”
“The Bouleneau-Bakers,” Rex said. He scratched his left eyebrow, a gesture he used to buy time.
I nodded. I knew where his thoug
hts led him. The Bouleneau-Bakers were regarded in Sweetwater as one of the town’s most prestigious and powerful families. Instead of merely flaunting their money with their expensive cars and plantation homestead restored with historic accuracy, they’d also funded public projects, including the bridge over the creek at the base of the lake, a statue downtown near the library, and the food cupboard. So in addition to gaining wealth, they’d added respect and admiration.
“I’m working directly with Penelope Bouleneau-Baker,” I said.
Mack crossed his arms. “How’d you end up with the case?”
“She trusts me,” I said. “And I’ve got a lead.”
“How’s that?” Rex asked.
“I was at a party at her house when the vase was stolen,” I said. “I offered my services. She accepted.”
“If you retrieve that vase, we’ll get some good references,” Rex said. “Good connections.”
“You want me to hang with O’Reilly?” Mack asked.
“No,” I said.
Mack cleared his throat. “Let someone with experience take the reins. People answer to authority. Here’s the thing, O’Reilly. You look the part; they pay out. You know that, Captain.”
“No!” I said. “There’s no way I want you hanging with me on this one.”
“We both know,” Mack said to me, “if the case had come in like any other, through the front desk, I’d be assigned it, being the investigator here with the experience needed to find that vase. No offense.”
“Penelope wants to keep the case private,” I said. I looked at Rex, whose slight grin and more obvious dimple betrayed his entertainment in our argument. “The case is taking on a personal direction. And, frankly, bringing in Mack would not only offend Penelope by directing more attention to her private life, but Mack also would impede my ability to get that vase back.”
Mack laughed.
“I’m serious,” I said. I pointed at him. “Just look at yourself. Look at your clothes. Consider the way you carry yourself. No one who is guilty of stealing a vase of considerable value would want to talk to someone in a monkey suit. And no one would want to give up anything to someone whose demeanor portrays such an arrogance that they know they’d be humiliated by confessing a wrong.”
“Now, Ms. O’Reilly,” Mack said, drawling out my last name as only a Southerner could. “Suspects don’t stand a chance against—”
“Who do you think stole the vase?” Rex asked, interrupting Mack’s rant.
“I’m checking out a sister-in-law who left the party immediately after the vase was found missing. She was carrying a huge bag that looked like it held the vase.”
“Oooh,” Mack said. He waved his fingers at me. “Those are some sophisticated investigating skills. Teach me more!”
“You’d ignore the obvious?” I asked. “Maybe I should start taking notes from you so I can remember how to play the village fool.”
“But what’s your plan?” Mack asked. “Tickle her until she gives up the vase?”
“Mack,” Rex said.
“No, this is important,” Mack said. He glared at me. “How’re you going to get the vase back from her—ask nicely?”
“How would you do it?” I asked. “Threaten her with bodily harm?”
“Coercion works better than cherries on top.”
Rex slapped his palm on the table. “Meeting over.”
“What about Jade?” Mack asked.
“Let’s see how she handles this one,” he said. He looked at me. “But if you’re going to try tickling her, let me know. I want to be there to see how the method works; I’ve not tried it yet. And you can catch up on the background checks after you retrieve the vase.”
“You’re sending O’Reilly in alone?” Mack asked as I gathered my belongings. “Captain, just to be clear about this, you’re letting O’Reilly take this case—alone? It’s the Bouleneau—”
“Alone,” Rex said. “And Jade?”
I looked back at him.
“Don’t let us down.”
**
The dented metal door to Ricky and Tara’s manufactured home sounded so hollow and flimsy when I knocked, I thought that if I leaned against it, it might just fall open for me, which was sad, considering I only weighed 130 when wet and also because of the contrast from last night’s opulence. Penelope’s brick porch stretched wide; this warped wooden porch couldn’t support two people. Penelope’s yard contained manicured bushes, a water fountain, and a fish pond; this yard’s one bush looked as if it had died two years ago, and its only water was located in low-lying mud puddles. A plastic picket fence bowed in one corner, and tall weeds grew through several cinderblocks resting in a heap. The contrast between Penelope’s and her brother’s lifestyles could barely be more drastic.
The door creaked open. Tara slumped against the doorframe wearing what I guessed were her pajamas. A knee-length baggy shirt with a cartoon bird on it appeared to be stained with a crimson liquid—wine, perhaps, or maybe spaghetti sauce. She also wore mangy slippers the unclassifiable color of a rotten peach.
“Hey, Tara,” I said, a standard greeting in North Carolina. “I’m sorry to bother you. Could I come in and talk?”
She considered me a moment, gray and brown hair mussed, face wiped clean of all makeup.
“What are you here for?” she asked.
“I wanted to talk to you about Penelope’s vase.”
She pursed her lips, twitched them to one side and then another, and then let the door open.
“I suppose I was expecting a visit from you after you witnessed my sister-in-law hollering at me last night,” she said. “I’ve heard about you—you’re that O’Reilly girl, Jade—and Dale, and your family.”
Of course. In Sweetwater, small-town gossip dissolved amongst its residents like food coloring in vinegar.
“I know what you do for a living now,” she said. “And I know my sister-in-law.” She released a long sigh. “Have a seat on the couch. I’ll get Ricky up, and we’ll talk.”
I settled onto the couch and looked around the house. What struck me wasn’t the shabby, stained carpet or the threadbare, flattened armchair cushion, or any other worn-out or used-up feature of the house. Instead, I felt overwhelmed by clutter—dozens of newspapers piled in a corner, walls overburdened with bad art, dirty dishes and disassembled electronic pieces on the kitchen counter and—there it was—Tara’s oversized purse from last night’s party, slumped on the linoleum floor next to the refrigerator. But before I could dart to it and examine it, Ricky and Tara, who had changed into a sweater and jeans, entered the room. At least Ricky had spared me the sight of seeing his Santa Claus belly in pajamas.
“I remember you now,” he said, standing in front of me and running a hand through his thin, gray hair. “Jade O’Reilly. Sweetwater’s bad girl, now with a license to PI.”
“I could have been a lot worse,” I said.
He nodded.
“The reason I’m here,” I said, “is because I caught the tail end of your disagreement with Penelope last night.”
“Disagreement,” Tara said. “That’s one way to put it. Honey, Penelope and me, we’ve been having disagreements ever since we first met.”
Ricky put his arm around Tara. “Don’t go feeling all down on yourself, now.” He looked at me. “Like I tell Tara, I’m Penelope’s own brother. So Tara shouldn’t be expecting to have a better relationship with Penelope than the relationship I have with her, which is strained at its best.”
“We just come from different planets,” Tara said. “We’re down home, real. And Penelope is—”
“Not,” Ricky said. “They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but Penelope and I—one of us rolled down a long hill away from that tree.”
“Penelope wanted me to check into the vase,” I said.
“The Ice Queen,” Tara said in a falsetto voice, pointing her nose toward the ceiling. “Imagine if I began naming our possessions! I suppose our moldy fridge could
be Bubba; our couch could be Bertha.”
“Naming possessions. That’s just the way we grew up,” Ricky said. “Even our dog had a glitzed-up name. William Yeats Bouleneau III. Yeah, no Spots or Fidos for us. Bet you’re wondering how I ended up here.” He spread his arms, indicating the manufactured home in all its chaotic disarray.
I shook my head.
“Well, when I was a kid I lived in a nice house, but my daddy wasn’t so nice to me,” he said. “So I spent most of my time out of the house, trying to stay as far away from him as possible. Our groundskeeper was more of a father to me than my own daddy. And instead of following my daddy into some old office, I decided to go into a career that I enjoyed—mechanics.”
“Speaking of your family, growing up,” I said, trying to link Ricky’s tangent to my investigation, “how did Penelope come to inherit the vase and the house instead of you?”
“She’s who our daddy chose to give them to, she claims,” Ricky said. “Penelope says our daddy gave the vase to her before he died. Of course, no one witnessed that property transfer. No one heard our daddy speak about his wishes for the vase. After his death, we all—well, me and Olivia—we went to the house and found a lot of things missing and not just the Ice Queen.”
“And the will had been changed,” Tara said, “just before his death. Penelope was suddenly listed as getting the house and the land.”
“In her credit,” Ricky said, “Penelope was the one who saw to daddy’s needs after his cash dwindled away and mama was long gone. She’d bring him meals, sit with him—that sort of thing.”
“So she could raid the house,” Tara said.
“What did you get?” I asked. “I mean, if that’s too personal—”
“Olivia and I got to split what remained of his possessions. I got some hunting rifles; one dates back to the Revolutionary War. Olivia got some old china hutch Penelope didn’t want anyhow.”
“Or that she couldn’t carry off secretly,” Tara said.