by N. C. Lewis
"They've arrested the Tin Man!"
It was seven in the evening; Amy sat at the kitchen table with her husband, Nick. They'd finished their evening meal, and Amy had recounted the unusual activities of the day.
"Behind bars, for this evening at least," Nick said, taking a long sip from his cup of tea.
Amy's eyes widened as he spoke. She put down her fork. "They got the Tin Man already?"
Nick's eyes danced with merriment. Even after twenty-two years of marriage, he found his wife's wide-eyed astonishment attractive. "All seven of them!" He burst out laughing. "I believe patrol also arrested three cowardly lions and a scarecrow. A typical day for the Oz parade. They'll sleep it off in the city jail."
"Oh, Nick!" Amy swatted at her husband.
"But none had a purple suitcase wrapped with a large yellow bow or a bronze statue of a blue-footed bird." Nick doubled over with laughter.
Amy grinned and slapped her husband on the arm. "Then they haven't captured The Tin Man, the one who stole the bronze blue-footed booby?"
"Nope." Nick reached forward, pulling Amy close. "Who needs a statue when I can have the real thing?"
Amy batted her eyelids then pushed him away. "So, what do you think?"
Nick picked up his cup, stared inside as if trying to read the tea leaves. He'd worked patrol, in homicide, and in the elite executive protection unit. "Street crimes are common downtown. They only really capture the police department's attention when there's a pattern or publicity or pressure from city hall."
Amy thought about that for a moment. "I suspect it was a one-off, not part of a pattern. The person who stole the case knew what they were after."
"Do you think the press might be interested?" Nick thought it sounded like an exciting read, the type of story journalists were always on the lookout for. "In cases like this the public's help is often the only way to move forward."
Amy folded her arms. "Marge Christopher won't want any negative publicity about her prestigious collector's group. I'm not sure her insurance company would be happy with the story, either."
"The sculpture had insurance?" Nick spoke in a detective-like manner.
"Apparently."
"Then it must be precious?"
"Yes, but Marge didn't mention how much she had paid for it."
Nick's brow furrowed. "And this lady was dragging it through the streets of Austin in a purple suitcase with a yellow bow? That's peculiar."
"Marge is a little odd. Wealthy, but strange, said she didn’t want to let the statue out of her sight."
Nick nodded. "Met plenty of weirdo-rich people when I worked in the executive protection unit. If you ask me, most are a little cracked. I figure that's what too much money does." He picked up his mug, drained the contents. "What about the owner of the restaurant?"
"A man called Cody Laurent. He wouldn't want the publicity, either."
Nick grunted with pleasure. "I can see the headline: Thieves Wait like Piranhas to Pounce on Unsuspecting Diners of Joyeux Manger Bistro."
Amy shuddered. "That's why we got the complimentary meal, in part anyway: sweep it under the carpet."
Nick scratched his head, bemused. "It looks like one of those crimes for the statistics books—recorded but never solved. There are hundreds every day in the city."
Amy tried to conceal her astonishment. "But in broad daylight, on Congress Avenue, with thousands of people milling around!"
Nick winced. He said, almost humbly, "Even with an officer on every corner, crime happens. With enough time and resources the police department might track down the suitcase and capture the Tin Man, but it all comes down to crime patterns, publicity, and the will of city hall."
Amy let it drop. She knew Nick could do nothing. There were bad people out there intent on doing bad things, and sometimes they got away. She didn't like that thought and stood up to clear away the dishes.
While she was at the sink, Nick waved his cell phone in the air. "I've booked our flights to London and the hotel." They planned a surprise visit to their daughter Victoria and her husband, Zach. Victoria was pregnant with twins. Zach worked for a biotechnology company that closed and was looking for a new job.
"Already got my shopping list together. Can we visit Paris as well?"
Nick clutched at his chest in mock horror. "If our finances can take it."
Amy chuckled. Although her business wasn't making much money and Nick's detective salary was modest, she knew they'd make it work. "I'll leave you to surprise me."
Nick stood up, strolled to the kitchen sink, and wrapped his arms around his wife.
"Oh!" Amy giggled, wriggling deeper into his strong arms.
"Surprise!"
Chapter 15
Cody Laurent slumped into his faux-leather armchair in his small, unkempt office. It was after one a.m. A few stragglers remained in Joyeux Mangeur Bistro. Ever since Cody opened his first lemonade stand at eleven years old, he'd dreamed of running a brick-and-mortar restaurant.
With the help of Gwen Williams his dream had come true. She had underwritten the venture, called him The Cody Laurent as she wrote out the check. He liked that; it stuck.
He glanced at the in tray stuffed with advertisement flyers, oddly shaped packages, and an assortment of newsletters. But it was the numerous little white envelopes that caught his eye and caused the blood to drain from his face. Each one felt as if an ice cube had been placed on the nerves in his spine.
The envelopes contained bills from his suppliers.
Cody's hand reached out hesitantly to pick up the first invoice when he noticed a flashing red light on his desk answering machine. Nobody used tape-based contraptions these days, but Cody thought it gave a nostalgic feel to his office.
"Must be her!"
He pressed the play button, lips curled in disgust.
Cody, honey, it's Fiona. I'd have left this message on your cell phone, but since you blocked me, I can't do that. Listen, the twins are spending Thanksgiving in the Alps, Austria, I think. It's a school trip, cultural appreciation and all that. Isn't that exciting? I'm going too, as a chaperone. It's a couple of thousand dollars each, well worth the money. I'll send you the bill. Please settle it by the end of next week. Oh, and honey, the school administrator mentioned you haven't paid next term's school fees yet. You know they like payment well in advance. Can you sort that out by next week too? And don't be late with your payment again, else I'll have you back in front of the judge.
The ice cube was back, moving up and down his spine like an Irish clog dancer.
Cody leaned his elbows on the desk, rested his head on his palms and stared blankly at the patches of damp and peeling paint above the office door. He wanted to curse, but he didn’t have any words, just silent pity.
The marriage had lasted seven years, but the cracks began when they were dating. Cody brushed off her father's warning that Fiona was a princess. "Fiona will help me out in the business," Cody had naïvely responded. Still, Cody didn't put two and two together when she demanded their honeymoon be at an exclusive resort in Tahiti. The warning bells didn't go off when she insisted on first-class-flight tickets. Cody was eager to please; it was her honeymoon.
Only later, with her weekly purchases of expensive clothes, frequent trips to Europe, private kindergarten for the children and her refusal to help in the business, did he understand the full meaning of her father's warning. By then it was too late. Cody was like a frightened deer caught in the glare of oncoming headlights.
When he suggested Fiona cut her spending so he could open a brick-and-mortar restaurant, she had become sullen. Their marriage deteriorated quickly after that. The alimony payments sucked him bone dry. He didn't want to pay for the twins to fly to Europe or their expensive private-school fees. But he had no say. If he didn't pay up, Fiona would have him back in court. She knew how to get blood from a stone.
Cody exploded in a volley of expletives. He cursed the day he met his ex-wife, cursed their marriage, and cursed h
imself for not getting her to sign a prenuptial agreement despite the urging of his lawyer.
A knock on the office door jolted him into the present.
"Come in." His voice was filled with bitter frustration.
The headwaiter entered the office, head slightly bowed, eyes wide, a large manila envelope in his hand. He tried to smile but failed. Those deer-like compliant eyes reminded Cody of his own submissive position. He'd pay the private school fees and for the flights to Europe, and for whatever Fiona dreamed up next. The goatee-bearded headwaiter ignited a deep self-revulsion.
"Get out!" Cody's voice boomed and crackled like a Hill Country thunderstorm.
The headwaiter turned on his heels and scurried from the room, sniffing loudly as he went.
Cody slammed his fist on the desk. Frustrated, he glanced at the in tray and began to shuffle through the mail. Activity helped him calm down. He put the white envelopes in a neat pile and tossed the rest. Running a full-scale restaurant was an entirely different game from the food truck business. It was easy to cut corners in the truck—serve out-of-date food, water down drinks, fry food in cheap oils, skimp on portion sizes when inventory ran low. Now he had employees to supervise, cleaning contractors to pay, food critics dropping in at random, and suppliers who stopped delivery if payments were late. If it weren't for the loan from Gwen Williams, his dream of running a restaurant would never have come true.
Unlike his food truck, Cody refused to cut corners in the quality of the food served. It had worked. The reviews had been excellent, customer feedback superb. But with high-quality food costs, even with the restaurant full at lunchtimes and during evenings, the business was losing money.
He'd need another loan.
Gwen Williams wasn't returning his calls.
Another knock on the door.
The headwaiter tiptoed into the room. "Boss, this is for you. Mrs. Williams instructed that I give it to you directly." He scurried to the desk, dropped the manila envelope and darted from the room.
It contained a tiny note composed of a single sentence scrawled in black ink.
Cody, I'm calling the loan—Gwen.
Cody's hand went to his shirt collar as if it had tightened, eyes scanning the words in disbelief. He reread the note out loud as if that might make a difference. It didn't. His heart jackhammered in his chest, body trembled with rage. Without her money, his business would fold. She couldn’t do this to The Cody Laurent, not to him, not to his dream. Cody wasn't a religious man, rarely attended church or opened the Bible. But he remembered the miracles the pastor told him about in Vacation Bible School when he was a child and in desperation lowered his head, closed his eyes, and prayed.
"Please, God, this is my dream. I need your help to save it."
Cody opened his eyes and looked at the handwritten note. It still said Gwen Williams was calling his loan.
There was a soft rap on the door. Once again, the headwaiter appeared, this time staying in the doorway.
"Boss, it's after two. I'm checking out for the night. Is everything okay?"
Cody glared at the man, his mouth screwed up as if filled with vinegar. "Get out of this office. Get out of this restaurant. Get out of my life and never come back. You're fired!"
The office door slammed shut.
Cody stumbled to his feet, wondering why his legs were shaking. This can't be right, he thought. I've had this dream since I was a boy. I knew one day I would open a restaurant. Then another, and another, until I had a chain across the entire state of Texas.
Cody rambled around his tiny office making quick circuits around his desk as he considered what to do. After a while, he slapped his hands together like a wrestler preparing for a fight.
"Yes," he said at last, his mind made up. "If Gwen Williams disappears, I'll have more time, and time is all I need."
Chapter 16
It was around eight forty-five, Monday morning when Amy pulled into a visitor parking space at Hidden Harbor Club. She was with Danielle and ready for their nine a.m. meeting with the property manager Segenam Fainéant. They sat in the car for a few moments looking around.
"I didn’t realize the club was so far outside of the city," said Danielle.
"Once we leave the city limits, we're in sheriff country," Amy replied, slipping open the door and climbing out.
"Over here!" someone called in a thin, watery voice as they climbed out of the car.
"Amy girl, it's Mrs. Lopresti," whispered Danielle. "You better be on your best behavior."
Mrs. Lopresti was an event planner. Amy had worked with her occasionally. The woman had an uncanny knack of sniffing out successful events, knew all the gossip. Amy hoped to work with her again, and soon.
"Fancy meeting you two here," Mrs. Lopresti cooed. She dipped her head at Danielle. "I guess that band Stan plays in is doing exceptionally well. They say boats are an up-and-coming investment."
"Stan bought me a little boat after the band’s last tour of Europe." Danielle spoke with an overly severe expression pasted on her face.
"Really?" Mrs. Lopresti's eyes opened wide. "What type? Not that I'm familiar with such things."
"A small one, tiny, really. One of those you float around the bath, cost 'im ten bucks at Wal-Mart!"
"Mrs. Danielle Sánchez, if I didn’t appreciate your sense of humor, I might have taken you seriously."
Danielle burst out laughing. "Everyone thinks we're rolling in it when they find out Stan's in a band. The truth is the music helps pay the bills, but it's far from a life of luxury. That's why I work as a teacher's assistant at the local elementary school."
Mrs. Lopresti turned to Amy. "I'd heard on the grapevine the Austin Police Department has given their employees a raise." She cackled at what was to come next, barely able to get it out. "I didn't realize how much!"
Amy rolled her eyes. "Mrs. Lopresti, there is about as much chance of Nick and I joining this club as winning the national lottery, and since we don't play the lottery, that's a zero percent chance!"
"Can't say I'd join even if I had the money," Mrs. Lopresti admitted. The woman did a full three-sixty turn to make sure the conversation was private. "Overpriced toys, that's what I think of yachts. Their owners are like spoiled kids!"
Amy agreed with her observation but didn’t want to go down that track today and changed the subject. "What brings you here this morning?"
"Meeting with Segenam Fainéant, the property manager. He wants to discuss hiring my services for some upcoming events." She lowered her voice. "Might throw a few your way, if it calls for staging. My appointment is at nine. I'm a little early. What are you up to?"
"Meeting with Segenam Fainéant at nine," Amy replied, unable to hide the surprise in her voice.
"Looks like he is double-booked," Danielle added. "Unless one of us got the wrong date."
Mrs. Lopresti checked her appointments book. "Monday the sixteenth at nine a.m. That's today."
Amy checked her cell phone diary. "Snap!"
The color drained from Mrs. Lopresti's face. She frowned, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Punctuality and precision is how I run my life. I'm punctual and keep my diary precise. It seems I cannot say the same for Mr. Segenam Fainéant." She pronounced his name as if it was a foul smell.
Amy half wanted to agree but didn’t want to get drawn into a spiral of negativity, and instead tried to hone in on the positive. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake." She swept her arms around their grand surroundings. "Mr. Fainéant wants to discuss opportunities to expand our businesses. His plans might be so large we end up pooling our resources."
That went down like a sugared pill. Mrs. Lopresti's eyes twinkled, lips curved upward, and the color returned to her pasty face. "Oh, Amy, I hope so."
"Come on, let's get inside," Danielle said, glancing at her cell phone. "It's almost nine; we'll be late!"
The three women hurried to the security booth, chatting lightheartedly, reminiscing about events they had worked together, and
eager to meet Segenam Fainéant.
Chapter 17
Amy, Danielle, and Mrs. Lopresti hurried through the main entrance into a small, elegantly-furnished reception area. Behind them was the door they had just entered and in front, a door Amy suspected led to the clubhouse and dock. To their left was a large glass panel through which they could see into a small room—the security booth.
It was empty.
"Where is everyone?" Mrs. Lopresti asked, her thin voice filling with agitation. "I know it's Monday morning, but it's not that early."
"The security guard is probably walking the beat," Amy replied, reaching forward to press a buzzer at the side of the glass panel. "I'll bet someone shows up in a minute or two." Inwardly she agreed—the security booth should be operated twenty-four hours a day. "A place this prestigious must have more than one security guard."
Three minutes later, they still waited.
"Where's everyone at?" Danielle huffed, pacing the room. She knocked hard on the glass window then pressed the buzzer hard, keeping her finger flat against the button. It buzzed and rattled like an angry wasp.
Buzzzzz.
The sound was jarring.
Danielle kept her finger on the button.
Buzzzzz.
There was movement in the security booth.
Buzzzzz
The sound of shuffling.
Buzzzzz.
It came from the floor.
Buzzzzz.
A disheveled-looking man in a dark blue uniform with golden shoulder tassels clambered unsteadily to his feet. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes into focus, raked a hand over a stubbled chin, opened his mouth, steadied himself, and shook his head as if chasing away the last fragments of a receding dream.
"That's got his tail up! Over to you, Amy girl," Danielle said, stepping away from the buzzer. "Do your thing."
For a moment the security guard stared at the three women with blank, unfocused eyes. His face deathly pale. At last, he reached out a hand and slid open the partition window. "Hidden Harbor Yacht Club welcomes you"—he paused to stare at the clock high on the wall behind—"this morning."
Amy placed her hands on her hips. "We are here to meet with Mr. Segenam Fainéant."
