Blue Smoke and Murder

69

SEPTEMBER 16

6:05 P.M.

Lee Dunstan staggered slightly, then righted himself by leaning against the plush sofa.

Can’t hold liquor the way I used to.

But he wanted another drink anyway.

When he went to get it, he found Betty pouring the rest of the bottle into the bathroom sink.

With an angry cry, Lee lunged toward her, knocking her and the empty bottle against the glassed-in shower enclosure. The shower’s heavy glass banged, vibrated, and held. The bottle shattered.

Betty slid down to the floor and put her face in her hands.

Lee turned on his heel and went to the room phone to order another bottle. Before he could pick up the receiver, the phone rang.

“What?” he snarled into the receiver.

“Ah, Mr. Dunstan?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jase Wheeler, with the auction. I just wanted to share some very good news with you.”

Lee took a deep breath. The room spun. He took another breath. Things settled down.

Mostly.

“I’m listening,” Lee said.

“The advisers for an unknown, extremely wealthy mystery bidder showed up to look at your Dunstans. They inspected them very thoroughly. They floated the idea that some damage had been done to the canvas because there were spots of over-painting on the bottom edges of the stretched canvas, but I-”

“Edges? Edges! Those paintings are in frames!” Lee shouted.

“Of course. We took them out. It’s quite common for potential buyers to inspect-”

“Tal Crawford is the only buyer that matters,” Lee cut in, “and he’s looked at my paintings all he needs to. What is this bullshit?”

Behind Lee, shards of glass clinked into the trash as Betty began cleaning up after him.

“Obviously I’ve caught you at a bad time,” Jase said smoothly. “I apologize. I just thought you would be pleased to know that, from all the buzz that’s going on, it appears that your paintings could be worth every bit of their high-end estimate. If you have any questions or would like to know any more, please feel free to call me at your convenience.”

Lee looked at the dead phone and slammed it back into the cradle so hard it hurt his hand.

Cursing steadily, he punched in Tal Crawford’s cell number. When it was picked up he said harshly, “Tal, old buddy, we got ourselves a problem.”