On the Hook Page 3

  So far, today was the king of all days. The day when the bejeweled crown turned out to be filled with paste, its gold flaking off with each wisp of breeze. What was left when it all blew away? The outline, a skeleton of the old crown. Westen scrunched her eyes shut, took in a long breath, counted to ten, then let it out. When all the air had expelled from her lungs, she opened her eyes. Darn. Nothing had changed.

  So, what was left after the crown fell apart? A skeleton.

  What was a skeleton but a framework? A framework on which to shape a new crown. A bigger and better one.

  And that’s what she had—the shop. Her crown. In disrepair and fading fast, but a shop nonetheless. A skeleton from which to build a new and better one. Westen straightened up feeling like the six million dollar man: better, stronger, faster. She could make the shop work. She would make it work.

  Now all she had to do was face KJ. Her old nemesis was probably sitting out there gloating like crazy—hiding a smirk behind a red lacquered fingernail. Yes, one more thing she took from poor little Westen. Well, the heck with her. The heck with the creditors. The heck with all of them.

  She braced herself for KJ’s crocodile tears—oh, so sorry this happened, I warned him not to cancel it, I knew something bad would happen—and made her way back to the table, catching her pantyhose on a nick in the floor and tearing out the whole foot. Westen looked down and laughed, really laughed. Phoebe Smith would be proud of the way she literally threw back her head and guffawed.

  She slipped into the booth, the coffee no longer steaming, but she took a long drink anyway. After that, Westen finally was able to make eye contact with the oh-so-perfect KJ. But KJ’s head was resting on the table, cushioned by her arms clad in a long sleeved silk blouse. Her shoulders were shaking. KJ was crying. Sheesh, more tears. What had happened to the women of the town lately; had someone siphoned a load of bad water into the reservoir?

  Westen swiped a hand across her face. “KJ, are you all right?”

  The red head lifted. The blue eyes blinked. “Oh, you’re back.” She sat up straight, dabbing a napkin in her eyes.

  “When did Ben cash in the policy?”

  “About eight months ago. Look Westen, I’m really sorry about all this. I told him—”

  Westen waved the sincere-sounding apology away. “Ben wasn’t a good listener. Besides, whoever would’ve guessed a drunk driver would kill him before he reached forty?” She gave as nonchalant a shrug as she could, hoping her own tears wouldn’t spew forth. “These things happen.” Westen put her hand on KJ’s arm. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  At first KJ shook her head. Then she seemed to come to a decision. The lips that at one time matched the red fingernails, opened and, once the words started coming, they spilled out like kids’ building blocks. The words gushed so fast Westen wished she’d taken a speed-listening class. “It was all my idea. And, now that it’s screwed up, it’s all my fault.”

  Couldn’t be, she was just too perfect.

  Tears came now, almost as fast as the words. “Oh God, I’ll lose my job, and Brett will leave me.”

  Brett? She was married again? How many times was that?

  “How was I supposed to know it’d be stolen?” KJ whined.

  Stolen? Things were getting juicier by the minute.

  “How will I ever pay the money back?”

  Money? How much?

  As if hearing Westen’s thoughts, KJ replied, “Only the biggest policy the company’s ever written. A hundred million.”

  Like, a one with eight zeros? Man! Made her debts look like teardrops. What was with the references to tears today?

  “Oh God, they’re going to kill me, I—”

  “KJ, stop.” She did. “Take a breath.” She did. “Now another. I want you to slow down and start at the beginning. Tell me what happened and why you think the problem—whatever it is—is your fault.”

  “It is my fault.” KJ took a breath, this time without being told. “I came up with this idea to encourage people to better enjoy the arts. All the arts: paintings, sculptures, etcetera. I thought if people could see them up close and personal... Well, I convinced the New Hampshire Center for the Arts what a great idea it was. They gave me space to set up a special showing of local artists to be displayed among the famous ones. I was even able to borrow a Picasso from the Art Institute of Chicago.”

  Westen finally saw where this was going.

  “Because the painting’s valued around a hundred million, I had to convince three other companies to go in with NH Property and Casualty.”

  “Let me speed this up a little,” Westen said. “The painting was stolen and you’re on the hook for the entire payout to the insurance companies.”

  “That’s pretty much the gist of it.”

  Westen wondered what kind of threats the collection agency would use when she defaulted on those payments.

  “Any idea what’s going to happen for real? Did management come down on you yet?”

  “Not yet. The theft only happened yesterday. That’s why I couldn’t meet you last week, I’ve been in Chicago arranging this transport.”

  “In light of the results, I guess it didn’t matter when we met, did it?”

  “I guess not. I’m really sorry.”

  “Please stop saying that.”

  “Would you like any more coffee? Or hot chocolate?” intruded a female voice. Both women gazed at the waitress as though she’d just stepped off a spaceship.

  “Uh, sure,” Westen answered for both of them.

  “Well, fancy meeting you here,” came another voice.

  Westen turned to see snake-lady Phoebe Smith standing beside the table. She had on a different jacket. This one was purple with diagonal yellow stripes.

  “How’s the snake doing?”

  “Settling in well, thanks. Named her Jeanette.”

  Jeanette? O-ookay.

  Westen introduced her to KJ who’d managed to dry her eyes and pull herself together. “She bought a corn snake earlier today.”

  “A snake? That’s nice.”

  Smith nudged Westen’s arm. “Shove over.”

  Westen flicked a glance at KJ, who didn’t seem to mind company. Perhaps she needed a reprieve from the hundred million thoughts volcanoing in her head.

  The waitress brought the coffee and hot chocolate then was sent scurrying for a cup of herbal tea for Smith. None of the three spoke until it arrived.

  Smith was the first to break the silence. “I couldn’t help overhearing what you said.” When no one reacted, she added, “You know, about the painting.” Still neither Westen nor KJ spoke. “I know how you can get it back.”

  Those words perked KJ into a semblance of alertness. “You do?”

  “Sure. Hire me and Westen to find it.”

  Did she say what Westen thought she said? Why was she being dragged into this wild painting chase?

  No need to respond. The way KJ was laughing said the idea sounded just as ludicrous to her.

  “What makes you qualified?” KJ asked.

  “What kind of qualifications can a person need? Eyes and brains. Between us we got ’em in spades.” She frowned. “Not sure what that means though.”

  “It’s from contract bridge,” Westen said, “where the suit of spades is ‘trump’ where a spade of whatever point value will beat any card from another suit…or at least beats a card of equal or lesser value.”

  Smith gave her the eye. “Do you really think people want answers to rhetorical questions?”

  Westen smirked and shrugged. “You don’t want an answer, don’t ask the question.”

  “Let’s get back to the subject,” Smith said. “I want to help find it. And Westen needs money, so she’ll help too.”

  “The insurance companies will never go along with it,” Westen said.

  “They don’t have to know. Till we’ve brought the painting back. Now,” Smith leaned closer, her hair falling unnoticed into her teacup, “give us the skinny.”
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  Chapter Four

  Did she really say, give us the skinny? Wasn’t Smith from Delaware? Did they talk like that there?

  KJ didn’t seem to notice Smith’s street-gang grammar. She seemed so happy to have someone—anyone—offering a way out of her cavernous dilemma. “See, the thing is, there’s no way the painting could’ve been stolen.”

  Westen’s soft, “But it was,” received a pair of full-eyed glares from both Smith and KJ.

  “More details,” Smith demanded. “Saying it couldn’t have been stolen erases the fact that it was.”

  Westen’s coffee grew cold as KJ’s tale unfolded. She’d gone to Chicago a week ago to prepare for the transfer of the painting. KJ handed Westen a photocopy of Picasso’s The Old Guitarist. It was a typical work of his, with body parts out of proportion. At least this subject had its face on right.

  “Painted in 1903, it led the way for others of his Blue Period,” KJ said.

  “Blue period?” Smith asked.

  “It defines Picasso’s depression between 1901 and 1904,” Westen clarified. “Most of the pieces he did during that time were monochromatic—in shades of blue and blue-green.”

  Smith acted as though she was about to chastise her for dishing out more useless trivia, but KJ’s, “Yes, that’s right!” stopped her.

  Westen couldn’t help shooting her a smirk, and adding, “Since it essentially marks the beginning of that period, the piece is just about priceless.”

  “How big is the painting?” Smith asked.

  “Approximately thirty-two by forty-eight inches.”

  “So it’s good-sized. How was it shipped—UPS or something?”

  “No way! I wouldn’t—” KJ pulled in a breath and let it out so hard she blew ripples in the hot chocolate’s whipped cream surface. “Like I said, I went to Chicago to supervise the arrangements. Everything was done by me and me alone. I chose the trucking company and talked the other three insurance companies into helping out. I interviewed the two drivers and hand picked four security guards. I—”

  “Guards?” asked Westen.

  “Yes. Armed men who stayed during the entire packing of the painting in the crate. They remained on-scene while the crate was loaded on the truck. And they rode two to a car from Chicago to Concord. A lead car stayed mere feet in front of the truck during the whole trip. A trailing car stayed just feet from the rear bumper—”

  “What kind of truck?”

  “A tractor with a sleeper hauling a twenty foot trailer. She leaned forward. “The whole way.”

  “After the cars and truck left, then you flew back to New Hampshire?” Smith dipped the teabag up and down creating a tidal wave of pee-colored liquid that sloshed over the side.

  “Heavens no,” KJ said. “I wasn’t letting that truck out of my sight. I rode in the trailing car all the way to Buffalo where the crate was unloaded and stored in their museum safe for the night. I unpacked it myself. I supervised its storage. I checked it again in the morning and supervised the loading. It was in the crate at that time. All the way from Buffalo, I swear I didn’t take my eyes from the truck for a moment. It could not be gone.”

  Smith voiced Westen’s thoughts. “It’s what—an eight hour ride? You didn’t have to um, stop?”

  “Actually nine hours from Buffalo. We did not stop. We did not get fuel. We didn’t stop for food or bathroom.”

  “Sounds funny nobody had to piss for all that time.”

  Crudely said but right on target. Westen definitely couldn’t go nine hours—

  “Okay, so you drove nonstop from Buffalo to New Hampshire,” Smith continued, though with a bit of doubt lacing her tone.

  “Right. At the museum, we waited in the car while the truck backed to the dock. I met the curator on the dock. The whole parking process didn’t take two minutes. It was the only time I couldn’t see the back doors. The drivers and the curator, Henderson McGee, unloaded the crate. I supervised the entire procedure. As soon as the crate was unloaded from the dolly, he sent the drivers on their way. Then we all—the group included sixteen board members—gathered around to watch the unveiling.”

  “Where was this—the warehouse?” Smith asked.

  “Yes.” KJ gave a rueful smile. “I’d prepared a speech. You know, telling how happy we were to have the Picasso to spotlight our Arts Display. But I was exhausted—”

  “And you had to pee.” This from Smith.

  KJ continued as if uninterrupted. “Henderson was a bit miffed because we were an hour late.”

  “Why were you late anyway?”

  “We got caught in traffic on the highway. There had been a car accident. Anyway, we opted to open the crate and save the speeches for the unveiling tomorr—er, today.” Now, she did look exhausted, as if telling the story sucked every last ounce of energy. “As you have already deduced, the crate was empty. It can’t have happened but it did. It was there when we left Buffalo and it wasn’t there when we got to New Hampshire.”

  “Were there any distractions during the loading in Buffalo, or the unloading in Concord? Anything—even something minute that you didn’t think important at the time. Maybe something that occurred while you were caught in traffic.”

  KJ shook her head. “I have done nothing but run this through my head since it happened. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. The traffic jam was nothing much. We never actually stopped. We just moved about 35 miles an hour instead of 65.”

  Of course she had thought about it. Those were the kind of details KJ excelled at.

  “Tell me about the packaging—the crate, how it was stored in the truck.”

  “The painting was enclosed in bubble wrap then put into a fitted velvet bag. The bag was slipped into a wooden container about four inches thick—just a little more than the thickness of the frame so it couldn’t jiggle around. A compartment had been built in the center to exactly fit the wood container that held the painting. The crate itself was wood—a six-foot cube shape. Padlocked shut. There were two keys for the padlock. I had one and Charles Fenwick, the Chicago curator, had the other.”

  “What exactly was taken? Just the painting? Or the entire crate?” Westen asked.

  “The painting, the velvet bag and the bubble wrap.”

  “What time did you discover the painting missing?” Westen thought maybe she should be taking notes but till this minute the idea hadn’t occurred to her. Probably wouldn’t be hard to get a report from KJ, the insurance company or even the cops.

  “Seven-twelve yesterday evening, exactly. I spent the following eleven hours first at the museum and then the police station going over and over the events.”

  That explained why she looked like she’d been on a bender. In a sense, she had—an emotional bender.

  “I suppose the general consensus is that you took it.”

  “Right. They have absolutely no basis for thinking this—”

  “Except you were the only one involved in every aspect of the transfer.”

  “Right. They’re as out of answers as I am.”

  “Which means they might not work too hard trying to find it and be happy pinning it on you.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Do you have any theories?”

  “Not a single one. It’s not possible to have happened, yet it did.” KJ dipped a spoon into the cup and skimmed off the melted whipped cream. It left a film around her lips but neither Westen nor Smith commented. “So, will you help get it back?”

  Smith leaned forward, her hair again drowning in the cup. “Of course. How much does this pay?”

  “As I said, I’m not sure they’ll okay you guys to look for it.”

  “I’ve heard they pay ten percent of the insured amount,” Smith said.

  Westen felt her eyes widening behind her wire-rimmed glasses. Ten percent of a hundred million was—she lost track of the zeros, but one thing was certain, it would pay all her bills and then some.

  KJ threw some cash on the table. She stood up to le
ave. “I’ll talk to my boss and the other companies. Let’s meet here at 7 a.m. and I’ll let you know what they said.”

  “If he says okay, bring a contract,” Smith called.

  KJ walked away on three-inch heels. Westen was jealous—she had trouble standing on two-inch ones.

  “Seven a.m.?” Smith squeaked.

  Westen laughed. “Not a morning person?”

  “I’m rarely in bed before midnight. It’s kinda hard to get up before at least nine.”

  “I think you’ll manage this time.”

  Smith finished her tea and thumped the cup in the saucer. “Wouldn’t it be fabulous if we could find that painting?”

  “Sure would.”

  “What would you do with the recovery fee? Besides dumb things like paying bills, I’d buy a new tuba.”

  A tuba? Had she heard right?

  “The one I have is all dented. I found it in an apartment we moved into when I was ten.”

  “You play the tuba?” A loud, repeating oompah started playing in her head. Westen wanted to clap her hands over her ears to block it out.

  “…what would you buy?” Smith asked.

  Clearly, she’d missed a sentence or two. Westen shook off the disorientation produced by the Bavarian band. “An apartment,” she said. “A penthouse. I own a home now but I’d really like a place without upkeep. Something on a top floor where I could look out over the city. I want a tiny rooftop garden.”

  “You’re easy to please.”

  Westen shrugged and slipped into her jacket. Easy maybe, but something like that was so far out of reach she might’ve been craving a trip to Mars. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Smith got up too. “You sound apprehensive.”

  “You can’t really believe we’ll find the thing. By now, some of the best investigators in the world are working on it. I bet by morning the painting is back in Chicago safe and sound.”

  “Probably,” said Smith, sadly.

  She followed Smith out into the brisk May air, her feet marching to the beat of the men in lederhosen.