Free The Art of Murder (Dead-End Job Mystery) by Elaine Viets Page A

coins.”
    “But keeping gold in their condos makes hoarders targets,” Helen said. “Why not put it in a safe-deposit box at the bank?”
    “Gold hoarders keep the stuff at home because they do not trust banks, either for accounts or for safe-deposit boxes. Often, they are conspiracy-theory folks. Sometimes they will have a safe, but I have heard stories of hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold coins stuffed in closets, under floorboards, behind the molding, under mattresses, in plastic bags in the toilet tank.
    “These coins can literally be a person’s savings account. They’re also a way to supplement your savings or pension, a neat little way to store it if you earned lots of tax-free money in your life. You can keep your savings in gold coins and cash one in from time to time as you need the money.”
    Helen wondered if Max was talking about himself.
    “There’s nothing like gold,” Max said, his eyes bright. Helen watched him rub his heavy gold-and-emerald bracelet.
    “The heft, the feel, the color. You feel better holding it. It’s real treasure. You want your gold where you can put your hands on it. Visiting your money in a vault is like seeing a friend in prison.”

CHAPTER 9
    H elen heard small, whistling cries from the gaudy purple jacaranda tree near the Bonnet House gift shop.
    Exotic birds?
    The museum’s thirty-five acres were alive with birds, from dazzling white swans to emerald-winged parrots.
    She saw Liz, the soft-spoken Bonnet House staffer, holding a cup of cashews under the tree’s purple canopy, surrounded by a flock of brightly colored tourists.
    “The squirrel monkeys are here,” Liz said, rattling the cup and making squeaky chirps. “They’ll come down for cashews.”
    Two delicate white-faced monkeys with soft gray coats inched down the smooth bark, bright-eyed creatures no bigger than Chihuahuas.
    “Were those Evelyn’s monkeys?” Helen asked.
    “They were never purchased by Mrs. Bartlett,” Liz said. “They escaped from a bar outside the property and ended up living here, but she loved them and fed them when they came to call while she was sitting on her upstairs back porch swing.
    “These are the last three monkeys living at Bonnet House.”
    “Can’t they have babies?” a man in a yellow and blue Hawaiian shirt asked.
    “I’m afraid these are three males,” Liz said.
    “What about artificial insemination?” Hawaiian shirt asked.
    “Really, Kent,” said his gray-haired wife in the orange sunhat. “How did you ever have two kids? You can’t inseminate male monkeys!”
    “Oh.” Now Kent’s red face clashed with his shirt.
    One monkey took a cashew, examined it, and tossed it on the grass. “Hey, now, Mr. Picky,” Liz said. “There’s nothing wrong with that cashew.” The monkey stared at her and dropped another broken cashew on the ground.
    “These monkeys are so spoiled,” Liz said proudly. “This one only eats whole cashews.” All three monkeys were reaching for cashews with small paws.
    Helen checked her watch: five minutes before her painting class started. She waved good-bye and crunched along the gravel path past the hibiscus garden, the orange-red blooms like ruffled dresses. She heard Liz tell the visitors, “Mrs. Bartlett started that garden when she was a hundred years old.”
    What a remarkable woman, Helen thought. After a full century, Evelyn Bartlett still craved life and color.
    Then Helen was through the curlicued yellow wrought-iron gate and into the central courtyard. She passed a tawny lion carousel figure with an extravagantly curled mane and a red saddle. Whimsical animals lined the walkway: An absurd black and white ostrich with a white saddle stood against a wall. Two brown giraffes taller than Helen guarded a walkway arch.
    The painting class’s white folding tables were set up under a spinning fan. Cissy, buried in orange and purple fringe, waved. Helen was surprised to see Hugo, in a khaki green shirt, squatting like