by JC Simmons
"I'll tell you what, Sandy,” I said, stalling until I could think it through. "There is some cold pasta salad in my refrigerator at home. Let's go there, have lunch. We can talk over the details. You can fill me in on why your brother was in Maine. I can finish with some work, then decide what the best course of action will be."
"Course of action,” she said, looking at me incredulously. "It seems pretty simple, I want you to go with me to Maine and find out what's happened to my brother. We can leave on the next airplane. If you're worried about getting paid, I'll make out a check. Just name your price."
There was the hardness again. The lady could change emotions. Too fast, I thought.
"I would need to go by my place and pack,” I said calmly, looking into her eyes. "There are appointments I have Monday which must be rescheduled, and things I must finish now."
"Oh,” she said, holding my stare, rolling over the reasoning of my comment.
"But I am going to call Guy Robbins,” I said, dialing his home phone number from memory.
Sandy gave what I took to be an approving nod.
"Robbins' residence." A voice bellowed into the receiver.
"Hello, Guy,” I said, laughing at his formal voice. "How's my boat doing?"
"Leicester, I was hoping Sandy would find you. The answer to all your questions is yes. She and her brother are worth more money than you or I will ever hope to see. Is she there?"
"Yes,” I answered, looking up at Sandy. "Sitting right across from me."
"Jay,” Guy said with a serious inflection. "It's a long story, but I'll make it brief. She and Nat acquire expensive artwork, mostly oil paintings. They sell to the ultra rich and to wise guys, mostly New Orleans mob types, who don't care what the cost, or how the artwork was acquired. I don't think Sandy and Nat are dirty, but they do play around the fringes, and they make a lot of money. Just keep on your toes."
"Thanks, I'll do that. Tell Mildred hello for me. You taking care of Picaroon?" It was the name of Guy's sailboat. "She still afloat?"
"She's in great shape. We are still counting on the sail to Key West in June. Mildred says if you screw this trip up she won't love you any more."
"I'll be there,” I said, meaning it.
We said our good-byes.
"Well, Sandy,” I said, hanging up the phone. "Guy says you're okay. The offer for the cold pasta at my place still stands. We can talk."
"Does this mean you're going to help me?"
"It means I'm still thinking about it,” I answered without any sarcasm.
She followed me to my house. It's not often that I bring a client to my home, but today was Saturday and this lady seemed as if she'd fit in any surroundings. Also, living in Jackson, I knew that the best lunch to be had was in my kitchen, and there were several excellent vintages in my wine cellar.
Deciding to help her had been easy. The art world has always fascinated me. Sadly, I knew little about it. Maybe I could learn something. There was also the hint of involvement with the Big Easy wise guys; that could always become eventful. Then there was this enigmatic beauty.
Driving slowly along Lakeland Drive so Sandy could follow, I was enjoying the weather. This was spring in the South and, when no fronts are working their way through, it is the most pleasant time of the year, except for the early fall when there are no hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico. Way up, among the fragile tendrils of cirrus clouds, a lone eagle worked its way toward Alaska.
Watching Sandy in the rear view mirror, I thought, high stake players in the art world. Who would have imagined such things existed? It stood to reason, though. A foreign billionaire just paid forty-eight million for a painting of a vase of sunflowers. I had followed cases of paintings stolen from private collectors or museums that were valued at a million or so, but forty-eight million for a single piece of canvas? Shows what I know about the art world.
* * *
Sandy entered my house and immediately went to the few 'objets d'art' hanging on the small living room walls. There wasn't much; a tiny watercolor of a woman walking away in a cold fog with bare trees and faded sky, given to me by an old friend. There was a rendition of Ahab standing on the deck of Pequod, a storm raging around him, donated by another friend, and a drawing of my favorite writer I'd picked up in Key West. A photograph of Robert Frost, and three signed Ansel Adams posters put out by the New York Graphics Society years ago completed the collection. She made no comment about any of them and ignored my books, of which I'm proud.
Throwing a cold pasta and shrimp salad together, I opened a bottle of 1985 Hanzell Vineyards Pinot Noir. Sandy sat at the kitchen table silently watching every move I made. The pinot went well with the pasta. She surprised me with her knowledge of wine.
"In the style of a true Burgundy,” she said, holding the glass up to the light. "Reminds me of a Clos Vougeot. I love the earthy pinot flavors. Nice."
"Why was your brother in Maine, Sandy?" I asked as we finished the salad.
She thought for a moment, looking at me. "He was to meet a man who wanted to sell a complete collection of art work by an artist named Rockwell Kent." She paused, as if to ponder how much to tell me. "The man is from Chicago, but the collection was supposed to be on Monhegan Island off the coast of Maine. Renato was to go over the collection and, if all was as represented, buy it. The man had insisted on being paid in cash. No checks, no bank drafts no money orders. Cash."
"Isn't that unusual?" I asked, pouring us both more of the Hanzell pinot. "Does the art world deal in cash?"
"We conduct some transactions in cash,” she said, twirling the wine in her glass. "People have an aversion to paying taxes on works of art, and I don't blame them. There are also paintings for sale where one doesn't ask too many questions about their origin."
"And not too many questions asked by the people to whom you sell,” I said, more sarcastic than I intended.
"Don't judge me, Leicester,” she said, setting her wineglass down hard on the table, splashing the red liquid on the outside of the glass, anger flaring. "You've no right." She wiped the wine off the stem, licked her finger.
"I'm not making a judgment, Sandy. I'm only trying to understand what I'm getting into." Changing directions, I said, "Was your brother supposed to let you know if he bought the collection?"
"No,” she answered, wiping the wine stain from her fingers. "I was to see him on Monday at the Gallery. I had planned on being with Guy Robbins all weekend. He was to show me the art collection up for bid."
"What do you know about the seller from Chicago?" I prodded.
"Nothing. Renato handled the whole thing. I don't know anything about it except that we'd never done business with the man before."
"Why your brother?" I asked, shoving my plate to the side. "Why not you? Or both of you?"
"Because Renato knew a lot about Rockwell Kent. I know almost nothing." She ran manicured fingers through blond hair, sat back in the chair, and seemed to relax a little. "Oh, I know he did some murals which are still on the walls of Government buildings in Washington. He was some sort of socialist who visited Russia back when they were our enemies. Idiot McCarthy brought him up before his committee once. So, it was Renato's deal. Besides, I had the meeting with Guy Robbins to make the bid on the Moran collection."
"How did the seller get in touch with Renato?" I asked, watching a tufted titmouse scatter seed from the feeder at the kitchen window.
"I'm not sure,” she said, thinking back. "Renato will tell us."
Yes, I said to myself. Renato will tell us, if he isn't the stiff lying on the slab in Rockland, Maine. "How much cash was he traveling with?"
"Four hundred and fifty thousand,” she said nonchalantly, fingering her wineglass.
I sat back in my chair, scaring the titmouse. "Jesus. What if his plane had crashed? Or what..."
"Sometimes,” she interrupted. "One must take chances in life if one is to live. Don't you ever take chances?"
"Maybe with my life,” I said, smili
ng. "But not with a half a million in cold cash. Did the police detective say anything about finding the money?"
"I didn't ask." She sipped the last of her wine as if that huge amount of money meant nothing to her.
There was nothing I could think of to say.
Finally she said, "I'm concerned about my brother, not the money. I just want Renato to be okay." She sat upright, defiant. "The body they have is not Renato. I know it."
There were no tears. Her defiance was directed not at me, but the world. A strange half smile etched its way across her face like a breaking wave. A smile which could possess you, or break your heart.
"Give me the name and number of the police detective in Rockland. I'll call him, find out if they've learned any more, and tell him an approximate time of our arrival."
"Then you've decided to help me?" She asked, stretching both arms out beside her in triumph.
"Yes, I've decided to help you."
Getting up and going into the bedroom I'd converted into a small office, I brought back my standard form. "You need to read and sign this, then write me a check for a two thousand dollar advance. My fee is five hundred a day plus expenses. I'll bill you when the job is finished."
She signed the form without reading it and made out a check for the two thousand.
"Do you need to go back to New Orleans for clothes or anything before we figure out how to get to Rockland, Maine?" I asked, taking the form and check from her.
"No, I'll buy whatever I need here." She looked around at the house. "Do you mind if I take a shower? I didn't take time for one this morning."
"Sure,” I said, amused. "Let me make some phone calls, then we'll go to a clothing store. There's one just around the corner. You can shower when we return."
"That'll be fine. Let me help with the dishes."
CHAPTER THREE
Sandy gave me the detective's name and phone number in Rockland, Maine. Calling the airline first, I made reservations for a flight leaving at six a.m. tomorrow morning, arriving Boston at ten thirty a.m. There was a connecting flight on a small commuter airline to Augusta, Maine, but from the map spread across my desk, it looked like no more than a three or four hour road trip from Boston's Logan airport. Deciding to drive, I figured we would arrive in Rockland by five o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Sunday.
Placing a call to the police department in Rockland, Maine, I asked to speak to Detective J. L. Chamberlain.
"I'm sorry, sir,” the Desk Sergeant who answered the phone said. "Detective Chamberlain isn't working this weekend. Maybe someone else could help you?"
"Then I'll speak to the detective in charge this weekend,” I said, throwing my pen on the desk, expecting the usual bureaucratic runaround.
"Well, sir,” the Desk Sergeant said. "Detective Chamberlain is the only detective we've got. He won't be back until Monday, that is unless we have some kind of emergency. Then the Chief would have me call Detective Chamberlain. We don't have a large force."
"Put the Chief on the line, Sergeant,” I said, picking my pen back up. "I'll talk to him."
"Ah, I'm sorry, sir, but the Chief isn't working this weekend, either. Of course, unless there's an emergency."
"Then put whoever the hell is in charge on the phone, Sergeant." I was growing tired of the game. "I'll talk to anyone."
"Well, sir,” he said, rather proudly. "I'm the one in charge. What can I do for you?"
"Sergeant,” I said slowly, calmly, clinching both fists together until the knuckles were white. "I want you to get in touch with Detective Chamberlain, tell him Sandy Rinaldi will be arriving tomorrow around six p.m. We'll meet him in his office."
"Ah, sir,” the Sergeant said officiously. "Just who are you?"
"My name is Leicester, Jay Leicester. I'll be accompanying Miss Rinaldi to Rockland. We're traveling over a thousand miles to see Detective Chamberlain. We expect to see his smiling face. Understand, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir,” he said. "But Detective Chamberlain isn't going to like this."
"Good-bye, Sergeant,” I said, quickly hanging up the phone, then holding my head in both hands in disgust.
* * *
"There's a flight leaving at six in the morning,” I explained to Sandy on the way to the clothing store. "Puts us in Boston by eleven. We can drive up to Rockland from there. Detective Chamberlain will meet us at his office around six o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Sound okay to you?"
"Sounds fine." She ran manicured fingers through her silky hair. "You couldn't get us out tonight?"
"Not without an overnight layover in Atlanta,” I answered, searching for a parking space in the busy shopping center. "We might as well stay here as in Atlanta."
"Will you arrange a room for me, a hotel somewhere close by?"
"Certainly, but you're welcome to stay at my house." I maneuvered the car into a narrow parking space. "There's a spare bedroom with a lock on the door."
"Awful hospitable of you, Mr. Leicester,” she said with that strange half-smile. "I accept."
* * *
The flight to Boston was uneventful. Getting the rent-a-car and driving out of the city was, to say the least, interesting. It took us an hour to get through the tollbooth at the airport perimeter. Sandy, navigating with the road map, helped. But the traffic was bumper to bumper, stop and go, until we were ten miles north. And this was Sunday.
Once outside of Boston traffic on the turnpike thinned. It was foggy when we landed at Logan, but by the time we'd settled in for the drive the fog had burned off, revealing a deep blue early spring sky. The air still had a chilly brace and the trees were just beginning to leaf out.
We went through the State of New Hampshire in the blink of an eye and, except for the tollbooths at each state line, we would not have known we'd been through it.
We stopped in Kennebunkport for a break and something to eat. Another toll to get back on the turnpike, and we headed up along the coast. Taking the exit at Bath, we followed Highway One through some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen. Bayou country, I thought, without the heat and mosquitoes.
The time spent driving gave me a chance to find out a little about Sandy. As could be expected, she'd been tense and irritated since her brother disappeared. I tried to get her to relax, talk about herself. It took awhile, but she finally warmed.
"Were you born in New Orleans, Sandy?" I asked, catching glimpses of silver-sharded slices of the Atlantic Ocean as we neared the coastline at different points on the road.
"Yes,” she answered, glancing at the same spots of ocean. "Renato and I both were born there, or rather in Metairie. It's a suburb, out near the airport."
"I know it well. When I flew for Southern Airways, we had a crew base at the Candlelight Inn on Airline highway."
"I was born on Army Street, right behind the Candlelight Inn,” she said excitedly. "The area's run down now, but I loved it there when I was a little girl. The airplanes would take off and land over our house. They were so exciting, going to far off places. I used to dream of getting on one, flying to some exotic land where there was an ocean and white sand beaches. I had a calendar in my room with a picture of an island in the Caribbean. I guess that was where my airplane was going." She looked down at her lap, picked at a fingernail.
"Your parents still live on Army Street?"
"My mother's dead." Sandy bowed her head for a moment, then gazed out the front windshield into the far past. "She killed herself when I was fifteen years old."
"I'm sorry."
"It devastated me. Had it not been for Renato, I don't think I would have survived. Our father left the family shortly after I was born. I always thought it was because of me. It took a long time before I realized it wasn't my fault. Mama had a rough time raising us kids. Then there were the men in her life...God, could she pick'em. One or two even tried to hit on me."
"What did you and your brother do after your mother died?" I slowed for a gravel truck on the now two-lane, winding road.
; "Renato was old enough to work. We had no other family. The house was paid for. It wasn't much, but we owned it. We survived."
"How did you two get into the art business?" I asked, finding a safe stretch of road and passing the truck.
"Renato opened the gallery. He brought me in a few years later." She turned and looked at me. "It's a long story, Jay. I'll tell it to you sometime."
She was being vague. I decided not to push it. She probably had her reasons.
"Tell me about Jay Leicester,” she said, turning in the seat, facing me, now. "You flew for the airlines?"
"Yes, I spent twenty years as a pilot, eight of those flying for the now defunct Southern Airways. The rest of the time as a corporate pilot, learning great lessons about the nouveau riche."
"What does that mean?" She turned back, faced out the side window.
"Never mind,” I said, smiling. "It's a long story, I'll tell you about it sometime."
She laughed at that, a long, infectious laugh. I was glad to see she had a sense of humor.
We drove for half an hour in silence, enjoying the countryside. Sandy leaned back in the seat, crossed her ankles.
"You ever been married, Jay?"
"Married?" I rubbed my chin. "No, came close one time, though. It wouldn't have worked out. She made a wise decision, sent me on my way. What about you?"
She laughed, as if there was some absurdity even to the thought. "I've never considered the idea. Men intrigue me, but they don't fascinate me."
Making no comment, I thought it one subject better left undisturbed. Instead of saying anything, I watched the scenery change from wooded flatland to hill country and pristine seaside.
"How did you end up a private investigator?" She asked, holding her hair back with both hands, forming a sort of ponytail. "Seems a stretch, from flying airplanes?"
"My grandfather was a judge, my father and brother both state highway patrolmen. I grew up around law enforcement. It was the only thing I knew besides flying."
