Claws for Alarm (10 page)

“Tit for tat.” Althea sighed. “He was cheating on her, too.”

I looked at her. “You know about his affair?”

She laughed. “Oh, of course. He told me. We always told each other everything, even after the divorce. We were married for so long, you know. We just never got out of the habit of confiding in each other.”

“Do you think his current wife knew he was unfaithful?”

She smoothed the hem of her skirt with her long, tapered fingers. “Believe me, if she did, she wouldn't care a whit. Thaddeus knew she was cheating on him, too. He told me. He'd found it out a few days ago, but he didn't know with whom. He was determined to find out, though. And when he did—” Her shoulders lifted in an expressive shrug. “Let's just say Giselle wouldn't have been a happy camper.” She rose, crossed to the piano, and plucked the photograph that nagged at me from its space. She returned to her seat and held the photo out, one long nail tapping at the female face. “This is her, in the Bahamas with Thaddeus. He gave this
photo to Philip. I was going to destroy it at first, but Thaddeus looks so handsome I just didn't have the heart.” Her hand moved across the frame in a caressing motion. “She called him Teddy. Can you imagine? The first time I heard her say it I damn near threw up. You could soak a load of pancakes in her tone, it was so . . . so dripping with phony affection. It was an Institute party—I still sit on the board, so I attend—and she sat there like a queen, dripping diamonds, more on display than anything else. ‘Teddy, get me a glass of wine,' in that breathy voice of hers. I always called him Thaddeus, which is, after all, his given name. But he ate it up, didn't seem to mind a bit, so . . .” She let out a long sigh. “I guess that old adage is true: There's no fool like an old fool. And now he's a dead one.”

I moved closer for a better look at the woman leaning on Pitt's arm. With her long, lustrous, perfectly coiffed mane of blond hair and her perfectly shaped, pouting, pillowlike lips, Mrs. Pitt the second made Angelina Jolie look like a scullery maid. Althea's voice broke into my thoughts. “She looks like a woman used to living the good life, right? Well, with the pre-nup she signed, if he'd divorced her, she'd have gotten nothing. As his widow, she'll get millions. Now if that isn't a splendid motive for murder, I don't know what is.”

“I thought the same, but apparently the police seem satisfied with her alibi.”

Althea Pitt picked up her teacup and took another sip. “They gave up a bit too easily. Her alibi can be broken, trust me. It will just take one tenacious person to do it.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

“She might be involved, or she might not. I can't say for sure, but one thing I do know. If you want to clear your sister,
find out why he reneged on his promise. I'll bet more than likely it will lead you straight to his killer.”

I set down my teacup. “That's a pretty tall order.”

“Tall, but not impossible. I can even tell you who might be able to help,” Althea offered. “Julia Canton.”

My eyes widened. “His mistress?”

She glanced at her son, and then the two of them started to laugh. “Goodness no,” she said at last. “Thaddeus wasn't sleeping with Julia. Far from it. Their relationship was focused strictly on objets d'art.

“Julia's not only a model, you see. She's also an art broker. She works part-time at the Wilson Galleries, in Pacific Grove. She's the one who got Thaddeus the Engeldrumm and Cezanne.”

“N
ow there's an interesting turn of events. Julia Canton works for Kurt Wilson at Wilson Galleries and recently acquired two valuable paintings for Pitt. Pitt offers one to the son, then reneges on the deal. It all means something. I just need to figure out what.”

It was Sunday, and the Institute was closed for the day in honor of Pitt, with a brief service planned for late that afternoon. Since there wasn't too much I could do right now in the way of investigation, I had returned to Cruz late Saturday night, intending to use my free time to outline a plan of attack. Unfortunately, at the moment I just wasn't quite sure what I should be attacking. Chantal had come over early, and it was a good thing, since the Sunday breakfast crowd seemed a bit more hefty than usual. Now it was the lull between breakfast and lunch, and we sat grouped around the counter in the kitchen. I had the fixings for a brand-new
sandwich in front of me, and Nick lay on the floor at my feet, hopeful of swiping a paw at any little bits that might inadvertently find their way to the floor.

“You will,
chérie
. But you must exercise caution. I am certain this person would not hesitate to kill again if they thought they were on the verge of being exposed.”

“That's a given.” I picked up the bowl with the mayo and Italian dressing mixture and started spreading it on a hoagie roll. “I must confess, though, that it's much easier for me to imagine Julia Canton in the role of scorned mistress than it is art broker. Maybe it's because I saw her naked.” At Chantal's raised eyebrow, I gave a quick shake of my head. “Don't ask.”

My friend's lips quirked, but she said in a bored tone, “Wasn't going to.”

“Liar.” I spread spicy mustard on the roll and then arranged a layer of turkey, speck (an Italian meat made from boned pork leg), and Colby-Jack cheese, topping it with fresh dill pickle slices. I closed the sandwich and brushed the bread liberally with olive oil. “It's good to be home and talking to you about all this. Every time I mention anything about Lacey or the murder around Aunt Prudence, she starts to get hysterical.”

“Well, you really cannot blame the woman,
chérie
. After all, she is not as used to murders and criminals as you are.”

“True.” I set the sandwich brush down and wiped my hands on a nearby dishcloth. “Her friend Irene seemed much more interested in all the gory details. Now there's a character.” I rolled my eyes. “It's hard for me to fathom just how those two became such fast friends.”

“Opposites attract.”

“Those two are polar opposites, all right. Irene seemed to actually enjoy speculating on whether or not they'd give Lacey the death penalty or just life imprisonment. I kind of got the feeling Irene's a closet shamus; you know, the sort who watches reruns of
Murder, She Wrote
and
CSI
and tries to figure out just who the killer is.”

“Maybe you should have discussed the case with her, then,” Chantal suggested. “Who knows? Perhaps she might actually have given you some good insight.”

“I might have except I got the distinct impression she thinks Lacey's guilty. Getting back to the original topic, though, what would make a man like Pitt think twice about letting his son have a valuable piece of artwork, to virtually deny him a second chance at making something of his life other than a hot mess?”

“Um . . . finding out his son was involved with his current wife?” Chantal suggested.

I cut her an eye roll. “That's pretty good, but considering Philip Pitt thinks of his stepmother as the plague, not very likely.”

“That could have been just talk, designed to throw people off the track.”

I paused. “Maybe,” I said after a second. “But I don't think so.”

I walked over to the stove and slid the sandwich into the skillet I'd had heating there. I placed the press down on top of the sandwich and set the stove timer for a minute and a half. “Pitt and his son didn't get along too well, so his offer to help wasn't one made lightly. It had to be something really, really big that caused him to rescind. But what?”

I stepped away from the stove and let out a gasp as I felt something crunch underneath my shoe. Looking down, I saw four Scrabble tiles.

“Nick,” I said, bending down and scooping up the tiles. “Damn that cat. He always seems to get his paws into these no matter where I put them, and I was certain they were in my nightstand drawer.”

“Well, maybe he wants to play,” Chantal suggested wickedly. “His former master was teaching him, right?”

I didn't answer. I was looking at the tiles in my hand. EKAF. Rearrange them and they spelled out—

“FAKE! That's it.” My eyes popped wide just as the timer on the stove went off, and I pinned Chantal with a searing gaze. “A fake, a forgery.” I whispered the word as if it carried a disease. “If I were going to give my child a valuable painting, and I suddenly discovered it were a forgery, why . . . I'd renege. I'd make up some excuse.”

Chantal reached around me, shut off the stove, and then leaned one elbow on the counter. “But if he suspected a forgery, wouldn't he have notified the police or the FBI,
chérie
?”

“Maybe not,” I said thoughtfully. “After all, he considered himself to be a consummate art connoisseur. He wouldn't want word to get out he'd been hoodwinked.” I transferred the sandwich to a plate, cut it diagonally, and held it out to Chantal. “Taste. It's a variation on a Cuban.”

“So he would have taken matters into his own hands? Not very smart.” Chantal took a bite and made little mewling noises deep in her throat. “Ooh, this is good,
chérie
. I like the different cheese you used. And I like the taste of the speck.”

“Yeah, it's slow smoked. I thought it would work.” I
wiped my hands on a nearby dishrag. “Thus is born my new
Andy Garcia Cuban Special
. So with that out of the way . . . Like I said, Pitt considered himself an expert. Knowing his giant ego, he'd most likely get in touch with whoever sold him the painting and call them on it.”

“Oh,” Chantal's eyes widened. “That would be a prime motive for murder. He discovered the duplicity, called Julia on it, and she could not risk exposure. Plus, she saw an opportunity to frame your sister for the crime.”

“Neat and tidy for sure, only . . . I'm not sure anything's been forged . . . yet. It's only an assumption, the same as Julia being the one behind the scam. It's possible she might be working for someone else, someone higher.”

“Ah, the gallery owner?”

“Possible,” I sighed. “I sure wish Daniel was around. The FBI investigates forgeries. He might be able to help.”

The bell above my door tinkled, and I blinked at the tall, handsome man who crossed its threshold.

“Daniel!” I squealed. “I was just talking about you.”

Daniel Corleone chuckled as he walked up to my counter. He nodded at Chantal and then turned twinkling eyes toward me. “Good things, I hope.”

“Nothing but.” I frowned. “I thought you were going away on a case?”

“I'm still on the case, but the lead we had turned out to be a dead end. Think I could get one of your famous tuna melts? I skipped breakfast and”—he glanced at the clock on the wall—“I'm due for an early lunch.”

Chantal tossed me a knowing look over her shoulder and picked up her purse. “My cue to leave,” she hissed in my
ear. She said in a louder tone, “Well, I have to be getting over to the flower shop. I shall report back here for duty tomorrow morning bright and early,
chérie
.”

I gave her a grateful smile and as she sailed out the front door turned to Daniel. “If your stomach isn't grumbling too badly, maybe I could toast you a bagel for now. If you can hang out for a bit, I'm trying out another new recipe, a variation on turkey meat loaf.”

He licked his lips. “Sounds good, but unfortunately, I have to get back to work in about an hour. I'd be glad to take a rain check, though.”

“Sure.” I eyed him. “They've got you working on Sunday?”

“The FBI never rests,” he said solemnly, “and neither do criminals. Crime occurs every day of the week; you know that.”

I had to agree. “Okay, then, one
Thin Man Tuna Melt
coming right up.”

I pulled the tuna salad and cheddar out of the case, then crossed over to the bread box for some rye. Danny eased his six-foot-plus frame on one of my hard-backed counter stools and watched me at work.

“How's your sister?” he asked. “Anything new there?”

I spread tuna liberally over the rye. “Her prints were the only ones on the murder weapon. The DA's satisfied she's their perp, but fortunately, the investigating detective has doubts.”

“Leroy Samms, right? What'd you think of him? I've heard he's very thorough.”

“He seems to be,” I said noncommittally. I set the sandwich on the grill and then said over one shoulder, “Art forgery or theft is considered a major crime, right? Have you ever worked a forgery case?”

“There's a special task force assigned to such cases.” His
eyes narrowed. “I imagine there's a reason behind that question, and do I want to hear it?”

“Probably not,” I sighed. I hit the highlights for him, finishing up at the same time the tuna melt was done. I put it on a plate and set it in front of him. He dug in with gusto and wiped his lips from the gooey cheese before he answered me.

“I do hope you're not thinking of doing what I think you are.”

I assumed an air of mock innocence. “And what would that be, exactly?”

He took another bite of his sandwich. “You know darn well. You aren't planning on doing a little independent investigating, are you?”

“Goodness no. I'm not
planning
on it,” I answered, hoping he didn't notice the inflection I put on the word
planning
.

Fat chance. He set down his fork and crossed his arms over his chest. “That means, no doubt, you've already started. Please, Nora, if you want your sister to get out of this in one piece, leave the investigating to the pros. I know it's hard. She's your sister and you, well, you're you.”

I bristled. “What does that mean?”

“It means investigative reporting runs through your blood, same as cooking. But cooking is safer.” He grinned and then sobered. “Seriously, Nora, don't do anything stupid. Don't do anything that might endanger you, or hamper your sister's chances of being proven innocent.”

“Trust me,” I sniffed. “That's the last thing I want.”

We heard a soft “
Meow
.” Daniel looked down and smiled. Nick was sprawled underneath the stool.

“Well, Nick looks fat, happy, and sassy.” Daniel suddenly frowned. “He's got something in his paws.”

My head shot up. “Not more Scrabble tiles?”

“Scrabble tiles? Likes to bat 'em around, does he? Well, it's not tiles.” He bent down, straightened a moment later, and held two objects out to me. I groaned as I recognized the page from Atkins's journal, and the photograph, and reached for them.

“Where, indeed. He's been in a lot of places he shouldn't be lately.” I gave Nick a dark look, and he got up and scurried out from under the stool and burrowed underneath the table in the back.

Daniel surrendered the photo but eyed the paper. “There are notes on here about a guy named Bronson A. Pichard,” he said. “Where did he get this?”

I snatched the paper out of Daniel's outstretched hand. “It's from his former master's old journal. I thought I'd locked these up, but apparently getting his paws into locked places is one of Nick's many talents.”

Daniel took another bite of his sandwich and laid his fork down. “Nick Atkins was investigating Bronson A. Pichard? Why?”

“Apparently he investigated him several years ago, for a divorce case. It seems the guy held a major grudge against Nick.” I eyed Daniel. “Why do you ask? Is this guy familiar to you?”

“Only by reputation. You were talking about forgeries, and Pichard was supposed to have dealt heavily in them. Nothing was ever proven, though.”

“Nick Atkins apparently thought Pichard's dealings were questionable. Ollie told me he was the one who tipped off the authorities.”

Daniel frowned. “Is that why you think Pichard might know something about what happened to him?”

“Well, it seems a good possibility, and I really have no other lead right now.”

“Do you need to have a lead?”

My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Atkins was a good investigator, but from what I've heard, more than a bit eccentric.” He paused and then added, “Do you really want to find Atkins? It could be asking for trouble.”

I made a face. “You sound just like Ollie, so I'll tell you the same thing I told him. Not only do I find his disappearance puzzling, I'd also like to resolve the question of Nick's ownership.” I sighed. “It's a moot point, though, because I've got no time to try and pin down Pichard; not with everything going on with Lacey.”