To Catch a Leaf (32 page)

“Mrs. Talbot, I presume?” Marco said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“O
pen that door at once!” Dot said in an authoritative voice.

As the elevator began to ascend, Marco put his finger on a large red button. “Okay, but that means pushing the emergency button, and that could trap us here for a while.”

Her eyes shifted from side to side, as though calculating her next move. Dot's clothing and accessories spoke of money, yet she had the sly glances and quick movements of a pickpocket.

Lifting her chin, she said, “I don't know who you think you are, but you have no right to hold me prisoner in this elevator!”

“We'll go up to your apartment and talk, then,” Marco said.

She studied us both for a moment, then tried the innocent routine again. “You tricked me! This isn't about an inheritance.”

“Not your inheritance,” I said. “Not Frank's either.”

“Who,” she asked haughtily, “is Frank?”

“Your son,” Marco said, “also known as Francis.”

Dot burst out laughing. “Francis? I don't know anyone named Francis—or Frank, for that matter. You've got the wrong Talbot, mister.”

“Then why did William downstairs identify the man in this photo as Francis Talbot?” Marco asked, showing her the copy.

Dot said nothing, only pressed her lips together and lowered her eyebrows.

When the elevator doors opened, she kicked off her shoes, shot out of the cab, and ran up the long hallway, her arms pumping as hard as they could as she tried to reach the open door at the end. But Marco was faster, and when she dashed inside, he was right behind her.

“Help!” she cried, trying to shut the door on him. “Call the cops!”

“Why don't you do that, Mrs. Talbot?” Marco said, motioning for me to step inside. “In fact, let's call the New Chapel Police, too. I think they'll be very interested in that painting behind you.”

Dot swung around to look as Marco pointed to a large oil painting hanging on the wall of her foyer above a gorgeous red Chinese chest. The painting was of an amaryllis in a glass vase sitting on a round table covered with a blue tablecloth.

Splendid Beauty
! It certainly wasn't a coincidence that it was hanging in her condo. But was that the original or another forgery?

She scowled at us but finally indicated a sitting room to my left. “Have a seat, then.”

“Thanks,” I said, eyeing a comfy-looking sofa facing a gorgeous, pale green marble fireplace.

Dot suddenly sprinted up the center hallway toward the back of her unit.

“Sprightly for a woman her age,” I said to Marco, as we ran after her.

Dot ran into her kitchen and seemed to be heading for a knife block full of black-handled blades, but she slipped on her polished marble floor and nearly collided with her massive, stainless-steel refrigerator. Marco caught her as she staggered backward.

He ushered her to her kitchen table and sat her down. “Now, let's have a talk, and if you cooperate, maybe I won't have to call the New Chapel Police.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and pouted. “You, mister, are going to be in big trouble. I'll have you charged with kidnapping.”

“And you, Dot,” Marco said, swinging a chair around to straddle it, “are going to be charged with aiding and abetting a criminal.”

“How dare you insult me!” she cried. “I don't know who Dot is, and I certainly don't know any criminals.”

Marco put the printout of Frank Talbot on the table in front of her. “You know him.”

She shoved it away and said nothing.

“Tell me about your sons again,” I said, taking a seat across the table from her. “The ones I saw when I delivered your flowers.”

She gave me a contemptuous look. “I've never set eyes on you in my life.”

“I'm the florist, remember? You told me about your three sons, and how only one of them was successful. That'd be Frank, right? A successful art thief?”

“You, missy, are mistaken. I've never even been to New Chapwick.”

New Chapwick. Dot was good. “Who sent you all those arrangements?” I asked. “Frank?”

“Frank who?” she said stubbornly.

“What were you supposed to do when you got the arrangements?” I asked.

She tapped her fingers on the table. “You're making no sense whatsoever.”

“When is Frank due back?” Marco asked.

“How many times do I have to tell you—I don't know a Frank!”

“That's okay,” Marco said. “We can wait until he gets here.”

She shifted her eyes back and forth again, obviously trying to find a way out. Then, with a gasp, she put her hand over her heart. “I'm getting palpitations. I need to call my doctor.”

She started to get up, but Marco blocked her. She sat down again with a hard
plop
and folded her arms, scowling at both of us. “You'll be sorry when I keel over dead.”

“Look,” Marco said, “just tell us how Frank worked the heist, and we'll leave.”

“Oh,” she said in a quivering voice, fanning her face with her hand, “I'm feeling faint.”

Marco sighed sharply, then rose and motioned for me to follow him. Once we were far enough away that she couldn't hear, he whispered, “We're not getting anywhere, and we can't interrogate her all night. I'm not even sure Frank is coming back here. So I'll stall for a few more minutes while you see if you can find anything that would connect Frank to the Newports or to the art theft.”

“What about that painting in the foyer?”

“She could say she got it as a gift or found it in the alley, for that matter. We'll need something more concrete.”

I nodded and left the kitchen.

“Where is she going?” Dot demanded. “She can't just walk about as she pleases.”

“She needs to use the washroom,” Marco said.

I didn't hear the rest of the conversation. I had reached the first bedroom and was doing a fast search, but the masculine-looking room that I assumed was Frank's was Spartan, with no personal effects whatsoever. In the closet I found a row of identical navy raw silk suits and another row of white shirts. Four pairs of navy leather shoes were beneath. The one chest of drawers contained underwear and socks and nothing more.

In the second bedroom, a decidedly feminine room, I found lots of women's clothing, shoes, purses, and hats, but again, no photos. In the dresser I found undergarments. On her bedside table was an Agatha Christie novel and a phone. I checked the phone and memorized the number.

The bathrooms held the usual shaving and bathing supplies, with one cabinet full of cosmetics in the bathroom off the second bedroom, but nothing of interest to our investigation. I did pocket a brown tortoiseshell comb in the man's bathroom that could prove useful for DNA.

I was in the sitting room when Marco came striding toward me. I was just about to tell him I'd given up the search when I spotted a large book propped beside an upholstered chair.

“Let's go,” Marco said. “We're done here.”

“Just a minute.” I ran to the chair and picked up the book. The title was
The Language of Flowers.
It was by the same author as the book Grace had given me, only a more modern edition. Could it be merely a coincidence? My gut told me no.

Marco was holding the door for me, so I replaced the book and dashed out after him. As we trotted toward the elevator, I heard the door slam behind us. “Is Dot going to call the cops?” I asked.

“I doubt it. She doesn't want more trouble. I left her my card and told her I could make it go much easier on her if she'd work with me. I'm sure she and Frank will be spending the rest of the night trying to decide on their next move. Let's hope it's not getting out of town.”

“They keep that place clean, Marco. No photos whatsoever, or any bills or statements that I could find. Who doesn't have some kind of mail lying around on a table or in a drawer? The only thing I found almost too coincidental was that gigantic oil painting in the foyer that I would swear is identical to one in the Newport mansion, and a book on the language of flowers by the same author of the book that Constance left Grace.”

“The cops would be less than impressed. Dot could claim it was left there by previous owners.”

“What about the doorman who identified Frank in the photo?”

“Unreliable eyewitness. I'm telling you, the Talbots knew what they were doing, Abby. They're pros. I've read about these types of art-theft rings before. Those two men you saw when you made the delivery were part of the team. One collected the paintings; the other was the master forger. Dot acted as their cover, and Frank directed the whole scheme from a safe distance.”

“And they used those floral deliveries as a code, Marco. I'm sure of it. This morning I made a list of the flowers we'd delivered and matched them to the meanings in Grace's book. All of them corresponded to the paintings in the Beauty collection. So when Dot received the flowers, it had to be a message as to which painting to steal.”

“If only we had airtight proof,” he said with a frustrated sigh.

Marco was silent as we walked out to his car, no doubt sorting through all the information we'd gathered, trying to find the answer. To lighten the mood, when he opened the car door for me, I said with a coy smile, “If you play your cards right, when we get back to Bloomers, I'll show you my list.”

Marco put his hands on the roof on either side of me and leaned in, giving me that quirky, sexy half smile that always drove me wild. “Is that all you're going to show me?”

My bad boy was back. “Come closer and I'll whisper what else.”

At that moment, I spotted a black minivan with tinted windows driving slowly up the street. It couldn't be another coincidence.

“Marco, it's them!” I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to a crouched position. “It's their black minivan, the one I saw at the Donnelly house.”

Marco raised his head to look, then, still crouched, led me around to the back of the car. “They're parking. Stay down until I give you the word, then take a quick look and see if you recognize them.”

I waited, my heart racing, until Marco said, “Now.”

I raised my head and saw the two men about five yards past us, moving rapidly toward the condo building. “It's them, Marco,” I whispered. “Those are the men Dot claimed were her sons.”

Marco had already pulled out his pocket camera and was snapping photos. “They probably won't be good enough to use in court, but I wanted a record of it anyway.”

We watched through the long expanse of glass as Dot's so-called sons nodded to William, then headed toward the elevators, and as soon as they stepped inside the cab, we returned to the security counter.

“William, I forgot to thank you for your assistance,” Marco said, handing him a fifty-dollar bill. “You were a big help.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said with a pleased smile. “Thank you very much.”

“I've got a few more quick questions for you.” Marco held up another fifty. “Those two men who just went by—would they be going up to the penthouse?”

William eyed the money. “Yes, sir, they would.”

“Know their names?”

“Johnny and Eamon is how I know them, but let's see.” William pulled out a clipboard and looked through a list. “Here it is. John Talbot and Eamon Talbot. Family members.”

“They don't have to sign in?” Marco asked.

“Not if they get clearance from the owners, no, sir.”

“Thanks. That's all I needed to know.” Marco gave him the money and we left.

Outside, he took down the minivan's license plate number and phoned it in to Sean Reilly, leaving the message on his voice mail. “Hey, Sean, Marco here. I might have a break in the Newport art heist for you. Run this plate and I'll explain when I talk to you.”

Within ten minutes, Reilly returned the call, so Marco put him on speakerphone.

“Hey, guys,” Reilly said. “I have to make this quick. The van in question is registered to a John J. Cole. He was released from prison six months ago for—get ready for this—art theft.”

“Thanks, Sean. That's just what I needed to know. I'll call you as soon as I have more information.”

Marco put in a call to his former army commander, now a vice president at Prairie Communications, who had turned to Marco for help after he'd been falsely accused of a crime, and was assured the necessary phone records would be faxed to him as soon as possible.

Back at Marco's bar by nine o'clock, we went straight to his office to pick up the faxes, then headed down the block to Bloomers. I made coffee, a poor imitation of Grace's, sadly, and we sat in the parlor poring over cell phone records for Francis Talbot and Eamon MacShane. We struck out on Cole because there was no listing under his name, but what we did learn was that Talbot hadn't called either his men or Dot, further confirming my belief that he'd communicated through the flower arrangements.