by Dawn Dugle
I stood up and looked around for the roll of plastic where these sheets had come from. Nothing in plain view. There was a workbench near the door, but what caught my attention were the three paintings that were standing on easels at the end of the room.
They looked like a random mess of paint thrown at the canvas. Blues, blacks, reds, oranges... every color of the rainbow was splattered on the canvases.
"Breathtaking aren't they?"
I turned to see Seth enter the room and point to the canvases.
"They're my best works yet," He beamed. "I'm incredibly proud of them."
"What do you call them?"
He pointed to each painting. "That one is called Dumah, That one is Kushiel and the third one is Raziel."
"Sounds biblical," I said.
He whirled around to look at me, his grin replaced by a frown. "Pretty smart, for a cop."
My mouth flew open.
"You don't think I would recognize Wysdom Ward from the legendary Flamingo Cove police family? Even if I didn't know you from investigating my cousin's murder, I could spot that terrible dye job from anywhere. What did you do, dip your head in a vat of red food coloring?" He sneered.
"This is my natural hair color," I was indignant. Why am I defending my hair color? I tried to regroup. "You seem angry, Mr. Campbell, why is that?"
"I don't like people in my studio, and I think you've overstayed your welcome at the party," he waved toward the door.
"You mean 'memorial'. A memorial service for your cousin," I said, not moving an inch.
"Right. Memorial."
"Where were you on the night she was killed?" I stood my ground, looking for a reaction from him. He didn't squirm, or flinch, he threw back his head and laughed.
"Lord. You are barking up the wrong tree," he laughed.
"Then you won't mind telling me where you were."
"I was catching the show at Midnight Louise's."
"What is that?"
"You're the one investigating, now go investigate! Now, if you don't mind, I would like you to get the hell off my premises." He tried to grab my arm, but I knocked his hand away and turned toward the door.
As I headed toward the hallway, I took a glance at the workbench. There, amid the mess were his paintbrushes and tools. Four palette knives.
"The exit is through that way," He pointed to the door at the end of the hallway that led back to the main gallery. He tried to put his hand on my arm again, and I whirled on him.
"Do NOT touch me Mr. Campbell, if you know what's good for you."
I turned and walked through to the front door and out onto the sidewalk where I could catch my breath. A hand touched my arm and I elbowed the person right in the solar plexus.
"Oof," Luke said, doubling over.
"Shit! I'm sorry, Luke."
"I just wanted to know if you're all right, and I can see that you aren't."
I looked around us and could see people staring through the windows of the gallery, including one Mr. Seth Campbell.
"I'm going to shove your hand away and walk one direction to my car. I want you to go the other direction and meet me at my house. I'll text you the address." I shoved Luke's hand away from my arm and walked off, not looking back.
∞∞∞
Chapter Fifteen
I had only been home long enough to step out of my stupidly high heels when the doorbell rang. I was expecting Luke, but I got my partner instead.
"What the hell happened?" Bodie barged inside.
"By all means, come right on in," I shut the door.
"What did you say to Seth Campbell?"
"I just asked him where he was the night of the murder."
"He wasn't on our suspect list."
"He is now. Guess what he has in his studio? That same thick plastic we found on top of the victim. Plus - four palette knives. Not five," I was getting excited. "I think he did it!"
"Wysdom, I looked into those palette knives. They don't always come in sets of five. Plus, you can buy them separately."
"Doesn't matter, I know he did it."
"How do you know?"
"I've got a feeling..."
He gave me a thoughtful look and sat down on my couch. "Okay, where was he the night of the murder?"
"Midnight Louise's. Have you heard of it?"
"Heard of it? It's the most popular drag queen bar on the West Coast of Florida!"
"Seth said he was there the night of the murder and the show didn't start until midnight."
"That's true," he said. "That's how the name came about - Midnight Louise."
"Then we should go there tonight and check out his alibi."
"Hold on there partner, Midnight Louise's is only open Wednesday through Saturday. They're closed tonight."
I looked at him closely. "You seem to know an awful lot about this. Is it a gay... or omnisexual thing?"
"Something like that," he winked.
The doorbell rang and he stood up. "Expecting company?"
"Maybe."
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes. It's none-of-your-damn-business o'clock! Now, thanks for stopping by, we'll go see Louise tomorrow when they open," I tried shoving him towards the door, and my stubborn partner wouldn't move.
"Who's on the other side of that door?"
"Probably just a Scientologist trying to get me to convert. But I won't know until I answer the door, will I?"
I opened the door to see Luke standing there with a bouquet of flowers, which made me smile.
"Some Scientologist," Bodie muttered as he pushed past Luke. "Good to see you again, Mr. Nelson."
"Luke. Please, call me Luke."
"Great to see you again - LUKE," Bodie mocked. "See you in the MORNING, WYSDOM. Bright and early..."
I shut the door, cutting him off.
Luke tilted his head to look at me. "He seems upset."
"Nordstrom had a secret shoe sale and he didn't get invited," I waved my hand and took the bouquet of flowers. "I assume these are for me?"
He smiled at me and followed me into the kitchen, where I looked for a vase. I didn't have a one so I slipped them into a Squad Room travel mug instead.
Luke took in my cottage. "Nice place. I like the minimalist vibe you've got going here."
"You say minimalist, I say didn't get much in the divorce," I laughed. "Can I get you a glass of wine?"
"Sure."
I pulled down two wine glasses and slowly poured the wine as I thought about how to broach his relationship with Claire.
"Something on your mind?" Luke asked, putting his hands down on island countertop across from me.
"How do you know?" I stalled.
"You have a tell," he smiled.
"I do not."
"Yes. You do."
"Okay smart guy, what is it?"
"When you're about to ask a tough question, but you're afraid of hurting someone's feelings, you wince - just a bit - with your right eye."
"I do not."
"You don't do it when you're in Cop Mode, just when you're trying to be empathetic."
"What's Cop Mode look like?" I put my hands on my hips.
"You're stalling."
I was stalling. Damn it. How does he know these things? "Whatever."
"So ask me your question about Claire."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. How long were you and Claire together?"
"I was never with Claire, but we were friends. When her art started taking off she asked for some help with a few things. I became her part-time business manager."
"Part-time?"
"I had a day job that took me all over the world."
"What job was that?"
"Well... that's classified."
I looked at him. "Classified?"
"I can't say any more than that."
"Can you tell me if this is a job you currently have?"
He said nothing, which was a yes.
"Okay, if you have another job, why did you become
Cathy-Claire's business manager?"
"When her art started taking off, people came out of the woodwork wanting things from her," he sat down at the island. "She was smart, but still a free spirit of sorts. She believed the best in people, even when they gave her every reason not to trust them."
"Like Seth."
"Yes. He got really mad with her when she quit working for him. And when she came out with her own art, he accused her of using his art supplies to create her paintings. Claimed he deserved half of the money she made from them."
"Sounds like a real Prince Charming," I sipped my wine.
"He got really nasty with her, and that's when I stepped in. We came to an agreement - a legal agreement - that she would show her art in his gallery, first, for a period of five years. He would get fifty percent of her sales, but then after that, she was free to renegotiate."
"And I'm guessing at the end of five years is when her sales really took off," I nodded.
"Yes. She bided her time with him, and we created a plan to showcase her art online and on social media. Five years and one day to the day of the contract, she launched her website. We pulled all of her canvases out of his gallery and started selling them ourselves."
"Oh I bet that pissed him off something terrible."
"Indeed. He tried to market the gallery as where Claire Rousseau was discovered, but it was hard to get repeat business at the gallery when they realized not one original Rousseau hung in there."
I tilted my head to look at him. "It sounds like she was clear of that dirtbag, what changed?"
He paused and looked at me. "Her bleeding heart. He came crawling to her, begging her to showcase her work in his gallery. He would do anything... even rename the gallery after her. I told her she owed him nothing. That he had held her over a barrel for five years - five years too many. That didn't matter, because he was family."
"Wow."
"Yeah. We negotiated a deal that she would showcase up to five pieces a year in his gallery, but he would only make thirty percent commission. And the thirty was her idea! I had him at fifteen percent, and she said it wasn't enough for family."
He shook his head again and drank his wine. I considered this news and picked up my glass.
"It sounds like he didn't have motive to kill her either," I started pacing in the kitchen. "If she died, he wouldn't make any money off of her."
"The only money he would make is from the sales of canvases already in the gallery."
It was a sound train of thought, but I felt like there was something more, I just couldn't put my finger on it. I decided to change the subject.
"One thing that keeps bugging me is this Vern thing. Did Claire know he was gay when they got married?" I asked.
"Yep. They came to an arrangement that she would be his plus one for business functions and he would support her while she painted."
"That seems like a rather old-fashioned agreement. It's the 21st century. Gay marriage is legal. Wasn't he worried about getting stuck in a marriage of convenience?"
"He does a lot of business with traditional companies who tend to frown upon alternative lifestyles," he said the last part with air quotes.
I rolled my eyes again. "That's ridiculous. What about Claire?"
"They had a very open marriage because of it. As long as Claire was discreet in her affairs, Vern didn't care."
"Sounds complicated."
"Indeed."
I looked at him and motioned to the back door. "It's a nice night out for looking at the stars. Join me?"
We walked out to the back patio and sat down on the couch.
"You're not cold?" Luke asked.
"Not really. I run a little hotter these days," I laughed.
"I'll say," he said. His gaze started at the top of my head and slowly worked his way down to my feet. I felt like I was being scanned. By lasers. Hot, sexy lasers.
My pulse ratcheted up and I swear to Oprah, my body temperature got ten degrees hotter.
I tried to sip my wine, but nearly choked on it.
This was not one of those subtle clearing of the throat things that some women can pull off and still look cute. This was an 'I'm about to lose consciousness because I'm choking on my own spit' kind of cough. Tears were blurring my eyes as I hacked up a lung. Luke patted me on the back and said: "Breathe through your nose."
Damn it. He's good. That stopped me from coughing, and when I looked up at him again, he was smiling at me. Not at all disgusted by the inevitable snot that must be coming out of my nose and the tear tracks down my face. He handed me a handkerchief. A handkerchief! It's like Jane Freaking Austin up in here.
"Here. Feel better?"
"Um yeah."
"Why don't you sit back against the arm of the couch and give me your feet," he suggested.
"Why?"
"Because you looked like your feet were hurting you in the gallery and I thought you might like me to rub them for you."
I could play coy and drag this out, but I didn't want to. When a man offers to rub your feet, you say yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Unless he's a sexual deviant who has a foot fetish, but my money was on that not being the case here.
He began massaging the arch of my foot with a very strong thumb. I moaned from pure unadulterated pleasure. I cannot remember the last time someone rubbed my feet. Not even someone-who-was-legally-required-to-live-with-me. Whatever his name was. "God, you're like a dream come true. You can't be this perfect."
"I'm far from perfect. I have so many flaws."
"Name one."
Luke thought for a minute while he continued to rub my feet. "Sometimes, I get up on Sundays and do nothing, all day. I call it laying around in my own filth. I don't shower. I don't answer the phone. I might brush my teeth, but that's rare."
"Wow. I should probably arrest you right now for that."
"Been there. Done that."
I laughed and took another sip of my wine. God his hands felt good on my feet. I started to imagine what they would feel like if they moved up my legs to my... NO.NO.NO.NO. FOCUS!
"Okay, Mr. Perfect. What else? Have you left a string of broken hearts across the globe? Maybe some kids you don't know about?"
I was kidding him, but a shadow fell across his face and he stopped massaging my feet.
"I'm sorry. You know, it's none of my business. Occupational hazard of being a cop. You're intrinsically nosy about other people's lives."
He looked at me a second longer and the shadow left his face. He started massaging my feet again. I was just about to say something else when he said: "I can't have kids."
He said it so quietly, I almost didn't hear him. I moved closer and put my hand on his arm. "I'm sorry."
"It was an accident during my second tour," he started. "During my recovery in the hospital the doctors told me I would have trouble in that area."
I must have looked horrified, because he laughed and continued: "Don't worry, I can do all the right things, it's just - my guys aren't very good swimmers."
That's a relief, I think.
"How old were you when they told you that you probably couldn't have kids?"
"Mid-twenties."
"And you probably had never given it any thought..."
"I had thought about it."
I was surprised. "Really? Most men in their twenties would be thrilled to not have to worry about an accidental pregnancy."
"Maybe. But I am not like most men."
"True story dot com. You’re way prettier than most.”
He laughed again. “So you say… and I guess I have gotten a little more attention from the ladies over the years.”
“A little?”
“A little,” he knitted his eyebrows together. “Doesn’t mean I slept around though. I like to remain disease-free while I’m waiting for my soulmate to come along.”
I looked at him and cleared my throat, changing the subject. "Where did you grow up?"
"Miami. My parents are first generation Americ
ans. Their parents came from Cuba and managed to escape the Communist regime," he explained.
"Are your parents still around?"
"They are. They have been married fifty years and I swear, they act like two horny teenagers!"
"I can understand that. My dad and his wife have been married 31 years and can't keep their hands off each other!"
He stared right into my soul. "Love does that to people."
"Ah... any siblings?"
"I'm the youngest of five. And the rest are all girls," he shook his head.
"Oh boy, I bet they tortured you growing up." I could just picture it now.
"Indeed. They made me play dress up with them. They'd put my hair in barrettes, slap makeup on my face and force me to wear costumes. We would put on skits for our family every Sunday after dinner. Sunday dinners were sacred at our house. Still are." Luke was staring off at the water, lost in a memory.
"How about you?" He turned back to me. "You have two Detective Ward brothers?"
"Yes. Tripp is the middle child, although he thinks someone left him in charge," I smirked. "I'm ten years older than him and yet he tries to act like the older brother."
"Brothers can be very protective of their sisters no matter where they fall in the birth lineup," he winked at me.
"Then there's Wynn. He's the perfect kid brother. He was a jock in school, but was so nice to everyone. The cool kids, the nerds, everyone. Everyone wanted to be his friend, and that continues to this day. Unfortunately, that also extends to the ladies," I shook my head.
"Heartbreaker?"
"That would assume he was giving his heart to any of them."
"He's still young, no?"
"Maybe. But he's 28. At 28, I was married with..."
"With?"
"Nothing."
"Wysdom, I told you about my lazy swimmers, I doubt whatever you tell me could be as bad as that," Luke ran his hand up my arm, and rubbed my back right behind my shoulder. God that felt good.
"Fine. I was pregnant."
Luke stilled and looked at me.
I shrugged. "It didn't take."
"I'm so sorry."
"It's probably for the best. My husband... EX-husband ...and I hadn't been seeing eye-to-eye, since... well, since our wedding day. I probably shouldn't have married him, but he made a great case for it."
Luke's eyebrows knitted together. "Like a closing argument?"
