Case of the One-Eyed Tiger Page 11

  Fifteen minutes later Sherlock and I were at the counter watching Jillian sketch out a diagram on a blank sheet of paper. She added a few more boxes, gave them labels, drew some lines connecting them to other boxes and then slid the paper over to me.

  “As far as I can tell, this should be able to cover it.” Jillian tapped the box at the top of the page. There was a tiny ‘Bonnie’ written inside. “Here’s Bonnie. Right next to her is her brother. I forget what his name was. Frederick? I think that’s it. Anyway, I know Frederick had several children. The only one I personally know is Zora.”

  “Bonnie and Zora are related,” I mumbled. “Who would’ve known? So that makes Abigail and Zora cousins.”

  “If you ever want to get on Abigail’s nerves,” Jillian said, “just remind her of that little fact.”

  “I take it she and Zora don’t get along?”

  Jillian let out a laugh, “Oh, heavens no. Even though Zora is somewhat quirky, she does own and operate her own art gallery. It might not look like it but she does amazingly well. She easily pulls in seven figures every year.”

  My mouth dropped open with surprise.

  “Morticia does that well? I never knew.”

  “Morticia?”

  I gave Jillian a sheepish grin, “Sorry. That was rude. I thought of Morticia Addams the first time I laid eyes on Zora.”

  “You shouldn’t judge her,” Jillian scolded. “Everyone thinks she’s eccentric. No one can explain why 4th Street Gallery does so well, but year after year people flock to her store.”

  “She got me to buy a painting,” I admitted.

  “You bought a painting from Zora?” Jillian asked, curious. “Which one? You don’t strike me as an art lover.”

  “I’m not, but Zora wouldn’t take no for an answer. To tell you the truth she was creeping me out and I just wanted to get out of there.”

  “So what painting did you buy?” Jillian wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. Some ugly thing that looks as though it belongs in my grandmother’s house. Oh, you should also know that it’s now down at the police department. That’s the painting Sherlock picked out.”

  Jillian looked down at Sherlock, who chose that moment to look up at her.

  “Why? Was that the painting that they found blood on?”

  I pointed down at the corgi.

  “That’s the painting that he found the blood on,” I corrected. “I didn’t see it until Zora had taken it down from the wall and was about ready to wrap it up, or whatever else happens to a painting once it has been sold.”

  Jillian squatted next to Sherlock and scratched behind his ears.

  “Aren’t you the cutest, smartest doggie in the whole world?”

  Sherlock rose to his feet, his stump wagging happily away. I looked back at the genealogy sheet Jillian had drawn up and tapped a row of boxes near Zora’s name.

  “Who is this? You have ‘sister’ here and ‘daughter’ there. Then this box over here just has an ‘E’ in it. No lines. Who’s that?”

  Jillian smiled and shrugged, “That’s my own personal theory and I’m 99% certain I’m right.”

  “About what?” I wanted to know.

  “About a question that’s been bothering me for quite some time now. You see this ‘E’? It stands for ‘Emily’.”

  “Okay. So, what’s the problem?”

  “Oh, you probably know her by her married name. Emelie Vång."

  My eyebrows shot up. I looked down at the boxes surrounding the lone, unattached box and frowned.

  “So what’s the connection? I will admit that I had my suspicions why a world famous glass artist would have ties to a small town like this. Do you know how she fits in to all of this?”

  “It’s a theory that happens to fit the facts,” Jillian admitted. “However, I believe if you look at all the facts then you’ll see that I’m right.”

  “Have you met her before?” I asked. “You say you’ve lived in this town all your life. Couldn’t you just ask her?”

  “I have met her a few times,” Jillian confirmed, “and have seen her around town over the years. I don’t personally know her, I’m afraid. I do know that she doesn’t live in PV.”

  “I need to study that picture again,” I quietly mused.

  “What picture?” Jillian asked.

  “What? Oh, sorry. I was just mumbling to myself. Sherlock found an old family picture of Bonnie and her kids. Gerald was in it, which is why I think Scooby Doo here wanted me to see it.”

  Sherlock’s head lifted and he regarded me with a neutral look.

  “Sorry,” I immediately apologized. “Corgis are much better than Great Danes. What was I thinking?”

  Sherlock let out a snort and lowered his head back down to rest on his front paws.

  “You’re really enjoying being a dog owner, aren’t you?” Jillian observed. “I can tell. You two obviously get along great together.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought it possible,” I admitted, “but I am enjoying having him around. That little dog is turning me into a dog lover.”

  “So, with regards to this picture, are you thinking that Sherlock guided you because he wanted you to see that Gerald was in it?”

  I nodded, “I do. That’s the only logical assumption I can make. Bonnie was there, as was Abigail, and a whole bunch of other people that I have never seen before. I brought down some photo albums from the attic in the hopes that I could identify some of them but I haven’t had the chance to do that.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Been trying to solve a mystery before I take the rap for someone else’s crimes. Nothing major, I will admit.”

  Jillian giggled, then turned pensive.

  “Would you like me to look at that picture? I know practically everyone in town, so if you need some help identifying anyone, I’m the one to ask.”

  I briefly thought of the condition I had left the house in. Was it clean? It couldn’t be that bad. I hadn’t owned the house that long. Wait. Sherlock had played tug-of-war with an old magazine and had left bits and pieces everywhere. That, in itself, wasn’t too bad.

  “I would appreciate the help,” I said. “If you could…” Now I remembered. The laundry. Sherlock had dragged several pieces of dirty clothes across the house and I had yet to pick them up. I could have just gathered everything back together and dump them in the laundry room only I was in a rush to get out to Medford and the college. Plus there were dishes in the sink, the bathroom had yet to be properly cleaned, and –

  “It’s okay,” Jillian hastily said, interrupting my thoughts and mistaking my hesitation for reluctance. “Perhaps you could bring the picture here?”

  “Sorry. I have no objections about you coming over,” I clarified, “other than the house not being clean. I haven’t had a chance to properly clean it.”

  Smiling again, Jillian waved off my concerns.

  “Don’t worry about your house, Zack. I just want to help. I like you. I think what they’re doing to you is wrong. Pomme Valley hasn’t been very welcoming to you since you moved here and I’d like to help make things right.”

  I smiled at Jillian, surprised to feel a flush of warmth spread across my face. I mentally groaned and ordered myself not to roll my eyes. There definitely was an attraction here, no doubt about it. I just wasn’t ready to start a relationship. Any relationship. Every time I thought about being with someone besides Sam an overwhelming sense of guilt would inevitably wash over me, resulting in me becoming somewhat nauseated. I could only hope those feelings would pass with time or else I was literally going to have to seek professional help.

  I wasn’t going to let that happen. Samantha wouldn’t want that for me. I was determined to live my life. I would…

  “You have a lot going on in there,” Jillian observed, snapping me out of my reverie. “Would you care to share?”

  I
shook my head, “Would you like me to give you a ride or would you like to follow me out to my place?”

  Thirty minutes later I parked in front of my garage. Jillian pulled her maroon SUV up next to my Jeep and parked. She exited her car, took off her sunglasses, and tossed them back inside before locking the door. She turned around and took a deep breath, letting the air slowly escape from her lungs.

  “Oh, I love that smell.”

  I gave a cautious sniff.

  “What smell?”

  “Fresh earth, growing plants, and mulch.”

  I sniffed again. It smelled like the general outdoors to me. My face must have conveyed that.

  “I’ve always enjoyed gardening,” Jillian explained, as she followed me up the porch steps. Sherlock was already waiting for us. “I guess I get it from my mother. She’s always loved gardening, as did her mother, my grandmother. My grandmother was known for her flowers. She won awards, she… I’m so sorry. I’m babbling again, aren’t I?”

  “There’s no reason for you to be nervous,” I assured her. “You’re just here to identify some stodgy grumps in a picture.”

  “I hate to be the one to point this out, but wasn’t there a dead body found in your winery?” Jillian asked.

  I shrugged as I set my keys on the coffee table in the living room.

  “You have me there. Although I’ll have you know that he wasn’t killed here.”

  “But the body was dumped here,” Jillian reminded me.

  “True. Wait right here. The picture is in the master bedroom.”

  “What’s the matter?” Jillian teased. “You don’t want me to see the disheveled mess your room is in?”

  Sherlock followed me across the room but stopped in the doorway. From that vantage point he could still watch me but also be able to keep an eye on Jillian, too. I shook my head in disbelief. Unbelievable. All these years I had seriously underestimated how intelligent dogs could be. The little corgi had situated himself in the one place in the house where he could still watch the two of us, even though we were in different rooms. I eyed my unmade bed and piles of dirty clothes scattered across the room. For the next ten seconds I became the world’s best soccer player and kicked everything under the bed. Sherlock darted inside the room, wiggled under the bed, and began to pull things back out. After a quick tug-of-war with a pair of dirty socks I decided the room was a lost cause.

  “You know what? There’s nothing really worth looking at in here, so you ought to stay right there. I mean it. Don’t move.” I heard Jillian giggle.

  I hurried over to the lamp and snatched the photograph from the wall, rejoining Jillian in the living room moments later. She had seated herself on the couch and was thumbing through one a National Geographic photography book that was on the coffee table.

  “Here it is. So, tell me. What do you think? Do any of them look familiar to you?”

  Jillian nodded as she studied the picture. She tapped Bonnie’s face.

  “There’s Bonnie, as you have already figured out. And here’s everyone’s favorite daughter, Abigail.”

  I tapped on the picture of the boy I wanted her to identify for me.

  “That’s Gerald, right?”

  “Yes. He hasn’t changed much at all, has he?”

  “Who are those people in the back?”

  “Well, let’s see. Do you see this woman here? On Abigail’s right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve met her. That’s Zora.”

  I snatched the picture out of Jillian’s hands and studied the woman in question. That was Zora? Damn. There was someone who hadn’t aged well. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes were much softer, her face was much fuller, and her mouth was in the process of curving upwards in a smile.

  “Wow. Doesn’t even look like the same person, does it?”

  “No,” Jillian said, taking back the picture. “She’s had a rough life, Zack. Go easy on her.”

  “Sure. Sorry. Who’s the guy standing between Zora and Abigail?”

  “That’d be James, Zora’s brother.”

  “He looks pleasant enough,” I decided.

  “Back then, sure,” Jillian said.

  “And now?” I prompted.

  “Used car salesman in Medford.”

  “Ah.”

  “I don’t know who these two women are, on Zora’s right,” Jillian continued, tapping each of the tiny figures, “but I do know that the woman on the end is Dianne. That’s Zora’s sister.”

  “Okay. You’re doing great.”

  “I told you I’ve lived here a really long time,” Jillian reminded me. “Moving on. The guy standing just behind Bonnie on her left is Greg. That’s Abigail’s brother.”

  “What? Abigail has a brother? I didn’t know that. Where is he now? Why isn’t he in PV demanding his fair share?”

  “Because he died during the Gulf War,” Jillian said in a low voice. “He was in the military. A marine, I think.”

  “Oh. I had no idea.”

  “No one does. Abigail doesn’t talk about it. Ever.”

  “How did you find out about it?” I asked.

  “I’ll come back to that. Moving on. The older gentleman on Greg’s right is Bud. Everyone called him ‘Uncle Bud’. You couldn’t find anyone in PV that’d have a harsh word about him. Everyone loved him. He was one of the nicest guys I have ever met. I just never knew how he fit in to the family, only that he was always hanging around the house.”

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  “Bud passed away 10 years ago. Cancer. Now this?” Jillian tapped on a young woman on Bud’s left. “This is Jennifer. James’ daughter. Standing next to her is Nancy. I knew she was Zora’s niece but I never figured out which sibling she belonged to. I think I heard somewhere that Zora had another sister but have never been able to confirm it.”

  “What about the two guys on the end?” I asked, pointing to the two young boys that had to be in their early teens.

  “I don’t know,” Jillian admitted. “I haven’t seen them before.”

  Pleased that I had so many new names to start working on, I turned to head back to my bedroom to return the picture to the wall. Sherlock jumped to his feet and woofed out a warning.

  “What is it?” I asked and immediately winced.

  I had asked those three words to Sherlock on several occasions since adopting him. Each time solicited the same response: frenzied barking. This time was no different. Sherlock surged forward, placing himself directly in my path, and began barking at me as though I was the devil incarnate.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Jillian worriedly asked. “Is he okay?”

  “I should have known better to ask that question,” I explained. “I don’t know if he can tell what I’m saying, or if it’s the tone of my voice, but that particular question usually sets him off. So let’s try this again.” I squatted down next to Sherlock, scratched behind his ears, which had an instant calming effect on him, and showed him the picture. “What’s the matter? Is there something wrong with the pic?”

  Sherlock stretched his neck out, touched the tip of his nose to the photo’s glass front, and nudged it out of my hands. I barely caught it before it could hit the ground. I scowled at my furry companion.

  “What’d you do that for? You almost made me drop it, pal. We don’t want to break this thing, okay?”

  I watched the corgi inch closer again and tightened my grip on the picture. Sure enough, Sherlock nosed the picture a second time. Curious, I spun the picture around and looked at it.

  “What’s the problem? Is there something we’re missing?”

  Jillian took the picture from me and brought it up closer to her face. She looked down at Sherlock and gave him a friendly pat on the top of his head.

  “Oh, you’re so right, aren’t you? You’re such a smart boy.”

  Sherlock’s stump threatened
to wiggle right off his butt. I looked at Jillian with confusion written all over my face.

  “What’s going on? Did we miss something?”

  Jillian nodded, “As a matter of fact, we did. I didn’t finish identifying everyone. I’m pretty sure your dog just called me out on that, so I apologize.”

  A look of incredulity spread across my face as I noted the smug look on Sherlock’s.

  “We didn’t look at the children,” Jillian explained. “Let’s see who else we’ve got here. You already noticed Gerald. The twin girls on the far right are Teri and Meri. I really don’t remember much about them, so I don’t know whose children they are. Now, I don’t know who the boy next to Gerald is, but I can tell you the girl on Gerald’s other side is Emily.”

  I nodded as I looked at the freckled blonde girl with pigtails. She looked to be about 8 or 9. Jillian tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at Emily.

  “I told you about her in my shop, remember?”

  I tapped the small figure in the photo.

  “This girl? You’re telling me this is Emelie Vång? I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Sam was related to a famous artist. I wonder why everyone says she’s from Sweden.”

  Jillian pulled her phone out from her purse and started tapping on the screen. I watched her fingers slide and scroll across her phone’s display for a full minute before she finally looked up.

  “It says here that she married a Swedish stock broker and currently lives in Malmo.”

  “Why did she change her name?”

  “I’m told it’s something most married women choose to do.”

  “You know what I mean,” I said. “Why did she go from ‘Emily’ to ‘Emelie’?”

  Jillian shrugged, “Who can say? If I were to venture a guess then I’d say ‘Emelie’ is the Swedish spelling of ‘Emily’.”

  I pointed at the piece of paper with the charts and boxes Jillian had drawn up and, thankfully, had brought with her.

  “If your theory is true, how many people do you think would know that Emelie Vång is from PV?”

  “Presumably no one but her family,” Jillian guessed. “If I tell you how I think Emelie fits into PV then you have to promise to keep it to yourself. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want her ties to PV known.”

  “Got it. Mum’s the word.”

  Jillian tapped the box to the right of Zora’s.

  “This is Dianne, Zora’s sister. See the two boxes here? This one hasn’t been labeled, and as you noticed from before, this other one is off by itself. Well, one is for Stephen, Dianne’s son,” Jillian wrote the name in the tiny box and then drew a line from Stephen’s box to the unlinked one, “and the other is for Stephen’s sister…”

  “Emily,” I finished, turning to stare at the photo once more. “Or Emelie, I guess,” throwing a fake French accent on her alternate name.

  “She lives in Sweden, not France,” Jillian clarified. “And that’s a horrible accent.”

  I chuckled, “Whatever.”

  “So, back to the picture. That’s Stephen on the right and over on the left is Emily. And this?” Jillian tapped her finger on the final unidentified child: a girl with long black pigtails. The girl wasn’t smiling. In fact, her lower lip was protruding and she had a frown on her face. “This is Abigail’s third child, Taylor. She still lives in town.”

  Rusty wheels ground into motion. The name clicked. I brought the picture up for a closer look.

  “Holy shit! Are you telling me this girl right here is Taylor Rossen? The beat reporter for the Pomme Valley Gazette? Abigail is her mother?”

  It was finally starting to make sense.

  TEN