Police sirens came rapidly closer as I found a clean napkin and ran some warm water in a bowl. I carefully bathed most of the loose stuff off Hilda’s face. Fortunately, only a few of the cuts would require medical attention, and that was at hand. Apparently a passing EMT truck realized they were needed and stopped to help. As the paramedic knelt beside me, Hilda whispered, “Tell Clem I’d like to beat his ass.”
Another medical guy, who’d already taken care of the two men in the booth, pawed through my hair to be sure I wasn’t carrying any glass or stray birdshot around. At the same time, a Hennepin County cop stationed himself in front of me and asked a blistering series of questions I couldn’t answer. Twice I explained that I’d had my back turned when the blast came and I’d gone right away to help Hilda, rather than chasing the shooter.
Finally the cop slowed down and said, “So, I take it you didn’t see who actually fired the shots and you can’t identify the vehicle. Correct?”
“That’s correct, officer.”
“And what were you doing here this afternoon?”
I glanced toward Hilda, who was being helped onto a gurney. Apparently she was pretty shook up, understandable under the circumstances, and hadn’t heard the last question from the cop. So I ducked it. I was almost certain the shooter had been trying for me, but I didn’t want to complicate my life or that of any of the others here. I shrugged as if I had no clue, even though I was beginning to feel infected with a Jessica Fletcher virus. You know, she was the star of that TV series, a writer played by Angela Lansbury, who was always seeing people murdered around her so folks in real life got to saying if they saw Fletcher on the street, they’d cross a highway to avoid getting close to her.
Anyway, the cops let me go and I left. On the way to my place in Roseville, I twigged to what Hilda had whispered to me just as the medics and cops arrived. She’d given me a message for Clem Murchison. It wasn’t a nice message and it seemed a little out of place, considering what she had just experienced.
Except.
Except that she had been talking directly to me and not to the other folks in the place. Not to the cops. She was the only one looking directly toward the window when the gunner had pulled the trigger. She must have seen and recognized the shooter. I thought that’s what she was telling me, that it was Clem Murchison firing the shotgun at us. I figured I’d had enough of Clem’s deadly games, and I decided I would deliver Hilda’s message, personally.
So I went looking for Clem Murchison.
My first stop was back to the Murchison family palace, a couple of miles down the road from the diner. Much of the snow on the driveway had disappeared, but there was enough so I could see there were still no tracks. That was not unexpected. I knew he was married and had a home across town. I didn’t actually stop, just rolled into the wide driveway, swung parallel to the street and paused long enough to be sure of what I was seeing.
I put my foot down and skidded off toward north Minneapolis and the Murchison manufacturing plant. I slewed into their parking lot and stopped with no regard for the white painted lines on the macadam. I did take my keys. There was a car in Clem’s reserved slot, but I didn’t recognize it. When I stormed into the lobby, the receptionist sort of shrank back from her desk as if she was about to bolt out of there.
“Clem Murchison’s office, right?” I snarled.
She pointed toward the same office where I’d met him. “He’s not—”
I waved her off and stomped toward the closed door. It did occur to me he could be waiting in there at his desk with a more lethal weapon than the shotgun he’d employed a while ago at the diner. In stride, I hunched my shoulders and slammed into the door. It made a loud crack, which must have been the jamb splintering, and it swung wide open.
I lurched into an empty office. When I stooped and peered under the desk, he wasn’t hiding there either. Since the door had slammed back against the wall, I deduced Clem Murchison was not present.
“Is he in the plant?”
The receptionist gaped at me, chin trembling, evidently trying to get her vocal cords working. Instead she rapidly shook her head, which dislodged a couple of bobby pins. They skittered onto the floor.
“I want his home address. Now!”
She started to object, but I cut off her protest by lunging toward her. “Right now!”
The poor woman quailed under my bark and teetered back to her desk. She tapped a few keys and my target’s address and phone number appeared on her computer screen. I borrowed one of her pens and a scrap of paper and scribbled down the information. I shouldn’t have demanded it and she sure as hell shouldn’t have given it to me, but there it was. Was I falling just a little bit out of control?
“Thanks,” I said and ran out of the place.
Back in my car I buckled up while looking at the address and drove out of the parking lot. The address was in an upscale rural community just over the Ramsey line in Washington County. Not having invested in a GPS finder for my car, I mentally plotted a fast route north to the Interstate and then east to White Bear. After that, I’d check a map, because his location looked to be rural in nature. I swung onto the eastbound lanes of Interstate 694 and realized I was driving into a growing snowstorm, and the flurries had begun to turn the highway treacherous. Traffic was slowing down and by the time I got to the connection to Highway 61, traffic almost stalled in both lanes. I avoided a large orange DMV truck and swooned down the off ramp and started north on 61. I say started because clouds of snowflakes soon enveloped me and nearby cars. Since the temperatures were now hovering around twenty degrees, according to the radio announcer, ice was building up. Traffic slowed even more.
My adrenalin was pushing at my brain. My foot stuttered on the accelerator and I tailgated until the driver in front pulled to one side so I could squeeze by. It made no difference. Both lanes in both directions were clogged with vehicles as far as I could see. That wasn’t very far. How much of a lead did that bastard Murchison have on me? Was he even headed home?
An hour later I had sweated through five slippery miles of sometimes blinding snow and uncertain adhesion to the pavement. The radio announced the temperature had fallen almost eleven more degrees and now hovered just above ten. My Taurus slithered onto the slightly inclined driveway of Clem Murchison’s house. No plow had yet touched this pavement. I stopped two car lengths off the street, shut down the engine and stepped out. The house, dimly seen through the snow bursts, appeared to be well lit up inside. There were lights on both downstairs and in a couple of front rooms on the second floor.
No outside lights.
I closed the car door and started to trudge toward where the front door should be.
Chapter 34
A crust was forming on the new snow but light as I was I still sank in far enough so the red tops of my tennis shoes were soon soaked. The snow clung to my socks where it promptly melted and ran down to my toes.
The driveway had been plowed days ago but not since today’s snowfall. That was a clue I probably wouldn’t find Murchison in residence. Nevertheless I persisted. After slogging almost a quarter mile by my calculation, I saw a shoveled path leading to my left and the front of the house. I brushed snow from my coat and slammed the doorknocker, shaped like a roaring tiger, against its metal plate. Twice.
There was no light over the front door so I was not prepared when the door was yanked open. Although I’d been recently shot at and run over, I didn’t believe the violence aimed in my direction was waiting for me here. It wasn’t.
The woman who opened the door with “What?” had tangled lank blond hair. She had a very generous bosom under a gray sweatshirt and darker athletic pants. There were dark sweat patches at her armpits and she had to tilt her chin up to stare me in the eyes. I was momentarily distracted, not being able to remember the last time I’d had a face-to-face talk with someone shor
ter than me.
“This is a helluvatime to come calling,” she said. “Who are you?”
“Mrs. Murchison? I’m looking for your husband. Is he here?”
“Clem? Huh, you and a lot of others. Answer is the same as it’s been all day. He ran out of here this morning about ten and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“You’ve had other inquiries?”
She shrugged. “A few calls. The office. A contractor, somebody who didn’t give a name.” She took a breath and went on in a milder tone. “It’s getting rotten out there. Whyn’t you come in and I’ll make some tea.” She stepped back and beckoned me in. Then she stopped and said, “I suppose I ought to ask you your name.”
“Sean Sean. I’m a private investigator.”
“Ah, a private investigator. Of course.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s urgent that I contact Mr. Murchison as soon as possible.”
“You and the rest of the world. Today like other days recently. People calling to talk to Clem. Well, never mind the snow. C’mon with me. We’ll go in the kitchen.”
And so we did. Mrs. Murchison strode well ahead of me. The kitchen was larger than I expected. It looked like it had been enlarged and modernized with some serious stainless steel equipment, like a commercial range and a side-by-side refrigerator and freezer. The big hood over the range looked like it was capable of sucking all the air out of the kitchen. Maybe even a small child.
The woman was busy at the counter, and I could see a glass coffee maker over her shoulder. Beside it was a teapot swaddled in a knit jacket. Steam swirled up from the spout. She poured two cups in generous mugs and turned around with one in her hand. In her other hand was a small black automatic hand gun. She eyed me steadily, not exactly pointing the thing at me, just in my direction. I figured by the casual way she was handling it, she was totally unfamiliar with such weapons, or the opposite. I hoped she knew how to handle it, it made her less dangerous.
“Now wait,” I started and raised both hands, palms out.
“Persuade me why I shouldn’t wing you and call the local cops.”
“Let me show you my ID and that I’m unarmed.”
She raised one eyebrow, a lot like I sometimes do, and waggled the gun. “Maybe you don’t have a pistol but I wouldn’t call you unarmed, exactly. All right, slowly get it out.” She leaned forward and set the mug of tea on the island counter and slid to her left to keep the island between us.
I kept looking at her and ran my hand into the breast pocket of my coat and fingered out my id wallet. I keep it in a separate folder from my regular wallet with my driver’s license and my lone credit card. I leaned forward and set it beside the steaming cup of tea. I picked up the mug and stepped back a pace.
The woman pushed up to the counter and took the wallet. She stared at the ID and then picked through the pockets. Then she dropped it on the counter and turned around to the teapot. When she turned back, the pistol was out of sight and she held another cup and a slight smile.
“I guess you have to be legitimate. Who’d phony up a fake ID with a name like Sean Sean? Don’t you have a middle name?”
“Sadly, not,” I said. “Let me tell you why I came out here in this storm.” I gestured at the stool to one side and she nodded, so I sat down. I rested both hands in plain sight cupped around my steaming mug. The heat felt good. “Your husband has some information about a certain painting. I need that information in order to complete a business transaction with an overseas buyer.”
“It’s that damn painting the old man gifted to MIA, isn’t it?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure we’re referring to the same painting.” I hesitated and took a sip of hot tea. I was winging it, making things up as I went along.
“I knew that painting was going to be trouble.” She sort of went inside herself for a moment, then, “I don’t know where he’s got to.” She stared at me balefully through the steam from her cup.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
She frowned minutely and said, “I already told you. This morning at breakfast. He said he’d be late and not to wait dinner. He said if he did get home before I laid supper, he’d be here, but not to count on him. He told me he was sorry but there was a lot of pressure at work.”
She stopped and blinked once. Her voice had taken on the sing-song cadence of someone who had repeated those words many times and she probably no longer believed them.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “You were having guests tonight?” She nodded and swiped at her eyes with a tissue.
“All my information says he left the plant and was heading home about three.”
“I was shopping between, oh, three-thirty and four. I suppose he could have come and gone during that time.”
I was beginning to get the feeling we both knew that was exactly what had happened. “Why would he do that? Is he running from something?”
Mrs. Murchison raised her head from her tea cup and now her look had softened. Her tone softened as well. “Isn’t he always? I suppose this time he’s running from you.” She blew out her breath. “Okay, I might as well say it. I’m pretty sure he did come home between three-thirty and four. After I put the groceries away I went to our bedroom to change.” She waved toward the ceiling.
“It looked like a cyclone had hit it. There were clothes strewn everywhere and one of his suitcases is gone from the closet. The middle-sized one. So I figure either he’s left me for good this time or he’s on one of his business trips. You want some more tea?” her voice had acquired a tremor. In spite of her hard-edged demeanor, it looked to me as if she was on the verge of dissolving after years of psychological abuse from her husband. I sensed that further questions would not help either of us.
“No, thank you.” I stood. “I’m sorry to have bothered you this afternoon, but it is necessary that I locate your husband as soon as possible.”
“He does that you know. Leaves home without warning. For some kind of business trip.” She stopped and stared into her mug again. I knew there were no tea leaves to provide the answers she so obviously sought. “Well, try not to hurt him too bad when you find him.” With that surprising statement, she rose, apparently intending to show me the door.
We walked back along the hall toward the front of the house. The door to what I guessed was an office or maybe a library stood open and the light was on. Naturally I slowed and glanced inside. On the desk was a small bound book about seven or eight by five inches. Like a small ledger. The cover appeared to be suede and there was a word on it I couldn’t read. The lettering was yellow.
I started to ask about the book and then Mrs. Murchison saw me staring and stepped in front of me. She looked me in the eyes and gently closed the door. “I hope you find what you are looking for,” she said. At the front door she shook my cold hand and ushered me out into the winter night.
Chapter 35
Snow was still falling and blowing all around, sometimes so thick I could hardly see the highway. Other times the wind calmed and visibility was pretty good. Plows had been up and down the highway so the road was reasonably clear, if slick in spots. The temperature was falling which meant snow should cease pretty soon.
We were all moving, but not very fast. It took me more than an hour to get to my place in Roseville. The driveway was plowed shut but I bucked my ride through the ridge and made it into the garage. Along the way I realized I’d never gotten Mrs. Murchison’s first name, although she’d responded to ‘Mrs. Murchison,’ readily enough. It seemed I was becoming paranoid about everybody’s identification.
After a phone call to Catherine, I broiled a pork chop and threw together a salad out of some almost-over lettuce and raw veggies. I put my feet up, scratched a cat on the head and began to think about the Murchison’s purloined painting and a murderer’s location. The airpo
rt had closed to outgoing flights so he wasn’t getting away from me that way, at least for a few hours. I didn’t really think he’d book it out of town, unless he had some place specific to go. I had no concrete reason to believe that, except the old intuition. Of course, I had no real proof that Clem Murchison was a killer. I just knew it. In my gut.
It was after nine, but I picked up the telephone anyway. Mrs. Murchison answered on the third ring, so she hadn’t been asleep. No surprise.
“It’s Sean Sean, again,” I said.
“Yes, Mr. Sean,” she said. She sounded calmer, in charge of her emotions.
“Uh, I neglected to ask. Just for my records, you know. Will you tell me your first name, please?”
“No harm in that, I guess. My name is Frances, Fran, everybody calls me.”
“Thank you. Does your family have a lake place? A cabin up north somewhere?” I said. Me and Parker.
“Yes we do. It’s on Pelican Lake, not far outside of Brainerd.”
“Near Breezy Point,” I said.
“Across a small bay. We can look at their beach,” she confirmed.
“Could he have gone there?”
“It’s possible, the place is winterized, but why would he?”
I sighed into the phone. “I don’t know, Mrs. Murchison, I’m just checking possibilities. One other thing. Do you speak or read a foreign language?”
Silence. Then, “What an odd question. I studied Spanish in high school but I’ve never used it so I guess the answer is no.”
“I’m looking for a record book, you see. I think it’s probably written in a foreign language. German, maybe. Like a small ledger.” I stopped, having given her a wide opening.
The Case of the Purloined Painting Page 17
