The Purloined Paintings

Two-1

Two

“DID YOU HEAR THE WAY that ungrateful bastard talked to me?”

By the time we get to her apartment, Helen has worked herself into a fury that is obviously making the pain in her shoulder and her side worse. She’s spent the drive from The Painted Lotus using her extensive vocabulary of profanity, calling down curses on Leslie, the people driving in front of us, and anyone who has ever owned a gun.

Still, she saves her choicest epithets for Dan.

“I mean, I taught him most of what he knows about being a detective,” she rants. “When I came to Myerton, he was just an officer stuck at the front desk welcoming visitors, and look at him now! In charge of cases that should be mine! What do you make of that?“

“That you trained him well?” I say, tentatively.

“That he’s an ungrateful ass who is trying to take my job!” she yells.

“Helen, you know you don’t mean that,” I say, trying to keep my own temper in check. “You’re just angry because you’re not out there doing what he’s doing.”

“Maybe so, but it's still not right,” she says, a little calmer now. We drive along for a moment, then she explodes. “He threatened to search me! To put his hand down my blouse! You wouldn’t have let him do that, would you, Tom?”

“Well, you see, Helen,” I say, with just enough of a lilt in my voice to try to soften the truth, “it’s a matter of professional courtesy. If I didn’t let him search you, he might decide to baptize his next several children himself, and how would that look to the parish?”

Helen glares at me. “Thomas Jude Greer, you know what you are? You are a—”

I hold up my hand. “Helen, no cursing in my car.”

“Since when?”

“Since you were about to turn on me,” I say. “Besides, you’re home.”

I pull into a parking space as close to her apartment door as I can. She’s already relaxed visibly. I help her out of the car, her winces and barely stifled groans telling me she’s come very close to overdoing it.

She leans on me as I walk her to the apartment. “Damn, Tom,” she whispers. “I hurt so much.”

I kiss the top of her head. “You’re home now. Just let me get you in bed.”

“Tsk, tsk, Father Greer,” she says, managing a playful smirk. “Trying to take advantage of a woman in my condition.”

Leaning down to her, I whisper in her ear, “Oh, my darling, after the wedding, I’ll take advantage of you as often as possible.”

“Promises, promises.”

We start to laugh, but hers is cut short by a grimace of pain. “Damn, ok, note to self, no laughing for a while.”

I open the door and help her inside. Anna comes out of the kitchen, her welcoming smile turning quickly to a worried frown.

“How could she overdo it already?” Anna asks.

“Crime scene,” I explain. “She’s like a moth to a flame,”

“You stopped by a crime scene? Tom, what the hell?”

“Oh, Anna,” Helen rasps. “Don’t. Not Tom’s fault. Honey, help me to the bed.”

I half-walk, half-drag her over to the hospital bed. I set her gingerly on the edge and help her get in bed, taking her shoes off and covering her with the blanket.

“Percocet, please,” she says. “Ooooh, God!”

I hurry to the kitchen for a glass of water, then dig through her tote bag for the week’s worth of pain medication Martin prescribed her. I pop one in her mouth and hand her the water. She takes a gulp, then lays back on her pillows.

“Thank you,” she sighs. “I feel better already.”

“Just get some sleep, darling,” I say.

“Uh-huh,” she nods. “Just be sure to wake me when Dan gets here.”

I hesitate. “Now Helen—”

“Please, Tom. I just want to hear what he has to say. I can’t do anything else right now, but I can listen.”

I sigh. “OK, if you’re still asleep, I’ll wake you.”

“Thank you,” she yawns and closes her eyes. Before long, her breathing becomes snuffly and I know she’s sleeping.

I creep into the kitchen where Anna is . . . well, doing whatever she does in whatever kitchen she’s in.

“Thank God!” I whisper. “She’s sleeping.”

“You look like you could use a nap yourself,” Anna says. She grabs a pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator and pours it over a large glass of ice. I take it and drink it greedily.

Pointing to the living room, I whisper, “I love her so much, Anna, but she’s so stubborn!”

“She’s independent, Tom,” Anna says. “Stubbornness is kind of an unfortunate byproduct. What I want to know is, how did she wind up at a crime scene?”

“Completely by accident,” I say. “We were on our way here from the hospital when we passed by The Painted Lotus. The place was blocked off with crime scene tape, and Dan was standing out front, so of course Helen had me go back so she could ask him what happened.”

“Well?” Anna says, trepidation in her voice.

I take a deep breath. “Bethany apparently surprised a robber. Whoever it was shot and killed her.”

The blood drains from Anna’s face. “Bethany’s dead?” she whispers. “Oh, no!”

“Anna,” I say, surprised to see her react so strongly, “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, Tom, really,” she says. “It was just a shock. Oh, poor Bethany!”

I get her a glass of water. “I didn’t think you liked her that much, frankly,” I say. “I mean, I thought you were jealous of her friendship with Joan.”

Taking the glass from me, Anna takes a few sips. “Oh, Tom, I was. It’s not something I’m proud of. But that was years ago. And I certainly never wanted to see her dead. It’s just such a shock, especially since I just saw her the other day at the church.”

“She was at Saint Clare’s?”

“Yes,” Anna says. “She stopped by with this big painting of Our Lady of Peace. I have to say, it is one of her best works, better than the Divine Mercy Helen gave you last Christmas. She said she wanted to donate it to the Ladies of Charity for the bazaar. Of course, I was thrilled to have it and offered to write her a receipt, but she said she didn’t need one. In fact, she insisted she didn’t want anyone to know where it came from. I mean, I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

“So what are you going to do with the painting?”

“I took it to the meeting Thursday night and we voted to raffle it off. That’s usually the best way to make big money on something like this. In fact, the publicity surrounding her death will almost certainly drive its popularity up. I think I’m going to propose that we print an additional 5,000 tickets.”

I smile and pat her on the back, comforted that whatever grief Anna may be feeling is more than assuaged by her dreams of cashing in big on Bethany’s death.

***