New keys…
Mama knows best, but Mama wasn’t the one who had to get back on the horse. Amanda was gun-shy and more than a little apprehensive about returning to Metrolina. She procrastinated on the way, stopping at a bank—Wells Fargo, of course—to open a personal checking account and deposit the ten thousand dollar check. She stopped at a hardware store to have a duplicate key cut for Jenny Monroe.
She had deliberately dressed in black jeans and T-shirt, hoping the outfit would help her disappear, and when she arrived, she parked on the far side of Building 15 instead of 16. The parking space once removed was isolated, unguarded by the handful of cops still on duty, so maybe no one would notice she was there.
Of course, it was ridiculous to think she could slip in incognito, but it made her feel better, somehow, to try. And in spite of the fact that she knew there would be no trace of the bird body in her booth—Detective Russell had removed and sanitized the mess before she left Saturday afternoon—the image still haunted her.
As she approached her building, Amanda noticed one lone cop stationed at the corner so that he could observe both the alley and the north entrance. She assumed it would be similarly guarded at the south entrance, the Orlandos’ end, and wondered how long the police would keep this up. Surely by now the authorities realized the stupid letter was long gone.
All the uniforms seemed to know her. The guy at the corner smiled and waved as she passed, and Amanda decided she was secretly grateful for their continued presence. Truth be told, she was scared witless by everything that had transpired in this cursed building and had begun to wonder if she really wanted to keep renting there.
On the other hand, she’d done well at Metrolina. As she thought about her fat bank balance, she was well aware that time was flying. She had less than one month to come up with the sketches for the sailboat commission and only two weeks to create more small sculpture for the next show. So she had to get busy. Cutting and running was not an option.
From the corner of her eye, she saw that Jack and June Harris were out near their RV, eating lunch at their picnic table. Thank heavens for small favors. At least she would not be immediately accosted by the angry pair. She was, however, snagged by Lucy Monroe, who pulled her inside her booth.
“Glad I caught you, Amanda. I want to tell you something.”
Suddenly the new key in her jeans pocket made her feel guilty. Looking around, she noticed Jenny wasn’t there. “What’s up, Lucy?”
“You know I have the gift, right? It came to me in a dream that it was June Harris who put that poor bird on your desk.” The pottery woman’s plump hands twitched.
“I’d more or less come to that conclusion myself. What about Jack, what’s happening with him?” Amanda had already discovered the highly effective gossip network in this place. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. Since Lucy Monroe and Jack Harris shared a common pegboard wall, the grapevine should be extra strong at that juncture.
Sure enough, Lucy did not hesitate. “After your tip, that handsome Detective Russell demanded to know what Jack had shipped in those cardboard envelopes you told him about. Luckily, Jack had one of those long receipt tapes from the post office. It listed the destination and insurance value of everything he mailed that day.”
“So he’s off the hook?” Amanda sincerely hoped the receipt proved Jack was innocent. Then the Harris couple would get off her case.
“Nope, there’s a problem,” Lucy said gleefully. “Of the five shipped, four went to legitimate customers. They have already been called and have verified that they received antique prints from Jack.”
“Wait, how do you know all this, Lucy? Surely Detective Russell doesn’t share the results of his investigation with you, and please don’t tell me you saw it in a vision.”
Lucy’s laughter made her ample bosom bounce. “Heavens, no. I hear things.” She touched her ear and nodded in the direction of Jack’s booth. “When Russell came to report on the first four, he had a question about the fifth addressed to a nameless post office box holder in Pensacola, Florida. The Harrises live in Pensacola all winter, so dollars to doughnuts, that postal box is owned by Jack, by his son Jack Junior, or by some good ole buddy of his.”
“So what?”
“So he could have shipped the stolen letter to himself or someone he trusted, then planned to market it later.”
“Did someone say dollars to doughnuts?” The man intruded into Lucy’s booth. “Being an underpaid and hungry cop, I’d appreciate both the dollars and the doughnuts.”
Lucy blushed crimson, while Amanda felt guilty by association. She’d expected to see Detective Russell, not Rick Molerno. Her last experience with the homicide detective, the day he took Sara from the Orlandos’ house, had not been cordial.
“Harboring more fugitives today, Ms. Rittenhouse? Or have you and Lucy solved the letter theft?”
Had she been differently oriented, Amanda would have found Molerno attractive. Unlike the dapper Detective Russell, his suit was rumpled, his cheap tie tugged loose from around his muscular neck. His jaw sprouted an afternoon shadow, and his black hair bristled in a buzz cut. He looked like an Italian street fighter.
Lucy struck a defensive pose. “Last I heard, it’s not a crime to eavesdrop. Not my fault Detective Russell has a loud voice.”
Molerno chuckled. “Well, I’ll save you ladies the trouble of putting your ears to the wall by telling you outright. The fifth letter was a dead end. You were correct, Lucy, the P.O. Box belongs to Jack Harris, Jr., and when our counterparts in Florida questioned Junior, he admitted to receiving some posters from his dad. But when pressed, he got hostile and could not produce those posters.”
“There you go!” Lucy crowed. “Junior has the stolen letter.”
“Inconclusive, my dear Watson.” Molerno lifted his dark eyebrows in a pathetic Sherlock Holmes imitation. “Besides, would you entrust something so valuable to the US Mail?”
Amanda and Lucy glanced at one another. Of course not.
“But that’s not why I’m here…” Rick Molerno dug into his sagging pocket and brought out three manila coin envelopes. “Detective Russell asked me to give you these keys. They’ve installed the locks between your booths and your studios.” He handed one to Amanda, one to Lucy. “The keys I’m giving both of you are actually duplicates that work the door in Ms. Rittenhouse’s Space D, since that’s the one you need to use, Lucy. Management is holding a different one for the door in Mrs. Harris’s booth, but since June doesn’t rent workspace, her pass-through is now firmly locked.” He looked meaningfully at Amanda. “In other words, the Harrises no longer have access back there.”
Unless, Amanda thought, the Harrises had found Jenny’s lost keys and still had access through the alley. She really should tell Molerno about the lost keys, but not in Lucy’s presence. She still didn’t want to get Jenny in trouble.
As though reading her mind, Molerno spoke again. “I have also asked management to change the locks on the alley doors. They will accomplish this by the weekend, and then our job here will be finished.”
So Amanda had wasted her money making a duplicate key for Jenny, but no big deal. She was troubled, however, that soon the police would be gone. After all, there was still a murderer on the loose.
“But neither crime has been solved, Detective,” Lucy said. “Does that mean the exhibitors are no longer suspects?”
“Did I say that?” He gave them a silly grin. “We know where to find you, especially you, Ms. Rittenhouse. And by the way, I’d like a word with you in private.”
Before he tucked the third key envelope into his pocket, Amanda saw Marc Orlando’s name written on it.
“As soon as you’ve finished chatting with Lucy, please meet me down at the café. I’ll be waiting.”