Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 05 - A Deadly Change of Luck (11 page)

I stared at the board for a moment.  “It’s crooked,” I said.

“What?”

“Look.  It’s not level.  That side is higher than this side.”

Sam backed up a couple feet and stared at the board.  “It looks straight to me,” he argued.

“Did you use a level?”

“No.  I measured from the ceiling.”

“How do you know the ceiling is level?” I asked.

Sam dropped the screwdriver into his desk drawer and shoved it closed.  “Is there a reason for this visit, or did you just drop by to bug me?”

“I came by to talk about Lou
Winnomore
.  I was just over talking to Eric in the lab.”

Sam was busy removing assorted colors of dry-erase pens from a box.  He placed them one-by-one on the
tray at the bottom of the white
board
, then
turned the box over and shook it until the eraser fell out.  “So talk.”

I stood up and walked over to the board
,
picked up the blue pen and removed the cap.

Sam looked at me as if I’d just taken his wallet.  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I’m going to use your new tool to help solve this crime.  You mind?”

Sam snatched the pen from my hand.  “You can’t be the first one to write on my board.  I’ll do the writing.”

I returned to my seat.  “Fine, but don’t forget to keep the pen covered when you’re not using it, or it’ll dry out.”

“I know that,” he scoffed.  “I was going to do this anyway, so don’t go thinking this is your idea.”

“Okay.  Okay.  What do you t
hink about starting with a time
line?” I suggested.

Sam smiled and pointed the pen at me.  “Good idea.”  He drew a horizontal line on the board and made a couple of small vertical marks on it.  “Let’s start with the purchase of the ticket.”

“Good.  That had to happen some time between Wednesday night and early Saturday morning,” I said.

“No.  He could have bought the ticket right up until the time of the draw on Saturday night,” Sam replied.

“I don’t think so.  Lou left early on Saturday morning to go on a fishing trip with his son.  He would have already bought the ticket for Saturday night’s game.”

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“I talked to the neighbors this morning.  They told me.”

Sam glared at me. 

I pointed toward his hand.  “You’re pen is going to dry out.”

“What else did they tell you?”

“I’ll get to that.  Just write down what I said.”

He scribbled something small and illegible.  “I can’t read that.  You’ve got a whole big board there.  You can write a little bigger, can’t you?”

He snapped the cap back on the pen and marched across the room to where I sat.  “Here,” he said, slapping the pen in my hand.  “I’m going to save myself a lot of grief and just let you do it.”

I filled out the timeline with everything we’d learned so far.  Then I began a list at one end of the board.  “This is everything we know about the killer.  He was probably a friend of Lou’s.  He knew Lou’s regular numbers.  He knew about the fishing trip.  He had easy access to cyanide.  He either knew about the hidden key, or he had a key to Lou’s house.”

“Or, he picked the lock,” Sam offered.

“Maybe.
  Okay.  What else?  He’s an artist and he mixes his own paints.  He lives in the neighborhood.  He’s computer savvy.  He has a million dollars in cash stashed away somewhere.  He—“

Sam’s phone rang and interrupted my train of thought.  He listened intently to whomever called, scribbling furiously in his notebook.  “Thanks, Dan.  I’ll be right down,” he said, then hung up the phone.

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.  With all the smugness he could muster, he said, “And he just spent one of those serial-numbered bills right here in sunny Southern California.  Write that down, Sherlock.”

Chapter Ten

A
s it turned out, the hundred-dollar bill was part of the daily cash receipts for Disneyland.  Sam told me over the phone shortly after I’d met with him.  It was my turn to be smug.

“So, that narrows your potentia
l suspects down to, what, fifty
thousand?”
I said. 

“Go ahead and gloat.  This is good.  This means our guy isn’t being too careful.  He’ll screw up sooner or later, and we’ll grab him.”

“Yeah.
  Maybe next time, he’ll drop one of those bills at Sea World or, hey, maybe he’ll head over to Vegas,” I replied sarcastically.

Sam hung up on me.  I’d pushed him a little too far.  That was okay.  I started thinking that the Disneyland clue might actually be useful.  Both Bridgett
Winnomore
and Raven Covina had kids.  Granted, Raven’s was a small baby, but people take babies to Disneyland all the time.  I was never told how old Bridgett’s son was, but kids of any age love to go to Disneyland.

I dug through my purse and pulled out Raven Covina’s address.  I had no idea what story I’d use to convince her to talk to me, but I figured I’d come up with something on the way to her house.

She actually lived in an apartment—one of the older complexes in the area.  I pulled into one of the visitor parking spots and gazed around the area.  My eyes stopped on an old Volkswagen bus, parked in one of the tenant’s spots.  It was painted psychedelic.  I almost expected to see a Deadhead roll out of the van.  I noticed a beach scene painted in the lower rear corner.  The painting was very good.  There was some writing on the seascape that was too small for me to read.  I got out of my car and approached the van
, squinting
.  I could see brush strokes in the paint, which seemed out of place on a vehicle. 

“
Bahama’s
Mama?” I read.  The meaning nearly escaped me until I remembered that Raven Covina had named her son Bahama Breeze.  I stared at the bus.  My eyes moved over the painting.  Could this artist be the same one who painted the purple mountains?  Could Raven Covina be the artist?  Could she be the murderer?  I scratched my head and wandered all around the bus, studying the artwork.  I had
some problems with keeping Raven as a suspect.  She didn’t live within walking distance of Lou’s house, so it’s not likely that he carried the painting all the way home from here.  The question that nagged at me most was why Raven would give Lou anything?  I would not imagine they were close.  I even doubted they knew each other.  What kind of man introduces his mistress to his father?

I stood there, gawking at the van, when a woman approached me.  She had an infant in a sling-like garment hung around her neck and over one shoulder.  “
Ain’t
it
somethin
’?” she boasted, stretching an arm out and strutting along the side of the bus like
Vanna
White on
“
Wheel of Fortune
”
.  Under the baby sling, she wore a long, colorful robe-like dress.  Her feet jingled with little copper bells attached to her sandals, which were brown leather and laced halfway up her calves.   Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and separated into a collection of braids.  Her skin was smooth and brown.  She had a very exotic appearance and reminded me of some tarot-card-reading psychic I’d seen on TV, advertising for the
“
Psychic Hotline
”
.  I thought she might be from somewhere like Jamaica or Haiti.  I’d probably find out later that she’s from Burbank.

“Is this yours?” I asked, nodding toward the bus.

“Yeah.
  You like it?”

“It’s—unique.  Did you do the artwork?”

She smiled and cooed at the baby in her sling. 
“Most of it.
  Are you here to see somebody?”

“Huh?  Oh.  Yes, but she wasn’t home.  I was just leaving when I saw your artwork.”

“It is eye
catching,
ain’t
it?”

I nodded.  “It sure is.  Are you an artist by trade?”

She danced a small teddy bear in front of her baby’s face and talked baby talk to him, smiling all the time.  “I do pin striping down at Shawn’s Auto Body.  All the guys in the shop call me an artist.  Have you been over to University Bowling Alley?”

I shook my head.

“I painted the mural on the wall in the bar.  It’s a masterpiece.  My finest work,” she boasted.

“Really?
 
A landscape?”

“No. 
Underwater seascape.
 
Whales, dolphins, squid, jellyfish.
  If it lives underwater, it’s in my mural.”

“I love art.  I’m somewhat of a collector,” I told her.

Her eyes lit up.  “I should show you my stuff…I mean, my work.”

“I’d love to see it.  My name’s Devonie, by the way.”

She cradled the baby with one hand and offered to shake my hand with her other.  “I’m Raven.  Good to meet you.”

I had my confirmation.  She was Raven Covina, and she
was
s
an artist.  I would have moved her up a notch or two on my suspect list, but her style didn’t look the same as the painting in Lou’s house.

“Are you on your way somewhere, or do you have time to show me
your
other work?” I asked.

“I was just going to check my laundry. 
Me
and the baby like to go outside for walks in the sunshine.”

“Great.  I can help you carry it back,
then
maybe I could see your paintings.”

Raven smiled so wide her teeth looked like piano keys.  I wondered if anyone besides the bowling alley bar people had ever shown an interest in her work.

“Come on,” she said, leading the way to the apartment complex laundry room.

When we walked into the laundry room, a large woman in a pair of green sweat pants with a clashing orange T-shirt was pulling an armload of clothes out of a dryer.  Raven stood in the middle of the room, looking all around.

“Where’s my basket, Rowena?” she asked, more accusingly than neighborly.

Rowena hoisted her basket onto a table.  “How should I know?” she replied.

“’Cause I left it right there on that
table,
and now it’s gone.  You’re the only one here.  You see somebody take it?”

Rowena shook her head.  “I didn’t see
nobody
take your basket.  You
oughta
know better than to leave it
la
yin
’ around, girl.  I never leave
nothin
’ around this place.  I don’t even leave my clothes in the machines without
stayin
’ and
watchin
’.  Otherwise, they just up and disappear.”

Raven got right up into Rowena’s face.  “So
you been
here the whole time?  And you didn’t see who took my basket?”

Rowena wasn’t backing down.  I hoped I wasn’t going to see a fight break out, especially with that tiny baby in the middle of it.  “I told you,
I didn’t see
nothin
’
.  Whoever took your basket must’ve done it before I got here.”

Raven stomped over to a dryer and swung the door open.  “Shoot!  They took my clothes!  All my baby’s shirts and pajamas!  Where are they, Rowena?” she demanded.

Rowena calmly picked up her basket of clothes and headed for the door.  “They
ain’t
here.  That’s all I know.  Next time, you better sit your little self in one of those chairs and watch your
stuff,
otherwise you won’t have
nothin
’ but that hippie dress you got on.”

Raven slammed the dryer door closed and stuck her tongue out at Rowena’s back as she walked out of the door.

I leaned against one of the washers and waited for Raven to cool down a little.  “You should report it to the manager.  Maybe they can help,” I offered.

“Yeah, right.
  They won’t do anything.  Last month someone took my bike and they didn’t lift a finger.  Had it chained to the railing and someone just sawed the metal.  They still haven’t even fixed the railing.”

I scratched my head.  “Well, maybe you should do what Rowena said and watch your clothes from now on.  It’s better than losing them.”

Raven headed for the door.  “Guess I’ll have to.  I can’t think of anything more boring than sitting and waiting for clothes to get washed and dried.”

I followed her out of the laundry room and toward her apartment.  “Do you like to read?” I asked her.

“Used to read those crazy romance novels.
  Had me thinking a prince might come rescue me someday.  Gave them up when I realized they’d never come true,” she replied over her shoulder.

I wasn’t really surprised when I walked into Raven’s apartment.  She had a major jungle theme going on.  The walls were papered with a jute-like covering and the trim was painted with zebra stripes.  A wooden giraffe that nearly reached the ceiling stood in the corner of the living room.  I wondered if Raven carved it herself.  The wicker furniture matched a fan, turning slowly from the ceiling. 

I followed her to the room she called her studio.  On the way, I noticed a small cutout with hookups for a small, stacked washer and dryer.  “Why don’t you just get your own washer and dryer?  You’ve got the space, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about your stuff getting taken,” I suggested.

“Can’t afford it,” she replied as she led the way into her studio, which was just a small, second bedroom.

Why couldn’t she afford it?  She’d just gotten one sixth of the proceeds from the sale of Rancho Costa Little.  But then I remembered
,
it was for the baby.  I bet the courts made her put it in a fund th
at couldn’t be touched until he turn
s eighteen.

I walked into the room and my eyes nearly fell out of my head.  Her work was astounding.  I was amazed at her versatility.  She was equally as talented at portraits as she was at landscapes and still-
lifes
.  “Wow,” I said.  “You’re really good.”

Raven smiled and touched one of the paintings to check its dryness.  “Thank you,” she said, graciously.

Some of the work was black-and-white, probably pen and ink.  Some I could tell was done in pencil or charcoal.  Most of the pieces were in color.  “What’s your medium?” I asked.

“I mostly work with oils,” she said.  The baby started to get fussy and she tried to bounce him back into happiness.  It wasn’t working.  “I’ll be right back,” she said as she disappeared out of the room.

I looked at paintings stacked against the wall, six deep.  Every one was appealing in its own way.  None of them were monotone landscapes, and they were
all signed.  As much as I wanted to believe I’d found the artist of the purple painting, and the lottery-ticket-stealing murderer, I just didn’t think Raven was the culprit.

I could hear Raven singing an old Sonny and Cher song,
“
I’ve Got You, Babe
,
”
to the baby in the other room.  I continued looking through the paintings when one in particular caught my eye.  It was a garden scene with happy summer flowers like daisies and sunflowers.  In the middle of the garden was an empty chair and next to it, a banjo propped against a shade tree.  I pulled the painting out to the front of the stack and stood back to admire it.

Raven returned, this time without the baby.  “I put him down for a nap,” she said.  “What do you think about that one?” she asked, nodding toward the banjo painting.

“I love it.  It would go perfect in my house.  What are you asking for it?”

Raven gaped at me as though I were asking her if she wanted her million dollars in tens or twenties. 
“Really?
  You want to buy it?”

“If the price is right,” I answered.

From what Chuck’s wife, Betty, told me, Raven was a greedy, self-serving gold digger with a talent for latching onto other people’s
money.
  This wasn’t the impression I got, but she hadn’t named her price, yet.

“I don’t know.  What do you think
it’s
worth?” she said.

I stared at the paintings, there must have been a hundred stored in that little room.  None of them were framed or looked as though they’d been displayed anywhere.

“Don’t you sell on a regular basis?” I asked.

Raven seemed a little embarrassed.  “No.  I never knew if they were good enough.”

“What?  They’re terrific.  You mean you don’t display them anywhere?”

“Where would I?”

I was amazed.  There must have been hundreds, maybe even thousands of hours of work invested in these paintings, and they just sat in this little room.