by L C Hayden
“I’ll let you know.” Bronson disconnected and concentrated on his driving. He was within a mile of reaching his sister’s home when a snappy tune played on his cell. Bronson checked the caller I.D. The Steel Man himself. “Mr. Wellington, what can I do for you?”
“I don’t know if this is helpful or even if it’s relevant.”
“What’s that?”
“About six months ago, I took Lorraine out to eat. We bumped into the family lawyer. When I introduced them, I got the distinct feeling they had already met. Maybe she did leave a will.”
“What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Sam Glass.”
“Got contact information?” Bronson pulled over, reached for his shirt pocket, retrieved the small spiral notebook, and the pen.
Wellington gave him the number and Bronson wrote it down.
“One more thing,” Wellington said.
Bronson checked the side and the rear view mirrors before pulling back into traffic. “What’s that?”
“If the painting was stolen, could that have been the reason Lorraine was killed?”
“That’s not a very likely scenario, but at this point, I can’t rule anythin’ out.”
Wellington gasped. “That means I’m the reason she’s dead.”
“No, you’re not responsible. Had it been a simple theft, why would the killer follow her to the bridge when all he had to do was break into her house and take the paintin’? There’s got to be something more than just the burglary.”
“I feel better.” Bronson could almost see Wellington smile. “Thank you, Mr. Bronson.” He hung up.
The light turned red and Bronson stopped. His fingers drummed the steering wheel as he waited for the light to turn green. What he had told Wellington was the truth, but what he hadn’t said was that the painting could easily have led to his sister’s death.
If the painting had been stolen from his sister’s house, Lorraine might have known who took it. Killing her would guarantee that the villain’s I.D. remained a secret.
Bronson thoughts drifted back to Amanda.
Chapter 16
Nothing could possibly go wrong today. The signs all around the curly blond haired man guaranteed his success. The sky the color of blue-tinted glass assured him that things would go his way. He had followed Bronson from a safe distance, confident in his knowledge Bronson would never know. The fool had led him to Lorraine’s house, so now here he sat two doors down, watching the mansion.
Quite a nice pad, he had to admit. Two stories, plenty of windows peeking at him like creature eyes in the forest. The long columns at the entry way gave it a flair of once being a strictly colonial architecture type house. But now that two wings, one at each side, had been added, the new design blended its former architecture with the contemporary look. The end result pleased his eye, and more than tripled the living area. He shrugged. More places to search.
Not his problem. The quiet neighborhood told the curly blond haired man he had done right. Way he saw it, Bronson would either walk out with the painting or leave it behind. If he carried the painting with him, he would clobber Bronson and relieve him of his burden. If Bronson decided to leave the painting in the house, he’d wait until Bronson drove off before letting himself in.
Either way, the painting was his—theirs. He scrunched down on the seat, making himself almost impossible to spot. While he waited, he called his twin and the Raven. He wanted to share the good news with them.
*****
Could be a coincidence, but Bronson had long ago stopped believing in them. He remembered that the last time he was at his sister’s house, he had watched Cannady and the other troopers search the premises. In the library, Cannady had opened the desk’s top right hand drawer, revealing a nice looking pair of binoculars.
Bronson headed for the library and quickly retrieved them. As he went up the stairs, he took two at a time. The front guest bedroom had a perfect view of the street below him. He could look out, but no one would be able to look in. But just to make sure, he’d hide behind the curtains. He peeked out, exposing as little of himself as possible.
Just as he thought. A solitary figure sat behind the green Toyota Camry LE, the same car that had followed him from Lisa’s Place. Its driver had parked it across the street, two doors down. Maybe the car and its driver belonged there. Maybe it didn’t. Either way, he’d contact Cannady. She would want to check on that.
Bronson adjusted the binoculars so that the license plate clearly showed. He jotted down the information. He moved the binoculars up trying to identify the figure in the car. No such luck. He couldn’t get a clear view because the man sat low in the seat. As far as Bronson could tell, he was alone.
He retrieved his cell, called Cannady, and told her about Amanda, the painting, and the car that followed him.
Chapter 17
Exactly eighteen minutes had passed since Bronson began his search. How fricking long does it take to grab a painting and walk out? The curly blond haired man squirmed in the car seat and tried to make himself comfortable. It didn’t work. He wished he could get out and walk some of the cricks out. He hated sitting in the car doing nothing but watching.
His cell buzzed. “Hey, twin, what gives?”
“You’ve got to get out of there. The troopers are coming.”
The twin sat up, his hand reaching for the ignition key. “How do you know?” He held on to the key ring but didn’t start the engine.
“My twin radar told me to warn you.”
Maybe because his twin had been born minutes before him, he assumed the role of leader. As such, his older brother had saved him on several occasions. “How do you know they’re heading this way?”
“Soon as I got the feeling, I zoomed in on your cell and got your whereabouts. Me and the Raven drove down and parked by the public pool, a safe distance from you. We’re several miles away. Didn’t want to blow your cover in case I’m wrong. We’d been here less than five minutes when two trooper cars sped past me going in your direction which made me think they’re probably heading your way.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ve got to cover my tracks so I’m going to pay the neighbor a visit, then get out of here.”
“Act fast.”
“Will do.” He pocketed the car keys as he watched each window, wondering which one Bronson stood behind. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t see Bronson. Hiding that way and not letting him in on the fact that he knew he was being followed, took a lot of skill. He had underestimated Bronson. He’d never do that again.
He bit his lip. The signs had betrayed him. He’d have to be more careful. Make sure he read the signs correctly. He reached for the car door handle and stepped out. He hesitated a few minutes before heading toward the house located besides the parked Toyota. He hoped to hell Bronson was watching right now, but he had no way of knowing.
He rang the doorbell, not sure what he’d say when someone opened the door. He waited the appropriate amount of time before ringing again. No one was home. Good. That saved him the trouble of trying to figure out what to say.
He headed back to the Toyota, forcing himself to take normal steps. Let Bronson think he was just a casual caller waiting for his friends to show up. Just for good measure, as he walked back to the Camry, he pretended to make a call. He placed his cell on his cheek and moved his lips as though talking.
He reached the safety of the car. His heart could stop pounding now. Bronson better thank his lucky stars. He had won this time, but not ever again.
*****
After Bronson finished talking to Cannady, he walked from room to room memorizing every detail. In his search, he found neither the picture nor any signs that a painting had once adorned any of the walls.
He glanced out the window and saw the same car parked in the same place. He hoped Cannady would hurry.
Turning away from the window, Bronson concentrated on
his search. He had counted five desks scattered throughout the mansion: two in the study, one in the den, one in the library, and one more in her bedroom. The most likely desk to hide any information should be the one in her bedroom. He’d start there.
Bronson looked under the desk and saw nothing unusual. He opened its top drawer and emptied it of its contents, mostly pens, pencils, ruler, scissors, and notepads. Before setting each paper aside, he thumbed through each one, making sure he didn’t miss anything. He felt the empty drawer for a false bottom. No such luck.
He moved on to the second drawer and did the same. Then the third drawer and finally the last drawer. By the time he finished, he knew nothing more about Lorraine than he had before.
One desk down and four to go. But first, he’d check on the car.
Still there.
Although Bronson didn’t expect to find anything, he nevertheless examined the desk in the study with the same amount of detail he had devoted to the first.
Again, nothing, zip, zero.
He glanced out the window. Nothing changed.
He worked on the third desk. Same results. His watch told him Cannady should be arriving any minute now. He stood by the window and watched.
Seconds later, the driver opened the car door and stepped out.
Bronson stood straighter, watching. Waiting. After a small hesitation, the blond man strolled up the walkway leading to the house where he had parked the car.
Watching from the second story window made it hard to notice details, but Bronson did his best to memorize as much as possible. First and most important, he focused the binoculars on the man. Blond, curly hair, possibly average height, average weight. Dressed casually, blue jeans, blue T-shirt. Nothing unusual about him, or at least nothing visible from Bronson’s limited view.
He watched the man ring the doorbell, wait, ring it again. Taking his time, the man headed back to his car as he talked on the cell. He reached his car and drove away.
Maybe coincidences did exist. Seems he had been waiting for the folks across the street after all. He called Cannady and reported the latest development.
She listened quietly, then said, “I checked on the license plate you gave me. It’s assigned to a Hertz-Rent-a-Car company. Paperwork from them shows the driver is a man named Frederick Parson. The driver license picture that Hertz faxed to the barracks shows him to be a twenty-six year old blond-headed man, just as you reported. He has no record. So I tend to agree with you. We’re barking up the wrong tree.”
As they talked, Bronson headed for the desk on the den. “Yep, should know better. Nothin’ ever comes this easy.”
“Don’t get discouraged. We’ll find the killer.”
“Won’t rest ’till we do.” An awkward pause followed, which Bronson noted.
Cannady cleared her throat. “What are you doing at Lorraine’s house?”
“Givin’ it a thorough search.”
“You will remember to report anything you find.” A statement, not a question.
“Naturally.”
“Then I’m turning back. I can be more productive at the barracks.” Cannady disconnected.
Bronson finished searching the desks. Although he hadn’t expected to find anything, he still felt disappointed at the failure. He flopped down on the couch, frowned, and rubbed his eyes.
He stood up, glanced down at the couch, and removed the cushions. Nothing, but what had he expected to find? The painting? A note scribbled to him? He placed the cushions back on the couch and sat down.
Each nook and cranny offered the possibility of discovery. If only he knew what to look for, he could narrow his search.
He had already given up on the idea of finding the painting within the premises, but it had to be somewhere. Assuming he found the painting, would that lead him to the killer? Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing and at this point, the painting was the only loose thread he had. He would follow it. Somewhere in this house, Lorraine had left him a hint. Every instinct told him that. All he needed to do was find it.
If he were Lorraine, where would he hide the clue? As kids, Bronson remembered playing a form of hide and seek. Instead of hiding themselves, they would hide an object. Bronson quickly learned that Lorraine would always hide the item among her favorite toys.
Her favorite toys. Now replaced by music.
He sprang off the couch and headed for the room located to his left. He stood at its door, absorbing every detail. A grand piano majestically occupied the middle of the room. A bookshelf held books, all relating to composers’ lives or similar topics. An opened violin case, with its bow resting on top of the instrument, lay below a stand. Did she play the violin too? He groaned as he realized how little he still knew of Lorraine.
Bronson’s eyes drifted toward the sheets of music resting in their proper place above the piano, waiting to be played. Mozart’s bust to his left seemed to smile as it absorbed the beautiful notes that once filled this room.
Without the musical scores, the room would be void of sound. They were an essential part of the room, her passion. Here, if any place, is where Lorraine would leave him a message. He carefully removed each sheet, looking for any handwritten marks. Other than an occasional scribbled fortissimo or pianissimo, he found none.
What he did find was a business card. He picked it up. On the upper right hand corner a still life painting added a sense of glamour to the card. The center of the card read Larry S. Miller, Artist. An address, phone number, and website at the bottom completed the information. Bronson pocketed the card.
An artist’s card. A missing painting.
Interesting.
Chapter 18
Soon as Bronson hit the freeway heading back to Ellen’s house, he used the Bluetooth to call Wellington. His personal care-taker informed Bronson he didn’t feel well and was asleep. However, he expected an update in the painting soon as he woke up.
“Tell him the paintin’ wasn’t at her house, which may or may not mean anything. I have a lead to follow.”
“Very well, sir, I will relay the message.”
“One more thing,” Bronson added.
“Yes?”
“Tell him I hope he feels better.”
“He won’t. At this stage, all we can do is keep him comfortable.”
“I know,” Bronson said, “but tell him anyway.”
“Will do.”
They disconnected and Bronson called Carol. They talked until Bronson pulled into Ellen’s driveway.
“Give Mike and Ellen a big hug for me. Tell them I really appreciate them taking care of you,” Carol said. “As for you, I’m sending you a big, slurpy kiss.”
Bronson smiled. What had he done to deserve such a great woman? “I love you.” He put the cell away and turned off the engine.
Mike greeted him at the door. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
“Just got home myself, less than five minutes ago.”
Bronson unlaced and removed his boots and collapsed onto the couch. “Tell me about your day.”
“The Daniel Jenkins School for Boys is a huge facility that rests on several well-kept acres. The buildings are immaculate and all the boys, ranging from six to eighteen, wear uniforms. The latest, most up-to date technology occupies not only their living quarters, but also their classrooms. This is the school for rich boys, as it takes a bundle to have your child enrolled there, but they can almost guarantee that when your child graduates, he will be a productive member of our society. They have the testimonials to confirm this.”
Bronson stretched out on the couch and half raised his left brow.
“Just giving you background information,” Mike said. “Never know when it comes in handy.”
Bronson continued to stare at him.
“Okay, now to the stuff you really want to hear.” He took a deep breath and spoke as though reciting a dissertation.
“Lorraine devoted several hours every day—including most Saturdays and Sundays—t
o the school. Most of the kids highly regarded her. Those that didn’t, say she had her favorites, three in particular.”
Bronson recalled the only picture that Lorraine displayed in her house, three boys playing football.
“She taught music.”
No surprise there.
“Her closest and only friend at the school, a woman named Claudine Ramirez says the school would have hired her as a teacher, but she wasn’t certified so they couldn’t. But she was so good with the kids and she knew her subject so well, they kept her as a volunteer.”
“Did Claudine tell you anything about Lorraine that could help you?”
“Unfortunately, no. Even though she was the one whom Lorraine talked to the most, Lorraine wasn’t very communicative. Kept to herself most of the time.”
A loner—that’s the Lorraine, Bronson remembered. Somehow it seemed to reassure him. “Did you talk to the three boys?”
“I’m supposed to go back tomorrow. Seems the kids haven’t been notified of her death. The administration wanted to be reassured that the deceased was indeed their beloved music teacher before making an official announcement. Later on today, they will call a mandatory assembly for all students, faculty, and staff. That’s where they’ll inform everyone about her death. Counselors will be on stand-by today and tomorrow morning. I’ll be there in the afternoon.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Don’t mention it. You’d do the same for me.”
“You don’t have a sister.”
“That you know of.”
Bronson half smiled. He had done an excellent job of keeping that secret all to himself. “Anythin’ else?”
“Yeah, just my personal observation. Her so-called only friend at the school, Claudine, didn’t seem to be distressed. She gave me the impression of being more nervous than upset. I got the feeling that there was something she wasn’t—or couldn’t—tell me.”
Chapter 19
All night long, Bronson tossed and turned. Bits and pieces of unformed thoughts attacked his dreams. The painting. Bronson rolled over so he’d lay on his right side.
