The Mosaic Murder Page 2

  Carlos hesitated, then cautiously stepped forward and reached into the pocket to retrieve his hard earned cash.

  “Gracias, Señorita Maggie,” he said. “Muchas gracias.”

  “All in a day’s work, papacita,” she said, giving the kid a shove against the front door as Carlos counted out his money and put it back into the cash drawer. He slammed it shut with a sigh of relief.

  Then he noticed the gun where it still lay on the counter.

  “Do not forget your evidence,” he smiled, picking it up and walking over to Maggie.

  “Thanks.” Maggie had her hands full with the punk and thought for a second. “Just shove it into my pocket, okay?”

  “Sí, sí,” he said. Holding the gun with two fingers as if it were a live rattlesnake about to strike he walked over to them, then quickly shoved it into her pocket and took three steps backwards. The kid strained his neck to get his first good look at the person holding him captive.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” he said as he locked eyes with her. “You ain’t nothin’ but a skanky little puta!” He let out a few expletives and a nervous, high pitched laugh.

  “You tried me once, punk. Are you really dumb enough to try me again?”

  “I could take you if I didn’t have these cuffs on.”

  “Like you did before?”

  “Hey, you caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  “Ain’t life full of little surprises though? You want to try me before or after you piss your pants?”

  Carlos took a few more steps backwards and when he felt he was at a safe enough distance he chimed in his two cents worth.

  “Did no anybody ever teach you it eez no nice to point guns at people?” he said.

  The kid looked back at him and said, “Like I guess I musta dropped the book and lost the lesson, old man.”

  Carlos watched with pride as Maggie hauled the kid through the door and out to the squad car. She be something else, my miss Maggie, he thought with a smile. Like a little firecracker. As she shoved him in the back seat, Carlos could hear her say:

  “You know, you really ought to practice some impulse control. It could keep you out of a heap of trouble.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A ROWDY RECEPTION

  Barbara Atwell walked through the empty gallery, dust cloth in hand. She ran the cloth across the top of the frames that held the artwork and across the surfaces of the table tops. Everything had to look perfect. She put down the dust cloth and picked up the spray bottle of glass cleaner and paper towels and began to clean the glass fronts that displayed the hand made Paloma Blanca jewelry. The gallery was her life. A dream realized with sweat equity, intelligence and the ability to choose art that the public loved. The recession had put a dent in things but she still managed to keep afloat by mixing more affordable pieces with the more costly ones. It was true, she had to lower her standards a bit, but it kept Mosaic in the black. Ten inexpensive items were an easier sell in this economy than one pricey one. Hard times necessitated hard choices. She had seen too many pricey, trendy galleries go under in the last year and was determined not to become another fatality. She’d worked too hard and long to lose it now and would do whatever was necessary to keep afloat.

  The back door creaked open on its unoiled hinges, then closed with a bang, causing Barbara to jump.

  “Armando? Is that you?”

  “I am so sorry, my love,” he said as he entered the room. “The traffic,” he said in explanation in his soft south of the border accent. Armando stood there with a smile, white teeth glistening against flawless olive skin, dark mischievous eyes twinkling under thick lashes as he looked at his wife. He was in his mid-twenties, in contrast to her forties, and every time she looked at him her heart melted like some love struck kid. She couldn’t help it. He stood before her, tall and perfect, looking like some burnished Aztec god.

  And he knew it.

  “No excuses necessary,” she said, setting down the glass cleaner and walking over to him. She put her arms around him and held his body close. “I missed you,” she whispered.

  “And I you, my love.”

  He kissed her. Every kiss made this otherwise strong and independent woman weak in the knees. There were times she wanted to kick herself or give herself a hard slap across the face to snap back to reality. But he affected her like a forbidden drug and she had no intention of kicking the habit. Armando was the only man who ever won her over. The others had been a pleasant diversion, but handsome Armando had totally mesmerized her with his Latin charm. Despite the age difference and the unwelcome advice and warnings from well-meaning friends, when he proposed she’d said yes with no hesitation. The wedding was simple, a small ceremony performed by a shaman right at the gallery, surrounded by artists and close friends. Local drummers performed the wedding march while tribal dancers twirled and scattered flower petals along the path.

  It was perfect.

  After the ceremony, Armando moved into Barbara’s living quarters above the gallery. Their life together was good. And as non-traditional as Barbara herself.

  “Should we go upstairs?” she asked him.

  Armando pulled away from her and smiled. “I am so tired from the trip, my sweet. I just need to shower and take a little siesta. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  Barbara pouted and turned away from him.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “The day will belong to the two of us and we will never leave the bedroom.” He pulled her back to him. “Mañana will be romantico.”

  “Sí, mañana.” She started to hum the old Peggy Lee song as she returned to her cleaning. “‘Mañana is good enough for me’.”

  * * * *

  Maggie Reardon slammed the door of her small adobe, the same house in which she’d been raised. She’d booked the kid, gone back to visit with her friend Carlos, and filled out the necessary paperwork. Now the punk was somebody else’s problem and it was time to relax. She unbuckled her gun belt, placed in on the side table and collapsed into the overstuffed chair her father had sat in as far back as she could remember. She missed him. She missed them both. Her overweight black cat jumped onto her lap, meowing impatiently for his dinner. She pushed him off and onto the floor, where he sat glaring at her.

  “Just hold on there, Prowler,” she said to him. “Your turn’s coming.”

  As she was pulling off her shoes the phone rang. She tossed a shoe onto the floor, barely missing the cat, who puffed up his fur in protest but didn’t budge. She debated not answering. All she wanted was an Irish whiskey and a relaxed smoke. But the ringing wouldn’t stop . She reached across to the phone on the side table and as she picked up the receiver she removed the second shoe with her other hand and dropped it to the floor. It hit the tiles with a thud. Prowler voiced his disapproval with a low growl, but refused to move even an inch out of the path of her missiles.

  “What,” she said into the phone, impatience and exhaustion in her voice.

  It was Marty, her latest ex-boyfriend.

  “We really need to talk, Maggie,” he said.

  “We did talk, remember?”

  “But I miss you.” The same annoying whine was in his voice, the sound of a child determined to get his way.

  She said nothing. His voice grated on her and made her bristle. But it also conjured images of his wavy blonde hair and sky blue eyes and the smell of his cologne and the feel of his touch. She found herself weighing the pros and cons of their relationship just as she had weeks before. The right decision was made, even if he had been the instigator. It was a done deal.

  “Talk to me, baby. Please. We can work this out.”

  “We did work it out.”

  “You know it was a mistake. You’ve gotta miss me as much as I miss you.”

  “No, I don’t gotta. It was best for us both. You know that, Marty.”

  Maggie only half listened as Marty stated his well-rehearsed argument. He told her how good they were together. Good for who, exactly? Somewhere during his monolog
ue she interjected something about him needing a mother rather than a lover, but her truthful gem either went over his head or he’d chosen to ignore it.

  “Marty, we were good in bed, that’s all,” she interrupted. It had taken her awhile to figure out that a man could be a great lover but not be good for much else. Initially, all those flying hormones had fogged her judgment, but when all was said and done, being proficient in the bedroom didn’t produce enough glue to hold the rest of the relationship together. So sad, so true.

  He droned on, making point after weak point, until she reached the end of her patience.

  “I’m tired,” she said and hung up.

  When the phone rang again Maggie Reardon ignored it. Instead of answering she walked into the kitchen, Prowler at her heels, and opened a can of cat food. That was about all the nurturing she had the stomach for.

  * * * *

  Barbara Atwell turned on the window air conditioning units in the gallery’s three public rooms on her way to unlock the front door. She flipped on the exterior lights and set ashtrays on the porch for the smokers. The artist’s reception was a half hour away and things still had to be put in order. Some days she was overwhelmed and today was no exception. Armando hadn’t come downstairs yet to set up bottles of Chianti and champagne for the bar. The folding table was waiting for food, but Rocco and Adrian hadn’t yet arrived with bags from The Trader’s. Barbara placed paper plates and plastic forks on the table, along with napkins, then stacked cocktail napkins at the bar alongside plastic cups. Beads of perspiration gathered above her top lip and impatience knotted her stomach. Where was help when she needed it? It had eased slightly, but the day’s heat promised a warm night magnified by a room filled with people. The air conditioners churned out what coolness they could, but upgrading wasn’t in the budget.

  She was ready to snap.

  Wine bottles in hand, Armando entered the room. He walked across the floor and put the champagne in the mini-fridge behind the counter and placed two bottles of Chianti on the bar. He turned and gave Barbara a well-practiced apologetic grin. “That should get things started,,” he said. There was no way she could get angry when he flashed that smile. He played her like a honky-tonk piano and she gladly tap danced to his tune. And oh, what a glorious dance it was.

  “About time,” she said. She wanted to say more, maybe scold him a little, but his presence calmed her mood and helped her relax. She let it go. They were holding hands like honeymooners when Rocco and Adrian came through the front door, laden with grocery bags and giggling at some off-color joke.

  “Oh, you can be so naughty,” Adrian laughed, her stocky body shaking so hard she almost dropped one of the bags.

  “That’s why you love me, baby.”

  “Permit me to help, mi amiga,” Armando said as he rushed over to Adrian, freeing a bag from her grasp.

  “Gracias, but I’m not your amiga.” Then she added: “You sure know how to shovel it, don’t you Arrr-mando?”

  “Ah, mi amiga es inteligente as well as bonita,” he said with a flash of his white teeth, returning the sarcasm. Even when he’s being nasty he can’t help flirting, Adrian thought to herself as he gave her his best dimpled smile. He was probably born flirting with the midwife who delivered him. He was incurable, a real piece of work.

  The three of them walked over to the table and began emptying the bags, putting cheese squares in one dish and assorted snacks in the rest. It took less than five minutes and everything was in order and ready for the reception. Adrian and Rocco ignored Barbara’s sideways glances as they worked. At least her dark mood had lifted somewhat since Armando’s return from Nogales.

  Rocco clapped his hands together and addressing Barbara said: “Anything else?”

  “Just thank you. I appreciate all you do to help around here. You too, Adrian.”

  Adrian gave her a half-smile, sadness in her eyes as she looked at her friend. Barbara was wearing a long, teal blue dress and high heels that added three more inches to her already statuesque height. Her blonde hair caressed her shoulders and touched the blue sapphires she wore around her long neck. She was exquisite. But she was Armando’s. For the most part anyway.

  Rocco turned at the sound of loud banging and headed towards the door.

  “My god, don’t they know it’s unlocked?” Barbara said.

  Rocco opened the door just as Belinda Blume, facing away from him, prepared to give it one more kick with the sole of her shoe. In her hands she held her heavy contribution to the show. Frizzy light brown hair fell in her face as she turned at the sound of the door opening and lowered her foot to the ground.

  “Darn near gotcha,” she said. “Thanks. I was afraid I’d drop it.”

  She walked inside to where Adrian, Barbara and Armando stood talking. “Hi all,” she said. “Barb, baby doll, where do you want this?”

  Barbara pointed to a pedestal sandwiched between Armando’s shelf and the display case that held the Paloma Blanca jewelry. Belinda was tempted to say something about not wanting her beautiful sculpture next to Armando’s knickknacks, but being next to his crap actually made her piece look all the better. With calloused hands, he placed her artwork on the pedestal then stood back, looking at it with admiration.

  “I topped myself,” she said.

  Adrian walked over to take a closer look.

  “It’s magical,” she said. “Gaia! It’s the goddess.” She reached out and felt its soft, round stomach bursting with child, then lifted it. “Heavy,” she said as she carefully placed it back down with a grunt. Gaia was formed from red clay, sitting proud in all her nakedness, a wreath of flowers meticulously carved into her tangled hair. Adrian thought how much the piece resembled the artist. Full-bodied, short necked, thick fingered. “She’s a masterpiece, Belinda.”

  “Oh Goddess,” Barbara chanted, “source of gods and mortals, all-fertile, all-destroying Gaia!” Then added: “You’ve captured her essence to perfection, Belinda. You should be proud.”

  “First in my prayer, before all deities, I call upon Gaia, primeval prophetess, the Greek great earth mother,” chimed in Adrian with a dramatic bow.

  “Oy, enough already,” said Belinda, grinning ear to ear. “Hey, Armando, bubeleh, how about uncorking some of that bubbly? I’m ready to rock and roll.”

  “Make that two,” said Adrian.

  “Three,” said Rocco.

  “Three’s an unlucky number,” said Barbara. “Better make that four.”

  “And one for the bartender,” said Armando, as he popped the cork and began to pour.

  The bell above the door jingled as Misty Waters entered the gallery. She walked softly through the first public room, pleased that her oils were displayed where they were the first thing one’s eyes set sight on upon entering. Her paintings were large and abstract, in shades of white as pale as her own complexion. Despite being only thirty her head was crowned with snow white hair. As always, Misty dressed in flowing white gauze from head to toe. She was as abstract as her art and as difficult to figure. She floated in like a passing cloud, avoiding eye contact.

  “Misty, I’m so glad you could come,” said Barbara. “I can always depend on you.”

  Rocco walked over to where Misty stood. She recoiled from his welcoming hug, her arms remaining awkwardly at her sides. Physical contact clearly made her uncomfortable. He pulled away and said, “Why don’t I get you something to drink? What would you like?”

  “Do we have white wine?” she asked.

  Rocco turned to Armando with a slight smile. He should have guessed that Misty Waters would only drink something white. Everything about her was white. Weird, he thought with a shrug. White as an unpainted wall, a blank canvas, an icy snow bank. How, he wondered, did she manage to stay so pale in the Arizona sun? She was spooky, like a vampire who only ventured out after sundown. In their close-knit gallery family Misty was their resident enigma.

  Armando fished through the mini-fridge and took out a bottle of white zinfandel. �
��Will this work for the fine señorita?” She nodded her approval. He poured some into a plastic cup and handed it to Rocco who in turn handed it to Misty.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she turned and walked into another room, looking at the display of art on the walls, ignoring everyone as she faded silently into the background.

  “Talk about distant,” Adrian said under her breath.

  Barbara walked over to where Adrian stood. “But she always comes to the receptions. That’s more than some of the artists do.”

  “She never stays long. It’s like an obligation that she has to suffer through.”

  Rocco joined the two women. “Remember, we’re a family. We don’t judge, we accept. Where would we be if we didn’t embrace one another just the way we are? Not one of us is perfect. And some of us are flawed almost beyond repair.” He laughed at his own comment. “That’s what makes us special, don’t you think?”

  “You’re painfully magnanimous,” said Adrian. “She’s so invisible she could be a hit man or a spy for the CIA. Or a serial killer. They say it’s the quiet ones you’ve got to look out for.”

  “We can all learn a thing or two from you Rocco,” said Barbara. “You’re a highly evolved soul and I truly believe the gods brought you here to guide us. You’re my favorite motorcycle riding, rough and tumble, tattooed guru.”

  “Aw shucks ma’am,” he said in his best cowboy drawl.

  “Mary Rose,” said Adrian as the elderly woman walked in. She wore a floral dress and a soft lavender silk shawl that reflected the color of the flower in her hair. “I’m so glad you came. You’re beautiful as always.”

  “For a crone, my dear, for a crone.”

  Armando walked out from where he stood at the bar and took Mary Rose’s hand, her skin as thin and frail as crepe paper. He twirled her around gracefully. “You, my lady, are my favorite work of art.”

  “Enough with your flattery, you silly rascal. How about pouring me a glass of cold bubbles?” Mary Rose walked over to a chair and sat down while Barbara filled a small dish with cheese and crackers and grapes and took them to her, along with the glass of champagne that Armando had poured.