The Fine Art of Murder (13 page)

Despite what I had told Polly, I’d planned to drive up to Minneapolis alone but made the mistake of calling Nathan before I left.

“I can’t get away from the office today but—”

“Come on, Nathan, I can make a twenty-minute drive by myself.”

“Polly told me all about the bank statements and Stacey’s mother. She said she suggested you take Brock along with you.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard. And please stop treating me like I’m helpless.”

“If you think that I think you’re helpless, you’re nuts. But in the few years you’ve been retired, a lot has changed, Kathy. If you look sideways at someone now, they’re liable to pull a gun.”

“Unless Brock’s Superman, I don’t think he can stop a bullet—”

“Kathy! Please . . . for me. All you have to do is feed the big guy. He’ll sit in the car and mind his own business. But if you need help—”

“All right . . . all right. Where should I pick him up?”

***

“Hey, Mrs. Sullivan.” Brock opened the door and climbed into the Cherokee. As he fastened his seat belt, I noticed how much room he took up in the vehicle.

“I thought I told you to call me Katherine.” I smiled.

“You got it.”

“I guess Nathan told you why I’m going to Minneapolis?” I asked.

“No. He just said you might need some . . . help.”

Brock stared straight ahead, no expression on his face. Because it was a warm day, he’d worn a short sleeve polo shirt, which accentuated his muscles. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his arms were covered with tattoos: animals, random words, numbers, and initials. His brown hair had been buzzed, his skin was tan, and I’d describe him as a handsome man.

We drove in silence. He looked out his side window now and then. I concentrated on the road ahead. But after I’d merged onto 100N, the silence in the jeep was making me uncomfortable.

Strong silent types have always made me work extra hard at a conversation.

Finally I thought of something sure to engage him. “Nathan said I had to feed you when we finish up at Stacey’s.” I laughed. “Anything special you’d like for lunch?”

“Well there’s this new place—I wrote down the address.” He actually seemed excited.

“What’s it called?”

He pulled a piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s called Bouillabaisse. Chef Roberts, he’s from France, opened it a month ago. I hear nice things.”

It’s the little surprises that make life so much fun. “Bouillabaisse—that’s the French name for a fish stew. You like French cooking?”

“Love it. The things they know about sauces are unbelievable.”

“Do you cook?” I asked.

“I take classes here and there. But don’t tell the crew. They’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“Our secret . . . promise.”

“My dad owned a greasy spoon in St. Paul. I helped out every chance I could. Weekends, holidays, summer vacation. When he died, I helped my mother run the place . . . until she died. My brother never had no interest, so we sold it and split the cash. He bought a house with his share; I put my half in the bank.”

“Very sensible,” I said. “But you have to spend some of it on yourself—have some fun.”

“Oh, I take out a bunch when I want to travel. I been to New York, Vegas last year, and I’m goin’ to New Orleans this year. I can hardly wait to see what’s goin’ on in NOLA. That’s Emeril’s place in the Quarter.” He stopped. “Am I boring you with all this stuff?”

“Not at all. It’s fun finding new places and foods.”

“It’s what life’s all about, ain’t it?”

“So would I be surprised to see what’s in your kitchen?”

“For sure. Next time I make up a batch of dad’s barbeque sauce, you’ll come over for ribs.”

Who would have thought that Brock and I would have cooking in common?

The turnoff for Olson Memorial Highway came up much too soon.

But all the fun came to a screeching halt when I parked in front of Stacey’s small house.

“I assumed she lived in an apartment and that I’d talk the manager into letting us in, but now . . .”

“You know, most people really do keep a spare key under a welcome mat or flower pot. Even those phony plastic rocks. Like they’re really foolin’ someone. Let’s go have a look.”

“It’s worth a try,” I said. “But act as though we belong here. If you look confident, you can get away with a whole lot.”

We got out of the jeep and calmly walked toward the house. I’d learned that Mondays and Tuesdays are always the best days of the week to do anything. Stores are empty after the weekend rush, and there’s less traffic because drivers are at work, school, or home. Stacey’s neighborhood was no exception. There was not one person as far as I could see, on either side of the street.

Brock led the way up the two steps to the porch and twisted the doorknob, checking to see if it was unlocked. No such luck.

I bent down and lifted the monogrammed mat. No key there.

A large plant in a stone planter sat by the front door. Before I could ask, Brock picked it up. If I couldn’t lift the pot, I doubted Stacey could have.

The key was there.

Seeing my surprise, Brock said, “It ain’t as heavy as it looks.”

We unlocked the door and walked inside.

It’s standard procedure for police to check out the home of a murder victim. And if the victim was connected to other crimes or associated with criminals, then the search is a thorough one. But Stacey Jordan had been an ordinary citizen, living an ordinary life.

“Looks pretty clean,” Brock said.

A pile of magazines by a chair had been knocked over and was spread across the floor. A few pillows were lying in a heap on top of a floral print sofa.

“The police have obviously been through here, though,” I said.

Brock stood in the middle of the room, his hands deep in his pockets. “She sure has a lot of pictures.”

I turned to see what he was staring at. Two rows of framed prints had been positioned at eye level all around the room. Rembrandts next to Picassos, Rockwells alongside classics. I wondered if there was any sort of order to the seemingly haphazard arrangement.

“Are they real?” Brock asked.

“No. Just copies.”

“I really like that one.” He pointed.

I stepped in closer. “That’s a marriage series by Zeng Fanzhi. It sold for more than six million.”

“Wow! Ain’t artists supposed to be struggling? You know, livin’ in tiny rooms in Paris . . . or crazy an’ cutting off an ear?”

I laughed. “Well nowadays modern art is a big commodity. A lot of artists are beyond rich.”

“Reminds me of
Star Wars
,” he said, looking at a larger piece.

“Glenn Brown. He does sci-fi paintings.”

Brock shrugged. “I shoulda paid more attention in third grade when Miss Dale was teachin’ us art.”

I started to walk toward a hallway.

“Wait for me,” he said. “You never know what’s around the corner.”

I slowed my pace . . . a little.

There was one large bedroom to the right of the hall. Across from that was a small bathroom, and straight ahead, the kitchen. I turned toward the bedroom.

“Don’t touch anything,” I told him out of reflex. “We have to be careful. No telling if something might lead back here.”

“Understood,” Brock said seriously.

Several dresser drawers were open. Either Stacey had left them that way or the police had. I walked over and glanced inside. One was filled with lingerie and the other with socks.

The room was decorated in an art deco style, very feminine. Cosmetics and perfume bottles were scattered along the surface of the largest dresser. The smaller one had a black lacquered jewelry box on top of it. Her satin bedspread had been turned back. Again, I couldn’t know if the police or Stacey were responsible.

“Same stuff in here,” Brock said.

When I looked at him, he made a circular motion with his hands indicating the walls.

More artwork, but in the bedroom, it had been coordinated with the décor. Ertes and Mucha posters, most featuring beautiful women in beautiful gowns. There was no desk, no TV.

We glanced in the bathroom. Brock took a towel off the rack, wrapped his hand with it, then switched on the overhead light.

“Everything’s in its place, I guess,” he said.

“Look behind the shower curtain,” I told him.

The big man walked further into the room, making it look miniature. Reaching, he pulled the curtain aside. For a brief—very brief—second, I expected someone to be hiding there and held my breath. But there was just a tub, a shower head, and two bottles of shampoo on a plastic shelf.

“Let’s look in the kitchen,” I told him.

Brock flipped the bathroom lights off and then hung up the towel, ever so neatly. The care he took surprised me.

The kitchen was bright and neat. I could see that the police had moved a canister out of its place. The silverware drawer was open. No dirty dishes in the sink. I pulled my
sleeve down to cover my hand and opened the refrigerator. Nothing in there except a carton of milk, strawberry yogurt, and butter. I was tempted to throw out the milk and yogurt before they could spoil but resisted.

“Guess this was a waste of time,” I said.

“So are we gonna go now?”

“One last look at her desk.”

We left the kitchen, went back down the hall, and stopped in front of Stacey’s desk in the living room. I hadn’t noticed it the first time, but there was a large coffee-table book lying face down to the right of where the computer had been. I took a tissue from the decorative box on the desk, covered my fingers, and lifted it up. It was
The Life and Art of Gustav Klimt
. Then, taking another tissue, I opened the drawers of the desk, starting with the small middle one, ending with the large bottom one on the right.

Inside was just the usual: fresh paper; printer cartridges; manuals for the computer and a tablet, which the police probably took; paper clips; pens; rubber bands; blank note pads.

Then it hit me. The cookbooks on a top shelf in the kitchen hadn’t looked right. I hurried back there with Brock trailing behind.

Pointing, I asked him, “See that thin black book? Could you please take it down?”

Brock reached up, removed the book, and held it out to me.

My first instinct was to grab it, have a good look. But my training had taught me to fight impulsive moves and slow down. So I did.

“I knew this wasn’t a cookbook. All the other spines are so colorful. This one just didn’t belong.”

“I don’t get it. What is it?” Brock asked.

“We’re going to find out.”

I laid the slim black book on top of the kitchen table, opening it to the first page.

It was a notebook filled with names of people I didn’t recognize, beneath each name an address. All sorts of numbers, probably connected to phones and computers. Beside each name was what looked like a code number and a dollar amount. As I leafed through, I counted five pages filled from top to bottom, dating from February 10, 2012, to the present.

“Whatever it is, she was smart enough to go the old fashion route and write everything down. No chance of getting hacked or having anything deleted.”

I carefully tucked the book into a plastic sandwich bag I found in the kitchen and then closed all the desk drawers. “Now we can go.”

Brock looked down at his watch. “Perfect timing for lunch.”

Eating lunch at a French restaurant with Brock was an entirely different experience than eating at the diner in Edina had been. He was warm and interesting, so knowledgeable about food and cooking. We took in the ambiance as well as the décor, which Brock explained to me are two different things. One refers is the actual decorations on the wall and the other to the way a room makes you feel while you’re inside it.

Brock thought his bouillabaisse was underseasoned; I thought my salade Niçoise was exceptional. We taste tested each other’s entrée and rated them as if we were food critics writing a review.

Afterward, while we waited for the check, I took out my phone and searched for the location of a Mercantile Bank closest to Stacey’s home. I figured she’d use the most convenient branch and hopefully one of the tellers or a manager knew her personally. There were four around town, one about a mile from her place. I dialed and asked for a manager to inform them that I’d be coming in on official business,
investigating the murder of Stacey Jordan. The woman I spoke to, Ms. Price, told me how shocked she’d been hearing the news and would cooperate with me completely. I told her I’d be there in fifteen minutes.

“Good news?” Brock asked, seeing my smile.

“No, good luck. What are the odds of me finding someone who knew Stacey on my first try?”

“Ahhh, I don’t know; I ain’t so good with numbers.”

“That’s okay.”

When he reached for the check, I grabbed his hand. “This is business.” Then I handed the waiter my Visa card.

***

The nameplate on her desk said she was Cynthia Price, Account Manager. She was an older woman, somewhere in her fifties. She had dark, shoulder-length hair, with gray streaks running through it. Her eyebrows had been penciled in and made her look surprised. Her lipstick was a deep red; her clothes were business drab.

“Mrs. Sullivan, please have a seat.”

“Thanks for seeing me.”

“Anything I can do to help find the dreadful person who killed Stacey—just ask.” She gritted her teeth and I could see how difficult this was for her.

I outlined the case, mentioning that I’d found Stacey’s bank statements among her personal belongings. If I’d told her how Polly had hacked into their system, I was sure she would have been less . . . cordial.

“I was hoping,” I started gently, “that maybe you could tell me something about Stacey on a more personal level. I only met her once and we talked for a very brief time. It’s probably a long shot but I don’t know any of her friends. Maybe you can tell me something . . . anything?”

Mrs. Price thought for a moment. “Well . . . let me see. I was the one who set up her checking and savings accounts. That was on,” she leaned forward and looked at her computer screen, “October sixteenth, two thousand ten. At the time, she was working at the Miller Art Center over on Hennepin. Are you familiar with it?”

I nodded. “Oh yes, I’ve spent many hours there.”

“It is a beautiful place.” Then I lost her a moment while she reflected on a memory. “There was something about Stacey. She reminded me of my daughter.” Mrs. Price glanced over at the photo of a beautiful young woman hanging on the wall behind her. “Nina’s always been so enthusiastic about everything. That’s the way Stacey was, too. It was lovely to see how much they each enjoyed their jobs . . . just life in general, you know? Nina and I used to love to tour the museums together. We had so many wonderful times. But when she moved to LA, I stopped going.”

“What a shame. I traipse all over the place by myself. The first few times were uncomfortable but then it all became an adventure.”

“Oh no, I could never do that.”

“Did you ever go with Stacey?” I asked.

“No, I’m afraid we didn’t have that kind of friendship. We never saw each other outside of the bank.”

“Would you happen to know where her mother lives?”

“Mrs. Davidson? She’s at the Palmer House Apartments, downtown on Fifth.”

“Oh, I know exactly where that is.”

“I can’t imagine losing a daughter.” She wiped away a tear and seemed embarrassed by her display of emotion.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“The Thursday before she . . . passed.”

“What was her mood like?” I asked.

“She wasn’t her usual peppy self. She said she was just very tired.”

“The L’Etoile du Nord company. Seems that Stacey received some large checks from them.”

“Let’s have a look.” Ms. Price started working the keyboard in front of her computer. While she typed, she said, “I do remember Stacey telling me it was a charitable foundation she worked with on occasion. She said they had set up a school and several orphanages. Here it is. Their account’s out of a New York bank. The last deposit was a month ago, on the tenth.” She looked up at me. “I can’t give you any more information than that. I mean, you’re not the police . . .”

I wrote down the date. “I understand. But can you by any chance tell me the exact number of checks she received from them?”

“Sure.” A few clicks. “Only three, all within the last year. But that’s all I can say.”

This woman was beyond helpful. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just catch the monster. And I’m hoping there’ll be a service or memorial for her? If you find out anything, could you please let me know?” She handed me her card. “Some of the other girls would like to attend as well.”

“I’ll definitely do that.”