A Box Full of Trouble

by Carolyn Haines

  Julia fought to tamp down her anger. "So, you want to tell me why you were spying on me? Did you follow me here?"

  "I'm not spying on you and I didn't follow you here." He watched her reaction to his words and when she simply raised an eyebrow, he continued. "In fact I was just about to feed your cat when I got a, uh, business call."

  "Feed my cat!" His comment made her so mad Julia almost stuttered the words. "Of all the—that is such a bald faced lie I don't even know how to respond."

  Mitch continued to watch her for a moment longer then said, "I don't lie, at least not when it matters. And I didn't follow you here. I just happened to discover that you were in the area and wanted to make sure you were all right."

  "How did you happen to discover that I was in the area? And why wouldn't I be fine? I'm an adult, perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don't need the U.S. Marshal's Service looking over my shoulder."

  "No, no, you don't." Mitch held up his hand in a placating gesture. "I guess I just wanted to see you."

  "Oh." Julia was so caught off guard by his comment that she was having difficulty changing gears. It took her a second to realize he had glibly skipped over her questions.

  "Why don't I walk you home and I'll tell you what I can."

  "You were spying on someone else." Her eyes widened. "You were spying on Doug."

  "Not me personally." Mitch sighed. "Please, let me walk you home."

  Julia knew that Mitch's declaration that he wanted to see her was an attempt to cover up the fact he had been spying on her, if not for her own sake then because of Doug. All her life she had been watched in the guise of coddling and cossetting. The need to escape the loving but watchful eye of her father had almost caused her to take a job as an art curator in Boston after graduation. Now, especially since her career had taken a direction her father disapproved, she felt her every movement was under scrutiny.

  "Look," Mitch said, "you have questions and I need to see you safely home. Why not kill two birds with one stone?"

  Why did he have to be so logical, so calm—so assuming. But he had her attention and as with her father, Julia knew when to change tactics.

  "Fine." She turned south on Bryan Street as Mitch fell in step beside her. They walked a block in silence. Julia finally couldn't stand it any longer. "Well?"

  "Well, what?"

  "Honestly!"

  Mitch chuckled. "What do you want to know?"

  "Who were you following tonight?"

  "I wasn't following anyone. I was trying to have dinner."

  "I'm not the hotel receptionist, Mr. Lawson."

  "Indeed, you are not, Miss Hampton. And call me Mitch."

  "Okay." Julia said. "Let me rephrase my question. Who is the U. S. Marshal’s Service following?"

  When he started to speak she held up her hand to silence him. "And what does it have to do with me?"

  "Well, I can't disclose details of an ongoing investigation..."

  Julia stopped in her tracks, hands on hips, and glared at him.

  "But," he continued, "I can tell you the disappearance of Peter Ryder is of major concern as is your connection to his last two cases."

  "The two late nineteenth century Russian cases."

  Mitch took her arm and set them back to walking. "A curious but descriptive choice of reference."

  "Not so curious," Julia said. "Both claims are connected to Russian history."

  "Why do you think Ryder called you in on these particular cases? Do you think it was because of your expertise in Russian art?"

  Julia gave a small shake of her head. "Not really. The provenance of the items isn't in question. I think what troubled him is that the seller of the Fechin and the owner of the clothing used unconventional delivery methods for pieces of this value."

  "Was the clothing that valuable?"

  "Not so much except from a historical perspective. These items are irreplaceable in that they were the personal belongings of a figure from history worn to the christening of the future czar of Russia." She frowned. "That, to me, is the key. I've been thinking about our conversation earlier about the two Russians in a bidding war for a different Fechin painting. What are the odds that two items of Russian origin should go missing at almost the same time and in the same city?"

  "History, then, not art."

  "Both claims are connected to history and art but the fact that the clothing links to roughly the same period in history as the Fechin stands out to me. Is there a link there? I don't know."

  "Was Fechin a sympathizer with the Romanovs?"

  "His early training was with the Kazan Art School but his father was merely a craftsman who worked in wood and metal. Fechin later attended the Imperial Academy in St. Petersburg but I doubt there was any deep affection for the Czar and the royal families. Like so many in the aftermath of the revolution, he fled to the United States to escape the turbulence and violence. There was a great famine in 1921. He and his family were rescued by the American Relief Administration. He was one of the fortunate ones. In large part, I suspect, because of his art."

  Mitch was quiet for the remainder of the block then he said, "So the question is, what is our thief collecting—history or art."

  Julia's mind had been chasing the answer to that question all evening. If they could pin down the answer to the what, she felt sure they could discover the who and the how. She stopped again as she realized she had mentally linked her investigation with Mitch's. And he had said our thief.

  "What?" Mitch stood watching her.

  She diverted her gaze and saw the neon sign for Takee-Outtee Sushi Bar. "Trouble."

  "What trouble?"

  "The cat." She moved toward the take-out café. "He won't eat cat food and he's eating me out of house and home. I thought I might tempt him with some sushi."

  She turned to see Mitch standing in the middle of the sidewalk watching her. He had told her he had been feeding the cat earlier in the evening but Trouble was securely at home in her apartment. "Are you hungry?"

  "For sushi?"

  He began to close the distance between them with that walk—that walk that was just so—him. Julia came back to earth and cleared her throat. "Yes, sushi."

  He shook his head. "I like my beef rare and my fish cooked."

  She wondered what else he liked then took herself firmly in hand. "Good to know," she said.

  His mouth didn't move but she saw the smile in the subtle changes in his face, changes you couldn't point out but there all the same. The cause of the smile, she realized, was her use of the exact same words he had used earlier.

  When they reached Calhoun Square they found the black cat sprawled on his side across the doormat. He flicked his tail but made no effort to move.

  “Trouble!” Julia stared down at him, a note of alarm in her voice. “How on earth did you get out?”

  Mitch stood on the middle step of the porch and decided the cat had eaten the entire Roquefort burger, both patties by the look of him. He appeared to be in a food coma. He had the good sense not to comment.

  Julia held up the bag that contained the sushi and gave it a gentle shake. The sound of the container against the paper of the bag caused the cat to flick his tail once more but nothing else.

  "Trouble." Julia shook it again. "I've brought you dinner."

  Trouble opened his eyes to slits of emerald green then closed them again.

  "Well," Julia said, "you are impossible to please."

  "I think he likes his beef rare, too." Mitch forced his words to sound matter-of-fact and he refused to let himself smile.

  Julia's forehead furrowed with lines of indignation. "You could have told me."

  "I did. You didn't believe me."

  "Well, you should have been more persistent."

  "I don't like repeating myself."

  Julia made no reply. She stepped over Trouble to insert the key in the lock. The door swung open on silent hinges.

  Mitch gently eased her out of the doorway.
He took his gun from the shoulder harness beneath his jacket and pushed the door all the way open with his booted foot.

  Trouble chose that moment to revive and he sauntered past Mitch to the office door. It was intact, no broken panes, and securely locked. Then the cat headed up the stairs toward the apartment on the second floor. Mitch followed, motioning for Julia to stay in the foyer.

  At the top of the stairs the cat sat outside the door. It was closed and as Mitch quietly and carefully turned the doorknob, he discovered that it was also locked. He took the pen light from his inside jacket pocket and examined the area around the lock. Someone had made a very discreet effort to trip it. He stepped back down the stairs to the half landing and motioned for Julia to join him. When he held out his hand for her keys he realized she was trembling. He closed his fingers over her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze before he took the keys and returned to the top of the stairs to open the door.

  Trouble strolled into the entryway of the apartment and turned left toward the front of the building. He hopped up on the window ledge and stared out the window.

  Mitch went room to room checking for an intruder. When he opened Julia’s closet door he simply stood and stared. The room was arguably as large as his apartment. Clothing ran along two walls. At one end a dressing table with tri-fold mirrors stood against the wall. Angled shelves with row upon row of shoes flanked the dressing table. On the opposite wall a Vault Pro safe had obviously been custom built to fit the width of the room. He wondered what she could possibly keep in a safe that big. The center of the room contained an adjustable, free-standing, full length mirror and a large, rectangular ottoman upholstered in some kind of fur under a crystal chandelier. It was the most amazing closet he had ever seen. He whistled softly between his teeth and closed the door.

  There was no sign that anyone had been inside the apartment. He paused as he was leaving the bedroom and looked at the very large bed dominating the room. He inhaled Julia's fragrance that lingered on the air then he went back to the apartment door and ushered her inside.

  "Are you sure you locked the front door?" He knew that she had but it was a question he had to ask.

  "Yes." She turned right into the kitchen and set the take-out bag on the butcher block island. "Since the break-in I've been obsessive about it, double checking and then checking again."

  She looked very pale. Mitch moved to the stove and checked the kettle for water. He turned on the burner and busied himself looking for cups, spoons, teabags. "No one got into the apartment. You needn't worry about that."

  "How can you know? I don't know how they got in downstairs. Or if they've been in the office again." She pulled a long, curved, tortoise shell, slightly dangerous looking object from her hair and it fell in loose waves to her shoulders.

  "I just know." He watched her run her fingers through her hair. "It's a talent, I guess you'd say. Comes from years on the job." He hesitated. "Do you want to call the police?"

  "God, no." She sat on a stool at the kitchen island. "My father is ready to dig a moat around the building. If he heard about this he'd probably have me forcibly moved back home."

  "Is there anyone you could stay the night with?"

  Julia jumped as the kettle began to scream. Then she took a calming breath. "No." She stood and began making tea. "I don't want a babysitter and I'm not going anywhere. No one is going to scare me out of my home."

  Mitch leaned against the kitchen doorframe and hitched his thumb into the waistband of his jeans. "Uh huh."

  Julia looked up from the tea preparations. "I mean it, Deputy Lawson. This is all related to the thefts I'm investigating. All I have to do is find out who's behind them. Problem solved."

  "That easy, huh?"

  Julia sighed and took a fresh lemon from the refrigerator and sliced it. "I don't expect you to believe I'm good at my job. I really don't care what you think. But I haven't failed a client yet and I know what I'm doing."

  Mitch pushed away from the doorframe and took the cup of tea she offered. He was a coffee drinker but he said nothing and sipped the hot brew. "Okay, you know your business and I know mine. I also know where all this is leading. It's obvious that whoever's behind these thefts is Russian or has connections to markets specializing in Russian art." He set his cup on the island. "And there are some nasty mafia types operating all up and down the eastern coast."

  “Why would you assume the mafia is involved?”

  “I’m not.” He paused, trying to decide how much he could tell her.

  “But you are.” Julia set down her cup. “It has something to do with whatever brought you to my door and don’t tell me it was stolen art.”

  Mitch pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. I can say that an on-going investigation may be overlapping with these art heists.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t say anything about the particulars but the disappearance of Ryder is a problem.”

  “And you think Doug’s involved.”

  “Only in that he wrote both policies.”

  “Do you think he did this?”

  “There’s no reason to think so at this moment. I’m just trying to see the big picture and the fact that Doug’s the agent may be an unfortunate coincidence.”

  “What made your men decide to follow him?”

  “The thing with the car. It doesn’t sit right.”

  “I agree.” Julia took her cup to the sink and emptied it. “It seemed personal.”

  Mitch crossed the kitchen and placed his empty cup in the sink. “That’s how it struck me. There could be a number of reasons from a jilted woman to a gambling debt but it bears looking into.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Mitch grinned. “We?”

  “Our cases are connected. It would be foolish not to collaborate.”

  Mitch liked the idea of collaborating with Julia Hampton but that wasn’t really an option. She was no match for the likes of Doug and his mafia cronies. But perhaps, under the guise of co-operation, he could keep an eye on her, could keep her safe.

  “Why don’t I take a stroll around the block, see if there’s any sign of your visitor.” He paused in the kitchen doorway. “Lock up behind me. I won’t be long.”

  Julia crossed her arms at her waist and nodded.

  When he got to the front door of the building Mitch examined it carefully with his pin light. The lock was new, no scratches on the metal, so it hadn’t been picked that he could tell. The door had been repainted after the initial break-in. There was still the faintest odor of fresh paint. It was unmarred.

  He checked the French doors to the office. They were firmly locked with no sign of an attempt to break-in. Whoever had tried to break into Julia’s apartment had a key to the main door of the building but not one to the apartment itself. They hadn’t attempted to enter the office. Whatever they were looking for they didn’t expect to find there. What were they looking for?

  The streets around Julia’s house were quiet except for an occasional pedestrian. No one caught his eye as suspicious. He scanned the alleyways, alcoves, and darkened doorways. He found no one lurking in any of the parked vehicles. No cars cruised slowly around the area.

  Mitch completed the circuit of outlying streets to a two block radius around Julia’s house. He stood on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street and looked up to see the silhouette of the black cat standing watch at the window.

  * * *

  Julia checked the lock on the apartment door after Mitch left. She then went around to all the windows and closed and locked them.

  Trouble protested with a plaintive yeow when she moved him so she could close the bedroom window.

  “Complain all you want. I’m on to your tricks. No more shenanigans from you tonight.”

  Trouble looked up at her then began to thread his way around her legs. She picked him up and held him close to her chest. He rubbed his head against the underside of her chin and began to purr.

  �
�Oh, you’re ready to make-up, are you?” She scratched under his chin and took him to the sofa. The rumble in his throat began to work its magic.

  By the time Mitch rang the doorbell, Julia had reasoned away the fear that had gripped her when the front door swung open of its own accord. Maybe she hadn’t secured the lock properly when she went out. Her mind had been on the case, trying to decide whether or not two thefts of Russian art within a few weeks of each other could be a coincidence.

  At the sound of the buzzer, Julia stirred from her reverie. She realized Trouble had abandoned her to resume his vigil at the window.

  She sighed and pulled herself out of the comfort of the sofa and checked the Dropcam image on her cell phone, her sole concession to security. Mitch stood on her front stoop, his face in profile. She sighed again. He was a handsome man. After a long dry spell in her social life it was suddenly raining men: handsome, sexy, possibly dangerous men. A little shiver ran down her spine as she pressed the door release button.

  Chapter Five

  Julia awoke with a strategy in mind. Her first call was to her father to inquire whom he would recommend for a security system. This simple request served to appease Woodrow Hampton and for him to recognize she was appeasing him. If he thought for one second she felt she needed the security, he would station armed men on all four corners of her house.

  The call also allowed her to question him about Alphonse Chapman, the Director of Special Events for the Telfair Museums. He was the mastermind behind the scheduled Russian art exhibit.

  ‘Chappie,’ according to her father, was a trust fund baby who spent an inordinate amount of time tracing his ancestry then boring all his acquaintances with his findings.

  Julia had met Chappie at various functions involving the arts and the historical preservation society. What she needed from her father was the backstory, or as Aunt Ethel would say, the down and dirty.

  Other than the fact Chappie had spun so many tales about his lineage that no one knew what to believe, her father knew he had spent several years living abroad. They had known each other through their fraternity, Sigma Alpha Epsilon, at the University of Georgia, but because Chappie was three years behind him, her father had not really socialized with him.