by L C Hayden
“You sounded just like him.”
“And that’s a good thing.” Mike turned down the main street that would lead them to Ellen’s. “While I’m still Dad, do you have any confessions I need to hear?”
Bronson reached into his pocket and felt the papers. “Would now be a good time to tell you that somehow Miller’s checking account transaction register ended up in my pocket?”
Mike’s eyes snapped shut for a second as his features tightened like a fist. Through clenched teeth, he hissed. “Why would you do that?”
“Thought maybe we could see if he’s made any monthly payments for rental space. If we find his other studio, we might find the paintin’.”
“You still plan to pursue this, even after today?”
“I’m only seekin’ the paintin’, nothing else. Let the troopers find Miller’s killer.”
“Why is the painting so important?”
“It belonged to Lorraine. I’m just defendin’ her right to keep it.”
“I bet.”
Bronson shrugged and looked away. “Reckon I better call the troopers and report Miller’s murder.”
“Reckon so.”
Bronson unpocketed his cell and dialed the trooper’s main line. “I’d like to report a homicide.”
“Your name?” the trooper at the other end asked.
Bronson gave him the address and hung up.
Immediately, his cell buzzed. Bronson recognized the ring tone, The Sea of Love, his and Carol’s song. “Sweetheart, are you here?” Bronson’s smile stretched from ear to ear. He looked at his watch: 4:55. “You’re early.”
“Unfortunately, I’m late.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m at a repair shop. The camper broke down.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course, but the mechanic said it was a special part and it’ll take three to four days for it to arrive. Once it’s here, they’ll have the piece put in the camper in less than an hour and it will be good as new.”
“Where will you be stayin’?”
“In the camper. I can use it as long as I dry camp. At night, they’ll lock me in their parking lot so I’ll be more than safe.”
“I can drive over and get you. Or be with you.”
“No use, honey, but I appreciate it. You take care of things over there. When’s the funeral?”
“Cannady said the M.E. released Lorraine’s body yesterday. I still need to make the arrangements.” Dang, he should have done that this morning.
They talked for a while longer. When they disconnected, Bronson told Mike about the camper and Carol not coming for several more days.
“Damn.” Mike tapped the steering wheel.
Bronson was about to ask him what that was about but decided to let it go. Instead he asked, “Mind if we go to the funeral home close to Ellen’s? I need to make the arrangements.”
“No problem.”
Quite on the contrary, Bronson thought. It presented a huge problem. His gun, locked away in the camper’s overhead cabinet, would remain there for three or four more days—maybe even longer. He vowed he would never again get caught without his gun.
After supper, he’d pay Devono a visit. Bronson felt sure a slime ball like that could provide two, hard to trace guns. One for him, and one for Mike.
Chapter 36
Bronson played with the VISA card Wellington had sent him. If he used it, he’d be indebted to him, but that wouldn’t be so bad. The old man was dying. Without the money, Bronson couldn’t purchase the guns. He opened his wallet and slipped the new card in.
He flopped down on the bed, took out Miller’s checkbook register, and studied each entry. A pattern began to form. Once a month, on the third, an automatic withdrawal for five-hundred and fifty dollars went to Fine Homes Realty Company. Bronson would be willing to bet that paid the rental for the studio. Tomorrow, he would pay them a visit.
The aroma of fresh baked bread along with the mixture of several spices, meat, and heaven knows what else drove Bronson out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He kissed Ellen’s cheek.
She set the salad bowl down. “What was that for?”
“For always making sure my hunger pains are taken care of.” He helped Mike finish setting the table.
They sat down to a meal consisting of some type of chicken, mixed vegetables—not Bronson’s favorite, but he ate them anyway. Carol would be proud of him—salad, and homemade biscuits. Bronson helped himself to another serving of chicken. “I was thinkin’.”
“Oh, oh, that’s always dangerous,” both Mike and Ellen said in unison.
Bronson waited until both settled down. “Ellen, you’re always cookin’, and I really appreciate your efforts. This is absolutely delicious.”
“Thanks. I enjoy piddling around the kitchen.”
“But not always, I’m sure. Everyone deserves a break.”
By now, Mike was eyeing him suspiciously. “Where’s this leading?”
“Thought maybe tomorrow afternoon, I’d drive into Pittsburgh. Catch a museum or two, the ones Carol would have no interest in. I’ll also check on places to take Carol to once she arrives.”
“Uh huh.” Mike’s suspicious look continued.
Bronson ignored him, something he had learned to do a long time ago. “Thought maybe the two of you could take in a movie and have dinner some place nice.”
“That sounds delicious, don’t you think so?” Ellen’s eyes sought out Mike’s.
Mike let his eyes slip away from Bronson and met Ellen’s. “I’d like that.”
“Good. It’s a date.” Ellen served herself more vegetables.
“Besides doing the tourist bit, what else do you plan to do?” Mike asked.
“Miller made monthly payments to a realty company. Thought maybe that’s for space rental. Thought maybe tomorrow mornin’ we could go check it out. We’ll be back by noon in plenty of time for you to keep your date with Ellen.”
*****
Fine Homes Realty Company occupied the largest office space in the two block long strip mall. Mike parked almost in front of the company and tossed Bronson the car keys.
The only employee this early in the morning was an elderly lady. She looked at Bronson and Mike above the top of her wire rimmed glasses. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Bronson flashed her his retirement badge. Mike made no attempt to take out his Dallas one. Bronson glared at him. Mike ignored him, something he had learned to do a long time ago.
Bronson turned his attention to the realtor. “We’re here to talk to you about Larry Miller.”
“It’s true, then.” She slammed the cabinet drawer shut. “He’s dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The realtor shook her head. “That’s really a shame. He was a harmless little man. Why would anyone want to harm him?”
“We’re hopin’ that by visitin’ his studio, we can find an answer to that question.”
“I see.” It seemed obvious she didn’t. “But how can I help?”
“We know your company rented him the space that he used as his studio. We’d like that address.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” She opened the middle cabinet drawer and thumbed through the folders. She pulled one out. “Here it is.” She handed Bronson the contract. “Anything else you need?”
“You wouldn’t have a duplicate set of keys for Miller’s studio, would you?” Bronson briefly skimmed the contract and jotted down the address.
“No, sorry, I don’t.”
Bronson handed the realtor the contract. “Thank you, Ma’am.”
“I’ll make you a copy, if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary. I wrote down the information I needed, but I do have one more request.”
She nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Miller pays you, and you in turn pay the owner the correct percentage of the rent. Who is that owner?”
The realtor bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling as
though the answer lay there. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know. That’s Maggie’s department. She’s in charge of finances.”
“No apology is needed, just tell me where I can find Maggie. I’d like to talk to her.”
“She’s not due to come in until one. I’d give you her cell number, but she’s getting a divorce and her soon-to-be ex called her constantly. It drove her crazy, so she canceled the service. Then to top it all, she’s living with a different friend or family member until she finds a permanent home. I have no way to contact her.”
Bronson handed her his business card. “As soon as she gets in, tell her to look up that information and then call me.”
“I will.” She accepted the card.
Once back in the car, Mike sat in the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel. “I suppose we’re going to the studio.”
“I suppose so.”
“And how do you plan to get in?”
Bronson flashed him a smile. Mike rubbed his forehead.
Chapter 37
The address the realtor gave Bronson and Mike led them to a row of small duplexes that looked more like rectangular boxes than homes. The painter must have had food on his mind when he painted the duplexes. The color and texture resembled slabs of pancakes.
Mike slowed down to where the car barely rolled. “That’s it, isn’t it?” He indicated one of the duplexes toward the middle of the row.
Bronson looked down at the address he had scribbled and up at the numbers painted above the door. “Yep.” He reached for the car door handle.
Mike stopped the car and grabbed his arm. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Yep.”
“We have a term for it.”
“Yep.”
“It’s called Breaking and Entering.”
“Yep.”
“It’s illegal.”
“Yep.”
“Think, Bronson.”
Bronson removed his hand from the door handle and leaned back on the seat. Three seconds later, he again grabbed the handle. “Thought about it.” He nodded once. “Yep, still want to do it.” He opened the door and stepped out before Mike could stop him.
Before he slammed the door shut, he heard Mike say, “Shiiit.”
Mike joined him on the sidewalk where Bronson waited for him.
“You can’t use that expression, you know,” Bronson said.
“Why not?”
“It’s my expression.”
“If you can break and enter, I can steal.” Mike headed toward the door.
Bronson smiled and hurried to catch up.
Mike knocked on the door. Both waited. No answer. He knocked again.
Bronson looked at the doorknob. “Lookee here. It’s one of those simple locks, the kind that belongs on the inside of the house, not the outside. Wonder if Miller knew his Cracker-Jack studio had no security.” He took out the new VISA card out of his wallet and snickered. If only Wellington knew. “This is the first time I’m using my new credit card.” He wiggled the edge of the card against the sliding bolt. He then leaned closer to the door and listened, sliding the card gently in a north-south direction.
Mike rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into doing this.”
Bronson heard the telltale click and the door swung open. “Success.”
“Shit,” Mike said as he stepped in.
“That’s shiiit.”
The one-room studio stunned Bronson. Off to his right, a kitchenette area contained a two burner stove, a microwave, an apartment size refrigerator, and a single set of cabinets. Next to that, a closed door. Bronson assumed it led to a bathroom. Toward the back, facing Bronson, a couch covered with a pillow and blankets held the distinct honor of being the only piece of furniture in the place. An art stand in the middle of the room held a new canvas and two brushes, each a different thickness. A flat five-by-six foot piece of wood on top of bricks burst with various paint tubes and other art supplies.
Paintings of various sizes and shapes and in various stages of completion filled the rest of the room. Next to one of the piles that rested against the walls, a portfolio case large enough to hold the largest of paintings lay open.
“How are we ever going to find that painting?” Mike asked.
“Process of elimination, I guess. We’ll have to look at each individually.”
“Do we even know what we’re looking for?”
“A storm at sea is all I know. If there’s an ocean paintin’ and the waters are calm, we’ll eliminate it. We’ll stack all the angry seas and take them to Wellington to identify.”
Mike nodded. “That’s about all we can do.”
“Yep, so let’s get to work. I’ll start with this stack of paintings.” Bronson indicated the pile next to the portfolio’s right. “You start on that one.” He pointed to the left of the portfolio. “We’ll work around until we meet or find the paintin’, whichever comes first.”
Two hours later, Bronson and Mike met. Bronson waited a few minutes for Mike to finish looking through his pile.
“That’s that.” Mike dusted the dust off his hands.
“Unbelievable. There’s at least five hundred paintings here and not one of an angry sea.”
“I think your estimate of the number of paintings is on the low side.”
“Maybe so.”
Mike stuck his thumb out and wiggled it in an up-and-down motion, pointing it toward the door. “Nothing left for us to do here. Let’s hit the road.”
“Not yet.” Bronson took a step backwards and studied each stack of paintings.
“Now what?”
“Not sure, buddy.” Bronson exhaled audibly. “Not sure.”
Mike threw his arms up in the air. He flopped himself down on the couch.
For five minutes, Bronson studied the paintings. He walked around the room, carefully focusing on each pile. “I see it.”
Mike perched tentatively on the edge of the couch. He looked at the paintings, then at Bronson, back to the paintings. “What?”
“Look at the frames.”
The frames to the left of Bronson were the type found at discount stores. The ones to the right were ornate, obviously expensive.
“That’s interesting.” Mike stood up and bent down to look at the frames.
“What bothers me is that the cheap drawings have fancy frames. The better looking paintings have plain frames.” Bronson and Mike eyed each other. Both nodded.
Bronson picked up the first of the fancy framed paintings, turned it over, and removed the back. Directly behind the displayed painting, Bronson found a different painting. On its backside, the provenance displayed the various museums and galleries where this piece had been displayed. Behind the original, three forgeries, complete with their fake provenance awaited to be sold.
Mike grabbed the fancy frame painting closest to him. Same results.
Half an hour later, they found the angry sea painting along with one finished forgery and another almost three-quarters complete.
Chapter 38
Barbara Culverson drew back the curtains as she watched Bronson and Mike load a stack of paintings into their car. Her duplex, like Miller’s, looked identical to all the others up and down the street. But hers, if anyone saw it, would stand out from the rest. Her room, instead of housing hundreds of paintings, harbored weapons. All sizes, all shapes, all forms. Her fortress, she called it.
Ever since she was a little girl when her father would take her hunting, she had developed a love for guns. She knew how to use each and she was precise. She never missed her target.
As a little girl, she enjoyed watching the animals die. The rush, knowing she had the power of life and death, gave her a thrill that grew stronger each day. By the time she became a teen, she’d shoot the animals only to wound them. She’d then approach them. Watching them die sent the adrenaline rushing through her veins. At first, she only watched the animal die, but she soon discovered the all thrilling pleasure of beati
ng the defenseless animal.
Her father sat on the ground and watched his daughter. Tears welled in his eyes. “Barb, honey, this is wrong. I should have stopped you before. I’m sorry I didn’t. You can’t do this anymore.”
The teen, whose facial features depicted the pureness of beauty, looked at him and flashed him a seductive, full teeth smile.
Her father looked down and shook his head. “I think it’d be better not to hunt anymore.”
“No, Daddy, this is our special bonding time. You can’t take this away from me.”
Her father stood up and wrapped her in his arms. “We’ll find other ways to bond. What you do to the animals, it’s not, well, it’s not nice. Not normal. You need help.”
“Then help me, Daddy.” The sixteen year old beauty winked flirtatiously at her father. “You’ve always been my strength.” She ran her hands up and down his arms.
He pushed her away. “Barb, what’s the matter with you? I’m your father. This is wrong.”
“Wrong, Daddy? How can it be wrong for me to love you more than any man out there?” She smiled seductively.
Her father covered his eyes and rubbed them. He sniffled. “I’ll take you to a doctor. Get you well, I promise.”
Barb moved away and leaned against a tree. “That’s it, then? No more hunting for us? No more special outings? Just me and a shrink?”
“You’ll get well. You’ll see.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll do things together, just not hunting.” He held back sobs.
“Will I still be your little girl?”
“Always, honey. Always.”
“Even if I do this?” She raised her gun and shot him, making sure to only wound him. She wanted to watch a human die. She waited. Two hours later, he died. She walked away.
The police had ruled the shooting as a hunting accident. Barbara—no longer Barb—had played the part of the grieving daughter to perfection.
Barbara smiled as she watched Bronson and Hoover drive away. If she made the call, she knew what her orders would be, and that pleased her.
She drew the curtains shut and headed for the phone.
