Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!
Page 86
"I can't even begin to tell you. We had always kept the storage closet locked. I had no reason to check on the paintings. They were her babies, and that would have been overstepping my bounds." MJ sighed and shook her head. "I didn't know her doctor had warned her about her blood pressure. If I'd known then what I know now, I would have hustled her into the hospital a lot sooner."
"It wasn't your fault," I said.
"I still feel guilty. I should have paid more attention to Essie, but I was too focused on my mother. Mama was turning ninety-five, and she was making noises about this being her last birthday. I figured I better get up there and see her. She was looking forward to it. Then when Essie had her stroke, I said I wouldn't leave, not with her in the hospital. But she became agitated and insisted that I go. Her doctor suggested that if I didn't provide a distraction, it might be easier for her to recover. August was always our slowest month. Bobby offered to loan me money so I could fly to Michigan rather than drive. And my mother was so excited about my visit that I couldn't let her down."
"So you visited, came back, and discovered the paintings were missing."
"All eighty-five of them. Vanished into thin air. I can't imagine how the thief did it. My best guess is that Essie loaned them out and forgot about them."
"Why would she do that? Loan them out? You're talking about a lot of artwork."
"Essie Feldman was a shrewd businesswoman. Loaning out the paintings was a smart way to drum up interest in Highwayman art. You have to appreciate the timing. Essie had heard whispers that Jeb Bush was going to name the Highwaymen to the Florida Hall of Fame. She knew that event would increase their value. She had a network of people who kept their ears to the ground for her. Bird-dogs, if you will. That's one reason she could usually come up with whatever furnishing or accessory her customers wanted. She'd point them in the right direction, and they'd flush out the game. Unfortunately, she rarely shared their names with me."
I paused to stretch the muscles in my shoulders. Essie's computer was an older model but it had a nice big monitor. Even so, sitting behind it for hours made me stiff. "I'm still at a loss as to how these paintings suddenly became so popular. Is it because Jeb Bush inducted them into the Florida Hall of Fame? Was he governor at the time? What's the big deal?"
"There's no money in obscurity. Think about an unknown actor. Suddenly his face is on the cover of multiple magazines. He appears on television. And his price goes up. That's how it happened for the Highwaymen, too. First the governor created this registry. Next there was an hour-long TV documentary, an NPR segment, and several books. The right people talked up the paintings. Originally people sneered at them because the Highwaymen were these untrained painters who literally painted while standing on the side of the road sometimes selling artwork with paint that was still wet—but suddenly they were being hailed as outstanding examples of outsider art. Of course, all this came with the realization that the painters themselves were getting older. A couple had died. Scarcity adds value."
Her explanation made sense. "You're thinking that a gallery simply kept all those pieces? Heard about Essie's stroke and decided to wait and see if you tracked them down?"
"I don't know. It's as good of an explanation as any."
"Did you call around?"
"Of course I did." She sounded ticked.
"Sorry. I'm simply trying to understand all this. Is it possible someone took them out under the cover of night?"
"No." She sounded impatient. "There were security cameras trained over the front door and the back. When the recordings were reviewed, there were no breaks in the time sequence."
"But there are no security cameras now."
"Since they didn't stop the theft of her paintings, Essie called the company and made them give her a refund. You should have heard the fuss she kicked up." MJ paused. "Are you asking all these questions because you think I have something to do with the loss?"
"No. I'm not blaming you, MJ. I'm simply puzzled."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Here's the thing," and she frowned. "You can't imagine how bad I feel about those paintings. It keeps me awake at night. Essie and I worked together for years. We had a system. I can't understand what went wrong. It doesn't make any sense. I know—or knew—most of the gallery owners. I can't imagine any of them ripping her off like that."
I understood guilt all too well. "Did you ever read Sherlock Holmes?"
"I've watched the movies. Why?"
"He said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'"
MJ studied me, thoughtfully. "Hmmm."
"Hmm?"
"I'll need to think about that."
62
"That lazy lump of ugly fat," Showalter sneered at the spectacle of Ollie Anderson stuffing his face with donuts while printing out paper from his computer.
“My wife loves me.” Ollie gave Lou a lopsided grin.
Showalter had been a "boots on the ground" type of detective, but Ollie liked to sit behind a desk and eat rather than burn through shoe leather. However, that didn't mean that Ollie wasn't helpful. With his knowledge of computers and the Internet, Ollie had managed to get a full accounting of Hal and Philomena Humberger's worldly wealth. He'd also poked around on Hal Humberger's hard drive, which Mrs. Humberger had gladly offered them without a search warrant.
"Anything," she'd said, "if it will bring Hal's killer to justice! You're welcome to take all the papers in his desk, too."
"Hal Humberger socked money away?" asked Lou, as he studied the papers that Anderson had smeared with chocolate icing.
"Yep," Ollie spoke around a masticated éclair.
"But we don't know where or how much."
"Nope."
"And he's been really active on eBay."
"Yep."
"But we don't know what he's been selling."
"Nope."
"Can we find out? Come on, Ollie. You're only halfway there."
"I'm on it. Takes time." Ollie grabbed a donut with pink icing from his ever-present box of pastries. “The upside is that we’re lucky Mrs. Humberger gave us access to everything in her husband’s office. We didn’t even have to get a warrant. The downside is that there’s a dump truck full of papers to go through. Mr. Humberger wasn’t exactly a tidy guy.”
Lou wanted the investigation to move faster. Even though they were working nearly around the clock, time was running out. The longer it took to make an arrest, the less likely it would be to happen.
Their boss, Police Chief Reiss, had called the two homicide detectives into his office to see how things were going. Reiss warned them that he'd had visits and letters from "concerned" citizens. The city council was putting pressure on him.
"Someone," said Police Chief Reiss, "is out there beating the drums and making the natives restless."
Then came the ugly proof, the vandalism at The Treasure Chest.
The scene at the store had made him sick. Skye had looked bewildered and hurt, as had MJ, to a lesser degree. Ms. Delgatto had been shaken to her core. No wonder. He'd heard firsthand from Police Chief Robbie Holmes how her ex-husband, Dom, had harassed her and her family. He had taken his story to the media. Once he started giving interviews, the Delgattos' restaurant had been the target of vandalism on a daily basis. Graffiti, broken windows, prank calls, and you name it.
Witch hunts and mob justice had no place in civilized society. Lou valued the rule of law. It might move slowly, and on occasion, mistakes were made, but it was far better at achieving justice than sly innuendo and unfounded accusations.
"I did find something interesting." Ollie said to Lou.
"What's that?"
"I've got a few friends who work at the Seminole Hard Rock Casino down in Hollywood. They tell me Mr. Humberger was playing high stakes poker. Apparently, he is a terrible poker player and had a bad losing streak going. Funny thing is he's all paid up. My friends think someone may have been bankrolling him."
This didn't make a
ny sense. Why would someone bankroll a man who wasn't very good at gambling?
"You're saying that he was playing at the big boy tables?" asked Lou. "Where'd he get the money?"
"Not sure. Looks like he had a very active account on eBay." Ollie sloshed another plastic container of creamer into his coffee.
"Did you go on eBay to see what he's selling?"
"Yeah, I looked. There were some odd auctions that I'm still trying to identify. They seem to have been edited. Some of the comments were not deleted, and they seemed to involve gold."
"Gold?"
Lou chewed that over in his mind. There wouldn't be any reason to sell gold over the Internet. It could be sold locally. Unless…
As much to himself as to Ollie, Lou said, "You don't think Hal Humberger was trying to sell gold from the Armada, do you?"
Every couple of years, remnants from the sunken Spanish Armada washed up on the shores of the Treasure Coast. From Vero Beach to West Palm Beach, sharp eyes stayed alert to the very real possibility that bounty from the Treasure Fleet of 1715 might be churned up by the surf and deposited on the beaches. By some estimates as much as $500 million was yet to be recovered.
"If he'd found some of that gold, he'd have had to sell it," reasoned Lou. "Could he do that on eBay?"
Ollie shrugged and brushed a crumb of pink icing off his chest. Lou caught a whiff of the sugar and fat, and his mouth started watering. Usually he was immune to his partner's sweets, but when he didn't get enough sleep, fighting temptation was futile. He reached into the open box and took the lone sour cream donut.
"Doubtful. Possible, but doubtful," said Ollie. "If he did, he broke state and federal law. Any treasure that's found is supposed to be turned over to the district court. The State of Florida would want to take its twenty percent. Besides, he's been an eBay seller for nearly ten years now. How many gold coins could he have turned up? For it to be real money, it would need to be a major find—and those are rare enough that someone would have gotten chatty about that haul, don't you think?"
"You're wasting time, chasing shadows," Showalter muttered.
"Does Philomena Humberger have any idea what her husband was selling on eBay?" Lou took one bite of the sour cream donut.
"Nope. She didn't even know he had an account."
"Find out for sure what Humberger was selling on eBay." Lou stood up, grabbed his jacket, and tossed the half-eaten donut into the trash.
"Hey! I would have eaten that!" Ollie complained.
"I know," said Lou.
63
I wiped my forehead with a cold rag as I took in all the progress we’d made while remodeling The Treasure Chest. It had been a long day for all of us. Jimmy and his tiling crew left at seven p.m. Bobby took off shortly thereafter. A period of blissful quiet followed. I had most of my variable costs figured. Next I needed to plug in the property taxes. My spreadsheet was coming right along. From there, I could begin work on a business plan.
Skye wouldn't be back from Pumpernickel's until after eleven, so it was just MJ and me, working together companionably. Around eight, she made a soft "Oh!" of delight when she discovered a box of old statements. After thumbing through them, she worked the phone, stopping only to paw through our piles of "trashy treasures," as we laughingly called them.
It was slow work, but she'd managed to unearth several more saleable items from a dark corner. Because the tile guys were busy moving stuff around, we still had areas that hadn't properly explored.
At nine, I noticed how tired she looked. I insisted that she go home and get a good night's rest.
"You're of no use to us if you get sick," I said.
"Your new mattresses are on order," she said in reply. "I got them for you at half off."
"Let me guess. You used to date the manager?"
"No. He's another ex-husband."
Jack's tail thumped happily when she patted him goodbye. While locking up behind her, I thanked her for all her hard work. I scooped up Jack on my way back to the desk. With him on my lap, I continued plowing through paperwork.
Dad had insisted that keeping a tight rein on expenses was the key to profitability. The more I learned about our fixed and variable costs, the better I could forecast our "nut," the amount of gross profit we'd need each month to stay in business. My little dog fell asleep while I was stroking his head and ears, but he jumped to attention when I shifted my weight.
When I looked into his soft brown eyes, I thought I saw gratitude and loyalty. I snapped a photo of Jack and sent it to Tommy, who responded right away with a text-message that said, "Neat! A purse pooch. Kinda small, but okay."
I turned my attention to a big yellow envelope that MJ had unearthed. Inside were dozens of old cash receipts for purchases made from vendors at a local flea market always held on Sunday. I had marked my calendar for that, because Skye and MJ suggested we go and see what we could find, too. It wasn't exactly like I had a lot of other activities on my dance card, and it felt good to have a solid engagement.
Into yet another spreadsheet, I loaded the names of all the vendors we'd unearthed, using the receipts to categorize them by the sort of items Essie had purchased. I also coded them with colors to represent how much business they'd done with Essie. That showed me what had sold and what had languished on the shelves.
I created yet a third spreadsheet showing sales per month by category. It quickly became clear that she prospered by selling a piece of furniture here and there. Would I cover my expenses by selling fewer antiques and more touristy items? A quick calculation told me that would depend on my profit margin. Closing my eyes and stroking Jack's fur, I could imagine a conversation between Essie and me.
"Snowbirds come down from their homes up north right before Thanksgiving. They stay until Easter. While they’re visiting, some of them decide they want to retire here in sunny Florida. Their lives have changed and their lifestyle has to change to match it. They no longer want the dark furniture they had up North."
What had MJ suggested? A cross between HGTV and Coastal Living Magazine. Snowbirds would want furniture with a beachy vibe.
Unfortunately, that's not what we had. The scarred pieces huddled on the old flooring were dark and dreary. I set Jack in his box so I could take another look at what we’d turned up. We had six dark pieces with dings, and another six or eight that needed gluing as well as surface repairs. To sell them, I'd have to hire that expensive cabinet guy. Of course, I'd also have to pay him in advance. My money would be tied up until the furniture sold.
How to get around this?
Skye would have an answer, a thought both reassuring and mildly annoying. What would my contribution be to this venture? Was I a desk jockey, a sideline-sitter, who'd simply manage the money? That left me cold, even though I do enjoy that part of business, this store seemed waiting for me to be more than just a glorified accountant.
But what?
Alone in The Treasure Chest, the place seemed to whisper, "Keep following your heart."
"Where is my heart taking me?" I said.
Irked by my lack of creative direction, I put Jack in his cardboard play pen and dragged the new display units to the dirty front windows. We needed a way to light up the display windows at night, to attract purchasers who might stroll by during the coming months when the days were short.
I was so lost in thought that I nearly knocked over a gallon of blue-gray paint. The lid hadn't been closed properly. A clean paint brush rested on a nearby newspaper, as did the two end tables with chipped finishes. Bobby had filled the nicks and dings to give them a smooth surface. He'd done the same to the other dark pieces. On a lark, I popped open the lid and dipped the brush inside. Before I realized what I was doing, I'd covered both end tables in paint.
The result was pleasing. The paint was more appealing than the dark wood, although the finished pieces still lacked something. A detail that would make them even more interesting. The sort of touch that Skye might provide, but I couldn't.
What I found surprised me. I sent the file to the email address listed for Cooper's business.
"Hot dog," I said. Jack heard me and responded by thumping his tail against the side of his box.
"This calls for a treat, little buddy." I reached into the package of dog yummies and fed him one.
64
"Lou? Come over and take a gander at this," said Ollie, right before he smashed half of a Braunschweiger and onion sandwich into his mouth. "I figured instead of looking at income only. I might compare the income and outgo. When I looked on his credit card statements, it looked to me like Mr. Humberger paid out a fortune to FedEx."
Lou leaned in and squinted so he could see the computer monitor. "I wonder how much a typical real estate agency pays out in FedEx fees?"
"Heck if I know, but here's the kicker. See the size of the packages? We aren't talking documents. We're talking big stuff. Packages. Insured for hundreds. With signatures required."
"Right." Lou sighed. "I guess I need to talk to Mrs. Humberger. Maybe she can tell us what went out in those packages."
"Go ahead, but I wouldn’t expect you to get much" said Ollie, as he crunched an onion and chives potato chip. "This isn't the real estate account. See? Look at that. It's just Hal's name. Not the business name. This account was passcode protected on his hard drive. I unlocked it. I don't think Philomena Humberger knows anything about it."
"There's got to be more to this," growled Lou. "Where'd you put all the papers from his office?"
Ollie's feet rested on a big box containing all the papers they'd collected from Hal Humberger's desk after Philomena Humberger gave them permission. On the exterior of the box were neatly attached tags, official records of the chain of custody. Because a lot of time could be wasted by going through every piece separately, Lou and Ollie had decided to load all the loose papers into plastic baggies. Now Lou carried the box over to a long worktable and withdrew the baggies one by one.