Old Maid's Puzzle (22 page)

He'd been caught face front, with his arm extended, handing her a twenty-dollar bill. Smartly over-dressed in a three-button casual silk shirt tucked into dress pants with a shiny black belt, he was a bit taller than Celeste. He had concrete-colored hair, blonde grown grey, styled to take advantage of its thinning texture. He looked like the kind of guy who would date Celeste. Polished, sophisticated.

He also looked like Frank Bascomb, the dead guy in the alley.

The bank bag, filled with coins, landed with a thump on the desk in front of me. I jumped, knocking over Vangie's Virgin of Guadalupe statue. Vangie liked to believe that flowers could spring up without notice anywhere.

Vangie was in the doorway, hand over her mouth in horror. "Sorry," she said, "I didn't see you there. What are you looking for on my computer?"

"Don't sneak up on me," I said. My heart was pounding. "I was just looking at the rest of the pictures you'd taken."

She looked at me. "If you're interested, I bought a loaf of Greenlee's cinnamon bread, and I'm going to make a fresh pot of coffee," Vangie said and disappeared into the kitchen. Greenlee's bread was the usual cure-all around here, but not what I needed right about now.

I went back to her computer and looked at the picture again. I couldn't be sure it was the same guy. I tried to conjure up the picture of the dead man. I saved the jpeg of Larry in a new file on the desktop, so I could access it from my laptop, and printed a copy.

While it printed, I thought about what this meant. Larry had been at the sidewalk sale. He'd been to the store before. If the body was Larry, maybe his trip to my alley hadn't been random.

I needed a picture of Frank Bascomb to compare to this picture of Larry. Zorn had had one when he was here yesterday. He'd showed it to me and to the others. But I hadn't seen it since then.

I called Officer Wong. He was the neighborhood community liaison officer. I was hoping he would be less intense than Zorn. If I told Zorn I wanted the photo, he'd want to know why. I didn't want to tip my hand just yet. Celeste and Gussie were going to be devastated by this news. If I was wrong, if nothing panned out, no harm was done.

"Hi, Officer Wong. This is Dewey Pellicano, from the quilt shop."

The scribblings I noted while Vangie and I'd talked about the missing money from yesterday's sale were in front of me on my desk. I could start with that. "I had a customer rip me off yesterday."

"Tell me."

I explained to him about the hundred-dollar bill.

He said, "I'm not surprised. There have been reports in your neighborhood over the last couple of days. The women always work in pairs. Just like what happened to you, one goes in and pays for something with a large bill, then the other comes in later and describes the bill exactly, and so gets it back. The pet store was hit and the deli."

I got excited. Maybe he could recoup my losses. "Did you catch them?"

"No," he said. "They've moved on by now. Could be in Salinas or Grass Valley by now."

Well, that sucked. I was out a lot of money. "Do I need to file a police report?"

"You should, but chances are slim you'll get anything back," he said. "You can do it online."

He gave me the url and I web surfed over to the San Jose Police Department's website.

"One more thing. Can you send me over a picture of Frank Bascomb?"

"Sure," he said, waiting for me to say more. "E-mail okay?"

"Great, thanks."

I tried to remember what Buster had said about his facial-recognition software. Certain parts of the face remained constant even throughout life and death. Jaw lines, cheekbones, space between the nostrils. That was how the computers aged the pictures of those poor lost children on the milk cartons.

The e-mail came through. I printed a copy and looked closely at Frank Bascomb. Both he and Larry looked like they might be of Italian descent, with a lean, horsey face. The long chin should be a clue.

I traced Frank Bascomb's forehead with my finger, trying to gauge the amount of space between his eyes. I looked at the picture I had of Larry from the sidewalk sale. The size of Larry's face was too small. I couldn't really tell. The scale was wrong.

I pulled up the computer screen with the jpeg of the sidewalk sale. With my photo software, I cut Larry out of the landscape and enlarged the image until it was about the same size as the picture of the dead man from the alley. His face filled the screen.

I printed the enlargement, superimposed the picture of Larry over the picture of Frank and held it up to the light. The picture of Larry was blurred from being blown up, so the match was not perfect.

I squinted into the light. The jaw was a little fleshier, but the basic shape was there. His nose matched up. The forehead was the right width.

I couldn't be sure, but it looked like Larry Ferguson very well might be Frank Bascomb.

FIFTEEN

I DIDN'T WANT FRANK Bascomb to be Larry. That would mean that Celeste's boyfriend was dead. It was one thing to break up with a man, quite another if he was the guy found murdered in my alley. I hoped I was wrong.

I needed a better picture of Larry. And, I realized, I knew where to find one.

I grabbed my car keys and stuffed the laptop into my backpack.

"I'm running an errand," I called to Vangie in the kitchen as I passed on my way out the back door.

Vangie looked up from the sink, where she was washing out a cup. "What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost."

A ghost. Bad choice of words. Or maybe the right choice. Frank Bascomb was coming back to haunt me. "I'm fine. I'll be back soon.

"Don't be long. We have to hang up the QPO samples as soon as the store closes. I've got bowling tonight." Vangie's imploring voice faded as I closed the door.

I tried to figure out when the last time was that anyone saw Larry alive. He'd picked up Gussie in his yellow Taurus on Tuesday. Celeste said he'd left that night. Gussie and I waited for him at the bank on Wednesday afternoon. He was a no-show and, by that evening, he was dead.

If Frank Bascomb was Larry, why would he be in my alley? It made more sense for a random guy to be cutting through, than for Larry to be there on purpose.

Unless he was meeting someone. After Celeste had thrown him out, he had to meet Gussie somewhere. Maybe they set up a rendezvous at the store, away from Celeste's prying eyes.

I pulled up in front of Celeste's. I had to take a moment to slow down. The house was like Celeste-imposing, but still beautiful. The native stone fireplace chimney was covered by a dead-looking wisteria vine. Hard to believe that such an ugly plant would bloom into delicate purple flowers in a few months.

Now that I was here, I realized I needed a strategy. I couldn't barge in there and tell Celeste her boyfriend was dead. I didn't think I'd get the words out. Celeste could intimidate me at my shop. On her own turf, I didn't stand a chance. I needed to know what I was going to say before I went in there.

I had to be sure. If I went off half-cocked and told Celeste that Larry was dead, and I was wrong, none of the Stitch 'n' Bitchers would ever talk to me again. Pearl would never forgive me for getting the police involved. Ina and Gussie would resent me getting into their business. No, I'd figure this out first and let Zorn handle it from there. Celeste would never have to know why I was there.

Maybe I was completely off-base. I opened my laptop to look at the pictures of Frank Bascomb and Larry again, to test my theory. A popup told me the laptop had found a wireless network and connected to it.

An alert sounded on my laptop. It was eBay, letting me know a higher bid had been placed on the pot I'd been tracking. I opened the site. A perverse need to know what the pot had sold for made me look. I needed reassurance that the final bid had been out of my fiscal league.

That was it. I would ask Celeste about the value of the pot. She loved to show off her superior knowledge. That would work as my access into the house. Once inside, I would look for the picture of Larry, grab it and get out without telling her why I was there.

I was jazzed. I minimized the pictures, left the site up, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and went up the walk.

She answered the door after one ring. She was impeccably dressed, her hair held up today by several Chinese jade hairpins. She wore a flowery skirt and coordinating coral sweater set. She always dressed as though she was expecting company. Her makeup and lipstick were discreet, but there. Soft leather moccasins were her only concession to loungewear.

"Dewey?"

I held up my laptop. "Sorry to bother you, but I have the chance to buy an Ohr piece. I would love to have your opinion."

She looked from me to the laptop. "I'm not sure..."

I threw back my shoulders, forced some cheer into my voice and moved forward. "You're not too busy, are you? This will only take a moment," I said, moving into the foyer.

Once over the threshold, I felt my heart race a little at the way the light filtered through the stained glass transom, leaving shards of color on the tile at my feet. Two more steps, and I was stopped by the beauty of the inlaid tile work on the mahogany hall stand. This house and its furnishings were like animate objects, and I responded to its life with an involuntary quickening. A beautiful combination of function and art.

It was so easy to get distracted. I did a quick glance around the living room beyond, hoping to see some of her treasured ceramic pieces.

Celeste's impeccable manners kicked in and interrupted my reverie. "Why don't you sit in the dining room?"

I shook my head. I started into the living room. "I'm buying it online. I just want to see what you think."

Her eyes strayed back to the laptop. I'd piqued her interest.

"I'm not sure what I can tell by looking at that screen," she said, doubtfully.

"I'll tell you everything you need to know," I said, seating myself on a Stickley rocker near the fireplace and putting the laptop on a small side table.

I opened the auction site. The picture of the pot appeared. "See? Do you know how things work? A person bids electronically, and..."

"I'm aware how an auction works, Dewey." Celeste had put on her reading glasses and was looking down her nose. "I'm not sure this is a real auction. There's no provenance, for instance," she said. "No way to prove how old it is."

For me that was a plus. "That keeps the price down."

Celeste did not approve. "What's the point in buying things without their history?"

"Just for the beauty." I looked around the room. There were so many wonderful decorative items, but not as many as I'd thought I remembered. Two Navajo rugs on the floor. A pair of silver candlesticks on the mantel. I responded to the look of them, but for Celeste, it was more complicated. She needed to know where each one came from.

"Do you think this is overpriced?" I asked. "Here, look." I handed Celeste the laptop. She studied the screen, giving me a chance to look around the room. If she had a picture of Larry, it would be in here. The mantel had photos on it, but I didn't see one that looked like Larry. I had to get closer.

I stood, wiggling away from Celeste and maneuvering her into sitting down. As I did, I bumped the mouse and the screen changed.

A long list of Ohr pottery showed up. There had to be twenty items, vases and pots and assorted kitchenware. I'd never seen so many for sale at one time.

I clicked on one of the items and heard Celeste gasp as a picture of a salt cellar came up on the screen. The unique glaze was just like the one I'd seen in her kitchen the other day.

I recognized the color. "That matches your mortar and pestle," I said.

Celeste's hand had come up to cover her mouth, and her forehead was creased. She looked like she was ready to cry.

"Celeste, are these yours?"

She nodded, biting on the inside of her cheek. I clicked on a few more. Each time, her head jerked in recognition. I would have bet she hadn't known her pieces were up for auction.

"Yours?" I asked. She nodded slowly, her eyes drawn to the screen like a magnet to the refrigerator. "Why are you selling them?"

She shook her head. "Not me. Larry." Her voice was humming with bitter surprise.

She glanced at the inglenook behind us. Benefiting from the fireplace's ambient heat, the bench in there should be a cozy place to read. But except for a shelf of old Reader's Digest Condensed books, the shelves were empty. That must have been where her precious pottery had been housed.

"Larry," she said, her voice dripping with regret. I felt her sadness in my bones.

She continued, "He has stolen all of my Ohr pieces."

My stomach dropped. Larry stole her most valuable pottery. That made sense if Larry was the dead man. Frank Bascomb had a criminal record. It looked more and more like Larry was a con man. More and more like Larry was Frank Bascomb. Dead.

Celeste turned away. "I don't want to see anymore." Her heart looked like it was breaking, seeing her most prized possessions up for auction.

I was desperate to give her some good news. She had so much pain on her face. "They're not sold yet. These are just pictures. The pottery has to be somewhere. Larry must have stored the pieces. We can get them back."