At mention of Sylvia and Xavier, Carrie’s face grew solemn. “I spoke to Sylvia this morning. The police want Xavier to come in again today for more questioning. I advised her to contact the public defender’s office. I’m certain Xavier would qualify, financially.”
Jo nodded. “That’s good advice. I hope they follow it. Loralee said she’d get her church group to help them out in the food department.” Jo stood up from her desk. “That leaves it up to me to find a strong reason for the police to look elsewhere”
She looked at Carrie worriedly. “I hope I can do it.”
<><><>
Jo knocked on the door of Sebastian Zarnik’s studio. She had left Carrie to mind the shop after making numerous promises to be very careful, and made a quick stop at the house to assemble her “wealthy, but not flaunting it” outfit. She wasn’t sure that what she had come up with would convince Zarnik, even with the piled-on costume jewelry, and only hoped he would be more interested in showing his art than in spotting holes – literally- in her costume.
Zarnik opened the door, and Jo found herself facing an incredibly attractive, thirty-something man. Although on consideration his features were actually unremarkable – average nose and mouth, high cheek-boned face on a slim, six-foot tall frame - she realized his eyes made all the difference. Deep blue and thick-lashed, they had focused on Jo’s face as if it were precisely what he had longed to see all day. Possibly all his life. Jo understood Mallory Holt’s attraction to him. The man was magnetizing.
“Mrs. McAllister?” he asked.
“Yes.” Jo tore her eyes away from his hypnotic ones and glanced at his studio beyond. “Thank you for letting me come on such short notice.”
“My pleasure.” He seized her hand and drew her in.
Jo entered an artist’s studio similar to the many she had been in, filled with canvases, paint, and paint-stained work tables, along with the debris of everyday living. She had never yet met an artist who cared about ridding his workspace of food containers, empty tubes of paint, or just plain dirt and dust. It brought back strong memories of her life with Mike, though his debris had been pieces of metal rather than paint. She had protested often enough in those days, when the accumulation got to the “wading” level. But living alone now in Abbotsville, she felt her much tidier home had the uncomfortable feel of emptiness, of the kind no mere things could fill.
Jo stopped short in front of an abstract painting that, in its shape and predominance of black and grey, reminded her of one of Mike’s metal sculptures. She drew in a quick breath.
Zarnik mistook her reaction for admiration and moved closely next to her to gaze at it. “I call this one, ‘Conundrum’. It’s done in acrylics, which I’ve taken to lately. I find they give me more freedom of expression.”
Jo had heard that phrase many times before and it still meant little to her. She had decided, though, to play the art novice with Zarnik and challenge nothing, so she merely nodded and smiled.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Zarnik asked. “I have a very pleasant Merlot, or, if you prefer, a chilled bottle of Chablis.”
“Merlot would be nice, thank you.” Jo followed him to a small kitchen area and watched as he opened the Merlot and filled two glasses he had sitting there. She spotted a large, open box of tools on the floor beside wooden frames and rolled canvas. “You stretch your own canvas,” she asked, then instantly kicked herself for asking something that sounded art-knowledgeable.
“Always,” He handed her a glass.
Jo took a sip. “That’s quite a collection of tools. It must be a complicated operation,” she said, hoping to cover her misstep.
Zarnik smiled. “They’re not all for my work. My landlord is unreliable on things like maintenance. I’ve gradually acquired tools for calking leaky windows as well as replacing a faucet or two.”
Jo grinned. “I’ll bet he’s reliable on collecting the rent, though!
Zarnik laughed. “You’d collect on that bet.” He clinked his wineglass against hers. “To landlords!”
“To landlords!” Jo drank her wine, her thoughts flying to the Caribbean where her landlord might be, sipping his own wine and possibly counting his money from the sale of her building. To landlords, indeed!
“Do you have an image of the kind of painting you want?” Zarnik asked, leading her back to the first painting. “For that space of yours?”
“I’m trying to branch out,” Jo said. “To move beyond the pretty picture that everyone chooses because the colors match their couch. I want something that will make me think every time I look at it.” She shrugged and smiled, she hoped ingenuously. “That’s my starting point, anyway.”
“A very good starting point, I’d say.” Zarnik turned a spellbinding look at her.
Jo dragged her gaze toward the black and grey canvas, examined it for a moment, then moved on to a more colorful piece. Zarnik followed closely enough that she could feel his breath near her ear. She made positive-sounding murmurs toward the colorful painting then continued down the line of several pieces, placed on easels or leaning against the wall.
“I’m planning a show, soon,” he said. “Most of these will be packed up and shipped off before long, so you’ve come at a fortunate time for the overview.”
“A show?” Jo said. “How exciting. Where?”
“The final arrangements are still being worked out, but it will probably be in Philadelphia.” He mentioned a gallery Jo had heard of. She was impressed and wondered how this had come about. Zarnik’s work was good, but to her mind not that good. Was the gallery owner a woman, she wondered? Someone who perhaps had been mesmerized by Zarnik’s persona?
Zarnik offered the explanation himself. “Mrs. Lucy Kunkle, our mayor’s wife, has bought one or two of my paintings. She has connections in Philadelphia.”
Ah, Mallory’s Aunt Lucy. Jo pictured Lucy twisting an arm of one of her connections, with Mallory in turn twisting her aunt’s arm. “How wonderful of her to be so supportive.”
“Yes, well, you know how it goes. The success of the local talent in turn reflects well on the town.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Jo sidestepped to a canvas which was covered in swirls of reds and yellows. “Lucy Kunkle is related to Parker Holt, isn’t she? That man who was murdered recently?”
Zarnik stiffened a bit, but nodded. “I believe she was. Did you know him?”
“By reputation only. Did you?”
“I’ve met his wife.”
“Yes, Mallory. What a tragedy. It’s all everyone is talking about lately. I understand she was with her aunt when it happened.”
“Possibly.” Zarnik gestured to the red and yellow canvas. “I haven’t titled this one yet. If you’re interested in it, perhaps you can suggest a title for it.”
Jo tilted her head at the painting. “With those strong colors spinning about, I might call it ‘Turmoil’.”
“Turmoil. Not bad. Would ‘Turmoil’ fit your needs? Does it make you think?”
“Yes, but maybe not the right kind of thoughts. I’m not sure I need more turmoil right now, painted or not. Probably,” she said with a smile, “something called ‘Resolution’ would be a better choice.” Jo moved over to a gentler piece, full of softly floating greens and blues. “This one brings to mind a day on the Bay. Or maybe a field of grass blowing in the wind, with bluebells.” She checked its title which was ‘Aquarius’. “Oh.”
“The thing about abstract art is that it can be anything you want it to be. Or nothing. It can be just paint. Or it can be beauty.” Zarnik focused on her again with those eyes of his. Jo struggled to stay cool.
For that purpose, as well as to keep the subject on her murder investigation, Jo turned away, saying, “No, now that I think about it, I was wrong about where Mallory was when it happened. She came back from an afternoon spent with her aunt, but she was actually at her club’s committee meeting when it happened. To Parker, I mean.”
“You may be right. I couldn’t say.”
“Is that so?” Zarnik’s smile was beginning to fade.
“Yes. Of course it can’t possibly help them. I mean, how many of us can say we were at a certain place and have friends or whatever to back us up with, ‘yes, she was there. I saw her.’ ” Jo twirled the fringed end of the scarf she had tied as a sash about her waist. “Mallory, fortunately, had a whole committee of friends to verify where she was. I, on the other hand, was alone at the critical time, just as I’m positive half the people in town were.
“You,” Jo continued, “were probably here, alone, working on your art. Am I right?”
Zarnik gave a small smile. “How did you guess?”
“It just proves my point,” Jo said. “Alibis don’t’ mean a thing. So it’s a waste of time for the police to check for them. What they really need to look for is motive.”
“Isn’t that exactly what they’re doing?” Zarnik said. “That handyman, I mean.”
“Did he have a motive?” Jo asked. “I didn’t see anything in the paper about a motive. What was it?”
Zarnik’s thick eyelashes suddenly flickered. He must have realized that he had heard about Xavier’s motive through Mallory Holt, but clearly didn’t want to admit this to Jo. “I might be wrong. I thought I’d heard someone say he had a connection to Holt, but I can’t remember now what it was. Well, enough about this sordid subject. Have you seen anything displayed here that catches your interest? If not, perhaps we could discuss commissioning a work?”
Zarnik had just wriggled off her hook and put Jo onto his own. Commission a painting? How would she get out of that? Jo spotted a painting on the other side of the room and pretended sudden ecstasy.
“Oh, isn’t that one fantastic!” she exclaimed, rushing over to it. The canvas was filled with squiggly lines of bright colors, intersecting each other in a maze of spirals. “I love it!” she cried.
Zarnik’s smile returned. “I experimented with using a paint spray gun for this. I think it turned out well.”
Jo gushed for several minutes, spouting words she rarely used such as ‘fabulous’, ‘bewitching’, and her least favorite for its meaninglessness, ‘creative’. Zarnik expounded on the difficulties he had run into with the process and what precisely had been in his mind during the painting’s development, then eased smoothly into its cost. Jo suppressed a cough and managed to nod cooly as though price were too coarse a topic to discuss. She continued on for a few more minutes, changing her perspectives on the painting often by backing up and moving from side to side, then finally announced, “As much as I love it, I’m just going to have to sleep on it before I make my decision.”
“I understand completely,” Zarnik assured her. “But I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. As I said, the show will be coming up, plus one or two people have expressed interest in the piece.”
“Then I definitely won’t take long.” Jo thanked him profusely for his time, and eased her way to the door.
Zarnik took her hand and fixed his incredible gaze on her one last time left, and Jo found herself holding her breath until the door finally closed behind her. She exhaled, pulled herself together, and headed toward her old Toyota which had been carefully parked around the corner and out of sight. If she had learned anything at all at this meeting, she decided, it was that Zarnik was an amazing flirt. If Mallory Holt planned her future around him, Jo wished her luck for the challenge it would be.
But she had also discovered that he had no clear alibi for the time Parker Holt was killed. Did the tools Jo had seen in his studio include wire cutters and strippers that would have been needed for the electrical trap? Possibly. Had they been used, though, for that purpose?
That question still remained.
CHAPTER 15
That evening, Jo pulled into the parking lot at Pheasant Run next to the blue Chevy Malibu that held Ina Mae and Loralee. Javonne stood waiting beside her SUV, and the headlights of Vernon’s white pick-up appeared in Jo’s rear-view mirror as it turned into the lot.
“Thanks, everyone,” Jo said, when they’d all gathered on the sidewalk. “I appreciate your agreeing to move our workshop over here tonight.”
“No problem,” Javonne said. “I’ve always wanted to see this place. This is my chance.”
“Angie Palmer certainly set this up in a hurry,” Loralee said.
“When I called this morning to suggest it,” Jo explained, “Angie said the ladies we spoke to yesterday morning had been talking to their friends who all immediately expressed interest, so she knew she had a ready-made group. Bringing you all here works great for me, for the time factor of doing one instead of two workshops, plus,” Jo grinned, “for the help I know you’ll provide in the sleuthing department.” Jo had updated them all on what she had learned recently. “Now,” she said, “if everyone will please grab as much as they can carry from my car and follow me?”
The group gathered up boxes, then followed Jo in a line as she led the way through the front entrance of Pheasant Run and down its corridors. She couldn’t help feeling like a mother hen with her chicks, especially on hearing Loralee let out occasional peeps when one of her smaller boxes slid atop her stack.
As they entered the Great Room, Jo saw that tables had been arranged at the far end for her workshop, and she headed there to deposit her pile on the largest, with her “chicks” following suit. Jo unpacked her bead boards first and handed them to Javonne to spread around.
“Oh, you’re here!” Angie Palmer breezed through the door. “Great! I told everyone to show up at seven. Do you need anything more than what we’ve set up?”
“No, this looks perfect.” She introduced Angie to her regulars, and by the time they’d all shucked their coats and begun opening up Jo’s bead boxes, the Pheasant Run ladies had begun drifting in. Jo welcomed them, recognizing Loralee’s friend, Betty, and her companions Donna and Celia, among a few others. She waved everyone to seats around the smaller tables, and listened as the conversational noise level rose. Good, she thought. If this is a chatty group, the better to learn a few things from them. The only problem, though, was that Angie Palmer still hung around. Jo feared her presence might quash discussion of Pheasant Run’s management problem with the late Parker Holt. She’d have to come up with a way to get rid of her.
“Everyone,” Jo called out to get the group’s attention, then tapped her pliers on the table and raised her voice to shout, “Ladies!” Several heads swiveled, and the group quieted down. Jo began her class.
“You each have at your place a bead design board. This is what you will create your necklace on.” Jo paused as the women picked up their boards and examined them. “As you see they have three channels. That is where you will lay your wire, or wires if you decide you want a multi-strand necklace. You will also have to decide on the length of your necklace. These bead boards, as you see, have lines and measurements marked on them. They will help you find your center as well as to line up your beads in a nicely balanced way.
“The boards are flocked to keep your beads from rolling away on you. Plus you can use the handy pocket wells at the corners to separate your beads and to hold them.”
The group was giving her rapt attention, so Jo went on to explain about the various clasps they could choose from, then held up a few sample necklaces to give them some ideas to start with.
“The cost of your necklace will depend on the particular beads you choose and the number of them. For instance, these plastic beads are very inexpensive but quite colorful and appropriate for a certain type of necklace. Whereas the gemstones, especially the larger ones, get pricier. Then there’s these Swarovski crystals, which are beautiful, but will add to your cost. But you might be happy with a single, large stone strung as a pendant, with perhaps only a few smaller beads and spacers added to set it off. All of my bead boxes are labeled for price to help you estimate, but don’t worry, I
’ll total it all up for you when you’re ready.”
The questions came then, all at once, and Jo did her best to answer them, explaining that she would help them individually with things like putting crimps at strategic points to keep beads in place, and attaching clasps. “Just holler when you need me.” Considering the noise level the group had risen to earlier, she imagined the “hollers” would need to be lusty ones to be noticed, but felt sure this group would manage.
The ladies milled about the circle of bead boxes which Jo had arranged by color. She listened to their hum of voices, as each dithered over which beads to choose, how densely to string them, what colors went with what, and so on. There were dozens of decisions to make, and Jo understood how overwhelming it could be to the first time beader. She hovered nearby, pitching in with advice. Unfortunately, she noticed Angie Palmer also hovering closely, apparently just as fascinated as the other ladies, though not participating.
“Loralee,” Jo heard Loralee’s friend Betty ask, “have you decided on buying a condo?”
Loralee looked up from her bead board on which she had lined up several pink beads of various sizes. She shook her head. “It’s a big decision.”
“If you have any questions,” Angie, whose ears had perked up, quickly jumped in, “I’d be more than happy to try to answer them.”
“Thank you, dear,” Loralee said politely, but turned back to her bead choices.
Vernon, Jo saw, had lined up an attractive set of beads on his board, a soft combination of beiges and browns which he said his daughter Patty had requested. He settled down to begin stringing, and Jo demonstrated the crimping process to him with her needle nose pliers as several others of the class leaned over to watch.
Javonne brought her bead line-up over for Vernon’s approval. “What do you think?” she asked. “Should I go with the blue and green, or stick with all blue?”
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