by Lauren Carr
During dinner, Izzy Thornton had uncovered information about Serendipity in a chat room on an art student forum. The discussion among the art students revealed that she rented a two-story building in the art district near one of the universities. Serendipity’s Gallery occupied the front of the lower floor. She taught art classes in the rear portion and lived in an apartment on the upper floor.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll track down this Serendipitiy to find out her story—if there is one.
For all they knew, Serendipity was just an eccentric friend of Caroline Andrews who claimed to be her sister because they shared a special friendship—and nothing more. With her sister’s role in George Livingston’s abduction and murder happening so many years earlier—Caroline may have said nothing to Serendipity about her.
“Are you asleep?” Helen brushed her fingers across his bare arm.
“Not really.” He kissed the back of her head.
“Are we wasting our time?”
“We came this far. We might as well follow through. Talk to Serendipity at least.”
“She’s been living off the grid for a reason.” Helen rolled over to rest her head on his bare chest.
“She’s an artist.” He stroked her hair. “Her public image may be anti-establishment. She could be living off the grid to impress her artist base. Meanwhile, in private, she probably has a driver’s license, pays taxes, and votes conservative.”
“There’s something odd about this case,” Helen said.
“There’s a lot odd about this case.”
“I was just thinking … If I was having an affair with a rich married man, and I found out that his wife was running away and going to disappear, I’d be thrilled.”
Chris agreed. “Isn’t that every other woman’s dream?”
“Why abduct and kill George?” Helen lifted her head to look into his face.
“Do we really know for certain that Patricia was having an affair with him?” Chris asked. “We only know that based on what Lucille Del Vecchio told us. She clearly has her own agenda. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard rumors about couples having illicit affairs when they really weren’t.”
“I believe the saying, ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire,’” Helen said. “Usually rumors of cheating spouses revolve around people who have a tendency to cheat anyway. My mother used to tell me, ‘once a cheat, always a cheat.’ I’ve found both on the job and in my private life that that’s usually true. Which is why I kicked Thomas to the curb, which is where he’s going to stay. Even so, if Patricia was having a love affair with George, then what would be her motive for killing him?”
“Maybe because he said no to her being anything more than a mistress.” Chris tapped her shoulder. “Let’s go back to what George was wearing. Jeans and a bathrobe.”
“And barefoot.”
“Patricia had uncovered Mercedes’s plans that morning.”
“Most women, in that position, would see it as an opportunity to finally have the man they loved,” Helen said. “Patricia ordered the champagne and oysters to celebrate George’s freedom.”
“They have oysters and champagne. Make passionate love. Afterwards, George puts on his bathrobe. Then, Patricia unveils what she thought was good news, but that isn’t good news for George,” Chris said. “Remember, he became vice president because he was married to the boss’s daughter. If the boss’s daughter runs away, he won’t be the boss’s son-in-law anymore.” He sat up. “What’s the first thing that crosses his mind?”
“He has to stop Mercedes.”
“He puts on his pants.” Chris moved to the edge of the bed. “If we are to believe Lucille, Patricia had spent many years waiting on the sidelines.”
“She said Patricia and George were together even before he married Mercedes,” Helen said. “Patricia’s marriage broke up because of George.”
“If that’s true, can you imagine what went through Patricia’s mind when she learned Mercedes was voluntarily walking away, and George’s first response was to stop her?” Chris asked.
“Patricia’s dreams were shattered.”
“And George’s life suddenly came to an end.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Hey, Ray, have you had any luck finding pictures of Serendipity on the Internet to compare to Patricia Baker?” Chris called their IT guy while Helen was in the shower down the hall.
At dusk, they had given up on falling back to sleep when they heard the pitter-patter of Izzy’s footsteps traveling down the hallway and descending the creaking stairs. Her footfalls were accompanied by the heavier patter of Admiral’s huge paws. Immediately, Sterling scratched at the bedroom door to join his new friends.
When Helen opened it, she stifled a shriek when once again, she mistook Irving for a skunk. As Sterling shot out the door and down the stairs, Irving strolled inside and made himself at home on the foot of their bed.
“No luck whatsoever,” Ray responded to Chris’s question. “This woman is totally off the grid. No driver’s license. No property. No bank accounts. No credit score. All I can find is conversations about her in Pittsburgh artist forums. They all say the same thing. As batty as she is talented. Now, she could have a real identity that she does business with. One with a driver’s license and social security number. Are you thinking she’s Patricia Baker hiding from the law?”
“Patricia Baker’s body was never found,” Chris said. “But Crane said a serial rapist confessed to killing her.”
“Generally, people don’t confess to murders they didn’t commit,” Ray said.
“Unless they were coerced,” Chris said. “They closed Baker’s missing persons case. They wouldn’t have done that if they didn’t actually believe she was dead.”
“The feds believed Mercedes Livingston was dead too.”
“True,” Chris said. “Have you been able to learn anymore about Kyle Billingsley’s finances?”
“Like is he hiding half a million dollars?” Ray asked with a chuckle. “If he is, he’s forgotten where he’d hidden it. The guy has made a career out of spending other people’s money. He only owns twenty percent of that club. The rest is divided between two has-been pop singers. Kyle’s an expert at coming up with ways to spend lots of money on big schemes and getting people to invest their money. Not so good at making money.”
“Could he have blown the ransom on some get-rich-quick scheme?” Chris asked.
“I’m finding no record of him ever having that much money all at once,” Ray said.
“What about Lucille Del Vecchio?” Chris asked. “Could she have stashed away half a million dollars?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean by ‘maybe’?”
“I mean maybe,” Ray said. “Lucille Del Vecchio is one shady character. She has had a couple of shell companies with questionable deposits. As far as half a million dollars landing in any of those accounts all at once—I’m not finding anything like that.”
“But it is possible?” Chris asked.
“Anything is possible.”
Before disconnecting the call, Chris asked if Ray had been able to uncover any information about Thomas Clarke’s whereabouts.
“Nothing,” Ray said. “The BOLO is still out for him. Elliott told me to let him know if I hear anything on the police scanner. I’m afraid to do that because Elliott is mad as hell. He said something about stuffing some chompers down Thomas’s pants. Now I don’t know exactly what chompers are. I went hunting on the internet and couldn’t find anything. Based on what Elliott was saying, I suspect that whatever they are—these chompers will probably do some permanent damage to Thomas’s family jewels, and I don’t really want to play a role in that with him being Helen’s ex and all. What do you want me to do?”
“If you find out anything, contact the state police,” Chris said with a sigh. “Then ca
ll Bruce.”
“I knew it,” Ray said. “You’re soft, Matheson. The guy tried to kill you.”
“I don’t think he did.”
“He told Elliott that he wanted you to burn in hell.”
“But he didn’t say anything about sending me there.”
“You don’t think the mob tracked you down, do you?” Ray sounded more fearful than he ever had before.
“Mob assassins don’t shoot the wrong guy,” Chris said. “If it was one of the syndicates after me, they would’ve snatched me and tortured me until I wished I was dead. Then, they would’ve gutted me while I was still alive. They didn’t do any of that to Matthew.”
“Lucky Matthew. All he got was a bullet to the back.”
“That’s another thing,” Chris said. “If it was one of my old associates, Matthew would have been dead before he’d hit the ground. Professional assassins are better shots.”
After an enormous breakfast of an egg casserole delivered to the house by Joshua’s oldest daughter, who happened to be a gourmet chef, they made their way to Pittsburgh. The night before, Joshua had suggested that they check in with his wife, Cameron Gates, so the homicide detective could be kept in the loop. Since she had not returned home the night before, they could only leave her a voice mail telling her that they were on their way to Meyran Avenue to question a possible witness in a cold murder case.
They made their way to the historic district and turned left onto Meyran Avenue. They drove halfway down the block before Helen spotted the shingle hanging next to the door reading “Serendipity’s Gallery.” Chris had to circle the block twice before he found a space in which to park the truck.
“Do you really think Sterling belongs in an art gallery?” Helen asked when Chris opened the rear door to let the German shepherd out. “By all accounts, this woman is eccentric.”
“If she doesn’t like Sterling, I’ll have him wait outside.”
Together, the three of them made their way up the street to the art gallery. The sign in the window indicated that it was open. A bell above the door jingled when they stepped inside to the soft sounds of piano music and the stench of cigarette smoke.
Chris kept a tight hold on Sterling’s leash as they made their way through the three rooms displaying paintings and statues from a wide variety of artists. The smoky cloud of cigarette smoke grew thicker with each room.
The collection included a life-size canvas made up of various shades of blue horizontal stripes companioned with another made up of red vertical stripes. “Reminds me of a color swatch I got from the contractor when we were remodeling the kitchen,” Helen whispered to Chris, who was trying to discourage Sterling’s interest in a bird sculpture.
The bird rested on the pedestal while its detached wings hung from a wire a foot above it—as if they had taken flight without the bird’s body.
The collections didn’t stop with paintings and sculptures. The gallery also displayed posters, brochures, and flyers promoting peace, anti-gun, anti-military, anti-law enforcement, and anti-capitalist viewpoints on bulletin boards in every room.
A pair of double swinging doors cut them off from the rear rooms. A sign above the doorway identified it as the “art studio.”
“Can I help you?” an elderly woman with a gravelly voice asked from behind the doors.
Chris and Helen exchanged quick glances before he took the lead. “We’re looking for Serendipity.”
The doors opened to release a cloud of smoke. She emerged.
Close to—if not—seventy years old, the artist did not allow her physical age to dictate her style. Her tiny eyes peered at them from behind a nest of wrinkles. Clutching a lit cigarette, her thin lips were enhanced with bright red lipstick drawn into a cupid’s bow that did not match her natural lip line. Her bony upper body was encased in a faded t-shirt. The image on the chest was faded to the point that it was indiscernible. Her worn blue jeans hung low on her hips, and she wore flip-flops on her feet.
The crowning glory was her hair in which long platinum dreadlocks were attached to her thin gray locks. The twisted hair extensions seemed to take on a life of their own—not unlike the mythical snakes that made up Medusa’s hair.
She was the personification of “extremely eccentric.”
Clinging to Sterling’s collar, Chris fought to focus on the old woman and not her hair. “Are you Serendipity?” He realized what a stupid question he had asked when he tore his eyes from her hair to see that she was cleaning a paint brush with a rag.
“Yes.” Serendipity removed the cigarette from her mouth to study them. “Are you looking for art lessons for your child?”
“No.” With a small laugh, Helen extracted her police shield. “We’re looking for information on a kidnapping and murder that happened in Shepherdstown, West Virginia, forty years ago. George Livingston.”
The artist’s small eyes narrowed. “I’ve never been to Shepherdstown.” She flicked the ash from her cigarette to the floor. “And I don’t know who George Livingston is.” She put the cigarette back between her lips and resumed cleaning the paint brush.
“But you regularly visit Caroline Andrews at Fox’s in Chester,” Helen said. “According to them, you’re her sister and, according to our records, Patricia Baker is also her sister.”
“Which makes you Patricia Baker’s sister,” Chris said.
A buzz on Chris’s hip signaled a text. He took the cell phone from its case to read a single line from Cameron Gates, Joshua’s wife. “On my way. Don’t start without me.”
Too late, he thought while slipping the phone back into its case.
Serendipity took a long drag on the cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “I can see where you’re confused.” She uttered a giggle that sounded like an extended croak from a frog. “I’m not really Caroline’s sister. I’m her friend. A close friend. Like, the only friend she has left. Years ago, she had a stroke and was taken to the ER. They’d only let family in to see her. Her husband had passed, and her kids had moved away. I told the hospital that I was her sister.” She put the cigarette between her lips. It bounced as she said, “I’ve been her sister ever since.”
“I guess that means you and Caroline have been pretty close,” Helen said.
“Very close.”
“Did she ever talk about Patricia?” Chris asked while moving closer to the double doors leading into the studio.
“Never.” Serendipity moved to block his path. She took the cigarette from her lips and rolled it between her fingers while glaring down at Sterling, who stayed close to his side. “I don’t want dog hair in my paints.”
Chris peered down into her eyes. “You have some wonderful artwork here.” He led Sterling over to a bulletin board on which she had pinned a banner promoting an anti-NRA rally. “I’m surprised you don’t advertise it more. You know, promote your work. Have shows. Do conferences.”
“I prefer art to promotion.”
“How did you meet Caroline?” Chris asked.
“We went to school together. Been friends our whole lives.”
Chris turned around. “Then you must have known Patricia.”
“Patricia was gone and forgotten by the time I’d met Caroline.”
“Then you met Caroline after she had left home to go to school in Columbus?” Chris asked.
“Yes.”
Silence filled the studio.
“Caroline never went to school in Columbus,” Chris said. “You’d think you’d know that about your own sister, Patricia.”
Before they had time to move, Serendipity dropped back into the studio and closed the doors. By the time they reached them, she’d wedged a chair under the door handles.
“She moves pretty fast for an old woman,” Helen said.
“Stand back!” Chris ordered her before kicking the doors open. As he entered, a gunshot ran
g out. The bullet sent splinters from the doorframe above raining down on him.
Snarling, Sterling charged only for Chris to grab his collar and yank him back into the gallery where they took cover.
“I’m not going to let any fascist pigs lock me up! I’ve got a gun and I’m not afraid to protect myself.”
Unholstering his weapon, Chris pointed to the anti-NRA poster on the wall. “Isn’t that false advertising?”
“Call the FTC,” Helen said while extracting her gun from its holster.
They heard the slam of a door on the other side of the studio.
“Of course, she has a back door.” Keeping low, Helen hurried through the double doors while Chris covered her in case Patricia had set a trap for them. Sterling stayed by his side.
They made their way through the cluttered workroom and out a door to a small parking lot. On their way through the art studio, Chris took a painting smock off a hook. The lot was littered with filthy dumpsters and remnants of discarded artwork.
As they stepped outside, a Pittsburgh police cruiser raced into the lot. The uniformed officers spilled out and aimed their weapons at Chris and Helen, who immediately raised their hands.
“I’m the police.” With her fingers spread wide, Helen gestured at the pocket where she kept her badge.
Sterling lay down and folded his ears back—looking as innocent as possible. When the uniformed officer moved in to examine Helen’s badge, the dog rolled over to demand that he be searched as well—and if they happened to have a moment for a belly rub… Who knows what he could have been concealing under that fur?
An unmarked cruiser pulled in behind the marked police vehicle. A woman with dark unruly shaggy locks slid out of the driver’s seat while being careful not to drop her chocolate ice cream cone. She was dressed in black slacks with a utility belt and weapon on her hip—next to a gold detective’s shield.
