Stolen Secrets: A Collection Of Riveting Mysteries

by J. S. Donovan

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Ellie replied with sarcasm. “What’s next?”

  Peaches eyed her with skepticism. “You’re not tired?”

  Ellie shook her head, lying to herself and the detective.

  “Okay,” Peaches said. “Listen to what I say…”

  He covered a few more self-defense techniques, like how to disarm a firearm, to always watch your corners when searching a room, what to look for in a person to know if they were lying, and more investigative skills Ellie gobbled up. She even took notes and drew out quick illustrations to help her remember. When Peaches would finish one topic, Ellie would ask for the next. Peaches didn’t seem to mind. Ellie was under the impression that he liked listening to his own voice.

  “You really do care about solving this mystery,” Peaches pointed out.

  Ellie nodded her head eagerly. “I love painting, and I love Troy, but this is so much more than that. I can’t explain it.”

  “You’ve been given a gift, and you want to make the best of it. Makes perfect sense to me,” Peaches replied.

  His words hit Ellie hard. It was so in-line with what she was thinking, but she just didn’t know how to verbalize it until now.

  “Don’t let your eagerness blind you,” Peaches followed up. “Righteous determination is good until you start making mistakes. That’s when it becomes foolishness.”

  “I prefer gusto,” Ellie replied.

  Peaches chuckled. “I like that.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I guess it’s time to do some real work.”

  Ellie stood up from the couch eagerly and waited for the detective to elaborate.

  “I’ve already visited Kimberly’s family and friends, as few as they were. They offered little insight as to who would want Kimberly dead. Most of them hadn’t been in touch with her for months. Some even years,” Peaches explained.

  “What about Harold Gatts, her partner?” Ellie suggested.

  “He was the first person Skinner spoke to. I haven’t met him personally.”

  “We should follow up,” Ellie said. “Gatts helped me before, even though I wasn’t an investigator. I might have dug something up.”

  Ellie awaited Peaches’s response, nervous he’d shoot her down.

  Peaches said, “Give him a call. Set up a meeting as soon as we can. After, we’ll go to Pamela’s home and see if there’s anything I missed from last night.”

  “What did Skinner say after I left?” Ellie inquired.

  “We didn’t talk,” Peaches admitted and moved on with the conversation, explaining that the killer was able to escape through the backyards of nearby houses and must’ve had vehicle transport to flee because the helicopter couldn’t pick him up on the thermal.

  Ellie reached out to Gatts.

  “Mrs. Batter,” Gatts answered with a gruff voice.

  “There’s been another murder,” Ellie explained. “It was the same person who killed Kimberly.”

  The line went silent for a long time, but Gatts eventually spoke up. “Come to the shop.”

  Ellie and Peaches traded looks.

  After switching out of her sweaty clothes, Ellie joined Peaches in his unmarked squad car: a black Dodge Charger. He peeled out of the apartment complex and drove through town. They didn’t talk much on the way to the pottery shop. They were both lost in thought, trying to piece together the connection between the two women, if there was any connection. Ellie knew that the murderer was one kill off from being labeled a serial killer, and there was always the possibility that he was targeting these women solely based on their artistic profession and not a personal vendetta. That scared Ellie, knowing that she might fall into that category. Frightful or not, she needed to capture or talk to the killer to see if there was any relation between him, the blackouts, and the paintings.

  Peaches rolled to a stop in front of the vase shop. He got out, fixed his suit jacket, and combed his rich brown hair with his fingers. Ellie stepped out and adjusted her ball cap. She looked both ways and crossed over to the vase shop that no longer had police tape striping the front door. Peaches opened the door for Ellie. Inside, glass cases boasted an assortment of vases and other pottery, some of it homemade and some of it modern. There was a tiny Chinese woman in her fifties browsing over some of the glassware.

  Harold Gatts sat on a bench behind the counter. Behind his tightly fitted glasses, his keen eyes followed Ellie’s and Peaches’s trek to the front counter.

  He straightened his posture when Peaches flashed his badge. “Northampton, PD. Homicide Division.”

  The Chinese lady glared at Gatts and shuffled her little feet out of the front door.

  Gatts watched her leave and then turned his attention to Ellie. “I thought you’d come alone.”

  “Detective Peaches is one of the lead investigators on the case. He’s promised to help us.”

  Gatts looked the detective up and down, but kept his lips sealed in regards to what he had gained from his observation. “Another woman’s dead, I assume.”

  “Correct,” Peaches said. “Murdered last night in her home.”

  “She was stabbed just like Kimberly,” Ellie explained. “And once again, it was not a robbery.”

  Gatts glared at Peaches. “Does your detective friend believe that?”

  “Without a doubt,” Peaches replied.

  “Have you found anything out about Kimberly?” Ellie asked.

  Gatts struggled out of his bench, grabbed his cane, and waddled over to a nearby drawer. He unlocked it and took out an old sales record book. He put it on the countertop and opened it to the near middle. With his meaty finger, he pointed out a number of items with a small “x” beside their name. “Some of the items were shattered during the assault. The rest of them were packaged away.”

  “What was she planning on doing with them?” Ellie asked.

  Gatts slid his orange slice-shaped glasses back to their proper position. “Taking inventory. Getting ready to move out is my guess.”

  Peaches glanced around the shop. “Did she mention this departure to you?”

  Gatts shook his head. “Apparently she didn’t mention it to anyone.”

  Ellie recalled her last conversation with Gatts. “You said Kimberly was distant in the past few weeks. Do you think this is why?”

  “It’s a theory,” Gatts replied.

  Peaches pulled out a picture of Pamela and put it on the countertop. “You ever see this woman around Kimberly?”

  Gatts observed the photo and handed it back to the detective. Keeping his heavy lips sealed, he nodded.

  “When?”

  “She’s one of Kimberly’s few friends.”

  Ellie asked Gatts more questions about the relationship between the two women, but the shop owner had little insight to share. When the conversation neared its conclusion, Gatts said, “I’ve tried to do what I could to make sense of the killing. I’ve re-read Kim’s old letters and poems, and I’m no closer to finding out why she was targeted.”

  “Leave that to the police, Harold,” Peaches said confidently.

  “It was the police that fudged the investigation to start with. I bet it was Mrs. Batter that changed your mind that this was something worth considering,” Gatts said bluntly.

  “That’s why I’ve brought her on board as my consultant.” Peaches admitted.

  Ellie smiled at the BS pouring out of his pie hole. Peaches’s phone rang.

  “It’s the dry cleaners. Let me take this,” he said and jogged out of the door to answer the phone.

  Ellie leaned over the counter and spoke quietly to Gatts. “I’ve been in the killer’s apartment.”

  Gatts’s eyes went wide. “How?”

  “The how doesn’t matter. The guy had mannequins and other weird artistic decor. Did Kimberly ever mention knowing anyone like that? Perhaps a collector of sorts.”

  “Never,” Gatts replied.

  The answer disappointed Ellie. She asked if she could take a picture of
the inventory ledger. Gatts pushed it her way. Ellie flipped through the various pages, snapping photos of different items with her smartphone. She was keeping her eye out for an Aztec-inspired mask and a woman bathing herself with an empty vase just as the second portrait’s wounds concealed. Neither of the items matched those in the book. With nothing more to be gained, Ellie said goodbye to Harold.

  “I’ll keep digging,” he replied. “Good luck on your search, Mrs. Batter.”

  “You too, Mr. Gatts.”

  Ellie joined Peaches at his car. Having ended his call, the detective drove them to Pamela’s house. Detective Peaches led her around to the back door. Under the afternoon sun on a clear Massachusetts spring day, he cut away the crime tape and picked the lock. The place smelled like chemical cleaner. The trash cans had been emptied by investigators, there were dirty boot prints all across the hardwood floor, and most of Pamela’s blood spatter remained on the piano and bench. Ellie and the detective fanned out across the house, looking for anything that would draw a connection between the two women. Ellie glanced over the artwork on the walls. It was spot on to what she had painted in her death drawing. She snapped a picture of the artist’s signature and searched him up on the web. The creator was French, and his pieces were selling for a few grand. Ellie had never heard of him. She walked through the rest of the living room, looking for any sculptures that would match the death painting’s reflection. Nothing.

  She went into the woman’s bedroom. It was dust free and tidy. She found a wedding picture and a few other photos of a handsome, middle-aged man. Ellie recalled the missing wedding ring on Pamela’s finger. Just before she could suggest the ex-husband as a potential suspect, she found the man’s funeral pamphlet. He had passed away a year ago. She must still be getting over her grief. Ellie turned on the light in the woman’s shoe closet and browsed through the various women’s business suits and heels. As she sifted through them, she noticed a small latched door on the wall that opened to a crawl space.

  Ellie flipped up the painted nail latch holding the door shut and opened it into the dark corridor. There were a number of boxes within. Ellie pulled out one. Inside was a painted vase. “Peaches. I think I found something.”

  The detective rushed in from the storage closet. Ellie handed him the vase. He twisted it in his hand.

  Ellie pointed to the artistic engravings in the clay and the pattern painted on it. “I saw one like this in Kimberly’s shop.”

  The two of them opened up the rest of the boxes. The pottery all matched Kimberly’s style. Ellie snapped pictures of a few of them, sent them to Gatts, and gave him a call.

  “Do any of these look familiar?” Ellie asked the older man.

  “That’s Kimberly’s work, though I don’t recall those particular pieces,” Gatts replied.

  Peaches fished out a photograph from one of the boxes. “Check this out.”

  It showed Kimberly and Pamela smiling inside an art gallery. Ellie tapped her finger on it. “That’s Rosetta Art Gallery.”

  “And our next stop,” Peaches replied.

  There were a number of galleries and museums throughout the city. Comparatively, the Rosetta might have been small in size, but it offered a bountiful collection from modern artistic giants, most from overseas, hence why Ellie couldn’t get Andrew’s help in getting her pieces into the gallery. Each painting and exhibit display were spaced out in an orderly fashion. The floor had a perfect gloss shine, and the walls had a gold trim. Ellie was swiftly reminded why she only visited this place a few times; it screamed pretentiousness. Even the workers had to wear tuxes.

  Ellie and Peaches approached and asked to speak to the curator standing in for Pamela. The receptionist seemed none too upset about her boss’s death.

  “Tell us about Ms. Cornish,” Peaches said.

  The receptionist made a disgusting grunt. “Full of herself, demanding, and judgmental. I’m surprised someone hadn’t killed her sooner.”

  Ellie and Peaches exchanged a look. Tell us how you really feel, Ellie was tempted to stay, but held her tongue.

  An African-American man with a glossy bald head and black turtleneck approached. The clacking of his shoes on the tile floor betrayed his location long before they saw him. His hands were folded behind his back.

  “Dulani Zsar,” the man introduced himself, though he didn’t extend a hand.

  Peaches introduced himself, saying Ellie was his consultant. “Have you heard the news about Pamela?”

  “This morning,” Dulani replied. “Dreadful, that. Pamela really had a great eye for art. Over thirty-three percent of the pieces displayed in this gallery were personally picked by her.”

  “And the other sixty-six?” Ellie asked.

  “The curators before her. Would you two like a tour?”

  “We want to know more about Pamela and her relationship with a certain Kimberly Jannis,” Peaches said.

  Dulani smiled sadly. “The two were inseparable.”

  “We heard that Kimberly was a bit reserved. Didn’t have many friends.”

  “Be that as it may, the two of them would walk the exhibit halls often. Sometimes visit up to three or four times during the week.”

  “Doing what?” Ellie asked.

  Dulani looked at her like she asked the stupidest question in the world. “Enhancing their private collection, of course. Come, I’ll show you.”

  They followed the man through a maze of exhibit halls and into an “employees only” area. It opened into a vault of sorts lined with shelves, paintings, and sculptures.

  “Pamela spent a lifetime collecting these items. She had to move them here because there was not enough room in her home,” Dulani explained.

  “Some of these look like Kimberly’s,” Ellie pointed out.

  “Yes, I saw the potter made her own additions to the collection.”

  Peaches studied him acutely. “You seem to notice a lot of things.”

  “I’m a very observant person,” Dulani replied. “I must be in this trade. There are impostors around every corner, keen on selling fakes and replicas. I like to know who comes and who goes.”

  Ellie walked around the vault, noticing newly minted price tags on the various items.

  “How would you describe Pamela?” Peaches asked.

  “Strong and independent. I worked alongside her for seven years. She was the type of woman who was never afraid of speaking her mind.”

  “Had anything changed in the past few weeks?”

  “She was anxious about something. I can’t say what,” Dulani admitted.

  Peaches replied. “It must’ve been pretty big to lie to cops, saying that she was out of town.”

  “She told everyone that she was leaving town.” Dulani replied. “Her death came as a shock to all of us.”

  “You don’t seem super upset by it,” Ellie added.

  “If you knew Pamela, you won’t be saddened either. Things will run a lot smoother when she’s not kicking people out or causing a scene with overly enthusiastic tourists.”

  “How did Pamela lose her husband?” Elle asked, remembering Pamela’s ring.

  Dulani replied. “Suicide, or so they say. He drove his car into the Connecticut River last year. No one knows why. Pamela, always being a little cold, took the death of a childhood friend harder than her husband’s demise. The incidents happened at similar times.”

  “Who was her friend?” Ellie asked.

  Dulani shrugged. “Someone from out of the city. Kenny something.”

  After examining the vault for a while, Ellie and Peaches left the exhibit. On the drive back, Ellie stated her theory. “I think Pamela and Kimberly were going to start their own gallery. The items in the vault and the marked vases in Kimberly’s ledger are top quality. If they combine the collection, they could blow their competitors out of the water.”

  “From what I’ve seen of the other galleries, you make a good point. Their deaths could be part of bad business, but I still believe there is some
thing we are missing,” Peaches replied.

  “Me too,” Ellie answered.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon visiting the various art galleries and learning what they could about the two women. Kimberly was practically a nobody and Pamela was generally disliked in every social circle. She had a knack for undercutting artists and other curators, buying their art pieces and then selling them for double the price. It fed into Ellie’s theory, but didn’t add to the investigation.

  When the day was done, Peaches dropped Ellie off. “We’ll take some time to research the women. See if we can’t find any skeletons in their past.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ellie said with a yawn.

  Peaches waved her goodnight and drove off.

  Ellie found that Troy was still not home and decided to take a break from her investigation to work on her commissions.

  All was going well until she had another blackout.

  8

  THE GALLERY

  Ellie knew the signs: the aching joints, the empty stomach, and the feeling that she had been lobotomized by a railroad spike. With wobbling elbows, she pushed herself up from the plastic-covered floor and faced her latest creation.

  The setting was a lavish art gallery boasting geometric structures, massive portraits in gold leaf frames, marble statues, and vases set up on fine stone pedestals. The subject of the painting lay on the elegant marble flooring with his arms outstretched. A dark scarlet flowed from the yawning hole in his neck. It was a cut so deep it nearly severed his head. He wore an $8000 white cashmere blazer with slacks to match. His hairstyle was a pompadour with faded sides, his brows were trimmed, and his dimpled chin was perfectly shaven. Ellie recognized him immediately. Her mouth dried out and tears welled in her eyes.

  She scrambled out of the art room and ran for her purse on the kitchen bar. As she frantically fished around for her cellphone, she saw a glimpse of the stove clock. It was nearly 9:43 pm. She had painted this one much faster than the others. Successful in finding her phone, she dialed the number and gave her longtime friend a call.

  “Hello --” The voice said on the other end of the line.