by Nina Wright
“Undisclosed?”
“He implies that it’s a close friend. Who knew he had any?”
“Is there a back-up offer?”
“Yes—but also with questionable financing. One of those super-rich, super-young couples you saw at the Open House. They’re already over-leveraged. And their bid’s ten percent below the asking price.”
“What’s Rico’s?”
“Five percent below.”
If I recalled correctly, the heiress who owned the mini-castle with wine cellar was asking one-point-two million, a fair price in the current market. Rico Anuncio had sixty percent of five percent less than that? I started tapping on my calculator.
“How could Rico have $684,000 on hand?”
“He says business is good.”
“He runs an art gallery!”
“Well, he did host Cloud Man,” Odette reminded me.
Rico had bragged about owning a Cumulus. Maybe Brady could estimate its worth.
Odette had other hopeful news to report. One of her pre-breakfast phone chats had been with Carol Felkey, who wanted to sell her home in Shadow Point.
“Since the murders, Carol says it’s like living in Hell’s Theme Park. The subdivision is clogged with gawkers. Total strangers ring their doorbell every day asking for gruesome details.”
“I’ll be delighted to list their home,” I said. “But I dread dealing with ghouls.”
Odette cocked her head, a strange light in her eyes. “I embrace the Ghoul Factor and make it work for me.”
“Great. Then you can sit down with Carol and Ed.”
“And with the Schlegels,” she said. “They’re a Christian couple who can’t bear living two doors down from Satan’s handiwork. One possible glitch, though: Both the Felkeys and the Schlegels know you managed Murder House.”
“You mean Shadow Play—”
“So they’re understandably nervous about letting you near their properties.”
“They think I’m jinxed?!”
“They’ve also heard about the pending lawsuits.”
“There are no pending lawsuits! That I know of. Just some stupid written complaints stirred up by that wacko Rico.”
I was so angry I was spitting. Odette stepped discreetly from the line of spray.
“My point is that I’ll handle it,” she said and slipped away.
Chapter Twenty-five
Around nine I decided to grab a latte and muffin at the Goh Cup. Brady and Officer Roscoe were coming down the sidewalk as I approached. I did a double take. Maybe it was the bright autumn sunshine, but Roscoe’s coat had a pale golden sheen I’d never seen before. And Brady was sporting a spiky new hairstyle.
“You look great,” I said. “Both of you.”
“Thanks. Turns out the Coastal Canine Salon has specials for cop dogs, so Roscoe got a Swedish-Citrus conditioning rinse on the house. Makes him look younger, don’t you think?”
“Blonder, for sure. What about you? Do they have specials for cop guys, too?”
He blushed. “Nah. Once I saw how good Roscoe looked, I told Bob the Barber to give me the works.”
“Hey—I’ve got a grad-school art question for you: The other day you said Matheney’s paintings are soaring in value.”
“Yup. There was something about that in USA Today.”
“An article on Cloud Man?”
“It was about what’s hot in art—which contemporary artists command the biggest bucks. Matheney’s near the top of the list. He was hot when he was alive, but he’s a lot hotter dead.”
I asked Brady to estimate what a Cumulus might be worth now.
“USA Today says they’re going up. The best ones could sell now for a few hundred thou. Maybe more. Depends on what you got and when you sell it.”
“And who you sell it to. Right? I mean, you’d have to find the right buyer.”
“They’re out there. And here’s another thing.” Brady surveyed the street. I noticed that Officer Roscoe did the same. “If the news ever gets out about Cloud Man’s finger—.”
“What?” I leaned closer.
“Well, think about Van Gogh’s ear. . . .”
“Van Gogh cut off his own ear. You don’t think Matheney . . . ?”
“No way! But sordid stories sell art.”
And real estate. Odette was right about the neighborhood surrounding Murder House. I mean, Shadow Play. Someone out there would buy proximity to grisly history.
“Okay, Brady. You’re saying anyone who owns a Cumulus could be confident of selling it for a huge profit? Finger or no finger?”
“For a fortune.”
“Do you think the finger will ever make the news?”
“That’s not up to us, Whiskey.”
Officers Swancott and Roscoe regarded me sharply. Brady said, “Somebody, somewhere has Matheney’s Cloud Ring, and it’s priceless. If or when that thing surfaces, the art market will have convulsions.”
Back at the office, I called Walter St. Mary to check on his recovery from the attack on my deck. His housekeeper informed me that he had already returned to work. Sure enough, he answered the phone when I dialed Mother Tucker’s.
“Do you forgive me?”
“Unless you hired the glider guy with the gun.”
And that set me to thinking. I called Wells Verbelow to thank him for lending me Mooney. He already knew about the previous night’s trauma, so I was spared more talk about Avery, at least for awhile. Wells offered to bring me dinner—and Abra—at around eight. I wanted to accept the dinner and decline the dog, but that didn’t seem sociable.
“Wells, do you think it’s possible that someone was hired to hit me?”
“As in a mob hit, you mean?” I detected a grin in his voice.
“Don’t regular criminals hire hit men, too?”
“Yes, but who would want to have you killed?”
“Who would want to burgle my house? Someone hates me, or at the very least needs me out of the way.”
He suggested we discuss it over dinner. The rest of the day did its usual fly-by routine with me buried in paperwork at my desk. When I looked up in response to Odette’s three raps, it was after five.
“You’re still here,” I said.
“And now I’m leaving. With you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Shadow Point.”
Maybe I didn’t want to play. “Why would we go there?”
“To convince the Schlegels that you are neither unlucky nor incompetent.”
“How will we manage that?”
“By letting me do the talking. You’re a prop tonight, Whiskey. Please speak only when spoken to, and then not much. Got it?”
I got it. Odette let me drive. I parked in front of a one-and-a-half-story stone cottage two doors down from Shadow Play. Though this was a more modest home on a smaller lot, it was perfectly landscaped. Odette informed me that Dr. Schlegel was a retired professor of horticulture from Ohio State. His wife shared his passion for making green things grow. They also shared a passion for Jesus.
“Praise the Lord that Mrs. Mutombo understands our plight,” Mrs. Schlegel exclaimed. A petite blue-haired lady infused with energy and inclined to make large gestures, she led us into a sitting room dominated by an oil painting of the Rapture.
“Hal and I can’t bear to think about suffering.” Mrs. Schlegel smiled brightly and went to fetch us sodas.
I studied the painting, which measured roughly three feet by six. In the background were row after row of empty graves. In the foreground, hordes of men and women, faces twisted in terror, screamed for help as the earth imploded and flames consumed them.
“Lovely,” I told Odette.
“They have a similar painting upstairs, over their bed. And a couple more in the guest room. And the kitchen. They collect Apocalyptic art.”
Our hostess rustled back in with ginger ale fizzing in aluminum tumblers.
“Hal will join us just as soon as he washes up. He’s been
out in our Prayer Garden repairing some damage.”
“Squirrels?” I said helpfully. When Odette shot me a look, I remembered I was a prop.
“Oh, my, no. Not squirrels.” Mrs. Schlegel leaned toward us, her eyes wide. “More likely the work of Lucifer.”
“The Devil?” It just popped out. Odette coughed and glared at me. I took a long swig of soda and mentally vowed to keep quiet. This house would list at five hundred thou, and, Satan or no Satan, I wanted to sell it.
“Assuming the shape of an animal,” a man’s voice intoned. We turned to see Dr. Schlegel, still wearing his gardening clothes. His deeply lined, leathery face was grim.
“Claudette and I saw it the night of the murder—before we knew about the murder. We now believe it was the Lord’s way of telling us that we were in the path of Evil.”
So help me, my neck hair stood straight up.
Mrs. Schlegel held out a plate of Toll House cookies. I took one just to see if I could.
The retired professor said, “The goat, you know, is one of Lucifer’s preferred incarnations.”
“You saw a . . . goat?” I inhaled part of my cookie.
“Not your average garden-variety goat,” Mrs. Schlegel said. “This one was strictly Old Testament--designed to get your attention. This goat had very long hair.”
“Blonde hair,” Dr. Schlegel added.
Because I was choking, Mrs. Schlegel slapped me on the back. She said, “I know this sounds strange, but we’re talking about Satan’s handiwork: In profile, that goat looked just like Sarah Jessica Parker.”
I was still coughing, so Odette slapped me, too. Sweetly she asked the Schlegels, “What did Satan’s celebrity goat do?”
“It tore our Prayer Garden to pieces, like a creature possessed.”
“Which, of course, it was,” said Dr. Schlegel. “It turned over our Nativity birdbath and destroyed Claudette’s prizewinning white azaleas.”
“Flowers are God's love made visible,” his wife added. “We can always plant more. Somewhere else.”
To Odette and me she hissed, “Please help get us out of here!”
Although I was under strict instructions to say little, I assured the nice woman that Mattimoe Realty would do just that. In a timely, customer-friendly, thoroughly professional manner. Moreover, we would get the Schlegels the best price possible—regardless of Satan.
While Odette did a walk-through with the couple, I stayed behind with the Rapture. I considered Abra’s possible contributions to their Prayer Garden and wondered how soon I could start digging. It couldn’t be Matheney’s finger. We’d seen that days after the Shadow Play murder. Unless someone had dug it up and put it in Holly Lomax’s purse in time for Marilee Gallagher to find it hidden in her motel room.
Assuming that Abra hadn’t been digging for the pure joy of destruction, which she often did, whatever was buried in the garden was probably something not seen since the murder. Such as the missing Cumulus. Or the Reitbauers’ ivory candlestick holders. Or Mrs. Santy’s Piaget watch. No. Those items were most likely in the possession of the still-living Santys, wherever they now were. Maybe in Angola, Indiana—if Darrin Keogh wasn’t the nice guy I wanted him to be.
What was my Satanic dog doing in the Schlegels’ Prayer Garden the night Holly Lomax got her head smashed in? Abra was supposed to be home at Vestige learning obedience on line with Chester. Did he know she had gotten out? If so, why hadn’t he told me? Did Abra take something of value from the crime scene, something we couldn’t yet name? Or did she simply pull another stupid anti-social stunt, one which had almost gone unreported? The Shadow Point subdivision is about a mile from Vestige, and Abra is fast. It would have been possible for her to get there and back—and do whatever—in an hour.
But what? And why?
After the Schlegels signed the papers necessary to list their home, Odette let me say good night. Mrs. Schlegel was closing the door behind us when she remembered something.
“I suppose I should mention that the Mayor was here a few days ago. He’s in real estate, too, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” Odette stifled a yawn.
“He wondered whether we were thinking of selling. Or could we refer him to any neighbors who were.”
Odette squeezed my arm. She probably wanted to clap a hand over my mouth.
“What did you tell him?”
“I said we weren’t ready to discuss that with strangers, and neither were our neighbors. Truth is, I don’t like his politics. He’s a liberal.”
We nodded.
“Did he say anything else?” asked Odette.
“Well, he said that some real estate companies in town aren’t ethical.”
“Oh? Which companies are those?” Odette’s grip on my arm was so tight that my fingers tingled.
“He didn’t say, exactly. . . .” Mrs. Schlegel’s voice trailed off, and she looked uncertain. “Anyway, you two gals seem like Christians—not liberals—so I’m sure Hal and I are in good hands. By the way, we’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Mattimoe. We knew your late husband. Such a nice man.”
Outside Odette said, “I know what you’re thinking, Whiskey, and we’re not going to.”
“Not going to what?”
“Dig up the Schlegels’ garden looking for that finger. Or the ring that belongs on it. Or whatever else Abra might have stolen lately.”
“She hasn’t stolen anything! Lately. She’s reformed.”
Odette raised a pencil-thin eyebrow.
I said, “She ran off with the purse from the police station, but that was a misunderstanding. The cops were drilling her all day long! As for the finger—well, we’ve seen that too recently for it to be under the Schlegels’ birdbath.”
“I suggest we phone Jenx, tell her about the ‘goat’ and let her look into it. You’re in real estate, remember? Let’s make money.”
She offered to call Jenx. After dropping her off, I turned the wheel toward home. Anxieties about Abra and Avery threatened to overshadow the prospect of a pleasant dinner with a thoughtful man. Both females seemed to be conspiring against me. Or was my fatigue inducing paranoia? I decided to discard my worries and let myself relax. Rounding the bend before Vestige, I spotted three emergency vehicles in my driveway, their flashers blinking blood red.
Chapter Twenty-six
As I drew closer, I could see flames licking my garage roof and arcs of blue water aimed at extinguishing them.
That was when I flashed on Chester and Mooney chasing each other around the house that morning. Had the deputies escorted Chester home? And what had become of the Judge’s Rott Hound?
I screeched to a halt on the street in front of my house and dashed up the driveway. Jenx intercepted me.
“Easy, Whiskey.” She raised both palms to stop me. “It’s under control.”
“My house is on fire!” I panted.
“Just your garage and breezeway. Your kitchen’ll probably be okay. You don’t use that room, anyhow.”
“Is Chester safe?”
“He’s fine. And so’s Mooney. They called in the alarm.”
Jenx brought me up to speed. After obtaining Cassina’s autograph for the deputies, Chester had talked them into letting him back into Vestige. Today was an at-home study day, and he preferred to use my house because Mooney was there.