Murder is an Art (19 page)

“And Jorge has the painting.”

“Yes. Which everyone tells me to forget about.”

“So where does that leave us?” Jack asked.

Sally turned her nearly empty coffee cup in her hands.

“I don't know,” she said.

Jack tried to think of something, but nothing came. He supposed Sherlock Holmes didn't have to worry about being shoved aside after all.

“Do you remember a movie called
Animal House?
” Sally asked.

The phrase that leapt to Jack's mind was
non sequitur,
but he didn't say that. He said, “Sure I remember it. It was the story of my freshman year in college.”

Sally smiled. “Were you Otter?”

“That would be me.”

“Good. I was afraid you might have been Bluto. But he's the one I was thinking of. I think he's the one we need to consider as a role model right now.”

“Why?”

“Do you remember the scene where someone says that the situation calls for some kind of action, something really stupid?”

“Yeah. And Bluto says, ‘And we're just the guys who can do it.'”

“That's the scene, all right.”

“And you're thinking?”

“Of doing something really stupid.”

“Well,” Jack said, “we're just the guys who can do it.”

31

Sally wasn't sure just when she'd decided to take Jack on as her partner in crime. Or anticrime. And she still wasn't sure what their relationship was. At any rate, Jack seemed like a nice guy, and since he'd been in on finding Tammi's body, maybe he deserved a chance to help her crack the case.

Crack the case,
she thought.
I haven't done a thing, and I'm already starting to think in clichés from bad novels.

Her plan was simple. They would take the painting from Jorge's car, bring it to Chief Desmond, and confront him with the fact that Jorge must have removed it from the art gallery.

“And then what?” Jack asked.

“Nothing. That's all we do. After that, we're out of it. Desmond can turn things over to Weems and the locals, and they'll figure out just how Jorge is involved.”

“I have an idea about that,” Jack said. “Jorge's involvement, I mean. Would you like to hear it?”

“Of course.”

Jack looked around. There were people coming into the coffee shop now, and it wouldn't be long before there were others seated in the room with them. The tables were too close together for confidential conversations, and besides, Jack wanted something stronger than a Diet Pepsi.

“Could I tell you about it at dinner?”

Sally had to think about that for a minute. She had never dated anyone from the school, and she wasn't sure she wanted to start, no matter how nice Jack seemed.

But it wouldn't actually be a date, she reminded herself. They were discussing a plan. And after dinner, they would be putting the plan into action.

So she said, “Only if you let me pay for myself.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jack said.

*   *   *

They wound up at the Old Mexico, a restaurant that had been in Hughes for as long as most people could remember. It had been opened by Emilio Parra shortly after the Second World War, and he had managed it for over forty years. When Emilio stepped down, his son Roberto took over.

Jack ordered a chili relleno, and Sally decided on the veggie enchiladas.

“And I'll have a Dos Equis,” Jack told the waiter, one of Roberto's sons. “Sally?”

For just a second, Sally hesitated. What if someone from the college were to see the two of them sitting there drinking Mexican beer?

On the other hand, who cared?

“Sounds good to me,” she said.

At Jack's request, they were seated in a booth at the back of the restaurant, not exactly secluded, but not within easy hearing distance of anyone else who might come in.

The waiter came back with two frosty bottles of Dos Equis and two glasses. He poured the beer for the two of them and left the bottles on the table.

Jack took a sip of beer. It was a lot better than a Diet Pepsi.

“So,” Sally said. “What's your idea about Jorge?”

“I've actually told you already,” Jack confessed. “But it seems to make more sense now.”

“You mean about Jorge and Vera going to Val's office to talk to Val and killing him there?”

It sounded weak, even to Jack. Just as it had the last time he'd mentioned it to Sally. But he kept on going.

“Jorge could have done it.”

“You said that before, too. I didn't believe it then.”

“I know,” Jack said. “I guess I shouldn't have brought it up again.”

“But it does make more sense now,” Sally said.

Jack brightened. “It does?”

“Well, maybe not. But there's the painting.”

“Right. It ties Jorge to the murder.”

Sally drank some of her beer. “I wouldn't go that far, not if Vera is the killer.”

“Why not?”

“Because the painting doesn't fit in with your idea that the murder has something to do with Vera, that's why. Vera doesn't have any connection to the painting.”

“As far as we know, she doesn't,” Jack said. “But what if there's something we
don't
know?”

“There's not,” Sally said. “Not about Vera, at least. I almost wish there were.”

“Maybe we could think of something.”

“No. The painting's connected with the prison, not with Vera.”

“The prison,” Jack said. “Ah-ha.”

“Ah-ha?”

“Sure. Who do we know who has served time in prison?”

“Jorge. But we already know he has something to do with the painting. He brought it to the school, and it's in his car right now.”

“Unless he ditched it,” Jack said, and then he had another idea. “What if he went to the gallery and got into some kind of argument with Val about the painting?”

Sally thought about it. She could imagine Jorge swelling with anger, his muscles cording under his shirt as he split the back out of his suit. She wondered why she kept having fantasies about Jorge. It didn't seem very healthy. She shook her head.

“Why would he have killed Val?” she asked. “And why take the painting?”

“We could always ask him.”

Sally didn't laugh this time. “I just don't think that would be a good idea. We can't let him know we suspect him. If he thinks we're onto him, he'll just get rid of the painting.”

“Well, we can't let that happen,” Jack said. “After all, we're going to do something really stupid about the painting.”

Sally was about to agree, but the food arrived on sizzling hot plates. They stopped talking about the painting and began to eat.

When they were done and the waiter had brought the check, Jack said, “Are you sure you want to pay for yours?”

“Yes,” Sally said, without hesitation.

Jack looked at the check. “Then you owe seven dollars and twenty-nine cents. Plus a tip.”

Sally opened her purse and got out the money.

*   *   *

It was dark when they left the restaurant, but that didn't mean the college parking lot would be dark. It was always well-lighted. Sally wasn't worried about being seen, however. She wasn't planning to be there long.

“You're sure Jorge is working tonight?” Jack asked on the way.

“He works every night,” Sally said. “That's why he can come in so late every morning. He told me once that he likes it that way.”

Someone had to be on campus in the evenings to help with the copy machine, to take phone calls from part-time instructors who might be coming in late or not at all, and to handle any minor emergencies that might crop up.

The campus police didn't want the job. They had plenty of other things to do.

None of the administrators or department chairs wanted the job, either. They wanted to spend their evenings at home unless they were teaching.

But Jorge liked the work, and after being at the college for only one semester, he had volunteered for it. No one tried to talk him out of it.

Sally drove the Acura into the parking lot. They had left Jack's car at the restaurant.

“Do you know where Jorge usually parks?” Jack asked.

“No,” Sally said. “But the most convenient faculty spots are down by the Art and Music Building.”

“Convenient?” Jack said.

“Yes. And it would be convenient for anyone taking a painting out of the building, too.”

Jack spotted the Celica. It was in a faculty spot, all right, but it was surrounded by cars with student stickers. The police patrolled the lot in the evening, but they never ticketed anyone.

“What if the cops catch us?” he asked.

“We'll just have to be quick,” Sally said, “and get our business taken care of before they come around to this part of the lot again.”

She pulled into a spot that was as close to the Celica as she could get.

“Now comes the hard part,” she said.

Jack knew what she meant. It had sounded possible when she'd told him about it at the coffee shop. Stupid, yes, but possible.

Now it just sounded stupid, but he knew he had to go through with it. He didn't want Sally to think he was a coward.

They got out of the car, their faces eerie in the yellowish parking-lot lights. Sally opened the Acura's trunk. Lying inside it was something called a slim jim, a long thin piece of metal that the campus police used to open locked car doors.

“I locked my keys in the car a week ago,” Sally had explained to Jack. “Desmond couldn't send anyone to help me, and he was busy, too, so he just gave me the slim jim and told me to open the car myself.”

“He's a trusting soul.”

“He didn't trust me at all. He was just too rushed to be any help, and I was pretty upset. So he got rid of me the best way he could.”

Jack looked at the slim jim. “So you know how to use that thing?”

“It took me awhile, but I finally got the door unlocked. You just slide the slim jim down beside the window glass, and if you get it in the right place, you can pop the lock.”

“Desmond didn't want his slim jim back?”

“I'm sure he did. I just forgot about it. I can give it back to him when we present him with the painting.”

Looking down at the slim jim now, Jack wondered what he was doing there. He wasn't the criminal type, and his palms were getting sweaty. But he reached down and got the slim jim anyway. When he did, he saw the pistol case.

“What's this?” he asked.

Sally told him. “I was hoping to get in some target practice today. I didn't think about the funeral.”

“You take target practice?”

“Now and then. It relaxes me.”

Jack was beginning to wonder about Sally. She shot pistols, and she knew how to jimmy a car door. He wasn't the criminal type, but maybe she was.

He pushed the trunk shut and looked around the parking lot. There was no one around. The students and instructors were all safely inside, in the classrooms.

“The coast is clear,” Jack said.

“Now
you're
doing it,” Sally said.

“Doing what?”

“Never mind. Let's go.”

They started toward Jorge's car. Jack had a sudden thought.

“What if the doors aren't locked?”

“They'll be locked. He wouldn't leave the painting in the car without locking the doors.”

“Makes sense.”

They were at the car then, and Jack tried the door handle. It was locked, all right. He looked inside.

“There's another possibility,” he said, turning to Sally.

“What's that?”

“Have a look,” Jack said.

Sally glanced into the car's interior. The painting wasn't there.

32

“Now what?” Jack said, secretly relieved that he wasn't going to have to engage in any overtly criminal activity.

“Maybe he put it in the trunk,” Sally said.

A cold sweat popped out on Jack's forehead. Trying to open the car door was one thing. Trying to open the trunk was something else. He was sure that even Sally had never done anything like this before.

Or had she?

“I don't think it would be a good idea to break into the trunk,” Jack said. “Especially since that's the patrol car coming around the corner.”

Sally saw the white police car moving slowly in their direction. She held the slim jim at her side, making it nearly invisible.

“Let's put this thing back in my car,” she said. “I have a feeling I know where the painting is.”

“Where?” Jack asked, holding his breath as the patrol car passed slowly by the end of the row where they were standing.

“You'll see,” Sally said, without even a glance in the car's direction. “I don't think he got rid of it, though.”

Sally opened the trunk and returned the slim jim to its place. Jack pushed the trunk shut again.

“All right,” he said. “Now, where's the painting?”

“Follow me,” Sally said, and headed in the direction of the art gallery.

They climbed the stairs to the gallery and looked through the glass doors. There was a light on in the gallery, and high on the wall there was a TV camera moving slowly from side to side. Desmond had already installed the security system, though it didn't make Sally feel any safer.

The painting of the goat was hanging on the wall at the end of the gallery as if it had never been gone.

“Are you sure it wasn't there all along?” Jack asked when Sally pointed it out.

Sally gave him a look that made him wish he'd kept his mouth shut.

“There's something different about that goat,” she said. “I have to get a closer look.”

She tried the door handle, and the door swung open.

“Why isn't the door locked?” Jack asked.