5 Windy City Hunter (14 page)

Wes looked surprised. “So you were watching me, huh?”

“Not really,” I said. “I saw the man go upstairs ahead of me, and when I got to the top of the stairs, I saw the two of you. The man was only at your table for a minute.”

“That was Martha Cole’s brother,” he said. “She’s Penelope’s assistant. You know, the one who opened the door that day and screamed.”

“I know who she is,” I said.

“Well, he’s her brother,” he said. “I had tickets for him to a Bears game. He paid me, and I gave him the tickets.”

Wes’s eyes bore into mine. I knew he was lying, and I think he knew that I knew he was lying. That wasn’t money and tickets they exchanged that day. Something else was in the pouch he slipped into his pocket. His intense look made me nervous and caused me to hold my tongue.

“I don’t know that any of this helps us, but I appreciate your coming by today, Wes,” Detective Bentley said.

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Wes, you were at the cooking competition in the viewing stands. Were you there early enough to see us come in?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was waiting for Craig to show up, and maybe Duarte, but I could only take so much of watching you guys cook. That is some boring entertainment right there. I didn’t even stick around long enough to watch the fireworks when they hauled you two off to jail.”

“We weren’t hauled off to jail,” I said. He was getting under my skin again, and my irritation was starting to show.

“Whatever,” he muttered under his breath.

Ooh, he was such a jerk!

“When I first went in, I set a bag and a box on our station,” I told him. “Someone came by and moved the box. They hid it in the station next to ours. Did you see who did it?”

“Nope,” he said. “I must have been looking somewhere else.”

My hippie Aunt Charlotte on my father’s side didn’t teach me a plethora of life’s lesson for nothing when I was twelve years old. I could spot a tell in poker, and I could tell when someone was lying. Wes was lying again, just like he did when he said he was having coffee at the Quickie Foods.

“Wes, I have some information that will help you,” I said. “If you tell me who hid the box in Dee’s station, I’ll tell you what Craig and George Duarte were arguing about in the hallway at the hotel. I was in the restroom across the hall, and I heard the entire conversation.”

He looked me in the eye. It was obvious he was weighing the value of what I could tell him against what he would tell me.

“Ok, Susan,” he said. “I’m game. It was the lady cooking across from you.”

I was aghast. “Bonnie Montgomery?” I asked.

“I don’t know her name,” he said with irritation. “She was the grandma who was cooking across from you. As soon as you left the room, she looked through the bag you set on the counter, and then she started digging around in the box. I couldn’t see what she was doing because the bag was in my way, but she was messing with something. When Darby walked through the door, she ducked down, stuck the box in the other station, and scurried on down the aisle in the opposite direction. It was a little bit of fun for me to watch you guys try to find that box.”

I looked at Detective Bentley and opened my mouth to proclaim Bonnie as the supplier of the date-rape drug, but I caught his look and slight shake of his head warning me not to say anything. I clapped my mouth shut.

“Give it, Raines,” Wes said. “What have you got for me?”

I took a moment to set aside the shock of what Bonnie must have done, and tried to focus on the conversation between Craig and George.

“Craig’s already done a painting and given it to George,” I said. “They met outside Check Casher, so Craig could collect his payment, but George only gave him a thousand dollars. George wants Craig to do another painting, but Craig won’t do it until he gets the second thousand dollars for the first painting. Craig called George to come to the Wilder Hotel during the reception, and George thought Craig actually had a second painting done for him, but Craig was demanding his money. George said he wasn’t coming downtown any more, and after the original painting was sold, he would call him to meet at Check Casher again for the rest of the money. Craig said he would tell him then if he would do another painting or not.”

Wes whistled softly under his breath. “Susan, that’s some great snooping.”

“I wasn’t snooping,” I snapped at him.

“Whatever it was, that’s some good information, and I can use it,” he said. He finally appeared sincere as he reached over to touch my arm and say, “Thanks.”

Detective Bentley walked Wes to the door. He came back, sat down, and started gathering all of his papers into one pile. “Well, Susan, what do you think?” he asked.

“I think Wes didn’t tell us everything, and I think he lied about a few things,” I said. “But knowing Bonnie Montgomery was messing with Darby’s things is probably all we need to know to clear him on that charge. Can you get security footage of that?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, “but I don’t think we’re any closer to finding out who killed Mrs. Fisher.”

I didn’t respond. There was no way I wanted to tell Detective Bentley, but I thought we were much closer. The man in the gorilla suit was Martha’s brother. I would have to pay her another visit.

“What’s next, Susan?” the detective asked. “Who do you think we should we talk to next?”

“Craig,” I said. “His first art showing is at the Shaw Gallery on Rush Street this evening. I want to go. Craig’s a good guy, and I don’t want to see him go down in a sting operation by Wes and the police. Let’s give him a heads-up that Wes will be gunning for him. If we can convince him to talk to Wes first, and help him get to George Duarte, I think he can come out of this unscathed.”

Detective Bentley nodded his head. “Susan, I like the way you think,” he said. “That’s a good idea. What time is the show?”

“It’s at 8:00,” I said.

He looked at his watch. “It’s a few minutes after five now. Why don’t you go lie down for a while? Even if you don’t nap, you can rest. I promised Mick I’d make sure you rested.”

I smiled. Mick was a fantastic businessman as part owner of a small electric company, and he could do or make anything, but when it came to me, hard as he tried, he couldn’t control circumstances around me, and he was always asking others to watch out for me when he wasn’t around.

“I’m going to make us some dinner,” he said. “We’ll eat around 7:00, and then leave by 8:00 to head over to the gallery.”

As soon as he suggested resting, I felt incredibly tired and a nap sounded wonderful. I yawned. “That sounds good,” I said. “I don’t care what we have for dinner, but please nothing too spicy. As much as I like Chris De Floss, I don’t need him paying me a visit tonight.”

He looked at me like I’d lost my mind and walked into the kitchen shaking his head. I started giggling and was soon laughing uncontrollably as I flopped down onto the bed.

The Shaw Gallery was elegant.

We arrived shortly before 8:30. An attendant checked our coats, and upon entering the main gallery, we were greeted by a waiter wearing a full-tailed, black tuxedo, complete with white gloves. He offered a glass of champagne to us from his tray. The detective and I both passed on the drinks.

There were three small rooms to view this evening, with each room showcasing a different artist. Craig’s artwork was in a room with beautiful, rich, hardwood flooring, and a pale, warm, sky-blue color was on the walls. The pleasing nature of the room was a perfect complement to his pieces.

I fell in love with the first painting I saw. It was beautifully matted and framed. The frame was a dark brown wood, much like the flooring. The painting looked like a photograph, but when I looked closer, it was most certainly a painting. If I looked away and looked back again, I would swear it was a photograph. The technique he used to achieve the look must be what he had coined Nettling. It was unique and creative.

The painting had a weathered white fence at the heart of it. Autumn leaves were scattered across a pebbled drive. The leaves were heavier on the ground beneath a grove of leafless, gray trees. The sky was blue, but held the promise of a snowfall soon. The painting was cold, lonely, and beautiful at the same time. It would be perfect for Mick’s office in the apartment. I checked the price tag - $800. It was definitely something to consider.

Craig was in a corner of the room chatting with patrons. I smiled when I saw him. He was dressed in a white button-down shirt, gray trousers, and, of course, his black tennis shoes. Tonight they were laced with orange laces. He was truly a unique character, and I loved his style.

We looked closely at all of his paintings. Most of them were nature settings. I was tempted by one where the side of a scarred house and the surrounding landscape were done in black and white. The house on the door, however, was blood red. The sky was a light blue with the hint of a rainbow on the horizon. It was both stark and lovely.

Detective Bentley and I moved on to the other rooms, but nothing captured my interest as much as Craig’s first painting. I looked at it again and saw it was titled,
Paint Me
. I giggled. That was definitely Craig’s sense of humor. The white fence did need painted. Or had the fence simply wanted to be captured in the scene and painted by Craig? The title was clever.

“Susan, hello!” Craig said, coming up behind me. “I didn’t expect to see you here today. Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t think I’d be here either,” I told him. “Craig, this is Detective Chuck Bentley. He’s a friend of mine from back home. He came to help Darby.”

He shook the detective’s hand, and then turned back to me. “What was that all about yesterday?” he asked in a whisper. “I heard he was being charged with murder.”

“He is, but he didn’t do it,” I told him. “I think it will all be cleared up in a few days.” I wanted to drop the subject of Darby. I pointed to the painting,
Paint Me
. “Craig, I love this one, and I’ll take it.”

His smile was so big, I thought it would run off the edges of his face. “I can’t believe you picked this one,” he said. “It’s my favorite. I almost didn’t put it up for sale, but I am starving, you know.”

I laughed and said, “It will be perfect in Mick’s office, and I know he’ll love it.”

“Thank you, Susan,” he said. “I’m honored you would buy one of my paintings.”

“I’m happy to,” I said. I looked around the room. There were still quite a few patrons milling about. “Craig, is there somewhere the three of us can go so we can talk privately for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” he said. “We can use the office.”

He led the way to the back of the building and into a small office. Detective Bentley closed the door.

“There’s an insurance investigator following you and George Duarte,” I told him.

His face immediately went white, and he dropped down hard onto a chair. He put his face in his hands. “I knew this wasn’t going to end well,” he said.

“Not necessarily,” said Detective Bentley. “How many paintings have you done for him?”

“Only one,” he said. “George approached me a couple of weeks ago when I left here. I had just signed the agreement for the showing. I didn’t know him, but he told me he knew the Shaws, the owners of the gallery, and they recommended me to him. He showed me a picture of an Edward Hopper and asked if I could paint one for him to display in his home. He offered me $2,000 for the job. It was a piece of cake for me, so I said yes. When I finished the painting and gave it to him, he only gave me $1,000. When I asked the Shaws about him, and they said they had no idea who he was, I suspected he was committing fraud. Now he wants me to paint more copies for him.”

Detective Bentley nodded his head. “Listen son, here’s what you need to do,” he said. “Give Wes Bradley a call at this number.” He handed a slip of paper with the number on it to Craig. “Tell him you want to meet with him and cooperate to end this. He knows you’re planning to meet George again at the Quickie Foods, and instead of being caught in a trap there, you can help set the trap to catch Duarte. You got it?”

He nodded his head. “Do you think I’ll go to jail for this?” he asked.

“I don’t,” said the detective. “When you painted and delivered the painting, you thought you were doing a job for a private citizen. Mr. Bradley will understand. The sooner you talk to him, the better it will be for you.”

He looked like the wind had been knocked out of him.

I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Craig, it’ll be ok. All you have to do is be proactive and help Wes. Call him later tonight or first thing in the morning. Come on. Don’t look so glum. You have to get back to your show, and I need to pay someone for a painting.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Monday broke to gray skies and snow flurries.

I woke to the smell of bacon and found Detective Bentley in the kitchen putting together a spinach quiche. He had fried bacon to add to the egg mixture.

I sat down at the dining room table. “Hmmm. That smells really good,” I told him. “How did you become such a good cook? The chicken divan crepes you threw together last night were delicious.”