I heard Angelo telling Rosalie as I left, “She thinks I’m going to forget her ziti because I didn’t write it down.”
I ran over to Carol’s shop. “We’ve got a problem,” I yelled as I ran in. Thankfully, no one but Carol was in the store. She sat in her studio in front of her easel, paintbrush in hand. I blurted out what I’d just heard at DiNapoli’s.
“Why do you think I need a lawyer?” Carol asked.
That stopped me. “I just assumed it was yours because of the timing and the quality.” Carol’s face paled, and she dropped her paintbrush.
“Angelo said he’d send his cousin, who is some big-name defense attorney. He’s kept his son, Jett—you know, Olivia’s boyfriend—out of jail.”
“Jail? You think I’m going to jail?”
I put my hands out and shook my head. I hoped I was wrong. “No. But better to have a lawyer.”
“Why?” Carol straightened herself up. “First, we don’t even know that it’s my painting over there. Second, it was stolen from here—that’s been documented. And third . . .” Carol slumped a little. “I don’t have a third. But I can’t afford a fancy-schmancy lawyer. Which is why I painted Battled in the first place.”
“You’re right. Maybe it isn’t your painting.” I wished I could buy into that, but I didn’t. How many copies of Battled could there be in one little town?
Carol stood and went to a closet at the back of the studio. She whipped out a purple wrap dress, Jimmy Choo heels, and a makeup kit.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I keep everything I might need here just in case.”
“Just in case you need to meet with a lawyer?”
“In case an important client comes in at the last minute. I can’t meet people in paint-spattered clothes.”
I didn’t see a speck of paint on her jeans or sweater. Carol disappeared into the tiny bathroom.
Carol’s nonchalant attitude puzzled me. I slumped onto the stool in front of the painting she was working on and waited. Twenty minutes later I heard the front door of the shop open. I went to the bathroom door and knocked. “Carol, someone’s here.”
“Go see who it is. Please?” Carol called through the door.
“Okay.” I walked into the shop. A man stood there; he was tall and broad, looked to be in his fifties. His suit fit like it had been sewn on him, probably with pure wool or silk thread. He was an older version of Jett.
“Carol Carson?” A deep voice rumbled out of the man. As he reached out to shake my hand, I noted the Rolex and the gold pinky ring with what looked like a large embedded ruby.
“I’m her friend, Sarah Winston.” I shook the large, cool hand; mine felt swallowed up but safe in his grasp.
“I’m Vincenzo DiNapoli.”
He somehow managed to check me out as thoroughly as Jett had earlier, but Vincenzo’s technique was much subtler than Jett’s eyes sweeping over my body.
“Is Carol here?” Strands of his silver hair shimmered in the lights as he looked around the shop. Not a strand moved, nor could it, with the amount of gel he’d used.
“I’ll get her.” Where was she, anyway? I’d thought she’d be out here by now.
I hurried to the back room. Carol was applying lipstick. She’d done something to her hair, and she’d changed into the purple wrap dress and Jimmy Choo heels.
“Do you know anything about Angelo’s cousin?” she asked.
“Not much. He’s a Mob lawyer. Last spring Angelo told me he got Mike ‘the Big Cheese’ Titone cleared of multiple charges.” I hoped Vincenzo was a lawyer for the Mob and not actually in the Mob. I also hoped to hell Angelo knew what he was doing.
Carol adjusted the front of her dress until just a touch of cleavage showed. “Great. Then he should be able to help little old me.” She swept out of the room, looking as glamorous and confident as any movie star. I felt underdressed in the jeans and black sweater I’d thrown on to meet Laura. Then I understood Carol’s wardrobe change: the clothes gave her the confidence she needed to get through this. I hurried after her, not wanting to miss the upcoming show.
Carol flirted. Vincenzo preened. They agreed that if Carol needed representation she’d do some paintings for him as payment.
“I need to freshen my office,” Vincenzo said as they negotiated the exchange of paintings for services.
“If you need any unique furnishings, you need to talk to Sarah. She’s brilliant at finding interesting pieces.”
Vincenzo tore his eyes away from Carol’s cleavage and glanced at me. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said in a voice that indicated he’d forget as soon as he walked out the door, which he headed toward as he spoke.
CJ walked in. He glanced at Vincenzo, registered who he was, and dismissed him as no threat in a matter of seconds. I doubt anyone but me could tell he’d done that.
“Carol, I need you to come with me,” CJ said. “Please,” he added with a quick glance at Vincenzo.
Carol’s flirtatious attitude disappeared. Vincenzo stepped between her and CJ. “Where do you need her to go?” Vincenzo asked.
CJ sidestepped Vincenzo so that he was speaking directly to Carol. “I need you to come to the library to look at a painting and see if it’s yours. I assume, since he’s here”—CJ flicked a glance at Vincenzo—“that you’ve already heard that Battled has been stolen and replaced with a forgery.” He looked at Vincenzo briefly and then back at Carol. “It could be the painting you reported missing.”
Carol took a step forward, but Vincenzo put a hand out. “You’re under no obligation,” he told her.
“I’d like to go see it. To see if it’s mine,” Carol said.
Vincenzo turned to CJ. “We’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
CJ opened his mouth, then shut it. He gave a quick nod and left.
Carol slumped onto a stool. “Are they going to arrest me?” she asked Vincenzo.
“Certainly not.”
I hoped he was as confident as he sounded.
“Can Sarah come, too?” Carol asked, grabbing my hand.
Vincenzo nodded. “Of course.”
CJ, Vincenzo, Pellner, Carol, and I looked at the fabulous, fake Battled. The colonials had the British on the run, smoke hung in the air, and bloody men lay on the ground, while others ran for their lives, dropping their heavy muskets as they tried to escape. Vincenzo moved up closer to study the painting.
“How’d they discover this wasn’t the original?” I asked.
Pellner opened his mouth, but CJ shot him a look. Vincenzo turned to see why no one was answering.
No one said anything. My best shot at finding out would be when I picked up my ziti.
“Vincenzo, please, let me take a closer look,” Carol said. “It must be mine. Who else would have copied it?”
“Many people,” Vincenzo said. “My uncle, Stefano, tried to buy Battled. He was bitterly disappointed when the town refused. I believe he had a copy made.”
I couldn’t believe Vincenzo had just thrown his uncle under the bus for Carol.
“There was also a competition back in the late seventies, at Middlesex Community College, to see who could make the best copy,” Vincenzo said. “There’s probably fifty or sixty copies from that event alone.”
Carol started to speak, but Vincenzo cut her off to address CJ. “You and your department have your work cut out for you finding whose painting this is and what became of the original. I’m guessing the people of Ellington aren’t going to be happy that their beloved painting, sitting right across from the police station, was taken.”
Wow, knife in and twisted. I turned away to keep my smile hidden and silently thanked Angelo for the gift of Vincenzo. Vincenzo grabbed Carol and me by the elbows and rather forcibly escorted us out before we had a chance to say anything.
“I’m sure that’s my painting,” Carol said as we settled into the tan leather seats of Vincenzo’s Lincoln Town Car. He was the only person I knew who had a driver. “Whoever s
tole it must have added the signature.”
Vincenzo leaned toward her. “We shouldn’t discuss this in front of Sarah. We have client-attorney privilege, but Sarah’s a third party and isn’t privileged.”
“I’m not worried about what Sarah hears. I didn’t do anything wrong,” Carol said. “Why didn’t you let me tell CJ that was my painting?” Carol asked.
“I did it to buy you time. If you’d said it was yours you’d have had officers showing up at your business and home with search warrants within a matter of hours. This allows you some time in case you have any tidying up you need to do.”
“You think I have the original Battled?” It came out so loud I wondered if people out on the street heard.
“I don’t care if you have it. But let me again stress the importance of not discussing the case here.”
“But CJ knows my painting was stolen. I told him.”
“You didn’t report it immediately. Who besides you saw it?”
“My assistant, Olivia.”
“Ah, yes. The young woman who dates my son and has a rap sheet equally as long as his, if not longer.”
Carol and I exchanged surprised looks. I’d assumed she’d checked out Olivia’s background, but this was obviously news to her.
“What does any of this matter, anyway?” I asked. “Carol’s admitted to making a copy. She has pictures of it in progress on her computer. She showed them to me.”
“She has pictures of someone’s painting in progress on her computer,” Vincenzo said smoothly.
I was confused. Then it dawned on me. That’s what Vincenzo did. He confused juries so he could get his clients off. I smiled at him, and he gave me a slight nod.
We pulled up in front of Carol’s shop. The driver opened the door for us and helped us out.
Carol looked a bit dazed. She looked over at the common and at her shop as if she didn’t quite recognize them.
Vincenzo leaned out of the backseat. “Don’t speak to anyone about this without me present. Go do what you need to do. And be prepared for a search of your home and business in the near future,” Vincenzo instructed Carol.
He handed us his business cards. I stuffed mine in my purse.
“I want either of you to call me at the first sign of a police officer. I don’t care if it’s for jaywalking. The Ellington police have a bit of a reputation for harassment.” Then he got back in his car, and it pulled away from the curb.
“They certainly harassed you last spring,” Carol said.
I had had my share of tickets last spring, but in the end much of it was just a show of loyalty to the department’s new chief, CJ. “There’s a fine line between harassment and good police work.”
Carol shook her head. “Why do you think Angelo called Vincenzo for me? I thought Angelo hated me.”
“I guess he doesn’t. All I know is that if I had to go through something like this, I’d want to go through it with Vincenzo.”
“I have to go tell Brad. That will be another great conversation to get through. His mother will be reminding him he should have married his high school sweetheart and not me.”
“He’d have been bored stiff with the high school honey. He loves you. Try not to worry.”
At three I zipped into DiNapoli’s. Rosalie met me at the counter.
“You look a little frazzled, Sarah.”
I ran a hand over my hair, hoping to smooth down any flyaway pieces.
“Do you want some iced tea? Angelo is finishing up your ziti.”
Angelo waved from over by the oven.
“Tea would be great.”
Rosalie filled two large plastic glasses and stuck in two straws, the bendy kind that always made me feel like a kid again. We sat off to the side at one of the vacant tables. A number of high school kids filled the others, eating mozzarella sticks and drinking sodas.
I leaned forward and spoke softly. “Do you know how they figured out the painting was a fake? I saw the one hanging in the library, and it looked real to me.” I looked around to make sure no one was listening. The kids were wrapped up in their phones and each other.
“Why are we talking so quietly? The whole town knows.”
I leaned back. “Oh. From the way CJ acted, it was classified.”
“Marge was bragging about the discovery at Giovanni’s when she got her perm this morning.”
“Who’s Marge?” I asked.
“The head librarian. CJ asked Marge to keep it quiet. But to her that meant telling only her closest friends, who told their closest friends.”
“In other words, the whole town knows how she discovered the forgery.”
Rosalie nodded.
“But I still don’t.”
“Marge was dusting the frame. She knew there was a small nick on the bottom left-hand corner. The duster would get caught every time. She dusted this morning. It didn’t catch. She looked to see if it had been repaired and realized it hadn’t.” Rosalie stopped and took a drink of her tea. “Then she took a good look at the painting. The signature looked wrong. A little too shiny.” Rosalie leaned in. “Her assistant said Marge was so upset she called 4-1-1 instead of 9-1-1. Marge’s version of the story made her sound like Super-woman.”
“I wonder why CJ was so secretive. It doesn’t seem like that big a deal.” Then again he was probably worrying about evidence and building a case when and if the perpetrator was caught.
Rosalie lifted her shoulders. “Who knows?”
I paid for my ziti and headed out to pay my respects to Anna McQueen.
CHAPTER 16
I pulled up in front of Anna McQueen’s house on the base. Sometimes base life felt like a throwback to the fifties, with lots of stay-at-home moms hosting coffee klatches and volunteering for every organization imaginable. I missed being part of that.
Anna lived in the oldest section of housing, in a gray town house with a small front lawn. Blinds covered all the windows, making the place look like it was asleep. I climbed out anyway and knocked on the door while balancing the still-hot aluminum pan of ziti. The door opened to an expressionless woman. Everything about her sagged—the bags surrounding her very red eyes, the clothes hanging loosely on her thin frame; even her dull, red hair seemed to slump.
I felt bad about intruding. I thrust the ziti at her. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” She looked as though she didn’t want to take it, but she straightened herself. “Thank you.”
“I’m Sarah Winston.”
She started to close the door, but some bit of recognition widened her eyes. She held the door wider, “Come in. Are you hungry? I’ve got every kind of casserole imaginable. An assortment of pies, and now”—she peeled the aluminum off the corner of my casserole—“ziti. It smells good.”
“It’s from DiNapoli’s. You wouldn’t want mine.”
“Let’s sit in the kitchen. Coffee? I just was getting ready for a cup.”
“Sure.” I followed her through her house. The living room, instead of being furnished with couch, chairs and end tables, had been turned into a game room. A dartboard hung on the wall, a poker table was dead center, and various pinball and other arcade games filled the corners. A large-screen TV took up most of one wall, with a gaming system underneath. Anna noticed me noticing.
“Some guys never grow up. Terry loved games. I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of that now.”
The rest of the house was sparsely decorated with barely any furniture. A desk and chair sat in what should have been the dining room. Only the blinds provided by housing covered her windows. She hadn’t added her own drapes. Few pictures hung on the walls.
A picture of Anna and a man—I assumed it was Terry even though he was tanned and healthy-looking instead of blue—hung in the hall. What had to be the Tetons, were in the background. They both smiled at the camera, heavy-looking backpacks at their feet. Terry looked like a runner, lean and muscled. Bubbles had mentioned they’d met when they were both out for a run. So why didn’t Terry run
that night at Carol’s store? Maybe that meant he knew his attacker and hadn’t realized he was in danger.
Anna’s kitchen counters were full of various kinds of desserts. She opened the fridge to get some half and half and gestured to its overflowing contents. “What could I possibly do with all of this? It’s just me now. Not that Terry and I together could have polished all this off.” Her eyes reddened, and she busied herself getting out mugs and pouring coffee.
“That’s a lot. I could take some of it to the homeless shelter in Ellington for you.”
“Would you? I don’t want it to go to waste.” I followed her to the small kitchen table. She pushed aside a stack of finance books with her elbow and set the coffee cups down. “I heard you were there when Terry was found. What can you tell me?”
I wondered why she’d asked me in. Now I wished she hadn’t. Laura warned me this might happen. “I don’t know much.”
“I saw him at the morgue,” Anna said. “I know what he looked like. I just wondered if you knew anything else. Something to help catch the bastard who did this.” Her voice caught midway through the sentence. Her eyes started filling with tears, which she blinked back.
“My friend Carol found him in her store. There was a frame around his face.”
“I heard that too. It doesn’t make sense. Terry was quiet but well liked.”
“Did he know Carol? Had he mentioned her before?” I took a sip of my coffee. It was more like colored water than coffee, which I was actually grateful for because I’d had my fill of caffeine today. I hated to think this, but even though Brad was retired, Carol still had a dependent ID that allowed her to get on base whenever she wanted. So maybe they’d met someplace and Carol wasn’t admitting it. She hadn’t fessed up to knowing Gennie, either.
“Not that I know of.” She ran her hands through her hair.
“Were either of you interested in paintings or learning to paint?”
“Not really.”
Most of the walls in the house that I’d passed or could see were bare. I guess I could cross art collector off the list.
The Longest Yard Sale Page 11
