The Art of Love and Murder (21 page)

Her anger rose as she read.

Ms. Dahl.

I have your chest. Don’t worry, it will be safely secured in the Aztec treasury. I also have information you would certainly like to have. Please come to the museum after we close at noon. Go around the building to the back entrance into my office. We may be able to make a deal.

John Archibald

Chapter Twelve

So distracted by the lingering taste of Lacy on his lips, Chance had driven a block before the sight of the closed sign in the window of The White Wolf Spirit registered. He drove another block, but the nagging sensation wouldn’t go away. He pulled to the side of the road and dug his cell out of the pocket on the side of his saddlebag. At about ten rings, he disconnected. Chief didn’t have voice mail for the shop, but he always answered. He tapped the phone against his thigh. May was a good month for tourists and parents coming up to the campus for end of the year activities, and the old shop owner would never close early. His friend was getting along in years, and his concern intensified. He tried the store one more time.

“Hell.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket and turned around. If he trusted one thing, it was his intuition; and it told him to check on his old friend.

There weren’t any parking spaces on either side of the street. He pulled out of the flow of traffic, edging past the store windows whose lights still shone. The closed sign hung in the window.

Chance wedged his cycle between two parked cars, front tire against the curb, killed the engine and strode to the door. He walked along both windows on each side of the door, scanning high and low around the displays. No sign of Chief. He rapped on the window. Nothing. Turning away, he glanced at Lacy’s Z4 parked across the street. The good feeling from the afternoon ebbed as an uneasiness settled on him.

Back on his cycle, he rode around the block and pulled into the alley behind the store. Chief’s truck stood sentry in its usual spot. He raised his hand to knock, but when his knuckles touched wood the door swung open. This door never failed to be locked.

Silence greeted him.

Before entering the shop, he scanned the alley in both directions, and when he was satisfied no one lurked, he pushed the door open wide, wishing he had his gun. With a sideways step, back to the wall, he glanced around the back office. Nothing looked out of place. The door into the main shop area stood partially open, although not enough to give him a clear view. Cautiously, he advanced, keeping his footsteps silent.

Once at the door going into the store, he inched it open, his eyes darting in all directions as more of the room came into view. When he dropped his survey to the floor, the sight of boots, Chief’s boots with Chief still in them, soles up, stopped him. His stomach clenched while his heart thumped. He pushed the door open until the old man’s legs got in the way. One more scan of the store with no one else in view, and he sprang into action.

“Chief!”

The old man had crumpled chest down, his face half-exposed, the skin slack. A bump the size of an egg glared red through the gray hair behind his ear.

“Oh, hell.” He fell on his knees, hand on the hoped-for pulse of his friend’s neck. Relief flooded him when the beat thumped against his fingertips. A low noise vibrated in the old man’s throat. He gently rolled him over. “Chief?” He patted his face.

Another moan and his eyelids fluttered. The old man stared, no sign of recognition reflected. Then he blinked and came to life with a jerk. “What the...?” His glance darted side to side then focused on Chance. “Did you see the son of bitch that cold-cocked me?” His voice croaked raspy but strong.

“You were down for the call when I got here.” When he made a move to get up, Chance held him down. “Stay put. That’s a nasty whack you got on your skull.” He glanced around and got up to find something to put under his friend’s head, settling on some green cup towels stitched with yellow suns and blue moons. Rolled, they created a pillow.

“Need to find out what they took,” he rasped as he settled on the rolled towels.

Chance had to move a box out of the way to get to the cash register. “Your money drawer is closed. Never seen a thief neat enough to close the drawer. How do you get it open?” The register looked as old as Chief.

“Hit the star key, and then the cash-out key.”

The drawer whooshed open. “If they took any money, they didn’t take enough to buy a burger next door.” He pushed it closed, turning his attention to the jewelry case. “Unless they were really neat, the jewelry doesn’t look disturbed. No empty spots.” He stepped over his friend and made a circle around the store. “Everything looks neat. Maybe you just pissed someone off old man.”

A scraping noise and a moan sent Chance back behind the counter. Chief sat, leaning against the wall and holding his head. His eyes were less glazed over.

“I can’t see he took...” He paused on another thought. “Where’d you put Lacy’s bag?”

With a grimace, Chief turned his head toward the shelf under the counter; Chance followed where he looked. Paper bags, two three-ring binders, a dust cloth and glass cleaner occupied the area. No khaki bag.

“I’m going to get you an ambulance.”

“Hell, no. I don’t need no ambulance.”

“Then I’ll take you myself.” There was no use arguing the ambulance with the crusty, old guy. “Now lie still while I phone this in.”

He lifted the receiver on a dated phone and punched buttons. “Hey, Jody. This is Sheriff Meadowlark. Yeah, doing okay. Jenny, too. Got a robbery here. Need to send a car over to The White Wolf Spirit
and make it quick. I need to get Chief to the hospital. No, he’ll live. Took a nasty hit on the head, so he’ll need to be seen.” The old man scoffed; Chance waved him off. “Thanks, Jody.”

When he replaced the receiver on the base, they both stared at the shelf where the khaki bag had been.

“Hell.” Chief spat the word. “Damn!”

“Not your fault.”

“And whose fault would it be? I told her I’d lock it up in the back. Stuck it under there until I could get around to it. I should’ve taken the time.”

“You had customers,” Chance said. They stared at each other for a moment. “The question is—”

“Why just the bag?”

“How long did it sit on the counter?”

“Don’t remember exactly. I think after you left, the couple bought a bracelet. Let’s see.” He rubbed his eyes, conjuring memory. “There were those two guys browsing. I don’t think anyone else came in. I unpacked that box of pottery.” He nodded at the one Chance had shoved aside earlier. “Then waited for them to either buy or leave. I think I’d set her bag under the counter by then. They headed out, and I figured I’d finish the box before I took her bag and locked it up.” He stood, bracing himself against the wall.

“Take it easy.”

“Eh.” He waved Chance off. “I had my back to the door, bending over to unpack the pottery. I stood up and got one hell of a sharp pain in my head. Lights out.” He glanced at the front door. “There’re the boys in blue. Better let them in.”

He unlocked the front door, looked beyond the police to the street and Lacy’s car. He’d go get her as soon as they started questioning Chief. “Pete. Carlos. You two still on duty?”

“We’re the lucky ones,” Pete answered. “You seem to be where all the action is lately.”

“Yeah, guess I’m lucky, too.” He considered the last encounter lucky, and warmed to the thought. This time, not so much.

“What happened?”

“Someone walked in the front door, clubbed Chief over the head, locked the front door, took the sketches and left out the back.”

“Sketches? Nothing else missing?” Carlos asked, making notes.

“No.”

“What sketches?”

“A briefcase sort of, cloth type, khaki, containing sketches belonging to the woman you met yesterday, Lacy Dahl. She’d left them with Chief for safe keeping.” His friendly dig was delivered with a smile at the old man and got the expected groan.

“You think this is tied to the incident at the Grand View Hotel?” Pete asked.

“I don’t much believe in coincidence. She had the sketches with her yesterday when they rifled her room. I’d say they were looking for those sketches, and found them today.” He glanced at his friend. Thank God Chief hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t fought back.

“Is Ms. Dahl still in town?”

“She’s across the street...” Chance glanced out the window. “...or was. Apparently, she’s gone now.” Her convertible had been replaced by a blue Land Rover. “She drives a dark red Z4. Usually parked on the street.” He turned his attention to his friend who looked pale. “Can you finish up here so I can get him to the hospital? I’m sure you can find Ms. Dahl at the hotel before too long.” She’d be back in time for dinner with him.

“Tell Carlos what you remember, Chief, while I look around,” Pete said.

Chance stood and faced the window, hoping to see Lacy drive by while Chief repeated his story, adding details and descriptions. He scanned up the building, estimating which window was her room. The curtains were open, but there wasn’t anything to see.

With the sketches in the hands of the thief, she shouldn’t be in any danger. His initial shock at finding Chief knocked out had passed, yet the feeling of dread still clouded the sunny outlook from his lunch with Lacy. Which was stupid. He couldn’t compare this to eight years ago. Sketches were stolen, and no one had died. Lacy remained safe. Her words to warn him off from looking after her didn’t hold much weight with him. No, it might not be his job to look out for her safety or her feelings, but—

“Sheriff, we’re done here.” Pete moved closer. “I’d like to get your description of the people that were in the shop when Ms. Dahl left her sketches, except Chief isn’t looking too good. Why don’t we follow you to the hospital? Take your account while he’s being checked out.”

“Yeah, I can do that. Can you help him out back; get him situated while I lock up. I’m on my Harley so I’ll have to drive him in his truck.”

Chief grumbled, but allowed Carlos to lend a shoulder for him to lean on.

Chance brought the shades down half-mast the way Chief liked and scoped out the street in both directions. Still no sign of Lacy. His gut said trouble, but he knew his heart interfered, messing with his reliable gauge.

He turned off all the lights except for the counter, took the keys from the hook and locked the alley door behind him.

“Follow us, Sheriff. We’ll run interference.”

****

Lacy fumed on her drive to the museum. How dare that moron day clerk hand her box over to John Archibald? She’d caught him as his shift ended and Penny’s began. He swore he hadn’t even seen the box. If Penny’s horrified outburst and his hangdog expression were any indication, the kid wouldn’t have a job tomorrow. The little Black Fairy had apologized profusely and went so far as offering to drive out to the museum herself. Lacy declined. She wouldn’t be robbed of the pleasure of delivering to the shifty curator the message of exactly how she felt about his underhanded, outright theft of her chest. He was stupid if he thought possession would get him ownership.

She dug her cell out of her purse, flipped through recent history while darting glances at the road and punched call for the museum. After four rings, a recording came on. Damn. She tossed her phone in her purse.

He probably thought he could bargain information for the chest. He didn’t have any of Kaya’s sculptures. More than likely the most honest thing he’d said was he’d kill for some of her sculptures. Good thing he didn’t say that to someone eight years ago. Looks like he’d at least steal for some of her art. Now that the professor confirmed Kaya and Muuyaw to be the same, the chest, the earliest of her carvings, would certainly be worth having in a collection.

Maybe he’d done her a favor stealing the chest. He’d have to give it back or risk trouble with the law. If he had some juicy bit of information, she’d get it out of him. Or perhaps he intended on admitting the true identity of Muuyaw. The joke would be on him since she already knew.

****

Tailing a speeding police car made the drive to the hospital shorter. After situating Chief with a physician, Chance joined Pete and Carlos in the emergency waiting room. The three claimed an admission booth, sectioned off and private.

Carlos flipped open his pad. “So, how many people did you see in the store when Ms. Dahl set her bag containing the sketches on the counter?”

Chance described the couple and the two men. Although off duty and distracted with Lacy, years of police work kept his observation skills always on duty. He hadn’t missed the two men perusing the wooden sculptures in the store. They’d also perused Lacy pretty thoroughly, but considering what she looked like, he’d understood that. And in recollection, they’d appeared to keep an ear on the conversation between Chief, Lacy and himself.

“They seemed out of place in White Wolf
.
Maybe they were a couple of husbands sent on a mission, or maybe they’d been watching for Lacy and the sketches.”

The couple, although appearing comical, couldn’t be ruled out either. They were all strangers.

While he described their appearances and demeanors, a nagging thought crept in. Another figure had hung around the perimeter.

Clark.

Later, he’d follow those ill feelings on his own. No need to sick the cops on Kitty’s kid without good reason. The useless man, a punk and stupid enough to get into trouble, didn’t seem ruthless enough to attack Chief for Lacy’s sketches.
Muuyaw’s
sketches. There were people willing to kill for her art. Again.

A cold chill ran down his back.

****

Lacy shut off her engine. The parking lot was empty and the windows of the museum darkened. She followed a walkway to the side of the building where one car sat parked on a small blacktopped area behind the building. As she rounded the corner, she approached the back, knocked and waited. Then knocked again.

“Mr. Archibald?”

The knob turned and she opened the door a sliver. “Mr. Archibald?”

Perhaps he was in the museum, although the lights were off. The door swung open with a slight nudge. “Mr. Archibald?” She stood in the doorway and caught her breath as the condition of the office became apparent. Drawers on his desk stood open. Books and artifacts had been removed from the shelves and tossed on the floor. Either John Archibald had suddenly become a very messy man or someone had searched his office in haste.