I fingered the first book, flipping through it to the section Eve had marked. I scanned the pages and read a brief history of foxglove. Scientists never put a lot of credence in its medicinal properties until some time in the late eighteenth century, but it was often used in country villages before that, as an ingredient in folk medicines concocted by people known to the locals as-
My blood ran cold, and I glanced again at the second book. “You don’t think-”
“That Beyla is a witch. Of course! That would explain why she wears black all the time.”
“Yeah, that or the fact that she’s style conscious, that she looks fabulous in black, and that it’s easier to build a wardrobe around one basic color than to try and mix and match. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”
There was nothing like a fashion discussion to snag Eve’s interest.
Usually.
This time she ignored me, and I knew for sure that I was in trouble.
“All we have to do is prove she did it,” Eve plowed ahead.
“If it was that easy,” I reminded her, “the cops would have already done it.”
“Yeah, if Beyla wasn’t so clever. She knows better than to drop her guard. You heard her-she said she didn’t even know Drago.”
“And we know she did.” I had to give her that one. I couldn’t ignore the fact that Beyla had lied, both to us and the police. I mulled over the thought. Naturally, my brain took it one step further. “And we know Monsieur Lavoie knew Drago, too. We saw Drago storm out of the store, and we saw how upset Monsieur Lavoie was by the whole thing. And then there’s John. He said he was having coffee with Beyla after class that night, but we know for a fact that-”
I heard my own words and the thread of excitement in my voice as I logically worked my way through the argument. Eve wasn’t one to miss little nuances. Her eyes lit up.
“Gotcha!” she said.
I wasn’t about to roll over so quickly. I tried one last objection. “Eve, we can’t-”
“You want to help me get back at Tyler, don’t you?” Her eyes grew sharp in a way that it was impossible for any best friend to discount. “You don’t want him to spend the rest of his happily ever after with what’s-her-name, talking about poor little Eve DeCateur and how she couldn’t even-”
“All right already!” I threw my hands in the air, surrendering. “But I’m only going to give this a few days.”
“A few days is all it’s going to take.”
“And I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“And I’m not going to do anything dangerous.”
“Annie! I wouldn’t dream of it,” Eve exclaimed. “I was thinking we could just start with a little computer research. I’m not very good at that sort of thing and…”
She left the rest of the sentence unspoken, but I knew just what she meant. I checked the clock that hung above the lunchroom door. “I’ve got ten minutes until I need to get back to work,” I told her. “Let’s get started.”
A couple minutes later, we were logged on to the Internet on the computer that sat on a table in one corner of the lunchroom. It was supposed to be a sort of company benefit, a place where employees could play games or check e-mail while they were on their breaks. But the computer was old and even slower than the one I had at home. Most of the time, no one used it.
Luckily, today was one of those times.
Because it seemed like the most logical place to begin, I Googled “Drago Kravic.” The computer went through its motions and, surprisingly, came up with a hit.
“Arta,” I read the little blurb and clicked on the URL. “Looks like Drago had something to do with an art gallery.”
Another wait, and then a home page popped up. “He owned it!” Eve exclaimed, reading over my shoulder and pointing to the screen. “It says here that Drago Kravic was the proprietor. Look, it’s right over in Georgetown. You know what this means, don’t you?”
I did, and just the thought was enough to make my stomach queasy.
It meant that after work and before Brussels Sprouts 101, Eve and I were going on a road trip.
I DIDN’T THINK DRAGO’S GALLERY WOULD BE OPEN, especially not just a few days after he died. In my mind, I pictured a black wreath on the front door and a line of sad-faced customers snaking its way around the block, waiting to pay their respects to the dearly departed owner.
Truth be told, I suppose that’s why I agreed to go to Georgetown with Eve. I figured we’d be there and back in twenty minutes. The trip might even prove to Eve once and for all that there were better uses for our time than sleuthing. Particularly when the sleuths didn’t know what they were doing.
And I still had to make a trip to the grocery store for those Brussels sprouts.
We stood by the curb on M Street, studying the building across the street. We could see the sleek turquoise and burnt orange Arta address sign. Much to my surprise-not to mention disappointment-the gallery lights were on, and we could see a man inside. It was raining, which seemed appropriate in a film noire sort of way. Eve shivered inside her lemon-colored tank top. Me, I was prepared; I slipped on my jacket. Just as I did, something clicked inside my brain.
I took another gander at the address.
“That’s it!” I reached into my pocket, suddenly remembering the piece of paper Drago pressed into my hand right before he died. “That’s what was written on the back of the restaurant receipt. The address of Arta. Look!” I pulled out the crumpled receipt and smoothed it so that Eve could read it.
She nodded, confirming my deduction, which, I will say, felt pretty darned brilliant.
“You know what it proves, don’t you?” Eve asked, and when I didn’t, she shook her head, amazed that I still wasn’t thinking like a detective. “We’re supposed to be here,” she said, and before I could come up with a dozen reasons why she was wrong, she grabbed my arm and pulled me across the street.
We pushed open the gallery door and found ourselves in a huge room with track lighting on the high ceiling. The paintings that hung on the redbrick walls were too abstract for me to decipher, and the sculptures… well, to my untrained eyes, they looked like rocks piled one on top of another.
The man we’d seen from across the street was on the other side of the room, looking at one of the rock piles. He certainly didn’t look like he worked there: he was tall, thin, and bald, and he was dressed in jeans, a dark golf shirt, and expensive sneakers. I figured him for a customer until I realized that there was no one else around. He refused to make eye contact, and I think he would have ignored us completely if Eve hadn’t headed right over to where he stood.
The man turned to us sharply, and murmured an uncomfortable, “Good afternoon!”
“Hi there! We’re interior designers,” I blurted out. Eve turned to me, eyes wide with surprise. OK, OK, so I wasn’t as good a liar as she was, but I figured I needed to take charge of the situation. “Redoing a home in Bethesda,” I continued. “We’re looking for just the right painting.”
“This is not possible.” The man’s voice was heavily accented, like Drago’s. And Beyla’s, for that matter. “This is a private gallery. You do not walk in without an appointment. If you will excuse me…” He backed away at the same time he gestured toward the front of the gallery. There was no mistaking what he meant.
Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.
For all I knew about the world of art, this was how things were done. Still, to me, it seemed a funny way to do business. Or not to do business.
“I’m not sure you understand,” I continued. I could tell Eve was just as baffled as I was by his attitude, and not sure what to say. “We want to look at paintings. We want to buy.”