by Becca Bloom
Okay, so far, his story checked out. Until I saw his prices. I gasped louder than I’d meant to. Was this guy for real?
“Scroll down, please,” I asked Gus, who obliged by handing me the mouse.
Angel squirmed in his chair again. I was close to something he didn’t want us to see.
I reached the bottom of the page, but other than the prices, there wasn’t anything incriminating on that page. So, I clicked the tab at the top of the page indicating sold paintings.
Bingo!
There it was, front and center. An indigenous woman surrounded with sparkling sapphires and brilliant marigolds. According to the price tag, it had sold for ten thousand dollars. I was too shocked to attempt to close my open mouth.
Eduardo’s jaw dropped when he saw it, too.
Gus’ eyes narrowed at Angel.
Angel’s face colored. “I had hoped you wouldn’t see that,” he mumbled.
I turned to him. “Is that why you put it on your website?”
Gus glared at me. He didn’t appreciate my sarcasm.
I didn’t trust myself not to say something else he wouldn’t like, so I clamped my lips closed.
Pointing at the screen, Gus said, “Explain this, please.”
Angel looked like he’d rather swallow nails, but he spilled the beans when Gus sat back in his chair and fingered the handcuffs looped around his truncheon.
“There’s nothing illegal about what I did. It’s basic supply and demand.”
“Answer the question, Señor Flores,” Gus ordered.
“I was able to sell the painting to a private collector in Europe. He wishes for more, and I told him I would be happy to help.”
Sure, he was. So, Miss Patty had been right about him. It was about the money. Angel was making bank off Eduardo’s paintings, and the prospect of more easy cash had made him pushy. It also explained why his painting hadn’t been stolen.
“Does Miss Patty know about this?” Gus asked.
Angel scoffed. “She wouldn’t recognize high art if it smacked her over the head. I’m doing this young man a favor.”
Oh really? Ignoring Gus, I asked, “Then where’s his cut? Or did you simply plan to buy his paintings dirt cheap and pocket the difference?”
Angel squirmed in his seat, hemming and hawing.
I asked Gus, “Isn’t that a crime?” It should be if it wasn’t.
“A crime, no. Unethical and sleazy, yes. But I know who I can call to keep this from happening again.” He dialed Miss Patty’s number, gave her Angel’s website address, and told her to give it a look before selling any more of Eduardo’s paintings.
Angel complained, “How do you know you can trust her with this? She can take advantage of the kid just like—” He stopped abruptly.
“—like you did? And attempted to continue to do?” Gus finished for him. “No, I don’t think so. Miss Patty is completely unmotivated by money.”
Angel scoffed. “Everyone’s motivated by money.”
“Miss Patty’s a trust fund baby. She’s richer than King Midas,” Gus retorted.
Well, you learned something new every day. It made sense. Very few artists could afford to be as dismissive about money as Miss Patty was. My dad only could because he had my mom.
Patricio arrived then, barging into Gus’ office and pulling Eduardo up from his chair and into his arms. Peeking over Eduardo’s shoulder, Patricio implored, “He’s a good kid. The best. He shouldn’t be here.”
Eduardo buried his head against his dad’s chest, his face flaming red.
My jaw dropped open yet again as realization hit me.
Patricio wasn’t embarrassed because of his son. Eduardo was embarrassed because of his dad.
I headed to Miss Patty’s gallery after I left the police station. My mind was disorganized, and I hoped that a short walk and a visit with a friend whose mind was more cluttered than mine would clarify things.
Miss Patty was thrilled at the prospect of Eduardo being able to afford to quit his job to dedicate more of his precious time to art. She was too excited at the possibilities for him, I wasn’t sure if she heard me when I told her about Patricio.
There being no clarity to be found at Miss Patty’s, I didn’t stay long.
It was late, and I needed sustenance. Maybe some solid food would help. Mammy had already gone over to Sylvia’s restaurant to play pinochle with Abuelita, Tia Rosa, and whoever else they could convince to join them. Mammy only ever played for pennies, but she was a fierce competitor.
I found the ladies bunched around a table in the back corner of the dining room. Adi and Mammy were teamed up against Abuelita and Tia Rosa. From the glint in Mammy’s eyes and the unabashed gloat on Adi’s face, it was plain to see who was winning.
When the waitress brought their dinner plates out, they cleared off the table. Mammy and Adi high-fived each other in victory.
Before I’d dragged an extra chair over to their table, the waitress had brought me a plate of roast chicken with a green salad and fluffy, brown rice.
I took a few bites before I told them about my visit to the police station. They were as shocked as I had been to find out that Patricio was Eduardo’s dad.
As I had suspected they’d be, they were unanimously unhappy to learn about Angel Flores. When I told them how Gus had let him walk with nothing more than a warning, they were vocal in expressing their disapproval. Adi pulled out her phone, no doubt to tell Gus what she thought of his police work.
“Before you call to complain, let me finish,” I said.
“How do you know Angel isn’t the thief? He sounds greedy enough to break into your apartment and steal the other paintings. I bet he stole yours,” she said, her finger poised over the call button.
“That was my first thought, too. But Gus had an officer shadow him over the past few days. Angel has a solid alibi for the nights the other paintings were stolen, having a habit of eating his dinner at the same restaurant every night and staying to watch the soccer game on the large screen TV. And he passed a polygraph test.”
“Gus did that?” Adi exclaimed, her approval apparent. She slipped her phone back into her pocket.
“Angel offered to do it. He even invited the police to inspect his hotel room as well as his gallery and his home in Quito. He was so terrified of ending up in jail, he was very cooperative.” As much as I hated to admit it, doubt had settled in about Angel Flores being the art thief.
Abuelita, never one to give up on an accusation despite substantial proof, said, “He do it. Sal help him. They partners.”
We ignored her.
Mammy tapped her fork against her plate. “If Angel Flores knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave town. Still, if he really is innocent, then who stole the paintings? And where are the jewels?”
“And what does Eduardo have to do with all of this?” I added, my stomach sinking despite the delicious meal I’d just scarfed down.
Adi voiced my concern. “I know we keep dismissing the idea, but we might have to consider the possibility that Eduardo is the thief.”
“Then why is he telling on himself through his paintings?” I asked. It was the only argument I had in his favor, and I silently prayed nobody would come up with a reasonable explanation to rebut it. I didn’t want him to be guilty.
“Guilty conscience?” Adi suggested.
Tia Rosa pushed her plate away. “Is possible. He have many secret. Why he no say who is father? What he hide?” As soon as she spoke her idea aloud, Tia Rosa sank back in her chair. None of us liked to think of the possibility of Eduardo being the thief.
But she had a point. Eduardo was good at hiding secrets.
“If Eduardo keep one big secret for long time, is possible he keep more big secret,” Abuelita said, patting her stomach. “Maybe the gut wrong.”
Adi mumbled, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
I foresaw a long night with my bullet journal. If I saw everything written out, maybe I’d see the connection I
was missing.
Chapter 27
I didn’t have as much trouble getting up the next morning. My mind was too full.
I’d read a few chapters of another Agatha Christie novel the night before, hoping that some quality time spent with Miss Marple would hone my sleuthing skills. But I couldn’t tell you what I’d read. All I could think about was Eduardo, his paintings, his embarrassment at being seen with his dad, and the missing jewels. I was so close to finding out the truth, it felt like I could reach out and touch it.
As badly as I’d wanted to throw the blame on Angel Flores, I had to admit that his only offense was being a pushy creep. He wasn’t a burglar.
Which left Eduardo looking guiltier.
What was I missing?
I went up to the terrace, hoping the crisp air would clear my head and a few minutes of play with Lady would focus my thoughts. The only light bulb moment I got was a reminder that I needed to pay Patricio for his work.
Throwing Lady’s squeaky toy one more time, I decided to go to the garden center while the second batch of dough was rising. That would be late enough for his business to open and for my cases to be refilled.
“You’re going to have to put Bertha on your payroll for real. She’s not going anywhere,” Mammy said as we made our way to Patricio’s Garden Center, Lady prancing between us. “She’d probably be thrilled if you paid her in doughnuts,” she added with a snicker.
“No way! Abuelita can eat her weight in sugar. She’d make herself sick, and I’d go broke.” Maybe I should add diet-friendly varieties to my menu: gluten-free, dairy-free, sugarless…. It wasn’t a bad idea.
“She’s too ornery to get sick. She’ll outlive us all,” Mammy said.
“You can fight each other to set the new world record for longevity.” I didn’t like the reminder of Mammy’s mortality. In my mind, she was going to live forever because I couldn’t imagine my life without her.
“I’m up for the challenge. We have good genes in our family,” she said.
We walked through the open gate. Workers brought plants out, moving them around — some into the sun, others into the shade against the main building.
I saw Eduardo and waved at him, holding up my bill so he knew what I’d come for.
He gestured for us to follow him as he went behind the building and down the line of greenhouses to his work shed.
Patricio was there looking over his ledger. He wiped his hands off with a handkerchief before he extended it in greeting.
“Thank you for creating such a beautiful place for Lady. She’s happy, and we love it.” I handed him the money owed.
He wrote out a payment receipt, then dropped to his knees to pet Lady. She almost shoved him over, she was so happy to have Patricio’s attention.
“She’s going to miss you,” Mammy said.
“I’ll miss her too. I hope you’ll bring her around every now and again. Don’t forget I offered to exchange a few of the plants left from the terrace project to decorate your apartment. My boy here will explain how to care for them best.” Patricio ruffled Eduardo’s hair, resting his hand on his son’s shoulder.
I wondered how I hadn’t seen the connection earlier. Patricio had burst in pride when he’d mentioned he had a kid with a talent for the care of orchids. He’d been talking about his kid! It was so obvious now.
Eduardo tried not to smile at his father as Patricio continued, “I was impressed with how well you communicated with Eddie through your drawings.”
Eddie.
Mammy pressed her hand over her heart at Patricio’s use of her own son’s name. What had made me happy to see a moment ago — a father expressing affection for his son — now filled me with melancholy. I could only imagine how Mammy felt.
It was time to leave.
Saying our goodbyes and promising to visit with Lady again, we made our way out to the gravel parking lot. One of the gardeners was setting out the flowers in the fancy planters. They were still marked as sold. The hydrangeas were still there.
I counted them, remembering that there had been ten last time. When had that been? A week ago?
Eleven. I counted them again to be certain although I didn’t understand why it seemed so important. Again, I counted eleven. Strange…
I was tempted to ask the worker about them, but Mammy clutched my arm. “I’m sorry, Sugar. Most of the time, I’m fine, but I can’t help but feel that I should be able to hug my Eddie like Patricio hugs his son. It’s hitting me particularly hard today.”
Lady moved over to my other side, and I squeezed Mammy tighter to me. She sniffed and straightened her back, saying in forced cheer, “Nothing that can’t be fixed with some hard work. I think I’ll help out in the kitchen when we get back. I’ve been showing the gals some more of my recipes.”
The shop was crowded when we returned. I chatted with customers while I poured coffee and cleaned tables, stealing glances into the kitchen whenever I could to check on Mammy. She was dancing as she mixed another batch of frosting. “Fake it ‘til you make it” came to mind as I watched her.
Her ability to be cheerful when she’d experienced every mother’s worst nightmare was admirable. Only, with her refusal to believe my uncle was really gone, she’d never have closure.
I joined her, mixing up another bowl of strawberry frosting, swaying and singing along to a happy Michael Franti song when it hit me like a bolt of lightning. I dropped my wire whisk, which fortunately landed in the bowl of frosting, spattering me but saving the floor.
Everyone in the kitchen turned to look, and all I could do was jump in place.
“I know what happened!” I exclaimed, running my hand over my face and wiping the gooey frosting on my apron. “There’s just one thing I have to check before I’m sure.”
Grabbing Mammy, I led her upstairs where I pulled out my portfolio of Jungle Jane adventures and other drawings until I found what I needed. Miss Patty’s sketches.
Mammy plucked my cap off my head and suggested I wash up before we left. I was so excited, I’d forgotten that I’d probably missed a few splotches of frosting.
“Let’s take Lady with us to Miss Patty’s,” I suggested as I scrubbed my face indelicately with a washcloth, anxious to get going.
We were out the door and practically jogging down the street to Miss Patty’s when Mammy asked, “What’s this about?”
I was in so good a mood, I even waved at Sal-the-Mixer-Stealer as we passed his bakery. He wasn’t completely off the hook yet (and wouldn’t be until my mixer showed up), but he wasn’t the jewel thief.
“The same plants were there that we saw last week. The ones that are marked as sold. But, today, there was a new one. I didn’t think to notice what they were, but I just bet they’re carnations. Like Eduardo’s latest painting.” Between my excitement and my fast clip, complete sentences were out of the question.
Miss Patty locked up her gallery without question when I told her we needed her help so we could talk to Eduardo. If I was right, he was in the clear. Of course, other problems would come from it, but I had a hunch Eduardo already knew that. His paintings were proof of it.
We marched to the garden center, slowing when we got to the front gate. Looking around and seeing that the coast was clear, we moved directly to the sold flower pots.
Yep, carnations occupied container number eleven.
I picked up one, turning it around and examining it. I hadn’t brought a trowel or anything. As I poked around in the dirt, trying to pull the tiny hydrangea plant out without making a mess, I’d have been happy for even a spoon to root around with.
“What are you doing?” Mammy asked.
“I think the jewels are inside the pots.”
Apparently, my method was too slow. Before I could stop her, Mammy lifted the pot with the pink carnations in it and let it crash.
Miss Patty said, “Well, that’s one way to do it.”
I knelt down, shoving the dirt to the side. My fingers brushed against som
ething plastic. Releasing it with a tug, I pulled the plastic bag from the smashed remnants of the pot. Inside was a velvet rectangular box.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Eduardo and a couple of other gardeners coming toward us. I opened the box before they could stop me.
The diamonds sparkled in the sunshine — the same diamonds Señora Montalvo had worn in the portrait in her husband’s office.
Eduardo raised his hands to his head, pacing back and forth as he looked around.
Miss Patty waved the other gardeners away, then signed to Eduardo. “I suggested he take us to his work room so we can talk.”
I was tempted to drag the flower pots along with us. Now that I knew what they contained, I didn’t want them out of my sight.
Eduardo noticed. Grabbing a wheelbarrow, we loaded it up with the pots and wheeled it to his shed. He seemed to be resigned to what we’d found, convincing me further that he wasn’t the thief.
Once we were inside his shed, I said, “This is what happened,” feeling like a real detective. “It was what you told me, Miss Patty, that’s really the key to the whole thing. Eduardo paints what he sees. He’s not the thief, but he knows who is. He knew the thief hid the jewels in the potted plants, and he painted the combination together in his collection. It’s a sort of confession.”
I watched Eduardo as Miss Patty interpreted for him.
“I’m guessing Eduardo was upset at the thief. His conscience must have bothered him for not going to the police with what he knew, and this was his way of dealing with his moral dilemma.”
He sighed and bowed his head.
“But you regretted what you’d done, didn’t you?” I asked.
He looked up at me then and nodded his head.
Slowly, so he could read my lips, I said, “Amas a tu papa.” I repeated it in English for Mammy. “You love your dad.”
Miss Patty interpreted his reply. “Eduardo says: He promised me and my sister he’d quit, so when I found out he was stealing again, I was angry. I didn’t mean to paint what I did, but once it was done, I couldn’t bring myself to destroy my work either. When Miss Patty offered to sell them for me, all I could think of was getting the paintings out of the house and away from me and my dad. It seemed like the perfect solution.”