Page 8 of 3rd Tango
4
Meg
We’re an interesting bunch. Charlie, myself, our mother, JJ and Jerome, are all wandering the festival. As expected, I lost Jerome three tents back after he got into a debate with a booth owner over hatching and smudging techniques.
It’s probably just as well he’s occupied. After all, six people in a group tend to stick out and with JJ looking like a GQ model, we don’t exactly blend.
“JJ,” I say, “not to be rude, but you need to hang back. You’re like something off a romance novel cover.”
Charlie nods her agreement. “She’s right. We’re trying to be low-key here and every woman we pass drools over you.”
This causes him to unleash his flashing smile that, in his bachelor days, probably charmed the pants off countless women.
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll wait on Jerome.”
His agreement doesn’t shock me. The Emperor of Cold Cases isn’t stupid. If this investigation turns into something, JJ’s involvement could be called into question and none of us want a career ruined.
If JJ disappears for a few minutes while we do some good, old-fashioned reconnoitering, he has all sorts of plausible deniability.
He drops a quick kiss on Charlie’s lips and disappears into the throng of people perusing stained glass assortments, sculptures, pottery and thousands of other handmade creations along the three-block route.
Our not-so-strategic plan is to surveil Marie Anderson, the girlfriend of our neighbor, then attempt to gather information on her. All without Mom being spotted. We’ve agreed it would be best if she doesn’t appear to be too interested in Marie. The only problem is, Mom and Dad are the only ones who’ve met her and can point her out. And he’s not here.
We’ve already knocked off one block without a Marie sighting. If she’s here, she must be along the next two. We trudge on and the thick, humid air causes rivulets of sweat to drip from my neck, straight down my spine. Throw in all the people and I’m ready for air-conditioning.
Within the crush of bodies, Mom sticks to the middle of the street where she can view the booths on either side.
“Whoopsie,” she says, cutting a sharp left in front of me, nearly knocking me off my feet.
I grab Charlie to regain my balance then let go before anyone notices me. “What?”
Mom jerks her head in the opposite direction. “That’s her. The redhead talking to the man in the John Lennon sunglasses.”
In her attempt to stay clear of Marie, Mom breaks for the booth two down from us.
“Finally,” Charlie says. “It’s so damned hot my cleavage is a swamp. Mom is losing her mind and since I’m here, I must be right there with her.”
A swamp. Funny. A snort breaks free. “Once we check on Marie, we’ll clear her and talk Mom out of this investigation.”
Even I, who tends to support my mother on her endeavors, have to admit I find myself wishing she’d stuck to her career while Charlie and I were growing up. If she’d done that, maybe now she wouldn’t be so desperate to feed her curiosity.
Or destroy the reputation of her quirky neighbor by accusing him of being a serial killer.
Oh, the tangled web.
I run a hand over my neck, then wipe the moisture on my jeans. “What’s the plan?”
The thing about my former FBI agent sister is that she always has a plan. It might be an instantly-created one, but she never goes into a situation without an expectation of what she’s looking for.
A woman wheeling a folding shopping cart half-filled with various items zig-zags between us and Charlie blows out a hard breath. “I hate these things. Too many people.”
“Not to mention the swampy cleavage.”
Charlie weaves through a couple with a stroller then bolts into a small but opportune opening in pedestrian traffic. “Keep up,” she tells me as I dodge the flow wandering past Marie.
The man in the glasses takes a card from her, promising to contact her at a later date, which, I assume, translates to him passing on whichever painting they’d been discussing.
As Charlie closes in on our target, I take a second to study the landscapes lining the tent walls. Mostly watercolors, all are blends of similar colors. Burnt sienna, cobalt blue, yellow ochre and French ultramarine, abound. Marie’s technique isn’t bad, but a tendency to outline in dark colors gives the pieces a cut-out, amateurish look.
