The Sinister Touch (9 page)

His senses swam as Zac managed to straighten into a more or less standing position. Gingerly he touched his left shoulder with his right hand and winced. But as far as he could tell, nothing was broken. One had to be thankful for small mercies in this sort of situation.

He found the flashlight when he accidentally kicked it with his foot. The frail beam shone listlessly across the dusty basement floor. Bending down, Zac retrieved it and swung it around in an arc. Light fell on the object that had been used to nearly brain him. It was a black metal candlestick, heavy and tall, almost as good as a length of pipe for cracking skulls. Zac left it where it was. All he wanted now was to get out of the basement before whoever he had tangled with returned with assistance. This sort of thing could be potentially embarrassing to an upwardly mobile executive in the security business.

He was starting up the steps when the flashlight beam skimmed along the surface of a long object propped against one side of the staircase. Pausing, Zac ran the beam along the surface and realized that he was looking at a framed painting. A framed Mason Adair painting. There could be no mistaking the brilliant light and clear, vibrant colors. Even here, in a pitch-dark basement, illuminated only by a flashlight, the effect of Adair’s work made itself felt. Maybe the guy really had some talent, Zac admitted reluctantly to himself.

Tentatively Zac leaned over the wooden stair rail and tried to lift the framed canvas. It was heavier than he’d expected. There was no question that it would take two hands, and just then Zac didn’t have two working hands available. Regretfully he left the canvas where it was and finished the trek up the steps.

The kitchen seemed almost flooded with light compared to the oppressive darkness of the basement. Zac stood blinking in the shadows for a few seconds, letting his eyes adjust as he switched off the flashlight. Then he let himself out the back door.

It seemed a long way back to where he’d parked the Buick. He couldn’t risk the sidewalks, so he stuck to backyards and gardens. He briefly noted one particularly thriving crop of an agricultural product generally characterized as an illegal substance. He finally emerged on the street where he’d left the car. It was still there, complete with hubcaps. No one went out of his way to steal three-year-old Buick hubcaps.

He had some movement back in his left arm but no real strength. Using his right hand for everything, Zac fished the car keys out of his pocket and got the reliable engine started. A moment later he was driving sedately out of the area, keeping his headlights off for a couple of blocks until he was sure he wouldn’t be observed by anyone who might feel obliged to notice a strange vehicle in the neighborhood and report it. Not that the neighborhood was likely to have a Block Watch Program. This wasn’t the sort of district where people went out of their way to keep an eye on strangers, but there was no point in taking any more chances. Life had been adventurous enough tonight.

***

Guinevere was pacing the floor at four thirty when she heard Zac’s key in the lock. With a strangled little cry of relief she raced forward, throwing herself into his arms as he opened the door.

“For God’s sake, don’t do that,” Zac hissed painfully as her arms closed tightly around him.

Startled at the distinct lack of welcome in his greeting, Guinevere drew back and eyed him anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

“A great deal. My left arm feels as if it may fall off at any moment.” He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Your arm! Zac, what happened? Are you all right?”

“I think I’m going to survive, but I can tell you, Gwen, that this little investigation you’ve sicced me onto isn’t the type of thing I had in mind when I incorporated in the State of Washington. Did you get the coffee made?”

“It’s ready. I’ve been worried, Zac. What on earth happened to your arm? Did you fall?”

“Some joker got me with a candlestick. I’ll take a few aspirin with the coffee, if you don’t mind.”

Guinevere stared at him, appalled. The grimly etched lines around his mouth told their own story, as did the careful way Zac was cradling his left arm. “Maybe we should get you to a doctor.”

“No.”

“But, Zac . . .”

He gave her a disgusted glance. “Nothing’s broken. I’ll be all right eventually, although I may not be my usual athletic self in bed for a while.”

“This is not the time for sexual humor, Zachariah Justis. Come into the kitchen and sit down. I’ll get your coffee and aspirin. Then I want to take a look at that shoulder.”

“You can look but don’t touch. It’s going to be a while before I let anyone touch it. Christ. If I weren’t such a macho type, I’d admit that it hurts like hell.”

“Oh, Zac . . .”

“I love it when you go all dithering and feminine on me.”

“I am not dithering.” She urged him into a chair and poured coffee.

“When did you put the coffee on?” he asked, accepting the mug. “The minute I left?”

“Forget the nasty comments on my coffee machine and tell me what happened.”

“First the aspirin.”

Guinevere hurried into the bathroom and returned a few seconds later with a bottle of tablets. “Here you are. Zac, really, I think you should take off your jacket and shirt and let me see that shoulder.”

“Getting out of this jacket right now would put an end to my macho facade. Give me a little time, okay?”

“All right, but I’m worried, Zac.”

“So am I. But not about my shoulder.”

“Zac, tell me what went on in that house tonight.” Guinevere shook her head mournfully. “I knew I should have gone with you.”

“Oh, you’d have had a field day. The place would have inspired your imagination.” Gratefully he sipped the hot brew.

“Is it haunted?” she demanded.

“If it is, the ghosts aren’t the ones causing the problems. The guy who got me with the candlestick was very much alive.”

In succinct, unadorned sentences Zac gave her a quick rundown on what had happened in the old Sandwick house, concluding with the discovery of the Mason Adair painting.

“Someone is storing a Mason Adair painting in that awful basement? But why? And what’s with the altar and the black velvet drapes?” Guinevere wondered aloud.

“An altar.” Zac thought about the stone table. “Yeah, that’s a good way to describe it. A black altar.”

Guinevere shuddered. “Your description alone is enough to give me the creeps. It must have been horrible going through that basement. Zac, you could have been killed.”

“I’m not sure the guy was out to kill me. I think I surprised him, and he struck out with the first thing he could find, namely a candlestick. Could have been a transient, someone bedding down illegally in an empty house. I was probably as big a surprise to him as he was to me.”

“But you said the black drapes looked in good condition?”

“They were a lot newer than the rest of the furnishings upstairs.”

Guinevere chewed on her lower lip, thinking. “Was there a lot of dust on that altar?”

“Good point.” Zac closed his eyes, trying to recapture the image of the black stone. “No.”

“So someone’s taking care of the basement while the rest of the house rots away? Zac, it doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe it will when we find out who bought the place from Sandwick.” Zac glanced at the kitchen clock. “In a few more hours I’ll go down to the county courthouse and take a look at the land records.”

“What about the painting?”

“Describe it to Adair and see if he can remember whether he sold it or gave it to anyone.”

Guinevere nodded. “Maybe Theresa, the gallery owner, will know if it was one she sold. Mason hasn’t sold too many pictures yet. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out who bought a particular one. What did it look like?”

Zac gazed into the depths of his coffee, remembering. “Lots of turquoise and purple. A water scene with lots of glare on the surface of the sea. But the effect was reversed, as if you were under the water looking up at the sun, if you know what I mean.”

“Um. I recall that one from the night of Mason’s show although I can’t remember the title. Why don’t I contact both of them and see what I can find out while you check the land records?”

“I knew it,” Zac said ruefully.

“Knew what?”

“You’re taking charge already. I go out and do the dirty work, and then you get to do the executive stuff. It always happens like this.”

Guinevere leaned forward, her chin resting on her propped hands. Her eyes were light with warm amusement. “You know what they say about brains and brawn. Besides, it was your idea to do the dirty work alone. I offered to come along and help.”

“So you did.”

Her amusement disappeared. “Zac, what do you think is going on? None of this makes any sense.”

“I’m aware of that. At the moment your guess is as good as mine.”

“I keep thinking about the possibility of professional jealousy,” Guinevere said slowly. “This all seems a little bizarre for that.”

“We live in a bizarre world. People have been known to do ruthless things in the name of professional jealousy. But it’s this connection with that occult group that’s got me nervous, Gwen. I don’t like it. Give me a nice, clean, financially motivated thief or swindler every time. I can understand financial motivation.”

Guinevere watched his hand go probingly to his left shoulder. “I’m worried about that shoulder, Zac.”

He smiled cryptically. “I like it when you’re worried about me.”

“Zac, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

***

Mason Adair recognized the description of the painting immediately. He listened as Guinevere stood in his studio later that morning and told him what Zac had seen in the basement of the old house. Slowly he walked to the window and stood looking down onto the street.

“Glare,”
he said.

“I beg your pardon?” Guinevere countered.

“The name of the picture is
Glare
. It’s supposed to be hanging in the Midnight Light gallery. As far as I know, Theresa hasn’t sold it.”

“Then I think,” Guinevere announced firmly, “that we’d better contact Theresa.”

“I’ll call her now.” Mason picked up the phone. Theresa came on the line at once, and even from across the room Guinevere could hear the agitation in the woman’s voice. When Mason finished talking and replaced the receiver, Guinevere was already half prepared for the answer.

“Stolen?” she asked softly.

Mason nodded. “Sometime late yesterday or early last night, Theresa thinks. She was waiting until her assistant got in this morning to make sure it hadn’t been sold, but the assistant just arrived and swears it was hanging on the wall until at least four o’clock yesterday.”

“Could somebody have just walked out with it?” Guinevere asked. “Or was there some sign of forced entry?”

“No evidence of anyone having tried to break into the gallery. And, yes, someone could have walked out with it. It happens. Security isn’t exactly tight around most of the Pioneer Square galleries. There have been a few instances of paintings having disappeared during working hours. Theresa was going to report the theft to the cops. I told her to wait.”

“I heard you. Zac’s going to find this interesting.”

But Zac had news of his own by the time Guinevere called him and told him what she’d learned.

“The house was bought for fifty-five thousand in cash by a Barry Hodges. All the taxes are being kept up-to-date.” Zac glanced at his notes as he spoke into the phone. “I talked to some real estate people who checked their multiple listings. They say the house isn’t for sale, and no one’s got it on the market to rent. The agent who handled the deal said it was a very quick sale, with no real negotiation. Sandwick wanted the money and took the first offer he got.”

“Does the agent remember this Barry Hodges?” Guinevere asked.

“She remembers that he didn’t look like the type who could come up with fifty-five thousand in cash. I gather he was kind of scruffy, long-haired, and overweight. Said he wanted a fixer-upper and had already picked out the Sandwick place. But so far he hasn’t done any fixing. The agent hasn’t seen him since he signed the last of the papers.”

“How did you get all that information out of her?” Guinevere demanded.

“Innate charm.”

“The same sort of charm you seen to have been using lately on Elizabeth Gallinger?” Guinevere kept her tone light, but Zac’s lack of response on the other end of the line told her that he didn’t appreciate the joke. She rushed to fill the unpleasant silence, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. “Theresa says the painting probably disappeared late yesterday afternoon, by the way. Mason asked her not to report it to the police.”

“That figures. Mason’s definitely running scared about jeopardizing his newfound fame and fortune, isn’t he?”

“Wouldn’t you be, in his shoes? Painting is his business, the same way security work is yours and mine is providing temporary help. He’s just as concerned about protecting his image and reputation as any businessman, Zac. Just think of him as a
client
. You’re always helping your clients avoid embarrassing publicity.”

“Gwen, let’s get this straight, once and for all. I am not wasting my time in dark basements for the sake of an artist who might one day be rich but who presently couldn’t possibly afford me.”

“I know, Zac. You’re doing this for me. And I want you to know I really do appreciate it,” Guinevere assured him earnestly.

“Good. Because when this is all over, I intend to collect my fee one way or the other. Now, back to business. I think it’s time you and I played house.”

Guinevere nearly fell out of her office chair. “What?” she got out weakly.

“I may have misstated that. We’re going to pretend we’re looking for a house.”

“To buy?”

“Uh-huh. A fixer-upper in the same neighborhood where the Sandwick house is located. Or maybe I should start calling it the Barry Hodges house. I want an excuse to talk to the neighbors, and people always seem to talk a lot more freely to you than they do to me.”

“My innate charm,” Guinevere explained loftily.