Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper (21 page)

“Exactly. Notice anyone else?”

Eddie looked at the photo again. “No way.”

“Yes way. It’s Rebecca.”

“You don’t think—”

“That maybe she’s involved? I didn’t before I found this, but I sure do now. She was at the museum the day Dirk was murdered. She has access to all kinds of things. She’s the one who told us that a woman dropped off the hats. Maybe she took the hats. Maybe she sealed the boxes back up and had empties delivered?”

“But why? She’s like a mouse.”

“It’s always the ones you don’t suspect.”

“At the rate you’re suspecting people, this must be a phantom crime, because there’s nobody you
don’t
suspect.”

“I just think it’s smart not to trust people who might be murderers. Seems like a good idea.”

“Have you told anybody about this?”

“Not yet.” I tapped the page a few times.

“Where’d you find this, anyway?”

I looked over my shoulder at the bags of trash lining the wall. “It was in the museum trash. Ironic, right? That I trusted Dante to hold the trash for me when Cat said she wouldn’t, and it turns out there was something in there that linked him to this whole thing?”

“Talk about coincidence,” Eddie said.

“I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Okay, then give me a reason. One reason why Rebecca would murder Dirk Engle. Do you have any connection between the two of them?”

“There’s a connection. I just have to find it.”

I thought back to what Dante had been saying all along.
You’re asking the wrong questions, Samantha.
I couldn’t wait to find him and try out a whole new set.

The next morning I showed great restraint by waiting until nine thirty to drive to Dante’s apartment. Eddie and I had both fallen asleep in front of the TV somewhere during
The Reaper Wore Red
, one of the movies I’d rented from the video store. I’d woken at five thirty. I woke Eddie and told him to take the sofa and I went upstairs, peeled off my soiled yoga clothes, and fell asleep in my underwear.

Three hours of sleep and a full breakfast at Arners later, I dropped Eddie off at the museum and doubled back to Duryea Drive. I parked my twenty-year-old black Honda del Sol on the street.

Dante stood on his balcony holding a white mug. I didn’t climb the stairs but addressed him from below. Romeo and Juliet-style, role reversal.

“You wanted me to find that yearbook,” I said.

He raised his brows and closed his eyes at the same time, like he was acknowledging the truth of my statement.

“Why?”

He held up an index finger and shook it back and forth. “Try again.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Rebecca?”

“Strike two.”

I bit my tongue. He was toying with me, but there was something here I wasn’t getting. My mind whirred with thoughts. I stared at the crack in the concrete on the landing halfway up the stairs to Dante’s apartment and forced my thoughts to quiet down.

“What can you tell me about the exhibit that I don’t already know?”

“Brava.”

“That’s not an answer,” I pressed.

“You want to come up?”

“I want answers.”

“Then come up. Answers go well with coffee.” He turned his back to me. I jogged up the thirty-nine steps and walked the narrow balcony to his front door. I stood in the door frame and watched him pour a second cup.

“One of these days I’m going to give up coffee,” I said.

“But not today. You need it. It goes nicely with the Arner’s breakfast plate.”

“Why are you watching me?”

“Watching? No. Waiting? Yes.”

“For what?”

“For this.” He motioned back and forth between us. “For you to come to me with the right questions.”

“You put the yearbook in the trash.”

“Maybe.”

“You knew if I went through the trash I’d find it.”

“Maybe.”

“You wanted me to discover your connection to Rebecca.”

“Maybe.”

“Why go to the trouble? Why not just tell me?”

He held out his mug for a second, but instead of drinking he set it on a table next to silver cups filled with yellow, orange, and red Sharpies. He sank down onto his futon and kicked his heels out in front of him. When he looked up at me, his expression held more than the usual flirtation. I leaned back against the doorframe, my hands behind me. I raised my eyebrows in an indication that it was his turn to talk.

“You want to know why I led you to that info? Because I needed to know how far you were willing to go for answers.”

“It was fairly obvious. I didn’t go that far.”

“Samantha,” he said and leaned forward, “in the past twenty-four hours you went through at least four bags of garbage. And the bag with the yearbook had coffee grinds and two-week-old bananas.”

“That was on purpose?”

“I had to test your resolve.”

“You should have tested my Tide with Stain Release Technology. That’s the real test.”

He stood up and walked closer, until he was right in front of me. “Do you want to talk about this, or do you want to
talk about this?
”

His breath hit me on the T words, strong from the coffee.

“I don’t want to, you know,
not
talk about this,” I said.

He reached his hand around me and ran his fingertips down my arm. They left a hot trail. When he reached my palm, he gently pulled my hand out from behind me and braided his fingers through mine.

“Sit down, Samantha. We have lots to talk about.” He led me to the futon.

I sat next to him. My heart pounded. I felt like I was back in high school on a second date with Tommy Cordoba. I reminded myself that a futon wasn’t the same as the skateboard park after dark, and I was pretty sure Dante wasn’t going to get to second base.

“Rebecca and I went to the same college,” Dante started. “I dated her my freshman year. We spent a lot of time together because we were both art majors. I’d go to the photo lab late at night when nobody else was there, and she’d be in the studio working. Some nights we were the only two people around.”

I bristled with an unexpected twinge of jealousy.

“We used to joke about how much we could learn about the students who left their stuff behind. She said I had a knack for observation. Hooked me up with an investigator who needed a cheap photographer.”

“Like, to catch cheating spouses?”

He nodded. “Money’s money, and it was easy. Taught me how much you can learn from people if you just watch them.”

“Spying.”

“Call it what you like. I called it an opportunity to pay my student loans back early and get a secondary education in human nature.”

“How did Rebecca know an investigator?”

“He was her father.”

“Did she work with you?”

“No. Rebecca and I broke up, but I kept freelancing for her dad. I learned a lot from him, until his heart attack. It was after we broke up. She fell behind on her coursework and dropped out of school. I tried to contact her a couple of times, but she cut ties with everyone.” He leaned back and stared at his hands. “And then she called me a couple of weeks ago. Out of the blue. Said she was working at the museum and something strange was going on. She wanted to know if I was still investigating on the side and asked if I’d check things out.”

“So all this time, you popping up at the museum, taking pictures, following me around, it’s because you’re on the job?”

“Are you going to get all Philip Marlowe on me now?” He dropped his head and smiled. “I met with her because I was curious. It’s been twenty years.”

“And?”

“And nothing. She’s a nice girl. That’s it.”

“No, not that and. And what did she tell you when you met with her?”

“She said Dirk Engle told her he thought there was something up with the exhibit. He called the police before he was killed. He suspected the exhibit wasn’t just an exhibit, that it was a front for something illegal.”

“So the police have been watching the museum?”

“For weeks. They arranged for the hats to be hijacked.”

“The police have the Hedy London hats? Since when? And why? Those hats were supposed to arrive at the museum the day Dirk Engle quit. If anything, the hats not arriving made it look like Dirk took off with them. That’s what I would have assumed if he hadn’t been murdered. But something doesn’t fit. Why would the police have intercepted the hat shipment
before
the murder? They must have suspected something. Is that what you told Rebecca?”

“I told her it was probably all her imagination.”

“But you don’t believe that. You’re still around. How come?”

“Because once I found out you were involved, I knew things were going to get interesting.”

“And have they?”

He tipped his head and looked me directly in the face. “They’re on the right track.”

27

“Yeah, well, speaking of tracks, I’d better be going. Lots of work to do. No time for skateboard parks.” I set the coffee mug on the end table next to the Sharpies and stood up.

“That didn’t make any sense.”

I backed toward the door. “Made perfect sense to me.” Before he could reply, I was out the door and on my way down. Once I was in my car and back down Duryea Drive, I called Eddie. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead. I have news. Rendezvous at the art park.” I hung up.

The phone rang almost immediately. I put it on speaker. “You up?”

“Dude,” he said. “‘Rendezvous at the art park’?”

“Code.”

“Bring me four dozen D-cell batteries and thirty yards of fishing wire. I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.” He hung up.

I stopped off at a drug store, cleaned out the battery aisle, and substituted dental floss for fishing wire. Even though rush hour was coming to an end, it still took twenty-five minutes to get the four miles to the museum. I parked in the space closest to the entrance.

Eddie was waiting outside. I slammed the door and jabbed a finger into his chest.

“You’re not going to believe who has the hats,” I said.

“Your friend?”

Considering how many/few friends I had at any given moment of this investigation, I had zero confidence trying to fill in the blank. “Which friend?”

“Detective Loncar.”

“He’s my friend?” I asked. “Since when?”

“Dude, it was only a matter of time before Loncar caught up with me. When I woke up this morning, I called him.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. He asked a lot of questions about who was in charge of the exhibit and who else was helping me. I kept your name out of it. He said for me to call him when I was at the museum again. The entire ride here I’ve been trying to figure out a way to avoid making that call. But then I think of Thad in the hospital and I get mad. I don’t know how to fix this. Got any ideas?”

“The obvious one. Call Loncar. It’s now or never. Or, you know, you can sleep when you’re incarcerated. Your choice, of course.”

Eddie handed me the keys to the back door and asked me to give him some privacy when he called the detective. I agreed to no such thing. The only concession I was willing to grant was to stand ten feet away after I watched him make the call. I have remarkably good hearing.

The conversation was brief. Eddie turned his head away from me and kept his voice low, but I heard occasional snippets—museum, hats, tonight—enough to know he kept up his end of the bargain.

We walked side by side to the back door. Eddie unlocked the it and held it open.

“So?” I asked.

“The detective is on his way. He’s bringing the hats.”

I stopped walking and looked side to side. “Does he know I’m here?”

“No.”

“How are you going to know when he arrives?”

“He’s going to call me.”

We continued working side by side, conversation consisting of Eddie’s instructions and my occasional under-my-breath responses. Time passed. I was working up the nerve to ask for a five minute break when Eddie’s phone rang.

“It’s Detective Loncar.”

“I’ll handle this.” I grabbed his phone. “Hello?”

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Adams, please,” the detective said.

“Detective, this is Samantha Kidd. Eddie asked me to take the call. Do you have the—” I caught myself before saying the word. “Do you have the merchandise?”

“Ms. Kidd, put Mr. Adams on the phone.”

“He’s currently indisposed. I’m at the—” Again I caught myself. “I’m at the meeting point. Do you need access?”

“Ms. Kidd, I’m on my way to the museum. I have a trunk filled with hats for Mr. Adams to use in his exhibit. If you’re coming out here to meet me, bring a cart.”

“Okay, great, thanks. I’ll be right there.” I hung up.

I found a small collapsible cart in the hallway outside Christian’s office and carried it to the back door of the museum. Detective Loncar stood outside. I wasn’t expecting to see him and I jumped.

“Jeez, Detective. I thought you were going to wait in the parking lot.”

“Ms. Kidd, what are you doing here?”

“I just told you I was here. On the phone. Thirty seconds ago. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Why are you at the museum?”

“I’m helping Eddie.”

“Are you sure? You’re not trying to figure out who killed Dirk Engle or who attacked Thad Thomas? You’re not interfering with my investigation?”

“I resent the implication.” I paused. “Why don’t you help me with the hats and come see for yourself?”

He grunted something and turned around. I followed him to his car, a dusty gray sedan. He popped the trunk and pulled out two corrugated cardboard boxes with small red numbers on the corners.

“That sure was clever of Christian to arrange for you to take the hats. Or was it Dr. Daum? Or someone else?”

He glared at me.

“Let me guess. You intercepted these boxes after they were delivered to the museum. I saw them. You must have thought they had something to do with Dirk Engle’s murder. But they’re clean, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t let me have them for the exhibit.”

“Ms. Kidd, these boxes have been in our possession for some time. I don’t think you saw these.”

“Yes, I did. The night Eddie and I came back here to find out what had happened.”