Case of the One-Eyed Tiger Page 6

  The following morning Sherlock and I were exploring the rest of the ground floor when we were interrupted just as we were heading upstairs. My cell phone was ringing and it was from an unknown number. The area code and prefix didn’t match the rest of town so I knew this person wasn’t local.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mr. Zachary Anderson?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “How are you doing today, sir?”

  People that don’t identify themselves when I ask them to instantly put me on high alert. It usually means they’re trying to sell me something. I wasn’t in the mood.

  “Fine. Who are you?”

  “You are the new owner of Lentari Cellars, are you not?”

  “That’s twice, pal,” I crossly told the caller.

  A couple seconds of silence passed before the voice spoke again.

  “Twice what?” the male caller asked, sounding confused.

  “That’s twice I’ve asked you to identify yourself. Twice now you’ve steamrolled right over me to change the subject. Either identify who you are and state the nature of this call or else we’re done. Now, I say again, identify yourself. Remember, three strikes and you’re out, pal.”

  Another few seconds passed.

  “My apologies. I represent a party that is interested in your winery, provided you are selling.”

  “I am not selling. And you failed to tell me who you are. You have yourself a good day.”

  I promptly terminated the call and stared at the phone. Who was that? He had said he represented someone who was interested in the winery. Wouldn’t that automatically put them on my list of suspects?

  I had to find out who had called. I managed to open the browser app on my phone and brought up a reverse phone directory to see if I could tell who the phone number belonged to. However, all I could find out was that the owner lived in Portland.

  It was definitely time to check out the winery. What was the appeal? Why did people want it? What was so special about it? Did Aunt Bonnie’s wine taste that good?

  I whistled for Sherlock and headed toward the door. I hadn’t heard the dog approach but all of a sudden there he was, waiting to go outside with me. I eyed the leash hanging on a hook next to the door.

  “Do I need to put this on you? You’re not going to run away, are you?”

  Sherlock gave me an exasperated look, shook his collar, and then turned to stare at the door. He seemed a little too eager for my taste. I reached for the leash and immediately heard Sherlock utter something that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a low howl.

  Now I was the one cocking my head.

  “What was that? Are you okay?”

  Sherlock whined as he looked eagerly at the door.

  “Fine. You’d better not run off, pal.”

  I opened the door. Sure enough, Sherlock bolted outside. I took off after the dog but he was already around the corner of the house and out of sight.

  “Sherlock! Get back here! Dammit, where’d you go?”

  For a breed of dog with squat little legs, that sucker could move! I saw him, up ahead of me, running straight toward the large building up on the hill.

  Sherlock was heading for the winery. How had he known to go there? Had he heard me? Was a dog capable of understanding human speech? I made a mental note to Google it later.

  I caught up to Sherlock in front of a set of closed double doors. The lights were off inside, so I couldn’t see anything through the windows.

  “It’s locked, pal. Sorry.”

  Sherlock turned to look at me. He stared, unblinking. Nothing will quite put you on edge like having a dog look at you as though you are a complete dumbass. How the little booger knew I had the keys was beyond me.

  I fished out the ring of keys and unlocked the door. Sherlock and I walked through the open door together. I automatically felt along the inside of the wall to find the light switch. Once I was able to see, I whistled with surprise.

  I was standing in a small storefront. This was apparently where Aunt Bonnie sold the wine she had made at Lentari Cellars. Sherlock moved to an open display stand and sniffed at a couple of dusty bottles. I picked one up and studied it.

  The bottle was made of dark green glass, had a long graceful neck, and had a label that looked like ancient parchment. The words “Lentari Cellars” were printed in an elegant script across the top. Apparently the bottle I was holding was one of the Syrahs Woody had told me about.

  I ran my finger over the dark green elliptical seal located just beneath the Lentari Cellars name. Those two cops had been right. There was a big “LC” on the seal’s surface, along with an image of a griffin. One of the griffin’s front forelegs was extended, as though it was preparing to take a step. I put the bottle down and headed to a large swinging door that was behind the counter, marked ‘Employees Only’. I wasn’t one, but I think being the owner justified my presence there.

  There were all kind of machines back there that I knew absolutely nothing about. I could see boxes of labels, corks, and empty bottles. I saw large machines with metal pipes running between them. I saw a circular machine with grooves around the perimeter that looked as though a bottle would fit into it nicely.

  I could smell a faint trace of fermented grapes in the air, which really wasn’t too surprising. I didn’t mind the smell at all. In fact, the smell of red wine always reminded me of Thanksgiving and turkeys cooking in the oven.

  Hey, I said I don’t like to drink wine, but I do like it if someone decides to cook with it. Samantha was a pro at Thanksgiving. She could…

  Sorry. Veered again.

  Thinking of Sam right then spurred a strong feeling of nostalgia. Of family gatherings. Of accomplishing something and being proud of it. I looked around the winery and realized something. This was Aunt Bonnie’s livelihood. For all I knew, this was her dream. Samantha was part of that family. She would have loved the idea of running a private winery.

  I made a decision. I wanted to continue to keep the winery running. I wanted to keep Lentari Cellars producing wine. For Aunt Bonnie. For Samantha. She would have loved all this.

  Great. I guess I must have felt as though I didn’t have enough on my plate at the moment and one more task shouldn’t hurt anything. If I was planning on reopening the winery then I was going to need to learn how to make these machines run. Or, better yet, find someone that already knows and have them run it.

  Wait.

  How could Aunt Bonnie, a little old lady that had been in her 80s, run a place like this? The short answer is, she didn’t. She couldn’t. It would have been beyond her. She must have done the same thing I was contemplating. She must have had someone doing all the work. I just had to find out who. Perhaps she kept records of it somewhere.

  Sherlock had been wandering around some of the larger machines when he suddenly stopped and barked once. Great. Another mouse? I strode forward, eager to reclaim my dignity. Even if Sherlock was the only one in attendance to witness this, I had to prove I wasn’t afraid of a little rodent. If it was something else, say a rat for instance, then you were going to see a Zack-shaped hole punched into the surface of the door. Holding a corgi.

  “What is it, boy?” I asked as I navigated around the large machines. I had to watch out for low lying pipes or else I would end up clotheslining myself.

  I found Sherlock staring at something on the ground. I rounded a large circular tank and came to a stop. Well, it wasn’t a mouse and it wasn’t a rat. It was much worse.

  It was a shoe.

  The problem was, the shoe wasn’t empty. The foot was still there. Swallowing nervously, I walked around the large tank and cursed. As much as I didn’t want to find the rest of the owner of that shoe, I was secretly hoping it’d be just the shoe and the foot, as grisly as that’d be. Nope, it was all there. Or should I say ‘he’. I’d like to tell you that I w
as able to look at the still form that used to be a living person and check for clues but I wasn’t. I could see that it was a man wearing black jeans and a red shirt, that’s it. I wasn’t getting any closer.

  What was I supposed to do? The movies always depicted the hero bending down to check for a pulse, maybe inspect the body to see if they could determine cause of death. Hell no. I wasn’t touching that thing. Besides, the ashen complexion of the skin made checking for a pulse a moot point. I looked down at Sherlock, who was cautiously inching closer towards the dead body.

  “Do you know if it’s possible to be arrested twice in less than 24 hours?”

  Thirty minutes later I had what looked like the whole town on my doorstep. Seven police cars, which I later learned constituted the entire fleet of cars the PVPD had at their disposal, two fire trucks, and two ambulances were parked outside.

  Detective Samuelson was the first to arrive on the scene. I swear he sashayed into the back room of the winery, hands clasped behind his back, and smiling that arrogant smile of his.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson.”

  I nodded once.

  “Detective.”

  “Care to tell me what happened here?”

  “It was just as I described it. My dog led me up here. I unlocked the door, came in, followed Sherlock back here and found him. Like that.”

  “Do you know him?” Samuelson asked, pulling his small notebook from a concealed pocket.

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “You say you had to unlock the door?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding my head.

  The detective retraced his steps back to the front door and inspected the locks. The crime scene unit arrived then and began to process the scene. Sherlock and I were ordered away from the building, which we were more than happy to oblige. Since they were more interested in asking questions than slapping cuffs on me, I decided to cooperate and bite my tongue.

  Another thirty minutes passed. I saw a news van pull into my driveway. A woman wearing a bright blue business suit, with sneakers, jumped out of the passenger side of the van before it had even come to a halt. I watched her yank the sliding door open, reach in to grab a camera, and hand it to the driver as he came around the van.

  I groaned. How do I keep getting myself in this shit?

  I hadn’t realized it, but Samuelson had approached from behind and had been watching me closely for the last couple of minutes. He nudged my shoulder to get my attention.

  “You do realize you don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

  “Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?” I asked, perplexed. “Yesterday you were convinced I had killed that lady in the gallery.”

  “I’m still not convinced you didn’t do it, but as for the guy back there? He’s been dead for at least 12 hours, according to what the M.E. just told me. No signs of trauma, no blood anywhere. It looks like he just keeled over. We won’t know what killed him until an autopsy is done. Personally, I think he was killed elsewhere and dropped here, but don’t tell the captain I said that.”

  An overwhelming sense of relief swept over me. I wasn’t going to be thrown in jail again. At least, not yet.

  “Is there any way you can make them leave?” I quietly asked the detective, pointing at the news van.

  “This is your property, right?” Samuelson asked as we both watched the crew prepare for a shot.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you need to tell them that this is private property and ask them to leave. If they refuse then they are criminally trespassing. Then we can get involved. Can you do that?”

  “Gladly.”

  I strode towards the news lady, who saw me coming. She whipped out her microphone and strode purposely toward me as the cameraman lifted the large camera to his shoulder.

  “Clara Springfield, Channel 11 News, Medford. Are you Zachary Anderson, owner of the winery here?”

  “I am,” I said as I nodded. I looked at the camera and gave it a less-than-friendly smile. “You are on private property and I’m hereby requesting, on camera, that you leave. Will you comply?”

  The news reporter ignored me.

  “What can you tell us about the dead body you found in the winery today?”

  I turned to look back at Samuelson.

  “I asked, I informed, she ignored. Will you do the honors?”

  Samuelson nodded, his face becoming grim. He stepped directly in front of me and stared at the unblinking reporter.

  “The homeowner has refused to be on camera. He has asked that you leave. I’ll give you five minutes to pack your gear and go.”

  Sherlock and I sat on the steps leading up into my house and watched the news crew argue with Detective Samuelson. They were clearly not happy about being forced to leave. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to compound my problems here by plastering my mug all across town. I’m sure I was already the subject of many a conversation throughout PV by now and I didn’t want to add any more fuel to the fire.

  I watched the detective. Maybe he wasn’t such a prick after all. I definitely owed him a beer for scaring off the reporters.

  Once the news van had departed Samuelson walked back over to me and took a seat next to me on the front steps. With a sigh, he turned to give Sherlock a friendly pat. The corgi, in turn, licked his hand in greeting. After a few moments Detective Samuelson held his hand out to me.

  “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s try again, shall we? Vance Samuelson, detective, Pomme Valley PD.”

  I took the detective’s hand.

  “Zack Anderson. Writer. Oh, and winery owner. I should also mention I’m anti-wine.”

  “You moved to the wrong city,” Samuelson observed.

  “I’ve heard that more than once in the last two days, detective.”

  “Call me Vance.”

  “I will if you call me Zack.”

  Vance finally grinned.

  “You don’t like hearing yourself called Mr. Anderson? Let me guess. It reminds you of your father.”

  “No, it reminds me of Neo, from The Matrix.”

  Vance let out a short bark of laughter. Sherlock, concerned that he had been hurt, sidled closer and pushed his snout into the detective’s chest.

  “I’m alright, boy,” Vance assured the corgi. “Thanks for checking. I appreciate it.”

  “You’re talking to that dog as though he understands you.”

  Vance turned to me with surprise etched all over his face.

  “You’ve never owned a dog before, have you? They are some of the most intelligent, compassionate creatures I have ever seen. Personally? I love German Shepherds. I’ve owned them my whole life. I’ll admit there are a number of words I have to spell around my house. If I so much as pick up my keys or put on my shoes then Anubis is all over me.”

  I stifled a laugh.

  “Anubis, huh?”

  “My wife minored in Egyptology,” Vance offered by way of explanation.

  “What does one do with an Egyptology degree?” I wanted to know.

  The detective grunted once, shrugged, and stood up.

  “I have to tell you you’re still a suspect,” Vance informed me.

  Dick. I was just starting to like the guy.

  “But I also want to say that I do think you’re being set up,” Vance continued.

  Well, there’s a start.

  “Uh, thanks?”

  “Captain Nelson feels you are involved with this whole mess.”

  “I’m not,” I insisted.

  “The evidence suggests otherwise.”

  “I want to know about that notebook,” I told the detective. “Is it a coincidence the writing looks like it could be mine?”

  “I’d be more concerned about the fact that your prints were found on it,” Vance told me, scratching behind one of Sherlock’s ears. “If what you say is true then there is definitely someone out th
ere that wants to do you in.”

  “But who?” I demanded. “I don’t know anyone in town.”

  “Didn’t you say you had a friend in town earlier?” Vance asked.

  “Woody? From the toy store? Well, he’s more of a recent acquaintance. I met him at the café.”

  “And Dr. Watt?”

  I stared at the detective with an incredulous look.

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  Vance returned the stare with a ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ look on his face.

  “Who were you having lunch with yesterday?”

  Okay, they had me there.

  “Alright, I’ll give you that one. How did you know he was a friend of mine?”

  “Do you have lunch with that many strangers and their wives?” Vance asked with an indifferent air about him.

  “Point taken. You must have had me followed. Great. So, Vance, what happens now?”

  We turned to watch the fire trucks and the ambulances leave. Five of the police cars had already gone, leaving only two in front of the house. The coroner had left twenty minutes earlier.

  “Now it’s a waiting game. Let the crime scene boys do their thing.”

  Sounded tedious.

  “How long will that take?”

  Vance shrugged and stood up.

  “As long as necessary. My guess is they’ll be here for at least several more hours. I wouldn’t plan on reopening the winery until they’ve finished.”

  “I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

  Vance gave me a sidelong glance.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know a damn thing about making wine. I don’t know how Bonnie did it. She had to have someone helping her, but I have no idea who.”

  Vance pulled his little notebook back out and flipped it open.

  “What are you writing in there?” I asked.

  “Check into winery’s previous manager.”

  “As a possible murder suspect?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s someone who wants the winery for himself,” Vance said, stowing the notebook. “Have you had anyone ask you if the winery was for sale? Believe it or not, wineries value their recipes and will do anything to keep them a closely guarded secret.”

  “Enough to kill?” I asked, skeptical.

  Vance nodded, “Oh, hell yeah. Think about it. Let’s say one of the wineries around here started selling out every single time a batch was made, would that not raise an eyebrow or two? Would that not generate a negative feeling or two from the other winery owners?”

  “Possibly,” I admitted. “Someone did call first thing this morning and ask if the winery was for sale.”

  “Really? Who was it? Did they say?”

  I shook my head, “No. I kept asking and they kept ignoring. So I hung up on ‘em.”

  “Do you still have the number?”

  I dug out my cell, pulled up my call history, and showed it to the detective. Vance jotted the number down in his notebook.

  “I’ll check into it.”

  “What am I missing, Vance? A winery can’t be worth that much, can it?”

  “What if the demand was so high that there were waiting lists before you could even get a bottle?” Vance countered.

  “I’d say that’d be every winery owner’s wet dream.”

  “Yep. That’s what Lentari Cellars had going for it. Look back there. Do you see those fields? Practically everything you’re looking at is part of your winery.”

  I looked at the dusty, dirty brown fields filled with scraggly, sickly looking grape vines. It didn’t look that spectacular to me.

  “Lentari Cellars hasn’t produced a bottle since several months before your great aunt died. I don’t know what recipe she used, nor do I know if she was even the wine master. However, I do know a lot of people would be anxious to snap up a bottle should they go on sale.”

  “Are you a wine aficionado, Vance?”

  He nodded, “I am, but there’s not many good wines I can afford on my salary.”

  “Have you ever tried a bottle from Lentari Cellars?”

  “Your aunt’s winery made a great Syrah. It was my wife’s favorite.”

  “Come with me.”

  Sherlock was already one step ahead of me. The little corgi led us back to the front of the winery and trotted through the open door, as though he owned the place. I quickly scooped him up and led Vance inside. I selected a bottle of the Syrah I had noticed earlier in the day from a rack that had several bottles of each type the winery made and presented it to the detective.

  “I can’t take that,” Vance protested. “I’m sure there’s all kinds of waiting lists.”

  “It’s my winery, my bottles, and my choice. Take it as a way of saying thanks for forcing that news crew to leave earlier.”

  Vance took the bottle and thanked me profusely. Sherlock and I followed him back to the house as he headed towards his car. He turned and gave me a business card.

  “If Sherlock finds any other dead bodies you be sure to let me know.”

  Sherlock barked once, as if he were viewing it as a challenge.

  “Right. You got it. Vance, let me ask you one more thing.”

  The detective had just stepped inside his Oldsmobile sedan when he heard the question. He cranked the window down and stared expectantly at me.

  “Honestly, pal. Am I screwed? Someone is taking great pains to set me up and words cannot even begin to describe how much I don’t want to go back to jail.”

  I could see that Vance was truly giving the question some thought. He shook his head.

  “No police captain wants to have an open murder investigation in their city, let alone a small town like Pomme Valley. Captain Nelson wants this case closed as quickly as possible.”

  “What do you think I should be doing?” I asked.

  “See if you can get me a list of anyone who would benefit from you being locked away.”

  “Easier said than done, but I will try to come up with something for you.”

  After the detective left I checked in with the crime scene guys. They told me they’d be there at least another hour or two. The COD was still unknown, they said, but it did look like the guy was killed somewhere else and dumped there. There really wasn’t much evidence to collect. I told them I was going to run some errands and that I’d be back.

  “Come on, Sherlock. We’ve got a long list of things to do today, buddy.”

  Two hours later Sherlock and I were pulling away from Rupert’s Gas & Auto. I had gone looking for someone that could change out my locks but was informed this town didn’t have a dedicated locksmith. Un-freakin’-real. This had to be the only town in the U.S. where the town’s sole locksmith worked part-time as an auto mechanic. Thankfully he told me he’d swing by after work and redo all my locks.

  I had to drive to Medford in order to find a store that sold a television larger than 13”. Seriously, what was it with this town? Were people that afraid to get in touch with the outside world? I looked at the 50” LED sitting in the back of my Jeep. I couldn’t wait to fire that baby up.

  I was cruising down Main Street, looking for the town’s only grocery store, Gary’s Grocery, when Sherlock jerked his head up from where he had been curled up and woofed a warning. That got my attention. What did he see? What was the saying? If my dog doesn’t trust you then I sure as hell won’t? I was curious. I wanted to see what had attracted Sherlock’s attention. I slowed for a couple of pedestrians crossing the street and glanced up and down the rows of stores. I really didn’t see anything that warranted a second look.

  Sherlock woofed again. This time he stepped up onto the door’s arm rest, bringing the level of his head up so he could see out the window, and barked again. The corgi was staring straight at one of the shops. In fact, it had a bright purple door that, if I wasn’t mistaken, formerly had a big yellow ‘X’ in crime scene tape blocking
the way. Looks like the owner had finally taken the tape down.

  “Are you looking at that?” I asked Sherlock. The corgi turned to look at me, whined once, and returned his gaze to the purple door. He barked again. “That’s the gallery where all this trouble started. Why are you barking at it? There’s nothing there. Calm down.”

  Ever try telling a dog to calm down? Has it ever worked? Probably worked as well for you as it did for me. I was ignored. Something about that store had caught the corgi’s attention and he was demanding I do something about it.

  “Fine, fine. We can stop by to take a look. Provided they’re open and they don’t mind dogs. Will that shut you up?”

  Sherlock yipped excitedly. I still wasn’t convinced that a dog could understand what I was saying, but that yip had certainly sounded like a ‘yes’ to me. Besides, I strongly doubted the gallery would be open. After all, someone had lost their life in there.

  There were several places to park curbside. The wine festival was clearly over as the amount of foot traffic was much more manageable. Thankfully the incessant rain had tapered to a light drizzle. I parked my Jeep and walked around to the passenger side, as though I was opening the door for a date. Sherlock was sitting on the passenger seat, waiting patiently to be placed on the ground. I gathered the corgi in my arms and gently set him on the sidewalk.

  “There you go, your royal highness. You behave yourself, you got it? No peeing, pooping, or whatever else dogs do, okay?”

  We stepped up to the bright purple door and I experimentally tugged at the handle, not really expecting the gallery to be open. Much to my surprise the door swung open on well-greased hinges. Sherlock darted inside just as soon as there was enough room for him to slip through. I had a few more moments to wait.

  4th Street Gallery was nothing like I expected it to be. I thought art galleries were supposed to be tasteful; immaculate. Clean. I had expected to see maybe one or two paintings on each stark white wall with a spotlight or two aimed at each one. Since the gallery obviously housed the Bengál at one point I was also expecting to see sparkling clear display cases with all manner of sculptures in them.

  Just then my ears picked up Bon Jovi’s Slippery When Wet coming from the back of the store. I nodded. I was starting to like this Zora person. I had expected to hear some cheesy harp music upon setting foot inside.

  I hummed along to Livin’ on a Prayer, even checking the area to see if the coast was clear to perform a little air guitar during the solo. I found Sherlock facing an empty glass display case. Was this where the tiger had been displayed? Wrapping the leash tightly around my hand I returned my attention to what lay before me. This gallery was something else.

  Imagine you had an enormous amount of inventory to showcase and you only had limited space to do it. How, then, would you display your wares? Cover every square inch of open wall space with paintings? Shelves holding sculptures? Maybe an easel or two set in the middle of the floor containing works from the week’s featured artist?

  That didn’t even come close to describing what I saw. One of the four walls, the one immediately on my right as I stepped through the door, was covered from floor to ceiling in paintings, like the world’s best Tetris player had been hard at work making use of every square inch of space. The wall directly in front of me had a tiny office in the far left corner. The rest of the wall was an homage to Native American art. I saw bows, arrows, and woven blankets tastefully arranged all across the wall, interspersed by old photographs of teepees, Indians riding on horseback, or else posing for pictures.

  The other two walls are what had drawn my attention the moment I stepped through the door. They had floor to ceiling shelves with one of those mobile ladders on a track that librarians used to reach books on the top shelf. Stacked on the shelves, looking remarkably like rows of books, were more paintings. My eyes widened. I hadn’t ever seen that many paintings in the same place before at the same time. There were so many of them that Zora had resorted to storing them like books.

  I frowned. How were you supposed to sell the paintings if the customers couldn’t see what you had for sale? Perhaps she was continuously rotating the paintings hanging on the wall with those that were stored on the shelves.

  “Good afternoon,” a soft, sultry voice announced, breaking the silence. I immediately got the impression the speaker had smoked one too many cigarettes in their day.

  I turned to see who had spoken. I had been so preoccupied with taking in as much of the cluttered store as I could that I hadn’t noticed anyone else. Neither had Sherlock, because he started growling the moment the figure stepped out from behind an easel holding a large bulky painting.

  The figure was tall and gaunt, wearing blue jeans and an oversized sweater. Gray hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and hung past his shoulders. Her shoulders. Damn, I couldn’t tell if I was looking at a man or a woman. I studied the face. High cheekbones, narrow nose. Got it. It had to be a woman. This must be Zora. I should introduce myself.

  Wait. Was that an Adam’s apple?

  Let’s face it. With 50/50 odds I was destined to choose incorrectly and then I’d end up pissing off yet another person here in PV. Better play it safe. Maybe I could get them talking and then I’d be able to figure out if they were a man or woman.

  “How’s it goin’?” I answered, looking up from the large painting of a barn that had been concealing him from sight.

  “It is ‘going’ well,” the mysterious shopkeeper responded, using a neutral, if not patient tone of voice.

  I got the distinct impression my greeting was being mocked. The jerk. I still hadn’t determined what gender the voice belonged to.

  “It’s a nice place you got here.”

  “Quite.”

  Stuck up snob. I’ll figure you out yet.

  “Would you mind if I looked around?”

  “No.”

  “Not much of a talker, are you?” I jovially asked, using the friendliest tone I could muster.

  “Perhaps.”

  I moved right, intent on inspecting the huge Tetris wall. More specifically, I wanted to put some distance between myself and Gomez Addams. Or Morticia. I still couldn’t tell. I just knew whoever, or whatever it was gave me the creeps.

  I whistled as I looked up at the wall crammed full of paintings. Most, if not all, were not my style. Bowls of fruit, running horses, quaint cottages, babbling brooks. Nothing that I’d be willing to hang in my new house. Then again, if I’m not mistaken, there are a few paintings on my living room wall that could have been easily purchased from this shop, so I was not one to talk.

  I became aware of a presence just behind my right shoulder. Great. Morticia was following me around the store. That had to rank right up there in my top 3 pet peeves of all time: trying to successfully frost a cake, emptying the dishwasher, and being followed by a salesman as you looked through a store.

  Picking up on the scowl that was forming on my face, Sherlock looked over at the still figure of the gallery worker and woofed a warning. I glanced down at the corgi and gave him a pat on the head. Sherlock gave Morticia (or Gomez) a final look before pulling on his leash, leading me towards the far left of the Wall of Paintings. The Addams family wannabe followed closely behind. I sighed once and faced my shadow.

  “Hello again. Is there something you need?”

  “No.”

  “Afraid I’ll pull one of ‘em off the wall and make a break for it?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you following me?”

  “To be of service.”

  “What service?”

  “To help you with your purchase.”

  “Purchase? What purchase?”

  The gaunt figure smiled. Ever hear the expression ‘when your blood runs cold’? That’s what mine just did. It was a creepy sensation. My skin broke out in goose bumps and Sherlock woofed another warning.

>   “You are here for a purchase. Which painting would you like?”

  “Uh, I wasn’t planning on buying anything, pal.”

  “Nonsense,” the demure voice argued. Damn, I hoped she was a woman. I’m pretty sure men don’t talk like that. “It’s why you’re here, is it not?”

  “Truth be told, I just wanted to look around.”

  Sherlock pulled on his leash, leading me over to a painting with a bright orange wooden frame. It depicted a nude woman standing on her right foot. Her left foot was lifted, as though she was taking a step. She was facing away, but partially turned so that the profile of the left side of her body was visible. I had seen the style of painting before, back in high school. I liked it now just as much as I had then, which is to say, I didn’t.

  The painting looked sloppy; blurry. The picture had a lot of oranges and browns on the walls and on the bed, and the carpet the woman was standing on was green with orange blotches on it.

  Not an attractive painting.

  “Ah. After the Bath, by Edgar Degas. It was painted in 1883 and is a classic example of French Impressionism. This is only a reproduction, of course. An excellent choice.”

  The dillhole had the tenacity to unhook the painting from its holder on the wall, carry it over to a nearby work table, and start to wrap it up! I wasn’t buying that damn thing. Are you kidding me? It was ugly! I make fun of people who have art like that in their home. I certainly wasn’t going to be one of them.

  I started to protest when the top right corner of the frame caught my eye. There was a dark reddish smudge on it, as though it had been gripped by someone with paint on their fingers. A dirty, or marked, frame wasn’t something you’d typically find in an art gallery.

  My eyes widened. For the second time in as many minutes my blood ran cold. A dark red smudge? On the frame of a painting that just happened to be in a gallery where a murder took place the previous day? You can’t tell me that it wasn’t a coincidence.

  “Umm, excuse me? I think you need to put that painting down.”

  As though it was the most normal request she had ever heard (I was convinced it was a she, only it had to be the most masculine ‘she’ I had ever seen), she gently set the painting down and leaned it against the corner of the closest easel. She turned to look expectantly at me, as if waiting for an explanation. I pointed at the painting’s top right corner.

  “There’s something on the frame. Right there. Tell me that’s not blood.”

  The lady’s smooth demeanor finally cracked. Her eyes widened with shock and horror as she saw the blood. Aghast, she looked back at me. I sighed and pulled out my cell.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll call ‘em. I have them on speed dial.”

  FIVE