The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(91)

“Yum. From the Big Island…where was I…oh, yes, the badger. I was at loss for words and trust me, Doctor, that doesn’t happen often. What did I do? I just stood there. Appalled. Then I told myself, Jane, leadership comes with responsibility, so I cleared my throat.”

Sitting up straighter, she demonstrated, producing the growl of a semi with a busted ignition.

“You can bet that got their attention, Doctor. The three of them jumped up, began zipping and buttoning and straightening and whatnot. That was something to see.”

Soprano laughter ended in an operatic trill.

“It could’ve been a terrible blot on my fundraiser but thank goodness no one else realized what had happened. Even, I suppose, her husband, because he was nowhere to be found. Looking back, I suppose there’s some comedy to the whole thing. But that’s memories for you. Like fine wine, they taste so much better with age.”

“Absolutely. So they all left.”

“I allowed Iguana and Pie-Face to scoot their derrieres away, but when she tried to leave, I blocked her and gave her my blue-ribbon stare-down, Karen calls it the death ray.”

Cashmere sleeves clamped over a pigeon-chest. Her face took on the steely frown of a dyspeptic drill sergeant.

“I just stood there and dressed her down visually. She knew her goose was cooked. Finally, when she was starting to wilt, I said, ‘Go and never come back.’ And that was it.”

I thought: You have no idea.





CHAPTER


    47


As four thirty p.m. rolled around, I was itching to go but Jane Leavitt said, “I’ve so enjoyed chatting with you—please enjoy more high tea.”

I conceded another slice of cheese, two additional grapes, a water biscuit, and a slice of raisin bread. Thinking: Big Guy, you blew it.

Managing to withstand her urging to “try the butter, just a smidge, it’s from Denmark—okay, cholesterol, I get it. Then at least the jam, it’s a mixture of Alpine and conventional strawberries, a family in Milan—wait here one sec.”

She strutted out of the room and returned toting a leather-bound folio with both hands. Karen Amilyn Leavitt’s brief acting career was preserved between sheets of plastic. Semi-literate puff-piece reviews in a Beverly Hills throwaway paper, some dating back to high school days, had been preserved with additional photos from the Marilyn-clone shoot. Emphasis on come-hither headshots, lingerie glams, and airbrushed bikini poses.

Jane watched as I flipped pages. When I closed the book, I said, “Terrific.”

“She had so much potential.” She turned away, dabbed at her eyes.

I checked my phone and stood. “Oops, so sorry, I really need to go.”

“Police business? Something to do with her?”

“Yes.”

“Then be off,” she said. “Just as well. I’ve got a party to plan. The garden club, they love my palms.”

She directed my exit the same way she’d guided my entry: arm in arm, followed by a firm propulsion outdoors.

“When will you be able to clue me in, Doctor?”

“Soon as I can.”

“Grand,” she said, clapping her hands. “I want all the gory details, each and every one.”

Be careful what you hope for.

I drove south to Lomitas Avenue, hooked a right at Walden Drive, pulled over, and phoned Judge Martin Bevilacqua.

His clerk said, “I think he’s free,” and rang him in chambers.

A second later, Marty came on. “What’s up, Alex?”

“One more question about the Ansar divorce.”

“No new facts.”

“You mentioned art was part of the dispute.”

“Why does that matter to you?”

“It may connect to the murder.”

“One of them is involved? Oh, shit.”

“No direct involvement,” I said, “but our suspects claim to have sold to the Ansars. Any idea what?”

“Oh, man,” he said. “No, not a clue, Mister absconded with all of it according to Missus and she has no record other than it’s supposedly gazillions.”

“You have your doubts?”

“You know what it’s like. Everyone lies or at least exaggerates.”

“What kind of art does she claim he took?”

“Priceless Old Masters but she’s up the creek because there’s zero evidence. Are you telling me he hung out with really bad people?”

“He could’ve just been a customer.”

“Is there something weird about the art?”

Good nose. I said, “No details yet.”

“Alex, is this going to hit the papers?”

I said, “Not in the near future.”

“But maybe at some point.”

“It’s possible.”

“All right, thanks for letting me know. And if you do get any evidence that relates to the damn divorce, let me know and I’ll make sure you get paid for your time. By who, I don’t know, but by someone.”



* * *



—

Milo picked up his desk phone after one ring. “Nothing to report.”

“Get me into the staff lot. I’ll be there in twenty.”