Gaffe Out Loud

by Christy Barritt

  “He told everyone he’d moved up to Norfolk,” Zane added.

  “Well, obviously he hasn’t. He’s staying with me. Why would he move from that big, beautiful house to mine?” She pressed her lips together in confusion.

  “That’s what we’d like to know. We’d also like to know why he lied about being out of town.” Wesley was looking guiltier by the moment. Had he chosen Dizzy on purpose? Did he know about our connection? And did he plan on using it for some type of ulterior purpose?

  “He seems like a nice man,” Dizzy said halfheartedly. “I’m sure it’s all a coincidence.”

  “But he’s hiding something,” I told her. “Do you know if he’s at your house now?”

  “He’s there almost all the time. I’d guess he’s probably home at the moment. Not that he has to check in with me or something. I mean, it’s strictly a professional thing that he’s staying at my place. But the man is fascinating, especially when he has that magical paintbrush in his hands.” She growled like a tiger.

  And that was an image I would never be able to wash from my mind.

  I leveled my gaze with hers. “I need to talk to him, Dizzy.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not going to stop you. But Mrs. Murphy’s perm might.”

  It took only five minutes to get to Dizzy’s place. She lived in a small house on the other side of the island, in a neighborhood filled with mostly full-timers. I was always amazed at how normal these neighborhoods felt, especially since the area in general was saturated with stilted vacation rentals. This neighborhood, on the other hand, had swing sets and flowerbeds.

  Dizzy had given me a key, so I let myself in. She stayed in a bedroom on the bottom floor, but her boarder was staying upstairs in the room over the garage, apparently.

  I wasted no time climbing the carpeted steps and pounding on the door. Zane hovered behind me, perfectly content to let me take the lead. A moment later, Wesley appeared.

  He was in his fifties and looked fit. Though he had some gray at his temples, his hair was otherwise thick and dark. He wore a white apron with paint stains on it and, when I peered beyond him, I spotted an easel and the start of a painting.

  His eyes widened when he saw me. “Joey Darling.”

  “You know me?” I already knew he did, but I wanted to hear what he had to say.

  “You bought my house.”

  “Hi, Wesley,” Zane called from behind me.

  “Hello, Zane. Good to see you again.” Wesley let out a feeble wave, followed by an equally as feeble laugh. “Can I help you both?”

  “We thought you left town,” I started. My tone sounded more accusatory than it should. But I was tired of people playing games. I wanted answers, and my creativity for ascertaining information had waned.

  “My muse was here. I had to stay while she lingered and until I completed my latest painting.” He shrugged, like that was normal. Something that sounded vaguely like an Italian accent crept in as he said the words. I halfway expected him to dramatically kiss the air while rolling his wrist with flair.

  “Then why did you say you were out of town?” I continued. I couldn’t care less if he was in town. I only cared because he was being deceitful.

  “I just don’t like to be bothered with things like meeting with lawyers.”

  Just as quickly as his accent appeared, it disappeared, leading me to believe that Wesley had created it to go along with some type of eccentric artist persona. Like I said earlier, I understood the creative life—the good, the bad, and the ugly of it. While my comrades in arms always kept me entertained, sometimes they also made me roll my eyes. I’m sure people probably said the same for me and my theatrics.

  “I already went over the paperwork beforehand, and I knew everything was good,” Wesley continued.

  I crossed my arms, not so quick to believe his excuse—or his accent. “Is that the only reason?”

  Wesley swallowed hard. “Of course. What else would it be?”

  “Tell me about the painting you left at the house.” I tried to sound all Raven Remington tough. I might as well use my acting skills to get me ahead in life, whether on the Big Screen or just finding answers and helping humanity.

  “It was one of my favorites.” Wesley’s voice sounded wistful. “Beautiful, really. It was a seagull on a piling that I painted, but I broke it up until it looked like a mosaic.”

  “Then why did you leave it behind if it was one of your favorites?” Something wasn’t adding up about his story.

  “I didn’t mean to. I hid it under that bed. Then I forgot I hid it there. I was preoccupied with another painting at the time and then I realized I should have waited to put my house on the market because I needed to stay in the area longer to finish this masterpiece and I had to find somewhere to stay in the meantime because the process had already been started but I didn’t want my fans to know I was still here because then they might track me down and . . .” He continued, barely taking a breath.

  I still didn’t buy it—the part I’d been able to keep up with, at least. “Wesley, are you saying that you didn’t go back to the house to retrieve the painting? Are you saying you didn’t kill Desiree?”

  His eyes widened, and his voice rose. “Kill? Why would I kill someone?”

  “That’s what we need to know.”

  He raised his hands. “Look, I know this might sound suspicious. I did want that painting back. I need it back. Truth is, I didn’t think it was all that special. But a picture of it was posted on an online auction, along with several of my other paintings. There was a bidding war for it, and someone wants to pay a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Zane said.

  “I know. I’ve never been offered that amount before, and I could really use the cash.”

  I wasn’t ready to buy this guy’s story yet. “Enough to kill for?”

  “No! Of course not. But I’m about to have open heart surgery, and I could really use the paycheck. I don’t have great insurance. I’m self-employed. I need that money.”

  Okay, that I might buy.

  “And you have no idea where the painting is?” I clarified.

  “I have no idea. But I need it. Desperately. Selling it is my chance to take my career to the next level. Don’t get me wrong—I’m doing okay now. But this is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back in my car, Zane and I looked at each other. No words were needed.

  But we were going to exchange them anyway.

  But this was only after we’d stopped by Sunrise Coffee Co., and I’d gotten some brain fuel. My new expression was “Drinking and Thinking.” As long as that drinking only involved coffee, I was golden.

  “Wesley didn’t do this,” Zane said.

  Just as I said, “He’s totally guilty.”

  Okay, so maybe words were needed.

  I shifted toward Zane in my tiny yet impractical seat. “Why do you say that?”

  “There’s nothing that proves he has a connection to the victim.” Zane’s voice held an unwavering confidence that I didn’t often hear in my free-spirited surfing friend who, at times, talked like a male version of a Valley Girl.

  “But if Wesley came back for the painting and found Desiree with it, then he’d have a reason.”

  “But he would have gotten the painting and gotten out of town once he had it in his hands. Forget his muse.”

  I leaned back and took a sip of my coffee. Zane had a point. “This is so complicated.”

  “I agree.” He glanced over at me. “What now?”

  That was a great question. “I have no idea. I just need to think. If it wasn’t Wesley, then I have no idea who it was. I’m not sure if we should examine him more or move on.”

  “Yet there’s no one to move on to.”

  “Exactly! Except maybe Michael Mills—but he’s on a ventilator in the hospital and heavily sedated. I can’t get anything out of him.”

  Zane’s phone buzzed j
ust then. He glanced at his screen and made some grunting noises.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “It’s a text from my friend Danny.”

  Also known as Officer Loose Lips. But who was I to complain? He gave us information that no one else would, not even Jackson. Especially not Jackson. “What about?”

  “I messaged him earlier and asked him if there were any updates on the victim.”

  “And?” A surge of excitement rushed through me. Anything we could learn would help right now.

  “They got the autopsy report back. It turns out Desiree was strangled.”

  I sucked in a quick breath as I tapped into my internal vat of useless facts. “Strangled? But strangling is usually a crime of passion. It signifies that the killer probably knew the victim.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, it’s right. We did a whole episode of Relentless on it.”

  “You have a new theory then?”

  The facts spun and spun in my head until I said, “Desiree’s boyfriend followed her into town,” I told Zane. “On the same day Desiree was killed, her boyfriend was driving and got T-boned. Now he’s in the hospital on a ventilator.”

  “You think he’s our guy?”

  “I’m thinking he could have followed Desiree here. Maybe she tried to break up with him. Who knows? There was a fight. He could have let his emotions get the best of him—to put it lightly. On his way from the scene, another car could have hit him.”

  “How do we prove it?” Zane asked.

  That was a great question. “I can’t talk to him yet—not in his current state. But maybe I can track down Desiree’s friend Jennifer.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “In the meantime, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Shoot. What is it?”

  And then I presented him with my idea.

  I’d dropped Zane off at his car so he could get to a massage appointment. When I’d gone inside my place, Sam had been leaving to go to the gym—he’d gotten a week-long pass, apparently.

  And I welcomed the free time. If nothing else, I needed to process. I couldn’t stand the thought of staying inside—not with Desiree haunting the place—so I planned on grabbing some water and going to the deck.

  Before taking a total mental break, I tried to call Jennifer and ask some follow-up questions about Michael Mills. She hadn’t answered. In fact, the phone had gone straight to voicemail. I guess I was going to have to wait on those answers.

  That was okay. I had plenty of other things to think about. This case. Jackson. My future.

  None of those things seemed very hopeful right now, however. And that thought caused a weight to press on my chest.

  Before I went outside, I did a quick Internet search for Desiree. I saw all her headshots. I read about her hopefulness in making it big. I studied the pictures of her with her boyfriend, Michael.

  I didn’t learn anything new. But I did feel like I knew a little more about Desiree.

  As I put my computer away, I paused by my father’s Bible. It was one of my most treasured possessions—and it had been one of the first things I’d grabbed when I’d packed to move here. I squeezed it to my chest.

  Every time I did that—even though it sounded crazy—I felt like I was getting a hug from my dad. His words of wisdom were scribbled inside these pages.

  “I could use some of that wisdom now,” I muttered. “A lot of it. I wish you were here.”

  I thought about him. Prayed he was doing okay wherever he might be. Prayed that my mom and her people had decided to leave us alone.

  My life was so messed up.

  As my phone rang, I saw it was my friend Starla McKnight. She was still out in LA, and I hadn’t talked to her in at least a month. I quickly answered.

  “Hey, girl!”

  “Joey! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?”

  I gave her a quick update on my life, and she gave me a quick update on hers. And then she got to the point of why she’d really called. “Did you hear about Dan and Quincy?”

  “No, are they okay?”

  “You know how Dan was filming out in Hawaii and Quincy got that role and was filming in New Zealand?”

  “I think I did hear that. Why? Did something happen?”

  “They split.”

  My mouth dropped open. “What? No. They’re one of the most solid couples I know.”

  “That’s what I thought too. Joey, I’m just not sure anyone’s marriage can make it in this business.”

  My heart pounded in my ears. “You don’t?”

  “I mean, if your marriage makes it five years, you’re practically a superstar. Anyway, I just knew you’d want to hear. I couldn’t believe it either . . .”

  I’d just prayed that my dad would somehow give me wisdom.

  Was that phone call from Starla my answer?

  After my chat with Starla, I finally did make it to the deck. And my thoughts spun with what she’d shared.

  Her words seemed to confirm my fears that relationships and Hollywood couldn’t go hand in hand.

  I desperately wanted to be wrong.

  And I desperately wanted to be with Jackson.

  Was I a fool to think I could have the best of both worlds? To think that I was stronger than that?

  Past history would tell me yes.

  As footfalls sounded nearby, I turned to see . . . Jackson standing there.

  My heart raced, first with anticipation over seeing him, and next with trepidation over what bad things might come from this conversation. I didn’t want a replay of our earlier argument. Nor did I want Jackson to tell me that something had changed—that maybe he had changed his mind and realized that life with me would be too complicated. Maybe he didn’t want a complicated life. Maybe he wanted a simple life with his dog and fishing and working in this small tourist town.

  “Hey.” I straightened my shoulders.

  “Hey.” His voice sounded mellow as he stepped toward me, his hands in his jeans pockets.

  He stopped beside me, and awkwardness jostled between us. I hated awkwardness.

  “Joey, I’m—”

  “Jackson, I’ve been thinking—”

  We both stopped and shared a smile.

  “You go first,” I finally said.

  “I’m sorry if I acted like a jerk earlier,” he told me. “I love you, and I respect you, Joey. But I’ve seen too many times what can happen when people put themselves in seemingly innocent situations. It opens the door to temptation. And it’s not that I think you’d purposefully—”

  “Sam is staying with Zane,” I blurted.

  Zane had an old-fashioned RV that he parked at another friend’s house. The side opened up like a tent, and he could “feel the ocean breeze all night,” as he liked to talk about.

  It would definitely give Sam a true Outer Banks experience.

  I’d mentioned it to Zane first, and he’d been totally on board. To my surprise, Sam had been open to the idea also.

  Jackson paused and blinked. “What?”

  I nodded and looped a hair behind my ear. “I thought about what you said, and, even if I don’t agree with it, I wanted to let you know that your opinion is important to me.”

  “Thank you.” His voice sounded husky with emotion as he reached for me.

  “I’m sorry that I was being stubborn earlier. It’s just that with Eric—”

  “I know,” Jackson said quietly. “I wasn’t trying to be controlling.”

  “I know.” I realized moisture was running down my cheeks and quickly wiped the tears with the back of my hand. “I hate fighting with you.”

  “I hate fighting with you too.”

  “And we can tell people we’re together,” I continued. “It’s just that what we have is special, and once the media gets ahold of it, it won’t feel as special. It will feel like news. I don’t want that.”

  “I understand.”

  It was my turn to blink th
is time. “You do?”

  “I do. I don’t have the same experiences you do with this kind of thing, so I’m going to have to trust your wisdom.”

  “Oh, Jackson. Thank you.” I threw my arms around him in a hug.

  He held me close—close enough that I could feel his heart beating. And he didn’t let go. And I didn’t want him to. I just wanted to know that we would be okay.

  “I love you, Joey,” he whispered.

  “I love you too. And I know I’m going to mess up more.” Like a lot more. I had a terrible track record.

  “So will I.”

  Jackson hardly ever messed up, and that was just one more reason I needed him in my life. But at least he was humble enough to know that he wasn’t entirely perfect. Just almost.

  “So maybe we both just need to be patient with each other,” I said.

  “That sounds like a great plan.” Jackson pulled back until we were face-to-face.

  And then he kissed me. Kissed me in a way that I wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon—and in a way that I hoped to recreate many times in the future.

  As I pulled back, I stayed close enough to still feel his breath on my cheek. “Maybe we should just run away together and forget all of this.”

  Part of me had hoped he would agree. Then we could run off together and forget about our problems. I knew that wasn’t a solution we needed for our problems. But it was tempting.

  “We can’t do that,” Jackson said.

  My lips pulled down in a frown. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  Jackson stepped back, his warm gaze still on me. “How about if I go fix us some coffee, and we can sit out here for a while. I can bring out some chairs from the dining room, and we can enjoy this view. Sound good?” Jackson asked.

  “Sounds better than good. It sounds great.”

  “I’ll be back then.” He disappeared inside.

  As he did, I walked over to the railing and leaned against it, thankful a thousand times over that our conversation had gone well. That we were back on solid ground. And that Jackson was still in my life.

  Before I could revel in the moment too long, something shifted in front of me.