Free AHMM, December 2009 by Dell Magazine Authors

Giuseppe Zampino's position?"
    "Yeah, more or less. But you better believe no paintings are sneaking out of here when I'm on deck. Who are you guys?"
    "Private investigators,” I said.
    That answer didn't make him any cheerier. “I'll get Mr. Worley. Don't touch nothing.” He vanished through a side door.
    "Not the most suave of curators,” Mr. O'Nelligan noted.
    The gallery, which was empty except for ourselves, encompassed four rooms and several nooks and niches. The paintings and sculptures seemed pleasant enough, though my artistic standards are admittedly rock bottom. We'd barely had time to glance about when Piker returned and ushered us into a small, handsome office. He deposited us, then exited. There, staring up at us from behind a large mahogany desk, sat the gallery's owner. Now, clearly, here was the real deal in terms of polished humanity. Stuart Worley was thirtyish, slender but substantial, with a strong jaw, wavy blond hair, and dark eyes. He fit impressively into a striped gray suit, and his purple tie and breast handkerchief lent him a dash of royalty.
    "Gentlemen.” His voice was deep, but not gravelly; his intonation genteel without being delicate. In a word, perfect. “You've come on some inquiry?"
    I noticed he didn't offer us seats. Briefly, I explained Donna Zampino's commission without going into the fact that Worley himself was her chief suspect.
    He smiled magnanimously. “Donna is a lovely young woman. Quite intelligent, too, considering her background. But I'm afraid she suffers from—how shall I put this?—the romantic excesses of her race. She no doubt imagines all manner of high melodrama surrounding the theft of the painting. Intrigue befitting the most tempestuous of Italian operas."
    There was no denying it—this character could wield a word. Painfully aware of my limitations, I turned to Mr. O'Nelligan, who caught my eye and gave the subtlest of nods. In my head, I cried out, Sic ‘em, boyo, sic ‘em!
    "Miss Zampino is of solid disposition,” my colleague began. “She is unlikely to confuse reality for either the jests of Rigoletto or the torments of La Traviata. In the wake of her father's death, it's understandable that she would seek answers and resolution. Towards that end, Mr. Plunkett and I have been activated. Our client believes that the police have not been exhaustive in their probe."
    Worley appraised my friend for a long moment. What he saw before him was a trim, whiskered man in his sixties, dapper in vest, tie, and tweed jacket, and keen of eye. Worley glanced my way, took in my 4F physique and saucer-sized glasses, and promptly returned his gaze to Mr. O'Nelligan. It was obvious who his natural nemesis was.
    "Your accent marks you as a son of Erin,” Worley said. “It's quite expected that you should feel an affinity for your fellow immigrants."
    "Affinity alone does not propel me,” Mr. O'Nelligan countered. “The hunt for truth proffers its own rewards. Now, how did your relationship with Mr. Zampino stand?"
    "Relationship? We had no relationship. His was my employee."
    "But not of your own volition, we understand."
    "Correct. The previous owners made it a stipulation that I retain Zampino."
    "You disliked him?"
    Worley flicked his hand dismissively. “Sir, believe me, I don't waste my energies on likes or dislikes. To be honest, I found the man inoffensive, but not as poised as I would have wished. Certainly, he tried to look the part of a cultured person, but, well, never quite succeeded."
    I jumped in. “What about his replacement—Piker? He doesn't exactly ooze culture."
    Worley sighed softly. “Agreed. But after the theft, I felt a more rugged individual was required on the premises, at least for the time being. Piker serves my present needs, and I can bring in a more well-rounded manager down the line."
    "Very practical,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Will you do us the courtesy of showing us where the stolen painting was set?"
    "No harm in that.