The Mosaic Murder Page 6

  How in the world had she ever hooked up with him? But she remembered exactly how. How easy it had been for two mismatched souls to think they were right for each other in the midst of passion. It had worked just fine. For a while. The memories of their lovemaking made her uncomfortable, not because it wasn’t good, but because it was. It had been close to magical. But everything else in their relationship was off-kilter. Oil and water. Square pegs and round holes all the way.

  But even so, she found herself yearning for the comfort of a body next to hers.

  The sound of the telephone ringing snapped her back from her reverie.

  “What?” she said into the receiver.

  It was Marty, his voice soft and seductive.

  Maggie felt the same fluttering below her waist that had been bothering her intermittently ever since she had left the gallery. It had been fairly easy to push it aside until now. The sound of Marty’s voice brought it all to the surface despite her efforts to ignore it. She cursed those sneaky hormones, knowing they’d get the best of her. They were nothing but nature’s little dirty trick to keep the world populated. Well, a good supply of birth control pills had outsmarted nature on that one!

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he was saying. “If we could just talk, maybe we could work this out.”

  She didn’t say much as she listened. She was too busy trying to fight the temptation with his blonde hair and irresistible blue eyes and perfectly toned body. And memories of him lying naked next to her.

  “Maggie, are you still there?”

  “I’m still here, Marty.”

  Pause.

  “Marty? Come on over and we’ll talk.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “Give me an hour, okay?”

  “If I have to,” he said, his voice reflecting his unwarranted optimism.

  “And Marty....”

  ”Yes?”

  “It’s only to talk. You got it?”

  But they both knew better.

  * * * *

  Maggie cleaned the cat’s box in the bathroom, poured in fresh litter and kicked it below the pedestal sink. She carried the bag of stinky, urine soaked sand outside to the trash bin and tossed it in. The sun had lowered itself beyond the far side of the mountains. Bats were flitting erratically in the semi-darkness above her head in their nightly search for insects.

  Despite not being frightened by them, she couldn’t help but duck with their every passing swoop. It was instinct. Nothing more. She ran back into the house and took a quick shower, then slipped into something that didn’t say ‘I have to have you’ but would be easy enough to slip off if her hormones out-witted her common sense. If instinct overcame reason. She still hadn’t come to terms with her true motive in inviting Marty over. Why she was caving in after she’d made it clear to him, as well herself, that their relationship was over. It was only to talk, she told herself as she sprayed his favorite perfume between her breasts.

  * * * *

  Maggie and Marty didn’t talk very long before they were headed to the bedroom, tearing off each other’s clothes in a frenzy. She climbed on top of him and came in record time, then had to pretend she was still in the moment while he caught up with her. She was already having regrets. Why, while they were in the throes of passion, was she fantasizing about another man? A man with a scruffy beard and arms covered in tattoos. In the looks department there was no comparison, but Rocco La Crosse kept wedging himself into her thoughts nonetheless.

  She lay in bed staring at the ceiling while her perspiration soaked into the sheets beneath her. She didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit. She didn’t like having Marty back in her bed nor did she like having thoughts about someone she could never get involved with. At least she still had that much sense about her.

  Marty was settled in next to her, lying on his side, already half asleep. She nudged him.

  “Huh?”

  “You have to go now.”

  “But I thought we....”

  ”It’s getting late and I’m tired.” Already he was starting to suck up all her oxygen and she was finding it difficult to breathe. Why did he always make her feel like that? Like he’d chained her inside a tiny cage and wouldn’t let her escape. As if he’d never be content unless he totally possessed her.

  “Marty,” she began, then stopped mid-sentence. She never should have asked him over. She was stirring up the same mess that she’d put behind her. And for what? A few moments of pleasure and release? She’d have been way ahead of the game if she’d just settled for an alternate, and far safer, method. No strings attached.

  “You really need to go now.”

  Reluctantly, he got out of bed, dressed and left.

  * * * *

  About three in the morning, Maggie awoke with a start to a rustling sound coming from the kitchen. Cautiously, she slid out of bed and reached for the revolver on the night stand. She slipped silently into her robe in the darkened room and tiptoed towards the kitchen. As she entered the room she flipped on the light and cocked her gun, aiming it in the direction of the sounds.

  “Darn you,” she said, uncocking the gun and setting it on the kitchen table. Prowler looked at her from where he sat by the open cabinet door beneath the sink. He was scrunching chicken bones with a look of smug defiance. “Don’t you know those things can kill you?”

  Maggie stooped down and shoved the scattered bones back into the trash bag as Prowler fought her for one more piece. And failed. She should have taken them out when she went out earlier.

  But her mind had definitely been elsewhere.

  She pulled a tiny piece of remaining meat off a leg bone and tossed it across the floor. Prowler attacked it as if it were a mouse and gobbled it down with a growl. Maggie slipped out the back door, trash bag in hand and threw it into the trash bin. Slamming down the lid she looked up and was awed at the sight. A million stars splashed across the night sky like scattered diamonds shimmering against a black velvet backdrop. It was beautiful, she had to admit.

  But her practicality won out. She’d have preferred seeing clouds. No such luck. There wasn’t a hint of monsoon rains in the sky. And that meant another hot day with no relief in sight.

  She turned to head back into the house when a sound from the alleyway caught her attention. It sounded like it was coming from just beyond her back fence. Like footsteps. But who would be out walking in the middle of the night? Unless they were up to no good. She wished she’d brought her flashlight out with her. As well as her gun. She walked across the rocky yard toward the fence, dodging the random cactus that lurked along the pathway. When she got to the fence she stopped and listened, holding her breath.

  All was silent.

  Slowly, she raised herself on her tiptoes and peered over the wall.

  There was nothing there.

  Nothing but the darkness below and the stars overhead.

  Maggie Reardon kicked herself for being so jumpy and headed back to the house. It was probably nothing but some horny old stray looking for a little action. There seemed to be a lot of that going around tonight. Maybe it had something to do with the position of the stars or the stifling heat. Well, whatever the cause it was contagious and running rampant. She smiled, hoping the old guy would find what he was looking for.

  She still had time for a few more hours sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CANNABIS AND CAMOMILE TEA

  Detective Maggie Reardon pulled up to the curb in front of a typical Arizona ranch house. The stucco was painted ochre with trim a combination of deep purple and mint green. Several rose bushes lined the front walkway and a Texas Ranger plant sprawled under the picture window, pregnant with hundreds of tiny lavender flowers.

  The place looked cozy and inviting.

  Maggie flipped through her notes before exiting the car, briefcase and portable fingerprint kit in hand. She had called Mary Rose earlier that morning to set up a time for a visit. The voice on the other end of the phone had be
en animated and pleasant. Maggie liked questioning people in their own surroundings. Not only did it make them more comfortable and relaxed, but more often than not seeing how a person lived told her a lot more about them than anything that came out of their mouths in an interrogation room.

  She walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

  The door opened a crack and an elderly woman peered out at her with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “You must be Detective Reardon,” she said as she opened the door. “Do come in dear, you must be sweltering out there.”

  The room was neat as a pin, but as soon as Maggie entered she detected the faint smell of stale marijuana smoke and cat urine. Not overwhelming, but definitely there, lurking just under the surface. The soft aroma of Blue Waltz perfume floated in the air ever so faintly. The sense of smell, the most powerful memory trigger, flashed images of her mother tucking her in at bedtime. And the room was filled with the scent of freshly baked cookies. Childhood memories wrapped around her like a cozy blanket.

  She immediately felt comfortable here.

  “Do sit down,” said Mary Rose, indicating a chair with white crocheted doilies on the arms and back. The room reminded Maggie of an English country cottage right out of a BBC mystery. Watercolors filled the sage green walls, mostly flowers and rural scenes in muted shades of lilacs and greens. Each bore the signature of Mary Rose. She shook hands with the elderly woman, properly introduced herself, then settled down into the chair.

  “Where are my manners?” asked Mary Rose. “I just put on a nice pot of chamomile tea. May I offer you a cup?”

  “That would be nice, thank you.” This darling woman had a comfortable, relaxed aura about her.

  As Mary Rose headed to the kitchen Maggie asked if she could assist.

  “No, no, no my dear, everything’s under control.”

  A white Persian cat trotted across the room and jumped onto Maggie’s lap to check her out. It sniffed her face and tickled her ears with its whiskers and started to purr, then settled onto her lap like they were old friends, dropping little tufts of fur on her navy blue pants.

  “You’re definitely sweeter than the ungrateful fellow I have at home.”

  “Ah, so you’ve met Sir Chesterfield,” Mary Rose said as she returned to the room and set the tea tray on the coffee table. “I can see you’ve passed muster.”

  She handed Maggie a small plate with three home baked cookies and a linen napkin, then poured the hot brew into teacups. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Two sugars.”

  Mary Rose placed the cup of tea on the side table next to Maggie, then sat down on the love seat across from her and took a long, slow sip from her own dainty cup.

  “I was shocked when you called this morning and told me the purpose of our little visit. It’s so hard to imagine Armando not with us. Why, I just saw him last night and he was so—well, alive.”

  “Did you know him well? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?”

  “I tend to keep my mouth shut and my ears open. One gets all kinds of little tidbits that way, but no, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to actually hurt him.”

  “Actually?”

  “Oh, he liked to play the charmer. And he played people. He liked to play a lot of things. He was quite the player, Mr. Armando. And a first class lothario, but,” she ran knobby, arthritic fingers through her white hair and thought for a minute before continuing. “I doubt anyone took offense. My goodness, he’s bedded half the gallery, but nobody took him seriously. This probably isn’t nice to say, but he was, well, sort of a community plaything at Mosaic.” She chuckled.

  “Did his wife know? About the affairs I mean.”

  “Barbara? She was blind in love where Armando was concerned, but sure she knew. And he knew about her as well. It was no big deal. They may have been married, but they had an understanding. It was a very open relationship.”

  “So Barbara had lovers too?”

  “At least two that I know of. No, probably just one. Rocco La Crosse stopped seeing her that way once she was married.”

  “Why was that?”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered to Barbara, but Rocco has his own rules, and not messing with married women is one of them. You know, Rocco’s the best friend a person could have. And they’re still the best of friends. Benefits or no.”

  “And the other lover?”

  “Oh, that would be Adrian,” she said.

  Maggie flipped through her notes.

  “Adrian Velikson?”

  “You look surprised.”

  Maggie cleared her throat. Barbara Atwell was so feminine that the idea had never crossed her mind.

  “Do you think Adrian was jealous?”

  “Of course she was jealous. How would you feel if someone you’d been lovers with since college turned around and got married? It took her awhile, but she’s accepted it.”

  “Maybe not so much....”

  “Oh, Detective Reardon, if you’re thinking Adrian is capable of murder you’re mistaken. Adrian is one of the gentlest souls I’ve ever met.”

  Maggie tried to wrap her head around that one. Gentle wouldn’t have been the first adjective that came to mind to describe the butch little broad she’d met yesterday at the gallery.

  Mary Rose chuckled, sipped her tea and nibbled on her cookie, then set the cup down on the saucer. “Let me tell you about Adrian,” she said. “Adrian is like a roasted marshmallow. She’s crusty as a burnt biscuit on the outside but all soft and mushy on the inside.”

  Maggie would let that go for now. After all, Adrian Velikson had the oldest motive in the world.

  Jealousy.

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night? Anyone not familiar?”

  “There’s always a few new faces, but no, nothing that stood out really.” She thought for a minute. “Oh, I do remember one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Armando was on the telephone with Paloma Blanca. They made plans to meet up after the show. But obviously he didn’t make it if you found the poor man dead at the gallery.”

  “Paloma Blanca? That name isn’t on my list.”

  “She wasn’t there last night. Oh, she makes lovely jewelry. She can do things with silver and semi-precious stones that are magical. Paloma made this ring,” she said, holding out her hand to display her dramatic carnelian ring.

  “It’s beautiful.” said Maggie, looking at the ring Mary Rose held out so proudly. “Would you happen to have an address or phone number for her?”

  “I’ve got it around here somewhere.” She started to rise.

  “That’s okay, I’ll get it from you before I leave. And I’ll need to get your fingerprints, too.”

  “Oh my. Does that mean I’m a suspect?”

  “It’s only for purposes of elimination.”

  “If you think it might help.”

  “Do you remember what time you left the gallery last night?”

  “It was early. I tire faster than I used to. I think it was around eight thirty. Calypso was all pissed off because Armando snubbed her advances again and she asked me for a ride home.”

  “The two of you left together?”

  “Yes, we came back here for a little wine and conversation.”

  “And a little pot?”

  Mary Rose’s laughter was like the sound of tinkling bells. “Oh, you are a good detective. I might be old but believe me I’m not dead yet. Just because there’s snow on the roof...why I could tell you about my years in Paris that would make the antics at The Mosaic Gallery look like amateur hour.” Her attention drifted as her mind wandered off to the Left Bank of Paris. Then she snapped back to the present. “But I’m sure you’re not here to bust me over a little medicinal pot, are you dearie?”

  “Negative.”

  Maggie stroked Sir Chesterfield’s white fur as he slept on her lap. She was liking Mary Rose more by the minute. Mary was straight forward and up front, which was refreshing compared to most
of the people she dealt with. She drained the last of her tea from the cup and sat it down on the side table.

  “Your perfume, that’s Blue Waltz isn’t it?”

  “Why Detective Reardon, you’re way too young to remember Blue Waltz. When I was in grade school I’d save my allowance and buy it at the five and dime. By the time I could afford the expensive stuff I was too hooked on it to trade up. It’s no longer easy to find, but it’s still out there on the internet. How, pray tell, are you familiar with such an old fashioned scent?”

  “It’s the perfume my mother wore.”

  “I can see in your eyes that you loved her very much. Would it be improper to ask how you lost her so young?”

  “My parents were driving back from Phoenix when a haboob kicked up. The sandstorm was blinding, maybe five percent visibility. They were rear ended by a semi-truck. I lost them both that day.”

  “How tragic.”

  “It was, yes. I was just two months into eighteen, so at least I didn’t end up in the system.” Maggie had stayed in their house, managed the payments by working in a fast food joint, and kept the land-line listed under their names. As irrational as it seemed, she saw it as a way of keeping them close. She changed the subject. “I might need to speak with you again.”

  “To pick my brains?” asked Mary Rose with a twinkle.

  “That, too,” she said. “But I also enjoy your company.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  * * * *

  Maggie sat in her car, checking her notes, and looking across the street to Viente de Agosto Park. The thermometer was hovering just below 105 degrees and threatening to go higher, so she kept the engine running for the air conditioning as she flipped through her pages. Barbara Atwell had told her she would find two of the regular gallery patrons here. She had no address for them. And she didn’t have much in the line of names for them either. Just Crazy Jake and Mouse.