The Purloined Paintings E-Book

Susan Mathis

• Herausgeber: Mercy and Justice Mysteries
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Detective Helen Parr is recovering from being shot in Leslie Williams’ basement and is anxious to get back to work. With the police department in the hands of Acting Chief Detective Dan Conway, Father Tom Greer is determined that his fiance follows her doctor’s orders and rests. All that’s needed for this to happen is for life to be quiet and peaceful.

But this is Myerton, and this town nestled in the mountains of Western Maryland is far from quiet and peaceful.

First comes the murder of Bethany Grable, owner of The Painted Lotus art gallery and old friend of Father Tom. Dan’s convinced she was the victim of a robbery gone wrong. Father Tom, on the other hand, is not so sure.

Then comes the wave of overdose deaths of young students at Myer College. Someone is selling fentanyl at prices college kids can afford. They’re all art majors, and all of them happen to have had pieces displayed in Bethany’s gallery.

Coincidence? Or is there a connection between the ODs and Bethany Grable’s murder? And if so, what is the connection?
Father Tom decides to try to find out for himself who killed his old friend and why. But doing so could put the life of a young man in danger, and irreparably harm his friendship with Dan.

Leseprobe

The Purloined Paintings

The Father Tom Mysteries, Book 7

By

J. R. and Susan Mathis

Copyright © 2021 by James R. Mathis and Susan S. Mathis

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, June, 2021

Contact: [email protected]

––––––––

Cover Photo: Depositphotos

Cover: Millie Godwin (www.fiverr.com/millieg0414)

Also by J. R. Mathis

The Father Tom Mysteries

The Penitent Priest

The Framed Father

The Redemptive Return

The Buried Bride

The Defining Decision

The Silent Shooter

The Purloined Paintings

The Slain Saint

The Perfect Patsy

The Haunted Heritage

The Fatal Fall

The Father's Family (Coming Soon)

The Mercy and Justice Mysteries

The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)

The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)

Standalone

The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3

Watch for more at J. R. Mathis’s site.

Also by Susan Mathis

The Father Tom Mysteries

The Penitent Priest

The Framed Father

The Redemptive Return

The Buried Bride

The Defining Decision

The Silent Shooter

The Purloined Paintings

The Slain Saint

The Perfect Patsy

The Haunted Heritage

The Fatal Fall

The Father's Family (Coming Soon)

The Mercy and Justice Mysteries

The Honeymoon Homicide (Coming Soon)

The Maligned Marine (Coming Soon)

Standalone

The Reluctant Rector: The Father Tom Mysteries Books 1-3

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

Authors’ Note

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Preview of The Slain Saint

Also By J. R. Mathis

Also By Susan Mathis

About the Author

Authors’ Note

THE PURLOINED PAINTINGSbegins about a week after the end of The Silent Shooter and contains spoilers for the earlier book.

This book takes place in a time and place very much like our own.  In  the book’s world, however, COVID-19 doesn’t exist; hence our characters wear no masks, shake hands, hug with abandon, and gather in groups of more than 10 people.

All the places and characters in this book are the product of the authors’ imagination and research. Any resemblance to actual places or persons is entirely coincidental.

This book is humbly and respectfully dedicated to the handful of men and women of law enforcement who have had to make the dreadful sacrifice of taking a human life in order to protect the lives of others. Most of us will never know the life changing toll it takes on them and their families, to whom we are eternally grateful.

One

“TOM, I HAVE GOT TO get out of here.”

This is the third time today, the seventh time in two days, and I have no idea how many times in three days that Helen has made this statement to me. The unfortunate truth is that the morphine they have her on is making her feel too good, and she’s getting restless.

“OK, honey,” I say, trying to placate her, “let’s talk to Martin when he comes in today and see what he says.”

“You know what he’s going to say,” she says with a scowl. “He’s going to say that normally, they would send me home with a visiting nurse twice a day to change my dressing, but right now, because of the nursing shortage, they can’t. I mean, I know healthcare workers have been through a lot, but I cannot believe they’ve actually gone out on strike!”

“Helen, I do not want to get into this again.“

“Well, we’re going to, so you might as well get used to it. Tom, I cannot stand another day within these four walls. I don’t care how many lovely visitors from the church bring me food, which I do appreciate, being trapped here is worse than being a trapped animal!”

I am about to argue with her further when thankfully, Dr. Martin Maycord, the trauma surgeon who saved her life, comes in. He smiles and says sarcastically, “And how is my most agreeable patient today?”

“Even less agreeable than I was yesterday, if you want to know the truth,” Helen says.

“And I assume this is because of your ongoing complaints about wanting to go home?”

“Yes, it is. I see no reason why I cannot take care of changing my dressing myself.”

“OK, then,” Martin says, crossing his arms. “Show me exactly how that would work. You’ve seen the nurses do it enough times.”

Helen seems surprised at this and says, “Well, first I wash my hands, right?”

“Exactly. The sink is right there,” he indicates with a nod of his head.

She carefully gets out of bed, using the method the physical therapist taught her so that she will not aggravate her broken ribs. Then she walks slowly to the sink, where she uses her left hand to turn the water on.

Sadly, that’s as far as she gets. Helen cannot use her right arm for much of anything right now, thanks to the muscle damage done by the bullet.

I walk over to her and place my hand on her arm. “Come on, let’s—”

She pulls away from my hand. “I can do it, Tom,” she says through gritted teeth. Slowly, she turns and walks the short distance back to her bed. When she pauses at the edge, I go to her and help her back in as I have numerous times since she’s been here.

She looks at Martin, obviously defeated but still defiant. “Then can’t you just send someone over a couple of times a day to change it?” she asks.

“Ask someone to leave the hospital twice a day, drive to your apartment, change your dressing, go over your breathing exercises with you, and then return?” Martin says, his frustration with Helen obvious. “Do you know how many man-hours that would take each week? Hell, Helen, sorry, Tom, we’re already bringing in first responders to work in the hospital instead of out on the ambulances where they belong.”

I think about this and say, “Martin, I don’t know if I can be of any use or not, but I am a certified first responder. I worked in the infirmary for several years at Our Lady of the Mount Monastery.

“Tom, I would love to have your help, but I think you have your hands full being a parish priest and police chaplain and of course caring for our charming patient here.”

“Wait a minute,“ Helen says, a grin spreading across her face and excitement filling her eyes. “He’s not taking care of me right now. I’m still in the hospital. But if you let me go home, he could come by a couple of times a day, change my bandage, and do whatever else needs to be done. Then you would have one less patient in here.”

Martin opens his mouth, but then pauses thoughtfully, and says, “Tom, can you do things like temperature and blood pressure checks?“

“Sure, if I have the equipment.”

“Have you ever dressed a gunshot wound before?“

“Only once, a week or so ago in that basement. Surprisingly enough, we didn’t get a lot of GSWs in the monastery. However, we did have an elderly priest fall onto a rebar. It went all the way through his shoulder and after the doctor treated him, I took care of him.”

Martin nods. “OK, I can give you some pretty detailed instructions about what needs to be done if you’re willing to do it.”

At this, Helen shoots me a look that says if I am not agreeable, I should probably think about a different career, one that doesn’t involve the use of my limbs.

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be glad to. Especially if it will get her out of here sooner.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I can write the discharge papers now,” Martin says. “We had a nasty bus accident this morning and I could use another bed.”

He looks at Helen, smiles, and says, “Pack up, Detective, you’re going home.”

Helen grins at this and raises her left fist triumphantly before quickly falling back into bed.

“Wait just a minute,” Martin says sternly. “Helen, before you leave I need to know something. Do you plan to go back into law enforcement, including being able to qualify on the pistol range?”

She looks surprised at the question and says, “Of course. I thought I made that clear.”

“You have and now I want to make something clear also. If your goal at the end of this healing process is to be able to write legibly or pick up a sack of potting soil or mix up a bowl of pancake batter, you can go about your recovery pretty much as haphazardly as you wish. But if you want, say within three to six months, to be able to fire a gun with the accuracy necessary to keep your certification, you have got to take your recovery seriously.”

“Which means?”she asks, still defiant.

“Which means that today and for the next week you go to your house and pretend that you are still in the hospital. You rest, you do your breathing exercises, you take short walks, but you do not use that arm for anything, not even to scratch your nose. When I see you a week from Monday, if all is well, I will prescribe light physical therapy. You will need to do the therapy faithfully. A lot of it will involve hard work, which I don’t think will be a problem, but much of your recovery will involve resting and being careful, which I think will challenge you.

“Helen, I cannot guarantee that you will make a full recovery, but I will guarantee that your best shot at it is to do this my way. I’ve put more than one Baltimore cop back on the street, but I’ve also seen a few who had to take early retirement because they messed around and didn’t take what happened to them seriously. Do we understand each other?”

Helen says nothing at this but simply nods her head.

“Good,” Martin says with a smile. “Tom, I’ll have the nurse give you instructions on everything you need to do, and we’ll send you home with the necessary materials and equipment. I’ll—”

A cell phone buzzes. A quick check tells me it’s not mine. Martin, however, fishes his out of his pocket and answers.

“Hello  . . . What?  . . . What are you talking about? I don’t know anything . . .  Damn . . . No, no, listen, don't do anything. I’ll be over there in about twenty minutes.”

He hangs up. Martin, usually so composed, is flustered.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“What? Oh, I’m having some work done on my house and one of the workmen damaged something. I need to go. Helen, I’ll sign those discharge papers. But you better do as I say. I spent a lot of time on your shoulder, and the last thing I want is you messing up all my excellent work.”

I know Martin believes that he’s made his point.

I, for one, say a brief prayer that he has.

***

THREE HOURS LATER, Helen has been gently loaded in the car by a very caring and patient orderly who is probably glad to see her go. At Martin’s insistence, we have rented a hospital bed that will go in Helen’s living room while Anna sleeps in Helen’s room so that she will not be alone at night.

As we drive to Helen’s apartment, we pass The Painted Lotus. There are a couple of police cars out front and I’m surprised to see a visibly upset Dr. Martin Maycord sitting on a bench in front of the gallery. Detective Dan Conway’s standing over him, appearing to ask him questions.  Officer Nina Hallstead stretches crime scene tape across the entrance.

“I hope nothing’s wrong,” I say.

“Unfortunately, there probably is,” Helen says as she strains to look at the scene. “Probably a break-in. We’ve had some vandalism complaints from Bethany over the last few months.”

I slow down as we pass, but continue on.

Helen shouts, “Turn around! Go back!”

“Helen,” I say evenly, “you just got out of the hospital. Let me remind you that the only reason you were able to do so is because you promised Martin—”

“Please, Tom,” she pleads, “you’ve got to go back. I just need to know what’s going on. Then I’ll go home and be a good patient. I promise.”

She’s already trying to turn around in her seat, which I know is dangerous to her ribs, so I say, “OK, Helen. I’ll take you there, but please sit back and stop trying to turn around.” This seems to pacify her and I turn the car around.

I pull into a space by the curb, and Helen rolls down her window, breaking one of Martin’s rules that she not use her right arm for anything, even if it is just pressing a button. “Dan! Dan!” she calls. He turns around and appears startled to see her. Nevertheless, he walks over to where we are.

“I thought you were still in the hospital?” the ex-Marine asks. He sounds concerned, but there’s something else in his tone that sounds very un-Dan like. Usually, Dan’s a jovial, big, boisterous guy who’s as tender with his six-year-old daughter Catherine as he is tough on a suspect.

But he sounds flat. The bags under his eyes and the light stubble on his face add to the effect.

Before Helen can answer Dan’s question, I say with slightly less anger in my voice than I actually feel, “She’s supposed to be. Dr. Maycord released her on the condition that she go home and rest.”

“Then why the hell aren’t you doing that?” Dan growls.

“We are on the way to my apartment, where there’s a nice cozy hospital bed and a solicitous Anna waiting for me,” Helen explains. “But do you really think I’m not going to stop when I see all this? What’s going on? Why is Dr. Maycord here?”

Dan hesitates. “Look, Helen, you’re off duty. Just go home and—”

“I’ll call Gladys,” she says. “You know I’m going to find out anyway.”

I sigh. “You might as well tell her, Dan. You know how she is.”

Dan looks at me. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, Father.”

I get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Find out what?”

“Bethany Grable. She’s dead. Shot in an apparent robbery.”

The blood rushes from my face. “What?” I whisper.

I feel Helen’s comforting hand on mine. “Tom, I am so sorry. I know she was a friend of yours.”

“Not mine as much as Joan’s, but yeah, I always liked her,” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. “She was very good to me after Joan died.”

“I only met her that one time when we went to the gallery show a few weeks ago, but she seemed quite lovely.”

I nod. “She was. A lovely person.”

Helen turns her attention back to Dan, and asks, “What happened?”

“Dr. Maycord called it in,” Dan says. “He’s so distraught I haven’t been able to get much from him. Apparently, he came to the gallery to meet with Grable, heard yelling coming from the office, then a shot. He ran into the office and saw her lying on the floor. From the look of him, he tried to save her.”

It’s then that I see Maycord’s white dress shirt is covered in blood, his hands red from the same substance.

“It’s dried by now,” I whisper to myself. “There’s no saving that shirt.” In my mind, I can see him trying to stop the bleeding from the gunshot wound, pressing for all he’s worth, the frustration and fear building from deep within. Was it worse because he knew it was futile? That the damage caused by the bullet invading Bethany’s body was too severe?

“Is she still there?” I ask Dan.

He nods. “The state ME’s van hasn’t arrived from Baltimore yet.”

I’m not wearing my clericals, but I reach past Helen and open the glove compartment. I get the purple stole and small container of holy oil I keep there now. When I’m in my collar, I always carry some with me.

“Take me to her,” I say.

I hear Helen trying to unbuckle her seat belt. Turning to her, I say, “Oh, no. You’re staying right here.”

“I just want to—” Helen says.

“—look at the scene, I know. Ain’t gonna happen. You stay here.”

She glares at me, then slumps back into the seat.

I get out of the car, and Dan leads me past Martin. He’s put his head in his blood-covered hands, a picture of grief. Whatever his relationship was with Bethany, if it was just as her business partner or if it was more personal, finding her the way he did has devastated the man.

I walk behind Dan through the gallery where Helen and I strolled only a few weeks ago. One of the paintings had been Joan’s, a work I hadn’t seen before. It had brought back memories of my late wife, memories made easier somehow standing next to my wife-to-be.

“She’s here, Father,” Dan says quietly, standing in the open doorway to what I recognize as Bethany’s office. “Hey, clear out for a minute,” he commands whoever’s inside. A crime scene technician scurries out. I walk past Dan into the small room.

Bethany’s lying under a sheet on the floor. The back door Joan told me Bethany had installed when she bought the place is ajar. Around me, crowded into the small space, are piles of papers, books, and art supplies. Empty boxes sit on the desk, and on the floor are more boxes labeled “files” and others “donate.” Her filing cabinets are pulled open, and it appears that someone was in the process of emptying them.

“This . . . this isn’t right,” I whisper.

I shake my head and kneel at Bethany’s body. Pulling the sheet down just enough to uncover her forehead, I recite the ancient prayers—in Latin instead of English, something I spent a lot of time reviewing while sitting in Helen’s hospital room while she slept—before making the sign of the cross with the oil on her forehead.

I have no idea of Bethany’s spiritual state. She often spoke of not believing in God, at least not as the Church defines Him. But her work often had a deeply spiritual, even Catholic component. A painting of Jesus the Divine Mercy she did hangs in my office, a Christmas gift from Helen. She must have been Catholic at some point, maybe raised in the Church but rejecting the faith of her youth like so many.

Still, because I believe God’s mercy is boundless, I whisper, “When you see Joan, tell her I said hello. You’ll like our daughter. She looks just like her mother.”

Carefully replacing the sheet, I rise to my feet and look around the office again. Bethany was a delightful bohemian artist, but like Joan, she was meticulous in her habits. Her studio, as best as I can remember, was always neat and orderly. I can only remember being in her office once, picking up a payment for one of Joan’s paintings that she sold, but I have the impression it, too, was well-organized.

This office is anything but. It looks for all the world like—

“Anything wrong, Father?” I jump when I realize Dan’s standing right beside me.

“Huh? No. I’m done, thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, looking at me with a quizzical eye. “Are you sure you’re OK? You looked somewhere else for a moment.”

I smile sheepishly. “No, no, everything’s fine. It’s just . . . the office. It doesn’t look right to me.”

Dan cocks his head to one side and crosses his arms. “Really?” he says with a crooked smile.

“Yeah. It looks like Bethany was packing. Has Martin mentioned anything about her leaving town?”

Dan shakes his head. “He hasn’t said much of anything.”

“I mean, all the boxes, the piles of paper. I just saw her a couple of weeks ago, we’ve known each other for years, and I’m sure if—”

“Father,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you think you’d better be getting Helen home?”

“Of course, I was just—”

“Listen!” he snaps. “I know how much you enjoy following Helen around playing Father Brown—oh, she’s told me about your weird insights—but this is my crime scene. It’s a robbery gone bad. Nothing more. Just leave it to the professionals for once.”

I stare at Dan. I’ve never heard him speak to me like this. “Sure,” I say. “Sorry.”

Without another word, he turns on his heels and walks out of the office. I take that as my cue to follow.

Soon we’re back at the car, a very perturbed-looking Helen in the passenger seat.

Turning to Dan, I say, “Thanks.”

“Of course,” he says. Then, hesitating, he adds, “Look, Tom, in there. What I said. I’m—”

“No, you were right,” I say, shaking my head. “No problem. We’re good.” Then, cranking the car, I say to Dan, “It seems like you have everything well in hand. Helen, shall we leave Dan to it?”

“Not yet,” she says, leaning across me. “Dan, what about forced entry? Any sign?”

I can see Dan watching her. She’s obviously in pain, and there are small beads of sweat forming on her forehead. He catches my eye, as if saying, She really doesn’t look too good.

Still, he answers her question. “There doesn’t appear to be, but right now I have no way of knowing. It’s still early.”

“So it could have been jimmied,” Helen says. “Did Maycord say if the door was locked or unlocked when he arrived?”

“He hasn’t said much of anything yet, Helen,” Dan replies.  Though obviously trying to be patient, he’s getting a little irritated at being second-guessed.

Whether she realizes it or not, Helen is cradling her left side where the stitches from the surgery are. I don’t like the look of this and say, “We need to get you home. Thanks for letting us interrupt you, Dan. We’ll be on our way.”

“No,” she says, reaching out with her left hand and turning the engine off before snatching the keys from the ignition. “I need to stay around to try to talk to Martin.”

“No, you don’t,” I say, trying to grab for the keys as she drops them down the front of her blouse.

Sighing, I say, “Helen, please at least try to be reasonable. Dan can handle this, and you need to get back to your apartment to get settled in.”

Her azure blue eyes have taken on an almost fevered look and I can tell the adrenaline has kicked in.

“I can rest later,” she says quickly. Then, turning to Dan, she asks, “Did you cordon off the entire building? You know there’s a back studio that’s separate. Did you get that too?”

“Yes I did, and I also have an officer stationed between the buildings to keep an eye on both of them.”

“Well, you’re going to need someone at the front door, too.”

It's obvious now that he’s had enough. “Yes, Helen, and that has already been arranged. Now, since you still have dressings on your hand and probably elsewhere from where IVs and drains were just a few hours ago, why don’t you do us all a favor and go to your apartment and get some rest? If you do so right now, I promise to stop by tonight and update you. Otherwise, I will just place a report on your desk for when you get back.”

I want to hug Dan and offer him a dozen masses for the soul of his choice but Helen growls, “Dan, do I need to remind you that I am Acting Chief of this department?”

“No,” he says firmly, “you were Acting Chief of this department until you were shot by a psychotic Director of Religious Education and nearly died. You will be Acting and, if there is any justice, permanent Chief when you return. But right now I am Acting Chief.”

“Your point being?” Helen snaps.

“My point, Helen, is that right now you have no authority here. You are not my boss, you look worse than a number of victims I’ve called ambulances for, and, unlike the good Father here, I know how to search someone without getting emotionally involved. Therefore, rest assured, I will get those keys back from you.”

I nearly choke trying to keep from laughing and yelling, “Go Dan!” at the same time.

“You wouldn’t dare!” Helen says, glaring at him while instinctively using her left hand to cover her cleavage.

“Try me,” Dan says, leaning in slightly.

Helen glares at him with her dueling pistol eyes for a moment. “Oh, dammit! All right!” she grumbles. “Both of you close your eyes.”

We do so, and a moment later I hear the keys being placed back in the ignition.

As I crank the car, Helen points at Dan and says, “You’d better stop by.”

Without missing a beat, Dan replies, “I have to. Miriam’s making you dinner tonight.”

Two

“DID YOU HEAR THE WAY that ungrateful bastard talked to me?”

By the time we get to her apartment, Helen has worked herself into a fury that is obviously making the pain in her shoulder and her side worse. She’s spent the drive from The Painted Lotus using her extensive vocabulary of profanity, calling down curses on Leslie, the people driving in front of us, and anyone who has ever owned a gun.

Still, she saves her choicest epithets for Dan.

“I mean, I taught him most of what he knows about being a detective,” she rants. “When I came to Myerton, he was just an officer stuck at the front desk welcoming visitors, and look at him now! In charge of cases that should be mine! What do you make of that?“

“That you trained him well?” I say, tentatively.

“That he’s an ungrateful ass who is trying to take my job!” she yells.

“Helen, you know you don’t mean that,” I say, trying to keep my own temper in check. “You’re just angry because you’re not out there doing what he’s doing.”

“Maybe so, but it's still not right,” she says, a little calmer now. We drive along for a moment, then she explodes. “He threatened to search me! To put his hand down my blouse! You wouldn’t have let him do that, would you, Tom?”

“Well, you see, Helen,” I say, with just enough of a lilt in my voice to try to soften the truth, “it’s a matter of professional courtesy. If I didn’t let him search you, he might decide to baptize his next several children himself, and how would that look to the parish?”

Helen glares at me. “Thomas Jude Greer, you know what you are? You are a—”

I hold up my hand. “Helen, no cursing in my car.”

“Since when?”

“Since you were about to turn on me,” I say. “Besides, you’re home.”

I pull into a parking space as close to her apartment door as I can. She’s already relaxed visibly. I help her out of the car, her winces and barely stifled groans telling me she’s come very close to overdoing it.

She leans on me as I walk her to the apartment. “Damn, Tom,” she whispers. “I hurt so much.”

I kiss the top of her head. “You’re home now. Just let me get you in bed.”

“Tsk, tsk, Father Greer,” she says, managing a playful smirk. “Trying to take advantage of a woman in my condition.”

Leaning down to her, I whisper in her ear, “Oh, my darling, after the wedding, I’ll take advantage of you as often as possible.”

“Promises, promises.”

We start to laugh, but hers is cut short by a grimace of pain. “Damn, ok, note to self, no laughing for a while.”

I open the door and help her inside. Anna comes out of the kitchen, her welcoming smile turning quickly to a worried frown.

“How could she overdo it already?” Anna asks.

“Crime scene,” I explain. “She’s like a moth to a flame,”

“You stopped by a crime scene? Tom, what the hell?”

“Oh, Anna,” Helen rasps. “Don’t. Not Tom’s fault. Honey, help me to the bed.”

I half-walk, half-drag her over to the hospital bed. I set her gingerly on the edge and help her get in bed, taking her shoes off and covering her with the blanket.

“Percocet, please,” she says. “Ooooh, God!”

I hurry to the kitchen for a glass of water, then dig through her tote bag for the week’s worth of pain medication Martin prescribed her. I pop one in her mouth and hand her the water. She takes a gulp, then lays back on her pillows.

“Thank you,” she sighs. “I feel better already.”

“Just get some sleep, darling,” I say.

“Uh-huh,” she nods. “Just be sure to wake me when Dan gets here.”

I hesitate. “Now Helen—”

“Please, Tom. I just want to hear what he has to say. I can’t do anything else right now, but I can listen.”

I sigh. “OK, if you’re still asleep, I’ll wake you.”

“Thank you,” she yawns and closes her eyes. Before long, her breathing becomes snuffly and I know she’s sleeping.

I creep into the kitchen where Anna is  . . . well, doing whatever she does in whatever kitchen she’s in.

“Thank God!” I whisper. “She’s sleeping.”

“You look like you could use a nap yourself,” Anna says. She grabs a pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator and pours it over a large glass of ice. I take it and drink it greedily.

Pointing to the living room, I whisper, “I love her so much, Anna, but she’s so stubborn!”

“She’s independent, Tom,” Anna says. “Stubbornness is kind of an unfortunate byproduct. What I want to know is, how did she wind up at a crime scene?”

“Completely by accident,” I say. “We were on our way here from the hospital when we passed by The Painted Lotus. The place was blocked off with crime scene tape, and Dan was standing out front, so of course Helen had me go back so she could ask him what happened.”

“Well?” Anna says, trepidation in her voice.

I take a deep breath. “Bethany apparently surprised a robber. Whoever it was shot and killed her.”

The blood drains from Anna’s face. “Bethany’s dead?” she whispers. “Oh, no!”

“Anna,” I say, surprised to see her react so strongly, “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, Tom, really,” she says. “It was just a shock. Oh, poor Bethany!”

I get her a glass of water. “I didn’t think you liked her that much, frankly,” I say. “I mean, I thought you were jealous of her friendship with Joan.”

Taking the glass from me, Anna takes a few sips. “Oh, Tom, I was. It’s not something I’m proud of. But that was years ago. And I certainly never wanted to see her dead. It’s just such a shock, especially since I just saw her the other day at the church.”

“She was at Saint Clare’s?”

“Yes,” Anna says. “She stopped by with this big painting of Our Lady of Peace. I have to say, it is one of her best works, better than the Divine Mercy Helen gave you last Christmas. She said she wanted to donate it to the Ladies of Charity for the bazaar. Of course, I was thrilled to have it and offered to write her a receipt, but she said she didn’t need one. In fact, she insisted she didn’t want anyone to know where it came from. I mean, I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“So what are you going to do with the painting?”

“I took it to the meeting Thursday night and we voted to raffle it off. That’s usually the best way to make big money on something like this. In fact, the publicity surrounding her death will almost certainly drive its popularity up. I think I’m going to propose that we print an additional 5,000 tickets.”

I smile and pat her on the back, comforted that whatever grief Anna may be feeling is more than assuaged by her dreams of cashing in big on Bethany’s death.

***

DAN SHOWS UP ABOUT 5:30 p.m. with a wonderful smelling chicken and broccoli casserole, fluffy rice, and freshly baked peanut butter cookies. I carry the food into the kitchen, then come back to listen while he fills Helen in on the case.

After all, Bethany was a friend. And I want to know what happened to her.

The fact I’m still disquieted about her office has nothing to do with it.

Nothing at all.

Dan says, “So, Chief, it looks for all the world like she walked in on the wrong person at the wrong time. Dr. Maycord says he got to the gallery a little before noon, letting himself in through the front door.”

“So, the front door was locked?” I ask.

Dan glances at me, a slight look of irritation on his face, then turns back to Helen. “Yes, to answer the Father’s question, Maycord claims the front door was locked. He heard what he thought were muffled voices coming from the direction of Bethany Grable’s office. As he got closer, he thought he heard someone say, ‘Tell us where the money is, you old bitch!’”

“So there were two of them?” I ask.

Dan looks at me full on and is about to say something when Helen says, “Tom, can you get me a glass of tea, please?”

Feeling dismissed—because that’s what she’s doing—I reluctantly go in the kitchen.

Of course, I can still hear every word.

“Did Maycord hear two people?” Helen asks.

“He wasn’t sure. He thought maybe. Look, the guy was distraught. I’m lucky I got as much out of him as I did. I’m going back in a couple of days to get a fuller statement.”

“So, ‘they’ were after money,” Helen muses. “Does Maycord have any idea how much Bethany had on hand?”

“You’re really not going to believe this, Chief,” Dan says, shaking his head. “According to Maycord, Bethany kept between five and ten thousand dollars in cash on hand at any one time.”

“What the—”

“No cursing in the—oh, sorry Helen, forgot where I was for a moment,” Anna yells from Helen’s bedroom. “Carry on.”

“Why would Bethany have so much cash in her office?” Helen asks incredulously.

“I can answer that,” I yell from the kitchen.

I’m greeted with silence from the other room, but say nothing more. Finally, Helen yells, “Well?”

I bring Helen her tea. “Here you go, darling,” I say as I hand her the glass. Dan mutters, “No, just never getting used to that.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Now, why did Bethany have so much cash on hand?”

“Several reasons, actually,” I say. “Bethany was a shrewd businesswoman, but she was also very generous. Everyone in the Fine Arts department at Myer knew that if you were short and needed a little help, you could go to Bethany. She’d hand out hundreds of dollars at a time to needy students. On occasion, she’d buy a student’s painting for the gallery and pay cash for it. Not everyone has checking accounts, and check cashing places take a percentage of the amount as a fee.”

There is another reason, but I hesitate to mention it. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, especially when she was a friend.

“There’s something else, isn’t there, Tom?” Helen says, looking at me like I’m a suspect she’s questioning. Even lying in bed with a hole through her shoulder, my lovely wife-to-be is as intimidating as hell.

“Yes,” I sigh. “Joan once told me she was at the gallery helping Bethany with something when two men came in carrying a briefcase. They went into her office and came out about 15 minutes later with two wrapped paintings. Joan wasn’t sure which ones they were, but later noticed that two of the more valuable works were gone. Not long after they left, Joan said, Bethany told her she had to run to the bank and make a deposit.” I pause. “She was carrying the briefcase.”

Dan and Helen look at each other. “Money laundering?” Dan asks.

“Sounds like it to me,” Helen says. “Tom, did Joan happen to say what they looked like?”

“It’s been over ten years,” I shrug. “I really can’t remember anything else beyond what I told you.”

“Did Joan know if this happened often?”

“She never mentioned any other time, but I can’t believe it was a one off. Joan said Bethany didn’t look surprised or anything.”

“I’ll ask Maycord if he knows anything about that,” Dan says.

“I seriously doubt a man of Martin’s reputation would be involved in money laundering, Dan,” Helen says.

“Still,” Dan says, “I need to follow up. But don’t worry, I won’t do anything to piss off the man responsible for saving your life.”

Helen nods. “Anything else?”

“Maycord heard the shot, then the sound of footsteps running out the back door. He ran to the office and found Bethany. He says he tried to stop the bleeding, keep her alive, but he was too late. She was probably dead before she hit the floor.”

“Maycord would have known that,” I mutter to myself. “Why try to save her if she was already dead?”

“What, Tom?” Helen says.

“Nothing, nothing,” I say, shaking my head.

“Anything other than the money missing?” Helen asks,

“No, just the money,” Dan answers.

“No paintings? Nothing else.”

“Not that Maycord could tell.”

“Forced entry?”

“That is the weird thing,” Dan says, crossing his arms. “Both the front door to the gallery and the back door to her office had no signs of being tampered with. Best we can tell, Bethany let in her killer.”

“Which means she either knew the person or was expecting them,” I say.

“Not necessarily, Tom,” Dan says. “They could have passed themselves off as workmen or something.”

“What about her neighbors? Did they see or hear anything?” Helen asks.

I can tell she’s getting tired and I become anxious for Dan to wrap things up. “Helen,” I say gently. “I think you’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“Just this one last question, Tom,” Helen says, waving me off. “Well?”

“I’m having Hallstead conduct the initial canvas of the neighborhood,” Dan says. “So far, no one noticed anything unusual. Except for hearing the shot.”

I look at Dan. “Someone heard the shot?”

Dan nods. “The bookstore owner. His office shares a wall with Bethany’s. It’s an old brick building, so it was muffled, but he heard it clearly. He also heard what sounded like arguing, but he couldn’t be sure.”

“Thanks, Dan, for coming over,” Helen says. “I appreciate it, especially after I was such a bitch to you at the scene.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dan says with a dismissive wave. “I was just glad to see you getting back into fighting trim. I’ll keep you posted, but please rest, Helen. We all want you back where you belong.”

Helen smiles at this, and after assuring us of their continued prayers and promising Helen he’ll give Miriam her love and Catherine a hug from her, he leaves us. I bring Helen a tray with her plate and an iced tea, then return to the kitchen for my own plate. I pull a chair close to her, and we dig into the wonderful offering of love and flavor given to us by the Conways.

“Satisfied?” I ask.

“Mmm, well, I guess,” Helen says. “I appreciate Dan coming over to fill me in, but it’s not the same, you know.”

“I know, honey,” I say. “But it’s the best you’re going to get right now. Look at it this way. The more you rest, the more you concentrate on healing and rebuilding your strength, the sooner you’ll be back out there chasing bad guys and roughing up perps.”

She smiles, and says, “Oh, Tom. You do know what to say to make a girl’s heart go pitter-patter.”

We share a laugh, one of the few we’ve had recently. Anna wanders in from another room and, I guess deciding Helen and I have had enough time alone, sits with us.

We have almost finished when Anna asks, “Do you think people have premonitions of their deaths?”

Helen and I look at each other in silence until I finally reply, “Why do you ask?”

“It's just something Bethany said the other day when she was at the church. She asked if you were there, Tom, and I said you were out and asked if there was anything I could help her with. She acted like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. She mumbled something like, ‘Probably too late to confess now anyway.’ Then she looked at me and said that she had never had any sort of interest in the afterlife but that there came a time in life when you began to think about making preparations for the inevitable. I asked her if she’d like me to have you call her but she told me not to bother. Frankly, after that it slipped my mind, but ever since you told me she was dead, I have been wondering if maybe she had some sort of sense that something bad was going to happen to her.”

“Well, certainly, if she was experiencing some serious health problems, she might have felt the need to prepare for death,” Helen says thoughtfully.

“Or she could have been concerned that someone was going to kill her,” I say quietly.

Both Anna and Helen look at me. “Oh, Tom,” Anna says, standing up. “Stop talking nonsense. Who would want to kill Bethany?”

“I’m not saying anyone would. It’s just—”

“Tom,” Anna says. “Leave. This. To. Dan. I know Bethany was a friend, and I’m sorry she died so violently. But you have this woman right here to take care of. You don’t need to be running off playing Father Brown again.”

“But I—”

“I need to go clean up the kitchen. Then Tom, I think you should go. You’ve had a long day, and Helen needs her rest,” Anna says as she walks out of the living room.

I watch her leave. “Tom?” Helen says.

Turning to her, I say, “What?”

She has a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye. “You saw something, didn’t you? At the crime scene?”

I’m about to open my mouth to protest, then decide there’s no real harm. “I told Dan that Bethany’s office looked like she was packing to leave, which considering she didn’t mention anything like that when we saw her a few weeks ago, struck me as rather sudden.”

“OK, but maybe she decided suddenly,” Helen says. “Bethany was an artist, and creative types can be a little flaky.”

“Maybe others, but not Bethany. Then, there’s the fact that it looks like she let the person or persons who killed her in. And, having so much cash on hand, which I know I explained, but when you put it together with what Joan told me—”

“—over ten years ago, Tom—”

“OK, ten years ago,” I say. “But what if Bethany was still involved with something shady? I mean, I liked her, but I can imagine her getting involved in something not entirely above board.”

“Something like money laundering?” Helen says thoughtfully. “Well, if there’s anything, I’m sure Dan will uncover it. He’s a good detective.”

I don’t tell Helen about Dan snapping at me when I pointed out the problem with the office. Instead, I say, “Did Dan look OK to you?”

“No,” Helen says. “He looked tired and overworked. Which isn’t surprising, considering he’s doing my job and his.”

“I should check on him,” I say. “Maybe I’ll visit the station tomorrow.”

“Not a good idea, Tom,” Helen says. “Dan’s busy and needs to focus on this. I’m sure if there’s something wrong, he’ll come to you. He has in the past.”

I sigh. “OK. You’re right. Until then, how about I tuck you in so you can get some rest?”

She yawns and says dreamily, “Have I thanked you for taking such good care of me?”

I grin. “Darling, I assure you, I’m just getting started.”