To Catch a Leaf (18 page)

“Who else besides your brother knows the code?” Marco asked.

“All of us have it.”

“Including the chauffeur and housekeeper?”

“Mrs. D. knows it, of course, but not Luce. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

Two cops strolled in, one of them Marco's buddy Sergeant Sean Reilly, a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed, nice-looking forty-year-old who had trained under my dad. The other cop was a rookie, judging by the pimples on his forehead and the way he swaggered, trying to make himself look like a veteran.

Reilly gave Marco a friendly nod, but merely shook his head when he saw me.

“I'm not responsible for anything that happened here,” I told him.

“Yeah, right,” Reilly said.

“I was just bringing Mr. Ventury to you, Officer,” Virginia said.

“No problem,” Reilly said. “We can talk to him here. We wanted to get a look at the paintings anyway.”

“I'll leave Mr. Ventury with you, then,” Virginia said, and moved back as the cops stepped forward.

“Mr. Ventury is it?” Reilly asked, taking out his notepad. “Is that V-E-N-T-U-R-Y?”

“Yes, that's right,” the rotund little man said.

“First name?” Reilly asked.

“Millard.”

“Come again?” Reilly asked, cupping his hand around his ear.

“
Mill
-ard,” the appraiser said with a raised voice, clearly thinking Reilly was hard of hearing. “M-I-L-LA-R-D.”

I had to press my face into Marco's shoulder so I wouldn't giggle.

“Thank you. I can hear just fine,” Reilly said. “Would you explain how you know these paintings are forgeries?”

“I'd be delighted.” The appraiser cleared his throat, preparing to repeat his lecture.

Seeing that Virginia had managed to slip away, I tugged on Marco's sleeve, and he followed me into the hallway. “No sense sticking around for a rehash,” I said. “Let's go pester Virginia.”

“Why do you want to pester her?”

“I don't like her attitude.”

“Come on, Abby, you know an investigator has to be objective.”

“And you, my sexy Prince Charming, know I operate on gut feelings. And my gut is telling me that Virginia Newport-Lynch is hiding something, or is afraid of something, or is ashamed of something, and is using her snooty attitude to keep us at bay. We have questions in need of answers, Marco. Let's go get her.”

I would have started up the hallway, but Marco caught my arm. “Virginia just came out of a dead faint, Abby. That's not someone who'll appreciate being grilled. You're likely to get attitude but not much cooperation.”

“Want to bet whether I can get her to cooperate?”

“It wouldn't be fair. I'd win. Let's come back to her later when she'll be more receptive.”

“She might not be around later, Marco. Seize the day.”

He gave me a kiss on the nose. “You're cute when you're feisty. If you're that determined, go for it, babe.”

“Aren't you coming with me?”

“I want to stick around until Ventury is finished so I can talk to Sean. He might have an update on the murder investigation.”

“Okay, I'll be back. Oh, wait, Marco. What's the wager?”

“Whoever wins it calls it.” He gave me a devilish smile. “And anything goes.”

I felt the tingles start in my toes and work their way upward. “You've got a deal, Salvare.” With a happy sigh, I turned to go, the repayment possibilities stretching out before me like the menu board at a day spa.

“Abby,” Marco said, “if you do get Virginia to talk, see if she knows how much Constance was involved with the art collection.”

“Take the
if
out of it. I'll be back with answers. Be prepared to lose the bet, bucko.”

Marco stepped inside the storage room, so I took off in the direction I thought Virginia had gone. Once again I made a wrong turn, but this time I ended up outside what appeared to be a library. I walked around the walnut-paneled room, my head tilted back to see all the leather-bound tomes filling the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

The library had a rolling ladder to provide access to the top shelves, a fireplace on the outside wall, and a marble inlaid table in the middle surrounded by leather club chairs. It was the perfect room in which to curl up with a good book. But as tempting as that sounded, I had more important things to do.

As I continued up the hallway I heard murmuring in the next room. I tiptoed closer and paused outside the door to listen as a panicky voice said in a hushed tone, “We should have gotten rid of it right away.”

Rid of what?

“I can't now,” the same voice whispered. “It's too late.”

I glanced behind me to be sure no one was watching, then inched closer to hear more, but all I heard was the soft rustle of fabric. Were two people in the room or was someone talking on the phone? I got down on my hands and knees but just as I was about to peer around the corner, the wooden floor creaked beneath me.

A jolt of fear shot through my body. I backed away from the doorway, then got to my feet and pretended to study a painting on the wall, while my heart pounded so hard, my chest hurt. When no one appeared after a few minutes, I guessed I'd overreacted and sidled near the doorway again. But after waiting several long minutes and hearing only silence, I looked around the doorframe.

I was gazing into a formal sitting room, with an elegant pale green watered silk sofa and four striped club chairs framing a white marble fireplace. But whoever had been there was gone.

Spotting French doors on the opposite side of the room, I hurried around the grouping of furniture and opened one side of the double doors. I glanced up and down the brick walkway outside, and then stepped outside for a better look, but no one was in sight. Frustrated, I shut the door and returned to the hallway.

Hearing a rapid
tap-tap-tap
of high heels, I turned to see a shapely young woman with long raven hair coming toward me from the direction of the front door. She had beautiful olive skin, glossy black hair, and more curves than I did. She wore a fitted hot-pink leather jacket, a black-and-red scarf around her neck, a black miniskirt, tight black leggings, and thigh-high black patent boots with spike heels. A glossy pink tote bag was slung over her shoulder, completing the fashionable ensemble. Lottie would be drooling over all that pink.

The woman's musky perfume reached me before she did, making my nose twitch with a building sneeze. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I'm Abby Knight and I'm here with my fiancé, a private investigator. And you are?”

“I am,” she said haughtily, “Juanita Maria Elena Garcia.” Then, as though she suddenly remembered, she added, “Newport.”

Ah
. The daughter-in-law. I turned my head and sneezed hard. Not a fan of musk.

When I glanced back, Juanita was looking me up and down and wrinkling her nose, clearly finding my blue jeans, sneakers, and bright yellow T-shirt lacking panache. With a slight Hispanic accent she said, “What does your fiancé's business have to do with us?”

I didn't want Juanita to think she was intimidating me; at the same time, I couldn't make her too angry or I'd never get any information from her, so I tamped down my inclination to give her a flip remark and instead said in a friendly voice, “He's investigating Mrs. Newport's death. We just finished interviewing the art appraiser and now he's discussing the case with the police.”

Putting a hand clad with diamond rings and long hot-pink fingernails on her hip, Juanita said, “Who put your fiancé in charge of the investigation? He's not a cop.”

“Attorney David Hammond did.”

That stumped her for a second. “Well, then, who put Mr. Hammond in charge?”

“Grace Bingham hired him.”

I sneezed again just as Virginia came out of a door farther up the hallway, looking anything but in a mood to be cooperative. “Did I hear you say Grace Bingham hired you? The woman who murdered my mother?”

As the pair glared at me, waiting for an answer, I drew myself up—it doesn't make me taller; it only makes me bolder—and said, “Since there's not one shred of evidence that proves Grace murdered your mother, I'd be careful with those allegations.”

“Or what?” Juanita asked, lifting her chin defiantly.

She would ask that. Well, two could play the intimidation game. I said casually, “Or I'll tell the cops that you're withholding information.”

“What?” Juanita asked, then glanced at Virginia in wide-eyed disbelief—a little too wide-eyed to be sincere. “That's ridiculous.”

“You have a lot of nerve barging into this house making wild accusations,” Virginia snapped.

“I happen to know that neither one of you told the detectives everything you know about Monday morning.” I gave each woman a meaningful glance. It helped that no one ever told everything at the first interview.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Juanita said. “Why would you make such a ridiculous charge?”

“Want me to prove it?” I asked.

Juanita opened her mouth but quickly closed it again, as though she'd lost her nerve, while Virginia said with a smirk, “Please enlighten us.”

I turned toward Juanita. “What did you and Constance argue about the morning she died?”

She stared at me wide-eyed, as if to say,
How did you know that?

Seeing her response, or lack thereof, Virginia swung toward her sister-in-law. “Is that true? You had words with Mother on Monday morning?”

“I don't know what this crazy woman is talking about,” Juanita said halfheartedly.

“The argument happened at breakfast,” I said, “and another one before lunch. That makes two arguments that day.”

Virginia stepped closer, causing Juanita to move back. “Is that why Mother was so upset when I came downstairs for lunch? What happened, Nita? Weren't you discreet enough that morning?”

Discreet
was an interesting word choice. It suggested devious activities and sneaky schemes. I tucked that tidbit away for future use.

Juanita tossed her glossy black mane. “I will not waste my time defending something so ridiculous.” With that, she turned and
tap-tap
ped away, muttering under her breath, “Totally ridiculous.”

That must have been her word for the day. Interesting that she hadn't denied the accusation.

Virginia shifted her ferocious gaze to me. “How did you know about their arguments?”

“Investigators never reveal their sources.”

She moved closer. “Was it from the English woman?”

“That has no bearing on the matter,” I said, backing up a step.

“It was Bingham, wasn't it?” Virginia placed her hands on her hips. “How sad that you'd take the word of a murderer as the truth.”

Deep breath, Abby.
I filled my lungs and let out the air to the count of ten. “Whether you like it or not, Grace Bingham was your mother's friend and confidant. What Constance confided to her could help find the killer.”

Virginia grew silent. Then she peered at me curiously. “What else did Grace tell you about Monday morning?”

If she wanted to know, she'd have to play nice. I had a bet riding on it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“S
hall we sit down?” I indicated the green sofa in the sitting room behind me.

Virginia folded her arms. “I think not.”

“Suit yourself.” I walked into the room and took a seat on the sofa across from the white marble fireplace. It was important to establish who was in charge.

Virginia sighed loudly, then followed suit, folding her long skirt around her legs as she sat as far away from me as she could. She took a breath and let it out in a huff. “What else did Grace Bingham tell you about Juanita's argument with my mother?”

“I never said my source was Grace. And that's all I know about your sister-in-law, although her having two arguments with your mom on the day she died is quite a bit to know. It puts her in the category of strong suspect.”

I watched how that news played out on Virginia's face. She was mulling it over, trying to decide if that would help her situation or not.

“What did your
source
tell you about me?” she asked.

“I'd be happy to share that with you if you'll tell me about the art collection.”

“It would take an entire semester to enlighten you,” she said snidely.

“How about this? Who was responsible for rotating the paintings in and out of storage?”

Virginia began picking at a thread on the sofa's rolled armrest, probably to show me how bored she was. “My mother saw to that.”