The Evolution of TJ Wilde: Underway, Pt 3

One of my favorite parts of writing is the improbable puzzle of it all. I usually set up an idea of what I want to write, create a compelling (or at least I hope it’s compelling) opening sequence, and generally know where I’m going to end up by the final chapter. Then the magic happens.

I knew going into this book, the art world would be a heavy component. I wasn’t quite sure if it was going to be theft or forgery or finding some long lost, stolen art piece. Then two things happened, a friend told me the story of his trip to Cuba and I was besotted with the romance of it all.

Then, unbelievably, when in Boston, scouting locations, when we find SoWa, what gallery do we stumble into? A Cuban gallery that specializes in Cubans sending their artwork to the US to be sold, through a little-known exchange program. Even more improbable was the man who greeted us at the gallery door and regaled us with stories of the exchange program. I knew moments into our conversation that he, and only he, would be my inspiration for both the gallery and the gallerist. Like I said. Magic.

With the beauty of that spark, I researched the Cuban art scene and the Cuban Revolution, and my story began to form. Between that and the abandoned island hospital – with a tunnel system! –  we were off to the races. With my beloved Boston as the backdrop, a Scooby Gang of characters and a solid mystery, all that was left was putting the words onto paper.

And as we all know, that is sooo easy. That’s snark if you missed it.

Here’s chapter three.

THREE

Mom: You’re going to have to talk to me sometime

“You think you were robbed?” I blurted out before remembering I was a stranger here. Discretion, not one of my stronger personal skills. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it as I began to apologize for my inappropriateness. “Sorry, I…” but Mimi jumped to my rescue.

“Ricco, this is TJ Wilde, TJ, this is Federico Mejía, the gallerist here and a terrific artist himself.”

“TJ, so nice to meet you,” Ricco’s anxiety and stress melted into a warm smile as he opened his arms in welcome. I accepted the embrace. “You are all Mimi has talked about for the last week.” The cop looked annoyed. This was not helping her get her job done. Ricco took note. “We can do a proper welcome after we finish up this desastre.”

Mimi turned her attention to the officer. “I’m Mimi Webster. I’m the manager of the building. What happened?”

“When I arrived at the gallery this morning, the back door was open,” Ricco began, “so I called the police.”

“We were just beginning to do an inventory to ascertain if anything was missing,” Ms. Professional Officer interjected. 

“Okay, how can we help?” Mimi replied, obviously concerned. I doubted she was expecting criminal activity in her first weeks of management.

“Nothing is missing in the gallery. I have an inventory list for the storeroom. I have items that were delivered yesterday, a few items that were scheduled to be shipped to customers this week, and of course, our rotating items for the gallery,” Ricco said as he led us back to the storeroom.

It was a tight space, now filled with three officers and the three of us. It would quickly be hot and stuffy. Mimi walked over to the big double doors. She nudged them apart with her hip to let in some fresh air. They opened to a brick walkway that led to the parking lot. “And you’re sure this was all locked up last night?” It was curiosity, not a rebuke.

“I took the cardboard and recycling out and locked it up myself. When I came in this morning, it was propped open, with that,” Ricco pointed to a large cement block. “We use it when we get deliveries.”

“Well, why don’t we each take a section and see if anything is missing,” Mimi said. I was impressed. She was all business, and it suited her.

She took a page from Ricco, then she and Ms. Professional Officer went to one side and began checking items. Ricco handed me what looked like a bill of lading and pointed me to the new shipment. All the items on the paper were carefully checked off. I assumed from the original delivery.

The meticulously organized storeroom had two walls lined with vertical shelving, neatly labeled and filled with framed artwork. Another wall had large compartments filled with sculptures and other three-dimensional art. I walked over to the only area that was not organized within an inch of its life.

One of the officers accompanied me. He said nothing but took the page from me. I began to dig into my corner. I went through each item, and Strong and Silent checked each off a second time as I read them to him. Most of them were paintings, carefully wrapped, with the name of the artist and origination location on the labels on the back. I was fascinated. Most items were from Havana, a few from Trinidad, but the rest, I didn’t recognize. My Cuban geography was not strong.

“It looks like everything is accounted for.” Hey, look! Officer Strong and Silent speaks and reveals he must be from Southie, a predominantly Irish area south of Boston and former home of the infamous mobster Whitey Bulger.

“We’ll make a report. It looks like they had a key or used a bump key, so not kids or vandals. Since nothing is missing, there’s not much else to do. But you might think about putting a different lock on the door,” Ms. Professional Officer advised. And with that, after having Mimi sign the report, the police were gone.

“I’ll get maintenance on that lock right away,” Mimi said as she put an arm around Ricco. He looked dazed. Crime will do that to you.

“Thanks, Mimi. It’s so hard to believe. We don’t really keep anything of value here.” I looked startled, and he explained, “What I mean is, yes, the artwork is valuable, but not something you would burgle to acquire.”

I nodded. It was crazy to think someone would break in for a painting by a relatively unknown Cuban artist. I mean, I understood falling in love with a piece, but breaking and entering was overkill.

The bell rang out front, and we all migrated to the gallery. A young man was putting three cups on the desk, all clearly marked Dunkin. Then he placed a bag next to them.

“Thank you, Markie,” Mimi said as he left.

“Since when does Dunkin Donuts deliver?” I asked, pleased for the respite.

“They don’t, but starving artists do. Several of them make a nice bit of change, delivering fast food to the local businesses around the area.”

Ricco leaned against the desk and took a long sip of his coffee. He declined a donut. I passed as well, not for any dietary concerns, but because I was terrified of getting sticky remnants on any of the exquisite artwork.

“Ricco, these are all so beautiful and unique. How are you able to bring artwork in from Cuba? I thought there were heavy restrictions in place.” My knowledge of Cuba was limited to they make good cigars, and the U.S. heavily regulated travel and imports.

“The Berman Amendment,” Ricco replied. “It was passed in 1989 when courts decided that artwork could be classified as ‘informational materials’ and was exempt from the current sanctions on Cuba. It’s been a boon for the Cuban artists. They are even allowed to come to Boston for cultural exchange. Which is why, as you can see, some of the paintings have a distinct Boston flavor.”

That caught my attention. Looking closer, there was a painting of Beacon Hill and another of my beloved wharf, both with a decidedly Cuban flair. “These are fabulous,” I told him as I walked over to one and read the artist’s name, Sandra Valladeres. The thumbnail photo on her bio showed an attractive woman in a bright, gauzy blouse, who couldn’t be more than in her mid-twenties. “I saw her name on a few of the labels in the delivery collection. Does she sell well?”

“She does,” Ricco said, then abruptly turned away and changed the subject. “Mimi, when do you think they’ll be around to add a new lock?”

I lingered on Ms. Valladeres’ bio for a moment longer. Living in Havana, she studied at the Institute of Superior Arts and San Alejandro Fine Arts Academy. I wanted to ask Ricco more about her, about this entire Cuba to Boston exchange program, but he seemed tense. Who wouldn’t be after a morning like this and worrying about the whos, whys, and ifs of it all. I’d save all my questions for a better moment. It was not like we weren’t going to see each other every day. Maybe I’d bring him lunch one day and quiz him on the gallery. Who could resist free food and a charm offensive?

After Mimi reassured him she’d take care of the gallery’s security, we left, went back upstairs, and continued the tour of our new digs. I could tell as we continued our walk-through of the showroom, Mimi was distracted.  Finally, I decided to call a halt to all.

“How about a lunch break so we can regroup after this morning’s intrigue?” I said as I patted the head of a full-sized Great Dane bronze sculpture. At least I was hoping it was full-sized, if it were scaled down, that would be frightening.

“I think that’s a perfect idea. My treat. Then you can fill me in on all your middle of nowhere adventures,” Mimi said as she walked toward the showroom entrance. Then she turned back to me and asked, “So, you think there was more to this morning than Ricco’s letting on, too?” Since I hadn’t said anything to indicate that, I assumed she was harboring her own suspicions, and I wanted to hear more.

“Why do you think things aren’t as they seem?” I asked cautiously.  Mimi opened the door, and we stepped out into the bright, noonday sun. The humidity and heat hit me like a wall. So much for a crisp New England fall.

“Ricco wasn’t himself. I’m not sure I can explain it. But something was amiss,” she clarified as she pulled the door shut and turned the lock before following me down the stone stairs. “I’m taking you to The Gallows for lunch. It has delicious poutine. The salads aren’t bad either if you feel the need to be healthy. This entire area is covered with great little eateries if you’d rather have something else. I bet you haven’t had great Italian for years…”

And she was off, describing all the various restaurants, bars and coffee shops in the immediate vicinity. I suppressed a sigh and followed her down the street. We’d talk more about the break-in, but it would take some time to direct her back to it. I grudgingly ignored the internal radar that kept ticking away and instead satisfied myself with thoughts of ooey-gooey poutine goodness.

The restaurant was a short walk, and soon we were settled into the cool, dim pub. Our hostess seated us in a window booth and handed us menus. I scanned through what might go well with poutine and was finding too many choices.

I should have a salad but instead decided on a fried-chicken sandwich topped with jalapeños and Sriracha aioli. Our waiter dropped off water and lemons before taking our orders. I passed on the house brew, feeling tipsy was not a good first-day-on-the-job look, and was content with lemon water. He had barely walked away when Mimi hit me with a barrage of questions.

“Okay, I need to know everything. What happened with you and Peter? Why were you working at a funeral home, and I must have all the details on this hunky Marshal.” She stopped to take a sip of water, and I assumed that was my cue to begin my story.

“My marriage ended when Peter told me he liked men,” I said matter-of-factly. “I worked at the funeral home because until we finalized the divorce, I was broke. And Deputy U.S. Marshal Colby Jameson saved my life several times after I witnessed the murder of another Marshal. And then I saved his life right back.” I said with a wink. “Oh, and my father is alive.” I stopped and sipped my water deliberately, with a twinkle in my eye. Mimi was staring at me. I had to admit, I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her speechless. There was a lot to catch up on.

Everything had happened so fast between when I started at the funeral home, and when I arrived in Boston, Mimi and I’d had little time to talk. We usually spoke for an hour or two once a week, but when I moved to Peoria, over a year ago, and she began working for Trevor in New York, our phone calls were fewer and shorter. Once my life began to unravel, we barely spoke until, of course, she changed my life with that one fateful call.

Mimi finally found her words. “Tell me everything,” she said as our waiter set our food down in front of us. It all looked amazing, and I was starving, but between bites, I unraveled it all for her.

I told her of my first dizzying days after Peter came out, being run aground in the middle of Middle-America, jobless and cash-strapped. I vividly described the beautiful castle mansion apartment and how distraught I was when it had been ransacked multiple times. I glossed over the gorier parts of working at the funeral home but gave her the play-by-play of the nuttier staff members. And by nutty, I meant homicidal.

I explained how I became an asset for Deputy Marshal Michael Fraser, who was looking for my not-dead father and secretly pursuing corruption in his ranks before he died in my arms. And finally, I recounted Colby coming to my rescue, the attempts on my life and how Colby and I had to go underground to protect ourselves from the Scary Dudes who were trying to kill me.

I also told her about our fling, knowing my best friend would understand and not judge. I didn’t tell her that I thought I was falling in love with Colby. I couldn’t be expected to share what I was trying so hard to deny to myself.

“Oh, yeah, and it turns out my father is an art forger. And he didn’t die when I was a toddler, he went into witness protection and now works for the Feds, or at least he was working for them, on art forgery cases. For reasons known only to him, he has gone into hiding, again,” I explained, before taking another bite of my sandwich.

Mimi was wide-eyed. “Wait, does your mom know your father is alive?”

“Yup,” I said with more anger than I had intended.

“Ouch.”

“We haven’t spoken much since she dropped that bomb on me,” I replied, feeling guilty as I said it. “I’m trying to understand, but on top of everything else, I’m having difficulty processing it. Besides, I think I just need to be mad at someone for a while.” I took a long sip of water and looked out the window, searching for a distraction that would ward off tears.

“TJ,” Mimi reached over and touched my hand, “if I’d gone through what you’ve gone through in this last year, I’d be mad at everyone. Well, except for that Colby guy. He sounds perfect. I’m sure your mom understands.” She picked up her sandwich, and before she bit into it, she fixed me with that Mimi look and finished with, “Speaking of Colby, why are you here and not in DC with him?”

I scooped up my last bite of poutine and wished I could avoid having this conversation right now. Because honestly, I kept wondering that myself. Colby had been thoughtful about giving me my space, but he’d made it clear he wanted to be with me.

“Because here I have this great job, and it feels like home. Colby and I were just a fling.”

Mimi almost spit out the water she was sipping. “Oh, please,” she said, setting her glass down. “You don’t have flings. You’re a serial monogamist.”

“Well, maybe it’s time I changed,” I said and pushed away my plate. Mimi gave me a knowing smile and signaled for the bill.

As we walked back to the showroom, I remembered what she’d intimated about Ricco earlier. I decided it was a good time to revisit that, mostly because I was curious, and partly to stave off additional conversations about Colby. I missed him. 

“Hey, so you sounded like you had doubts about Ricco’s story this morning,” I began. “Why?”

Mimi stopped walking and thought for a moment before replying. “It all seemed…odd.” She began walking as she continued, “I mean, he was so calm about it all. Wouldn’t you be more freaked if your gallery had been burgled?” She stopped again and laughed. “Well, maybe not you, you’re probably immune to break-ins.” We both laughed at that before turning down the pedestrian walkway that led to our showroom. “And he was definitely not telling the police everything,” she said as she climbed the stairs.

I had long ago learned to trust Mimi’s sixth sense. She had an uncanny knack for reading people. “Do you think he knew who broke in? Maybe a disgruntled client or artist?” My Spidey-Sense was tingling now, too.

“Maybe,” she said as she unlocked the door and let us back into the showroom. “That would explain why he was unperturbed by it all.”

That was it, that’s what had bothered me about the morning’s interaction. Ricco wasn’t worried at all as I went through the inventory. He expected it to all be accounted for. 

It was all very intriguing, but I had little time to contemplate what it might mean. We spent the remainder of the afternoon mapping out our plan of attack for the showroom. Mimi sent me to examine everything on display, to get a feel for what was there, while she began the hard work of determining if there was any recognizable system to the storage room. Neither of us was hopeful.

I tackled my task with a spiral notebook and pen. My goal was to try and categorize where an item originated. Mimi was ruminating over the prospect of dividing the two long showrooms into continents or countries to best display the objects. I thought it was as good an idea as any. There seemed to be no order or even artistic sensibility to any placement. It appeared haphazard. I suspected that items arrived, were unpacked and put out in the showroom wherever they would fit. It did give it an exotic bazaar ambiance, but I doubted it helped with sales.

I tackled small areas at a time, beginning at one end and methodically working my way back. I was quickly lost in my endeavors, enjoying myself as I explored each piece, looking for clues to its origin. Some were well marked, others I had to make an educated guess. I knew that art degree would come in handy one day.

I was in deep concentration when Mimi popped in and said, “Hey” and startled me so completely, I almost shrieked. Luckily, I caught myself, and it came out more like a squeak. “Sorry!” she apologized, and we both laughed. “I just thought we could use a break, it’s almost three, and I could use an iced coffee, how about you?”

I looked around. I hadn’t accomplished much for two hours. “Sounds good,” I replied, “I’m afraid I haven’t gotten very far.”

“Oh, honey, this is going to take us days, just to catalog everything.  Let’s catch our breath at the little coffee shop downstairs.”

“There’s a coffee shop downstairs?”

Mimi laughed again. “Yup, the next garden level over. You’ll love it. They have coffees and teas from all over the world. Not to mention packaged snacks from everywhere and a bakery to die for,” she replied as she ushered us to the middle showroom entrance. “It’s owned by a Turkish couple. Sweet as can be. The place is always packed in the mornings.”

Mimi let us out the door and locked it. I followed her down the stairs. We turned and walked a few hundred feet and then down another flight of stairs, much like the ones that led to Ricco’s gallery. At the bottom was a cute café called Pashas, complete with white lace curtains in the windows and a heavenly smell wafting out the door.

Inside was cozy, with lots of warm wood and lace everywhere. Mimi and I ordered iced coffees to go. I added a box of lokmas to my order. They are small, Turkish donuts, moist, crunchy, and super sweet. I thought Mimi and I could use the treat before we dove back into the day’s task. With our treasures in hand, we made our way back to the showroom and resumed work. At seven, Mimi called it quits. I felt I had barely made a dent, but I knew she was right. We’d get a fresh start tomorrow. Besides, I still had my own organizing and unpacking yet to do tonight.

Mimi and I did our best to ignore the work yet to be done in the storage room as we passed through it to the doors that led to the hallway. We rode the elevator to the top floor. Our loft apartments were directly across from each other. As we reached our doors, I declined Mimi’s offer of dinner and went inside. The sun had set, but my apartment was well lit by city lights. Colby would love this, I thought, thinking back to our late nights in my turret bedroom, with its 360-degree views of Peoria.

I pushed that thought aside and flipped on the lamps. My furniture had arrived already, and the movers did a good job of unloading it where I wanted it, but I was still faced with a mountain of unpacked boxes. At least the kitchen was organized, so morning coffee would await me. I decided that my first step must be recycling the empty, flattened boxes so I could make room to unpack more.

I gathered them and tied them with string so they’d be easier to load in the elevator. Then I descended to the ground floor, wrestled them down the short lobby, and to the back entrance. Stairs led to a brick alleyway that opened to a large parking lot.

Next to the building were dumpsters for both trash and recycling. I dumped the boxes into the recycling and turned to head back upstairs.

Then suddenly, I heard what sounded like a baby crying.

TJ Wilde Trilogy available here.