Murder After Hours

by Rayna Morgan

  “We may have a new motive for Sandra’s murder. A dollar sign followed by a string of zeroes.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Drop me off here. Park around the corner,” Henry instructed. “Approach the house from the alley. The neighbors have dogs. The mutts know me, so they won’t bark. Seeing you in a hoody will set them off. At this time of night, they’ll wake the neighbors.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Henry got out of the car quietly. “I’ll open the back door once I’m inside.”

  Shorty drove away.

  As Henry walked the rest of the way to his destination, he observed the upstairs window of the house across the street. As he expected, the dog stood on hind legs with paws planted on the sill. Movement of the canine's body suggested her tail was wagging. He relaxed.

  Having watched Ida on numerous occasions, Henry knew she hid a key under a potted plant. He entered and locked the front door behind him.

  He got his bearings from familiar objects as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Removing his shoes, he padded through the kitchen in stocking feet. The outline of a hooded bulky figure was visible at the door.

  Henry turned the lock and Shorty jerked on the handle. “Hurry, man, let me in. It’s cold out here.”

  “Be quiet. Follow me. No more talking.”

  Henry listened intently. The only sounds as they climbed the stairs were Shorty’s heavy breathing and the ticking of a grandfather clock.

  He stopped at the second landing and held up his hand. When he looked down the hall, he smiled.

  Ida once said she closed her bedroom door at night even though she lived alone.

  “To keep ghosts away. A silly childhood habit I’ve never been able to break.”

  He laughed at her. “Ghosts can float through doors.”

  “If they don’t see me,” she said, “they won’t have reason to come to my room.”

  “How will you know there are goblins if you don’t observe them?”

  “If there are goblins in my house, I don’t want to see.”

  Her childish belief, which he dismissed at the time, was paying off.

  He pointed toward the next flight of stairs. Shorty followed.

  They reached the attic where Henry held his breath. This is where his plan might fail.

  When the old woman showed him the paintings, he foolishly recommended securing the room where she stored valuables. He hoped she ignored his advice.

  A sigh of relief. There was no lock.

  He twisted the knob and entered the small, dusty room.

  Hoping she hadn’t moved the picture, he hurried to the rear of the room. He could ill afford to search if it wasn’t where he expected.

  Another sigh of relief when he saw the tall frame covered in bubble wrap. The covering hung loosely at one corner exposing the gilded edge of the picture.

  Someone looked at it recently. If she’s found a buyer, I’m just in time.

  After securing the wrapping, he motioned Shorty to the other side and they hoisted the picture between them.

  The narrow stairway from the attic was barely wide enough for Shorty. At one point, he stumbled, dropping his side of the frame and leaning against the wall for balance.

  “Be careful,” Henry hissed, more concerned about the painting than his companion.

  He looked down the staircase. We’re so close. Ten steps to mission accomplished.

  Loud moaning followed by a scream made him jump. He halted abruptly, causing a near collision with the other man.

  “Did you hear that?” Shorty grabbed Henry’s shirt. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Shh.”

  They stood motionless, speechless and breathless. The moaning stopped.

  Ida told him she’d grown used to living without her husband, but nights were the worst.

  No wonder nighttime bothered her if something frightening enough to cause that scream waited for her when she fell asleep.

  The house resumed its stillness. They continued their descent and hurried out the back.

  “Take the painting,” Henry ordered. “I'm going to replace the key and scratch the door to make it look like a break-in. Pick me up in front.”

  Moments later, he stepped into Shorty’s car. His heart didn’t stop racing until they drove out of the neighborhood.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, Lea received a call from a distraught neighbor.

  “What's wrong, Ida?” she asked.

  “I got to thinking about what you said.”

  “What I said about what?”

  “Putting that picture where people can enjoy it. When I went to the attic to get it—”

  Lea caught her breath. “You didn’t hurt yourself going up those stairs, I hope.”

  “Don't be silly. The painting is the problem, not the stairs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The seascape isn’t there. It’s gone!”

  Lea gasped.

  “I forget where I put things from time to time,” Ida admitted, “but I couldn’t have misplaced anything that big.”

  Lea’s mind raced. “Of course not. Your painting’s been stolen. Did you have any visitors last night?”

  “No one. I had dinner by myself, watched TV, and went to bed.”

  A moment’s pause. “There is one thing though.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “I heard a noise.”

  “What kind of noise?” Lea asked.

  “I’m not sure. My hearing’s not what it used to be. Once I take my hearing aids out, I’m lucky to hear anything.”

  “Where were the noises coming from?”

  “Somewhere over my head. I figured it was a squirrel running across the roof. I rolled over and fell back asleep.”

  Lea breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.

  “Consider that. Someone in the attic while I was sleeping. Spooky, isn’t it?”

  “More than spooky, Ida, it’s dangerous. If you had looked for the cause of the noise, you might have been hurt.”

  Or worse. She kept the thought to herself, not wanting to frighten the woman.

  “Think carefully, Ida. Who besides me has seen the painting?” She waited for a response, eager for her hunch to be confirmed.

  “Ian, of course, and the appraiser he sent.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Oh, yes. The nice young man who takes care of my yard.”

  “Henry Dade?”

  “The last time he was here, I was muttering about needing something to cover the painting. Henry said he had bubble wrap I could use. He even wrapped the picture for me.”

  “Call the police, Ida. Tell them everything you’ve told me. Ask for Lieutenant Elliot, Major Crimes Division.”

  “Oh, dear. Is this considered a major crime?”

  “It's not only a major crime, but one of particular interest to the detective.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As Maddy walked through her garden inspecting flowers, she called her sister for their usual morning chat.

  “What’s going on in your neck of the woods this beautiful sunny day?”

  “Plenty. We had a burglary last night.”

  Maddy responded to the excitement in her sister’s voice. “Someone broke in your house?”

  “No, silly, not our house. Ida Allen’s place across the street. The police are there now.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “Ida phoned while I was fixing coffee. A valuable painting has been stolen from her attic.”

  “What makes her think it's been stolen?” Maddy asked. “She probably misplaced it.”

  “You can’t assume everyone of a certain age is forgetful,” Lea said. “Besides, I saw it with my own eyes yesterday. There’s no doubt it’s been taken.”

  “So what is this piece of art Ida considers to be of value?”

  “An original Kinkade seascape.”

  “Whoa!” Maddy dropped her
gardening gloves. “If Ida has an original Kinkade, she has more in her belfry than bats.”

  “You only have a low opinion of her because she yells when you double park on our street.”

  Maddy ignored Lea’s comment. “This is the second art theft I've heard about this week.”

  “Your turn to tell.”

  “Customers of mine, George and Alberta Johnson, had a painting stolen.”

  “The ones who live in Rolling Hills?”

  “They were attending a dinner party when a picture worth twelve million dollars was stolen from their house.”

  “I’d call that an expensive dinner party.”

  “They were lucky. Insurance more than covered it.”

  Lea didn’t respond, so Maddy continued.

  “You’ll be interested to know who handles their insurance.”

  “What?” Lea sounded distracted. “Sorry. I was watching the police car leave. Go ahead.”

  “Ian Alexander.”

  “You’re right,” Lea agreed. “I am interested.”

  The ensuing silence worried Maddy.

  “I hear your gray cells churning. What are you thinking?”

  “I'm only trying to connect the dots,” Lea answered vaguely. “You know. Find a common denominator.”

  “Why are you trying to do that?”

  “Because maybe we can help my neighbor recover her painting.”

  “Hold on! I’m only sharing news. I have no reason to turn this into a cause.”

  “That’s not true for me. Ida takes care of our dogs when we’re gone. Helping her will give me lifetime pet-sitting privileges.”

  “Considering the probable length of her lifetime, it’s not worth getting involved.”

  “What do we have to lose except a small amount of time?” Lea asked.

  “For starters, the good will of your husband and my boyfriend.”

  “You worry too much. I’m seeing Ian later this week about the brochure. It won’t hurt to inquire about developments.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “You could do the same.”

  Maddy’s antenna went up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Talk to Tom. His unit handles burglaries. Next time you see him, ask about the paintings.”

  “Have you forgotten? He warned you off one crime already.”

  “That’s right, but he won’t suspect your interest in stolen art considering the business you’re in.”

  “He will when he finds out Ida Allen lives across the street from you.”

  “Just talk to him, Mad. Let me know what you find out.”

  “All right, but you’ll owe me.”

  Maddy was eager to return to her pruning. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Wait!”

  “Now what?”

  “There’s something else I need you to do. Let me buy you lunch at the hotel so I can explain.”

  “You’re springing for lunch? It must be big!”

  “See you at noon,” Lea said. She hung up before Maddy could object.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was noon at the Major Crimes Division of the Buena Viaje Police Department. The squad room was deserted except for the lieutenant and the rookie, busy tracking down information about the victim.

  Pat walked to the board and picked up a marker. She drew a line from the victim’s name and scribbled some words.

  Tom emerged from his office. “What did you find?”

  “Not what, who.” She pointed to the name she had written. “Carla Anderson.”

  “Who is Carla Anderson?”

  “Sandra’s aunt. Her mother’s sister. She lives close to where Sandra grew up in the Silicon Valley.”

  “Get me an address and a number,” Tom barked.

  He returned to his office where he hit the speed dial button on his phone.

  “How would you like to spend our date night tomorrow in San Francisco, Maddy?”

  “You read my mind,” she replied. “I’ve been thinking about a weekend up there. What’s the occasion?”

  “I have to make a trip to the Silicon Valley to interview a person on the Sandra Dade murder case.”

  Maddy’s ears perked up. “Who?”

  “I’ll only disclose that information if you agree to go with me.”

  “You drive a hard bargain. I’ll talk to the other sales associates and find someone to cover my shift.”

  “Let me know if you can make it.”

  “So, who are we going to see?”

  “You mean, who am I interviewing? You’ll find out when we get there, but you won’t be taking part in the conversation. Pick you up tomorrow morning at ten.”

  He hung up.

  Pat knocked on his door and handed him a sheet of paper.

  “Here are the insurance brokers who specialize in art. Look who popped up at the top of the list.”

  Tom read the name. A smile crossed his face.

  “Well, well. It looks as though we need to have another chat with Ian Alexander.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lea parked at the hotel next to the pier and walked through the lobby.

  She waved at the young woman at the check-in desk. Amber Owens gave a thumbs up before turning back to her customer.

  At the restaurant, Lea found a table where she and her sister could talk without being overheard. As a waitress approached, she pressed a button on her cell phone.

  “How far away are you?”

  “Trying to find a place to park,” Maddy answered.

  Lea declined menus and ordered salads.

  Looking around, she saw Ian Alexander seated at the bar beside a man wearing an expensive Italian suit. She considered saying hello, but they appeared to be in a heated conversation.

  A tap on her shoulder made her jump. “I hope you haven’t ordered yet.”

  “Their Cobb salad is the best in the city. I ordered two.”

  “I’ve eaten healthy twice this week already,” Maddy complained, sitting down.

  “It’s good for you. No more clogged arteries.”

  “The only thing clogging my system is all this rabbit food. Healthy eating is killing me.”

  Lea pointed toward a young man mixing drinks. “There’s the bartender we talked to during our last case.”

  Maddy turned in that direction. “Yeah. So what?”

  “Go over and say hello.”

  “We’ll stop on our way out.”

  “They may be gone by then.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Ian Alexander and the man he’s with.”

  “You know him. You go.”

  “I don’t have a reason to interrupt them, but I’d love to know what they’re talking about.”

  “You want me to be your fly on the wall?”

  “Please, Mad,” Lea begged.

  Maddy threw her handbag on a chair. “This means you’re buying lunch, including dessert. I’m ordering something chocolate and gooey to clog my arteries.”

  Lea watched her sister take a seat beside the two men before her view was blocked by the waitress placing beverages and bread sticks on the table.

  Maddy returned moments later, carrying two glasses with celery stalks sticking out the top.

  “You ordered Bloody Marys!” Lea exclaimed.

  “I needed a reason to be there, didn’t I?”

  Lea glanced in Ian’s direction. He sat alone, nursing his drink.

  “Did you learn anything?” she asked her sister.

  “Not much. The older guy called for the tab when I got within range.”

  “You must have heard something.”

  “They kept their voices low. I could hardly lean over them.”

  She stirred her drink with the stalk of celery. “All I caught was the last thing the short guy said when he stood to leave and slapped Ian on the back.

  “‘You’re in this as deep as I am,’ he said. ‘If I go down, I’ll make sure you go with me.’”


  “Just as I suspected.” A smug look crossed Lea’s face. “I’m certain Ian and Henry are up to no good. He must be the person they’re in cahoots with.”

  The broker drained his drink and threw some bills on the bar.

  Lea turned away not wanting him to see her, but he left without looking in either direction.

  “Thanks, Mad. Great job.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I recognized the other man. It’s Alberta Johnson’s husband. The one whose priceless painting was stolen.”

  “So he claimed.” Lea beamed and the sisters tapped their glasses together.

  “Now, may I relax and enjoy my lunch?” Maddy grumbled. “Not that I’ll enjoy what you ordered. Besides, it’s time to spill your reason for inviting me.”

  “I’m trying to determine who else is involved in the thefts. An appraisal is required in order for collectors to insure their art. I’d like to learn more about that process.”

  Maddy looked relieved. “No problem. I’ll give you the names of some appraisers.”

  “That’s not what I need. I already have the name of Ida’s appraiser. It’s something else I have in mind.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “I want you to order an appraisal.”

  “You must be joking! Which painting in my home warrants an estimate of value?”

  “Find out what you can about what’s involved,” Lea continued, ignoring her sister’s comment. “Especially who has information about the location and value of pieces appraised.”

  “Did you hear my objection?”

  “I understand the problem. The flea market specials on your wall won’t interest an appraiser.”

  “There’s no need to rub it in,” Maddy pouted.

  “It doesn’t matter. You have access to paintings any appraiser would be thrilled to work with.”

  “Now I know you’re crazy. I hope you aren’t suggesting I use a painting from the store.”

  “No. It needs to be more expensive, something from a gallery.”

  Maddy expelled a sigh of relief. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I don’t have the kind of connections with galleries which allow me to borrow their artwork.”

  “Maybe not, but your customers own expensive paintings. Your store does framing and finishing. Offer a free framing so you can borrow a customer’s picture for the weekend.”