Outside Capone’s apartment building, Aunt Martha’s screams punctuated the ominous grate of the garbage truck’s gears. Capone sat in the armchair that had been half blocked from my view by the easel, staring at me with lifeless eyes. I tore my gaze away and raced out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out the back of the building.
The truck’s rear bumper faced me. I ran toward the side of the truck, waving my arms like a wild woman as I screamed at the driver to stop.
The truck’s tines slid home into the sides of the dumpster, and the hydraulics started to lift.
I yanked open the driver’s door. “Stop! There’s a woman in the dumpster.”
The driver slammed it to a stop and lowered the bin back to the ground.
Fingers slid over the lip of the dumpster. “Serena?” Aunt Martha’s voice sounded hoarse.
The truck driver jumped onto one of the truck’s tines and hoisted her out.
“Aunt Martha, are you okay? How’d you end up in there?”
“Thank you, young man,” she said to the truck driver. “Could you see if you can find my mobile in there before you dump it? It must’ve fallen out of my pocket.”
“Not in my job description, lady. Sorry.” He climbed back into his truck.
I helped Aunt Martha out of his way. Her right ankle was swollen to double its size. “A little girl found your phone in the bush,” I said. “But I didn’t manage to find her before she made off with it.”
“Oh goodness. If I’d known I dropped it earlier, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time mucking about in there.”
“Aunt Martha, what were you doing in there?” I repeated, pressing the backs of my fingers to my nostrils to block out her eau de dumpster fragrance.
“Oh, my. What time is it? Nate’s going to be wondering what happened to me.”
I glanced at my watch. “Four thirty. He’s the one who alerted me that you were missing. Hold on a second,” I said once we were safely out of harm’s way. I phoned 911 to request an ambulance and police.
“I don’t need an ambulance,” Aunt Martha fussed. “You know I hate hospitals. But the police might be a good idea. I saw a couple of dodgy-looking fellows loading expensive-looking paintings into the back of a white panel van. That’s why I snuck through the hedge.”
I moved upwind of her. “Did you get their plate number?”
“I tried. I couldn’t see it from where I was so I crept over to take a look-see inside when they went back in the building, but they came back out so quickly, I had to duck behind the dumpster.”
“How’d you end up inside the dumpster?”
“Oh, one of the men was drinking a cup of coffee and tossed the cup in the dumpster before he drove away.”
I fought not to roll my eyes, pretty sure I could guess what was coming. She watched entirely too much TV.
“So of course, I alley-ooped myself up and over the side to retrieve it for the DNA.”
“What happened to it? Is it in your pocket?”
She grimaced. “Way too many people in this neighborhood drink coffee. There were too many cups to choose from.”
“Promise me you won’t ever do that again. You almost ended up in the city dump!” Could’ve wound up like Capone if the guys in the panel van had spotted her nosing around.
“Nonsense. I could’ve been out of there a long time ago if I’d known my phone wasn’t lost. I just panicked when I heard the lorry, because I’d been so busy searching for the phone, I hadn’t finished building the pile high enough to climb out. And by then my leg was hurting like the dickens.” She leaned onto the hood of a nearby car and gave the leg a rub. “I don’t think I’ll be able to drive my car home.”
I phoned Mom. “Aunt Martha twisted her ankle. But she’ll be fine,” I hurried to add, hoping it was true. “We’ll be awhile yet, because the police will want to question her when they arrive.”
“The police?” Mom’s voice hit a new high.
“It’s okay. Aunt Martha didn’t do anything wrong. Can you let Nate know?”
“You’re sure she’s okay?”
“The ankle’s a bit swollen.” I bit my lip at the gross understatement, but Mom didn’t need anything more to worry about.
“I suppose those men in the van could’ve just been picking up paintings they ordered from the artist who lives here,” Aunt Martha said the instant I disconnected. She shrugged, the tiniest of grins tugging at her lips. “You know how my imagination gets the better of me sometimes.”
“Actually, this time I think you might’ve been spot-on.”
At the sound of approaching sirens, I guided her around to the front of the building. And debated what to say about Capone. She apparently hadn’t made the connection that he was the man who’d already taken one of Tyrone’s paintings. The man who twenty-four hours ago she’d imagined was up to no good. Which, considering his current state, was probably the right assumption.
“Why did you come here?”
“I was talking to Livvy about Tyrone’s paintings. You know Livvy. She’s the one who’s always having garage sales down the street from your parents.”
“Yes.”
“Anyways, I remembered her raving about a vintage craft show she went to last fall, and I thought she might know who I should talk to about maybe getting Tyrone a booth there. She said I should talk to Truman Capone.” Aunt Martha handed me a business card with Truman’s name and address under the title Art Made to Order. “He has booths at all the fairs, and she thought he might be willing to share some space with Tyrone.”
“You never made it up to his apartment?”
“I was in the dustbin, remember? I’d still like to talk to him before we leave.”
I plucked a rotting piece of lettuce from Aunt Martha’s hair. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.” My skin suddenly felt clammy and my stomach queasy at the memory of Capone’s vacant eyes, drooping jaw, colorless complexion. “He’s dead.”
“What? No! How?”
“I’m not sure.” I helped Aunt Martha ease onto the apartment building’s front stoop. “I found him at the same time I heard you screaming in the dumpster, so I didn’t have time to examine him.”
A cruiser and ambulance pulled to the curb in front of us. I didn’t recognize the female officer who hopped out. “You our 911 caller?” she asked. “I’m Officer Prescott.”
I extended my hand. “Serena Jones, FBI. The deceased is a suspect in what is beginning to look like an art theft ring. I entered the premises because I believed my aunt was being held inside and found Truman Capone dead in his studio.”
The officer glanced past me to Aunt Martha, who was still sitting on the stoop. “That your aunt?”
“Yes.”
Officer Prescott discreetly blocked her nostrils with her hand. “Where did you find her?”
“In a dumpster behind the building.”
Her eyes widened.
“It was nothing sinister,” Aunt Martha said, pushing to her feet, then changing her mind halfway up. “I wanted something out of it.”
“Something?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
Prescott returned her attention to me. “One I need to hear?”
The EMTs brought a gurney to a halt behind her. “Where to?”
“Is the apartment secure?” Prescott asked me.
“I closed the door when I ran down to rescue my aunt, who I’d seen from Capone’s window.”
“Screaming like the dickens because a garbage truck was about to swallow me,” Aunt Martha interjected.
“The apartment was clear,” I added.
“Okay, wait here,” Prescott said to the paramedics, “while I make sure it’s still clear. Maybe check over this woman.”
One of the paramedics cracked open an ice pack as the other palpated Aunt Martha’s ankle.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I whispered to Aunt Martha and hurried after Prescott. I caught up to her on the stairs, and she looked relieved to have backup.
We confirmed the apartment was clear and radioed the paramedics to come up. “This doesn’t look like natural causes,” Prescott said.
“You mean the bruises?” Capone had yellowing bruises on his arms and face. “They look like they are already a few days old, and the body’s still warm.”
She shook her head and pointed to three-inch-wide parallel lines on the area rug in front of the chair, formed by the carpet’s pile being brushed the opposite direction as the rest of the carpet. “Looks like he was dragged to the chair and propped up. People who lose consciousness slump forward. They don’t stay sitting like they’re looking out the window.”
The paramedics piled into the room, gear in tow.
“Disturb as little as possible,” the officer cautioned them. “We may be looking at a crime scene.” She pulled out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the carpet marks before the paramedics crossed them, then phoned in a request for an evidence team.
I visually canvassed the room. He’d been in the middle of painting a portrait of a young couple. An eight-by-ten glossy similar to the canvas on the easel sat on the bench beside it.
“Can I borrow a pair of gloves?” I asked one of the paramedics. I slipped them on and leafed through the file folders propped in an open holder at the back of the bench. One folder contained portraits. Another landscapes. Another—my breath caught—photographs of paintings. Valuable paintings.
I thumbed through them, my pulse quickening at the sight of several I recognized from the walls of the Forest Park Art Museum. I came to a portrait of a large-eyed waif. A Margaret Keane. “Call Detective Richards,” I said to Prescott. “I may have just found proof Capone was the forger in his art theft case.” I pulled out my cell phone and started snapping pictures of the photographs, since chain of custody requirements wouldn’t allow me easy access once the homicide detective arrived.
I reached the back of the folder without recognizing any others I knew were stolen. Of course, I’d have to track down every last one of them to be sure. The next file folder also contained photographs of paintings, but these were pre-1940s. My heart skipped at the sight of the Degas we’d recovered from the drug dealers. Capone’s handiwork too?
I flipped through them faster, hopeful Gladys’s Dali would be in here too.
It wasn’t.
Then again, would someone with such a carefully devised plan be foolish enough to leave behind an incriminating photograph?
If I spooked the thief into thinking I was on to him, he may have come back to retrieve the photo to cover his tracks. I replayed this morning’s interviews with Lucas and Ted in my mind. Lucas seemed the most likely suspect at this point, but was he capable of murder?
I went through the stack again, more methodically this time, and snapped a photograph of each. As the duplicate image of the bottom one appeared on my phone screen, my breath stalled. Granddad’s painting.