“She is,” said Steve.
“I can’t believe how incredible she looks in a snapshot,” Tessa said.
“She’s even more stunning in person.” Steve shook his head. “That photo does not do her justice.”
“Jason Welling and Leslie Lamont are big stars,” Tessa said. “But most people on the island don’t know anything about the work you do in Hollywood.”
“No one here pries into my Hollywood life,” Steve answered. “Which is one of the things we love about living here.”
“Locals consider it impolite to talk about your profession,” Tessa said.
“Really?” Steve shrugged. “We didn’t know, but it suits us perfectly. Widow’s Island is our sanctuary. We have enough stress and publicity back in LA. When we come here, we want to get away from all the Hollywood drama.” Steve took a long breath. “My wife is weary of being in the public eye. She likes to live a quiet life, which is why she often stays here when I go back to LA.”
“The island has its quirks, and people seem to love it or hate it,” Tessa added.
Steve gestured toward a gray leather sofa angled toward his desk. “Please sit down.”
Perching on the edge of a cushion, Tessa circled back to the investigation. “Does the name Dante Moreno sound familiar?”
“Yes.” Steve hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “He was painting a picture of my wife. She doesn’t know that I’ve known about it since the beginning. I was going to act surprised when she gave me the painting for my birthday. But this morning, when the news of his death came, she was so upset she had to tell me why.”
“How did you find out?” Tessa asked.
Steve snorted. “Three different people told me. I suspect it is all but impossible to keep a secret on this island.”
Tessa agreed.
“And you were okay with the arrangement?” Logan’s tone suggested he would not be.
“Honestly, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of my wife taking her clothes off for some young artist, but Pam used to be a model. Nudity isn’t such a big deal to her. She’s going to turn fifty next summer. She’s been rather glum about it. If having her portrait done made her happy, then that was okay with me.” Steve pointed to his own chest. “Any issues I have with it are mine. And I’ll deal with them like an adult.”
“That’s very . . . progressive of you.” Logan leaned on the wall. “I’m not sure I could be so civilized.”
“I love my wife. Her happiness is more important than my male ego.” Steve’s gaze was direct. “That’s my bottom line.”
Tessa tilted her head toward the window. Through the glass, she could see the boats tied up at the dock. “Those are nice boats. Do you fish?”
“As often as I can.” Steve looked out at the inlet. “There is nothing more calming than the sea. My job in LA is very stressful. My blood pressure dropped twenty points the second I set foot on this island.”
“Now that I understand,” Logan said.
Logan had barely talked to her about his experiences in the Middle East, but the grimness in his tone and expression spoke volumes.
Tessa shifted her position on the sofa. “What kind of fishing do you enjoy?”
“I’m not fussy,” Steve said. “I like halibut, salmon, whatever’s running. As long as I’m out on the water, I’m happy.”
“Do you have a harpoon on that boat?” Tessa motioned toward the window.
“You mean like the one that was used to kill the artist?” Steve was smarter than Brad.
“Yes,” Tessa said. “Exactly like the one that was used to kill the artist.”
Steve’s eyebrow lifted. “The larger boat is stocked with harpoons, gaffs, and various other pointy objects. You’ll find the same on half the fishing boats on the island.”
Unfortunately, he was likely right.
“Where were you last night, Steve?” Tessa asked.
“I was here, sleeping.” Neither Steve’s voice nor his gaze faltered. Either he was telling the truth or he was a damned good liar. Tessa didn’t know him well enough to decide.
She could guess the answer to her next question, but she had to ask it. “Can anyone verify that?”
“Just Pam.” Steve pushed off his desk. He walked to the window, then turned to face them again. “If I’d known I was going to need an alibi, I would have been sure to arrange one.”
Tessa ignored the comment. “I’d like to see Pam now.”
“I’ll get her.” Steve walked from the room. He returned in a few moments, his arm linked with his wife’s.
“I need to speak with Pam privately.” Tessa gave Steve a look.
“I understand.” He squeezed his wife’s hand, then released her arm. “I’ll be in the study if you need me.”
Steve left the room, closing the door behind him.
Though Steve had told them Pam was approaching fifty, Tessa would never have guessed she was that old. Tessa remembered someone telling her that Pam had played volleyball in college. She still looked fit enough to rush the net and spike the ball. Her dark hair was long and glossy, and except for a few crow’s-feet around her eyes, her skin was smooth and unlined. Around town, islanders gossiped that Pam had had a few nips, tucks, and augmentations, but if she had, the surgeon had been skilled and subtle.
Like Shannon, she’d been crying. Pam’s eyes were puffy, and her nose was red. But she wasn’t drowning her sorrows in merlot. She held a mug of tea between her hands, gripping it as if she couldn’t get warm. In leggings and a tunic-length sweater, she sat on the couch opposite Tessa and curled her legs around her body.
Tessa turned to face her. “When did you last talk to Dante?”
“I went to the studio on Monday for a sitting. The portrait is almost done.” She frowned. “I suppose it won’t ever be finished now.” She sighed. “What’s going to happen to the painting?”
The women were all obsessed with their paintings.
“We’ll address ownership after we find Dante’s killer. Did you know his real name was Frank Martin?” Tessa watched Pam’s face closely for a response.
Still frowning, Pam set down her tea. “No. But it doesn’t surprise me. He was a talented artist, but he was also very smooth.” Her mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “You know what, though? I don’t care.”
“Did you know he was painting other women?” Logan asked.
“Yes.” She picked up her tea again and sipped. “But I never saw any of the others. He was discreet and kept the other paintings in a back room.”
Tessa leaned closer. “Where were you at eleven p.m.?”
“Here.” Pam sipped. “I’ve been having terrible insomnia the last few weeks. I took a sleeping pill and went to bed early.”
“What about Steve?” Tessa asked.
“He was here too.” She tucked her feet farther under her body. “He was watching TV in bed when I fell asleep.”
Tessa pushed harder. “Did you wake up during the night?”
“No.” Pam shook her head. “Those pills knock me out. I would have slept through an earthquake.”
Noted.
Tessa stood. “Thank you for your time.”
“Of course.” Pam nodded. “Maybe he had a good reason for lying about his name.”
Tessa thought he may have had a hundred thousand of them. “Do you have any ideas?”
“Witness protection?” Pam had spent too much time in Hollywood.
“We’ll look into that. We might need you to answer more questions, but that’s all for now.” They saw themselves out. Tessa led the way back to the vehicle. Behind the wheel, she said, “Pam can’t alibi Steve either.”
“No.” Logan drummed his fingers on the console. “If she took a sleeping pill, Steve could easily have slipped out, killed Dante, and returned without waking her up. Could either Steve or Brad be the man who attacked you in the studio?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a look at his face, but they’re both the right size. B
oth are in decent enough shape.”
Tessa frowned at the horizon. The sun had set, leaving only the faint trace of pink light peeking over the sea. Sundown. The word had taken on new meaning since her mother’s disease had progressed. Mom would get more confused as darkness set in, and Patience should not have to deal with her deterioration alone. Cate would have left when the teenager returned from school. “I need to get home. Can we pick up the investigation tomorrow?”
“Yes. Call me in the morning.”
The thought of spending another day with Logan pleased her. Probably too much, but her life was short on happiness at the moment. She was going to let herself enjoy their time together, even if nothing came of it.
She dropped him off at his vehicle and drove home. Her leg throbbed. The local anesthetic was wearing off. She sat in her vehicle for a minute, staring at the house, summoning the energy to deal with her mother.
It’s not her fault.
But even knowing that, the last thing Tessa wanted to do at that moment was go inside the house. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, from fighting a battle they were destined to lose.
But what else could she do?
She climbed out of the vehicle, changed her boots on the porch, and headed for the chicken enclosure, almost grateful for the detour. She opened the wire door and stepped inside. A squawk and flutter of feathers was her three-second warning. Killer Hen beelined for Tessa’s legs. She grabbed the broom by the entrance and used it to block the territorial hen’s attack. Once the hen had made her point, she smoothed her ruffled feathers and strutted off. But her swagger and backward glance told Tessa their feud was not over.
Tessa fed the chickens, changed their water, and collected six eggs. The coop and enclosure needed a good raking and fresh straw, but that chore could wait for daylight. She left the chickens and trudged up the porch steps. Leaving her boots outside, she went into the house and hung her jacket on its peg.
The kitchen was too warm, almost stifling. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, peeling carrots. She wore a summer nightgown. Her feet were bare.
Patience pulled a casserole dish from the microwave and carried it to the table. Her long red hair was bound in a ponytail. Without makeup, the teen looked young and heartbreakingly vulnerable. “It was easier to turn up the heat than to make her change her clothes.”
“I understand. It’s fine.” Tessa set the basket of eggs on the counter, removed her uniform clip-on tie, and unfastened the top two buttons of her shirt.
“Cate’s grandmother sent us a lasagna,” Patience said.
“She is so thoughtful.” Underneath her stiff uniform, sweat began to gather under Tessa’s body armor. She turned to her mother. “Hi, Mom.”
Her mother brushed a strand of gray hair away from her eyes. “You’re late.” Her gaze shifted to Patience, then back to Tessa. “Dinner will be cold. Can’t you see we have a guest?”
Tessa glanced at her sister. The teen’s face was tight, her eyes misty. Tessa’s heart ached for her. Their mother’s decline was hard enough for Tessa to handle. A fifteen-year-old should not have to deal with her own mother not recognizing her. Patience needed a break.
Tessa lifted the front of her shirt away from her chest. “I’ll be here all evening if you want to hang out with a friend.”
The teen’s eyes brightened. “There’s no school tomorrow. Mallory asked if I could stay over. Her mom said she’d pick me up after dinner. I’ll be back before you have to leave for work in the morning.”
Tessa had forgotten about the teacher in-service day. “I think that’s a great idea. I’m going to change. I’ll be right back.”
She went to her room, exchanged her uniform for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and returned to the kitchen. Her sister was cutting squares of lasagna. They ate with no major blowups. Tessa was grateful for the peaceful meal. A lack-of-sleep headache had formed behind her eyes, and her leg pulsed with pain. She downed two ibuprofen to cover both.
Patience stood and reached for her plate.
“I’ve got this.” Tessa pushed her chair back. “You go get ready.”
Her sister fled the room as if afraid something would happen to cancel her plans. She emerged ten minutes later carrying a flowered backpack. “Mallory’s mom is here.”
Tessa walked her to the front door and waved as her sister jogged out to the minivan and climbed inside. After locking up, Tessa returned to the kitchen and scooped ice cream—a known weakness of her mother’s—into two bowls.
She set both bowls on the table and sat across from her mother. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
“All right.” Her mom picked up her spoon and dug in.
“It’s about Dante Moreno,” Tessa began carefully.
Her mom set down her spoon. “Well, shit. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Tessa concealed her shock. She’d never heard her swear before. “The painting?”
Her mother nodded.
“Whose idea was it to paint you?”
The papery skin of her mother’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t remember.”
“Do you remember going to his studio?”
“Oh, yes.” Mom smiled.
“How did you get there?”
“In the beginning, when the weather was nicer, I walked. But once it got cold, Dante picked me up. He was such a nice boy.”
How could Tessa have had no idea what her mother had been doing? But then, how would she? She would have been at work, and Patience was at school. Tessa had assumed her mother hung around the house all day, weeding her garden and talking to her chickens. Obviously, that wasn’t so.
She hadn’t seen her mother happy in a long time, and it broke her heart to have to kill her joy. “Mom, I have some bad news.”
Mom’s smile faltered.
Tessa took her hands. “Dante passed away.”
Shock opened her mother’s mouth. “But he was young. Was it an accident?”
Tessa picked her words carefully. She didn’t want to frighten her mother, but she didn’t want her to hear the news from someone else—even though tomorrow she might forget. “It was very unexpected.”
“That’s horrible.” Mom pushed her ice cream away. “He was such a nice young man.”
“That’s what people have been saying. How much did he charge you for the painting?”
“Charge me?” Confusion clouded her mother’s face. “He didn’t charge me anything.”
“You didn’t give him any money?” Tessa couldn’t believe it.
“No. Why would I give him money?”
“Because that’s what he did for a living,” Tessa said.
“I gave him fresh eggs,” her mom said, as if a few dozen eggs were more than enough payment. Her face scrunched up in deep thought. “He also said I reminded him of his mother, and he hadn’t been a good son. I told him to go home and apologize for whatever he’d done. He said he could never go home.”
Tessa made a mental note to find out more about Dante’s criminal history. “Do you remember how you met him?”
“I don’t want to answer any more questions.” Her mother sat back. “What happened to my painting?”
“It’s logged in with the other evidence.”
“I want it.”
Tessa didn’t know who owned it now that Dante was dead. The ME hadn’t found any next of kin yet. The other four women had contracts and bills of sale for their paintings. They would likely be able to prove ownership, but if Dante had truly painted her mother for free, would the painting become part of his estate?
“I’ll try to get it for you,” Tessa began. “But it’s complicated.”
“I need that painting, Tessa. It’s me.” A tear slipped out of her mother’s eye. “It’s me before.” She waved her hands in the air, as if she knew what she wanted to say but couldn’t find the words. She gave up, defeated. Her shoulders slumped, and she began to sob.
“I know. And I’m sorry. I locked up the painting,
so it’s safe for now.” But her mother was crying too hard to hear anything. Tessa got up, walked around the table, and put an arm around her mother. “So sorry.”
They cried together for a while. Then Tessa got them each a fresh bowl of ice cream. Within a half hour, her mother seemed to forget the whole discussion.
By eight o’clock, her mother went to bed. Tessa lowered the temperature on the thermostat. She called Bruce and asked him to request more information about the fraud charge from the police in New Jersey. Then she settled on the couch with her laptop. There was no way she was going to sleep in her bedroom tonight. She’d bunk right here on the couch, within steps of the front door so she’d hear her mother if she got restless during the night. Tessa opened her computer and began typing her reports on the day’s interviews.
She’d worked through several pages of notes when her phone vibrated. Logan’s number displayed on the screen.
“Hi,” she answered, expecting news about the investigation. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to see how your mother handled the news of Dante’s death?”
How thoughtful. Warmth spread through Tessa’s chest. He’d been thinking of her, not the case.
“She was upset at first, but it didn’t last long.” She told him what her mother had said about Dante not being able to go home. “I hope the killer is someone from New Jersey. It would be so much better if the killer wasn’t one of us.” She laughed. “That sounds odd, but you know what I mean.”
“I do, and it would,” Logan agreed.
“I probably want that too much,” Tessa admitted.
“Me too, but it’s entirely plausible that one of Dante’s past crimes—or one of his victims—caught up with him.”
7
“Please pass the rolls.” Logan dropped his cloth napkin into his lap and kept his elbows off the table.
One of Logan’s most favorite places in the entire world was his grandmother’s table. Jane Sutton was an eccentric and headstrong woman. Instead of using a normal grandmother nickname, she had chosen to be simply called Jane by her grandchildren. But Logan adored every one of Jane’s quirks. Her love was the one constant in his entire life.
A Bone to Pick (Widow's Island Novella Book 2) Page 6
