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I woke after dreaming of my father. Not wanting to let go of the dream just yet, I kept my eyes closed. Pops had been a mechanic and an art lover, a dichotomy I was proud of. He’d run his own garage and had a faithful clientele. The poor man had tried to get me interested in engines when I was a child, but I couldn’t grasp the simplest of mechanics. He had, however, inspired my love of art. Mom, too. A middle school social studies teacher, she was also an amateur painter. She’d have never been able to make a living at it, but she painted because she loved the process—and the slower, the better. She would take six months to complete a painting, usually a landscape, then give it to a friend or someone in the family.
On occasion, when finances were good, Pops would buy original artwork. Nothing higher than four figures. He’d called them investments that were beautiful to look at. Before I came along, he’d taken a chunk of money he inherited from his parents and bought his most valuable piece. It was a painting by twentieth-century Swiss-German master Paul Klee. Tod un Wassar, or Death and Water, was a small blue-and-green expressionist piece that Klee had painted before his better-known masterwork, which he’d titled Death and Fire.
Death and water. Death and fire. Death and death. Death of innocent young women. I sighed, ready to rid myself of the nostalgia I’d woken to.
I reached for Nick, but he was gone. Opening my eyes, I found a sweet love letter on his pillow. One page long, it said all the right things. I am lucky, no not lucky, I am blessed to have you as both lover and best friend. I laughed out loud when I read, Yeah, I could say you’re beautiful and a good person, but that’s too easy. Other things I love about you include your sarcasm, your twisted sense of humor, your excellent taste in men. And I actually said, “Aww,” when I read, I love you with all the love this simple man can muster, and I feel the solidity of this love, the permanence. In other words, Lise, I will always love you.
I smiled as I got ready for the day.
An hour later, I sat in my car a half block down from the Stephenses’ household, waiting for the lothario to head to work. Ricky came out of the house, whistling. He did a little half jog around his Mustang and got in, apparently still flying high from his hookup with Blondie yesterday. Shari had texted me back last night, saying she could meet me after Ricky left for work. He would have to drive straight to the dealership to make it to work at his usual time, so I wasn’t worried about not following him there. Elliot the Slim would pick up surveillance once Ricky arrived at the dealership.
Shari and I sat in her kitchen. She lived in an older neighborhood with upper-middle-class homes dating back to the fifties and sixties. Hers was a mid-century modern home that had probably seemed futuristic when it was new. Its low roof peaked in the middle. It had high windows on the front wall and a lawn manicured to perfection. Her house was quiet since the kids had already left for school. She was dressed business casual because she had a meeting at her church after our little get-together. She was a volunteer on a board that raised funds for Saint Monica House, a place for young, single pregnant girls to live and receive an education and medical care. Shari sipped from an oversized mug that read, “Coffee in the morning, wine at night.”
I filled her in on what I’d witnessed at the Lazy Sandbar. “At least we know for sure that Ricky faked that burglary. I’m really sorry, Shari. Are you okay?”
Shari scrunched her brows. “I’m not feeling much, Lise. After all I’ve been through, I’m just disappointed in Ricky. No surprise. No anger. No heartache. Just disappointment.”
“We can go to the police. They might get The Floating Ballerina back for you.”
Her voice sounded weary. “I’m not sure about that. Knowing Ricky, he wouldn’t say a thing about where it is out of spite, and I’d never get it back.”
I had the same worry. “Now that we’re sure he took your stuff, can you act like you don’t know, let everything go along as normal?”
“Why?”
“We can go ahead and bring the police in, but, like you said, that doesn’t guarantee we get The Floating Ballerina back. He’s hidden it somewhere and may decide to keep it hidden even if he’s arrested. Think of it from his standpoint. He’s arrested, he’s facing a little jail time. What’s in it for him to return the sketch? If he doesn’t return it, then he’ll have something he can sell for a big chunk of change when he gets out. I suggest we carry on as we have been, and hopefully, we find out where he’s stashed it or at least catch him in possession of it or trying to sell it. But it’s up to you. We’ll proceed however you want.”
“Makes sense. I’ll pretend everything is hunky-dory.” Shari gave a humorless laugh. “Acting and pretending is all I’ve been doing through most of our marriage.” We were silent a moment, and she took a deep breath. “You’re not married, are you, Lise?”
“Nope.”
“Have a man in your life?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Is he a good man?”
I thought of the note he’d left me. “He is.”
“It must be nice,” Shari said.
“I know things are crappy right now, but once everything’s settled, maybe you’ll find a good man too.”
“Maybe, but I think I’d rather play the field for a while.”
I laughed. “And then there’s that.”