An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) (8 page)

CHAPTER
20

When Trent finally returned my call
later that night, I was back downstairs in the Sky High dining room, arranging
placemats, polished silverware and white paper napkins on the tables for the
next day. Harper normally reset the room as soon as the last lunch customers
departed, but she’d left a few minutes after we closed that afternoon for a
hair appointment.

“What’s going on, Katie?” Trent
said, sounding short of breath and edgy. “I’ve only got about three minutes.”

I laughed. “Why so specific, Deputy
Chief Walsh?”

“You just wasted ten seconds,” he
snapped. “What did you want to discuss?”

“I’ve got a hunch that the
situation with Pia and Vito has something to do with forged artwork,” I said.

“Forged artwork?” Trent sounded skeptical.
“Like, fake paintings or something?”

“Exactly like that. When I was in
Steamboat this afternoon, someone left a note on my windshield with the name
Elmyr de Hory. I did some—”

“You went to Steamboat Springs?”

“I told you that in my message,” I
said.

“I didn’t listen to it,” Trent
grumbled. “I’m way short on time as it is, Katie. I figured it’d be expeditious
to just call you and see what’s up.”

“Okay,” I said, realizing he was
more impatient than I’d originally thought. “As I was starting to explain, I
found a note on my windshield with the name Elmyr de Hory. When I—”

“Who the heck is that, Katie? We’re
working on finding your friend and her painter buddy. The last I heard, neither
of those two were named…whatever that name was!”

“That’s just it,” I said when he
finished. “I think Vito Marclay was inspired by the story of Elmyr de Hory. I
think that’s why he started forging paintings. And I also think that’s why he
used the name E. A. Hoffmann on his bank account and the post office box in
Steamboat Springs.”

“I obviously know Vito’s name,” Trent
said. “But who are the other people that you just mentioned?”

“You mean Elmyr de Hory and E. A.
Hoffmann?”

Trent didn’t say anything, but I
could hear his fingers drumming against the top of his desk.

“You ready for the rest?” I asked
after a few more seconds.

“Yes, Katie. I can tell you’re
dying to dazzle me with something relevant.”

“Well, I have a hunch it’s
connected to Vito and Pia’s disappearance.”

“Do you mind telling me how you
uncovered this little morsel?” asked Trent.

I laughed. “My impeccable sleuthing
kills,” I said with an impish lilt in my voice. “Pia found a bank deposit slip
at Vito’s house. I noticed the name and address didn’t match Mr. Marclay’s, so
I made a quick trip to Steamboat.”

“And that’s where you met the
Hoffmann guy?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “E. A.
Hoffmann doesn’t exist. I mean, there’s always a chance that somewhere in the
world you could find a real person named Elemér Albert Hoffmann. But, as
related to Vito Marclay, I suspect that he was using the name Hoffmann to cover
his tracks.”

“What tracks?”

“The ones that lead from his
respectable career as a relatively well-known contemporary artist to his
underground work as a forger.”

Trent groaned. “Does all of this
lead somewhere?”

“I hope it leads to us finding Pia
and Vito before anything irretrievable happens.”

“How did you connect Marclay to
Hoffmann?”

“I got a tip,” I said. “From
someone in Steamboat Springs. She told me to Google Elmyr de Hory. And when I
did that, I discovered that he was a famous Hungarian-born painter and art
forger who sold more than a thousand counterfeit artworks to reputable
galleries all over the world. He actually changed his name to Hoffmann from—”

“No more names!” Trent blurted.
“Let’s stick with the ones we’re already dealing with, okay?”

“You got it, big guy. If you decide
that you want any more info on Hoffmann, I’ve got a file saved with the
research I did. I can email it to you in a flash.”

“Thanks, Katie. How about you hold
onto it? I’m more interested in hearing why you think Vito and Pia are missing
because of fake paintings.”

“That’s my theory,” I said.
“Between the fishy deposit slip at Marclay’s, the mailing address in Steamboat
Springs and the fact that Pia has told me more than once that some of the
paintings in Vito’s studio resemble masterpieces by famous artists like
Vermeer, Van Gogh and Rembrandt, I’m starting to suspect that Vito was living a
double life.”

“Lots of people do,” Trent said.

“True enough,” I agreed. “But how
many of them end up getting either kidnapped or murdered?”

“Whoa! Hang on there! Who’s talking
about murder?”

“I’m just speculating,” I answered.
“We don’t have any evidence that anyone is dead at this point, but there was
quite a bit of blood at Vito’s house the other night.”

“Could’ve been a bad paper cut,” Trent
quipped.

I didn’t respond. The crack wasn’t
surprising, but I didn’t want to take the time to admonish him.

“Anyway,” I said, after counting to
ten, “I’m beginning to suspect that Vito has gone back to his old ways. I think
there’s a good possibility that he’s been painting fake masterpieces that
someone sells on the black market.”

“What are you basing your theory
on?” asked Trent.

“My gut,” I said. “Plus, I met an
intriguing young woman today and she pointed me in the direction of the
Hungarian forger.”

“Are you saying Vito’s from Hungary?”

“No, not at all,” I answered. “But,
speaking of Mr. Marclay, what’s the latest?”

“On Pia and Vito?”

“No,” I said, feeling ornery, “on
Elmyr de Hory.”

Trent was quiet for a few seconds.
Then he said, “Is that the Hoffman guy’s original name?”

I snickered with delight. “How’d
you guess, big guy?”

“Because I know you, Katie. You
just love all those facts and details and specks of information.”

“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Because
facts and details and specks of information are how you build a solid case.”

“I know that,” he said. “And I
figured you’d find a way to weasel the real name into the conversation again,
either right now or the next time we talk.”

“You’re a sly one,” I said. “Not
quite as easy to fool as everyone seems to think.”

Trent groaned. “Everyone? Who the
heck is everyone?”

I glanced at the clock at the far
end of the dining room.

“Hey,” I said. “I thought you only
had three minutes to talk.”

“Oh, shoot! That’s right. But now
I’m curious about what you just told me. Who’s been saying that I’m gullible?”

“Don’t you worry about it,” I said.
“Everyone knows that rumors and gossip fly around all the time in a place as
small as Crescent Creek.”

“Yeah, but if they’re saying—”

“And we also know that most of it
is claptrap and hooey, right?”

When he didn’t reply within a few
seconds, I asked if he was still on the line.

“Yeah, I’m still here,” he
answered. “I’m just writing down those two words so I can use them the next time
Dina or Tyler give me grief about something they’ve heard from one of our local
busybodies. Anyway, I need to run, Katie! I’ll catch you later on down the
road.”

CHAPTER
21

I was nursing my second cup of
coffee the following morning at five-thirty when Julia came through the
backdoor into the Sky High kitchen.

“Sorry I’m late!” she gushed. “I
overslept and Jared misplaced the keys to my car after he used it last night.”

I watched silently as she dropped
her purse and a pale pink duffel bag on the counter, grabbed a mug from the
cabinet and poured a cup of coffee.

“Oh, this is
so
what I
need!” she whirred after the first sip. “I swear that some mornings caffeine is
the only—”

She stopped, swiveled on one heel
and frowned.

“Why are you so quiet?” she asked.

I shrugged.

“And why do you look all jumbled
and groggy and…” She squinted. “Is that toothpaste on your cheek?”

I picked up a teaspoon and gazed at
my reflection. There was a smudge of something near my mouth. I put down the
spoon, grabbed a nearby napkin and swiped away the whitish splotch.

“Is that better?” I asked.

She shrugged. “It’ll do in a
pinch,” she said. “Now, what’s up? You look pretty woozy.”

“So would you after the night I
had.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Well,
lickety split! Big Zack came home early, huh?”

“No, Jules. He’s still in Santa Fe.
And I’m not talking about anything like that. I was up half the night reading
about famous art forgers.”

Her forehead creased as she tried
to interpret my remark. After a few seconds, she put down her coffee and held
up both hands.

“Why were you doing that?” she
asked.

“I got a tip from someone in
Steamboat,” I answered. “It appears that Vito Marclay was inspired by a famous
Hungarian forger, who was named Elemér Albert Hoffmann at birth, but who used another
name later in life. Anyway, the deposit slip that Pia found—”

“Slow down, Katie! I only caught
about half of what you just said.”

I blinked a few times, sipped my
coffee and took a deep breath.

“Sorry, Jules. It’s been a pretty
frantic forty-eight hours.”

“I guess so,” she said. “Does your
late night have something to do with Pia and Vito?”

I nodded.

“Have you heard anything new?”
Julia said.

“I’ve learned a few things,” I
answered. “But the news we’re waiting for hasn’t happened.”

“No sign of them?”

“Not yet,” I answered. “But I m
optimistic that things are going to work out soon. We just need one lucky
break.”

“I just wish she’d never started
dating the guy,” Julia muttered.

“Why? Do you know him?”

She shook her head. “Heard all
about him? Oh, you betcha! Actually know the guy? I don’t. And I’m really glad
that our paths have never crossed.”

“Why?”

Her eyes spun around as she dropped
one hand on her hip. “He’s a pain in the ashtray, Katie. Pretentious and
arrogant and rude and…” Her voice increased in volume as she continued the
unflattering list. “…and petty and shallow and—”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I get the
picture. And if you haven’t met the man, why are you describing him in such
unattractive terms?”

“Because he’s an unattractive guy,
Katie. A friend of mine helped Vito decorate his house after he moved from New
York. She thought it was going to be a wonderful experience because, you
know, he’s an artist and creative and all of that. But he made her miserable
the entire time. Complaining constantly and taking forever to make decisions
and sending things back when they arrived.”

“Sounds like some of our
customers,” I said, trying to get her to smile. “You know, like Mo Gillard.”

Julia’s face shuddered at the
mention of the man’s name. Mo was notorious for being the single most
persnickety customer in the history of Sky High Pies. He once sent a glass of
iced tea back because the cubes were “too square, too clear and
way
too
cold!” My parents were running the place at the time and my father’s face still
flushed candy apple red whenever he told the story.

“I think Vito’s actually worse than
Mo,” Julia muttered. “I mean, when was the last time Mo Gillard painted a
woman’s portrait and used dogs for her ears, a banana for her nose and
tumbleweeds for her hair?”

Between the absurd elements of
Marclay’s painting and the expression on Julia’s face, I couldn’t help but
giggle. As I did, she scowled and shook her head before picking up her coffee
again.

“Well, whatever,” she mumbled after
taking a sip. “What do you think happened to Pia?”

I shrugged. “No idea at this point.
It’s like two back-to-back riddles—the scene at Vito Marclay’s in the afternoon
and then whatever happened at Pia’s later that night.”

Julia sipped her coffee, nodding
solemnly. Then she said, “I was sorry to hear about it, Katie. I know you and
she get along really well.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I hate things
like this, too. I saw enough of these sorts of random, puzzling incidents when
I lived in Chicago.”

“What does Dina think?” Julia
asked.

I shrugged, but didn’t say
anything.

“What about you?” she added. “Are
you going to do your PI thing again?”

I glanced up from my coffee. “My PI
thing?”

Julia laughed softly. “Oh, don’t
even think about playing coy. You know
exactly
what I’m talking about!”

I smiled. “Yeah. I do. And you’re
right—I’ll probably do a little looking around. It always makes me feel better
to try and help.”

“Okay, sure,” she said. “But if the
police are already searching for Pia and Vito, what are you going to do?”

“Maybe a little of the same,” I
answered. “And maybe I’ll see if I can help put some of the pieces together
while they’re conducting the official investigation.”

Julia nodded. “Starting where?”

“A couple of places,” I said.
“There was a fancy rental car left at Pia’s house, and there’s the gallery
where Vito shows his art.”

She made a disapproving sound deep
in her throat. “Yuck!” she groaned. “That junk isn’t art, Katie. It’s cow dung
hanging on the wall with a big, fat price tag attached.”

I smiled at her authoritative assessment
of Vito Marclay’s paintings. Then I glanced at the white board on the kitchen
wall. And then I headed for a refill.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us
today, Jules,” I said, splashing more steaming coffee into my cup. “I’ll start
a double batch of pie dough if you want to make potato salad. If we concentrate
and keep on task, we can get through the day without going completely bonkers!”