Decorating Can Be Murder: Chapter 4

Mr. Spryke stood in the living room doorway watching Rick asleep on the sofa. The house was quiet. It was just getting light out and he usually had the TV on, with Ken Jefferson from Channel 7 keeping him company in the background. But not today. There was only the sound of Rick, snoring softly.    

What a night it had been. Mr. Spryke still shuddered when he recalled the moment he walked in on Rick in the star dressing room at the Van Wezel. There he was, caught in the act of stuffing all of Tom Jones’ jewelry into the pocket of his best slacks. Mr. Spryke froze in shock and so did Rick. Neither said a word.

Then, suddenly, a sound from down the hall. Mr. Spryke had but an instant to make a decision. Should he scream for help and turn the crook in? Or bide his time? He looked at Rick with fury in his eyes. How dare he pull a trick like this? How dare he betray him? But then he slipped into the room. A silent bargain had been struck. They would wait. First they would finish the job they had been hired to do. Or volunteered to do, which in Sarasota is so often the case.

It was a horrible hour and 15 minutes. Mr. Spryke was seething with anger that he made little effort to conceal. Rick was the picture of guilt and abject humiliation. Mary Alice popped in to help, but she was so excited from kissing her idol that she kept dropping things and was soon sent home.

Finally they were done. The cocker spaniel paintings were carefully wrapped in blankets and placed in the back seat of Mr. Spryke’s car. The two men stood there in the parking lot, shifting their weight, unable to look at each other.

“We have to talk,” Mr. Spryke said at last. They went over to his house. He let Rick drive the truck by himself, even though he could have taken off and headed for Indiana. Mr. Spryke knew he wouldn’t, and he didn’t. 

Mr. Spryke turned on some lights and sat Rick down on the couch. He debated a minute. Should he offer him a beer? He hated to the look on Rick’s face, the contorted features of a man about to cry.

“I swear to God I never did anything like that before,” Rick said.

“Oh, cut the crap,” said Mr. Spryke. “I taught high school for 35 years. And I know that when you say you never did anything like that before, what you mean is you never did anything like that before and got caught.”

“No, really. I thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I thought they’d blame it on the gypsies.” 

“Oh, my God. You are worse than I thought.”

“I’m an awful person,” Rick wailed as the dam burst and he began to sob.

Mr. Spryke stared at him.

“Tell me something. Did you have anything, anything at all, to do with old Mr. Kneff?”

Rick looked at him, the sobbing suddenly on hold. “You don’t think that, do you?”

“I don’t. But the police do.”

“Oh, God.” Rick was beyond crying now. He flung his head back and made keening sounds. Then he looked at Mr. Spryke. “Can I tell you what happened?”

“I know what happened. I caught you stealing. Are you a drug addict?”

“No.”

“Are you a compulsive gambler?”

“No.”

“Then what is your problem?”

Rick let out a little whimper. “Real estate.”

“Real estate?” said Mr. Spryke.

Rick looked across the room. “I’ll never forget my first flip,” he began. “I was 23 and looking for my place in the world. I had to get out from under my father—it was, like, finally becoming my own man. You know what I mean?”

Mr. Spryke did indeed. He had a similar problem with his mother.

“And it was so exciting. Such a rush. Finding the property. Looking at all of them in the MLS and then finally coming across the perfect one. The one with all the elements. The right neighborhood. Two full baths. A kitchen where you didn’t have to tear down walls.

“Then the excitement of working on it. With your very own hands. Oh, the decisions that had to be made. Colors. Hardware. Sometimes I’d bring the boys over. They loved to help. Not that they could really do anything, but they loved to be with Daddy, helping. And that’s why I was doing it. For them.”

He paused and looked down at his hands.