The Mosaic Murder

by Lonni Lees

  “I have some last minute things to wind up. How about we meet at our favorite coffee shop? Say around six?”

  Silence.

  When he finally spoke he said: “I guess you’re still calling the shots. Six it is.”

  * * * *

  As Detective Maggie Reardon drove through heavy afternoon traffic to the east side of town the voice on the radio announced that the last of the fires was ninety percent contained. It was the best news she’d heard all week. The smoke still hugged the mountains but it would soon dissipate and the air would be clear again. Once the heat took a break things would return to normalcy but there was still no hint of welcoming rain in sight.

  At least things were moving in the right direction. She wished she could say the same thing for the investigation. Everyone she talked to was a suspect. Each of them had a motive to see Armando Salazar out of the picture.

  Except for pot smoking Mary Rose. As she pulled up in front of her next stop, she smiled at the memory of the pleasant visit that they’d had and determined to pay her a social call once this mess was behind her. Although colorful, Mary Rose appeared to be the only normal person in the entire menagerie of kooks from The Mosaic Gallery.

  The small stucco house was hidden behind an overgrowth of creosote bushes that had reproduced in every square inch of the small front yard. They grew everywhere. Large ones and small ones reached out their scraggly arms like the triffids from the old horror movie. It gave the impression that the place was long deserted. Maggie walked up the cracked walkway wondering what answers she’d find here. Holding her briefcase in one hand and her portable fingerprint kit under her arm, Maggie Reardon knocked on Belinda Blume’s door. She looked around the porch, at the broken flower pots filled with dead plants and garden gnomes covered in dust, smiling their creepy smiles. She half-expected Lurch from the Adam’s Family to open the door.

  “Keep it short,” said Belinda Blume as she opened the door. Red clay stained her hands and her long denim apron and smudged across her cheek. “I’m busy and I need to get back to work.”

  The inside of the house was tidy compared to the exterior. At least the living room was. Off to the left Maggie could see a large workroom where a kiln stood in the corner. There were long wooden tables filled with sculptures and pots and glazes. Completed works stood beside works in progress. Maggie surmised that this had once been a dining room which gave her a hint to the woman’s priorities.

  “When did you last see Armando Salazar?” she asked as they sat down on a green Naugahyde couch right out of nineteen-seventy-five.

  “The night of the reception, like everybody else.”

  “Did you speak with him?”

  “I ignore him. He’s a jerk.”

  “Was,” Maggie corrected.

  “Was, and good riddance.”

  Red clay.

  “Why did you dislike him so much? Everyone else seems to have found him charming.”

  “He was an ass and Barbara Atwell was an ass to have catered to him. Did you know he didn’t even have to pay her a commission for that crap he sold? She just let him set up those statues and pocket every cent he made from them.”

  “And you resented that?”

  “I resented everything about him. You can only imagine how—demeaning—it was for me to have my masterpieces in the same room with his stuff. And he didn’t even create them. He just went down to Mexico and bought them by the dozens and put them on display. And the worst of it was that he managed to sell them. But that shouldn’t have mattered to Barbara. There’s more important things than a dollar. I mean, Mosaic always had a good reputation and I just don’t get it.”

  “Maybe because he was her husband and she loved him.”

  Red clay.

  “Give me a break. There’s love and then there’s business.”

  Belinda shifted her weight impatiently.

  “If that’s all,” she said.

  “Were you and Armando intimate?”

  Belinda gave the detective a sarcastic smile.

  “If you could call it that. Sure, when he first showed up I gave him a tumble. Nearly everyone did. But I assure you his performance was hardly worthy of an encore.”

  “Nothing since then?”

  “My time is too important to waste it on mediocrity. Poor Barbara, she probably never knew the difference. After all, women are her specialty.” She spat the words out. “Are you done now?”

  She was outspoken. She was rude. She was self-involved. Maggie bet she thought the universe revolved around her. Had she rejected Armando or had it been the other way around? That would certainly be another reason for her to feel such hostility toward him. Even as his cold body lay in the morgue she didn’t miss an opportunity to trash him. Her emotions ran deeper than mere competition over a few pieces of art.

  “You had a work on display that was apparently stolen.”

  “That still pisses me off, even if I am getting paid for it. I’ll never know where my Gaia is or who wanted her so badly.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Who?”

  “Your Gaia.”

  “She was beautiful, one of the best pieces I’ve ever created. She captured the essence of the goddess to perfection,” she said, pride and arrogance in her voice.

  “I’m sure she was,” said Maggie. “In what medium did you sculpt her?”

  “Red clay.”

  Red clay. Armando had shards of red clay imbedded in his scalp, Maggie thought. There were small pieces of red clay that she’d swept from underneath the shelves in the gallery. There was a good chance that Belinda Blume’s statue had been the murder weapon. She wondered how she would react if she thought her masterpiece had been destroyed. Or could Belinda have used it to off her rival? It was certainly a possibility.

  “I like your work, Belinda,” Maggie said looking into the next room. “I’m not an art connoisseur and I live on a cop’s salary but I’d love one of your pieces. Do you have something on the small and inexpensive side?”

  She could see that Belinda was flattered. They walked into the adjacent room and Maggie spotted a small clay bowl. “How much for that one?”

  Belinda picked up the bowl and scrutinized it.

  “It’s probably out of your price range, Detective Reardon. Tell you what, you can have it, my compliments. Just let me get back to work,” she said, wiping bits of clay onto her apron. “I’m in the middle of a project.”

  “You have a generous spirit,” she lied, as Belinda handed her the bowl. “But before I go, I’d like to get your prints,” she said, indicating the kit that sat on the floor.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “We’re getting everyone’s prints,” she said. “It’s just a matter of elimination.”

  “C’mon lady, if you think I killed that jerk you’re way off base. I create, I don’t destroy. Not even a cockroach like Armando Salazar.”

  “I’m not accusing you, but your cooperation would be helpful.”

  “If I give you my prints will you get out of here?”

  “Of course, I can see your time is precious.” And I can see that you’re one of the most narcissistic creatures I’ve ever encountered, Maggie said to herself as she opened her kit and got down to business.

  It would be interesting to see just where Belinda Blume’s prints showed up.

  And if her hatred for Armando Salazar outweighed her love for her precious Gaia statue.

  Maggie would drop off her little gift to forensics to see if the clay matched the little shards imbedded in Armando Salazar’s skull.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LUNATIC LOVE SONG

  Maggie Reardon removed her sunglasses and adjusted her eyes to the change in light as she entered the café. She looked around the room, scanning the row of cheap vinyl booths until she spotted him. Marty stood up and waved. He wore a short sleeved shirt and a wide grin.

  “Over here,” he said.

  She walked over, relieved
at his good mood. But he was disappointed when she sat in the booth across from him instead of scooting in next to him. Once again he was sending a silent message that she had displeased him. She was reminded again of why she wanted his negativity out of her life. She didn’t want his approval much less need it. But that wasn’t why she was here sitting across from the man she hoped never to see again. She wanted to mend a severely broken fence and walk away with a clear conscience.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, reaching over and picking up a jelly-laced menu.

  “I’m used to it.”

  Dishes clattered and glasses pinged against each other accompanied by voices that bounced off the walls. Muzak and laughter and a chef ringing his bell and yelling, “order’s up.” The place was packed despite its offering of mediocre food. It was cheap and it was convenient and they always had an early bird special. Their mashed potatoes had the consistency of setting plaster, but they managed an edible burger, the safest choice on a sadly limited menu.

  Marty watched in silence as he swirled his straw in the tall glass of iced tea he’d ordered while waiting for her. Around and around went the straw, clanking against the ice cubes until Maggie wanted to scream stop. She stifled the temptation. She didn’t want this meeting to be confrontational but there were things that needed saying. She wasn’t looking forward to it but a little humble pie was in order if she wanted to end it amicably. Her visit with Belinda Blume was an eye opener. The woman’s coldness had hit home. Maggie wasn’t as self-serving, not by a long shot, but she knew she could have handled things better with Marty. She regretted not having considered his feelings, just her own. Even Marty deserved better than that. The ice stopped clanking as he reached in his fingers and fished the lemon slice from the glass. He held it to his mouth and sucked on it, then shuddered from its sourness.

  “This is hardly the place I’d have chosen for a romantic dinner,” he said. “And I doubt they have much of a wine list.”

  His attempt at humor was a relief.

  A waitress walked over, impatient to take their order.

  “I’ll have a burger with fries. Extra mayo on the side,” Maggie said. “And a diet soda.”

  “Same here,” said Marty. “Just skip the mayo and the soda.” He gave Maggie a sideways glance when he said skip the mayo. Passive aggressive. Apparently mayo was out of line too. As if her dietary choices were supposed to match his own. She failed to measure up to his expectations on so many levels that she wondered why he hung on. Did he think he could break her spirit and she’d march in step? On the surface he was gentle, almost meek in his demeanor, but as she got to know him the telltale signs began to surface. They were subtle, but they always are at first. She knew where those control issues led. She’d seen the empty faces of broken women on domestic abuse calls and it was frightening.

  Once they broke your spirit they started breaking your bones.

  It was just a matter of time.

  The silence between them was awkward and Marty again fidgeted with his straw. Maggie reached over and put her hand over his then pulled away, afraid he would misinterpret the gesture. “I’m glad you had a change of heart,” he said. “I know I sound like a broken record, but when we’re apart I miss you. And it’s not just the sex.”

  The waitress returned and dropped the dinner plates in front of them.

  Maggie tore into her burger, out of avoidance more than hunger. She had to say the right thing and was trying to form the right words before she spoke. It was delicate and touchy and she wanted it right. She wasn’t so hot in the diplomacy department but this was important. She slowed her eating, a lame attempt at holding off the moment. When she looked up Marty had stopped chewing and was watching as she wiped a stream of melting mayo off her chin. He had mood swings worse than a female fighting PMS. His silent agitation was gone and he looked so content that she hated to spoil things.

  “This is nice,” he said. “Not the ambience of the room, mind you, but the way we’re sitting here just like an old married couple.”

  Oh God.

  Maggie placed her paper napkin next to her plate and took a deep breath.

  “Marty, I owe you an apology....”

  “Maggie....”

  “No, let me speak. You need to hear me out.” She pushed the plate aside. “We had something, just not what it should have been. When it ended I was only thinking about my feelings and never took yours into consideration. I was insensitive and I was wrong and I need to apologize for that.”

  “But that’s all behind us.”

  “No, it’s not. When you came over the other night I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

  “Mislead me? Everything was perfect. Until you kicked me out,” he laughed, “but I understand. You needed your sleep.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me. I could have handled things better.”

  His expression turned serious. “Okay, go on.”

  “You got the impression that I was picking up where we left off, but I wasn’t.”

  “Then what the hell was it?”

  “I got caught up in the moment. It was sex. Nothing more. It shouldn’t have happened, it won’t happen again and I’m sorry.”

  A shadow fell over his face that gave her the chills. He was looking at her, but there was no emotion behind his eyes. It was the same coldness she’d seen in the interrogation room so many times. It was unnerving. She disliked when he looked at her with puppy dog eyes, but this was even worse. He stared at her, silent.

  “It’s over,” she said.

  “Still calling the shots.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I see,” he finally said, his voice steely and controlled.

  “So you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Maggie rose to leave, then turned to face him one last time.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said.

  * * * *

  Maggie left the grocery store holding a single plastic bag filled with cat food for Prowler, canned chili for herself and a box of donuts. She was exhausted and ready to crash. She rested the bag’s weight against her side holster as she headed for her car. Things had gone well with Marty. Better than she’d anticipated. She heaved a sigh, relieved that he was finally history and she could move forward. Alone. No more relationships. Her judgment was flawed. Detective Reardon was a force to be reckoned with, but Maggie the woman had a blind spot in the romance department. One way or the other the blame rested on her, whether it was her independent, abrasive attitude that scared them off or just picking the wrong guy in the first place. It was no wonder each relationship ended in disaster.

  It was safer to fly solo.

  Ending up the eccentric old lady who lived with her cat had definite appeal.

  She slid into the front seat and turned on the ignition. The gauge read empty. She pulled out of the parking lot hoping the fumes would get her to the nearest station. She hit every red light along the way. Why couldn’t the city coordinate them more efficiently? It was feeling like a conspiracy aimed directly at her as her eyes kept returning to the gas gauge. When she pulled into the gas station the car was sputtering and coughing its last gasp. She slid her credit card into the pump, punched in her zip code and lifted the nozzle. Numbers swirled like rows of fruit on a slot machine. If the price of gas goes any higher, she thought, the whole town will be walking right back to the middle ages.

  * * * *

  The streets were dark but for neon lights that whispered and flickered like something out of an old noir movie. Store fronts closed, traffic thinned and the voice on Detective Maggie Reardon’s car radio said that within a week rain was in the forecast. Welcome rain. The smoke that had hovered over Tucson was dissipating and a dip in the sweltering temperatures was on the way. She smiled to herself as she pulled up the drive.

  As she was exiting the car her cell phone rang.

  She looked at the caller i.d. and picked up.

  “Mr. La Crosse?”


  “Detective Reardon.”

  “Hold on a minute,” she said. She held the cell phone against her shoulder with her chin as she juggled her briefcase and groceries. Half way up the sidewalk she rearranged her load. At the door she turned her key in the lock and began to push with her hip. She put the phone back to her ear.

  “Sorry about that,” she said.

  Someone grabbed her from behind. A strong arm held tightly around her neck, then shoved her through the door and into the house. The briefcase and groceries flew in one direction as Maggie and the cell phone flew in the other.

  “Rocco!” She yelled as she flew through the darkness. She was still screaming as her head hit the corner of the end table and her world went black.

  * * * *

  Maggie awoke to the weight of someone on top of her, tearing her shirt and ripping at her bra. The room was cloaked in darkness and she could hear Prowler growling in the distance. She fought the intruder, scratched at his face, tried to reach for her gun. Her holster was empty. He punched her hard in the face.

  “Now it’s your turn to listen,” he said.

  “Marty?”

  “You think you can play house with me and then tell me I’m dismissed?”

  “Marty, what are you doing?”

  He hit her again.

  Harder this time.

  And started fumbling with her slacks.

  “Marty, don’t do this.”

  “You’re not calling the shots, I am!”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I was nothing but somebody to service you, you said so. No love songs for you Maggie. This is what you want, then this is what you get.”

  They wrestled on the floor but he had the upper hand. He had caught her off guard and she was still fuzzy from hitting her head. Marty leaned back on his knees and she could hear him unzipping his pants. Her ears followed the sound and she raised one leg and gave a strong kick. He let out an animal sound as her foot hit its target and got him in the groin. He jumped to his feet, but was buckled forward in pain. Maggie rose and hit him with an upper cut that sent him flying backward. She flipped the light on before he hit the floor with a thud.