Dead Man's Mistress

by David Housewright

  “Don’t move, miss,” he said.

  That’s when I did something that in retrospect was very, very foolish.

  I hit the security guard at the point of his jaw just as hard as I could.

  The agent fell.

  I grabbed Jennica by the hand.

  We started running.

  Once we were outside the room, we hung a left for no particular reason other than when playing hockey and baseball as a kid, I was always good at going to my left. We were in a high-security building for god’s sake. There weren’t that many options available to us.

  I pulled Jennica across the office suite to an empty room; she could barely keep up. I pointed down.

  “What?” she said.

  “Shoes.”

  Jennica pulled off her heels. She held them both in one hand and her bag in the other.

  “Where to?” Jennica said.

  “There’s an emergency exit in every corner of the warehouse.” I had to pick one, so I pointed toward the right. “That way.”

  “Can’t we hide?”

  “The place has like three hundred cameras. They already know where we are. Are you ready?”

  Jennica nodded and we began running.

  We didn’t even get close.

  Half a dozen security guards surrounded us. I pulled Jennica behind me and went into an American karate stance. O’Rourke had reached us by then.

  “Mr. McKenzie,” he said, “you know better.”

  I glanced at the six men standing around me. Each of them looked like they could kick my ass one-on-one. I stood straight, allowing my hands to fall to my sides.

  O’Rourke gestured at Jennica.

  “Friend of yours?” he asked.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Yet you didn’t know she was going to be here. I saw the look of surprise on your face when she arrived.”

  “You don’t miss much, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  “It’s my work. I’m going to take your word that you didn’t know about the camera.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Miss.” O’Rourke held out his hand.

  “What?” Jennica asked.

  “Give him the camera, sweetie,” I said.

  “McKenzie…”

  “Give it to him.”

  Jennica moved close behind me so that my back gave her a tiny bit of privacy as she reached into her gown and her bra to produce the thumbtack camera. She set it into O’Rourke’s palm.

  “Now the recorder,” he said.

  Jennica looked at me again for assistance.

  “You knew the rules,” I said.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Flonta did. Give him the recorder.”

  Jennica stepped behind me again. She slowly edged up her long skirt. She paused to glare at the security guards on both sides of us. To my great astonishment, they both turned their backs.

  God, I love Canadians, my inner voice said.

  Jennica finished pulling up her skirt and reached between her legs.

  “Oww, oww, oww,” she chanted.

  “Sweetie?”

  “Just wait a second. Oww, oww…”

  A few moments later, Jennica smoothed the skirt back in place, the hem falling to her ankles.

  “Okay,” she said.

  The guards turned around. I swear at least one of them was blushing.

  The recorder was silver and about the size of an old flip phone; there was a thin white cable attached to it as well as a couple strips of gray duct tape. Jennica handed the ensemble to O’Rourke who bounced it in his hand a couple of times.

  “What did I tell you about amateurs?” he said.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “There’s a woman whose good opinion is important to me,” he said. “You might have saved her a great deal of money tonight.”

  “Are we good then?”

  O’Rourke pointed at the emergency exit behind us.

  “Out the door and to your right about a kilometer and a half there’s a strip mall with an Indian restaurant. You can grab a cab there. I recommend that you take it to the airport; don’t even think about going back to the hotel. Miss? You neither.”

  “Sound advice,” I said.

  O’Rourke spun around, took a couple of steps, and nearly ran into the security guard that I had punched. The guard was holding a Faraday bag with my name on it. O’Rourke took the bag and tossed it to me.

  “Thank you.” I gestured toward the security guard. “I apologize.”

  “My fault,” he said. “I was careless.”

  O’Rourke held up the camera for both Jennica and I to see and waved us on our way.

  * * *

  It took us twenty minutes to reach the restaurant with Jennica moving gingerly in her tight skirt and heels. We spent another twenty waiting for a cab to the airport. Jennica was hungry and asked if we could eat first. I told her no.

  “I want to get to the airport as quickly as possible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the safest place in the country, probably in every country.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Do you really need me to explain it?”

  Once we reached Aéroport international Jean-Lesage de Québec we booked passage on the first airline headed to Minnesota, this one with a stopover at JFK. I was relieved that along with her cell phone, wallet, and assorted makeup, Jennica had the foresight to carry her passport in the little jeweled bag. The CBS agent who walked her through customs took his own sweet time about it, though. I didn’t know if he was suspicious because Jennica didn’t have any luggage or he just liked the way she looked in that dress.

  As soon as she was allowed into the concourse, Jennica bought a shirt and a pair of jeans that she wore out of the clothing store, stuffing her lace gown into a bag. Walking along the concourse in her heels made her say, “I look so Hollywood.”

  A short time later we were sharing a pizza at a joint called Pidz while we waited for our flight.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “Where’s what?”

  “You know what.”

  Jennica dipped into her pocket, pulled out an SD card, and set it on the table.

  “That’s why I wanted to get to the airport so quickly,” I said. “Before O’Rourke discovered that you gave him an empty recorder.”

  “It wasn’t empty. I replaced this SD card with a blank. That’s what all that oohing and owwing was about. That and getting the guards to turn their backs.”

  “I’m impressed that you thought that far ahead.”

  “What did O’Rourke say? It’s my work. McKenzie, what’s going to happen to Mr. Flonta and Michael?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Mr. Flonta is our producer; he handles the money and Michael—Mary Ann McInnis said it was extremely difficult to find a trustworthy man because they’re so rare, but I’m willing to give Michael the benefit of a doubt.”

  So that’s what M. A. told her.

  “They’ll be okay,” I said. “They’re not going to end up facedown in a ditch somewhere if that’s what you’re wondering. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that they’re both wandering around the airport right now looking for a ride home. We might all end up on the same damn plane.”

  “I was disappointed when we found that the paintings at the auction were forgeries.”

  “So was I, to be honest. I keep hoping for a different outcome than the one I’m stuck with.”

  “What outcome?”

  I sighed dramatically.

  “What does that mean?” Jennica asked.

  “What?”

  “That big sigh. What was that about?”

  “Nothing. Just tired.”

  “Ohmigod, McKenzie. You know where the paintings are, don’t you?”

  I sighed again.

  TWENTY

  I drove alone to Grand Marais on Friday. I would have gone sooner, but Nina talked me out of it.

  Sh
e had met us along with Jeffery Mehren at the airport when Jennica and I rolled in at seven thirty Thursday morning. Mehren gave his daughter a vigorous hug. Nina folded her arms, tilted her head, and said, “You know how I hate getting up before ten,” which shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone who knew the hours she kept.

  “I bought you some macarons from Madame Gigi’s,” I said. “Unfortunately, I had to abandon them at the hotel.”

  “I noticed you don’t have the carry-on I gave you for Christmas, either.”

  “Allow me to explain.”

  “Later.” Nina hugged me just as hard as she could. “Just as long as you come home in one piece.”

  Meanwhile, Mehren was holding his daughter at arm’s length and smiling as if she had just returned from a shopping spree.

  “What did you bring me?” he asked.

  “I haven’t had a chance to screen the footage yet, but it should be spectacular. The McInnis paintings were forgeries and when Mr. Flonta found out, he went ballistic and then the whole place went ballistic. It was just—wonderful. And, of course, McKenzie saved me from a fate worse than a strip search. Didn’t you, McKenzie?”

  “What is wrong with you people? You especially.” I was pointing at Mehren. “Sending your daughter up there with a hidden camera—she could have been hurt.”

  “It’s what we do,” Mehren said. “It’s part of the job.”

  “Yeah,” Nina said. “Like you should talk?”

  “At least I’m an adult.”

  “Since when?”

  “All right, all right.” I nudged Nina toward the sliding doors that led to the parking ramp. “Where did you park?”

  “Wait. McKenzie.” Jennica intercepted us. “Where are you going?”

  “Home. Isn’t that allowed?”

  “You’re going after the Scenes from an Inland Sea, aren’t you?”

  “Are you telling me he knows where the paintings are?” Mehren asked. “Where? Where are they, McKenzie?”

  “Guys, I’m really tired. For one thing, I’ve been babysitting your daughter for the past twelve hours.”

  “That’s not fair,” Jennica said. “Okay, maybe it’s a little fair, but McKenzie…”

  “Remember our deal—if I find the paintings, I’ll ask my client for permission to speak with you. If she says yes, then I’ll give you the interview.”

  They stood watching me, their expressions nearly identical as father and daughter worked out the implications.

  “Louise Wykoff is your client,” Mehren said.

  “No,” I told him. “She’s not.”

  * * *

  I slept until about two P.M. By then Nina had gone off to Rickie’s, as was her habit, and I spent the rest of the day catching up on the Twins playoff run and evaluating the Wild and Timberwolves chances for the upcoming hockey and basketball seasons while listening to KBEM, the local jazz station. In other words, I did nothing. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do anything.

  The next morning, though, I drove directly to Louise Wykoff’s Art Academy, not stopping for anything including gas, arriving at about eleven fifteen. I pounded on the door, but she didn’t answer. I called her cell phone. She didn’t answer that, either. Probably I should have called her earlier to tell her I was coming, only I wanted to surprise her.

  I tried her door. She said she sometimes forgot to lock it, but that morning she hadn’t. I actually circled the church looking for a way inside. I wasn’t entirely sure why. It’s not like I was planning to break in.

  Yeah, right.

  “What are you doing here?” Peg Younghans wanted to know.

  She startled me while I was walking around the church and my hand went to my right hip where the SIG Sauer was holstered. Peg didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’m looking for Louise,” I said. “Do you know where she is?”

  “What are you doing, stalking her?”

  “Of course not.”

  I took a step toward her. She took a step back. She was dressed for the art gallery and her heel caught in the grass. She nearly fell. I reached to help her, but she danced away.

  “I thought you were finished with her, just like you were finished with that young woman you dumped on the street the other day,” Peg said.

  “I didn’t dump her.”

  I took another step toward her and again Peg moved out of reach.

  “You men are all the same,” she said.

  “I’m sorry you think so.”

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “If you see Louise, tell her I’m looking for her.”

  “I’ll be sure to warn her.”

  “I don’t know what I did to make you so angry, Peg.”

  “Just go.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I made my way to the Mustang while she glared at me. I opened the car door.

  “I thought you liked me,” Peg said.

  “I do.”

  She shook her head like she didn’t believe me and continued to glare until I put the Mustang in gear and drove away.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later I parked in the driveway at David Montgomery’s house off Eliasen Mill Road. I expected a flashback of sorts; a revisiting of the sight of Montgomery’s body on the floor and his head … It didn’t come, though. The way the trees surrounding the house swayed in the gentle breeze, I had a kind of peaceful feeling as if nothing bad could ever happen there again.

  I didn’t bother with the house, shed, or garage. Instead, I walked through the woods just as That Wykoff Woman had instructed me. It took fifteen minutes to find it—a gray and black PVC-covered box about eight inches thick, forty-six inches wide, and thirty-six inches tall leaning against a birch tree. It had a heavy-duty metal handle, two nylon straps with plastic nylon buckles, and rubber wheels. I think they called it an artwork transport case and somehow I didn’t believe that Montgomery had picked it up at the local Holiday Stationstore.

  I opened it. My ears filled with a loud rushing sound like air escaping from a broken tire valve. I swallowed hard and the sound stopped. At the same time, I blinked once, twice, three times, closed my eyes for a few seconds, and opened them again. I reached out and gently touched the canvas on top before pulling my hand back, afraid my fingers would damage it.

  The painting of a naked Louise standing with her back to the artist, the Ontonagon lighthouse seen through the door frame she was leaning against, was on top. She said she didn’t know what the painting meant, yet I did. It was the light at the end of the tunnel.

  I glanced carefully at the other paintings. Thick poly foam sheets protected the canvases from one another and poly foam walls protected them from the case. Afterward, I repacked the case and carried it to the Mustang. I was surprised by the weight; I guessed about thirty-five pounds. I put the case in my trunk, started the car, and—waited.

  What would happen, my inner voice asked, if you took them to the City of Lakes Art Museum, set them next to the door, rang the bell, and ran?

  I smiled at the idea. The more I thought about it, the more I smiled.

  ’Course, that would make a lousy ending to Jennica’s movie.

  * * *

  I drove back to That Wykoff Woman’s studio. The entire trip had taken less than forty minutes. I knocked on the door. Louise didn’t answer. I tried the knob. This time it turned in my hand. I opened the door even as I called out to her, thinking she must be upstairs in the living quarters and didn’t hear my knock.

  “Louise, it’s McKenzie.”

  I stepped inside.

  And found her.

  She was dressed in sneakers, running shorts, a thin T-shirt, and a sports bra.

  She was tied to a chair, her mouth gagged.

  Her jaw was marked and swollen where someone had hit her hard and I thought, What kind of psycho would damage such a marvelous work of art?

  “Come in, McKenzie,” Peg Younghans said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  She was standing off to the side
with good sight lines to the door. She was holding a gun like she knew what it was used for. The gun was pointed at me.

  “Put your hands up.”

  I thought of my SIG holstered at my hip, only I didn’t like my chances. I put my hands up. Let’s see how this plays out, I told myself, and moved away from the door, deliberately leaving it open. Peg didn’t seem to notice.

  Louise mumbled something behind her gag; tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “I got tired of listening to her,” Peg said. “I was going to shoot her like I did David and just walk away, but I decided to wait for you first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is all your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “If you had stayed away … You took what you wanted from Louise; I saw you hugging her the other night; saw her in her nightgown. That young woman, too, the one working for the documentary crew. You said you were in a committed relationship. That was a lie. You took what you wanted but that wasn’t good enough. Oh, no. You wanted more. Just like David did. He took from me, then from her, then from me, then from her again.”

  Peg waved her gun at Louise.

  “You’re the one I should have killed, not David,” she said. “It wasn’t his fault that you seduced him—the Wykoff woman. Is there any man you can’t seduce? Did you seduce McKenzie? He could have been mine if not for you. McKenzie, why didn’t you want me? I went to your motel room. Do you know how hard that was for me? I had to stop on the side of the highway on the way home because my hands were shaking, because I couldn’t catch my breath.”

  “You’re mistaken, Peg,” I said. “I’ve always liked you more than Louise.”

  “Don’t say that. It’s a lie. You’re lying to get what you want. It’s what David did, too.”

  “No, Peg, listen.”

  I kept maneuvering around the room until I was positioned between her and Louise with Peg’s back to the door. My inner voice was screaming at me.

  Okay, smart guy, now what? Do you think you can outdraw this woman? Do you think you can shoot her before she shoots you?

  No, I told myself.

  So what have you got?

  The truth. The truth will set us free.

  There’s a first time for everything.