Excerpt: Corpse and Robbers
Sandpaper skin and puckered dimples soured Ronald Tremblay’s square jawline. Valerie and Cam found him tucking into a plate of peeled shrimp.“I didn’t see those, Ronnie,” Valerie remarked by way of introduction.

Ronald wiped cocktail sauce from his upper lip with a napkin. “They’re in the back, near the quartet.”

“I may have to try one,” she said. “Ronnie, this is Cam Reddick from Michigan. He knows Kamila Galax and her husband.”

Cam reached out a hand and Ronnie shook it with a rough grip. “How are the old whipsaws?”

“Very good,” Cam said. “They’re neighbors of mine.” He didn’t dare tell Ronnie that he ran a housekeeping business, afraid of the reaction that might engender from the board chair.

“Good folks,” Ronnie said. “I hated to see them go. Gannon was a professor in my department at the U.”

“Visual arts, right?”

“Yes, sir. The man had one heck of a keen eye.”

“Was he interested in paintings?” Cam asked.
.

Valerie, who had been ogling Ronnie’s plate of shrimp, touched Cam on the forearm and excused herself.

“Paintings?” Ronnie repeated and set his plate on the tray of a passing waiter. “Sure. He taught photography, but he never met a medium he didn’t like. Oils, clay, Gouache, you name it. Why do you ask?”

“I have a couple of originals by French painters,” Cam fibbed. “They caught Gannon’s attention.”

“I have no doubt. I imagine Kamila would’ve been captivated, too, if they’re any good. She was on the board here.”

“I know. She’s the one who told me about the function tonight,” Cam lied.

“So, she does get the flyers we send!” He coughed then slammed a fist against his chest. “Mind if I get a drink?”

“I’ll join you,” Cam said, not wanting to lose him. He took a step toward the bar.

“No need to go anywhere,” Ronnie said. He made eye contact with a model-thin woman standing near the front door of the gallery. She walked confidently toward the pair, her deep-set, raccoon eyes boring into Cam’s. When she reached them, Ronnie whispered something into her ear and she swiveled and strode to the back of room and through a closed door.

“I hope you like bourbon,” Ronnie said. “That’s one perk of being the chair here—I don’t wait in line for a drink. So, who do you have?”

Cam creased his eyebrows. “Who do I have?” he repeated.

“Which French painters?” Ronnie asked more sharply.

Before Cam could respond, the toothpick-framed woman returned and silently handed Ronnie and Cam tumblers filled to the brim. A bouquet of vanilla and toasted caramel assaulted his nostrils.

Ronnie lowered the lids on his washed-out eyes and breathed in heavily. “I never tire of this smell.” He knocked back half of his drink in a single swallow and peered at Cam.

Cam took a small sip. Bourbon flames licked the back of his throat. “Very nice,” he managed weakly.

“A man’s drink for sure.”

Cam nodded his head, then managed to squeak out, “Denys Rouland.”

“Your originals are Roulands?” Ronnie cast a less-than-surreptitious glance at Cam’s cheap duds.

“Yes,” Cam answered with more bravado than he felt. “Do you have any here?” He pictured the chair answering: ‘Not anymore; we had three go missing.’

Instead, he said, “Unfortunately not.” Ronnie polished off his drink. “As far as I know, Captain Sickleson and his wife have the only Roulands in Windsor.”