Sarah Woods Mystery Series (1-6) Boxed Set

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “Well, I should let you get back to it,” I said.

  “By the way,” she said. “Did I ever mention to you that Glenn was an artist himself back in his college years?”

  “Glenn's friend, Dom Bristol mentioned it to us. Do you approve of his work?”

  “He never wanted to show it to me. I think he was embarrassed for some reason. Well, yesterday when I was going through his things, I found a box in the storage closet with about two dozen unframed oil paintings Glenn had done. All of the same girl.”

  “Any idea who the girl is supposed to be?”

  “Only person I can think of is Glenn's sister. She looks about nine or ten years old in the portraits. Glenn told me his sister died at that age.”

  Goosebumps broke out all over my arms. “Wow, his sister's death really must have affected him in a profound way. May I see the paintings?”

  “Of course. Come on back inside,” Elizabeth said, getting to her feet. “I'll show you. And there's something else I found in the box along with the portraits.”

  I followed Elizabeth through the main gallery to the storage room. The portraits were lined up on a table. I was immediately transfixed by them. The bold colors and the heavy brush strokes jumped off the canvas and grabbed me. I walked closer to examine them. Each painting was different, but the girl always wore a sad expression, her brown hair braided into pigtails. Green eyes and rosy cheeks, but never a smile. “I wonder why he captured her that way. She doesn't seem very happy.”

  “I don't know. Perhaps it's a mirror reflecting how he felt inside over losing her. I wish he would have talked to me about it. I don't understand how he could keep it bottled up for so long. But anyway, here's what I wanted to show you.”

  She handed me what appeared to be a handwritten note. “What is it?” I asked.

  “A letter from Glenn's mother. The date on the top is January second of this year.”

  “You said his parents were dead.”

  “That's what he told me,” she said. “Go ahead and read it.”

  Dear Glenn,

  It's been twenty-five years. I can't believe how quickly time has gone by. I hope this letter finds you well. I have no idea if you have received my other letters, but I figured I'd try one last time.

  I regret to inform you that your father passed away this week from a heart attack. He was outside shoveling snow – you know how the Chicago winters can be. I'm sure New Hampshire gets a fair amount as well. We plan to have a memorial at the church with friends and relatives next weekend, and I hope you will consider making a trip out. I tried calling the last number I had for you, but it was no longer in service.

  I pray that you will be able to set your emotions aside for a few days to attend his funeral. It would mean the world to me, and to your father who now looks down from Heaven. Please, dear, I need you.

  I love you with all my heart, and hope to see you next week. You are always welcome to stay with me anytime.

  Mom xoxo

  When I finished reading, I looked at Elizabeth. “Did Glenn end up going to the funeral?”

  “No. He never went on a trip in January. In fact, since I've known him, he's never gone away by himself anywhere. He told me his parents were dead. Had I known about this I would have insisted that we go. I don't care what happened in the past. Glenn would have benefitted from the closure. I'm sure of it.”

  “It's obvious he didn't want to share his past with anyone,” I said. “Was there an envelope this letter came in?”

  “Yes.” She handed it to me. “I was thinking of writing her back, but … I don't know what to do. She has a right to know that her son is dead.”

  “I can find out what her phone number is by using her address. Would you like me to call her for you?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. I mean, I should be the one to call her, but I'm afraid I would be a blubbering mess. I don't think I'm strong enough.”

  “I understand. I'll break the news to her – as gently as I can.”

  “Sarah, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Has anyone close to you passed away?”

  “Yes. I lost my mother to cancer.”

  “Then you must understand loss and how it changes you.”

  I nodded and swallowed, my gut clenched. “Yes. It absolutely changes you.”

  “I know I'm not the only person in the world to lose a loved one, but it feels like I am. Like I'm so alone in my grief that no one could possibly fathom the depths of my despair. Have you ever felt that way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it ever go away? Does it ever get easier? Will I ever feel normal again?”

  “If there's one thing I've learned about life … there's no such thing as normal. But trust me, you learn to live with it.”

  “Yes,” she said. “For the sake of my daughter and grandchild, what other choice do I have?”

  * * *

  While walking back to my car, I noticed it was almost noon and my stomach was growling. I stopped to get a smoothie for lunch, slurped it down, then sat in my car examining the file on Chloe Goodwin. Carter had written her address in his chicken-scratch handwriting, which I could barely read. My first instinct was to call him, but I decided it wasn't a good idea. Whatever business he was attending to was evidently more important.

  By 12:30 I was on the road to Chloe's place.

  Eight minutes later I arrived at a sketchy-looking apartment building in the not-so-posh area of town. Did Chloe live by herself? I had no idea what to expect, or if she'd even talk to me.

  I parked my Toyota across the street and sat there for a few minutes, assessing the neighborhood. There were three nondescript, four-story apartment houses in a row with balconies on each floor. Most of them were littered with toys, folding chairs, and withering potted plants. I noticed a rusty scooter parked on the lawn at Chloe's address, the leather seat torn and faded.

  Across the street was another set of buildings containing offices: a lawyer, a CPA, and a dentist. Further down the road was a park with a dilapidated swing set and monkey bars. I kept my eye on Chloe's place, 2C, on the third floor of the middle apartment building.

  I checked to make sure I had all the necessary accoutrements I usually stored in my pocketbook: cell phone, pepper spray, notebook and pen, and a pocketknife. I exited my car, crossed the street, and headed up the stairs. Once I was on the third floor I approached the door and knocked, all the while paying close attention to my surroundings.

  I could hear the T.V. on inside, but no one answered the door. I knocked again and tried to peer through the window, but a dense curtain blocked my view.

  I finally heard a click. The door opened about an inch and I caught a glimpse of a shirtless man with a shaved head. “Who are you?”

  “Sarah,” I said in my most innocent-sounding voice. “Is Chloe around?”

  He opened the door a little wider. Now I could see his face. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and scrawny, with no hair on his chest. All he had on was a pair of boxer shorts. Acne scars dotted his face and shoulders and he smelled like body odor and Doritos. “She doesn't know anyone named Sarah,” he said.

  “I'm an acquaintance,” I replied. “We met at Sambuca's.”

  His narrowed eyes scanned me head to foot. “Yeah, well, she's not here.”

  “Do you know where she is? I have some money for her.”

  “Give it to me. I'll make sure she gets it.”

  “That's nice of you, but I'd rather give it to her in person. Do you know when she'll be back?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, thanks. I'll try to catch up with her later.”

  “Whatever.”

  He slammed the door.

  I thought about hanging out in my car until she returned, but if Mr. Skinhead had any brains at all, he probably watched me walk back to my car and would see me waiting. The last thing I needed was for him to call Chloe and warn her not to come home
.

  I started my engine, drove a few blocks down the road, and parked in such a way that I could still survey the apartment buildings while remaining out of sight.

  I decided to give it two hours. If she didn't show up, I'd figure out another plan.

  * * *

  Two hours came and went and Chloe never returned. Skinhead never left the place, either. I walked back to the apartment building and noticed a man on the second floor balcony, watering a plant. I called up to him. “Excuse me, sir?”

  Startled, he looked around and finally noticed me. “Yeah?”

  “Hi. I'm trying to get in touch with one of your neighbors, Chloe Goodwin. She lives in apartment 2C. Do you know her?”

  He nodded. “Sure do.”

  “Well, I owe her some money but it seems I keep missing her. Do you have any idea when she might be around?”

  “She always around,” he said. “In fact, I'm pretty sure she's there now.”

  “That's funny. Her boyfriend said she's out.”

  “Chad? Oh, well, my mistake. I have no idea where she is.”

  I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder. “Do you know who owns that scooter?”

  “Belongs to Chad.”

  “Does Chad have a job?” I asked.

  The man seemed nervous all of a sudden. He shook his head and started to head back into his apartment. “Sorry, I've got stuff to do.”

  “Wait,” I said. “What's Chad's last name?”

  The man disappeared and shut the sliding door.

  It was almost dinnertime and I had to pee. I made a promise to resume the stakeout after I got a bite to eat.

  I drove down to the nearest deli, used the bathroom, then purchased a sandwich and bottled water. I found an empty table and proceeded to devour the food while leafing through the newspaper someone had left behind. The Bridgeport Gazette's front-page headline read:

  Promising Local Artist Bertrand Zaviroff , 27, Dies of Lymphoma

  Artist Bertrand Zaviroff passed away from lymphoma on Thursday in York Hospital at the age of 27. The New Hampshire-born artist died at 5pm with his fiancée by his side. The watercolor artist was the only son of Gertrude and Thomas Zaviroff, world-famous artists who perished in a plane crash over a decade ago. Fellow artists around New England were quick to express their sadness. Local artist and friend, Bruce Ylang, wrote on his blog last evening, “He was a talented young man at the beginning of his career. He was destined for greatness.” Concerns over Zaviroff's health first surfaced when he looked frail at an art conference in early March. He clarified that his haggard appearance was the result of a stomach flu and assured his friends and colleagues he was doing well and thanked them for their well wishes. It wasn't until last week that the news of his illness became public.

  Zaviroff's fiancée. Angelique Mayer, told reporters. “I am deeply saddened. The world has lost a great artist, but I have lost the love of my life.”

  A public wake is scheduled for Sunday.

  ...

  After reading the article, I folded the paper and tucked it into my pocketbook. I retrieved the file Carter had given me and leafed through the papers, searching for the list of artwork reported stolen at each of the galleries the night Glenn was killed.

  Sure enough, the list confirmed something quite interesting:

  Gillian Caswell: a Weiler and a Zaviroff.

  Jason Trask: an Ambrose and a Zaviroff.

  Glenn's gallery: a Dubold and a Zaviroff.

  Just an interesting coincidence?

  I performed an Internet search on Bertrand Zaviroff. The few photographs I found portrayed a handsome, blonde, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned young man. One of the images included his fiancée, Angelique, who was also attractive but in just the opposite way. She was a dark beauty: her hair, her eyes, her skin. If I had to guess, I'd say she was Italian.

  Angelique Mayer, who also studied at the same school as Bertrand, was an aspiring fashion designer. They had been engaged less than a year, living together in Bridgeport, apparently with no set wedding date.

  I called Elizabeth Fleming to give her an update and inform her of Zaviroff's death. I shared my theory that perhaps the thief who shot her husband could have had prior knowledge of Zaviroff''s failing health.

  Elizabeth seemed intrigued. “So how will you follow up?”

  “I was thinking of calling Victor Rowley. When Carter and I met with him a few days ago, he seemed open to helping us. Maybe I can pick his brain for ideas.”

  “Is he an art expert?”

  “I think it's more or less a hobby rather than a career. He was Glenn's top client. Now he's retired, living at Yorkshire Estates”

  “What kind of information do you hope to get from him?” she asked.

  “I don't really know. Maybe he knows the Zaviroff family personally.”

  “What about that Chloe person? Still no luck with her?”

  “I'm planning to go back to her apartment building tonight. I'll start knocking on neighbor's doors if I have to. I need to catch her coming or going because her boyfriend sure isn't going to help me out.”

  “Do you think these people are dangerous? I certainly don't want to put you in harm's way. Maybe you should wait until Carter gets back and go together.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine.”

  * * *

  Victor Rowley stood up when I joined him at his table - a chivalrous gesture not often seen in my generation. He offered me his hand and a gracious smile, and seemed truly delighted by my presence. He wore a white button-down shirt and pressed khaki's, his demeanor calm and poised. I imagined most of the single elderly ladies living at Yorkshire Estates were charmed by this man, so elegant and intelligent. Even though he was old enough to be my father, I couldn't help but feel a little flattered by his attention.

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me again,” I said, settling into a chair across from him. “I'm sorry to impose on your afternoon like this.”

  “Impose?” he said with a sparkle in his eye. “I rarely have a companion for drinks since my wife died a few years ago. You're doing me a favor.”

  “Sorry about your wife.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. So what happened to your partner? I'm embarrassed to say his name has slipped my mind.”

  “Carter had to leave town for a personal matter. I'm taking over Elizabeth's case.” The waiter appeared with a bottle of wine, but I declined the offer since I was working and sipped on water instead. “Did you read the article in today's newspaper about Bertrand Zaviroff?”

  Victor's smile faded into consternation. “Yes. Dreadful news. I had no idea he'd been ill.”

  “Now that he's gone, will his paintings be worth a lot more?”

  Victor shrugged while he fondled the stem of his wine glass. “It may take a few years, but yes. He's a relatively new artist with a small body of work. I don't think he had more than a dozen paintings available for sale. His parents are practically legends in the art community. Bertrand's work will no doubt triple or quadruple in value, mainly because of his name. Anyone who is lucky enough to own one of his paintings … well, good for them. Had I known the fate of the poor guy, I would have gone to each and every gallery that carried his work to purchase them all. As a matter of fact, Glenn had one of his paintings. I saw it last time I was at the gallery. Not my taste, I have to admit.”

  I showed Victor a list of the six paintings that were stolen between the three galleries. “Can you tell me, what do all of these artists have in common?”

  He studied the list for a minute. “Well, they're all contemporary artists. Mainly abstract. Same price point, too.”

  “Do you own any works from these artists?” I asked.

  “No. I prefer ---”

  “If you had to make an educated guess, why would the thief go to all the trouble for these paintings? I mean, it doesn't seem likely it was just by chance that he chose them specifically. Under the circumstances, his choice seems methodical.”
>
  “What's your theory?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Maybe the thief somehow knew Zaviroff was going to die.”

  Victor's periwinkle blue eyes lit up with amusement. “You give the thief a lot of credit for being so clever. Will you go to the police with this theory?”

  “I don't know. Not unless I discover my theory has merit. And I won't know that until I can prove someone knew of his illness and conspired to steal his paintings. I realize it's a long shot.”

  He took a sip of wine and eyed me curiously. “What's your plan?”

  “Zaviroff's wake is tomorrow and it's open to the public. It would be an opportunity to meet some of his relatives and friends. Do you know anything about his family, other than his parents?”

  “Not really. According to the newspaper article, he had a fiancée.”

  Victor signaled to the waiter, who materialized almost instantly. “Another glass of cabernet, please. And whatever my guest would like.”

  I kindly declined, perfectly happy with my water, but Victor’s expression suggested he was a little disappointed. “You can't tell me you don't enjoy a cocktail once in a while.”

  “Oh, I do, believe me. But only when I'm not working.”

  The waiter bowed in response and vanished.

  “Speaking of work,” he said. “I'm curious. Is there much demand for private detectives around here?”

  “You'd be surprised. My partner Carter has been in this business for over a decade and he never seems to be without work. What did you do for work before you retired?”

  “I was an engineer for years, then got into real estate. I had a bunch of properties that I unloaded just before the economy went bust. My timing was exquisite, but just lucky, really.”

  “And now you collect art?”

  “I get bored easily not having anything to do or any place to be. I miss the days when my appointment book was full. Now I do some occasional freelance stuff just for fun.”

  Victor's comment triggered a thought. “Speaking of appointment books, there's still a few questions about something on Glenn's appointment calendar that I've been meaning to ask you about. Do the initials BB mean anything to you?”