Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  That story about finding a painting in his garage was weird. Really odd. Who left artwork in a garage? Especially in Florida?

  Cooper was being awfully nice to me. He also was stringing me along, telling me he needed time. Time for what?

  Was it possible, remotely possible, that he knew more about the missing collection of paintings than he let on?

  75

  If I’d been back in St. Louis, I would have used these late night hours to clean house. Indeed, my fingers itched to grab a broom and dust rag and go over my tiny apartment. That would be silly, because I’d already given it a thorough cleaning. Instead of tackling those chores again, I could only stare at the empty space and wonder, “Would it ever be home to me?”

  Although I was sure I'd never get to sleep, I turned off the lights in the showroom and went upstairs. Jack’s tail thumped against his cardboard box when he heard me. I gave him a goodnight pat on the head and slipped into my sleeping bag.

  The next morning, I got up early and called the hospital. Poppy was finally beating the infection in his foot. In all likelihood, he would be released later that same day. I promised to stay available by phone so I could come and pick him up.

  "His mood has improved now that we've gotten his blood sugar stabilized," the nurse said.

  "Thank goodness. He's always been an old coot, but I never remembered him as being such a meanie," I admitted.

  "The insulin pump is great for brittle diabetics, particularly our male patients. We women spend our lives learning to measure and doling out medicine to our kids. Most men resist those skills. I think your grandfather will do very well with this new protocol."

  I made a run to the grocery store.

  When I first left St. Louis, I thought I'd never miss working with food. In fact, I was sort of burned out on the whole restaurant business. Lately, eating out had gotten boring. The food quality wasn't what I was accustomed to. The urge to cook was slowly creeping back into my life. I actually felt excited as I bought the ingredients for a breakfast casserole.

  While Skye slept, I put together the sausage, eggs, bread, red peppers and onions. I carried the mixture downstairs and popped it in the toaster oven. The savory fragrance woke Skye up, and she came downstairs sniffing the air appreciatively. MJ's knock on the back door came almost as if we’d planned the timing. My friends raved about the taste of the food.

  After they finished eating, I showed off the newly painted chandeliers.

  "I can't believe the transformation," said Skye. "Those look great!"

  "After you get the seashells wrapped around the arms, I think we can charge a bundle for them," MJ said.

  "Oh, no," I was quick to interject. "These are staying here. We definitely need more light in this place."

  Skye grinned at me. "May I have another helping of breakfast? It was so yummy. We should call you Supergirl, Cara. You cook. You create. You do spreadsheets. You know how to run a business. Honestly, you're a marvel."

  She and MJ took their seats next to two rickety TV tray tables we’d found. As long as their legs didn’t collapse, with a big piece of cardboard on top, they made a serviceable surface for eating. Eventually I’d need to replace the tray tables and the three odd chairs we’d rounded up.

  "You're too kind," I said. "The three of us make a wonderful team. The energy is contagious."

  "You can say that again." MJ’s smile was one of satisfaction, like the cat that caught the moth she’d been stalking. She held out her plate for another helping of the breakfast casserole, too. "I couldn't get to sleep last night for thinking about the store. I found the cutest online invitations for our open house. I opened a Constant Contact account. I hope you don't mind, Cara. There's a free trial period. Essie didn't believe in the Internet, but we could save a lot of money by creating an online mailing list. Saving the cost of postage alone will go a long way."

  I slapped my forehead and wrapped foil around the dish of food. "I should have thought of that. We had an email list of customers for the restaurant. Dad thought it was the best marketing investment he ever made. Good for you, MJ."

  "That reminds me," MJ continued, "Skye and I wanted to get you a little housewarming gift. Something to say 'thanks' for believing in us."

  "Something useful," said Skye.

  "Something practical," said MJ. She got up, ran out to her car, and came back with a wrapped gift box.

  “It’s from both of us,” Skye repeated as MJ handed me the package. I ripped off the paper to find a cast-iron frying pan.

  76

  I wasn't sure what to think, but when I looked up, MJ and Skye were both grinning at me.

  "We took a vote," said Skye. "It’s unanimous. That rat Dominic deserved it. We bought this in case you need to whop someone again."

  My mouth twisted into a smile. I took the pan out of the box and lifted it for inspection. It was a nice cast iron skillet. Heavy, too. A variety of emotions roiled up, but mostly I felt grateful that these two women had accepted me, warts and all.

  "Thank you," I said. "I'll use this proudly."

  "Better take it upstairs," said MJ, "before Skye decorates it. Otherwise it could be sold by mistake when we're open for business."

  Skye laughed and I did, too.

  Holding the black weapon of male destruction in both hands, I climbed the stairs and carried it to my unit. Reverently, I set it down on my card table so I could admire the thought behind the gift.

  One of the most powerful aspects of friendship is the alleviation of loneliness. When another person indicates that they understand us, that we are no longer alone, there's an expansion of joy in our chests, a feeling like no other. All of us live in solitary confinement, waiting for a friend to appear and set us free. Etched on the key that welcome rescuer holds are these words: I understand you.

  Jack barked at me when he realized I was leaving again. “Sorry, puppy. There’s going to be a lot of activity downstairs. You’ll be safer up here.”

  A bit of sunlight filtered down through the pieces of plywood nailed over the window.

  “Want to sit in the sun? Let me move your box next to the card table. Now it’s half in the sun and half in the shade. How’s that?”

  Jack barked and whined. "Sorry, pal. It's for your own good. Honest. I'll come back in a couple of hours and let you out. How's that?"

  His ears perked up, and his tail started wagging.

  Every day he showed a little more personality. At first, he'd been subdued, but who could blame him after being tossed out of a car window? Although we were still getting used to each other, my pet was proving himself to be a winsome charmer who wanted nothing more than to be cuddled.

  "Your mission, Jack, should you decide to accept it is to guard our home. Humble as it is."

  His bulging brown eyes seemed to say, "Lady? Do I look like a guard dog?"

  I laughed. "Yeah, buddy, you do look like a guard dog. You've got courage. Now be good." With a smile on my face, I trotted down the stairs. "Who's ready to go to the flea market?"

  MJ had warned us to dress down. She explained that we could negotiate better prices if we looked like didn't we had two cents to rub together. While she had on a pair of faded jeans and a sloppy tee, Skye wore jeans a size too big and a shirt advertising a bowling alley. My wardrobe didn't change. I didn’t have any other choices.

  I handed each woman an envelope. "There's $500 in there."

  "Don't you want us to check with you before we buy something?" Skye blinked in confusion.

  "Nope. I trust both of you. I figure if you have your own cash, we can spread out and go separate ways. Cover more ground."

  "Okay," said Skye. She used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes, but I could see the tears.

  The Stuart flea market sprawled over several acres. Hundreds of vendors occupied tents and tables. The volume and variety of merchandise was astonishing. My friends and I agreed to meet back at my car in an hour. There we would review what we had bought and discuss w
hat else we wanted to buy, if anything. If our scavenger hunt proved particularly successful, I would make a trip back to the store to unload things and give Jack a potty break.

  "Let's review," said MJ. "We're searching for items that we can markup that have a beachy but classy vibe."

  "Remember that we can do consignment if necessary. We also want to concentrate on filling certain price points." I handed index cards to MJ and Skye. "After walking around in downtown Stuart, I noticed these are typical price points. I can't help but think they represent merchandise that sells. I'm not saying we need to stick to these, but it might be helpful to consider them."

  MJ added, "Snatch up anything that's ‘Old Florida.’ Ceramic ashtrays, handkerchiefs, tea towels, aprons, and mugs. Stuff you might have found in a Stuckey's circa 1950."

  "Angel runner, angel runner, we want ‘Old Florida’ stuff," chanted Skye

  "Do angels frequent Stuckey's?" asked MJ.

  I rolled my eyes.

  We each chose a direction and walked away.

  At first I felt overwhelmed, because there was so much to take in. After strolling up and down several of the aisles, I mentally sorted items into "maybe, no, and got to have that!"

  One booth had a big display of landscapes. They reminded me of our second generation Highwayman painting. I stopped to admire the work.

  "I'm a local artist, painting in the Highwayman style," said the vendor. "Wish I could claim to be one of the originals, but I'm not. Authentic Highwayman art is too pricey for most people these days. Folks can enjoy the same vibe for a lot less with my work."

  "Are you self-taught?" I asked.

  "Yep. I own several good Highwayman pieces myself, so I look to them for inspiration. Hard to believe that once upon a time, you could buy their paintings for next to nothing. Years ago, some people didn't think they were worth the material they were painted on. People even used them as insulation when they did remodeling!"

  Considering what I’d paid for a second generation Highwayman piece, I knew this vendor's prices were more than reasonable. I explained about my store and asked if he might like to consign some of his work.

  "Sure. Let me take inventory at the end of the day, and get back to you. Would that be okay?"

  "Of course."

  He handed me his card. I wrote down my details on a slip of paper, passed it to him, and said, "I heard a funny story not long ago about an entire collection of Highwayman art that went missing."

  "Yeah. There are a lot of collectors around these parts. Lot of sellers, too. I bought a few nice paintings myself from a guy over in Stuart on eBay. Likes to keep a low profile, but after I paid a bundle for an Al Hair, he got a lot more chatty."

  The hairs stood up on the back of my neck.

  "I wonder if that's the same collector I know," I said, making up a story on the spot. "What was his name?"

  "He never told me his real name," said Norman. "Said I could call him the Hammer. Totally paranoid guy. I had to meet him in that municipal parking lot over by the Riverwalk when I bought a small Sam Newton from him. He parked under a light and opened the trunk of his car so I could see the painting. Made me pay him in cash. He took it, counted it, and was out of there like a shot."

  "What did he look like?" I wondered. Before Norman could answer, two women walked up and asked him the price on one of his paintings. I waited, hoping I could get an answer, but Norman's booth suddenly got busy. I knew better than to interrupt him while he was trying to sell his wares. I waited as long as I could, but I needed to go back to the car to meet up with MJ and Skye.

  I did my best to stay calm as I walked away, but I was bubbling over with excitement. As I wove my way through the stalls to my car, all the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place.

  The “Hammer” had to be Hal Humberger⸻Hal had stolen Essie’s paintings and paid for the crime with his life.

  77

  I had to bite my tongue when I saw my friends. Sharing my suspicions didn’t seem like a smart idea. MJ might get her hopes up. Skye might call Lou, and I wanted to be the one who broke the news to the gruff detective. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face.

  As hard as it was, I had to compartmentalize. I put my theory in a trunk, locked it, and shoved it into the back recesses of my mind. Instead of blurting out what I suspected, I concentrated on admiring my friends’ purchases as we loaded them into Black Beauty.

  MJ had found a small wicker table that one of our customers might like. With a little cleaning up, it would sell for a nice profit. Skye chattered happily about the wooden cigar boxes she'd gotten for a dollar each. She planned to cover them in seashells. When she noticed that I was unusually quiet, Skye asked if I was all right.

  "I'm thinking about what I've seen and what I want to get when I come back for a second round of buying. That's all," I fibbed.

  As I pulled out of the dusty parking lot, I tried to control my nerves. I was onto something, I just knew it! But it wasn't until I started toward downtown Stuart that I realized I couldn't call Detective Murray. Not yet. His card was sitting on the desk back at the store. I didn't have his direct phone number in my cell. Calling the police department’s general line might get other cops involved, and I wanted to work directly with Lou. He knew the background of this case. I decided that since I had to go back to the store anyway, I’d ask him to meet me at The Treasure Chest so I could hand over Norman's card. Then I could lead the detective to back to the flea market and show him the vendor's stall.

  As the traffic poked along on Federal Highway, I reviewed the details. I knew that Hal collected Highwayman art, because Cooper had told me so. According to MJ, Essie had bragged and bragged about how her collection was sure to be worth a lot of money someday. Everybody knew that Essie was a smart businesswoman. Maybe Hal took the paintings because he wanted a piece of the action.

  I remembered the gold Bentley that Hal Humberger had been driving the day we met. Obviously, the man had an eye for beauty. Maybe Hal had stolen the landscapes because he admired them. Perhaps he never intended to sell them, but when their value increased so dramatically, he couldn't help himself.

  In the end, it didn't really matter why Hal Humberger stole the paintings. A more important question was, "How did he pull it off?"

  Obviously, he had to wait until the circumstances were right. In that, he got lucky. Everything happened at once. Essie had her stroke, MJ flew up to Michigan, and Irving was busy shuttling back and forth between his wife and his mother. Once Hal Humberger had the contract in hand to build out the apartments, the "Hammer" had the store—and the Highwaymen paintings—all to himself.

  But again, how did he do it? How did he physically remove the artwork from The Treasure Chest?

  Then it dawned on me.

  Just like Hal Humberger, I'd spent the past few days dragging things in and out of the building. He, too, would have been busy, moving things around, bringing in supplies…and hauling out trash. He could easily have put the paintings inside black plastic bags and taken them out through the back door! No one would have given the bags a second glance.

  So who had killed Hal Humberger?

  Was it Irving Feldman?

  Irving needed money. Was it possible that Essie's son, like the flea market vendor, had heard about a local man selling Highwayman art? When Irving tracked down the "Hammer," had he realized that Hal had swindled his mother?

  Or had Philomena killed her husband?

  She'd admitted he was a jerk. He was sloppy and interested in a quick buck. Was it possible that Hal had kept his stash of artwork a secret from his wife? Could she have been spying on him? Maybe she watched him open his trunk and show off a painting to a prospective buyer? Could that have been the last straw for her? When he messed up her big franchise transaction with Cooper, did she finally snap?

  And then there was Cooper.

  Cooper was interested in Highwayman art. He'd heard Essie go on and on about her collection. Maybe he wanted those pain
tings for himself. What if he'd made an appointment with the "Hammer" only to discover that the same man who'd messed up his franchise deal was also the thief who'd stolen the art he coveted?

  It was possible. Entirely possible.

  But I hoped not.

  78

  When I arrived at The Treasure Chest, a blue Lexus convertible was parked between MJ's Cadillac and Skye's Mustang. I didn't recognize the car. As I stepped out of Black Beauty, the driver's door swung open.

  Jodi Wirecka got out.

  She wore a pair of khaki capris, a crisp white blouse, and navy ballet slippers. Her hair was caught up off her neck in a gold clasp. In short, she was the picture of good grooming that my mother always hoped I'd be.

  Of course, I was messy because the grounds of the flea market were so dusty. My wardrobe was anything but elegant. My hair was frizzy from the humidity.

  "Let's go inside," she said, with a jerk of her head. "I want to talk to you."

  Anything she wanted to say, she could say outside. No way was I letting her into The Treasure Chest. I stayed next to my car.

  "You can talk to me here. I'm listening," I said.

  "You can't have Cooper." She spat the words out.

  "Excuse me?" Here it was, the showdown at the OK Corral. Well, I'd survived other skirmishes. I'd get through this.

  As she stomped towards me, I had that uncanny sense of déjà vu. Everything about Jodi reminded me of Mom. The flared nostrils. Her inflection. Her voice. The way she carried herself.

  "You think you're better than I am. Only because they kept you. Well, you're not. Look at you! You don't even look like a grown woman! You dress like a teenage boy. What would Cooper want with you? You prance around pretending to be a big businesswoman, but if you didn't have our parents' money, you wouldn't be so high and mighty."