Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [440]
Maggie leaned against the doorjamb. “Where did she go?”
“Don’t know.”
“But she must have left you a forwarding address.”
“Nope.”
“What about payment?”
“I came over this morning. Gave her an estimate and then a check. She gave me a key. Said to hand it in to the landlady when we’re through.”
How could all this happen in less than twenty-four hours? And what had happened to make her mother do this? Or had she planned it and just didn’t tell Maggie? Yesterday there had been quite a few boxes packed and stacked. But why make a production of Thanksgiving dinner if she hadn’t planned on being here? What the hell was going on?
“I have a receipt, if you don’t believe me.” Frank Bartle was digging in his jacket pocket again.
“No, that’s fine.” She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I believe you. It’s just very strange. I saw her yesterday.”
“Sorry, but that’s all I know,” he said, but his attention wandered to one of the moving men who was coming out of the apartment building. “Be careful with that one, Emile. Put it someplace safe, okay?”
On the side of the carton the man carried Maggie could see scrawled in black marker the single word, Figurines. Her grandmother’s figurines, the one prize possession her mother owned. Suddenly, Maggie felt sick to her stomach. Wherever her mother had gone, she didn’t intend on coming back.
CHAPTER 62
Ben Garrison kicked the unlocked door open. He wanted to strangle Mrs. Fowler. How dare she come into his apartment without letting him know. In the past, the old lady had usually been good about locking up after herself and her string of handymen, almost compulsive about it, in fact. Maybe she had developed a few loose screws in her old age.
He set down his duffel bag on the kitchen counter and out of the corner of his eye he could see them. Quietly, slowly, he picked up the closest thing he could find, pulled back his arm and flung the old tennis shoe at the moving row of black skittering up his living room wall.
Shit! He was sick of these things. Would he ever be rid of them? Is that why Mrs. Fowler let herself in? Maybe the simple solution would be to move to a new apartment. He could certainly afford it now that his lucky streak had returned. He’d need to wait and decide. Right now he barely had enough time to take a quick shower, repack his bags, load up on more film and head to the airport.
He dumped his duffel bag onto the counter, sifting through the contents, tossing empty film canisters and doing a quick inventory. It still pissed him off that he had left all the Boston negatives with Racine. But he couldn’t afford to have her trip him up. Not now. Not when he was on a roll.
As he sorted through everything he realized he must have left his collapsible tripod at the police station. Damn it! How could he have been so careless? It happened every time he got a little too cocky. Now he wondered what else he may have left behind. The T-shirts and sweatpants he could do without, but the tripod he couldn’t. He’d need to stop and pick up another. No way would he go back to the police station.
He checked his phone messages, jotting down the names of editors and phone numbers he had never heard of or from before. Suddenly everyone wanted a Garrison exclusive. In no time, he’d be back to shooting whatever he wanted, although it would be difficult to beat the rush of adrenaline this little project was producing. Maybe he could find a gallery that would display his outtakes. Those, after all, were the true rush, his true genuine works of art.
There were five hangups on his answering machine, definite hangups with a pause and then a click. Probably Everett’s little warriors checking up on him. But why the hangups and no more clever messages? Were they running out of intimidation ammunition?
Poor Everett. He’d finally get what he deserved, what he had coming to him. Perhaps Racine and that FBI chick would be smart enough to put the puzzle pieces together. Hopefully, that wouldn’t happen before Cleveland. Ben needed