6 - The Eye of the Virgin: Ike Schwartz Mystery 6 Page 3
“So, how is your dad?”
“When my mother died, he spiraled down into a real funk. Understandable, of course, but it had me worried. Now he seems pretty chipper. He’s been running over to Richmond a lot lately. I guess he’s been catching up with his old political pals. You know, sitting around and swapping lies about the good old days, before the Party became politically correct.”
“You’re not going start again, are you? I don’t want to hear your political correctness rant today.”
“Nope, beyond pointing out to you, who, after all, represents that line of country as well as anyone I know, that political correctness is neither.”
“Excuse me?”
“It is neither political nor correct, just posturing.”
“You won’t get me tonight, Schwartz. I did not come out here to have you ruin the view with your prehistoric maunderings.”
“Maunderings? Wow, That’s impressive. I’m impressed.”
“Shut up. What’s for dinner?”
“I have imported some very nice tuna salad with pistachios in it, no less, Fresh tomatoes, or nearly so, as fresh as the super market can supply anyway, and a choice of either a baked potato or canned whatever is in the larder.”
“Potato, please, a small one. Since I began hanging around with you I have gained one whole dress size. You’d better watch it or this particular view will change a whole lot more than blond.”
“Zaftig, Rubenesque—”
“Enough. What’s going on in the sheriff’s office?”
“A breaking and entering, but you know that—your faculty guy, and an odd murder. At least I think it’s a murder.”
“How odd?”
Ike filled her in on the corpse in the clinic. “It’s sort of weird, if you follow.”
“That’s my boy, solver of weirdnesses.”
“Right. So, how’re your folks?”
“I told you my mother left my dad. She’s gone off a little, I think.”
“Off?”
“You know she was my father’s second wife. The first one I never met. My father would only say that she was ‘difficult.’ I’m not sure I know what that meant. Anyway, he married one of his students. She is much younger than he.”
“I remember her vaguely. Always in the background when we would visit the dean’s house. It was a big deal then.”
“For you, maybe, but not for me and certainly not for her. I guess she missed not having a youth of her own, and the age difference got to her. Anyway, my father contracted Alzheimer’s. Is that right? Do you contract, or does it creep up on you?” Ruth raised one eyebrow and lowered the other. Ike called it her Popeye look. “She spent the next six years taking care of him, until she couldn’t anymore. He’s in a constant care facility and doesn’t know who she is.”
“It happens, I guess.”
“It’s worse. My father, demented and all, met a woman who looks remarkably like his first wife, and he thinks they are married. He yells at my mother to go away when she visits. So she stopped going. She decamped and has kept herself occupied since then with personal improvements.”
“She’s gone back to school?”
“No. That would be fine. She’s been busy reinventing herself, recreating her image. Physically.”
“I don’t follow.”
“She exploded.”
“Exploded? Sorry, you lost me.”
“She’s changed. You know what popcorn looks like before you pop it? It’s all those little seedy things and not very interesting to look at. Then you heat them up and they explode, pop, pop, pop…they’re different. She was a corn kernel and then she popped.”
“Popped?”
“Kablooie. I guess she figured since my father didn’t recognize her as she was, there was no reason to for her to stay that way. She’s had plastic surgery, nip, tuck, and, um…enhancements.”
“Enhancements? You mean—”
“Exactly. She was never very big up top. Now she’s, good Lord, buxom. What do you say to a woman who’s had a boob job? And especially if she’s your mother?”
“I would remain silent.”
“Coward.”
“As the saw has it, discretion is the better part of valor. Let’s eat. We can discuss physical attributes later—not your mother’s—yours.”
“Dream on.”
“Yes, that would be part of it.”
“She wants to come and live with me.”
“Is that good news or bad?”
“I don’t know. I mean, with her enhancements and new persona, what will she do in a small college town?”
“Become a cougar and chase undergraduate students.”
“Oh, please. Don’t even think it. It’s bad enough with you mooning around the campus.”
“I never moon, at least not in the sense you mean…or in any other sense either, come to think of it.”
“I could introduce her to your dad.”
“That would be exciting. That could make you my sister. The implications of that are scatological not to mention incestuous.”
“You have become a very dirty old man.”
“Thank you. I thought you’d never notice. Besides, if your mother felt left out with your father because of the difference in their ages, how would it work with mine who is, at least, five years older than yours?”
“That’s the happy thought for the day. Let’s eat.”
***
The sun had set when they returned to the deck with their coffee. Ruth slid into Ike’s lap and sighed.
“Don’t start any smart-ass talk, okay? The view is too beautiful and I’m relaxed. Let’s sit, be quiet, and admire the view, or what’s left of it.”
“Done.”
“So how was your day, week, whatever?”
“We are not sitting quietly when you ask me that.”
“As a taxpayer, I’m interested in the local sheriff and how he combats crime in my neighborhood.”
“Okay. You know about Dakis and the break-in. We also had the weird homicide at the urgent care clinic that’s a puzzle.”
“Someone was killed at the clinic?”
“Left for dead, more accurately. Why would anyone want to shoot somebody and then carry him to the clinic, prop him up in a chair, and leave?”
“Maybe they cared for him in a way. You know, he was family or something. They couldn’t just dump him. They wanted him found intact, I suppose.”
“I guess. It’s still a puzzle.”
Chapter Five
Lorraine tried Franco’s number a third time. Still no answer. Now she began to worry. She’d expected him back from his trip the night before, but he didn’t show and he hadn’t called either. She could dismiss the fact he hadn’t picked up earlier, still enroute, bad connections, too few bars. And so, now, maybe he’d gone out to get his morning coffee or he was in the shower. By nine-thirty she had exhausted her list of excuses. She called the store. Not there either. Why had he left town at all? He’d been vague about the trip and as much as she did not want to think it of him, she had an uneasy feeling that he might have lied to her. Business in New York, he’d said, meetings with buyers for certain parts of the collection. She’d asked who the buyers were, which pieces, and that’s when he became vague. He didn’t know that many buyers in the first place and she doubted he knew any in New York. That didn’t mean there were none, of course. New York housed millions of people and some of them were wealthy enough to indulge in pricy art collections. But where could he be?
He said he’d take Amtrak’s Vermonter up and probably come back on it Sunday. This was Monday. Where was he? There had been only one phone call and then nothing except those damned text messages since. When had he started texting? Lorraine could manage one in a pinch but she couldn’t see the point. A telephone was designed so that people could speak to one another. Then—texting, and another important human interaction shifted from a communal activity
to solipsism. Why don’t people talk any more?
She tried his cell phone once more.
“Hello?”
A voice. She didn’t recognize it. A woman’s voice—a very young woman’s voice.
“Franco?”
She heard giggling and someone, a different voice, said. “Hang up, stupid. They can, like, trace those things.”
“No Franco here.”
“Who…?”
“Bye,” the first voice said and the line went dead.
“Hello, hello?” She held the phone in her outstretched hand and stared at it as if to force it to connect properly.
“If you want to make a call, please hang up…” the disembodied voice of the phone company chanted. She did.
Should she call the police? What would she say? “My fiancé said he went to New York last Monday. He has not returned, and somebody, I don’t know who, answered his cell phone.” That would get her nowhere. If it had not been for the voice answering the phone, she’d have simply worried, then become angry, and let Franco have it when he finally turned up. But who answered the phone? She dialed again and got Franco’s voice mail. She left a message. Why, she didn’t know, but she did. She hung up and picked up her keys and purse.
Mondays she usually opened the shop late. Weekends were her busy times and Mondays, in the collectables business, as in the restaurant business, were slow. With reduced inventory and a bad economy, she had fewer customers, but she needed sales. Mrs. Strickland had called and wanted to meet early. So, she would open early.
The fact that Louis had taken the good pieces when he left galled her. The market for icons was iffy at best. People either wanted reproductions or cheap prints which they could buy online, or they wanted fine examples which she could supply. People would occasionally commission Louis to create one especially for them, but not many and not lately. The expensive icons, their bread and butter, she and her husband—ex-husband, now—imported from Europe, Russia chiefly, but also from Israel and Egypt. Louis had the eye for the better pieces. He was, after all, the iconographer and knew the field. Her strength had always been sales and promotion. But Louis was gone. Teaching…was that right? Doing something down in Virginia somewhere and he’d taken the good pieces with him. Franco was supposed to help her get at least some of them back this week, but he wasn’t answering his phone. Where was he?
It took her twenty minutes to get to Eastern Vision, the store she and her husband—ex-husband—started five years before. They’d built up a very nice business and things looked good until Italy. Franco Sacci had swept her off her feet. Trite but true, and like the heroine of a bad romance novel, she returned to the states, declared her intention to divorce Louis, and within a week Franco was installed in her home and bed and Louis was dealing with attorneys and…well, he’d be all right eventually. He had talent and contacts. Life’s a bitch, get over it, Louis.
Father Franklin from the National Cathedral and Mrs. Lenora Strickland, Lorraine’s appointment and a presumptive buyer of an expensive Archangel Michael, were waiting for her as she paid off her cab and stepped onto the curb. Mrs. Strickland pointedly looked at her watch.
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. There’s been a…” A what? A crisis? No. “A mix-up with a shipment,” she lied and fumbled at the lock. Once inside she started toward the back and the light switches, but froze in her tracks as she surveyed the chaos in the shop. All of the icons, at least it seemed like all of them, lay scattered across the floor, on counters, in untidy piles, and in complete disarray.
“Holy cow,” Mrs. Strickland muttered and backed out the door.
“I should say so,” Father Franklin said and jerked his cell phone from his overcoat. “I’ll call the police.” He lifted his phone and flipped it open, stating the obvious. “It appears you’ve had a break in.” He punched in the numbers and spoke to the 9-1-1 operator.
“But this is impossible. I have an alarm system. It would have gone off. It was a silent alarm. The police should have been here already. I don’t understand.”
She picked her way to the back of the store, turned on the lights and inspected the alarm. It read DISARMED.
“I’m sure I set it Sunday afternoon when I locked up. I always do that last thing before I leave.” Had she forgotten?
Mrs. Strickland took one more look at the mess and waved goodbye. She disappeared around the corner.
“Shall I fetch her back?” Father Franklin asked.
“No, yes, I don’t know. What do you think?”
“You have her address. If the police want a statement from her, you can give it to them. I think she’s a little publicity shy lately, since…she’s been struggling, if I read the gossip in The Post aright. Can I help you, Lorraine? It appears you have some cleaning up to do.”
“No, I think we should leave it as is until the police do their thing.” Break-ins and robberies were part of the urban landscape nowadays. She’d been down this road before.
Chapter Six
Ike pulled his unmarked cruiser up to the front steps of Callend University’s main building. Ruth checked her watch and muttered something that sounded like “damn,” but Ike couldn’t be sure. Ruth rarely swore.
“Damn, I’m late. Look what you’ve done, Schwartz.”
Apparently this was not a no-swear day. “Tell Agnes you overslept.”
“What we were doing cannot under any stretch of the imagination, be described as sleeping.”
“Then you can tell her we were having hot steamy sex and lost track of the time. The world stood still, so to speak.”
“In the first place neither the world nor even the small part of the Shenandoah Valley you occupy stood still or even hesitated, if you must know, and Agnes doesn’t need to be told. She’ll have figured it out on her own.”
“It didn’t move? I’m hurt.”
“Men! Okay, I have to get out of here. Call me later. I’ll run through the files and check out Louis Dakis for you. But, I think he’s okay.” She squinted at Ike. “What? You’re stewing about the earth’s stability?”
“When are you going to move that ring from your right ring finger to your left?”
In the fall, Ike had been caught up in an auction and purchased a large diamond ring. He’d presented it to Ruth. She took it, but apparently was not quite ready to accept the symbolism inherent in it.
Ruth swiveled her head to gaze out the passenger side window and bit her lip. “I don’t know, Ike. It’s…It’s a big step and I need space to work through it. We are different people and live in different worlds…I…It’s a beautiful ring and you shouldn’t have…I don’t know.”
“I’ll call you this afternoon.” Ike reached across her lap and opened the door. She kissed him quickly and slipped out. “Mayday.”
“What? Is that a call for help? You need the Coast Guard?”
“Yes and no, I guess. What I meant was the first of May. We will reprise this discussion then.”
“Mayday? A month and a half? Okay, it’s a deal…maybe.”
“No maybe.”
Ike put the car in gear and drove off. He would be late as well. But, like Ruth, he was the boss and could set his own hours.
***
The overly heavy breakfast Ike had prepared for the two of them that morning—the immediate cause of their lateness, in fact—meant he would miss his morning ritual at the Crossroads Diner. No significant nutritional loss there but he did rely on the small-town telegraph—gossip—to keep him abreast of the local news. He’d have to rely on Essie this morning instead. She’d been good for that in the past but now, as the bearer of future Sutherlins, her chat tended to revolve more around local population statistics than hard news. She could tell you which of Picketsville’s matrons were expecting, the likely birth weight, sex, due date, and any potential complications expected. It was not the heady stuff he sought. He’d make a point to have breakfast at the Crossroads tomorrow.
“You have something, Frank?”
“I might and I might not. Samantha ran the prints of the dead guy at the clinic and got a hit.”
“She ID’d the vic?”
“Not exactly. She got blocked and a notice to check with Homeland Security. Apparently he was on their watch list.”
“Oh, crap. I don’t want another international hoo-hah. What did the HS people say?”
“They want you to contact them personally. I guess us peons aren’t important enough for them to share information with us.”
“Consider yourself lucky. Interfacing with the egos at the national level can lead to temporomandibular joint problems, chronic headaches, and unusually large dental bills. You have a number for me?”
“Temporoman…that’s like jaw busting, right?” Frank slid a sheet of paper across his desk. It had a number and a name. “They want you to ask for this guy. I guess it’s a guy. They said Francis. But I guess it could have been Frances, like with an E.”
“Got it.” Ike pointed at Essie Sutherlin. “When she’s done charting the hormone levels around town, ask Earth Mother over there to brew us up a fresh pot of coffee.”
Ike retreated to his office, the glass enclosed room that gave him no privacy whatsoever, and picked up the phone. The call went through and a voice, a woman’s voice, answered. Frances?
“This is Sheriff Schwartz in Picketsville, Virginia. I was told I needed to talk to you people about a set of prints we lifted from a murder victim.”
“You’re kidding, right? Picketsville? No way. Who is this?”
“You heard it right the first time, ma’am. Can you help me or not?”
Ike heard the woman speak to someone else, apparently also in the room. She had not completely covered the mouthpiece, it seemed. “Do you believe this? Some cracker is on the line and says he’s from Picketsville, Virginia. What is this…a rerun of ‘Green Acres?’ What? Who? Oh.” There was a pause and a man’s voice came on the line.