“Just leave it!” Rafe says sounding very angry. And very nervous. “Just leave it and go.”
Very nervous. And very angry.
Even the policeman seems to notice the change in Rafe’s demeanor, as he studies his face through narrowed eyes.
“Ha ha,” Rafe laughs, trying to sound like his usual relaxed self. But he’s not fooling anyone anymore. Not even the humans. And his eyes keep darting nervously to the paper towel dispenser.
The cop reaches for the roll again, and this time, he looks more closely into the cardboard tube in the center. “Huh,” he says, pulling the roll off the holder. “I think I see why it’s getting stuck. There’s something stuck inside here.” He reaches inside the cardboard tube and pulls something out of it: a rolled-up canvas about 12 inches high.
He unfurls it and holds it up.
“My Monet!” she says, hurrying over to it. The policeman hands it to her and she looks at him, tears of joy in her eyes. “Thank you!” she says. Then she hugs him and Ben – much to both their surprise.
Seeing his chance, Ben tries to make a run for it, but I dart in front of him and he trips right over me. He falls with a satisfying THUD onto the floor. And as the policeman pulls out handcuffs and tells Rafe that he has the right to remain silent, Rafe glares at me and I can feel his murderous thoughts.
I just give him one of my cool, superior, unblinking stares back.
And that as they say, is that.
PAISLEY
“Can you believe it?” I say to Ben as we all head out of Rafe’s apartment and into the hallway. I watch as Officer Brady leads him away, feeling deeply satisifed. “I just can’t believe it. I got my Monet back and it’s Christmas Eve morning and we’re all safe and sound!”
Just then, the door to my left opens and an older woman comes out of the apartment next door to Rafe’s. She tells us she heard a commotion and wants to know what’s going on.
I explain to her that Rafe stole my Monet painting but that luckily we got it back.
She smiles and says “Well in that case, it’s extra nice of you to keep his cat for him.” Then she comes over and pets Pumpkin and coos at him and says “Hello again, darling. I missed you.”
Pumpkin nuzzles his neck into her hand and starts purring like a machine, like they’re old friends.
“Oh, no, this isn’t Rafe’s…er…Andrew’s cat,” I tell her. “Pumpkin is mine.”
“Really?” she says, “Then why was he here earlier? Trying to get into Mr. Bronson’s apartment?”
I look at her, ready to tell her that she must have made a mistake, but then I notice how friendly Pumpkin is acting towards her. And I wonder.
“You say he was here earlier?” I ask her.
“Oh yes,” she explains. “He was meowing outside Mr. Bronson’s door after he left for his date. It was about eight o’clock. And then I brought the little guy inside with me…and I think he must have jumped from my balcony over to Mr. Bronson’s and gotten inside there. So I just assumed it was his home.”
“Really?” I say, looking through her open door, towards the balcony outside. The balcony that faces the street – right above where Choxie found that shoe.
Was it possible that Pumpkin had dropped that evidence out there for us to find?
“Pumpkin, is it?” the old lady says, interrupting my thoughts. “Well he is a sweetie, isn’t he?” Then she pets Pumpkin some more and asks to see the Monet Rafe stole.
I show it to her and she oohs and aahs. “That it’s a very nice painting,” she says. Then she looks at me sadly. “But…it’s not a Monet.”
I look at her shocked. And greatly disappointed. “Are you sure?” I ask.
“Are you some kind of art expert?” Ben asks sounding equally concerned.
“Oh dear, no,” the old woman says her hand to her heart. “I don’t know the first thing about art.”
“Oh. Well then how do you know this isn’t a Monet?” Ben asks.
“Because that…” the old lady says. “Is a Maury Finkelstein original.” Then she motions us into her apartment. “Look come see.”
We walk through her living room and over to the attached dining area where she shows us an almost-identical painting, hanging over the long, wooden table.
“You see? Maury Finklestein. He was a local artist. Sold a lot of paintings at local art fairs and airport hotels. We collectors call them ‘Finkies’ for short.”
Ben and I look at each other, both our faces falling in disappointment.
“Wow,” I say, feeling like all the air has gone out of me. “So…it’s not a Monet after all.” I feel ready to cry. “After all that…”
“A Finklestein,” Ben says, dazed. “A…Finkie.”
Miserable, we look at each other. Then Ben repeats, “A finkie.” And we both burst into laughter. And we can’t stop. Maybe it’s the tension of…everything. But we both just keep saying “a finkie” and bursting into more laughter.
“Well,” the old lady says after we finally catch our breath and apologize to her for our rudeness, “if you ever want to sell that one, I’d love another Finkie. For my guest bathroom.”
I contain the urge to laugh again, then I hand it to her and say, “The Finkie is yours. Merry Christmas.” At which point she smiles happily and wishes us all Merry Christmas back and tells us that if we even need a cat sitter, she’d be happy to volunteer.
PUMPKIN
The sun is rising and I’m ready for a good day’s sleep. But as I go to curl up in a warm spot near the heating vent, I hear them saying goodbye to each other.
She thanks him for all his help today and asks if he’d like to come over for Christmas dinner.
“I’d love to,” Ben tells her. “What time?”
She thinks about it. “Six PM? Maybe I’ll even try to make one of Great-Aunt Agnes’s special French dishes.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Ben tells her. “I’ll be here at six, with bells on. On Choxie that is. And a bottle of wine.”
They look at each other for another long moment, then finally he walks away.
She closes the door and sighs.
“Well I guess we both better get some beauty sleep before tonight, Pumpkin” she says.
Speak for yourself I think, but I follow her upstairs anyway and we both fall into a deep sleep on the bed.
PAISLEY
“I really screwed up,” I say aloud before adding some salt to the dish and tasting it again. Ugh. That only made it worse. “Now my Coquille St. Jacques is not only watery and fishy, it’s also overly salty.” I look over at Pumpkin who’s busy lapping up the food in his bowl. “We might be sharing your dinner with you, Cat” I tell him.
He quickly gobbles the rest up and looks at me, licking his paw as if to say, “Just try it.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do,” I sigh aloud. “I promised Ben a French dinner but there’s no way I can serve this.”
I frown, trying to figure out what to do, then I remember the cute little French bistro down on Main Street – with the sign out front that says, “WE DELIVER”.
I quickly search my cell for their phone number.
Thankfully they’re still open and are still delivering – so I place my order: two entrees of poached salmon in creamy tarragon sauce along with sautéed roasted butternut squash and French onion soup. And for dessert a sampler that includes delicious looking tropezienne tarts along with various eclairs, macarons and other French goodies.
My mouth is watering even as I order and though it’s a little pricey for my current situation I decide to throw caution to wind – since I’m apparently going to have to sell the house anyway. Why not live high on the hog during my first (and probably last) Christmas in this house?
After cleaning up the kitchen in a mad rush, I run upstairs and slip into a simple black strapless sheath dress. I pile my hair up and put a fake-diamond necklace at my throat to look suitably festive. Then it’s onto my makeup.
I get my eyeliner
and mascara finished just in time – as the doorbell rings.
“Ben! And Choxie! I say as I hurry downstairs and welcome them both inside. “Merry Christmas.”
Choxie looks adorable in his antler ears, carrying a big, stuffed candy-cane toy. And Ben looks even cuter in jeans and a white button down shirt. I kiss him on the cheek. He smells good too.
“Mmn. Smells like someone’s been cooking all day,” he says.
“I have,” I say, wondering if I can pass off the Bistro’s dinner as my own. But unfortunately, since the delivery-man will be here any minute, I don’t think it’s possible.
“Oh here, this is for you.” Ben hands me a bottle of good Champagne and I hurry into the kitchen to grab two of GAA’s vintage champagne glasses. He pops the cork and we’re just about to toast…when the doorbell rings.
“Oh, that’s our dinner,” I say, and Ben looks at me puzzled. “But I thought…”
“It’s true, I was cooking all day,” I admit. “But I didn’t do a very good job at it.”
“Ah,” he says with a smile as he goes to answer the door.
A French delivery-man is standing outside, adding up the bill which he hands to Ben. Ben starts to take out his wallet to pay but I rush over to stop him.
“No, it’s on me!” I say, grabbing my wallet and pulling out the money. “I insist. I invited you for dinner.”
“But no,” Ben says, quickly pulling out his credit card. “I insist. Consider it a Christmas gift.”
“Please please,” the delivery man says in a heavy French accent. “I don’t care who pays me zee beel. I jus need to get my monet.” Then he takes Ben’s credit card and swipes it through his portable machine.
“Now I really feel awful,” I say as Ben and I bring the bag of food over to the dining table. I’ve set it with a pretty silver cloth and vintage crystal that I found at the back of GAA’s cabinet.
“Well then have more champagne,” Ben smiles, refilling my glass. “It’s Christmas. No one should feel bad.”
“That’s true,” I say. Then we both sit down to eat. The food smells delicious and I notice that both Choxie and Pumpkin are inching closer to the table. In fact, if they come any closer they’re both going to wind up on the table.
“It’s just a shame you didn’t find that painting,” Ben says with a shrug as he takes a bite of his salmon, then makes a face to say that he’s just been transported to heaven. “Delicious,” he says. “So do you think there ever was a Monet? Or did Agnes mistake the Finkie for it, the same way we did?”
“I don’t know. But we definitely looked everywhere and it’s definitely not here.”
Just as I’m about to try my own salmon, the doorbell rings again.
It’s the delivery-man who returns, holding out a dessert box. “I’m so sorry,” he says, handing the pastry box to me. “I forget to to gif you this. C’est your dessert.”
“Oh, thank you,” I tell him. “Let me just grab my wallet.”
“Ah no, please. Do not worry about zee monet. Eets on me.”
“Oh really? Thank you again,” I say. “And Merry Christmas.”
“Oui. And to you too.”
I close the door and bring the dessert box over to the table, frowning…feeling something nagging at my brain.
“What’s wrong?” Ben asks. “Is it the wrong dessert?”
I shake my head no.
“Are you still upset about the painting? Or the house? About all the money you owe on it?”
“No,” I say, frowning again. Then I look over towards the door. “That delivery man was French right? Just like Great Aunt Agnes.”
“Right,” Ben says taking another bite of his salmon. “Definitely both French.”
“And did you hear what he said? About how I didn’t have to pay him…”
“Right. He was pretty nice about it. Maybe because it’s Christmas. He said you didn’t owe him any more money.”
“No…” I say, looking at Ben intently. “He said I didn’t owe him any more Monet.”
“Well that’s his accent,” Ben shrugs, not getting it. Ben sips his Champagne then…a moment later, his eyes light up with understanding. “Oh…” Ben says looking back at me. “You think when your Aunt Agnes said “The Monet on the wall” she might not have been talking about a painting at all. But about…money?”
“Yes. Money.” I get up and pace. “Look I inherited everything from her. Everything. She left it all to me. But…. you know what was weird? She didn’t have any bank accounts. Not one.” I turn to face Ben. “What if she hid all her money here. In the walls?”
“Yeah. Yeah that could be,” Ben says standing up. “On the flashdrive she said there was “Monet en the walls.” And we just assumed she meant a Monet on the wall. But she might have meant money in the walls.
He looks around. “But which wall? You can’t exactly start tearing the house apart looking for money that may or may not be here.”
“No,” I say frowning. Thinking. Trying to figure out where Agnes might have hidden her stash of cash.
Then it hits me. I look at Ben. “There is one wall I’ve been wanting to do something about since I moved in. I’ve been wanting to knock the darned thing down myself.”
I then hurry over to the stairway and start climbing. Ben follows close behind but on the way up I stop. I look around for Pumpkin and Choxie who – suspiciously – are not following us.
They have both inched even closer to the dining table and are now staring hungrily at our unguarded Christmas table.
Ben looks over and spots them too. “Hey! Guys.” Ben gives a sharp whistle. “Upstairs with us.”
The two reluctantly join us on the stairway and follow us upstairs and we all head into my sitting room/closet.
“Here?” Ben asks looking around the empty room. “You think the money is behind one of these walls?”
“Yeah, look,” I say flinging open the walk-in closet door. It smashes hard into the wall that’s catty-corner to it. “I’ve always thought this was a really bad design…I mean look, the actual closet inside continues past where this side wall would be.”
Ben frowns and looks at the oddity of the architecture.
“But what if it wasn’t designed like this at all?’ I continue. “What if this wall right here…is a facade?”
“A fake wall?” Ben goes over to the wall and starts knocking on it. “It does sound pretty hollow.”
I nod and we both stare at it. “Well there’s only one way to find out,” Ben finally says. “Do you have a hammer?”
I hurry out of the room and find the hammer I’d been using to fix the nightstand in my bedroom. Then I return and hand it to Ben who looks at me questioningly. As if to make sure I’m really ready to start destroying the house.
“Go for it,” I say with a firm nod.
He nods back – then he bashes the hammer into the wall and it splits open with very little effort.
Slowly…and with great anticipation, I go over and peek my inside the hole he made…and there it all is. Bundles of it. Stacks of it.
“Wow,” I say in shock. “I can’t believe it.”
Ben pulls out the rest of the fake wall then he picks up one of the stacks and studies it. “They’re fifties,” he says. “Stacks and stacks of them. There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars in here.”
“Wow,” I say again. “Thanks Aunt Agnes.”
PUMPKIN
I pounce on my toy and it makes a loud squeaky sound which causes them both to look over at me and laugh. They’re both drinking Champagne and piling up the bundles of green stuff and smiling happily at one another.
“Hey, remember when you asked Pumpkin where the treasure was, and he led you into this room?” Ben asks her, studying me through narrowed eyes.
“Yeah,” she says looking over at me. She squints at me. I stare back at her unblinking.
She’s finally going to see the truth, I think. But instead she shrugs and pats my head. “Yeah, but you can�
��t think he was trying to tell us something. I mean…he’s a cat.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Ben says with a shrug. “He’s just a cat.”
I go back to playing with my toy.
They’ll never learn.
PAISLEY
After finding all the cash Ben and I go back down to finish our Christmas dinner which is when I notice that one large piece of salmon is missing from my plate. And so…suspiciously…is Pumpkin.
I call out to him but he seems to be nowhere in the house so Ben and I and Choxie go out looking for him. Again. But he doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight.
PUMPKIN
Trust me it’s hard carrying a large piece of salmon all those blocks without stopping to eat some of it. But I’m on a mission. I won’t even let myself think about it.
I get to the big green dumpster and see that skinny, mangy cat sniffing around it, looking for something to eat. He’s so desperate for food that as soon as I get close, he looks up at me, obviously smelling the salmon I’m holding.
I drop the fish down in front of me and then sit down on the sidewalk and stare at him.
He slinks over. He’s interested but wary of getting too close.
So I pick up the fish and start heading to Rafe’s building, looking back to make sure he’s following.
He is.
I keep walking.
PAISLEY
Ben and I follow Choxie’s lead and we wind up back at Rafe’s building. Again.
“Why would he come back here?” I ask. “What is it with that strange cat?”
I press the buzzer of the old lady who lives next door to Rafe and explain through the intercom about my missing cat. She buzzes us in and we head upstairs. And there…in front of Rafe’s doorway is Pumpkin. And what’s left of my salmon. And a mangy cat who’s busy gobbling it up.
“Pumpkin! What are you doing back here?” I say and hurry over to him.
Candy Canes & Corpses Page 40