Софи Келли - Faux Paw

It was impossible to miss the surprise that flashed across Rena’s face. She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again she focused totally on Marcus. “Then check Margo’s bank accounts or her credit cards. She transferred ten thousand dollars to an account in Turks and Caicos just after one a.m. Thursday morning.”

“Do you have a routing number?” Marcus asked.

“If it comes to that,” Rena said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I didn’t kill Margo. You must have her cell phone. There should be a text from Doyle’s Art Supplies telling her her order isn’t ready. That’s me letting her know there was a problem. She sent a text back saying she’d call to change her order. But she didn’t call. I was at Eric’s Place for about an hour. The waiter was flirting. He’ll remember me.”

“You were flirting with Larry Taylor to find out how the security system worked,” I said. “You were trying to figure out how to disable it.”

Rena looked away for a moment. “I’m sorry about Larry. He’s a nice guy. And, no, he didn’t do anything to compromise the library’s security, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Marcus glanced over at the main doors. “You couldn’t have tampered with the keypad. It’s set up to call the police if there’s a security breach.”

For a long moment Rena just looked at him. Then she shrugged. “In theory it is possible to redirect the keypad, send it to a rogue cell phone network. Or so I’ve heard. But like I told you. The system was off. “

“You’ll need to come down to the police station,” Marcus said, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “And you really should find a lawyer. There’s still that fingerprint from Chicago you need to explain.”

I saw a hint of a smile cross Rena’s face. “I don’t think that’s going to be that big a problem,” she said. “I don’t think the alleged owner really wants to explain how she ended up with that painting in the first place.”

“Where’s the Weston drawing?” Marcus asked again.

Rena brushed her hair back impatiently from her face. “I didn’t take it. I told you. It wasn’t in the case.”

“You’re asking me to take a lot of things on faith, Ms. Adler,” Marcus said.

Rena actually smiled at him. “You know I didn’t take the drawing, Detective,” she repeated.

Marcus held up a hand. “Hang on a second,” he said. He frowned at Rena. “What do you mean, I know you didn’t take it?”

“I know the police have the drawing, Detective. I’m assuming you’re saying you don’t to throw whoever killed Margo off base.”

“We don’t have the drawing,” Marcus said, flatly.

Rena shook her head. “You mean all this time this building’s been closed and you still haven’t found it?”

“Wait a minute,” I said, pointing with one finger. “You think the Weston drawing is here? In the library?”

She looked from me to Marcus and back to me again. “It has to be. It was dotted, so there’s no way it can leave the building with the alarm system still in place. I assumed Margo put it somewhere for safekeeping.” She was looking at us both as though we were incredibly dense—which is how I felt. I had no idea what she was talking about and, judging from Marcus’s face, neither did he.

I looked blankly at Rena. “What do you mean the drawing was dotted?”

“I mean there was a computer chip—a very tiny computer chip—attached to the back of it,” she said. “If anyone tried to take it out of the building the chip would trigger the security system and—”

I shook my head. “No,” I interrupted. “We weren’t using that aspect of the system here. It was too expensive and both the museum board and the insurance company thought the risk of anything happening was small. That was Gavin’s recommendation as well.” I did see the irony in that.

Rena ran a hand over the cardboard encasing her painting. “Margo went over his head. She convinced the insurance company that the extra security was needed and there wasn’t much the board could do at the last minute. She wanted them to see that no matter what security procedures were in place, the artwork wasn’t safe.”

I rubbed the back of my neck with one hand. A knot of frustration made it feel as though a giant hand was squeezing the back of my head.

Marcus shook his head. “No, she didn’t. There was no extra security. No computer chips on the back of any of the artwork.”

Rena looked like someone had just punched her in the stomach. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would Margo tell me that?”

I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t understand why Margo had wanted to sabotage the exhibit at all.

“So if the drawing had a computer chip attached to it, what were you supposed to do with it?” Marcus asked.

Rena pointed across the library. “I was supposed to hide it in the fourth book from the left in that case over there.” She was indicating one of the special cabinets that held our rare book collection.

Marcus’s phone rang then. He pulled it out of his pocket and held up his hand. “I need to take this; give me a minute.”

He walked a few steps away from us.

“Kathleen, I didn’t kill Margo,” Rena said. “I had no reason to. Because of her, my paintings were going to be on display; my first real exhibit.”

I held out both hands. “You seriously thought the exhibit would continue after you stole the drawing?” It was hard to believe Rena could have been that dense.

She shook her head. “No, I knew there wouldn’t be an exhibit here, but Margo was going to add all the Mayville Heights artists to the next stop on the tour.”

I didn’t know what to say. I knew that Margo had already spent time at the other five stops on the tour. The layout of the artwork had already been planned. There was no way the artists from Mayville Heights would be part of the exhibit in some other place.

Marcus put his phone back in his pocket and walked back over to us. He gave Rena a look, narrowing his eyes, and I realized something in his attitude had changed. I wondered who had been on the other end of the phone.

“Do you know anything about the history of the Weston drawing, Detective?” Rena asked. She was still fingering the cardboard wrapped around her painting.

“I know there’s some dispute about whether or not Weston himself is the artist,” Marcus said.

“Margo believed, very strongly, that he wasn’t. She did a lot of research on Sam Weston and on that drawing in particular. She went to talk to his first wife’s great-great-grandson. I don’t know what she found out, but whatever it was, she was convinced that that particular drawing wasn’t done by Weston and that several others weren’t, either.”

“She told you all that?” Marcus didn’t even try to keep the skepticism from his voice.

Rena smiled, not particularly warmly. “Uh-huh. It’ll probably surprise you, but I agree . . . agreed with her.” She gestured in the direction of the computer area turned exhibit space. “These pieces should be in a controlled environment with proper security. They’re part of this country’s heritage—part of our heritage.”

“We should get going, Ms. Adler,” Marcus said.

Rena nodded. “I understand.” She turned to me, indicating the wrapped painting as she did. “Is it all right if I leave this here?”

“Of course it is,” I said. “I’ll put it upstairs in my office.” I looked at Marcus. “Is that all right?”

He nodded. “It’s fine.” He looked around. “I’m sorry, Kathleen,” he began.

“I can’t stay here,” I finished. Once again I was shut out of my own library.

Marcus took me by the arm and led me over to the main doors. Rena was putting a bit more tape on the cardboard-wrapped painting.