The Crime That Binds by Laurie Cass

Author:Laurie Cass [Cass, Laurie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Rafe stood next to me on the front porch of Herb Valera’s cottage. Or, to be more specific, the cottage that had been in the Valera family since its construction. I’d never had reason to set foot inside, but bookmobile workers tended to learn where their regular patrons lived.

I’d dragged Rafe out here because I needed him to bolster my courage. And we’d had to do it straightaway, because if I’d stopped to think it through, I would have ignored my deep-down instincts and convinced myself it was silly and wholly unnecessary.

The Valera cottage was an old-style Up North place, with its exterior of logs and window screens that bulged out toward the bottom where small children and dogs had pushed against them for decades. The porch floor could have used a new coat of dark green paint two summers ago, and the screen door showed generations of wear from hands at various heights opening and closing it.

“This guy is a judge?” Rafe asked.

I heard his dubious tone. “Retired. This is a family place,” I explained. “Takes everyone agreeing to make any changes.”

“Dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” said the silver-haired Mr. Valera, who’d suddenly appeared at the open door. “Of course, it was my father and his siblings, not us, who started this ridiculous method, but you’d have thought we’d have the sense to come up with a new plan in the thirty years we’ve been in charge. Ah, well. Perhaps our offspring will find a way.”

He spoke with a smile, which softened his words significantly, and I got the sneaking suspicion that he actually enjoyed the family wrangling required for every decision. And perhaps, witnessing it as a child between the elders in his family, it had directed him into law and a judgeship.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Minnie? Can I assume this is your intended?”

The men shook hands, and I said, “Sorry to drop in unannounced, but we were wondering about your Conti sculpture.”

One of his eyebrows went up ever so slightly. “Oh?”

“It’s just . . . I mean . . .” I sighed. “It’s kind of a long story.”

Mr. Valera glanced at Rafe, then back at me. “You do realize that I’m retired and have all the time in the world. Come on in.”

In short order, Rafe and I were in a living room whose walls were crowded with artwork, sitting next to a fieldstone fireplace, side by side on an upholstered rattan love seat. Mr. Valera was across from us in a Morris chair, its green leather cracked with age and wear. We’d accepted his offer of sodas, and my glass of root beer was almost gone by the time I stopped talking.

Mr. Valera, his elbows on the wide wooden chair arms, tented his fingers and looked at the air just above my head. “To summarize,” he said, “you believe that Ian Breece was selling a Conti sculpture to Pug Mattock. Mattock was shot and killed. The whereabouts of the Conti is unknown.

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