As I turned the corner onto Canyon Drive, I was surprised to see a car parked in front of my house. I'd left my porch light on when I'd departed for the meeting earlier, and there, sitting on the front steps with his arm draped around Laddie, sat my son. I was so stunned I almost missed the turn into the driveway. I parked short of the carport as Dustin approached with Laddie at his side. He opened the car door for me, and I jumped out with a whoop of joy and hugged him, while Laddie, not to be left out, crowded close to us.
I hadn't seen Dustin since my move to Lonesome Valley. He'd offered to drive the small rental truck packed with the few belongings I was taking with me, but he'd come down with the flu the day before my departure, so Emma and I had hitched my SUV to the truck, and we'd taken turns driving on the twelve-hundred-mile trip. She'd stayed with me a few days, until her winter holiday break was nearly over, and she'd had to return to college for the spring semester. When we'd said good-bye at the airport in Phoenix, we'd planned for her to come back to Lonesome Valley at the end of the semester to spend the summer with me. Dustin had promised he'd visit in the summer, too, and I hadn't expected to see either of my children until then.
“I'm so happy to see you,” I said, “but you didn't need to come right now. Finding a body my first day at the gallery was a real shock, but I'm trying to come to terms with it.”
“I'll say it was a shock. Emma was ready to get on the first flight to Phoenix after you talked to her last night, but I convinced her she should stay at school and study since I knew she had two big exams coming up, and I'd already decided to come myself.”
“I suppose you talked to grandma and grandpa, too.”
Dustin grinned. “I did. I wanted to have my favorite girl all to myself for a few days.”
We stayed up late talking, until Dustin started to yawn, and then we took the cushions off the sofa and pulled out the hide-a-bed. When I woke in the morning to Mona Lisa's loud meow, both Dustin and Laddie were gone. I pulled on a robe, fed Mona Lisa, brewed some coffee for Dustin, and made some tea for myself. I was just popping a tin of muffins into the oven when Dustin and Laddie, both panting vigorously, returned from their jog. Laddie flopped down on the hardwood floor while Dustin joined me at the tiny table in the corner of the living room next to the kitchen, which was so small there was no room for a table in it. Dustin drank his coffee, and I sipped my tea before making a mushroom omelet for us to eat with the muffins. Both were a big hit with my son.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said as he polished off his third muffin. “This was a real treat. I usually grab a cup of coffee on my way to work. Sometimes people at the office bring in some doughnuts or bagels and leave them in the break room for everybody else, but that doesn't happen too often. Most days, I wait till lunch before I eat anything.”
“My pleasure. What would you like to do today?”
“I wouldn't mind having a look at the town. It was dark when I arrived last night. Maybe you could play tour guide.”
“All right. Let's do that. We can drive around so you can see Lonesome Valley and some of its landmarks, and then maybe we could browse at a few of the galleries downtown. Don't worry: I won't drag you into any boutiques.”
“Sounds good to me. Let's take Laddie with us while we tour. We can stop at a park before we come home and drop him off before we hit the galleries.”
“OK, but we should probably bring Mr. Big along with us, too. I've been walking him every day since Belle had her accident, and the little scamp loves the park.”
“The more, the merrier,” Dustin agreed.
An hour later, the four of us piled into my SUV with Dustin at the wheel. I'd vetoed taking his rental car on our tour since the dogs were coming with us.
As its name suggested, Lonesome Valley did indeed lie in a valley—at least most of the town did. The west side, the residential neighborhood where I lived, was on a slope, and there wasn't much to see there, other than houses, so we proceeded downtown, where I pointed out the Roadrunner and the shops on Main Street, the library, and our town museum. Then we drove to the east side, where there were a couple of small lakes with canoe rentals, hiking trails, bicycle paths, and a huge park, the site of outdoor art fairs and the annual Festival of the West. Next to one of the lakes stood the five-star Lonesome Valley Resort, which boasted upscale restaurants and its own private golf course, along with indoor and outdoor swimming pools, handball and tennis courts, full gym facilities, and a luxurious spa. I'd never been inside the place, but I intended to visit it someday and dine there. As though reading my mind, Dustin suggested that we book a table for dinner at one of the restaurants in the hotel.
“Good idea, but let's do lunch there, instead. I have to work at the gallery from nine to one tomorrow, so we could go right after I'm done.”
“OK, but what about tonight?”
“Belle and Dennis invited us for a barbecue, unless you'd rather not go. The weather's so nice, we'll be able to sit outside on their patio.”
“That's fine with me.”
“Good. I'll let Belle know that we're on. Sorry I forgot to check with you earlier.”
“No problem. I'll make us lunch reservations for tomorrow at the resort. Shall we go over to the park now? These dogs are getting restless. I think they know where we're headed.”
After a romp in the dog park and a walk around its perimeter, Laddie and Mr. Big were ready to go home for an afternoon nap. We dropped them off and drove back downtown for our gallery tour.
I always enjoyed looking at other artists' work, and most of the galleries on Main Street changed their exhibits fairly often, so there was always something new to see. Some of the galleries featured work from only one artist, but most of the others represented several artists. I'd thought about seeking representation from one of them, but the fifty-percent commission that constituted a gallery's share of sales certainly didn't compare favorably to the no-commission sales at the Roadrunner. I'd figured that, even with the monthly wall rental fee and the annual membership dues, I'd come out ahead at our co-op gallery, assuming that my artwork sold.
We lingered a while in a tiny gallery where acrylic paintings of brightly colored blossoms caught my eye. They were so delicate and pretty, I couldn't resist buying some of the artist's printed floral note cards. Because note cards are the least expensive item artists can make available, many artists sell them to customers who like their artwork but may not want to make a costlier purchase. I tucked the little packet of cards into my purse and suggested that we visit the few galleries that weren't on Main Street.
The first gallery where we stopped featured comic book art, while the second specialized in abstract, steel, tabletop sculptures. Dustin claimed he had no artistic talent, but he had a good eye for all kinds of art, and I could tell that he especially enjoyed both of these off-the-beaten-path galleries.
“One more, and then we'll end our tour,” I said, after Dustin had finished a lively conversation with the artist who fabricated the steel sculptures.
“Lead on, Mom.”
“OK. I've never been in this next gallery, but I think it's about half a block down, on the other side of the street.”
We crossed First Street and found the Brooks Miller Gallery. As soon as we entered, a thirtyish woman with long blond hair greeted Dustin. The lifestyle in Lonesome Valley tended to be casual, as was the way residents customarily dressed, but this woman wore gold jewelry with her red silk shantung dress, and the red soles of her spikey Louboutins matched her dress perfectly. She took one look at the pair of us and immediately zeroed in on my son, ignoring me completely. I noticed Dustin didn't object as she linked arms with him and led him toward a group of paintings at the back of the gallery. Her maneuver left me free to wander around the large space, and I was dumbfounded by what I saw. All the paintings were abstract. I like abstract art, so there was nothing objectionable about that, but I found the ugly color palette the artist favored almost nauseating and the composition of his pieces terrible. I
wondered whether the gallery ever sold any of these works. Perhaps, I speculated, the so-called artist was wealthy enough to afford to maintain a vanity gallery.
I could hear the woman's high-powered sales pitch and see Dustin gazing at her in fascination. Despite his obvious attraction to her, I knew she was wasting her breath trying to sell him a painting. I caught a slight whiff of her perfume as the pair returned to the front of the gallery. She pressed her business card into Dustin's hand as he thanked her for showing him the gallery's artwork. We left without her ever having acknowledged my presence.
“Earth to Dustin,” I said as we walked back toward Main Street.
“Oh, sorry, Mom,” he apologized. “Isn't she beautiful? She gave me her card. Do you suppose she wants me to call her?”
“Could I see her card?”
“Sure,” he said, handing it to me. On the back, she had written “Darkness at Dawn” and “Special Price, $2000.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Dustin, but I think she wants to sell you a painting,” I said, pointing to the note on the back of the card.
“Oh, yeah.” He didn't seem the least bit deterred. “I think I'll call her anyway.”
I knew better than to try to persuade him otherwise, so I changed the subject. “What did you think of the Brooks Miller art?”
“Oh, I thought it was really bad. How about you?”
“Awful. Just awful.” I was about to say that it was a shame we'd ended our tour of downtown on a sour note, but I realized Dustin didn't feel the same. “Let's stop at the grocery store on the way home. I want to make a pie to take to the barbecue.”
“Chocolate meringue?”
His face fell when I told him I was thinking of apple.
“I'm teasing,” I declared. “Of course, chocolate meringue. I'll make two pies—one to take to Belle and Dennis's and one for us.
“Thanks, Mom!” His sad face transformed into a dreamy expression. I hoped he was thinking about my chocolate meringue pie, not the beautiful saleswoman from the Brooks Miller Gallery, but I feared it was more likely the latter.
Back at home, I got to work, mixing the pie dough and preparing the filling. I had to shoo Laddie out of the kitchen more than once as I beat the egg whites to stiff peaks. There was hardly room for one person in the tiny kitchen, let alone one adult and a large dog, so Dustin volunteered to play fetch with Laddie in the backyard while I finished my baking.
I'd just removed both pies from the oven and placed them on racks to cool when the doorbell rang.
I swung the front door open, and Chip was standing there, holding a pizza box and grinning.
“Hi,” he said, stepping inside, although I hadn't invited him to come in. “I thought you might like to have dinner with me. I brought us a pizza—veggie supreme, just like you and your neighbor ordered the other day.”
“How did you know where I live?” I asked, hoping Susan hadn't told him.
“You're in our member directory.”
“Oh.”
Before I had a chance to say more, Dustin and Laddie burst in. Dustin looked at the pizza box.
“Was the barbecue canceled?” he asked.
“Uh, no,” I said. “Dustin, this is Travis—Chip, from the Roadrunner. Chip, my son Dustin.”
Chip set the pizza box on the table and shook hands with Dustin. Neither one of them looked too happy.
“Well, it sounds as though you two already have dinner plans,” Chip said. “We can do it another time.”
Dustin raised his eyebrows at this statement while I picked up the pizza box from the table and handed it back to Chip.
“See you at the gallery,” he said as he left, taking his pizza with him.
“Did you forget you had a date with that guy, Mom?”
“Of course not. I didn't have a clue that he was going to show up. I certainly didn't invite him. Why would he do that, anyway?”
“He likes you, Mom.”
“But that's ridiculous! He's way too young for me, even if I were interested in dating, which I most definitely am not. He's your age. Literally, he's young enough to be my son.”
“I have a feeling the age difference isn't going to stop him. You'll probably have to tell him you're not interested.”
“Oh, great,” I groaned. The thought of having to fend off a would-be admirer didn't appeal to me in the least. Maybe I should have felt flattered, but I felt put upon, instead. I hadn't done a thing to encourage Chip's unwelcome attention. Not only that, but I was far from pleased that he'd shown up on my doorstep out of the blue. In fact, I was more than a little freaked out that he'd tracked down my address.
So far, my move to Lonesome Valley had resulted in more than a few unpleasant experiences. I fervently hoped Chip's visit would be the last.
Chapter 12
When I arrived at the gallery the next morning to meet Susan, Chip and another man, carrying a tool box, stood outside the door. A locksmith's van was parked across the street.
I stepped out of my car, and Susan joined me, but before we had a chance to go inside, a large black SUV double-parked in front of the gallery, and Judith got out. The driver pulled two suitcases from the back and set them on the sidewalk in front of the gallery.
“Changing the locks, I see,” she said. “Can we limit the key distribution to the board members?”
“That's the plan,” Chip said, grabbing the handles of Judith's suitcases. “I'll take these up to the apartment for you. I'd suggest that you change the lock on the apartment door, too. In fact, you may want to consider staying someplace else for a while. The police haven't arrested anyone yet for Janice's murder.”
“I'm aware of that, but I prefer to stay here. I'm not without protection.” Beckoning us to come closer, she opened her large shoulder bag, revealing a handgun tucked inside.
Susan and I gasped, but Chip took the startling revelation in stride. The locksmith, absorbed in his task, didn't seem to be paying any attention.
“All right, then,” Chip said. “I can see that your mind's made up. Let's drop off these suitcases upstairs. We need to open the gallery in a few minutes.”
Judith followed Chip inside.
“I wonder if she has a permit for that thing,” I said to Susan.
“She doesn't need one,” the locksmith answered. He'd seen the gun, after all.
“Really?” I said skeptically. “For a concealed weapon? I know Arizona's an open carry state, but . . . .”
“It's true,” Susan told me. “Janice had a gun, too, but it didn't help her. She obviously had her back turned when she was attacked. She must have known someone was behind her, but she wasn't frightened of whoever it was. That's what I think, anyway.”
“Makes sense,” I murmured as we went inside.
As soon as Judith and Chip returned, Judith went straight to the locksmith and instructed him to change the locks on the second-floor apartment door.
“We can't get into the apartment,” Chip told Susan and me while Judith talked to the locksmith. “I thought the front door key to the gallery also worked for Janice's apartment, but it doesn't anymore. She must have had her own lock changed, I guess, but she never mentioned it.”
The flurry of activity at the front door had distracted us for a few minutes, but Susan suggested that we'd better hurry to prepare for the expected onslaught of tourists who would soon arrive on the first tour bus. Susan whispered to me that Chip had engaged a crew to clean the crime scene early that morning. I nodded, not wanting to think about it. We signed in, and Susan showed me where to find the paperwork and how to process a transaction.
“All our policies and procedures are in this handbook,” she said, “but, if you have any questions, just ask me. That's what I'm here for, and don't worry about a thing: you'll never be alone in the gallery. We always have at least two members scheduled to work.” She glanced outside. “We're just in the nick of time. Here comes the bus now.”
We watched as the tour bus stopped outside the
gallery and a crowd of eager tourists disembarked. The locksmith politely held the door open for them before returning to work installing the new lock.
As the crowd scattered about the gallery, Judith, Chip, Susan, and I circulated, answering questions and talking about the artwork on display.
A woman expressed interest in one of my paintings, a landscape of a lake with a grove of trees in the foreground. I felt disappointed when she said she'd “think about it” after I offered to take it off the wall and write up the sale.
When my prospective customer left, I found myself alone in the back area with Judith, who was looking at the empty pedestal where Janice's bear had been displayed.
“Did we sell a sculpture?” she asked me.
“No, I'm afraid not. One of your sister's sculptures used to be there—a bronze bear.”
“Well, where is it now? Did someone put it back in her apartment?”
“The police have it. They said it was evidence. I found it lying on the floor the day she . . . .”
Judith held up her hand. She'd heard enough. “So they think it's the murder weapon?”
“Possibly. I really don't know.”
Without a word, she turned and left the area. In a few minutes, she came back. When I saw what she was carrying, I couldn't believe it.
“Where did you find it?” I asked, amazed. “I thought the police still had it.”
“Don't be silly,” she sniffed. “This bear's obviously one of a limited edition, number seven to be precise. It was in Janice's office.”
“So the other bear was number six,” I speculated.
“Not necessarily. Janice sold her work in other galleries, besides the Roadrunner. I'm sure the records will be around here somewhere.”
She placed the new bear on the pedestal, moving it around until she was satisfied that it was displayed to its best advantage.
The rush of tourists seemed to be over. Most of them had moved to other attractions on Main Street. Susan and Chip stood near the check-out counter, where a few customers had stopped to pay for their purchases on the way out.
Artistic License to Kill Page 6
