“Oh, one of our big clients had some kind of emergency,” I said, “and they needed extra help. Your regular cleaners were called in, and I guess it took longer than they expected, ’cause they called me and said if I had the time they needed me to come do your place.”
“Aren’t you one of their regular gals?”
“No, I usually work on my own. I used to work for TidyHome, and so I still fill in sometimes when they need me.” It’s going over pretty good. Even I might believe it.
“So what’s your name?”
“Frances,” I said. I’d almost used my real name, but stopped myself just in time. No use giving away more of one’s identity than necessary.
Marianne smiled and nodded, then turned toward Aaron, who had been hanging back, hoping to fade into the woodwork, I suppose.
Not a chance. “And who’s this?” Marianne asked. “You don’t look like a housemaid to me.” She gave Aaron a bright smile.
“Oh, that’s Andy,” I said when Aaron seemed unlikely to respond. “He usually works on big cleanup jobs, you know, like after a fire or flood, but he agreed to come along today to help me out.”
“Andy” smiled and nodded in agreement.
Marianne seemed to think this over, then she said to Aaron, “Hmmm. Why didn’t they just call you two out for that big emergency job they had, instead of our usual girls?” It was a reasonable question. Marianne, who was obviously a sharp lady, was probably just making conversation, trying to be friendly and put us newcomers at our ease. But of course her small talk was having just the opposite effect on me and, especially, Aaron.
I could see that Aaron was getting flustered by being put on the spot like this, and I was afraid he might say something we’d regret. What’s more, I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of this particular question, much less an answer for it, beforehand. And I had only a few seconds to come up with that answer now.
“Oh, well, Aar…I mean Andy was out of town until this morning, so he missed their call about the emergency. Just got back when they called him about helping me with this job. Right, Andy?”
Aaron nodded in agreement. “Right. Yeah, that’s exactly right. Missed the call. I mean the first call. That is—”
I jumped back in before Aaron could make things any worse. I stepped in front of Marianne and, with a broad smile, asked, “So where do we start?”
But before Marianne could answer, two men walked into the living room from the hallway beyond. One was large, muscular, and thoroughly unpleasant-looking. If you can picture one of those ex-prize fighters in the movies who had taken one too many punches in his time, that pretty well described the man. My immediate reaction was that I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. Or even a light one.
The other man, however, was the total opposite, and it was he who smiled and extended his hand first to me, then to Aaron, who was standing behind me trying to look inconspicuous.
“How do you do”? the man said. “I’m Jim Sanders. I see you’ve met Marianne.” As he said this, he reached around and patted Marianne, who was just within range, on the tush. I found the gesture both offensive and revealing at the same time.
Marianne, however, didn’t seem to take notice, which was also revealing. I assumed she was much more than Sanders’ housekeeper, if you get my drift.
Sanders was a man of about sixty years old, with close-cropped hair that could be either blond or light gray. He was clean-shaven and his well-tanned and almost wrinkle-free face gave off a healthy glow: a fine candidate for an after-shave lotion commercial. Clearly this man kept himself in good condition.
He flashed a very white smile and said, “I guess you’re the substitute cleaning crew. Well, I won’t be in the way. I’m just running a little late this morning. I leave you in good hands: Marianne really runs the place.” He winked in her direction.
He started to move toward the door, the prizefighter following behind, when he stopped and turned back. Addressing me and gesturing to the big man, he said, “Oh, I’m sorry. This is Benny. He’s kind of a combination chauffeur, handyman, and bodyguard.” Benny nodded in our direction, but it was not a friendly nod. Benny probably dispensed smiles as often as the Pope dispensed crack cocaine. “Benny’ll be back after he takes me into town, so if there’s anything you need, he’ll be available to get it for you. Otherwise I’m sure Marianne will show you where everything is.”
Sanders and Benny made their way to the door. As Benny passed me, I could see a distinct bulge in his jacket where no anatomical parts were located. Benny was carrying.
I wondered why a grocery magnate might need a bodyguard. But then I realized that although a grocer might not, an art thief just might.
When Sanders and Benny were finally driving away, I again asked Marianne where we should start our cleaning.
“Start? Oh, it doesn’t really matter. The whole house needs cleaning, so you might as well start here and work your way ‘round. You’ll find the cleaning supplies in that cupboard over there,” she said, pointing to a closet in the hallway. “Just call me if you have any questions. I’ll be doing the laundry, then getting lunch ready in the kitchen.” And she left us cleaners on our own.
“Geez, that was a close one,” Aaron said sotto voce. “Thanks for getting me off the hook.”
“That’s okay. It’s always the unexpected you have to watch out for, whether it’s a question or an alarm or a dog.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Just like we planned. We clean the house, work our way around to the gallery, hope the violin is there, if so take it and get the hell out.”
Aaron didn’t ask the obvious next question—what if it wasn’t there—but gave a silent salute and headed for the cupboard that Marianne had indicated.
****
It took us intrepid housecleaners about three hours to make our way around the living quarters. I had told Aaron to keep an eye out for anything that might be a clue to either the murder weapon or the violin’s location, our twin objectives, which slowed us down a bit. Aaron turned out to be a pretty good cleaner, which I should have guessed from my own observation of how neat his hotel room was. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself as he dusted, vacuumed, and polished. To me, of course, having cleaned houses for a living before changing to my current profession, it was familiar territory.
We didn’t come across Aaron’s violin while we were cleaning the main part of the house, despite quite a bit of snooping in cupboards and closets as we went. We did, however, find something of great interest with respect to Martin’s killer. About an hour into the job, Aaron held up a piece of paper he had found when emptying a waste basket.
“Take a look at this,” he said with some excitement. Someone had begun what looked like the text for a “lost and found” notice, as might go in the newspaper or online, written in pencil. It read:
Lost: Man’s ring, initials BJD. Reward. Phone 4
“Looks like someone was going to advertise for that ring and changed their mind,” I said. “What was that chauffeur’s name again?”
“Bennie, I think. Didn’t get his last name.”
“I’ll bet it starts with ‘D’,” I said. “I think we’re one big step closer to our objective, or at least mine.” I put the paper in my pocket and we resumed cleaning.
Just before noon, “Andy” and I reached the entrance to what I assumed, from Rafael’s description of the house, was the gallery in which I hoped we’d find the Guarneri. The door was closed, and it had an impressive-looking lock, but when I turned the handle, the door opened. I wouldn’t have to spend any time or risk getting caught picking the lock. Just then, a familiar voice behind me called out, “Excuse me. Frances?”
It took a moment before I realized that I was Frances. I turned around to face a smiling Marianne.
“We were just going to start on this next room,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“My fault,” she said, “I forgot to tell you that room’s kind of
private. You don’t have to clean in there.”
But I want to clean in there, I wanted to say, but instead I just nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am. We’ll move on.” What else could I do?
Marianne seemed pleased. “Great. Oh, and I wanted to know whether you two want some lunch. It’s about noon and I’m fixing sandwiches for me and the guys,” which I took to mean Jerry the guard and Benny. At least I hoped there weren’t any more “guys” lurking around. “Would you like some while I’m at it?”
In truth, I was hungry and would have loved one of those sandwiches, and I’m sure Aaron was likewise. But we were on the verge of entering the gallery, the very room we had come to see (and burgle), so with reluctance I declined, saying, “That’s really sweet of you, Marianne, but I think we’ll keep on working until we’re done. Thanks for asking, though.”
“No problem,” Marianne responded, “if you need anything, we’ll be eating lunch in the kitchen.” She turned and headed back in that direction.
“So what do we do now?” Aaron whispered.
“We go in there, of course,” I said, indicating the gallery door. “The longer we spend here, the more chance she’ll be back or something else will go wrong.”
We hurriedly picked up our tools and entered the gallery.
Chapter 31
It was dark in the gallery. There appeared to be no windows to bring in natural light (and possibly fade priceless masterpieces), and only one door, the door we had entered. I found a light switch and flipped it up. Soft lighting bathed the edges of the ceiling and highlighted a beautiful display of artwork on the walls. Another switch illuminated the floor area containing various free-standing sculptures and other objets d’art, with single beams from ceiling-mounted spotlights. The light was not very bright, but it was sufficient to see around the room. From the low whistle he gave, I could tell that Aaron, despite the fact that he was probably used to being in elegant surroundings, was clearly impressed.
It was my hope that Sanders would want to put his new acquisition on display, even if he planned later to swap it for a painting. And if this gallery, which obviously was not open to just any visitor to the house, contained at least some of his “private” collection, Aaron’s Guarneri might be here. But if it was, we’d have to find it in a hurry.
Aaron was gazing at the remarkable display, but I was concentrating on only one thing: Is the Guarneri there? If it wasn’t, then finding it was going to be a very difficult proposition.
If it was there, it obviously would be among the objects on the floor. The door where we entered was located in about the center of the room, and the sculptures and such were displayed in an oval pattern, so one could walk clockwise around the perimeter and view the paintings on the walls to the left and the sculptures, etc. to the right. Or vice versa, of course, depending on which direction one chose to walk.
I left Aaron to watch the door, listening for an approaching intruder, and then started walking hurriedly to my left and quickly made my way around the gallery, examining the objects as I went. Halfway around I paused to check out something I saw on the wall, then I continued until I had made it almost completely around, with no violin in sight. I was beginning to lose hope, when there it was, almost the last object in line: what I was certain was Aaron’s beloved Guarneri, on display on an elegant wooden stand clearly made especially for it.
I ran up to Aaron and took his arm, pointing him in the direction of the violin display. When he saw what I was indicating, he suddenly looked faint. I’m sure that at that moment, all the emotions that he had experienced since his violin was stolen—the shock of its loss, the anger at the man who he learned had stolen it, the determination to get it back, the hope for recovery offered by finding a burglar in his suite, the stress of planning to recover it, the intervening murder of Donny Martin, and finally the fear and anxiety accompanying carrying out the plan—were momentarily replaced by the elation of suddenly being so close to having it back.
He put down the tools he was carrying and started to walk toward the violin display, but I grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“No, I’ll go. You stay here at the door and warn me if anyone’s coming.” I actually had no idea what we would do if anyone did find us there after being told not to enter. Plead a very short memory? At least disobeying cleaning orders shouldn’t be a capital offense.
“Why can’t I go and you stay?” Aaron pleaded.
“Because it’s not that easy. These things on display are all fastened down in some way, and I’m sure your violin is too. You won’t know how to get it free and substitute the copy without it being noticeable.”
Aaron looked back through the open door, where one could just see down the hallway toward the kitchen, and then at his violin, which I know he dearly wished to rescue himself, and finally relented.
“Okay, you go get it and I’ll watch. But hurry.”
Don’t worry, I lost no time. I grabbed the custom wooden carrier, now somewhat lighter with the cleaning equipment removed, and almost sprinted to Aaron’s violin. I stopped next to the display stand that proudly supported a violin that looked, to me at least, like the one that I had first attempted to steal in Aaron’s hotel suite.
I bent down and extracted from the hidden compartment in the carrier that very violin, the one I had been holding when Aaron walked in on me.
I laid the copy down on the floor, glancing up to see if Aaron was watching me or the door. He was watching the door. As I had expected, the violin on the display stand was attached to it by a length of multi-strand cable looped around the neck and in front of the pegs, so that it could not be slipped off past the scroll on the end. The other end was inserted into a sheath that covered the vertical arm of the stand itself. It was a clever design that left only a small length of cable and the loop around the violin to be seen. Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be an alarm connected to the cable, something that would have slowed me down considerably.
I had come prepared, and I took from the carrier a set of wire cutters. When I tried to cut the cable with them, however, I found they couldn’t penetrate its surface. Whatever the metal of the sheath was, it was tougher than that of the cutters.
I again looked up at Aaron, and he was giving me a “hurry up” sign. Either he was just antsy, or someone was headed our way. In either case, I knew there was no time to waste. I had anticipated the possibility of needing something stronger to cut the cable, but I had hesitated to bring heavy-duty cable cutters because of their weight and bulk. Now I was glad I had. I reached into the top compartment of the carrier and brought out an instrument that looked as if it could sever the cables holding up the Golden Gate Bridge. Although that might exceed its abilities, the small cable around the Guarneri did not. The only problem was to avoid damaging the violin with its oversized jaws. I carefully placed the front of the jaws over the loop and, pressing one handle against my chest and holding the other, closed the jaws on the cable.
At least I tried to close them. The awkward way I was operating the cutter gave me very little leverage, and even though a clever ratchet system greatly reduced the effort needed to operate the cutters, I couldn’t gain enough force to cut the cable. Looking up again at Aaron, I saw that he was looking very agitated, and his “hurry up” signal had changed to a frantic “what the hell are you doing.” I ignored him. With the jaws of the cutter now holding the cable in place, I slowly slid my free hand down to the handle that was pressing into my chest. When I had it in hand, I pushed the two handles together as hard as I could. Finally I heard a satisfying “snap” as the cutters overcame the cable’s resistance and opened the loop holding the violin.
As quickly as I safely could, I freed the violin from the cable and lifted it off the display stand. I put it aside, then picked up the replica we had brought and placed it on the stand in exactly the same place. I put the loop of cable around the neck of the substitute violin, then took out a small tube of super glue. I applied a dab to the cut ends of
the loop, held them together for a few seconds, then stepped back to view my work. Only on close inspection would anyone notice that the loop had been cut and repaired, or for that matter that the violin on the stand was not the same one that had been there five minutes earlier.
I was proud of my handiwork, but I didn’t have much time to admire it.
“Someone’s coming,” Aaron called out. I threw the cable cutters into the top of my carrier and reached for Aaron’s violin to slide it into the secret compartment.
That was when disaster struck.
In my haste—okay, panic—I tripped over the carrier just as I reached for the violin. After a horrible few seconds of trying to regain my balance, I not only knocked the substitute violin off the display I had so carefully fashioned, but I came crashing down on top of the violin I had just liberated.
Apart from the noise this made—and it made plenty as I knocked over two other displays on my way down—it probably gave Aaron the closest thing to a heart attack he’ll ever have. He came rushing over to see what damage had been done—I’d like to think to me as well as the Guarneri, but I’m a realist. He picked me up, and then picked up the violin that lay beneath me.
It was a total loss, the neck broken and the body splintered. At that moment I wished it was my neck that was broken, but no such luck. As we gazed down at what had been a violin, we again simultaneously uttered the familiar three words that had first introduced us:
“It’s a fake!”
We both were staring at the inside of the broken instrument that, like the one we had brought with us, was missing that all-important label. Only in this case, it was not even a very good copy, except perhaps to a dummy like me in very dim light. I assume Sanders, awaiting the theft of the Guarneri, had acquired a cheap copy as a placeholder in the display he’d arranged until he had possession of the real one. Of course, at this point all that counted was that it wasn’t Aaron’s violin that got crushed.
Unfortunately, we hadn’t time to enjoy this reprieve before Benny entered the room, took one look at us amid a tangle of strings, cables, and burglar tools, and drew out his pistol.
Murder with Strings Attached Page 16