“What happened to the widow?”
“Ari married her last month and they’re about to take off on a delayed honeymoon. Can’t remember where. Someplace pricy and remote. That’s the new trend. Used to be you’d book a spot everybody knew about so they’d appreciate the exorbitant expense. Now you pick a resort so exclusive, no one’s ever heard of it. It’s even better if it’s difficult to reach and requires your chartering a private jet. Does any of this help?”
“Information is always good, and the more the merrier. It still frosts my butt she put one over on me. What’s her game?”
“Beats me.”
“Well, whatever it is, if there’s a way to trip her up, I’ll be happy to pitch in.”
I left Vera’s house twenty minutes later, thinking she’d want to catch a few winks of sleep herself while the little ones were down. Her mention of the Xanakises’ art collection renewed my interest in the art theft Nash mentioned in his initial visit. I’d dismissed the idea of a wealthy socialite stealing art unless she’d been desperate for cash. Clever as she was, she might have been perfectly willing to snitch a painting and then accept payment for its return. Possible she didn’t even view it as a crime, just a minor fiddle between friends and no harm done. She probably knew who owned all the pricy pieces in Montebello and what security was in place protecting them. She might even have known which collections were properly insured and which were not.
Once back at the office, I banished thoughts of Teddy and redirected my attention to April Staehlings and the delivery of the memorabilia that had been left to her. It seemed politic to call in advance. I had no idea how much she’d been told about her mother’s death. She was three at the time and I doubted she remembered Lenore at all. Ned had probably raised her on a sanitized version of the truth, if not an outright lie. With Lenore dead, he could frame the story any way he liked, and who was there to contradict him? Aside from that, I was uncomfortable with the notion of arriving on April’s doorstep if she was unprepared.
I hauled out the phone book and found the Staehlings’ number listed in the white pages, along with their home address. I punched in the number and listened to the ringing on the other end, rehearsing my summary of the long and convoluted story. An answering machine would have been a blessing, but not one I was accorded.
“Hello?”
“May I speak to April?”
“This is she.”
Metaphorically speaking, I took a deep breath and stepped off the edge of the cliff. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I have a mailing pouch in my possession that contains personal items your mother wanted you to have.”
“You have a what?”
“A padded mailing envelope. The circumstances are complicated and I apologize for catching you off guard, but I was hoping to work out a time when I could drop off the items and explain.”
Dead silence. “My mother? Well, that can’t be true. She’s been dead for years.”
“I know, and I promise you the keepsakes came from her.”
“Who’s this?”
“Kinsey Millhone. I’m a local private investigator.”
“I don’t understand. What keepsakes are you talking about? What does that mean, ‘keepsakes’?”
“I know it’s confusing and I’m hoping you’ll hear me out. Lenore left you her rosary and the Bible she was given when she was confirmed.”
A moment of dead quiet. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not interested.”
“Hang on a minute. Please. I know it’s a lot to take in, but let me finish. Shortly before she died, she mailed the items to her parish priest, and he’s held on to them for years.”
I was omitting Pete Wolinsky’s part in the matter, but I figured there was only so much she could absorb. She was already stumbling over the concept. I was talking fast, trying to convey the gist of the story before she disengaged. The speedy summation probably wasn’t supporting the sincerity I’d hoped to communicate.
“Is this a sales call?”
“It’s not. I’m not selling anything.”
“Sorry. Can’t help. Bye-bye.” The latter was delivered in a singsong voice.
“Wait—”
“No, you wait. I don’t know what your angle is—”
“I don’t have an angle. I called because I didn’t want to spring it on you.”
“Spring what? Cash on delivery? You think I’m an idiot?”
“We don’t have to talk. I’ll be happy to leave the package on your porch as long as you know it’s there.”