Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  I knew Kenneth had storage and a workroom at the back of the gallery. Surely I could find some way to get back there. If the paintings were still at the gallery and not hung in the display areas, that’s where they had to be.

  I made it to the gallery in fifteen minutes. It was only two, and the intern, Elizabeth, told me she didn’t expect Kenneth for two and a half hours. Of course, he could come back earlier, so I didn’t have much time to get in and out without him catching me. Luckily, a client followed me in.

  “That’s fine,” I reassured Elizabeth. “I just need to look at something in Kenneth’s workroom. It won’t take a second. Go ahead, help the client.”

  Elizabeth seemed hesitant, but the client was looking impatient. She went with the client.

  At the back of the gallery, a short hallway led from the last display room. To the left of this hallway was the office; to the right was a kitchen area. A door at the end of the hallway led to the workroom, where Kenneth kept paint, gold and silver leaf, varnishes, materials he might need to touch up a frame. In vertical compartments, paintings that were not on display were stored. That’s where I expected to find the de Suisse.

  I looked quickly through each bin that held paintings of approximately the right size. None resembled the one I remembered or, in fact, any of the paintings we had taken that afternoon. I noticed that Kenneth not only stored touch-up materials; he had brushes of all sizes and textures, a large jumbled basket of oil and acrylic paints, easels. What appeared to be a large, oversize closet seemed to be carved out of one corner of the room. I tried the handle, but it was locked. Not too securely, though. I had learned to open locks like this one with a credit card as a child. After watching it done by private eyes on TV shows, my brother and I had practiced until we could do it in one swoop. I hadn’t tried breaking and entering in a long time, but it was like riding a bike. It really does come back to you. I was inside, switching on the light in seconds.

  Inside were more vertical bins. I found the painting almost immediately. The signature did indeed say Henri de Suisse. I pulled the card out of my pocket and compared it to the painting. It sure looked identical to me. On the back of the painting a copy of the letter of provenance was glued to the frame.

  Fleurs du Jour by Henri de Suisse.

  I shook my head and, as I did, noticed an unfinished painting on an easel at the back of the closet space. Hanging above the easel was the same painting, finished.

  With my phone, I snapped a picture of the work in progress showing the original painting above it. I backed up as far as I could and took another of the de Suisse painting. I knew the quality would be awful, but at least there would be enough information that Kenneth couldn’t dismiss it. My photos might not prove anything, but they would call for some serious explaining.

  I slid the de Suisse painting back into its slot and exited the closet, trying to make sure I was leaving everything exactly as I had found it.

  I was closing the door to the workroom behind me when I saw Kenneth heading through the gallery toward the hallway. In the relatively dim light, he didn’t see me immediately. I knew I couldn’t go back into the workroom and have him catch me there, but there was no place to hide. I stuffed the card back in my pocket and tried to look as if I were coming out of the kitchen area. I called his name just as he stepped into the hall.

  “Kenneth, hi. I was just looking for the restroom.”

  He looked at me levelly, no smile, no expression, just wariness. “You didn’t ask Elizabeth where it was?” His eyes narrowed.

  “She was busy with a client. Well, I’m off. See you later.”

  There was nothing natural about the way I acted. I just knew I had to get out of there. I wasn’t going to improve the situation by staying and talking more. As I reached the door at the other side of the display room, he called my name.

  “Campbell.” I turned. “You didn’t find the restroom back here.”

  “No, but I’m late. I’ve got to run.”

  And run I did. I jumped in the car and headed back to the office and didn’t start breathing until I was halfway there.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  Kenneth Elliott had in his gallery in Nashville, Tennessee, a painting that was at this very moment hanging in the Smith Logan Art Museum in St. Louis, Missouri.

  I had to talk to someone, but who? I didn’t know enough to want to start something that could potentially ruin Kenneth Elliott’s career forever. Doug was Kenneth’s brother, true, but I thought I could trust him. Despite our poor communication, I always had been able to trust him. Even if our relationship was fading. I still believed he was an honest man. Why had he picked now to be in Boston taking a deposition?

  As soon as I got back to the office, I called and left messages on his home and office voice mails. “Doug, this is Campbell. I’ve got to talk to you as soon as you get back into town. Immediately. I … This is really serious. Please call me.”

  * * *

  I decided to fix soup for the dinner with Sam. It’s easy. Hard to mess up. It’s good, but doesn’t shout, “I’m trying to impress you.” And I had more to concentrate on right now than exotic culinary skills. I started with a roast, cut in small pieces and seared, and added carrots, celery, garlic, lots of onion, potatoes, tomatoes. I sprinkled in thyme, basil, oregano, whatever smelled good. While that simmered, the aromas beginning to rise from the pot, I cleaned the house and put in laundry. I opened the windows to let in fresh air, but it got too cold, so I closed them. I went outside to see what last, straggling flowers and greenery I might find in the yard for the table and was just coming back inside when the phone rang.

  “Campbell, this is Sam.”

  He’s not coming.

  “I’m not sure when I can make it tonight. Somebody found George Lewis this morning. He’s dead. He was in a parking lot downtown, not far from Second Avenue, hit from behind as he was getting into his car, apparently. No witnesses, his wallet’s gone, looks like robbery, but I don’t like coincidences. I’ll call you later. Be real careful, okay?” Then the line went dead.

  I felt a sudden chill.

  George Lewis, dead. Had he been flashing around cash, talking big as he had been in the bank? Somebody could have followed him in the dark. But I agreed with Sam. Coincidences were suspicious. First Hazel, now George. I was suspicious and a little scared.

  I turned the soup off. I couldn’t just hang around the house all day wondering what was going on. I called MaryNell, and we set a time to meet at Opry Mills. I was already sipping coffee at the Starbucks kiosk when she arrived. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and the caffeine probably wasn’t helping.

  “Shopping therapy? You need shopping therapy? You don’t even like to shop.”

  “That’s what makes it an emergency.”

  “So, what’s up?”

  I told her about George Lewis, about seeing him at the bank and his big plans. “The afternoon I went in Hazel’s back drive and talked to him, he was digging in the flower beds back there, or at least he had been digging in dirt. I remember he stuffed something in his pocket when he saw me. I thought I was being overly suspicious at the time, but I think it could have been a prescription bottle.”

  “Was he burying it or digging it up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you think he found the missing bottle and then he had money and a surprisingly good new job and now he’s dead. Is your life insurance paid up?”

  “MaryNell!”

  “You know I’ve always wanted that Shaker side table of yours. Do you have it in your will that I get that? I don’t want to have to fight with your family over it. I think it’s so tacky when that happens.”

  “Do you have a point here?”

  “The point here is that you’re messing with somebody who kills people. If you don’t want to be killed, stop it. Listen to Doug; listen to the detective. This is dangerous business, and it’s not your business. Have you even told Sam about the slit tires and
the lien?”

  “Not yet. I’ll tell him tonight.” I hadn’t told him about the tires or the lien. I hadn’t seen him lately, and I didn’t know what to make of it all anyway.

  We wandered the mall for a couple of hours, not buying much of anything.

  “So you’ve asked the detective over for dinner. That’s good, not like you, but good. What are you having?”

  I told her. Soup, homemade bread, salad, apple pie.

  “That’s just great. You’ll remind him of his mother. Is that the emotional response you’re going for?”

  “I’m not going for anything. It’s easy; it’s good. I don’t have to worry how it’s going to turn out. Besides, I just want to talk to him. A lot’s happened in the last few days.”

  “Phones? You both have phones?” MaryNell asked.

  “Thank you for your encouragement. I just need to talk some things over with him.”

  “Right, right. Well, at least wear something red. It brightens you up. We can find you something new.”

  I escaped the mall without something new and red and went home to finish up supper. No messages, and Sam had made it clear that he didn’t know when he would be here. About six I put the soup back on to simmer. The bread was ready; the salads were chilling; the table was set.

  I tried to watch television.

  “The tragic legacy of Jake Miller continues.” Behind the weekend anchor played the tape of Sam, the homicide captain, and George Lewis at Hazel’s front door on the night she died. “It was just a few weeks ago that George Lewis was assisting police who were investigating the mysterious death of his longtime employer, Hazel Miller, widow of country legend Jake Miller.” Assisting? New spin since Lewis was dead. “This morning, his body was found beside his car in a downtown parking lot. We’ll go to Kirsten at the scene. Kirsten, what can you tell us?”

  On came a live satellite feed of Kirsten in a crowded parking lot.

  “Dan, George Lewis’s body was found early this morning by a parking-lot attendant who had come to collect parking fees from the lot behind me. He noticed the car’s door was open, went around to investigate, and found Lewis’s body. Police speculate that Lewis was getting into his car and was attacked from behind. The lot’s crowded now with cars of people dining on Second Avenue and on Broadway, but this can be a pretty deserted area in the early morning hours.”

  “Kirsten, do the police think there’s any connection between Lewis’s death and Hazel Miller’s, or do they think it was a robbery?”

  “Dan, it’s just too early to say.” The perky blond-framed face looked troubled. “They told us they’re checking all leads, and they’re appealing to anyone who passed along this street between midnight, when the attendant was here last, and six A.M., when the attendant returned, to contact Metro Police and tell them anything they might have seen.”

  “Thanks, Kirsten, I’m sure we’ll have more on this at ten.”

  “That’s right, Dan. We’ll have the latest information then.”

  “It’s been a big day in college football. We’ll be right back with the scores and how today’s results are likely to affect the BCS ratings and Tennessee’s plans for New Year’s after these messages.”

  The house felt chilly with the sun down. I lit the gas logs and went to find a sweater. I finally selected a red one and puttered, rechecking the salad plates, lighting candles, blowing them out, waiting to hear from Sam. I wondered just how much time the ex-wife had spent waiting.

  It was after nine when he knocked, and he looked beat.

  “Sorry. I came as soon as I could get free.” Everything about him was wrinkled.

  “You want a glass of wine?”

  “No, thanks. You have any tea?”

  I fixed Sam a glass of iced tea and started putting food on the table. “What happened?”

  “We think sometime between two and six, probably between two and four, Lewis went to his car.” Sam shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over the back of the couch. A pager, handcuffs, and his badge were clipped to his belt. He checked the safety on his gun and returned it to the holster on his belt. It was a routine, as thorough as it was automatic. Sam continued, “Somebody came up behind him, hit him hard enough to knock him out, or at least temporarily incapacitate him, then hit him a second time to kill him. That’s what we think, anyway. His wallet is missing. Usually with a robbery, you find the wallet within a couple of blocks. Nothing. We’ve looked at every cigarette butt, every ticket stub, every gum wrapper within a quarter mile in every direction. I’m here to tell you there’s a lot of trash in this town.”

  “So do you think it was robbery?”

  “I don’t know. He was robbed, but was that the reason or was it a cover? There was no sign that Lewis resisted, no sign that he even knew he was in danger. It’s a little unusual for the victim to be killed in a simple robbery. But then again, you never know what some guy spaced out on whatever is going to do. Junkies don’t think clearly.”

  “What about Jay Miller? Was he playing downtown last night?”

  “We’re checking. He says he was at a studio out in Mount Juliet working a session. They were at it pretty late, finished about three. He went straight home and to bed. One of his housemates is in his band. His story is the same, says they left Mount Juliet about the same time, got to their house in the Melrose area about the same time.”

  I started coffee, got everything on the table, and said, “I have a few things to tell you.” He didn’t look cheered up by that. I decided food might help.

  The soup smelled great as I ladled it into the bowls. Sam closed his eyes and inhaled. That was a good sign.

  “What have you been up to while I’ve been picking up trash?” he asked.

  “Well,” I began. I told him about Lewis in the bank, about Anna’s joking suggestion that he might be blackmailing someone. Sam ate like a man who was hungry and tired. I told him about the lien and about the slit tires on the Spider. He scowled. I told him about my information that Jacqueline had had a drug problem and spent time in rehab. He raised his eyebrow at that; hospitals keep that kind of thing very quiet.

  He took a long drink of tea. “Jacqueline would have known what medications her mother was taking, and she would have been smart enough to make sure she used drugs Hazel was already taking. This soup is great, by the way. And the bread. You make it?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s really good.” He looked impressed. Tired, but impressed. “But we’ll do some more checking on her statement, where she was that afternoon. She was in the hospital, and most of the time she said she was in surgery. It was a high-risk surgery, and she was in and out of the OR through the whole thing. It might have been possible to make it out to Hazel’s; I don’t know. I would think someone would have seen her coming or going, but that doesn’t mean they would have thought anything about it. Who are your sources, anyway? How do you find out these things?”

  I tried to look modest, but I didn’t tell. “Oh, and the maid! She said Mr. Lewis said he would take care of her, that she would work for Franklin Polk, but if she didn’t want to work, she wouldn’t have to. That’s unusually generous, don’t you think?”

  At that point, he got up, went over to his jacket, and grabbed his notebook. This was not going to be a nice, relaxed evening. I was trying to decide if I should tell him about the painting in Kenneth Elliott’s back room. I thought about getting the photos from my bedroom, but I didn’t. I really wanted to talk to Doug first. There had to be some legitimate explanation.

  “When did you talk to the maid?”

  I told him.

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit a number. “Tom. This is Davis. Check out the maid. She may still be at the Miller house. If not, check with Franklin Polk. I don’t care if you do interrupt his weekend. She was expecting to start work there when she was through at the Millers’. If Lewis’s murder is connected to Hazel Miller’s, she might be at risk, too. Okay. Thanks.”

  He return
ed to the table, started to say something, then stopped.

  “What?” I asked.

  He looked at me, then away for a moment. “It’s probably nothing. Somebody in Fraud thinks he may be onto something that might connect. Probably not. You mentioned apple pie?”

  I cut the pie and served pieces on dessert plates. “I forgot. When I talked to Lewis in Hazel’s backyard, he stuck something in his pocket that I thought he might have been trying to hide. Maybe something like a medicine bottle? Ice cream?”

  He gave that some thought. “No, I don’t think so. Just pie.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, but I’ll get it.”

  He poured the coffee for both of us and brought it to the table. He took a bite of pie and closed his eyes again. Either he really liked it, or he was so tired he was about to fall asleep.

  “That is delicious. Do you cook a lot?”

  “Not a lot. I like to cook; it’s just usually easier to fix a sandwich or a salad or microwave a Lean Cuisine. What about you?” I asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. Do you cook?”

  “Enough to keep Julie from going hungry. Basic stuff. We eat a lot of raw vegetables.” He grinned. “Nutritious, and if you don’t cook ’em, you can’t mess ’em up. I guess I cook badly enough that Julie was motivated to learn to cook early. She’s a much better cook than I am.”

  “My friend MaryNell’s daughter says she’s a nice kid.”

  He nodded. “I’ve spent enough time around courtrooms to know that parents don’t always know what’s going on even if they try, but yeah, she is a nice kid. Smart, together.” He looked up and into my eyes. “I’m proud of her. I don’t mean I’m proud of myself because of her. I’m proud of her, of the woman she is becoming.”

  I smiled and thought, not for the first time, that I could have been a mother by now if I’d made some different choices. It wasn’t too late, but it was getting there. “Sounds to me like you’re a lucky man.”

  He nodded again. The silence stretched. His phone rang.