by Amy Saunders
Belinda nodded in relief. “Received and deposited on my way over.”
Victoria popped her trunk.
“I can’t believe you bid on this–and won.” Belinda sighed, prepping to heave the antique garden gnome out of Victoria’s trunk. “It’s a good thing you have me to do this. Dan wouldn’t allow it out of the trunk.”
Belinda adjusted Victoria’s new gnome in the front garden near the entrance of her pomegranate-color house. A generous line of leafy trees and bushes shaded the entire property and offered privacy from the well-traveled back road. But it led to the beach, so who could complain? Victoria sat on the front steps, licking a spoon dipped in chocolate pudding, her current food craving.
“I think this is your mom’s way of testing him out,” Victoria said. As soon as she put the gnome in place, Belinda had launched into the gritty details of their cookout, focusing on the upcoming tennis game between her mom and Bennett. “If he can survive a tennis match with her, Bennett’s worthy of you.”
“Honestly, my grandmother’s frontal assault tactics were less scary.” Belinda brushed dirt off her hands. “This is just my mom’s more subtle version.”
“I don’t think your mom is trying to oust Bennett because of his status.”
“No, but I’m beginning to doubt she’s brushing off his legal issues, either.”
Victoria scooted over to make room for her. “Well, if you were the parent in this situation, would you?”
Belinda hated that line of reasoning, but it made sense. Not knowing the circumstances, if she were her mom, she’d be worried. “I know, I know. I keep telling myself the same thing. I’m just ready for this to be over.”
“Give it time. They’ll get to know Bennett, realize you’re the bigger problem, and all will be well.”
Belinda scrunched up her nose. “Why are we still friends?”
“Because I dish out killer advice that keeps you in the stud’s favor.”
“Oh, that’s why.” Belinda licked the inside of the foil cover for the pudding container.
“Hey, pregnant woman here. All food is my domain.”
“Whoops.” Belinda grinned. “So, Jonas told Bennett that Kevin Pratt’s roommates claim they never saw the painting, which could be a bold-faced lie. It’s not exactly small enough to hide.”
“Unless he snuck it inside the house when everyone was out.”
“Or kept it in the trunk for a while.”
“Or left it with somebody else.”
Belinda tapped her chin, considering whom he might have left it with. He didn’t seem to have any clear-cut friends who knew about his art stuff. But there was Angie Chen. She seemed to have more to do with Kevin than she let on, and she was Simone’s assistant.
“You have someone in mind?” Victoria said.
“Well, let’s say Kevin took the art course at the museum, maybe to get to Shelby, maybe just because. Either way, it’s likely he learned about Simone during that class. The museum adores her and Angie works for her. So he sees her paintings, hears about what a big to-do she is. He scours yard sales for anything he might be able to resell to pay off his debts and stumbles on this painting signed Simone Lefranc. He’s thrilled because it’s probably worth something. Maybe a lot of somethings.”
Belinda took a breath. “But you don’t know for sure until you have something appraised. Kevin’s new to all this and he doesn’t know that. He does, however, know Simone’s assistant–”
“Angie Chen.”
Belinda nodded. “Wouldn’t it make some sense that Kevin would call a girl he knows, at least a little from the class, to see if she can verify it? Or tell him where he could sell it?”
Victoria nodded. “It’s quite possible he didn’t even realize he should get it appraised.”
“This is what I’m saying.” Belinda stood, dusting herself off. “He may not have told Angie, but I’m inclined to think from her earlier reactions that he did. I think Angie knew about that fake Simone long before we did.”
Belinda held Victoria’s hand to give her a boost up. She didn’t quite need the help yet, but Belinda figured she should start getting her arms into practice for the future when that bump exploded. Victoria grinned. “It’s a place to start.”
Angie was not at the museum, but one of the board members, a friend of Belinda’s family, suggested they visit Angie’s studio, which she apparently rented from someone. If she wasn’t working at the museum, she was probably working there. They followed the GPS directions, winding around back roads to the house, stopping near the garage Angie used. Angie’s car was in the driveway. Belinda parked on the street, a quiet road filled with houses, and they got out and knocked. It was pleasant under the shade of the trees while a breeze rustled all the leaves and plants.
No one answered, but music came clearly through the doors. “Angie?” Belinda yelled, knocking louder. Then she tried the knob, but the door was locked. She glanced at Victoria. “What do you think?”
Victoria pulled out a hardcore, legitimate lock pick.
“When did you get that?! Or more to the point, where?”
Victoria grinned wickedly. “Wouldn’t you like to know? I got one for you, too.” In seconds, she cracked open the door. Belinda shooed her to the side, sticking her head in enough to see. “Angie?” Belinda said again.
They glanced around before squeezing inside, closing the door quietly. Instead of smelling like car oil, it stunk like soldering smoke. Metal scraps and slivers were all over the floor like she’d been working recently, though Belinda found it strange she’d have the doors closed in that environment. Especially with the heat.
Belinda skimmed the contents of the small desk pushed into a back corner, an old ladder Angie had hacked to pieces in a pile next to it. Belinda guessed that was part of the recycling Angie used. “Her phone’s still here.” And the doors were shut and locked. Goosebumps rushed up her arms to her neck. Something wasn’t right. Belinda wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t think they should touch anything.
“Maybe she ran out for something quick. She could even be in the owner’s house. Maybe she had to use the bathroom.” Victoria yanked open a door on a tall cabinet on the adjacent wall. It opened with a lurch and Victoria screamed at the top of her lungs as a body toppled out, grazing Victoria before she could jump out of the way. She backed up into the garage door, her hazel eyes wide and face pale.
After a few seconds of shock, Belinda walked toward the body slowly, her heart thudding against her chest. She saw blue Converse sneakers and thin legs, and she made herself look at the face. It was Angie Chen, her face a strange purplish color.
Belinda forced herself to calm down and made her eyes really look at Angie’s body, instead of erratically shifting from one thing to another. She thought there were red marks on the side of her neck, and she had burn marks on the shin of one leg. Belinda scanned the floor and found the soldering iron. And it looked like Angie had paint on her fingers.
“I have to get out of here.” Victoria ran out and Belinda followed, careful not to step on anything important. Victoria retreated into a woodsy patch next to the garage and threw up.
Belinda hunted for tissues in her purse. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have come.”
“Nonsense. I’m fine.” Her petite shoulders shook under Belinda’s touch. “Did you see what happened to her? Did you see her face?”
Belinda nodded. “Strangulation? Maybe.”
Music reached their ears over the wind noise. “She didn’t hear when they came in…” Victoria said, and they were both quiet a moment. “Did you notice anything else?”
“She has paint on her fingers.”
“But it stinks like soldering in there.”
“And she has a burn on her leg. I think she was using the soldering iron when it happened.” That could mean the killer got burned in the process, too.
“Maybe she multitasks? Soldering iron in one hand, paint brush in the other?”
Belinda went
over that side of the room in her mind, shaking her head. “There was no sign of painting going on in there.” Belinda’s mind flicked to Shelby getting paint on her just a little while ago.
“So it was on her killer.”
Belinda nodded absently, thinking she should retrieve her paint-smudged shirt from the hamper. Just in case. “Possibly.”
Victoria inhaled slowly. “This comes down to that Simone fake, doesn’t it?”
Belinda reached back in her mind to the moments before and after she stepped into the canvas after it washed up on the beach. It was such a perfect day and she was so happy to be there with Bennett. But things had changed. At first, the painting seemed like a curiosity, even after the body washed up. A strange piece of evidence to land with a poor college kid. But now…
Victoria was pulling her composure back into place and wrestling out her cell phone, but Belinda clamped her hand on Victoria’s wrist. “What are you doing?” Victoria said.
“I’m taking you home, then I’ll come back and call the police and deal with this alone.”
Victoria looked at her suspiciously. “Why?”
“Because we have no clue what we’re dealing with. If the killer thinks anyone else knows something…well, it better just be me.” She paused. “And I’m about to do something incredibly naughty.”
“Well, it’s not fair to leave me out. You know how much I live for incredible naughtiness.”
Belinda cracked a smile.
“You’re important too, you know,” Victoria said quietly. “I’d like you to be around for me to cut off your circulation as I go into labor. Besides, there’s safety in numbers.”
Belinda hoped that adage included numbers of lunatics. “Okay. We leave the door open enough for fresh air and you cover your mouth and nose with…something.” She searched in her purse, but Victoria was one step ahead and yanked out a bandana. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Victoria squished the purple bandana to her nose and mouth and waved Belinda toward the door. “Let’s do this.”
Belinda backtracked into the garage, hoping no one in the neighborhood was watching. It was quiet, with no sights or sounds of any people, but you never knew. She stood just beyond the entrance, scanning the environment more closely, noticing that her fingers trembled. She made fists and took a few deep breaths, tiptoeing around, trying not to destroy the crime scene. There was something amok with the paint on Angie’s fingers. Why would the killer have fresh paint on them? Was she killed in the heat of the moment? If Angie was strangled, though, like Belinda suspected, wouldn’t that require preparation? You’d need something to strangle the person with, and Belinda couldn’t see anything in that garage that qualified.
But Angie Chen was an artist. She worked with a painter and assisted with painting classes. Why shouldn’t she have paint on her fingers?
Except there was no sign of her painting in that studio in recent history, and Belinda didn’t notice paint anywhere else on her person. And Angie herself had said she was working more with sculpture now. There was a lot more proof of metal work in that garage than painting.
Sweat beaded on her face and hands as she knelt next to Angie’s limp arm to take a closer look at the paint. Victoria watched from a short distance, holding her breath. Getting closer, the paint on Angie’s fingers wasn’t exactly embedded, the way you’d expect when paint dries on your skin. It was more…flaky, but still stuck to her. Maybe because of the heat? And now Belinda could see specks on the rest of Angie’s palm, but it looked more like paint dust that settled there. It reminded her of Kyle after work. She went around the body and looked at the other hand, which was palm down on the concrete. But she could see flakes between Angie’s fingers.
“I think the paint was already dry when Angie touched it,” Belinda said. “It didn’t dry on her skin, at least. It’s not stuck to her the way it would be if that had happened.”
“So maybe the killer’s an artist too?”
Belinda swallowed, glancing at Angie’s face involuntarily. There was still something off about this, but she couldn’t pin down what.
“Belinda, have you noticed something big is missing here?” Victoria gingerly tiptoed around the body, careful not to touch anything.
Belinda squinted in the dim light, trying to see what she meant. As she scanned the space, her eyes widened. “The paintings.” Belinda took a hard look at the wall where they’d been the other night, trying not to look at Angie’s discolored corpse on the floor again. The sculpture was still front and center, but the black garbage bag with the paintings was gone.
Belinda turned to Angie’s cell phone on the bare desk by the back window, remembering her call at the museum the first time they met with her. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves she’d shoved in her purse, tapping the screen.
“Anything usable?” Victoria’s muffled voice came across the room. She’d moved closer, but was still near the door.
Angie had an unread text from Shelby. “It looks like Shelby asked her to call her back. Then there’s something from a number with no name attached, telling her to forget it…in not so many words.”
“Forget what?” Victoria had inched her way closer and now stood by Belinda, reading the texts. Or in this case, one text. There was no conversation before or after it, so Belinda went to Angie’s calls instead. But that appeared to be the one and only contact from that number.
“Doesn’t say. Just that she can do what she wants. This person doesn’t care.”
“When was that?”
Belinda checked the day. “Huh. It was the day we saw Angie dig the paintings out of the Dumpster.” Angie also had calls from Kevin Pratt, but no texts. “You think maybe Kevin and Angie were involved in some kind of blackmail scheme? Maybe they knew who painted the fake Simone and tried to get money from him and it backfired?” Belinda took out her phone, copying the nameless number.
“They mean business if they’re willing to kill two people to avoid being blackmailed.”
Belinda inhaled through her nose, aware again that they had a dead body a few feet away. “I think we need to call the police before a neighbor sees us and gets suspicious.”
They followed a path back to the door, Belinda glancing at Angie one last time before closing it. She wondered how close she was to Simone.
“I feel queasy again.” They sat in the car while waiting for the police, Victoria inhaling the salty breeze. “I didn’t notice at first, but it…stunk…in there.”
Belinda nodded, feeling her stomach churn too. “There wasn’t any air moving and it’s been hot.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’ll figure it out just as soon as my stomach stops twisting into knots.”
Chapter 15
After finding Angie, Belinda thought she actually handled things really well. She thought she was calm and slow when giving her statement to the police, and all things considered, very together. Until she started relating what happened to Bennett after his work shift. That’s when she unraveled as images of Angie’s discolored face flashed into her mind over and over. But Bennett was Bennett and he just held her while she shook almost uncontrollably for a few minutes, not asking any questions for a long time until she could speak again.
“You didn’t get a chance to talk to Jonas?” Bennett still held her, his voice above her head.
She wiped tears from her face, thinking she could use a mop. “I didn’t see him. A couple of officers talked to the two of us, and I was on the lookout, but neither of us saw Jonas.”
“He might not have been called in just then. He must be involved by now, though.” Bennett dug for his phone in his back pocket, not letting go of her with his other arm. “It might be better if we talk to him about this in private anyway.”
After a short phone conversation, they met Jonas at his apartment in the middle of town, located in a second-story butter yellow house with a covered front porch. All the homes on that street, just beyond the stores,
looked like they could use some TLC. While Belinda had left goodie bags on his porch, she’d never been inside his apartment, partly because Jonas rarely seemed to be there himself. In fact, he’d just gotten in when they arrived.
Belinda stepped through the living room, around the leather recliner taking up one corner next to a fading green couch. His taste in furniture left something to be desired. He did, however, have a giant flat screen TV pasted to the wall opposite the chair and couch. At least his priorities were straight.
The adjacent kitchen had some crazy seventies avocado and maroon linoleum, but it was still in decent shape and looked like it hid a mess well. Belinda set a plastic bag on the dining table squeezed against the sole window in the kitchen and took a seat in one of two matching chairs with those horrible spindle backs. Looking through the kitchen door past the living room was a shadowy hallway where Belinda assumed a bathroom and bedroom lurked.
Jonas glanced at the plastic bag on the table in front of her. “Dinner,” she said. Jonas broke into a huge grin and ripped the glass containers from the bag. She smiled while he dished out pork stir-fry onto a paper plate like it was the best food he’d seen in his life. While she took in the kitchen’s décor, which felt like a man still wearing maroon leisure suits, a thought about the Portside House Cleaning job occurred to her, which she tucked away for later.
Bennett brought a stool over from the closet or pantry while Jonas set three plastic cups of water on the table and sat across from her, shoveling the stir-fry and rice into his mouth, pieces of light brown hair he’d brushed back falling in front of his eyes. He needed a trim.
“So what’s such a big secret that you can’t talk about it in front of anyone else?” Jonas wiped his mouth with a paper towel. Belinda’s mind was frantically trying to keep track of a list of things to do and buy for him.
“Something was missing from the crime scene today,” Bennett said.
“How do you know that?” Then he held up his hand. “Don’t tell me. It’s better that I don’t know. What was missing?”