The Chocolate Kiss-Off (The Persephone Cole Vintage Mysteries Book 3)

by Heather Haven

  * * * *

  Percy parked about thirty yards away from the back of the Livingston Art Gallery. She had a good view of the back door of the gallery, as it was lit by a streetlight. She signaled twice with her lights then got out of the car.

  Out of the darkness, Rendell ambled toward her, his lit cigarette announcing his arrival.

  “That was fast, Miss Cole. You made it in about fifteen.”

  “I had the lights. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing yet. I did go back about five minutes ago, chanced it, and opened the back door. I heard hammering, so I skedaddled.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Followed by Rendell, she crossed the empty street on an angle heading for the backside of the gallery.

  “For our purposes, it’s a good thing this section of the city is filled with nine to five businesses.” She withdrew the German Mauser her uncle gave her from her coat pocket. “It’s pretty deserted now.”

  “You think you’re going to need that?” Rendell’s voice was filled with surprise, rather than fear.

  “Never know. These paintings are worth plenty.”

  “Freezing out here.”

  Rendell blew on his hand and wrapped his wool scarf tighter around his neck. They stood in the shadows, half protected from the blustery weather, and about thirty yards away from the dark paneled truck.

  “Wonder what they’re doing in there all this time, ma’am?”

  “I would say they’re still crating up the paintings for a nice long trip, but the paintings aren’t going as far as they think they are. I see you let the air out of both back tires.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If anything’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”

  “You bet.”

  The gallery door to the alley opened forcing Percy and Rendell to back up into the recesses of the night. A horsey head attached to a skinny neck popped out of the doorway and looked both ways. The blue-white lighting of the street lamp took all the coloring out of his face. The rest of the man’s body emerged, struggling with a large, but narrow rectangular crate.

  He was followed by another man of a similar build carrying a smaller crate. As they huffed to the back of the truck, the first man noticed the flat tire on his side.

  “What the hell?” He set the crate down, leaning it against the truck.

  “What is it, Tom?” The other man also leaned his burden against the truck.

  “A flat tire.” The first man hit the side of the truck in frustration. “Of all the damned luck!”

  Percy stepped from the shadows, aiming the Mauser at them.

  “Your luck’s run out, gentlemen.”

  Both men wheeled around as one and gaped at her.

  “Just stay where you are, don’t make a move, and nobody’ll get hurt.”

  “What the --” the man named Tom said. He made a gesture of a move toward her.

  “Don’t do it, Tom,” Percy warned. “I’ll shoot you as sure as I’m standing here.”

  Tom froze in place, his face registering perplexity and anger. The man standing behind Tom leaned into him. “I told you it wouldn’t work. I told you we couldn’t get away with --”

  “Shut up, Bill.” Tom turned back to Percy. His face now wore a smug look.

  “You can’t prove nothing, lady. You don’t know what we got in those crates. You better get out of here before I --”

  “We got paintings in those crates, Tom,” said Bill with a confused air. “We did it together, remember?”

  “I told you to shut up, didn’t I?” Tom turned on his brother, who cowered back in fear.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Percy in a loud voice. “I must insist you clam up or I’m going to be forced to start shooting, just for a little peace and quiet.” Both men turned back to her and stared, saying nothing. “That’s better. Now here’s what’s going to happen. You two are going to sit down on the ground, take off your shoes and trousers, and hand them over.”

  “What?” Tom blustered. “I’m not going to do that, you fat old crow. I’ll--”

  “I’m afraid you are. Or I’m going to haul your scraggy butts off to the nearest police station for grand theft. Should be about twenty years for that. Now sit.”

  She gestured with the gun to the ground. Both men lowered themselves to the ground and began to take off their shoes.

  “Meanwhile, Rendell, go get the third painting from inside. Should be fairly close by.”

  Rendell crossed behind Percy and entered the back door.

  “That’s the Renoir. Be careful with it,” hollered Tom.

  “I’m sure you packed it well,” said Percy.

  “It’s freezing out here, lady. You going to leave us in nothing but our skivvies?” Bill’s voice rose to a plaintive wail.

  “I am. But if I were you, Tom, Bill, after we leave, I would get in the truck and turn the heater on. Or drive the truck back home with the two flat tires. It’ll take you awhile, but you’ll get there. Those aren’t bad options, considering the third is jail time.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Tom. “You’re not turning us in; you’re stealing the paintings for yourself?”

  “Something like that.” Percy heard a noise coming from inside the doorway. “How you doing, Rendell?”

  “Got it,” said Rendell, crossing the threshold with a narrow crate in his hands. “This is heavy, though. Weighs a good fifty pounds.”

  “Must be hard to carry with only one hand, pervert.” Tom’s voice matched the sneer on his face. By this time both men had removed their shoes and were pulling off their trousers.

  Without saying a word, Rendell set the crate down, leaned it against the side of the building and went to stand in front of the man sitting on the ground. With his left hand, he slapped Tom across the face so hard, the man fell backwards against the cold cement.

  “But that one hand still works pretty good,” Rendell said. He turned away and once again heaved the crate to his chest then crossed the street to Percy’s car.

  “Okay, you two,” said Percy, “throw your trousers to land at my feet.” They tossed their pants to the ground in front of her. “Now roll over and lie down on your tummies, like good little boys.”

  Both men rolled over on their stomachs. Percy reached down with one hand and pulled the belts out of both sets of trousers.

  “I’ll get you for this, bitch,” said Tom.

  “Don’t rile her, Tom,” said Bill.

  “Yeah, don’t rile me, Tom,” said Percy with a laugh. “I might take your socks.”

  Rendell returned from the car. He stood watching the scene before him with a smile on his face. Percy thrust her gun into Rendell’s hand.

  “Here, you hold this while I truss them up like last year’s Thanksgiving turkey. If they move, shoot them. I want to get out of here. I’m getting cold.”

  “Yes ma’am. Shoot them if they move; got it. It’ll be my pleasure,” said Rendell, aiming the gun at the two men lying on the ground.

  “Gentlemen,” said Percy to Tom and Bill. “Kindly put your hands together behind your backs.” When they didn’t move, her voice took on a harder edge. “Do it!”

  They obeyed and she put a foot on Tom’s back, wrapped one of the belts around his hands and pulled tight.

  “Now you, Bill.” She did the same thing then stepped back.

  “The way I see it, you should be free of those belts in about fifteen minutes. You’ll be good and cold, but consider it penance for trying to steal from your brother.”

  “How’d you know--” asked Tom. Then he stopped himself.

  “There isn’t much I don’t know. So you think about that the next time you consider a life of crime. Mama’s watching you.”

  She looked over at Rendell who was enjoying this as much as she was. She winked at him with a smile and gestured for the gun. He winked back as he handed it over.

  “You get the Picasso, I’ll get the Matisse,” she said to Rendell.

  She turned to Tom. “
And the word pervert does not mean a handicapped person, you moron.”

  She huffed the crate to her bosom and walked to her car. Rendell followed with his heavy load.

  “Rendell, I’m surrounded by people who never crack open a Webster Dictionary. It’s enough to make a grown woman cry.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said with a laugh.

  With a little work, they slid the crates into the backseat of Ophelia.

  “Nothing like a big old roomy car, Rendell.”

  “Where to now?”

  “Next stop, the Metropolitan Opera House.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  After a night with very little sleep, Percy rose early, kissed her sleeping son good-bye, wrote a reminder note for Mother about no more mashed potato and grape jelly sandwiches for Oliver, and left.

  She drove to a service station near Orchard Street and paid the outrageous sum of seventeen cents a gallon. After spending one of her hard-earned dollars gassing up, she headed for Brooklyn.

  Saturday’s traffic was slight and she arrived in the neighborhood sooner than she expected, at exactly seven-thirty. Behind the factory was an empty lot that seemed to belong to no one. Percy pulled in.

  Comprised of gravel, dirt, and frozen weeds, it was a good place for her to keep her car nearby but out of the way of prying eyes. When she wanted people to know she was there, she’d tell them.

  After parking next to the battered chain link fence, she got out of the car and went around to the front of the store. She withdrew a set of keys she’d lifted from Bogdanovitch’s desk the day before, the opportunity presenting itself during her chat with Hutchers.

  Percy opened the front door and turned around to see if she was being watched. She’d be the first to tell anyone, a good dose of paranoia never hurt any detective.

  Once inside, she locked the door and moved behind the glass counter. Her hand struck at the light switch, as she pushed aside the red and pink curtain and looked into the large room, empty and mute.

  Percy felt uncharacteristically on edge. Something didn’t feel right, but she couldn’t put her finger on what that was.

  She dropped the curtain, sat down, and set the brown paper bag she’d brought with her on the desk. At odds with herself, she picked up the spindle of papers, avoiding the needle sharp point. Twirling it in her hand for a moment, she watched the papers flutter in the wake.

  A quick look through the orders showed nothing out of the ordinary. They were standard, written on a form with the amount, date of delivery, and who took the order. Either the name Schatzi or Regina signed off on each one.

  Percy stood. The feeling of uneasiness continued to wash over her. She wasn’t sure if it was the news she’d learned about Leo the Louse or something else. While she wasn’t one who believed in the supernatural, she knew sometimes things registered in the subconscious that didn’t come to the surface right away.

  She pushed back the saucy red and pink curtain again, closed her eyes, and visualized how everything had looked in the large room the morning before, down to what was in the lockers. When she had labeled things in her mind, she opened her eyes and stepped into the large production room, surveying each corner thoroughly. Then she saw it.

  Hurrying across the floor toward the freezer, off-limits to anyone save Bogdanovitch, she pulled at the padlock resting underneath the hasp, a little lower than it would have been had it been snapped into place. The movement caused the lock to swing from side to side. Removing it with nervous fingers and freeing the hasp from the strike plate, she flung the door open wide.

  A blast of frigid air struck her in the face. Percy looked down at the frozen body of Ronald Bogdanovitch, hands bloodied from beating on the inside of the freezer door.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Dear Diary,

  I had no choice but to do what I did. The man was becoming a liability. I’m not worried, though. Let’s see what the cops and Percy Cole’s next move will be. As Sherlock Holmes would say, ‘The game’s afoot.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  After nearly three hours of sitting, Percy moved around in the hard, wood chair looking for a way to get more comfortable. She knew it wasn’t possible. That’s why the cops chose these chairs, an extra inducement to confessing.

  After she found Bogdanovitch, she’d gone to his office and called the cops, who arrived minutes later. Shortly after, Lieutenant Griffin hauled her down to the police station for a lot of sitting in his empty office.

  Now Lieutenant Griffin returned and stared at her, his eyes almost slits in his head. He leaned forward at his desk, a desk far too messy for Percy’s taste. The more organized her desk, the more organized her mind, but everybody worked differently. ‘To each his own’, said Mrs. O’Leary, before she kissed the cow.

  “So you’re saying this was no accident, somebody killed him?”

  “Yes, Bogdanovitch was killed by the same person who killed Carlotta. And it couldn’t have been Goldberg. You got him locked up, remember?”

  The lieutenant looked at her, working his mouth, as if he had something to say, but didn’t quite know what that was. Spittle gathered in the corners, and finally he spoke.

  “Ah, you’re crazy. He accidentally locked himself in the freezer, for cripes sakes. Case closed.”

  Saliva sprayed on the desk and on Percy’s resting hand. Percy looked down at her hand.

  “I hope you don’t have anything. This is how people spread germs.”

  “You got more worries than me having cooties, lady. If you think somebody locked him in the freezer, maybe it was you. And maybe you came back to make sure it did its job. You wouldn’t be the first killer reporting a body that turned out to be the one who done him in. If you don’t level with me, I’m going to lose my temper and send you to the big house for life.”

  Percy sat back in her chair, stretched, and stared at him with a smile on her face. “Do they actually call prison the ‘big house’ or did you get that from a James Cagney movie?”

  “You’re going to be laughing out of the other side of your face when I get done with you.” He leaned in again. “So why’d you say he’s been done in?”

  “For the tenth time, before I could open the door to the freezer, I had to take off the lock and pull back the hinged part of the hasp that was closed over the slot. For those of you that are slow learners – no names - there’s no way he could have done that himself from inside the freezer.” She thought for a moment. “The lock looked closed to the naked eye. Somebody did that on purpose. You got to admit, that’s interesting.”

  “What’s interesting about it?”

  “Why not lock it for real? Why the ruse? I get the feeling someone’s playing with me; like I’m being tested on my observation skills.”

  Piercing eyes met his watery ones. The expression on her face invited him to think about or comment on what she’d said. He blinked several times before he spoke, but changed the subject.

  “How’d you get into the building? You broke in, didn’t you?”

  “Like I said before, I used the keys Bogdanovitch gave me. Here they are.” She jingled the keys in the man’s face then returned them to her pocket. “And I showed you the written agreement between him and me.”

  “Well, it looks like his handwriting but it’s a damned fool thing to do.”

  “Maybe, but I had every right to be there. I called you as soon as I found him, like the law-abiding citizen I am. And I also gave you that paper bag with the chocolate-covered smock in it I found yesterday in a garbage can not a half a block from the factory.”

  “So?”

  “So what do you need, Griffin, a brick wall to fall on you? The smock wouldn’t even fit Goldberg’s big toe. A thinner person wore it. The killer.”

  “Sez you.”

  Percy shook her head in disbelief. “It’s a round robin we’re having here and I’ll pass on the next round. So where’s this cousin? The one inheriting everything? Show up yet?”

  “O
n a train from Chicago. Should be here by Monday morning, if the snow don’t stall everything.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s been going on out there while I’ve been stuck in here for the past three hours?”

  “It’s snowing.” He made a sneer, upturning one side of his mouth.

  “You look funny when you do that. Well, I got to go build me a snowman.” She stood, reached for her coat, and picked up her hat.

  “You ain’t going nowhere until I say so.”

  “Either arrest me for something or get out of my way.”

  They stood in a face-off when the door burst open and an older, balding officer, dressed in a too-tight uniform, hurried into the room. He thrust a note in the Lt.’s hand.

  Lieutenant Griffin read the note through carefully and looked up at Percy. “Well, you got friends in high places.”

  “Do I? News to me.”

  “This Jude Cole is your brother, right?”

  Percy shrugged noncommittally.

  “Well, he seems to have a few pals in the D.A.’s office. You’re free to go. For now. But I’ll be seeing you.”

  “In all the old familiar places?”

  “What’s that?” He gave her a puzzled look.

  “It’s the second stanza of the song, “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Written by Sammy Fain and Irving Kahal. 1938. Going to be one of the war’s most popular songs, you mark my words.”

  “I never heard of it.”

  “You never heard of a lot of things, you lummox. Doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  In frustration, he turned his back on her and shouted over his shoulder, “Ah, get out of here.”

  Percy let out a laugh. “On my way.”

  She hummed a few bars of “I’ll Be Seeing You,” as she pushed open the door and exited the police station.