Chapter 19

Our breakfast, never a leisurely affair Monday through Friday, was downright hurried this morning. Which meant I spilled the orange juice and spent time wiping it up. Wells jumped into Cindy’s lap with wet orange paws, which meant a complete and time-consuming change of costume. I thought we had a second quart of milk in the fridge and poured the last of one container onto my cereal. We did not have another container. So instead of cereal, although I had offered her mine, Cindy was eating toast, which she pronounced soggy, and drinking black coffee to the tune of many yuks and arghs.

Actually, the day had started extremely well. Cindy had awakened in an amorous mood, and I was rarely one to turn down an invitation. But our rapturous moments had made us run late in the morning preparations for the day. Cindy was nearly always punctual in getting to work, but I doubted the bank would have to close its doors and turn away depositors in the hundreds if she were a few minutes late. I made the mistake of voicing this opinion and got a rather lengthy soliloquy on the necessity of setting a good example to one’s coworkers and subordinates—a problem I did not face, she explained sweetly to me, since my occupation was a solitary one, except for Fargo, of course. And since I rarely had to be at a certain place at a certain time, whereas banks, as one knew, were punctual to the minute.

I replied pleasantly that if she would figure out a way to schedule crimes between eight and four, Monday through Friday, I should be more than happy joining her at the proverbial time clock, carefully noting brief coffee breaks and taking lunches never to exceed one hour.

I felt guilty eating the cereal, so I put it on the floor, where Fargo picked this morning to growl when Wells tried to share. This earned me a dirty look as Cindy arose from her pale toast and dark coffee, and stroked the cat. “Be brave, darling, I’ll bring you some milk on my lunch hour. I won’t have time to stay and eat with you, but at least you will be fed.”

“She’s got a whole bowl of crunchies she hasn’t touched.” It was a weak defense.

“She needs liquid.”

“She’s got fresh water.”

“I’ve got to run. See you.”

“Yes.”

As quarrels went, this one was hardly critical, and we would both be over it soon. Cindy, as soon as she got some decent coffee and turned to CNBC on the small TV she kept on her desk. Me, as soon as I stopped by the deli for coffee and a hunk of Portuguese fried bread and took Fargo to the beach. Still, it got the day hopping around on the wrong foot. Especially following such a lovely beginning. Oh, well.

I straightened the kitchen and made the bed, and Fargo and I got out of Dodge. The Atlantic was still there, the early sun promised brightness and later warmth, and the breeze held no gusty threats. A small gaggle of Canada geese were bobbing just beyond the light surf, still resting from their nightlong flight toward warmer climes. Fargo took an appraising look, but elected to leave them to relax a while longer. Instead, he raced down the beach, scattering a bunch of scavenging gulls, then pausing to leave his conquering spoor wherever they had been. As Ozymandias had said, “Look upon my deeds, oh ye mighty, and despair.”

I laughed aloud and felt much better. On the way home, I stopped and bought two quarts of milk. I journeyed on to the florist, not yet open and trying to get her plants sprayed, but willing to make a quick sale. I purchased a large and somewhat tacky bouquet of colorful somethings.

As she wrapped the stems in paper for me to carry, I filled out a card: The quality of mercy is not strained. It falleth as the gentle milkshake from Heaven. Love, Alex. I slipped it into a tiny envelope, which the owner tied to one of the stems.

“You just never know, do you?” she opined more than asked.

“Uhmmn,” I felt was a proper answer.

“I only bought four of these bouquets from my wholesaler this morning, figuring their style might be a little . . . ah, excessive. And this is the second one I’ve sold before I’ve even opened the shop.”

I wondered what other guilt-ridden soul patrolled the mean streets of our Provincetown at this early hour of the morning. It was comforting to feel I was not alone.

Arriving home, I was surprised to see Cindy’s car in the driveway. The way her day was going, someone at work had probably spilled toner all over her second dress—thus far—of the morning. I very nearly just kept going, brave heart that I am, but the thought that something really serious could have happened sent me inside, mouth dry, ready to duck and run.

I stopped in my tracks at the sight of Cindy trying to fit two quarts of milk into the crowded fridge, and the clone of my boisterous bouquet sitting jauntily on the kitchen table.

When we both stopped laughing, we hugged and I handed her the milk I had bought, and she groaned but finally found a spot for it. The two bouquets now sat on either end of the highboy in the dining room.

“And the end of this sad tale,” she said in almost a whisper, “is that there was another container of milk all along. It had gotten behind the iced tea and neither one of us saw it. I can’t stay, darling. I really do hate to be late. I just couldn’t leave us at odds and ends that way. What on earth can we do with five quarts of milk?”

“I think Aunt Mae has a great recipe for chocolate pudding. I’ll check it out. That should use up some of it.”

“Don’t you try to make it,” Cindy said quickly. “I mean, you’ll be busy and I can do it easily this afternoon when I get home.” She smiled sweetly and falsely. “Just get the recipe.”

“Yes, dear, you are so thoughtful. I’m off to the Tellmans’. I love you.”

And so I was finally beginning my work day, complete with the partner who kept my job from being solitary. The Tellmans were cordial, as usual, and welcomed Fargo with smiles and friendly pats, but I sensed a strain—not between the two of them necessarily, but in general. Thinking to relax the atmosphere a bit, I told them of Cindy’s and my morning. At least it made them laugh. I don’t think it did much for their overall dispositions.

Betsy handed me the deposit slip, and I took it by the corner. God knows how many people had handled it by now, but one went through the motions. You never knew, as the florist said. The paper had at some point been damp, either from morning dew or possibly from Mrs. Santos watering her yard, but everything was still quite legible, if a bit smeary. The date was clearly that of Charlie’s death. The signature was definitely Charlie’s, as far as I could tell. The amount to be deposited was $25,130, well within the window of what the Tellman sisters said it should have been. The paper had at some time been crumpled and was slightly torn in a couple of spots.

It was impossible to guess whether it had been tossed from a moving vehicle or by a passing pedestrian. Provincetown was rarely without at least a mild breeze, which could have blown the slip anywhere any time.

I slid it into an envelope I had brought along for the purpose and put it in my jacket pocket.

“Well, I guess that does it.” I patted my pocket. “I suggest if you plan any cash deposits between now and the time you leave, you call the police department and request an escort. They’ll send someone in plainclothes if you wish to do it unobtrusively, but there’s no point in taking chances.”

“How very kind of you to think of that. We have been a bit nervous, rattling around in the mostly empty house. Maybe we should borrow this lovely boy of yours.” Jan lightly touched Fargo’s shoulder. “As a matter of fact, the only cash we probably will deal with before we steal quietly away—oops, no pun intended—is the night of the gala. We hope to sell a lot of art that night, so we don’t have to crate it and send it over to the Boston gallery we have an interest in. Choate is sending over two guards to babysit the money and checks for the evening and take it to the bank for us.”

Betsy spoke up, writing a note on a pad she took off the table. “Yes, but first we have to take a bit out to pay Dana. Oh, and we have to remember to sign the van registration so Harry can take it. So many details. We’ll never get out of here, and if we do, there’ll be a string of people running behind us waving things we’ve forgotten.”

My head was spinning. I managed to break into Betsy’s screed. “Did you mean Dana works for you?”

“Oh, yes.” She spread her hands. “Not as an official employee, you understand. She simply lends a hand when we need her. She does whatever needs to be done, but mainly she’s our frame repairperson. She can make a ratty gesso frame look like it was made yesterday. No trace at all of where she replaced the plaster, no matter how intricate the pattern. And we pay her—quite frankly—under the table, because we know where the money mostly goes. Please don’t tell the IRS. We pay them quite enough, thank you.”

“What do you mean you know where the money goes?” I felt like Alice in Wonderland as things got curiouser and curiouser.

Jan answered me. “Most of it goes to Dana’s mother—our sister Margo. That bastard Dan Portman cut her off without a sou. She and her lover—a very sweet man who loves her dearly—are living on a shoestring in Spain. They won’t take any money from Betsy and me. We’ve offered time and again.”

“But Dana wanted to help and was sure her mother wouldn’t accept it from her, either. So Charlie came up with a genius idea,” Betsy interposed. “They send the fairly small amounts Dana earns, but anything helps. Charlie got Choate also involved in the conspiracy. The overseas transfer paperwork from the bank looks as if the money is a dividend from some obscure start-up company our father had invested in years ago, so Margo accepts it.”

“I see.” I sipped the cocoa the maid had placed beside me unasked and smiled my thanks. “And since Dana is your niece, I imagine you pay her well?”

“We try to be generous to all our employees,” Jan said.

“And is Harry Maddock an employee? I assume that’s the Harry who’s bought your . . . van, is it? Does it by chance have a blue streak on the side?” I daintily wiped my mustache away with a soft linen napkin. Such luxury.

Jan raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes. “It’s the remains of a van. We’re just giving it to Harry at Dana’s suggestion. Lord knows we couldn’t sell it for a dime. The dent in the door and the blue streak were the final blow. Some man in a blue SUV from Ohio, I think it was, backed right into us on the wharf. It was a nothing accident, and being from out of state, he didn’t want to file a police report and go through his insurance company to repair the van. As if anyone could. So he gave us two hundred dollars in cash. We figured we were more than amply paid. I just hope Harry is as good at auto repairs as he says he is.”

Betsy grinned. “If he isn’t, he soon will be.”

Since Jan was smoking, I felt free to do the same. She pushed an ashtray closer to me and asked, “How did you figure the old rattletrap had a blue stripe?”

“I stopped for coffee at Mickey’s Pizza one afternoon and two young men driving the van joined some friends at one of the sidewalk tables,” I said. “I just wondered if they were your two live-in artists. By the way, one of them seemed never to speak. He smiled, pointed, used body English, but no words. Does he have some sort of speech impairment?”

Both women laughed. “Hardly,” Betsy chortled. “Unless you consider a very lower-class British accent an impairment, and I doubt he would even know what you meant if you asked. Believe me, he can talk a blue streak if you get him started. You must have the wrong lads.”

“Probably.” I let it go. I didn’t have the wrong lads or the wrong van. “Well, let us allow you to work on down your list of chores. Oh, is Dana working today?”

They both looked blank. “I’m sorry,” Jan said sadly. “Charlie always made out the work schedules. I don’t even know. Her car will be in the lot if she’s here.”

“Okay. Not important. Bye-bye.”