“Egg tempera,” I said slowly.
“Paint,” Marcus said.
I nodded. “It’s a mixture of pigment, egg and something to keep the egg from drying out too fast; water, vinegar, Maggie says some artists even use wine.”
He crouched down beside me and studied the pale blue dab on the pylon base. Then he looked at me.
“That’s fresh paint, not a flake of old paint that fell off something and stuck,” I said.
“So one of the artists had wet paint on a shoe or a pants leg and brushed against this at some point. You said yourself that Maggie and the others were in and out a lot in the days before the art from the museum arrived.”
I shook my head. “No. These are brand-new pylons. I helped take them out of the box and set them up right after we closed the library on Thursday.”
“Was Maggie here after that?” he asked. “Or any of the others?”
“No,” I said. “Just Margo and Gavin and the staff from the museum who came with the artwork.”
He looked at Curtis. “Did Mr. Solomon bring anyone else in here while you’ve been here?”
Curtis shook his head. “Every time he’s been here, he’s been alone, except for Detective Lind.”
“Okay, thanks,” Marcus said.
The guard went back to his chair.
Hercules was watching us intently, head turning from side to side as we talked.
“Rena Adler paints with egg tempera,” I said, getting to my feet. I remembered seeing a dab of blue paint on her finger. “She’s the only local artist in the exhibit who does.”
Marcus stood up as well. He looked at me and shook his head. “I see where you’re going with this, Kathleen, but it’s a pretty big leap from someone paints with a particular kind of paint to saying they killed someone.” He pulled his hand back through his hair and as he did I remembered Harry Junior making the same gesture as he stood in my porch Friday morning . . . talking about his brother . . . and Rena Adler.
I looked at Marcus. “Harry said she was asking Larry a lot of questions. He thought she was flirting with him and so did I, but what if she was fishing for information? She took him coffee.” I pointed at the floor. “When he was working downstairs. Where the setup is for the temporary security system.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he pulled his phone out.
“What are you doing?” I asked. I glanced at Hercules, who was washing his face. Clearly he figured his work was done.
“Bringing the crime scene techs back to take a closer look at that pylon and the others.”
“I thought you said it was too big a leap,” I said.
“Maybe it is,” he said, “but I don’t have anything else.” He gave me a half smile. “So I may as well jump.”
16
I took Hercules out to the truck while Marcus called in the crime scene team.
“Good job,” I told him. “I promise you a sardine when we get home.”
He licked his whiskers and then nuzzled my chin.
“Please stay here,” I said.
“Mrrr,” he replied obligingly as he curled up on the driver’s seat.
“I won’t be long,” I promised.
I had just enough time to clear out the book drop and stack the books and magazines on several carts before Hope arrived.
“Hi, Kathleen,” she said with a wry smile. “Looks like it’s déjà vu all over again.” She turned to Marcus. “Crime scene is right behind me.”
“I’m going to get out of here,” I said. I touched Marcus’s arm. “Call me later.”
He nodded. “I will.”
Owen was sitting on the back steps when Hercules and I got home. He looked from Hercules to me and narrowed his eyes.
“Yes, I took your brother with me,” I said as I unlocked the door.
He made a grumbling noise almost under his breath. I leaned down to scratch behind his ear and he turned his face to one side, making it clear I was on ignore. “Next time come home when I call you,” I said.
Owen stalked into the kitchen. He walked over to the basement door, pawed it open and disappeared down the stairs.
“Did you ever figure out what he’s doing down there?” I asked Hercules as I put things away.
He gave me a blank look.
I gave Hercules a little piece of a sardine as a thank-you for his sleuthing. He ate it, washed his face and paws and followed me into the living room, curling up in a patch of sunshine on the rug for a nap while I returned e-mails and phone calls. Marcus didn’t call until after supper.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“I can’t really answer that,” he said.
It was as good as a no. “What about the paint?” I asked. “Can you at least tell me if it’s egg tempera?”
“It is,” he said. I heard the squeak of his desk chair and knew from the sound that he was still at the station. “It proves nothing, Kathleen,” he said, lowering his voice.
“It proves Rena Adler was at the library when she shouldn’t have been,” I said.
“No, it doesn’t. All it proves it that someone got a bit of paint on that metal pylon at some point. It’s not like it’s her fingerprint in paint.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” he said. “It looks like you’ll be able to get the building back on Tuesday. Hope will let you know for sure.”
Hercules had raised his head and was listening to my side of the conversation.
“Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Marcus said, and I swear I could hear a smile creep into his voice. It made me smile as well. “I’m making my famed turkey Provençal.”
“Sounds very fancy.”
“Micah was impressed when I tried the recipe out on her.”
I was grinning now. “Well, if Micah gave it two paws, I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” I said.
We said good night and I hung up the phone. Hercules was still watching me. “The paint isn’t enough,” I said.
He made a sour face.
“I know,” I said.
I looked at the laptop sitting on the footstool. “Do you want to see if we can find out anything about Rena?” I asked.
Hercules got up, came over to my chair and meowed at the computer. I patted my legs. He jumped up and settled himself. I reached for the laptop.
There was very little to find online about Rena Adler. She had no online presence—no Web site, no Facebook page, no Twitter account. Since I didn’t have any of those myself, it didn’t strike me as odd, but what did was the fact that prior to two years ago Rena Adler hadn’t seemed to exist. No matter what search terms or search engine I used, there was nothing to find about the woman back more than a couple of years.
I leaned back in the big wing chair. “It’s as though she just appeared out of nowhere,” I said to Hercules. “It doesn’t make sense.”
He looked at the phone.
I sighed. “Marcus will just say this doesn’t mean anything.” I looked at the name in the search box and scrolled down through the results again. There were more selections that had nothing to do with Rena Adler the artist than there were ones that did. There was even a link to a fan site for the Irene Adler character from the Sherlock Holmes world.
Irene Adler. Rena Adler.
“Is it really that simple?” I asked the cat.
I didn’t wait for him to answer, assuming he was even going to. I typed the name “Rena” and “name meaning” in the search engine.
It seemed it really was as simple as that. The name Rena was of Hebrew origin. It meant joyful song. It was also a variation of the name Irene.
Rena Adler. It was a play on the name Irene Adler, the woman who bested Sherlock Holmes.