Death is in the Air (Secret Seal Isle Mysteries Book 5)

by Lucy Quinn

  “No.” Cookie shook her head, still admiring the painting. “I did take art classes when I was a kid, though.” She smiled at the memories. “I loved it, too. There’s something about facing a blank canvas, all that possibility. And then it’s just you and your brush and your paints, writing it into existence, giving it form with each sweep and swirl. It’s kind of magic, really.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I wish I’d kept at it, but you know how it is—you get busy with stuff, you have to prioritize, and some things just fall off your radar.”

  “You could always take it back up again,” Hunter suggested.

  “I could,” she agreed. “Maybe I will.” She hadn’t thought much about painting in years, but now she remembered just how much she’d loved it. Why not try her hand at it again? There were certainly enough beautiful scenes around the island that she’d never run out of inspiration.

  “I’d say you should wait until you retire,” Hunter added, “but let’s face it, that’s never going to happen. You’ll still be stumbling over dead bodies in the nursing home.”

  “Nursing home, hell,” Cookie argued. “They’d have to drag me out in chains before I went into one of those.” She glanced around. “Come on, let’s check the other rooms.”

  The door at the back of the living room led into the kitchen, which covered the whole back of the house and included an eating area. A side door from there led outside, to right beside the trashcans where they’d found Petra’s body. Those two rooms and a small half bath were the entirety of the first floor.

  “I’ve got nothing here except some of her paintings,” Cookie announced after they’d both spent several minutes scanning the first floor rooms. “You?”

  Hunter reemerged from the kitchen with a stack of mail in his hand. “Some bills, mainly for the gallery, but that’s about it. And it looks like they were all paid, too, so we can rule out angry debtors.”

  “Time to hit the upstairs, then,” Cookie said, and took the steps two at a time, with Hunter right behind her.

  “Whoa,” he said once he’d climbed the stairs and had a second to look around. “Okay, not what I expected based on the first floor.”

  “Not at all,” Cookie agreed. This floor appeared to be a single large room. And where the downstairs had been small and cramped and dark, this floor had an enormous skylight covering most of the ceiling and letting in an amazing amount of light. Aside from a large bed, a nightstand, and a chest against one wall, the entire rest of the space had been given over to easels, art tables, and canvases. It was open, bright, airy, and almost completely devoted to Petra’s art.

  A quick check of the two doors on the far wall revealed a closet behind one and a full bathroom behind the other. Then it was back to scouring the main room for any clues.

  “Anything?” Cookie asked after checking the art tables and finding nothing but a few photographs Petra had clearly used as source material for various paintings.

  “Maybe,” Hunter said. He’d been riffling through the nightstand, and when he rejoined her he had several photos in his hand. “What do you make of these?” he asked, holding them out for her to inspect.

  Cookie took them and quickly flipped through the small stack. One was of Petra and Brooklyn at the art gallery. Another was of Petra with a big smile on her face, standing outside the gallery. A banner proclaiming Grand Opening hung overhead. The third photo was of a younger Petra proudly holding up a First Place ribbon at an art show somewhere.

  Holding up the fourth photo, Cookie said, “This’s got to be Mrs. Gibbons’s pie-hater, right?” In it, Petra posed with a man who perfectly fit the neighbor’s description of “a Husky in a nice suit.” He was big, well built, with white blonde hair and pale blue eyes, and even though he was smiling, he still looked like a predator. A dangerous one.

  “No doubt,” Hunter said. “But check out the back.”

  Cookie flipped the photo over. On the back was a note in pen that read, Exhibit at MoMA, and it was dated four years prior. “So she’s known this guy for at least four years,” she stated. “Maybe longer.”

  “Right.” Hunter rubbed his chin. “If he turns out to be the suspect, why do you think he did it?”

  “Could be anything, really.” Cookie handed him back the photos, which he stuck in his coat pocket. “They could’ve been lovers and she ended it. They could’ve been business partners and something went wrong. Hell, they could’ve been both and she told him she wanted nothing to do with him either way.” She shrugged. “But at least now we’ve got a face to go with the description. We should see if we can dig up anything on this guy, like a name.”

  “I’ll email it back to the office, have them run him through the databases,” Hunter said. “I’m not seeing anything else here, though.”

  “We should hit the gallery, too,” Cookie pointed out. She pulled out her phone and snapped photos of each of Petra’s canvases, even the ones she hadn’t yet finished. What a waste, she thought as she photographed a hauntingly beautiful cliffside landscape that was only half done, the colors streaking out into nothingness as they crossed the canvas. And now it would never be complete. She remembered what Frankie had said about Petra. A life cut short, and a talent taken from the world.

  Well, she intended to find Petra’s murderer and make them pay for it.

  11

  They ducked into the salon on the way, and just as Cookie had hoped, Brooklyn did indeed have a key to the gallery. “I haven’t been over there in about a week,” the girl said as she handed it over. “I—I’m not sure I can deal with seeing it right now.”

  “That’s fine,” Cookie assured her gently. “We’ll bring the key back to you when we’re done, okay?” She left more convinced than ever that the girl had not been the one to kill her mentor. She couldn’t picture tall, gawky Brooklyn firing a nine millimeter pistol at almost point blank range with enough callousness to shoot Petra right in the heart.

  The gallery was a narrow storefront with large windowpanes, one on either side of the glass-fronted door. The windows had thin linen shades that Cookie guessed protected the paintings from direct sunlight without darkening the room, and when she unlocked the door she found that she could see inside without needing to turn on the overhead lights. They did so anyway, just to make sure they didn’t miss anything.

  “Nice,” Hunter said approvingly as they stood just inside the entrance and considered the space as a whole.

  Cookie had to agree. The floors were old wood, lovingly polished but still showing all the grain and wear that gave them character. The walls were ivory and had a subtle pattern to them, muted enough not to draw attention from the paintings but still more engaging than blank white. The ceiling was high, with exposed ducting and dangling light fixtures. There were two doors at the back, at least one of which Cookie guessed led to a bathroom. The other had to be some sort of office, since there wasn’t any furniture in this room except a podium right by the front containing a list of the available pieces and their prices. The whole place was clean and classy and all about the art hanging on the long side walls.

  Several of the pieces were Petra’s, Cookie noticed as she made her way slowly down one side while Hunter explored the other. The paintings here were different from the ones at Petra’s house, however, and it took Cookie a minute or two to realize why.

  “They’re too smooth,” she said softly, lifting a hand and hovering it a hair’s breadth from a lovely seascape in front of her. She could see the shadows from her hand falling on the canvas, and there weren’t any ridges to it because the surface was too smooth to create those contours.

  “What’s that?” Hunter asked, quickly crossing the room to join her.

  “These paintings,” she explained, lowering her hand and gesturing at the picture instead. “They’re acrylic, not oil. That’s why they don’t have texture. Acrylic dries faster than oil, and most people who paint with oil like to use it to build up layers on the canvas, but acrylics tend to go on flat.”

&nbs
p; “Okay.” Hunter frowned at the piece. “So she only carries acrylics here in the gallery, but she paints with oil herself?”

  “No, some of these others are oils,” Cookie corrected, indicating a few paintings she’d already examined. “They aren’t hers, though. These are.” She shook her head. “I don’t know that it means anything, I just noticed it.”

  “Right.” Hunter shrugged. “Well, good eye, I guess. I wouldn’t have known the difference. Anyway, I’m not finding anything suspicious or out of the ordinary over on my side.”

  “Yeah, nothing else over here either,” Cookie agreed. “Back office?”

  He nodded, and together they headed to the back of the room. The door on the left proved to be a small but well-appointed bathroom, just as Cookie had guessed, but the one on the right did indeed lead into an office. It held a large wooden desk and a smaller computer desk, a chair for each, and two chairs facing the larger desk. A tall metal filing cabinet occupied the back corner.

  “Great,” Hunter groused. “We’ll have to go through all of those, won’t we?” He was eyeing the filing cabinet and pulled open the top drawer to reveal that it was stuffed full of file folders.

  “Probably,” Cookie agreed. She reached past him and selected one at random, tugging it from the rest and flipping it open. “Name of piece: Sunset Melody,” she read aloud. “Artist: Timothy Garisht. Sale price: two thousand dollars. Date sold: May fifteenth, two thousand fourteen. Buyer: Daniella Stone. Delivery option: shipped to home address, below. Shipping cost: one hundred dollars. Date delivered: May twentieth, two thousand fourteen.” She closed the file and returned it to its place in the drawer. “She kept good records, at least.”

  “Yeah, swell,” her companion complained. He never did enjoy the grunt work of investigations. “I don’t know that I’m ready to tackle these just yet. You?”

  Cookie took a deep breath. “Let’s start with her day planner,” she suggested, indicating a thick leather-bound book that sat open on the desk. “If we don’t find anything in that, or in her financials, we can always come back and start digging through the rest.” She was doubtful there was much of value in the art records, and she wasn’t all that eager to have to wade through all of them either, but she wasn’t about to rule anything out just yet.

  “Done,” Hunter agreed, scooping up the day planner. He peered out of the windowless room and toward the windows in the gallery. “It’s going to get dark soon,” he noted. “Let’s head back to the inn, have dinner, take a look through this, and see what we can figure out from there.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Cookie replied, her stomach already starting to grumble at the idea of dinner. On the way out, though, she paused long enough to snap pictures of all the art currently hanging in the gallery. Just in case the images came in handy later.

  “All right,” Hunter declared two hours later. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” He’d pushed back from the dining room table and patted his belly, letting out a contented sigh.

  “Now that you’ve eaten everything in sight, you mean?” Cookie teased. But the truth was she hadn’t exactly skimped on portions herself. It had been a long and busy day, with lots of running around and plenty of walking out in the cold, and her mom had made a seafood chowder that had smelled amazing and tasted just as good. Between that, the homemade bread to sop it up, and the spiced apple pie for dessert, she was a happy camper.

  “What’re you two looking at?” Scarlett asked from her spot beside Cookie at the table. Cookie glanced Hunter’s way, and he shrugged as if to say go ahead, she’s going to find out soon enough anyway.

  “Petra Peabody’s dead,” Cookie explained, and watched her best friend pale and gasp.

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “That’s terrible. I was just in her gallery a few days ago.”

  “Really? When?” Cookie noticed that Hunter had leaned forward as well.

  Scarlett frowned, thinking. “Monday,” she answered finally. “Yeah, Monday. I’d been snapping some shots of the harbor and wandered in there on the way back.” Scarlett was putting together a photography book, and one of the reasons she’d joined them on Secret Seal Island was because it was so picturesque. She tapped a finger on the table, remembering. “There was a piece there I really liked, a seascape Petra had done herself, but she said it was already sold.”

  Cookie pulled out her phone and called up the photos, then cycled through until she found the seascape she’d been studying. “Was it this one?” she asked, holding the phone out so her friend could see.

  Scarlett glanced at the screen then nodded. “That was it. It’s gorgeous, right? I offered to beat the sale price, even double it, but she wouldn’t sell.” Her frown returned. “I looked at the rest of the paintings there, and she had a few others I liked, though not quite as much, but all of those were already sold, too.”

  Cookie tried to remember if she’d noticed the signs by each painting. She’d been paying more attention to the works themselves, but she vaguely recalled the little white placards that listed each work’s name, media, and artist, along with its price. And now that she thought about it, she did recall seeing a Sold sticker on several of them. “Were they all Petra’s?” she asked and wasn’t surprised when her friend nodded.

  “Yeah, it was weird,” Scarlett commented, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “I mean, there were some other nice pieces there, nothing I wanted but they were really good, and those were still available. All of hers were already marked as sold, though.”

  “And hers were the only acrylics,” Cookie noted. “I thought that was odd at the time.”

  “So what does that mean?” Hunter asked, finally jumping into the conversation.

  Cookie shook her head. “No idea,” she admitted, fiddling with her napkin. “Maybe nothing. Maybe there’s a buyer who loves Petra’s work—she was really good. Or maybe it’s somebody who only likes acrylics. Oils do have an odor, and that might be enough to turn off some people.” She sighed. “We’ll have to go back tomorrow and pull the files on those paintings and see if there’s a connection.”

  “Great.” Hunter grimaced.

  “Cookie, I need you!” Rain shouted as she burst back into the room. She was buttoning on her coat, and had Cookie’s in her hand. “Here,” she declared, thrusting the coat at her across the table.

  Cookie lunged forward to grab it before the corner could dip into the sticky pie plate still sitting in the middle of the table.

  “Put this on, we need to go,” Rain ordered.

  “Go?” Cookie asked, even as she stood and shrugged on the coat. “Go where?”

  “Oh, it’s a nightmare!” Rain exclaimed, wringing her hands. “I just got a call from the Salty Dog, and they said their heater started acting up. They’re getting in a replacement part, but they won’t have it before next week.” She hugged herself, looking stressed. “The revue is Monday night!”

  “It’ll be okay, Mom,” Cookie said, rushing around the table to join her mother. “Is that where you were going to have the revue?”

  Rain nodded as she latched on to Cookie and buried her face in her chest.

  Cookie wrapped her arms around her mother and yet again felt like they’d reversed roles, with her as the supportive parent and Rain as some flighty, volatile teen. “Do you have a backup location?”

  Rain sighed and pulled back enough to speak. “Yes, the VFW hall said they could host it,” she admitted. “I tried them first but they didn’t answer right away. Then Larry said he’d do it at the Salty Dog, but the VFW finally got back to me and said okay.”

  “Well, then problem solved,” Cookie said. “I mean, the VFW’s a better venue anyway, right?” The Salty Dog was a great restaurant, but the indoor section was a bit dark and low-ceilinged. There was no questioning it was nice for a cozy dinner, but not so great for a big musical revue.

  “It should be,” Rain agreed. She looked up at Cookie with big, panic-stricken eyes. “But I haven’t seen it yet! What if it’s t
oo small? Too dark? What if I can’t light it properly? What if the acoustics are all wrong? There’s no time for this!” She was practically in tears, and Cookie marveled, not for the first time, about how her mother could get so passionate about each and every project she took on. Cookie knew she would have found it exhausting herself, but not Rain. She genuinely gave each and every thing her all, every time.

  “Okay,” Cookie said, sighing as she finally realized where this was going and gave in to the inevitable. “Let’s go check it out.”

  “Really?” Her mom beamed up at her through her tears. “You’ll go with me?” she asked as if she hadn’t just hurled Cookie’s coat at her.

  But Cookie couldn’t stay mad at her mother over something so minor, especially when it clearly meant so much to Rain. “Of course,” she agreed. She glanced at her best friend and Hunter for support, but both of them only shook their heads and smiled as if to say ‘nice try.’

  “I’ll make those calls about Petra’s friend,” Hunter promised, hauling out his phone and acting as if he was going to get straight to work.

  Scarlett didn’t bother with any pretense. “Enjoy your outing,” she said, laughing as she stretched in her chair like a well-fed cat. “I’ll stay here and keep the place nice and warm for when you get back.”

  “You’re a peach,” Cookie said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. But she couldn’t exactly blame Scarlett. Who wouldn’t want to stay inside on a cold and blustery night instead of walking into town to check on a musty old hall?

  Cookie wondered if there was any reasonable way to put the visit off, but with Rain hovering, eyes bright and hopeful, Cookie knew she was doomed. “All right,” she said finally, zipping her coat and moving toward the front door. “Let’s get this over with.”

  12

  “Slow down, dear!” Rain wailed, flailing about with one hand and finally latching onto Cookie’s arm. “I think they’d have called if there was a fire.”