Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper

by Diane Vallere

  He stood up and walked closer, until he was right in front of me. “Do you want to talk about this, or do you want to talk about this?”

  His breath hit me on the T words, strong from the coffee.

  “I don’t want to, you know, not talk about this,” I said.

  He reached his hand around me and ran his fingertips down my arm. They left a hot trail. When he reached my palm, he gently pulled my hand out from behind me and braided his fingers through mine.

  “Sit down, Samantha. We have lots to talk about.” He led me to the futon.

  I sat next to him. My heart pounded. I felt like I was back in high school on a second date with Tommy Cordoba. I reminded myself that a futon wasn’t the same as the skateboard park after dark, and I was pretty sure Dante wasn’t going to get to second base.

  “Rebecca and I went to the same college,” Dante started. “I dated her my freshman year. We spent a lot of time together because we were both art majors. I’d go to the photo lab late at night when nobody else was there, and she’d be in the studio working. Some nights we were the only two people around.”

  I bristled with an unexpected twinge of jealousy.

  “We used to joke about how much we could learn about the students who left their stuff behind. She said I had a knack for observation. Hooked me up with an investigator who needed a cheap photographer.”

  “Like, to catch cheating spouses?”

  He nodded. “Money’s money, and it was easy. Taught me how much you can learn from people if you just watch them.”

  “Spying.”

  “Call it what you like. I called it an opportunity to pay my student loans back early and get a secondary education in human nature.”

  “How did Rebecca know an investigator?”

  “He was her father.”

  “Did she work with you?”

  “No. Rebecca and I broke up, but I kept freelancing for her dad. I learned a lot from him, until his heart attack. It was after we broke up. She fell behind on her coursework and dropped out of school. I tried to contact her a couple of times, but she cut ties with everyone.” He leaned back and stared at his hands. “And then she called me a couple of weeks ago. Out of the blue. Said she was working at the museum and something strange was going on. She wanted to know if I was still investigating on the side and asked if I’d check things out.”

  “So all this time, you popping up at the museum, taking pictures, following me around, it’s because you’re on the job?”

  “Are you going to get all Philip Marlowe on me now?” He dropped his head and smiled. “I met with her because I was curious. It’s been twenty years.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. She’s a nice girl. That’s it.”

  “No, not that and. And what did she tell you when you met with her?”

  “She said Dirk Engle told her he thought there was something up with the exhibit. He called the police before he was killed. He suspected the exhibit wasn’t just an exhibit, that it was a front for something illegal.”

  “So the police have been watching the museum?”

  “For weeks. They arranged for the hats to be hijacked.”

  “The police have the Hedy London hats? Since when? And why? Those hats were supposed to arrive at the museum the day Dirk Engle quit. If anything, the hats not arriving made it look like Dirk took off with them. That’s what I would have assumed if he hadn’t been murdered. But something doesn’t fit. Why would the police have intercepted the hat shipment before the murder? They must have suspected something. Is that what you told Rebecca?”

  “I told her it was probably all her imagination.”

  “But you don’t believe that. You’re still around. How come?”

  “Because once I found out you were involved, I knew things were going to get interesting.”

  “And have they?”

  He tipped his head and looked me directly in the face. “They’re on the right track.”

  27

  “Yeah, well, speaking of tracks, I’d better be going. Lots of work to do. No time for skateboard parks.” I set the coffee mug on the end table next to the Sharpies and stood up.

  “That didn’t make any sense.”

  I backed toward the door. “Made perfect sense to me.” Before he could reply, I was out the door and on my way down. Once I was in my car and back down Duryea Drive, I called Eddie. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead. I have news. Rendezvous at the art park.” I hung up.

  The phone rang almost immediately. I put it on speaker. “You up?”

  “Dude,” he said. “‘Rendezvous at the art park’?”

  “Code.”

  “Bring me four dozen D-cell batteries and thirty yards of fishing wire. I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.” He hung up.

  I stopped off at a drug store, cleaned out the battery aisle, and substituted dental floss for fishing wire. Even though rush hour was coming to an end, it still took twenty-five minutes to get the four miles to the museum. I parked in the space closest to the entrance.

  Eddie was waiting outside. I slammed the door and jabbed a finger into his chest.

  “You’re not going to believe who has the hats,” I said.

  “Your friend?”

  Considering how many/few friends I had at any given moment of this investigation, I had zero confidence trying to fill in the blank. “Which friend?”

  “Detective Loncar.”

  “He’s my friend?” I asked. “Since when?”

  “Dude, it was only a matter of time before Loncar caught up with me. When I woke up this morning, I called him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much. He asked a lot of questions about who was in charge of the exhibit and who else was helping me. I kept your name out of it. He said for me to call him when I was at the museum again. The entire ride here I’ve been trying to figure out a way to avoid making that call. But then I think of Thad in the hospital and I get mad. I don’t know how to fix this. Got any ideas?”

  “The obvious one. Call Loncar. It’s now or never. Or, you know, you can sleep when you’re incarcerated. Your choice, of course.”

  Eddie handed me the keys to the back door and asked me to give him some privacy when he called the detective. I agreed to no such thing. The only concession I was willing to grant was to stand ten feet away after I watched him make the call. I have remarkably good hearing.

  The conversation was brief. Eddie turned his head away from me and kept his voice low, but I heard occasional snippets—museum, hats, tonight—enough to know he kept up his end of the bargain.

  We walked side by side to the back door. Eddie unlocked the it and held it open.

  “So?” I asked.

  “The detective is on his way. He’s bringing the hats.”

  I stopped walking and looked side to side. “Does he know I’m here?”

  “No.”

  “How are you going to know when he arrives?”

  “He’s going to call me.”

  We continued working side by side, conversation consisting of Eddie’s instructions and my occasional under-my-breath responses. Time passed. I was working up the nerve to ask for a five minute break when Eddie’s phone rang.

  “It’s Detective Loncar.”

  “I’ll handle this.” I grabbed his phone. “Hello?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Adams, please,” the detective said.

  “Detective, this is Samantha Kidd. Eddie asked me to take the call. Do you have the—” I caught myself before saying the word. “Do you have the merchandise?”

  “Ms. Kidd, put Mr. Adams on the phone.”

  “He’s currently indisposed. I’m at the—” Again I caught myself. “I’m at the meeting point. Do you need access?”

  “Ms. Kidd, I’m on my way to the museum. I have a trunk filled with hats for Mr. Adams to use in his exhibit. If you’re coming out here to meet me, bring a cart.”

  “Okay, great, thanks. I’ll be right there.”
I hung up.

  I found a small collapsible cart in the hallway outside Christian’s office and carried it to the back door of the museum. Detective Loncar stood outside. I wasn’t expecting to see him and I jumped.

  “Jeez, Detective. I thought you were going to wait in the parking lot.”

  “Ms. Kidd, what are you doing here?”

  “I just told you I was here. On the phone. Thirty seconds ago. Weren’t you paying attention?”

  “Why are you at the museum?”

  “I’m helping Eddie.”

  “Are you sure? You’re not trying to figure out who killed Dirk Engle or who attacked Thad Thomas? You’re not interfering with my investigation?”

  “I resent the implication.” I paused. “Why don’t you help me with the hats and come see for yourself?”

  He grunted something and turned around. I followed him to his car, a dusty gray sedan. He popped the trunk and pulled out two corrugated cardboard boxes with small red numbers on the corners.

  “That sure was clever of Christian to arrange for you to take the hats. Or was it Dr. Daum? Or someone else?”

  He glared at me.

  “Let me guess. You intercepted these boxes after they were delivered to the museum. I saw them. You must have thought they had something to do with Dirk Engle’s murder. But they’re clean, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t let me have them for the exhibit.”

  “Ms. Kidd, these boxes have been in our possession for some time. I don’t think you saw these.”

  “Yes, I did. The night Eddie and I came back here to find out what had happened.”

  Loncar stood up straight. “What night was that?”

  “The night after we found Dirk’s body. The night you have Eddie on film. The reason you’ve been after him.”

  “You weren’t on that footage.”

  “I know, and I can’t figure that out. I was next to him the whole time. So how did someone delete me from the video? And why?”

  “Maybe they didn’t want you to be part of the investigation either.”

  I ignored his attempt at humor and pointed to the boxes. “These were in the museum. We saw them through the glass doors. And someplace else too.” I tipped my head back and looked up. The sun was playing peek-a-boo with a couple of clouds, coloring the museum grounds in bright sunlight and then darkening it with shadow.

  “Ms. Kidd, you were saying?” Loncar prompted.

  I tipped my chin down and looked him in the face. “It’s Over Your Head.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s not an insult. It’s a store. You must know it. Vera Sarlow’s store on Penn Avenue. Over Your Head. She’s Dirk Engle’s sister.”

  “For someone who claims not to be trying to figure out who killed Dirk Engle, you seem to know a lot about his background.”

  “With all due respect, my boss asked me to go to her store. It had nothing to do with Dirk Engle’s murder.”

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Nick Taylor.”

  “I thought he was your boyfriend?”

  “Are you keeping tabs on me?”

  Loncar removed the last box from his trunk and slammed it shut. “Are you planning to attend the gala tomorrow night?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  “There will be a significant police presence here, but on behalf of the Ribbon Police Department, I’d like to ask you to stay home.”

  “Detective, I’m not going to stay home.”

  “Then try to stay out of trouble. It would make my job easier.” He held out his hand. I shook it. I wasn’t sure if we’d sealed some kind of deal, and if we had, I wasn’t how much control I had over my end of the bargain.

  28

  When I returned to the exhibit space, Eddie was on his hands and knees, smoothing a vintage poster into an oversized frame. Similar tubes were lined up along the back wall of the exhibit. I knelt on the floor, helping him secure the corners. He picked up the frame and set it on an easel, and then bumped the easel to the left with the instep of his sneaker. I moved the boxes of hats from the cart to the floor and told him about my conversation with the detective and my meeting with Dante earlier that morning.

  Eddie bumped the easel forward a few inches and reassessed its placement. “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t know. He seemed sincere, but something’s still off.”

  “So you suspect Rebecca.”

  “Not sure. Has she been much of a help on this exhibit?”

  “Rebecca? I don’t think she’s ever been up here.”

  “That’s funny,” I said. On the desk, sitting on a pile of paper next to the monitor, was a pair of square black Lisa Loeb eyeglasses.

  I tucked the glasses into the pocket of my sweatshirt. “Will you be okay for a little while if I go talk to her?”

  “Fine, just don’t take too long. It’ll take two people to hang the posters.”

  Rebecca was inside the gift shop. She stood on a two-step ladder that put her within reach of the Rodin sculptures on the top shelf. Her boot-cut pants and collared shirt almost made the smock that she wore over her clothes look like designer apparel. When she saw me, she climbed down the ladder and started to unpack a box of umbrellas made of fabric inspired by the Impressionist masters. I recognized the goldfish print as Matisse and the water lilies as Monet. She was about halfway done unpacking the box, and worry tugged at the sides of her mouth.

  “Rebecca,” I called out, “why didn’t you tell me you were working on the exhibit?”

  She knocked three of the umbrellas to the floor and quickly scooped them up. “Me? I’m not. I don’t even know what’s going on up there.”

  When she looked up at me, I noticed the layer of makeup she had used to mask the redness around her eyes. For an instant I questioned my suspicions. She’d worked at the museum every day for years, with people she knew and trusted. She was probably the one who brought muffins on holidays and organized the Secret Santa at Christmas.

  I put my hand in my pocket and closed my fingers around the frames. I couldn’t accept her innocence at face value. “I know you were upstairs. I found your glasses.” I pulled them out of the pocket and set them on the top of the glass display case between us. Rebecca started to cry.

  “When Christian asked me to stay late, I thought he wanted—I didn’t think he wanted me to work. I thought he saw me differently. He asked if I thought the setup was exciting enough, if it had enough sex appeal. I thought he was dropping hints.”

  By now her face was a pinkish red, darker around her eyes. She’d smeared her eyebrow pencil by her right eye, leaving a stripe that faded off into her hairline. It made her look Romulan. I looked around for a tissue but didn’t see any.

  “Rebecca, if you think Christian is expecting a certain kind of behavior from you, well, that’s sexual discrimination. You can talk to someone about that.”

  She looked up. There was a sadness to her smile. “It’s not like that. I—I’m the one who expected something. I took off my glasses and my cardigan and unclipped my hair. I told him I thought the exhibit was sexy, that I thought he was sexy. He looked at me—just looked at me!—and told me to get dressed. I’ve never been so embarrassed.” This time when she put her face into her hands, her shoulders shook with sobs. “I’ve never done anything like that before!” she squeaked between breaths.

  “Rebecca, Christian is a bastard for leading you on.”

  “I never expected anything like this. I thought I wanted to be part of his team. I thought he would notice me. Now I don’t want to work here anymore.”

  I nodded and searched for something to say to change the subject. Bits of the conversation that I’d overheard between Christian and her popped into my head like a collection of sound bites. I gambled on small talk.

  “I don’t think he’d ask for your help if he wasn’t interested in what you have to say. I heard Dirk Engle was Christian’s connection to the collectors. Is that your job now that Dirk’s gone?”

&nb
sp; A fresh wave of tears filled her eyes. “How do you know Christian asked me for help?”

  Uh-oh. “Eddie must have mentioned it,” I said. I studied her face and hoped she wouldn’t ask why Eddie and I were talking about her.

  “It was so stupid of me. I volunteered to do whatever he wanted. I wanted to make sure he knew I don’t want to run the gift shop forever. But now, this—” She waved her hands by her eyes and blinked a few times. “He didn’t even say good morning when he got here today.”

  “He’s here already?”

  “Sure, he gets here really early. It’s my favorite time of the day because we’re the only two here. But lately every time we start to have a meaningful conversation, that woman calls and he has to leave.”

  “What woman?”

  “Hedy London.” Rebecca waved her hand in front of me. “I shouldn’t talk about her. He doesn’t even know he’s being manipulated.”

  I searched her face for signs of something other than sadness but discovered nothing.

  Being inside the museum shop, surrounded by merchandise, my retail instincts kicked in. I flipped through a rack of aprons printed with scenes from pop-art paintings and sorted them on autopilot. Lichtenstein in the front, Rauschenberg in the middle, Warhol in the back.

  “What kind of things do you and Christian talk about?” I asked as I moved on to a circular fixture of T-shirts with pictures of dinosaurs. I started by the XS brontosaurus and worked my way around to the XL saber-tooth tiger, tucking the price tags in and making sure they were all facing the same direction.

  “Mostly his ideas about how the store is run,” Rebecca said as she reached in for a fresh handful of umbrellas. This time I spotted the décolleté of the barkeep on Manet’s Folies-Bergere.

  “I thought museum gift shops were leased by an independent museum store association?”

  “Most are, but we’re an independent shop that’s attached to the museum. We have some flexibility. Christian terminated the contracts with the last suppliers, and what they wouldn’t take back he put on clearance.”

  “Like my moccasins?” I looked around the store but didn’t see them. “Did they sell out?”

  “No, they’re in the back. Christian hates them. He wants me to find a buyer who wants the whole lot. You’re lucky you bought a pair when you did.” She peered over the counter at my feet. “You have small feet. I wanted to buy a pair but I could only fit into the men’s size.”