Chase must have noticed the same phenomenon, for he quickly took her by the arm and led her away.“Let’s go inside, Miss Twine,” he said courteously.
“When… when can I have my necklace back?” she asked, as she staggered a little, leaning heavily on Chase’s arm now.
“As soon as the investigation is done,” Chase assured her.
“If Mommy finds out, she’ll kill me,” said Laia, and disappeared inside with Chase.
“Well, I guess that’s just about enough excitement for one evening,” said Abe as he stretched his weary form. He then told his people to wrap up the body and take it to the coroner’s office.
“When can Laia have her necklace back?” asked Odelia.
“Soon,” said Abe, looking a little distracted.
“You look tired, Abe,” said Odelia commiseratively.
“You wouldn’t believe my workload right now,” said the coroner. “My fridges are overflowing with stiffs. It’s as if they all made a pact to die in the same week.” Then he smiled at Odelia and poked a tender finger in Grace’s cheek. The kid took hold of the man’s frizzy hair and studied it, then giggled happily.
“She probably thinks it’s cotton candy,” said Odelia.
“Maybe it is!” said the coroner gamely.
Grace certainly enjoyed the moment, until she yanked at the man’s hair, hard, and he let out a yelp of pain. Looks like it wasn’t cotton candy after all.
“I’ll send my report to your uncle as soon as I can, all right?” he said, his mood slightly less exuberant. I guess nobody likes their hair being yanked, no matter how cute the perpetrator. And then he grabbed his coroner’s bag and was off, presumably working through the night to get on topof his workload.
“Better him than me,” said Odelia as she stared after the man.
“I don’t like that guy,” said Dooley. “He always smells funny.”
“That’s because he works with dead people all the time,” said Brutus with a slight grin. “He cuts them open and he removes their heart and liver and stomach and intestines and uses a buzz saw to drill a hole in their skull so he can scoop out their brains. And of course that kind of thing leaves a stench.” He brought his face close to Dooley’s. “The stench of death!” he added with a sort of ghoulish delight.
Dooley shivered.“Crikey!”
“Don’t worry, Dooley,” said Harriet with a reproachful look at her boyfriend. “I’m sure he washes his hands each time he cuts open a dead body.” She glanced up at Odelia. “So what are we still doing here? We know who stole the necklace. It was the dead guy who face-planted on the sidewalk. Mystery solved. Let’s go.”
“Not so fast,” said Odelia. “There’s a story here,” she explained. “A big story. I can smell it.” And then she, too, disappeared inside the apartment, presumably to get some more background information on the burglary.
Dooley stuck his nose in the air and sniffed.“I don’t smell anything,” he said.
“Which is probably a good thing,” I said. Like Harriet, I was ready to go home.
CHAPTER 11
[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]
Vesta had to admit this art class was absolutely her thing. There were plenty of friends and acquaintances present. People like Scarlett, of course, her best friend, but also Marge, and then there was Charlene Butterwick, practically her daughter-in-law, Vena Aleman, the vet, Blanche Captor, Dolores Peltz, Sarah Flunk, Bambi Wiggins, their mailwoman. Even Marcie Trapper was there, their neighbor. It was almost a who’s who of everyone who was anyone in Hampton Cove.
“Very cozy,” she told the man who was seated next to her. He was, in fact, the only male in attendance, apart from Chanda Chekhov, the teacher, a whiskered fella with lots of hair and a sort of laidback approach to the creation of art.
“Yes, it’s one of my favorite art classes,” the man returned politely.
His name was Gallagher Davenport, and he looked as much like an artist as any artist Vesta had ever seen: dressed in a sort of snazzy orange coat with frilly lace trimmings, and a green felt hat on his head, in spite of the fact that temperatures inside were soaring, to say the least. Probably on account of the nude male model who was supposed to put in an appearance any second now. No one needs a nude male model with goosebumps. It detracts from the appeal.
“Art runs in the family,” Vesta revealed, glad to find such a listening ear in this fellow artist. “My daughter is over there,” she explained, waving to Marge, who didn’t seem all that pleased with the presence of her mom for some reason. “And then of course my cat is an artist, as well.”
When the guy regarded her a little strangely, she took out her phone and showed him a video she’d shot just that afternoon of Harriet and Brutus hard at work creating their own unique brand of art.
The man sat up with a jerk as he took her phone and regarded the video with the sort of attention to detail your true art lover likes to see.
“But this is amazing, my dear lady,” he said finally. “And you say this is your cat?”
“Yeah, absolutely. That’s Harriet,” she explained, pointing to Harriet, who was standing on top of a chair giving directions. “And that’s Brutus. He’s doing the grunt work, and Harriet is guiding him. She’s the real artist in the family, see.”
“Absolutely amazing,” the man murmured as he seemed entranced by the spectacle.
“Bob Ross is Harriet’s personal favorite,” Vesta prattled on. “Harriet can watch Bob Ross any time, day or night. She simply never tires of watching the guy. I believe she considers him her role model and her guiding light as an artist.”
“It’s very soothing to watch two cats creating art like this,” her fellow student conceded. “Very soothing indeed.”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Vesta. “I watched them for half an hour this afternoon and I never had such a great nap.”
The man suddenly turned to her.“Say, my dear lady, how much for the two of them?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, unprepared for the sudden turn the conversation had taken.
“How much do you want for both cats? They are a pair, correct? One is the creative genius and the other the executor?”
“My cats aren’t for sale, buddy,” she said, and yanked her phone from the man’s hands.
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the both of them.” And when she gave him a look of astonishment, he wrongly interpreted this as her driving a hard bargain, and quickly came back with, “Okay, two hundred bucks, but that’s my final offer.”
“Like I said, my cats are not for sale,” she reiterated with a touch of frostiness, and shook her head at this mercantile streak in one whom she’d considered a fellow creative.
Gallagher Davenport opened his mouth to make one final comment—perhaps raising his offer even more—but Chanda now cleared his throat, desiring speech.
“I have an announcement to make,” Chanda said. “I’m sorry to say that our model for the evening hasn’t shown up.” When loud cries of disappointment greeted his words, he hastened to add, “But I’ve arranged for a replacement. A man who has graciously agreed to fill in the void that our handsome young friend has left by his absence.” He now turned to the door, through which a man came walking, dressed in a dressing gown. “Fellow art lovers, please welcome… Tex!”
And much to Vesta’s astonishment, her own son-in-law stepped to the fore!
“Tex, what are you doing here!” Marge cried.
Tex, whose face had taken on the color of a ripe plum, swallowed once or twice, and said, with as much dignity as he could muster,“I’m here to model.”
“But…”
“Please take your position on the stage, Mr. Poole,” said Chanda, pointing to the small dais in front of the class. “And drop the robe.”
Tex hesitated, but then finally dropped the robe, revealing a puny hairless chest and a snazzy-looking pair of pink boxers with tiny blue stethoscopes.