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Jeannie did not like the question. “I’m sure my brother knows how to use the Yellow Pages.”

I apologized with an empathetic smile. Asked the big question. “So Eddie-if Violeta Bell knew you needed money, why didn’t she just give you money?”

Eddie scratched his hairy chin. “A proposition I have pondered myself. Endlessly without a suitable revelation.”

“Violeta Bell was a very successful antique dealer for many years,” I said. “How much money would you say she had?”

“I wouldn’t have the foggiest,” Eddie said.

“Would you be surprised if I said a million?”

“A million ain’t much in this hyper-inflationary time,” he said. “So, yes, I guess I would be surprised if there was only a one at the left end of those six zeros, and not a number with more curves and curls.”

My brain, thankfully, had adjusted to his convoluted hipster talk. I knew what he meant and went straight to the next question. “Would you be surprised if I told you she was almost broke?”

Eddie’s eyes bugged. “Hell’s bells! You shitting me?”

Jeannie’s reaction was less expressive. “That would explain the antiques instead of money, wouldn’t it?”

“Actually,” I said, “it makes me wonder why she would give your brother so many of her valuable antiques if those were the only assets she had?”

Neither Eddie nor his sister had an answer to that. At least one they wanted to share with me. While they sat like bumps on a log, I laid out the theory bubbling in my brain. “Violeta Bell was a mystery woman. In fact, the Violeta Bell people knew really didn’t exist. She created herself. For reasons that died with her. Apparently.” I told them about her fake driver’s license and passport and all her other fake or nonexistent papers. “She not only lived outside the law,” I said, “she was a big believer in cash.” I told them some of the things Eric Chen had found out about her. “She didn’t own the building where she had her antique shop. She lived in a swanky apartment in Greenlawn. When she closed her shop, she bought her unit at the Carmichael House for cash. That still left her with a lot of money in the bank. Now that’s all but gone.”

If Eddie or his sister knew any of this, they weren’t letting on. Eddie was gently drumming his fingernails on his smoldering cup. Clickety-click-click. Jeannie was studying her pedicure. I continued. “So for the last eight years, she had no money coming in and a lot going out. She also had a condo filled with valuable antiques. So unless she had a big Rubbermaid tub of cash hidden under her bed-and there’s no evidence she did-she’d be forced to sell some of those antiques from time to time. For cash. She was not one to share her good fortune with the government. Which means she’d have to find an equally stingy buyer. Or an unsuspecting one.”

Jeannie’s eyes shifted, from her pretty toes to Eddie’s anything but pretty face.

“Violeta’s condo was big,” I said. “But it wasn’t the Smithsonian. She’d have to replenish her supply. I’m sure she found a few treasures at those garage sales. The tag sales. The estate auctions-”

“She was always buying stuff,” Eddie offered. “More than the other three ladies put together. Tons of shit.”

I went on. “But would that be enough? The other Queens of Never Dull lived pretty high on the hog? I’ve got to wonder if she didn’t have another source or two.”

“None that I know of,” Eddie assured me.

I was coming to the heart of my theory. “We know that Violeta didn’t own a car. Let alone a delivery truck. If she were still dealing in antiques, she’d have to have some help. Somebody to deliver things and maybe pick things up. Somebody she could trust.”

Eddie started waving his cup like a white flag. “Mea culpa! Nolo contendere! Hang me high by my huevos grandes! Yes! Yes! I delivered a thing or two for the old bird-in that beautiful old bread box out there!”

Jeannie’s twitching lips told me she wasn’t happy hearing that. She defended her brother nonetheless. “Nothing illegal about driving a truck.”

“Heaven’s to Betsy, no,” I said. “Not if Violeta truly owned the things she was selling.”

“Or if the driver was oblivious to the pre-supposed illegality of the endeavor,” Eddie added.

I pretended to absolve him. “Just a working man earning a little unreported cash on the side?”

“Nothing more convoluted than that,” said Eddie.

Now I started closing the trap. “Where exactly did you deliver things for her?”

Not surprisingly, Eddie was suddenly opaque. “That, most unfortunately, is impossible for a professional driver like myself to reiterate. I’ve driven to so many places, I don’t know exactly where I’ve been or haven’t.”

I rocked back and forth, drumming on the armrests, letting Eddie stew. Then I let him have it. “You know what I think Eddie? I think you and Violeta were in business together. Buying and selling stolen antiques. Those things the police found up here weren’t gifts. They were a shipment for you to deliver. Maybe to a dealer in some other city or state who didn’t know they were hot. Or didn’t give a damn. You couldn’t tell police that, of course. You’d go back to prison.”

Jeannie’s laugh was dripping with disbelief. Not to mention contempt. “And so he’s risking a murder charge to hide his other crimes?”

I smiled at her like a senile aunt. Turned toward Eddie. He was slowly sinking into the sofa cushions. “That is what you’re doing-isn’t it Eddie? Betting the police won’t find enough evidence to charge you with Violeta Bell’s murder?”

That was the last straw for Jeannie. She jumped up and wrapped her arms around her waist like the sleeves on a straightjacket. She started shouting at me. “My brother did not kill anybody! Bob said you believed that!”

Nobody shouts at Maddy Sprowls. Not without getting double the decibels in return. “Your brother is going to be twiddling his thumbs on death row if he doesn’t start telling a more forthcoming version of the truth-that’s all I’m saying!”

Jeannie stormed to the door. Threw it open for me. “I’ve never heard anybody talk so much bullshit in my life!”

I slowly rocked back and forth, staring into Eddie’s gray eyes until they started to quiver. “Is your sister right, Mr. French? Am I talking bullshit?”

Jeannie suggested it would be better if I left. I agreed. I clomped down the steps as mad as a hornet. Not caring one whit if Eddie was innocent or guilty. If he spent the rest of his life in prison or Paris, France. When I reached the ground I headed straight for that bread truck. I was sure they were watching me. I didn’t care one whit about that either. First I wrote down the license plate number for Eric Chen to check out. Then I checked the driver’s side door to see if it was locked. It wasn’t. I got in. I checked the ashtray for the key. It was there. I put it in the ignition and started the engine. I watched the gas gauge rise. The tank was almost half full. I checked the odometer. There was a string of zeros. When I looked closer I could see that a tiny smiley face had been painted inside each little white aught. Next I looked for that metal strip under the windshield that has the vehicle identification number. It was gone. I crawled out of the truck, got in my Shadow, and drove the hell home.

10

Sunday, July 23

We were on our way to Oswosso Swamp Park, to dine on baked chips and turkey sandwiches from Subway, watch the herons stand perfectly still in the stagnant water, and try not to get trampled by the joggers. Ike’s idea of a perfect Sunday afternoon.

“I think I may need professional help,” I said, as we zipped along West Apple Street.

He slipped his right hand off the steering wheel-the reckless old buzzard always drives with both hands like some kid in driver’s ed-and lovingly scratched the top of my head. “Come on now, Maddy. I know Bob Averill’s got your brain in a twist, but it’s not something that requires psychoanalysis, is it?”