Chapter 36
“Mike!” I waved and ran toward him. “What are you doing here?”
“I was planning to ask you the same question. Do you know the owners of this house?”
“Yes. Is something wrong? You seem put out.”
“While I rotted in jail and lost the best years of my life, the real thief lived the high life right here.”
“Do you mean Dolly?”
“Dolly lived here?”
“She was the owner of the house, but she was murdered a few days ago.”
“Was she married?”
“Four times! But her last husband died a long time ago.”
“He got what he deserved.”
“Someone shot him.”
“Ordinarily I do not take pleasure in the deaths of others, but on this occasion, I believe I am entitled to some small degree of satisfaction that he was not rewarded for his poor behavior by a long and wonderful life.”
I felt so stupid. How could I have not seen this? “You’re Orso.”
His eyebrows shot up. “How do you know that?”
“You lied to me. You gave me a fake name.”
“I apologize. I no longer wish to be known as Orso. That name carries with it a great burden. I am trying to start fresh. I thought if I gave myself a new name it would be a new beginning for me. Orso Moschello and Tom Jones are gone just as though they died in the prison where I wasted my life.”
“Tom Jones?”
“Yes, I know. I’ve heard jokes about the singer my whole life. I loathed that name.”
“Which one is your real name, Orso or Tom Jones?”
“They both are. Orso means bear in Italian. My grandfather called me Piccolo Orso, ‘little bear,’ when I was a child. My friends picked it up and when I was in the antiques business, everyone knew me as Orso. My middle name was my mother’s maiden name, Moschello. I thought it had a more interesting ring to it. I was a young man then and thought it sounded macho, so I was known as Orso Moschello. But my birth certificate says Thomas Moschello Jones.”
“When exactly did you go to prison?”
“The worst year of my life, 1991.”
My pulse quickened. It couldn’t be. Could it? “Do you know a woman with the last name Delaney?”
He studied me in alarm. “Who are you?”
“I know someone who would like to meet you.”
“Me? Are you sure? Do you know Betty Delaney?”
“I don’t. But there’s someone else who has been looking for you.”
His expression hardened. “Is this some kind of trick? I haven’t violated my probation or done anything wrong.”
“It’s nothing like that. Don’t worry.”
“Who would want to meet me? My parents passed away while I was in prison. Except for distant cousins, I don’t have anyone left on this earth who cares about me.”
“Your son does.”
“This time you are wrong, dear Florrie. I don’t have a son.”
“Tom Jones, you are about to embark on the new life you longed for.”
I took his hand and was prepared to march him across the street when a moving truck pulled up. Olivia and Priss walked out to talk to the driver.
I tugged a reluctant Orso, or Mike, across the street and through Dolly’s gate. We watched as the EMTs loaded Percy into the ambulance. At least the cops would know where to find him.
I motioned to Edgar to join us.
“Mr. Thomas Jones, I would like you to meet your son, Edgar Delaney. He’s been looking for you.”
I walked away to give them some privacy. Eric held his hand out to me. I grasped it. “How is your leg?”
“Achy. But I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.”
We watched as movers passed us carrying furniture and boxes. It was the end of an era. Dolly was gone, and now, after twenty-five years in this house, Priss and Olivia would be gone, too. And in one of those boxes was Maxwell’s van Gogh sunflower, probably worth millions. It was going away and would be lost again. “There must be a way to stop them,” I whispered. “I know I saw the van Gogh.”
“Maisie, how old are you?” I asked.
“Thirty. Why?”
“So in 1991, you were three years old.”
Eric whispered, “Where are you going with this?”
“Priss and Olivia said they had lived here twenty-five years, but they took care of Maisie when she was three, so they were here in 1991.”
“They just rounded the number,” said Eric. “I wouldn’t put much stock in that.”
Priss walked out wearing a gardening hat with a wide brim. Blood-red roses and dotted midnight-black tulle pinned the brim up in front so her face was visible. She carried a long-handled spade.
“What a cute hat!” said Maisie. “May I see it? Where did you get it? My shop should carry these.”
Priss’s free hand touched the brim. “I made it myself. I’d rather not take it off, though. You understand—hat head. My hair’s a mess.”
“That’s mine!”
The gardening neighbor from across the street marched toward us. That is my spade, Priss Beauton. You have some nerve.”
Priss smiled at her. “Please. It’s just a shovel. They all look alike.”
The neighbor’s eyes narrowed. “That’s where you are wrong, missy. That spade has a nick on the back, just above the spot where the handle joins the metal. And over the nick is a smudge of green paint.”
Eric said, “Turn the shovel, Priss.”
Priss took two steps toward the truck, but the neighbor was surprisingly fast. She tugged at the spade, but Priss wasn’t letting go.
A breeze came up, catching Priss’s hat. Priss let go of the shovel to reach for her hat, but the wind carried it toward Veronica.
The neighbor flipped the spade so we could see. Sure enough, there was the nick and the green smudge, just as described. The irate neighbor glared at her. “Just so you know, I reported the break-in of my garage to the police. You may have gotten away with stealing from other people’s garages in this neighborhood, but not from mine.”
She turned on her heel and went home with her spade.
“Are you going to report her?” I asked Eric.
“I guess I have to.”
Veronica started to hand the hat back to Priss, but Maisie grabbed it. The hat twisted and a piece of paper fell out of it.
Oblivious, Maisie checked the label inside the hat. “I knew you didn’t make this.”
I bent over to pick up the paper. It was the photo of Edgar’s father.