The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) (17 page)

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rackkk!

The lightning flash burst like a bomb in Helen’s bedroom. Wind-tossed branches lashed the back window and rain raked the apartment walls.

More lightning lit the room and Helen sat up in bed. Her clock said it was two ten, but it was so dark Helen didn’t know if it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon. Phil’s side was empty, but he’d slept beside her. She smelled coffee and followed her nose to the kitchen.

Phil was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room, pounding his computer keys. The turquoise Formica counter was cluttered with his half-empty coffee mugs.

He smiled at her and said, “Good afternoon, sleepyhead.”

“How long was I asleep?” Helen asked, trying to hide a yawn.

“Since you came home about ten o’clock this morning,” he said. “I woke up two hours ago. I’ve been tying up a couple of loose ends on the Gold Ghost case.”

“I thought we were finished when we called Detective Longright and told her who the Gold Ghost was,” Helen said. “What’s left?” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat on a stool next to Phil.

“Since Cady Gummage still won’t talk,” he said, “I found out what she does. She proofreads mortgage documents for a title company.”

“Ugh. That has to be soul-sucking boredom,” Helen said. “If she hadn’t killed Alex Woodiwiss, I might feel sorry for her.”

“Even prison may be more interesting than that job,” Phil said.

“Oh, I’m sure prison will be interesting,” Helen said, “but not in any way she’ll enjoy. What’s the other loose end?”

“I had to find out how Cady knew which condos to break into,” Phil said. “That’s a security issue and it affects the whole area. Victor at Silver Glade asked me on behalf of the Blue Heron Crescent Neighborhood Association. The condo managers need to know if their security staff was working with the Gold Ghost. The association chipped in for this final part. We’ve already e-mailed and signed a contract.”

“Good work,” Helen said. “At least Victor knows Silver Glade is in the clear. You set a trap for the Ghost using Prince Markos. How did Cady know which condos belonged to gold collectors?”

“I figured it out,” Phil said, then took a long sip of coffee.

Helen hated when he made her pry information out of him. He sat there, drinking lukewarm coffee in smug silence, until she finally said, “Okay, I’ll bite.” Then he jumped up and began pacing Helen’s midcentury modern living room while he delivered his lecture. Helen kept her seat at the breakfast bar.

“The Gold Ghost belonged to an online gold coin discussion group,” he said. “The Internet has a bunch of forums and discussion groups for all sorts of coin collectors—gold, silver, rare coins. One of the gold coin message boards is called LNYGCC.”

Helen looked at him blankly. She was still too sleepy to figure out the initials.

Phil rounded Helen’s boomerang-shaped coffee table and said, “That stands for Little New York Gold Coin Collectors. Everyone on the list is a gold coin collector—hoarders, I think Max would call them—and he’s right. It’s a strange world.

“One thread was devoted to the advantages of gold bullion versus gold coins. Another talked about how to avoid reporting coin buys to the IRS. About a year ago, someone named Goldie26 joined the group and she started a discussion thread about the best way to hide gold coins.”

“Could you tell Goldie was a woman?” Helen asked.

“No, she was careful to keep all references to herself gender-neutral. But she knew how to talk to these dudes. Hiding gold coins is a favorite topic for coin collectors.”

“And you think Goldie26 is Cady Gummage?” Helen asked.

“I’m almost certain. Twenty-six is her age. Goldie asked a few throwaway questions about the advantages of collecting Krugerrands versus Chinese pandas, but she was mainly interested in the best ways to hide gold coins.”

“Nobody suggested a bank safe-deposit box?” Helen said.

“You know what Max said. Collectors jump on anyone who uses that b-word,” Phil said.

“Box?” Helen said.

“Bank,” Phil said. “I printed out some of the discussion threads.” He picked up a stack of printouts on the turquoise Barcalounger. “Look at this answer to the poor guy who suggested a safe-deposit box.”

He pointed to a line on a page and Helen read, “‘Never forget 1933!’”

“What happened in ’thirty-three?” Helen asked.

“That’s when Franklin Roosevelt, ‘that traitor to his class’—their words, not mine—‘confiscated everyone’s gold . . .’”

Helen started reading again: “‘ . . . and gave us federally printed toilet paper instead. Within a couple of months, the paper dollars these honest, hardworking Americans had received from the government for their gold were already devalued by more than fifty percent.
Fifty percent!
’

“Whoa! These people sound extreme,” Helen said. “Here’s another
over-the-top comment: ‘Don’t forget what the Turks did to the Armenians.’ Didn’t the Ottoman Empire slaughter the Armenians in 1915?”

“Yep. Way before 1933,” Phil said, “and half a world away from the US. But to a certain type of gold collector, that atrocity was yesterday—and I’m not talking about the murders of innocent people.”

“This comment sounds mild in comparison.” Helen read, “‘If you ask me, the government is a bigger worry than the thieves. It’s okay to gun down a thief, but you will not get away with shooting a G-man.’ Does anyone say G-man anymore?”

“They do in Little New York,” Phil said.

“Here’s another swipe at the banks,” Helen said. “‘Nothing in bank safe-deposit boxes is insured by Uncle Snoops.’ I assume that’s Uncle Sam?”

“Correct,” Phil said. “Many gold collectors hate the federal government, and Goldie26 played them like violins. When the thread about hiding gold would start to die down, she’d whip them up by asking, ‘What if the government confiscates our gold again?’ Or she’d crank them up with questions like: ‘What will we do if the banks close and we can’t get our gold out?’ ‘How do we keep our gold safe when the Feds are printing Monopoly money?’ ‘How much should we keep on hand if the country goes to hell?’

“She had the poor old collectors scared to death. Goldie26 was a master at starting conversations about how much gold collectors should keep at home. The old boys couldn’t resist bragging about the size of their collections.

“You wouldn’t believe the devices these collectors used to stash their gold coins.”

“Like what?” Helen asked.

“Safes that look like ordinary household items, including fake Barbasol shaving cream cans. An Aquafina bottled water safe. A Dr Pepper soda can safe. A Del Monte fruit cocktail can safe.”

“Amazing,” Helen said.

“I’m just getting started,” Phil said. “Besides brand-name canned
goods, soda and water bottles, there are safes disguised as electrical outlets, dictionaries, and working wall clocks. They had safes hidden in their air vents, even hairbrushes.”

“Where do you buy stuff like that?” Helen asked.

“At your local spy shop or online. The old dudes couldn’t resist talking about how many gold coins they could cram into these things.

“Goldie26 kept these discussions building. Others argued you should make your own safes. Buying one meant other people knew about your gold stash. One man bragged he hid a hundred thousand dollars in gold coins inside hollow curtain rods. Another said he had fifty thousand in gold in pizza boxes in his freezer.”

“Talk about cold cash,” Helen said.

“A third man hid his Chinese pandas at the bottom of his cat’s litter box.”

“Ew,” Helen said. “I see why the Gold Ghost wore gloves.”

“If the gold-hiding thread quieted down, Goldie26 would post the link of the interview with Congressman Ron Paul. He talked about how the American economy was on the verge of collapse.”

“Never saw that one,” Helen said.

“Survivalists and other conspiracy types love that interview. Congressman Paul says, ‘This period is going to be particularly tough on seniors and anyone relying on a fixed income, or money from the government. . . . Trouble is coming—please make sure you, your family and anyone you care about are prepared.’”

“Bet that got the gold hoarders riled up,” Helen said.

“It did,” Phil said. “They’d start in again, saying their gold was in a dummy PVC pipe under the bathroom sink, or hidden in the fireplace.”

“I get the idea,” Helen said. “But how did the Gold Ghost know the names of the people who had gold?”

“Because the trusting souls thought their screen names made then anonymous,” Phil said. “They didn’t realize those names were clues to their identity. The late Alex Woodiwiss—the old man the Gold Ghost bashed in the head—used his initials, the initials of his condo,
plus his apartment number: awea1908. It was pretty easy to check the Exeter Arms directory and figure out that Alex Woodiwiss lived in unit 1908. Others used their cars as their screen name ID, like 55tbird. That car was easy to spot. It took me less than an hour to figure out where all the burglary victims lived.”

“Did all the coin collectors live on the top two floors?” Helen asked.

“No, they lived in units all over the building. But the Gold Ghost was smart. She knew it was too risky to rappel down to the lower floors because the residents might see her. I’ve finished typing my report, and as soon as I hit Send, this case is closed.”

As Helen cheered that action, Phil’s phone rang. “It’s Valerie,” he said, and put the call on speaker.

“Phil,” the Channel 77 reporter said, her voice fast and excited. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. I’ve been on assignment. Is there a break in the Gold Ghost case?”

“A break?” he said. “The case is broken! Markos caught the killer.”

“He did! Was he hurt? Is he safe?”

Helen liked that the ambitious reporter asked first about her lover.

“He’s fine,” Phil said, and she could hear his smile. “And the killer’s arrested. Here’s the real scoop—the Gold Ghost is a woman, Cady Gummage.”

Phil gave Valerie a quick rundown on the details.

“I’m on my way to the cop shop for confirmation,” she said. “This is breaking news. Then I want to interview you and Helen for the six o’clock news. And Markos, too, of course. Especially Markos. Is that okay? I can have a camera crew at your office in two hours.”

“We love the publicity—you know that,” Phil said. “And we hope you’ll give most of the air time to our photogenic operative. Talk with you soon.”

“TV publicity is the frosting on the cake,” Helen said.

“Really?” Phil said. “I thought it was the gold trim.”

T
he next morning, Helen carried her coffee out by the pool. The new day was flower scented and gilded with sunshine, but Helen felt the black weight of dread.

She waved at Margery, who was hosing down the pool deck and splashing barefoot in the puddles like a kid. Helen’s landlady wore purple shorts and a lavender T-shirt, her yard work uniform. Margery grinned when Helen saw her playing in the water. She shut off the hose and joined Helen at an umbrella table.

“How’s this for a morning?” Margery asked as she lit a Marlboro and breathed in what Helen guessed was mostly cigarette smoke.

“Okay,” Helen said.

“Okay?” Margery said. “You should be popping champagne corks. You and Phil wrapped up the Gold Ghost case and scored ten minutes of TV time. I didn’t see your smiling face during Valerie’s interview, but I’d rather look at Markos anyway. He’s what we used to call a dreamboat.”

“He’s a hottie, no doubt about it,” Helen said.

Her landlady looked at her shrewdly. “Since when did you and Phil get camera shy and let an operative represent your company?”

“Since I’m still undercover for the Annabel Lee Griffin murder,” Helen said. “I’m taking that art class to find her killer, remember? I’m due at Bonnet House at ten o’clock.”

“Then why the long face? Sorry you weren’t on TV?”

“No,” Helen said. “Phil and I were happy to let dreamboat Markos get the attention, as long as Valerie mentioned Coronado Investigations.”

“Mentioned?” Margery said. “She gave you an infomercial. Why are you moping?”

“I don’t want to go to a crematorium today,” Helen said.

“I don’t want to go to a crematorium any day,” Margery said. She waggled her cigarette. “I fire up one day at a time.”

“I mean I have to go to a crematorium today and find out if there was anything in Annabel’s coffin besides her body.”

“This sounds serious,” Margery said. “I’ll get more coffee and you can tell me about it.”

Helen was grateful her shrewd landlady wanted to talk. Laying out the facts helped her see things clearly.

Margery finally returned with a mug of coffee, a plate of warm cinnamon rolls, and a stack of paper napkins. “Thought you wouldn’t mind the wait if I nuked these.”

There was a respectful silence while Helen pulled apart a fat iced roll and ate the rich, cinnamon-laced coils. Margery seemed pleased to watch Helen eat while she smoked and drank her coffee.

“Did I tell you about Annabel’s memorial service?” Helen asked.

“Not really,” Margery said. “Last time we talked you were into light hooking and I had to walk you to your cab. Glad you didn’t break your ankle with those stilts.”

“Any woman who wears those shoes deserves forty thousand a night,” Helen said. “Just for standing up.”

“Don’t tempt me with straight lines,” Margery said. “Tell me about Annabel’s memorial service. Where was it?”

“At her husband’s art studio, a three-million-dollar condo in Silver Glade.”

Margery whistled. “Clay’s got a condo and a house?”

“And major debt, I think,” Helen said. “He uses the condo to give his students ‘special instruction.’”

“I bet,” Margery said.

“The whole local art scene was at the memorial. The service was catered and a gloomy string quartet sawed away. Robert Horton was there.”

“Who’s he?” Margery asked.

“Owns an art gallery on Las Olas. He sold Annabel’s work until she got too expensive for his customers. My painting class showed up, including my teacher, Yulia, and my client, Jenny.”

“Jenny’s the real estate agent with the red Tesla?” Margery asked.

“That’s her,” Helen said. “She insists that Annabel was poisoned by her ex-husband, Hugo.”

“Do you think he did it?” Margery asked.

“Annabel ruined Hugo’s chance to be a CEO of a major company by blabbing to a detective that he knocked up his office manager. There was a nasty lawsuit, and a DNA test said he was the daddy. That’s when Annabel dumped him.”

“End of Hugo’s hotshot career,” Margery said.

“Exactly,” Helen said. “The company was still reeling from a sex scandal. But that was years ago. Why would Hugo poison his ex now?”

“Because he’s no fool. Killing her right after she crashed his career would be too obvious,” Margery said.

“But he is obvious,” Helen said. “He’s a lout, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”

“Did he come to the memorial?” Margery asked.

“Yes, crass as ever,” Helen said, helping herself to another cinnamon roll.

“Why?” Margery asked.

“Hugo didn’t kill his ex, but he wanted revenge,” Helen said.
“He devoted his life to ruining hers: He made scenes at her major art shows, even took this art class to embarrass her.”

“Well, Annabel is beyond embarrassment now,” Margery said. “Why go to her memorial: to make sure she was finally dead?”

“Annabel didn’t have a viewing,” Helen said. “She was cremated, but there were no ashes at the memorial.”

Helen stared at the long ash Margery tapped into an ashtray, then continued. “In fact, Annabel was hardly at her own memorial, thanks to the man who organized it, her husband, Clay. He’s an artist whose career’s going downhill as fast as his wife’s was rising. At the memorial, he showed a few of Annabel’s early, awkward paintings and photos that were mostly pictures of Clay with his wife in the background.”

“So you think he’s the killer?” Margery asked.

“Possibly,” Helen said. “Clay was unfaithful. He needed money. He resented his talented wife, and he had to neglect his own career to take dull teaching jobs that paid for Annabel’s expensive health insurance. He also took out a big life insurance policy on her.”

“Then Annabel’s sudden death made Clay rich and free,” Margery said. “Did she have a life insurance policy on him?”

“No,” Helen said. “It looks suspicious, but we need proof.”

“Who’s
we
?” Margery said. “Are you royalty in exile, or do you have a mouse in your pocket?”

“
We
is myself and Burt Pelham, the Palmetto Hills detective investigating Annabel’s murder.”

“Right. He came here to talk to us,” Margery said. “Bad dye job. New York accent.”

“Don’t overlook his brains,” Helen said.

“Call me shallow, but I couldn’t get past his hair.”

“Burt and I are both frustrated by this case,” Helen said. “I can’t talk my client into letting me work with the detective. Jenny wants Hugo to be the killer so badly, I think she’ll let the real murderer go free.”

“Any other suspects besides the husband?”

“Miranda,” Helen said. “She owns a lawn service in Wilton Manors. She’s engaged to Lita, the artist who shared Annabel’s FAT Village studio. Annabel used to be her lover.”

“When?” Margery said.

“Before Annabel married Hugo, she had a fling with Miranda,” Helen said. “Miranda says the Annabel affair was no big deal—Lita is the love of her life.

“I suspect Annabel also had a fling with Lita. I know she painted a very sensuous nude of the artist who shared her studio.”

“Miranda’s fiancée,” Margery said.

“Right,” Helen said. “I’m pretty sure if Lita and Annabel did hook up, it was a casual fling. But I know Miranda is madly in love with Lita and very jealous.”

“How do you know that?” Margery asked.

“I saw Lita confront Clay at the memorial. Lita asked him—in front of everyone—why he’d displayed Annabel’s second-rate art. Miranda tried to get Lita to leave, but Lita badgered Clay until he finally admitted that he had put Annabel’s works in her casket. Lita shrieked and threw a fit. That’s when Miranda dragged her fiancée out of the room and we all pretended nothing had happened.”

“So what do you think?” Margery asked.

“That Clay burned his wife’s best paintings out of spite. But then I talked to Markos about it in the penthouse, while we waited for the Gold Ghost. Markos said it wouldn’t make sense for Clay to burn Annabel’s art. He said,
Why would a man hard up for money burn more than fifty thousand dollars? Who sets fire to a stack of cash?
”

“Do you think Clay sold the paintings to that gallery owner, Robert?”

“No,” Helen said. “Robert would never get mixed up in a shady art deal. But after class today I’ll ask him who would buy them. Then I’ll visit the creepy crematorium. I have to know if the paintings really were in Annabel’s casket.”

“That’s the burning question,” Margery said, stubbing out her cigarette.

Helen groaned.

“The answer to your case could be in Annabel’s coffin. Find out what went up in flames and you’ll know who killed her. Get cracking. The sooner you go, the sooner it’s over.”

Margery gathered up her plate and cup and left. Helen knew her landlady was right. She fed Thumbs and looked in on Phil, who was sleeping late this morning.

Then Helen dug out her art supplies and headed to Bonnet House. Helen took the pea gravel path by the boathouse and stopped to watch an elegant gray-blue heron wading in the mangrove swamp.

It’s lovely, she thought.

A fat raccoon perched on a mangrove root, watching her, and a lime green lizard on the path toward class flicked its tail at her.

Helen was the last person to arrive at the loggia. Cissy and Jenny were at their easels—Jenny chic in yellow Armani and Cissy wearing what looked like a crocheted hay bale. Yulia, their teacher, seemed subdued. The atmosphere in the small class was somber and unpleasant.

At least Hugo didn’t show up for class. Helen hoped that gasbag was gone for good. She and Jenny couldn’t stop staring at Annabel’s empty chair, until Yulia said, “This chair is too sad. I will put it away, yes?”

“Please,” Helen said. But even after the chair was folded away, Helen and Jenny had trouble concentrating. Jenny dabbed absently at her beach cottage. Helen kept erasing her clumsy sketches.

Only Cissy had the energy to start a new painting. She clipped a photo of the Bonnet House squirrel monkeys to her canvas. Their inquisitive faces stared boldly at the class.

“Oh, you are painting the monkeys,” Yulia said. “Their eyes are so expressive. But what happened to your big red flower?”

“I got tired of it,” Cissy said.

“So you put it away and you’re trying something new?” Yulia
said. “Many artists do that until they are ready to work on a painting again.”

“I’m not working on it anymore,” Cissy said. “I didn’t like the flower. It was too flat, too big and too red.”

Why did she sound so defensive? Helen wondered. Who cares?

Yulia did. “It wasn’t a bad painting,” she told Cissy. “I can show you how to fix it, if you’d like.”

Cissy turned on Yulia and hissed, “No! I threw it away, you stupid foreigner. Some things can’t be fixed.”