Murder at the Library of Congress by Margaret Truman

demonstrated they’d been resourceful. If they hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t havethe painting. How much can a new frame cost? A few bucks?
    The cab dropped Munsch in front of Ivy at the Shore, on Ocean Avenue, where throngs of well-dressed people clogged the street in front of the restaurant. Munsch paid the driver, watched him pull away, then threaded his way through the crowd and went inside, where he was stopped by a man at a podium wearing a colorful Hawaiian shirt.
    “I’m going to the bar,” Munsch said. “I’m meeting somebody.”
    The host pointed in the direction of an outdoor terrace overlooking the ocean.
    The bar was four-deep, and every rattan chair was occupied. The noise level was high, exacerbating the pounding headache Munsch had developed during the slow trip on the freeway. A couple left one end of the bar, and Munsch quickly slipped into the space. A bartender appeared.
    “You got any coffee?” Munsch asked.
    “Coffee? Ah …”
    “Gimme a beer.”
    “We have—”
    “Anything.”
    Munsch placed his overnight bag on the floor between his feet and laid the rolled-up painting against the wall. He took in faces at the bar. He’d been told that the person to whom he was to deliver the painting would be wearing a white jacket and a large-brimmed straw hat. No such creature at the bar.
    His beer was served and he sipped. You’d better show up, Munsch thought. I didn’t go through this for nothing.
    He became increasingly despondent as he waited, nursing the beer, massaging his temples, and grumbling to himself, mostly about that fool Garraga, until he felt a poke in his back. He turned to look into the face ofa man with a neatly cropped red beard and wearing a white jacket and straw hat.
    “You took your time,” Munsch said.
    The man smiled. “The traffic. I was delayed.”
    “Yeah, sure.” Munsch grabbed the painting. “This what you’re after?”
    “Not here.”
    The red beard led them to a section of the terrace obscured from the bar by potted ferns. A table had just become vacant; they took rattan chairs across from each other.
    “A drink?” the beard asked.
    “No. I had a beer. I left it at the bar. I don’t want any more.”
    The beard shrugged. “I see you have what my client has been waiting for.”
    “Your client? I thought it was for you.”
    “I’m acting as an agent for the buyer.”
    “Yeah, well, I don’t care who it ends up with.” He leaned forward. “Whoever you are, I—”
    “Smith. John Smith.”
    “Right. John Smith. I’m Joe Brown. Look, we had to slice the frame off because it wouldn’t fit through the skylight with the frame on it.”
    John Smith frowned.
    “I’ll cut my fee so you can get another frame, but not by a lot. A frame don’t cost much.”
    “The frame’s not important. You did what you had to do. We read the Miami papers, too.”
    “That’s right. We used our heads.”
    “Want to give it to me?”
    “Sure.” Munsch handed him the painting. “You want to open it here, see what it is? Believe me, it’s what you … what your client wanted.”
    “I’m sure it is, Mr. Brown.” He withdrew a fat envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Munsch. “What was agreed upon.”
    Munsch shoved the envelope into his pocket.
    “Don’t want to count it?”
    “No. You trust me, I trust you.”
    “The way it should be. Sure you don’t want a drink?”
    Munsch shook his head. “I better get going. John Smith, huh? Probably your real name.”
    Smith smiled. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Brown.”
    Munsch, who had been eager to go, hesitated.
    “I know it’s none of my business … but how come your client wants this? It’s worth a lot, huh?”
    “Staying in L.A. for a while?”
    “A day or two.”
    “Enjoy your stay.”
    Munsch exited to the street and looked for a cab. There were three lined up at the next corner. He got into the first in line and told the driver to take him to the Beverly Hills Hotel. He knew