Another Day, Another Dali Page 5

  The maître d’ led us to a round table in the center of the room.

  My gaze skipped over the nearby tables, and I did a double take. Aunt Martha?

  She tootled her fingers as if she’d been expecting me.

  I slanted a glance at Nana, but she hadn’t seemed to notice her. How did Aunt Martha know I’d be here? I didn’t tell Mom where or when I was meeting Nana.

  It could be a coincidence. It wasn’t unheard of for Martha to share lunch at the MAC with a member friend. Then again, it also wasn’t beneath her to tail Nana all morning if she’d overheard me say I was meeting her and had guessed it might be concerning something interesting like an art theft.

  Nana’s clucking tongue cut through my thoughts. “Serena, sit. It’s poor manners to stand there staring at others.”

  I sank into the closest seat and scarcely contained a groan at the sight of all the forks and spoons. Nana had spent countless Sunday dinners drilling the art of proper eating into my brother and me—a skill I could begrudgingly admit to appreciating now, considering the circles I sometimes needed to circulate in while investigating art crimes. But somehow, around Nana I always seemed to forget everything I’d learned.

  Hopefully she’d be too preoccupied with the discussion to notice—I snuck a sideways glance at Aunt Martha—to notice a lot of things.

  We ordered the daily specials, then Gladys asked about the man I’d apprehended. “You’re so brave,” she gushed. “The work must be very satisfying.”

  “It can be. It would be very satisfying to be able to help you recover your Degas.”

  Gladys shot Nana a flustered look.

  What did I say wrong?

  “It’s a Dali, not a Degas,” Nana hissed.

  “But you said—”

  “I certainly know the difference between a surrealist and an impressionist,” she interjected.

  My heart raced as if I were still eight instead of twenty-eight and not smart enough to know correcting Nana was taboo. “Of course.” At least this meant the forgery in my tote bag wasn’t Gladys’s. I returned my attention to her. “I’m surprised you wouldn’t ask for your son’s help, though.”

  “Oh no. If he heard about”—she glanced around and lowered her voice—“you know . . . he’d be more determined than ever to put me in a home.”

  I wanted to argue, but I didn’t know Pete all that well. “Very well, then the first thing we need to do is arrange a time for me to visit your house.”

  “I suppose we could go after lun—” Gladys’s gaze lifted, and she let out a choked squawk.

  “Hi, Mom.” A male voice that could only be Pete Hoffemeier’s sounded from behind me. “I saw you and Mrs. Jones walking in as I wrapped up a call and thought I’d join you for lunch, if that’s okay.”

  Gladys’s face lost some of its color.

  “Of course it’s okay,” Nana jumped in.

  Gladys pasted on a cheery expression. “Yes, and look who else we ran into outside. Stella’s granddaughter, Serena.”

  I turned in my chair. “Hey, Pete, good to see you again.” He was in his late thirties, not as tall as I remembered, maybe five eleven, and his dark hair had thinned quite a bit since I last saw him. He was dressed in the usual patrolman’s uniform of a blue shirt and navy slacks and a gun belt weighted down with a good ten pounds of weapons, cuffs, and gadgets. Not typical attire for the MAC.

  “Good to see you too. I heard you were the one who foiled our bait-car apprehension out there.”

  I shrugged. “Someone’s gotta give you guys fresh fodder to fuel your FBI rants.”

  Laughing, Pete plunked down in the chair next to mine, then motioned to the waitress. “Could you add a steak sandwich to the order for this table?” He watched the waitress fill his water glass, then returned his attention to me. “So this little luncheon is the appointment you had to rush off to?”

  My spidey senses went on high alert. Matt was the only one I’d told about my appointment. And he wouldn’t have volunteered the information unless Pete had specifically asked about me. And there was only one reason why Pete would.

  He didn’t want me talking to his mother.

  “My annual fundraiser for the art program at the drop-in center is coming up,” Nana said when I failed to respond to Pete’s question.

  I nodded mutely at her explanation. After all, suspecting my grandmother’s best friend’s son of stealing said friend’s missing Dali painting would not win me any brownie points here.

  “She teaches a class at the center,” Gladys added, apparently feeling the need to explain what the fundraiser had to do with me.

  “That’s great,” Pete said, although his tone didn’t match his words.

  Gladys must’ve noticed, because she rushed on with, “Pete buys and sells real estate when he’s not working.”

  “Really?” I said in my that’s-fascinating voice. “How’s that going?”

  He traced lines through the condensation clinging to his glass of water. “It has its ups and downs.”

  Downs, huh? Struggling to recover from a financial hit would be a strong motive to develop sticky fingers. He’d certainly have had easy access to his mother’s painting.

  “He’s too modest,” Gladys protested. “He’s a whiz at it. His father, God rest his soul, got him started doing it for his twenty-first birthday. He’s done so well he could quit the police force if he wanted to.” She patted Pete’s hand and beamed at him. “But he enjoys serving the community.”

  Okay, so maybe his monetary motive wasn’t as strong as I’d thought. His mother clearly didn’t suspect him.

  A plain, dark-haired woman materialized at Pete’s side. “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

  “Hey, Tasha, good to see you.” Pete stood and gave the woman a peck on the cheek. “Can you join us?”

  A girlfriend?

  “Not today. I’m meeting a friend.” She rounded the table and leaned down to press a kiss to Gladys’s cheek. “Hi, Mom.”

  Ah, his sister. Yes, side by side, the family resemblance was obvious—the close-set eyes, the flat cheeks, the slender nose. Like her mother, she also wore expensive jewelry and designer clothes, although they weren’t as flattering as one might expect. Then again, what did I know? I dressed for taking down bad guys, not picking up bad boys.

  “You know Mrs. Jones,” Gladys said to her daughter by way of introduction. “This is her granddaughter, Serena.”

  Tasha limply shook my hand, her gaze bouncing from me to Pete.

  “We’re not together,” Pete said. “She’s FBI. It’d never work.” He winked at me, which earned me a peculiar second look from Tasha.

  “Is Lucas with you?” Gladys asked, then turned to me. “Lucas is her husband.”

  Okay, so scratch the picking-up-bad-boys remark.

  “No, I’m meeting a friend.” She waved across the room to another woman and headed off.

  Our food arrived, and as the conversation waned, I started getting antsy. I could hardly bring up the stolen painting with Pete at the table when Gladys had made it clear she didn’t want him to know. And I was sure I could feel Aunt Martha’s gaze on us.

  “Have you heard I specialize in art crime?” The question tumbled out of my mouth in a moment of recklessness, just to see how Pete would respond.

  Gladys choked on her food. Nana shot me a scowl.

  Pete seemed unfazed. “Yeah, you were called out to that Westmoreland burglary back in February, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right. I—”

  A man strode up to the table and slapped Pete on the back. “Hey, Pete, is that you? It’s been a long time.”

  What was this, Grand Central Station? At this rate, I should have said I needed to get back to work and made arrangements to visit Gladys later. Once I had the full story on the missing painting, I’d have a better sense whether Pete’s business dealings merited a closer look.

  I flicked a glance at Pete’s friend, and scarcely muffled my surprised squawk. What
was Nate’s brother doing here?

  His head cocked inquisitively. “Do I know you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Remembering to breathe, I redirected my gaze to my plate and prayed he wouldn’t recognize me from last night.

  He pulled up a chair between Pete and me.

  “Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room,” I mumbled to Nana and Gladys, rising from my chair.

  “You manage to sell that albatross yet?” Randy asked Pete.

  My step faltered. Was he talking about Pete’s real estate holdings? I stooped to tie my shoe, to stall long enough to catch Pete’s response.

  He made a face that I took to mean no.

  Hmm, the plot thickens. Being saddled with an expensive piece of unsalable real estate could’ve conceivably left him in a financial pickle.

  Across the room, Tasha also seemed to be more interested in the men’s discussion than whatever her friend was saying.

  Pete changed the subject, and I made a quick visit to the ladies’ room for appearance’s sake. When I emerged, Aunt Martha was standing in the hall, chatting with Nate’s brother.

  I shrank back, debating the wisdom of passing them to return to the table.

  “I imagine Nate’s mentioned Serena,” Aunt Martha said to him in a conspiratorial do-tell tone.

  “Serena? No. Only Sara. The woman he was with last night.”

  “Last night? But—” She whirled toward the ladies’ room door. “Oh, there’s Serena now. Are you sure she’s not who you saw him with?”

  I froze. Please don’t recognize me as Sara.

  6

  Randy grinned as our eyes met across the hallway outside the ladies’ lounge on the second floor of the MAC. “We meet again.” He extended his hand, and my breath lodged in my throat.

  Was he talking about last night? Or back at the table?

  “Your Aunt Martha tells me you’re a friend of my brother, Nate.”

  “Ah—” I forced the lump from my throat. “Yes.”

  His grin widened as his fingers closed around mine. “He’s been holding out on me.”

  Aunt Martha beamed at me, apparently forgetting that her favorite pick for me had been out with another woman last night. “Randy didn’t realize we were related.”

  Randy’s thumb lingered over an abrasion on the side of my hand that I must’ve gotten during the takedown. “You and Nate dating?”

  “Just friends.”

  Aunt Martha rolled her eyes. “Only because she’s as gun-shy as your brother.”

  I shot her the evil eye. She made it sound like I was afraid of commitment, when I was just being practical. What kind of guy wanted to put up with the hours I kept?

  Randy chuckled, and I couldn’t help but wonder if, unlike me, Nate really was gun-shy. And why.

  Movement at the dining room’s entrance seemed to catch Randy’s eye, and he excused himself.

  “What are you doing here? Following me?” I asked Aunt Martha, realizing too late that if I was wrong and her luncheon date had been entirely innocent, her antenna would shoot up now. After all, I wouldn’t be worried about being spied on if I wasn’t up to something I didn’t want her to know about.

  “Pfft.” She waved off the accusation. “I was here before you.” Only she didn’t meet my gaze, and her hand was fluttering again. “You know if you keep taking every chap’s interest for granted, one day you’re going to find they’ve all gone shopping elsewhere.”

  Oh yeah, she was definitely deflecting. That was my mother’s line, not my happily single-all-her-life Aunt Martha’s line.

  “Okay, so you were following Nana to find out why she wanted to see me?”

  “Nonsense! Your mum already told me that. She wanted your opinion on some art.”

  I searched her eyes, certain she was playing me. And not minding, really. But Nana would be livid if I spilled anything about Gladys’s misfortune to Aunt Martha. “So you’ll be heading home now?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to nip to a friend’s first.” She gave me a hug. “I won’t keep you from your lunch date any longer. Wouldn’t want to get you in your grandmother’s bad books.”

  By the time I returned to the table, Pete was gone.

  Nana clapped her knife and fork on her plate a tad too deliberately. “What kept you so long?”

  “Sorry, couldn’t be helped. Pete gone back to work?”

  “Yes,” Gladys chirped, appearing much more at ease than she had before I left. “He said to tell you bye.”

  “Well, then, what do you say we head to your house so I can get the full story on your missing painting?” I tucked my tote bag sporting the Degas under my arm. “I just need to stop by headquarters to drop this off and then I’ll meet you there.”

  Gladys lived in the affluent Central West End, northeast of Forest Park—the neighborhood at one time or another of such famous families as the Johnsons of Johnson & Johnson, Tennessee Williams, and poet T. S. Eliot. Gladys’s home was built just before the World’s Fair of 1904, if I remembered correctly. It had been an opulent place in the colonial revival style, but it fell into disrepair following the Great Depression and cost the Hoffemeiers a fortune to return to its old glory when they bought it for a steal in the early 1950s.

  When I pulled into the driveway, my foot almost slipped from the brake at the sight of an unexpected couple—Nate and Aunt Martha—emerging from the house next to Gladys’s. My car jolted to a stop behind Nana’s BMW as my internal radar went on hyperalert. And . . . what was that wooden contraption Nate was carrying?

  A spinning wheel?

  Curiosity warred with the certainty that it was no coincidence the friend Aunt Martha happened to be visiting this afternoon was Gladys’s next-door neighbor. Except she usually asked me straight out about my cases before she started snooping.

  I spared a quick glance at Gladys’s front window to make sure she wasn’t watching for me, then scooted across the driveway. “What’s with the spinning wheel?”

  Nate stumbled down a step, then caught himself. “Don’t ask me. I’m just the hired muscle.”

  “Ooh, isn’t it wonderful?” Aunt Martha raved. “I overheard Ida at the hairdresser’s complaining about having to dust this old thing, so I told her I knew someone who could make good use of it. You know Theresa down the hall from you? She’s been spinning cat fur for years using a little hand spinner. She’s going to love this.”

  “Who’s Ida?”

  “The Kresges’ housekeeper.” Aunt Martha motioned to a woman standing in the home’s doorway. “Ida, this is the great-niece I was telling you about who works for the FBI.”

  The slim, gray-haired fifty-something-year-old nodded. “I imagine you’re here to investigate Mrs. Hoffemeier’s missing Dali painting? Ruby told me Gladys’s friend had an in with the FBI.”

  Okay, I had no idea who Ruby was either, but if the neighbors’ housekeeper already knew about the theft, how did Gladys expect to keep the news from her son?

  “Oh my,” Aunt Martha exclaimed, not fooling me for a second with her feigned surprise. “Was that the painting your grandmother—”

  “We’d better not keep you,” Nate said, slamming the hatch on his old Land Rover, the spinning wheel now stowed in back.

  I tossed him a silent thank-you and spun back toward Gladys’s driveway.

  Nana and Gladys chose that moment to meander around the side of the house, apparently having been strolling in the garden. A tall man in a well-tailored, three-piece gray suit, carrying a small cardboard box under his arm, accompanied them.

  “Guess that answers my question,” Aunt Martha said. “I thought that looked like Stella’s BMW in the driveway.” To her friend, she muttered, “Can you imagine why anyone in their right mind would spend so much on a car?” This from the woman who drove a powder-blue clunker that was older than I was.

  The man in the suit kissed Gladys’s cheek, said something I couldn’t make out, then strode past me to a Bentley parked at the curb. He looked to
be fortyish, half Gladys’s age, and wore a wedding band.

  “My son-in-law,” Gladys said in response to the curious look that must’ve crossed my face. “Tasha asked him to stop by to pick up a tureen she needs to borrow for their dinner party.”

  Or the family tag-teamed each other to keep an eye on their mother and the FBI agent that kept popping into her life.

  “Hello, Stella,” Aunt Martha oozed in Nana’s direction. “It’s been too long.”

  Yeah, we could thank Mom’s strategic timing of the obligatory monthly mother-in-law invitation for that, considering Nana was not one of Aunt Martha’s favorite people. Mom never complained in my hearing about her mother-in-law’s slights, but I suspected listening to Aunt Martha on top of it, harassing her about putting up with the woman, was more than she could handle.

  “You should come to dinner tomorrow,” Aunt Martha went on in a saccharine voice.

  Oh, I really didn’t like the sound of this. Now that she knew about the stolen painting, she’d clearly decided to sidestep me and go straight to the source for leads.

  “I’m cooking shepherd’s pie. One of your favorites, isn’t it?”

  I’m not sure if it was shock at the unprecedented friendly invitation or the pressure of so many pairs of eyes on her, but Nana accepted.

  “Wonderful. We’ll see you then. You too, Serena.”

  I forced a smile, mentally debating whether it’d be better to go and mitigate potential damage or to stay as far away as I could get.

  Gladys led Nana and me to the front door. A middle-aged Latino woman greeted us, wearing the kind of dress-and-apron getup I hadn’t seen since Brady Bunch reruns. “I set the tea in the drawing room, ma’am,” she said.

  “Thank you, Ruby.”

  Ah, so that cleared up the who’s-Ruby mystery.

  The foyer was massive, with high ceilings, Italian slate floors, dark, intricately carved moldings, and a stained-glass window that cast a colorful light show on the wall.

  “The drawing room is this way.” Gladys led us to a formal room to the right of the foyer. The floors looked as if they’d been recently updated to a warm oak, but the marble fireplace, flanked by built-in bookshelves edged in the same ornate moldings that finished the windows, was exquisite and definitely original.