by Loretta Ross
“Yes, he’s a doll.”
Emily looked past Death through the door into his apartment. Given the size of the building and the size of the office, it couldn’t be very big.
“This isn’t a very spacious place for two young men,” she observed. “Don’t you ever have visitors? Friends? Family maybe?”
“Randy is my family,” Death said. “Randy and Wren.”
“Really? You don’t have anyone else at all?”
“No ma’am.”
The conversation petered out and the three of them waited out a long, awkward silence. Finally, Death glanced over his shoulder and noticed that the ready light had come on on the coffeemaker. As he turned toward it, Emily spoke again.
“A little weak, don’t you think?”
He’d forgotten to put any coffee in the basket.
Death thunked his elbow down on the counter and dropped his head into his hand. “I swear I’m not usually this incompetent,” he said. “The truth is, I’m nervous because I want to impress you.”
“Well, your goal is admirable.”
He took a coffee filter from a drawer in the counter and scooped coffee from a nearby canister before pouring the water back through.
“So what do you do here all day, besides attempting to make coffee?”
Randy grinned at her, amused. Death grimaced.
“I’m a private investigator. I, uh, investigate. Privately. Umm … right now, for example, I’m working on a case involving a forged painting. I’m getting ready to leave, in fact, because I have an appointment with the director of the museum where it was housed.”
“Really? I love museums. Which one?”
“Are you familiar with the Warner Museum of Frontier Art?”
“Oh, yes. I haven’t been there in years. I’d love to go back again.”
“Well, why don’t you ride up there with him?” Randy suggested. “It’d give you a chance to get to know one another, and then you could look around the museum while he has his meeting.”
“Randy,” Death said. He looked dismayed. “She just got to town after traveling for months. I doubt she wants to go driving to the city again so soon.”
“Oh, no. That’s fine,” Emily said. “A drive that short hardly even counts as traveling for me anymore. I’d love to go. If you wouldn’t mind the company, that is.”
“No, not at all,” Death told her. “I’d love the company.” He favored her with a smile, charming and flustered.
One thing was certain. Emily could see exactly why her daughter was attracted to him.
“Show me where you found the Viking clothes,” Wren said.
With winter just around the corner, the auction season was winding down. Keystone and Sons had just one sale on the books that Saturday morning, and it was only a small auction to clear away the excess belongings of a septuagenarian who’d moved to Florida. The goods consisted almost entirely of unremarkable furniture, run-of-the-mill appliances, kitchen utensils, and random bedding. If it wasn’t hands-down the most boring auction of the year, it would certainly be in the running for the title.
Mercy Keystone had begged not to go to it, but her mother, a nurse practitioner, was working that day. With her father occupied in helping to set up and call the auction, Mercy had to go somewhere. So, after promising to be good, crossing her heart, and pinky-swearing, she was allowed to accompany Wren and Robin back out to the yacht club to work toward getting it ready for the upcoming sale.
“It was in here,” Mercy said now. “In the top of the boathouse.”
She led the way into the small, dark building.
The first floor of the boathouse consisted of walkways around two slips for boats to come in off the lake. Wren entered cautiously, testing the strength of the floor and calling out to Mercy to be careful when the girl ran in and dashed fearlessly down the narrow wooden path. The slips had been dug out to allow even sailboats with a fairly deep draught to enter, but there hadn’t been a lot of rain in the last month. There was a drop of at least a yard to the surface of the water, and Wren could see the bottom.
The walls of the boathouse were hung with coiled ropes and nets and oars, and there was a small rowboat in a cradle on the back wall. The two slips were surrounded by a waist-high wooden railing and at the back of the slip on the left, facing the lake, a section of that railing extended up, forming a ladder to the loft overhead.
Wren followed Mercy up the ladder. The loft was light and airy, with large windows overlooking the lake to the east and the yacht club and parking lots to the west. She hadn’t climbed up to look at the spot last week because she’d been in too much of a hurry to get the bloody clothes to the sheriff’s office. Now that she had the time, she looked around with interest.
On three sides, the walls were lined with all manner of things. There was a great deal of cast-off furniture, some of it broken; a life-sized mechanical Santa in a gold suit; a roulette wheel; and dozens upon dozens of boxes, bags, crates, and other containers. Wren opened one at random and found it full of Christmas lights. The milk crate next to it was completely full of hula dolls.
“We’re going to have to get all this stuff down for the auction,” she said. “We’ll wait until everyone’s here and form a bucket brigade.”
The south wall was covered with lockers. When the kids had described them, Wren had pictured them as gray metal affairs like the ones they’d had in high school. But these were wooden compartments, each about two feet square and three feet deep. They had brass handles and fancy brass combination locks that of course had not slowed Matthew Keystone down in the least.
About half of them stood open. Wren nodded at them. “Your cousin do that?”
Mercy shrugged. “He said you’d only have to open them eventually anyway.”
“He was probably right,” Wren admitted
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”
They grinned at one another, and then Mercy led the way to the southwest corner of the loft. “This is where we found the clothes.”
The locker Mercy indicated was no different, so far as Wren could see, from any of the other lockers around it. She peered inside but it was completely empty now. The sail that the clothes had been wrapped in still lay on the floor nearby, the canvas marked with the same rusty bloodstains as the costume it had hidden for who knew how long.
“Are you warm enough? Are you too warm? Please feel free to adjust the heater if you’d like.”
Death had been less nervous under fire.
“No, I’m fine.”
Emily Morgan sat in his passenger seat with her back straight and her head held high and her purse on her lap, the handle clasped in both her hands. She was a short woman. The seat belt crossed her ample bosom and ran under her chin, so that it looked like it was trying to hang her, but he couldn’t think of any way to fix it.
“Would you like a pillow?” he offered.
She gave him a questioning, sideways look.
“The seat belt,” he explained, gesturing at his own neck. “It looks uncomfortable. I thought maybe a pillow …” His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Do you have a pillow?”
“Well … no.”
She smiled. He couldn’t decide if it was friendly or predatory. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said. “Tell me more about this forgery.”
“Oh, right. The forgery. Well, it’s a painting by an artist named Hans Volkmer. A portrait of an early-nineteenth-century opera singer dressed as a character from Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Have you heard of the Ring Cycle?”
“Yes. I’ve seen it performed.”
“Oh. Uh, great. Well, this was a portrait of an actress who was in that. By Volkmer. Have you ever heard of Volkmer?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“He was an artist. A painter. A portrait painter.”
“That would explain why he was painting portraits.”
“Right.” Death sighed inwardly. He was fairly certain that by this point his future mother-in-law had decided he was an idiot. “Anyway, the subject of this portrait left it to her heirs and they lent it to the Museum of Frontier Art.” For what seemed like the twentieth time, he launched into the story of the forged painting. Wren’s mother listened attentively, not interrupting him to ask questions, and the explanation lasted until they were pulling into the museum parking lot.
“So what are we doing here today?” Emily Morgan asked.
“I have a theory about how and when the paintings were switched,” he said. “It’s occurred to me that there might be security video that would allow me to confirm or discount that theory.”
Death led the way to the building and held the door for her. Once inside the museum, she stopped to admire the grand staircase. “Look at the graceful flow of those bannisters.”
“I know,” he agreed. “Like a waterfall of gold lace. It looks like it was tatted rather than built, don’t you think?”
He caught her giving him an odd look. “What?”
“I can’t believe you know the word ‘tatted’,” she said.
“Well, hey. I’m not a complete barbarian. Unless you like barbarians. In which case I’ll try harder.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get to my meeting with the museum director. Will you be okay on your own?”
“I think I can manage a short time without a keeper. Shall we meet somewhere when you’re finished?”
“I can just come find you, if you like. It’s not that big a place.”
“All right then. Have fun. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Death made his way to Warner’s office, the knots in his shoulders loosening. Warner was waiting for him. He asked him to come right in and got right to the point.
“You’ve found something?”
“I have a theory,” Death said. “I’m hoping that you can help me test it. When Eiler Labs came and got the paintings to run tests on them, where was their vehicle parked?”
“In the garage,” Warner said. “You enter it from a separate lot at the back of the building, and it connects directly to the work areas of the museum via freight elevator.”
“And are there any security cameras in that area?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Just a hunch. Could I see the footage from when the paintings were being loaded?”
“Sure. We’ll have to go over to the security room. I’ll have one of the guards meet us. They understand the machines better than I do.”
Warner led Death out of his office and down a corridor to a small room tucked out of the way in a corner of the building. En route, they passed a room labeled Textile Arts and Death heard a pair of familiar voices come from within.
“Mr. Bogart is adorable. He seems really sweet, too. Is he your son?”
“No, dear. He’s my daughter’s fiancé.”
“Oh.”
Death sighed and followed Warner into the security room.
The guard, a petite blonde woman, was there before them. She was sitting in front of a desktop computer with a large screen that showed at least two dozen different camera feeds and covered both inside and outside the building. She was searching through the time stamps on a shot of the garage.
“I think this is the one you want,” she said. “It’s got the clearest shot of the van the lab used.”
“Can we see the back of the van?” Death asked.
“Yep, should be able to.”
She hit play and Death and Warner leaned in behind her to watch the video. The freight elevator in one corner of the screen opened and a small knot of people got out. Death picked out Lila and Cecily Myers and even Warner. There were also two men in lab coats, one of them pushing a two-wheeler with the crated paintings, and three other men, one of them in a security uniform.
“What are we looking for?” Warner asked.
“I want to see the inside of the van.”
One of the techs unlocked the doors and swung them open, and they had a three-quarter view of the interior.
“Lot of junk in there,” Warner commented. “I expected a lab to be a lot neater.”
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Death agreed.
The paintings were each in their own packing crate. These were made of thin wood and about three feet wide by four feet high and perhaps eight inches deep. Each of them had a label in the upper right corner.
“Can you focus in on the labels?” Death asked. “Is there any possibility of seeing them clearly enough to read them?”
“Sure.” The guard manipulated her computer, freezing the screen and bringing the two labels up in side-by-side windows. Each had the name of the painting, the name of the artist, the name and address of the Warner Museum, and a serial number. Death noted which was the Ring Portrait, then nodded at the guard to continue the video. He watched as the techs slid first one packing crate and then the other into the van. The Ring Portrait went in first, then the Hamlet.
The crates were stood upright next to one another, beside another wooden crate that appeared to be of similar dimensions. This crate was lying on its side and was about three feet high and eight inches deep, but of an indeterminate width.
The van drove away. The guard stopped the recording and looked to Death expectantly.
“Good,” Death said. “That’s what I was looking for. Now I’m wondering if there’s similar video of them being unloaded. And if there is, how I could get my hands on it.”
“You could just ask,” the guard suggested.
“You have it?” Death asked. “From the lab when they unloaded?”
“Yup.”
“Our insurance only covers objects when they’re in our possession,” Warner explained. “As part of the agreement to let them study the paintings, Miss Myers and her associates were required to take out their own insurance policy to cover damage or loss to either or both paintings while they were in her possession. When we discovered the painting was forged, we put in a claim. They wanted to see the security video, to verify that the painting left our possession and was under the control of the lab when it was discovered missing.” He sighed. “Since no one knows when it disappeared, neither carrier wants to assume responsibility. This nightmare could take years to resolve.”
“Maybe not. Can we watch the other video?”
The guard already had it cued up and she played it at a nod from Warner. The angle into the van was more acute in this one, and Death could barely make out what was happening. Still, it showed him enough.
“Did you see that?”
“I don’t know,” Warner said. “What are we looking at?”
The guard obligingly set it to replay and Death pointed out the open back door on the van. “Watch where he takes the second shipping crate from. When they loaded these, remember, they were next to one another and both standing upright. But here, where they’re unloading, they’re taking the first one, then skipping one and taking the crate beside it. And that crate is lying on its side rather than standing upright.”
“Play that again,” Warner demanded.
The guard obliged.
“I’ll be damned,” Warner breathed.
“That painting wasn’t stolen from your museum at all,” Death said. “They switched them out on the way to the lab.”
twelve
“Did people do a lot of drugs in the seventies? I’m just asking.” Robin Keystone set a cardboard box down on the big table in the supper club’s kitchen. Leona had come to pick him and Mercy up and give them a ride back to town. Wren was packing up one last carton and Mercy had gone in search of her coat.
“It was … ” Leona thought about it, deciding on “a unique time. Can I ask what prompted the questio
n?”
“It’s just, this whole place is like a time capsule,” Robin said. “A really weird time capsule. Look at some of this stuff.” He reached into the box and pulled out a heavy gold medallion. “There’s curly little hairs caught in this chain.”
“They’re chest hairs,” Leona said. “Or at least we’re gonna hope they’re chest hairs. There was a fad for a while of men going around with their shirts open to their navels and wearing heavy gold jewelry. The more chest hair they had, the sexier they were considered.”
“So that’s a yes on the drugs?”
His great-aunt laughed. “What else do you have there?”
“The Hip Entertaining cookbook,” Robin said. “I found it in the kitchen. They seem to have done a lot with gelatin molds.”
“That’s not so weird,” Wren objected.
Robin turned the book around to show her a picture.
“Gah!” Wren reared back. “Oh my God! Is that salmon in gelatin? And it’s got eyes! It’s looking at me! Make it stop looking at me!”
“That’s nothing. You should see the suckling pig.”
“I’m not looking and you can’t make me.”
“They seemed to be big on cooking whole animals and then decorating them with fruit and vegetables and other animals … and they really liked mayonnaise. They seemed to think it was elegant.”
“Crafts were big too,” Leona remembered. “Slightly strange crafts, like making macramé plant holders with jute and wooden beads. And braided rag rugs—those were fun. And I remember one summer we cut up beer cans into rectangles and punched holes around the sides and crocheted them into hats.”
Wren and Robin both just stared at her.
“You crocheted beer can hats?” Wren asked.
“Don’t judge us.” Leona laughed. “We only got three channels on TV and there was no way to record things and watch them later. You could only watch what was actually on. If you wanted to see a movie, you had to go to the movie theater. If you wanted a new book, you were limited to whatever was available at Walmart or the library. There was no Facebook, no Twitter, no YouTube, no video games.”
