by Rick Polad
Her father had showings in a gallery in Chicago several times a year, which gave Kathleen a reason to come to Chicago. He died a year ago, and the gallery had invited Kathleen to continue the showings. I never understood why—her paintings weren’t that good. A year ago, a call from a client had rescued me from attending one of her shows. A few weeks ago, Aunt Rose had informed me that Kathleen would be having another show and would call me. I had started to make a list of excuses.
I called Stosh.
Chapter 3
Lt. Stanley Powolski answered in his usual why are you bothering me on my private line voice filled with all the charm of a billy goat.
“Morning, Stosh. Beautiful day to be alive.”
“That depends on why you’re calling. You canceling?”
Stosh and I had played gin and relaxed in front of the TV almost every Saturday afternoon for years.
“That depends. For the moment I’m looking for information. I just got a call from Aunt Rose. She says Kathleen Johnson has been arrested by Chicago police up in Door. Something to do with stolen art. You know anything about it?”
He sighed. “I do. An art dealer on Clark Street called on Wednesday. He said Kathleen stole a painting from his gallery.”
“What gallery? The one where she shows her paintings?”
“If that’s Simmons, then yes.”
That did nothing to help my confusion. “I was hoping to get something from you to clear this up, but you’re not helping.”
He humphed. “Sorry. I am here to serve you. What’s the problem?”
“What painting and why did they wait till this morning to arrest her?”
“Well, evidently she had shipped her paintings to the gallery for a showing and there was some confusion about them. They called us, then said there was nothing missing, and then called back and said there was.”
“Pardon?”
“One of the employees saw Kathleen walk out with a painting on Wednesday. So they called and said a painting had been stolen. We sent an officer over there. When he got there, they told him they must have made a mistake because all the paintings were there.”
“Did they explain that?”
“Yup. They called when the employee saw her walking out with a painting. While they were waiting for the officer, they counted her paintings, which were still in a crate that had been sent down from Door County. According to the order and the shipping list, there were supposed to be thirteen paintings.”
“How many were there?”
“Thirteen. They apologized. The officer left. The next day, Thursday, we get another call making the same complaint—there’s a missing painting.”
“Was alcohol involved?”
“I don’t need your smart-assed comments. They unpacked the crate on Thursday to put the paintings on display and there were only twelve. So they called back and filed a complaint.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. You sure about the alcohol?”
“Yes. And no, it doesn’t.”
“Did someone ask how the painting disappeared after Kathleen had left?”
“Yup. They assumed they had miscounted the first time.”
“What was missing?”
“Something called Harbor Nights.”
“Okay, so there’s all this confusion. Bottom line is, they are her paintings. She sent them for the purpose of selling them. Why would she take one? And if she did, why would it be theft?”
“Evidently Harbor Nights was already sold. I figured we’d find out when we picked her up.”
“Who arrested her?”
“Lonnigan and Steele. They questioned her. She said she did take a painting, but it was something called Blue and Green, which she said was hers. They asked her to produce it and she said she wouldn’t.”
“Strange. But sounds like Kathleen.”
“And since the owner of the gallery swore out a complaint, they’re bringing her back.”
I glanced at the clock. They’d be back midafternoon. “Have Rosie call me when they get back.”
“What happened to please?”
“Please.”
He hung up. He and Aunt Rose could use a phone etiquette course.
I had known Rosie Lonnigan since high school. Our first topic of conversation was that she had the same name as my aunt. We had become great friends and attended the police academy together.
I like things to make sense and nothing about this did. But all the time I’d spent with Kathleen had taught me that very little of what she did made any sense. I had five hours to catch up on some sleep—after a few phone calls.
***
I called the Ephraim police station. Chief Iverson answered.
“Good morning, Chief Iverson. My name is Spencer Manning. I’m calling to get some information about Kathleen Johnson who I understand was arrested this morning.”
“And you are?”
“I’m a private detective in Chicago and a friend of Miss Johnson.”
“Private detective, huh.” He didn’t sound too thrilled. “All I can tell you is we assisted with the arrest request from Chicago.”
“Is she still there?”
“Nope. Left with two detectives about a half hour ago.”
“Do you know anything about why she was arrested?”
“Yup.”
I sighed. “And?”
“Do you remember the first thing I told you about all I can tell you?”
“I do. Thanks for your help.”
I guess I couldn’t blame him, but less sarcasm would have been nice. I was glad the case was in Chicago where I was used to a friendly conversation—most of the time.
***
My next call was to Ben, my favorite attorney. His hello was more cheerful.
“Morning, Ben. How are you enjoying leave?” Ben had told the State’s Attorney’s Office he was taking a year off from his public defender duties to re-evaluate his life.
“Pretty well, Spencer. Lots of golf and fishing.”
“Any progress with the job problem?” After a sad ending to his last case and a girlfriend who walked out because she thought he shouldn’t be defending criminals, Ben had taken some time off to think about what he wanted to do with his law degree.
“No. I know ignoring it isn’t going to solve the problem, but thinking about it gets in the way of my golf swing. What’s up?”
I laughed. “Kathleen has been arrested in Ephraim by Chicago police. They’re bringing her back here.”
“Arrested? What for?”
“Good question. It’s a little strange. Theft of art.”
“Okay, what’s strange about that?”
“Well, it was her art. She had a showing at Simmons on Clark. Evidently she took one of the pieces back home to Door.”
“Okay. Still don’t see the problem.”
“I don’t know much, but evidently there was some confusion with the paintings. They kept changing their minds.”
“About what?”
“About whether or not something was stolen, first of all. Then, she does admit to taking a painting, but she says it was a different painting than the one they say she took.”
“Sounds like fun. And what do you want from me?”
“They’ll be back here mid-afternoon. Please go to the bond hearing. I’ll post bond.”
“And after that?”
“Bring her back to my place and I’ll find out what’s going on.”
“Okay. You going to be at home?”
“Yup. Late night. Gonna try and get a few more hours of sleep.” I’d tell him later about the girl with the cow bell.
“Okay, I’ll call when I find out times.”
“Thanks, Ben. Much appreciated.” I paused. I had just thought of something. “But don’t be surprised if she doesn’t make it to Chicago.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
With a little smile Ben couldn’t see, I said, “That means I just remembered something. Maybe nothing. Let me
know.”
“Sure, always fun playing games with you, Spencer. See ya.”
“Yup.”
My smile got bigger as I flopped back onto the bed. I had a guess as to why Kathleen had Aunt Rose call Rusty. Kathleen was one scrappy girl. I loved that about her—too bad the rest didn’t work out.
I was back asleep before I had a chance to think about what was going on.
Chapter 4
Sleep only lasted an hour until the phone rang again. It was Stosh.
“Spencer, Kathleen escaped.”
My smile was back. My guess was right. “Hmmm, interesting.”
“Hmmm, interesting. That helps a lot. You know something I don’t?”
“From my humble abode in Chicago?” I asked innocently.
“Yeah, from your humble abode in Chicago.”
“Next time you hear from Rosie, have her call me.”
Stosh humphed. It was his trademark. “Sure, she’s got nothing better to do, like looking for an escaped prisoner.” He hung up.
I called Ben and filled him in. He had the afternoon off.
***
After all the interruptions I was wide awake, so I made some bacon and eggs and ate out on the deck. White, fluffy clouds and a slight breeze promised a nice day.
I had just finished the last piece of bacon when the phone rang.
“Morning, Spencer.”
“Hey, Rosie. Bad day?”
“A whole week of bad days. What do you know about this?”
“Whoa, Detective. I just found out she was arrested a couple hours ago.”
“And since then you have what?”
“A few questions.”
She sighed. “If they’re going to improve my day, ask.”
She sounded discouraged, as well she should.
“Did she get you to stop along the way?”
“Yeah, said she had to pee.”
“And would that have been at Gruber’s Garage? Rundown gas station just over the canal before Sturgeon Bay? One pump out in front and junker cars scattered on the sides? And was there a green, battered, old pickup on the side of the garage by the bathroom?” That pickup hadn’t moved in twenty years.
Silence. “Yes. And how do you know all this?”
“Didn’t—lucky guess.”
“Uh huh. Sure. Do I get an explanation or do I have you picked up as an accomplice?”
“For making a lucky guess?”
“No, for having information about a crime.”
“I’m in Chicago, Rosie. All I know is she escaped.”
“Sure, and all the rest? You just described the crime scene.”
“I’m a detective—a good one. I take clues and make good guesses.”
“Those aren’t good guesses, Spencer—they’re perfect guesses. And you know something I don’t. She was your girlfriend. Did she call you?”
“She did not. Those were really just guesses, Rosie.”
“This is serious, Spencer. Do you know where she is?”
“I do not. But if I hear anything, I’ll call Stosh.”
Her big exhale was loud and filled with exasperation. “Sure you will. Thanks for nuthin’. I’ll find her myself.”
“Good luck with that, Rosie.”
I think she had hung up before hearing my good wishes. There was a click in there somewhere.
I knew I wouldn’t hear from Kathleen. She had already sent her message by telling Aunt Rose to call me. She knew I would start looking into it. She also knew of my relationship with the police, and that if she did call I would have to tell someone. So I knew I wouldn’t hear from her unless she was in big trouble.
It didn’t surprise me that Kathleen had escaped. That was one of the things I had loved about her. She was smart and very cunning. Rosie never had a chance. Most people call a lawyer with their one phone call. Kathleen had called my Aunt Rose and asked her to call the two people she needed help from—me and Rusty. Rusty, one of her uncles, is the nickname for Gus Gruber, the owner of the gas station where Rosie had stopped because Kathleen had to pee. Kathleen had escaped through the window of his gas station many times in high school, whenever she had a date she wasn’t happy with. She would just disappear, leaving a hopeful teenage male wondering why he was suddenly alone. One memorable, hot Saturday night one of those hopeful males was me.
I felt badly for Rosie. She wouldn’t find Kathleen. You couldn’t walk fifty feet in Door County without bumping into one of her relatives, and they would all do whatever was needed to help her.
As I walked back to the bedroom, I thought briefly about my first step and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Get Harbor Nights now!
