Sarah Woods Mystery Series (1-6) Boxed Set (81 page)

She looked up and hurried to the door to open it. “Sarah. Are you okay? You look frazzled.”

Trying to keep my voice calm and collected, I said,. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

“
Of course. Come on in. I was just catching up on e-mail before heading home.” She gestured to one of the empty chairs by the desk. “Do you have new information?”

“
I just had a conversation with Duncan Schwartz, the bookie. First of all, I'm pretty sure he wasn't involved in Glenn's death or the robberies. However, there was something he said that confused me.”

“
What did he say?”

“
He said you were planning to divorce Glenn?”

Her eyes widened and she inhaled a quick breath. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came out.

“
So it's true. Why didn't you mention this to me?”

Elizabeth covered her face with her hands as she took in a deep breath. Once she'd composed herself, she dropped her hands and looked at me. “I told you that Glenn had neglected me, not just physically, but emotionally. I couldn't understand why he refused to talk to me, but I'd finally had enough. Yes, I told him I wanted a divorce, but only to force his hand. I was hoping it might get him to show some kind of emotion. Anger, sadness, regret; I'd have taken anything at that point. He just stood there and said he was sorry. He didn't even try to talk me out of it. It was almost like he'd already given up.”

“
How long ago was this?”

“
A few weeks before he died,” she said.

“
Had you contacted a lawyer to get the divorce paperwork started?”

“
No. I didn't want the divorce. I loved Glenn. I guess in my heart I knew I'd never leave him.”

“
Elizabeth, were
you
having an affair?”

She shook her head. “Not a chance, though I suppose you won't believe me. The reason I didn't mention all this to you is because it was a moot point.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
On the day he was shot, Glenn came home for lunch. He never did that. I was surprised to see him. Even more surprised when he hugged me. You see, Glenn finally had a breakthrough. He told me he loved me – for the first time in months. He actually cried on my shoulder and said he wished he could have made me happier. He said he regretted the way he'd treated me.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks and laughed. “I told him I'd been waiting for him to finally let his guard down. We made love for the first time in years. I told him I loved him and would never leave him as long as he could open up to me. He promised me he was going to make an effort.”

I was speechless as I waited for Elizabeth to dry her face again. My heart ached for her, yet there was nothing I could say to make things better. “I'm sorry if I seemed irritated. I just wish you'd told me all of this before.”

“
Why?” she said, pleadingly. “What difference would it have made? Sure, I threatened to leave him, but only to force his hand.”

“
It almost seems as if Glenn knew something was going to happen to him. But if it had nothing to do with his gambling, it must be related to the art in some way.”

“
Do you have a plan?” she asked.

“
Zaviroff's wake is tomorrow. I'm thinking of going.”

“
Why?”

“
Honestly, I'm not sure. I don't see how the two deaths are connected, but I'm interested in meeting Angelique Mayor, the fiancée. I'm curious to find out if she knows Chloe Goodwin.”

“
You're going to interrogate her at a wake? Isn't that a bit insensitive?”

“
I wouldn't dream of doing it there,” I said. “I just want to meet her first. Besides, it's the other guests I'm more interested in. You never know. Glenn's killer could be among them.”

Elizabeth nodded. “You're the expert. I have to trust your judgment.”

* * *

I got home just before eight and realized I hadn't had anything for dinner. I opened the fridge only to find wilted lettuce, shriveled bell peppers, a carton of eggs well past the expiration date, and a slice of cake wrapped in cellophane. The same cake left over from my party.

I had cake for dinner and I enjoyed every bite. Unfortunately, it reminded me that Max hadn't called in two days. Carter hadn't called either. It made me wonder if something was wrong with my phone.

And that's when I remembered another piece of business I had to attend to – I'd promised Elizabeth I'd get in touch with Glenn's mother.

It didn't take long to find an address and phone number for Judith Fleming. According to my Internet sources, she still lived in Northlake, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago.

I stared at my phone and a sinking feeling came over me. The thought of delivering such terrible news caused my fingers to go numb. I tried coming up with some excuses why tonight was not a good night to make the call, but after several minutes of internal conflict, I decided to get it over with.

I took a deep breath, punched in the numbers, and waited. After several rings a friendly woman's voice said,
You've reached the Fleming residence. Please leave a message and we'll return your call. Have a great day.

I froze for a moment, forgetting everything I'd planned to say. I cleared my throat, swallowed, and said the first thing that came to mind. “Good evening, um, my name is Sarah Woods. I'm calling because I have some information for you concerning your son, Glenn.” I paused, slightly panicked. I couldn't say what I needed to say over voicemail; that would be cruel. Easier for me, certainly, but nonetheless, cruel. “Could you please return my call at your earliest convenience.” I recited my number twice, speaking slowly and clearly, then said good-bye.

When I ended the call, I let out a long breath and noticed that my palms were sweaty. All I wanted to do was take a shower and crawl into bed.

Sunday, April 28

I spent the morning lamenting over what to wear to Bertrand Zaviroff's wake. Scanning the contents of my closet, it occurred to me that my wardrobe needed updating. Luckily, I found a black skirt that still fit – thanks to the elastic waistband – and an ivory blouse that didn't need ironing. I fussed with my hair until I managed a respectable-looking French twist and doused it with hairspray to make it stay put.

There was no place to park at the funeral home. I circled the area three times before finding an empty spot three blocks down on a residential street.

As I walked up to the funeral home, I saw that people were already cramming to get inside. I followed a group through the reception area where massive blooms of flowering bouquets occupied every nook and cranny. A separate room housed buffet tables full of finger foods, wine and beer.

We progressed into the main room. Framed pictures of Bertrand, along with a guest book, occupied a large table. A woman I recognized as Angelique Mayer stood to the left of the book, as if she was a guard. She wore a soft grey satin dress, a beige scarf, and beige leather boots. Her dark, curly hair fell wispily around her shoulders. She was the epitome of style and grace, but the detached look in her eyes gave testament to her grief.

As I weaved through the crowd, a woman motioned to me. I didn't recognize her at first, but then I remembered the long braided hair. Gillian Caswell wore an ankle-length plaid skirt with a white turtleneck. The man standing next to her reminded me of a fat, homely version of Tom Selleck with his dark, bushy mustache. When I approached Gillian, she introduced him as her husband, Gordon. He smiled and looked away. He had the droll features of someone resigned to spending his day doing something he didn't want to do.

“
I had no idea there'd be so many people,” she said, waving a hand around.

“
I guess he had an abundance of fans,” I said.

Gillian leaned in close. “Did
you
know Bertrand?”

“
Not personally,” I said. “I assume you've met him since you carried his artwork in your gallery.”

“
Yes,” she said. “Only once. He was a polite young man. Very humble.”

“
Have you ever met his fiancée?”

“
No.” Gillian looked around. “Where is she?”

“
Standing by the table over there.” I nodded discreetly. “She's the one with the long, black, curly hair.”

“
Oh my,” she remarked. “She's quite exotic, isn't she? Poor thing. Must be hard to stand there and act stoic.”

“
I read somewhere she's a fashion designer.”

Gillian's husband announced that he was going to visit the buffet table and ambled away.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “He's so impatient. I can't take him anywhere. He's worse than a child.”

“
And very hungry, apparently,” I teased.

“
By the way,” Gillian said. “Are you still working for Elizabeth Fleming?”

“
Yes, I am.”

“
How are things going with the investigation? I mean, I know you probably can't discuss the details, but---”

“
Maybe this isn't the best time, but I was planning to ask you a favor.”

“
Sure. What is it?”

“
Would you provide me with your client list? I'd like to cross reference your customers with Jason Trask's and Glenn Fleming's in the hope of finding a common denominator.”

Gillian regarded me with skepticism. She pursed her lips, appearing to think it over. “I'm not sure what you mean. You think one of my clients is the thief?”

“
It's a possibility that I'm mulling over.”

“
I don't object, but good luck getting Jason Trask to show you his books or share his client list.”

“
He certainly isn't obligated to, but if he has nothing to hide then what's the big deal?”

Gillian looked toward the buffet table, probably to keep an eye on her husband. “I already gave the police all that information. I assume they never made any kind of connection. But I can certainly e-mail you the client list if that works.”

“
Yes, that would be very helpful.” I gave her my card and wrote my e-mail address on the back.

Gillian went in search of her husband while I meandered around the room listening to other attendees' quiet conversations. I noticed Angelique was not talking to anyone at the moment, so I took the opportunity to go over and introduce myself.

When I approached her, her eyes had that glazed-over look similar to those who abuse drugs. She was looking at me, yet she wasn't. “Excuse me,” I said. “Are you Angelique?”

She blinked a few times as if waking from a dream. “Uh, sorry. Yes, hello.”

“
I'm Sarah Woods. It's so nice to meet you. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss.”

Her lips parted and the faintest of smiles emerged. “Thank you. How did you know Bertie?”

“
Actually, I never had the pleasure of meeting him,” I said. “But I admire his work. I read in an article somewhere that you're a fashion designer.”

She nodded with a blank expression. “Excuse me,” she said, “I need to catch someone before they leave. But it was very nice meeting you.”

“
Sure, of course. I understand,” I said.

As she walked away, my face flushed with embarrassment. Why would she want to talk about her career at a time like this? I cursed myself for being so stupid and took a deep breath.

I lingered a few more minutes, walking around while trying to pick up pieces of conversations. It dawned on me that perhaps this wasn't such a great idea after all.

Chapter 14

I left the funeral, climbed in my car, and called Jason Trask. He was at his gallery and agreed to see me. I didn't tell him why I was coming because it would have been much easier for him to deny me access to his client list over the phone.

When I got to his gallery at 4:30, not a single customer was browsing. Jason was sitting behind his desk, looking spiffy in a V-neck sweater.

He gestured to my dress. “What's the occasion? I hardly recognized you.”

“
Bertrand Zaviroff's wake,” I said. “I'm surprised you didn't attend, since he was one of the artists you represent.”

Jason stiffened for a second then shrugged it off. “I forgot it was today. I'm sure there were plenty of people there.”

“
A full house. I saw Gillian Caswell and her husband.”

Jason didn't seem interested. “So, Ms. Woods. What can I do for you?”

“
I'm following up on a lead and was hoping you'd allow me to have a copy of your client list.”

“
What kind of lead?”

“
I really can't divulge that information. Sorry.”

He regarded me with a self-righteous smirk. “The police already went through all of that. And quite frankly, I don't have to share that information with you.”

“
No, you certainly don't have to. I just thought you'd be willing to help.”

He folded one leg over the other and leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. The smirk never left his face. He appeared to evaluate me like a piece of art that he was considering for purchase. He didn't bother to invite me to have a seat, so I stood there, my feet aching from ill-fitting high-heeled shoes.

“
I'll tell you what,” he said. “I'll give you my list on one condition.”

“
I'm listening.”

“
Join me for dinner tonight.”

I bit my lip, trying to figure out what he was up to. “I thought you were married.”

“
My wife is away for a few days. Besides, it isn't a date. We can discuss your case.”

“
I'm not at liberty to discuss my case.”

He shrugged. “Then we can discuss other things. It's dead in here today so I'm willing to close the gallery early. We could head out right now.”

I pretended to give it some thought. “I'd prefer the client list now so I can get something accomplished today. I could meet you later this evening.”

He laughed. “Sure. I hand you the list now and you stand me up later. I'm not falling for that trick.”

I felt disgusted with myself for having to play this game. And I wanted to slap the grin right off his face. “Fine. One drink. No dinner.”

He seemed rather pleased with himself as he straightened up in his chair, clicked away on his computer keyboard, and sent the file to his printer. “There you go. But remember, Sarah, this list is gold to me. You share it with anyone and I'll sue you.”

“
Fair enough.”

* * *

Jason took me to a restaurant around the corner from his gallery and we sat at the bar. He ordered a gin martini. I ordered a glass of red wine. I had every intention of making it an early night, but Jason seemed to have other plans. He sipped languidly as if he had all the time in the world.

As I stared at him in the dim lighting, I saw a face that I normally would have considered handsome if not for his presumptuous attitude. I decided his nose was too big, his lips were too thin, and his eyes too close together.

As if reading my thoughts, he turned to me and said, “You'd learn to like me if you just gave me a chance.”

I took a sip of wine and played it cool. “What do you want to talk about?”

“
I'd like to know why an attractive woman like yourself would choose to become a private eye.”

“
A woman like me?”

He smiled. “Let me guess. You're an adrenaline junkie?”

“
Ninety-five percent of my job is
not
very exciting. I do a lot of research, and I spend way too much time sitting and waiting for things that never happen. If I were an adrenaline junkie, I would have been a cop in New York City, or maybe a race car driver.”

“
I've always considered myself lucky,” he said. “I'll never forget the school trip to Washington D.C. I took with my eighth grade class. We visited most of the museums in the city. The rest of my classmates were bored to tears, but I was transfixed. I knew right then I wanted to spend the rest of my life learning about art.”

“
Must be nice to discover your calling at such an early age,” I said. “At the age of ten, I wanted to be an actress. That all fell apart the first time I auditioned for a play and didn't get the part. It wasn't as easy as I'd thought it would be.”

“
I bet you have to do a fair amount of acting in your line of work,” he said. “Have you ever pretended to be someone you weren't?”

I tried not to smile. “Yes.”

“
Tell me about it.”

“
I'd rather not.”

“
I see. You're the type of woman who likes to keep her cards close to her chest. Never give anything away.”

“
I learned the hard way not to trust people.”

“
Are you saying you don't trust me?” he asked.

I smiled sweetly. “Honest answer is no, I don't.”

Jason put a hand over his chest as if I'd shot a bullet through his heart. “Ouch. That hurt.”

“
As a matter of fact, I think this whole ruse to go for a drink is just your attempt to get information. What are you trying to get out of me?”

Jason lowered his eyes and laughed quietly. “I'll never understand women. I've been married for eight years and I still have no idea what the hell goes through my wife's mind at any given moment.”

I took another sip of wine and stood up. “Well, since the bullshit is still flowing, I might as well head out. Thanks for the client list. I promise to guard it with my life.”

Jason grabbed my wrist with a tempered hostility. “Okay, fine.” He lowered his voice and narrowed his eyes. “I want to know why Elizabeth really hired you.”

I pulled away from him. “I already told you I can’t discuss the case. If anything, you should be trying to help me instead of being paranoid.”

Jason motioned for me to take my seat. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get grabby. Please … sit down.”

I sat back down as he took another sip of his martini.

“
You have to understand,” he continued. “Art is my life. My gallery means everything to me. I'd do whatever it takes to make it work.”

“
Anything?”

He twisted his mouth sideways. “You know what I mean.”

“
In this economy, everyone is desperate to secure jobs. You're not the only one scrambling to stay afloat.”

“
Sure,” he said. “But only the strong survive. I intend to be among them.”

“
You seem pretty worried about business. Is your gallery not doing well?”

He looked away. “As I told you before, business is fine.”

“
I don't believe you. In fact, maybe you've exhausted all your efforts on creating this fancy image and now you're cash poor. Maybe the thief did you a favor by stealing those paintings. You got a nice little payout from the insurance company and now you get to stay in business for another few months until tourist season kicks in.”

He shot me a warning look. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“
You just said you'd do anything to make it work.”

“
I'm not a cheat or a scam artist.”

“
That's not what I heard.”

He threw up his hands. “Why would I bite the hand that feeds me? I have a great relationship with all my artists and clients. Ask anyone.”

“
What about Bertrand Zaviroff? Did you have a relationship with him? Did you know he was ill?”

“
What's that supposed to mean?”

“
I think you know what it means.”

Jason shook his head. “I thought we could have a casual conversation over drinks. Why are you harassing me, Sarah? I think you're forgetting that I'm a victim, too. I didn't conspire to scam any insurance companies and I sure as hell didn't have Glenn killed. So I suggest you back off or else.”

“
Or else what?” I asked.

He turned away from me and gazed into his martini glass. “Just leave me alone.”

* * *

I got back to my apartment around seven-thirty with a box of take-out from the neighborhood Thai restaurant. I changed into my comfy sweats, grabbed the Fleming's case file, and reclined on the couch with my bowl of spicy noodles. I placed the three client lists before me and began my review. Within half an hour I had a short list of five people whose names appeared on all three lists.

Marcy Broderick

Justin Lesowski

Patricia Mitchell

Quincy Phelps

Victor Rowley

I hadn't expected Victor Rowley, but it shouldn't have surprised me. He was an avid art collector, and certainly wasn't bound to purchase art at just one gallery.

The other names on the list didn't ring any bells, so I simply looked each of them up on the Internet, focusing mostly on the male clients. Nothing about them stuck out as suspicious.

Jason Trask kept popping into my head. Could he have known that Bertrand Zaviroff was ill? Could he have orchestrated the robberies to collect insurance money? And whom might he have conspired with to help pull it off? Was Glenn's death an accident, or was foul play involved?

There was one person who might be able to answer some of those questions.

I really didn't want to bother Angelique, but I didn't know who else to ask.