Color Me Dead

by Mary Bowers

  His face eased into sadness. “Yes. In fact, the gallery where I worked in St. Augustine represented his work for many years. We were good friends. When he found out I wanted to open my own gallery, he encouraged me, and promised to work with me exclusively. But it was not to be.”

  “Oh, I see. But still, you moved here anyway to stay close to his widow and daughter?”

  “Not at all. Opening this gallery has been in the works for over six months now. Once Grant made the decision to give my gallery an exclusive, and considering the fact that his working studio was much closer to Tropical Breeze, he decided to move here, too. That’s what made his death so particularly shocking. He had plans. We were moving forward together, excited about the future. And then, suddenly, it was over.”

  “But those left behind have to keep going,” I said softly.

  “Yes. I’m hoping to represent his daughter’s work, but I’m not sure how serious she is about what she’s doing. And I’m considering a retrospective of Grant’s lifework. If it comes together, I hope you’ll be attending that too, with Michael. Some of the pieces he left are unfinished, and as Grant’s artistic executor, I need to decide how to handle them. But the retrospective won’t be for a while yet. Nothing has been planned, and it will be strictly a private event. No sales pressure. It’ll be my personal tribute.”

  I nodded and murmured condolences. At the same time, practical-minded beast that I am, I was thinking now that the artist was dead, the price for Grant Rosewood’s works would skyrocket. Adam was going to make a killing, at least until the Rosewood originals ran out.

  “Of course, his studio has been padlocked until the estate is settled, and that’s taking more time than usual. He was untidy about things like wills, and he seems to have handwritten random additions to what his lawyer drew up. They’re probably legal, but they’re messy, and a probate court is having to sort all that out. But when we can get into his studio, I’m hoping his daughter Carmen will pull herself together enough to finish off his last works. She knows what she’s doing. Her problem is she tended to wilt under her father’s critical eye.”

  Last works – started by the father and finished by the daughter – I heard cash registers ringing in my head.

  “That’s excellent – I’m so glad to hear it. I just met Carmen, as a matter of fact, and I really like her. We had lunch together across the street, along with her mother, Maida. Even Uncle Hank showed up. I’m getting to know the whole family.”

  “Hank is here in town?” Adam seemed startled. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh, of course he’s here. There’s going to be a hearing on the will tomorrow, and we’re going to find out what the court decided about the holographic addenda, as the lawyer calls them.”

  “That makes sense. He just got into town and tracked Maida down at the diner.”

  He took that in quietly for a moment, then said, “He wanted to see Maida before the hearing? I can’t imagine why. They don’t get along.”

  “I could see that.”

  “I wonder why he wanted to talk to her.”

  “You know that does seem odd, now that I think about it. When he finally found her, he didn’t say what he was here for, or ask to speak to her privately later on, nothing like that. And he didn’t come to see his niece, either. He didn’t even know Carmen was going to be there, at the diner. He must have had something to say to Maida that he didn’t want to say in front of a stranger. Or Carmen,” I added.

  “Maybe. Whatever it was, you’re probably lucky you didn’t have to hear it.”

  “Neither Maida nor Carmen seemed to be expecting him. The whole thing struck me as odd.”

  He silently mulled it over. “We don’t really know what was in the will. Grant made a few promises to people, but in view of the unexpected additions that Maida came up with when she found Grant’s copy of the will, it hasn’t been read out yet. Maida knows what’s in it, of course, but as I understand it, Hank doesn’t have any expectations from the will. Still, as Grant’s brother, he’s probably interested, and I’m sure he’ll be allowed to hear the final ruling.”

  “Ah. That makes sense. I wonder why his arrival was such a surprise, then. Well, it’s none of my business. Carmen just took him off to her studio-home to get him settled.”

  “I doubt that’s going to work out. I’ve seen Carmen’s house, and she’s got a roommate already: another female artist who probably walks around the house naked. It’s no place for a man like Hank, and there’s just no room for him. I wish I could have him come stay with me, but my house is still a nightmare of moving boxes and stranded pieces of furniture. I gave up trying to find a few things I needed and just bought new ones. I’ve had to spend all my time setting up the gallery, so my house is just going to have to wait. I’m living out of the back room here during the day, and sleeping on the living room couch at my house at night.”

  “I see. And Hank flatly refused to even think about staying with Maida, not that it sounded like she wanted him. Her new house is right next door to the one owned by a friend of mine, the lady who runs Girlfriend’s, and that’s how I met her. Maida is going to be a volunteer in the resale shop.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” he said drily.

  I was about to ask him what he meant, but I realized my own expectations of Maida working out were low, just as his seemed to be. Still, I thought it would be unwise to start making cracks about her with a man who knew her and might repeat things, so I just said, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. You’ve probably got a ton of things to do, so I’ll get going now. Welcome to the jungle, Adam. Don’t hesitate to pop into Girlfriend’s or call the number on my business card if you need anything. We’re small-town friendly here in Tropical Breeze.”

  Chapter 4 – Dinner with Friends

  I was giving an informal little dinner party that night, so after my ramble around Locust Street, I had to go home and cook.

  I’m a lousy cook, and my repertory in the kitchen is small, but my friends all know that. Nobody was coming in with unrealistic expectations. Michael is an excellent cook, but he had a busy week and I told him not to worry about planning the meal; I’d do it. I like to think my friends come to my dinner parties for the company and conversation, maybe a few laughs, and if the food is mediocre we can laugh about that, too.

  Our housekeeper, Myrtle, was down with the flu, so things at the Cadbury mansion had actually been going more smoothly for a few days. Myrtle had been a legacy from the Cadburys. She was also Florence’s sister, but they didn’t get along, so we kept Myrtle on under the pretext that Cadbury House couldn’t possibly function without her. In reality, all she was really good for was local gossip, and she was maddeningly selective about that.

  Most of the time, she was a dark shadow that stomped around the house throwing sinister looks at me. She disapproved of me, she disapproved of my friends, and she had the kind of feudal reverence for the Cadburys that kept her from passing along any really juicy stories about The Family, all of which I would have loved to hear. The only things she did approve of were my lover, Michael, and my cat, Bastet.

  The friend she disapproved of the most was coming over for dinner that night, so although I sent up a prayer for the relief of her suffering, I secretly hoped she’d stay sick just long enough that she wouldn’t come downstairs and see Edson Darby-Deaver in the house. She thought he was a charlatan and a crank, and for his part, Ed was terrified of Myrtle.

  Ed was a paranormal investigator, which is not everybody’s cup of tea. Oh, I know it sounds like fun, but Ed was so deadly serious about his work he may as well have been a stamp collector who couldn’t stop talking about it. But he happened to have a PhD and a great deal of respect from people who were supposed to know all about the occult, and he was a very nice guy, underneath all the twitches, jargon and affectations. He had only one quirk that irritated me: he thought I was psychic. He was always after me to hone my skills, at the same time I was telling him I didn’t have any. Not paranorma
l ones, anyway.

  He had brought his new apprentice, Dobbs, along for dinner. They had teamed up after Ed had inherited a fortune from a woman with whom he’d had a brief, fumbling love affair and then quit a ghost-hunting reality show. That sounds like a logical sequence of events, but one had nothing to do with the other. Ed had been standing on principle when he quit the show at the height of its popularity.

  So Ed’s life was in flux, and most of his drama was happening off-stage, as far as I was concerned. Thank goodness. I love Ed in a brotherly way, but like real brothers, he can be a pain at times, and he’s unbearable when he’s under stress. Right at that moment, he was setting up a new agency with a new partner and moving into a new house, all at the same time. Along with a pile of money, he’d inherited an oceanfront mansion from his ladyfriend, and he’d decided to move into that and turn his old house over to his flat-broke partner at a rent I suspected would be optional.

  So, count up the stressors and Ed was likely to stroke out at any moment, and I didn’t want him doing it at my dinner table. I set about playing hostess, referee and psychiatrist.

  “What are you going to call this new enterprise of yours?” I asked Ed, setting a platter of veggie patties on the table.

  Dobbs was the only one who looked alarmed about the food. Staring at the platter, he said, “Are those burgers supposed to be green?”

  “This is a vegetarian household,” Ed informed him in a quiet aside.

  Dobbs, at 27, was much younger than the rest of us and hyperaware of it. He got the reminder and overreacted, nodding so hard that his thick, blond-streaked hair flopped into his tawny eyes. “Got it. Animal shelter,” he rapped out in his usual code, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the stables. Giving me a nod, he said, “Vegetarian. Doesn’t eat animals; too busy saving them. Got it. The cheese pizza thing is not just because pepperoni reeks.” Sliding on into the swing of things, he said, “Veggie patties. Good for you. Fiber. Buns got whole wheat?”

  He popped one of his dazzling surfer-boy smiles at me, and his sun-kissed skin didn’t even wrinkle.

  “White or wheat buns, your choice,” I said, taking a seat.

  The banquet table was far too long for just the four of us, but it came with the rest of the mansion. It was set along one side of the great room underneath the upstairs gallery. Even with seating for twelve, it was dwarfed by the rest of the room. It was just past sunset, and for the moment, we could still see the river through the French doors lining the east side of the house, beyond the head of the table. The next time I looked at the windows I would probably only see a reflection of the great room.

  I handed the dish of buttered corn to Ed, on my right, and asked again, “Got a name for the business yet?”

  “I was thinking of Darby-Deaver & Dobbs,” Ed said. “It has a dignified ring to it.”

  Dobbs merely chortled and murmured, “Awkward.”

  “It sounds like a law firm,” Michael said.

  “Or a bunch of accountants,” I added.

  “I know, right?” Dobbs said. “I’ve been trying to tell him. He may have a national reputation as a cryptologist, but with this new partnership, we have to give it a name that at least hints at what we do. We don’t want people calling up and wanting their income taxes done.”

  Ed became testy. “I suppose you think we should call it Ghosts R Us.”

  “No, no,” Dobbs said with growing, almost explosive excitement. “I’ve got it. I mean it, man. Listen to this.”

  We waited while Dobbs managed to get a grip on himself. After giving us time to brace ourselves, he said, “Okay, here it is: Paranormal SWAT.”

  There was a pregnant pause.

  Then Ed said, “That’s the most ridiculous name I’ve ever heard. We do not swat ghosts.”

  “No, you don’t get it,” Dobbs said, nearly bouncing out of his seat. “Special Weapons and Tactics. Like the cops. You know,” he added, remembering that Ed is somewhat other-worldly, “cops? Police? They have these special teams – ”

  “I know what you mean now,” Ed snapped. Then, in a deliberative murmur, he said, “Special weapons . . . .”

  Michael hazarded a comment. “You know, Ed, he may just have something there.”

  Ed glanced at me and I shrugged, lifted my eyebrows and gave him a nod.

  “See?” Dobbs said. “They like it, and Michael and Taylor have excellent taste.”

  “Special weapons and tactics,” Ed said, rolling it around in his mouth. “Well, that does describe what we do.”

  “I’m telling ya,” Dobbs said. “With your inventions, we have equipment that nobody else has, and your reference library blows the competition away.”

  “We have no competition,” Ed said, but his heart wasn’t into the usual lecture. “We collaborate for the good of the living and the life-deprived.”

  “Uh uh,” Dobbs disagreed, a little bolder now that his idea was going over with the boss. “You may collaborate. All the others in the field are trying to one-up everybody else, looking for that huge get that will make them famous, and they absolutely hate you.” He suddenly stopped, blinked and tried to backpedal. “Strictly jealous, of course. You get results. Most of them are fakers and wannabes. Like I used to be, back in my magician days,” he added. “Before I met you and went straight.”

  But Ed wasn’t even listening anymore. “I don’t really like it,” he was saying, “but it does have a certain energy. An assertion of determination and purpose.”

  “Exactly,” Dobbs said. “You nailed it. So we go with Paranormal SWAT?”

  Ed gave him a speculative gaze. Relenting only slightly, he said, “I’ll think about it.”

  I sensed the moment to change the subject. Ed was too proud to give in right away. After taking a decent interval to mull it over, I was pretty sure he was going to go with Dobbs’s idea.

  “I met a new Breezer today,” I said. “A lady named Maida Rosewood. She’s going to volunteer at Girlfriend’s.”

  I got reactions all around the table, every one of them different.

  “Everybody’s been talking about her at the City Council, but I haven’t gotten over to Palmetto Street to welcome her yet,” Michael said. “Her husband was the sculptor, Grant Rosewood. She’s got that green house right next to Florence’s, right?”

  Ed broke in wearily. “We’ve met her. Dobbs and I. She’s consulting us about her new house.”

  I gaped at him. “She thinks it’s haunted? Already? Florence said she only moved in on Friday.”

  He nodded curtly. “The stress of moving seems to have deranged her. She believes she’s being haunted by somebody who never even lived there: her husband. Ridiculous. She herself may be haunted by him, of course,” he added knowledgably. “But cleansing the house isn’t going to help her if that happens to be the case. It’s a simple concept you’d think anyone could grasp, but the more I tried to explain it to her, the more she kept taking us back to square one. She seems to assume that if she acts like a helpless female, any man she comes across is obligated to help her. Frankly, she gave me a headache.”

  Dobbs interrupted with one of his conversational jabs. “She’s got the hots for Ed.”

  Ed and Dobbs were sitting across the table from one another, and Ed gagged to a halt and stared at him.

  “Couldn’t you tell?” Dobbs said gleefully.

  Very much on his dignity, Ed replied, “She spent practically every minute I was with her talking about her dead husband.”

  “And acting like the old guy was the son of Satan. She was trying to get you to rescue her, dude. Be her knight in shining armor. It’s a woman thing. They do it to me all the time.”

  Ed took this in and processed it. “Well, that’s just further proof that she does not need the services of a paranormal investigator, and she knows it. I can close the file with a clear conscience.”

  “In all fairness, Dobbs,” I said, “I get the feeling that Maida is the kind of woman who has always gotten her way by fli
rting.” I wanted to add that she was probably harmless, but I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “You see,” Ed told his apprentice. “She’s just a bored widow looking for a little excitement in her life.”

  “She’s the bored widow of a famous artist,” Dobbs objected immediately. “She’s probably rolling in it. What’s the harm in giving her a little reassurance? We go over, we swing our EMFs around, maybe let her try on the Full-Spectrum Clarifier so she can see for herself that there’s nobody there, and we collect a fee. And we are doing a service – we’re giving her peace of mind. Saving her a trip to the shrink. That counts, Ed, even if we know there’s no ghost from the get-go.”

  It was a novel argument and a good effort, but I knew it wouldn’t fly with Ed.

  “You are reverting to your carnival days, Dobbs,” he said loftily. “Try to guard against it. We will speak no more about it.”

  Purely by accident, my cat, Bastet, came strolling out of my office just then, and Ed nearly stopped breathing.

  Bastet is a black cat, and like all cats, she keeps secrets. She stares significantly, pausing long enough to have delivered a psychic message, then turns and walks away, leaving you without a clue. Her whole persona has had an effect on Ed, and he has some quirky ideas about her.

  I suspected right away he was giving her sudden appearance way too much significance. Normally, Bastet withdraws herself when we have company in the house.

  I shared a quiet look with Michael, and the subject of Maida was dropped. But I could see by looking at Dobbs that it wasn’t forgotten. Dobbs had infinitely more energy than Ed. I wasn’t surprised when I learned later that Dobbs had carried the day about the new company name.

  And Paranormal SWAT did carry out its first commission at Maida’s house, with very unexpected results.

  Chapter 5 – No Man is Safe

  It was a week later, the following Monday, before Michael and I really talked about Maida again. He had taken the City Council secretary, Ellen, and done his Welcome Wagon visit during the week, in between golf days. He had pretty much the same reaction to her as I’d had.