by Jane Tesh
“Now here we have some neo-classical non structured landscapes, and here are the works of Joachim Handlemeyer, a protégé of Van Dyke, who never got the recognition he deserved. And here are our French Impressionists. I believe you’ll be interested in those.”
As I looked at the beautiful paintings, I thought, yes, that’s the way to suggest the light on leaves. That’s the way to show movement in the grass. I’d almost forgotten how inspiring the classic works could be. I knew immediately how I could improve my landscapes. I wanted more than ever to be a part of this.
“And in the next room we have some lovely examples of trompe-l’oeil,” Letticia Booth said. “We’re especially proud of the Marquesa still life.” She chatted on until we were back to the pipes and circles.
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“My pleasure. Am I to understand that you work full-time as an artist?”
“Actually, I have my own agency in Celosia, Madeline Maclin Investigations.”
“I see. And what sort of things do you investigate?”
“Missing persons, lost objects, and I help with murder investigations.”
Letticia Booth looked taken aback. “Really? But you want a career in art, as well?”
Did I want a career in art as well as a career as a private investigator? Why not? Why couldn’t I have both? I gave Jerry a smile. “Yes,” I said, and for the first time, I meant it.
“Well, that’s quite interesting.” She wore a watch on a long silver chain. She glanced at it. “I have an opening in my schedule. Come to my office. I’d like to hear more about this.”
Letticia Booth’s office was a vast spacious room decorated in plum and gray with framed black and white photographs of flowers on the walls. Spaced in front of the window were three short Greek columns, each one with a sculpture or vase or piece of modern art placed on top. The view from the window showed a garden with Japanese maples just beginning to turn red.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “May I offer you some tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said. The plum-colored chairs in front of her desk were oddly shaped but very comfortable.
“I really enjoy getting to know our new artists. Tell me how you became involved with investigating crimes.”
“I used to work at an agency here in Parkland, but I decided to leave and start an agency of my own.” I explained that while Jerry and I were in Celosia to check on a house he’d inherited, I was hired to investigate sabotage at the Miss Celosia Pageant, and in the course of that investigation, found one of the contestants dead backstage.
“I was able to find out who killed her. And then a director wanted to use the house for his horror movie. Someone poisoned him, and I discovered his murderer, as well.”
“Very interesting. Do you feel your talents are put to their best use on murder investigations?”
“I don’t always have cases like that. I like finding lost articles, missing relatives, family heirlooms.” When I’m not being challenged by murder mysteries, I wanted to add.
“If your art work were to become popular, would you have the time to spend on it?”
“Fortunately, the murder cases are few.”
“Well, you’re a very attractive young woman. Some of the artists I’ve met, quite frankly, look as though they’ve been sleeping in Dumpsters. This could be a good story for the museum, a good way for the show to get more positive publicity. I’d like you to meet our liaison to the Parkland Herald.”
For a horrible moment, I thought she was going to say, “Chance Baseford,” the critic who’d shredded my first exhibit. But she said, “Valerie Banner. May I call her and set up an interview?”
A favorable showing at the gallery and a positive interview in the paper would go a long way toward improving my reputation as an artist. “Yes, thank you,” I said.
“I believe we have your contact information. I’ll have her call you.”
As we left the museum, Jerry took my arm in his. “I feel a Twenty-First Century mood coming on,” he said.
“A good mood?”
“Oh, yes. You accomplished quite a lot in that short visit. If Valerie Banner writes a decent story, you might even get more cases.”
“Just so she doesn’t write something like, ‘Murder is an Art,’ or ‘A Brush With Death.’”
“Or ‘Color Me Dead.’”
***
We entertained ourselves with more headlines as we drove back to Celosia and home.
Home. Yes, when I thought of the house, I thought of it as home, a home slowly emerging from years of neglect to become a beautiful, inviting place, set in a field of waving grass and wildflowers, and surrounded by ancient oak trees. Before moving here, I’d lived in a small apartment in Parkland, and before that, Bill and I had a large, ugly split-level house. The only other home I’d had was my mother’s house with its cold black and white décor and uncomfortable furniture. I never wanted to go back to any of those places.
I know Jerry loves the house, I thought, but this house means something to me, too. I love our blue living room. I love our kitchen at the back with the old fashioned table and chairs. I love my upstairs studio with its wonderful light and the front porch where Jerry and I watch the sunsets.
The white van parked under one of the trees meant Nell Brenner, our handywoman, was here. While Jerry went into the kitchen in search of a snack, I found Nell upstairs replacing the front of a new air conditioning unit.
“Heard there was a little commotion over at the school,” she said.
It no longer startles me that Nell knows everything that happens in town, sometimes before it happens. “Amelia Lever had a heart attack.”
Nell wiped her large hands on her paint splattered overalls. “Passed on, did she?”
“Yes, and I’m not so sure it was of natural causes.”
She reached into her toolbox for her screwdriver. She gave me a glance from her small shrewd blue eyes. “You on the case?”
“Not exactly.”
She tightened the screws that held on the front panel. “Well, I can tell you that Amelia Lever was a hateful woman, and I’m a little surprised someone hasn’t killed her before now.”
“Hateful in general, or did something make her hateful?”
“Can’t figure it. She married George Lever, had the two boys, taught school forever. Must have been something in her childhood. Why are you interested?”
Why was I interested? Well, for one thing, the idea of a murder happening at Austin and Denisha’s elementary school made me very uncomfortable. “She was wearing a nicotine patch and smoking at the same time.”
“Probably just forgot—or do you think somebody saw her light up and smacked a patch on her?” Nell chuckled. “I’d like to see the man or woman brave enough to smack Amelia Lever.”
“Well, then, what can you tell me about Victoria Satterfield?”
Nell straightened and turned on the unit. Cool air blew the wisps of blond hair sticking out from under her baseball cap. “Oh, yeah, Tori Dewey. Nice girl. Kinda shy.”
“She’s built herself a fort out of scrapbooks and old newspapers.”
“That husband of hers was no good. She probably needed some kind of protection. Took to you, did she?”
“We have art in common.”
“Poor girl didn’t have much of anything. Not a bad dancer as I hear it. She deserved a little bit of the spotlight. Too bad Aaron Satterfield didn’t feel the same way.”
“Then why did he marry her?”
She readjusted the fan level to turn back the arctic blast. “Basically to spite his family. They’d picked out some rich girl from up north. He wasn’t going to do what they said. A stubborn boy, real arrogant.”
“What can you tell me about Nathan Fenton?”
“Nathan Fenton’s all right. He and Fiona Kittering oughta make a good couple. Both of them dull as dirt.”
“What about this Camp Lakenwood?”
Nell’s eyes gleamed t
he same way Nathan’s had gleamed when he talked about the camp. “I have some real happy memories about that place. Went there every summer. Learned all kinds of crafts. Fixed everything I could get my hands on.”
I imagined a smaller version of Nell chopping down trees and building log cabins.
“So this camp idea is legitimate?”
“If he wants to fix it up, I say more power to him.”
“Does it need a lot of repair?”
“Well, it hasn’t been open for several years now. I’d say it would take some serious money to set it right.”
“Fiona tells me Fenton’s Uncle Elijah was not nice to know.”
“He was a right ornery old cuss.” She picked up her toolbox and pulled her hat firmly down. “So now you tell me how things are with you and junior. He miss that wild life of his?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Still holds them séances, doesn’t he?”
“Just for Mrs. Snyder and Sylvie.”
“Any more of his idiot friends come to visit?”
“You’d know it if they were here.”
Her little eyes twinkled. “Why, yes, I would. Cool enough for you?”
“Yes, it feels great.”
She reached over and turned the air conditioner down. “Oughta work fine now.”
Jerry was sitting on the front porch eating out of a large bag of Cheetos. Nell gave him a wave as she went down the porch steps to her van. In a few minutes, the van chugged down the driveway.
“Where are the kids?” I asked.
“I don’t know. They’re usually here by now. It wasn’t their teacher who died, was it?”
“No, they’re in Mrs. Forrest’s class.”
He tipped the bag my way. I shook my head. He took another handful. “So what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to talk to as many teachers as I can tonight. Maybe I can have a look in Amelia’s classroom.” I gazed across the fields that surrounded our house. Crickets were cheeping. The September sun was golden on the tall grass and yellow wildflowers. Some milkweed tuffs had caught in a spider web. I’d lived all my young life in hotel rooms and dance studios and practice rooms, in auditoriums, ball rooms, and in the dark back stages of who knows how many theaters, while all this time, nature was going on. I’d almost missed it.
Since Jerry’s younger brother, Tucker, is a gardener, Jerry knows the names of almost all the plants. He’d pointed out the larkspur and butterfly bushes around the porch, the altheas and hydrangeas. I always felt so happy sitting out here on the porch with him as we surveyed our somewhat unkempt kingdom. I hoped Jerry felt the same way.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Just how beautiful all this is.”
“So you don’t miss the big city?”
“Not at all. Do you?”
He crunched a few more Cheetos before he answered. “Sometimes.”
I was glad for the opening. “I don’t want you to think you’re stuck here.”
“I wouldn’t call it stuck. I like it here.”
I sat down on the porch rail. “I was also thinking about how much I love this house.”
“Told you it would grow on you.”
“And I love this town—if people would stop killing each other.”
“Unfortunately, that happens everywhere.”
Inside the house, I heard the jingling tune of my cell phone. “I hope that’s not another one.”
I went into the living room and dug my phone out of my pocketbook. When I checked the caller ID I almost didn’t answer. Then I took a deep breath and said, “Hello?”
“Hello, Madeline,” my mother said.
Might as well be cheerful. “Oh, hi, Mom, how are you?”
“You were in Parkland today and didn’t call? You could’ve come by the house. Your cousins were here from Ohio. I’m sure they would’ve loved to have seen you. And they were so sorry they didn’t know about your wedding. I’m sure they would’ve loved to have come.”
In the past, these layers of guilt would have smothered me. However, I’m on to my mother’s tricks. Plus I knew my cousins didn’t care a thing about seeing me or coming to my wedding. Like my mother, they’d given up on me when I renounced my pageant ways. “It was a business trip. I had just a few hours.”
“Business? Do you mean that little agency of yours?” I could imagine her holding the phone with one hand while she inspected her fingernails. I was sure she had on an immaculately tailored suit, most likely in black and white, her favorite non-colors. “Don’t tell me you’re finding enough work in Celosia.”
“I’m working on two cases right now.”
“Is Jerry working? What’s he doing?”
Putting the finishing touches on what I hope will be his last scam. “He’s still at the bookstore.”
“Will he not take any of that money he’s entitled to?”
“We’re getting along fine, Mom.”
“Claudia Mayfield said she saw you at the Weyland Gallery. Whatever were you doing there?”
My mother had always seen my art work as a foolish past time. When my first exhibit was panned, she saw this as proof I had no artistic talent. I took a moment to fashion just the right answer. “The Weyland asked to show some of my work as part of their New Artists Series.”
Silence.
“You’ll be able to see it next week. I’ll have three paintings in the show.”
More silence.
“One of the paintings they really like is ‘Blue Moon Garden.’ You may remember that one.”
“Well,” she said. “Well, that’s very nice, Madeline. Congratulations.”
It had taken a lot for her to say that. “Thank you. I hope you’ll come to the show.”
“I’d like that. The Weyland is the finest gallery in town, you know. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
I could hear her brain whirring as it readjusted its world view. Not my daughter, the Pageant Queen, or Ace Detective, but my daughter, the Upcoming Artist. She could use this to keep turning in her social circle.
“Will there be some sort of reception?”
“I’ll make sure you get all the details,” I said. “I’d like for you to come.” If she couldn’t be the mother I wanted, at least I wanted her as a friend. If having a daughter to brag about was the only way she could justify being a mother, then I was glad I’d done something right.
“This is good news, Madeline. I’ll see you at the gallery.”
“Thanks,” I said. I hung up and went back to the porch. “That was Mother. Hang on to the railing because I’m about to tell you something shocking. She’s happy about the art show.”
Jerry grinned. “About time she was happy about something.”
“She saw us in Parkland. Her spies are everywhere.”
“Maybe we should visit her next time we’re in town.”
“Let’s start with the art show. Give her time to adjust.”
“Okay.”
“And speaking of adjusting, you sure you don’t miss your wandering days?”
“Not really.”
“Is there enough in Celosia to keep you busy?”
He set the bag aside. “What’s all this about?”
“I just don’t want you to be bored.”
“Bored? Well, let’s see. I have my Bufo collection, my piano, my work at the book store, and the prospect of a hot night at the Celosia Elementary PTA, watching ace investigator, Madeline Maclin Fairweather, in action. How could I be bored?”
“Seriously, Jerry. We really should have discussed this more before we got married.”
“What’s to discuss? We’re together, and that’s all that matters to me.”
I was surprised by the tears that stung my eyes. I gave Jerry a long hug so he wouldn’t see the tears, and I could get myself under control.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Look, if this gallery thing and your mom is going to be too much stress—”
“No, it�
��s fine.” It really was fine. Usually a call from my mother left me feeling depressed and heavy, but I felt light, as if I’d been carrying a weight I didn’t know I had. “Let’s go pick out the perfect tie for you to wear tonight.”
“Would that be upstairs in our bedroom?”
“Yes.” I gave him a kiss. “Right now.”
CHAPTER THREE
Jerry decided his green tie with the monkeys and bananas was appropriate for a school meeting. I wore a more conservative black skirt and red blouse. I had a chance to speak to several teachers before the meeting. All of them were sorry such an incident had happened during the school day, but not one expressed any deep regret that Amelia Lever had died.
During the business part of the PTA meeting, Jerry peeled a Bufo sticker from the back of the chair in front of me. The sticker showed Bufo in a heroic pose, his Sword of Thunder held aloft, his Shield of Justice deflecting the harmful rays of his enemies’ Battle Bolts. I showed the sticker to Rachel, who was sitting on my right. She shook her head.
“Those things are everywhere.”
Thad Murphy came on stage. He introduced the chorus members who sang a song about “Living Your Dreams” in honor of Mrs. Lever. I thought Mrs. Lever wasn’t living anything at this point. Murphy gave a brief talk about Amelia’s accomplishments at Celosia Elementary and then introduced her two grown sons, Kevin and Marshall Lever.
Amelia’s sons thanked Thad and the PTA for honoring their mother. The two men looked like twins. They had unfashionable Prince Valiant haircuts and ugly flannel shirts, but their trousers and shoes looked expensive. They were shy and sad-faced, like two dachshunds that had wandered away from their yard.
Thad Murphy had some closing remarks. “As for Mrs. Lever’s class, we’re pleased to announce that Miss Norma Olsen will be coming in tomorrow to take over the class. I hope all of you will make Miss Olsen feel welcome during this difficult time.”
After the meeting, Jerry and I offered our condolences to Kevin and Marshall Lever. Rachel said, “I’m so very sorry. I know you’ll miss your mother very much.”
“Thank you,” Kevin Lever said. “It was really nice of you folks to have this for her.”
“Is her funeral tomorrow? I’d like to come.”
