Sarah Woods Mystery Series (1-6) Boxed Set (74 page)

Chapter 6

TLT Computer Solutions
was located on the third floor of a newly constructed business complex in downtown Bridgeport, the office still smelling of sheet rock and paint.

 
Dom Bristol had a round, bald head and a severely clipped mustache that reminded me of a middle-aged Charlie Brown with facial hair. He gestured to a conference table on the far side of the spacious office suite. “Please have a seat.”

Once we were all seated at the table, Carter showed Dom his phone. “Mind if I record this?”

Don paused as he smoothed out his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “I don't mind, but I'm sure I don't know anything that would help you find Glenn's killer. I have to say, I was surprised when you told me Elizabeth Fleming hired you.”

“
First of all, please accept our condolences,” Carter said.

“
Thank you” Dom said, bowing his head slightly. “Glenn and I were dorm mates in college. We stayed in touch over the years, even though we didn't get a chance to see each other that often.”

Carter opened the folder to refer to some notes. “When was the last time you saw or spoke to Glenn?”

“
About a week before he died. I stopped into the gallery on my way home from work. We hadn't seen each other in almost a year.”

“
Actually, according to Glenn's appointments, it was Monday, March 25th, just four days before he died.”

Dom coughed nervously as a flush crept into his cheeks. “Uh, yeah. That's probably right. I'd forgotten the exact date.”

Carter let it slide. “Any particular reason you guys decided to get together?”

“
I called him up to see how he was doing. He was the one who suggested I visit the gallery and meet him in person.”

“
Did he say why?”

Dom said, “He didn't give a reason. I figured he wanted to ask a favor and didn't want to do it over the phone.”

“
A favor?” Carter asked.

Dom licked his lips. “Yeah. I thought he was going to ask if he could borrow money. But when I saw him that day, he never brought up money at all. I was glad because I wouldn't have been able to help him.”

“
Had he borrowed money from you before?” Carter asked.

“
I lent him a few thousand dollars, but he paid it back within a month.”

“
That was back when he was gambling?”

“
Yes. But he seemed to have it under control over the past year or so.”

Carter paused. “Did he mention any problems with bookies, or other people he may have owed money to?”

Dom hesitated, lips parted, as if he wanted to say something. But he must have thought better of it as he shook his head side to side. “No. Not that he mentioned.”

“
Did he mention anything about money at all? Was he worried that business was slow?”

“
He didn't seem particularly worried about it. That's how the industry works. You may not sell a painting for weeks, but all it takes is one good sale and you can pay the next three month's rent. It's finicky that way. Glenn had talked about bankruptcy at one point, but he must have been able to circumvent that.”

“
So it's possible he went back to gambling?”

Dom shrugged. “Maybe. Elizabeth would know better than me”

Carter hesitated then asked, “Are you familiar with the details surrounding the robbery that took place at his gallery?”

Dom nodded. “Only what Elizabeth has told me and what I read in the paper.”

“
So Glenn never mentioned a guy by the name of Duncan Schwartz, or Dunk?”

Dom squirmed in his seat. “No. Who is he?”

“
A bookie who left town suddenly around the time Glenn was killed.”

“
Look, truth is, Glenn and I … we'd drifted apart over the last few years. If he was into something bad, he didn't tell me about it.”

“
Why is that?” Carter asked. “The part about you guys drifting apart, I mean.”

“
The usual stuff, I guess. Both of us were busy with our lives.”

Carter looked around the office and pointed to a framed painting of a knock-off Monet. “Did you buy that painting from his gallery?”

“
No. I got that thing at my neighbor's yard sale.”

“
I don't blame you,” Carter said. “Expensive art is not in my budget, either.”

Dom picked up a pen on the desk and twirled it between his fingers. His eyes remained focused on the wall. “Thing is, Glenn was a great artist at one time.”

Carter perked up. “Glenn was?”

“
I'm surprised Elizabeth didn't tell you. Glenn earned a master’s degree in liberal arts and taught classes for a while. Unfortunately, his talent only went so far and I guess he became discouraged when no one wanted to buy his work. I suppose owning a gallery and selling other artists’ works was the next best thing.” Dom sighed. “He could have been outstanding if he hadn't given up.”

“
You told him as much?”

“
Plenty of times, but I guess he'd just been worn down by the critics. They can be brutal.”

Carter turned to me and gave a curt nod. “You have anything to add, Sarah?”

I cleared my throat. “I know this is personal,” I said, addressing Dom, “but is there any possibility that Glenn was having an affair?”

Dom blinked quickly. “He'd never do that to Elizabeth.”

“
So as far as you know, he was happily married.”

After he paused to check his watch, Dom shook his head. “Look, I'm sorry but I'll need to cut this short. Are there any other questions you have?”

“
Yes,” I said. “What can you tell us about Glenn's family? According to his wife, he had a troubled upbringing.”

“
Glenn never wanted to talk about his family. I think his parents were alcoholics. Glenn had a sister, but she died at age nine or ten.”

“
Do you know how she died” I asked.

“
Glenn told me his father was drinking and driving. The sister was in the car.”

“
That's heartbreaking,” I said gently. “Do you know where Glenn grew up?”

“
In the Chicago area. I can't remember the town.”

After a few moments, Carter cleared his throat, apparently intent on taking over the line of questioning. “Getting back to the robbery, the police believe that Glenn got into an altercation with the thief. The other two gallery owners robbed on the same night were left unharmed. Why do you think Glenn risked his life for the sake of a few paintings? Insurance certainly would have covered any loss or damage.”

Dom appeared to think it over. “I have no idea. Glenn wasn't confrontational. He must have been provoked in some way to challenge a guy holding a gun.”

Carter closed the folder, stood up, and handed him a business card. “Dom, thank you for your time. Sarah and I will see ourselves out.”

Back in the Buick, Carter asked me what I thought about the conversation with Dom.

“
The stuff about Glenn's family is really messed up,” I said.

“
Yeah, it's heavy.” He started the engine and headed south on Maine Street. “But I can't see the point in digging into Glenn's family drama.”

“
It would help us to understand Glenn better. His drinking, gambling, and whatever else he was involved in – maybe prostitutes?”

“
Good point,” Carter said. “Should we start questioning all the pimps in town?”

“
Why? You know where they hang out?”

Carter snickered, and and looked at me.

“
So where are we headed now?” I asked.

“
To see Victor Rowley, one of Glenn's clients. He's retired and lives over at Yorkshire Estates.”

“
I've heard of that place,” I said. “Isn't it a retirement community for millionaires?”

“
Looks like we'll get a chance to find out. He said he'll be waiting in the
garden room
at eleven. We need to sign in with the concierge upon arrival.”

“
Sounds more like a five star hotel than senior housing,” I said.

“
Yeah, and probably costs as much.”

Chapter 7

Yorkshire Estates—a stately mansion built in the 1800's for a rich congressman—had recently been converted into apartments and offered those with means the ability to live the rest of their days in lavish accommodations. Not to mention the full-time medical staff, world-renowned chefs, and a state-of-the-art movie theater with reclining leather seats. I discovered all of this from reading the glossy brochure offered upon our arrival.

Entering the garden room was like walking into a tropical oasis. Flowers and plants everywhere you looked. Brass chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, suspended above white, linen-covered tables. Classical music was being piped in from hidden speakers, and the waitstaff wore pristine white gloves that exuded the charm and servitude of a bygone era.

I immediately felt like a bag lady amidst all the grandeur with my worn out sneakers, tattered jeans, and weathered suede jacket. Carter, however, didn't seem fazed in the least. He always seemed to radiate confidence no matter what the situation. I had to learn to be more like that.

A tall, fit man about seventy years old with cropped silvery hair signaled to us from his table. He rose to his feet as we crossed the room to join him.

Carter extended his hand. “Mr. Rowley?”

“
Please call me Victor. And you are Carter and Sarah, I presume. Please join me for lunch. I've already ordered a cheese and fruit platter.”

“
Thank you, sir, but we just ate,” Carter said.

Victor bowed slightly as he took my hand. He had a deep voice and perfect teeth, probably dentures. “A pleasure. I've never met a female private detective before. And I certainly had no idea they could be so attractive.”

I smiled in response. His handshake was firm yet soft. He wore a crisp, white button-down shirt with brown corduroy slacks, pressed and neat.

As soon as we took our seats, a waiter immediately appeared out of nowhere and filled our glasses with water, one arm neatly folded behind his back as if he were pouring the most expensive Cabernet on the wine list.

“
So,” Victor began. “You wanted to talk to me about Glenn Fleming?”

Carter nodded, all business. “Like I mentioned on the phone, his wife Elizabeth hired us to look into her husband's death.”

Victor took a sip of tea, set it down, and raised his eyebrows. “Is she dissatisfied with the police department's work thus far?”

“
It's been almost a month and they still have no suspects.”

“
I read all about the incident in the paper and spoke with his wife at the funeral. So the burglar is still at large?”

“
Correct,” Carter said. “However, we're also entertaining the possibility that the burglar's true intent might have been more than theft.”

He eyed us cautiously. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“
That's why we wanted to speak with you, sir.” Carter took a sip of water and looked around.

Victor smiled, but his jaw seemed to be clenched. “So what is your theory, if I may ask?”

Carter leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. “We can't discuss the details, but right now we're looking into a bookie by the name of Duncan Schwartz. Did Glenn ever mention Duncan to you?”

“
No, I don't believe so.”

“
Did Glenn ever mention he used to having a gambling problem?”

Victor blinked slowly, as if acclimating to the idea. “Really? He never shared that information with me. Although I suppose it isn't something one would be proud of.”

Carter held up his phone. “I'd like to record this if you don't object. Much better than jotting down notes.”

Victor smiled and nodded. “Be my guest.”

“
So according to Glenn's appointment book, you had a meeting with him on Friday, March 29 at nine o'clock, the morning of his death.”

“
Yes, that's right. He asked if I'd stop by the gallery. Wanted to show me a new artist's work he'd just taken on. He was very excited about it. Fact is, I'm entirely out of wall space at this point, so I wasn't really in the market to buy another painting. But Glenn seemed … well, I couldn't disappoint him.”

The same lanky waiter returned with a large oval platter and placed it on our table. Fresh fruit, cubed, with ramekins of what looked to be whipped cream, yogurt, and brown sugar. Also included was an array of cold cuts, cheese, olives, and a sliced baguette.

Carter didn't seem impressed or tempted by the offerings as he remained focused on Victor. “Did Glenn seem worried about anything? Was he acting anxious that day?”

Victor shook his head. “Not that I remember.”

“
Did he complain about having money issues?”

“
Well, that wouldn't be very professional, would it? No, Glenn had more class than that.”

Carter nodded. “Did Glenn complain about having problems with anyone at all? Disgruntled customers, perhaps? Maybe Glenn neglected to pay a commission to one of the artists?”

Victor appeared to ponder the question as he chewed on a chunk of pineapple. “Certainly nothing to justify his death, if that's what you're getting at.”

Carter smiled apologetically. “I know Glenn was a respectable art dealer, but maybe he made some mistakes. It happens.”

Victor touched the linen napkin to his lips. “I really wish I could help you, but I'm afraid Glenn and I were acquainted only on a purely professional level. As much as I enjoyed his company, we rarely talked about personal issues.”

Carter nodded, leaned back in his chair, and tilted his head in my direction. “Any questions, Sarah?”

I finished chewing on an olive and smiled, hoping I didn't have any food stuck in my teeth. “Yes, getting back to the last day you saw Glenn, you mentioned he wanted to show you a new artist's work.”

“
Yes. I didn't particularly care for the painting. Done by a fellow named Zaviroff. In any case, I ended up buying an Ambrose instead. Not that I needed another one. I bought it more or less as a favor to Glenn.”

“
A favor?” I asked.

“
Correct. Like I said, Glenn never actually expressed his financial concerns to me, but I knew his business was struggling. I didn't want him to go belly-up like so many other galleries. This last recession did a number on the industry. Most galleries only seem to survive if the owner is independently wealthy.”

“
I assume most art transactions are conducted with a credit card.”

“
Correct, although every now and then, Glenn would offer me discounts if I paid in cash. I was fine with that.”

“
Did Glenn say why he wanted cash?”

“
I figured maybe he wanted to keep the transaction off the books,” he said with a wry smile. “The IRS takes enough of our money as it is, don't you think?”

“
So the last time you saw him, you gave him cash for a painting?” I asked.

“
Yes. You think he intended to gamble with it?”

“
Maybe. So how much cash are we talking here?”

Victor looked up to the ceiling as if trying to remember. “Seven thousand. The painting was worth nine, so it was quite a deal.”

“
But you never asked Glenn why he needed the cash?”

“
That was none of my business,” Victor said.

I couldn't think of anything else to ask, so I eyed the fruit. I was about to reach for a chunk of cantaloupe when Carter stood up and said, “Thank you, Mr. Rowley. I guess that's all. We'll leave you to your lunch. We really appreciate your time.”

* * *

Back in the car, I turned to Carter and said, “Dom Bristol and Victor Rowley both alluded to the fact that Glenn's gallery was in financial trouble. Elizabeth never mentioned anything to us about that.”

“
Glenn probably didn't want her to worry,” Carter said. “He already gambled away enough money. He was probably determined to make it all work. I'm getting the sense that Glenn had a lot of pride.”

“
What about the seven grand in cash?” I asked. “He must have needed that for a reason. And what happened to it? Elizabeth would have mentioned a large sum of cash lying around.”

“
Maybe Glenn put it in his safe at the gallery and the thief made off with it.”

I looked out the car window at the fading light. “So, what do we do now?”

Carter leaned back, let out a frustrated sigh, and checked his watch. “The Gambler's Anonymous meeting at the church starts in a few hours. It wouldn't hurt my feelings to stop by and see if Mindy Giovanni shows up. Who knows, maybe some of the other attendees might have information on Duncan Schwartz, too.”

“
Mindy Giovanni? The woman Neal Bellows told us about who hits on guys during the meetings? What does she have to do with any of this?”

“
Neal mentioned that she used to hang all over Glenn at the meetings. Maybe they talked about personal stuff. Maybe he confided in her.”

“
Okay, if you think so, I guess it's worth a shot.”

Carter gave me an impish grin. “Are you up for a little role-playing tonight?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Carter laughed. “Not
that
kind of role-playing. Here's an idea. Let's show up separately to the meeting.”

“
Why?”

“
Because tonight we're not private investigators. We're chronic gamblers in need of support and guidance.”

“
Oh, please. I don't know anything about gambling. Those people will see right through me.”

“
You know how to play cards, right?”

“
Gin rummy?”

Carter shook his head. “Oh boy. Okay. Your story is this: you're addicted to playing the slots. Easy enough and no skill involved.”

“
And what about you?”

“
I'll come up with something.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “And what do you know about gambling?”

“
I've placed some bets in my day,” he said, with a slightly offended tone. “And I've won a little money.”

“
But how much did you have to lose in order to win?”

He ignored my question, started the engine, and headed back toward my apartment. “I'll drop you off at your place. Then you can take your own car and I'll see you at the meeting. Don't be late.”

* * *

I feasted on leftover lasagna from the party the night before and booted up my laptop at the kitchen table. The official site for Gambler's Anonymous was jam-packed with information on the recovery program. Everyone from compulsive gamblers to the occasional gamer was invited to join. The main objective of the meetings was to encourage strength, hope, and camaraderie for those who wanted to leave their addiction behind.

Since my role was to portray a woman obsessed with the slot machines, I felt it was important to understand a gambling addiction. I learned that most addictions start as
a
way to self-medicate an anxiety disorder or depression and can be triggered by personal loss, debt, or traumatic experiences in general.

Family history can also be a huge factor.

For someone who never suffered with addiction, it was hard for me to understand the allure of gambling – my addiction to chocolate and wine didn't count. I had gone to casinos before, but never had a problem giving up when I lost my first twenty bucks within the first ten minutes. My philosophy: I worked too hard for my money to blow it all.

At five-thirty, I decided it was time to head out.

* * *

There were over a dozen cars in the parking lot of St. Teresa's Church and Carter's Buick was among them.

It was turning into a crisp evening as the sun started to set. Having forgotten my jacket at home, I remembered the extra scarf I kept in my bag. I wrapped it around my neck and made my way to the church's entrance.

Inside, a sign directed me to a set of stairs that presumably led to the basement. As I descended the stairs, the smell of coffee guided me the rest of the way. I eventually found myself in a room crowded with people, drinking coffee and munching on snacks. The buffet table displayed an assortment of refreshments: coffee, water, soda, donuts, and bowls of chips. To the left of that, nearly two dozen chairs were arranged in a semi-circle.

Scanning the crowd, I noticed Carter, paper cup in hand, seemingly engrossed in a conversation with another guy who appeared to be in his thirties. Carter made eye contact with me briefly then focused his attention back on his new friend.

Of the twelve or thirteen attendees, only four were female, including myself. I figured the attractive one with the long, dark hair had to be Mindy Giovanni.