Murder with Macaroni and Cheese by A.L. Herbert Page B

it was at least two hundred years old. I gave Christy the paperwork with the details. She put together a description that we can display with the desk at the auction. It’s valued at more than a thousand dollars, so I’ve suggested twelve hundred as the minimum bid. We’ll see who of the trifling fools we went to high school with has that kind of money.”
    â€œThat’s nice of you to donate it,” I say, wondering what her angle is. Raynell is not the kind of person who does things out of the goodness of her heart. Maybe she’s tried to sell it and can’t, or maybe she’s lying about its worth . . . who knows.
    â€œIt’s nothing. And honestly I’ll be glad to have it out of my house. I’m all about clean lines and modern furniture. This thing just clashes with my whole decorating theme.”
    â€œWhat made you buy it if it’s so dissimilar to the rest of your décor?”
    â€œOh, I’m always picking up things that I think might have value—not necessarily to keep. One of the perks of being a real estate agent is I often get first dibs on the possessions divorcing couples are trying to get rid of. They put their house on the market after the divorce papers are filed. Often one of the spouses will sell me things below market value just to be spiteful—the stories I could tell. There’s less drama on an episode of Scandal than in some of my business dealings with couples who’ve decided to separate.” She looks to the right of the desk. “I bought that painting from the same client who sold me the desk.” Raynell points to what can only be described as a stunning portrait of a young black woman in a lovely one-shoulder evening gown. She’s poised in front of an old-fashioned microphone. The painting manages to capture her both singing and smiling at the same time. It immediately makes me think of the 1940s . . . or maybe the early fifties.
    â€œWow,” I say. “What a beautiful painting . . .” My voice trails off as I realize that beautiful doesn’t really do it justice. “Exquisite . . . it’s truly exquisite,” I add as I think about what a shame it is to see it just sitting on the floor leaning against a bookcase rather than being displayed on the wall.
    â€œMeh,” Raynell says, unimpressed. “It’s worthless, and I overpaid for it. I’m not sure if I’ll keep it.”
    â€œWho is the painting of? She looks familiar.”
    â€œSarah Vaughan. Apparently, she was a jazz singer or something back in the day.”
    â€œSarah Vaughan!” I exclaim. “My mother played her version of ‘Send in the Clowns’ when I was a kid. She had an amazing voice. I remember Momma referring to her as ‘The Divine One.’ ”
    â€œI thought her heyday was more in the forties and fifties.”
    â€œHer career spanned decades. I only know because Momma is a big fan. ‘If You Could See Me Now’ was another big song of hers—that’s a really old one I think . . . from the forties, maybe.”
    â€œWell, apparently she’s dead.”
    â€œShe must be dead for more than twenty years now.”
    â€œYou’d think that would make the painting worth something—even if it isn’t a Keckley.”
    â€œKeckley?”
    â€œI thought the painting might be an original Keckley. Arthur Keckley was a well-known black artist who painted portraits of performers at the Lincoln Theatre on U Street in D.C. during its prime. He painted all the greats: Duke Ellington, Pearl Bailey, Ella Fitzgerald, Cab Calloway, Billie Holiday . . . and I was hoping that this one was the rendition he did of Sarah Vaughan.”
    â€œIt’s not, I take it?”
    â€œNo. I had Christy find me an appraiser. He evaluated the desk as well. I was actually more excited about the painting, but it turns out only the desk has any real value. And even that is only