SAGE: AN ADAM STONE MYSTERY (THE ADAM STONE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by D. L. EVANS

  "It’s similar to what I can do, Adam. I can feel your questions... when you centre on them or maybe they’re just educated guesses. I don’t know for sure."

  Damn, she’s beautiful. Shit, I thought to myself. Think of a brick wall.

  "Getting back to Morgan,” she said, “something happened about two months ago that upset her. I... I only had a whiff of this, you understand, because I only saw her occasionally and she was always in some kind of emotional flap about her work. At first, she was very... confused... worried, and I didn’t pay much attention because she was rushing to finish the last few pieces for the opening. Her personality is... was, so erratic. Alison would say that she was wound a little tight, you know?” She stopped to collect her thoughts. I waited. “We got along quite well,” she continued, “although I did feel that she had suffered severe emotional problems when she was young. Her flamboyance, her aggressive attitude, thinly covered a need for constant stroking, not uncommon in a talented artist. I feel badly that I thought she was just another unstable, insecure person going through some internal crisis about her work... Sigmund Annie.” She smiled a quick grin and poured herself another glass of wine. The coffee table, I noticed was actually an incredible wooden mill wheel lying on its side and covered with a circle of tinted glass. What an extraordinary piece of furniture. She had stopped talking and when I looked up, she continued.

  “I didn’t really need to interact with Morgan so I basically ignored the situation. Then, about a month ago, the time I felt she was physically avoiding me, I sensed a whole new feeling. Something had changed. She seemed afraid and preoccupied. I can’t make this any clearer except to say that she avoided me on purpose, coming to the Gallery when she knew that I wouldn’t be there... things like that. I tried to explain to you before that I’ve always felt that someone watches over me, maybe you’re right and it is my mother’s spirit, but around the time Morgan was acting weird, I also felt threatened. It wasn’t consistent but I felt it did have something to do with Morgan. Alison asked me if we had some sort of argument, but that didn’t happen. I remember once looking at one of her paintings and making a few unguarded comments about what I thought she was going through at the time. From her reaction, I had hit the nail on the head. She was unsettled and I tried to smooth things over but it was too late. I was going to confront her and sort it out... but... she just didn’t want to know. You can see why I didn’t want to say any of this to your friend, Detective Mackenzie.”

  I said, “Yes, I think she was afraid of someone. The only time I saw her she ran out of the Gallery at the opening party. Lauren and I looked around but couldn’t see who spooked her.”

  “Oh, that was me.” Her eyes stared into me, unblinking.

  “What do you mean? You were there?”

  “Yes," She gave herself a second by sipping her wine. "Alison usually asks me to at least put in an appearance at these do’s and I did that evening. I came in the side entrance and met Winnie, Winston Lucas and after talking to him for a few minutes I went down the hall through the main entrance and looked around for Alison. I caught Morgan’s eye and was going to come over to say hello when she panicked and ran away. I was so surprised and rattled that I left the building. When I got outside, I saw her car leave the parking lot, her new Mercedes. She was driving far too fast and came very close to me. I sensed her fear. I ... I didn’t feel much like facing the crowd after that, and just got back in my car and drove home. The next morning, I phoned her to see if she would see me. Her assistant or friend, whatever, said she wasn’t taking any calls. I had no idea she’d died, or when or how. I spend most of my time either working here or with my reference material at the Gallery and I’m completely focused most of the time. In case you hadn’t noticed, Adam, I avoid people and their problems as much as I can. Everyone’s life is a soap opera and most are unbelievably boring so I learned to shut them out a long time ago. Morgan was a kind soul, brilliant and insecure, but I don’t think she was suicidal. Being around her was like being on the edge of a tornado. Her work was an outlet for explosive energy, and it stabilized her... "

  "I wonder why she ran. Maybe we'll never know. Was she superstitious?"

  "That's a good question, Adam. I should have thought of that possibility before I spoke to her. I think she did have some insight into my ‘gift’. It could have terrified her. There was a time in history that my ancestors would have been burned at the stake… by her ancestors." She smiled and looked away.

  “Can you give me a little more detail about the time you analysed her work and upset her?”

  "Sure. I've been going over it in my mind too. When we first met about six months ago, there was a comment that... upset her. The four of us, Morgan and her agent Felicia, my sister Alison, and me were in her studio, together for the first time, discussing her work. One in particular caught my eye, a very strong piece. I could sense her control when she created some of her more striking pieces but this particular one showed open lust. I said that it looked like she was in love with the devil himself. My casual comments sort of freaked her out. I see now that she was extremely superstitious. She did everything but cross herself. Alison teased me terribly later. Things slip by me too, y’know. I should have guessed from her necklace of crystals and books on the occult that she would jump to conclusions. Anyway, I was careful not to intrude on her privacy after that. Usually, people that are most easily intimidated are also more sensitive than normal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, your friend, detective Mackenzie, for instance. I spoke to him for a few minutes at the gallery this morning, when he brought the news about Morgan. I had nothing to say, Alison handled the situation, but I was with him long enough to know that he’s also psychic. Didn’t you suspect? Why do you think he’s so good at his job? Is he more educated, or experienced than his peers? …. Than you?”

  Wow, I thought. Mack the psychic. Won’t he be pleased to know about this little observation? I indulged myself with a little laugh at his expense. “Oh, he’s very clever, all right,” I agreed. “I always thought he has the most valuable quality that a detective can have, intuition. Is that what you mean?”

  “Hmmmmm” she murmured. “I would have thought the most valuable quality was objectivity, but that’s for another discussion at another time.” Her eyes narrowed and I noticed a little scar hidden in her right eyebrow. Half a dozen sarcastic remarks sped through my head but none of them made it to my mouth. She had my complete attention. “Intuition covers a broad spectrum,” she continued. “You call it, what... gut instinct? When he senses that something isn’t lined up in military order, doesn’t he act on it? Is he usually right?... Don’t bother to answer.”

  I sat there, betting that the stupid expression on my face telegraphed my astonishment.

  Why had she used those particular words? God, she’d hit it right on the head. No wonder Morgan freaked. She must have felt naked. There was a lot more going on behind those magnificent eyes than mere lie detection abilities. Then she toppled me with a knockout blow. “You have some of this talent yourself,” she smiled. “It’s part of the reason you’re here.”

  I found myself asking what I didn’t want to know. “What’s the other part, Annie? There’s more that you’re not saying, isn’t there? What else can you do that you don’t want anyone to know about?” There was a cryptic silence as she stared at me with a distinct bird-of-prey expression. Her eyes darkened and a storm front moved in.

  Something changed. I felt like the Wonderland Alice stepping through the looking glass. Reality was out of sync. Then, a distinct voice echoed inside my head. “You carry the dead weight of past things, Adam, and have some rebuilding to do.”

  I blinked involuntarily, several times and concentrated on her unmoving lips as the voice filled my head. Deep breath... I was... just tired. It had been a long day. She casually sipped her wine as though nothing momentous had just occurred... then spoke.

  “You would only resent me say
ing anything critical... considering we’re practically strangers. Lauren cares deeply for you but you don’t hear what she says either. You need someone Adam, someone professional and objective to get more than your house in order.”

  Shit, shit, shit. When had we changed directions? Had she been talking to Lauren? Discussing my private life behind my back? Anger was bubbling up from some deep place.

  “This person is very good,” Annie said as she placed a business card into my hand. Where had it come from? She must have been holding it, waiting for ‘the moment’ to pass it to me. I felt like she had just pulled a fucking quarter from my ear.

  She continued, “He can help if you’ll lower your pride barrier long enough to hear what you need to know.” I felt as though all of the oxygen had somehow been sucked from the room but since I was holding my breath anyway, it was of no consequence. As I exhaled noisily, I realized it was time to leave before I said something that I couldn’t suck back. She stood and I realized my meeting with Annie was over. I departed with the distinct impression that she could damn well ride a broom if she wanted to. As the elevator doors came together, cutting off my view of her and her sanctuary she silently stood watching me with a quiet, odd expression on her face. There was no gesture, no wave goodbye, just the look.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ADAM STONE:

  The next morning I sat with my coffee and planed my day. It had been a long restless night ending with a decision to give Annie Stanford a wide birth from now on. On the positive side, I decided to give the late, great Morgan a feature part in my new novel, I thought it was time to see for myself what all the fuss was about. What elevated her work above her peers? Was it obvious to the average Joe off the street or did one have to have an appreciation to know what the hell you were looking at? Time to take a look for myself. I glanced through the morning papers and as expected, the press was having a field day with the strange death of the newly ‘discovered’ artist, now elevated to genius. Dead genius. Poor Morgan.

  The Stanford Galleries were jam-packed with the 'great unwashed' who clamoured see the highly acclaimed pieces from one of our own residents, well, former resident. I parked my car in a ‘no-stopping’ zone and sauntered past the line-up fidgeting at the front entrance. Fortunately, Winston Lucas spotted me and signalled me through so I didn’t have to flash my out-of-date (and illegal), cop ID. He was obviously frazzled, overseeing the extra security, hired presumably for crowd control, but relegated to ticket-taker status, allowing small groups in at a time as equal numbers left.

  I followed the flow of people up the stairs and into the second gallery. I didn’t know what I expected but it wasn’t what I saw before me. The first piece under lights on a rotating pedestal was a life-sized situation in what looked like shiny, white plastic. One and a half people were sitting at a white, oval table, having a white plastic breakfast. The woman was only represented from the waist down. Her legs formed the front two legs of the chair. There was no upper body. Her face (in washed out flesh tones) was represented as a reflection in the toaster on the table. A long slender disembodied hand -presumably the wife’s reached out towards the male figure, starting from inside the white table surface. Part of her other hand rested half-submerged along side the sad-faced toaster. The male figure was reading a white newspaper completely obstructing the table and gruesome wife parts. When I looked closer at the male figure, he was beautifully dressed and groomed but had a smooth blank surface where his face should have been. Aliens from the twilight zone, no doubt. There was something compelling about it once you got past the initial shock of the piece. The small script on the base stated simply one word, Marriage. No wonder Morgan had been single if this was what marriage meant to her; a disjointed wife seen by her husband as an integral part of the furniture, who was unable to penetrate his barrier of newsprint. I think she was trying to communicate something (from the expression on the face in the toaster) and because of the newspaper, couldn’t see that he wasn’t there. Or perhaps he was just there in body but not in spirit. Food for thought. Whatever could be said for her talent, Morgan had not been an optimist about holy matrimony.

  I wandered through, relieved that the other works were less disturbing. A giant colourful fish seen at first from the side had a gaping mouth with buggy eyes. When viewed from the front, it had the face of a man. The perspectives were wonderful. I found myself looking from front-to-side and back again several times, enjoying the illusion. It looked like a giant goldfish that sort of resembled Alfred Hitchcock. Well, she had a sense of humour. The paintings I could see were loud, vulgar and brilliant both in colour and design. They seemed to move when you looked at them, like Van Gogh’s. I would have liked to have bought one of the smaller canvases but judging by the frenzied crowd, they had already soared out of my price range. I was lost in a spiral landscape when Alison Stanford came into my peripheral vision. She smelled of exquisite roses and spice. I turned and smiled. She was poured into a black designer two-piece and her hair swirled beautifully on top of her head in a curly halo. Something hard and expensive glittered at her throat.

  “Winston told me you were here,” she whispered. “Hope I’m not interrupting. Do you like her work, Adam?”

  “It’s a little peculiar for my taste but to answer your question, yes, I think she was very good. What happens to them now?”

  “Morgan’s agent, Felicia Farr is arranging a European tour starting in Warsaw when the will is probated and... Morgan’s cousin, actually there are four of them so far, take control. She called me this morning and told me that the coroner has officially called Morgan’s death an accident, and signed the death certificate so she’ll be cremated on Friday, at ten. The service will be short and private as Morgan requested in her will. However, Annie and I are having a memorial service here at the gallery Friday evening for all her friends and former students. Like a wake, you know, to say goodbye and remember how she loved life, not to mention a good party. I've already invited Lauren and Roger; I would like you to come too, if you're available. Do you know Vladimir Roman?"

  "Not personally," I said with only a hint of sarcasm. Why, I wondered, did she irritate me? "He's the Russian that is designing the uh... secret masterpiece for the new Bank plaza. It's in the papers now and then. I saw the show where Lauren interviewed him.”

  "Romanian actually," she whispered. "He would probably disembowel anyone who referred to him as Russian, but it's a common faux pas." She laughed at her own little witticism. "Yes, Lauren was fortunate to get him in front of a camera. He's a maniac about privacy. Well anyway he will give the eulogy... I was also fortunate in persuading him to attend as he also hates public gatherings... probably the public in general... but he was fond of Morgan, so I guess that’s why he agreed.”

  She was obviously pleased to have won this concession from the great man, so I didn’t disillusion her with the fact that I was unfamiliar with ‘The Great Vlad’ or his work. I only vaguely remembered seeing him on Lauren’s show. I remained silent, staring at the painting. Unlike her sister, she was uncomfortable with silences and eventually coughed politely. “You’ve been to see Annie... Lauren told me. It must have slipped Annie’s mind when we spoke on the phone last night.“ I nodded, not seeing a need to elaborate.

  “Is she here?” I asked.

  A flicker of annoyance crossed her eyes and just as quickly disappeared. “No she left. Perhaps I can ask you a question...” I met her emerald eyes and held them, to indicate that she could continue. “If Morgan’s death was an accident, why is detective Mackenzie still investigating?”

  “I have no idea. I’m not a cop anymore and Mackenzie doesn’t check with me about anything. Does your sister usually check everything with you?”

  “No." she snapped a little to quickly. "It’s just that I like to keep an eye on her. It’s not like spying or anything. She is my younger sister and I’ve been taking care of her for a long time. But lately, since the Galleries have re-opened it’s been difficul
t finding the time. Winnie and I have been run off our feet and Morgan’s death has been an unbelievable complication. I’ve tried to keep Annie out of it as much as I can. External pressures, people, problems, even crimes on the news can sometimes put her over the edge. I’m just trying to put you in the picture Adam - the whole picture.” I nodded indicating gratitude. She continued brightly, “Jessica Farr just called a few minutes ago. She was on her way here but is taking a detour to let the police into Morgan’s house to look around. The cousins arrive tomorrow from Warsaw to dispose of the estate and Jessica will have to turn over the keys. They’ll probably need a search warrant after that.”

  “When will they be there?” I asked.

  She looked at her watch. “In about fifteen minutes. I just wondered what they could be doing when it’s supposed to be settled. I thought you might know, that’s all.” She looked at me with a raised eyebrow, awaiting an answer.

  “Sometimes Mackenzie doesn’t accept the easy answer, hates to leave any loose ends. I wouldn’t worry. Would you give me the studio address? I think I’ll join them.”

  “I’ve some loose ends to tie up myself, with Felicia. Why don’t we drive over together and I’ll get her to bring me back.”