Murder After Hours

by Rayna Morgan

  He hoped Gloria would be glad to see him. He never knew what to expect. Sometimes she treated him as a hero. Other times, she acted as though he didn’t exist.

  She hates Henry. Thinks he treats me like dirt. She’s mistaken. Henry is all right, but he’s spoiled. As the single boy of four children, his sisters pampered him. His parents were too worn out to discipline their youngest.

  He stopped at an intersection to make a left turn. The driver behind him honked.

  Shorty shoved his head out the window.

  “What do you want me to do!” he yelled. “I gotta wait for the light.”

  He finally made the turn. The irate driver sped past in the other lane.

  Shorty’s own anger escalated as he thought more about his boss.

  Henry's biggest problem is his attitude. He only works in order to play. He’s not interested in the business. Only started it to keep Sandra off his back. Hates gettin’ his hands dirty. A bad trait for a landscaper. I wish I had the money to buy him out. I’d make a go of it.

  He entered a low income neighborhood of older houses with peeling paint and broken roof shingles. He drove down the street where they lived, careful to steer clear of potholes or reckless kids on skateboards.

  If I owned the business, Gloria could quit her job at the nail salon. We could move out of the dump we’re livin’ in.

  Her car was in the driveway in front of the small house they rented. He parked behind her, blocking the sidewalk.

  What the heck. Let people walk around.

  He walked over to Gloria’s vehicle. It was leaning to one side.

  “Damn.” He kicked the flat tire before stomping into the house.

  Coming home early was ruined.

  • • •

  “Gloria, you here?” he hollered. He turned off the blaring television as soon as he entered the house.

  A young woman walked out of the bedroom, toweling curly, black hair. “Hey, I was listening to the news while I washed away the chemical smells from the shop.”

  She followed him to the kitchen where he took a beer from the refrigerator.

  “I’m sure that gunk you put on your customers’ nails causes your breathin’ problems,” he said. “How many times I told you to wear a mask?”

  “I’d feel silly.”

  “Better than feelin’ dizzy.”

  He pushed aside a stack of bills on the table and sat down. “What happened to your tire?”

  “Ah, drats. It looked low when I left work. Did it go flat?”

  “Flatter than a pancake.”

  She grabbed his beer. “Thanks for offering me one.”

  Her voice was testy as she took a sip. “I need my car to get groceries tomorrow. All that's left in the cupboard is spaghetti.”

  “Get your own beer. There’s another one in there.” He swiped the top of the can with his sleeve. “I’ll take care of your tire in the morning before I go to work.”

  She slammed the refrigerator door. “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “It sounds like we’re getting a new customer. I want to get started at the lady’s house.”

  “You promised we’d go to the races at the speedway,” she whined.

  “Give me a break, woman. I’ll finish in time.” He drained his beer and mumbled, “A guy can’t catch a moment of peace.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Never mind.”

  “You better give me grocery money now in case you’re gone when I wake up.”

  He pulled some wrinkled bills from his pocket and threw them on the table. “Don’t spend it all. We won’t have enough for the races.”

  “I wonder what it’s like not having to choose between food or entertainment.”

  “I’m doin’ everything I can,” he groaned.

  “Why don’t you sell that stuff stored in the shed? It must be worth plenty for you to keep it padlocked the way you do.”

  “That stuff is none of your business,” he growled. “Stay away from it.”

  “Don’t yell at me. What have you and your boss been up to lately that’s made you so jumpy?”

  “I said it’s none of your business.”

  He grabbed his keys and stomped out of the room. The screen door slammed.

  “Where are you going?” she yelled.

  “To find Henry. He may be a drink or two ahead, but I can catch up.”

  She slumped onto the couch. Her eyes teared as the sound of his worn out muffler grew dimmer.

  I love Shorty, but I hate the way we're living.

  She finished drying her hair and let the towel drop to her lap.

  I hate Henry, too. I know what they're doing.

  Shorty’s the one who will get in trouble. I warned him, but he never listens to me.

  It didn’t matter. She’d heard a news announcement before her boyfriend turned off the TV.

  Swinging the wet towel, she danced around the room. Grabbing a handful of dollars, she threw them in the air.

  It’s a way out for us, a solution to our money problems. Shorty may get mad at first, but he’ll end up thanking me.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Maddy poured a glass of wine and relaxed in front of the fireplace to wait for the appraiser. The warmth of the fire offset the moist heavy fog from a cool evening.

  Why did I let Lea talk me into this? I could be spending this time with Tom. Instead, I’m conspiring with my sister to do something that would upset him if he knew.

  She rested her head on the sofa, inhaling the aroma of jasmine-scented candles. Her eyes traveled to the spot on the wall usually covered by a picture of sailboats which she found at a starving artists' sale.

  For this occasion, an impressionist painting owned by Art Patton replaced the peaceful harbor scene.

  She pondered over how to interpret the artist’s work. Is there some hidden meaning in the dark colors and grotesque shapes?

  If so, the message escaped her. She didn’t care. She preferred the cheerful colors of the sailboats.

  The sound of a motor shifting gears caught her attention.

  Pulling aside the curtain, she watched amused as the driver maneuvered his car into a tight space in front of her cottage. The narrow lanes leading to the beach made parking difficult.

  The short man who appeared at her door wore a tweed jacket, platform shoes, and thick glasses. He whisked past her, surveying the room with a critical eye.

  “Interesting blend of motifs,” he said.

  I told Lea this wouldn’t work.

  She offered a weak explanation. “I’m attempting to broaden my taste.”

  “I advise you to find your lane of artistic preference and stick to it.”

  Wasting no time, he moved straight to the painting. He walked back and forth for several moments, studying it from different angles.

  “May I offer you some wine?” she asked.

  “No, thank you.” He put his hands on the frame. “I need to see the back.”

  “Help yourself.” She gulped, worried he would notice the outline of the other picture.

  Several minutes passed before he folded his glasses and put them in a pocket.

  “Where did you get it?” he asked.

  “My aunt died.” She stuck to the script Lea devised, allowing her eyes to tear up. “We were close, auntie and I. She left me all the stuff in her attic. Most of it was garage sale junk, but there were a few gems.”

  She helped him replace the picture. “I could probably appraise it myself. You know, research online for similar art. Lea advised I should consult a professional.”

  “Lea?”

  “My sister.”

  “Your sister’s a smart woman. Appraisal is a science, not a guessing game. Database resources only give random ideas of what an object might be worth. A person can make big mistakes if they misinterpret that data.

  “A layman is not qualified to appraise art. You shouldn’t try to do it yourself. When you need legal assistance, you hire an attorney,
right? For medical advice, you see a doctor. It’s always best to hire someone qualified.”

  “I see your point. My sister's right, as usual.”

  “Besides, if you plan to insure this painting, which I strongly advise, the broker will ask for a professional appraisal.”

  “Will I need special insurance?”

  “A painting this valuable isn't covered under a basic homeowner policy.”

  Maddy appeared puzzled. “I only have standard coverage. Should I contact my agent?”

  “I can recommend a broker who specializes in high value items.”

  “Thank you. I feel better using a personal recommendation.”

  He pulled out a card and handed it to her.

  She read the name.

  “You’re the second person to refer me to this broker. One of my customers had a picture stolen. It was an upsetting experience, but they were pleased with the outcome.”

  “Did they recover the painting?”

  “Not so far. Happily, the piece was over insured. The payment they received was equal to several replacements.”

  “Good for them. They're lucky to have a broker who looks out for their interests.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s common for people to under insure their art collection.”

  “How does that happen?”

  “People build collections out of love whether it’s art, antiques, or jewelry. They fail to exercise the same precaution they apply to other assets. They insure items for the price they bought them for, which is often far lower than replacement cost since the sum originally paid has no bearing on current value.”

  “Ah, the woes of being a collector,” Maddy mumbled.

  He ignored her comment. “I hope your customers have an appraisal to support their claim.”

  “As a matter of fact, they do. Perhaps you did it for them.”

  “Who are your customers?”

  “Johnson. George and Alberta Johnson.”

  The appraiser reacted to their name, but Maddy couldn’t interpret his reaction.

  His next remark was terse. “I'll mail your report as soon as I finish.”

  Lea is anxious. She won’t want to wait. “Would you email a copy? I hate waiting for snail mail.”

  “Certainly.

  “How often will I need a new appraisal?”

  “I recommend an updated report once a year. People wait three to five years but asset valuation is volatile, especially for this kind of art.”

  He’s got repeat business down to a science. I wish I had a way to convince my customers to buy every year.

  He pointed to the card she held in her hand. “I can email a copy to the broker. It will expedite things. You don’t want to waste time getting coverage.”

  “What are you suggesting might happen to it?”

  “You never know.”

  The hair on her arms stood up. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “You won’t need to worry. The appraisal will provide evidence to support any claims.”

  He walked to the door and glanced back at the picture. “It’s irreplaceable. You’ll sleep better knowing you’ve taken steps to protect it.”

  Maddy stuck out her tongue as her visitor drove away.

  What was that comment about sleeping better? I sleep just fine.

  If worrying over possessions keeps rich people awake at night, I’ll stick to my flea market specials.

  She looked at the bizarre, dreamlike picture above the fireplace.

  Those disturbing images would keep anyone awake.

  She leaned over the couch to close the curtain. Cloud-like fingers of fog trailed past the window. Shivering, she dropped a log on the fire and poured herself another glass of wine.

  • • •

  After leaving the house and navigating a turn in the small lane, the appraiser called Ian.

  “I have a new client. I’m doing an appraisal on an impressionist painting she owns. I’ll fax you a copy before I send her the written report. Insuring that painting will be worth your time.”

  “Are there other assets in the home worth insuring?”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Is she savvy enough to notice the inflated value you’ll give her?”

  “No way. She wouldn’t know a Picasso from an Andy Warhol.”

  “How did she get hold of you?”

  “She works at a furniture store. Says a customer referred me. She also said her sister is your client.”

  “What’s the woman’s name?”

  “Maddy Conley.”

  “I don’t know any Conleys.”

  “Her sister may have a different last name. Her first name is Lea.”

  “Lea Austin?”

  “The only name she mentioned was Lea.”

  “I only have one client named Lea. She's the person who stumbled onto the dead body. The one who’s been snooping around. I don’t like it. Stay away from her. In fact, stay clear of them both.”

  “You worry too much. Sandra’s death has nothing to do with us.”

  “That won’t be proven until the murderer is found. In the meantime, those two could be trouble.”

  “All right. If that’s what you think is best.”

  “I don’t think, I know. I mean it. Keep as far away from the sisters as you can.”

  The appraiser ended the call.

  Ian’s losing his nerve. I deserve to be paid. I’ll prepare the appraisal and an invoice for services rendered. There’s no need to send Ian a copy.

  He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

  In fact, it’s time for this gig to pay off in a much bigger way.

  He called Henry Dade.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The five-hour drive went quickly. Time always flew when Tom and Maddy were together.

  The first hour, they enjoyed ocean views with Maddy keeping an eye peeled for seasonal whale migration.

  At times, they chatted. Other times they remained quiet, free to let their mind wander without the other person encroaching.

  During the inland part of the trip, they sang along with their favorite songs on the radio. Tom laughed when Maddy sang country western with a southern twang.

  When their voices were hoarse from singing and laughing, Tom tuned the radio to a sports station.

  “Do you mind?” he asked her.

  “Not at all.”

  She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. Her light snoring made him smile.

  By mid-afternoon, they arrived at Silicon Valley, home to many of the world's largest high tech corporations.

  He shook her shoulder gently. “We’re almost there. Help me watch for the turnoff.”

  They drove through the outskirts of San Jose until they found their destination, a single story dwelling in a middle income neighborhood.

  After Tom parked at the curb, Maddy lowered the visor and used the mirror to freshen her lipstick. “How should we play this? I don’t look like a cop.”

  “When I called, I explained my visit is unofficial and I would be bringing a friend.”

  The door opened before they knocked as though someone had been watching. Tom presented his credentials to a well-groomed woman of middle age.

  “Ms. Anderson, I’m Detective Elliot. This is my friend Maddy. We’ve come to talk about your niece, Sandra Dade.”

  “Come in.”She stood aside to let them enter. “Please, call me Carla.”

  She led them into a tastefully furnished room bright with sunshine.

  “Did you have trouble finding my house?”

  “Not at all. I appreciate your taking time to meet with us.”

  “It’s no problem. With the overtime I put in, I don’t have to ask twice to leave early.” She avoided his gaze to look down at her hands. “Besides, the murder of my niece is not something I care to discuss in front of co-workers. They like to gossip.”

  She sat in a straight back chair across from the couch where her visitors sat.r />
  “Where are you employed?” Tom asked.

  “I work at a tech company, as do most people in town.”

  She rested her arms on the chair and crossed her ankles.

  “I’ve been with the company for over twenty years. I suppose I’m considered a relic in terms of today’s job-hopping work force. Software engineers jump ship when they become bored or receive better offers elsewhere. I work in finance, a division with more longevity.”

  “Some companies themselves don’t last long,” Tom observed.

  “It's true,” Carla agreed. “Tech companies are often here and gone in five years. Some start-ups which succeed relocate to less expensive parts of the country and offer employees bonuses to move with them. One company pays people willing to transfer ten thousand dollars.”

  “Have you ever considered such a move?” Maddy asked.

  “Not for me. Living here, I’ve been through earthquakes, fires, and floods. I still prefer it to hurricanes and alligators.”

  She watched Tom’s eyes skirt the room. “There are no family pictures if that’s what you’re looking for. Sandra was the last member of my immediate family.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Tom said.

  The woman took a moment to regain her composure.

  “My sister and I were both unlucky in love. She was an unwed mother who raised a child on her own. I never married.”

  They waited for her to continue.

  “I know it’s rare, but some people still have one love in life. Mine was my high school sweetheart. We knew each other through grade school. Fell in love at a freshman dance. On his last leave from the army, we set a date and lined up a church.”

  An invisible veil clouded her eyes. “He was killed in action two weeks later.”

  The room fell silent except for the ticking of a clock.

  A moment later, she continued. “I had another offer of marriage which I turned down. Perhaps it’s another way I’m a relic. It’s common now for people to marry multiple times.”

  She stared out the window and sighed. “His was the only love I ever wanted.”

  Tom moved the conversation to a more comfortable topic.

  “We’re here to obtain background on Sandra. We’re hoping you can fill in the years before her move to Buena Viaje by telling us about your sister and Sandra’s father.”