by Mary Maxwell
“One conclusion,” I said. “I’ve got a theory about Vito Marclay.”
“So do I,” Trent said. “He’s a crook.”
“How so?”
“What do you mean? You found all that stuff online, Katie. I did a little digging of my own, including a call to a contact at the NYPD. When he lived in New York, Vito Marclay was a very, very, very bad boy.”
“Forged paintings?” I asked.
“Among a few other things,” Trent answered. “He was busted during an undercover counterfeiting sting, but his benefactor had very deep pockets and a shark for an attorney. They got Vito off and that’s when he moved to Colorado.”
“Do you have the benefactor’s name?”
“I have it written down somewhere,” he said, sifting through the papers on his desk. “And as fate would have it, she’s in town right now. Tyler Armstrong is heading over to talk to her.”
When Trent revealed the identity of Marclay’s benefactor, I felt a faint glimmer of hope. We were getting closer to our goal—finding Vito and Pia, identifying the person responsible for assaulting Phil Bickerton and unraveling the baffling connections between a wealthy New York art collector, a celebrated contemporary artist and a sweet tempered caterer from Crescent Creek.
CHAPTER 43
It was dark by the time I got up from the bench in front of Garfunkel’s Sporting Goods and walked to my car. There was a slight chill in the air along with a faint trace of curry from the restaurant around the corner. After climbing behind the wheel, I was getting ready to start the engine when my phone rang. Figuring it might be Trent, calling to share a few more remarks about Vito Marclay, I answered quickly to get the latest news.
“Kate?” The voice was hushed and hesitant. “It’s Roxie Lambert.”
“Hi, Roxie. How are you?”
“I hope you don’t mind the call,” she said. “I got your number from Blanche Speltzer.”
Since I didn’t know Roxie well, I thought she might be calling to discuss something about the new Crescent Creek tourism bureau.
“It’s good to hear from you,” I said. “Is it about the meeting to finalize the bylaws?”
“No,” she said, suddenly whispering. “I’m downtown. Over here on Crestview. And if my voice sounds strange, it’s because I’m scrunched down in the front seat of my car.”
“You do sound a little different. Is something wrong?”
“Blanche told me about Pia Lincoln,” Roxie whispered. “She said that you thought maybe someone from the art gallery might be involved.”
“Well, that’s just a theory. It’s too soon to—”
“I just saw Phil Bickerton!” she blurted. “With two women and another man!”
“Okay, so do you—”
“And the other guy had a gun!” Roxie gasped. “He forced Phil and the women into the law firm next to Clara’s fabric store.”
I felt a jolt of exhilaration, the fleeting sense that something bad was about to happen. I took a breath and asked Roxie to tell me everything she could remember.
“Okay,” she said. “The visibility isn’t very good because one of the street lights is on the fritz. But Phil sort of turned when I walked toward my car. I saw his face very clearly, Katie. He looked terrified. And I could see where he was all bruised from getting attacked in the motel room.”
“Did Blanche tell you about that, too?” I asked.
“Yes,” Roxie whispered. “Hang on, okay?”
I waited for a few moments, listening to her frantic breathing and imagining the scene that she’d described.
“Sorry,” she said, coming back on the line. “Somebody poked their head out of the law firm. I thought maybe they’d noticed me sitting out here.”
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you have the car doors locked?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice trembled, suggesting the opposite. “I’ve got my pepper spray in my purse.”
“Just don’t take any chances,” I said.
“Well, I could tell Phil was upset,” Roxie continued, skipping past my remark. “And it only took a second for me to realize it was because of the gun. I caught a glimpse of it as I opened my car door.” She paused to take a breath. “And then I heard one of the women say a name.”
“What name?” I asked.
“It was yours,” Roxie whispered. “It was clear as a bell. She said, ‘That nosy Kate Reed is asking a lot of questions around town.’ But then they all heard my car door squeak, so I got in real quick and pretended that I hadn’t seen them.”
“Did you hear anything else?” I asked.
“Yes,” Roxie whispered. “I rolled down my window a smidge. And before they went inside, I heard the guy with the gun say something about millions of dollars.”
As I listened to Roxie’s hushed account of what she’d witnessed, I realized that the disparate elements from the past few days were beginning to make sense: the stolen artwork, Vito and Pia’s disappearance and the assault on Phil Bickerton were now merging into one incident surrounded by whispered secrets and festering lies.
“What happened next?” I asked.
“They stood on the sidewalk and talked for a few more seconds, but then they marched right over to that law firm. One of the women had keys to the office, so she unlocked the door and they all went inside.”
Since the law practice beside The Fabric Company of Crescent Creek was the one that Pia’s sister’s firm had recently acquired, I guessed that Liza Canfield was among the group that Roxie had witnessed. I also figured it would be best to call Trent and then head over to Crestview Street. But before I dialed his number, I wanted to make sure that Roxie was safe from harm.
“Roxie?”
“Yes?”
“Can you do me a favor?”
“Of course, Katie. What is it?”
“After you and I finish, I want you to start your car and drive home,” I said. “I’m going to call the police and let them know—”
“Oh, I’ll do that right after we talk,” she interrupted.
“Okay,” I said. “And then go ahead and leave. I’m only about three blocks away, so I’ll come over to keep an eye on things until the officers arrive.”
“Sounds good to me,” Roxie said quietly. “I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Well, I do appreciate the call, but let’s hang up so you can get out of there.”
Instead of a reply to acknowledge my request, I heard a faint click and Roxie’s voice was replaced with a dull electronic hum. I briefly considered calling her back, but decided it would be best to make sure Trent and Dina were aware of the situation before driving over to have a look around.
When I pulled up in front a few moments later, the first thing I noticed was the open front door of Roxie Lambert’s car. I quickly parked in the next space, jumped out and hurried over to investigate. The keys were in the ignition, Roxie’s purse was on the seat and the shattered remains of her phone were scattered on the pavement.
I glanced at the front door of the law firm. It was slightly ajar, and I could see several silhouettes against the frosted glass. I hurried across the sidewalk, stepped into the alley beside the building and pulled out my phone.
“Hey,” Trent said after answering. “What’s going on?”
“I’m downtown,” I said quietly. “Can you send a couple of cars to Langhorn & Diebel?”
“The law firm?”
“It’s urgent,” I said, ignoring his rhetorical question. “I got a call from Roxie Lambert. She saw someone with a gun herd a small group of people into the building about five or ten minutes ago. I told her to leave, but it looks like that didn’t happen.”
“What do you mean it didn’t happen?” Trent asked. “Where is she?”
“There’s a good chance she might be inside, too,” I answered. “And when your officers head this way, please make sure they don’t use sirens, okay? We’re probably dealing with a real tinderbox.”
“Any idea who’s invol
ved?” asked Trent.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe Liza Canfield and Phil Bickerton. When I talked to Roxie, she told me that a man holding a gun went into the law offices with three other people.”
“Okay,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t really matter who it is if there’s trouble. I’ll get someone over there now and I’ll be right behind them.”
“Thanks, Trent. I’ll talk to—”
“Katie?” he interrupted.
“Yes?”
“No heroics, okay? Just wait until we get there.”
He hung up without waiting for a reply, but I knew what he was asking. I was also aware that Roxie Lambert’s life was now potentially at risk. As I stood in the alley, a booming voice spilled into the night from the narrow opening in the door. It was Phil Bickerton shouting about the fallibility of business relationships.
“…not how things like this work, Liza!” he was saying. “If one partner is a lying cheat, like you, then the whole thing crumbles eventually. This, my friends, is our world about to fall apart.”
Another voice, faint and muffled, responded to Phil’s declaration. I couldn’t make out what they said or determine if the speaker was a man or woman.
“Get closer,” I whispered to myself. “Just so you can hear what they’re saying.”
I moved slowly out of the alley and leaned against the red brick façade, hesitating just long enough to hear what Phil might say next. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long.
“This is all your fault!” he shrieked. “If you’d never introduced your sister to Marclay, we’d all be fat and happy in Mexico right about now.”
“I highly doubt that, you sniveling moron!” said another woman. “Our plan was so simple that a toddler could’ve pulled it off. But then you jumped the gun and told Dionne Bach that you suspected Vito wasn’t telling the truth about the burglary.”
I strained to listen, trying to identify the speaker. Her voice was familiar, although I was certain that I’d never heard her screeching at full volume before.
“Because that’s what you told me to do!” Phil shouted. “You told me that I was supposed to call her and say that Vito had been burglarized so she would think some random thief stole the paintings.”
“But you weren’t supposed to call her until after we’d sold the originals!” the woman yelled. “Why can’t you understand that, Phil? We were waiting for Vito to finish the forgeries before we’d sell the originals and you’d call Dionne. I mean, we went over all of this, didn’t we? Like, a million times?”
Before Phil Bickerton had a chance to answer, I heard another voice, even louder and more aggressive than the others.
It was a man with a thick Southern accent spiked with a nasal twang and a slight stutter.
“This isn’t a game!” he howled. “This is the r-r-real thing!”
As I listened to the man’s tirade, I instantly recognized the voice. I’d heard it for the first time less than twenty-four hours before when my online sleuthing turned up a YouTube video promoting the current exhibition at Bickerton Gallery.
“I should just shoot all of y’all right here and now!” he screamed. “You’ve made a complete mess of my brilliant plan!”
It was Vito Marclay, sounding very harsh, very angry and very much in charge.
“How could you three be so incompetent?” he screamed. “Don’t you realize what you’ve d-d-done?”
CHAPTER 44
I inched closer to the open door, kneeling on the pavement and leaning against the front of the building. As I crouched in the shadows, I heard Phil Bickerton again.
“…because there’s actually something more,” he was saying. “Do you want to know now or after we hit the road?”
Vito groaned and said something that I couldn’t catch.
“You should wait,” Liza Canfield said. “Let’s not waste time on—”
“Don’t say another word,” Vito hissed in a cold, cruel tone. “I don’t give a damn if you are Pia’s sister. It was your idea to keep her at the motel the other night instead of getting her out of town like we’d discussed. If we’d done that, she wouldn’t know any of us are involved in this thing. And she also wouldn’t have loosened the ropes and beat Phil half to death! You should’ve considered all of the things that could’ve gone wrong!”
“How could he know that Pia would untie the rope?” Liza yelled, her voice quivering with rage.
A car horn blared in the distance. I was afraid that someone inside might realize the front door was ajar, but they seemed oblivious to the outside world. They continued bickering and trading insults, one voice rising in volume to drown out the next. When the shouting finally stopped, I heard Phil reveal something that sent a cold chill through my entire body.
“They found her fingerprints, Vito,” he said. “They were on—”
“They what?” Vito hissed.
“Found June’s fingerprints,” Phil said. “On the picture frame that I dumped in the hole with the bodyguard.”
At the mention of her name, I realized the other woman inside was June Calloway. For a brief moment, I remembered my neighbor’s comment from the other day: “…she’s probably the last person in town that anyone would suspect of being involved with kidnapping and murder.” At that moment, I realized that June had probably made the fake call to 911 using Eva King’s name.
I was thinking about her two-faced deceitfulness when Vito yelled again.
“How’d you hear that?” he asked.
“I’ve got a police scanner,” Phil answered. “It was on in the gallery office earlier right before you called me. I heard two voices discussing what they’d found up on Morris Springs Road.”
“I told you that was the wrong place to bury that guy,” Vito said. “People go by there too much.”
The room went silent for a moment or two. I imagined Vito was sifting the possibilities in his mind, the logical way they could outmaneuver the police and explain away the evidence.
“Fingerprints are meaningless,” June said finally. “I’m your neighbor, Vito. I’ve visited your studio plenty often in the past few months. I could’ve touched the frame at any point during that time.”
“But that’s not my fault,” Phil said. “You told me that you’d wiped everything clean.”
As Phil finished, Vito started screaming again.
“How can you be so stupid?” he demanded. “I told Liza to have you wipe everything down at least twice.”
“Don’t bring me into your mess,” Liza said. “If you hadn’t lost your cool and shot that bodyguard, we wouldn’t be arguing about any of this.”
“He was getting greedy,” Vito said. “And I sensed that he was thinking about telling Dionne what we were all up to. But if Phil hadn’t completely ignored what I’d told him to do with the body, we’d be a thousand miles from here already.”
Phil began to mumble and curse loudly. “I got…well, I was confused,” he stammered. “We were going up to where you told us to bury him, but it seemed like it would take too much time. That’s why I pulled over on Morris Springs Road. And we were going to do the rest of it exactly like you wanted, but then a car came around the bend. We had to get out of there fast, so we couldn’t dig very deep.”
“A car?” June said coldly. “You bungled the plan because a car was driving on the road, Phil?”
“Yeah,” Phil muttered. “I was afraid they—”
“But that’s what cars do, you idiot,” June seethed. “They drive on roads. Unless someone witnessed you carrying the body and dumping the frames in the ground, they didn’t see anything at all.”
The voices dropped to muffled murmuring for a few seconds. I heard chair legs scrape against the floor and then the conversation stopped altogether until Phil Bickerton broke the silence.
“Why’d you shoot that guy?” he asked.
“Dionne’s bodyguard?” Vito’s voice was flat and detached.
“The guy at your house,” Phil said. “What di
d he do that was so bad?”
“Joey agreed to a fair cut,” Vito answered. “When I told him we were splitting the profits five ways, he threatened to go to Dionne and tell her everything.”
“Maybe he was bluffing,” Liza said.
Vito laughed. “Maybe, but I wasn’t going to take the chance, okay? And I’m going to say it again—if Phil hadn’t ignored my directions, we wouldn’t have had to worry about them finding the guy’s body.”
“But I was nervous,” Phil protested. “And Liza wasn’t helping much.”
“I carried the shovel,” she said defiantly. “And I dug the hole while you—”
“I’ll show you nervous,” Vito interrupted. “I’ll put this gun to your head and pull the trigger!”
I felt a cold lump of dread in my stomach as I pictured the scene on the other side of the wall. A terrified Phil Bickerton, cringing as Vito moved toward him with the weapon. June Calloway in an argumentative and defiant stance. Liza Canfield watching in disbelief as the conspiracy to profit from selling the stolen artwork crumbled before her eyes. And Vito Marclay, in the center of it all, inexplicably unhinged by waves of anger and resentment to the point that he’d been driven to commit murder, stage his own disappearance and steal artworks valued at millions of dollars.
As I kept myself pressed against the exterior of the building, I heard the sound of car wheels on the pavement. I was starting to turn and look over my shoulder when Liza Canfield suddenly began yelling inside the law firm offices.
“Stop!” she screamed. “How is any of this helping? We need to get out of here, get the paintings from the storage locker and—”
“Are you kidding me?” Vito said. “You think I intend to take you three with me?”
“That was our plan,” Liza said. “And if I hadn’t approached the rest of you with the idea, none of you would be in line to split the ten million that our buyer has promised.”
Vito laughed. “Oh, is that how this whole thing started?”
“Yes,” Liza said. “It was my scheme.”
