“That sounds great. You know, if you start matchmaking, you’ll have to find someone for Honey, too. She deserves a nice man.”
Honey’s ex had been a clod, but he’d given her Trixie, a sweet girl, even if her mother’s nickname for her always reminded me of the fictional amateur sleuth, Trixie Belden.
“You’re right, Honey does deserve a nice guy. But like I said, let’s see how my first set-up goes before hanging out my yenta shingle.”
After Tiny left, I went back to working on next week’s schedule, when my office door flew open. Theresa looked at me, wild-eyed. “Please, please, please, don’t ever make me go there again.”
“Where?” I asked as innocently as I could manage.
“That new guy. Robert Williams. Quincy, it was awful. I spent the entire three hours in his kitchen. You couldn’t see the floor when I walked in.”
“That dirty?”
“No, that many pizza boxes. He just threw them in a pile and when the pile fell, he walked on them, then he started a new pile and when it fell… Well, you get the picture. I took out bags of pizza boxes and found a very nice slate floor underneath them. It was hardly dirty because the boxes had covered it for so long.”
“Well, see, that’s a bonus.”
“Quincy, you should have seen the refrigerator.” She shuddered. Actually shuddered. “He told me to limit each visit to one room. Each visit, he said. I assume that means there are more?”
“There are. He’s done some work for us, and we’re bartering cleaning services with him. He’s very expensive otherwise.”
“Quincy, please, send someone else.”
“He liked you, Theresa. He requested you.” Now, this was a bit of an exaggeration. When I asked how it went, he said, She cleaned the kitchen, and it looks better. She can come back.
I know, that’s not exactly a request, but hey, even Robert William’s kitchen didn’t equal my finding a dead body in the bedroom of a house she was supposed to clean. And it certainly didn’t equal risking my business because she ripped a painting.
Here’s the thing, as a mother, I don’t use physical punishment. Well, let’s face it, the boys are all bigger than me now, but back when they were little, I wasn’t a spanker or slapper.
No, I was worse. I was a lecturer and creative punisher.
When they fought, my favorite punishment was to make them sit in the middle of the floor and touch noses for five minutes.
It had the desired effect because it turned out, boys don’t like touching their noses to other boys’ noses, and also, it’s hard to stay mad at someone if you’ve got your nose pressed to theirs for five minutes.
When they tried temper tantrums, I’d simply pick them up, put them in their room and set the timer, then I’d demand that they scream and kick for five minutes.
Try it some time. It’s not as easy as it sounds.
As they got older, I did more lecturing than creative punishments. They frequently begged me to just smack them around and shut up.
I lectured all the more.
I take that back. Two years ago, I had a wonderfully creative parenting moment.
They’d all gotten very lax about chores. They’d sweep, but not clean up the pile of dust, or they’d wipe part of a counter or… Well, my grandmother called jobs like that half-assed jobs.
So, in retribution, I had a half-assed day of my own.
They had an activity at school.
I drove halfway, told them I was turning around to go home. They had to walk the other half.
I made tacos for dinner, by which I mean that I put out frozen ground turkey, a head of lettuce, a block of cheese, and a tomato. But the crowning glory of my meal was the jar of cornmeal, to represent the taco shells.
Things got much better at chore time after that.
This was my creative punishment for Theresa.
We’d tried having her tag along with other staff.
We’d tried lecturing her on using sick-days so frequently.
We’d written her formal letters outlining her faults as an employee.
We’d tried praising the few things she did well.
Nothing worked.
I was pretty sure Robert Williams might.
“Quincy,” she moaned. “His place could make a hoarder uncomfortable. Remember Mrs. Pierce with all the cats? Even she wouldn’t want to visit him.”
“You’ll be visiting him again next week, and remember the warning last time you called in sick…in order to go to the beach was it?”
“Yes, the beach. And I do remember the warning.”
I’d told her that if she called in sick again and wasn’t on death’s door, she would be after I got a hold of her. Yes, I know, it’s a threat, but no matter how scary I try to be my boys never bought it, and I don’t think Theresa really did either, but she hadn’t known me long enough to be sure.
“You’re positive that I have to go?” she asked.
“Positive.”
She sighed and walked to the door. She opened it and called back over her shoulder, “Someone’s here for you.”
A man walked in. He wasn’t all that much taller than Theresa, who sent me one last pleading look. I shook my head and she left me with my mysterious stranger.
The man had on a pair of khakis and dark shirt and a leather jacket, which seemed a bit too warm for LA’s September weather. He had on a pair of black boots, too.
The outfit in theory should work, but on him it didn’t. Everything seemed a bit…askew. Part of his shirt was tucked in, part wasn’t. The jacket sat a bit too far back on his shoulder, so it road higher in the front than in the back. Even his average looking brown hair had fly-away wisps.
“Quincy Mac?” he asked.
He had a nice enough voice, but not nearly as nice as Cal’s was.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Roman.”
“Oh, you’re Mickey.” I was going to say that Cal had mentioned him and spoke highly of him, but he interrupted me.
“No. I’m Detective Roman, Quincy,” he corrected me.
“And I’m Ms. Mac, Detective,” I corrected him.
Normally I’d get up and extend my hand, greeting someone in my office. I didn’t. I also didn’t offer him a seat.
He just took that on his own.
I was glad I was sitting at my desk, not at the couch. At least I had a position of authority. “What did you need, DICtective?” I put purposefully added an extra ‘C’ sound to my pronunciation of detective. It came out more like dick-tective.
I saw that good ol’ Mickey noticed. He cocked his had to one side as if trying to understand how I could possibly have said that.
I immediately felt a bit bad. Maybe he hadn’t meant to sound so off-putting.
I offered him a real smile, that I hoped he was detective enough to read as I’m sorry.
“You can stop butting into my investigation. I know that Cal—”
Oh, yeah, my dander was back up, so I interrupted him again and asked, “You mean Detective Parker?”
“Yes. I know he allowed you a long leash on the Banning homicide. But he didn’t do you any favors. You almost got killed.
“I didn’t though because I saved myself,” I pointed out with pride.
“You didn’t because you got lucky.”
“Sir, I’m going to point out I have in no way compromised your investigation. I asked questions, and the insurance company asked questions.” Now this was true, the insurance company had asked questions, just not while their representative was with me. I wasn’t going to mention Dick and his little ruse.
“I checked with the insurance company. They didn’t send you around with one of their insurance investigators. So who was the guy?”
Oops. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. “Sir, I think we’re done. You obviously found your way into my office, and now I welcome you to find your way out of my office.”
“This was a warning because I like Cal. Most people woul
d be on their way to the station right now. So take this warning to heart…stay out of my investigation.”
“If you were making progress, I’d be happy to, but since you haven’t found the real thief or forger…” I left the sentence hang.”
“I’ll find them.”
“Let’s hope so because every day you don’t is another day that the news is talking about the art heists and forgeries. If any of them decide to link our name to the crimes?” I shook my head. “They’d be wrong, but speculation would damage our business and our reputation. Mac’Cleaners is important to me, Detective. I don’t think I realized just how important until this all started. But it is. And I’m not going to let it go under because of something we aren’t responsible for. Find the real thief, please, and find him soon.”
“Him or her. I’m sure that’s what you meant, right? Because any detective worth their salt doesn’t go around making assumptions with no facts. You have no idea what gender the thief is. So if you think about butting into my case again, remember, you don’t have a clue what you’re doing, and your bumbling might jeopardize my investigation.”
He let himself out.
He had a point. I didn’t know what I was doing. And he was right that we didn’t know the thief’s gender.
But he was dead wrong if he thought I was going to trust him to solve the case. My uncle went to jail for a crime he didn’t commit. I wasn’t going to lose my business because of something Mac’Cleaners had no part of.
I knew that Theresa hadn’t stolen the artwork or forged the replacements.
How did I know?
I knew the same way I knew that Miles was being bullied when he was in fifth grade.
I knew the same way I knew that Eli had stolen the plate of cookies when he was five.
I knew the same way I knew that Hunter was going to thrive at college.
I knew because my gut said so.
It might not be a cop’s gut.
It was better—it was a mother’s gut. And I knew Theresa hadn’t stolen anything. I didn’t trust Detective Roman to know that.
So, I was going to try and figure it out.
I wasn’t going to be cocky simply because I solved Mr. Banning’s murder.
And I was going to try not to make any assumptions.
My next step?
Go see Miriam and figure out why a woman who works at an art gallery didn’t notice her own art had been stolen and replaced by forgeries.
Chapter Eight
Turns out that Wednesday afternoons are not busy times at art galleries.
Or at least they weren’t at the Arthur Wadsworth Gallery.
Miriam was there. I knew the gallery probably had more employees, but I had hoped she’d be there. If not, I’d have had to go to her house. I felt that gave her an advantage.
“You,” she said by way of greeting.
“Yes, me.”
“I’m not answering more of your questions,” she said.
“That’s fine. I’ll just go see if I can find good old Arthur himself. Maybe he can answer my questions.”
She sneered. “Good luck. He’s been dead for a decade. His wife owns the place now, and she wouldn’t know a cabbage from a Picasso. She leaves managing the gallery to me.”
“Fine. Then I’ll head down to the paper. I’m going to ask a rather obvious question that no one has asked yet. How is it that someone who works at a gallery—an art gallery—didn’t notice her own paintings had been stolen and replaced with forgeries? I think it’s a question that the press will feel deserves some answers.”
I saw the ice queen’s haughty façade breach. “You wouldn’t?” It was more of a question than a statement.
“Try me. I have to think someone who sells art, but didn’t notice their own was stolen, would be as detrimental to business as a cleaning service suspected of theft. So talk. Why didn’t you notice?”
She turned her back to me. Maybe to swear under her breath. Maybe to give herself time to think about what I said.
Maybe to figure out how she didn’t notice her art had been stolen.
“I’m a fraud,” she said softly, still facing away from me.
“Pardon?”
She whirled around, her designer shoes snapping against the stone floor. “I’m a fraud. Do you know what I was doing before I got this job eight years ago?”
“No.”
“Working at Diamonds.”
Diamonds Department store was a rich person’s version of a playground. Designer everything. It even had champagne as you watched someone model fashions.
“These shoes?” she said, lifting one designer clad foot. “They were returned because there was a scuff on them. The manager let me buy them for half price. Any other store would have told the woman to take a hike, but Diamonds caters to people like that. When I applied for this job, I tried to become a person like that. It was an easy act because I’d watched the pros and I’d learned. I told Mrs. Wadsworth she could feel confident leaving the gallery in my hands. That I was an art expert and I was looking for a hobby career because, after all, I was rich and didn’t need to work.”
“She bought it?”
“Hook, line, and sinker. She didn’t care about art. That was her husband. She simply wanted the money to keep coming in, and I promised her that. And I delivered. You see, salesmanship is salesmanship. Doesn’t matter if you’re selling shoes or artwork. You tell the customer what they want to hear, and the product will sell itself. So, I tell them yes, this painting has all the colors of your room, and it’s by a well-known artist, so your friends will be envious. I tell them what the stupid blobs and lines are supposed to be and then question their taste if they don’t see it. I have improved the business. I managed to hire Summer Nichols away from the competition.”
“And she is?” I asked.
“One of the best framers I’ve ever met. Seriously, her frames are works of arts in and of themselves. She also packages our art for shipping, and for local clients she goes to hang the pieces, too.”
“They can’t just hang the art themselves?” I had a lovely little plastic case that held hooks, small nails, screws, and some plastic things for drywall—you drove the plastic sleeve in first, then you could screw into it.
Miriam shook her head. “Some of the large pieces are cleated, which makes for a more secure mounting but they can be difficult to put up. And then there’s the art of displaying artwork. Where to hang them. How to light them. Summer is the best. She has an artist’s eye for detail. It was quite a coup stealing her away from the competition. I feel that it really proved my merit.”
“And you haven’t learned enough in the last few years to spot a forgery?”
“Look at that.” She pointed to a giant canvas that contained—a circle. A giant orange circle.
Again, it reminded me of my bridesmaid dress for Tiny’s wedding.
“See that?” Miriam asked. “That is a blob of orange. If you took it down and put up another blob of orange, who would know? A kindergartener could do it. Really, it’s such a simplistic design…how would I notice? We specialize in abstract art. Certainly some pieces are quite complex and would be much harder to forge, but some,” she pointed at the orange blob again, “aren’t.”
She had a point. I admitted, “I tried my hand at copying one of Kirchoff’s works. And my first attempt wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t good enough to fool anyone, but I think with practice. …” I shrugged.
“You’re right. With practice a lot of the pieces in this gallery could be forged well enough to fool almost everyone.”
“Except for that paint expert they took the damaged painting to.”
“Yes, except someone like that. If your employee hadn’t dusted that painting, none of us would know.” She paused.
I mulled over what she said. “I’ll be checking out your story.”
“You can’t think I’d make up something that embarrassing.”
“Miriam, maybe you embellished your ap
plication here, but you’re good at your job and you’re a hard worker. Diamonds is a snooty sort of store, so I’m sure you were good at your job there, too. They wouldn’t put up with someone less than excellent. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Don’t you see? Image is everything. Especially here. People see you the way you portray yourself. I portray myself as an expert, and that’s what they see. They listen to an expert. Do you think they’d be as inclined to listen to a glorified saleswoman?”
She had a point. A valid one. When I was looking for Mr. Banning’s killer, I’d gone into places as a maid, or a waitress. No one looked twice. Service staff is invisible.
And a clerk at a department store, even an upscale one like Diamonds, is a service person.
Miriam couldn’t afford to be invisible at her job in the gallery.
I didn’t like her. I hated that she put on airs. But I suddenly understood her better. And I sympathized.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I promised.
“Not even your cop boyfriend?”
“Not even him.”
“That other cop has been nosing around. He thinks I’m hiding something. And I am.”
I laughed. “He’s a bit of a dork. He came into my office and when I called him Mickey, he informed me he was Detective Roman.”
“Tell me about it. He came here acting as if he owned the place. He was the same way at my house. Looking for clues, he said, but I think he was just snooping.”
“Men,” I muttered.
“Definitely. My husband—” she cut herself off.
From the way she’d said, my husband, I was sure whatever she was going to add was going to be less than complimentary, and I liked her a little more for not airing their dirty linens to me, a stranger.
“Listen, I won’t say a word to anyone,” I told her again. “Thanks for telling me.”
“Thanks for listening. People expect me to be snooty, and I’m good at showing people what they want to see. Sometimes I forget that it’s not who I really am.”
“I was an actress once. Well, an almost-actress. And from the little bit I did, I discovered if you play a role too long, it can become a part of you. Do what you have to here at work, but remember who you really are when you get home.”
Dusted (A Maid in LA Mystery) Page 10
