He picked up the phone and said, “Hello?” and a second later, “Uh, Detective? Well, sure…”
Jane was shaken, placed one hand on her breast, the other on the countertop. This could be it: everything they'd worked for, gone in the blink of an eye.
Leslie said, “Hello, yes, it is… uh huh, uh huh…” Then he smiled, but kept his voice languid, professional. “We'd be delighted to help, as long as it wouldn't prejudice our position in bidding, if there should be an estate auction. I can't see why it would, if all you want is an opinion… Mmm, this afternoon would be fine. I'll bring my wife. Our assistant can watch the shop. One o'clock, then. See you after lunch.”
He put down the phone and chuckled: “We've been asked to advise the St. Paul police on the Bucher investigation.”
Jane made a smiling look. “Leslie, that's too rich. And you know what? It's really going to piss off Carmody amp; Loan.”
Carmody amp; Loan were their only possible competition, in terms of quality, in the Cities. If C amp;L had been asked to do the valuations, Jane would have been royally pissed. She couldn't wait to hear what Melody Loan had to say about this.
She'd be furious. She said, “Maybe we could find a way to get the news of the appointment to this Ruffe Ignace person.”
Leslie's eyebrows went up: “You mean to rub it in? Mmmm. You are such a bitch sometimes. I like it.” He moved up to her, slipped his hand inside her morning slacks, which were actually the bottoms of a well-washed Shotokan karate gi, down through her pubic hair.
She widened her stance a bit, put her butt back against the counter, bit her lip, made a look, the best she could, considering the Botox, of semi-ecstasy. “Rub it in, big guy,” she whispered, the smoothie almost forgotten.
But as Leslie was inclined to say, the Lord giveth, and the Lord is damn well likely to taketh it away in the next breath. They spent the morning at the shop, calling customers and other dealers, dealing with bills, arguing with the State Farm agent about their umbrella policy. At noon, they stopped at a sandwich shop for Asiago roast-beef sandwiches on sourdough bread, then headed for St. Paul.
They were driving east on I-494 in Jane's Audi A4, which she now referred to as “that piece of junk,” when another unwelcome call came in. Jane fumbled her cell phone out and looked at the screen. The caller ID said Marilyn Coombs.
“Marilyn Coombs,” she said to Leslie.
“It's that damned story,” Leslie said.
Jane punched the answer button, said, “Hello?”
Marilyn Coombs was an old lady, who, in Jane's opinion, should have been dead a long time ago. Her voice was weak and thready: she said, “Jane? Have you heard about Connie Bucher?”
“Just read it in the paper this morning,” Jane said. “We were shocked.”
“It's the same thing that happened to Claire Donaldson,” Coombs whimpered. “Don't you think we should call the police?”
“Well, gosh, I'd hate to get involved with the police,” Jane said. “We'd probably have to wind up hiring lawyers, and we wouldn't want… you know.”
“Well, we wouldn't say anything about that,” Coombs said. “But I got my clipping of when Claire was killed, and Jane, they're just alike.”
“I thought Claire was shot,” Jane said. “That's what I heard.”
“Well, except for that, they're the same,” Coombs said. Jane rolled her eyes.
“You know, I didn't know Claire that well,” Jane said.
“I thought you were friends…”
“No, no, we knew who she was, through the quilt-study group, but we didn't really know her. Anyway, I'd like to see the clipping. I could probably tell you better about the police, if I could see the clipping.”
“I've got it right here,” Coombs said.
“Well. Why don't we stop by this evening,” Jane suggested. “It'll probably be late, we're out on an appointment right now. Let me take a look at it.”
“If you think that'd be right,” Coombs said.
“Well, we don't want to make a mistake.”
“Okay, then,” Coombs said. “After dinner.”
“It'll be later than that, I'm afraid. We're on our way to Eau Claire. What time do you go to bed?”
“Not until after the TV news.”
“Okay. We'll be back before then. Probably… about dark.”
That gave them something to talk about. “Is it all falling apart, Leslie? Is it all falling apart?” Jane asked. She'd been in drama club, and was a former vice president of the Edina Little Theater.
“Of course not,” Leslie said. “We just need to do some cleanup.”
Jane sighed. Then she said, “Do you think the Hermes is too much?” She was wearing an Hermes scarf with ducks on it, and the ducks had little red collars and were squawking at each other.
“No, no. I think it looks quite good on you.”
“I hope it's not falling apart on us,” Jane said.
“Most cops are dumber than a bowl of spaghetti,” Leslie said. “Not to worry, sweet.”
Still, Jane, with her delicate elbow on the leather bolster below the Audi's window, her fingers along her cheek, couldn't help think, if it were all coming to an end, if there might not be some way she could shift all the blame to Leslie.
Perhaps even… She glanced at him, speculatively, at his temple, and thought, No.
That's way premature.
Then they met the cops. And talked about missing antiques, including a painting by Stanley Reckless.
On The way out of Oak Walk, Jane said, “That Davenport person is not dumber than a bowl of spaghetti.”
“No, he's not,” Leslie said. He held the car door for her, tucked her in, leaned forward and said, “We've got to talk about the Reckless.”
“We've got to get rid of it. Burn it,” Jane said.
“I'm not going to give up a half-million-dollar painting,” Leslie said. “But we have to do something.”
They talked it over on the way home. The solution, Jane argued, was to destroy it.
There was no statute of limitations on murder, and, sometime, in the future, if the call of the money was too strong, they might be tempted to sell it-and get caught.
“A new, fresh Reckless-that's going to attract some attention,” she said.
“Private sale,” Leslie said.
“I don't know,” Jane said.
“Half-million dollars,” Leslie said, and when he said it, Jane knew that she wanted the money.
They went home, and after dinner, Leslie stood on a stool and got the Reckless out of the double-secret storage area in the rafters of the attic.
“Gorgeous piece?” he said. He flipped it over, looked at the name slashed across the back of the canvas. Though Leslie ran to fat, he was still strong. Gripping the frame tightly, he torqued it, wiggled the sides, then the top and bottom, and the frame began to spread. When it was loose enough, he lifted the canvas, still on stretchers, out of the frame, and put it under a good light on the dining room table.
“Got a strong signature,” he said. Reckless had carefully signed the front of the painting at the lower right, with a nice red signature over a grassy green background.
“Don't need the one on the back.”
“Take it off?”
“If we took it off, then it couldn't be identified as the Bucher painting,” Leslie said.
“There'd always be some… remnants.”
“Not if you don't want to see it,” Leslie said. He looked at the painting for a moment, then said. “Here's what we do. We stash it at the farm for now. Wrap it up nice and tight. Burn the frame. When I get time, I'll take the 'Reckless' off the back-it'll take me a couple of weeks, at least. We get some old period paint-we should be able to get some from Dick Calendar-and paint over the area where the 'Reckless' was. Then we take it to Omaha, or Kansas City, or even Vegas, rent a safe-deposit box, and stick it away for five years. In five years, it's good as gold.”
Bad idea, Jane thought: but she yearned for the money.
Three hours later, the Widdlers were rolling again.