A Box Full of Trouble

by Carolyn Haines

  Where to start? Julia glanced down at the open file in her lap. Perhaps the best place would be the Fine Art and Antiques Shipping Company and Renee Slovaska, Art Specialist.

  Chapter Eight

  Julia had done a cursory search into the shipping company when she was first assigned the file. It was a legitimate business, incorporated six years earlier. Their corporate offices were in Miami but they had a satellite office in the docks area in Savannah. Here, then, she thought, was a starting point.

  Earlier in the investigation she had been distracted from a closer look at Renee Slovaska by the arrival on her doorstep of Mitchell Lawson. That lack of professionalism might have cost Trip Youngblood his life. And Peter Ryder was still missing. She fired up her laptop and entered Renee Slovaska’s name.

  After twenty minutes of searching, Julia still didn’t know much about Slovaska. Her employment with the Fine Art and Antiques Shipping Company began eighteen months earlier. She was listed in their roster of mid-level employees. She had transferred from the Miami office eight months ago. The fact that she had landed in Savannah at almost the same time as Doug Heinz wasn’t lost on Julia. Also suspicious was the lack of a Facebook page or a paper trail beyond a LinkedIn profile.

  Julia felt momentarily stumped. She read over her notes from her interview with Chappie. The owner of the apparel had arranged the delivery, had insisted on it according to Chappie. She dug through the file and found Reginald Horchow’s phone number.

  A woman answered the phone when Julia called. She identified herself as Mr. Horchow’s secretary and that her employer was in the hospital, the result of a heart attack. There was very little she could tell Julia about the missing clothing of King Christian IX. She did remember her employer being elated that the garments were going to be part of a legitimate exhibition on Russian art and history but she knew nothing of the arrangements.

  Something kept niggling at the back of Julia’s mind but whatever it was, she couldn’t bring it forward.

  Her next call was to Chappie. His butler/assistant answered the phone and informed Julia that Mr. Chapman had not yet risen from bed. The previous evening’s events had taken their toll. Julia couldn’t tell if the man was being flippant or if his accent only made it seem that way. She didn’t hear a great deal of concern in the man’s tone. Perhaps he was accustomed to Chappie’s mercurial ups and downs of temperament.

  Adoni, as he identified himself to Julia, couldn’t help her with any information on the missing apparel. He handled Mr. Chapman’s personal matters, he said, things like his social calendar, shopping, travel arrangements, household staff.

  When she hung up, Julia decided she needed to pay a visit to the Fine Art and Antiques Shipping Company office. That was the only logical next step. But how was she going to slip away from her guard dogs? There would be little hope of learning anything of value if she arrived with an entourage of law enforcement personnel.

  She got up from the sofa and looked out the window. A replacement deputy had arrived sometime in the past half hour and from what she could tell, he was in the process of interrogating her father. She smiled and shook her head at the scene below. This treatment wasn’t sitting well with her father. He was bowed up with outrage, his face red, his arms rigid at his side. She tapped on the window. Both men looked up and she gave a thumbs up sign to the deputy.

  The first words out of his mouth when her father stormed through the apartment door was, “Did they tell you? About Trip?”

  Gerty stood at the ready to engage her father, physically if necessary, the instant he burst into the room.

  “Yes, Daddy. This is Gerty.” She gestured toward the deputy. “She’s with the U.S. Marshals Service.”

  “Well, it’s a hell of a poor job they’re doing, if you ask me.” He took off his hat and threw it onto the bombe chest in the foyer.

  Gerty held her tongue and disappeared back into the kitchen as Julia gestured for her father to have a seat on the sofa.

  From her father’s comment it was obvious that he didn’t yet know she had been at the scene of the murder in the early hours of the morning. It was in her best interest to keep that information from him as long as possible. The last thing she needed was for him to start insisting she relocate to Ardsley Park for the duration of the investigation.

  Trouble came strolling into the room. He crossed to where her father sat and sniffed at his shoelaces.

  Her father shooed him away. “Why, in heaven’s name, did you agree to cat sit? Tammy Lynn could have boarded him at one of those pet places.” Her father sneezed twice. Julia was suddenly struck by a solution to her semi-captivity.

  At her father’s words, Trouble turned his back on him and flattened his ears.

  Julia scooped him up from the floor and sat in the armchair. “He’s not such a bad guy,” she said as she averted her gaze from her father’s scrutiny and rubbed Trouble’s ears. “But I have to take him to the vet this morning. Something’s wrong with his foot.”

  “Honestly? A murderer is running around Savannah killing everyone we know and you want to take the cat to the vet?” Her father stood, sneezed again, and began pacing the room. “Of all the hair brained…”

  “I know, I know.” Julia dropped Trouble to the floor, surreptitiously grabbed her cell phone from the end table, and went through to her closet to get a pair of gloves. She was zipping a lightweight vest when she re-entered the living room.

  “You need to stay put, Julia. It’s not safe for you out there.” Her father looked from his daughter to the cat. “And anyway, I don’t see anything wrong with him.”

  At that moment Trouble lifted his right paw and began grooming it, spreading his toes wide and licking between them. He looked up at Julia and her father, his paw suspended in air.

  “See?” Julia said. “And besides, I’m up to my eyeballs in law enforcement. They won’t let me so much as go downstairs to the office and work. Why not see to Tammy Lynn’s cat? She left him in my care and I’m responsible.” She gave her father a hug. “Besides, what could be more harmless than sitting in a vet’s office while they see if he has something in his paw?”

  Julia knew she was hitting all the right buttons. A trip to the vet would take her out of the loop of the investigation, place her in a neutral environment in a place she wasn’t known to frequent. She could almost see the wheels turning in her father’s mind.

  She picked up Trouble and started to the door. “Gerty, I’m taking Trouble to the vet.”

  Gerty was already slipping into her coat. She eyed Trouble then looked Julia in the eyes. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Julia knew that if she didn’t put up a protest they would see through her sham. “Honestly, Gerty, it’s just four blocks away. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Gerty shrugged and opened the apartment door. End of story.

  Julia sighed. “Fine, but don’t blame me for wasting the Marshals’ time and resources. If Viktor Letov is the devious criminal you think he is, then he’s long gone from Savannah.”

  * * *

  I’m not sure what Julia has in mind. A trip to the vet isn’t happening. But I feel her claustrophobia. Her apartment is like living in an arsenal. A breath of fresh air will do us both good and help my brain cells function. The Lawman has us locked up as if an evil presence could waft through the slim openings in the windows. No one, excluding myself, of course, could accomplish such a feat.

  I appreciate the Lawman’s sentiment. He has been charged with keeping Julia safe but he has failed to take into consideration that I am on the job. Wherever it is we are bound, I shall be on the look-out. The sooner we resolve these thefts, the better for our fair Julia. Though she hasn’t my skills, she is quite the determined detective. I shall burrow into the warmth of her vest and see what unfolds.

  But, alas, I do believe from the scent and cutesy paw prints on the glass door before us that we are indeed entering the realm of veterinary medicine. Julia is chatting up a freckled young lass beh
ind the counter and I produce my paw for inspection.

  “I don’t see anything but you’re wise to have it checked. Cat wounds can be tricky. Their skin has a tendency to close over the area and sometimes it isn’t even visible,” says the Freckled Lass. “Come with me.”

  We are ushered through the door to the inner chambers of the clinic after the Redhead is convinced, with only a minor standoff, to wait.

  But what is this coming my way in the arms of a masculine biped? Be still my beating heart. A beautiful mocha Persian femme fatale is being borne past me and the scent of her is intoxicating. “Yeeeoooww.” She looks my way and blinks seductively. The ladies always fall for my British accent. I clamber up to look over Julia’s shoulder but she has me in a tight grip. Would that I were not honor bound to remain on duty. The door closes as I watch, the lovely lass lost from view.

  A side door opens and we step inside to find a friendly ginger-headed Doctor laying out implements. This is not a good thing. I’m perfectly willing to go along with Julia’s ruse up to a point. We have reached that point.

  She smiles. “Ray Claiborne. Thank you for doing this but I just realized Trouble is faking his injury. Tammy Lynn told me he was a bit of a hypochondriac but I didn’t believe her.”

  “Don’t you want me to check?”

  The way Dr. Claiborne is looking at Julia leads me to believe that I could die a slow, painful death on this examination table and he wouldn’t notice. I do believe she has all of Savannah under her spell.

  “No, no,” she smiles and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “I know you’d rather be spending your Saturday elsewhere. You’re a doll for working us in ahead of everyone and I feel guilty about that. There’s no need to make them wait while Trouble makes his play for attention.”

  Enough. She has taken this too far. It’s one thing to flagrantly use me as a method of escape but quite another to malign my character. I hiss and knead her arm just a little more forcefully than necessary.

  “Trouble!” She scratches my ear and gives it a less than affectionate tug. For the Doctor she maintains her smile. “Thanks, Ray. Really. I’ll see you at the Juan Diego Florez performance?”

  “Sure,” he says as he follows us out into the hallway. It is obvious he’s reluctant to see her go. “Maybe we could have dinner beforehand.” He blushes. “If you don’t have plans already.”

  “That sounds lovely. I’ll call you.” She hesitates. “Umm, could I go out the back?” There’s that smile again. “Someone I really don’t want to get entangled with right now is in the waiting room.”

  The Doctor’s eyebrows shoot up and he gives a small shrug. “Fine by me.” He gestures toward the rear of the building. “This way.”

  And just like that we are out on the street again, sans body armor.

  At the corner Julia stuffs my head into the confines of her vest and lifts her hand in summons of a taxi. One pulls to the curb and we are off, exactly where, I’ve no idea until some ten minutes later the scent of the sea becomes more pronounced. I peek my head out the zippered opening and see that my deductions are correct. We are at the docks. The smell of diesel and salt air mingle with a distinct metallic odor. There are cargo containers stacked to the right and left of us and straight ahead I can see tankers lining the dockside and a glimpse of a high arching bridge to my left.

  The taxi disappears from sight and Julia turns from the view of the docks and looks at the buildings just beyond the rows and rows of cargo containers. These metal constructions are a far cry from the beauty and grace of what I’ve seen of the city thus far. They are functional and not much else. Julia makes a bee line to one with a battered door that was once red. The sun has faded it to the color of rust.

  No one answers her knock. “It appears they aren’t open for business on Saturday.” She tries the door and discovers it to be unlocked. I struggle free of the fleece vest and drop to the concrete floor of the building.

  “Trouble!” Julia hisses at me. “Come back here!”

  I ignore this demand. I’m here to do a job and being snuggled in the comfort and warmth of her bosom, while pleasant, doesn’t help solve the mystery of stolen Russian art and artifacts. There is a scent here I recognize. The Voice, Pretty Boy, or whatever he calls himself, has been here ahead of us.

  The area in which we find ourselves appears to serve as some type of reception or office function. It is about three meters deep by four meters wide. A long counter, about two meters in length, forms a barrier of sorts. Behind it I find three tall file cabinets and a drop down shelf that appears to serve as a desktop. It holds a laptop computer. I leap onto the pseudo desk and sniff the computer but the screen is closed over the keyboard so it is a waste of my time to linger over it. The space beneath the counter has some open shelves up high with cabinets below. I drop back to the floor and paw open one of the cabinet doors. It is filled with haphazardly stacked file folders that smell old. Nothing of recent vintage has happened here.

  Julia is busy looking through a large ledger she took from one of the open shelves of the counter. From her expression I don’t think she’s having any more luck than I am. She turns to the laptop, lifts the screen and fiddles with the keys. Nothing happens.

  A door is situated a few steps along the rear wall. Julia opens it. I slip over to the open doorway and decide a look-see is in order. The scent of The Voice is very strong here.

  The door opens onto a large storage area filled with crates and boxes of varying sizes. They rest on pallets for easy movement by the behemoth yellow machine that sits quietly in one of the aisles formed by the crates. I hear Julia’s footsteps behind me though she is doing an admirable job at being as quiet as it is possible for a human. A noise deep in the canyons of the mounds of boxed material reaches my ear. It’s a voice, a voice that is known to me.

  I am off like a streak of light on silent paws. In seconds I have discovered the location of The Voice. He is with a woman and two men. They are standing outside an office that has been built out into the floor space of the cavernous building. It appears that none of them is happy. They speak in clipped tones and a language I don’t understand. One of the men gestures aggressively. The Voice is still wearing his evening attire. It is much less impeccable than when I last saw him at The Club.

  One of the men with him has a very nasty looking gun slung over his shoulder. This is not the weapon of an amateur. I must use caution and make my way around them to see what’s in the office. Perhaps there’s a clue to the whereabouts of Peter Ryder. I’ve no doubt that Julia and I have stumbled onto an operation of the Russian mafia. My language skills aren’t what they should be, I confess, but I do think they are speaking Russian and I fear Peter Ryder has run afoul of them.

  It is fortunate they are focused on each other and whatever topic has angered the woman. I am within an easy distance to the open office door. All it will take is a quick dash.

  Suddenly there is a clatter that sounds like metal pipes bouncing against concrete. The sound echoes through the building. The four people outside the makeshift office spring instantly into motion. The Voice and the woman rush into the office and close the door. The two men fan out and head into the bowels of the building.

  I know without doubt that it is Julia that made the noise and that she is now in grave danger. I must find her before these men do. My headlong rush to find The Voice has left her alone and vulnerable. I shall never forgive myself if any harm comes to her.

  * * *

  There was nothing in the outer office of the Fine Art and Antiques Shipping Company that suggested it was anything but a legitimate business. The ledger contained a log of ships, cargo manifests, and dates. The laptop was password protected which, in and of itself, wasn’t suspicious, only good business practice. Almost as soon as she opened the door to the interior of the building, Trouble had taken off like a flash. Now she would have to find him.

  The warehouse was filled with row upon row of merchandise. Their height served to diminish
the scant light that filtered in from the dirty narrow windows along the walls up near the high ceiling of the building. Julia read the logos stamped on the wooden crates as she worked her way toward the center of the structure.

  She became aware that she wasn’t alone. There were faint voices coming from somewhere within the structure but the sound was distorted and she couldn’t determine the direction.

  For a moment she stood still, trying to orient herself. She thought she knew where the door to the reception area was. Trouble had disappeared so quickly that he could be anywhere within the building. Her best bet, she decided, was to make her way to one wall and then follow it until she knew where she was and pray she found the cat before either of them were discovered trespassing.

  When she reached the far wall she could hear the voices more distinctly. They were speaking Russian. She knew the basics of the language as part of her study of Russian art and history. To know it was one thing, to follow a conversation was another. The rapid exchange only allowed her catch a few key words but she clearly heard a man say something about a watch, diamonds, and money.

  She was straining to follow the exchange more closely and she leaned around a pallet of crates to look down the corridor from which the voices came. Far down the building she could see the arm of a man who gestured as he spoke. She inched out a little further and all heck broke loose. Her shoulder caught a lone metal pipe sticking out from a row of three-inch pipes stacked on top of some wooden crates. She was helpless to stop the following cascade onto the cement floor. The clatter was deafening. The pounding of her heart was almost as loud.

  The fight or flight response took over Julia’s body and she ran from the scene of chaos and zig zagged between the towers of crates. Her heart was beating rapidly and she was breathing heavily when she saw a small opening where excess pallets had been stacked on top of each other. She worked her way between them and fought to control the sound of her breathing. What was she to do now?