All Lies Page 4

  Amazing, I gleaned all that in about five seconds.

  She also looked nothing like her sister. There wasn't a hard edge to her. I also picked up a faint scent of strawberries. Much nicer than her sister's old cigarette odor. She was also younger than Izzy by a few years. Thirty-four, maybe?

  "Hi, I'm Sabrina. Do you mind if we talk for a few minutes?"

  Uh…" I've gotta stop that. "Not at all. Would you like to come up?"

  "Thank you." She started up, hesitated for a moment, then continued.

  I let her go ahead of me, mainly because I didn't want her to see the gun in my belt.

  As we made our way up the stairs I said, "You don't look anything like your sister."

  "Half-sister, actually," she replied, looking back at me. Her eyes had clouded over slightly, almost a little fearful. "Same mother, different father."

  We walked into my apartment and I motioned her to the couch. I retreated to the kitchen, asking her if she'd like a bottle of water.

  "Yes, please."

  I opened the refrigerator, took out two bottles of water and put my gun in the cheese drawer. I carried the water into the living room and sat down on my recliner opposite her.

  "Nice apartment," she said.

  Actually, it was. The building was old, but the apartments had been re-done. Mine had two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, and bathroom, all fairly new. I had a lot of "stuff," but I tried to keep it clean. It was a bright apartment, mostly due to an extra-large kitchen window.

  "Thank you. I'm so sorry about your sister. I have to admit that I didn't really know her, though."

  "That's okay, she knew enough about you."

  "Yeah, I kind of got that feeling."

  "Izzy and I weren't close … at all. We really hadn't seen each other in a lot of years."

  "That's what she told me," I said.

  "Well, at least she was truthful there. A rare occurrence for her."

  "I sort of picked up on that too."

  "But we had been in touch lately. We talked on the phone a few times over the last couple of months. She was excited about something. It had to do with you, with my grandfather, and an old art heist. I really wasn't very interested, and in fact, wasn't quite sure why she had contacted me. Then I realized that she was pumping me for information about our grandfather—information I didn't really have. She stopped calling when she realized I couldn't help her. I would have let it go, but when I got the call about her death, I started to wonder. Since I'm her only relative, I had to come up to claim her body."

  "Did the police give you my address?"

  "No, Izzy mentioned your name. It was an … uh … unusual name, so I remembered it. I thought I'd come and meet you to see what this was all about, so I looked you up online."

  Was she being honest with me? Was she actually in league with her late sister? My gut feeling was no. But that could have been an area a bit lower than my gut talking. I took a chance.

  "I've got to be honest with you, and please don't take offense, but how do I know that you two weren't working together on this? You have to understand that in the past two days, someone I met was murdered and my father's house, my car, and this apartment have all been broken into. When I came down to meet you, I had a gun behind my back. That's how much this has shaken me."

  "Yes, I saw the gun."

  "How?"

  "You twisted slightly at one point and I saw it before we went up the stairs. I'll be honest with you now. When I saw it, I almost turned around and walked away. That scared me a little. But I guess I can understand now why you had it."

  "On that subject, do mind if I take it out of my refrigerator? I'm not sure the cold is good for it."

  She chuckled. "Not at all. But can you leave it in the kitchen?"

  She continued as I got up. "I'm not sure how I can convince you that I'm not—wasn't—working with my sister. All I can tell you is that I didn't like her. I'm not sure I ever liked her. She was dishonest and she was a liar. I couldn't trust her when we were young and I was relieved when she left home. I saw her from time to time after that, the last time at our mother's funeral eight or nine years ago."

  She took a breath. I came back and sat down. She said, "As for what she was into when she contacted you, you probably know more than I do. It seemed to be consuming her, though. She kept talking about this lost painting, and she wanted to know how much mom had told me about our grandfather—technically Izzy's grandfather. Our father—my adopted father—died about twenty years ago. His father had died a couple of years before that. I don't know anything secret about either of them. Del," she added. "I'm very different from my sister. I'm here simply out of curiosity. What was she into and why did it get her killed?"

  I was beginning to believe her. I looked down at her hand and saw that she didn't have a ring. That made me really want to believe her.

  "Did she tell you anything about the painting?" I asked.

  "Kind of. She kept referring to it as being extremely valuable, but I don't think she meant from an art point of view. In one conversation, she mentioned that it contained valuable information, but I'm convinced she had no idea what that information was."

  So how much should I tell her? Not everything yet. I figured I'd dish it out slowly and see how I felt about her.

  "Did she tell you anything about the heist itself?"

  "She really didn't tell me anything about anything. What I told you was everything I know."

  I stood up and walked over to where my jacket was hanging and unzipped an inside pocket. From an envelope I took out the copy I made of the newspaper article. I put the envelope back in the pocket and zipped it closed.

  "I found an old package in my father's attic after the police informed me about Izzy. It was a hollowed out book that included an article, which I made a copy of. I put the original back in the book. It was stolen this morning when the person broke into my apartment." I handed it to her.

  She was quiet while she read it. She pored over it slowly, then looked up and said, "1933?"

  I nodded. "I think it goes beyond our grandfathers. My guess is we're talking great-grandfathers, or at least my great-grandfather."

  "Do you have any guess about the painting? What it means and what might have happened to it?"

  "I have no knowledge of the painting. I do know what happened to it. It was loaned to a small-town art gallery. What happened after that, I have no idea."

  I could tell that Sabrina knew I was holding back some information, but she was obviously smart enough to know that until I trusted her, I couldn't show all my cards.

  "I have some time on my hands," I said, "so I thought I'd look into it. I'll be happy to let you know what I find."

  She was quiet for a minute, then said, "I have a proposition for you. I'm here for another two days, and I could easily extend it. How about if I help?" she asked.

  I cocked my head to the side in a "why would you want to" gesture.

  She hesitated. "This is going to sound kind of egotistical, and I really don't mean it to, but you've never heard of me, have you?"

  "Uh…" I did it again.

  "I didn't think so. It's kind of refreshing, actually. It's the other reason I couldn't possibly be working with Izzy on this, and one of the many reasons I steered as clear from her as I could. I have a reputation to think of. I'm a bestselling mystery writer. My fans wouldn't appreciate it if I was involved in something shady."

  Sabrina Spencer! It just showed how discombobulated I was.

  "I'm sorry. Yes, I have heard of you. I'm sorry to say that I haven't read any of your books though, but I will remedy that immediately."

  She flashed a very genuine smile.

  "No, I'm sorry. I sound so full of myself when I say something like that, but it was important for you to know that, because I don't just write mysteries, I live for mysteries. This one hits close to home because I have an actual connection to it. Del, we're both involved in this. You've already dealt with three bur
glaries and I lost my sister, regardless of how I felt about her. Beyond that though, our families seem to be involved with each other going back two or three generations. How much more mysterious could this get?"

  She was quickly selling me on the idea, but I had to note, "Technically, it was Izzy's family. You didn't have the same father."

  "You're right. It's not my family by blood, but that differentiation was never made when I was a kid—except by Izzy when she was being especially mean. My adopted father accepted me as one of his own. That makes it my family and my business. How about it? Another hand, or another pair of eyes, might make a difference."

  My radar had turned off.

  "Okay, you have a deal."

  Chapter 6

  Sabrina walked into her room at the Westin, sat in a chair overlooking Copley Square, and dialed the number of her agent. She had become a hot commodity of late, so getting through to Peter Sheppard was no longer a "he'll call you back as soon as he can" deal. He picked up immediately.

  "Hey Sabrina. What's cooking? How'd it go with your sister's stuff?"

  "Okay. I guess these things are never pleasant. Listen, I know everything is about to heat up with all the pre-release hoopla of my new book, but I've got to take a few days off to deal with all of this."

  "Yeah, that's fine. Not to be insensitive, but is it all of her arrangements, or the 'other thing'?"

  "Mostly the other thing. I met the guy she came up here to talk to. Turns out he has some information that can fill in a lot of blanks. He seems nice, and as confused about all this as I am. He's agreed to let me be a part of it."

  "And what do you get out of it?"

  "Closure? Excitement? Peter, this is turning out to be a real mystery, not something made up."

  "Fodder for a new book?"

  "You never know. But I really want to sink my teeth into this."

  "So, does this guy know who you are?"

  "He knows that I'm Sabrina Spencer, the mystery author."

  "You know that wasn't my question."

  "Does he know my past? No. Only you and Ellen"—Ellen was her editor—"know about that."

  "And you're not going to tell him?"

  "There's no reason he has to know. Besides the fact that I want to keep my past as private as I can for as long as I can—and who knows who he would tell—there's another reason. Just being Izzy's sister was enough to make him suspicious of me. If I gave him this information, there is no way he'd want me in on this. And Peter, I really want to be in on it."

  Chapter 7

  Sabrina Spencer was the real deal. She had five books to her credit—all mysteries. Her first one was put out by a small publisher, and it received the expected amount of attention—none. Her second wasn't much more successful, but it did catch the fancy of an editor at a major New York publishing house, who signed her to a two-book contract. Her third, now with the right publicity behind her, made the New York Times Bestseller List for a couple of weeks, and her fourth took off and made her a big name in the mystery world. Suddenly, all of her books started selling, and the big publisher bought the rights to her first two, making the small publisher a lot of money in the process. Her fifth was due to be published around Christmas, and was expected to hit the bestseller lists its first week in print.

  But what impressed me more than her accomplishments was her sincerity. I picked up on it as quickly as I had picked up on her sister's insincerity. In so many ways she was he exact opposite of her sister. I was looking forward to working with her.

  She had to take care of a few things, seeing as how she was going to take some time off from her writing and publicity planning, so we agreed to meet the next day at her hotel. Funny, she didn't seem all that comfortable in East Boston. Who can figure? However, an excuse to meet at the Westin was okay with me.

  I looked at my watch. I couldn't believe it was only 2:30. So much had happened in a few short hours. I was anxious to check out my father's attic again to see if there was something else—anything else—related to my grandfather or great-grandfather.

  I called Mo and explained that I had to drive to my father's house, and did she know anyone who could fix my door. Turns out she belonged to a whole network of professionals—all female—in different fields. She told me not to worry, that she'd get someone over there to fix it.

  So once again I took off for my father's house, my gun in the pocket of my jacket. I felt extremely uncomfortable carrying it. I called my mother and gave her an abbreviated update, but explained that I probably wouldn't have time to stop by.

  The two-hour trip was a perfect time for reflection. I could have worked through all the details I knew about everything that had happened up to that point. Or, I could have thought about what I would do next for employment. I did neither. It was just all a little too overwhelming. So, I thought about Sabrina and how attracted I was to her. That took up the whole trip.

  I arrived at my father's house close to five, having stopped for some take-out along the way. The house was dark and felt very empty—empty of life, that is. Once inside, I reset the alarm and turned on just about every light in the place. I could never understand in the movies people who ventured into dark houses. Hey, if there is a light, I'll switch it on.

  Before making my way to the attic, I decided to check my father's office, hoping I would find something to preclude my having to deal with the attic. But there was nothing there. I turned on his laptop, but like the rest of the house, it was pretty Spartan, with the expected business and household files, as well as a file containing notes for a nonfiction book about South America that he had been working on for almost ten years. I don't think he had ever gotten beyond the note-taking stage for it. But I knew all this. I had checked his laptop right after his death—at that time looking for copies of a will, as well as bank account and investments information. I had found a simple will leaving everything to me, but other than the equity in the house, my father really didn't have much. He spent his money with abandon, going on vacations all over the world and buying expensive gifts for his many girlfriends. There was also no evidence of a hidden safe-deposit box filled with secret files that would explain all the craziness of the past few days.

  No, like it or not—not—it was off to the attic for me.

  Luckily, I had been through almost half of the boxes already. I had stopped when I found the package. My goal now was to go through the rest of them, even if I discovered something early on. I didn't ever want to find out later that if I had kept looking, I would have found something vital. I started up where I had left off.

  As I worked my way through the boxes, I couldn't help wondering why my father had hidden the package the way he did. But the fact that he had hidden it in a box labeled "kitchen stuff" was enough to convince me that he knew that it was worth hiding. If he knew that much, why hadn't he pursued it? And if he did pursue it, had he run into a dead end?

  The truth was, my father wasn't very motivated when it came to work—and this would have entailed work. He was motivated by two things: sex and fun (the first also falling into the second category). He didn't bring work home for the simple reason that he no longer really cared. It's probably why his book never got beyond the compilation stage. Early in his career he must have had some drive—he wouldn't have achieved the position he held if he hadn't. He had even written a few dozen papers that had been published in scholarly journals and had cowritten some textbooks. But I had a feeling that laziness was with him most of his career. Definitely in the last ten years, the emphasis was solely on having fun.

  Why he hadn't done anything with the package was a question for another day. For now, the mystery was in my lap, and I was determined to solve it.

  I found what I was looking for about an hour into my search. By that time I had been through about eighty percent of the boxes. It was in a box labeled "curtains." I suspected something when I picked up the box. It seemed too heavy for curtains, considering the size of the box. My heart was pounding a
s I slit the tape and opened the box. I was greeted with—surprise—curtains. But I expected that. I pulled them out and was left with a small canvas bag, like an old satchel.

  I removed it from the box and opened the latch to the bag. The bag and its contents smelled heavily of mildew. I removed a stack of papers, which filled most of the bag, and quickly flipped through them. It was my grandfather's wartime papers. He was with the 392nd bomb group, part of the 8th Air Force, stationed at Wendling, England. Already, that was more information about him than I had known before. I put the stack back in the bag, and the bag back in the box. I replaced the curtains and folded the corners of the box to close it. That was something to look through later.

  I continued my search, but found nothing more of interest. I looked at my watch. It was almost eight. Time to head home. I carried the box downstairs, turned off all the lights, locked the door, and set the alarm. I carried the box back to my car, gun in hand.

  But I wasn't accosted, and was back in my apartment by ten.

  I was exhausted. It had been a long, strange day. I was due to meet Sabrina at ten the next morning, so I decided to get to bed early. If I woke up early enough, I could look through some of the material in the satchel before meeting with her. I had already decided to be totally forthcoming with her. If I wanted her help, I needed to be.

  I set my alarm and noticed that my door to the fire escape had been fixed. A nice job, too. A better job than my friend Steve had done on my father's door. There was a note on the table from Mo: I had Amy replace your shit lock. And your deadbolt? What a joke! So she replaced that too. She put in the best of the best. Hope your father left you a lot of money! Lol. Here are the keys. Hey, who was the gorgeous babe leaving your house today? Whoa, I'd do her in a second!

  I smiled. Nothing subtle about Mo.