Artistic License

by Julie Hyzy

  George knew Ethan was lying. He looked over to Bill, who watched the trio through squinted eyes.

  “Where do you think we can find this Pete?” Bill asked.

  Kyle and Ryan were content to let Ethan handle the interview. They flanked him with rapt expressions on their faces. “Don’t know,” Ethan said, looking away.

  “This apartment got broken into just a couple of days ago, right?” Bill straightened himself and stretched a bit, as if by changing the subject, he was lowering his guard.

  The three nodded. “We didn’t call, though. I swear we weren’t here. Some neighbors called.”

  “Anything taken?”

  They looked at each other and shook their heads amongst themselves before Ethan looked up at George and said, “Nothin’.”

  “They just messed everything up,” Kyle said. “Like, totally.”

  As if this were safe conversational ground, Ryan chimed in, “What kind of an idiot breaks in and don’t take nothin’?”

  George was tempted to make them arrange their hands around their faces so they’d be the “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” monkeys, and he felt a small grin try to make its way to his face.

  Bill shifted his weight from one foot to the other, bringing him slightly closer to the scrawny boys. He affected a tone of pure friendliness, “Nobody even touched your coke?”

  Ryan shook his head, his eyes full of wonder, “Yeah, can you believe it?”

  Kyle and Ethan’s eyes widened at Ryan’s mistake, but the older brother was scratching his head and grinning, like they’d gotten away with something.

  Bill rolled his eyes at George. His look said, “Idiot kids.”

  George moved in a little closer too, feeling their discomfort, ready to take advantage. “How about I ask you again about this Pete guy . . .”

  Fifteen minutes later George and Bill stood outside the apartment and listened as Kyle and Ethan’s voices rang out, belittling Ryan for his big mouth. Not that it mattered. These guys weren’t their target, but knowing their propensity for drugs could make them useful in the future. George grinned at Bill as they made it to the car. “Let’s go for cup of coffee and sort all this out. My treat.”

  Just as Bill moved to get in the passenger seat, George dropped his arm across the top of the car’s roof with a thump. “And hey,” he said with a grin, “lose the gum.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Annie had just picked up Gary’s old bathrobe when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch, wondering who’d be coming over at eight o’clock in the morning. Piles of Gary’s clothes, along with incidental items he and Pete had brought into the house, waited to be folded and boxed and disposed of. She’d been at it since six, working under the power of her allotted one cup of coffee per day and some Oreo cookies. She’d planned to have a healthier breakfast once she’d finished, but sorting between Gary’s and Pete’s things had become difficult. She’d arranged several piles: one for Gary, another for Pete, and one for the items for which she couldn’t decide ownership. She’d donate Gary’s stuff, and offer the rest to Pete, if he ever showed up. And when he did, she’d get his last name.

  Stepping over a pile of things she considered garbage, she threw Gary’s ratty green bathrobe over the back of a kitchen chair and complained aloud when the doorbell rang again, but then quelled her annoyance when she found Uncle Lou standing there, covered plate in hand.

  “You’re up early,” she said, opening the door wider to let him in.

  “Yeah, couldn’t sleep. Too much going on around here lately.” He walked directly into the kitchen, still talking. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay,” she said, following him. She pointed to the extra bedroom as he sat down. “Just sorting through some of Gary’s stuff.”

  Annie sat across from him, removing the bathrobe from the back of her chair and tossing it next to her while Uncle Lou, with obvious pride, unwrapped the dish he’d brought. “Made it this morning. Thought you might like some.”

  “What is it?” Annie asked, leaning forward.

  “Banana bread. Got a knife?”

  As Uncle Lou removed the shiny crinkled tinfoil, the scent of the freshly baked bread wafted up, its sweet, warm smell making Annie’s stomach growl. She touched the top of the browned loaf and smiled. He must have brought it straight from the oven. “Yeah,” she said, and returned with plates and two mugs.

  “Milk?” Uncle Lou asked, peering into Annie’s cup as she started a pot of coffee.

  “Yep. Had my ration of java for the day already. Got to start thinking healthy.” She sliced them both a hunk of the bread before she sat down.

  Uncle Lou took an enormous bite, then sat back to chew, watching Annie.

  She felt a question in his look. Smiling self-consciously, she shook her head. “What?”

  He finished chewing and eyed the remaining portion on his plate as he leaned forward resting his arms on the table. “This guy, Sam . . .” he began, “he’s the guy who owns the ice cream parlor where you’re painting that mural, right?”

  “Yep, that’s him.”

  “How’s that project coming along?”

  “Well,” she said with a wry look, “it’s been put on hold a bit lately, but it was shaping up. I think I might have another week or so, and it’ll be done.”

  “One wall, right?”

  “One wall.”

  “The DeChristopher house is a whole room, right?”

  “Yeah. That one’s almost done, too. Maybe one more day. Maybe more.”

  He took another big bite and glanced over to the coffee pot. Getting up, he put the drip mechanism on hold and poured some of the hot brew into his mug as Annie took a drink of her milk. “Seems like the dinosaur room should have taken a lot longer than one wall.”

  Annie shrugged. “I don’t get as much time at Sam’s as I could use sometimes. And it is a more intricate project.”

  Uncle Lou nodded and finished up his bread, stretching forward, his stout arms reaching out from the narrow short sleeves of his shirt to slice another piece. “And maybe you don’t want to see the castle project end?” Annie started to shake her head, but he held up a piece of the banana bread to stave her off. “I like this Sam fellow.”

  She sat back, confused.

  Uncle Lou continued, unabashed. “Like him a lot. Didn’t ever get the kind of feeling from Gary, God rest his soul, that I do from this guy.”

  Dumbfounded, Annie listened. Uncle Lou was a fact-based person, always had been. For him to be offering an opinion on Sam’s character was odd, to say the least.

  “Don’t know if you’ve got something going with this Sam,” he said and she felt her face redden as he scrutinized her, “but I think this one’s a good guy. Just my opinion, of course.”

  Annie opened her mouth to respond, although she didn’t know what she was going to say, but he changed subjects abruptly, “So, what’s the scoop on Gary’s case, have you heard anything?”

  “No, not a thing. I was hoping that detective would keep me informed about what’s going on, but he hasn’t. I guess since I’m one of the suspects, he really can’t, but still.” She lifted a shoulder as if to say it didn’t really matter, but it did. Gesturing toward the bedroom behind her, she said, “I’ve been searching through his stuff, what little he had here. Think I might find a clue?”

  “Worth a look,” he said. His face wrinkled in thought. “You remember anything he might have said or done that could give you an idea of what he was up to?”

  “Nothing. That Pete friend of his hasn’t been around either, which makes me wonder about him. And all the stuff I’ve been going through,” she gestured again, “is just old clothes and junk like that. Can’t imagine I’ll find anything of interest in stuff like this.” Her left hand reached over to the other chair and she picked up the bathrobe. Holding it, she stopped, then looked across the table to her uncle. “Except . . .” she said. She could feel her heart pound in her chest, hear it in her ears
. Her right hand raised up to her mouth as ideas raced through her mind.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just . . .” she stood up, staring at the garment in her hands. Bunching the worn green fabric around the sleeves, she moved her hands down, slowly, feeling her way in tentative movements. Gary had sewn in the pocket himself, years ago. She’d found a gift once early in their marriage, by accident, as she grabbed the item to throw it into the wash. The robe had rattled. Curious, she’d shaken it again until she’d found the source of the noise. Inside sat a small gray velvet jewelry store box. She’d opened it to find earrings. Ruby earrings. Which Annie found curious. Her birthstone was topaz and she’d often commented on how much she liked the pale golden color. She wore a marquis shaped ring on her right hand, a gift from her parents, with a nice-sized tawny stone set in silver. Nestled in this tiny presentation case were dark red gems surrounded by heavy gold halos. Gary knew she didn’t like rubies and these certainly had to cost a great deal.

  Just as she’d begun stuffing them back into their hiding space, considering how to react when he gave them to her, realization dawned. At that very moment Gary walked in, catching her with the clamshell box in hand. His reaction—the wide-eyed flash of panic and subsequent cover-up, the careful nonchalance in his eyes—told her volumes.

  “Oh, you found it,” Gary had said, his voice neutral.

  Rattled, she held up the bathrobe. “I wasn’t looking for anything.”

  He took both the robe and the box from her hands and showed her the hiding spot, smooth as can be. Without a moment’s hesitation, he lapsed into a story about how he always hid items of value in the back of this robe and how he hadn’t expected her to find it.

  While he’d talked, Annie gathered some courage. “These weren’t meant for me, were they?”

  A flicker of something crossed Gary’s face. While he was often able to dance around subjects and to worm his way out of difficult situations by turning on the charm or by dissembling, she knew when caught he crumbled. “No,” he said. “But it isn’t what you think. I’ve had these for a very long time. They were meant for someone else, a long time ago. I just haven’t had the chance to figure out a way to sell them or trade them for something different. Something special for you.”

  She’d wanted to believe him.

  Now she held the bathrobe, the memory of his explanation in her head. He’d hidden other things in it since then, but had always mentioned it to her in the way a person who’s about to go into surgery tells his family where all the insurance policies are hidden. “If something happens to me . . .” he’d say, “you know where to look.” Dismissing his warnings as paranoid, she’d given the robe little thought over the years. But that was before his burglary arrest.

  Now that something had happened to him, she didn’t know what she’d find. It took every ounce of Annie’s courage to upend the garment and root around to find the big pocket. Her hand moved from the belt downward, grabbing bunches of fabric, hearing nothing, feeling nothing out of the ordinary.

  But then, her hand crept down again. She squeezed and heard a crinkling noise. Felt resistance, felt something bend and it wasn’t fabric. Uncle Lou sat across from her, his eyes alert. She understood that he was confused, but she didn’t want to stop to explain. It wasn’t as though she knew what she was looking for anyway. She had no idea what could be in this pocket. It could be old pictures, or his birth certificate. But she hoped for a clue. For something that could give her information about his killing. For something that could serve to exonerate her in Detective Lulinski’s eyes.

  Her left hand held the robe by the belted center, and she lifted it high, reaching down with her right to dig into the fabric pocket. She pulled out an assortment of papers. With varying shapes and sizes, the pile looked like a bundle of garbage, but she laid them on the table, feeling at once triumphant and alarmed, almost afraid to unearth any secrets they might contain.

  Reaching back in, she searched again, coming up with a few more smaller pieces of paper and a wad of money. Twenties, tens, fives, and singles. Counted out they added up to just over a thousand dollars. She and Uncle Lou exchanged perplexed looks as she sat down.

  “Well,” she said with a grimace, “looks like I hit the jackpot.”

  Uncle Lou nodded, tugging at a corner of one of the papers, bringing it over to his side of the table. Holding the paper an arm’s length away, he tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes before making a sound of frustration and reaching for his glasses. The black-rimmed, half-moon shaped spectacles resisted his attempts to open them, but he managed, using his mouth and one hand, keeping his attention on the paper he held aloft in the other.

  Annie recognized the writing on a large white paper and picked it up in a flash of anger. The receipt for Gary’s bail money. He’d taken it from her. That meant he’d been in her room when she hadn’t been home. He’d gone through her things, pawed through her drawers. She’d hidden this one deep, under socks and pantyhose, along with her emergency money. Standing, she squelched a noise of pure fury and headed to her room, knowing before she got there, that her emergency money was gone.

  Uncle Lou raised his eyes as she returned, spouting her anger. “Well, I know where some of that came from,” she said in clipped tones, indicating the roll of cash on the table. “My secret stash.” She sat down in the chair with a whump, leaning her elbows on the kitchen table and massaging her eyes. After a moment she glanced up and said, “How can I still be so angry at a person, even after he’s dead?”

  Uncle Lou wasn’t paying attention. He’d pulled a few more papers from the stack and was going over them word by word. “Why would Gary have been interested in that missing Durer artwork?”

  Annie reached over and pulled at one of the sheets her uncle had discarded. “I don’t know.” Picking it up she wrinkled her nose in thought. “These are copies of the articles you gave me. The ones that I thought were missing the other day. Sam and I looked all over for them, but they weren’t on the table where I’d left them.”

  Getting up, Annie walked into the living room and returned with the original articles in hand. She held them up as if to fan the air with them. “But here they are.” So much had happened between the time she’d left for Sam’s house and when she’d returned, that the articles hadn’t crossed her mind at all. Now, she’d found them under a book on the coffee table, and knew she hadn’t put them there. “This is strange,” she said.

  Uncle Lou dug through the papers again, making little grunting noises as he read. Shuffling through them over and over, he picked up, put down, then picked up again, as Annie stared off into space, trying to piece wildly disparate information together so that it made sense. “You don’t think Gary had something to do with the theft of the artwork from the museum, do you?”

  Her uncle shook his head, his eyes never leaving the papers in front of him. “Definitely not. From the information I’ve gathered, this was a surgical strike. Took the efforts of more than one person, by far. Whoever pulled that caper off had access to state-of-the art technology, professional contacts, and a lot of money. If Gary pilfered cash from you,” his eyes flicked back to the bills lying on the table, “there’s no way he could have been in on this. This job took sophistication. And that’s one thing Gary didn’t have.”

  “You can say that again,” Annie said. She experienced a small measure of relief. At least he wasn’t a big time crook. Stopping to think, she realized that made him a small-time one. For a wry, amused instant, she wondered which would be considered worse.

  Doorbell chimes interrupted her thoughts. She and Uncle Lou exchanged worried glances, as though sorting through Gary’s things had conjured up whatever evil had led to his murder and now waited for them at the door. Annie shook herself and smiled, more to bolster her own self-confidence than anything, and went to answer it.

  Though his silhouette was blurred and disjointed by the prisms of glass of the front door’s oval window, Annie recogn
ized Sam’s form immediately, throwing open the door in a mix of happiness and excitement.

  He stood there, leaning against the doorjamb, too casually, in a way that made Annie believe he was nervous, his left hand gripped around the leash of a large black and gray German Shepherd. “Hi,” he said with a cautious smile.

  Annie looked from Sam’s hopeful, apologetic face to what appeared to be an identical look on the dog’s upturned gaze. Staring at her with bright brown eyes, the animal sat, shifting its front paws a little, giving her the sense that it wanted to come inside, but was too polite to do so without an invitation. The pooch’s long pink tongue hung out the side of his mouth.

  Annie held the door open wider. “A new friend?”

  Sam’s face hinted at a grin as the duo came inside. “Well,” he began, scratching the side of his head. “I was thinking about how you’re all alone here at night and how someone tried to break in that one time. And, well . . .” he left the thought unfinished, and shrugged, as red crept from the collar of his T-shirt, making its way up to his cheeks. The pinkening of his face and the shy way he half-shrugged as his eyes met hers gave Annie a tiny shiver. Even now, with his face passive, uncertain, she loved looking at him. But him standing in her front hall, with a dog, was a surprise she hadn’t expected. Unsure how to react, unsure how exactly she felt, she stood there, trying to decide what to say.

  “What a great idea,” Uncle Lou’s voice boomed as he offered his hand to the dog to sniff. “Male or female?”

  “Male,” Sam said, looking relieved to have something to say to break the silence. “His name’s Max. That’s what they told me at the shelter, but he can probably be taught a new name,” he turned to Annie, “if you don’t like it.”

  Annie looked from Uncle Lou to the dog to Sam. Three sets of eyes stared at her, hazel, brown, and blue, waiting for a reaction. The only sound in the room was the dog panting and the occasional drip of saliva from his mouth onto the floor. “He—he’s for me?” she finally managed.