Claws for Alarm Page 10

  “FAKE! That’s it.” My eyes popped wide just as the timer on the stove went off, and I pinned Chantal with a searing gaze. “A fake, a forgery.” I whispered the word as if it carried a disease. “If I were going to give my child a valuable painting, and I suddenly discovered it were a forgery, why . . . I’d renege. I’d make up some excuse.”

  Chantal reached around me, shut off the stove, and then leaned one elbow on the counter. “But if he suspected a forgery, wouldn’t he have notified the police or the FBI, chérie?”

  “Maybe not,” I said thoughtfully. “After all, he considered himself to be a consummate art connoisseur. He wouldn’t want word to get out he’d been hoodwinked.” I transferred the sandwich to a plate, cut it diagonally, and held it out to Chantal. “Taste. It’s a variation on a Cuban.”

  “So he would have taken matters into his own hands? Not very smart.” Chantal took a bite and made little mewling noises deep in her throat. “Ooh, this is good, chérie. I like the different cheese you used. And I like the taste of the speck.”

  “Yeah, it’s slow smoked. I thought it would work.” I wiped my hands on a nearby dishrag. “Thus is born my new Andy Garcia Cuban Special. So with that out of the way . . . Like I said, Pitt considered himself an expert. Knowing his giant ego, he’d most likely get in touch with whoever sold him the painting and call them on it.”

  “Oh,” Chantal’s eyes widened. “That would be a prime motive for murder. He discovered the duplicity, called Julia on it, and she could not risk exposure. Plus, she saw an opportunity to frame your sister for the crime.”

  “Neat and tidy for sure, only . . . I’m not sure anything’s been forged . . . yet. It’s only an assumption, the same as Julia being the one behind the scam. It’s possible she might be working for someone else, someone higher.”

  “Ah, the gallery owner?”

  “Possible,” I sighed. “I sure wish Daniel was around. The FBI investigates forgeries. He might be able to help.”

  The bell above my door tinkled, and I blinked at the tall, handsome man who crossed its threshold.

  “Daniel!” I squealed. “I was just talking about you.”

  Daniel Corleone chuckled as he walked up to my counter. He nodded at Chantal and then turned twinkling eyes toward me. “Good things, I hope.”

  “Nothing but.” I frowned. “I thought you were going away on a case?”

  “I’m still on the case, but the lead we had turned out to be a dead end. Think I could get one of your famous tuna melts? I skipped breakfast and”—he glanced at the clock on the wall—“I’m due for an early lunch.”

  Chantal tossed me a knowing look over her shoulder and picked up her purse. “My cue to leave,” she hissed in my ear. She said in a louder tone, “Well, I have to be getting over to the flower shop. I shall report back here for duty tomorrow morning bright and early, chérie.”

  I gave her a grateful smile and as she sailed out the front door turned to Daniel. “If your stomach isn’t grumbling too badly, maybe I could toast you a bagel for now. If you can hang out for a bit, I’m trying out another new recipe, a variation on turkey meat loaf.”

  He licked his lips. “Sounds good, but unfortunately, I have to get back to work in about an hour. I’d be glad to take a rain check, though.”

  “Sure.” I eyed him. “They’ve got you working on Sunday?”

  “The FBI never rests,” he said solemnly, “and neither do criminals. Crime occurs every day of the week; you know that.”

  I had to agree. “Okay, then, one Thin Man Tuna Melt coming right up.”

  I pulled the tuna salad and cheddar out of the case, then crossed over to the bread box for some rye. Danny eased his six-foot-plus frame on one of my hard-backed counter stools and watched me at work.

  “How’s your sister?” he asked. “Anything new there?”

  I spread tuna liberally over the rye. “Her prints were the only ones on the murder weapon. The DA’s satisfied she’s their perp, but fortunately, the investigating detective has doubts.”

  “Leroy Samms, right? What’d you think of him? I’ve heard he’s very thorough.”

  “He seems to be,” I said noncommittally. I set the sandwich on the grill and then said over one shoulder, “Art forgery or theft is considered a major crime, right? Have you ever worked a forgery case?”

  “There’s a special task force assigned to such cases.” His eyes narrowed. “I imagine there’s a reason behind that question, and do I want to hear it?”

  “Probably not,” I sighed. I hit the highlights for him, finishing up at the same time the tuna melt was done. I put it on a plate and set it in front of him. He dug in with gusto and wiped his lips from the gooey cheese before he answered me.

  “I do hope you’re not thinking of doing what I think you are.”

  I assumed an air of mock innocence. “And what would that be, exactly?”

  He took another bite of his sandwich. “You know darn well. You aren’t planning on doing a little independent investigating, are you?”

  “Goodness no. I’m not planning on it,” I answered, hoping he didn’t notice the inflection I put on the word planning.

  Fat chance. He set down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “That means, no doubt, you’ve already started. Please, Nora, if you want your sister to get out of this in one piece, leave the investigating to the pros. I know it’s hard. She’s your sister and you, well, you’re you.”

  I bristled. “What does that mean?”

  “It means investigative reporting runs through your blood, same as cooking. But cooking is safer.” He grinned and then sobered. “Seriously, Nora, don’t do anything stupid. Don’t do anything that might endanger you, or hamper your sister’s chances of being proven innocent.”

  “Trust me,” I sniffed. “That’s the last thing I want.”

  We heard a soft “Meow.” Daniel looked down and smiled. Nick was sprawled underneath the stool.

  “Well, Nick looks fat, happy, and sassy.” Daniel suddenly frowned. “He’s got something in his paws.”

  My head shot up. “Not more Scrabble tiles?”

  “Scrabble tiles? Likes to bat ’em around, does he? Well, it’s not tiles.” He bent down, straightened a moment later, and held two objects out to me. I groaned as I recognized the page from Atkins’s journal, and the photograph, and reached for them.

  “Where, indeed. He’s been in a lot of places he shouldn’t be lately.” I gave Nick a dark look, and he got up and scurried out from under the stool and burrowed underneath the table in the back.

  Daniel surrendered the photo but eyed the paper. “There are notes on here about a guy named Bronson A. Pichard,” he said. “Where did he get this?”

  I snatched the paper out of Daniel’s outstretched hand. “It’s from his former master’s old journal. I thought I’d locked these up, but apparently getting his paws into locked places is one of Nick’s many talents.”

  Daniel took another bite of his sandwich and laid his fork down. “Nick Atkins was investigating Bronson A. Pichard? Why?”

  “Apparently he investigated him several years ago, for a divorce case. It seems the guy held a major grudge against Nick.” I eyed Daniel. “Why do you ask? Is this guy familiar to you?”

  “Only by reputation. You were talking about forgeries, and Pichard was supposed to have dealt heavily in them. Nothing was ever proven, though.”

  “Nick Atkins apparently thought Pichard’s dealings were questionable. Ollie told me he was the one who tipped off the authorities.”

  Daniel frowned. “Is that why you think Pichard might know something about what happened to him?”

  “Well, it seems a good possibility, and I really have no other lead right now.”

  “Do you need to have a lead?”

  My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

&nb
sp; “Atkins was a good investigator, but from what I’ve heard, more than a bit eccentric.” He paused and then added, “Do you really want to find Atkins? It could be asking for trouble.”

  I made a face. “You sound just like Ollie, so I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. Not only do I find his disappearance puzzling, I’d also like to resolve the question of Nick’s ownership.” I sighed. “It’s a moot point, though, because I’ve got no time to try and pin down Pichard; not with everything going on with Lacey.”

  Daniel leaned back, let his shoulders relax. He nodded. “Wise decision. Your sister’s welfare is certainly more important than tracking down some lowlife, no question.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Once this business with Lacey is settled, though, I plan to see what I can find out about Pichard.”

  I leaned over the counter, letting my hands rest lightly on top of Daniel’s. “A thought just occurred to me. You have a ton of resources at your command. Maybe you could get a lead on him for me? Ollie said he was a master at disappearing, but, well, after all, you are the FBI. No one can hide from you guys for long, right?”

  Daniel shifted on the stool. “You’d be surprised. And who was Ollie talking about? Atkins or Pichard?”

  “Very funny.” I swatted him lightly on his shoulder and leaned forward. I batted my eyelashes ever so slightly. “You know, if you could help, I’d be really, really, really, really grateful.”

  His lips twigged upward. “That’s a lot of reallys.”

  I bounced my eyebrows. “And there’s more where those came from. Seriously, I know you’re on a case, but so am I, unofficially. I’m not in a rush for the info right now, because I can’t follow up on it yet. But if you could turn up something, say, in the next few weeks . . .”

  “I know,” he laughed, “You’d be really, really, really, really grateful.”

  “At least think about it.”

  “That I can do.” His fingers brushed against the photograph, which I’d laid on the counter. “Mind if I take this, then? It might come in handy.”

  I shrugged. “Help yourself.”

  Daniel pushed off the stool, flipped a ten on the counter, then leaned in and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “I’ve really got to run. I’ll be in touch, I promise.”

  “You’d better,” I called after his retreating back. “You’ve got a rain check on that meat loaf, don’t forget.”

  The door closed behind him, and I flopped down in the nearest chair. Nick’s head popped out from under the back table.

  “Meow.”

  I shook my finger at him. “And just what were you thinking, pawing around in those journals? If you don’t stop ripping pages out, Nick, we’ll have no clues to go on.” I glanced around and frowned. “That’s odd—where is that paper? I could have sworn I put it on the counter . . .” I looked sharply at Nick. “Did you take it again?”

  He blinked. “Er-owl.”

  “Yeah, right. Well I imagine you’ll drag it out again, when you’re good and ready.” I flopped back in the chair and closed my eyes. Right now I couldn’t worry about Bronson A. Pichard or Nick’s penchant for ripping up journals. Right now I needed to concentrate on my next move in the investigation I’d promised Daniel I’d stay out of. And logically, I knew exactly what it should be. I stood up and looked at Nick.

  “Well, I’m in the market for an Engeldrumm of my own—or rather, Abigail St. Clair is. And guess who I’m going to ask to find one for me?”

  TEN

  A few minutes past seven thirty that evening I pulled up in front of the Wilson Galleries in downtown Pacific Grove. The building didn’t look like much from the outside—plain white clapboard, with a small black sign hanging over the doorway. The broad picture window had a few oil paintings displayed on easels, and a few pieces of “molded clay” sculptures flanked either side of the window. It wasn’t very impressive, to say the least. As I unclipped my seat belt, I went over the story Ollie and I had spent the better part of the afternoon perfecting. Rich heiress, very anxious to acquire this rare painting, and the money’s burning a hole in my pocket. I was ninety-nine point nine percent sure the money part was why Julia Canton had agreed to meet me at the studio that evening.

  Ollie’s words rang in my ears as I hurried up the walkway. “If you come off like enough of a desperate sucker and she thinks she can get away with pawning off another forgery, she’ll make a move.” Hell, I was counting on it. I might have double majored in English and History, but one of my minors had been Theatre Arts. I hadn’t exactly been good enough to send talent scouts flocking my way, but I didn’t stink, either. Besides, I reminded myself, there were plenty of times tracking down stories in Chicago when I’d indulged in a bit of role-playing. Tonight was no different from one of those times.

  The gallery door was locked (it figured, considering there was a large sign that said CLOSED ON SUNDAY right in the front window), but there was a buzzer on the side, and Julia had told me to ring it twice. I did so, and not a minute later the door was flung open and Julia stood in the doorway. Tonight she wore a short pink/purple/orange flowered dress that hugged all her curves in all the right places and a beautiful pair of eggplant purple Christian Louboutin strappy heels I would have personally killed for that added at least three inches to her already impressive height. Her long, dark hair was pulled off her face, twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  In a nutshell, she looked even more fabulous fully clothed than I could ever hope to, and I felt frumpy as hell in my tailored pantsuit and ruffled blouse. Something else niggled at me, too—a wisp of a thought—but I put it from my mind as she smiled at me, and I caught an assessing gleam in the depths of those brilliant blue eyes. “Ms. St. Clair?”

  I channeled my inner snooty rich bitch self, which I found surprisingly easy. “Yes, Ms. Canton, I presume? Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I do apologize for bothering you after hours, and on a Sunday, no less.”

  “Not a problem. I’m always happy to help out a friend of Gloria Christian’s. She’s one of our best customers.”

  “So I heard. I mean, I heard about how pleased she’s been with her purchases here,” I amended, as Julia’s laser-sharp gaze raked over me. “She—ah—couldn’t stop raving about the last one.”

  Julia nodded. “Ah yes. The David Patchen. An excellent example of a hot glass blown sculpture. I’d hoped she was pleased with it.” Her full lips curved upward. “I sold it to her.”

  I gave Ollie another mental thank-you for doing such quick and thorough research on artsy acquaintances of Abigail St. Clair’s, and on actually finding one that had done business with the Wilson Galleries. The fact it had been Julia who’d made the sale was a not unpleasant bonus. I followed her inside and over to a small table right in front of the wide picture window. As I settled myself into the velvet-upholstered chair she asked, “Can I get you anything? Some coffee, tea . . . champagne?”

  My eyes widened. “You have champagne?”

  Her laugh tinkled, like wind chimes. “Of course. Didn’t Gloria mention that? We keep it for the preferred customers.”

  “Oh yes, yes, I forgot.”

  “Can I get you a flute?”

  The offer was tempting, but I needed to keep a clear head. “I’ll pass, thanks.” I smiled at her as she eased herself into the seat across from me. “You look rather young to be such a connoisseur of art. Been doing this long?”

  “Long enough,” she answered shortly. “You said you were interested in acquiring some rare paintings?”

  “Yes, I am. I have a rather extensive collection, and I’m interested in adding to it. Your gallery came highly recommended to me, not only by Gloria, but by some of my other friends as well.” I crossed my fingers under the table that she wouldn’t want a list.

  Apparently the Gloria connection was satisfactory, because she smiled. “That’s nice to hear.”
She flourished her pen. “Now were there any artists in particular you’re interested in acquiring, or a particular era?”

  “Well . . .” I giggled and leaned forward. “I’ve always had a passion for the unattainable, and I’ve heard this gallery specializes in acquiring pieces that are just that. Am I right?”

  The smile stayed in place, but the friendly gleam vanished from the eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  My hand shot out, covered hers. “No need to play coy.” I leaned over and, before she could make a move, pressed my lips to her ear. “What I want is a painting . . . an Engeldrumm.”

  She pulled away, a deep frown creasing her smooth forehead. She set the pen down on the table and leaned back in her chair. “An Engeldrumm? Well, you certainly don’t fool around, do you?”

  “Where art is concerned, I never kid.”

  Her breath came out in a gentle whoosh. “You do realize that Engeldrumms don’t fall out of the sky. She’s a legend in the fields of lyrical and geometrical abstract. Her work is damn hard to find.”

  I twisted my lips into a pout. “I can appreciate that, but . . . you managed to find one for Professor Pitt, did you not?”

  Another slight widening of the eyes. “Yes, but—” She cleared her throat. “You didn’t mention that Professor Pitt was one of your references.”

  “To be truthful, he wasn’t. The details of how I learned of the transaction aren’t important,” I added quickly, waving my hand in the air. “What is important is the fact you found him one, and if you found one, then you can find another, correct?”

  Something flashed in her eyes, but it was gone in a second, her smile still perfectly in place. “I must tell you, in all honesty, that the acquisition we made for Professor Pitt was a rarity. The chances of finding another are slim, very slim indeed. Now, a van Eyck or a Turner would be much easier to get.”

  I laid my hand over hers. “Honey, if anyone can get me a gen-u-ine Engeldrumm, it’s you. I told you, I’ve got a sixth sense about these things.”