by Mary Maxwell
CHAPTER 19
After doing the dishes, taking a relaxing bubble bath and sending my parents an email update on Sky High Pies, I settled onto the living room sofa with a modest one-scoop bowl of ice cream to watch Mamma Mia!
At the very instant that I aimed the remote at the DVD player, my phone buzzed and VIVECA ENGLAND HOME appeared on the screen.
“Hey, neighbor!” I said.
“Katie?”
“Yeah. It’s me. How’s your evening?”
“I figured it out earlier,” said Viv. “Did you get my message?”
“What? About how your night is going?”
“No, not that. I realized who I heard in the hardware store talking about Eva King.”
I quickly dropped the remote and put my ice cream on the coffee table.
“Who was it?”
“Well,” Viv began, “I dialed your number the second I figured it out, but it went to voicemail. And then something weird happened with my phone. Did you get the message?”
“Earlier today?”
“Around five or five-fifteen,” Viv answered.
“I didn’t have a message from you,” I told her.
“Well, that’s weird. And I guess it isn’t important because here we are talking now.”
“Yep. Here we are.”
“When you didn’t call me back, I figured it might be smart to try again,” she said.
“Sounds good. What did you figure out? The woman’s name?”
“Yes, her name and how we both actually know her,” Viv said. “I was downtown shopping late this afternoon. I was supposed to be on a conference call about a potential job designing a client’s condo in Vail, but she couldn’t take—”
“Viv?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we talk about your client after you tell me who you overheard at the hardware store?”
She sighed. “Sorry, Katie. I had a huge cappuccino around seven o’clock. I’m pretty revved up. I think that was a big mistake.”
“You might be up for a while,” I said.
“For sure,” she agreed. “But that’s my problem.”
I kept quiet, waiting for her to get back on track with the story.
“The doctor said I need to drink more decaf,” she said a moment later. “Do you agree?”
“I think that’s probably something we should all consider,” I said. “And I hate to be grouchy, but can we go back to the woman you heard the other day?”
“Sorry,” Viv said. “Whenever I have too much caffeine, it’s really hard to stay focused.”
“Apparently,” I said with a faint laugh. “Now, let’s give it one more try.”
She took a deep breath and cleared her throat. Then she resumed her story, beginning at the point where her conference call was canceled.
“And that’s when I heard her again,” Viv said. “Because I went into that cute little shop on Worth Street, the one where I got such a great deal on that vintage Versace dress a couple of months ago.”
“Uh-huh. The one that makes you look exactly like a movie star.”
She sighed. “That is so sweet of you to say, Katie.”
“Viv?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to pull my hair out if I don’t hear the rest of your story.”
“Oh, shoot! My apologies. It’s the—”
“I know, I know! It’s the caffeine. Let’s try it once more, okay?”
After another deep breath and something whispered, she began again. “Anyway,” she said, “I was in the shop and found this really cute jumpsuit, so I went into the changing room to see if it would fit. And I was just getting ready to step into it when I heard the voice from the hardware store.”
She paused. I waited. Then she said, “Aren’t you going to ask me who it was?”
I swallowed hard to keep from screaming.
“Yes, Viv,” I said. “Who was it?”
And when she finally told me the name, I suddenly realized that one of my hunches about the case was wrong and the other was right on the money.
“Can you believe that?” she asked. “I was pretty surprised when I realized that she was the one I heard talking to the other woman about lying to the 911 operator.”
“I’m pretty shocked, too,” I told Viv. “But it actually makes sense.”
She giggled. “Because she can be such a witch?”
“No,” I said. “It makes sense because she’s probably the last person in town that anyone would suspect of being involved with kidnapping and murder.”
Viveca gasped on the other end of the line. “Murder, Katie?” she whispered. “Do you really think someone was killed at Vito’s the other day?”
“I don’t know about that,” I answered. “But there’s good reason to believe that at least one person might not get out of this alive. I mean, two people have gone missing. There was blood all over Vito’s house. And I learned a few very intriguing things today during my trip to Steamboat Springs.”
“You did?” Viv asked. “Like what?”
“Well, for starters, I learned that imitation isn’t always the sincerest form of flattery,” I said. “There are times when it’s also a criminal enterprise that seeks to squeeze millions of dollars out of unsuspecting art lovers who think they’re buying the real deal when they’re actually forking over their cash for a fake piece of art painted in a house on Balsam Drive right here in Crescent Creek.”
CHAPTER 20
When Trent finally returned my call later that night, I was back downstairs in the Sky High dining room, arranging placemats, polished silverware and white paper napkins on the tables for the next day. Harper normally reset the room as soon as the last lunch customers departed, but she’d left a few minutes after we closed that afternoon for a hair appointment.
“What’s going on, Katie?” Trent said, sounding short of breath and edgy. “I’ve only got about three minutes.”
I laughed. “Why so specific, Deputy Chief Walsh?”
“You just wasted ten seconds,” he snapped. “What did you want to discuss?”
“I’ve got a hunch that the situation with Pia and Vito has something to do with forged artwork,” I said.
“Forged artwork?” Trent sounded skeptical. “Like, fake paintings or something?”
“Exactly like that. When I was in Steamboat this afternoon, someone left a note on my windshield with the name Elmyr de Hory. I did some—”
“You went to Steamboat Springs?”
“I told you that in my message,” I said.
“I didn’t listen to it,” Trent grumbled. “I’m way short on time as it is, Katie. I figured it’d be expeditious to just call you and see what’s up.”
“Okay,” I said, realizing he was more impatient than I’d originally thought. “As I was starting to explain, I found a note on my windshield with the name Elmyr de Hory. When I—”
“Who the heck is that, Katie? We’re working on finding your friend and her painter buddy. The last I heard, neither of those two were named…whatever that name was!”
“That’s just it,” I said when he finished. “I think Vito Marclay was inspired by the story of Elmyr de Hory. I think that’s why he started forging paintings. And I also think that’s why he used the name E. A. Hoffmann on his bank account and the post office box in Steamboat Springs.”
“I obviously know Vito’s name,” Trent said. “But who are the other people that you just mentioned?”
“You mean Elmyr de Hory and E. A. Hoffmann?”
Trent didn’t say anything, but I could hear his fingers drumming against the top of his desk.
“You ready for the rest?” I asked after a few more seconds.
“Yes, Katie. I can tell you’re dying to dazzle me with something relevant.”
“Well, I have a hunch it’s connected to Vito and Pia’s disappearance.”
“Do you mind telling me how you uncovered this little morsel?” asked Trent.
I laughed. �
��My impeccable sleuthing kills,” I said with an impish lilt in my voice. “Pia found a bank deposit slip at Vito’s house. I noticed the name and address didn’t match Mr. Marclay’s, so I made a quick trip to Steamboat.”
“And that’s where you met the Hoffmann guy?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “E. A. Hoffmann doesn’t exist. I mean, there’s always a chance that somewhere in the world you could find a real person named Elemér Albert Hoffmann. But, as related to Vito Marclay, I suspect that he was using the name Hoffmann to cover his tracks.”
“What tracks?”
“The ones that lead from his respectable career as a relatively well-known contemporary artist to his underground work as a forger.”
Trent groaned. “Does all of this lead somewhere?”
“I hope it leads to us finding Pia and Vito before anything irretrievable happens.”
“How did you connect Marclay to Hoffmann?”
“I got a tip,” I said. “From someone in Steamboat Springs. She told me to Google Elmyr de Hory. And when I did that, I discovered that he was a famous Hungarian-born painter and art forger who sold more than a thousand counterfeit artworks to reputable galleries all over the world. He actually changed his name to Hoffmann from—”
“No more names!” Trent blurted. “Let’s stick with the ones we’re already dealing with, okay?”
“You got it, big guy. If you decide that you want any more info on Hoffmann, I’ve got a file saved with the research I did. I can email it to you in a flash.”
“Thanks, Katie. How about you hold onto it? I’m more interested in hearing why you think Vito and Pia are missing because of fake paintings.”
“That’s my theory,” I said. “Between the fishy deposit slip at Marclay’s, the mailing address in Steamboat Springs and the fact that Pia has told me more than once that some of the paintings in Vito’s studio resemble masterpieces by famous artists like Vermeer, Van Gogh and Rembrandt, I’m starting to suspect that Vito was living a double life.”
“Lots of people do,” Trent said.
“True enough,” I agreed. “But how many of them end up getting either kidnapped or murdered?”
“Whoa! Hang on there! Who’s talking about murder?”
“I’m just speculating,” I answered. “We don’t have any evidence that anyone is dead at this point, but there was quite a bit of blood at Vito’s house the other night.”
“Could’ve been a bad paper cut,” Trent quipped.
I didn’t respond. The crack wasn’t surprising, but I didn’t want to take the time to admonish him.
“Anyway,” I said, after counting to ten, “I’m beginning to suspect that Vito has gone back to his old ways. I think there’s a good possibility that he’s been painting fake masterpieces that someone sells on the black market.”
“What are you basing your theory on?” asked Trent.
“My gut,” I said. “Plus, I met an intriguing young woman today and she pointed me in the direction of the Hungarian forger.”
“Are you saying Vito’s from Hungary?”
“No, not at all,” I answered. “But, speaking of Mr. Marclay, what’s the latest?”
“On Pia and Vito?”
“No,” I said, feeling ornery, “on Elmyr de Hory.”
Trent was quiet for a few seconds. Then he said, “Is that the Hoffman guy’s original name?”
I snickered with delight. “How’d you guess, big guy?”
“Because I know you, Katie. You just love all those facts and details and specks of information.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Because facts and details and specks of information are how you build a solid case.”
“I know that,” he said. “And I figured you’d find a way to weasel the real name into the conversation again, either right now or the next time we talk.”
“You’re a sly one,” I said. “Not quite as easy to fool as everyone seems to think.”
Trent groaned. “Everyone? Who the heck is everyone?”
I glanced at the clock at the far end of the dining room.
“Hey,” I said. “I thought you only had three minutes to talk.”
“Oh, shoot! That’s right. But now I’m curious about what you just told me. Who’s been saying that I’m gullible?”
“Don’t you worry about it,” I said. “Everyone knows that rumors and gossip fly around all the time in a place as small as Crescent Creek.”
“Yeah, but if they’re saying—”
“And we also know that most of it is claptrap and hooey, right?”
When he didn’t reply within a few seconds, I asked if he was still on the line.
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he answered. “I’m just writing down those two words so I can use them the next time Dina or Tyler give me grief about something they’ve heard from one of our local busybodies. Anyway, I need to run, Katie! I’ll catch you later on down the road.”
CHAPTER 21
I was nursing my second cup of coffee the following morning at five-thirty when Julia came through the backdoor into the Sky High kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late!” she gushed. “I overslept and Jared misplaced the keys to my car after he used it last night.”
I watched silently as she dropped her purse and a pale pink duffel bag on the counter, grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured a cup of coffee.
“Oh, this is so what I need!” she whirred after the first sip. “I swear that some mornings caffeine is the only—”
She stopped, swiveled on one heel and frowned.
“Why are you so quiet?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“And why do you look all jumbled and groggy and…” She squinted. “Is that toothpaste on your cheek?”
I picked up a teaspoon and gazed at my reflection. There was a smudge of something near my mouth. I put down the spoon, grabbed a nearby napkin and swiped away the whitish splotch.
“Is that better?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’ll do in a pinch,” she said. “Now, what’s up? You look pretty woozy.”
“So would you after the night I had.”
She wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, lickety split! Big Zack came home early, huh?”
“No, Jules. He’s still in Santa Fe. And I’m not talking about anything like that. I was up half the night reading about famous art forgers.”
Her forehead creased as she tried to interpret my remark. After a few seconds, she put down her coffee and held up both hands.
“Why were you doing that?” she asked.
“I got a tip from someone in Steamboat,” I answered. “It appears that Vito Marclay was inspired by a famous Hungarian forger, who was named Elemér Albert Hoffmann at birth, but who used another name later in life. Anyway, the deposit slip that Pia found—”
“Slow down, Katie! I only caught about half of what you just said.”
I blinked a few times, sipped my coffee and took a deep breath.
“Sorry, Jules. It’s been a pretty frantic forty-eight hours.”
“I guess so,” she said. “Does your late night have something to do with Pia and Vito?”
I nodded.
“Have you heard anything new?” Julia said.
“I’ve learned a few things,” I answered. “But the news we’re waiting for hasn’t happened.”
“No sign of them?”
“Not yet,” I answered. “But I m optimistic that things are going to work out soon. We just need one lucky break.”
“I just wish she’d never started dating the guy,” Julia muttered.
“Why? Do you know him?”
She shook her head. “Heard all about him? Oh, you betcha! Actually know the guy? I don’t. And I’m really glad that our paths have never crossed.”
“Why?”
Her eyes spun around as she dropped one hand on her hip. “He’s a pain in the ashtray, Katie. Pretentious and arrogant and rude and…” Her voice increased in volume as she continued the unfla
ttering list. “…and petty and shallow and—”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I get the picture. And if you haven’t met the man, why are you describing him in such unattractive terms?”
“Because he’s an unattractive guy, Katie. A friend of mine helped Vito decorate his house after he moved from New York. She thought it was going to be a wonderful experience because, you know, he’s an artist and creative and all of that. But he made her miserable the entire time. Complaining constantly and taking forever to make decisions and sending things back when they arrived.”
“Sounds like some of our customers,” I said, trying to get her to smile. “You know, like Mo Gillard.”
Julia’s face shuddered at the mention of the man’s name. Mo was notorious for being the single most persnickety customer in the history of Sky High Pies. He once sent a glass of iced tea back because the cubes were “too square, too clear and way too cold!” My parents were running the place at the time and my father’s face still flushed candy apple red whenever he told the story.
“I think Vito’s actually worse than Mo,” Julia muttered. “I mean, when was the last time Mo Gillard painted a woman’s portrait and used dogs for her ears, a banana for her nose and tumbleweeds for her hair?”
Between the absurd elements of Marclay’s painting and the expression on Julia’s face, I couldn’t help but giggle. As I did, she scowled and shook her head before picking up her coffee again.
“Well, whatever,” she mumbled after taking a sip. “What do you think happened to Pia?”
I shrugged. “No idea at this point. It’s like two back-to-back riddles—the scene at Vito Marclay’s in the afternoon and then whatever happened at Pia’s later that night.”
Julia sipped her coffee, nodding solemnly. Then she said, “I was sorry to hear about it, Katie. I know you and she get along really well.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I hate things like this, too. I saw enough of these sorts of random, puzzling incidents when I lived in Chicago.”
“What does Dina think?” Julia asked.
I shrugged, but didn’t say anything.
