FanStory.com - Unfinished Brushstrokes Chap 19by Begin Again

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Chapter 18 and Chapter 19 were posted today. Please check so you are reading them in the correct order. Enjoy!

After leaving the casino, Eleanor had one last stop on her agenda. The gossip mill in Bayside was up and running at full tilt since Garth's visit to the auction house, and she was eager to meet the sexy cowboy. She found him nursing a beer in the lonely corner of the hotel bar. His co-workers were line dancing with the other hotel patrons, but his mind was on bringing down the judge and solving the crime.

Deep in thought about the missing art, Garth was unaware of Eleanor sliding into the booth until she spoke.

She'd considered using the sexy approach but decided he was more of a business-up-front type of guy. Besides, making him believe in ghosts was a big enough task. She whispered his name, "Agent Garth Woodman?"

His hand instinctively reached for his holster before his eyes made contact with the woman sitting across from him. Her eyes met his steely blue ones, and she spoke, "You are as handsome as they say."

A slow smile tugged at his lips, and he tipped his Stetson back on his head. "And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to, ma'am?"

It was Eleanor's turn to smile. "I'm Eleanor Bennett, or in your world and Dylan's, I'm known as CJ Grey."

Garth studied her, taking in her neatly coiffed bun, crisp pale pink chiffon blouse, dark pink pearls, and the simple cross around her neck. "Did Tango put you up to this? Or was it Poppa? Both of them are pranksters."

"I haven't had the pleasure of meeting your team, but I'm positive they are the best if they work for you."

"I'm not one to turn a lady away, but I am in the middle of an important case, so thank you for your time, but I need to get back to work." Garth picked up the folder he'd been studying before addressing Eleanor again. "Criminals! Masterminds are stealing artwork from right under our noses."

"I know. A few of them are mine. That's why I'd like to help."

Garth lifted his beer mug, sipped, and made a face. "Warm beer." He motioned for the waitress, who hurried to his booth.

"I'll take another and one for the lady, too."

The waitress looked at Garth, then behind her and around, not seeing anyone. She rolled her eyes and nodded. "Yes, sir, two cold beers coming up." She turned to leave, then asked, "Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should get some sleep."

"I'm fine. Just bring the beers."

As she hurried away, assuming Garth was losing it, Eleanor laughed. "They can't see me, Garth."

The girl brought the two beers, set them on the table, and, looking at the empty booth, said, "Enjoy!" Then, turning to Garth, she repeated, "You need to rest."

Garth leaned back in the booth, pushed his Stetson to the back of his head, and crossed his arms. "Lady, I don't know what's happening, but I'm listening."

Eleanor knew he wouldn't take her seriously until she proved who she was. She faded from his view yet lifted the beer to her lips and swallowed one gulp after another. When it was empty, she placed the mug on the table and let her body appear again. The look on the cowboy's face was worth millions.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Now, let's try this once again. I'm Eleanor Bennett. Yes, I'm dead, and you are talking to a ghost. And before you go all FBI on me, let me tell you that I know things you don't know about this case. I'm here to help."

"A ghost? You're dead, and you're still talking to me."

Eleanor sighed. "Listen, Cowboy, they tell me you are one of the best at solving these crimes. I don't want to lasso you like one of those bulldoggies and start swinging a branding iron, but if that's what it takes to get you to understand—well, I'm up to trying anything."

Garth's laughter was so loud it reached the bar and Tango's ears. "Are you okay over there, Garth?"

Garth's eyes met Eleanor's before he answered, "I'm just fine. Never better."

"Now, are you ready to talk?"

Garth leaned forward, his interest piqued. "Alright, Eleanor. You've got my attention. What do you know about the stolen art?"

Eleanor's eyes twinkled with a mix of seriousness and playfulness. "Well, for starters, I know where they're keeping some of the pieces. But we'll get to that. First, tell me, Agent Woodman, how does a rugged cowboy like you end up in a place like this, chasing art thieves?"

Garth chuckled, his earlier skepticism fading. "It's a long story, ma'am. But I reckon we've got time, don't we?"

Eleanor leaned back, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. "Plenty of time, Cowboy. Plenty of time."

*****

Unable to remain sitting in her front room waiting for a call from Donatelli about Megan, Margaret decided to honor Eleanor by visiting the soup kitchen. She'd called a cab, afraid to take her own car into that end of town. The driver had dropped her outside the building, asking twice if she was sure this was where she wanted to go.

Now, standing at the entrance, she wasn't as sure as she thought she was. A worn-out sign above the door flapped in the wind. She took a deep breath, clutching her purse strap tightly, and stepped inside. The building was a far cry from the elegant boardrooms and pristine offices she was accustomed to. Here, the walls were faded, paint peeling in spots, and the scent of cooking lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of cleaning solutions and sweat.

She felt out of place. Her tailored suit and polished shoes starkly contrasted with the casual attire of the volunteers and the worn clothes of the guests. She scanned the room, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach.

Eleanor, what were you thinking? I know nothing about running a soup kitchen or how these people live.

She was about to turn around and leave when a familiar face caught her eye. Standing by the coffee station was someone she hadn't seen in years. Jack, a high school classmate, was looking at her. He looked different now — his hair was longer and his face weathered, but there was no mistaking him. The last she had heard, he was a highly successful engineer.

Before she could leave, he made his way over to her. "Margaret? Is that you?" He broke into a smile. "It's been a long time.

With nowhere to run, Margaret stammered, "Yes, it has." Then his smile made her add, "I see they have a coffee station. Shall we get a cup and catch up?"

Jack's story was a sobering one. After losing his job and his home, he'd ended up on the streets, a harsh reminder of how quickly life could change.

Margaret shared the recent death of her sister Eleanor and Megan's kidnapping. She couldn't remember the last time she'd opened up and been so vulnerable with others. In the end, she told him about the soup kitchen.

"Eleanor left me a sizeable amount of money with the stipulation that I help fix it and make things better for everyone. To be honest, I have no idea where to start."

Jack chuckled. "Well, Margaret, you're in luck. I've been coming here for a while, and I know a thing or two about how things work. I'd be happy to help you get started."

Relief washed over Margaret. She actually smiled for the first time in days. "Thank you, Jack. I could use the help."

Together, they walked through the soup kitchen. Jack explained the daily operations and introduced Margaret to the other volunteers. Margaret listened intently, humbled by their stories, especially those of those who had once been guests and now gave back of their time.

As the day wore on. Margaret found herself rolling up her sleeves after pitching her suit jacket and helping wherever she could. It was hard work, but for the first time in a long time, she felt a connection to the community.

When the last meal was served, and the kitchen was cleaned, Margaret was exhausted. She looked over at Jack, who was wiping tables and felt a surge of gratitude. In this unexpected place, she'd found a friend and an ally. She looked around the soup kitchen, knowing that with help, she could make it better for everyone who walked through those doors.

She inhaled and whispered, "Thank you, Eleanor. You opened my eyes to what real life is about."

Jack waved. "You coming back tomorrow?"

Margaret nodded. "I'll be here."

*****

Garth had enjoyed Eleanor's company, but he knew he had work to do, and if she had information, he needed to know what it was.

"I hate to break up our little love fest, but duty calls. Did you mean it when you said you have some useful information?"

"I did! Detective Donatelli — I know, I know, you two don't see eye to eye, but hear me out. The detective and Danny Veraci will be joining forces to bring down Judge Doyle."

Garth's eyes narrowed at the mention of Donatelli and Veraci. "That's a strange alliance. I've been preaching to the choir about Doyle being dirty, and Donatelli wouldn't hear about it. And why would a detective team up with a crime boss?"

"Desperation makes for unusual partnerships. They both have reasons, and they believe taking down the judge will benefit them both."

Garth rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What's your stake in this? You certainly have no need for the money or the pictures, do you?"

"No, I don't, but Veraci promised to get my niece back safely. And I'd like to see Doyle pay for my murder."

"Your murder? That's news to me."

Eleanor smiled. "See, told you I know more about these cases than you."

"How can you trust Veraci? Aren't you afraid he'll take the paintings and run?"

"No, Danny and I are old friends. He's doing this as a favor for me. He's going to set a trap for the judge, and when it's sprung, he'll be caught for murder, human trafficking, and art theft."

"You like to wrap the cases up in one big bow, it seems." Garth chuckled. He liked Eleanor, ghost or not.

"So, Garth, are you in?"

"You know I am. I wish I'd known you when you were still alive, Eleanor Bennett."

"I wasn't nearly as much fun." Eleanor laughed. "It's time for me to go, but I wish you luck."

"Thanks for helping me out." Garth tipped his hat to the lady in respect.

"Just one favor," Eleanor asked.

"Sure, what can I do for you?"

"Be nice to Matthew. He's a good man."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be on my best behavior."

Eleanor smiled. "Good night, Garth." She faded away.

*****

Danny had spent the last few hours planning how to take down John Doyle. His mind often drifted to Eleanor and the painting, and he gained an incentive to make this project go smoothly. Bayside would be a better place without Doyle and his behind-the-scenes evil, which would make him happy as well.

He picked up the piece of paper with Doyle's private cell and dialed. He recognized the judge's voice when he answered, "Doyle."

"Good evening, Judge. This is Danny Veraci."

"How'd you get my private line?" Doyle snapped. "I have nothing to talk to you about."

Danny's voice was smooth and controlled. "I heard through the grapevine that you might be able to put a friend of mine in touch with some high-priced paintings."

Danny could hear the Judge's breathing. It had gotten heavier. He waited patiently, knowing Doyle was thinking, stalling.

Finally, Doyle answered, "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Veraci."

Danny chuckled. "That's a shame, Judge. See, this friend of mine is a high roller at my casino. He's got a lot of money burning a hole in his pocket, and he's looking to spend it. He's interested in some very exclusive artwork."

"Like I said, I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. The kind of artwork you're referring to would be illegal trade. You do realize you're talking to a judge? I could have you arrested in a heartbeat."

Danny laughed. "And I'd be out in less, and you'd have egg all over your face."

Doyle growled, "Lose my number. I'm afraid I can't help you or your clientele."

Danny leaned back in his chair, speaking very calmly, "Too bad. My friend would have paid handsomely for the right pieces, possibly two or three times the going rate." Danny paused and added, "I guess I'll have to tell him to look elsewhere since you aren't interested."

He hung up the phone without even saying goodbye.

*****

Doyle sat at his desk, staring at the phone, tapping his fingers on the blotter. After five minutes, he got up and walked to the credenza, getting a bottle of scotch and a glass. He poured a glass and drank, loving the burn in his throat.

Returning to his desk, he dialed Danny's number.

Danny sat there, letting it ring. After four or five rings, he answered, "Veraci here."

Doyle spoke in a low voice. "I've had a moment to reconsider your phone call, Mr. Veraci. Maybe I was too hasty. Perhaps we should meet and discuss this matter further."

Danny smirked. "I thought you might change your mind. My client will be pleased. When and where?"

"Somewhere private. There's an abandoned warehouse on 5th Street. Tomorrow night at 10?"

Danny smiled, knowing he was about to put the nail in the coffin, so to speak. "Sounds perfect. And Judge, just to be clear, my friend won't accept the paintings unless you deliver them personally. He'll have the cash."

"Personally. That's highly irregular —"

Danny interrupted him. "Those are his terms. Take it or leave it."

After a pause, Doyle answered, "I'll be there."