Claws for Alarm (11 page)

Daniel leaned back, let his shoulders relax. He nodded. “Wise decision. Your sister's welfare is certainly more important than tracking down some lowlife, no question.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Once this business with Lacey is settled, though, I plan to see what I can find out about Pichard.”

I leaned over the counter, letting my hands rest lightly on top of Daniel's. “A thought just occurred to me. You have a ton of resources at your command. Maybe you could get a lead on him for me? Ollie said he was a master at disappearing, but, well, after all, you are the FBI. No one can hide from you guys for long, right?”

Daniel shifted on the stool. “You'd be surprised. And who was Ollie talking about? Atkins or Pichard?”

“Very funny.” I swatted him lightly on his shoulder and leaned forward. I batted my eyelashes ever so slightly. “You
know, if you could help, I'd be really, really, really, really grateful.”

His lips twigged upward. “That's a lot of reallys.”

I bounced my eyebrows. “And there's more where those came from. Seriously, I know you're on a case, but so am I, unofficially. I'm not in a rush for the info right now, because I can't follow up on it yet. But if you could turn up something, say, in the next few weeks . . .”

“I know,” he laughed, “You'd be really, really, really, really grateful.”

“At least think about it.”

“That I can do.” His fingers brushed against the photograph, which I'd laid on the counter. “Mind if I take this, then? It might come in handy.”

I shrugged. “Help yourself.”

Daniel pushed off the stool, flipped a ten on the counter, then leaned in and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “I've really got to run. I'll be in touch, I promise.”

“You'd better,” I called after his retreating back. “You've got a rain check on that meat loaf, don't forget.”

The door closed behind him, and I flopped down in the nearest chair. Nick's head popped out from under the back table.

“Meow.”

I shook my finger at him. “And just what were you thinking, pawing around in those journals? If you don't stop ripping pages out, Nick, we'll have no clues to go on.” I glanced around and frowned. “That's odd—where is that paper? I could have sworn I put it on the counter . . .” I looked sharply at Nick. “Did you take it again?”

He blinked. “Er-owl.”

“Yeah, right. Well I imagine you'll drag it out again, when you're good and ready.” I flopped back in the chair and closed my eyes. Right now I couldn't worry about Bronson A. Pichard or Nick's penchant for ripping up journals. Right now I needed to concentrate on my next move in the investigation I'd promised Daniel I'd stay out of. And logically, I knew exactly what it should be. I stood up and looked at Nick.

“Well, I'm in the market for an Engeldrumm of my own—or rather, Abigail St. Clair is. And guess who I'm going to ask to find one for me?”

A
few minutes past seven thirty that evening I pulled up in front of the Wilson Galleries in downtown Pacific Grove. The building didn't look like much from the outside—plain white clapboard, with a small black sign hanging over the doorway. The broad picture window had a few oil paintings displayed on easels, and a few pieces of “molded clay” sculptures flanked either side of the window. It wasn't very impressive, to say the least. As I unclipped my seat belt, I went over the story Ollie and I had spent the better part of the afternoon perfecting. Rich heiress, very anxious to acquire this rare painting, and the money's burning a hole in my pocket. I was ninety-nine point nine percent sure the money part was why Julia Canton had agreed to meet me at the studio that evening.

Ollie's words rang in my ears as I hurried up the walkway. “If you come off like enough of a desperate sucker and she
thinks she can get away with pawning off another forgery, she'll make a move.” Hell, I was counting on it. I might have double majored in English and History, but one of my minors had been Theatre Arts. I hadn't exactly been good enough to send talent scouts flocking my way, but I didn't stink, either. Besides, I reminded myself, there were plenty of times tracking down stories in Chicago when I'd indulged in a bit of role-playing. Tonight was no different from one of those times.

The gallery door was locked (it figured, considering there was a large sign that said
CLOSED ON SUNDAY
right in the front window), but there was a buzzer on the side, and Julia had told me to ring it twice. I did so, and not a minute later the door was flung open and Julia stood in the doorway. Tonight she wore a short pink/purple/orange flowered dress that hugged all her curves in all the right places and a beautiful pair of eggplant purple Christian Louboutin strappy heels I would have personally killed for that added at least three inches to her already impressive height. Her long, dark hair was pulled off her face, twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck.

In a nutshell, she looked even more fabulous fully clothed than I could ever hope to, and I felt frumpy as hell in my tailored pantsuit and ruffled blouse. Something else niggled at me, too—a wisp of a thought—but I put it from my mind as she smiled at me, and I caught an assessing gleam in the depths of those brilliant blue eyes. “Ms. St. Clair?”

I channeled my inner snooty rich bitch self, which I found surprisingly easy. “Yes, Ms. Canton, I presume? Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I do apologize for bothering you after hours, and on a Sunday, no less.”

“Not a problem. I'm always happy to help out a friend of Gloria Christian's. She's one of our best customers.”

“So I heard. I mean, I heard about how pleased she's been with her purchases here,” I amended, as Julia's laser-sharp gaze raked over me. “She—ah—couldn't stop raving about the last one.”

Julia nodded. “Ah yes. The David Patchen. An excellent example of a hot glass blown sculpture. I'd hoped she was pleased with it.” Her full lips curved upward. “I sold it to her.”

I gave Ollie another mental thank-you for doing such quick and thorough research on artsy acquaintances of Abigail St. Clair's, and on actually finding one that had done business with the Wilson Galleries. The fact it had been Julia who'd made the sale was a not unpleasant bonus. I followed her inside and over to a small table right in front of the wide picture window. As I settled myself into the velvet-upholstered chair she asked, “Can I get you anything? Some coffee, tea . . . champagne?”

My eyes widened. “You have champagne?”

Her laugh tinkled, like wind chimes. “Of course. Didn't Gloria mention that? We keep it for the preferred customers.”

“Oh yes, yes, I forgot.”

“Can I get you a flute?”

The offer was tempting, but I needed to keep a clear head. “I'll pass, thanks.” I smiled at her as she eased herself into the seat across from me. “You look rather young to be such a connoisseur of art. Been doing this long?”

“Long enough,” she answered shortly. “You said you were interested in acquiring some rare paintings?”

“Yes, I am. I have a rather extensive collection, and I'm interested in adding to it. Your gallery came highly
recommended to me, not only by Gloria, but by some of my other friends as well.” I crossed my fingers under the table that she wouldn't want a list.

Apparently the Gloria connection was satisfactory, because she smiled. “That's nice to hear.” She flourished her pen. “Now were there any artists in particular you're interested in acquiring, or a particular era?”

“Well . . .” I giggled and leaned forward. “I've always had a passion for the unattainable, and I've heard this gallery specializes in acquiring pieces that are just that. Am I right?”

The smile stayed in place, but the friendly gleam vanished from the eyes. “I'm sorry. I don't understand.”

My hand shot out, covered hers. “No need to play coy.” I leaned over and, before she could make a move, pressed my lips to her ear. “What I want is a painting . . . an Engeldrumm.”

She pulled away, a deep frown creasing her smooth forehead. She set the pen down on the table and leaned back in her chair. “An Engeldrumm? Well, you certainly don't fool around, do you?”

“Where art is concerned, I never kid.”

Her breath came out in a gentle whoosh. “You do realize that Engeldrumms don't fall out of the sky. She's a legend in the fields of lyrical and geometrical abstract. Her work is damn hard to find.”

I twisted my lips into a pout. “I can appreciate that, but . . . you managed to find one for Professor Pitt, did you not?”

Another slight widening of the eyes. “Yes, but—” She cleared her throat. “You didn't mention that Professor Pitt was one of your references.”

“To be truthful, he wasn't. The details of how I learned
of the transaction aren't important,” I added quickly, waving my hand in the air. “What is important is the fact you found him one, and if you found one, then you can find another, correct?”

Something flashed in her eyes, but it was gone in a second, her smile still perfectly in place. “I must tell you, in all honesty, that the acquisition we made for Professor Pitt was a rarity. The chances of finding another are slim, very slim indeed. Now, a van Eyck or a Turner would be much easier to get.”

I laid my hand over hers. “Honey, if anyone can get me a gen-u-ine Engeldrumm, it's you. I told you, I've got a sixth sense about these things.”

“I'm very flattered,” she said slowly, “but I'm afraid whoever told you this information is incorrect. I'm not the one who acquired the paintings for Professor Pitt.”

I frowned. “Oh—it wasn't you?”

“No.” She paused and then said, “That transaction was handled personally by the gallery owner.”

“Ah, then maybe that's whom I should be speaking with. Kurt Wilson, is it? As I said, my heart is set on an authentic Engeldrumm, and I'm prepared to pay cash—and pay very, very well.”

Her tongue darted out, slicked at her bottom lip. “Mr. Wilson is not—”

“Pardon me. Did I hear my name mentioned?”

Julia and I both turned at the same time. A tall, wiry man with a bald head and a neatly trimmed goatee was walking through a door at the far side of the room. His Brooks Brothers suit was immaculately pressed, and as he extended his hand I could tell the nails had been professionally
manicured, but there was just something about him that made a shiver inch its way down my spine, especially when he raised my hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss in my palm.

“Forgive my boldness,” he said in a well-modulated voice. “I am Kurt Wilson, the owner of this gallery. And you are—”

“No—Abigail St. Clair,” I corrected myself quickly. “Well, this is an unexpected surprise.”

Julia, in my opinion, looked far from pleased to see her boss. “I didn't expect you to be here, Kurt,” she said. “I thought you were going to Los Angeles for a few days. That buying trip?”

He smiled a very oily smile. “Plans changed. I'll be in town until Thursday.” He shifted his attention back to me. “I believe I overheard you inquiring about an Engeldrumm?”

“Yes. I'd heard the late Professor Pitt had acquired one from here, and Ms. Canton informed me that the owner arranged it.” I batted my eyelashes. “That would be you, correct?”

He nodded. “Yes. Finding that painting was a real coup. I can have Julia make a few calls. Who knows, we might get lucky again.” He stroked at his chin. “I must warn you, if we do manage to find one, it won't be cheap. Pitt paid two hundred fifty thousand for his. Considering their rarity, it's a good assumption this one will be higher priced. I'd say at least four hundred fifty thousand, and that's on the low side.”

I gulped inwardly and waved my hand carelessly. “Is that all? I said money is no object. That's a mere drop in the bucket to a St. Clair.” I snapped my fingers in the air for emphasis, and I could almost see the dollar signs light up in Wilson's eyes.

“Excellent.” Wilson turned to Julia. “You know what to
do.” He bowed to me, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief when he made no move to take my hand again. “I must go now, but I trust we'll meet again—under very satisfactory circumstances.”

He turned on his heel and walked back through the rear door. We watched him go, and then Julia scraped her chair back and rose to her feet in one fluid movement. “It's a tall order, Ms. St. Clair, but let me see what I can do. Can you give me a few days?”

“Honey, I'll be in the area for the week. Let me give you my cell. You can call it day or night.”

I scribbled down the burner cell's number on the back of a card and handed it to her. She glanced at it and then shoved it into the pocket of her dress before glancing pointedly at her watch. “I'm sorry, I completely forgot about another meeting I have in ten minutes. I'll be in touch.” She walked me to the door and all but pushed me over the threshold, slamming the door soundly behind me once I was outside. I walked down the cobblestone path, right past my SUV, and paused before a sleek Jaguar parked there. I fiddled with my purse until I saw the curtain in the front window fall back, waited a few minutes more for good measure to be certain neither Julia nor Kurt were still watching, and then cut across the lawn around to the back of the gallery. There was a small, dirty window there, and if I secreted myself behind the azalea bush and stood on tiptoe, I could just barely see inside. Fortunately, I'd been in similar situations in Chicago before, so I'd come prepared. I'd just pulled the opera glasses out of my purse when the light flicked on, illuminating a small, seedy-looking room that boasted a rolltop desk, a table with four chairs, and a phone that looked as if it had come out of
the Stone Age. Julia entered. She walked over to a closet, opened it, and rummaged around inside, emerging at last with a thick, rolled piece of paper clutched in one hand. She sat down at the desk, which was right beside the window, picked up the phone, punched in a number. Her head turned slightly in my direction, and I ducked, not wanting to take any chances. I waited a few minutes, but when I raised my head, I let out a disappointed cry.

The room was dark. Julia was gone.

No matter, I thought, squaring my shoulders. Thanks to my trusty opera glasses, I'd managed to see the number she dialed. I hurried back to my SUV and climbed in. I turned the key and the motor sprang to life. I drove up and down the narrow streets until I came to a dead end, where I pulled over, cut the ignition, and took out my cell. Holding my breath, I punched in the number I'd seen Julia dial. A minute later my heart skipped a beat as an all-too-familiar voice boomed in my ear.

“St. Leo Homicide. Detective Leroy Samms.”