Secret of the Painted Lady

by Christina A. Burke

  "You have a point," he conceded. "Not that I mind playing detective with you. Not quite as fun as playing doctor, I'm sure, but definitely a close second."

  "Playing doctor? You want to play doctor with me?"

  "Does that surprise you?" he asked.

  "I'm not exactly your type."

  "And what's my type, Alexandra?" I pictured his eyebrow raised.

  "Someone who drinks tea and wears sweater sets," I blurted out.

  "Tea and sweater sets?" he said incredulously. "Why would you ever think I'd be attracted to that?"

  There was a loud bang, and we both jumped. I clutched his arm, my nails digging into the skin.

  "Was that the front door?" I was surprised whoever was nosing around the house felt comfortable just walking in and out of the front door.

  "I think so," George murmured. His face was inches from mine.

  I pulled back first and flipped on my own flashlight app. "Let's get upstairs and see if we can catch a look at whoever that was."

  I raced up the stairs. Behind me, George called, "The tea and sweater sets conversation is not over."

  I grabbed the doorknob, expecting it to be locked, but the handle turned easily. The staircase had led to a small anteroom off the kitchen. I raced to the front hall with George close behind. We peered out one of the large panes of glass on either side of the door.

  "Shoot! All I saw were the taillights of a dark car." With the streetlight outside, it was bright enough to see George's face. He was smiling.

  "You are really getting into this, Mrs. Charles," he said.

  "My livelihood depends on it," I replied. "If I could've just seen who that was." I felt like stomping my foot.

  I watched George take a handkerchief from his pocket and turn the doorknob. He opened the door a few inches. The crime scene tape was still in place. The intruder must have stepped carefully between the strips. "I have a theory about who our visitor was."

  I looked up at him expectantly. He opened the door a little wider, revealing the Realtor lockbox.

  I gasped. "Someone with a key to the lockbox."

  "Any Realtor in town could get the code. They should've taken it off after you bought the house, but with the murder, they didn't get to it." George closed the door quietly.

  I thought about the dark car. "Not just any Realtor," I said with dawning realization. "A Realtor who wanted this house for his client. And one who's not above getting his hands dirty for the right price."

  George whistled. "Jack Condor certainly tops that list."

  "But what's his angle?" I wondered out loud. "Coming here in the night, snooping around a crime scene. This is obviously about more than a client wanting to purchase the house. What if he had something to do with the murder?"

  I turned wide eyes to George.

  "Then that would make him a very dangerous man," George replied.

  * * *

  We gave up our search for the elusive box and left through the front door. Just as we'd suspected, the basement entrance had been closed and locked. Jack Condor knew that someone with a key had been in the house. And I was the most likely someone with a key. Condor as a business adversary was fine, maybe even exhilarating. But Condor as a possible murderer with everything to lose if he was caught, made me want to go to the police now. I felt a little sick as I followed George back to his shop. It was eleven, and the streets were nearly deserted.

  "How about a nightcap up at the pier? It's on your way home, and I can take the trolley back to my place afterwards," George suggested.

  There were several restaurants and an eclectic collection of dive bars scattered around the pier that connected to downtown via the trolley system. It was only a five-minute drive and on my way back to Rockgrove.

  I hesitated for a moment. My desire to go back over the events of the evening was at war with the late hour and my nice comfy bed waiting for me at home. "Okay," I agreed.

  "Do you mind if I change? I think a pair of cat burglars might attract attention, even at The Owl's Nest."

  "Sure," I said, following him into the back of the flower shop.

  He turned a light on and headed toward a door marked Private. "Be right back."

  I glanced around the flower shop. It looked so different at night. All the bright arrangements dark and brooding in the gloom. I shivered. I'd spent too much time jumping at shadows tonight. A beer would hit the spot.

  I walked behind the counter to get a better look at George's work area. I was curious to see if he was as meticulous behind the scenes as he was out front.

  Everything was arranged at precise angles on the desk behind the counter. Calendar turned to the correct date, computer arranged catty-corner. The pencil holder even contained sharpened pencils. I peered inside and then moved to place it back on the desktop. I hit the edge, and pencils flew across the floor.

  "Oh jeez," I said. The last thing I wanted was George to know I was snooping behind his desk. He probably knew exactly how many pencils were in the holder. I scrambled around on the floor, grabbing up pencils like playing Pick Up Sticks. Several had rolled under the desk. I sat up and banged my head hard on something under the ledge.

  I rubbed my head and peered up. I pulled out my phone and shined the light up. A gun was nestled in a holster and taped to the underside of the desk.

  I jumped back in surprise. Why would George have a gun under the counter? This wasn't a liquor store. It was a flower shop. Besides, I'd never heard of any businesses being held up in downtown Danger Cove. It just didn't happen.

  I heard the door to the upstairs apartment open. I put the pencil holder back on the desk and hurried around to the front of the counter.

  "All set?" I asked.

  George was wearing the linen pants and aqua polo he'd had on that afternoon.

  He nodded and then looked at me more closely. "Everything okay?"

  "Sure. Of course," I replied, heading for the back entrance. "It's getting late. Maybe I should take a rain check on that drink."

  George stopped to set the alarm. "Nothing doing. We've got a case to discuss, Mrs. Charles."

  "You have a problem with break-ins?" I asked with a nod to the alarm.

  "No," he said holding the door for me. "Millie had it here when I bought the place."

  "Huh," I said as we walked around the building toward the street. "So do you think we should tell the police about Jack Condor?" I asked to change the subject.

  He turned to me. "And they'll know we were traipsing around their crime scene? I don't think so." George laughed. "Besides, we're still working a lead. We need to find some real evidence before we throw ourselves under that bus."

  I agreed with that in theory. I just wasn't sure how far I should let this go before involving the authorities. I knew I was getting in over my head. Seeing that gun under the counter had reminded me I wasn't just playing detective—I was playing with fire.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Owl's Nest was little more than a collection of wooden stools around a scarred plywood bar and several black vinyl booths scattered against bare wood walls. The floors were covered in sawdust and peanut shells. In one corner stood an ancient jukebox playing George Thorogood's "I Drink Alone." We ordered at the bar from a bartender with actual fishing hooks pierced through his eyebrows and sat down in a corner booth.

  "That's a manly drink," I blurted out, pointing to George's dry martini with two olives. "I mean, it's just not what I'd pictured you drinking."

  He tapped his fingers on the table. "And what did you imagine I'd drink?"

  "Well, maybe wine or something fruity." I bit my tongue as soon as I said the word.

  He laughed loud enough to cause a couple at the bar to turn and stare. "At least you're honest," he said, wiping his eyes. "I suppose a nice fruity drink to match my fruity attire." He pulled at the collar of his shirt.

  "Yeah, something like that," I replied. Hey, he was the one wearing the aqua shirt and carrying handkerchiefs in his pocket. He had t
o know that wasn't normal for guys. At least the ones I'd known.

  "Let me set the record straight." He stressed the word straight. "I prefer olives to fruit in my drinks. I dress sharp because that's how my mother raised me, and I have a number of manly traits and habits that you'll eventually discover and no doubt be highly impressed with." He finished his martini in a gulp and signaled to the bartender for another.

  I gave him a look. "Yeah, name one." I took a swig of my beer.

  "I can burp the alphabet."

  I laughed, and beer shot up my nostrils. I coughed. "No way."

  And then he started: "A, B—"

  I held up my hand. "I believe you. Stop." I coughed between giggles.

  He bowed his head and waved his hand with a flourish. "That's just the beginning, my dear Nora."

  "I hope that's the end of that," I tried to say sternly. "What would Gram say? All her idyllic dreams of you—shattered." I'm not sure how it happened, but his hand was covering mine on the table. I couldn't pull it back without being obvious, so I just left it. It was warm on mine. Nice.

  Then I pulled myself together. I didn't need a romantic entanglement at this point in my life. Especially with George, even if he could burp the alphabet.

  "Can we get back to business?" I asked with a look at my hand.

  He removed his. "Of course," he replied. "Let's review the facts."

  I nodded. "We have a murdered tourist who was probably staying in Marlton House before he was killed." I filled him in on finding the hangers. "We also know he purchased a specific-sized box the day before he died."

  "Jack Condor swooped in and tried to buy the house from you at the last minute," George continued. "And he's likely the intruder in the house tonight. So we can assume he knew the tourist in some capacity."

  "Knew the tourist?" I interjected. "That would make him our number one suspect. If he's the murderer, then trying to buy the house, digging around tonight, and casting blame on me with the police and the media has been part of covering his tracks."

  George looked thoughtful. "But he hasn't done a great job of it if he's the murderer. Condor strikes me as more of a planner."

  George was right. It was almost like Condor had been brought in as a pinch hitter or the clean-up man. Who was his mysterious client? "You're right. No way Jack Condor would leave this much to chance. Maybe the story about helping a client is true. Only his client happens to be a murderer."

  "And Condor comes back to the house tonight to search for the box—on behalf of his client—and sees the basement door open," George said.

  "So he knows I'm on the case now too because I've got the key," I said quickly, getting into it. "Or maybe he thinks I'm desperate enough to break into a crime scene at night to start work."

  George shook his head. "I don't think so. He wasn't there to take measurements for a client, and I can't imagine he'd think you'd be there to work either." A shadow crossed George's face.

  I paused. Condor was definitely involved in this murder at some level, and now he knew I knew he was involved.

  We sat in silence for a few seconds. "Maybe I should pay Mr. Condor a visit," I said, taking a sip of my beer.

  "And say what? 'I know you were messing around at the crime scene just like I was?'" He shook his head.

  "No," I said, an idea taking shape. "I go to see him about his offer to buy the house. Throw him a curve ball."

  "I like it." George nodded, giving it some more thought.

  "I'll visit him first thing Monday," I said, feeling better having some sort of a plan. "Play the damsel in distress, and see if he bites. I'll tell him I just can't swing the house with the delays. Maybe I can find out who his client is."

  George made a face. "Oh, he's definitely a biter. Like a shark. I don't like you going there alone."

  "It'll be during business hours. I'm sure he won't bite me in broad daylight."

  George shrugged. He could tell there'd be no talking me out of it. "So what are your plans for tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject.

  I groaned, thinking about my houseguest. "I suppose entertaining my new houseguest."

  George gave me a quizzical look. "Your houseguest?"

  "Yeah, Gram offered the mystery man—we're calling him John for now—a place to stay."

  George's face went still, and he looked pale. "You mean the guy you found on the rocks is staying with you?"

  I nodded.

  "That's the most asinine thing I've ever heard," he sputtered. "You have no idea who he is. Hell, he could've been the one who murdered the tourist."

  "And then he dove into the ocean, bumped his head, and forgot about everything? Yeah, that makes sense." I took a gulp of beer. Could it be George was jealous? He looked worried more than anything else. Worried enough to make me start worrying about John being home with Gram all alone.

  "Don't you think he's faking the amnesia? Don't you think there's a little too much coincidence going on here?" George asked with exasperation.

  "I honestly don't see what one has to do with the other. People wash up on the rocks more often than you'd think." I nodded my head and continued, "According to Gram, Ching from Ching's Chinese washed up during WWII and never went home. So all I'm saying is, John's not the first guy to wash up on the rocks through no fault of his own." I'm not sure why I was defending him. I really knew nothing about the guy, but George's proprietary manner with me was getting under my skin.

  "Invite me to Sunday dinner," George said suddenly.

  I stared at him. "No. You'll just make trouble."

  "Invite me, or I'll call Janiece." He glared back at me.

  "Fine," I huffed, "but you'd better bring a cheesecake from the Cinnamon Sugar for dessert."

  "Of course," George replied, relaxing now that he had an invitation to dinner.

  "You can't start anything with John. And don't bother Gram with your wild theories either." I pointed my finger at him.

  "Me? Never," he said, but his eyes were twinkling.

  * * *

  I waited until Gram came home from church to tell her about our dinner party. "Why, I'll invite Alice and Larry. How fun! I'll tell Dolly to start the rib roast at two. Oh, and we'll need dessert." Gram was pulling out linens and place settings from the huge buffet in the dining room.

  "George is bringing cheesecake. I'll wash up the plates and set the table," I offered.

  "Thank you, Alexandra. So you and George have been spending time together?" she asked coyly.

  "A little. He's helping me with a design project." I was grasping at straws. One thing I didn't need was Gram catching wind of our nocturnal investigations. I didn't want her to worry about me getting in trouble with the police, and I certainly didn't need her putting her matchmaker skills into overdrive.

  "Have you seen John this morning?" Gram asked.

  I had. Running down the beach without a shirt, his muscular chest drenched in sweat. I'd brought him a water and asked him how he was doing.

  "He's fine but no change in his condition. He's going to work with a detective tomorrow to see if they can match him to a missing persons profile. So far, nothing."

  "Such a shame," Gram clucked. "But it's nice to have a polite, attractive man around the house, isn't it?"

  "Did you just wiggle your eyebrows at me?" I asked.

  "So what if I did?" she said with a laugh. "I might be old, but I'm not dead."

  Oh my. Maybe Gram didn't bring John home strictly for matchmaking purposes after all.

  While I washed and dried the china, my mind drifted back to last night and the missing box. We had to have missed something. The dead tourist had needed a wooden box. Why couldn't he have just used a cardboard box or something else? And more importantly, why did he need such a specific size? Obviously so it would fit in somewhere, but where?

  After I finished setting the table for six, I headed to my workshop. Maybe if I mocked up the box, I could get a feel for where it might fit. I used thin balsa wood and a sharp blade
to cut out the six-by-four box. I stared at the shape for a minute, turning the box over in my hand.

  "Janiece said you were out here." John's voice came from the doorway. "Hey, nice workshop. Looks like you could build just about anything in here. I haven't seen one of these circular saws since I was a kid."

  I turned around and stared at him. He nodded. "My dad had one in his shop." Then he caught my look and cried, "Hey! I just remembered something."

  "That's great. Focus on your dad and the workshop. Do you remember your dad's name?"

  John made a strained look and then shook his head. "Nope. I just have this image in my head of a tall man with dark hair using one of these circular saws in a shed."

  "Well, that's progress. The doctors said it would come back in little drips, and then all of a sudden you'd remember everything." I turned to face him, and he was close enough for me to smell soap and some kind of other scent. Maybe a lotion? It was utterly divine.

  He seemed a little disappointed. "Guess it's better than nothing." He gave a shrug. "What're you making there?" he asked, pointing to the box behind me.

  "Oh, just working on a model for a project," I replied lightly. For some reason, I didn't want him to know what I was up to. Maybe George was right, and John was somehow involved with the dead tourist. At this point I couldn't take the chance.

  He reached around me and picked up the little box. "Huh," he murmured, inspecting it, "wonder what you'd put in there?"

  I reached out to take the model back, but he held on to it, covering my hands with his. "Alex, I want you to know how much I appreciate you letting me stay here. I know it was a shocker when Janiece invited me, but you've both been so kind." He stroked my hand lightly; my skin tingled in response. Wow, he had animal magnetism out the wazoo. I needed to be careful around him.

  I pulled my hand back gently. "I admit I was surprised, but I think it's working out fine. And besides, you'll have your memory back any day now and be able to go back to your family."

  He looked sad at that thought. "If I even have a family," he murmured, putting the box down. "I mean, where are they? Why aren't they looking for me?"