The drive to Audrey’s studio should not have taken
them longer than twelve minutes, according to the GPS, but Lauffett was
insisting on nailing the cop experience with a coffee and doughnut combo from
the drive-thru. Neville was reminded of why, in the movies, the best police
work is mostly done alone. He also got to see a side of Lauffett that he didn’t
like: his penchant for singing along to Céline Dion songs on his mp3 player. If
he had to hear another rendition of My
Heart Will Go On, he thought he might vomit. No man should hit notes that
high. And no man should have to listen to his colleague hit notes that high.
“Take
this for me, will you?”
Neville
grabbed a paper bag with an oil slick along the bottom and placed it in the
footwell. Lauffett handed him the coffee next.
“Thanks,
mate.”
“Do
you think we could get going? I entertain hopes of seeing Audrey Valentine
before nightfall.”
“Very
funny, Nev.” He shifted the car into gear. “When do I get to put the light on
and sound the siren?”
“You
don’t. This isn’t a rerun of Starsky and
Hutch.”
“I
know. I was thinking more along the lines of Bad Boys. Except I would be Will Smith and you’d be Martin
Lawrence.”
“You’re
going to be a chalk outline if we don’t get going.”
Lauffett
guffawed. “You’re a funny guy, Nev. Seriously, where are we headed?”
“Follow
the yellow brick...” He sensed that the reference would be lost on him. “Follow
the arrow on the GPS.”
“Oh,
is that what that’s for? I thought it was the compass.”
The pottery studio looked innocuous enough and the
sign announced that it was the site of “A Valentine”. Neville noted the
cleverly concealed full stop after the “A”. He supposed it was one of those
lucky cases where fate delivered a decent surname to some. At school his
English teacher had recommended he open a florist shop and call it “’N Bloom”.
That comment had spawned a variety of nicknames including “Pansy”, which was
definitely his least favourite. Still, he could’ve been blessed with a name
like Snodgrass. Poor bastard. He
looked at Lauffett, who had a chocolate smile imprinted on his face.
“Stay
here.”
Lauffett
tried to respond, but only sprayed cinnamon doughnut in Neville’s direction.
“Whatever
you say.” He got out of the car and made his way across the street.
The
shop was what his Great Aunt Mildred would have called organised chaos. To
Neville, it seemed like the kind of place where you’d accidentally break
something while trying to navigate the room, and then be expected to pay for
it. He shuddered. There were some owls on display in the window. Fifty shades
of beige, he thought. He moved to the doorway and stood back to look at the
sign of “A Valentine”.
“May
I help you?”
It
was her.
“I’m
just looking at the sign and trying to figure out what it has to do with those
owls over there.”
Her
laugh matched that of every villain from his childhood. “It doesn’t. You’re not
very clever, are you?”
“Sorry?”
“A
Valentine is my name. It has nothing to do with what I sell.”
“And
the A is for...”
“Audrey.
Haven’t you heard of me? I’m quite famous.” She pointed at a wall, which was
covered in clippings showing her media presence. “Last year I won the Vincent.”
Neville
hoped his face showed how impressed he was. The Vincent was an award given to
top artists in the world. It was almost impossible to win. Except... He
recalled a page from the dossier and mentally zoomed in on the headline.
“VINCENT JUDGE FOUND DEAD”.
“Congratulations.
Which category did you win it for?”
There
was a flicker across her brow. “Best Impressionist. But I don’t expect you to
know what that means.”
“Are
you always this rude to patrons?”
She
laughed and clasped her hands. “What can I interest you in?”
Who
your next victim might be. “I’m looking for a gift for my sister.”
“Then
you can do us both a favour and go to the nearest mall. These are collector’s
items.”
Neville
decided that he preferred to see the left side of her face. It made her look
somewhat pretty, and less like a buzzard with a bad hair day.
“She
is a collector. That’s why I’m here.”
The
indignant expression faded. “So, what’s she like? I have something for everyone.”
“I
don’t doubt it. She is a fan of sculpture. The more intricate and detailed, the
better.” And the less expensive too, especially if he was actually going to
have to buy the bloody thing.
Her
eyes lit up. “Come with me. You’re going to love this.”
“I’d
rather not. I’m a klutz and that display of teapots, is it, looks expensive.”
She
summoned an especially hearty laugh. “Oh, lovey, relax. Step into the shop and
stand here.” She made a cross on the floor with the toe of her boot. “I’ll be right
back.”
An hour later, Neville walked out of the store with
a cardboard box and a defeated credit card. He didn’t even have a sister. Hopefully
Sarge would let him take this out of the budget. Otherwise he’d be forced to auction
it off at their next Christmas Party. As it turned out, Sarge’s advice about Audrey
getting under his skin was meant to be taken as a warning. He slumped into the seat
next to Lauffett.
“What
took you so long? I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll
tell you later. Go where?”
His voice
was a stage whisper. “The little boy’s room.”
A wave of sulphur hit Neville.
“Anton, aren’t you lactoseintolerant?”
“Yes?”
“Drive.
Before whatever that smell is becomes a poo-nami.”
Audrey watched as the car screeched down the street.
She knew that Neville Bloom, if that was even his real name on the credit card,
didn’t have a sister. Nobody spent two months’ salary buying trinkets for a sibling.
She decided to close the shop for the day and get back to work on her project in
the studio. It was coming together beautifully. After turning off the lights,
she bounded upstairs. The studio was dark and quiet. Her latest work sat in the
centre of the room under a sheet.
“How
are you doing today, Mr Malachi?”
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