Persimmon Crown

by R J Fournier

  “We didn’t make the connection at first. We just had a bunch of prints we couldn’t ID. But when you called and pointed out the connection between the name of the painter and the victim’s…” He raised his glass to his lips, then laughed. “Empty, I guess. Do you want some more?”

  “I’m good.”

  He waved at the barman and pointed to his glass.

  He wasn’t much of a drinker usually. Delyth took it as further proof that he was uneasy. It wouldn’t make sense that he was going to break up with her; they were already broken up. Yet she didn’t want to pursue why he might be nervous. It was safer to keep asking about the case.

  “So you were saying about what I told you?” Delyth prompted.

  “Yes, you pointed me in his direction,” he said as if it pained him. “I ran his prints and, voila, they matched. But the fact he’d lied about not being in the States or even knowing where his sister lived before the coroner contacted him may have been suspicious, but it didn’t prove he was the killer.” He looked toward the bar checking how his drink was progressing. “We lucked out because we’d found nice, clean, deep tire tracks in the mud where he parked. They hadn’t been washed out by the heavy rain earlier that day.”

  ”I didn’t understand how you traced the car. He borrowed it from some guy he didn’t even know?”

  “It made sense that he’d need a car to get to DuQuenne’s place out in the country like that. The owner walked in about a week after your stupid article came out. He said he was also looking for Sophie Poirier because she’d dented his car that she’d borrowed a month before. Sophie said she’d pay for the repair, but then she disappeared.”

  “So my stupid article helped a second time?”

  The barman brought Josh’s wine and picked up the empty glass.

  “Yes,” Josh mumbled. Delyth wasn’t sure if it was a begrudging agreement to her question or in anticipation of his drink. When the barman left, Josh went on. “The treads matched the casts we’d taken of the tire tracks.”

  “So you suspected Sophie?”

  “She had an alibi for the day of the murder. But then you called and told me about the Champaigne painting. I thought I’d go out and talk to Cheyne about that, but he wasn’t there. Sophie was. She told me Etienne had borrowed the car for a couple of days including the day of the murder.”

  Delyth made a mental note of a third way she’d helped him with the case, but decided against pushing the point. “She gave him up that easily?”

  “I don’t think she realized it was about the murder. I suspect she thought I was investigating the owner’s claim, because she promised she’d get in touch with him and pay for the damage.”

  “Wasn’t that enough to arrest Cheyne?”

  “I needed something that put him at the crime scene, not just near it. I could have gotten a warrant to check his shoes against the boot prints we found where the victim was killed, but that would’ve tipped him off. Besides, I didn’t think Cheyne was stupid enough to bring the same boots back with him.” He moved his glass in small circles on the table, but didn’t drink. “So I sent a copy of the cast of the boot prints to France. It took a while for them to get a warrant and to execute it, although Cheyne’s landlord was more than happy to comply. The night you called about Helen going to Cheyne’s house, they hadn’t gotten back to me. It forced me to act sooner than I intended.”

  “So you knew Vitkus was innocent, yet you kept him in jail that whole time?”

  “First off, I didn’t know for sure he was innocent. Not until I got the final piece of evidence against Cheyne. A lot of evidence pointed to Vitkus. Plus, he wasn’t talking. I was sure he was hiding something and I thought he’d come around if he had a little time in jail to think about it.”

  “Has Cheyne confessed?”

  “He pleaded not guilty, and refuses to make a statement.”

  “And Sophie? Back in France, I presume?”

  “Nope. They stopped her at the airport trying to ship that painting, frame and all. They’re holding her for transporting stolen property.”

  “I wonder why Cheyne wasn’t happy with getting the painting back.”

  “It would have fetched a fraction of its value even if he could’ve sold it. He learned the hard way that stolen art isn’t easy to fence. That’s how he got caught the first time with all the other paintings stored in his barn. He hadn’t managed to sell one of them.”

  “And Sophie thought she could?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe she had a buyer lined up. She seems to have lots of friends. Maybe one of them knew someone who knew someone.”

  “And the jewels?” Delyth asked.

  “We found the fakes in Cheyne’s place. We figure he broke in, found the painting and pried the fakes out without bothering to examine them. Once he realized they were glass, he went back and waited for his sister. When she wouldn’t tell him where the jewels were, he got angry, picked up the shovel and clobbered her one. She was over eighty so it didn’t take much to kill her.”

  “So where are the real ones?

  “Don’t know. DuQuenne probably sold them at some point.”

  “So Etienne killed her for nothing?”

  “Maybe not. His neighbors said he never forgave her for absconding with the painting. Revenge is as good a motive as money. Better in a way. It’s more satisfying, more purely emotional.”

  Thinking of the little leprechaun she met in the sad motel bar, Delyth said, “Imagine Cheyne harboring that anger for thirty-five years. It ruined his life.”

  “He probably enjoyed it. It gave him someone to blame for his pathetic life and something to look forward to.”

  “That would be a story I’d like to tell.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “No longer covering crime. Remember? Even if I were, Ted would never publish it. Too artsy-fartsy.”

  Josh laughed. “Sorry to be back to low man on the totem pole?”

  Delyth had to think for a minute. Of course she was sorry to be back to general assignment. She’d hoped to make a name for herself taking Vickie’s place. The DuQuenne murder had provided grist for a couple of good articles, but it didn’t seem anyone remembered them once the newspapers were thrown out the next morning. How different was it from writing Mrs. Szmendziuk’s obit? Maybe it would be good to gain some perspective on her new career, to rethink what she wanted to do with her life. “Yes and no,” she answered.

  Josh didn’t seem to be listening. He took a gulp of wine. “I was wondering…” He hesitated.

  Delyth brushed a strand of hair from her face. Here it comes, she thought.

  “Would you like to drive together to André DuQuenne’s housewarming? He said he’d invited you.”

  Is that it? Is that what took two glasses of wine to ask?

  When she didn’t answer right away, Josh added, “It’s not a date or anything.”

  Why the hell not? She wasn’t sure she wanted it to be a date, but she was certain she wanted him to ask her on one. She glared at him. He looked back with a hopeful, sincere expression. “Sure,” she answered. “That’d be great.” The last came out with a slight edge of sarcasm that Josh seemed not to notice.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The ducks had returned home. Frank received an offer on them from a museum, but he had declined, declaring they belonged above a bathtub and the right bathtub was his own. Helen wasn’t sure if he ever intended to sell them. She was glad he hadn’t. She decided to take an atypical Saturday-morning bath to welcome them back.

  As she lay in the warm water looking up at the one terrified duck looking down on her, she kept going over loose ends in the DuQuenne murder. At Frank’s exhibit just two months before, the terrified duck had convinced her that the killer had to be a stranger, certainly not a neighbor. But now she imagined the tangle of weeds at the bottom of the pond, a mass of vegetation that could conceal secrets with its very normality until a telltale flash revealed what was hidden to an observant duck. In t
he same way, Helen was surprised at the secrets hidden in the commonplace so close to her.

  Who would have suspected the old, persimmon lady had been involved in a major art heist? Who would have expected a million-dollar painting was hanging a half-mile away? But what bothered her most were the undiscovered secrets that involved the jewels. A swarm of questions circled the jewels like yellow jackets around a scrap of meat.

  All she knew about them was that Cheyne and Sophie were desperate to find them, and what Marija had told her. She felt certain the jewels were somehow connected to why Marija and Mikey so readily believed the other could have been the murderer. Their explanations seemed flimsy compared to what the bond between mother and son should be, at least the bond Helen experienced with her son. If Richard were ever caught standing over a body, even if he were found with the smoking gun in his hand and his body covered with blood, she’d never believe he did it. Marija and Mikey must have had a good reason for their mutual distrust. What it was and how it might relate to the stolen jewels, she didn’t know. She told herself that some things are best left alone, but she knew she wouldn’t take her own advice.

  Decision made, she got out of the bath and dressed to go out.

  As she walked by, Frank appeared at the studio door. “Where’re you going?”

  “To visit Marija Vitkus.”

  “Why?” He drawled the single syllable as if trying to get a mischievous five-year-old to admit wrongdoing. When Helen explained her concerns, he said, “I thought you were over this business. Cheyne’s been arrested. Mike’s out of jail. What does the rest matter?”

  “You may be right, but not knowing suggests something’s wrong.”

  “I could tell you to keep your nose out of it, but I know you won’t. How do you plan to get to the bottom of it?”

  “I’m going to ask Marija about something she said.”

  When she didn’t explain more, he prompted, “Yeah. Which was what?’

  “When Cheyne was threatening Mollie, Marija said she’d tell him where the real jewels were.”

  ”You were being threatened. She’d have said anything.”

  “That’s what I told myself, but I can’t help wondering.”

  “And how do you plan on asking her? ‘By the way, Marija, do you happen to have the real jewels?’”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I have no real reason to think she does.”

  “And she wouldn’t tell you if she did.”

  “Exactly. But she may know something she hasn’t told me yet. And if she says she doesn’t, I’ll be interested in how she says it.”

  “Be careful. Okay? I almost lost you once.”

  “Everyone is exaggerating that whole thing. It was scary, I’ll admit, but there was no real danger.”

  Frank reached out and hugged her. “You know I love you.”

  “Of course you do,” she said into his shoulder. “I love you too.”

  ◆◆◆

  When Sam Gawley opened the door, Helen was ready to abort her mission. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here. I can come back later.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Sam said in a conspiratorial tone. “The kids are with my ex so I persuaded Mike to visit his mother, but it’s not going well” Then calling into the house, “It’s Helen Terfel.”

  Helen could see Marija standing up from the sofa. Mikey remained seated but smiled a welcome.

  “How nice,” Marija called back. “Come in. We’re just having tea.”

  Helen followed Sam in. The black lacquer tray and teapot from her first visit were already on the coffee table.

  Marija came forward and hugged her, pulling away as soon as their bodies connected. “You must have some tea. Sam, would you get Helen a cup?”

  “Please don’t bother,” Helen said. Her stomach lurched remembering the bitter, black infusion Marija served.

  “Oh, it’s no bother,” Sam said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Just water, perhaps,” Helen said, hoping to avoid the tea.

  “Sure thing,” Sam said as she left the room.

  Marija returned to her place on the sofa. “Mykolas and Sam are picking up his truck. He’s been staying with her; it’s time the truck joins them.”

  Mikey said nothing but kept his eyes down.

  Sam returned with a cup and saucer and a glass of water. “Here you go.” She handed the glass to Helen and the cup to Marija.

  Helen remained standing to make it easier for Marija to pass the tea.

  “One spoon of sugar, if I recall correctly,” Marija said, then handed the cup to Helen.

  Both hands occupied, one with water, the other balancing the full cup on its saucer, Helen wasn’t sure how to gracefully sit on the low sofa without spilling her tea.

  “Oh, dear,” Marija said. “We should’ve let you sit first. Mykolas, help her.”

  Mikey jumped up. “Let me take that.” He placed her tea on the coffee table in front of the single chair in the grouping.

  As Mikey was helping Helen settle, Marija said, “When you arrived, Mykolas and I were discussing what it takes to be a good parent. Now that they’re living together, Mykolas will become the surrogate parent to Sam’s sweet children. I was saying he has to start thinking about getting ahead in this world. If an opportunity comes your way, you have to take it.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Terfel isn’t interested,” Mikey said as he rejoined Sam on the loveseat across from Marija.

  “She’s a parent,” Marija said. “I’m interested in what she thinks.”

  Mikey stared at his mother. Not quite a glare, it both questioned and accused. He turned toward Helen. “Marija is a strong believer in things as a safeguard against the future. I believe that owning things becomes an end in itself, justifying any action and destroying all joy.” His eyes turn back to his mother. “It’s a bigger misfortune than anything you fear might happen.” The stare again.

  Marija pulled herself up to say something, but Helen intervened. “Does it have to be either or? Isn’t there some middle ground?”

  “Not for some people,” Mikey answered. Looking again at Helen, “In my experience, not for most people.”

  Helen was struggling to figure out what the argument was really about, and why she was in the middle of it. ”Sam, what do you think?” she asked.

  “Don’t look at me. I have no idea what they’re talking about,” Sam said. Her laugh sounded a little forced, but it lightened the mood. Turning to Marija she added, “Honest. We’re fine.”

  “Well, then,” Helen said. “You have your answer.” She smiled as if the unspoken rift between them could be so easily mended.

  A long moment of awkward silence until Sam said, “Did you hear they’ve captured Sophie Poirier?”

  “They stopped her at the airport,” Marija said. Helen could almost see the need for decorum reanimating her like the strings of a marionette.

  “Josh Griffin put out an alert for her and for the painting,” Sam said.

  “That must be what he meant by a loose end,” Helen put in.

  “I guess,” Sam said. “It was a good idea. Sophie’s ready to tell everything she knows in exchange for a deal.”

  “She could have been charged with murder,” Marija said.

  “Accessory after the fact,” Sam corrected.

  “You were so lucky Cheyne didn’t attack you when you showed up the day he’d killed poor Cécile,” Marija said to Helen.

  “Mike had already scared him off,” Sam said. “When Mike got there, Cheyne ran inside and locked the doors. When you both left he saw his chance to escape. That’s why the doors were locked when you first tried them,” she said to Helen, “but unlocked when you got back.”

  “Do the police have any idea where the jewels are?” Helen asked.

  Mike glanced at his mother then picked up his tea and took a sip.

  “According to Sophie,” Sam answered, “she and Cheyne had been all over the house. They even trashed Mike�
��s truck looking for them. It was Sophie’s idea to paint killer all over it so the police would think it was vandals.”

  “Cécile was trying to make amends for stealing the painting before she met her maker,” Helen said. “If she still had the real jewels, why would she bother replacing them with fakes? Wouldn’t she want to return the jewels as well?”

  Mikey looked up from contemplating his tea and stared steadily at his mother.

  Marija turned away.

  Sam responded, “So you think she didn’t have them?

  “She could’ve sold them,” Helen suggested. “It’d make sense.” She scanned each of the others as if seeking support for her theory. “She’d been a widow for a decade or more. I don’t know what her finances were like but she could’ve needed the money. And, Marija, didn’t you say she’d already removed the jewels when she asked you to source the fake ones? Do you think she could’ve sold unset stones on her own?”

  “Wouldn’t people question where they came from?” Sam asked.

  “Why should they?” Marija answered, an edge to her voice. “She was an old woman. If she said they belonged to her family in France, there was no reason to suspect they were stolen.”

  “Marija, stop,” Mikey blurted, his sudden action slopping tea into the saucer. “It’s time.”

  Helen and Sam stared at them, waiting.

  Reaching forward to lay down his cup, Mikey almost whispered, “Mother, just tell them.”

  Marija sighed. In a practiced gesture she laid her teacup on the table in front of her. “I did nothing wrong.” She paused as if waiting for someone—for Mikey—to object. When no one said anything, she went on. “I told her that loose cabochons weren’t as valuable as more popular cuts. And there’d be a sizable discount because of no provable provenance. Plus, we were in the depths of the recession. It was a bad time to sell. But she said she needed the money. So I bought them.”

  “Where are they now?” Sam asked.

  “In the wall safe.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?” Sam demanded.

  “Do you think the police would’ve believed that I bought them?” Marija said. “The murdered woman’s jewels in our wall safe?”