Paloma: A Laurent & Dove Mystery (16 page)

“Tank, when are you going to settle down?”

“Excuse me?”

“Find a nice girl and have a football team of your own.”

Tank sipped his drink. “I could ask you the same question.”

Max adjusted himself in the chair. They’d had variations of this conversation on many occasions. “I missed the boat, Tank. I’m telling you, you got a fleet in port, just board one.”

“‘Fleet in port’. Way to go Max. I like it. What you saying? Be a captain?”

“Exactly.”

“Just one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I get seasick.”

Max laughed.

Tank patted his breast pocket, then pulled out a folded page. “Enough about me. Before I give you this, answer one question. Who’s Paloma?”

Max looked at his friend. They had worked together side by side for over ten years. They had talked about everything, but somehow the topic of Agnes had never come up. “I knew her a long time ago.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Tank grinned slyly and settled back in his seat. “Let’s see, how can I put this? Did you board that ship? Were you her captain?”

Max spun his glass of water around. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

“Am I to assume she wasn’t marriage material?”

“Marriage material?”

“Yeah, Max, the kind of girl you marry and sail the seven seas.”

Water beads dripped down the sides of the glass. Max picked it up and set it back down. Perfect circles, like wedding bands, formed on the white tablecloth. “Marriage never came up,” he told Tank.

Tank nodded. “Oh, I get it now. She’s the one that got away. Yeah, they’re the worse to get over.”

Max drew his attention away from the interlocking rings. “You think so?”

“Definitely.”

Getting Tank’s advice on women was a scary prospect, but he was the one with all the experience. Max asked, “And why is that?”

Tank leaned forward. “It’s like this. You find a woman who rocks your world, makes you feel fine, but time goes by, shit happens, and she loses her shine. So you move onto another shiny thing and before you know it you’re addicted, not to any specific woman, but to her luster like a new car. You meet more women, one glitzier than the next, but with each one, the shine wears off sooner and suddenly you realize old things have value too, like Mama’s cooking. Five star restaurants don’t have macaroni and cheese, you know? And you’re back to thinking of that one girl who was the real thing from the get go, nothing shiny or phony, and she gets under your craw, like an effing hangnail.” Tank leaned back. “Trust me. I know first hand.”

Max had never heard Tank talk like this. It rang true, too true. “Did you ever look her up?”

“Yeah, she’s now married with five kids.”

“Tough break,” Max said. 

Tank shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

“So what do you have for me?”

“Here you go.”

Max took the sheet of paper and unfolded it. It was a photograph of a man and two women. The man was no one Max knew. Daisy was heavily made-up with big hair and large hoop earrings. Her gown appeared to be shimmering with a deep cut down the front and another up the leg. The other woman, in black, had long blond hair that fell around her shoulders. A few strands curled into her generous cleavage. Max looked more closely. The woman’s face belonged to Agnes. The caption read,
Arthur Claredon with Daisy Humara and Paloma Dove attend Sotherby bash.
Sotherby’s? Daisy being a dealer in antiques would certainly be appropriate, but why was Paloma there? 

“Natural blonde?” Tank asked.

“No,” Max answered definitively.

“Who’s the other woman?”

“Her friend.”

“She single?”

Max nodded.

“Maybe someday the four of us can go to Vegas.”

“Maybe,” Max said distractedly. Again, he was reminded how different Agnes had become, how the strange woman Paloma had taken over. He folded the page and put it into his breast pocket. “Have anything else?”

“She keeps a low profile. No DMV record, no credit history, no arrests. But she does like to fly.”

“Where to?”

“She’s partial to three places. New York City, Buffalo and Chicago. In the past month, she’s gone to all three.”

“Chicago? When was that?”

Tank reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of yellow paper. “About a week ago she boarded a flight from LaGuardia to O’Hare. Spent three days, then returned to New York last Thursday. In the past year, she’s taken several trips to both Chicago and Buffalo. Always returns to the Big Apple.” Tank looked up. “Maybe she’ll have enough frequent flyer miles to get us all to Vegas.”

“If I ever get to see her, I’ll ask,” Max said dryly.

“So what’s the scoop, Max? What kind of business is she in?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about her friend?”

“She sells antiques.”

“Maybe they’re in business together.”

“Yes, that’s possible,” Max said, but his thoughts were heading in a different direction. Chicago was where Agnes’s  husband and child lived. Since Agnes came regularly to Buffalo to visit her parents’ graves, it would make sense that she’d keep a tethered link to Chicago as well. Still, Max felt uneasy. Could Agnes still be in love with her husband? Or was it about Madeleine? 

“Max, you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just seem to be spinning my wheels.”

“I hear you. Listen, let’s go out Friday. Head over to the casino, or maybe go to the races, then catch the Canadian ballet.”

“A strip club? Not sure that would help.”

Tank nodded. “I see your point. Every Porsche needs a garage, right big guy?” Tank downed the last of his drink. “Is any of this helpful?”

“You bet.”

“One more thing. There’s a Paloma Dove Academic Scholarship fund for Hispanic girls entering college.”

“Scholarship fund? Is it associated with a university?”

“Don’t know,” Tank said. “Applications are made through New York City High Schools.”

Max drummed his fingers on the table. “Agnes always wanted to go to college.”

“Agnes? Well, if she’s Hispanic and living downstate, she should apply.”

“She’s a little old.”

“Old? Never too old for school. So what’s up between you two?”

“It’s complicated.” 

“Hey, I got all afternoon.”

Max smiled at his hulking buddy. Tank was the only guy he knew that didn’t always talk about himself. Just as Max was about to begin an abridged version of the Agnes saga, a beep went off. He rummaged through his pocket, grabbed the walkie talkie and pressed the red button. “Hey Lola.”              

Lola’s voice shorted out. “Hel…am…ing…she…”

“I hear you Lola. Go ahead.”

“ere”

“Press the red button to talk,” Max reminded her.

“Button – Yes, can you hear me now?”

“Loud and clear. What’s up?”

“She’s here, Max.”

Max sat straighter. “Sure it’s her?”

“Spitting image.”

“Where are you?”

“In the stacks. Section J.”

“Where’s she?”

“Sitting at a table reading a book.”

“Can you stay with her?”

“Honey, she ain’t going nowhere. Trust me.”

Max looked at his watch. “Be there in five minutes.”

“Okie dokie,” Lola said. “Roger and out.”

Max felt as if an electric current was passing through him. “Tank, I gotta run.” He pulled a hundred spot from his wallet and laid it on the table. “Take care of the bill, okay?”

“You bet. Let me know what happens.”

Max stood up and padded his pockets. He then ran his hands through his hair.

“You look fine.”

“Thanks. I just – Tank, can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure thing.”

“Are you sorry you looked her up?”

“Looked who up?”

“The woman that was married.”

Tank thought for a second. “Maybe at first, but I learned something. You gotta take care of unfinished business to move on.”

Max slapped Tank’s hand, then blasted from the restaurant.

Chapter Fourteen

Paloma’s frequent trips to Buffalo were primarily to one place – the library. Here she found the materials needed for her business – out-of-print books. Stepping up the inclined walkway to the double door-entry, she made a mental note of what she needed. The return to her burned-out apartment early Friday morning had been disheartening. Not only had the fire, smoke, and subsequent water damage ruined all her paper, but incriminating evidence was everywhere. Unable to cart months of work and research, she only salvaged a few photographs then torched the rest in the bathtub. And now, given her present situation, there was the obvious problem of how much she could physically take and store.

Paloma caught a reflection of herself as she approached the heavy glass door. Her lopped off hair spiked up in the slight breeze. Who was this woman? A common criminal. But even worse – remorseless. She reached for the door pull and entered. Averting eye contact, Paloma approached the security guard, handed him her bag and walked through the metal detector. The man unzipped the purse and gave it a cursory look.

“What’s in the plastic bag?” he asked.

“Art supplies.”

He returned the pouch, nodding her on.    

Paloma walked past the auditorium, stopped to pick up a tattered People Magazine, then continued beyond the periodical area. Entering the reference section, Paloma headed toward an available computer.

It had been an elaborate scheme that took over a year to contrive. First pouring through the historical data in archived files in Amherst, Massachusetts, then taking discreet photographs of her writing. Visits to both the local cemetery and assessor’s office for land records and possible names, followed. After months, Miss Cordelia Latham surfaced who, like her friend, was a churchgoing spinster. The letters to Cordelia were fictitious. Paloma had conjured them all. To test the waters, the first letter had been sold to a private collector for twenty thousand dollars, fifty percent of which was Paloma’s. With the paper she found today, her fourth of eight letters would be completed.

Once seated at the computer, she began a catalog search. Her fingers skimmed across the keyboard. She wrote
Needlework
and pressed
Enter.
A list of books appeared on the screen. She refined her search to a date-of-publication sort. Her eyes narrowed on three titles –
Art Needlework, Women’s Embroidery Hand-book,
Tatting, A Ladies Guide.
Her find was solid, all hitting in the 1860's. She scribbled down the names, numbers and took them to be retrieved from the closed stacks. 

“It will take a few minutes,” said the desk clerk. Paloma nodded, sat by a nearby table and waited.

Prior to the Cordelia letters, she’d tackled more contemporary projects – Jackie O, Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana. Even though the money was good, the market was glutted and fickle. It was only after an Amelia Earhart piece, that she realized what drew real money – a person of historical significance. But while the payoff was huge, the logistics were as well. For starters, old documents needed old paper. And she soon learned that the library in Buffalo, with its gilded age being at the turn of the twentieth century, held a treasure trove. 

“Ma’am,” the librarian called out to her, “here are the books.” 

Paloma gathered the books and looked for a place to sit. 

Years earlier after a tour of the library, Paloma had learned that the stacks were closely monitored by roving-eye cameras hidden in ceiling tiles. It was then she realized that any nefarious activity was best done in the open.  

In the middle of the room, an older man with Einstein hair sat alone at a table, writing feverishly. The librarian, meanwhile, returned to punching a keyboard. How comforting that both people were diligently on task. Paloma made her way to a solitary table near the window. She sat with the light behind her and the room in clear view. 

After getting comfortable, she reached for one of the books. On the spine, written in gold was the title,
Art Needlework
, with the author’s name,
Mann
. Centering the book on the table, she readied herself. Like mining for gold, searching for paper held excitement. At times, blank pages had already been removed. By whom, Paloma could only assume. Then there were the unusable pages that were blank on one side, but stamped or written on the reverse. Harvesting pages could be tiresome, but every once in a while she’d hit a mother lode. And it was with this anticipation that she turned the cover.

The first page was unusable. Often very old books had a heavy first page that mirrored the underside of the cover. Still, she was excited. The page was intact, a good sign that the remaining pages would be as well. She pinched the corner and turned the page. A beautifully aged but unmarked sheet followed. Gently, she tugged at the bottom corner. A slight rip sounded. Looking more closely, she saw how the paper had easily separated from the binding, a keeper. She made a mental note and continued leafing through the book. By the time she’d turned several pages, two fly sheets from the front and back had been torn out and neatly slipped into the folds of the People Magazine. She then scanned the other two books and added three more blank pages to her stash. Plenty to get the job done.    

Once finished, she glanced around. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Still, she sensed being watched. Was her profile being viewed inside a camera lens or could it be guilt after all? She stood, placed the magazine securely under her arm and left the area.  

On the way out, Paloma slipped into the bathroom. Locking herself in a stall, she sat on the toilet and removed the paper from the folds of the magazine. After putting the sheets into her bag, she leaned back and sighed. At last the semblance of a plan, a modicum of control. 

The main door to the bathroom rattled. A moment later, footsteps echoed into the room. Paloma peered between the stall door and its metal jamb. A woman stood at the sink. “Excuse me. Is someone here?”

Paloma hesitated. 

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I need help.”

Hiding in a library john seemed unnecessary and silly. Paloma flushed the toilet, then fiddled with the latch.