“Join me for art appreciation.”
CHAPTER
54
AGoing Out of Business Salebanner striped the front window of New World Elegant Jewelers. The Flower Drum motel was doing some sort of business; four women in minimal clothing dispersed as we arrived. So did three vagrants nearby.
I thought of Mary Jane Huralnik being plucked off the street.
No sign of the locksmith. Milo parked in a red zone in front of the gallery building, scanned night-blackened windows, and pulled out a panatela that he actually smoked.
The smoke bothered Reed. He moved a few feet away, stretched and flexed, did a quick ten push-ups on the sidewalk, racewalked back and forth.
I used the time to phone Robin.
She said, “It’s in the news. Sounds horrible. My first thought was are you okay?”
“I was never in danger. Not even close.”
“I figured that out when they said one female victim. Her?”
“At the hands of her husband. Who poisoned himself and died on the scene.”
“So two victims, not one,” she said. “They can’t even get the basics right. You saw it?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Oh, baby, sorry. Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“Okay.” Doubtful but too loving to say it. “What’s next?”
“When a locksmith shows up, we check out the gallery building.”
“Big place?”
“Three stories.”
“So you’ll be late.”
“They can do without me, I’ll Uber home.”
“Your brain, your eyes? No, I’ll sacrifice for the common good. But soon as you can swing it—when your mind’s really free of this—let’s go somewhere, okay? Maybe a beach—no high culture.”
I laughed.
She said, “That’s a lovely sound.”
—
Marc Coolidge showed up just before nine p.m. The locksmith’s ETA was twenty minutes minimum.
As we waited, Alicia called in from Clearwater. “No one lives here, L.T., it’s basically a storage facility. Alarm went off, phone started ringing, I convinced the security company I was the real deal.”
Milo said, “Art storage?”
“Nothing but, L.T. Every room’s piled high. There seem to be two kinds that I can make out: The bulk is posters and prints and a few junky-looking paintings including that candle deal by Manatee Man. There is one bedroom at the back with extra bars on the windows that has maybe thirty paintings that look like good stuff, bubble-wrapped, those carved gold frames. I’m assuming you don’t want me to unwrap, better to wait for some kind of expert.”
