The Killing Green

by David Deutsch

  "Glad to see you're finally starting to get it. I'll talk to you both later."

  Then he disconnected.

  "Why didn't you tell him about the doodle?" Imogen asked.

  "Why bother? He obviously didn't check Bill's schedule, and more importantly, Bill didn't offer it up to Carrington. And, he didn't exactly offer it up to me either."

  "You're quite the detective, Max."

  "I've just played way too many rounds of golf at Delmar," I said.

  "I know one thing, we'll have to talk to Bill," Imogen said.

  "You're damn right we will. See if Bridie murdered our friend Carl."

  "You're so dramatic, Max."

  "Maybe I am, my love. But we've got a date with Alese first."

  "Smashing."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Busy, busy, busy. That's what Imogen wanted to be once we set up shop, and by all accounts, it certainly looked like her wish was coming true. I, on the other hand, was looking to ease into our new life as private investigators. Maybe start with a case where we had to track down a cheating lover and catch them in the act. I wouldn't have even minded a lost pet. Something easy. Solving murders and stolen artwork were not easy. They required time and brainpower.

  We were on our way over to Alese's home. She lived a hop, skip, and a short drive from Imogen and me. And for the record, yes, Imogen and I lived together. We sold her place, and she moved into mine. We were now the epitome of a married couple. And as an added bonus we worked together. All ingredients that shouldn't cause any strife in our married life.

  "I didn't realize she lived this close," Imogen said, looking out the window.

  I weaved through the back roads of Manors, eying the finely manicured lawns. Past some of the houses that put stone walls and gates up so that you couldn't enter the driveway or see anything but the top of the mansion that sat recessed a quarter of an acre or more from the road. These were the really snooty residents. The ones who thought they were some sort of old-world royalty living out their delusional fantasies now that they had a couple of bucks.

  Finally, we drove into an understated neighborhood with homes that were just a tad bigger than your average four-bedroom colonial but sitting on grounds that looked like they needed a full-time gardener just to keep up with the lush shrubbery and perfectly manicured trees. Moments later we pulled up to one such house. It was large but not overbearing, just big enough to let you know that someone well-to-do lived there. The house was two stories and looked like it was a really expensive elongated country colonial. It was painted, well, maybe more like stained, a reddish brown. There was a three-car garage and a porch, complete with rocking chairs, that greeted you as you wound your way up the driveway.

  "This is nice," I said, pulling up the driveway.

  "Very," Imogen said.

  I parked my Audi in front of the garage, and then Imogen and I walked over to the front door.

  "You want to go for a rock?" I asked, looking at the porch.

  "Maybe later, Max. In about fifty years," she said.

  I knocked on the door instead of ringing the bell. I'm not sure why. I just figured that Alese would be waiting for our arrival and would hear the knock. I was wrong.

  "Ring the bell," Imogen said.

  "I'm ringing," I said, ringing the bell.

  The bell was loud. You could hear it from the porch. It could wake the dead.

  The door opened quickly, and before us stood Alese.

  "Come in you two," she said, stepping back, allowing us to enter. "Glad you could make it today."

  The floors were some sort of light hardwood. It might have even been bamboo. Whatever it was, it looked expensive. As we entered the house you could see the enormous country kitchen directly ahead. Everything was off-white, all the cabinets, all the countertops, even the backsplash. Then there was the rectangular kitchen table that looked like it could seat sixteen.

  "I moved here a couple of years ago. I love the country feel that this house gives off. You can see the kitchen and off of that is the living room. We tried to have as open a floor plan as we could."

  "We?" I asked.

  Alese giggled. "Did I say we? Bad habit. I meant me. The 'we' ended right before I moved here."

  She was divorced. That was a revelation. We both thought there was a mister hanging around somewhere. I wasn't going to ask. Not yet anyway. I'd let her offer that up in her own time. Or, I'd ask when I felt it was time or it was important.

  "Lovely," Imogen said.

  "What?" Alese asked.

  Imogen's comment sounded like she thought that Alese's divorce was something to celebrate. She obviously meant the house.

  "The house, it's lovely," she said.

  "Well, thank you," Alese said. "Come, let me show you the painting."

  She led us through the kitchen, then the living room, around the corner into an even larger room. This must have been the great room. There were floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the picture-perfect backyard complete with a pond and ducks.

  It was immaculately decorated, also in white. A white couch, white fabric chairs, a gorgeous glass and white wood cocktail table all sitting on or near a gigantic silk Persian rug. A modern fireplace sat off by itself dividing the living room from the great room. And, of course, on the main wall there it was, hanging. The Klimt.

  I didn't know where to look. Everything was so beautiful. The room itself, the backyard, the furniture.

  "It's absolutely fabulous," Imogen said.

  Her words reminded me to focus on the painting.

  "Thank you," Alese said.

  I walked closer to the painting, examining the brush strokes, the colors, the composition. It was indeed exquisite. And it was a perfect painting to have hanging in this room.

  "It is. It's, well, breathtaking," I said.

  "I couldn't agree more, Max. It is breathtaking. It's amazing how art can take your breath away, stop time, transport you to another place, to another era. I sometimes feel as if I know the ladies standing around the piano. Like I've been there, listening to the piano myself, admiring Schubert's genius," Alese said.

  "And you're ready to give that away? Pardon me for saying but I don't think I could do that. Even if that meant me being selfish. Having something like this is like having a time machine and a mood enhancer all wrapped up in one. I couldn't part with that," Imogen said.

  "Well, I'm not exactly giving it away," she said.

  "I guess that's true," I said.

  "More like parting with a dear old friend," she said.

  Yes. A dear old friend that was going to pay her tens of millions of dollars.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "Do you have the letters?" I asked, after we had finished discussing the painting.

  "Yes, of course. Let me get them," she said. "I won't be but a minute."

  She left Imogen and me in the great room while she darted around the corner toward the stairs.

  "This house is magnificent," Imogen said.

  "Indeed. It's stunning. Kind of makes me want to move."

  "Oh, Max, that's the last thing we need. We just opened an office. I'm through with moving for a while."

  I stared at the painting while we spoke.

  "Fair point, my love. And speaking of the office, when are we going to start looking for a receptionist?"

  "I put an ad online today," she said. "We should have some candidates shortly."

  "Then we actually have to interview them."

  "That's the plan, Max. Unless you have some better idea. Someone isn't going to just pop out of the woodwork."

  "Or the Klimt," I said.

  Alese was back. She walked into the great room holding a couple of letters in her hand.

  "Have a seat," she said, directing us toward the white chairs.

  The sun was shining in through the glass windows. You could feel its warmth, and if you stared long enough at the pond that too might transform itself into some sort of painting. It was certainly beaut
iful.

  We walked over to the chairs and proceeded to sit down. I subconsciously wiped the back of my jeans to make sure that I didn't soil the pristine white fabric.

  "I'm afraid I might stain your chairs," I said, sitting down.

  Alese was already sitting.

  "I wouldn't worry about it," she said. "Nothing's happened yet. But, I wouldn't recommend drinking red wine in here."

  "Heaven forbid," Imogen said.

  "Spilling red wine in here would be worse than spilling it on a bride," I said.

  I hated to admit it, but that's something that I had done. I had, indeed, spilled red wine on a bride's white dress. Right after the ceremony. Right before the reception. Not one of my finer moments.

  Alese chucked. "And more expensive. I can assure you of that."

  She leaned across the sitting area and handed me the envelopes.

  "Here. Take a look at those, and tell me what you think," she said.

  I took the envelopes. There were three. I held two and handed one to Imogen.

  I looked at the first one. The address in cutout letters from a magazine article. It was very neat. It almost looked like typeface. The postmark was from Montana. I shuffled the envelopes and took a look at the second one. Same kind of address. Neat. Like typeface. This one was from Colorado. Using all of my deductive reasoning, I would have said that these letters were mailed from nowhere near New York.

  Imogen was busy looking at her letter. Examining it. I decided to do the same. Meanwhile, Alese was simply sitting in her chair and staring at the both of us.

  The letters were almost identical, but the words were not pieced together, cut out of magazines, and were much larger than the envelope type. They read as follows:

  The Painting = Blood Money. Die Nazi Bitch.

  No salutation. No introduction. No full sentences. Well, maybe that's not true, Die Nazi Bitch is technically a full sentence. But the author was certainly not respecting the rules of grammar. Where has that old-fashioned attention to detail gone?

  I looked over at Imogen and could see her letter. It was the same as the ones that I had in my hand.

  "Well, they certainly get to the point," I said.

  Imogen chuckled.

  "I don't mean to laugh," she said.

  "I don't mind. It's refreshing to have a little sense of humor in this instance. I mean, look at the letters. They aren't exactly works of art."

  "No, that's for sure," I said. "Imogen, where's yours from?"

  Imogen looked at her envelope. "Vancouver."

  "They're from all over the place," I said. "Montana, Colorado, and Vancouver. Do those places mean anything to you?"

  Alese thought for a second. Then crossed her legs.

  "Nothing. I think they are just random places. Someone mailing them from different places to make them harder to trace."

  She could be right. But the places were spread apart. And the dates on the letters were all about a week or so apart.

  "Which one is the last letter that you received?" I asked.

  "That one," she said, pointing to the one from Montana.

  "That's from a week ago," I said.

  "Yes, I've been getting one pretty much every week or so for the past month. All started around the time I had my first conversation with an auction house about selling the Klimt."

  "What house was that?" Imogen asked.

  "Campbell House," she said.

  I wanted to cut this line of questioning short. Ginny knew someone at Campbell House, and we were planning on meeting with them anyway. I didn't want to give Alese any indication that we might be checking up on her story. So I changed the subject.

  "Do you think you'll be getting another letter this week?" I asked.

  "If things stay the same, I would say that you can count on it."

  I stood up from my chair. Looked at it to make sure that I didn't stain it with my jeans. Watched Ginny get up, and then Alese got the hint and stood. I thanked her for her time and told her that we'd get on this case and start digging. Imogen told her not to worry and that we'd do our best to help figure this whole mess out. She also told her that she had a lovely house and that if she ever thought about putting it up for sale to call her because she could picture herself spending way too much time staring out at the pond. I agreed and told her that I could too, providing we had a bar installed in the corner. Then we headed for the door.

  "One more thing, would you mind if we take these letters with us?" I asked.

  "Certainly not. Please take them. I hope you can find something in there somewhere," she said.

  "We'll certainly try."

  She walked us to the door. We all said our good-byes, and then off went Imogen and I, zipping along the country roads in my Audi RS7, like a terribly bad car commercial, off to Delmar for a late lunch or early dinner, depending on how you were looking at it, and what would be an impromptu meeting with Bill.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We had four restaurants here on the grounds of Delmar including the master dining hall where you could get a five-star lunch or dinner any day of the week. I was partial to the Italian joint, but that's only because I was partial to Italian food in general. Nothing beat a chicken parmigiana hero or, for the uninitiated, sandwich, sub, grinder, or whatever you call breaded and fried chicken with tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese on a long roll of Italian bread in your neck of the woods. This place also served coal-oven pizza and an assortment of other Italian favorites.

  "I'm starving," I said.

  "It's been a long day."

  "Can we get—"

  "Italian?" she asked, interrupting me.

  "How did you know?"

  "How could I not know?"

  We entered through the gate of the Delmar Country Club and drove up to the guard tower. I showed him my identification, and we were off. I have to admit though, I did like John's perk of flashing a badge and driving on without so much as bothering to utter a word.

  Down the long drive toward the clubhouse we went, but this time we hung a left. The Italian place was around the corner. It was on the front nine of the golf course. About a quarter of a mile down on our right came Delano's. I pulled in the lot, parked the car, walked into the restaurant and over to the host.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Slade, hello," he said.

  "Hi, Mike," I said.

  Imogen smiled. Sometimes she plays the demure one. Lies.

  "Let me find you two a table. Do you want to eat course-side?"

  "Sure, it's nice out. I wouldn't mind watching some guys hack away while I eat."

  Mike laughed. "Oh, Mr. Slade, give me one moment."

  He walked away and left Ginny and me alone at the host station.

  "Oh, Mr. Slade, haha," Imogen said, mimicking Mike. "Aren't you the cat's meow, Max?"

  "Jealous?"

  "Yes, quite. I'm trying to win Mike over. I want to be the comedy queen of Delano's."

  "Well, with that attitude you'll need to try harder."

  Mike returned. "Follow me."

  We strolled through the restaurant. I was busy looking at the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that gave everyone a view of the golf course no matter where you were sitting. I once asked Mike how many windows had been broken since they opened. In case you were wondering, six.

  We walked out the back door and onto the patio that sat about thirty. Mike walked us over to a table for two, and we sat.

  "How's this?"

  "Perfect," I answered.

  "Bon appétit. Your server will be right with you."

  We thanked Mike and picked up our menus.

  "Why does he say 'bon appétit'?" I asked.

  "He's being polite, Max."

  "But that's French. This is an Italian place. Shouldn't he be saying buon appetito?"

  "Mike's not Italian."

  "So? Fake it. This is an Italian place."

  "Max, if you want to hear buon appetito so bad get your ass on a plane and visit Italy. You need a glass of vino, p
rego."

  "That's the spirit, ol' girl. White or red?"

  "Red. It will go with your chicken parmigiana, right?"

  "How'd you know?"

  "You order one thing here. Or haven't you noticed?"

  I hadn't noticed. But that's not all that unusual. I have a permanent menu. I order the same thing at the same restaurants. I'm very predictable or boring. I'm still deciding which one, although I'm sure Ginny has made up her mind on the subject.

  The waiter came over, took our drink and entree orders, and then left. Moments later he was back with the bottle of Merlot that we had ordered. He opened. I tasted. He poured, and we drank—all under the beautiful late afternoon sun.

  "That painting was something else," I said, sipping my wine.

  I needed that. If I could have, I would have injected the wine into my veins.

  "It was phenomenal," she said. "The story is crazy though. A lost Klimt comes to auction."

  "Agreed. And what about the death threats?" I asked.

  "It's crazy. But whoever is sending those threats is thinking the same way we are. People don't call each other Nazis unless they believe it."

  "And Nazi bitch no less," I added.

  "Kind of has a nice ring to it," Imogen said. "Nazi bitch."

  "Maybe, if you're psychotic."

  "Oh, Max," Imogen said, laughing.

  "See, I am the king of comedy at Delano's."

  Imogen continued to laugh as we both sipped our wine.

  "If you think so," Imogen said.

  Our food arrived, and we ate. Mine was delicious. I was enjoying my hero, watching a foursome try to play golf. We were sitting by the green of hole number seven. Three of the four were hacking, trying to get on the green in under five shots. One of the guys hit a great shot from the fairway, landing about five feet from the pin. I wondered how much that guy was taking home off of his friends.

  As I was eating and blankly staring out at the course, Eric Milford, who was off to my right, spotted us. He was sitting outside with his wife, enjoying a meal as well. He waved, and then, before I knew it, the two of them were standing in front of our table. We shook hands. I kissed his wife twice on the cheek. Imogen received the same from Eric, and then the two ladies embraced with double air kisses.