THE TRUTH ABOUT HARRY

by Tracy Kelleher

  Lauren cleared her throat. "When was the last time either of you ran into him?"

  Her parents looked at each other. Her father shrugged. Her mother stretched her lips in a thin line. She turned to Lauren. "It's been a while. Less than a year, I think. You see, even after he stopped working for us, he'd still come around every once in a while. I always tried to give him a little something—not that he asked outright, mind you."

  Lauren wet her lips. "Mom, did you file a missing persons report on him about four months ago?"

  Her father gave her mother a surprised look. Alice nervously folded her hands. "Yes, I did. I was worried. Benny was old. He didn't have any family as far as I knew. It wasn't like him not to stop by the shop at least once a month or so." She looked anxiously at Lauren and Sebastian.

  Lauren smiled reassuringly.

  Sebastian crossed his legs. Reassuring was not how she'd characterize his body language—not by a long shot. "You mentioned 'a few failings' that Benny had, George? Were there others besides the drinking?" he asked.

  Again her parents darted glances at each other. George patted his wife's hands and turned to Sebastian. "Benny had a problem, the kind of problem that could get him in trouble. But everyone on the street, all the businesses where my shop is located, understood it and tolerated it. We knew he couldn't help himself, and that he actually felt terribly guilty about the whole thing. He would try to make it up afterward by giving us all little presents. But like the alcohol, it seemed to get the better of him from time to time."

  "What exactly was his problem?" Sebastian pressed.

  George opened his hands. "Benny was a kleptomaniac. He walked off with things, not big ones, mind you. Sometimes a coffee mug from Petrucchio's, the luncheonette opposite the cleaners. Other times, I'd find stuff like buttons and zippers missing from my place. No big deal."

  Lauren pushed aside her uneaten coffee cake and rested her forearms on the table. "We think Benny was into a little more than buttons and zippers, Pop."

  Her mother moaned. "Oh, now I see. I told you, George. That Hummel figure he gave me one Christmas was too good to be true. Can I return it to someone? I feel just awful."

  Lauren placed her hand on her mother's linked ones. "No, Mom, don't worry about the Hummel figure."

  "What we're interested in is worth more than one hundred thousand Hummel figures," Sebastian announced.

  Her mother gasped. Her father blindly searched for his coffee cup.

  "Mom, Pop, we're trying to track down four works of art, four valuable works of art that Benny may have stolen," Lauren said, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible. She had a feeling if it weren't for her presence, Sebastian would have turned on a high-intensity lamp.

  "Four extremely valuable works of art," Sebastian amended. He didn't need a lamp.

  "We know nothing of art, valuable or not," George protested. Her mother gripped her fingers harder.

  "Well, maybe you've seen these things without even realizing it?" Lauren suggested. "You know how these things can happen."

  Sebastian raised his eyebrows.

  "Maybe," her mother conceded.

  Lauren edged her chair closer to the table. "Okay, one of them is this silver chalice, this big wine cup, like for Communion."

  Lauren's parents frowned in thought, and then Alice turned to her husband. "You don't think she could be referring to that old black and dented thing that Julius uses? Didn't Benny give it to him after he'd taken a few roses for the homeless lady by the branch library, I don't know, at least ten years, no, maybe fifteen years ago?"

  Sebastian uncrossed his legs and sat forward. "Never mind the roses. Who is Julius?"

  George nodded. "Julius is the florist on my block at work. And you could be right, Alice. He has this cuplike thing that he uses to keep pennies in so people don't need to worry about making change. But it's all black and dented. It could really use polishing."

  Sebastian waved his hand. "Never mind the wear and tear. Can you give me the phone number and, address?"

  "Of course. I don't see why not," George said. "Alice, you've got it in your little book, right?"

  She rose from the table and pulled out a narrow drawer under the counter by the wall phone.

  "Mom, Pop, there's also this painting, Italian, not too big."

  "According to church records, it depicts St. Lawrence as he's being martyred over an open fire," Sebastian elaborated.

  Lauren's mother sat back down at the table and placed her address book in front of her. "Oh, that creepy dark thing? It scared people so much that Tony, the owner of Petrucchio's, finally hung it in the men's room. His wife kept nagging him to put it out in a garage sale, but you know Tony—he can never part with anything."

  Sebastian looked wide-eyed at Lauren.

  "Mom, can you put Tony's number down, too?"

  "There are two other things still missing, actually more like a pair," Sebastian said. "Two large matching candlesticks, in marble, very ornate, also Italian."

  Alice frowned. "Candlesticks."

  "I'm pretty sure that Rosenbaum's Funeral Parlor has this really gaudy candlestick standing next to the organ," George said.

  "You're right," Alice agreed. "Really awful, something my grandmother would have had in her house."

  "And when did they start displaying it … also about fifteen years ago?" Sebastian asked.

  Alice squinted. "That would be about right."

  "Now think. Did Benny happen to take a trip to Italy some time before these objects began to appear?" Lauren pressed her chin forward.

  George rubbed his thumbs and index fingers thoughtfully. "Actually, a little before all this, Benny went on a tour organized by some World War II veterans' group. You know, the kind of trip where soldiers visit the scenes of old battles. Some of these trips go to Normandy, others Anzio. In Benny's case, it was northern Italy."

  Alice Jeffries touched her husband's hand. "I remember now. We were all so excited that Benny was showing interest in being with other people. We had a little going-away party for him, and Sadie Rosenbaum even made a sponge cake. And then, when you and Tony went to pick him up at the airport when he came home, you practically threw your back out lifting his suitcases—he'd bought so many souvenirs."

  Lauren sat up. "That's right. He gave me a plastic Leaning Tower of Pisa. I loved it. I remember keeping it on my dresser for years. I wonder where it is now?"

  "I think you'll find it in the bottom of one of the boxes I sent over to your apartment," her mother said proudly. "I found it on a shelf in your closet under the pressed corsage from your senior prom. The corsage I didn't save, though, too faded."

  Sebastian held up his hand. "Let's forget the plastic Leaning Towers of Pisa and the faded corsages for a moment if we could. We still have one candlestick unaccounted for." He shifted his head back and forth between George and Alice.

  "It seems to me that Benny might have offered us one about the same time, I guess," Alice admitted.

  Sebastian peered around the room. "You mean it's here in the house?"

  "No, no," Alice corrected. "He gave it to you at the shop, George, and when you wanted to bring it home I wouldn't let you. Don't you remember?"

  "You're right. And I remember how that thing had a way of kicking around the cleaners for years."

  "So where is it now?" Lauren asked.

  Her parents frowned. "I'm sorry, I just can't remember, Lauren," her mother apologized.

  She focused on her father.

  "Neither can I," he said. "We used to use it as a doorstop for a while, but beyond that, my memory draws a blank. It was so long ago. For all I know, we could have thrown it out."

  Sebastian slumped back in his chair. "Well, I suppose three out of four isn't bad—if indeed they are the objects we're looking for."

  Lauren narrowed her eyes. "You and I both know they will be. There's no such thing as coincidence." She paused. "And seeing as we're going to be in the neighborhood, Pop, do you think we cou
ld search through the cleaners? Who knows, the second candlestick may be hidden somewhere, like in the fur storage vault."

  "Of course, dear. Your mother can write the security code down with the phone numbers for the others. In fact, if you want, I'll call everybody and get them to come in and show you the things you mentioned."

  Sebastian rose and stretched his legs. "I'd appreciate that. The sooner I can wrap up this case, the better I'll feel. The objects were taken from a church in Italy, and I'd like to return them to their rightful home as soon as possible."

  "To think, a church," her mother echoed. "Please don't tell me they were missing a Hummel figure, as well."

  "At least can you agree that my parents weren't involved in any crime? I mean, now what Slick Frankie was hinting at becomes perfectly clear. Nobody—not my parents, not the rest of the shopkeepers on Countess Street

  —had any concept of the value of the stuff," Lauren argued.

  They had just come out of Rosenbaum's Funeral Parlor, where, as in the case of the luncheonette and the florist, they had hit pay dirt. It was surprising how heavy a candlestick could be, Lauren thought, as she lugged it in a canvas tote bag that Sebastian had stored in the trunk of his car.

  He'd insisted they keep the items with them at all times, despite the car's security system, which meant wrapping the painting in bubble paper and a blanket—also from the car—and holding it under his arm. He covered the chalice with paper and carried it in a shopping bag in the other hand.

  "Wittingly or unwittingly, your parents—along with the other people on the block—didn't report a crime, a major crime," Sebastian answered as they waited between parked cars for the traffic to clear so they could cross. Even though it was Sunday, people came to South Philly to shop and stroll and eat out.

  "But no one knew the items were stolen, let alone how valuable. You saw how stricken they all looked. Mr. Rosenbaum had his arms raised, wrists locked together, when we arrived at the funeral home. He was ready for you to cuff him and haul him off to jail." She rested the tote bag against a dark blue sedan and watched the cars go by.

  When a break in the traffic opened up, she hoisted the bag and headed across the street. "Pop's place is down half a block."

  Sebastian easily kept pace despite having his hands full, and when they got to the cleaners, he waited for her to remove the key from her pocket. Over the shopfront was a black wooden sign with gold scripted lettering. He frowned in confusion. "Jeffries French Dry Cleaning? I didn't know Jeffries was a French name."

  "It's not." Lauren pushed open the door with her shoulder. "French dry cleaning is a technical term. It means using petroleum solvents and doing most of the pressing by hand." She turned off the alarm system on the wall.

  She swung the tote bag onto the counter and leaned forward, resting her weight on two hands.

  How many times had she struck this pose growing up, helping out in the store?

  She looked at the low ceiling and the paneled walls, taking in the pricing chart and the calendar from Ace Hardware with the photo of fluffy puppies rolling around. Nothing much had changed over the years except for the dates on the calendar. And it would probably remain the same until her father eventually retired. "Well, I can't say that I spy a Renaissance candlestick anywhere obvious."

  Sebastian closed the front door and approached the customer side of the counter. "Then let's look in the not-so-obvious places." He set the two pieces he was carrying on the countertop and leaned his hip against the edge. Even in a leather jacket, well-worn jeans and a crewneck cashmere sweater cut like a sweatshirt, he appeared natty as all get out—and sexy as hell.

  Lauren purposely looked away. She hated knowing how intensely attracted to him she still was, despite the fact that things on the personal front were clearly unraveling. "So where do you want to start? The back room of this floor or upstairs?"

  "Let's start in the back and move up if necessary. I don't want to have to lug this stuff—" he pointed to the cache of reclaimed items "—all over kingdom come any more than necessary. Until I see these safely back to Italy, they're not leaving my sight." He balanced the painting under his arm and grabbed the bag with the chalice. "After you."

  Lauren grunted as she lifted the bag and led the way through the doorway behind the counter. The back room contained cleaned clothes, hanging from racks in plastic bags, and giant cleaning containers. She rested the bag on a table and peered around the room.

  Sebastian inspected the tanks. "What's in these—the cleaning chemicals?"

  "Petroleum solvents," Lauren answered, standing straighter, "as opposed to the solvent percholoreothylene, or perc, that most cleaners use these days. They're more expensive and labor-intensive, needing to be distilled regularly to remove impurities. Not to mention highly flammable."

  Sebastian prowled around the room. "So why bother?"

  Lauren watched him disappear under the hanging clothes. "Because petroleum solvents are more gentle. They don't remove sequins or strip buttons—all the horrors of regular dry cleaning."

  Sebastian reemerged. "Somehow I never realized dry cleaning was such a competitive business." He paused to look at Lauren, giving nothing away except an intensity of wanting to get the job done. "I don't see anything here. Would you mind showing me the upstairs?"

  "Sure, why not?" She grabbed the handles of the canvas bag. "Let's take the side stairs. They go directly to a large room in the front with the pressers."

  Sebastian followed behind, telling himself it was perfectly natural to notice the sway of her hips in her jeans. Certain things were meant to be admired, after all—fine wine, women's hips. This particular view of Lauren's backside corresponded to one of the great vintage years.

  Never mind. Never mind that he felt like gathering her up in his arms and trying to ease away the sadness that he read in the sag of her shoulders.

  He knew she was hurting, but that wasn't his problem right now, he told himself as he trudged up the steep stairs. From the beginning, he had stated that his priority—his first and only priority—was to retrieve the stolen art objects. Whatever else they'd shared had been a fringe benefit—a mutually satisfying scratch of an admittedly large itch. Anything more was out of the question, especially after she'd purposely held back information on the case. That was tantamount to betrayal in his view. And one thing he had learned in life—betrayal cut to the bone. If anyone was bleeding, it was he.

  Besides, it was clear that she had a veritable phalanx of admirers ready to help her lick whatever wounds she might be left with. He frowned. He didn't particularly want to think about those admirers, let alone thoughts of licking.

  "We hand-finish most of the garments, using either steam pressers or hand ironing," Lauren explained when they reached the top stairs. She turned around and waited for him to join her.

  Sebastian hesitated a moment before taking the final step. "Hand-finishing?" he asked, seemingly distracted.

  "Yeah." Lauren swept her hand in the air like a practiced tour guide. "We use a large press for tablecloths, but things like tuxedo shirts are done by hand. And wedding gowns are entirely done by hand." She walked across the old wooden floor, a dim light from the day's end filtering through the large front windows. It provided a soft contrast to the bright fluorescent lights overhead.

  Sebastian laid his packages on the large presser and slowly strolled around the open room. He studied the machinery gently touching a corner here, a curve there.

  Her stomach clenched. He did that a lot, she realized. Touched things. And she instantly remembered how those hands had touched her in so many places, so lovingly. She slowly lowered her bag to her feet.

  Sebastian walked to a mannequin. "What's that for?"

  "Oh, that's a Suzie." Lauren's voice was weary. Even if they found the missing candlestick, she doubted she'd feel the commensurate elation. "It's a mannequin-shaped presser. You use it for dresses and suits. Then a worker finishes up ironing the sleeves, collars and cuffs by hand."r />
  Sebastian gave it a once-over, then turned to Lauren. "Well, the work area is clean and tidy, nothing out of the ordinary, no unwarranted clutter. You said there was a room where your mother keeps the books?"

  She nodded. "Yeah, and a refrigerated fur closet—both in the back. I'll show you."

  And she would have, except the overhead lights suddenly went out. She swore. "A circuit breaker must have tripped. Let me just run downstairs and turn it back on." In the increasingly graying light, she eased her way around the large presser and bumped into something.

  Or rather, someone.

  "My God, Huey, how did you get in here?" She laid her hand on her chest.

  "Through the front door. You conveniently left it unlocked."

  Lauren stared at Sebastian in dismay. "That's right. I forgot you need the key to lock it." A light flickered near her hair and she pulled back. "Huey, what are you doing?"

  "Shedding a little light on the matter," he snickered. The flame from the butane lighter cast his smirk in a ghoulish glow. "And here you thought I didn't know what alliteration was."

  Lauren wisely decided not to explain that he hadn't used alliteration but a metaphor. "Well, be careful with that. It can be dangerous." She took a cautionary step back.

  "That's not the only dangerous thing." Huey slid his other hand into the droopy pocket of his blazer. When he removed it, it wasn't empty.

  Lauren's eyes opened wide. "Huey, that's a gun. Do you have a permit for that?"

  Huey waved it back and forth. "I think that should be the least of your worries."

  Sebastian slowly circled around the other side of the presser.

  "No, hold it there." Huey waggled the .22 at Sebastian. "Hands up."

  Sebastian obliged by raising his hands. "Deciding to do a little stealing yourself, Hugh?"

  "More like scooping," Huey corrected Sebastian with a firm nod.

  "What on earth are you talking about?" Lauren croaked. "You're after a story?"

  Huey turned to her and waved his gun to indicate she should raise her hands, as well. She got them as far as her shoulders. "Can you think of a better reason? The whole paper—even Uncle Ray—thinks I'm incompetent, while little Miss Metro uncovers the story of the year. Well, not anymore. I've been listening and watching, you know—following you from the beginning. And I'm going to be the one to break open the case."