Fine Art of Murder Page 7

  The wheel on the suitcase twisted, then tipped as they rounded the corner near the big clock. “Damn it,” Alex said as he struggled to wrangle it forward again. If they got caught with what was inside, it wouldn't matter that he was seventy-seven years old or that she had a really good reason for stealing it. What would matter was this was not his first go-round at this kind of thing.

  Under the barrel roof of the huge station, everything echoed. The cavernous space was alive with movement—uniformed conductors in snappy red, black, and gold; tourists in all shapes, sizes, and manner of dress pushed, pulled, and toted luggage, bags and knapsacks.

  “Just imagine where all these people are heading off to,” Mavis said. “Following their dreams to some exotic location. What an amazing place to be.” She caught his eye. “Don't you think so?”

  She never thought she'd return to this place. For a moment, she was transfixed by the mix of sounds, the click of heels against brick, flashing lights, the swish of the train moving on the track. A thundering voice announced departures and arrivals. Cornwall. Leeds. Alex nudged Mavis, who stopped to read the changing schedule board. “I've always wanted to see Paris,” she told him, knowing that would not happen, not now anyway, but they were so close. It was too bad they couldn't just take that train. They'd been in London two days and had barely seen the city.

  “Are we in the clear, sweetheart?” she asked, glancing around, wondering if she should have paid more attention to their surroundings.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, glancing toward the Starbucks. He wanted coffee. Damned doctor. His prostate was good but his kidneys weren't and caffeine exacerbated the tremors. People expected an old man to tremble a bit but he'd need steady hands for the coming task.

  Mavis patted her shoulder bag. “I should really eat soon.”

  “You'll be fine,” he said. “That would throw us off schedule. I saw you stuffing your face at breakfast. That should hold you over for a while.” He smiled then, that winning smile as if he meant this as a joke. Then he placed his hand on the flat of her back and steered her toward the door to the loo and gave her a little shove.

  “Okay now,” he said. “Go in and do your business and do not forget any of the steps. Follow each one to the letter or this won't work. We can't afford a misstep at this point of the game.”

  “What if someone is in there?”

  “You have a brain, woman. Use it. Don't let anyone see you.”

  His face in the speckled washroom mirror was flushed. He theorized that most older people looked alike. He had explained this theory to his wife, saying that old folks were often overlooked and ignored, slighted. But even those chirpy teens outside—blond hair, cell phones, blue eyes, and summer tans—all dressed alike in shorts and T-shirts with sweatshirts wrapped around their butts and shoulders—couldn't be picked out one from the other in a crunch.

  Mavis, for instance, was pretty in her online profile photo, but in real life fairly ordinary and not someone easily picked out of a crowd. This, he assured her, was not a handicap, but a good thing—especially at their age.

  Besides, he told her, he had an ordinary face, too. Kind, with blue eyes, one distinguishing spot in the right iris too small to make a difference. He removed a comb from his breast pocket and slicked down the mess of white hair, thankful, as always, to have it. It took less than four minutes to complete his own personal business and turn his jacket inside out so that now it was black.

  Mavis, however, was not so quick, leaving him to worry. He paced in front of the door for ten minutes, then slouched on a bench, and wondered if he should barge in and drag her out. He could get up and walk away, but then what would be the point of all of this?

  “Good God,” he said when she finally appeared, pulling the smaller, gray suitcase, her hair tucked under a matching gray scarf with tiny printed flowers. “Did you fall in?”

  “There were ladies in there. I had to be careful, you know, so no one saw me.”

  “I guess you did it then.” He glanced at the carry-on case, her black tote, and large purse.

  “Yes. It's done.”

  “Your dilly-dallying around has totally put us behind schedule. I can't imagine why on earth you took so long.”

  She smiled and patted his arm. “Relax. My hair was a mess. I haven't washed it in two days,” she said, picking lint from her dark jacket sleeve. “These reversible jackets were a good buy, but this side shows every bit of dust and lint. See?” She pinched up the front placket. “On the other hand, they are perfect for any weather, and look, no wrinkles.”

  Alex frowned. “Good God, woman. Do you think we are tiptoeing through the tulips here? Have you forgotten what's at stake? I send you on a simple task with a crucial time table and you come back an hour later.”

  “It was not an hour and you told me to make changes, step-by-step. I was following your orders the way you told me to.” Her lower lip quivered, and the catch in her voice meant she was holding back tears.

  “Okay, okay. Where did you stash it?”

  Mavis flashed him a puzzled look. Her toe was killing her.

  “The suitcase? Where did you leave it?”

  “Oh, that. I left it in a stall and good riddance. That thing is so ugly. If it were up to me, I'd have blown it up years ago. My gosh, I've had that thing for what seems like a hundred years and have always hated that all-over apple pattern.”

  He was already moving toward the exit.

  “It just took me some time to repack everything. I had to leave stuff behind.”

  Alex stopped and glared. “What? What did you leave behind?”

  “Oh nothing that can be traced to us. Stuff we bought yesterday, souvenirs, those bulky sweatshirts with the Union Jack splattered across the chest. My gosh, they made us look huge. I left them in the suitcase.”

  “Did you hide it?”

  “No. I left it in the stall, sitting by the toilet.”

  “Okay. But you did the rest? Like you were supposed to?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “The way we planned it. Is anyone following us?”

  He glanced around and nodded for her to follow. So far they seemed to be in the clear, and she thought Alex was right in doing it this way.

  Outside, the couple scurried into the flurry of people, quickly blending into the moving crowd of tourists waiting for cabs, buses and lights to change. Alex hailed a black cab at the corner. In a few hours they'd be on a plane, headed home and, if all went well, they would have pulled it off. That nice little Picasso etching, worth nearly one hundred thousand dollars, would belong to her and no one would be the wiser.

  So far no one had followed them from the gallery to the hotel or from the hotel to the rail station where they'd switched their appearance. Now, they were off to the next destination. It was what Alex called ‘a wild goose chase for the police or London's Bobbies’ and he assured her it would work because he'd pulled it off countless times in the past.

  The stolen Picasso was small enough to fit into her large, black tote. She'd fallen for it years before while working at the Avignon Gallery. It was her first job in the city but her employer, Henry Livengood, a tyrant, had cheated her time and again out of money she'd legitimately earned on commission. Firing her was the last straw, because that left her nearly penniless and alone in a foreign country.

  All this, her sad story, she'd confided to Alex early on. He'd convinced her of a way to not only obtain the treasured print but also give old Mr. Livengood a bitter taste of comeuppance.

  “But just go in and steal it? I couldn't do that.”

  “Sure you could. It's easy,” he'd said, with one hand on her knee and the other stroking her neck. “I can show you how and I promise you'll never get caught.”

  “But what do I do with it once I have it?” she asked, thinking of the priceless etching and wondering how to display it without raising questions.

  Alex had an answer for that one as well, and before long, they had cashed in her airline mileage and
were off to London. She felt very much alive, all of her nerve endings zinging and her heart bubbling over when she looked at him. Of course, she remembered she had not eaten for a while and that might account for some of it.

  * * *

  The cabbie was Middle Eastern with a thick accent and a mole on the side of his face. Dark hair drifted over his collar. Mavis suspiciously eyed his skin, the color of old, tarnished leather. Still, he was polite, efficiently opening and closing doors for the two of them. Alex gave him their destination. Soon, they zipped in and out of traffic, their suitcases safe in the boot of the automobile.

  Of course, there had been a fuss. Alex wanted to keep the suitcase with them and argued there was plenty of room—and there was. But the driver, in his broken English, pointed to his license and said something about regulations.

  “Just sit back and enjoy the ride,” Mavis said, patting the inside crook of Alex's arm. In her mind, she was counting. He had six cloth T-shirts tightly rolled the way the YouTube video showed. His oxford shirts were carefully folded. Four of them. Her black wool dress—good for all occasions—three blouses and matching polyester slacks, two sets of flannel pajamas and her nylon nighties, three pairs of panty hose, seven pairs of dress socks and white anklets, an afghan wrapped around the stolen Lino-cut etching, inside a layer of trash bags wrapped in tin foil.

  They'd walked right into the gallery that night. The place was packed with people for the open house—some German artist she'd never heard of. Winding through the crowd, she inhaled the mix of colognes and perspiration.

  The wine was top-shelf, the appetizers cut into tasty little morsels. In the corner, her former boss's eyes met hers with maybe a flicker of something and her heart stopped a moment. But then, dismissing her, he'd looked away.

  Seizing the moment, Alex moved in to inquire about the huge Rothko, then the Basquiat, chatting the guy up about prices, techniques, methods, and art history. Meanwhile, unnoticed, Mavis headed to the back room. She slipped into the familiar space and found the desired etching leaning against the wall near the base board, partially enclosed in bubble wrap. She slipped it into her large purse and escaped without being seen.

  Mavis stared out at the buildings of London as they headed toward Heathrow with a stolen etching hidden inside their taxi. In the past few hours, the odd, musical sound of sirens cutting through the air had set her on edge every time.

  “They won't miss it for a while,” she whispered, crossing her fingers.

  “Relax. This is better than sitting at home watching The Young and Restless for thrills.”

  “You best get me out some crackers or something.” She waved toward her shoulder bag. “I feel a bit off.”

  Digging through her purse, he found a packet of graham crackers and a bottle of juice. “Don't you be going into some diabetic attack on me, sister,” he said. “I can't afford drama right now.”

  Through the window, the arched glass of the terminal loomed. Mavis silently mouthed the words on the sign—WELCOME TO HEATHROW—as the cab pulled to a stop at the curb. Her stomach was tied in knots and Alex's hand in hers felt lifeless, clammy.

  “Maybe we should just check the bag?” she suggested.

  “Um, no,” Alex said. “Too much of a risk.”

  Inside the terminal, Alex held the suitcase in one hand and propelled her forward with the other. Her heart raced as they threaded their way into line. She glanced at Alex—his mouth was set in a determined scowl.

  Alex, on the other hand, chuckled to himself. The thought of the Picasso hanging on her living room wall between those fakes, Blue Boy and Pinky, was a real hoot.

  “It was easy back in the day,” he had confided. “Before the Internet, before everyone could get on a cell phone or send out a tweet. Back in the day, you could steal a work of art and go underground. You had networks, a backup system.” She was so gullible. An easy mark. The passports were legit, although he'd borrowed someone's social security and identity, which was not so hard to do anymore. His was courtesy of a friend from the pool hall who'd recently had the good graces to go on to a better life in the sky.

  As they wedged their way into the crowded line, she said, “I wish we'd had time to sightsee. I would have loved to have taken a tour on one of those double-decker buses, but the cab was cute. I love London cabs. So old-fashioned looking, don't you think?”

  “Why are things always cute with you? An automobile is an automobile. It isn't cute. It's simply a vehicle with a purpose.” He clasped his fingers together to still the tremors that put him out of commission. This was his big come-back. He'd ditch her and head for Vegas maybe, double the take or just fence the thing and live a lush life until the next lonely sucker fell into his lap. Lonely ladies were all over the Internet.

  As they neared the X-ray machines, he began to worry. They might question him about the tremors. He would have to hold his temper and explain it was hereditary—essential tremors—passed to him from his lovely mother. Lucky him, he would tell them.

  He placed the case on the roller and watched it move through without raising any red flags.

  He jumped as Mavis nudged him. “You have all the paperwork in order? The passport? My medical papers?” Her husband reached into his inside pocket and produced the papers.

  “I've got the carry-on,” he said with relief as they examined her medical bag. The clerk, an unsmiling, heavyset woman, towered over Mavis, who perched on tiptoes in front of the booth. Her fingers trembled, too, as she handed the woman her open passport.

  “What is your business in New York?”

  Mavis's eyes strayed to her husband at the next agent, who had opened his passport.

  “What is your business in New York,” the woman demanded.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, her eyes now on the open passport laying before her, on the woman's long, black fingers and her dark polished nails.

  Mavis remembered Alex's instruction to smile and answer in a pleasant tone. “I am returning home. My husband and I have… well, his sister, Edith, passed and we have been here for that. It was very sad, a very sad trip for my husband, who is also ill. This trip has been very hard on him.”

  She motioned back toward Alex with a sad look. She explained that she was diabetic, and once again, allowed for an exam of the leather satchel containing her insulin and medical supplies.

  “It is all okay, isn't it?’ she asked. “We checked with the airline. I have the necessary paperwork right here.” Alex had suggested this chatter but it seemed to only annoy the clerk.

  “Do you have anything to declare? Did you purchase anything while here?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing at all. Well, I did buy a couple of sweatshirts with the Union Jack on them but I gave them to the nephews where we were staying. That doesn't count, does it? I mean you want to know if I am taking anything back home, right?”

  Finally, Mavis heard the rubber stamp thunk, thunk, thunk against her open booklet, then, “Move on. Next.”

  The plane had three sets of seats across and smelled of stale air. They picked their way along the right side, counting seats and reading numbers until finding theirs side by side near the back of the plane and not too far from the restroom, which made Mavis happy.

  She stashed her things under the seat and slid to the inside so she could see out of the window while Alex gazed upward at the open bin. He didn't want to let go of their carry-on.

  “Here, let me help with that,” said a rumpled soldier, leaning down to enclose his hands over Alex's on the handle. Alex relinquished the bag.

  Mavis's throat began to close as the plane filled with people and quiet shuffling, the soft banging of closing bins, and a crying baby somewhere up front.

  “I hope that won't go on the whole way home,” Alex said, settling into the seat. “I think you should eat and take care of your sugar as soon as we're airborne.”

  Mavis nodded and waited while the passengers filed to their seats and the flight attendants went through the pre-takeoff ri
tuals. Soon the plane was racing forward, and then it lifted skyward. Mavis tensed when she felt the slight bump of the wheels folding into place.

  Alex squinted his eyes shut against the wail of baby screams. When they were thirty thousand feet in the air, and the earth below had disappeared into a mist, Mavis opened her big, black bag, and handed him a bottle of water. They'd had time before boarding to pick up sandwiches from a kiosk just outside the boarding area. The cellophane crinkled while Mavis unwrapped the turkey sandwich and began to loudly chomp. Alex struggled with his packet of mustard, which squirted suddenly across the aisle, landing squarely on the tattooed arm of a scary-looking passenger.

  The man's fists curled as if to hit Alex. Right away, though, someone from behind offered a moist towelette. Alex opened his mouth to say something but shut it again.

  Mavis leaned forward and smiled apologetically. “I like your skin art.” From what she could see, it looked like Hebrew or Islamic script on his neck and arms and numbers across his forehead. “Very interesting. Does it have meaning?”

  “Mind your own business lady,” he said. He was bald, maybe one of those London Skinheads she'd read about. She couldn't stop looking at him.

  “I didn't mean to pry,” she said. “I studied art and find all that fascinating. Is that Arabic? On your neck and face? Honestly, I don't mean to offend. I've never seen anything like that before.”

  Alex pinched her arm and whispered, “Stop talking to him. Those are prison tattoos. Shut your fool mouth before you get us killed or something.”

  Trying not to be obvious, Mavis leaned forward a bit to see the prison tattoos. “I think he's a terrorist,” she whispered.

  “Shh. He'll hear you.” Alex moved Mavis's insulin bag closer and reached inside. He removed the syringe and, despite his tremors, tried to surreptitiously take off the protective cap. “Your insulin is ready.”

  “Not here,” she said.

  “Mavis, don't be so squeamish. No one will see.”

  “I'll step into the little restroom and you can inject me from the doorway. It worked out okay on the way over.”