Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  Yet—I heard the word even though he didn’t speak it.

  “If I knew something more about you besides your name I might believe you,” I said. “But I doubt it.”

  “Then I shall be blunt. The Scenes from an Inland Sea that were stolen from the Wykoff woman rightfully belong to me. I want them.”

  “How do they belong to you?”

  “I bought the entire collection from Mary Ann McInnis in 1983 except for those few pieces that were specifically identified in our contract. These three paintings are part of the collection. They’re mine.”

  “I’m sure a long, drawn-out, and obscenely expensive civil court case involving you, Louise Wykoff, and Mary Ann McInnis will decide the issue.”

  “Not if I control the paintings first. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  “So it’s been explained to me.”

  “I have been made aware through Mr. Mehren that you have been retained to recover the paintings for the Wykoff woman. I will pay you handsomely to deliver them to me instead.”

  Flonta was smiling. It occurred to me that he hadn’t stopped smiling since he emerged from the Lincoln. I found it extremely disconcerting. In my mind, the only people who smile that much are either professional liars—think politicians on the campaign trail—or insane.

  “Let me guess again,” I said. “This is where you tell me that everyone has a price.”

  “Are you telling me that it’s not true?”

  “No. It is true. Everyone does have a price. It isn’t always money, though.”

  “What’s your price, McKenzie?”

  “I’m not sure. What can you offer that will make it all right for me to betray the people I promised to help?”

  “I am merely providing you with a potentially lucrative business proposition.”

  “I respectfully decline.”

  “Just so you understand—we are enemies now.”

  “Why? Why are we enemies?”

  “You’ve insulted me to my face.”

  “Because I declined your so-called business proposition? That’s a reason to go to war? What are you going to do if the grocery store runs out of brats, invade Germany?”

  “Watch your back, McKenzie.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  With the assistance of his driver, Flonta climbed back inside the Lincoln Town Car. The driver shut the rear door and circled the car to the driver’s side door. He opened the door, yet before sliding behind the wheel he gave me a playful smile, one that I translated to mean, “Do you believe this shit?”

  A moment later, the Lincoln pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. Nina tapped me on the shoulder and spoke her first words since Flonta stopped us, “Can we go to dinner now? I’m really hungry.”

  * * *

  At nine o’clock the next morning, Perrin Stewart conducted a press conference in a meeting room at the City of Lakes Art Museum during which she revealed that the estate of Randolph McInnis, in order to recover and protect what is clearly an American art treasure, was now offering a reward of $250,000 for information leading to the safe return of the three Scenes from an Inland Sea that had been taken from the home of Louise Wykoff in Grand Marais, Minnesota. None of the twenty-four-hour cable news networks carried the conference live, yet by ten all of them were broadcasting recordings of the announcement. My TV remote allowed me to rewind and replay programs and I did several times, mostly to make sure that it was Jennica I had glimpsed briefly off to the side and yes, it was Jeffery Mehren kneeling in front of the podium and aiming a camera upward at Perrin. Well, well, well …

  After the initial report, the networks began adding film of the McInnis exhibit on the third floor of the museum as well as a shot of Louise’s own painting. Still later, the segment was expanded to include a summary of the now decades-old controversy surrounding the Wykoff paintings and the relationship of artist and model as well as in-studio debates by a panel of experts over the wisdom, legality, and ethics of negotiating with criminals or terrorists depending if you were watching CNN or Fox. Eventually, the story would take up ten to twelve minutes of every hour of programming for the remainder of the day.

  My burn phone began ringing almost immediately. The callers fell into three categories.

  The first was comprised of TV and print journalists, talk radio hosts, podcasters, and, to my surprise, online bloggers—I had never read one so I didn’t know they were that big of a thing. I declined to identify myself or answer any of the questions they asked. I also insisted that they not call again and blocked their numbers in case they tried.

  The second group consisted of ordinary citizens, if I could use that term, who felt the need to voice their opinion on the McInnis estate’s wholehearted endorsement and reward of criminal activities whether I cared to hear it or not. I was particularly impressed by the number who wanted to see me dead and or in hell. I mean—really?

  The third and decidedly much smaller group was looking for a quick payday. Usually the conversations went along these lines:

  “Yes,” I’d say when I answered the cell.

  “Who’s this?” they’d ask.

  “Who’s this?” I’d repeat.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Why are you calling?”

  “I have your precious paintings and if you ever want to see them again you’ll pay the money you promised. No tricks.”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “If I even think I see a cop I’ll burn them.”

  “Fair enough, but I want to see the paintings.”

  “You’ll see them after I get the money.”

  “There are three paintings.”

  “I know how many there are.”

  “How big are they?”

  “What?”

  “What are the dimensions?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Go and measure them. I’ll wait.”

  “I’m not going to measure them.”

  “I’m going to hang up now. If you really do have the paintings, go get a tape measure and figure out their dimensions. When you have the sizes call me back. If they’re accurate we’ll talk.”

  As I said, this went on for most of the day. Despite my up close and personal experience with the dark side as a police officer and what I do now, I have a more or less optimistic view of the world. Only I was becoming increasingly angry and frustrated by what I decided was a telling exemplar of the greed and stupidity of my fellow man. I loved the condo Nina and I shared yet after a few hours I felt it closing in around me. I came thisclose to tossing the burn phone off the balcony. After a few hours more, I came thisclose to tossing myself off the balcony.

  Around four P.M. though, the calls slowed and then ceased. My first thought—there was something wrong with the cell phone. I paid only $19.99 for the damned thing, after all. I soon received calls from Perrin Stewart, Louise Wykoff, and Mary Ann McInnis in quick succession on my regular cell phone. Perrin was first.

  “Turn on CNN,” she said.

  I did and discovered Bruce Flonta conducting a press conference of his own. The background suggested a hotel in Minneapolis that I could see from my balcony. He was telling the same reporters that had gathered around Perrin Stewart that the missing Scenes from an Inland Sea rightfully belonged to him, a fact that he would prove in court should that be required. In the meantime, Flonta said, “I will pay $500,000 for the safe return of the paintings to me.”

  This time I didn’t need to rewind the program to see both Jeffery and Jennica Mehren and their cameras. Father and daughter seemed to be having a wonderful time.

  I had to laugh. Perrin didn’t think it was funny. Neither did Louise when I spoke to her. Mary Ann, on the other hand, thought it was hysterical.

  “We’ll run an auction on national TV,” she said. “Wolf Blitzer can act as auctioneer. What are my bids, what are my bids, twenty-five, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five over here. No, no, not Wolf. We’ll get Ander
son Cooper. I know his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. It’ll be great fun.”

  “I’m glad to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Perrin and Louise are beside themselves.”

  “I always had a feeling this would end up in court. I’d really like to avoid that if at all possible, though. Tell me, McKenzie, what are we going to do? I’ve spoken to my attorneys and they say there’s nothing they can do about Flonta trying to outbid my reward offer. They say nothing can be done period until someone actually takes possession of the paintings in which case the police might or might not get involved and the lawsuits can commence. You’re not a policeman, however, and you’re not a lawyer so, I ask again, McKenzie, what are we going to do?”

  “We could make a deal with Flonta.”

  “Why would I want to do that? The man’s a schmuck.”

  “He also has more money than we do. Or am I mistaken about that?”

  “I have no idea. I would guess, though, based on my past dealings with the man, Flonta would be willing to pay a lot more for the paintings that I would. I mean, look what he paid the first time. What a nitwit.”

  “So, a three-way split? You each take one painting?”

  “Won’t Perrin be happy to hear that? Why would Flonta want to partner with us, though?”

  “We have something he doesn’t.”

  “Louise.”

  “We also have the exact dimensions of the paintings.”

  “If we have the dimensions, why do we need Louise?”

  “We just do.”

  “You’re a romantic, you know that, McKenzie?”

  “She called me first. Besides, if Louise is compelled to make a separate deal with Flonta…”

  “All right, all right. Should I give Flonta a call or will you?”

  “He already told me that he was my enemy, so…”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because I said no when he asked me to betray you guys and join his side.”

  “McKenzie. You are a romantic. Okay, I’ll call him tomorrow morning; let him get a taste of what it’s like to be on cable news first. I don’t expect the conversation to go well, though. In the meantime, seriously, what are we going to do if he turns us down?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “I have a great deal of faith in you.”

  “I wish people would stop saying that.”

  FOURTEEN

  The population of Grand Marais had declined significantly by the time I returned Wednesday afternoon, yet I expected it would ramp up again for the weekend. The kids had gone back to school, which made weeklong family vacations iffy, yet the weather was still warm and the autumn leaves remained resplendent. In a couple of weeks that would change. The leaves would fall and so would the temperature. Soon after, the gales of November would come slashin’ just like Gordon Lightfoot’s song promised, followed by an abundance of ice and snow. Most of the restaurants and other businesses would close and the remaining inhabitants would prepare for the quiet solitude of the long winter that Leah Huddleston apparently appreciated so much. Personally, I doubted I’d last three days before going stir-crazy.

  I managed a room at the Harbor Inn with a magnificent lakeside view, yet only for the night. The hotel was completely booked from Thursday through the weekend. The Frontier Motel said it would take me back, although I couldn’t imagine why.

  Afterward, I found a spot on the nearly empty terrace of the Gunflint Tavern. It was about sixty degrees. In most places that would call for thick leather jackets, scarves, hats, and gloves. Except this was Minnesota. Seeing kids and some adults running around in shorts and flip-flops was not all that surprising. As it was, my only concession to the weather was a long-sleeve button-down cotton shirt. Beyond that I was wearing my standard uniform—jeans, Nikes, and a sports jacket.

  The nine-millimeter SIG Sauer concealed beneath the sports jacket and positioned just behind my right hip wasn’t standard, although not entirely unusual. I holstered it there after I left the Cook County Law Enforcement Center. That hadn’t been my first stop, of course. My opening move was to drop Louise off at the art academy. I parked across the street and carried her suitcase to the door for her. She invited me in for coffee, only by then I’d had enough of the woman.

  It hadn’t been an unpleasant drive up from the Cities. Mostly though, Louise spoke about art, the business of art, the life of an artist, how they’re treated differently in Europe than in the United States, the importance of the National Endowment for the Arts, and why she was encouraged to hear that there was a growing movement, although small and underreported, in which wealthy patrons, groups, and foundations were providing artists with economic stability and a pathway to success reminiscent of what was done during the Renaissance. It was like a four-and-a-half-hour seminar interrupted only for gas in Duluth.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was grateful for the education. It meant I could now hold my own in conversation with Perrin Stewart’s art major pals should she ever invite me to party with them. Still, enough was enough, so I declined Louise’s invitation. I told her that there was much to prepare, only I was lying.

  There was nothing to be done now except to wait and hope that my burn phone would ring. It had rung several times since Flonta had held his press conference, except the calls were only more of the same. One caller had aroused my interest when he asked if I was willing to bid an amount higher than Flonta had. Unfortunately, he said he didn’t like my attitude when I asked about the dimensions of the three paintings and vowed he would do business with Flonta after all. I wished him luck.

  Flonta had turned down Mary Ann’s offer of a partnership just as she had predicted, of course. He said he damn well knew an authentic Randolph McInnis when he saw one. Mary Ann said that it was too bad because now if he did recover the paintings, she would see that he was prosecuted for receiving stolen property; both she and Randolph McInnis were from Minnesota, after all, and the police were on their side. Flonta said he would take the paintings to California where the authorities were on his side. Mary Ann said that would mean transporting stolen property across state lines, which was a federal offense and meant the FBI would arrest his sorry ass. Flonta said he wasn’t afraid of the FBI. I recalled a conversation I’d had years earlier with El Cid. He told me that he wasn’t afraid of the police, either. He could always make a deal with the police, he said. Then he told me what he was afraid of. I whispered it in Mary Ann’s ear and she said it aloud to Flonta, “How about the Internal Revenue Service?”

  Flonta called Mary Ann a name that I had once screamed at a hockey player who cross-checked me across the bridge of my nose, yet would never dare say to a woman. He abruptly hung up the phone.

  Mary Ann said, “For the past couple of years I felt my life was becoming routine and boring. This is actually fun.”

  I told her she was one sick puppy, which made her laugh, left her house, picked up the Wykoff woman, and drove back to Grand Marais.

  * * *

  After saying good-bye to Louise, I returned to my car. Peg Younghans was on the sidewalk and moving toward me. I glanced at my watch while I waited for her: 12:45. Leah Huddleston down at the Northern Lights Art Gallery must have just returned from lunch, I told myself.

  “McKenzie,” she said.

  “Ms. Younghans.” She was wearing a floral dress with buttons that started at her throat and went to her knees; the top four had been undone. I told her I liked the dress.

  “This old thing?” Peg said. “I see you remembered where I live after all. Or are you here to visit Louise?”

  “Both.”

  “Men. I need to take these heels off. Come inside with me.” When I hesitated, she added, “I won’t show you any dirty pictures unless you ask politely.”

  I discovered first as a police officer and later as a “roving troubleshooter” that you can get a sense of the people who live in a house thirty seconds after crossing the threshold. Some people are overly messy for example, wh
ile others are overly neat. Peg, on the other hand, was immaculate to the point of obsession. Her windows gleamed in the afternoon sun, the light proving that the hardwood floors had been waxed and buffed. Throw rugs had been beaten to within an inch of their lives. Coffee and end tables were polished to a high gloss. Suede furniture was brushed. Drapes vacuumed. The fireplace looked like it had never held a fire. Even the leaves on her plants looked dust-free and shiny. It made me think there was some serious OCD flowing in her genes. Yet that diagnosis conflicted with the flirtatious and somewhat boisterous behavior I encountered those times I’d spoken to her.

  I flashed briefly on what the bartender at Mark’s Wheel-Inn had claimed about Peg suffering an anxiety attack when he hit on her at the Art Colony reception. It occurred to me that I knew nothing about the woman.

  Peg rested a hand on my shoulder and used it for balance as she slipped the heels off her feet. She opened a closet door and set the shoes on the floor next to about a dozen other pairs all arranged neatly. She closed the door and moved deeper into the living room. There were several photographs on the wall, all of them in black-and-white, none of them of people.

  “Can I offer you something?” she asked. “Coffee? Tea? Me?”

  “You are persistent, I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m only teasing, McKenzie. I take your word that you’re committed to someone else. If all men were as honest as you, women would be much better off. I’m having tea. Would you care to join me?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Peg invited me inside her kitchen. It was as pristine as you might expect given her living room. She went to her stove and ignited a fire beneath a teapot.

  “I know it takes longer than using a microwave,” Peg said. “But that seems so—inelegant.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  She used a silver tablespoon to transfer tea from a ceramic jar to mesh tea balls and set them inside identical cups on identical saucers. Afterward, she set place mats on the kitchen table. She made me sit in front of one of the place mats that she then rearranged until it was just so. When the teapot began whistling, she removed it from the stove and poured the scalding water into each cup. She set the timer on her microwave for five minutes. Sometime during all of this, two more buttons on her dress had become undone; I could detect a hint of white lace beneath her bodice.