Death Come Quickly (28 page)

“Yeah, that's right, it was supposed to be a painting by Gerardo Murillo,” Justine said. “A.k.a. Dr. Atl. But people don't remember that ancient stuff, China. As far as Soto's art business is concerned, it's water over the dam. His clients either don't know that he once sold a forgery—or they don't give a flying fig.”

Three
dings
and the sound of the elevator door opening. Justine was getting off at the third floor. “And as far as Soto himself was concerned,” she added, “what he paid my client was simply the cost of doing business. He didn't admit guilt there, either. He just ponied up.”

“There's an Atl in the Morris collection,” I said. “Christine Morris acquired almost all her paintings through Soto. He continued to do curatorial work for the foundation after she was dead.” I paused. “And one of the neighbors thinks he's doing sleepovers with the current head of the foundation, Christine Morris' cousin.”

I could hear Justine's heels clicking. She was moving fast. “An Atl painting? A real one, Hot Shot?”

“How should I know?” I replied. “If the Izquierdo painting is a fake, who's to say that the Atl is real? Both of them likely came through Soto.”

More
click-click
s. “So what are you looking for?”

“Motive.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “A motive for murder.” Motive was what had stopped Johnnie. If he'd had motive, he might have gotten Soto in as an alternative suspect, which would have forced the police to take another look at him. “If I'm right,” I added, “there are
two
dead women—Christine and Karen—and one murderer.” I thought of Sharyn Tillotson, who was either an accomplice or a potential victim, or both. “And if he's not stopped, there could be a third.” This one would be an accident, probably. A fatal fall down those glass stairs. They looked like the perfect setting to stage an accident.

Justine's footsteps slowed. “Can't promise,” she said cautiously. “But I know somebody I can talk to—an insider in the business. Somebody who owes me a lot more than she can ever repay. I'll call her when I get a minute. Maybe she'll give us something we can use.”

“Good.” I liked the sound of that
we.
“Oh, and what about the artist who painted that forged Atl? Any idea who did it?”

“No, but I'll ask my insider. She keeps her ear to the ground.” The sound of a door opening and the murmur of voices. “Listen, Hot Shot, I gotta go now. There's a roomful of people waiting for me.”

“Big thanks,” I said, to a broken connection.

• • •

I
had gotten as far as Brenham when Aaron called. Brenham is the home of Blue Bell Creameries' contented cows, who produce the best ice cream in the country—at least according to its advertising campaign. Our family likes the ice cream, although we suspect those cows aren't any more contented than cows attached to automatic milking machines everywhere in the country.

I had driven out of the rain, the highway was dry, the sun was shining, and I was in a better mood, halfway to Pecan Springs and making good time, when my cell dinged.

“Yo, China,” Aaron said on the speakerphone. “Tiff left the Bowen binder on my desk, with a note to call you. What's up? Are you still in town? If you are, how about supper? It'll just be me, and it'll have to be late. Paula is working tonight, and I have to finish a brief.”

Ah, life in the two-party fast lane. “Thanks for the invitation, but I'm already halfway home,” I said. “Listen, Aaron, what's up is a little bit sticky. If you'll open that binder to the back, you'll find an envelope in the inside pocket. You need to read the letter that's in it.”

“How about if I do that in the morning? As I say, I have a client—”

“Right now, Aaron, please. You'll see why.”

I heard an exaggerated sigh, followed by the rustle of paper and, a moment later, a muttered “What the hell—” A longer silence, and then a low whistle. “Jeez,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Please see that the letter—you might want to copy it first—gets to the lead investigator in Bowen's death. He may have turned up something suspicious in the course of his investigation, and what's in that letter might take him where he needs to go. Give him my name and phone number. I've been doing some research into that business about the building code violations. I'll be glad to answer his questions and put him in touch with one of Bowen's former coworkers. She can testify to the details.” Florabelle would be delighted to tell her story, especially if she thought it would help to nail Bowen's killer.

“Okay,” Aaron said. “I'll get on it right now. I think I'll give Paula a call, too. The DA's office might have an interest in this. There was a pause, and his voice grew softer, regretful. “Sorry about the lunch we missed, China. Rain check, next time you're in town?”

“Rain check,” I said briskly, although by now the sun was shining.

• • •

I
was just making the turn off the highway and into Pecan Springs when my cell dinged again.

“Hot Shot,” Justine said, “there's a bit of good luck—maybe—to report. That artist you were asking about? The one who painted the copy of the Atl painting? I've got a possibility for you.”

“Tell me,” I said eagerly. “Who?”

She told me, and I was astonished. And then the pieces fell into place and I wasn't astonished, just surprised and chagrined that I hadn't guessed. The clues had been right in front of me all the time. I just hadn't put them together.

“Well, duh,” I said.

“It's not confirmed,” Justine warned me. “My informant is only reporting what she heard. The case didn't go to trial, and the painter was never charged. Don't forget: it's not illegal to make a copy of a painting—as long as it's to be sold as a copy. The state has to prove that the painter intended to defraud, and the evidentiary burden is high. And afterward, Soto seems to have scrubbed everything. He has a whole new client list, other artists, and the whole thing has been forgotten.”

Until Karen Prior—who had filmed a documentary on art fraud and had interviewed several experts on the subject—saw
Muerte llega pronto
in the Sotheby's catalog and began asking questions.

The daisy (
Bellis perennis
) is not just a pretty plant, but a useful medicinal herb. Roman military surgeons soaked bandages in the juice of pressed daisies to treat soldiers' wounds. The English herbalist John Gerard (1545–1612) calls the daisy “Bruisewort” and describes it as an unfailing remedy in “all kinds of paines and aches” and a cure for fevers and inflammations of “alle the inwarde parts.”

In Germany, daisies that were picked for drying between noon and one o'clock were thought to bring good luck. And in Celtic legend, the spirits of stillborn children were reborn as daisies.

China Bayles
“Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

I wasn't going to make it in time for supper, so I phoned Brian (McQuaid wasn't home yet, either) and told him to take a taco casserole out of the freezer and put it into the microwave. Gretchen volunteered to throw a salad together, and there were various veggies in the freezer, as well as cookies and ice cream. Nobody was going to die of starvation before I got home.

I didn't have a plan for what was coming next, exactly. But I knew what I had to do, and it couldn't wait. I wasn't risking a charge of obstruction of justice, since justice hadn't started turning its wheels just yet. And under the circumstances, I didn't feel there was any particular danger. I wasn't trolling for a member of the Mafia.

Still, I thought it might be smart to let somebody know where I was headed. McQuaid would raise a fuss about what I had in mind, so I tactfully didn't bother him. Instead, I left a message on Ruby's voice mail—and smiled when I thought it was sort of like leaving a trail of bread crumbs behind when you go into the forest in search of . . . whatever. You might stumble over a dragon. Or two.

I parked the car a couple of doors down from my destination, went up the walk, took a very deep breath, and knocked on the front door.

I was surprised when Paul Cameron opened it, looking very much himself in khaki slacks and a blue polo shirt that set off his white hair. But the blankness in his gray eyes gave him away. He knew he should know me, and he didn't.

“Hello, Paul.” I held out my hand. “China Bayles—Mike McQuaid's wife. We came to your retirement party.”

Some of the confusion cleared, but not all. “Of course.” He shook my hand, then held on to it. “Haven't seen you in a long while, Dr. Bayles. I'm afraid I've forgotten what department you're in—biology, maybe? You do research in plants? Are you teaching this summer?”

“I'm not on the faculty,” I said, extricating my hand. “But I do work with plants. It's Mike McQuaid, my husband, who's the faculty member. He teaches in the criminal justice department. But not this summer. He's doing some private investigative work.” At one time, Paul had known all this, and he seemed embarrassed at having forgotten.

“Oh, now I remember,” he said, attempting a laugh. “Pecan Springs' very own James Bond. Guns and car chases and wild women. Must be an exciting job.” He leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “Tell me, Mrs. Double-Oh-Seven. Would your husband do some investigating for me? I have a little mystery I'd like to solve. Nothing important or monumental, just a small personal puzzle that has been annoying me lately. I wish I could find out . . .” His voice trailed off. The blankness came into his eyes again and he frowned. “Find out . . . what?” he murmured. “Now, what was it I wanted to find out?”

“I'm sure it'll come to you,” I said awkwardly. I paused. “Is Irene here? I'd like to talk to her for a few moments.”

“Irene? Irene?”

For a moment, I wondered if he remembered who she was. Then he nodded. “Oh, yes, Irene—ever the industrious one, painting all hours of the day and night. She's in her studio over the garage.” He put his finger to his lips and made a shushing noise. “But don't tell her you talked to me. She thinks I'm having a nap, and she thought she locked the bedroom door so I couldn't get out. She wouldn't like it if she knew what I . . .” He stopped, and a sly, cagey look crossed his face. “If she knew about the little surprise I'm cooking up for her.”

“I won't tell her,” I said with a smile. “It'll be just our secret.”

“Just our secret,” he said and laughed heartily. “That's good, Mrs. Bond. You go right on back there and see her, then. I'm not allowed, of course. She's says she's working on something for me and she doesn't want me to see it, so her studio's off-limits. When she's not there, she keeps the studio door locked so I won't forget and wander in.” He paused uncertainly. “Tell me—am I supposed to know what you wanted to see her about?”

“I don't think so,” I said carelessly. “I wanted to ask her about some flower paintings she was thinking of doing for my shop.”

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “When you go up there, see if you can get a look at what she's painting and tell me. I would really like to know. It's one of the mysteries I've been pondering. Now, if I could only remember the other . . .”

From inside the house, I heard a sharp popping sound. Paul heard it, too, and made a sour face.

“Uh-oh,” he said, in a childlike voice. “Sounds like I forgot to turn something off. I'd better go see what it is. Irene will be so annoyed with me.” And he shut the door in my face.

It was sad to see Paul Cameron in such a state, but there wasn't time to think of that now. I took special care to climb the wooden garage stairs as quietly as I could, and when I reached the door at the top I didn't bother to knock. Instead, I simply turned the knob. Lucky for me, it wasn't locked. I pushed it open, stepped inside, and silently closed the door behind me.

“Hello, Irene,” I said in a casual, conversational tone.

Her easel faced the door where I stood, the afternoon light from the north windows falling over her shoulder and onto the large canvas that was hidden from my view. She stepped out from behind the easel, staring wide-eyed at me, her mouth falling open. She was wearing her smock, and there was a smear of paint on her cheek.

“China!” she exclaimed uneasily. “You . . . you startled me. I thought the door was locked. I didn't hear you knock.” She turned quickly to whip a paint-stained cloth off a chair and throw it over the canvas.

“I didn't,” I said and stepped forward. “I just barged right in. I'm curious, Irene. I'd love to see what you're working on. Paul says I should try to get a look and tell him what it is—although of course I won't. Let me have a look. I can keep a secret.” Although if this was what I thought it was, it wouldn't be a secret for long.

“Oh, no, no, please!” she cried. She stepped forward, trying to block me. “It's not ready for anybody to see yet. I've just been fooling around. It's not—”

I pulled the cloth off the easel, and there it was. A dramatic painting of an erupting volcano against a purple-black sky, fiery lava spilling over the peaks of a forbidding mountain range and pouring in bloodred rivulets through a field of volcanic rock. Propped on a table off to one side was a large photograph of the painting she was copying. The signature was conspicuous in the lower left corner: Dr. Atl.

I stood for a moment, studying the painting, which looked like it belonged in the same series as the one I had seen in the museum. Behind me, I could hear Irene's ragged breathing and something like a low whimper. I turned to her and said, very quietly, “It was you, wasn't it, Irene? You copied
Death Come Quickly
for Roberto Soto, didn't you?”

Now, if I had been a fictional sleuth in a mystery entitled
F Is for Forgery
and if Irene had been the villain, we would have had a little excitement here. Her eyes would have narrowed and she would have picked up something heavy—the big burnished copper pot on the floor a couple of feet away, or the stainless steel bucket that held her brushes—and swung it at my head. I would have been hit hard enough to see a cascade of stars, but in spite of the blood running down my face from the deep cut on my forehead, I would have ducked and rushed her, tackling her in the middle and knocking her onto the floor, where she would have used her training as a champion college wrestler to pin me in a cobra clutch until I passed out.

At which point she would have made good her escape down the stairs, taking her forged painting with her. She would have dashed for her car, with the idea of driving down to San Antonio to join her business associate, Roberto Soto. She wouldn't have gotten there, though, because as she sped through the red light at the corner of Nueces and the I-35 frontage road, she would have T-boned a squad car. Her car would have careened off a utility pole, exploded, and burned, and the forged painting would have been reduced to a cinder, while she would have been toted off to the hospital, where the police would have charged her with . . . well, something. As the Whiz says, when it comes to art forgery, it's difficult to make a criminal fraud charge stick, especially when there was nothing left of the evidence but a handful of ash. Maybe they just charged her with running a red light, assault on a cop car, and assault on me.

But we weren't going to have that kind of excitement, at least, not today. I was just me and Irene wasn't a villain, let alone a champion college wrestler. She was just an ordinary woman with a gift for creating art. She had made a bad choice, got trapped in a horrible situation, and was deeply conscious of her guilt and terrified that she might be involved in something much worse than forgery.

She stared at me for a moment, tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. Then her hands went to her face and she sank into a chair, sobbing desperately. I put my hand on her shoulder, then knelt beside her and let her cry.

“Tell me, Irene,” I said softly, after a few minutes. “This can all be worked out, I'm sure.”

“I . . . I can't,” she said. “It's too complicated. It's—”

“Yes, you can,” I said. “I can't help you unless you tell me the whole story. The whole
true
story. And you can't think of the others right now—Roberto Soto, Sharyn Tillotson, and whoever else is involved. You don't want to get dragged into whatever else they've done. You have to look out for yourself. And Paul. If you're not around to take care of him, he'll be completely lost.”

“Whatever else they've done?” She lifted her head and looked at me fearfully, trying to judge how much I knew.

“Yes. Criminal acts that are worse than forgery.
Much
worse.” I let her chew on that for a moment, then added, very quietly, “Do you know who killed Christine Morris and Karen Prior?”

Her face blanched. “No!” she cried. “No, I swear I don't! At least, not for sure. All I know is—” She bent double, her hands clasped over her head, and dissolved into a flood of tears.

“What?” I asked urgently. I put my hand on her arm. “
What
do you know?”

“That Roberto . . .” Her voice was muffled. “That Roberto killed Karen Prior.”

“How do you know that?”

She was wrenched with a bitter sobbing.

“
How
do you know that, Irene?” I persisted. “I can't help you—and Paul—unless you tell me.”

At the mention of Paul's name, the sobs slowed. After a moment, she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and sat up.

“I . . . I went over to the museum to hang my florals in the lounge one afternoon a week or so ago. Roberto and Sharyn were in the office and the door was open. They didn't know I was there.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “Roberto said that Karen had somehow found out about the Izquierdo painting. He was . . . very upset. He said she was going to ruin everything and he would have to—” She swallowed hard.

“Have to what, Irene?”

“Have to make sure she didn't tell what she knew to the others.”

“What others?”

“The members of the museum board. And the . . .” She gulped. “And the police.”

“What did Sharyn say?”

She shuddered. “She said, ‘I hope you don't have to kill her.' And he said, ‘I will if that's the only way.'”

“Did he say how he was going to do this? Or, afterward, did you hear him say what he had done?”

A head shake, hard. “No! That was all I heard, just that. I didn't want to hear any more. I stopped what I was doing and left. I was . . . I was scared.”

“No wonder,” I said. “I would have been petrified. But afterward—after Karen was attacked—you guessed that he had done it, didn't you? You must have been afraid.” Leading questions, yes. But then, I wasn't her defense attorney, and she wasn't on the stand.

“Oh, yes!” she cried. “Yes, yes! When I heard that Karen had been attacked in that parking lot, I knew that it had to have been Roberto. I was scared to death, but I couldn't let on that I knew anything. If I did, he might kill
me.
I told him that I needed to stop painting and take care of Paul. But he said he couldn't let me . . . let me quit.” She pressed her fist against her mouth, trying to control the sobs that threatened to break out again.