“Possibly. Lalonde wouldn’t tell me what, if anything, they’ve dug up on him, so I did a little research on the net and found a website for a TZ Incorporated, based in Geneva. It’s just a little one-page site, but it states that Ziegler’s owner of a company that specializes in unique imports and exports. His is the only name on the site, along with a contact number.”
“Which I assume you called?”
Casey smiled. “I talked to a woman who said he’s out of town indefinitely. She wouldn’t give me any info about the company and asked me to call back in a couple of weeks. Ziegler’s either warned her to shut up or the police have already scared her off.” She began rummaging through a crate. “When I left my name and number and asked that he call me, her voice went all squeaky, so I’m wondering if she knows the name Holland. It’ll be interesting to see if Ziegler returns my call.”
“Let’s go upstairs.” Lou looked at the staircase. “Want me to lead?”
“Since I dragged you here, that wouldn’t be fair.”
Casey took her time with each step, alert to the silence. At the top of the stairs, she looked over her shoulder and then scanned the area for intruders. She hadn’t noticed the five doors in the dark the other night, or the wood paneling on the far wall. In daylight, the atrium was bright and cheerful. Lou wandered past a row of vibrantly colored plants.
“I knew your dad loved gardening,” he said, “but why bring the whole yard inside?”
“It’s not the whole yard; the grass is still out there.”
Lou touched several flower petals. “Silk.” He gazed at a half-dozen trees, most of them more than six feet high. “The trees are real. Red maple, purple leaf plum.” He studied the tree at the far end of the room. “Japanese maple.”
“Impressive.”
“Remember the tree doctor I went out with?”
Casey remembered all of Lou’s girlfriends. “She really liked you,” although she’d been totally wrong for him.
“She dragged me through tons of parks and forests, very educational.”
Casey spotted the tire iron in a corner, picked it up, and gave the weapon to Lou, “For your protection.”
“Thanks,” he said, as he looked around, “but I don’t think I’ll need it.”
She searched three rooms where more crates were sealed shut, closets emptied, and mattresses upended.
“Hey,” Lou called from the room behind the stairs, “I found a pool table.”
Casey stepped inside and watched him stroke the table’s surface. “Must have been a new hobby.” She gazed at the diagonal violet, mauve, and pink stripes on one wall. Not Dad’s taste at all. “I’m not letting anyone take anything. I’ll hire a security service and talk to the cops before we head back.”
“Do you want to empty the crates?”
“No, I should be back on the M8 by lunch hour.”
“I thought he doesn’t normally strike at noon.”
“I know, but a time pattern’s emerging and it fits a high school student’s schedule. I’m thinking our guy’s a student and not a street kid like Stan thinks. So, I want to check out the schools on or near the M8’s route.” She headed out the door. “Let’s take a peek at this last room.”
In the northwest corner, above the living room, an enormous master bedroom—not yet packed—was flooded by natural light from the large skylight. On the king-sized bed lay half a dozen paintings and one pen-and-ink drawing, each partially covered with brown wrapping paper and a bill of sale.
“Simone told me that Dad’s dealt in art, among other things.” She studied the bills from Oregon and California. All were made out to TZ Inc. “They can’t be stolen or the police would have confiscated them.”
While Lou studied the artwork, she wandered to the French doors and out onto a balcony. From this height, she could see the shoreline and a strip of beach. She turned and stepped back inside.
The room would be packed up soon. One empty crate had been placed in front of the closet filled with casual wear and suits. When had Dad started wearing Armani? There was no sign of women’s clothing, no trace of makeup or other female toiletries in the en suite bathroom.
Lou sat on the edge of the bed while Casey spotted two pewter-framed photographs on the night tables. She scowled at a familiar snapshot of Mother taken years ago; light blond hair curling onto her shoulders, sapphire necklace, royal-blue strapless gown. Mother was laughing, her head tilted, conveying coyness.
Hadn’t Dad thrown the picture out the window after their final fight? From the dining room below her parents’ bedroom, Casey had heard the whole thing. She’d learned about Mother’s promiscuity only a few days before the final showdown and had come home from school to find them already shouting at each other. She’d watched Mother’s possessions fall onto the patio, heard the picture’s glass shatter. She’d seen Dad drag Mother downstairs and shove her outside. Casey never saw the photograph again. Why had he kept it? Dad always believed that once hurt, there was no going back for more.
“Is that your mom?”
Lou’s voice jolted her to the present. “Biologically speaking; people used to say she was a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly.” Casey watched him pick up the picture. “Who do you think she looks like?”
“She looks like you.”
“No way.”
“Same smile, same violet eyes, and I know you color your hair brown.”
“Doesn’t matter; we have totally different body types.”
“Maybe your mother doesn’t share your love of cheeseburgers.”
“Funny, Lou.”
“Did you hear back from her yet?”
“Yeah, she emailed and said Dad’s importing business was a long story and that I should phone her. She didn’t even bother to answer my question about why she wanted to claim Dad’s body.”
“How about the other names? Any luck with them?”
“I got a few emails from people who claim not to have heard from him in over three years. I’ll try more numbers and emails later today.”
Casey picked up the second photo, this one of a pretty woman with short dark blond hair and dark eyes. She appeared to be in her mid twenties. Casey removed the picture from the frame and flipped it over. No name or date.
She opened a drawer in the night table. Among the antacid tablets and nail clippers was another photo, face down. Casey picked it up and found herself looking at her own wedding portrait. Dad must have heard about the divorce. She dumped the picture back into the drawer.
“What was that?” Lou asked.
“Nothing.”
She focused on the letter-sized pen-and-ink drawing Lou was holding. The artist had created an incredibly detailed picture of a cove occupied by sailboats and motor boats. On the bottom right corner, a delicate hand had written “F.H.T. Mason, October 1982.”
“Your mom collects pen-and-inks,” Casey said. “Think she’d like it?”
“Hell, yeah.”
“Then take it.”
He looked at her. “No, it’s too valuable.”
“Lou, none of this has any value for me. All of this stuff belonged to a part of Dad’s life that I was excluded from, so please give it to Barb on her next birthday or for Christmas or whatever.”
Lou shook his head.
“Look, someone’s stealing everything anyway, and while this stuff doesn’t hold any value for me, it doesn’t seem right that someone else is taking it either.”
“Okay, well, then thanks, I appreciate it,” though he still looked uncertain. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? There’s a cool glass statue on the bureau.”
Casey gazed at the gorgeous sculpture of a leaping dolphin. Exquisite as it was, she sure as hell didn’t like what the piece represented, nor was she interested in profiting from Dad’s other life.