Blind Overlook (Book 3 of the Jay Leicester Mysteries Series) (2 page)

CHAPTER
TWO

Sandy Rinaldi
told me she'd been in Biloxi last night having dinner with Guy Robbins and his
wife at a restaurant called the French Connection. She was to make a bid on an
art collection from an estate Guy was handling. Sandy and her brother, Renato,
owned a small gallery in New Orleans. She'd checked her answering service from
the restaurant and was informed about her brother.

Guy took her
back to his house where they called the police detective in Rockland, Maine,
for the details. Guy listened in and asked pertinent questions. He and Mildred insisted
Sandy spend the night with them. She drove up this morning in hopes she could
find me. They'd tried last night, but my answer service told them what they'd
been instructed: I was in town, but would not be available until Monday
morning.

I wanted to talk
with Guy Robbins about Sandy Rinaldi before making a decision whether to take
the case. Maine was a long way from Jackson, Mississippi. It would be good to
know if her pocketbook was deep enough to handle my fee. Surely she was okay,
or Guy wouldn't have recommended her. It never hurts to check, though.

"I'll tell
you what, Sandy,” I said, stalling until I could think it through. "There
is some cold pasta salad in my refrigerator at home. Let's go there, have
lunch. We can talk over the details. You can fill me in on why your brother was
in Maine. I can finish with some work, then decide what the best course of
action will be."

"Course of
action,” she said, looking at me incredulously. "It seems pretty simple, I
want you to go with me to Maine and find out what's happened to my brother. We
can leave on the next airplane. If you're worried about getting paid, I'll make
out a check. Just name your price."

There was the
hardness again. The lady could change emotions. Too fast, I thought.

"I would
need to go by my place and pack,” I said calmly, looking into her eyes.
"There are appointments I have Monday which must be rescheduled, and
things I must finish now."

"Oh,” she
said, holding my stare, rolling over the reasoning of my comment.

"But I am
going to call Guy Robbins,” I said, dialing his home phone number from memory.

Sandy gave what
I took to be an approving nod.

"Robbins'
residence." A voice bellowed into the receiver.

"Hello,
Guy,” I said, laughing at his formal voice. "How's my boat doing?"

"Leicester,
I was hoping Sandy would find you. The answer to all your questions is yes. She
and her brother are worth more money than you or I will ever hope to see. Is
she there?"

"Yes,” I
answered, looking up at Sandy. "Sitting right across from me."

"Jay,” Guy
said with a serious inflection. "It's a long story, but I'll make it
brief. She and Nat acquire expensive artwork, mostly oil paintings. They sell
to the ultra rich and to wise guys, mostly New Orleans mob types, who don't
care what the cost, or how the artwork was acquired. I don't think Sandy and
Nat are dirty, but they do play around the fringes, and they make a lot of
money. Just keep on your toes."

"Thanks,
I'll do that. Tell Mildred hello for me. You taking care of Picaroon?" It
was the name of Guy's sailboat. "She still afloat?"

"She's in
great shape. We are still counting on the sail to Key West in June. Mildred
says if you screw this trip up she won't love you any more."

"I'll be
there,” I said, meaning it.

We said our
good-byes.

"Well,
Sandy,” I said, hanging up the phone. "Guy says you're okay. The offer for
the cold pasta at my place still stands. We can talk."

"Does this
mean you're going to help me?"

"It means
I'm still thinking about it,” I answered without any sarcasm.

She followed me
to my house. It's not often that I bring a client to my home, but today was
Saturday and this lady seemed as if she'd fit in any surroundings. Also, living
in Jackson, I knew that the best lunch to be had was in my kitchen, and there
were several excellent vintages in my wine cellar.

Deciding to help
her had been easy. The art world has always fascinated me. Sadly, I knew little
about it. Maybe I could learn something. There was also the hint of involvement
with the Big Easy wise guys; that could always become eventful. Then there was
this enigmatic beauty.

Driving slowly
along Lakeland Drive so Sandy could follow, I was enjoying the weather. This
was spring in the South and, when no fronts are working their way through, it
is the most pleasant time of the year, except for the early fall when there are
no hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico. Way up, among the fragile tendrils of
cirrus clouds, a lone eagle worked its way toward Alaska.

Watching Sandy
in the rear view mirror, I thought, high stake players in the art world. Who
would have imagined such things existed? It stood to reason, though. A foreign
billionaire just paid forty-eight million for a painting of a vase of
sunflowers. I had followed cases of paintings stolen from private collectors or
museums that were valued at a million or so, but forty-eight million for a
single piece of canvas? Shows what I know about the art world.

*
* *

Sandy entered my
house and immediately went to the few 'objets d'art' hanging on the small
living room walls. There wasn't much; a tiny watercolor of a woman walking away
in a cold fog with bare trees and faded sky, given to me by an old friend.
There was a rendition of Ahab standing on the deck of Pequod, a storm raging
around him, donated by another friend, and a drawing of my favorite writer I'd
picked up in Key West. A photograph of Robert Frost, and three signed Ansel
Adams posters put out by the New York Graphics Society years ago completed the
collection. She made no comment about any of them and ignored my books, of
which I'm proud.

Throwing a cold
pasta and shrimp salad together, I opened a bottle of 1985 Hanzell Vineyards
Pinot Noir. Sandy sat at the kitchen table silently watching every move I made.
The pinot went well with the pasta. She surprised me with her knowledge of wine.

"In the
style of a true Burgundy,” she said, holding the glass up to the light. "Reminds
me of a Clos Vougeot. I love the earthy pinot flavors. Nice."

"Why was
your brother in Maine, Sandy?" I asked as we finished the salad.

She thought for
a moment, looking at me. "He was to meet a man who wanted to sell a
complete collection of art work by an artist named Rockwell Kent." She
paused, as if to ponder how much to tell me. "The man is from Chicago, but
the collection was supposed to be on Monhegan Island off the coast of Maine.
Renato was to go over the collection and, if all was as represented, buy it.
The man had insisted on being paid in cash. No checks, no bank drafts no money
orders. Cash."

"Isn't that
unusual?" I asked, pouring us both more of the Hanzell pinot. "Does
the art world deal in cash?"

"We conduct
some transactions in cash,” she said, twirling the wine in her glass.
"People have an aversion to paying taxes on works of art, and I don't
blame them. There are also paintings for sale where one doesn't ask too many
questions about their origin."

"And not
too many questions asked by the people to whom you sell,” I said, more
sarcastic than I intended.

"Don't
judge me, Leicester,” she said, setting her wineglass down hard on the table,
splashing the red liquid on the outside of the glass, anger flaring.
"You've no right." She wiped the wine off the stem, licked her finger.

"I'm not
making a judgment, Sandy. I'm only trying to understand what I'm getting
into." Changing directions, I said, "Was your brother supposed to let
you know if he bought the collection?"

"No,” she
answered, wiping the wine stain from her fingers. "I was to see him on
Monday at the Gallery. I had planned on being with Guy Robbins all weekend. He
was to show me the art collection up for bid."

"What do
you know about the seller from Chicago?" I prodded.

"Nothing.
Renato handled the whole thing. I don't know anything about it except that we'd
never done business with the man before."

"Why your
brother?" I asked, shoving my plate to the side. "Why not you? Or
both of you?"

"Because
Renato knew a lot about Rockwell Kent. I know almost nothing." She ran
manicured fingers through blond hair, sat back in the chair, and seemed to
relax a little. "Oh, I know he did some murals which are still on the
walls of Government buildings in Washington. He was some sort of socialist who
visited Russia back when they were our enemies. Idiot McCarthy brought him up
before his committee once. So, it was Renato's deal. Besides, I had the meeting
with Guy Robbins to make the bid on the Moran collection."

"How did
the seller get in touch with Renato?" I asked, watching a tufted titmouse
scatter seed from the feeder at the kitchen window.

"I'm not
sure,” she said, thinking back. "Renato will tell us."

Yes, I said to
myself. Renato will tell us, if he isn't the stiff lying on the slab in
Rockland, Maine. "How much cash was he traveling with?"

"Four
hundred and fifty thousand,” she said nonchalantly, fingering her wineglass.

I sat back in my
chair, scaring the titmouse. "Jesus. What if his plane had crashed? Or
what..."

"Sometimes,”
she interrupted. "One must take chances in life if one is to live. Don't
you ever take chances?"

"Maybe with
my life,” I said, smiling. "But not with a half a million in cold cash. Did
the police detective say anything about finding the money?"

"I didn't
ask." She sipped the last of her wine as if that huge amount of money
meant nothing to her.

There was
nothing I could think of to say.

Finally she
said, "I'm concerned about my brother, not the money. I just want Renato
to be okay." She sat upright, defiant. "The body they have is not
Renato. I know it."

There were no
tears. Her defiance was directed not at me, but the world. A strange half smile
etched its way across her face like a breaking wave. A smile which could possess
you, or break your heart.

"Give me
the name and number of the police detective in Rockland. I'll call him, find
out if they've learned any more, and tell him an approximate time of our
arrival."

"Then
you've decided to help me?" She asked, stretching both arms out beside her
in triumph.

"Yes, I've
decided to help you."

Getting up and
going into the bedroom I'd converted into a small office, I brought back my
standard form. "You need to read and sign this, then write me a check for
a two thousand dollar advance. My fee is five hundred a day plus expenses. I'll
bill you when the job is finished."

She signed the
form without reading it and made out a check for the two thousand.

"Do you
need to go back to New Orleans for clothes or anything before we figure out how
to get to Rockland, Maine?" I asked, taking the form and check from her.

"No, I'll
buy whatever I need here." She looked around at the house. "Do you
mind if I take a shower? I didn't take time for one this morning."

"Sure,” I
said, amused. "Let me make some phone calls, then we'll go to a clothing
store. There's one just around the corner. You can shower when we return."

"That'll be
fine. Let me help with the dishes."

CHAPTER
THREE

Sandy gave me
the detective's name and phone number in Rockland, Maine. Calling the airline
first, I made reservations for a flight leaving at six a.m. tomorrow morning,
arriving Boston at ten thirty a.m. There was a connecting flight on a small
commuter airline to Augusta, Maine, but from the map spread across my desk, it
looked like no more than a three or four hour road trip from Boston's Logan
airport. Deciding to drive, I figured we would arrive in Rockland by five
o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Sunday.

Placing a call
to the police department in Rockland, Maine, I asked to speak to Detective J.
L. Chamberlain.

"I'm sorry,
sir,” the Desk Sergeant who answered the phone said. "Detective
Chamberlain isn't working this weekend. Maybe someone else could help
you?"

"Then I'll
speak to the detective in charge this weekend,” I said, throwing my pen on the
desk, expecting the usual bureaucratic runaround.

"Well,
sir,” the Desk Sergeant said. "Detective Chamberlain is the only detective
we've got. He won't be back until Monday, that is unless we have some kind of
emergency. Then the Chief would have me call Detective Chamberlain. We don't
have a large force."

"Put the
Chief on the line, Sergeant,” I said, picking my pen back up. "I'll talk
to him."

"Ah, I'm
sorry, sir, but the Chief isn't working this weekend, either. Of course, unless
there's an emergency."

"Then put
whoever the hell is in charge on the phone, Sergeant." I was growing tired
of the game. "I'll talk to anyone."

"Well,
sir,” he said, rather proudly. "I'm the one in charge. What can I do for
you?"

"Sergeant,”
I said slowly, calmly, clinching both fists together until the knuckles were
white. "I want you to get in touch with Detective Chamberlain, tell him
Sandy Rinaldi will be arriving tomorrow around six p.m. We'll meet him in his
office."

"Ah, sir,”
the Sergeant said officiously. "Just who are you?"

"My name is
Leicester, Jay Leicester. I'll be accompanying Miss Rinaldi to Rockland. We're
traveling over a thousand miles to see Detective Chamberlain. We expect to see
his smiling face. Understand, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir,”
he said. "But Detective Chamberlain isn't going to like this."

"Good-bye,
Sergeant,” I said, quickly hanging up the phone, then holding my head in both
hands in disgust.

* * *

"There's a
flight leaving at six in the morning,” I explained to Sandy on the way to the
clothing store. "Puts us in Boston by eleven. We can drive up to Rockland
from there. Detective Chamberlain will meet us at his office around six o'clock
tomorrow afternoon. Sound okay to you?"

"Sounds fine."
She ran manicured fingers through her silky hair. "You couldn't get us out
tonight?"

"Not
without an overnight layover in Atlanta,” I answered, searching for a parking
space in the busy shopping center. "We might as well stay here as in
Atlanta."

"Will you
arrange a room for me, a hotel somewhere close by?"

"Certainly,
but you're welcome to stay at my house." I maneuvered the car into a
narrow parking space. "There's a spare bedroom with a lock on the
door."

"Awful
hospitable of you, Mr. Leicester,” she said with that strange half-smile.
"I accept."

* * *

The flight to
Boston was uneventful. Getting the rent-a-car and driving out of the city was,
to say the least, interesting. It took us an hour to get through the tollbooth
at the airport perimeter. Sandy, navigating with the road map, helped. But the
traffic was bumper to bumper, stop and go, until we were ten miles north. And
this was Sunday.

Once outside of
Boston traffic on the turnpike thinned. It was foggy when we landed at Logan,
but by the time we'd settled in for the drive the fog had burned off, revealing
a deep blue early spring sky. The air still had a chilly brace and the trees
were just beginning to leaf out.

We went through
the State of New Hampshire in the blink of an eye and, except for the
tollbooths at each state line, we would not have known we'd been through it.

We stopped in
Kennebunkport for a break and something to eat. Another toll to get back on the
turnpike, and we headed up along the coast. Taking the exit at Bath, we
followed Highway One through some of the most beautiful country I have ever
seen. Bayou country, I thought, without the heat and mosquitoes.

The time spent
driving gave me a chance to find out a little about Sandy. As could be
expected, she'd been tense and irritated since her brother disappeared. I tried
to get her to relax, talk about herself. It took awhile, but she finally
warmed.

"Were you
born in New Orleans, Sandy?" I asked, catching glimpses of silver-sharded
slices of the Atlantic Ocean as we neared the coastline at different points on
the road.

"Yes,” she
answered, glancing at the same spots of ocean. "Renato and I both were
born there, or rather in Metairie. It's a suburb, out near the airport."

"I know it
well. When I flew for Southern Airways, we had a crew base at the Candlelight
Inn on Airline highway."

"I was born
on Army Street, right behind the Candlelight Inn,” she said excitedly.
"The area's run down now, but I loved it there when I was a little girl.
The airplanes would take off and land over our house. They were so exciting,
going to far off places. I used to dream of getting on one, flying to some
exotic land where there was an ocean and white sand beaches. I had a calendar
in my room with a picture of an island in the Caribbean. I guess that was where
my airplane was going." She looked down at her lap, picked at a
fingernail.

"Your
parents still live on Army Street?"

"My
mother's dead." Sandy bowed her head for a moment, then gazed out the
front windshield into the far past. "She killed herself when I was fifteen
years old."

"I'm
sorry."

"It
devastated me. Had it not been for Renato, I don't think I would have survived.
Our father left the family shortly after I was born. I always thought it was
because of me. It took a long time before I realized it wasn't my fault. Mama
had a rough time raising us kids. Then there were the men in her life...God,
could she pick'em. One or two even tried to hit on me."

"What did
you and your brother do after your mother died?" I slowed for a gravel
truck on the now two-lane, winding road.

"Renato was
old enough to work. We had no other family. The house was paid for. It wasn't
much, but we owned it. We survived."

"How did
you two get into the art business?" I asked, finding a safe stretch of
road and passing the truck.

"Renato
opened the gallery. He brought me in a few years later." She turned and
looked at me. "It's a long story, Jay. I'll tell it to you sometime."

She was being
vague. I decided not to push it. She probably had her reasons.

"Tell me
about Jay Leicester,” she said, turning in the seat, facing me, now. "You
flew for the airlines?"

"Yes, I
spent twenty years as a pilot, eight of those flying for the now defunct
Southern Airways. The rest of the time as a corporate pilot, learning great
lessons about the nouveau riche."

"What does
that mean?" She turned back, faced out the side window.

"Never
mind,” I said, smiling. "It's a long story, I'll tell you about it
sometime."

She laughed at
that, a long, infectious laugh. I was glad to see she had a sense of humor.

We drove for
half an hour in silence, enjoying the countryside. Sandy leaned back in the
seat, crossed her ankles.

"You ever
been married, Jay?"

"Married?"
I rubbed my chin. "No, came close one time, though. It wouldn't have
worked out. She made a wise decision, sent me on my way. What about you?"

She laughed, as
if there was some absurdity even to the thought. "I've never considered
the idea. Men intrigue me, but they don't fascinate me."

Making no
comment, I thought it one subject better left undisturbed. Instead of saying
anything, I watched the scenery change from wooded flatland to hill country and
pristine seaside.

"How did
you end up a private investigator?" She asked, holding her hair back with
both hands, forming a sort of ponytail. "Seems a stretch, from flying airplanes?"

"My
grandfather was a judge, my father and brother both state highway patrolmen. I
grew up around law enforcement. It was the only thing I knew besides
flying."

This seemed to
satisfy her. At least she was intelligent enough not to pursue it further. I
was glad she didn't. She let her hair fall back into its original shape and
gazed out the window.

We arrived in
Rockland, Maine, four and half-hours after leaving Boston Logan Airport. It had
been a long and tiring trip.

We drove through
the small town looking for the Police Department. Main Street ran along the
waterfront. Penobscot Bay glistened in the late afternoon sun. Large islands in
the middle of the bay blocked a view of the open ocean, but you knew it was
there, you could smell the clean salt air.

Stopping at a
service station, I asked for directions to the Police Department. The attendant
laughed and pointed at the small, red brick building a half block away.

Detective J.L.
Chamberlain was waiting for us. After the usual introductions, he ushered us
into his tiny, bare office. Waving toward two spartan, wooden chairs directly
in front of his desk, he told us to sit and offered coffee. Sandy declined. I
said yes.

Chamberlain went
out and returned with two styrofoam cups of black, steaming liquid. "May
be a might strong." He handed me one of the cups. It was not drinkable.

Chamberlain was
tall man with gray hair. He had the grave, naive look of a college professor.
His eyes were dark and serious with a hardness from too many years of dealing
with the wrong side of human nature. His handshake was firm. His movements,
while not athletic, did not belie his age, which I guessed around sixty. There
was an underlying professionalism about Chamberlain. He was probably smarter
than he appeared. Spying the graduation certificate from the FBI Academy on the
wall behind his desk, I knew that he was.

"Came up
from Mississippi, did you?" He said, leaning back in his chair, locking
his hands behind his head. "Spent a year at Keesler, back in sixty-five.
Got to know Biloxi pretty well. Too hot down there for me."

There was an
awkward silence. I didn't say anything. Wasn't anything to say. It seemed
everyone in the Air Force migrated through Keesler Air Force base sooner or
later.

"Well, Miss
Rinaldi,” Chamberlain said, sitting up in his chair. "I'll get to the
point. We have a body over at the morgue. It matches the description on the
driver's license we found in the rent-a-car at Port Clyde. We'll need you to
make a positive identification. I'm truly sorry about your brother."

"Cause of
death?" I asked.

"One
bullet, back of the right ear." Chamberlain held up a finger to a spot
behind his right ear. "Probably a thirty-eight. We're waiting for an I.D.
before we do the autopsy."

Sandy gasped, turned
her head to the side, and put her hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry,
Miss Rinaldi,” Chamberlain said.

"Any
mention of finding a large amount of cash money with the body?" I asked, watching
Chamberlain closely.

"His
personal effects are at the hospital. The hospital's where the morgue is located,”
he added. "We're a small town. Not too many bodies. I believe there was
about seven hundred dollars in his wallet. A lot of money to be carrying
around."

"Yes,” I
said, not elaborating.

"You want
to view the body today?" Chamberlain asked. "Or wait until tomorrow?"

"As soon as
possible." I looked at Sandy. She nodded in approval. "If you could
recommend a place to stay for a couple of days we'd appreciate it."

"Sure,”
Chamberlain said. "I'll arrange it." He picked up the phone, called
the hospital, and a hotel.

We rode with
Chamberlain. Sandy sat silently in the back seat, looking out the window at the
water. Dark was closing in quickly on Rockland, Maine.

An old man,
stoop shouldered, and walking with a limp, escorted us down a dark hallway. His
nametag read: JIM-HOSPITAL ORDERLY. The unpainted concrete floor echoed our
steps. The small room Chamberlain referred to as a morgue was dank and cold.

The body lay on
a stainless steel autopsy table covered with a white sheet. Detective
Chamberlain tried to be as gentle as he could. He looked at me, then at Sandy.
I nodded. He pulled the sheet from the head of the body. Sandy leaned closer,
turned and walked out of the room, saying nothing. Taking a quick look at the
face, I saw the hole where the bullet entered. There was no exit wound.

Going out after
Sandy, I found her leaning against a far wall, head bowed, arms across her
stomach.

"I'm sorry,
Sandy,” I said, putting my hand gently on her shoulder, remembering how violently
she'd reacted to me approaching her yesterday. "I know this is hard on
you, but..."

"That's not
my brother,” she said, not looking up at me.

Denial is
sometimes a manifestation of events like these. Seeing someone lying on a slab,
especially someone you love, does strange things to some people's mind.

"Sandy,” I
said gently. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm
sure." She looked me directly in the eyes. "I've never seen that
person before in my life."

Chamberlain was
still in with the body. When I walked back into the room, he looked at me
expectantly. "It's not Rinaldi."

"Jesus,”
Chamberlain said, throwing his head back, and looking up at the ceiling. He
pulled the sheet back over the unknown body.