Artistic License to Kill

by Paula Darnell

  “Are you feeling neglected, Mona Lisa?” I asked, and she responded with an ear-splitting meow.

  To pacify her, I grabbed one of her feather toys and began playing with her while Laddie watched us but didn't try to join the game. Every time I flicked the feather, Mona Lisa pounced, and, then, teasing, I would quickly move it again. She never tired of this game, although I couldn't say the same.

  “Enough for now,” I said after we'd played for several minutes. To distract her, I gave her a tuna kitty treat. She loved tuna and quickly dispatched it before leaping to the top of her kitty perch and looking down on Laddie and me. Naturally, Laddie had to have a treat, too, so I spooned a few chunks of leftover tuna into his bowl.

  With the pets temporarily placated, I wandered into my studio. Laddie trailed behind me and settled himself on his bed in the corner, where he could keep a watchful eye on me. Whenever I made a move to leave the studio, whether to step into our cozy little abode or to go out the back door into the yard, Laddie would jump up and follow me.

  While he curled up for a siesta, I picked up my digital camera and took some photos of the landscape I'd just completed for the judge and his wife. I'd told them it would be completed by the end of April and that I would ship it to them at no charge because they'd commissioned the painting when I still lived in Kansas City. When we'd signed the contract, I had agreed to deliver it to them. At the time, I'd still been reeling from the shock of the divorce proceedings, and I'd had no plans to move. It would have been a simple task to load the painting into my SUV to deliver it in person. Now, it wasn't so simple.

  I'd never shipped an oil painting before, and I feared that it could be damaged if it wasn't properly crated to protect it during the twelve-hundred-mile trip back to Kansas City. My fear wasn't completely without foundation. With horror, I remembered the afternoon a friend and I had spent picking little bits of Styrofoam packing peanuts off an oil painting that her cousin had sent her, innocently entrusting a packaging store to box and ship it. During transport, the oil paint had warmed enough to become tacky, and we were never able to remove all the residue from its surface.

  Pondering my dilemma, I decided to ask some of the co-op members to recommend a shipping service that specialized in transporting artwork, although the down side was that it was bound to be expensive, but I could see no other alternative if I wanted the painting to arrive safely at its destination. Quite a few Roadrunner artists specialized in oil painting, although I couldn't remember any of their names offhand, even though Susan had introduced me to several members on the evening we'd set up our displays for the month.

  I kept my computer and my color printer, which I used very sparingly due to the exorbitant price of ink cartridges, on a small desk in the studio. I plugged the cable from my camera into a slot on the back of the PC and uploaded the photos I'd just taken. I'd need to send some pictures to my clients, along with my final invoice, but I wanted to nail down my shipping arrangements first. I looked forward to finalizing the transaction because the last half of their payment would be due as soon as I sent them an invoice, plumping up my dwindling checking account by a welcome two thousand dollars.

  As I sorted and viewed the photos I'd just taken on my monitor, I selected the best ones and placed them in a new download folder so I could easily locate them. I felt pleased by how well the painting conveyed the essence of the wooded landscape that my customers had commissioned me to paint, the view they saw from the back porch of their vacation cabin in the Ozarks.

  The couple had loved the dreamlike quality of my expressionistic paintings. Decades after I'd studied art in college, I'd finally developed my own unique style. After Crystal Star had seen my paintings at a local outdoors art fair, she'd approached me about scheduling a one-woman show.

  Her invitation to show my paintings at her gallery had bolstered my budding confidence in myself as an artist, and the months I'd spent making new artwork for the show were among the happiest of my life. Ned had agreed that I could take time off from the insurance agency to prepare for the show. In fact, he'd agreed readily, and I'd felt grateful for his support. It wasn't until later that it had dawned on me that he'd had an ulterior motive. With my absence from the insurance office, he'd be there alone with his assistant Candy. Long story, short: now they were married and had a baby.

  Chapter 8

  Laddie heard a noise before the doorbell rang, and he jumped up to wait for me at the front door, tail wagging, eager to greet a new visitor. Since I wasn't expecting anyone, and I remembered Greg's warning about keeping my doors locked, I looked through the peephole to see who stood outside.

  My anxiety subsided the instant I recognized my visitor.

  “Hello, Officer Dyson,” I said, as I opened the door.

  He took off his hat and patted Laddie on the head as the curious retriever poked his nose over the threshold.

  “Nice dog,” he commented, squatting to Laddie's level and scratching him behind the ears. Of course, Laddie couldn't get enough of it, so I finally called a halt since Officer Dyson didn't seem to be in any great hurry to tell me the reason for his visit.

  “Come in,” I invited, and he stepped inside.

  He stared at the floor while he mumbled something about coming down to the station with him.

  I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.

  “What was that, officer?” I asked.

  He looked up, sighed, and told me that Lieutenant Belmont wanted me to come down to the station to make an official statement.

  “All right. I can come now. Let me just grab my car keys.”

  “Uh, he said I should bring you.”

  “And you'll be in trouble if you don't,” I guessed.

  “That's about the size of it.”

  “Well, no matter. I'll come along with you, then.” I picked up my purse and told Laddie to stay and be a good boy, before locking the front door on my way out.

  Officer Dyson opened the passenger door of the police car for me, and I slipped into the front seat. I was glad he hadn't asked me to sit in the back. I had visions of prisoners being hauled to the station in handcuffs, languishing in the back seat.

  I was struck by how young he looked, so I asked him how long he'd been on the force.

  “Almost a year now, ma'am. They hired me right after I got my associate's degree in criminal justice.”

  I did some quick calculations and figured he was probably twenty-one or twenty-two, assuming he'd taken two years to obtain his degree and had enrolled in college right away after graduating from high school.

  “Please call me Amanda,” I said. “'Ma'am' makes me feel so old.”

  “I'm sorry, ma' . . . uh, Amanda, and you can call me Mike. Officer Dyson sounds so formal.”

  “It's a deal, Mike,” I said, smiling at him. “I suppose we didn't meet under very good circumstances. Last week you stopped me for speeding, and then you responded first when Susan and I found Janice. My neighbor told me she's lived here ten years, and she can't remember there ever being a murder in town.”

  “She could be right, but I really don't know. I'm from Phoenix myself. Actually, I have my application in with the Phoenix P.D.”

  “Sounds as though you'll be leaving us soon.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “Uh, I didn't mean it the way it sounded, but I'd really like to move back to Phoenix. My family and friends are there. Besides, Lieutenant Belmont treats all the patrol officers like they're his personal servants, and I'm getting fed up with it.”

  The gruff Belmont hadn't made a very good impression on me, either, so I could see his point.

  When we arrived at the police station, Mike asked me to wait in the lobby for the detective, so I took a seat on one of the orange hard-plastic chairs that provided the only touch of color in the drab reception area. After about five minutes, Mike returned and asked me to come with him. He led me to a small gray room in the back. It was remarkable in that the walls, table, and chairs were all gray. I'd never s
een such a dull, depressing room in my life.

  “Belmont should be here in a minute,” Mike said.

  “You mean Lieutenant Belmont, don't you?” the detective growled, coming up behind Mike.

  “Yes, sir, lieutentant,” Mike responded crisply and left before the detective had a chance to say anything else. I remembered that he had called Mike “Dyson” that very morning, so it seemed that respect only went one way from his point of view.

  “I need your statement about what happened this morning. Start from the beginning, and don't leave anything out. Write it down,” he directed, handing me some lined notebook paper and a pen. He left abruptly, closing the door behind him.

  I decided I didn't want to linger there any longer than necessary, so I began rapidly scribbling my statement. Since there wasn't much to tell, I finished in a few minutes. I went out, into the hallway, to look for the detective to let him know I'd completed my task, but it was deserted, so I went back to the reception area, where I spotted Sergeant Martinez. He hadn't been there earlier, when I'd arrived with Mike, but he saw me and smiled. It was good to see a friendly face. I told him that I'd finished writing my statement and asked him if I needed to wait for Lieutenant Belmont.

  Sergeant Martinez nodded. “He'll need you to sign your statement. Do you have it with you? I have to type it first.”

  “I left it in the conference room.”

  “Mrs. Trent,” the detective bellowed from down the hallway. I turned to face him. He did not look like a happy camper, as he motioned me to come back to the conference room.

  “Where do you think you're going?” he demanded. “I told you to wait for me in the conference room.”

  “No, you didn't,” I disagreed. “I was looking for you, as a matter of fact. Sergeant Martinez told me he has to type my statement before I can sign it.”

  “You let me worry about that.” He ushered me back into the cell-like conference room.

  “Wait here,” he commanded, before grabbing my handwritten statement and stalking out.

  “We're not done yet,” he said when he returned. “Why didn't you tell me you had a grudge against Janice Warren?”

  “What? That's not true!” I protested. “I hardly knew her.”

  “Do you deny that you were displeased with the way she conducted your interview for the gallery?”

  “Well, I was surprised that the committee members didn't act friendly during my interview,” I admitted, taken aback. “But there were three of them, not just Janice, and, anyway, they did accept my application for membership, so I really had no reason to be unhappy.”

  “So you say.”

  “It's the truth. I wanted to join the gallery co-op, and I was able to do that. Why would I bear Janice a grudge?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I already told you. I didn't!” I said in frustration.

  “You had an argument with her a few days ago.”

  “No, I didn't.”

  “You're claiming that you didn't have words with her Saturday evening?”

  “We had a discussion about framing my artwork. It wasn't an argument.”

  “You were fuming, according to witnesses.”

  Fuming? I wondered how he'd arrived at that conclusion and who the witnesses were. As far as I knew, nobody had overheard my conversation with Janice, but other members may have noticed that she was talking with me, and I remembered turning red with embarrassment because, at the time, I hadn't wanted to reveal too much about my financial status, but she'd kept pushing.

  “That's not true, either. Janice suggested I frame my paintings, and I told her I'd consider it, but I couldn't afford the extra expense at the moment.”

  A tap on the door sounded, and Sergeant Martinez came in, handed the detective my statement, and left, closing the door behind him.

  “Read that and sign it.”

  I scanned the document. Although I tried to steady my hand as I signed it, I was trembling. I hoped he hadn't noticed.

  “So you didn't resent Janice calling you out in front of all the other members?”

  “She didn't 'call me out,' as you put it. I already told you what we discussed.”

  “You argued with her.”

  I could feel my face flaming, just as it had when I was talking to Janice. “No, we didn't argue,” I insisted, aware that the pitch of my voice had risen. “If you're implying that I had reason to kill Janice, you're way off base. As I said before, I barely knew her. Why won't you listen to me?”

  “I'll ask the questions here.”

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked abruptly.

  “No.”

  “In that case, I'm going to go home now.” I'd had my fill of the lieutenant and his ridiculous insinuations.

  “I advise against leaving now. It's to your advantage to cooperate with the police.”

  “I have cooperated. I've told you everything I know.” I grabbed my purse and fled. I could hear him calling my name as I speed walked down the hallway, but he didn't follow me.

  Outside, I dug in my purse for my car keys, forgetting briefly that Mike had given me a ride to the station. I certainly wasn't going to go back in and look for him. I would have called Belle for a ride, but she wasn't able to drive yet. I could either call a car service or walk the three miles home. After thinking about it, I decided that the long walk would give me a chance to clear my head, so I hurried to the end of the block and turned the corner onto Main Street.

  The first person I saw was Susan, sitting on one of the benches the Chamber of Commerce had provided. There was a pile of used tissues next to her, and she was dabbing at her eyes with another one as I joined her.

  “Susan, are you OK? Can I get you a bottle of water or something?”

  “Oh, hi, Amanda.” She hiccuped. “Thanks, but I'll calm down in a minute. It's just that horrible man, that Lieutenant Belmont. I think he suspects me of killing Janice.”

  “You must have just come from the police station.”

  “Yes. He questioned me for what seemed like hours, but I see now it was less than an hour,” she said, glancing at her phone to check the time. “It certainly felt like forever, though. Oh, I can't believe this.”

  “Neither can I. He questioned me, too. He twisted everything around. I told him I barely knew Janice, but he thinks I bore her a grudge. He kept trying to get me to say that I argued with her. After a while, I couldn't take it anymore, so I left.”

  “You mean before he was done?”

  “Yes. I asked him if I was under arrest, and he said 'no.' I was hoping that all those detective shows I used to watch with my son had it right—that the police can't detain you if you haven't been arrested.”

  “Wow,” Susan said, brightening. “That's great!” She looked at me in admiration. “I wish I'd had the nerve to do what you did. I waited until he told me I could go, but, at the same time, he warned me that he'd have more questions later.”

  “It might not have been the smartest move I've ever made,” I admitted. “He may have it in for me even more now. I don't really understand why he's focusing on us. Just because we found Janice's body doesn't make us killers.”

  “Especially you, since you just met her last week. Unfortunately, Janice and I had a history of disagreements over the years, mostly when I was still a board member. Somehow, he found out about it, and he kept peppering me with questions about every little squabble. It's like you said: he made each disagreement we had about gallery policies sound like World War III. By the time he finished interrogating me, I'd convinced myself that he was about to read me my rights.”

  Evidently, I wasn't the only one who'd been watching detective shows.

  Chapter 9

  When I told Susan I was going to walk home, she urged me to wait for Chip, who was on his way to pick her up. She said they would be happy to drop me off at my house, but I declined her offer, explaining that the walk would do me good.

  The first mile was pleasant enough, as I walked past the
boutiques, galleries, and restaurants that lined Main Street; admired their window displays; and paused to read the menu boards the restaurants had set up on the sidewalk to entice passersby to stop and have a bite.

  Lonesome Valley enjoyed a large influx of tourists, who kept the local economy humming, and the unique businesses along Main Street were prime attractions, along with art events, a five-star resort hotel on the outskirts of town, and the annual Festival of the West. Each well-attended event drew crowds, eager to spend some of their cash in our community. I knew about the events, not because I'd experienced them yet, but because I'd done my homework before I'd chosen Lonesome Valley as my new home.

  After I left Main Street behind and started up the hill towards my house, the walk became more strenuous. After a few blocks, I felt winded and paused to catch my breath.

  “Amanda!” I looked toward the street. Belle's husband Dennis, in his red Ford pick-up, had pulled over to the curb. “Need a ride?”

  “Thanks, Dennis,” I said gratefully, as I climbed into the truck. “This hill doesn't seem nearly as steep when I'm driving.”

  He laughed. At seventy, Belle's husband was a handsome man with only a few wrinkles, although he did have white hair.

  “I wanted to thank you for everything you've done for Belle, especially since I can't be home to help her when I'm working.”

  “You're entirely welcome. She'd do the same for me; in fact, she invited me for lunch earlier today, and we polished off the last of the frittata you made for breakfast.”

  He nodded. “She told me what happened at the gallery. That must have been awful for you and your friend to find the poor lady dead.”

  “It was. The police questioned us at the station, and the detective in charge treated both of us like suspects.”