The Trouble with Tulip (27 page)

Danny tried not to show any reaction.

“Tell us more about this women's club,” he said.

The guy hesitated and then spoke.

“Well, it started a few months ago. One day a man came up to me after a class—like you did today, Jo. He said his name was Simon Foster and he was in need of an expert in history.”

Jo glanced at Danny and he gave her a slight nod. Now they had a last name for this Simon fellow. Foster. Simon Foster.

“He had a few photographs he wanted information about, historically speaking,” the professor continued. “We went through the pictures, and I identified them for him. He had a shot of the Civil War and one of some depression-era farmers. A mid-twentieth-century Olympics. Things like that.”

“Emma Goldman?” Danny asked, earning a quick glance from Jo.

“Yes. On a street car.”

“So how did all of this lead to your interest in the painting?” Jo asked.

The professor looked from side to side, a red blush inexplicably creeping into his cheeks.

“He asked me if I would come to a women's group and give a short lecture about the photos. I wasn't interested until he said he'd pay me two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars—for a half hour's work! He said he would have the prints put into PowerPoint and all I would have to do is show up and speak about the era that each of the photos represented. It sounded easy enough to me. I can talk American history in my sleep. And I could always use a few extra hundred bucks.”

“So you went?” Danny asked.

“Yes,” he said, no longer making eye contact. “The meeting was at a lady's house, very lovely, with tea sandwiches and punch.”

“Was the meeting at the home of a woman named Edna Pratt?” Jo asked.

He coughed and then shook his head.

“I don't think so. It was on Lagnaippe Street. Chutney was the name, I believe.”

“Chutney?” Jo asked. “Iris Chutney?”

“Yes, I think that was it.”

Danny and Jo knew Iris Chutney from church. She was an older woman, a widow who lived alone in a big house in one of the town's most exclusive neighborhoods.

“Anyway,” McMann continued, “I gave my lecture. It went fine. I collected my check.”

“And the painting?”

“The painting was there on display that night, a print like this one. I fell in love with it. Something about the lightness of Mary and the baby, contrasted with the shadows and the darker clothing on the people around them. And that moon through the window. When we consider the Nativity, we always think of the star of Bethlehem, but this artist chose to feature a full moon instead. That intrigued me. I'm very in tune with the different phases of the moon.”

Danny sighed, sorry to learn that beyond getting the last name of Simon, this interview was going to be a dead end. He felt that this guy was holding back something, but he wasn't sure how to find out what it was.

“Okay, so what is it you're not saying?” Jo asked, surprising both of the men. Danny was impressed she'd had the nerve to ask.

Keith McMann put down the print and put his hands on the edge of the table, leaning forward. Sure enough, the blush had spread to his whole face.

“I think I was a pawn in some elaborate joke,” he said softly. “In fact, I've been so embarrassed about it, I haven't told a soul what happened.”

“What did happen?” Jo asked breathlessly, also leaning forward. Danny thought she was leaning in just a little too close.

“About halfway through the lecture,” the professor said, “I looked up at the screen, at the shot of the farmers next to the sugarcane. It struck me that there was something odd about the picture, something different. I continued with the lecture, but when it was over and Simon Foster was distracted, I went to his computer and ran through the presentation slides. The photo had been altered. The whole lot of them, actually. The man had inserted himself into every one of the pictures!”

This time, Jo gripped Danny's knee under the table with her hand.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I didn't want to embarrass the guy, but I was quite confused by it. The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. The next day, he wouldn't return my calls, so I went to the address that was listed on his check and confronted him.”

“And he said…?”

“He just laughed and apologized. He said he and a few of the other ladies were setting up an elaborate practical joke on Mrs. Parker. He said it was hard to explain but that if I wanted to come back the following night to her birthday party, all would be revealed at that time.”

“So did you go?”

He shook his head.

“No,” he said dismissively. “I believed him. Never thought of it again.”

“But you still pursued the painting.”

He shrugged.

“I couldn't get it off my mind. When I tried to contact Simon Foster again to study the print more closely and possibly get the name of the artist, again he didn't call me back. So I approached Dean Pike instead.”

Jo and Danny looked at each other, both obviously wondering the same thing.

“So where does Simon Foster live?” Jo asked. “We'd like very much to get in touch with him ourselves.”

Jo wanted to go there right away, but Danny asked her to wait for him. The address wasn't exactly in the safest part of town.

“I just have a few more appointments and then I'll be free,” Danny said, looking at his watch. “Why don't I pick you up when I'm done?”

Reluctantly, she agreed.

“Come and get me at Edna's,” she said. “I'll continue working on the house until then.”

The afternoon passed quickly—Jo finished the sewing room and moved on to the bedroom—and soon she and Danny were in his car, driving toward the address the professor had given them for the silver-haired man in the photos named Simon Foster. According to Keith, Simon lived in a seedy long-term motel at the edge of town, a place ironically called the Palace.

Jo had never been there before, but she knew the area. It was in an old, industrial section of town, dotted with abandoned buildings, a few warehouses, and a sprawling trailer park. The hotel was at the end of a dead-end street, a blond brick building with a torn and faded awning over the main entrance.

The smell of stale smoke and mildew assaulted them as they went in the door. The front desk was unattended, so they rang a buzzer next to the counter, and eventually an older gentleman shuffled into the room.

“Help you?” he asked. “We don't rent by the hour here.”

Danny stepped forward, looking offended by the man's insinuation.

“We're not trying to check in,” Danny said. “We're looking for one of your guests. A man by the name of Simon Foster?”

“Foster,” he replied, spitting toward the trash can. “Ain't seen him since Friday.”

“You mean he checked out?”

“Not really. He just left. Might be back. His room's paid for through the end of the month.”

“But you think he's gone for good?”

“Probably. When I got here Saturday morning, his key had been dropped in the slot. Housekeeper said the room was stripped out. Guy took all his stuff—not to mention every light bulb and roll of toilet paper in there.”

“Is that normal,” Danny asked, “for someone to pay for a room and decide to leave early?”

The old man chuckled, which turned into a hacking cough. When he was finished, he spit again and then spoke.

“This ain't exactly the Hilton,” he said. “Costs a lot less per day if you pay by the month. Nonrefundable, though, if you decide to leave early.”

“So you have a lot of transients here?” Jo asked.

The man smiled, showing several empty sockets where some of his teeth should have been.

“Folks around here do tend to come and go,” he said, nodding. He turned and started to walk away, as if their business was complete.

“Could we ask a few more questions?” Jo said.

“Time is money,” he replied.

Jo didn't know what he meant, but quickly Danny stepped forward and gave the guy a ten-dollar bill. Again, they were rewarded with a toothless smile.

“What else you want to know?” he asked, pocketing the cash and stepping back toward them. “You two cops or something?”

“No,” Jo said, offering no further explanation. “Did Simon ever bring any guests here?”

The man seemed to consider her question.

“There was one woman,” he said. “Older lady, grayish blond hair. Kind of plain looking, big nose.”

Jo nodded, certain he was describing Edna.

“I figured she was his pigeon,” he added.

“Pigeon?” Danny asked.

“Yeah. Two Eyes? Square? Shaky Mom?”

Danny and Jo looked at each other and then at him.

“Simon was the Mack,” he said slowly, as if that explained everything. Jo felt as though he were speaking in a foreign language. “At least from what I could tell. Though he might have been working it alone. I never saw him with a drag team.”

“I'm sorry,” Jo said, “but we don't understand these terms you're using. What's a drag team?”

“A con. The guy's a con artist. The Mack is the boss of a con.”

Jo's pulse surged.

“What's a pigeon?” she asked.

“The victim,” he replied. “Little old ladies are always the easiest to fleece. That's why it's called a Granny Game.”

Jo looked at Danny, a number of things suddenly moving into focus in her brain.

“What makes you think Simon Foster was a con artist?” she asked.

The old man shrugged.

“I been around enough to know it when I see it. Shoot, he tried to double-fold me when he checked in.”

“Double-fold?”

The guy grinned, and Jo could tell he was enjoying this. Judging by the sounds coming from the back room, he didn't have much else to do except watch television anyway.

“I'll show you,” he said.

He went around the counter, opened a drawer, and reached for a metal cash box.

“Don't watch,” he said, so Jo and Danny averted their eyes, looking at each other instead. Soon, the man came back around the counter and gave them a nod.

“You be me, I'm you,” he said. “I'd like a room, please.”

Danny looked confused, but Jo understood what he was saying.

“That'll be two hundred dollars for the month,” she said, playing the part of the innkeeper.

Nodding, the guy pulled a big wad of cash from his pocket, held his thumb across the front of the wad, and carefully counted out two hundred dollars in twenties. Then he pulled the twenties from the wad and handed them over.

“Now,” he said. “I just gave you two hundred dollars, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“You counted it right in front of us,” she said. Nevertheless, she counted the bills out onto the counter, coming up with only one hundred and sixty dollars when she was done.

“How'd you do that?” Danny exclaimed. “I watched you. There was no sleight of hand.”

“I fixed the wad,” he told them. “Two of those twenties were folded in half, so they got counted twice. Classic con. Since I counted out the money right in front of you, you assumed I gave you the right amount.”

Jo had to laugh. What an amazing trick!

“Vendors do it at football games and carnivals all the time,” he said. “You buy a hot dog, give him a ten, he counts out your change using a few folded ones, you take it back and stick it in your pocket and don't bother to count it because you saw him count it and so you think it's correct.”

He took the money back from her, moved behind the counter, and locked it into the box.