Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  Her head came up.

  “Will you still help me?” she asked.

  “Yes, except the paintings will be much harder to find now. There’s also the chance that the thief will freak out over all the media coverage and dump them somewhere. Burn them.”

  “No. Please no … But—why does there need to be media coverage?”

  “First, you told the Cook County Sheriff and the BCA. That makes it public record. Then you confessed on film in front of a half-dozen members of a documentary crew. Jeffery Mehren is downstairs right now thinking this is the best thing that’s happened to him since he won the Oscar.”

  “They’re the only ones who know about Randolph’s paintings and they won’t say anything.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “The sheriff, the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, they won’t tell anyone until they’re ready to make an arrest…”

  “Which could come any day now.”

  “Mehren won’t want it to get out, either. Not until his film is finished.”

  “You watch the news. These things have a way of blowing up.”

  “You’ll keep looking, though—won’t you?”

  “I said I would, only I’m not sure there’s much more that I can do. Besides, the BCA is on the case and despite my personal misgivings, they’re very, very good at their job. It’s what?” I glanced at my watch. “Eleven A.M. Saturday? By this time tomorrow they’re going to know everything there is to know about Montgomery. They’ve probably already requested a subpoena for his phone records. They’ll use the cell’s GPS to track all of his movements since the beginning of time. Which raises a question—how close were you and Montgomery?”

  “Not close at all. He was one of my students.”

  “Peg Younghans said you were sleeping with him.”

  Louise came off the bed in a hurry.

  “That’s not true. That’s never been true. Montgomery was divorced, but he wanted to remain close to his daughter so he signed them both up for one of my summer art classes. It was something they could do together.”

  “Why would he rob you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was he hard up financially?”

  “I don’t know. How would I know?”

  “Why would he wait until Friday morning to sell the things he stole?”

  “I don’t know that, either. Maybe it was the first chance he had.”

  “What did he do for a living?”

  “I don’t know. McKenzie, please.”

  “It bothers me that I was able to identify Montgomery so easily. It’s almost as if he wanted me to find him.”

  “I guess he wasn’t a very good criminal.”

  “Like everything else, it takes practice. Louise, our current problem—whoever killed Montgomery probably has the paintings.”

  “What will he do with them?”

  “Try to sell them, of course. Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Montgomery would have tried to sell them, too.”

  * * *

  Jeffery Mehren had been waiting impatiently at the bottom of the stairs. When he saw me coming down from Louise’s apartment he grinned like a kid who had been offered ice cream on a hot day.

  “McKenzie,” he said. “Did I get the name right? It’s McKenzie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jennica tells me you’re a friend of Louise.”

  “Also true.”

  “You’re searching for the missing Scenes from an Inland Sea for Louise, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what gave you that impression.”

  “Louise’s behavior.”

  “Louise made a mistake, I think, by announcing publicly what has happened. It could make locating the paintings more difficult.”

  “Then you are looking for them. I would like to be there when you find them. In fact, I’d like to send a crew to film you while you search for them.”

  “First off, no. Second, hell no. Besides, I’ve already been warned by the BCA not to interfere in an active criminal investigation. A major art crime like this, I expect the FBI will become involved and they won’t like it either, so…”

  You’re giving up way too much information and getting nothing in return, my inner voice said. Change the subject.

  “I’ve enjoyed your work, by the way,” I said. “We Gotta Get Out of This Place, of course, but your other stuff, too. The Poison in Our Water I thought was very good, very timely.”

  “Thank you. I wish the critics agreed.”

  Since I hadn’t actually seen it, or the Vietnam documentary for that matter, I tried to sound both knowledgable and innocuous at the same time.

  “As fracking becomes a bigger issue, your film will become more important,” I said. “Isn’t that how it works? The documentarian who’s ahead of his time?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “I’m curious—what made you decide to make a film about Scenes from an Inland Sea?”

  “Bruce Flonta contacted me…”

  “The man who bought the collection after Randolph McInnis died.”

  “Yes. He wanted to do something for the thirty-fifth anniversary of the collection. He’s financing the shoot.”

  “Why? I thought Flonta sold all the paintings to individual collectors and museums.”

  “He still has a few. My understanding, he also retained the copyrights of all the paintings and drawings that he did sell, which gives him at least a percentage of the profits on any reproductions or exhibits. Capitalism at work.”

  “I’m surprised that you would agree to make the film, a director of your stature.”

  Mehren was clearly pleased by my fawning.

  “The industry has changed dramatically in the past decade or so,” he said. “If you want financing, you need an agenda. There are plenty of individuals, foundations, even corporations that are willing to pay to produce a social documentary, something that promotes or refutes a cause that’s important to them. Unfortunately, there’s very little interest in funding documentaries that won’t necessarily have a significant social impact, what we used to call an art documentary. I appreciate that this particular film was meant to be little more than a commercial for Randolph McInnis’s art which Mr. Flonta would profit from. That’s all right with me, though. I thought it might be fun. Now, however…”

  Mehren rubbed his hands together and again I thought of the kid and his ice cream.

  “Discovery of three long-lost McInnis paintings—this is an astounding find,” he said. “What might have been a fifty-four minute film that we would sell to PBS or Netflix is now going to be a full-length movie that we can take to the festivals, that might get a national release. Especially, if those paintings can be recovered in a timely manner.”

  “When did you learn about the paintings?”

  “Just a couple of hours ago. We returned to the academy at seven this morning and were preparing for a second day of shooting when the sheriff and agents from the bureau—what do you call it?”

  “Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

  “In California, we call it the Bureau of Investigation. Anyway, they didn’t want us listening in when they interviewed Louise. They all but threatened to arrest the entire crew if we didn’t ‘depart the premises at once’ one of them said. Afterward, though, I spoke with Louise. That was probably rude of me because she was clearly distraught. She told me everything, though. She even told me about you. Then she agreed to repeat it all on film. You’re some sort of private investigator, is that correct? She hired you to recover the stolen artwork?”

  “Like I said, I’m not sure I’ll keep looking for the paintings now that the authorities are involved. If I do, though, it won’t be in front of a film crew.”

  “Not an entire crew. Just my daughter and a handheld camera.”

  “No.”

  “McKenzie…”

  “I will not be in your film.”

  “You might
not have a choice.”

  “Don’t you need me to sign a release?”

  “If you’re a public figure…”

  “Which I’m not.”

  “Except, have you ever heard the phrase ‘involuntary public figure’? It refers to a person whose behavior and actions result in publicity even though the person did not want or invite public attention.”

  “C’mon.”

  “Don’t blame me. Blame the United States Supreme Court.”

  “Another reason to just go home.”

  Mehren smiled.

  “I already know where you live,” he said.

  * * *

  The proprietor of Second Hand Treasures caught sight of me as I walked through the door, the bell tinkling overhead. He frowned, looked away, and looked back as if he was hoping I was a mirage that would quickly disappear.

  “Please,” he said.

  The store was filled with tourists looking to buy so I assumed he was imploring me not to make a scene.

  A scene for the Scenes. I winced at the words. Sometimes my inner voice says the damnedest things.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  The proprietor glanced quickly around him to make sure no one could hear before leaning in.

  “I don’t need to talk to you,” he said. “I don’t need to answer any questions. You’re not the sheriff.”

  “That’s true. The sheriff should be arriving anytime now, though. Think of it as practice.”

  “Why should the sheriff—”

  He was interrupted by a customer, and then another, and then another. The latter was a senior who purchased a rocking chair that was at least fifty years older than she was. She asked the proprietor to load it into the back of her SUV. I helped. Afterward, we stood outside the front door.

  “I’m not trying to jam you up, pal,” I said. “I just wanted to ask a few more questions about the man who sold you the silver tea set. I should have asked yesterday only I didn’t think of it then.”

  “What?”

  “Did Montgomery try to sell some paintings as well?”

  “Paintings? No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure. He asked, but he didn’t. What I mean, after we were done with the tea set and the candlesticks, he asked if I knew anything about paintings, what they’re worth. I get it all the time, people coming in believing that the painting that’s been hanging in Grandma’s living room for fifty years is valuable, at least that’s what Grandma told them. They figure it’ll be like on Antiques Roadshow, that it’ll turn out of be painted by some French guy and worth $300,000 or something. What they find out, what I tell them is nearly always the frame is more valuable than the picture in the frame. I told Montgomery to look around the shop. I don’t sell paintings. Antique picture frames, now that’s a different matter. There’s a nice market for that. I said I’d love to take a look at his frames. Only he said he didn’t have any frames.”

  “He never said he had paintings for sale, though?”

  “No, he never said that. Just asked about ’em. Why? This guy we’re talking about, did he steal some paintings, too?”

  Before I could answer, a vehicle drove to the curb in front of the antiques store, the driver halting in a manner that invited a parking ticket. The passenger powered down his window and peered out.

  “Don’t move,” Agent Krause said.

  “Are they from the sheriff?” the proprietor asked.

  “Worse. The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Don’t worry. They’re more pissed off at me than they are at you.”

  The agents exited their vehicle and approached like they thought I might make a run for it and wanted to be sure they could cut off my escape route.

  “You should wait inside,” I told the proprietor.

  He took my advice.

  “You’ve been holding out on us,” Plakcy said.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We’ve interviewed Louise Wykoff.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Krause asked.

  “Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You deliberately withheld information about those paintings,” Plakcy said.

  “I told you that Louise Wykoff asked me to recover three paintings that had been stolen from her.”

  “You didn’t tell us that they were painted by Randolph McInnis.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Oh that,” Krause said. “We should bust your ass right now.”

  “Yeah, but then I’d lawyer up and you’d never know what I’ve learned since we last spoke.”

  “What have you learned, McKenzie?” Plakcy asked.

  “According to the owner of this store, Montgomery asked him if he sold paintings and the owner said no.”

  “So what? We could learn that ourselves.”

  “Wait a sec,” Krause said. “McKenzie, what does this tell you?”

  “Montgomery still had the paintings when he came here yesterday, only he didn’t know what to do with them. The tea set and candlesticks he stole, yeah, he knew how to unload those. The paintings? I’m guessing he recognized their value, that’s why he grabbed them up. Once he had them, though, he had no idea how to sell them. He didn’t have a plan. Now I know you two have never faced this dilemma, but most people when they’re confused, what do they do?”

  “They ask for advice,” Plakcy said.

  “Possibly from someone who did have a plan,” Krause said.

  “I’ll see you guys around.”

  I left the front of the store and moved toward my Mustang. Krause called out to me. I turned to look at him. He held his hand so there was about an inch between his thumb and index finger.

  “McKenzie,” he said, “you’re that far away from real trouble.”

  I nodded and continued walking to my car.

  Hell, that’s nothing, my inner voice said. Wait until it’s only a quarter inch. That’s when you should worry.

  * * *

  I pulled away from my parking spot and drove slow enough up Seventh Street for the driver of the Ford Taurus to catch me. When I hit Seventh Avenue, which was also Highway 61, I hung a left, and headed toward Duluth, the opposite direction from Grand Marais. The Taurus followed, probably wondering where I was going, crowding way too close to my rear bumper for it to be inconspicuous.

  I’d like to say that I knew it had been tailing me since I left Grand Marais, only I’d be lying. The truth was, I hadn’t even noticed the car until I was helping the proprietor load the old lady’s rocking chair into the back of her SUV. Even then I probably would have been oblivious if the driver hadn’t ducked down, the quick movement catching my eye. My ego claimed it was because the driver was very good at conducting a rolling surveillance. Now that I had the Taurus squarely in my rearview mirror, though, I realized it was because of my own carelessness.

  I followed Highway 61 until I reached the Great! Lakes Candy Kitchen where Nina and I usually stopped when we drove north. I pulled into the narrow parking lot. The tail kept following, parking at the far end of the lot where I wasn’t supposed to notice.

  I stepped inside the small store and waited behind a half-dozen other customers before buying several small bags of goodies. Afterward, I slipped outside, moved along the edge of the porch in the opposite direction of the Taurus, circled the lot, and came up on the car’s blind side. I tapped on the window. I startled Jennica Mehren enough that her head bounced off the ceiling.

  She rolled down the window.

  “McKenzie,” she said.

  “Hey, sweetie. I have bags of salty caramel pretzels, peanut clusters, black licorice, assorted truffles, and B-O—N-O—M-O—oh, oh, oh, it’s Bonomo—Turkish Taffy.”

  “Seriously?”

  “That was the company’s jing
le from when I was a kid.”

  “I’ll take the licorice.”

  “Good choice.” I gave her the small bag. “I thought you’d stay with the BCA.”

  “Dad says you’re the story. He said I shouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

  “He’s not a take-no-for-an-answer kind of guy, is he?”

  “You don’t win an Oscar doing that.”

  “I suppose not. Here’s the thing—when there’s only one main road like Highway 61 going back to Grand Marais, it wouldn’t be all that unexpected for a car to follow behind me for many miles at a time. It wouldn’t be something that would make me anxious. At the same time, you don’t want to do anything that would draw attention to yourself. My advice—stay at least seven to ten car lengths behind. If a couple of cars slide in between you and me, that would even be better. Remember, you don’t have to stay close. I won’t be making any abrupt turns. When I do leave the highway, you’ll see me signaling far in advance.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Atta girl.”

  “I’m embarrassed by all this.”

  “Why? Because you’re following me or because you got caught?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, I want you to know.”

  “That’s why I’m not upset with you. Your ol’ man, on the other hand…”

  I waved a finger—no, not that one—and moved back to the Mustang while telling myself that Jennica must think I’m really clever.

  If only that were true.

  I fired up my car, pulled out of the lot, and headed away from Duluth back toward Grand Marais. Jennica followed again, this time doing exactly what I had told her.

  “We learn as we go,” I said.

  SEVEN

  I had just finished off the peanut clusters by the time I saw the sign GRAND MARAIS • TOWN CENTER • ARTIST POINT • BOAT LAUNCH. I had a lot of time to think while driving toward it. I decided that Montgomery must have known his killer to let him get that close without a struggle. Which meant he was probably from around there. The only way to get a line on him—Or her, my inner voice said, let’s not be sexist—was to speak with Montgomery’s family and friends. Unfortunately, the only people I was acquainted with who could introduce me were Louise and Peg Younghans and both women had claimed that they barely knew the man. So, I did the next best thing. I drove to a bar.