Checked Out (11 page)

“O
pen it, Helen!” Phil said. “Don’t just stand there holding the book. Is the watercolor inside? Quit admiring the cover and find out.”

“I can’t help it,” Helen said. “The photo is stunning. This procession of Native Americans on horseback is straight from a John Ford Western.”

“Admire it quickly, please,” Alexa said. “It’s past eleven.”

Curtis’s
Portraits from North American Indian Life
was a big book—Helen guessed it was about a foot and a half wide and fifteen inches long—and a heavy one, weighing four or five pounds.

She set the massive photo book on the closest shelf, and Paris the cat hopped up next to it. The calico sat down, fluffed her fur and gave a warbly purr, as if congratulating herself.

“You did good, girl,” Helen said, and opened the giant book.

No watercolor was pressed between the cover and title page. Nothing was in the two introductions, or the descriptions of the photos.

When she came to the first sepia photo, Helen said, “Look at these Piegan people with their horse-drawn travois.”

“Helen!” Phil said. She heard the warning in his voice, and began thumbing through the photos faster. She’d been paralyzed when she first held the book. Now she was almost afraid to keep going.

If I don’t find the watercolor, I’ve screwed up twice, she thought. Charlotte has lost her life and I’ve lost our client’s future. Well, I can’t stay in here all night.

She turned the pages as quickly as she could without tearing them. The book was more than forty years old and the paper was fragile. The photos were eerie windows into the past. She caught a glimpse of Princess Angeline, her serene, aged face etched with wrinkles, on page seventeen. She paged past photos of a Cheyenne girl with solemn dark eyes, a Makah tribe whaler and a happy Apache baby. Page after page of photos, but no sign of the watercolor.

I’ll come back and linger over them another time, she told herself. She could feel Alexa’s and Phil’s impatience. It was almost a physical force in the small, airless space. They were so impatient she thought they might take the book away.

Keep turning the pages, she told herself. If you’ve made a mistake, then you’ll have to live with it. And so will Elizabeth. Charlotte doesn’t get that luxury.

Helen felt cold, even though sweat ran down her forehead. She wiped it off.

Now there were less than ten pages left. As Helen neared the end of the book, she felt the dread pressing on her, sucking the oxygen out of Charlotte’s makeshift bedroom. I’m a poor excuse for a private eye, she thought.

Then, when she came to page 173, she said, “Geronimo!”

“His photo’s in there, too?” Phil asked.

“Yes,” Helen said, “and Geronimo has our alligators.”

There, on top of the Apache warrior, was the John Singer Sargent watercolor. Alexa and Phil moved closer to examine it. Helen could feel Phil’s breath on her sweaty neck. The colors were mostly muddy brown, blue-gray, red-brown, and green.

The watercolor sat perfectly still on the page, but it seemed to move. The six sun-drenched, mud-caked gators were a menacing mass. The ridge-tailed reptiles slithered and pulsed with primeval life. A small gator crawled to the front of the watercolor, teeth bared. The alligators’ slitty eyes were small and mean.

“This is not Grandma’s sweet daisies watercolor,” Helen whispered. “It has power.”

“I read about the Sargent watercolor,” Alexa said, “once I heard it might be in our library. This one is slightly smaller than his other alligator watercolors. It fits neatly into this book.”

“The technique is incredible,” Phil said.

“You can see where Sargent scratched the thick paper to make the alligators’ teeth seem sharper,” Alexa said. “If you hold it up to the light, you’ll see where he applied wax to give the alligators their rough texture.”

“Really?” Helen said, and reached for the drawing.

“Don’t touch it!” Alexa said. She ran to the supply shelf and tossed Helen a pair of white cotton gloves.

“I want to see if Clark Gable signed the back,” Helen said.

She slipped on the soft gloves, then carefully turned over the painting. “There’s the writing, with what looks like a black fountain pen,” she said, and read the inscription out loud. “‘I lost this fair and square to Woodrow Kingsley—W. C. Gable, 1924.’”

“Looks like a man’s handwriting,” Phil said.

“The loops on the lowercase
F
s are thin,” Alexa said. “The
T
s are looped and crossed with straight lines, and the uppercase
G
is classic Palmer method. It looks like Gable’s writing.”

“How do you know about Gable’s handwriting?” Helen asked.

“I’ve seen samples online,” Alexa said. “Elizabeth will have to have it authenticated by a handwriting expert, of course, along with the watercolor.”

“You’re amazing,” Helen said.

“Not for a librarian,” Alexa said. “We find out things.”

“It’s heading toward midnight,” Helen said. “Should we call Elizabeth with the news?”

“Would you want to wake up and hear you had a million dollars?” Alexa said. “Let’s call her from my office.”

Helen held the book like a trophy. She’d never carried a million dollars before. Phil and Alexa followed her down the dim hall, Paris padding at their feet.

When the book was safely on Alexa’s desk, the library director sat behind her desk, and the private eyes settled themselves in the barrel chairs. Helen put her phone on speaker and called Elizabeth.

“What’s wrong?” the groggy Elizabeth said. Helen imagined her in a sensible cotton nightgown with a high collar and long sleeves, her gray hair in a plait for the night.

“Nothing,” Helen said. “Everything is fine. Extra fine. I’m calling from Alexa’s office at the library. We’ve found your watercolor.”

“You did?” Now Elizabeth was fully alert. “At this hour?”

Helen told her the whole story—well, almost—she left out her own careless mistakes and Charlotte’s demand for half of her fee.

Elizabeth interrupted only once. “Charlotte? Was she the young woman who was killed in the accident at Broward and Bettencourt? I saw the story on the evening news, but the reporter didn’t give the victim’s name.”

“That’s her,” Helen said. “But her death was no accident.”

“We think she was murdered,” Phil said.

“Dreadful,” Elizabeth said. “Who do you think killed her?”

“We believe the murderer has to be connected with the library,” Phil said. “The killer heard that Charlotte found the watercolor and killed her before she could come back and claim it.”

Helen heard a gasp.

“What if someone kills me?” Elizabeth said. “Can’t we keep this quiet?”

“The killer will tear the library apart, looking for the watercolor,” Phil said.

“Better to make it public knowledge,” Alexa said. “And safer for you. I’ll mention that the painting has been found tomorrow.”

Today, Helen thought.

“And have a courier take it to your lawyer’s office,” Alexa said, “where it will be safe until it’s appraised and sold.”

“Is it safe to keep a million-dollar painting in the library tonight?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’ll lock it in our safe,” Alexa said.

Helen hoped Elizabeth didn’t ask how many people knew the combination to the library safe.

“It will be fine,” Alexa soothed. “This is the best way to handle it.”

“I suppose,” Elizabeth said. “I hope I live long enough to enjoy the money.”

“T
he body of a twenty-two-year-old Fort Lauderdale woman was found in this abandoned supermarket lot at three thirty yesterday afternoon,” investigative reporter Valerie Cannata said, “the victim of an apparent hit-and-run.”

The TV camera panned the desolate parking lot under a watery lemon sun. No cars were in the lot at seven in the morning. Even at this early hour, Valerie was poised and stylish in a lime green sleeveless dress that bared her well-toned arms and showed off her red hair.

Helen knew the glamorous Channel 77 reporter, and hit Record on the DVR so Phil could see the broadcast after work.

“Authorities are not releasing the dead woman’s name pending notification of her family,” the reporter said. “Channel Seventy-seven broke the story yesterday. This morning, we’re talking to the detective assigned to the case. Micah Doben is a Bettencourt crimes-against-persons detective.”

The plump detective had a face like a potato, a monk’s fringe of white hair and raisin eyes behind rimless glasses. Doben wore a baggy gray suit with a lavender shirt and dark purple tie that looked
like something his wife had picked out. Helen guessed his age as mid-fifties.

“Detective Doben, what can you tell us about this accident?” Valerie asked.

“The victim was apparently struck and killed between eleven thirty a.m. and three thirty p.m.,” he said, reciting the facts in a flat voice. “We believe the fatal accident most likely occurred between eleven thirty and noon. The victim had a twelve o’clock appointment for a job interview at Norton Management in the building next door. It was a callback, and the victim was going to be hired. The company’s customer service manager said the victim did not report as expected.”

“Was the victim taken to the hospital?” Valerie asked.

“No, she was pronounced dead at the scene,” Detective Doben said. “The medical examiner believes she was killed instantly.”

“Was this accident caught on camera?” Valerie asked. “Are there any witnesses?”

“No,” the detective said. “There are no witnesses and no video. However, at a preliminary autopsy, the medical examiner did find chips of white vehicle paint on the victim’s body.”

“Do you know the vehicle’s make and model?” Valerie asked.

“We will need more time to determine that,” the detective said. “This is the third fatal hit-and-run accident at the corner of Broward Boulevard and Bettencourt Street in three months. It’s a very dangerous intersection, and we are asking pedestrians and drivers to exercise caution.

“A sixteen-year-old high school student was killed August sixth at three p.m. and a thirty-four-year-old man was fatally injured September ninth at seven ten in the evening. Now this woman was killed yesterday.”

“But Charlotte’s accident isn’t close to that corner,” Helen said to the TV set.

Valerie’s next question echoed Helen’s objection. “This
parking lot is more than two blocks north of that intersection,” the TV reporter said, “but you’re saying this fatality happened at Broward and Bettencourt.”

Good for you, Helen thought. You’re thinking on your feet.

“It’s in the same vicinity,” the detective said, “and we will be investigating it as a vehicular homicide.”

Helen, who’d encountered smart cops and dumb ones, now had doubts about Detective Doben. Bettencourt was a small, tightly knit community in west Broward County, best known for the exclusive Bettencourt Country Club. The police force was mostly older, white, male, and respectful to the residents. Detective Doben had already dismissed Charlotte’s death as a hit-and-run, which gave the town the quick, easy answer it wanted.

“Bettencourt police are looking for information about this hit-and-run accident,” Valerie said. “If you saw the accident, noticed a white car or truck speeding away from the scene, or know of a white vehicle that has recently been in an accident, please call this number.”

Helen found a pen and wrote down the number. She’d probably have to tell the detective what she knew about Charlotte. But not without some legal advice first.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and called attorney Nancie Hays. Coronado Investigations was the lawyer’s in-house private-eye firm. Helen knew the little lawyer would already be at her desk, dressed in a sensible suit. Nancie was an early riser.

Helen winced at Nancie’s blast of good-morning cheer. “Helen,” she said. “How are my favorite newlyweds? Not in any trouble, I hope.”

“That’s why I’m calling you,” Helen said. “Did you see the story about the hit-and-run death on Broward Boulevard yesterday?”

“Yes. Was the victim a client of yours?”

“Not exactly,” Helen said, and told her how she knew Charlotte.

“You should go to the police,” Nancie said. “Definitely. But before you can disclose any information to the cops, you’ll need permission from your two clients, the library director and Elizabeth Kingsley.”

“Both?” Helen said.

“In writing,” Nancie said. “You know the law, Helen. Private eyes can’t disclose anything without their clients’ permission, and you have a duty to report what you know. Also, I should be present during any police questioning.”

Helen groaned. “Do you have to be?”

“No, not if you want a repeat of what happened last time.”

“Okay, okay,” Helen said. Nancie would save her hours wasted in a claustrophobic room at a police station.

“Start calling,” Nancie ordered.

Helen reached Alexa at home. “Do we really have to do this, Helen?” the library director said.

Helen caught the hint of a whine. Maybe she hadn’t had her coffee yet.

“The police need the information about Charlotte,” Helen said, “and I can’t give it to them without your permission.”

“This is going to cause problems,” Alexa said. “Our homeless man, Ted, has always been well behaved, but if word gets out that someone was actually living here, the Flora Park Library will become a mecca for homeless people. They like to congregate at libraries: We’re quiet, free and safe. The homeless are a nationwide problem.”

“Where else can they go?” Helen said. “And what if Charlotte’s death wasn’t a simple hit-and-run? What if she was murdered because of that watercolor?”

“That’s what you believe?” Alexa said.

“Yes,” Helen said. She held her breath. She could feel Alexa edging closer to consenting.

“Well, we’ve talked about starting a community outreach program for the homeless,” Alexa said.

Helen kept still. Alexa inched closer to agreement.

“And it is the ethical thing to do. So I say yes. I’ll write a letter giving you permission. Can I fax it to your office and give you the original?”

“Thank you so much,” Helen said. She felt weak with relief. One tough call down, one to go.

Elizabeth was awake at eight o’clock, alert and delighted to hear from Helen—until the private eye explained why she was calling.

“I’d prefer not to have my private business made public,” Elizabeth said.

“I understand,” Helen said. “But a young woman was murdered.”

“A woman living illegally at the Flora Park Library,” Elizabeth said. The last traces of friendliness were gone. Helen could feel ice on her cell phone, freezing her fingers.

“Charlotte was twenty-two and homeless, through no fault of her own,” Helen said. “She was out of work and would have had a new job, if she hadn’t been killed. Surely, you of all people understand what it’s like to need money.”

“I don’t parade my financial difficulties before the world,” Elizabeth said.

The ice burned Helen’s fingers. I’m liking my client a little less with each sentence she says, she thought.

“Elizabeth, you do realize that Charlotte may have been killed because she knew about your watercolor.”

“Yes, but catching the killer won’t bring her back. I don’t like having my privacy invaded.”

Did she really say
priv
-acy, like an actor on
Downton Abbey
? Helen wondered. And why am I defending Charlotte, a crafty woman who’d tried to take half my fee? Because I only had to open thirty or forty boxes, thanks to her, instead of three hundred. Nice work for five grand.

“Elizabeth, last night you were concerned about your safety. So concerned that Alexa is getting an armed guard to deliver the watercolor to your lawyer.”

“I’ll be safe once it’s with my attorney,” she said.

Helen wanted to scream. Elizabeth was maddening. I need to think like a rich person, she decided.

“Elizabeth,” Helen said. “I understand why you don’t want this story public. But you do know part of the painting’s value is its association—the story behind that Clark Gable signature.”

“So?”

“More publicity may increase the painting’s value,” Helen said.

“You’re right,” Elizabeth said. “It is my civic duty. I’ll give you the authorization.”

Finally, Helen thought. I’ve learned to think like a rich person. Now if I only had the money to go with the mind-set.

She thought talking to Detective Doben would be the easy part. She was wrong again.

Doben agreed to meet Helen and Nancie Hays at the Bettencourt police headquarters, which turned out to be next to the first tee at the famous country club. The cop shop lawn looked like an extension of the golf greens, and a small, neat sign warned people parking their cars that the police were not responsible for any damage due to golf balls. Helen parked the Igloo on the far side of the lot, and Nancie joined her moments later in her practical Toyota.

Detective Doben was not pleased when he met Helen and Nancie. In fact, he was hostile. Nancie had a reputation for tenacity and had ruined more than one incompetent detective’s career.

He recognized the notorious lawyer and showed the two women into a small, cluttered room with a coffee-ringed table and bulletin boards papered with Wanted posters and yellowing memos. Doben carried a foam cup of coffee but did not offer them any.

“Why do you need to drag in a lawyer?” he said, his face nearly the same shade of purple as his tie.

He glared at Nancie while she explained why she’d accompanied Helen. Detective Doben seemed bored by Helen’s story, though he did take notes.

“So I believe there may be a connection between Charlotte’s death and the million-dollar watercolor,” Helen said, finishing her story with a flourish.

“You do, huh? You know what I believe, Ms. Hawthorne? I believe you have a vivid imagination. How many hit-and-runs have you investigated?”

“None,” Helen said.

“I thought so. I’ve seen more hit-and-run accidents than you’ve had birthdays. I know what they look like. Miss Dams’s death is a straightforward hit-and-run. No fancy theories. Some driver in a hurry hit that poor girl and killed her. It’s my job to find that person.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have a killer to catch.”