The Monuments Men Murders (The Art of Murder 4)

“You don’t believe me,” Jason said. “But something was going on there, and I don’t think it’s only that he doesn’t like Uncle Sam traipsing through his backyard and throwing our weight around. Maybe he’s in Thompson’s will.”

“Maybe he’s worried about us discovering his Nazi grandfather.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I don’t remember seeing any bequests to Sandford in the will. I’ll take another look. Are you headed back to the newspaper morgue?”

Jason nodded, shrugging into his suit jacket. He picked up the rental’s keys.

J.J. started to turn to his laptop and then stopped. “Oh. I finally spoke to Larry Johnson.”

“Who?”

“Quilletta’s first husband.”

“The Winter Squash King?”

J.J. grinned. “No. That was husband number two. Larry is the one who ran off with his high-school sweetheart. He’s living in Arizona now.”

“What does he have to say for himself?”

“He thinks his daughter is married to a dangerous felon and we should do something about that.”

Jason shook his head in resignation. “I wonder what it is he thinks we can do.”

“And he says he does not remember Roy ever showing any treasures of any kind to anyone. Particularly him.”

“Great.”

“I think he’s lying. He sounded like someone who had been practicing in front of a mirror.”

“Why would he lie to protect his ex-wife?”

“Maybe he still loves her. Who knows? He didn’t have anything bad to say about her. For what it’s worth.”

It was disappointing. Jason had been hoping one of the ex-husbands would provide a chink in the wall of solidarity the Thompsons’ friends and neighbors had put up around them. So far, they had been unable to find anyone who would admit to Roy Thompson showing them anything that remotely fit the description of treasure.

“Maybe there was an accomplice,” J.J. said. “Maybe the accomplice got the lion’s share of the treasure.”

“Maybe. Don’t forget to call Bozwin PD and see what they’ll give you on de Haan’s homicide.”

J.J. looked heavenward. “What would I do without you telling me how to do my job, West?”

“I’ll tell you when I think of it.” Jason winked and closed the door to the office.

* * * * *

Yesterday I was left alone and went down to the tunnels, which remain our art-collection depot. I spent the whole day looking at really amazing pictures. They are stacked up like books against the wall, and the frames are often heavy, but the glories are undiminished. Painting is so wonderful. Few people can know the rewards of such glorious workmanship and heavenly color. We are doing important work here, and I am proud to be part of it.

Jason’s heart jumped and skipped its way down every line of the letter dated July 1945 and published two months later in the Bozwin Daily Chronicle.

There was no mention of Emerson Harley by name. Thank God for small mercies. Not that it would be impossible for someone to find out which member of the MFAA had been stationed at Engelshofen Castle.

His phone rang, and Karan Kapszukiewicz’s name flashed up.

Jason’s heart dropped through the trapdoor of his stomach. He waited for a moment, watching the little speaker emblem pulse. What was the point of putting this off? He was out of time. He pressed Accept.

“Ma’am.”