Paint Me Gone (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 3)

by Molly Greene

  “Will you contact Prentiss?”

  “Of course. And I might head back down to Carmel in a while, if Sophie will okay time and expenses for the trip. Wanna go?”

  Oliver grinned. “Say the word.”

  “And do you look cheerful at the prospect of seeing the village, or could it be the thought of your friend Justin that has you grinning ear to ear?”

  “You forgot the shopping part. I’d say it’s the perfect threesome.” He skipped a few steps.

  Oh yeah, he was happy about it.

  “One more thing I need to address,” Gen added. “Laura Ingburg.”

  Oliver swung around and walked backwards, facing her. “What do you think about her reaction to the painting?”

  “I have no idea, but I’d like to find out. She may have recognized the place, or Shannon, or the painter, or the style. Not only that, Livvie, I Googled her and found this obscure article that said Laura went missing for some mysterious reason. And guess what? It happened about twenty years ago.”

  “Ohhhhh.” Liv’s eyebrows went up and he whirled around to walk beside her again. “Coincidence.”

  “And what a lovely one at that. I’m dying to know what happened.”

  “Do you think she’ll tell? She clammed up pretty good that day. She didn’t want to have a heart-to-heart about it.”

  “So my job will be to change her mind. I think Prentiss might be the hardest one to get to. Damian said he seldom saw anybody anymore.”

  “I might be able to help with that.”

  “Oh?”

  Livvie nodded. “Justin Allenby is Jacovich’s office manager and the only salesperson in the place. I wonder if he’ll slip me a little info about the great artist. Like how we can get in to see him.”

  “That’s exciting.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “I bet you’re thinking about more than Prentiss where Justin’s concerned.”

  “Genny, don’t be crass. If you mention my love life again, I’m going to talk about yours.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When they returned, Gen nixed the underground garage and parked the Beemer at the curb in front of her office, then went in and got her laptop. Her stomach was rumbling. She could visit with Google while she ate breakfast.

  She and Oliver parted at the sixth floor. When the elevator opened, Gen grabbed the door and held it. “What are you up to the rest of the day?” she asked.

  “I’m working with Sophie,” Livvie replied. “She’s going to show me the ropes. What she looks for in the second-hand shops, how she assesses a room and decides what to do to it. Stuff like that.”

  “Good for you, Liv. Sounds like fun.”

  “I think so, too. It’s about time I put my skills to work for something worthwhile.”

  Gen regarded him. “You’re changing right before my eyes.”

  He raised his hands and dropped them. “It’s time.”

  “For what?”

  “For good little boys to grow up.”

  “So that’s what you’re doing.”

  He nodded.

  “And you probably think I need to do a little growing, too.”

  Affection softened his features and passed into determination as quickly as that. He nodded again and didn’t look away.

  She moved into the hall, still holding the door. “I need to talk with Sophie again.”

  “We’ll be at Out Of The Closet this morning, if you want to drop by.” Livvie reached out and plucked at her natty sweatshirt. “This is the best time of year to look for sweaters, and you could use more. I’m thinking an upgrade with a little style.”

  Gen snorted and slapped his hand away. “Mood successfully broken.”

  “Good.” Livvie sniffed, then replied in his prim-lady voice. “No sense dwelling on the obvious. We all know it’s time to move on.”

  “What makes you suspect I was thinking that, smarty pants?”

  She released her hold. As the doors began to close, Livvie rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. “Because I know you, my little munchkin.”

  Gen spun around and marched to her front door. Why the hell did everybody keep telling her they knew her so well? She wished she had a handle on what they saw, because there were times she honestly didn’t have a clue.

  As a private investigator, of course, she was unwilling to admit that fact to anyone.

  She wouldn’t want her reputation sullied.

  * * *

  Before her morning walks, Gen had coffee with a scoop of protein powder and fruit on the side. Her body required something more solid once she got home. This morning she made an egg sandwich and sat at the dining room table to eat.

  Google was waiting. It still amazed her how the search engine dispensed the contents of the Internet with a few keystrokes. She took a bite, typed in Patrick Noonan, and pages of hits came back.

  Yikes. Patrick Noonan was a popular name.

  Patrick F. Noonan was at the helm of the Nature Conservancy and the Conservation Fund from 1973 through 1980. He’d won the Pugsley National Medal Award in 2005.

  She read about Patrick Noonan the actor, known for The Princess Diaries. There were Patrick Noonans who were doctors, lawyers, teachers, and crooks. Patrick Noonans hung out on Twitter and Facebook and every other social media platform, including LinkedIn, which invited her to view the profiles of 25 professionals named Patrick Noonan.

  She clicked on links and scrolled through entry after entry, but came up for air thirty minutes later with nothing to show for it. She added the word “artist” to the search box and tried again. Of course. There was a well-known Patrick Noonan who wrote songs.

  Gen closed the laptop and took her plate to the kitchen. When she came out, she pulled up her Sophie Keene file and located Edith Jelicot’s number. This time the receptionist was a shade more cordial, the wait was shorter, and Mrs. Jelicot actually came on the line.

  “Hello, Genevieve.”

  “Hi again, Edith. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “My pleasure. How’s the weather in California today?”

  “It’s good, I think, in most places. I was in Hayes Valley this morning, and it was lovely. San Francisco is a mixed bag, though. It’s not unusual for February weather to be better than June. Some neighborhoods get lots of fog in spring and summer.”

  “I need to get back out there,” Edith replied. “I adore that city. It’s one of my favorite places, next to New York.”

  “I love it, too,” Gen replied.

  “Were you born there?”

  “No, Los Angeles. I came up for college and never left.”

  “I can see why.” Edith sounded almost wistful.

  “Listen,” Gen said, “I had a thought after we talked last. By any chance, was the murdered girl also a client of yours?”

  “No,” Edith replied. “She wasn’t.”

  “I wondered if she worked as a model, too, although I’ve no idea what kind, or if it’s even possible she was. It’s a stretch, but I wanted to ask if Noonan might have hired her, as well.”

  “I knew she wasn’t my client, so I didn’t think of that at the time.” Interest ticked up a notch in Edith’s voice.

  “It would tie them together,” Gen said.

  “There were only a handful of agencies that did any real business back then. A few have come and gone, but I know them all. What was the girl’s name? I’ve forgotten.”

  “Hold on. I should have checked before I called.” She clicked through her files. “It was Corey. Corey Uribe.” Gen spelled it for her. “I’ll warn you, though, it might be a waste of time.”

  “That’s all right. I feel like I owe it to Shannon to help, if I can. How old was she?”

  “The article I’m reading says she was twenty-two at the time of her death.”

  “Older than Shannon. She was only twenty when–”

  “I know. Do you recognize the name?”

  “Corey U
ribe.” Edith sounded thoughtful. “Seems familiar, but I’m probably just recalling the past. I can tell you that twenty-two is old for models. She might have gotten catalogue work. I could tell more if I saw a photograph.”

  Bitterness seasoned her next words. “Shannon might still have been in great demand, even past thirty. She could be retired and wealthy as the Hiltons by now.”

  “Look, I appreciate your help.” Gen cleared her throat. “I’ll make more inquiries about Noonan. I haven’t turned up anything so far, the name is too common.”

  “I’ll call you within a week or so if I’ve had any luck with the agency owners,” Edith replied.

  * * *

  Gen caught Liv on his cell to be sure they were still at the thrift shop, then headed over to question Sophie about Noonan. If she remembered anything, it might help.

  And Oliver was right, she could use a couple of new sweaters. She counted the cash in her wallet, then climbed in the BMW and drove to Market Street in the Castro, the global center of gay man’s land.

  It started in the 1970’s when homosexuals across the globe heard about the evolving conclave and made a beeline for the neighborhood. They forever altered San Francisco, the country, and the world. To this day, the bulk of the Castro’s residents are male, and most are mainstream family types in dedicated relationships with long-term partners.

  This was former City Council Representative Harvey Milk’s home district. Before he was killed, Milk made his mark on the history books as the first out-of-the-closet official ever elected to a United States government office.

  In truth, Castro doesn’t wake up until after dark. On most weekday mornings it looks just like any other neighborhood. People have climbed aboard public transit and traveled to jobs in the financial district or parts beyond.

  Accommodations are in huge demand and tricky to find. As a result, rents are high both here and in surrounding areas. That also makes parking particularly difficult, as many homes are without garages and residents compete for vehicle space on the street.

  Gen was forced to circle the block several times before she lucked onto an outbound car full of tourists pulling out. She angled to the curb, parked, and went to the door.

  A hand-printed sign announced that Wednesday was half-off clothing day. That’s right, she’d forgotten. It was a Wednesday the last time they were here, and she and Livvie had purchased a pile of sale items. She pushed through and into near pandemonium.

  Out Of The Closet was packed.

  Feverish patrons flipped through the racks, determined to snatch up a deal. Maybe her kismet with the sweaters wouldn’t be so slick today. Then again, if she found something, it could be a score.

  As she stood there thinking, two hands went up toward the back and waved like a pair of flags on a breezy day. She followed them to Sophie and Oliver.

  They were flushed with excitement, guarding a shopping cart that overflowed with bedding and garments. Oliver looked jubilant. Gen hadn’t seen him so animated since their last big win at this same shop.

  “Having a good day?” she asked.

  “It’s been so much fun,” Livvie gushed. His color was high as he leaned over to rummage through the booty and surfaced, dangling a thigh-length gray cashmere number with a wide handkerchief hem. “Is this perfect for you, or what?”

  He dove back in and this time emerged with a fistful of pullovers and cardigans. He thrust them at her with unmistakable glee. “Try these on.”

  “Wow, you have been busy.” Gen draped the bundle of clothes over her shoulder. “Hi Sophie,” she said. “Livvie gets overtaken by the shopping buzz and forgets his manners.”

  “He’s a gem,” Sophie replied. “He’s got an eye for value, and I’m really enjoying his company today.” She gestured at the cart. “Most of this is his doing.”

  “He’s turned my condo into a showplace on a shoestring, so I can vouch for his genius,” Gen replied. “You couldn’t ask for a better helper.”

  “I see that,” Sophie said. “So Oliver says you’ve got a few questions?”

  “You two talk and watch our stuff,” Livvie said. “I’ll be in the men’s section.” He hurried away to scour through the shirts.

  “I wish I could bottle his focus.” Sophie smiled at Gen. “What do you need to know?”

  “Have you ever heard the name Patrick Noonan associated with Shannon?”

  Sophie shut her eyes and took in some air. When her lids fluttered open, she exhaled and shook her head. “Who was he?”

  “Apparently, he hired Shannon several times through the agency. I spoke with Edith Jelicot and she thought the cops should have checked him out back then. Something about him was off.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Not much. She thought they might have been involved.”

  Sophie waved a hand in the air, dismissing the idea. “I doubt there was anything to it. Shannon would have mentioned him.”

  Gen regarded Sophie for a minute before she spoke again. “Edith also said she thought you and your sister were drifting apart. That you hadn’t been in close contact before she disappeared. Is that correct?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. But Shannon must have been unhappy about it, or she wouldn’t have said something to Edith. What happened?”

  Gen could see she didn’t like the question.

  Sophie’s expression pinched and she turned aside, pretending interest in the merchandise. She flipped a wooden sign with cut-out letters that spelled home sweet home this way and that, examining it, then turned it over to check the price.

  She seemed to like what she saw enough to put it in the cart. It wasn’t until it was settled on the pile that she replied. “I told you the day you came to my office we weren’t on the best of terms.”

  “Did you?”

  “Well, not exactly, but–”

  “If I recall, you said you were too busy drowning your sorrows to give a crap about her.”

  Sophie’s eyebrows went up.

  “Yes,” Gen said. “I do have a fair memory. So will you please elaborate?”

  Sophie caved, literally. The burden of whatever she’d been holding back made her hunch like an old woman with a hump. It seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and she’d been carrying it around for two decades.

  “It was the week before she disappeared,” Sophie began. Her fingers gripped the wire mesh of the cart so hard her knuckles went white. “I left messages, but she didn’t return my calls. I thought maybe she was in trouble.”

  “I didn’t think it was that bad, though.” She looked at Gen and away, staring at nothing. “Not murder. Not the kind of problem that would make her kill herself. If I’d thought that was true, I’d have been able do something. I know I would have.”

  “What kind of difficulty do you think she was having?”

  Sophie shook her head again, harder this time, like she was trying to shake off the memory. “Probably man trouble.”

  “What man?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. It was all about me back then.” Sophie searched Gen’s face as if seeking forgiveness. “It was my disease. I let the drinking over-dramatize my life, you know? Everything was a federal case. I blew up every damn thing that ever happened into something bigger than it was.”

  “We’re talking about Shannon, right? That you thought she was in some kind of hassle. Or are we talking about you.”

  Sophie dropped her head as if it was too heavy to hold upright. She nodded, then shook her head to indicate the opposite.

  Gen had no idea if she agreed or disagreed. “Which is it?”

  “Some guy was going to leave her, maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Is that what she said?”

  Sophie’s voice rose an octave and at least five decibels. “No, that’s what happened to m–”

  She stopped so suddenly Gen thought she’d bitten her tongue.

  “Sophie. What was it exactly that made
you think Shannon was in trouble? Did she say something? Did something happen?”

  Sophie clutched at her hair, losing her cool. People were starting to glance their way. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to remember? Every day for twenty years I’ve tried,” she cried.

  It was time to back off.

  “Look, it’s all right.” Gen squeezed her shoulder. “I bet you have. I’m sorry I pressured you. Let it go.”

  Sophie nodded like a bobble-head doll for about thirty seconds before she dropped her fists. “It must have been about a man. A guy she was seeing.” Sophie looked at Gen as if she could help her make sense of whatever it was. “He was a manipulator.”

  Gen tried to lighten the mood. “That describes half the chaps on the planet.” She held her tongue for a moment, then dove back in. “I’m sorry to upset you, but I need to know. Are you sure the name Patrick Noonan doesn’t ring a bell? Could he have been the man?”

  Sophie’s eyes widened a skosh before she looked away. “I don’t recall.”

  What had Gen just seen? She kept quiet and waited to hear if Sophie had anything else to offer. In place of an explanation, Sophie drew in a ragged breath and brought the conversation back to her.

  “I was a ball of raw emotion when I was drinking. I turned into a raging crazy person. When I got off the alcohol, I couldn’t stand to feel the feelings, especially the guilt about the person I’d been when I was drunk. So I denied them. I pushed them away. I buried them. Now I feel like a robot most of the time. Until something triggers those old feelings, and they come rushing out and I’m crazy again.”

  “We’re all a little nuts.” Gen didn’t know what else to do, so she settled for a clumsy pat on Sophie’s arm. “Emotions make us human. The secret isn’t not to feel them, it’s not to let them run your life.”

  “Yeah,” Sophie said. “I know. You’re right.”

  Gen dropped her hand. “Did you know the dead girl, Corey Uribe?”