Authors: Margarite St. John
The Art of Death (25 page)
Safari
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Madeleine did not return to Fort Wayne. Instead, on Tuesday she checked into a bed and breakfast in Indianapolis.
She went into work. It was a busy day at ApEx, ironing out the usual problems with production.
She brainstormed with her staff about an animatronics exhibit for a natural history museum featuring Ötzi, a mummy found in the Alps, thought to be over five thousand years old.
She wrote a two-page proposal for a book about her stay at Passages Malibu and emailed it to Bettina Lazare in New York City.
She contacted a real estate agent and told her to find a pied-à-terre with a view and building amenities so she didn’t have to stay in a hotel when she was in Indianapolis on business.
She left voicemails on Babette Fouré’s cellphone and landline asking to stay in her Paris apartment for a few weeks while she visited the Musée d’Histoire Naturelle for ideas on a new line of animatronic figures. She planned to leave the country by the end of the week, so a prompt reply would be appreciated.
She called Steve to warn him that she was changing everything about the barn. She then called her architect to tell him what she wanted.
On Wednesday Madeleine learned from her Fort Wayne lawyer that the insurance payout on Dan Belden’s life was delayed. He told her the Belden family had notified the insurer of evidence that Dan might have met his fate by foul play.
“What evidence?” she asked in a whisper.
“They claim that you picked him up after work and drove him to the farm. After that, he was never seen again. Dan Belden’s parents have hired a private detective, and they filed a request with the Fort Wayne Police Department to reopen Dan’s case. They claim to have DNA evidence.”
“They don’t have DNA evidence of anything. They’re just harassing me,” she complained. “Dan’s parents never liked me. This is all sour grapes.”
“I don’t know about that,” the lawyer said, “but it’s not unusual for insurance companies to seize on any excuse to delay a payout where the insured is missing and the beneficiary is the spouse. Especially where the spouse continued to pay the premiums long after the insured went missing.”
“I did that because I thought he was still alive!” she cried. “It’s proof of my innocence.”
“When you were a person of interest in his disappearance, you vowed to hire a private detective to find him, but you never did.”
“That was out of respect for his privacy.”
“Not so from the Beldens’ point of view. They take it as proof that you knew he was dead and you wanted to be sure to get the proceeds. The only way you could do that was to keep the insurance policy in force until you could get him declared dead.”
After she hung up, her vision blurred. A migraine was about to hit.
When she spotted Dieter walking past her office on the way to the exit, she called out, “Dieter! I need to talk to you.”
Looking pale and nervous, he shuffled back to her open door. “You need something?”
“Sit down. What’s been going on here that I don’t know about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Have the police talked to you?”
He licked his already wet lips and darted his eyes at invisible spots over both her shoulders, up to the ceiling, down to the floor. Flick, flick, flick. “Yes.”
“About what?”
“Where you were about the time your friend was found in the alley.”
“And what did you say?”
“The truth. I didn’t see you from about eight until you got to the restaurant a little after nine.”
She scoffed. “Do you normally take notice of where I am in this office every second of the day?”
“Of course not. Shelley said the same thing, though, so I’m not the only one. Besides, I think the lobby camera may have caught you leaving around eight.”
“Anything else?”
“The detective -- Robins, I think his name is -- showed us footage from a security camera at the end of Mass Ave. It was a camera used by one of the shops. It caught you walking away from the alley dressed in your usual work clothes but wearing flats, which you don’t wear at work. Then he showed us a chador he said had been found in a small dumpster at the end of the alley where your friend died. Shelley said it looked like the one we keep in our costume closet and then later we found it was missing.”
“That doesn’t mean I took it or wore it.”
“Sure, sure. Nobody said you did. But we couldn’t think of anybody else who would. In another garbage can they found a plastic gun they thought might have been made here on our 3-D printer.”
“Whose fingerprints are on it?”
“I don’t know. The detective also asked us about a pre-paid phone they found in another dumpster. We said it wasn’t ours. The detective asked us where you were. We said we didn’t know.”
“Is that all you have to tell me?”
“Almost. Robins talked to several other employees too. And he really wants to talk to you.”
“I want to talk to him too but not right now.” She looked daggers at the frazzled man in her guest chair. “None of you bozos thought to tell me about being questioned? You’ve let me sit in this office for the last two days like an idiot, assuming everything was normal when it wasn’t. What in hell were you thinking?”
“We weren’t.”
“Damn right you weren’t thinking. I should have known. You all looked guilty as a politician caught with a freezer full of cash. I just thought it was because you were goofing off while I was gone.”
“I sent you a voice mail after we were questioned. You never answered. Where were you for the last couple of weeks, by the way? And why didn’t you answer me?”
“Never mind now. I want you to go to all the windows in this office, look down at the street, and see if there’s a police car parked at the curb.”
“You think Robins has you staked out?” Dieter asked.
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know.” He got up to tour the office windows.
“I don’t see any cop cars,” he said upon his return. He didn’t sit down but stood nervously in the doorway.
“Who’s still in the office?”
“A couple of people in accounting.”
“Tell them to leave.”
“Why?”
Madeleine took a deep breath. “Don’t ask why. Just get it done. Then I want you to bring me those safari outfits from the costume closet, one for you, one for me. With pith helmets.”
“I can’t wear a pith helmet and khaki shorts. I look ridiculous in them.”
Her teeth-clenched smile terrified him. “You look ridiculous in everything, Dieter. If you weren’t a genius, you’d be living on the streets. Now, you put one outfit on; I’ll put on the other. We’re both going to wear sunglasses and you can carry that awful messenger bag you insist on dragging everywhere. Then you’re going to walk me out as if we’re looking for a travel agency or going to the passport office. Depending on what we find on the street, we might stop for a Tom Collins or a G&T somewhere. You’re going to pretend we’re a couple who like to travel. Got that?”
“The passport office is closed. And I don’t drink hard liquor. I’ve never traveled anywhere because I don’t like to travel.”
“I know that. Dieter, Dieter. How can you be so smart and so dumb at the same time?”
“I don’t know.”
She pointed a pen at him. “If you ever tell a soul -- if you ever say a word about this to Robins -- I’ll kill you. Got that?”
An asthmatic, Dieter suddenly became short of breath and began to wheeze. He fumbled in his pants pocket for an inhaler and dragged deeply. “Saying you’d fire me would be enough.”
“Fine. Assume that. Now, let’s see how good an actor you are.”
Seduction
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
It was nine o’clock when Madeleine let herself into Anthony’s office in The Harrison. The drive from Indianapolis had been harrowing. In her haste to leave the capital, her foot became very heavy, requiring all her concentration to hold her speed to a number that wouldn’t interest the highway patrol. Every pair of lights that stayed behind her for more than a mile surely belonged to an unmarked cop car. When she stopped for gas, she danced with impatience until the tank was full. For the first time in her life, she was deeply afraid of the law.
As always, Anthony’s office horrified her, so dark and cluttered, so pretentiously retro. She turned on a couple of table lamps. The busts of famous dead men on his bookcase creeped her out, not because they were dead but because their form was so cliché. That kind of realism made her sick. Though Anthony had been a cultivated man, his taste was often pedestrian.
She knew that Anthony’s wall safe was hidden behind a nineteenth-century oil painting depicting, in stunning yellows and reds, Venice at dusk. The artist was George Herbert McCord and the style was painterly. She liked the picture. She wanted to go to Venice, a place of intrigue and romance and many hiding places. Whether she went there or not, at least she could take the painting. It practically belonged to her anyway, for she was with Anthony in Wawarsing, a little town in the Catskills, when she spotted the treasure and made him buy it.
“Focus,” she said aloud. “There are bigger things to be found.”
And focus she did. Where would Anthony keep the key to his safe? He was a secretive, somewhat paranoid man, so the key would be hidden well. He was an admirer of the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, so it would be cleverly hidden in plain sight. He collected old-fashioned locks and keys so it might be hidden among them. And it was. As she sorted through the keys jumbled together in a bell jar, she congratulated herself on her cleverness.
And then she opened the safe. The electronic digital lock was simple, for Anthony used the same PINs for everything, his initials and year of birth -- A1960B. She spent very little time gloating over the contents but dropped them quickly into her Louis Vuitton briefcase: his prescription pad, the drugs he kept on hand, piles of cash in hundred-dollar bills, coins in museum-quality flips, a couple of vintage watches, two gold wedding bands (who did those belong to?), the deed to a parcel of land in his native Italy, some bonds, and his car title.
But where the hell were his life insurance policy and will? She couldn’t believe they weren’t in the safe. He’d promised that she was his beneficiary.
Perhaps they were in his apartment upstairs. She locked the empty safe, replaced the painting of Venice, and pocketed the key. She’d return for the painting later. She restored the bell jar of keys to its place on the table in the middle of the room and turned off the table lamps. She took the interior stairs to Anthony’s apartment.
In the gallery, she paused to let her eyes adjust to the weak light from the balcony sliders. She set her briefcase down near the front door.
Where would he keep important papers? Anthony hardly used the kitchen. His bedroom was a dark, austere place, minimally furnished, on the theory that bedrooms were for sleeping and making love and nothing else -- no reading, no watching TV, no napping, no working. One of the spare bedrooms was set up like a lounge; that room held a television and bookcases but no desk because a home office wasn’t needed when there was a better one two floors down. The third bedroom still held her makeshift art studio. The living room and dining area were dedicated exclusively to those functions. So where were the papers?
And then she heard a noise. The softest of noises. Something creeping toward the gallery. A thump, followed by a male voice crying out in pain. And then a flashlight blinded her. She staggered a little, trying to shield her eyes.
“Oh,” the man holding the flashlight said. He was hopping like a rabbit. “
Cazzo
, I bust-a my foot. . . .
perdonatemi
. Pardon. I see you a lady.
Mi dispiace.
I-a recognize-a you,
bella signora.
”
Almost every word, English or not, ended in a vowel. The cadence was Italian. He directed the flashlight to the floor. “My English not so good.”
When she turned on a table lamp, the man she saw surprised her. He was about Anthony’s height and weight, but much handsomer, clean-shaven with a shock of lustrous black hair and merry black eyes. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt and drawstring sweat pants. The undershirt could not hide magnificent pecs and a blanket of curly chest hair. His waist was perfectly tapered.
“I’m-a Renzo. You’re-a Madeleine. You’re beautiful, the way Tony say. Too bad I have
moglie
already, hey? We make many
bimbi belli.
”
“What are you doing here?” she asked with irritation. She had no desire to make beautiful babies with anybody.
“
Sorpresa!
Tony leave everything to me, the
avvocato
say. You believe that?”
“What lawyer?”
“Tony’s. He call me, all the way from America, fly me over. Big
aeroplano
,” Renzo said, making wings of his arms. The way his arms rolled the flight must have been wildly unsteady. He turned off the flashlight and set it on the entry table. “Give me
un abbraccio
,” he cried, immediately moving in for a hug without waiting for her assent. “You are
lutto
, you poor thing, sad, missing the good
medico
. Me too. Very sad, he die. The news when we hear, we can’t believe. Everybody cry big waters. Come in, come in, have
vino
with me. We cry in our
vino,
okay?
You like
rosso
or
bianco
?”
She said she’d join him in a glass of white wine if they could sit on the balcony. She needed fresh air. She let him tell her about his surprise at news of a windfall from selfish cousin Tony and how it would change everything for his family. With a little direction from Madeleine, he also told her about the difficulties he and the lawyer were having getting into Tony’s office safe. They’d located it but not the key and were going to have to call in a locksmith and safe-cracker.
“Where did you find the will?” she asked. “Wasn’t it in the safe?”
“
Non
,” he said. “The afternoon he was killed?”
She was puzzled by the intonation. Why was that a question?
“You remember that?” Renzo persisted.
“Of course.”
“He go right to the
avvocato
and change his will. Life insurance policy too. He say he see a painting that scare him. Then he get in his Fiat -- which is going to be mine now -- and drive straight to his death. Very -- what’s the word?”
“Ironic,” Madeleine whispered, her stomach lurching. “One thing was intended, the opposite happened.” She knew what Anthony had seen. He’d texted her frantic questions about why she was painting his portrait when he was still alive.
“
L’avvocato
have the will and policy right here in his office, so we don’t have to look for them.”
“How fortunate for you.”
“Strange also. He was -- how you say
tirchio
?
-- with his money. I ask for a little help, he say no. But now he give me everything.” He laughed. “Not because he want to.”
“As I said, you’re fortunate.”
“Did you love Tony?” Renzo asked.
She walked to the balcony railing and turned before answering. As she expected, Renzo joined her. She touched his hand, which because of its size looked promising. If she’d had romance on her mind, she might have dallied. “Very much.”
“Tell me,
bella signora
,” he whispered, moving closer, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“Because he loved me. He’d do anything for me.”
“
Naturalmente,
” he whispered.
“He knew every bad thing about me but loved me anyway.”
“You no do bad things,
bellissima angioletta,
” he murmured, kissing her neck and then moving up to her mouth. She let him kiss her for a long time. Too bad there wasn’t time for fun.
“Tony was going to
offerte
-- how you say in English?”
Madeleine shook her head in bewilderment. Renzo got down on one knee, took her hand and kissed it, then pretended to slip a ring on her finger.
“You mean propose? To me?”
He nodded vigorously. “
Matrimonio.
He had big
diamante
ring in his pocket when he die.”
“A diamond ring? Where is it?”
“
Avvocato
have it. Mine soon. When I get home, I give it to my
moglie
. She be, how you say,
sopra la luna,
” he said, pointing at the moon.
“Over the moon. Of course she will.”
“Unless you want to pay me,” he said, rubbing thumb and index finger together in the universal signal of money. “Then I give it to you.”
“That wouldn’t be a gift,” she whispered sourly.
“But now we are here. Forget money. Think
amore,
” he said, kissing Madeleine again.
After a few minutes, despite sexual stirrings, Madeleine felt fury bloom like a mushroom cloud, trumping passion. She hated the Beltrami men. Anthony had planned to propose but had said nothing so she could prepare. The ring he bought was no longer hers. Renzo, the greedy libertine, thought he could cheat her out of it and still take her to bed.
She slowly turned away, as if she were a lady and things were moving too fast for her taste. She draped languidly over the balcony, pushing her butt into his groin and exposing the back of her neck to more kisses. Then with a lurch, she straightened and pointed straight down toward the corner of the building. “Oh,” she whispered into Renzo’s ear, “oh, what’s going on down there? See that? Somebody’s got a gun! Oh, I think he’s pointing it at that poor girl. She’s going to get killed!”
Renzo’s last act in life was to be seduced by a pretty woman’s cry of alarm into feeling chivalrous and leaning too far over a fourth floor railing.
