To Catch a Leaf (28 page)

“There seem to be a lot of coincidences lately. And that noise you hear is my stomach growling.”

“We'll eat right after we check out the Talbots. I don't want my fireball to go hungry.”

“You're too good to me, Marco.”

“I know I am, but someone has to spoil you.”

I could live with that. Him. Okay, both.

Marco turned onto County Line Road, the same two-lane road that ran past the old Donnelly place. But instead of passing it, he pulled into the gravel driveway and turned off the motor.

“This is where the Talbots are? Marco, this is the house where we delivered the arrangements that Lottie thought the stalker was sending.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. I made one of those deliveries.”

“Remind me again about the stalker.”

“According to Lottie, about twice a week, first thing in the morning, she'd find an envelope filled with cash stuffed through the mail slot. Within ten minutes a man would call in an order but wouldn't leave his name. He was specific about what he wanted and the money he left always covered the cost of the flowers. And this is where he had them sent every time. That can't be a coincidence.”

“I'm having a tough time believing that someone who lives in a condo in Chicago's Gold Coast area would rent this house, Abby. It doesn't make sense.”

“Neither does the woman having an African American son whose hair was as gray as hers.”

“Did you get Mrs. Talbot's first name?”

“Dorothy, but she asked me to call her Dot.”

“The condo manager referred to her as Dorothy. Are you still getting those orders?”

“Nope. They've stopped. Right after Mrs. Newport's death. Another one of those coincidences, right?”

Marco opened his car door. “Let's go see if Dot and Francis are home.”

We walked across the weedy stubble and carefully climbed the five steps to the front door. Marco pushed the doorbell, then knocked. This time I didn't hear any footsteps at all and no one answered the door.

Marco tried the handle, but the door was locked tight. We trudged around to the back door and found it locked as well. We peered in dusty windows, but saw only empty rooms.

I told Marco what Dot had said about her sons and about the black van with the tinted windows parked behind the house. We circled the garage and peered through the one dusty window there, too. Once again, the space was empty.

“These tire tracks aren't fresh,” he said of the heavy marks in the gravel. “They've packed up and moved on. That's clear. It would be helpful to know when.”

“I'm getting a strong gut feeling that this is connected to the Newport murder case.”

“So am I. Not just to the case, but to one specific Newport—Virginia. Let's stop at the bar and grab a sandwich, then head over to the mansion to have another talk with her.”

 

Eating dinner at Down the Hatch was always a dicey proposition because there were a hundred things that could crop up to pull Marco away from a meal. But this time he gave his brother, Rafe, strict orders that we were in a hurry and not to be bothered.

Rafe, who was a ten-year-younger version of Marco without all his common sense, had only one comment when he stopped by our booth to deliver beers. “You owe me.”

“Why do I owe you?” Marco asked, as we wolfed down hot Italian ham and Manchego cheese sandwiches. “I'm training you to take over the bar.”

Rafe glanced over his shoulder, then whispered, “Mom is driving me crazy. She made me look at shower invitations because you and Abby weren't around. What do I know about shower invitations? What do I know about any invitations? She said it's good practice for when I get married.” He folded his hands. “I'm begging you, please, make Mom stop pestering me.”

I looked at Marco. “Tomorrow, Rafe. We promise.”

 

Before we left, Marco printed out a photo of Frank Talbot from the online archives of the Chicago newspaper; then we headed for the Newport Mansion. We got as far as the gate, where Marco buzzed several times and got no response. I called Grace, got Connie's home phone number, and was able to reach Mrs. Dunbar.

I put her on speakerphone. “This is Abby Knight. Marco and I are outside at the gate. We were hoping to talk to Virginia. Is she available?”

“Oh, miss, I don't dare bother Ms. Virginia when she's working in her studio. She closeted herself up there this afternoon and has only been down for something to eat. She's in a frenzy of painting with an exhibit coming up soon.”

Marco motioned for me to move my phone closer. “Mrs. Dunbar, this is Marco Salvare. I have a photo I'd like to show you that might help with the investigation into the art theft. It won't take more than five minutes.”

In the background, I heard Juanita say sharply, “Who are you talking to?”

There was a whispered reply; then Juanita said, “I will handle this.” And then in a sultry voice she said, “Hello, Marco, you bad boy. Are you here to see me?”

“Sure am,” Marco said, then held his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak.

There was a loud buzz, and the gates swung slowly open.

“Come on in, Marco,” Juanita purred.

“Thanks,” Marco said, and ended the call. “Sorry, Sunshine, but I figured she'd be more likely to let me in if she thought I was alone. And I'm still hoping we can see Virginia, but we may have to get creative. Keep your eyes open for an opportunity.”

He drove up the long driveway and parked in front of the garage; I followed him along the brick path to the courtyard. The wind was picking up and the night air had a bite to it, so I pulled my jacket tighter and stayed behind Marco, using him as a wind shield.

The back door opened and light spilled out onto the courtyard. “Welcome, Marco,” I heard Juanita say in a voice that gushed with delight.

Then I stepped out from behind him, and her smile, as the saying went, turned upside down.

Juanita was wearing a revealing white halter top and clingy bright blue yoga pants that showed off every curve. She had arranged her black curls into a messy bun on top of her head held by a huge blue clip encrusted with crystals. She moved back to let us enter, pressing her lips into a pout as I passed by.

Mrs. Dunbar was standing by the table, dressed in a white flannel robe covered in a print of tiny rosebuds, with open-toed slippers in powder blue. At our greeting, she dipped her head respectfully.

“Why this unexpected visit?” Juanita asked, casting Marco a flirtatious glance.

“We're hoping you can help us identify someone.” Marco took the printed picture out of his inside jacket pocket and showed both women. “Do either of you recognize this man?”

Mrs. Dunbar put her hand over her mouth.

Juanita tapped the man's face. “That's him. That's the professor I spoke about. Do you see what I mean about his sideburns? This is an old photo, though. His hair isn't slicked back now, and he has gray at the temples.”

“Mrs. Dunbar?” Marco asked. “Do you know who he is?”

She nodded. “That's Professor Talbot.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Marco asked.

Juanita shrugged carelessly. “I can't remember. Mrs. D., when did he come to dinner?”

The housekeeper got a deer-in-the-headlights look. “Three months maybe?” She looked at Juanita for verification.

“I don't have a clue,” Juanita said, looking bored.

Clueless. Who knew?

“Was that his only visit?” Marco asked. “The only time you saw him here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Me, too,” Juanita said.

Marco paused, and I guessed that he was trying to figure out how to question Virginia without barging into her studio.

“Are we finished?” Juanita said, and at Marco's hesitation, she moved to the center of the room and posed with one foot on the calf of the other leg, her arms outstretched, maintaining perfect balance. “Do you know what this is?”

A blatant display of her body?

“Or this?” She bent over at the hips, buttocks in the air, hands flat in front of her.

“I'm hoping they're yoga poses,” I said.

Ignoring me, she straightened and slipped her hand through Marco's arm, smiling coyly. “Since I answered your questions, now you have to come watch my yoga class. My students are upstairs in the exercise room. I promise you'll like our moves. We're very”—she slanted her eyes at him—“flexible.”

Good for her, because if she made any moves on Marco, I was prepared to tie her into a pretzel. “Actually,” I said, glancing at my watch, “we can't stay.”

“Long,” Marco cut in. “We can't stay
long,
but we can watch for a while.”

What was he doing?

“Come with me,” Juanita said, smiling triumphantly. As an afterthought, she turned back to me and added, “You can come, too.”

Marco handed the photo to me but held on to it a second longer than necessary. I looked at him to see why, and he lifted his eyebrows and glanced toward the ceiling. Puzzled, I gazed upward, too.

Duh
. Obviously this was the opportunity he'd been watching for. Now it was up to me to make it work.

I gave him a quick nod and slid the photo in my pocket as I followed Juanita and Marco out of the kitchen and to a door that led to a back staircase. The stairs were narrow and steep but thickly carpeted, so our footsteps didn't make a sound. Helpful, I thought, for anyone who wanted to sneak out the back door.

On the second floor, I followed them up a wide, carpeted hallway and stopped at a door that opened onto a spacious exercise room. The room had floor-to-ceiling mirrors on one long wall, two treadmills, a weightlifting bench, and a Nautilus on one short wall, and an open area in the middle that would accommodate at least half a dozen students. I leaned in just far enough to see that there were indeed other women in the class; then I ducked back to the staircase and followed it to the third floor. Juanita would never miss me.

It wasn't difficult to find Virginia's attic studio because there were only two doors off the third-floor hallway. One was open and, fortunately, the nickel-plated lamps on the nightstands on either side of her bed were on, giving me a good view of an immense bedroom decorated in the golds, oranges, reds, and browns of the desert.

Oil canvases of clay pottery and pueblos painted in desert colors filled every available wall space. There was a painting leaning against the wall just near me, so I checked the signature in the bottom corner and saw
Virginia Newport-Lynch
written in thin strokes. This had to be her bedroom, then.

I stepped inside and glanced around. In front of me was a king-sized platform bed flanked by nightstands. Opposite the bed was a long dresser with a mirror above it. On one end of the room was a sedate sitting area done in browns and oranges, with two upholstered chairs facing a fireplace flanked by bookcases. On the other end of the bedroom was a hallway that I was guessing led to a master closet or bathroom, or both.

Hearing faint strains of music, I went back outside and put my ear against the closed door. From behind it came the rousing sounds of Beethoven's Fifth Concerto. I turned the knob and eased the door open just far enough to press one eyeball to the crack. There stood Virginia in her white artist's smock and long skirt, an easel in one hand, a thick brush in the other, painting as she swayed to the music turned up full blast.

At her feet were canvases that she'd completed and shoved aside. More canvases stood on the floor all around the room, all in the same colors and with the same desert themes. It was as if she had never left Taos.

I stood there wondering how to approach her and decided that interrupting Virginia now could be counterproductive. Still, I hated to let this perfect opportunity to investigate slip away. I eased the door shut, then glanced around. What else could I do?

Hmm.
Her bedroom door
was
wide open.

After a quick glance over my shoulder, I slipped inside and took a longer look around. If Virginia and Frank had been lovers, surely there would be some evidence of it. And since her mother had frowned on their association, I was betting Virginia would have taken pains to hide anything Frank had given her.

I started with her nightstands, but found only a few paperback novels, pens, a notepad, and cough drops. I went through her top dresser drawer, but it contained only sweaters. The second drawer was filled with thick socks, and the third held lingerie—if you could call white cotton underwear lingerie. I slid my hands under the garments and felt a thick cardboard envelope. I pulled it out and discovered a package of Spanx
.

That was surprising. Virginia hadn't seemed the
Spanx
type to me.

I started to put the package back, but suddenly realized there was something small and square in there. I pulled out the black girdle inside and a flat, black velvet jewelry box fell to the carpet. I opened it up and saw a brooch pinned to a black velvet backing. The brooch was in the shape of the letter
g
and covered in what appeared to be diamonds.

Another
g
? Was that some kind of cosmic joke?

I removed the pin from the backing and flipped it over. Engraved on the back was:
From F T with love
—and a date. I covered my mouth to suppress a gasp. Someone had received the brooch one week before Constance Newport died. But who was
g
?

I heard a noise. Someone was coming.

With a racing heart, I stuffed the jewelry box back inside the package, stuck it in the bottom of the drawer, eased it shut, then tiptoed to the doorway and peered out.