by Gina Cresse
I took him out to the garage and showed him the plastic garbage bags I’d already filled. He opened them one by one and rummaged through the contents. I sat down on the cold cement floor and watched him study the stuff I’d declared trash.
After he finished sorting through the garbage bags, we spent hours going through all the rooms of the house. We were interrupted when his cell phone rang out a vaguely familiar tune.
“Dragnet?” I asked as he reached in his pocket for his cell phone.
He grinned and nodded. “Wright here,” he announced into the phone.
“Eric. What’ve you got?
“That’s okay. Just tell me what you do know.
“So it is cyanide. Potassium?
“Sodium. Great. Thanks, Eric. Let me know when you get the rest. I owe you one.”
Sam slipped his phone back in his pocket. “That was Eric. The capsules were filled with sodium cyanide. The guy was probably dead anywhere from one to ten minutes after he swallowed them.”
I felt a little queasy just thinking about it. “Were there any fingerprints on the capsules?”
“You kidding? You wear rubber gloves when you handle cyanide or you die. It’s absorbed through the skin.”
“What about those specs? What were they?” I asked.
“He didn’t have any results on that yet. Thought he might in a half hour or so. I’m about done here. Let’s head back over to the lab. Maybe by the time we get there, he’ll have an answer for us.”
Eric placed an art supply catalog on the desk in front of Sam. He leafed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He jabbed his long, bony finger on the page. “Right there. That’s what you’re little specs are.”
I squinted to see the fine print. Sam moved Eric’s finger out of the way.
“Dry art pigments?” Sam asked.
Eric smiled proudly. “Had a feeling that’s what we were looking at, but I wanted to make sure. Cadmium deep red and cobalt blue, to be exact. Probably even made by this same company. They’re the largest supplier in the country.”
I scratched my head, puzzled. “Why would someone mix paint with cyanide?”
Eric crossed his arms over his chest and sat on the edge of the desk. “I doubt someone meant to mix them. The minute amount of paint indicates that it was merely residue. The guy probably accidentally contaminated the cyanide with a tool he used for multiple applications.”
I read the description from the catalog. Dry pigments are used by some artists to make their own paints and pastels. They can be mixed with a variety of binder mediums, such as oil, watercolor, egg tempera, and gouache, whatever that is.
“Apparently, the guy isn’t a stickler for cleaning up between projects. He probably contaminated his cadmium deep red with his cobalt blue,” Eric offered, half joking.
I snapped my fingers. “Not necessarily.” I jumped to my feet and grabbed Sam’s arm. “Come on,” I said, dragging him toward the door.
“What is it?” he insisted, balking at the door.
“Red and blue. They make purple,” I replied.
“Purple?”
“Yes. Purple. Now would you come on?”
Chapter Seven
Fiona’s office was closed when I tried to call her. It took me twenty minutes to find her home number on a card she’d given me, which had been stashed away in a safe place in my glove compartment, I thought. When I finally found it and called her, she was anxious to have me come over to see her house. I explained to Sam about the purple painting I’d given to her on the way.
“Do we know who painted it?” he asked as I rang the doorbell.
“No, but maybe we can find out.”
Fiona opened the door wearing a hot-pink satin robe. She wore matching high-heeled slippers with tufts of fluffy feathers on top. “Come on in, toots. I was just in the pool when you called. You bring your suits?”
“Not this time. Fiona, this is Sam Wright. He’s a detective with the San Diego Police.”
Fiona’s eyes strolled up and down Sam’s tall body. For a moment, I thought she was going to leap into his arms and smother him with lipstick kisses. She reached out a hand to shake his, and the other she used to feel the muscles in his left arm. “Oh my, Devonie. You are just surrounded by gorgeous men, aren’t you?”
Sam coughed and cleared his throat, pulling his hand back before she had a chance to nibble it. I’d never seen anyone intimidate Sam. I found it quite humorous that a senior-citizen realtor could frighten this tough guy, even if she was acting half her age.
“Now what’s this about my painting?” she asked, leading us toward her living room.
“I’m really sorry about this, Fiona. We need to take the painting to the police lab. It could be evidence,” I explained.
“Margarita?” she drawled, picking up a pitcher of frosty-red liquid. “It’s strawberry,” she coaxed.
Sam and I both declined, although it looked really tempting.
Fiona replaced the pitcher on the counter. “Evidence?”
“I’m sorry. We really can’t tell you any more than that,” Sam explained. “Can you please give us the painting?”
Fiona’s smile grew to a mischievous grin. “Why, certainly, sugar. I haven’t had a chance to hang it up, yet. It’s right over here, in my bedroom, darlin’. Why don’t you come with me to get it? You’re such a big, strong man.”
Sam looked to me as if I could offer some sort of protection from Fiona, who’d turned into a cougar the instant she laid eyes on him. I sat down on the sofa. “You go ahead. I’ll wait here,” I said, picking up a magazine from the coffee table.
“Put that down. We won’t be that long,” he ordered, following Fiona down the hall.
Moments later, they were back in the living room. Sam carried the large, awkward painting while Fiona insisted on leading him by the arm.
“Come on. Let’s get this to the lab,” he said, rushing toward the door.
“Sure you two can’t stay for a while? I could fire up the barbeque,” Fiona offered.
Sam was already out the door and halfway to the curb. “Not this time, Fiona. Thanks for the offer, though,” I called to her as I tried to catch up with Sam.
As we pulled away from the curb, Sam gave a nervous glance over his shoulder toward Fiona’s house. “Why didn’t you warn me about her?”
“Honestly, I didn’t know you’d make such an impression. Come to think of it, she reacted nearly the same way when she met Jason. I think she just really likes men.”
“If you haven’t noticed, she’s old enough to be my mother.”
“That wouldn’t stop a man if the tables were turned,” I said.
Sam shifted uneasily in his seat. “Just get us to the lab. We’re running out of time.”
Eric scraped a few samples of paint from several sections of the canvas and examined them under his microscope. “Definitely the same pigment,” he finally announced. “You know who painted it?”
I studied the lower portion for a signature. “Maybe there’s a signature under the mat board. Let’s get it out of the frame.”
We carefully removed the painting from the frame and lifted the mat board away. There was no signature.
“What kind of artist doesn’t sign his painting?” I said.
“Someone who doesn’t want to be sued. This painting is a copy of another artist’s original work. I have a smaller print of it at home,” Eric said.
Sam shook his head. “How do you like that? Murder and copyright infringement.”
Sam made a few notes in his notebook, then headed for the door. “Come on, Dev. I want to get that cow calendar—we’ll need it for evidence.”
Fiona called me on my cell phone while we were driving from the lab to my house.
“Did you hear the news?” she asked.
“What news?”
“The ticket. Someone claimed the fifty-eight million. Turn on your TV,” she said.
“I can’t. I’m in the car. W
ho was it?”
“Oh, toots. It’s unbelievable. I know him! Can you imagine? He’s a land developer. And here’s the best part—he’s not married,” she gushed.
“That’s great, Fiona. What’s his name?”
“Arthur Simon. He built the Simon Homes development, over by the mall. Beautiful homes, but that silly man—it’s dreadfully obvious he hasn’t got a wife—doesn’t know what size a walk-in closet should be.”
“Do you know where he lives?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Uh, let me think. Oh! How does this sound? Fiona Simon. Doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it? I wonder if I made the ‘o’ long—then it could sound French. Fiona Simone. That could work.”
“Fiona. Concentrate. Where does he live?” I persisted.
“Oh, sorry toots. I tend to get a little carried away. I heard he has a great big house right on the beach. You know, I think I went out on a date with him once about twenty years ago. He came to pick me up wearing work boots. Took me to a pizza place. I got all dressed up and shaved my legs for pizza. Needless to say, there was no second date. Of course, now I could kick myself. He’s one of the more successful builders in the area.”
“Fiona. His address?”
“Oh. Right. You know, I don’t know where he lives, but I’m going to find out.”
“Fiona, he could be a murderer. You should probably stay away from him,” I warned.
“But it’s not a sure thing, right? Remember that old adage, innocent until proven guilty? As long as he’s innocent, there’s no harm letting him spend a little money on me, right? Or maybe I can sell him something.”
“I’m hanging up now, Fiona. Be careful.”
I dropped my cell phone on the seat next to me. “That was Fiona,” I said to Sam. “Arthur Simon just showed up with the lottery ticket to claim the money.”
“Arthur Simon, the builder?” he replied.
“That’s what Fiona said.” I pulled into our driveway. “Let’s go in and turn on the news.”
Craig was already home and had the evening news on when we walked in the door. “Hey, honey. You see the news? Art Simon turned in the ticket,” he said, pointing at the television.
“Yeah. We just heard on the way over,” I said.
“We? Oh, hi Sam. So, you ready to go arrest the guy?” Craig asked.
Sam was too busy watching the news to pay attention to our conversation. He pulled a chair closer to the television and furiously scribbled notes in his little book. Craig and I watched him like we watch the orangutans at the zoo—with amusement and fascination.
News cameras caught up with Arthur Simon and dogged him all the way to his truck. He seemed to be walking on air. He was an older, good-looking man in Levis and a work shirt. He wore a ball cap with a Simon Construction logo embroidered across the front. Still wearing leather work boots, he looked like a man actively involved in the day-to-day workings of his company. When asked why he waited so long to claim the prize, he just grinned at the camera and said, “Sorry. I can’t talk right now. I have a vacation to plan.”
Sam jumped to his feet. “Like heck you’re going on any vacation,” he barked at the television. “I had a feeling this would happen. You got that calendar?” he asked me.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
“Good, then you need to take me back to the station so I can get my car.”
I dropped Sam at the police station. As expected, he would not let me tag along to go talk to Arthur Simon.
The next morning, I cornered Sam in his office. “So? Did you arrest him?” I asked.
“Not yet. Not enough evidence,” he replied.
“Not enough evidence? What about the ticket? How’d he explain how he got it?” I pressed.
“He said he bought it from someone yesterday for one million dollars—cash.”
“What? Who’d he buy it from?”
“He didn’t know. He never saw the guy. The whole deal was done with anonymous e-mail and a tricky exchange that required no personal contact.”
“You’re telling me the guy handed over a million dollars in cash to someone he never spoke to or saw?” I marveled.
“That’s what he claims.”
“And you believe him? Who in his right mind would pay for something without seeing it first? For all he knew, it could have been a phony ticket,” I said.
“I never said he paid for it first. His story is that this anonymous e-mailer, who knew Simon could come up with the cash right away, approached him. Simon also has a reputation for being an honest, straightforward guy. I don’t know if I’d agree after this escapade, but that’s the image he has. He was instructed to go to the bus station. A locker key was stuck to the underside of a particular seat. He was given explicit directions. Inside the locker he found the ticket. He’d brought along a so-called expert to examine the ticket to make sure it was the real McCoy. When he was satisfied with the ticket, he placed a backpack full of cash in the locker and replaced the key under the original seat.”
“So how’d the guy know he didn’t put a bag full of newspaper in the locker? No one’s reputation is that spotless,” I said.
“Wait. I’m not finished. After he put the key back, he was instructed to go to the men’s restroom and wait exactly five minutes. He’d been assured that he was being watched, and would not be allowed to leave the building if he’d tried to pull something. So he waited his five minutes, knowing full well that he’d given the guy exactly what he wanted, and would not be prevented from leaving. Then he went directly to the lottery office and claimed the prize. They wrote him a check on the spot. After taxes, he cleared about thirty million.”
I leaned back in my chair and shook my head. “Wait a minute. You’re buying this? Why would someone take a million dollars for a ticket that’s worth thirty times that amount? Didn’t Simon ask that question? He had to know it wasn’t on the up-and-up.”
“He claims he did ask when he replied to the e-mail. The guy said he was going through a messy divorce and was sure his evil, soon-to-be ex-wife would sue him for at least half, if not all of the winnings. Rather than let her have any, he’d sacrifice the big payoff for a measly one million.”
“Okay, but why the James Bond exchange? Wasn’t Simon suspicious at all about why the guy didn’t want to be seen?”
“The guy was paranoid. He had a feeling his wicked wife had a suspicion about the ticket. He didn’t want any trail that could lead back to him.”
“And you believe this story?”
Sam let out an exasperated sigh. “I believe that Simon believes it. Let me rephrase that. I believe that Simon wants to believe it. Thirty million dollars could finance a lot of home construction, or a comfortable retirement.”
“But hasn’t some law been broker here? Conspiracy? Anything?” I insisted.
“Not by Simon.”
“Wait a minute. What about that woman who had a winning ticket and filed for divorce before she cashed it in so she wouldn’t have to share it with her husband. Didn’t he sue and the courts awarded the whole thing to him?”
“That’s true, but Simon wasn’t the one concealing assets.”
“But he thought he was helping someone else conceal assets. Isn’t that like being an accomplice to a crime?” I insisted.
Sam rubbed his tired eyes then ran his fingers through his hair. “You want me to go after Simon when we know he’s not the murderer? Why waste our resources on him?”
“So, the killer has a million bucks, Simon has thirty-million, and Lou Winnomore’s murder goes down in the annals of unsolved mysteries.”
“Not necessarily. Simon did us one big favor in this whole mess. He recorded the serial numbers of the bills before he handed them over.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Really? Why’d he do that if he thought everything was kosher?”
Sam smirked at me. “Because Simon is smart. He wanted a little insurance that if it wasn’t above-board, he wouldn’t be stuck holding the smoking g
un.”
“So this is your plan? Wait till the bills show up in circulation and nab the culprit?”
“It’s worked in the past,” Sam replied.
I rolled my eyes. “You know how many ways there are to launder money? The guy’s already on to the fact that we know Lou was murdered. This whole Arthur Simon scenario proves that. You think he’s going to stick around town and buy his groceries with that money? I bet he’s already in Mexico. He’ll put that money in a Mexican bank and the trail will hit a block wall right at the border.”
Sam scowled at me. “You got any bright ideas?”
“You try checking out the source of the anonymous e-mail?” I asked.
“I got guys working on it right now. They don’t sound hopeful.”
“How about fingerprints on the locker and under the seat where they hid the key?”
“It would only take about a year to sort out the eighty-some-odd prints we’d probably find, half of which would not be complete enough to make any identification, and run them against our database. Then, if the guy was stupid enough to not wear gloves or wipe off his prints, and if he’s already got a record, we might be lucky enough to get him.”
“Do you ever see the glass half full?” I asked.
“Only when it’s whiskey.”
I stood and headed for the door, then stopped with my hand on the knob. “You go ahead and wait for one of those bills to show up. I’ve got work to do.”
Sam pounded his fist on his desk. “Not on this case, you don’t!”
I ignored his comment as I walked out the door.
“I mean it! I’m not gonna lift a finger to save your scrawny little neck when you find it in a vice!” he hollered at me through the closed door.
“Oh, yes you will,” I whispered to myself as I pushed my way out the door to the parking lot. “And you’ll thank me when you get promoted for solving this murder.”
Chapter Eight
I decided my best bet was to start with Chuck, the brother-in-law. He would probably know more about Lou Winnomore’s family than anyone. I called ahead to let him know I’d be stopping by, but I didn’t tell him why. He seemed like a very accommodating man on the phone, giving me block-by-block directions to his house. When I arrived, he was waiting at the front door to greet me. He was a plump, baldheaded man with a white mustache. He wore a plaid shirt and fire-engine-red suspenders, which held up a pair of brand new blue jeans. A pair of reading glasses sat perched on the end of his nose, and he had a newspaper rolled up and tucked under his arm.
