"Have you been able to find out who destroyed Letty's artwork?"
"Not yet. My focus has been on her murder. However, I think we can assume a connection."
The morning had started with a handful of clouds, but the sky had cleared into a crystalline blue. We left Port Danby and headed into Mayfield.
"You mentioned that you had a conversation with the auction house owner?"
Briggs turned the car onto Parson Drive. "Yes, Joseph Morgan. He is Darren Morgan's uncle. Apparently, it's a highly successful auction house. Most of his clientele are extremely wealthy collectors. He knew Letty but not well. Joseph and Darren's father had a falling out some years back, so the two families rarely speak. He assumed that Darren gave his business card to Letty. He said Letty Clark called him on Saturday afternoon to make an appointment to see him. She said she found something that she thought might be very valuable. A call he'd been waiting for beeped through on his phone, so he had to cut the conversation short. But he told Letty he could see her on Monday. He was certain she mentioned something about a necklace just before he hung up. Obviously, he never heard from her after that."
As always, the parking spots on Parson Drive were filled. "Good luck trying to find a spot," I quipped. "We might have to circle the shops a few times . . ." My voice trailed off as Briggs pulled up next to the last parking spot and stopped the car.
He grinned smugly at me as he reached down for his red light. He stuck it on top of the car. "You were saying?"
"Well, if you're going to pull rank, then I guess rock star parking is always at your fingertips."
"Pretty much." We climbed out and walked down the sidewalk to Urban Antiques.
Urban Antiques was smaller than Lola's Antiques, but I had to admit (but never to my friend) it was more well organized. You could see every item and antiques were grouped somewhat categorically. All the clocks, ornate mantle timepieces, tall grandfather clocks and animated cuckoo clocks were arranged neatly in one corner, while another corner held shelves brimming with glass and porcelain collectibles. It seemed like an easier way to find a certain treasure, but I might have been wrong. It was more than possible people preferred a more mismatched, crowded antique store.
A man came out from a small office with two leather-bound books. He had smooth, dark hair that was graying on the sideburns. A black pinstriped vest was pulled over his white shirt. "What can I do for you?" he asked.
Briggs had his badge ready to go. "Yes, I'm Detective Briggs. I called you earlier about a case I'm working on. This is my assistant, Miss Pinkerton."
"Yes, of course. I'm the owner, Rick Urban. What would you like to know?"
"I have reason to believe that a woman brought a painting into your store to get an appraisal. And that particular piece of art might have been stolen."
His dark brows rose with the word stolen. "Guess it wouldn't be the first time someone asked me to appraise stolen art. Generally, I give them an honest appraisal. If it's from a well known artist, I quickly check to make sure it wasn't stolen from an art collection. But I must say, I haven't had a valuable piece of artwork walk through that door for at least a year. I had a regular client bring one in yesterday, but it was a fake. She wasn't too happy about it either." He stopped and his face scrunched up in confusion as he watched Briggs jot down a few of his comments.
Briggs looked up from the notepad, undaunted by the odd look the man was giving him. "Would that client happen to be Jodie Dean?"
This time Urban's full lips disappeared temporarily. It seemed he was trying to decide if he needed to answer. I was sure it had more to do with keeping a regular client than hiding something crucial.
"Again, anything you can add to help," Briggs said. "A young woman has been murdered. I'm working through evidence to find the killer. This is nothing more than a routine interview." It was hard not to admire how professionally Detective Briggs handled himself. He always managed to calm people's fears and suspicions with his relaxed demeanor.
"Yes, Jodie Dean came in with a mountain landscape." He laughed dryly. "I was sort of surprised. She's somewhat of an expert herself, and it was not a good quality fake. But she decided to have me check it anyway."
"Did she say where she got the painting?" Briggs asked the question that was on the tip of my tongue. Sometimes it seemed our minds worked as one.
"She said she picked it up at the flea market this weekend."
Briggs wrote that down on his notepad and flipped it shut. "Thank you very much, Mr. Urban. You've been a great help."
"Sure. Anytime. I hope you find the killer."
"We will," Briggs said. "Good afternoon."
We headed back out to the car. Several people were standing around staring at the plain sedan with the police light on top. They watched us with great interest as we climbed inside.
"Next Christmas, I would love it if you could drive me to the various shopping malls in this car. It would save a lot of time and angst not having to search and fight for a parking spot."
He laughed as he started the car.
"Where to next?" I asked.
"Let's see what Darren Morgan has to say about the texts on Letty's phone. And let's find out if he uses hand lotion."
Chapter 31
Darren Morgan lived in a small apartment on the second floor of a quiet building near the edge of town. He opened the door on first knock. There was no hello or attempt at politeness, but he invited us in without hesitation. He had pulled not just half but all of his long hair into a bun, and he'd jammed a long nail through the knot to hold it in place.
It seemed his studio apartment was also his art studio. We walked around several easels and a tarp that was covered with splattered paint. The paint fumes were minimal, signaling that he probably used a water-based product instead of oil.
"I've come back here with Miss Pinkerton, my assistant, for two reasons. The first one might sound strange but do you use a moisturizer on your hands?"
Darren had intense green eyes, which seemed to darken with the question. "I don't understand. Moisturizer on my hands?"
Briggs waved his arm around the room to remind him, unnecessarily, of his painting hobby. "Generally, people who paint have to use some kind of lubricant to counteract the drying effect of the paints and solvents."
Darren stared at both of us as if we'd just sprouted horns. Then, without a word, he walked to the door that led to a cluttered bathroom and emerged with a bottle of hand lotion. "Sometimes I use this stuff, but it's kind of greasy. I only use it when I've been working with oils and thinner, which is rare. Especially in this small apartment. The ventilation sucks."
Detective Briggs inspected the bottle briefly, then handed it to me. I put my finger on the pump but looked up at Darren first. The curiosity had multiplied on his face.
"Do you mind?" I asked before pushing the pump.
"Knock yourself out."
I squeezed a dollop into my hand and lifted it to my nose. I shook my head at Briggs. I handed Darren back the bottle and rubbed my hands together.
Darren stared at the container of lotion in his hand. "Got to say, I wasn't expecting this when you said you had some more questions. Would you like her to smell my shampoo too?"
Briggs brushed off the sarcasm. "No, the lotion will do. But I have something of Letty's." Briggs pulled the phone out.
Darren's face changed instantly when he saw it. But it wasn't worry or guilt. It was an expression of despair. "I bought her that phone for her birthday." His voice tapered off as if his throat had swallowed the words.
Briggs noticed the profound change too. It would have been impossible not to. He paused to let Darren collect himself.
"Mr. Morgan, there are a number of texts from you that seem, for lack of a better phrase, charged with emotion. It seems you were more than slightly upset about the breakup."
"Not going to deny that," he said. "I loved her and I still love her. If you're looking for someone who hated her, look no further than Gre
ta Bailey. That no talent couldn't stand the fact that Letty was breaking into the art world. She's the one you need to focus on."
"Have you been to Letty's house since her murder?" Briggs asked.
"No, it'd be like driving a knife into my heart to see all her things. All her artwork."
"Then you don't know who destroyed the paintings?"
Darren's face blanched. "Destroyed? What do you mean?"
Briggs put away his notebook, signaling that he was done with the questioning. "Someone took a blade to the paintings. I'm no expert, but I'd say they were damaged beyond repair."
Darren didn't answer. He held his jaw tight. Then, without warning, he spun around and heaved the bottle of lotion at the wall. It cracked open and white cream dripped down the plaster.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Morgan," Briggs said. "And again, I'm sorry for your loss. We can see ourselves out."
We reached the door. "It was Greta," he said before we walked out. "I'll bet she destroyed the paintings too."
Briggs stopped and turned back around. "Then you need to let me do my work and put together a case against her. Please don't do anything that might put your own freedom at risk."
Darren's jaw loosened some. He nodded. "Just catch the fiend who killed Letty."
"I plan to do that very soon."
Chapter 32
Briggs was deep in thought as we drove toward Letty's house. He decided to pick up a few of the ruined paintings and see if forensics could figure out what kind of blade had done the damage. I could tell he was sorting things out in his mind and I decided to do the same.
After the short visit with Darren Morgan, my intuition was pointing away from him as a suspect. He seemed genuinely distraught about her death, the first person from the art class to show any real emotion about the murder. But maybe he was a good actor, and my intuition hadn't caught the underlying deceit. We'd definitely seen a display of the bad temper that Letty's parents had described to Briggs. And a short temper can cause even the most rational person to do things they regret. Like stab someone in a fit of rage over unrequited love. Still, I'd seen true heartbreak in the man's face. Then there was the more concrete evidence that the hand lotion he occasionally used did not match the one on the handle of the murder weapon.
I glanced over at Briggs. It seemed he wasn't ready to discuss his thoughts yet. We were both surprised to find two cars in the driveway of Letty's house.
"That's Letty's parents' car, and I think the sedan belongs to Jodie Dean. I hadn't told anyone about the destruction of the paintings yet. I didn't want to add to her parents' pain. Now I'm regretting that. Probably would have been less shocking to hear it before seeing it."
We walked up to the house. Briggs had kept the spare key, but it made sense that the parents had one as well. The front door was unlocked, but Briggs knocked first before entering. Jodie Dean was pacing the front room, clutching a piece of paper and occupied by a phone call. She hung up quickly when she saw us. Her face was splotchy red with rage.
She started waving the paper she held and shot me an angry scowl before turning to Briggs. "Detective Briggs, I'm glad you're here." She opened her mouth to continue, but her words were stopped by her phone ringing. She ignored etiquette and answered it.
Briggs looked somewhat irritated that she'd stopped in the middle of their conversation to answer the phone.
The sound of sobbing came from Letty's art room. Mr. Clark was comforting Mrs. Clark, a woman with the same baby fine hair and fair skin as her daughter's. Mr. Clark looked like a man who would like to tell jokes and laugh if he wasn't in a terrible state of mourning. He peered up first when Briggs stepped into the room.
"Detective Briggs, have you seen this? How could this have happened?"
"Yes, I knew about it. And I'm sorry I didn't warn you. I wanted to spare you some anguish. If you don't mind, I'm going to take a few of the canvases back with me to the forensic lab. I'm hoping to find out what kind of blade was used. It might have a connection to the—" He stopped short of saying murder weapon.
"Yes, please." Mr. Clark removed his arm from his wife's shoulder. "Please find out who did this. Her paintings were all we had left." That last sentiment raised another round of sobs from Mrs. Clark.
Jodie Dean, apparently finished with her phone call, marched into the room. "I can't find any art restorer willing to look at the paintings. Everyone is too booked up with museum work," she spit out the words with disgust, as if the restorers were responsible for the damage. I didn't know much about the art world, but it seemed she was exceptionally mad about Letty's paintings. That seemed strange because they had nothing to do with her. Or that was what I thought until she started waving the crumpled paper again.
"I have a bill of sale for three of these paintings, and it's worthless now," Jodie grunted with frustration. Her bellicose behavior was not helping Mrs. Clark's fragile state of emotion.
"Ms. Dean," Briggs said calmly, "I'm not sure if this is the time to fret about the loss of sale on the paintings."
"You don't understand," Jodie barked, "collectors were offering big numbers for her artwork, especially now that she's—" It seemed she had a sliver of decency left and stopped herself short of saying the word 'dead' in front of the grieving parents. Jodie threw the crumbled ball of paper across the room.
I saw that little tension twitch start up in Briggs' cheek, which meant his cool limit had been reached. "And I don't think you understand, Ms. Dean. Your rant about losing out on an art sale at this point in time is callous, and frankly, uncharacteristic from the Ms. Dean who taught art in high school."
Jodie's face darkened and her mouth pursed in embarrassment. It seemed the student had just put the teacher in her place. "I apologize, Mr. and Mrs. Clark," she said with a chill in her voice. With that, she turned sharply on her heels and walked out of the room and the house.
Briggs picked up the crumpled piece of paper and unrolled it. He stared at it for longer than I would have expected, then he pushed it into his coat pocket. We collected a few pieces of the slashed art and said our good-byes to the Clarks. On his way out, Briggs promised to find the killer and find out who'd destroyed the artwork. They were both too distraught to respond with anything more than a nod.
The shroud of sadness followed us out to the car as we quietly placed the destroyed paintings into the trunk. The one I had chosen was a painting of two little kids playing in a water fountain. Letty had captured the action and the joy of the afternoon perfectly. She had been a true talent, and to see the wonderful painting sliced open directly through the center of the fountain made my stomach harden like an apricot pit.
"What a shame," I said almost involuntarily.
Lost in his own thoughts, Briggs hadn't heard it. He reached up to pull down the trunk, but something on one of the paintings caught his eye. He lowered his hand and reached into his pocket for the wrinkled bill of sale. The paper crackled as he unfolded it and held it next to the corner of the fountain painting.
"Miss Pinkerton, look at Letty Clark's signature on this bill of sale and her signature on the painting."
I took hold of the bill of sale. "Scarlett Clark," I read. I lowered the paper to the painting. The canvas was signed by Letty Clark. "I don't think it's too strange that an artist uses a nickname on a painting signature. The bill of sale is a contract, so she used her legal name."
Briggs turned to me. "Yes, that makes sense, but if that's all you noticed, then I'm a little disappointed."
My posture straightened to meet what I perceived as a sleuthing challenge. "Uh no, that's not all I noticed," I lied. I held the paper next to the painting to survey the signatures again. Briggs waited in smug silence to see if I could find what he'd noticed, that I apparently hadn't.
After a few seconds, I sensed that he was about to tell me. I held up a hand to stop him. "Wait. Wait. Wait. I've got it. The capital C on the bill of sale has a curly cue at the top, like the way they taught it to us in third grade. B
ut the C on the painting has no curl. In fact, it looks very different, like a backwards wave in the ocean."
"Well done." He took back the paper. "Of course, it took my prodding for you to look further."
I sniffled some with indifference. "If you say so."
We climbed into the car. It seemed his pompous moment hadn't ended. "I guess that's why they pay me the big bucks."
"Yes, well, you would only need to make a dollar to be paid big bucks compared to the partner on this side of the car. I do this voluntarily, remember?"
"True. Maybe we need to get you on the payroll."
"No, thanks. That would just take the fun out of it. Aside from my momentary lapse on handwriting analysis, do you think that bill of sale was forged by Jodie Dean? Was she hoping to profit from Letty's work?"
"The date on the bill of sale was intentionally scribbled, making it almost impossible to read. But I'd say that's exactly what Ms. Dean was up to."
"Then I guess Jodie Dean was absolutely not responsible for ruining Letty's artwork."
"That's the conclusion I came to as well."
"Greta Bailey?" I asked.
"That would be my guess, but the question is, did she also kill Letty?"
Chapter 33
I'd been so preoccupied with business and the investigation, I'd nearly forgotten that Dash and I had made plans to watch the full moon from the lighthouse. He'd been stuck working late on a boat that the owner needed fixed by morning, so I drove to the lighthouse to meet him. On my drive around the corner to Pickford Way, I noticed that Briggs' car was still parked in front of the station. A light was on, which meant he was probably working late on the investigation. There were a lot of puzzle pieces in the case, but none of them were forming a clear picture yet.
Tulips and Trouble Page 14