“What was her name?” I asked.
“Martha something,” the brother said.
Interesting. Clay wasn’t just Martha’s hated rival. He was also her hated ex.
“He knew her from high school, I think. Moved out of my basement and into her fancy West End house. And the next thing I knew, he’s a decorator himself.”
Heavy sarcasm on the word “decorator.” Was he implying that his brother wasn’t much of a decorator? Or indicating that he didn’t think much of decorating as a career choice?
“You didn’t approve?” I asked aloud.
“More like he didn’t approve of me. Didn’t want to have anything to do with a used-car salesman. We weren’t getting along when he left, and I haven’t heard much from him since. I’m just hoping he hasn’t left a whole bunch of debts for me to take care of.”
I saw my opening.
“Well, if he has left debts, selling the paintings could help out, couldn’t it?” I said. “Assuming you can get his name out there again to raise the price. Displaying the paintings in the show house will help make him visible again. Hundreds and hundreds of affluent people will be going through that house, seeing the paintings in the best possible setting. And if anyone asks if they’re for sale, we can steer them to you. When you combine that with the publicity that’s bound to follow when the media find out his real name—well, I wouldn’t be surprised if the price you can get for the paintings went up considerably.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, that might be something we could think about doing.”
“And we’ll post a cash bond for the appraised value of the paintings, to ensure their safe return, and give you credit in the program as a major sponsor.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
Okay, we had a deal, but it took a little while to hash out the terms. Program credit turned into an ad for the brother’s car dealership, but he agreed to fax me permission to borrow as much of Clay’s artwork as I wanted.
“Not just a former boss but a former girlfriend,” I muttered after I hung up. Should I tell the chief about this, or would he already know it? Of course, Martha had an alibi—unless the chief had found a problem with it. But what if one of Clay’s more recent flames found out about their shared history and thought they were rekindling their old romance? I’d have thought they were more likely to rekindle the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, but who knows what crazy ideas someone who hadn’t seen them together might get. Someone like Felicia Granger, for example.
I’d figure out how to share this with the chief later. Right now I had work to do. I called Randall to saddle him with the job of arranging for the appraisal and the bond. I called the program designer and told her to figure out a way to work the ad in before she delivered the program to the printer today. And then I called the chief to ask if he could let me into Clay’s house.
“Can you meet Deputy Butler over there in fifteen minutes?” he asked.
“I’m already out the door,” I said. “By the way—Clay’s brother seems to think that he and Martha were an item at one time.”
“Does he now?” the chief said. “Thanks.”
So much for finding out whether the chief already knew.
Chapter 20
While I was driving over to Clay’s house, my phone rang. Michael’s mother again. Probably more cooking questions.
Sure enough, when I pulled up in front of Clay’s house, there was a voice mail.
“Meg? Are you there? Your brother told me there was a pie your family always likes to have at Christmas. Could you call to give me the recipe?”
“Later,” I muttered, as I scrambled up the walk to meet Aida Butler.
“Girl, are you okay?” she asked. “You look frazzled.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said. “I feel frazzled. I cannot wait till this show house is over.”
“And these paintings you’re picking up are part of that?”
“A big part.”
She opened up the door and I followed her in.
“Stay here while I check the house,” she said. She didn’t pull out her gun, but she was clearly not just going through the motions. I reflected that since Aida was even taller than me and entered Ironman competitions in her spare time, she was probably at least as good a bodyguard as anyone on the force.
I waited in the living room, trying to be alert for sounds around me. And studying Clay’s paintings, trying to imagine how they’d look in the house.
“All clear,” she said, returning to the living room.
“Was that just standard procedure?” I asked. “Or do you have reason to worry that someone might be in here?”