Alex Ames - Calendar Moonstone 01 - A Brilliant Plan (6 page)

Twenty hours ago. Now, I felt very tired, standing with Ron in the exact same gallery.
 

What made me wonder was the fact that at the time I found the dead body, the control box near the back-office safe door had not been touched. No dangling wires and no open electronics. Whoever opened the safe did it from the other side. And then later, ransacked the back-office panel for reasons unknown. Of course, I couldn’t share this piece of information with Ron. This was going to be complicated, layered lies and assumptions.

“Who found him?” I asked.

“The security company placed a routine call around three a.m. No one answered, so they sent out a patrol to check on things. They found him.”

“So the doors of the safe were left open,” I stated.

“Yes, the alarm was cleverly rigged so it would appear closed and armed to the security company’s online system. Heavy tampering.”

Ron and I stood in the back-office room and looked into the safe that hadn’t been. He suddenly let out a hearty yawn. I wanted to join him but thought better.
 

“Sorry, up since four a.m.,” he explained.

“What now?” I asked, unsure of my official role in this charade.

“As an honorary SDPD super detective, I should be rousing up suspects now, but to tell the truth, I am too tired to think.” He rubbed his beard stubbles. “First thing tomorrow is a date with the gallery owner, Andrew Altward. He promised pictures of the stolen goods and descriptions. Plus we can feel out for the possibility that he broke into his own safe.”

We walked back through the showroom and Ron gave some instructions to the policeman standing guard in the back-office. Then we walked downstairs.

“I can pick you up around eight thirty.” It wasn’t a real question so I gave an enthusiastic puppy nod in agreement.

Ron opened the door that led out into Market Street and held it open gallantly to let me out. I made a small curtsey, which drew a smile from his very kissable lips and I ran straight into my next worst nightmare.

THE POLICEMAN IN front of the store was in an argument with the gentleman I bumped into. We bounced into each other, did double steps to regain our balance and simply stared at each other, both trying to think of the right thing to say. The policeman grabbed the arm of the man and Ron grabbed mine to steady me. I did not have much time to think about whether I was allowed to recognize the man I had bumped into or pretend that I didn’t. He made the decision for me.
 

“Calendar, what a pleasure to see you here.” I wasn’t sure whether he meant it as a threat or a greeting. Thomas Cornelius III gave me a quick series of European air-kisses on the left and right cheeks, something he had picked up in Swiss boarding school. I bravely pecked back under Ron’s suspicious looks.
 

“Thomas, so good to see you.” I said, “Unfortunately, the gallery is closed for business today due to a crime.”

Cornelius gave us his widest American toothpaste-advertising smile to morph into the apologetic mouth that acknowledged the tragedy. “I have heard, of course. That is why I am here. But this gentleman,” he pointed toward the policeman, “would not let me through.”
 

He wore a black suit over a black turtleneck, Armani. His blue eyes could be charming one minute and cool the other. His gray, carefully groomed short hair, together with his healthy tan, gave him a look of quiet authority, someone you didn’t doubt.
 

Ron listened to our small reunion of friends from the sideline but the cop got the better of him. “Are you a business associate of Mr. Altward?” He retrieved, flashed and put away his badge in one very smooth motion.

Cornelius gave Ron a longer look, glanced back at me, noticed that I wasn’t wearing handcuffs and gave a slow nod. “Yes, Mr. Altward and I are partners in a couple of art deals.”

“How impolite of me not to introduce you,” I suddenly chirped in. “Thomas, this is Detective McCloseky of the SDPD. Ron, this is the famous art collector Thomas Cornelius III, from New York City.”

Ron asked innocently. “A collector? You collect precious gemstones? Got something from Calendar in your collection already? I heard that she is unique.” If one were a shady character with something to hide, one could hear Ron’s underlying suspicion. But good old Thomas was much too suave to care much less notice.

“I assure you that Calendar is very unique. But no, nothing from her in my possession, yet. I specialize in art from the late nineteenth century. Precious gems, jewelry, paintings, sculptures, furniture. Our friend Calendar is talented, no doubt, but I always wait for the opinion of history as to what to collect or not.”

“What Thomas is trying to say is that I must be dead and gone for at least 100 years before he will consider my work,” I explained.

Thomas put his long aristocratic arm around me. “But that sad day will be long after my own passing, Cal.” This definitely meant that he would have me killed in the next few days.

I forced a smile and snuggled into the arms of my future killer. “Thanks for the praise.” I said.

Ron asked, “Do you happen to collect works of Patrick Monte-oat as well?” I wasn’t sure whether he mispronounced it intentionally, since he had heard my pronunciation before.

“Montee-oat? Oh, Montenhaute! No, he is eighteenth century, not my taste. You could delight my grandmother with his stuff though. The eighteenth century was much too decadent and aimless for my taste. But around 1900, you could feel the turn of the times in art.”

Ron switched subjects and clarified things. “Mr. Altward is not in; maybe you should try his home?”

“Oh, thank you, I must have been misinformed.” Thomas looked at me while he spoke. “Calendar, I hope we have a chance to talk about pleasure and business both in the next few days.” He pressed my hands for a second, shook Ron’s hand with a nod and went back to his small but expensive Mercedes SLK, black of course, and sped off.

Thomas Cornelius III was probably the one most organized crime czar of the East Coast and when he meant business, he meant business. The instant one of his minions spotted my arrival at the Altward Gallery he had come over to deliver his message personally.

And the message was, “You stole something that I planned to steal; hand it over.”

However, I was pretty sure that whatever I stole the night before was not the stuff in which he was interested. I was also pretty sure that he was looking for the items that the killer had stolen. And I was well aware that it would become a little difficult for me to explain the double burglary at Altward’s gallery to Thomas. Such coincidence did not exist in his vocabulary.

Things were getting complicated.

RON DROPPED ME off at The House of the Moon and I stepped up to the porch. It was around midnight; my parents were obviously out, since the cats were still prowling around in the garden, waiting patiently for the late night milk my mom would be putting on the patio before closing shop.

I felt dead tired, the mess of the bungled job, the dead night watchman, the closeness of the police, Ron’s nice smile and eyes and then the appearance of Thomas Cornelius. Not to mention Fowler Wynn. I opened the door to my room, prepared to jump into my soft bed and simply fall asleep without bothering to undress, when I spotted Mundy reading
Huckleberry Finn
, Junior Edition.

He looked at me and immediately read my distress.

“You’re back.”

“You’re here.”

“Where else.”

“I am dead.”

“You look like it,” Mundy stated and got up, snapping the book shut, the sound made me jump. “Whoa, I see nerves!”

“Mundy, can you shut up and hold me for a second?” I suddenly sniveled through the mist of my eyes.

“Are you acting the part now?” Mundy didn’t know whether to play along or whether to step back from me.

“For real! Hold me please,” I cried. Mundy stepped forward, made two awkward attempts to hug me, our arms were in each other’s way but finally we simply stood in the middle of my childhood room, holding each other. I snuggled up to his neck, spilled a few tears in his hair and got patted repeatedly on the back. Mundy’s way of saying he was there for me.

After a final sniff, I drew back and fetched a tissue from the bathroom. When I came back, he had retreated to the petite writing desk, doodling on a Disney notepad. He didn’t look at me due to embarrassment.
 

“You want to talk about it? Fowler Wynn?” was Mundy’s guess.

“I met Thomas Cornelius tonight,” I started.

“Who is Thomas Cornelius?”

I sat down on my little girl couch and drew my legs up under me. “Thomas Cornelius III is a renowned and respected collector and curator of fine arts. He is one of the foremost authorities on American art of the last, well, the nineteenth century.”

“The Third, eh?”

“His family is old money. In East Coast terms, this means nineteenth century money. Railroad and shipping.”

“Oh, those Cornelius. The Rockefeller Astor Cornelius I am impressed that you know someone that prominent.”
 

“We met before several times but never got into any business dealings so far.”

Mundy’s eyes grew to slits. “Why is he bothering you so much?”

I drew a deep breath. “Because Thomas Cornelius is the greatest dealer of stolen gemstones and jewels along the East Coast. His network controls every criminal transaction involving stolen gem art east of the Mississippi. Nothing goes without his saying. Talking about organized with a capital ‘O.’”

“A fence? He’s got a secret identity as a fence?” Mundy’s mouth fell open.

“Mundy, he is not ‘a’ fence. He is called ‘The Fence’ by criminals and authorities alike. Not many people know his true identity. He is working through several layers of trusted middlemen and a computer network. The middlemen structure is build very similar to the Mafia. Someone near him is arrested; he walks the walk but he talks no talk.”

“Cornelius has never been arrested then?”
 

“Not even suspected. Never had anything traced to him. Concerning the police and the New York art society, his shirt is spotless. And most of the underworld only knows him by his nickname ‘The Fence.’”

“Which brings us to the question as to how you two master criminals originally met,” Mundy prodded.

“To make a long story short, we had a relationship when I was living back East with Uncle Mortimer.”

Mundy’s mouth fell with an almost comical expression. “You went to… ” He caught himself and his manners in time. “You went out with a master criminal.”

“In fact, we were engaged and were about to marry.”
 

Mundy’s mouth stayed open, overload. “You… ”

“I didn’t know it at the time!”

Mundy stopped. His gear was rattling inside his skull. He finally gave up trying to comprehend and simply asked, “How did you find out about his secret identity? Pillow talk?”

I cleaned one thumb’s nail with the other. “It came out one day when curiosity got the better of me and I opened a safe I wasn’t supposed to open.”

“Let me guess, the safe belonged to him!”

I gave a tight-lipped nod and crinkled my nose. There was much more to that story but this wasn’t the time to let Mundy’s brain explode and splatter all over the room.

Fortunately, Mundy let go of Thomas’ and my history. “You two seem to synchronize your actions well, don’t you think? What is the chance that years later you two raid the same location at the same time?”

“That is the worst of it! I think he was about to raid the Altward gallery. But someone was faster and had already nicked the stuff that was due to belong to The Fence.”

“With you in the middle….”

“Mi-ddle.” I slumped back into my couch, feeling small.

“Can’t you simply tell him the truth? Get it over with; throw in the old relationship and all.”

“Let’s not raise his blood pressure unnecessarily. What are the chances he will believe me? Two groups hitting the very same spot at the exact same time?”

“What are the chances that you actually stole his stuff?”

“Trust me, the chances are zero. What I took from the back-office safe is not in the style of someone as big as Thomas ‘The Fence’ Cornelius III. Or his sense in beauty and value has declined dramatically in the last few years.”

Mundy cocked his head to listen. “Your parents are back.”

“Let’s call it a night,” I said, “I need to get up early tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow is the day after Thanksgiving?”

“Policewoman has to work.” I said as I stood up and went over to the walk-in closet to retrieve the winter blankets and some sheets for Mundy.

“And that is another story altogether,” Mundy groaned and prepared to sleep on the couch. He bustled and shuffled with the blankets and cushion and finally settled down. Very formally, like two strangers on a bus, we wished each other a good night. Mundy was too shy to make any remarks about sleeping with the woman of his dreams, and I was simply too tired to care.

The last duty of the day was the setting of my old alarm clock. I simply fell onto my bed, left switching off the light to Mundy and slept.

THE NEXT MORNING was a typical San Diego autumn day with sunshine and 70 degree temperatures. Mundy snored lightly on his couch as I tiptoed around him to dress. The house was still asleep when Ron picked me up and we rode to Andrew Altward’s apartment in Downtown San Diego’s Marina district.
 

During the ride, Ron rattled off some information about Altward, most of which I already knew.
 

I asked, “By the way, do the guys from the gallery have alibis?”
 

“Let’s see. The second partner, Faulkner, is still away on business in Mexico City. He’s supposed to come up tonight. Pretty solid. We’ll talk to him tomorrow. Serge, the assistant, was out with his boyfriend, seen by several people. They were out partying most of the night. Altward was dining out with a customer and afterwards he went home. His alibi is the weakest, cuts the time frame pretty tight.”