*****
I couldn't sleep. Whether it was adrenaline, a little fear, curiosity about the contents of my grandfather's belongings, or the anticipation of seeing Sabrina again, whatever the reason, I was wide awake at 1:30. I made a cup of coffee and took a quick shower to clear my head, then sat at the kitchen table and emptied the contents of the satchel in front of me.
In addition to the papers I had seen a few hours before, was a collection of medals, the usual Army Air Corps items: wings, lieutenant bars, and a couple of patches, so I moved on to the papers.
It took me a couple of hours to read over all of the material to fully understand the timeline of my grandfather's military career. The short of it was that his B-24 crew was part of the 392nd Bomb Group. They arrived in Wendling, England in the fall of 1943. Their plane was the Lonesome Cowgirl. My grandfather died in March of 1944 on his 19th mission. Included in the papers was a copy of the telegram my grandmother got from the Army telling her of the death of her husband. It gave no details, only that he had died bravely in combat over Germany.
There was a lot missing, so I Googled the 392nd Bomb Group and discovered a website devoted to it. I found the whole thing fascinating, and felt myself getting a little sad that I had known none of this growing up. But again, I really couldn't blame my father. I wondered how much of his father's material he had even looked at himself.
The website featured all of the missions, as well as pictures. I could click onto my grandfather's name and it brought up any pictures associated with him. One of them showed the crew of his plane. I studied it for a moment to get a feel for what my grandfather looked like. I could see a family resemblance between him and my father. I think I looked more like my mother than my father, so I couldn't see too much of him in me. I then looked at his crewmates and felt my jaw drop. Standing next to my grandfather was a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Izzy!
I quickly looked at the names printed below the picture. The man next to my grandfather was Ray Worth, the navigator. Izzy's grandfather was the man with my grandfather when he fell through the bomb bay doors!
Chapter 8
"I found our families' connection," I blurted out upon entering Sabrina's room at the Westin.
I was only a few minutes late, but it wasn't an attempt on my part to be fashionable. My goal was to get to the hotel before ten, but the thought of seeing her had me so excited I kept forgetting things—like four times. Twice, I didn't remember until I was halfway down the block on my way to the T station. The fourth time, I was passing Seymour's apartment on my way back down when he opened the door and yelled, "Stop!" I stopped.
"Think," he said. "Stop and think for a minute. 'Have I remembered everything this time? Can I avoid clomping up the steps for a fifth time, assuring that Seymour, who was up until two doing business online, can maybe attempt to get back to the sleep from which he was so rudely interrupted?'"
"Sorry, Seymour. I'm going to be late for an appointment, and the things I'm forgetting are important. I really didn't mean to wake you up."
"Well, if you did mean to wake me up, then we'd have some issues. " He looked me over. "If you're going to a job interview—yes I heard—or on a date—yes, I saw her—you might want to change your clothes." I was wearing jeans and a Disney World long-sleeve shirt, along with my jacket.
"No to both of those, but yes, I'm meeting her. But we're working on something. I'll tell you about it later."
"No need. Molly already told me." He was the only one who called Mo, Molly. The two of them had a weird relationship. They couldn't be at further corners of the world, opinion-wise, and yet, you couldn't tell something to one of them without the other knowing soon after. The funny thing was, I never saw them together. Never. Very strange.
I got to Sabrina's room at about 10:15. She greeted me wearing jeans and a Red Sox t-shirt. She was barefoot. I was in love! And how in the world could her hair shine like that in a hotel room on a cloudy day? I was beginning to think she wasn't human. Goddess, maybe?
After my outburst, she ushered me to a seat, as anxious to hear the story as I was to tell it.
I gave her the lowdown on my grandfather, ending with the picture, which I showed her on my iPad.
"That's him," she said. "I've seen pictures of him before. I met him when I was young, but he died when I was nine or ten. Lung cancer, I think. He was a heavy smoker."
"Weren't they all in that generation?"
"So does that clear anything up or just make it murkier?" she asked.
"Probably a little of both," I answered. "I have a couple other things that I didn't show you yesterday. I didn't want to reveal everything until I could be sure you weren't working with Izzy."
"I knew that."
So I showed her my great-grandfather's letter. She had already read the article about the art heist. I carefully unfolded the letter and held it out to her. She read it slowly.
"Treasure?" Sabrina asked, laying the paper on the table. "A treasure hunt? Oh, that's never good. That never ends well for anybody."
I think she was being facetious, but I couldn't tell for sure.
"He also refers to 'down there'," she said. "Down where?"
"Funny, I didn't pick up on that," I answered. "I picked up on the treasure part of it." I shook my head. "Don't know about the 'down'."
"And what's with the eggs?"
"Couldn't tell you."
I showed her the slip from the Simpson Gallery, the town, and the artist's name.
"Fairfield, Iowa?"
"Ever been there?" I asked.
"I probably flew over it."
I liked her sense of humor.
She was typing something into her laptop.
"There is no record of an artist by the name of Lando Ford," she said.
"So the painting—whatever it is of—might have been painted with a purpose. Ford might really be the artist, or it was a made-up name."
"It probably isn't too bad," Sabrina said, "or a gallery wouldn't take it."
"Maybe my great-grandfather—I'm assuming his name is Bruce from the slip, but I suppose I should spend some time and research my family—maybe he knew the gallery owner. I mean why Fairfield, Iowa? You don't just stop off in a random town and lend your painting to a gallery then drive off, do you?"
She was typing again. Wow, she was fast. Does being able to type fast make you a better writer?
"As I would have expected," she said, "that gallery no longer exists. So, the question is, when did it close and what happened to its collection? Want to go to Iowa?"
She said it as if we were going out for pizza. I only had one thought. More time alone with her. Well, that was a no-brainer.
"It's never been at the top of my vacation destinations, but sure. I'd like to go, but is this information we could get online just as easily?"
"Maybe," she answered. "But what I've learned from … well, from my own books, I guess," she rolled her eyes at the comment, "is that actual legwork sometimes uncovers things you'd never find online. Hey, it works for my detective anyway."
"I can understand that theory," I said. "You never know who or what you're going to run into. Here's the thing, though. I pick up the tab for everything. It seems that my relative started this, so it should be up to me to pay for the investigation."
"We split it," said Sabrina. "We'll take turns paying for things. My family was involved too. We just don't know to what extent. Besides, depending how this goes, I might be able to turn it into a book. So I can claim it as research expenses."
So the money was settled. "Something we have to think about," I said, "are the people who killed Izzy. I know there are at least two because the person who broke into my car jumped into a car driven by someone else. Why? How do they figure into all of this?"
"Maybe Izzy employed them to help her find whatever aspect of this she was looking for. Maybe they turned on her."
"And how did Izzy get involved in the first place?" I asked. "Her involvement
was fairly recent. What spurred her on?"
We had oodles of questions. An answer might be nice.
Sabrina's phone rang. Actually, her phone had rung a few times while I was there. Each time she looked at the caller ID and ignored it. After the third one, she apologized. "It's the publicity person from the publisher. He's really annoying. My new book is coming out just before Christmas and they are trying to line up the publicity campaign. I asked him to contact me by email, because I really hate the phone, but he doesn't seem to get it. Now that he's tried three times, he'll email me in frustration."
So when the phone rang a fourth time, she actually looked surprised, like it had blown her theory. But this time she picked up. "I think it's that detective I was talking to yesterday."
She listened without talking, then asked a couple of questions. From what I could gather, the call had something to do with Izzy's living situation before she died. She got a notepad from her briefcase and copied down some information, then said, "Thank you so much for all your help. Could you do me one more favor? Could you call them back and let them know that I'm on my way, and to keep the room rented? I'll settle the bill when I get there." She listened, then ended with, "Thank you detective. I appreciate it."
"Well, that was interesting," she said, turning to me. "It seems that Izzy was renting a room at a Residence Inn outside of Chicago. She was only paid up through yesterday, so they called her cell phone to find out what she was doing. Of course, it's in police custody, so they answered. The detective called the Chicago police, who inspected her room, but didn't find anything of significance. So he called me and asked me what I wanted the hotel to do with her stuff. I guess we're going to Fairfield by way of Chicago."
"I didn't know they had her cell phone. Did they find anything in the call log?"
"He mentioned that. Nothing of any significance."
We wrapped it up. Sabrina was going to reserve the tickets for the next morning, and I was going home to pack. I was happy that I had an ally, and that we had recovered some information, but there was still too much we didn't know.
I approached my house deep in thought, wishing that something would happen that would break the case apart.
The bullets missed my head by inches and I heard three loud pops. I dropped to the sidewalk. Three bullets had embedded themselves in the side of the house. I heard a car speed off, squealing its tires. Slowly I got up. My right hand was bleeding from scraping it on the sidewalk, and I could see a small blood spot appearing in the knee of my pants.
Seymour opened his window and peered down. "You okay?" He said it with genuine concern.
"Yeah, I think so. I didn't get hit. Just scraped myself when I fell." I could hear a police siren.
"What the hell did you get yourself involved in?" asked Seymour.
"I wish I knew."
I may not have known what it was all about, but there was no question about that message. I was meant to join Izzy in death.
Chapter 9
I called Sabrina before the police arrived and let her know what happened. I suggested she call her detective. I didn't want to have to explain everything to the cops who showed up, since it was obviously related to Izzy's murder.
For the next few hours, my street was a crime scene, crowds behind the yellow tape taking pictures with their cell phones. I think in general though, they were pretty disappointed by the lack of blood. I could show them my knee if they really wanted to see blood. I already had a Band-Aid on it though.
Sabrina's detective, Detective Marsh, arrived on the scene about fifteen minutes after the first cops showed up. I didn't hold anything back—but I didn't go into great detail either—and let him know whatever I could. Unfortunately, that wasn't much. We were pretty much flying blind. Until we had a few more answers, we still had no idea who these people were.
Mo showed up in the middle of it all, gave me a hug, and asked if I was okay. I heard nothing else from Seymour, but that was expected now that there were throngs of people about.
I kept Sabrina updated by phone and warned her not to venture out alone. She informed me that we were booked on the 8:30 a.m. flight from Logan to O'Hare. We'd meet at the airport. Mo offered to drive me in the morning before she went to work.
I slept that night with my gun next to the bed.
*****
I didn't sleep well and got to the airport dragging. Sabrina, as expected, looked wonderful. She was signing an autograph for a fan who recognized her. As the fan walked away, Sabrina came over and hugged me, letting me know how relieved she was that I was okay. Again I smelled the strawberries. Sigh.
I was wild about this woman. Obviously I hadn't said anything to her—after all, we had only known each other for two days—but there was something about her that just captivated me. And it wasn’t only her beauty. She was smart, she had a good sense of humor, and she was humble. In short, she was perfect. But being perfect wasn't so good for me. After all, it was obvious: like Gomer Pyle meeting a princess. I could tell that she liked me and felt comfortable around me, but would it go any further than that? I could only dream.
The plane was on time and by 9:00 we were in the air. Sabrina asked me what it felt like to be shot at. She might have been subconsciously compiling information for future books, but I also knew that her questions were coming from a genuine place. It was hard to answer her. I didn't really feel anything when the shots came. Maybe I wasn't really sure what was going on. I just knew that I felt compelled to duck. The emotional reaction didn't come until later, long after I had gotten into bed. I started shaking and began to think about how close those bullets came. Another few inches and any one of the three could have killed me. I was lucky. Very lucky.
About an hour into the flight, a fan—who probably had been working up the courage to approach Sabrina since we boarded—finally got up and hesitatingly came over and asked for an autograph. Sabrina was in the window seat, so the fan had to lean over me to talk to her. She had on so much perfume, it was going to take hours for my nostrils to clear. I could tell that the odor affected Sabrina as well, but she was gracious and talked to her for a minute. Well, that started a steady stream of autograph seekers. The funny thing was, I don't think most of them knew whose autograph they were getting, but if there was someone famous on the plane, it's best to get the autograph and then try to figure out who she was later. It got a bit much after the seventh one, so the flight attendant offered to keep people away—for the price of an autograph, of course. Sabrina was visibly uncomfortable throughout the whole ordeal, and was almost shaking by the end of it. She kept apologizing to me, saying that it was actually rare for people to notice her.
We had decided to rent a car in Chicago and drive down to Fairfield after we checked out Izzy's hotel. Where we went from there would hinge on what—if anything—we found in Fairfield. The Residence Inn was out in the suburbs, but we found it without too much trouble. When we got up to the check-in desk, Sabrina asked to see the manager, who was prepared for her visit. The manager explained that everything was all set and that no one had been to the room after the police, including housekeeping.
"When did she check in?" asked Sabrina.
The manager checked the computer. "Last Thursday."
We decided to stay for the night and I offered—like a perfect gentleman—to take another room, hoping, of course, that she would say "no need." She did, but only because she knew that her sister had rented a two-bedroom suite. I could have the other bedroom. I had to keep reminding myself of the purpose of this visit.
We let ourselves into the room and looked around. It was pretty devoid of Izzy's things; a single carry-on suitcase, a pair of shoes and a jacket in the closet, and a few toiletries. I kept looking at Sabrina, trying to get a sense as to her mood. Was she sad seeing her sister's belongings? But I saw no signs of sentimentality. It was clear there had been no love lost between the sisters.
"This looks like a bust," I said.
"Anything in the s
afe?" asked Sabrina.
"I'll see, but I'm sure the police would have checked that." In fact, the safe was open and empty. I shook my head and asked, "What now?"
"She was obviously intending to come back," she replied. "And quickly. She only had the room through Sunday, so I'm thinking that she set up the meet with you for Saturday and had a ticket to come back the next day. She wanted to get the information and leave."
"Hmm," I said.
"Hmm what?" she asked.
"Oh nothing." I hesitated for a minute. "I'm sure you've never had to do online dating, but I think for most people, the first thing they do when they meet their date is to do a quick evaluation of their chances to eventually sleep with them." I was blushing. I could feel the blood rushing to my head.
"That's not limited to online dates," she said. "That happens with regular dates too."
"I guess you're right. It's been so long since I had a date not initiated online, I kind of forgot. Anyway, my first thought about Izzy was that I had no interest in ever sleeping with her. Turns out, she had no interest in me. Kind of a blow to the ego."
"Have you evaluated me?"
I swallowed. I suddenly was very dry.
"You don't need to answer that." She turned away with a little smile on her face. Was she flirting with me? "And to answer your assumption about me and online dating, no, I've never done it, but don't for a minute think that just because I'm a little famous—I hate using that word—that I have men hovering all around me. I suppose I do to a certain extent, but it's not sincere, and it doesn't mean I'm interested in any of them. You saw it on the plane. People have a fascination with famous people. But you begin to question everyone's intent. I love being successful with my writing, but I don't particularly like the fame that comes with it."
"I hadn't thought about that," I said.
"Here I am complaining about being famous. I have no right to. I have so many good things in my life." She switched subjects. "I'll go through her clothes if you want to check her suitcase and drawers. Then we can go through her toiletries."
All Lies Page 5
