by DL Cook
Back in the car a disappointed Libby said, “What if he stole it and threw it away? What if he destroyed it? I thought that's what he said.”
Don shook his head. “The painting's too valuable to get rid of. Call it a policeman's hunch. If Flemming took it, we'd have found it. No,” he accidentally backed the car into a fire hydrant, “I don't think he took it.” They drove away with a geyser behind them. An old man waved his cane at them. Don waved back.
“I think you're right,” Libby said after a time. “But why would he confess?”
“There was something in his house he didn't want us to see.”
“Like what?”
“I don't know. Maybe he's embarrassed about the decor.”
“It was kind of shabby.”
“Or he's using substandard sugar in his baked goods,” Don mused. “Either way, that's the health department's problem. And I'm not telling them anything until they get rid of Arthur.”
Norman Mettler met them at the police station. “I demand that you let my client go.”
“Who's your client, dad?”
“Daniel Flemming.”
“He's still here? He's free to go.”
“In that case,” Norman moved toward the interrogation room. Behind the small window a sweaty and pale Daniel Flemming adjusted his tie. “I'm taking you home for lunch. Your mom's been cooking all of last night.”
“Before they change their mind,” a surprised Flemming said to Norman and rushed to the exit.
“He's a strange one,” Libby said.
“If he's in such a hurry, he could've used the bathroom here,” Don observed. “You don't think that stuff will make us sick?”
“No,” Libby shook her head to comfort her husband, but she was worried herself.
Lea Mettler hadn't finished lunch when they got there, which was just as well because they'd recently eaten. This gave Norman an opportunity to ask his son and daughter in law “what's new?” a couple of hundred times and to tell them which persons he speculated were millionaires.
Don nodded or shrugged depending on the tone of his dad's voice. He never liked these get-togethers. Libby took the time to wipe Lea's raspberry colored lipstick off of her cheek. Next, she worked on Don's forehead, where he still felt his mom's slobbery kisses.
“At last the food is ready. About time,” Norman said.
“Don't rush me,” Lea replied.
Libby squeezed Don's hand while his parents bickered.
Don examined the afternoon paper as he nursed his soup. Hand was right.
“The whole town's excited about it,” Lea pointed at a blowup photo of the missing painting.
Don wiped away the flecks of food that his mom launched at the newspaper. He reread the statement by Deputy Tom Klump about how the police department would drop all other matters until the case was solved.
“Are you on that case, son?” Norman asked.
“I told you already, the first dozen times you asked 'what's new.'”
“Never in my life have you told me anything about it.”
“But I did,” Don turned to Libby for help. She nodded.
“As God is my witness. I swear on my health that you never told me anything about it. It's interesting, art theft. I would have paid close attention.”
“We talked all about it on the ride home. You were talking about how you knew 'a good for nothing' painter and how he was a millionaire now. You told me that I should be a painter.” Heat went to Don's face.
“For what, like dry wall? I never said anything of the sort.”
“Then what did we talk about on the ride home?”
“As if we could talk about anything. I asked you questions and you said 'I dunno.' Always with the 'I dunno's.'” Norman sighed and rubbed his temples.
“Who's ready for the main course?” food flew out of Lea's mouth.
As was always the case on such occasions the one-sided conversation turned to when Don and Libertad would provide the Mettlers with a grandchild. Libby made the customary excuses. Don fiddled with his soft gray meat and squishy vegetables. He could've taken a picture of his plate, sold it to some yuppy, and became a famous artist.
“That's it!” he said.
“What?” Everyone looked at him.
Except Norman, who was busy explaining how to do the activity that led to conception. “Trust me boy, it works. That's how we got you.”
“Fame,” Don said with a shudder. He tapped the newspaper. “That's the motive.”
“What does that have to do with anything? You know Jack? Jack Feldman?”
“Vaguely.”
“He had lots of children. As happy as can be. And you know where he is now?”
“Is he a millionaire?” Don rolled his eyes.
“No, stupid boy. He's dead. But his brother. His brother's a millionaire. Can you imagine that? Shoveling manure. You could've done that. You have the brains for it. If only I was your age.”
“Fame is the motive?” Libertad said.
“Yeah. You know how the museum doesn't have any customers? And it's running as a for profit business, for God's sake.”
“Uh huh.”
“This is just the thing to generate ticket sales. I bet you the curator stole the damned thing himself.”
Libby thought about it. “That makes sense.”
“Time for dessert,” Lea yelled.
“What's the matter, ma?”
“No one has complimented me on the food.”
“Oh, it was delicious,” Libby said and Don nodded.
“Ma, I liked how everything was sour.”
“I didn't overdo it?”
“Nah, nah.”
“Because I was worried and—”
“It was great, mom. Wasn't it dad?”
“Yeah, yeah. My mother, may God rest her soul, made that dish much better.” Norm turned to Don. “So what's new? When are we going to see a grandchild?”
“Give it a rest,” Lea patted her husband on the back. “Leave them alone about that.”
“What? What did I say? He's my son, and I love him very much. Don't tell me how to speak with my son. What's the matter with you? Why are you making those faces? Oh, here come the deep breaths. That woman, she's lost her marbles I tell you.” He rubbed his temples again.
“You okay dad?”
“Fine, fine. Just the blood pressure. This woman will be the death of me, I tell you.”
Lea turned to them. “It's all the carbs he eats. He's not allowed to eat carbs, but he can finish a family size bag of chips in one sitting.”
Norman beamed with pride.
“Oh my God! Don does that too!” Libby smacked Don's shoulder. “Well, um, um, I don't know about carbs, but salt isn't good for high blood pressure.”
Lea made a face and waved the suggestion away. “Doctors don't know a thing these days. Salt doesn't have any carbs. Salt is fine. You know what's bad though? Exercise. I feel horrible after exercise. Your father is always running around from the courts to the police station. That's no good for him.”
“Salt and stock market stress,” Don countered.
“I told you, salt has no carbs. Stock market, hmm. You may have a point there.”
“The stock market is my life. Could've been a millionaire. Then the market crashed,” Norman shook his head sadly. “Every time that happens. Every stock I buy goes down. It's like they're watching me.”
Libby nodded while she enjoyed the chocolates Lea gave her. She liked sweets of any kind, but especially the chocolates Lea made. “Mmmmm. Can I have another one?”
“Sure, my sweet baby,” Lea went off to get them while Don glared.
“What?” Libertad batted her eyes at him.
“I better not hear about how your tummy hurts,” Don said.
He made the motions of getting ready to leave. It was always a long process. Finally they were out of the home Don grew up in. Norman offered them a ride but Don insisted, despite Libertad's expectant look, that they wa
lk home. They both rubbed freshly planted lipstick and saliva off of their faces.
“My tummy hurts,” Libby said.
Don didn't do too well himself. He spent most of the afternoon in the bathroom, leaving only when Libby had to go. Libby had expected this, but neither Don nor his mother wanted to hear about his meat intolerance.
As Don was in no condition, Libby paid a visit to the curator on her own. Her mother and father were still there, Marcy continuing her lecture on the space where the now famous painting had hung.
The office door was ajar, so Libertad let herself in. There she found the curator gagged and bound to his chair, a bullet exit hole in his forehead.
“Definitely suicide,” Marcy popped her head over Libby's shoulder. The odor of sweat and wet clothes meant Ted was near. He hadn't showered in a month because of his depression, and Marcy's halfhearted attempt at doing laundry didn't do him any favors.
That didn't keep the yuppy tourist crowd away, however. They crowded at the door. “Is that an installation piece?” inquired one of the city dwellers.
“This is a crime scene. Get back everyone,” Libby stretched her arms wide and advanced on the crowd. Don would not be happy.
Don stumbled through the police tape to get a closer look at the body. Peggy, the forensics expert, informed him that cause of death was not the bullet to the head. She would wait for the coroner's report, but if she had to guess, “the man died from fright.”
Deputy Chalmers ascertained the time of the gunshot. Marcy and her students heard it around two in the afternoon. They thought nothing of it. One student shrugged the sound off as Marcy eating questionable beans for lunch that day. Another agreed. The two were glad they didn't eat what Marcy offered. She shared her food with former commissioner Wallace Williams. He left for the bathroom soon thereafter and hadn't been seen since.
“Alright, alright. I don't need your life story.” Don stroked his imaginary beard, spreading the pink from his Peto-Bismol mustache to his stubbly chin. “So it's not a murder per se...”
“Suicide,” Marcy said.
“Ma'am, can you please get back behind the tape?” Peggy wheeled around to glare at her former colleague.
“There is no tape.”
“New age gibberish,” Peggy muttered.
“She's right,” Don said. “I accidentally knocked it down. Lucus, can you please put the tape up and help Ms. Klump look for clues outside of the museum? Marcy, you were super helpful last time. I'm sure you'll find something out there.”
“I'm on it,” Marcy straightened up. “Let's go,” she clapped a sighing Lucus on the shoulder and pulled Ted along with her.
Don's stomach bubbled. He sat down on the corpse to catch his breath. “Ooops. Sorry.” He jumped up and took another swig of the comforting pink stuff. “So here's what I'm thinking,” Don pondered the sheet of paper Libby had been examining. “The curator steals the painting. This gets the ticket sales up. That was our theory, and now I do believe we've been proved correct, as he died and then someone made sure he was dead.”
Libby failed to see the logic there, but she bade him to continue.
“Now this thing here,” he flapped the paper, “looks to to my trained eye like a contract between the deceased and Oakley. Godfrey Leser was going to be Oakley's agent. Both were involved in stealing the painting so as to make money from the publicity.”
Libby cocked her head. Maybe her husband was right. “We have to find this artist then.”
It was time for Libby's nap, and Don hadn't yet recovered from lunch with his parents. They left the scene in Peggy's competent hands. As they got in the car Don noticed that Tom replaced Lucus Chalmers in supervising Marcy and Ted. He remarked about it to his wife, but she was already asleep in the passenger seat.
The phone woke Don at dusk. Libby growled and snuggled under him as he reached for the receiver.
“Good work,” Don said and hung up. He couldn't recline any further because Libby took his spot. He got up instead.
“Whereyougoing,” Libertad whirred.
“They found where the artist lives. Peggy's on her way there now to look for evidence. Oakley's been evicted, so the landlord let them in with no warrant. Lucus got a lead. Says Oakley's known to hang out in the seedy art district.”
“I'm awake,” Libby sat up, her eyes hidden by her cheeks.
“We need to smoke him out,” Don mused.
“Who?”
“The artist, Oakley. We can't just go there and find him. The homeless network will warn him.”
“You're right. So what do we do?” Libertad suppressed a yawn.
“I have an idea,” Don said.
An hour later they gave Ted a pushcart and dropped him off at the border.
“Don't worry, he'll be okay. He's perfect for this. As Peggy said, no makeup necessary. And it'll help him out with his depression. Something new and exciting.” Don hoped the car would air out soon. Libby shivered already. Soon she'd ask to roll the windows up.
“I think you're right,” Libby said, her voice quivering with worry.
Ted pushed the cart as he wobbled into the art district. One of the front wheels squeaked. He made a mental note to oil that later. Perhaps he'd drain some of the oil from his car for that purpose. A shame that they didn't give him any money. A pizza or steak would hit the spot. But Don said that might give him away, and the homeless network would warn the artist away. Don was so smart. He knew about everything.
Ted paused to lift his pants over his belly. He lost 25 pounds recently (though no one seemed to have noticed) and now they kept rolling down. He spotted a friendly looking guy on the next corner. Ted pushed his cart in that direction. What a far walk. Had he known in advance this assignment would entail so much walking, he'd have pretended to be asleep. Still, it was a welcome respite from his wife's perpetual lecturing.
Ted reached the man ten minutes later.
“Whatchuneed bro?” The man offered him an assortment of drugs.
“Asprin?”
“Don't got that.”
“Anything for the pain? My feet are killing me. I've been walking a great distance. My daughter and her husband, they sent me here on a mission. So the first thing we did was get in their car. Then Don started the ignition. Then—”
“Yeah, I got sumptin for da pain. My boy Flem hooked me up wit da good stuff, yo. How much money you got?”
“They didn't give me any. Said I wouldn't fit in otherwise.”
“You got no money?”
“No.”
The man sighed. “You one of dem artist?”
Ted thought the man wanted an affirmative answer. He nodded.
“Why don't you go paint sumptin an den sell it. Since dat famous paintin you get all sort of art connoisseur up in here buying all kinds of shez. You know I'm sayin? So you make sumptin, sell it, den come back here. Yeah, yeah, no problem,” he shook Ted's thrust out hand and nodded at his thank yous. “Glad to be of help. Yeah, this way, this way.”
Ted didn't make it far before he decided to take a nap on a bench. That nice young man pointed him in the right direction. Ted felt bad about not having any tipping money. He drifted off, his deep snore rattling the dilapidated shop windows.
He came to when someone made off with his rattling cart. Ted had no choice but to go deeper into the art district. A yuppie tourist couple gave him a dollar and ran away when he said hello to them. Ever trying to stick it to the man, Ted promptly spent it on a cola. Take that, everyone who was worried about his diabetes.
With sugar giving him a brief boost, Ted lumbered around some more until he found a group huddled around a burning trashcan. Since they seemed like nice guys he joined them. The one who had everyone's attention reminded Ted a lot of his wife. Come to think of it, it was Marcy. She was giving one of her lectures on inequality and art or something like that.
“Oh there you are,” she paused. “Come over here. I'd like you to meet someone.”
“Gerald,�
�� a thin man wearing a bandana and a hoodie thrust his hand out.
“Ted.”
“Nice to meet you Ted.”
“Yes. Nice to meet you.” Ted's eyes drooped.
For some reason Gerald really liked him and they wound up talking on a bench just outside the crowd encircling Marcy.
“I'm a painter, you know,” Gerald said.
“Uh, huh. Painter,” Ted's chin sunk to his chest. He fought sleep like a house cat, his head rising and falling, so it looked to Gerald like Ted was nodding.
Gerald took that as a sign of interest. He expounded on his dream of the perfect painting. “It's all theoretical, you see,” he said amid the snores.
Ted caught bits of it, though none of it made sense to his sleepy mind.
“...a human comportment...the essential swaying of being...the otherness of the other's other sameness...”
A few hours passed and Ted hadn't reported in as instructed.
“I'm worried,” Libby said at the conference table. They were looking at Mort Freeman's report on the curator. Peggy nailed it. The man died of a heart attack. The gunshot came afterward. A search of Gerald Oakley's apartment revealed bloody boots that linked him to the crime scene. “We should never have sent him into such a dangerous situation. That artist might be armed and dangerous.”
“So far as we know, he only shoots dead people,” Don tried to comfort his wife.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “That's not funny. We should call him.”
“No. That might give him away. I wish we could track him somehow, figure out his location. Can't believe we didn't think to put a bug on him earlier.”
“Actually,” Peggy said, “as long as he has his cell phone we can do just that.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, where've you been the last few years? We can even turn his mic and camera on, listen and watch.”
“Do that then,” Don said.
Peggy spun around on her wheelchair to get her laptop. “Let's see here,” she moved the mouse around with lightning speed.
“I thought you'd have to type a lot.”
“You watch a lot of movies, Don.”
“Yes,” Don took that as a compliment.
“What's the number?”
Libby gave it to her.
“Alright, here we go.”
The screen went dark.
“Is it working? What do you have a Mac or something? I heard those suck,” Don said.
