Another Day, Another Dali

by Sandra Orchard

  “What you looking for down there?” Nate trailed after him. “Maybe I can help.”

  “A fugitive. You best stay put.”

  Nate flicked on the light at the stairs. “You don’t want to go down there without backup, then.”

  The front door opened again, and Aunt Martha trundled in. “What is this? A party?”

  “Aunt Martha, what are you doing here? Did you come with Nate?” I asked.

  “Followed in my own car.”

  Pete paused on the bottom step and did a slow three sixty, shining his flashlight into the corners, then came back up. “All clear. I’ll see you around.”

  I squelched the relieved sigh that squeezed from my chest and turned to Nate as the door closed behind Pete. “What’s going on?”

  “Randy has something to tell you,” Nate said, sounding less-than-happy about it.

  Randy paced.

  “We think the guy who beat Randy up outside his apartment might be the same guy that went after you,” Nate began.

  Jolted by the unexpected connection, I gripped the back of the nearest chair. “Who’s that?”

  Randy stopped pacing and met my gaze, his own filled with apology. “He said he was a friend of Tasha’s who wanted to make sure I kept my mouth shut.”

  My heart burst into an erratic pulse. “About the Dali theft?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?” I didn’t bother keeping the exasperation from my voice.

  “I didn’t know anything about any theft at the time. A couple of months ago, Tasha looked me up and asked if I could recommend a good artist who could make a copy of a painting for her. It never occurred to me she planned to do anything illegal.”

  “So you recommended Capone?”

  “Yeah. Then when Tasha saw me at the MAC that day you were there, she asked me not to mention our conversation to her family, or you. I didn’t think anything of it. Not until her friend beat me up.”

  I glanced at Aunt Martha, but she showed no sign of surprise. In fact, besides being unusually quiet, she seemed more interested in what might be going on outside than what Randy had to say.

  “So why didn’t you say anything that night?” I asked Randy.

  “I like my face the way it is!” He scraped his hand over his chin and gave his head a shake. “And I didn’t see the point. Gladys would never have let you arrest Tasha anyway. But I didn’t think her rent-a-thug would come after you too.”

  I fisted my hands and somehow managed to keep my tone neutral. “Did you get his name?”

  “No. He just told me if I knew what was good for me, I’d keep my mouth shut.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Five eleven, average build, shaggy blond hair, and he had a real distinctive voice. A strong Texas drawl, but he paused on words so long I wasn’t sure if he was on something or thought the pauses made him sound more ominous. You know what I mean?”

  Yeah, he’d described Ted to a T.

  I questioned Randy a few minutes longer, but he didn’t have anything more useful to add, except his apologies for not speaking up sooner.

  “Do you think he killed Capone?” Randy asked. “I mean, if he was worried about me talking, he must’ve been worried about Capone too, right?”

  “Hmm.” Unlike Ted’s strong-arm approach to Randy, the trauma to Capone’s body—the broken fingers on his left hand, the purple eye—had been days old, the work of Dmitri’s goons, according to Tyrone. Had Ted gotten smart and gone prepared to off him with some sort of drug?

  Unfortunately, Detective Irwin wasn’t keen about sharing information, so I still had no idea what the actual cause of death was.

  “I can’t believe Tasha’s mixed up with that fellow,” Aunt Martha piped up, breaking her unusual stretch of silence. “I saw you talking to her in the lobby last night, and she seemed so nice.”

  The reminder of that conversation twigged another memory. Tasha had said Capone was killed while sitting in his apartment minding his own business. I hurried over to the supply table and riffled through the stack of newspapers. Finding one reporting Capone’s death, I scanned the article. No mention of him being found sitting in a chair. I pulled out my phone and checked the online articles.

  “What is it?” Aunt Martha asked.

  “Something Tasha said,” I mumbled absently as I scanned articles. “It could’ve been more than she should’ve known. Unless she was there.” I clicked Play on the TV news report. No mention of Capone dying in his chair. “I appreciate you bringing this to my attention,” I said, moving everyone toward the door. Tyrone would be getting antsy, and I clearly needed to get the ball rolling on bringing in Ted and Tasha.

  Randy and Aunt Martha ambled outside, but Nate lingered. “Do you know who this guy is that beat up Randy?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Do you think he’s the one who rammed your car?”

  “I’m not sure. In my job, you make a few enemies.”

  Nate’s mouth was a grim line—the quintessential picture of why I wasn’t likely to find a quiet, hearth-and-home kind of guy to settle down with as long as I worked this job.

  “You won’t go question him alone, will you?”

  “No.”

  His tense posture seemed to relax a fraction, and he trailed the others outside. Aunt Martha’s car was parked in the narrow drive to the side of the building. I walked over and gave her a hug before she climbed in. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Nonsense, you know I like to help.” She glanced surreptitiously around, then opened her door and, looking at me, tilted her head toward the backseat.

  My eyes widened at the sight of Tyrone hunkered down on the floor between the front and back seats.

  26

  Aunt Martha pulled me into another hug next to her car outside the drop-in center. “Give me a call when it’s safe for Tyrone to turn himself in.”

  I wanted to protest, but a cruiser chose that moment to round the corner, not to mention the two familiar-looking guys standing outside the convenience store on the corner eyeballing us. What is wrong with me? I’m a federal agent and my aunt is harboring a fugitive. We’re talking serious jail time if she’s caught.

  “By the way,” Aunt Martha said, sliding behind the wheel, “you’ll find Tasha at Gladys’s. Last night at the gala, I overheard her volunteer to fill in for one of their Saturday morning bridge players who’s sick.”

  I grabbed the car door before she could pull it closed, but then the cruiser slowed to a crawl, the officer inside rubbernecking in our direction. I firmly closed the door. “Thanks, Aunt Martha. I’ll be in touch.”

  She drove off as I locked up the center. The cruiser disappeared around the corner with her. The curious guys hanging out at the corner store, who I now recognized as the pair of plainclothes cops from outside Ty’s place, climbed into their car and pulled in behind me as I passed.

  They must’ve alerted Detective Irwin to my visit, and he probably figured following me was their best shot at finding the kid. Too bad they had no clue Aunt Martha was my ace in the hole. Of course, if the detective had been interested in sharing information, I’d be calling him to share Randy’s tip.

  Instead, I phoned my supervisor to request surveillance on Ted while I rounded up Tasha.

  “The guys aren’t going to be happy about being pulled in on a Saturday. You got enough on these two to get arrest warrants?” Benton questioned.

  “I could get Ted on assault, no problem, but I suspect Tasha will roll on him for the murder charge, if I can get to her first. I just want to make sure he doesn’t run.”

  “Okay, I’ll put a couple of guys on him. Keep me posted.”

  “Will do.” Next, I called Tanner, who was always game to get the bad guys no matter the day of the week, and asked him to meet me at Gladys’s for the interview.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be at least forty minutes. We had an operation this morning, and we’re still mopping up.”

  “That’s oka
y. I can’t see Tasha giving me any trouble in front of her mother.” I filled him in on Ted’s and Tasha’s run-ins with Randy and their connection to Capone.

  “So you think Ted killed Capone?”

  “He’s a hothead if the number he did on Randy’s face is anything to go by. And he’s got to be in cahoots with Tasha, or why would he have bothered with Randy?”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you at Gladys’s as soon as I can.”

  The cops followed me to Gladys’s circle and parked at the opening when I pulled to the curb in front of her house. I resisted the temptation to sashay back to them and give them a rundown on the how-tos of Covert Surveillance 101. Except they probably couldn’t care less whether I spotted them or not.

  Gladys, not her housekeeper, opened the door. “Oh, Serena, it’s you.” She poked her head out the door and glanced up and down the street. “We’re waiting on our fourth for bridge, and I thought you’d be her.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. May I come in?”

  She teetered on the threshold a moment as if she might say no, then stepped back and motioned me in. “I trust you’re satisfied now that my son-in-law wasn’t behind the theft. If I’d known you were going to investigate my family, I wouldn’t have agreed with your grandmother to involve you. After the way the police went after her when your grandfather was killed, I would’ve thought you’d be more sensitive.”

  My pulse kicked up a few dozen notches. So Nana really had been a suspect? The official report had mentioned them questioning her, but not the investigators’ apparent dissatisfaction with her answers. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you,” I heard myself saying. I bit my lip, knowing it would happen anyway. “Sometimes the truth can be something we don’t want to hear.”

  Her eyes flared. “What are you saying?”

  “I need to speak with Tasha,” I said, suddenly wishing I’d waited until she was at her own house. “I understand she’s here.”

  Nana and Tasha joined us in the foyer, Nana looking expectant, Tasha looking worried.

  I kissed Nana’s cheek and wished her good morning.

  “I think I want you to drop the investigation,” Gladys blurted. “I don’t care about pressing charges anyway. I’d just hoped you might locate the painting.”

  “I understand,” I said sympathetically, “but I still need to speak with Tasha.”

  “Why? I just said—”

  Tasha laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m happy to talk to her.” She motioned toward the room where the Dali had hung. “Shall we go in here?”

  I stepped inside ahead of her as she gently dissuaded her mom from joining us. Nana glared at me over their heads. So much for my solving this case earning me a place in her good books.

  There was no door on the room, so Tasha waited at the doorway until Nana and Gladys left the foyer, before turning my way. “How may I help you?”

  “Randy told me everything.”

  “I see.” She sat on the sofa and clasped her hands in her lap. “Thank goodness Mom doesn’t want to press charges.” She shook her head. “It was Ted’s idea. I heard Mom talking about getting the painting appraised, and I knew what she was up to. I knew she’d sell it so she could help her beloved Peter out of yet another one of his financial pits. Everything is Pete this and Pete that. I swear, half the time I’m invisible. And at the rate she was going, she’d have sold herself out of house and home to help Pete, and where would that leave me? With a cheating husband who burns through money faster than he makes it?”

  “Your husband isn’t cheating on you.”

  “What? How would you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Oh yeah? So how do you explain the late-night phone calls? The secret rendezvouses? He had a woman bring a paternity suit against him for goodness’ sake.”

  “Since nothing came of the suit, I assume testing proved her wrong. As for the rest, there is an explanation,” I said firmly, wishing I were at liberty to divulge it.

  Tasha burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. “Ted is no better. He’s a hothead. I told him Randy wouldn’t say anything, but no . . . he had to make sure. As if beating the poor guy is going to make him want to keep quiet. I knew it was a mistake, but Ted’s so . . . so . . . obsessed with the idea of being someone. You know what I mean?”

  “I think I do, yes.” I waited, hoping she’d keep talking. I was itching to ask questions, but since I planned to arrest her, I’d need to read her her rights first.

  She swiped at her damp cheeks. “Is Randy going to press charges against him? I mean, I know he has every right to, but then everything else might come out in the papers and I don’t want to put Mom through the embarrassment.”

  “A man is dead. That can’t be swept under the rug.”

  Her face blanched. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  I unzipped my purse and pulled out my Miranda Warning card. “The victim was the man Randy referred you to.”

  “But”—her gaze dropped to the card—“what . . . what’s that?”

  “I need to read you your rights before I ask you any questions.”

  “But Mom doesn’t want you to arrest me. Mom!” she screamed as I read the card.

  Gladys rushed in with Nana on her heels.

  “Tell her you won’t press charges. Please,” Tasha pleaded. “I admit I switched the Dali. And I’m sorry. I was just so jealous. You’re always doing things for Pete and . . .” Her explanation petered out in a fashion befitting a drama queen.

  Gladys stroked Tasha’s hair from her face. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she cooed. “I didn’t mean to make you feel left out.” Gladys turned to me, her voice cooling considerably. “I’m sorry we’ve put you to so much trouble. I won’t press charges.”

  “I understand that, Mrs. Hoffemeier,” I said, feeling Nana’s heated glare scorch the side of my face. “However, Tasha has been implicated in a larger investigation.”

  “What’s this about?” Nana demanded. “You were asked to find the missing Dali, not dig up trouble for the sake of trouble.”

  “I didn’t hurt that man, I swear,” Tasha blurted.

  “Of course you didn’t,” her mother said.

  “How did you know he died sitting in a chair?” I asked.

  “She would’ve read it in the newspaper like the rest of us,” Nana interjected.

  “It wasn’t reported,” I said, not taking my gaze off Tasha.

  She squirmed.

  Her mother looked taken aback. “What is she talking about?”

  Tasha shook her head. “It was Ted. He went crazy. It was all his idea. When he heard about Serena talking to Randy, he insisted on beating him up to make sure he kept his mouth shut about referring us to Capone. Then when he heard Serena was looking at Capone, he was so afraid the old man would snitch on us that he said we had to silence him. Of course I said no, we should just come clean.” Tasha squeezed her mother’s hands. “I knew you would forgive me.”

  “Of course,” Gladys confirmed. “I had no idea how you felt.” Gladys turned to me. “Can’t you see she was lashing out because she didn’t feel loved?”

  I crossed my arms, sickened by Tasha’s display. “I don’t feel loved by my grandmother, but you don’t see me stealing the art off her walls.”

  Gladys’s eyes widened.

  Oh no. Did I just say what I think I just said?

  “What utter nonsense,” Nana said.

  My face heated, and I didn’t dare chance a sideways glance in Nana’s direction. What was it about Tasha that pushed all my buttons? She was a spoiled brat.

  But yeah, I knew how it felt to be ignored. Maybe even loathed. I stuffed away that thought to examine later, or maybe not, and focused on why I was here. “So you’re telling me Ted killed Capone?” I asked, my pen poised over my notepad.

  Tasha swallowed hard. “Injected him with insulin. Said it couldn’t be detected. I know I should’ve said something right away. Does that make
me an accessory? I didn’t see him do it. I just assumed it must’ve been him after the way he went on and on and even went after you.”

  Whoa, back up the bus. “When did Ted come after me?” I’d assumed all the special attention given to me lately was courtesy of Dmitri’s goons, or Pete’s.

  “He said he almost ran you over.”

  “Who is Ted?” Gladys and Nana demanded in unison.

  “He works in the pawnshop where Lucas sold her jewelry to pay for his drugs,” I barked, then clapped my mouth shut at the slip.

  Gladys’s face darkened five shades, and she looked as if she might burst an artery. “You took up with a man from a pawnshop?” she asked Tasha, the part about Lucas and drugs apparently going whoosh, right over her head.

  My jaw slacked. Now I knew where her daughter got her messed-up priorities.

  The ringing doorbell spared Tasha from answering.

  “That’ll be Betty. We’re supposed to play bridge,” Gladys said.

  Okay, this was crazy. I’d completely lost control of this interrogation. “I’m afraid Tasha needs to come with me.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Nana asked impatiently.

  “Yes.” I snapped cuffs on Tasha, and Gladys’s face paled to a ghastly gray. “I’m sorry this didn’t work out the way either of us hoped.”

  Nana sniffed. “You always were such a contrary child.”

  Talk about not working out the way I’d hoped. I took Tasha out the side door to spare Gladys the embarrassment of passing her guest with her daughter in handcuffs. Technically, I was supposed to have a second agent along to sit with Tasha in my backseat, but I didn’t want to stick around longer than necessary, and I was pretty sure Tasha wouldn’t give me any trouble.

  As we stepped outside, my cell phone chimed the theme song for Murder, She Wrote—a sound I hadn’t heard for a few days. Then the mother of the sticky-fingered girl who found Aunt Martha’s phone in the bush clued in to why her daughter was suddenly so self-entertaining and made the girl return it.

  I helped Tasha into the passenger seat and buckled her in, before glancing at the text.

  Please come quickly. Got car trouble. I’m in the back parking lot at CCVac.