Sarah Woods Mystery Series (1-6) Boxed Set (79 page)

“
Sarah,” I said in my most innocent-sounding voice. “Is Chloe around?”

He opened the door a little wider. Now I could see his face. He appeared to be in his early twenties, and scrawny, with no hair on his chest. All he had on was a pair of boxer shorts. Acne scars dotted his face and shoulders and he smelled like body odor and Doritos. “She doesn't know anyone named Sarah,” he said.

“
I'm an acquaintance,” I replied. “We met at Sambuca's.”

His narrowed eyes scanned me head to foot. “Yeah, well, she's not here.”

“
Do you know where she is? I have some money for her.”

“
Give it to me. I'll make sure she gets it.”

“
That's nice of you, but I'd rather give it to her in person. Do you know when she'll be back?”

“
No.”

“
Okay, thanks. I'll try to catch up with her later.”

“
Whatever.”

He slammed the door.

I thought about hanging out in my car until she returned, but if Mr. Skinhead had any brains at all, he probably watched me walk back to my car and would see me waiting. The last thing I needed was for him to call Chloe and warn her not to come home.

I started my engine, drove a few blocks down the road, and parked in such a way that I could still survey the apartment buildings while remaining out of sight.

I decided to give it two hours. If she didn't show up, I'd figure out another plan.

* * *

Two hours came and went and Chloe never returned. Skinhead never left the place, either. I walked back to the apartment building and noticed a man on the second floor balcony, watering a plant. I called up to him. “Excuse me, sir?”

Startled, he looked around and finally noticed me. “Yeah?”

“
Hi. I'm trying to get in touch with one of your neighbors, Chloe Goodwin. She lives in apartment 2C. Do you know her?”

He nodded. “Sure do.”

“
Well, I owe her some money but it seems I keep missing her. Do you have any idea when she might be around?”

“
She always around,” he said. “In fact, I'm pretty sure she's there now.”

“
That's funny. Her boyfriend said she's out.”

“
Chad? Oh, well, my mistake. I have no idea where she is.”

I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder. “Do you know who owns that scooter?”

“
Belongs to Chad.”

“
Does Chad have a job?” I asked.

The man seemed nervous all of a sudden. He shook his head and started to head back into his apartment. “Sorry, I've got stuff to do.”

“
Wait,” I said. “What's Chad's last name?”

The man disappeared and shut the sliding door.

It was almost dinnertime and I had to pee. I made a promise to resume the stakeout after I got a bite to eat.

I drove down to the nearest deli, used the bathroom, then purchased a sandwich and bottled water. I found an empty table and proceeded to devour the food while leafing through the newspaper someone had left behind.
The Bridgeport Gazette's
front-page headline read:

Promising Local Artist Bertrand Zaviroff , 27, Dies of Lymphoma

Artist Bertrand Zaviroff passed away from lymphoma on Thursday in York Hospital at the age of 27. The New Hampshire-born artist died at 5pm with his fiancée by his side. The watercolor artist was the only son of Gertrude and Thomas Zaviroff, world-famous artists who perished in a plane crash over a decade ago. Fellow artists around New England were quick to express their sadness. Local artist and friend, Bruce Ylang, wrote on his blog last evening, “He was a talented young man at the beginning of his career. He was destined for greatness.” Concerns over Zaviroff's health first surfaced when he looked frail at an art conference in early March. He clarified that his haggard appearance was the result of a stomach flu and assured his friends and colleagues he was doing well and thanked them for their well wishes. It wasn't until last week that the news of his illness became public.

Zaviroff's fiancée. Angelique Mayer, told reporters. “I am deeply saddened. The world has lost a great artist, but I have lost the love of my life.”

A public wake is scheduled for Sunday.

...

After reading the article, I folded the paper and tucked it into my pocketbook. I retrieved the file Carter had given me and leafed through the papers, searching for the list of artwork reported stolen at each of the galleries the night Glenn was killed.

Sure enough, the list confirmed something quite interesting:

Gillian Caswell: a Weiler and a Zaviroff.

Jason Trask: an Ambrose and a Zaviroff.

Glenn's gallery: a Dubold and a Zaviroff.

Just an interesting coincidence?

I performed an Internet search on Bertrand Zaviroff. The few photographs I found portrayed a handsome, blonde, blue-eyed, and fair-skinned young man. One of the images included his fiancée, Angelique, who was also attractive but in just the opposite way. She was a dark beauty: her hair, her eyes, her skin. If I had to guess, I'd say she was Italian.

Angelique Mayer, who also studied at the same school as Bertrand, was an aspiring fashion designer. They had been engaged less than a year, living together in Bridgeport, apparently with no set wedding date.

I called Elizabeth Fleming to give her an update and inform her of Zaviroff's death. I shared my theory that perhaps the thief who shot her husband could have had prior knowledge of Zaviroff''s failing health.

Elizabeth seemed intrigued. “So how will you follow up?”

“
I was thinking of calling Victor Rowley. When Carter and I met with him a few days ago, he seemed open to helping us. Maybe I can pick his brain for ideas.”

“
Is he an art expert?”

“
I think it's more or less a hobby rather than a career. He was Glenn's top client. Now he's retired, living at Yorkshire Estates”

“
What kind of information do you hope to get from him?” she asked.

“
I don't really know. Maybe he knows the Zaviroff family personally.”

“
What about that Chloe person? Still no luck with her?”

“
I'm planning to go back to her apartment building tonight. I'll start knocking on neighbor's doors if I have to. I need to catch her coming or going because her boyfriend sure isn't going to help me out.”

“
Do you think these people are dangerous? I certainly don't want to put you in harm's way. Maybe you should wait until Carter gets back and go together.”

“
I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine.”

* * *

Victor Rowley stood up when I joined him at his table - a chivalrous gesture not often seen in my generation. He offered me his hand and a gracious smile, and seemed truly delighted by my presence. He wore a white button-down shirt and pressed khaki's, his demeanor calm and poised. I imagined most of the single elderly ladies living at Yorkshire Estates were charmed by this man, so elegant and intelligent. Even though he was old enough to be my father, I couldn't help but feel a little flattered by his attention.

“
Thank you for agreeing to meet with me again,” I said, settling into a chair across from him. “I'm sorry to impose on your afternoon like this.”

“
Impose?” he said with a sparkle in his eye. “I rarely have a companion for drinks since my wife died a few years ago. You're doing me a favor.”

“
Sorry about your wife.”

He nodded. “Thank you. So what happened to your partner? I'm embarrassed to say his name has slipped my mind.”

“
Carter had to leave town for a personal matter. I'm taking over Elizabeth's case.” The waiter appeared with a bottle of wine, but I declined the offer since I was working and sipped on water instead. “Did you read the article in today's newspaper about Bertrand Zaviroff?”

Victor's smile faded into consternation. “Yes. Dreadful news. I had no idea he'd been ill.”

“
Now that he's gone, will his paintings be worth a lot more?”

Victor shrugged while he fondled the stem of his wine glass. “It may take a few years, but yes. He's a relatively new artist with a small body of work. I don't think he had more than a dozen paintings available for sale. His parents are practically legends in the art community. Bertrand's work will no doubt triple or quadruple in value, mainly because of his name. Anyone who is lucky enough to own one of his paintings … well, good for them. Had I known the fate of the poor guy, I would have gone to each and every gallery that carried his work to purchase them all. As a matter of fact, Glenn had one of his paintings. I saw it last time I was at the gallery. Not my taste, I have to admit.”

I showed Victor a list of the six paintings that were stolen between the three galleries. “Can you tell me, what do all of these artists have in common?”

He studied the list for a minute. “Well, they're all contemporary artists. Mainly abstract. Same price point, too.”

“
Do you own any works from these artists?” I asked.

“
No. I prefer ---”

“
If you had to make an educated guess, why would the thief go to all the trouble for these paintings? I mean, it doesn't seem likely it was just by chance that he chose them specifically. Under the circumstances, his choice seems methodical.”

“
What's your theory?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“
Maybe the thief somehow knew Zaviroff was going to die.”

Victor's periwinkle blue eyes lit up with amusement. “You give the thief a lot of credit for being so clever. Will you go to the police with this theory?”

“
I don't know. Not unless I discover my theory has merit. And I won't know that until I can prove someone knew of his illness and conspired to steal his paintings. I realize it's a long shot.”

He took a sip of wine and eyed me curiously. “What's your plan?”

“
Zaviroff's wake is tomorrow and it's open to the public. It would be an opportunity to meet some of his relatives and friends. Do you know anything about his family, other than his parents?”

“
Not really. According to the newspaper article, he had a fiancée.”

Victor signaled to the waiter, who materialized almost instantly. “Another glass of cabernet, please. And whatever my guest would like.”

I kindly declined, perfectly happy with my water, but Victor’s expression suggested he was a little disappointed. “You can't tell me you don't enjoy a cocktail once in a while.”

“
Oh, I do, believe me. But only when I'm not working.”

The waiter bowed in response and vanished.

“
Speaking of work,” he said. “I'm curious. Is there much demand for private detectives around here?”

“
You'd be surprised. My partner Carter has been in this business for over a decade and he never seems to be without work. What did you do for work before you retired?”

“
I was an engineer for years, then got into real estate. I had a bunch of properties that I unloaded just before the economy went bust. My timing was exquisite, but just lucky, really.”

“
And now you collect art?”

“
I get bored easily not having anything to do or any place to be. I miss the days when my appointment book was full. Now I do some occasional freelance stuff just for fun.”

Victor's comment triggered a thought. “Speaking of appointment books, there's still a few questions about something on Glenn's appointment calendar that I've been meaning to ask you about. Do the initials
BB
mean anything to you?”

He appeared to mull it over. “No. Should they?”

“
Glenn had a meeting with someone a few days before his death, but we haven't been able to find anyone, including clients, friends, or artists, with those initials.”

Victor lowered his eyes and stared into his empty wine glass. “You know, I've been thinking about Glenn a lot the past few days since you and Carter came to see me. It didn't occur to me until recently, but Glenn did make a comment the last time I saw him. It probably has nothing to do with anything, but I thought it was rather strange.”

“
I'd appreciate if you shared it with me just the same.”

The waiter returned to fill our glasses, then left promptly.

Victor narrowed his eyes as if he was trying to look into the past through a distant memory. “Like I mentioned before, Glenn and I never talked much about personal stuff. And by that I mean our marriages, family, finances, what have you. To be polite, I always asked how his wife was doing, and he did the same. But he made a comment about his sister. He'd never mentioned he had a sister before, so naturally I was curious. He told me she died at a young age and that he'd just remembered it was the forty-year anniversary of her death.”