Dead Wrong (16 page)

“I'm sorry you feel that way. I don't consider it any such thing. I worry about you and your inability to stay clear of trouble. Are you sure there isn't anything else you'd like to discuss?”

“There's nothing else, Marcus.” I sighed. “What would you like me to say?”

“That you'd like to have Thanksgiving with me?” He smiled as the cop look faded.

“I can't unless you want to come eat with me and my family. We're eating at my parents' house and Gio will be there. The twins and a whole bunch of other people will drop in and out all day. Lola plans to stop by as well.”

“Your family, huh? Good enough then. I'd be happy to join you. I do have to report for duty later that day though.”

“We usually eat around one in the afternoon. My mother will be pleased.”

He rose from the sofa and stretched. I glanced the entire length of him. felt my gut tighten and a tingle in lower parts. He caught the look and chuckled.

“I have to report to work, so don't get any ideas. With my luck, my phone would go off and I'd have to leave anyway.” He turned away.

“Marcus, if someone found some stolen art and wanted to turn it in, how would they do that?”

He stopped dead and quickly turned back to stare at me.

“Is that what this is about, Lavinia? Do you have some stolen art? Jesus, where the hell did it come from and whose is it?” His eyes bore into mine. I wished I'd kept my big blabbermouth shut.

“Just answer the question, please,” I pleaded. I knew I begged, I couldn't help it.

A heavy sigh rumbled from deep within his chest as his hand ran across his cropped hair. While Marcus looked at me, I could see he'd resigned himself to the fact that once again I'd become involved with something outside the law.

“It depends on whether you stole it or if it was left on your doorstep. You know what happens if you stole it – I needn't explain that to you.” Again, he ran his hand over his head and folded his arms across his chest in the Superman stance.

“If you found it on your doorstep, Lavinia, then you could call the police and report it. Like you did when you found the package of jewels last summer, the one that you thought was a bomb. Remember?”

With a nod, I stared at his face. Man he was pissed off. I knew I drove him crazy, but there was nothing I could do about it. The emphasis he'd put on the doorstep findings was my answer. I knew he'd meant it that way, but couldn't tell me so. After all, he was a cop, a ‘super trooper.'

“That is a good answer to the question. Thank you. Which cops should be called if artwork was found, the state police or the local police?”

“The state police … or maybe the FBI might be the better way to go, depending on the value of the artwork. If it's not major art, then the locals would handle it. If it's the DaVinci or Monet type of art, then we would handle it, or the FBI.”

“Not the FBI surely?” I rolled my eyes. “Maybe the state police would be better.”

For a few seconds, he simply stared at me and then nodded.

“Fine, if any artwork is found, the state police should be called – but not when I'm on duty.” His eyes never left mine and I nodded.

“Thanks for answering the question, Marcus. I appreciate the information.”

Marcus stepped closer, folding me into his arms. He whispered soft words into my hair and I melded to his body. I could feel his heart beating against mine as his hold tightened.

Then he stepped back a bit and rained kisses over my face.

“If this has something to do with your family, the big guy in the upstairs apartment might be all over it, you know. Tread carefully there, Lavinia,” he warned in a whisper.

“I understand. I can't say anything more without placing you in a bad position. I hope you understand.”

“Uh huh. I know.”

He left. I watched his truck head up the street and out of sight. I turned the lights off after locking the doors and went to bed where I lay in the dark worrying about everything I'd become enmeshed in.

Around two in the morning I drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 21

The garage didn't have an alarm system and I didn't have a watchdog, so when the loft entry door was forced open and the paintings stolen, I was unaware of it. Not a sound was heard by either Aaron or me – of that much I was sure. It wasn't until Lola stopped by with breakfast that I became aware of the situation.

She rapped on the outer door, and I staggered out to answer it. I figured the hour to be ungodly, but I was wrong—dead wrong. I'd slept until after ten and couldn't believe it.

“Gosh Vin, are you gonna sleep all day? I made this recipe and need you to try it out for me. Is Aaron here? His Yukon is in the driveway.”

“He must be upstairs. Why, do you want to share this with him as well?”

“Um, that's an idea, but there's something else. It looks like someone forced your loft door open. The lock and hinges are hanging off.”

Dumbfounded, I stared at her as though she'd spoken Chinese. Then reality struck, and I raced out of the house in my pajamas. Lola was right. I knew why it had happened, but had no idea who had done it. My fingernails tapped against my teeth while I considered the new problem confronting me.

“Let's go back inside, Vin. It's freezing out here and you don't have a jacket or slippers on.” Lola grasped my arm and hauled me indoors.

“This is just great. What the hell am I going to do now? I can't admit there was stolen artwork in the loft,” I whispered to her. “I don't even know if it's still there.”

Lola glanced around and then looked at me. Then she rose and set plates on the counter to serve up her latest concoction. I sat, unfocused on her movements, worried over who had broken in.

“Eat breakfast, then get dressed. We'll check things out afterwards,” she whispered back. Then she asked, “Why are we whispering?”

“In case Aaron hears us. Cripes, I don't want him to know that I had a Monet, a Renoir, and a Mary Cassatt hiding in the garage loft.”

A chuckle from Lola brought a smile to my face. I couldn't help it – when Lola smiled it was pure sunshine. It was the only thing she and Julia Roberts had in common besides lustrous auburn hair, but the smile really worked for her.

She poured coffee and I munched the omelet wrapped within a pastry crust. “Mmm, this is so good. It's a new creation?” I asked.

“Yeah, I worked up the recipe last night and wondered what your response would be. The red and green chopped peppers give the egg and cheese more flavor. I tossed in some different herbs to make it extra special.”

“Well, it tastes great. I'll have more if you don't mind,” I said and slid the serving dish closer.

Footsteps rumbled down the stairs before Aaron knocked on the door. He knocked and stepped through after I'd yelled for him to enter. I watched Lola's smile widen at the sight of him.

“Hey ladies, I could smell the coffee and thought you wouldn't mind sharing,” he said as he peered into the serving dish of delicate crust-covered omelet. His eyebrows rose as he glanced at me. I handed him a plate with some flatware.

“Help yourself. It's scrumptious. But then, everything that Lola makes always is.”

“I heard you go outside. Is everything all right?” he asked between bites while he stared at my pajama-clad body.

“It appears the door hasp on the loft door has been broken. I haven't had time to check the loft out yet, but I will when I'm dressed,” I said, a sense of dread overtaking me.

“Do you want me to take a look?” he asked.

“Nah, there's nothing of real value up there, so if anyone took stuff, they are welcome to it. Aunt Livvy just stored more crap up there that needs to be tossed. A dumpster would be helpful.” I grinned and hoped the lie would pass muster.

“Okay, but I'll be around most of the day if you need a hand.” Aaron smiled and helped himself to seconds, obviously savoring every bite.

With a nod, I left Lola with Aaron and went to get dressed. When I exited the bathroom, I noticed a fresh-brewed pot of coffee and that the dishes had been cleared. The countertop sparkled. Aaron was gone.

“Aaron's upstairs. If you need him, he said to just give a yell.” Lola grinned and waggled her eyebrows. “God, he is hot. Almost makes me drool just to look at him.”

We laughed. I donned a jacket and gloves before we headed into the garage. Weak-kneed, I climbed the stairs, with Lola right behind me. Unsure of what we'd find, I expected the worst and was surprised to find nearly everything in the same position that it had been previously. Other than the Monet, Renoir, and Mary Cassatt artwork, nothing was missing. Several open boxes lay strewn around with paper hanging out of the tops – their contents seemed intact.

“Anything missing, Vin?” Lola asked as she peered around the huge loft.

“Just the three artists' works that I mentioned,” I whispered.

“Ah, sorry about that, but on the upside of things, at least you can't be held responsible for harboring stolen goods,” she whispered, and glanced over her shoulder.

“True enough. I haven't gone through all the boxes yet, but for some reason, I think those were the only pieces that were here. I'll know more after I've searched all the containers.” My gaze roamed the room while it occurred to me that it was a huge undertaking, and one that needed to be done soon.

“The deli is always closed on Monday. Why don't I come over and help you then?”

“Sure, class ends around eleven and I'll scoot right back here. I'll also have a dumpster delivered so we can toss stuff out the window into it. If I can get Gio to give us a hand, we can make short work of it. After all, he's the reason I find myself in this particular predicament.”

“It's a deal. I'll meet you here after eleven on Monday, and we'll get started,” Lola said with a grin. “Right now, I have to get to work. Millie is there alone and I don't want her to feel overwhelmed.”

“Right. Millie,” I said. “I think she's abused. She has bruises and quite often has a fearful look on her face.”

“You scared the bejeepers out her on your first meeting, Vin. She does rattle quite easily. Maybe you're right. You worked with the crisis intervention people for a while, didn't you?”

“Yeah, the victims of spousal and boyfriend abuse acted very much like the way she does. It's a shame, really. These women need to take a rape aggression defense class and maybe they'd get up enough courage to defend themselves. Not that it would always work, but they need to stand up for their rights. Fear cripples women and enables men to use the fear against them.”

A look of understanding crossed her face as Lola turned away. We'd both taken the defense class together, but only I had actually needed to use the techniques I'd learned. Since I managed to attract bad guys, I was glad I knew how to handle myself now. Between the defense course and my size, I was confident that I could put off an attacker long enough to escape. My only problem was that instead of fending them off and running away, I tended to stay and fight. Not always a sound idea.

After Lola left, I called the Dumpster Divas and requested a ten-cubic-yard container be delivered on Monday morning. The cost was more than I expected, but still worth the money just to clear out the unwanted debris. Dara and Liz Brandini were two women from a family of thugs who had decided trash was a lucrative business. Years ago, after a loan from their father, they began the Dumpster Diva business and were richer than Oprah Winfrey.

I'd gone to school with the two wise-cracking, crass women. They were tough, but with four degenerate brothers to contend with, who could blame them. Their father had ties to bad people so when it came time to do business, they hadn't any problem with the mob horning in with protection-payment demands.

The day stretched out before me. I figured now would be a good time to start the artwork I planned for gift giving. If I wanted the works professionally framed, they'd need to be done soon. The frame shop usually took their sweet time, and I wanted to have the gifts before the holidays. I turned on some Mozart and let the soft music flow over me. I need this.

The tall mahogany easel stood in the corner of my office. I hauled it forward and clipped the paper onto the backboard. A photograph of Azalea's from the front yard sat on the desk. I scooped it up and quickly made a light sketch of the design onto pastel paper. I stood back and stared at the drawing through squinted eyes. Yep, it was just right.

Pastel chalks lay scattered in a wide, sectioned-off box. I tried to keep colors of the same family together which made life easier. Before long, pastel chalk covered the paper. I smudged it into place with my fingers. After the first layer was applied, I smoothed more color into the nooks and crannies of the textured paper using a tortillion. The small, tightly wound paper stump held a blunt point that pushed color into the corners of the design.

I stepped across the room and viewed the rendering. The foundation of a picture never looked great, but I had vision and could see what the end product would be. It wasn't a Monet, a Da Vinci, or a Mary Cassatt—certainly not a Renoir. It was a Vinnie special, and I knew my mother would like it. I smiled and wiped my hands on the moist towel nearby.

Hours flew as I worked. If anyone had asked what time it was, I couldn't have said. I just knew that the painting was almost finished and I couldn't stop until it was. Neck and back muscles eased as I worked – this was the best therapy a person could imagine. My concentration lay on the art, not the problems surrounding me.

When I stood back for what might be the final time to squint my eyes at the painting, I heard a knock on the outer front door. With the moist towel in my hand, I answered the summons. On the front step lay a medium-sized, solitary cardboard box. I stared at it for a moment and glanced around. My side of the street was empty. The other side was busy with people entering and leaving the gift shops. No one paid any attention to me.

My mind touched on the possibilities, as it had when I'd received a box addressed to Aunt Livvy during the summer—she was dead by then. I nudged the box with the toe of my shoe. Nothing happened. Should I call Aaron and ask him to look at it? What if it was the Renoir that I'd hidden with the other paintings in the garage? The box had the same shape and seemed about the same size. But, who would return a Renoir when they'd stolen it in the first place?

Unable to bring myself to open the damned thing, I summoned enough courage to hustle up the stairs and knock on Aaron's apartment door. He answered within a few seconds and smiled as his eyes roamed my face.

“Do you realize you have color smudges on your cheek and neck?” He laughed.

“Do I?” I asked and wiped the towel across my features.

He laughed again and took the towel from me. “Let me get that for you.” He gently wiped the offending smudges and asked, “What brings you upstairs?”

“There's a box on the front step.”

“A box? What kind of box?” His dark eyebrows hiked a notch.

He'd heard of last summer's delivery and probably wondered what was up now. I was sure of it. I turned and headed down the steps with him close behind.

“A cardboard box,” I said. “It's not addressed to anyone and there was no one around when I answered the door. I'm a little reluctant to open it.”

We had reached the bottom of the stairs by then, and he stared at the box that sat alone outside, waiting to be opened. I moved aside to let Aaron slip past, watching him pick up the box. Placing it next to his ear, he listened.

With a nod, he said, “No ticking. Let's open it, shall we?”

“O-okay,” I stammered. “You don't think it's a bomb, right?”

“No, I don't think it's a bomb, however we can call the bomb squad if you think we should.”

I glanced from the box to his face and could see the smile tickle the edges of his lips. The man must have thought I was daft. Even so my paranoia rose to an all-time high. My neck muscles suddenly scrunched into tight knots.

“No, just bring it inside. We'll be brave – stupid maybe … but brave enough to open it.”

“Let me ask you this, why would anyone want to send you a bomb?”

“Couldn't possibly be because the person has murdered all three of those medical insurance fraud folks, and I'm asking questions, could it?” I said with a wise-ass attitude. Hand on a hip, I leaned against the door to the office and waited for the big guy to open the box. The lid was closed by the four overlapping flaps folded in on one another. Aaron began to pull it open, one flap at a time in a slow exaggerated motion. Unable to stand the suspense, I tore the box from his grip and ripped the remaining two flaps open.

“Ugh!” Aghast, I stepped back and dropped the box on the floor. A note fluttered out and landed next to it. Holding my nose, I plucked the note from the floor and read it.

Aaron started to laugh, his sense of humor getting the best of him while he waited for me to read the note.

“It says that I'm a bag of pig shit, and I should mind my own business.” I stared at Aaron who stood up and took the note from me, holding back his laughter.

The clear plastic bag of pig manure had a loose twist tie around the top. The bag filled the box from side to side. It had an overpowering aroma and I wondered why I hadn't smelled it before. Maybe I hadn't gotten close enough.

With the note suspended between his thumb and index finger, Aaron held it up and read the words aloud. His glance rested on me and then the box of manure. The beginning of another smile tipped the corners of his lips again, and I stared at him.

“So you think this is hilarious? It's a nasty warning from someone.” I huffed and puffed while I paced nervously about the room.

“Vin, it's a prank, a smelly prank – but a prank nonetheless.” He tried to placate me. “I'll have the box printed and checked out by the lab if you want.”