by Bird, Peggy
“I knew there was one there. Tommy must have put the other one in.”
One of Amanda’s studio mates stuck his head in the door of the office. “Amanda, something weird is going on with one of the kilns; it’s heating up too fast. Can you … ?” He stopped, his face registering the lunch scene. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s okay. We’re finished.” She got up and headed for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I see what’s going on, Drake.”
“It’s okay. Take your time. I’ll just clean up here.”
When she returned from checking the kiln she found Drake looking through the cupboards along the wall behind the desk. “Can I help you find something?” she asked.
“Just looking for a plate to put the rest of these cupcakes on.”
“There’s nothing up there but office supplies. What you want is here.” From a cabinet along the opposite wall she pulled out a plate and handed it to him. “Thank you, from all of us but especially from me. That was the best lunch I’ve had in ages. I’ll call my accountant this afternoon and get back to you about your lease as soon as I talk to him. If he says it’s a reasonable approach, which I imagine he will, I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.”
“I appreciate the positive response. Not that I expected anything else from the best landlord in Portland. Please come in for dinner soon. If you give me some advance notice, I’ll even join you, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“You don’t have to go to all that trouble, Drake.”
“It’s no trouble. You’re not only the best landlord but the most beautiful one. It would be my pleasure.” He kissed her on the cheek again, this time lingering a bit longer.
• • •
In spite of the wine and gourmet lunch, Amanda’s afternoon was productive. That is, until she got one last phone call. It was from Margo Keyes.
“Amanda, have you hired a lawyer yet?” she asked.
“I have but I don’t think he’s heard anything back from Kane’s attorney.”
“Well, you might want to tell him Kane’s been trolling the DA’s office trying to get one of us to bite on his claim there’s intellectual property theft going on under our noses. He says we’re not doing anything about it because the thief is a prominent artist who’s being protected. It doesn’t take a mental giant to figure out who he’s referring to.”
“Oh, dear God. The point of hiring an attorney was to keep this under control. It’s not working. What am I going to do? My reputation can’t take too many hits like this. This will ruin me.”
“Kane’s reputation is the one at risk here. Call your lawyer. He’ll tell Kane’s lawyer to get his client under control.”
“I’m not so sure Mr. Kane has anything to lose here. But I’ll call my attorney. Thanks, Margo. I appreciate the heads up.”
“And don’t worry about this. Let the lawyers work it out.”
Yeah, let the lawyers work it out, Amanda thought as she punched in the number for her attorney. But if they can’t, I’m going to solve my problem myself. Whatever that takes.
• • •
Like most art venues, The Fairchild Gallery was closed Mondays. But on this particular Monday, Liz Fairchild was at the gallery hanging a new show. She could have tried to hide but it was hard to conceal an almost six-foot tall body topped by a mane of dark brown, henna-highlighted hair. Particularly when the body, dressed in an oversize white shirt and black leggings, was atop a ladder in front of a floor-to-ceiling display window. Eubie Kane found her by merely looking in from the street.
Liz wasn’t particularly happy to see him. She sold his work in her gallery but he was a pain-in-the-ass to deal with. He was probably there to complain about something — again — or maybe to confirm the rumor she’d heard about him approaching another gallery to represent him. Whatever his reason for being there, Liz knew him well enough to know it would take him forever to get to the point.
As she feared, once Kane was admitted to the gallery, he wandered around, stretching his long legs and arms like a runner after a jog, rambling on about art, artists and galleries and the need for artists to be free to take advantage of the few opportunities offered them.
Liz listened for a while and then lost patience. “Look, Eubie, I have a show to hang. Let’s cut to the chase. What is it you want?”
“Okay, okay. I want you to release me from my contract.”
“So, you’re giving me the required two months notice?”
“No, I want out now.”
“Why would you think I’d release you now when you have your first solo show with me next month? A show I’ve already paid large amounts of money to advertise in a half-dozen publications.” Discussions like this made Liz wish she hadn’t given up smoking ten years before. Nicotine would have rendered Eubie a lot more tolerable.
“But I have a better opportunity, a chance to be in a real gallery, to be part of their annual emerging artists’ show that all the critics review. But they won’t sign me because I have a contract with you.”
Liz wasn’t sure whether she was more annoyed by his whining or his insults. “Honey, offending the person you want the favor from isn’t a particularly effective way to get what you want.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “So, the rumor’s true. You went to The Woods Gallery and asked for representation.”
“I’m willing to give up the solo show, if you’ll release me.”
“Either you’re not listening or there’s an audio problem in here that I never noticed before. So maybe if I write it, you’ll get it.” Liz took a marker, grabbed a scrap of paper from the floor and wrote in big, black letters, “Not only no but hell no.” She handed the paper to him saying, “You signed the contract. You live by it.”
He snatched the paper from her hand, ripped it in two, and crammed it into the pocket of his overalls. “You’ll be sorry you crossed me, Liz. I’m about to make my mark on the art world in Portland and you’re gonna regret you didn’t play ball.” Kane attempted to storm out the door but discovered he had to wait for Liz to unlock it, taking most of the drama out of his exit.
Not five minutes after the young artist left, Mike Benson knocked on the door. This interruption Liz was happy to see. Mike was her temporary help while her regular staffer was off on an extended holiday.
“I thought I’d see if you needed anything for the new show.” He stopped. “Hey, what happened? You don’t look so happy.”
“I’m not. One of my artists was here trying to worm his way out of his contract. He pissed me off.” She shook her head. “But I’m glad you dropped by.” She picked up a shipping box from the floor. “Will you finish uncrating these paintings while I make a couple of quick phone calls to see what I can do to get this thing with my artist settled?”
“Sure. I’ll uncrate, you hang, and maybe you can get out of here at a decent hour.”
“And I can buy you a late lunch.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got plans later today. Hot date.” He grinned.
In the back storage area, where what she laughingly called her office was located, Liz made her phone calls. When she returned to the gallery, the paintings were all uncrated and unwrapped, but Mike was gone, without telling her he was leaving, without asking if there was anything else to be done and leaving the front door, with her keys still in the inside lock, open. Young men, of whom she was inordinately fond under social circumstances, could be amazingly annoying under other circumstances, Liz thought. She mentally shrugged her shoulders and got to work hanging.
By the time she drove home a couple hours later, it was pretty clear that her day had sucked. First, there was Eubie Kane. Next, the painter from Arizona whose work she was hanging had sent different paintings than the pieces he’d promised, not all of which worked with the theme she’d planned for the show. Last, there was
a gold bracelet missing from her jewelry display case. She wasn’t sure who made her angrier: Kane, her featured artist or her new hire, who had to be the thief because she’d seen the bracelet in the case when she’d gone to make her phone calls but it wasn’t there when she came out. As soon as she found the item missing, she’d called Mike. When she got voice mail, she remembered he’d said he had a hot date. She left a message saying she needed to talk to him urgently.
Halfway home she thought about dropping by his house and leaving another message but realized she didn’t have his address with her and she didn’t have the energy to go back to her gallery to get it. She drove to her home in southwest Portland, put on a mix tape of her favorite golden oldies, poured a large Bombay Sapphire gin on the rocks, and stewed about her day. She wasn’t sure Mike would show up for work again but if he did, she was going to raise hell with him.
Chapter Six
Sam and Amanda had quickly fallen into a regular pattern of seeing each other. When he was with his sons for the weekend, Sam picked her up at her studio during the week for dinner and they had take-out Sunday evening at his apartment after the boys went back to their mom. The weekends when he was kid-less, they spent as much time together as his job allowed. They went to the symphony. They rode horseback. They took Chihuly to the dog park and played Frisbee with him.
Amanda loved being with him. He was constant in his attention and affection. He made her laugh. She found herself thinking of him often during the days she wasn’t with him. Her heart beat faster when she saw him. All the signs of falling for him.
But she wasn’t sure she was ready to get more involved. Not until she was standing securely on her own two feet. As a result of this reluctance, she changed the subject every time the conversation got within two states of any comment that could lead to a discussion of where the relationship was going.
It had been her bad judgment in getting involved with Tom Webster that had gotten her in trouble, trouble she couldn’t get out of without a lot of help. She was determined never to let that happen again. Not that Sam was another Tom Webster. She knew that wasn’t true. But she had to prove to herself that she could manage her life without help, even if that help came in the form of the sexy cowboy-turned-cop she was half in love with. So, she tried to keep their conversation light. Distracted him when it looked like it was getting too deep. Whistled for her dog who adored Sam to come play with them. Whatever worked to change the subject.
It worked. Until the beef bourguignon evening.
Amanda had spent the afternoon making the dish using Julia Childs’s recipe. It had been a long time since she cooked anything that complicated and she’d forgotten how much work it was. But when all the ingredients had blended together, it was sublime, rich and beefy with just the right amount of garlic and herbs. Well worth the effort.
“What smells so great?” Sam asked when he arrived with a bottle of wine and a kiss for her and an ear scratch for Chihuly.
“Boeuf a la bourguignon.”
He circled her waist with an arm. “I saw that movie. So, Julia’s helping you cook this evening, is she?”
Looking up at him with a smile, she said, “Not a movie I’d have thought you’d pick.”
“I didn’t,” he admitted.
“Ah-ha. A woman chose it for you.”
“Yeah, my sister dragged me to it when she couldn’t get her husband to go.”
“I didn’t know you had an older sister.”
“How do you know she’s an older sister?”
“I have a younger brother. I understand how us older sibs work.” She held up the bottle. “Shall I pour this for both of us or would you prefer something else?”
“Wine’s good. But let me.”
He went in the direction of a corkscrew and glasses; she disappeared into the kitchen where she added crackers and grapes to a plate of softened Brie.
The wine was poured and her CD of the Grieg piano concerto was playing when she returned. Sam was ensconced in his favorite place on the leather couch. Joining him, she spread cheese on several crackers and handed one to him, then settled back, nestling next to him.
“Dinner’s ready any time we are but it’ll hold for a while,” she said.
“Let’s wait a few minutes. I haven’t seen you all week.” He touched his glass to hers. “I’ve missed you. Maybe we should … ”
She handed him another cracker and interrupted. “Did you see Pink Martini’s playing with the symphony in a couple weeks? I tried to get tickets but they’re sold out.”
He let the interruption go although his expression was more frustrated than usual when she changed the subject to something less intimate. “I have tickets for the Saturday night performance. I was going to ask if you’d like to go.”
“How’d you do that?”
“I bought them when I renewed my symphony season tickets.”
“Season tickets? I thought you just had those two we used a couple weeks ago.”
“Nope. Whole season — well, part of the whole season. But you don’t need to know the intricacies of the Oregon Symphony’s ticket options. All that matters is … ”
“I get to hear Pink Martini! I love you!”
“So, that’s what it takes. I wondered.”
Thanks to her outburst, the conversation was back to where she wasn’t comfortable. To top it off, she couldn’t tell how serious he was.
But he let her off the hook. “I can’t sit here any longer smelling that wonderful smell. How about I help you get dinner on the table.” Picking up their glasses and the bottle of wine, he headed for the dining room.
She’d dodged the bullet. For the moment.
When the Brie and wine, beef bourguignon, salad and chocolate mousse were finished, they stayed at the table drinking coffee, exchanging horse stories. Hers were about competing in dressage and jumping at her private high school in Ohio, his about his Appaloosa, Chief, and his rodeo experiences in Eastern Oregon when he was young. She bragged about her ribbons and medals on her horse Tiger Lil. He allowed that he’d won a belt buckle or two.
Then the conversation veered again.
“I’ve been meaning to ask — are you still getting false alarms from your security system?” he asked.
This was one of the subjects she’d tried to keep Sam away from. Even in her most paranoid moments, when she was afraid that the repeated alarms from the security sensor on her basement door meant the intruders from the year before had returned, she hadn’t given in to the temptation to tell him about it. She was not going to be one of those women who ran to a man the first time she heard a strange noise.
But she wasn’t going to lie to him either.
“I’ve had a couple more. I’m beginning to wonder if the sensor is faulty and maybe I should have it removed.”
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to think about what she was saying. “There’s nothing in your basement worth stealing, is there? If these aren’t false alarms, if someone is trying to break in, they’re trying to get in the house, aren’t they?”
“I guess so. I never thought about it. What could anyone want in the basement? I don’t keep anything valuable there. It’s all dust and old clothes and boxes of stuff I can’t quite part with.”
There was another pause before he spoke again. “No one else has ever put anything there that you know of?”
“Who would … do you mean Tommy?”
“The men who broke in last year, they said Webster had something that belonged to them. They must have thought something was here.”
“I told you then — Tommy never left anything in my house except the occasional disposable razor.”
He flinched and she realized she probably shouldn’t remind him that Tom Webster had slept with her in this house, too.
“You told me he had
a key to your house. He could have gotten in when you were in your studio, couldn’t he?”
“Yes, but … ”
“Would you mind if I took a look around down there?”
“Didn’t your colleagues do that last year?”
“It can’t hurt for me to do it again. If I don’t find anything suspicious, maybe it might be a good idea to have the sensor taken off the back door and put on the door from the basement to the kitchen.”
She reluctantly agreed. “Okay. But I don’t want to muck around down there. I hate being in the basement. It creeped me out before all this happened and last year only made it worse. I’ll sit on the steps while you look around.”
While she sat and sipped coffee, he looked through the small rooms that were the remnants of half-completed remodeling projects left by former owners. He poked at the ceiling in a few places and had just started knocking on a few walls when she said, “This is silly. There’s nothing here. And Chihuly’s scratching at the door behind me. He wants to be let out and I don’t want to waste any more time here. I’m going to attend to my dog and start doing the dishes.”
Sam looked like he wasn’t convinced but he went back upstairs with her. As they cleared the table he brought up the other subject she’d been trying not to discuss.
“The other thing you haven’t talked about is Eubie Kane. What’s happening on that front?”
“Nothing.” She avoided his eyes, picked up their wine glasses and headed for the kitchen.
He persisted. “Nothing? No response from him or his attorney?”
“That’s right. Nothing.” She had her back to him so didn’t know how close he was until she felt his hand on her shoulder.
“Nothing? Or nothing you want to talk about?” He turned her around and lifted her chin with his finger so she had to look at him.
“I’m taking care of this, Sam. I don’t need to be saved.”
“I’m not trying to save you. I care about you, about what’s bothering you. And I have some experience in this area, you know. I might be able to … ”
