Stroke of Death

by Dale Mayer

  Transfixed at her office door, she waited for him to appear and watched the phenomenon she’d only noticed last time. The closer he came to her, the more his energy leaned eagerly toward her.

  He stopped near her office doorway and looked at her, inclined his head just slightly, and said, “Going somewhere?”

  “To work,” she snapped. “Remember? I do have a job.”

  “As a lot of people have spoken about, if your reputation is anything to go by.”

  She frowned. “You want to explain that?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve just been doing a lot of research, and people sing your praises all over town.”

  She shrugged. “Good. I put value into my work, and I put my heart and soul and energy into it,” she said briskly, using the same word that he had questioned her about.

  “And you still won’t tell me what you went to Dr. Maddy for?”

  She stiffened slightly, forced out a smile, and said, “Not more than I did already. It’s personal.”

  “If it had anything to do with why Elena was murdered, it definitely is my business.”

  “I can tell you clearly that it didn’t. I told you why before. It’s personal. I have no hidden agenda about this.”

  “What about Elena’s husband?”

  “He passed away. You should check your records,” she said. She took a step, expecting him to move out of the way, but he didn’t. She sighed and said, “Could you please let me go? I’m late.”

  “Maybe. I need a list of everybody else who’s worked on the installations with you over the last year.”

  Her mouth dropped open slowly. “Oh, shit,” she said. She rubbed the back of her neck, slowly turning her head to release some tension bottled up in the back. “Talk to Anita. She should have that information.” She looked at him with a cold glare. “Did you find out anything new?”

  He shook his head. “No, but obviously it’s somebody connected to you.”

  “Not necessarily me,” she said. “I was thinking about that. It could just as easily have been connected to the art world. It’s small but not that small.”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  She shook her head. “Why does that surprise you? Elena’s a model. She needed more work than I could give her.”

  “She was rich,” he said bluntly.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Elena?” Then she shrugged. “I guess she was. It wasn’t part of our relationship, so it’s not something I think about.”

  He nodded. “Do you have no idea how big the estate is that you’re inheriting half of?”

  She shook her head. “No. Why would I?”

  “Well, because you were friends,” he said, emphasizing the word friends.

  It gave her a queasy feeling in her stomach. “Yes, we were friends,” she said slowly. “Not lovers, and we weren’t necessarily the girls’-night-out-to-catch-up kind of friends either. There was a bond between us that went across time and distance.”

  On that note, she brushed past him and stepped outside of her gallery and onto the street. She needed her car for this next job, and she was grateful because she really wanted to run away. From him and her thoughts. And especially from that way-too-attractive energy of his.

  *

  Richard stepped outside and watched her retreat, but it was obvious that she was grateful for an escape. He called out, “Where are you going?”

  She turned and frowned at him. “I told you. I have to go to another job.”

  “Address?” He made sure his tone of voice gave her no chance to argue.

  Her shoulders sagged, but she gave him the address.

  He recognized it. Close enough to walk from here, which as he had no wheels right now was perfect. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” There was no doubting the heat in the glare she shot him before she stormed off.

  He stood there with a smile on his face, watching her long legs eat up the sidewalk. She was gorgeous, and she was so … alive, and that was something he couldn’t quite get his mind past. Something was just so mobile, so action-oriented about her.

  “Do you always stare at her like that?” asked a twentysomething man standing beside Richard.

  Richard looked at him, frowned, and asked, “Who are you?”

  “One of the backdrop artists who works for her,” he said. “Name is Frankie.” He held out his hand.

  Richard reached over and said, “Detective Henderson.”

  “Ah,” Frankie said. “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think she had anything to do with Elena’s murder.”

  “And why is that?” He studied the tall, lean man, wondering if maybe this was yet another suspect. Or a possible victim. Because Frankie worked with Cayce, that automatically put him in both categories.

  “Because the two of them were inseparable when they were together.”

  “And yet they didn’t spend much time together except at work?”

  “Some people are like that,” he said. “If you ever saw them together, you’d realize that something between them went well past what words would describe.”

  “And yet not lovers.”

  “No, not in any possible way,” Frankie said. “Elena was good people. Cayce is even better people,” he said. “I would not be happy if anything happened to her.”

  “Well, we’ve discovered somebody else who worked on one of the installations who has also been murdered,” he said. “Have you heard about him?”

  “Thorne, yes,” Frankie said with a grimace. “He was a good worker. I’d say that was more copycat than anything.”

  “That’s only if you know the details.” He glanced at the back of the room, then looked at Anita’s guilty face.

  “I heard the details already,” Anita said. “So Frankie knows them too.”

  Richard pinched the bridge of his nose. “I get that you all think this is something to gossip about,” he said, “but we’re really trying to keep the details out of the media.”

  “Got it,” Frankie said. “Interesting that Thorne was the next victim though.”

  “Aren’t you afraid for yourself?”

  Frankie looked at him in surprise. “Why? I’m not a body model, and I haven’t pissed off anybody,” he said. “It’s not my style.” He waved at Anita and said, “Thanks for the check.” Then he looked over at Richard. “Anytime you need to talk to me or to ask questions, feel free. I’ve worked with Cayce for a couple years now.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I help her do some structures, set up scaffolding, paint lots of the background stuff with her, for her, generally in on-the-spot forming.” He shrugged. “I’m the one who gave it that title, so, if you ask her about her forming, she’d be completely confused who you are talking about.”

  Richard nodded and tucked away that note in the back of his mind. “Good to know. Did you know Thorne personally?”

  “Yeah. I worked with him the last two years. I’m not sure exactly what job Thorne came in on, but he was a good kid.”

  “Know anybody who would hate him enough to kill him?”

  “Interesting you’d say hate enough to kill because I think that lovers tend to love enough to kill.”

  “Were you two lovers?” Richard asked bluntly, wondering at the artistic minds he was surrounded by and how differently they seemed to take his words.

  “No, we weren’t,” he said. “Thorne often went both ways, but he fell in love with the person, not the body.”

  “And did he have a current lover?”

  “Not that I know of,” Frankie said. “I didn’t know him that well outside of work though. We’d have a couple beers on the job, as we had dinner to carry us through another evening of working overtime, and we’d talk about whatever installation was happening at the time, talk about Cayce’s artwork and how it was just so unbeatable and impossible to replicate. Then we’d have a good laugh and carry on back to work,” he said with a shrug. “As for Cayce, she’s one of a kind.”

&nb
sp; “Do you love her?”

  Frankie flashed him a bright smile. “I absolutely do love her,” he said. “She’s very lovable. She’s not very approachable. And, no, we’re not lovers, never have been lovers. We don’t intend to ever be lovers. It’s not that kind of a relationship.” And, with that, he waved goodbye and walked on.

  Richard turned to look at Anita through the huge plate glass window. She immediately dropped her gaze and pretended to be busy at her desk. She wouldn’t get away from him that easily. He stepped inside the office, approaching her. “I’m looking for all the artists you’ve hired and staff of any kind you’ve worked with for the last two years.”

  She looked at him, and her face fell. “Two years?”

  He stared at her steadily. “And just how many people are we talking about? It surely can’t be that many.”

  She looked at him, shrugged, and said, “No, it’s probably not more than thirty, forty, fifty, maybe.”

  “I want all the names, phone numbers, and contact information.”

  She stared at him, chewing on her bottom lip. “I don’t even know if I’m allowed to give you that information.”

  He gave her a strong, hard smile. “You’re allowed. It’s actively encouraged that you do. And, even if you don’t,” he said, “I can get a warrant, and then you’ll have no choice.”

  “But see? That’s the thing. If you get a warrant, then I won’t have any choice,” she said, “so it won’t piss off anybody.”

  He walked into her office, sat down on the single chair across from her, and asked, “Who would be pissed off at our efforts to find out who murdered two people in the industry?” He leaned forward, adding, “I really want to know who those people would be.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “How would I know?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said, “but you seem to be concerned about people being upset. And I want to know what people you’re concerned about.”

  She frowned at him, looked down at her desk, then back up. It was obvious that she was either nervous or didn’t have a clue how to take him.

  Now that was something he was used to. And it didn’t bother him in the least if he was disturbing her sense of calm. He smiled at her and said, “Seriously, I would like to know who would want to hurt Cayce.”

  “I don’t know anybody who would want to hurt her,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. Cayce isn’t—” She stopped and stared out the window for a moment. “It’s not that she’s not lovable, just that she’s not cuddly. She’s somebody who you stand back and admire from a distance. She’s not the good-old-coffee-klatch friendly type because I think she lives in her own world of art. She keeps to herself and has a reserve that naturally keeps people away. But, when she smiles at you and when she includes you in something, you feel like you’re special,” she said simply. “Just because you’re part of her world, you’re special. And I love that. I love knowing that I’m helping her do what she does. Because she is so very talented.”

  “Agreed. I’m already sold on her talent,” he said. “I saw the installation with the little kids, and I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.” His face just beamed.

  “Wasn’t that wonderful?” she said. “You should see the art critic reviews. They’re just raving about it.”

  “I’m sure they are,” he said. “However, you’re getting off the topic. I want to know about the people who would be upset at the success of the installation. I want to know about the people who would be angry that she’s at the top of the news again. I want to know who hates the fact that the media loves her.”

  Anita stared at him for a long moment. “Fenster, Gruber, and Naomi.” Then she shrugged. “For sure on those three, but I’m not sure how many others.”

  “Fenster, Gruber, and Naomi. Who is Fenster?”

  “Somebody who worked with her a couple years back. She fired him because he was telling people that her designs were his designs.”

  Richard quickly pulled out his notebook and jotted down notes. “Gruber?”

  “Gruber was stealing from her,” she said, in a disapproving tone. “I’m talking like paper and pencils, some of her old designs, cans of paint, anything, and then we found out he was selling them as pieces of her. It was disgusting that he was capitalizing on her name and her reputation, and people were loving it, lapping it right up, while he turned a profit.”

  “Okay, well that certainly warrants being fired,” he said. “And what about Naomi?”

  “It’s not that Naomi hates Cayce,” she said, “because that would be really sad, but I think it’s more of the fact that she really wanted Elena’s top position. And even now that Elena is gone, I don’t think Naomi realizes that she won’t get the top spot. There was something special between Elena and Cayce, and Cayce would say it wasn’t the reason why she gave her the jobs,” Anita said hurriedly. “She would say that Elena fit the bill perfectly.”

  “Do you think she drew designs that fit Elena properly, maybe better than others?”

  Anita nodded with relief. “That’s it. I think she saw the beauty that was in Elena, and certain art installations just worked perfectly for her. Naomi? She doesn’t like working with anyone, and she doesn’t like listening. So Cayce has to block her out. She can’t stand the greedy miserable persona behind who Naomi is. But I don’t know that Naomi is so black-hearted that she would have killed Elena.”

  He nodded slowly. “I met her once.”

  “She was also in the installation with the children. Even when she stepped out to take the applause, it’s like it was only her. She’s not supposed to be the piece that gets the applause,” Anita said waspishly. “She’s supposed to blend in and be just a part of the art, but she won’t. She insists that the art is a part of her. A slight difference but one that’s very important, if you get what I mean.”

  “So, she’s a little on the arrogant, egotistical side, and that can cause problems.”

  “A little?” Anita shook her head.

  He motioned at the computer. “Keep pulling names.”

  She just groaned. “I’m pulling them from the accounting system. It’ll be everybody we’ve had to pay, and you’ll have to sort it out from there.”

  “Or we’ll sort it out together here,” he said mildly, “because I don’t need to know everybody you bought paint from.”

  “Why not?” she asked darkly. “Some of them weren’t very happy with Cayce either.”

  “Seriously?”

  Anita shrugged. “She has a certain cachet about her, so, if she buys from somebody, you can bet that the others want her to buy from them.”

  “Professional jealousy.”

  “She doesn’t like to take any advertising for suppliers,” she said. “Cayce would say that takes away from the art itself. She’s not promoting the paint. She’s not promoting where she got the brushes or any of it. Believe me. She buys everything purely for her art alone. She doesn’t promote anything or anyone, except for whoever it is she is doing the job for. You know what? In some cases, we do art for big charities, so she’ll help promote those charities, and she’ll do it for the art piece itself.”

  “So she’s all about the art?”

  “She is.”

  “What about the masterpiece that Elena wore as her body art?”

  “That was a special show for a collector who wanted copies of all the masterpieces on his wall to come to life, and he really wanted Elena to wear one.”

  “And who was that?”

  “I gave you his name earlier,” she said. “He’s the company that isn’t really a company.”

  “Right, John Hallmark Company.”

  “Yes that’s him. I don’t know that I’ve ever called him. I only have the invoices.”

  “I have, and it’ll just go to a voicemail that I’m sure no one ever listens to. So how does he pay your invoice?” the detective asked.

  “Usually bank drafts.”

  “That’s an odd way, isn�
�t it?”

  She turned and smiled and asked, “How much do you think she got for that painting?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with the children.”

  “I have no clue.”

  “Seventy-five thousand dollars,” Anita said.

  He stopped and stared.

  She smiled, nodded, and said, “So, when you think about professional jealousy, you also need to understand that she did that one for a fraction of her normal price because it was raising money for charity. She really doesn’t do anything for under a quarter million.”

  He had been in the act of standing up, but, when he heard that news, he sat back down and said, “Okay, that opens up a whole new level of motive.”

  She gave him a fat smile. “Doesn’t it?”

  *

  He picked up the paintbrush once again and made a stroke. He knew that was where the stroke belonged, but somehow it was wider, thicker, and more defined than the stroke he had wanted to place. He stared in frustration at what was supposed to be his masterpiece, but instead it was coming out clunky, like a caricature.

  He’d been painting for decades but had stopped multiple times, frustrated with his lack of success, but he had been so damn sure this would work, and he felt like he was staring a monumental failure in the face right now. Something he had never wanted to see. This was his swan song. This was the way he would make it back to the lost soul that he was. He’d done everything right, so why wasn’t it working? He looked over at the stretched-out frames of the various paintings that had led him here.

  He could see the progress; he could see the improvement. But this? This was nothing.

  Angrily, he stood and kicked the frame off to the side, dumping paint and throwing his palette. He didn’t care about the mess. He didn’t care about his art when the damn art wasn’t working. Of course, something was behind that damn art too, but, so far as he could tell, that wasn’t working either. Cayce had her art and there was something special behind her art. So where the hell was his something special?

  He stormed around his apartment, pouring more coffee, then dumping it down the sink without tasting anything, pouring a glass of water instead and throwing it back, and then poured himself a second one. He stormed back to where his stacks of paintings were, staring at them and wondering how he was supposed to make this leap to become the artist he wanted to be.