by Lynn Cahoon
I had to go to Amy’s apartment. I had to find some clue to where she had gone. The thought that the apartment might be considered a crime scene and somehow off-limits crossed my mind for two point five seconds. Shrugging it off, I dismissed the thought. As much as I liked Greg, he wasn’t taking her disappearance seriously. He thought she was surfing with some unnamed guy somewhere.
I drew the covers back over my head and prayed for strength. That man was fine. Last night talking and laughing had been comfortable, easy. Not like my relationships with any of the losers I had dated since my divorce. Cute, almost ruggedly handsome, he had weight lifter arms, proof he definitely worked out. I dreamily thought about his chest—did he have six-pack abs? Just the kind of man I wanted in my life.
At least he would be if he wasn’t married—my conscience chimed in.
“Arrgghh.” I threw the comforter off my bed, swinging my feet to the floor. Pulling on my remodeling uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, I headed downstairs to make a list of things that I had to get done today. The sooner I got settled here and found Amy, the sooner I could get Aunt Jackie out of my coffee shop and back to San Francisco where she belonged.
Grabbing the last pieces of the blueberry coffee cake and a cup of coffee, I pulled out my notebook with my ever-growing to-do list and list of suspects. I added Visit Amy’s apartment to the list. She’d been gone too long for this to be just an impromptu surfing trip. She would have checked in with the mayor if she was delayed, not ask someone else to call for her. If she wasn’t at her desk at nine, I would start my own search for her.
Hammering started outside. I wasn’t sure if the source was the men replacing my roof, the siding, or the fence. I must have had half the town working on the house. At least now, with the money Miss Emily left me, I could pay the men standing in my driveway. I added Buy a lock for the shed to the list. My office would just have to wait to be painted.
Today I had to figure out if Amy was kidnapped, dead, or just surfing. I hoped it was surfing. Some detective I’d turned out to be. The who-done-its just kept piling up around me. I hadn’t added anything to Greg’s search except for the bull’s-eye on my own back. Shivering, I remembered the call from yesterday.
Why did someone want me out of the house? The development. Maybe Bambi let Eric use the phone while she filled in for Amy. A thought burst into my mind … and maybe that was why Amy disappeared … to give Bambi access to the city building so Eric could use the phone to threaten me …
Okay, that sounded stupid, even to me. I could just hear Greg’s voice challenging the theory.
“So, why wouldn’t they just buy a prepaid cell and dump it after the call?” imaginary Greg asked.
The doorbell rang before I had the chance to think up an answer. I spent way too much time alone, having conversations with people who weren’t there.
Aunt Jackie stood on my porch with a basket of muffins and a carafe of what smelled like my best chocolate coffee blend.
“Peace offering,” she said, walking past me into the house. She stopped at the living room crowded with the furniture Greg and I had pulled out of Miss Emily’s bedroom—my future office—yesterday. “I like what you’ve done with the place, kind of Salvation Army meets Home Heaven.”
“It’s a work in progress. Let’s go back to the kitchen. You’ll find it a little more pulled together.” I headed to the back of the house, clearing a path through the piles for Jackie to follow. “What are you doing up so early? I thought you’d be taking it easy today.”
Aunt Jackie laughed. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” She set the basket down on the table, then, viewing my stricken face, added, “Sorry, wrong choice of words. But, dear, I don’t need a lot of sleep.”
She glanced around the kitchen, taking in the new paint and appliances. “You’ve done a great job in here. I can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished in the last week.”
“Not having to run the shop has been a lifesaver.” I hated to admit it, but it was true. And working on the house kept me from losing my mind over worry about Amy, let alone my new stalker.
She walked up to the landscape that Greg and I had hung on the kitchen wall. “This is good. I mean, really good.” She studied the painting. “Did you buy it in San Francisco?”
I chuckled. “No, my gallery’s a little closer.” I handed Aunt Jackie a cup of the coffee she had brought, the chocolate smell filling the kitchen. “You think it’s good?”
“It is. In fact, I’m sure I’ve seen this artist at one of the city galleries. They billed her as a new local talent. I almost bought one of the pieces, but I was leaving for a cruise and the gallery couldn’t hold it for delivery.” Aunt Jackie went back to the table and sat down. “I didn’t come to talk about art, though.”
I stood staring at the painting, wondering if another painter could have copied Miss Emily’s style or if more of Miss Emily’s paintings were sitting at some gallery. Maybe this was the reason someone had been snooping around the shed last night. Unless Miss Emily had consigned the art to the gallery herself. No need bothering Greg yet—I’d call the gallery myself and check. If I knew the gallery’s name. I stopped Aunt Jackie before she could go on to another subject. “Do you remember which gallery it was?”
“I probably have the owner’s card in my purse somewhere. I meant to buy a piece once I got back in town, then you called and I wound up here.” Aunt Jackie rested the back of her hand on my forehead. “Are you all right? You look a little flushed.”
“I’ve been busy.” I sank into the chair next to her and pushed her purse within her reach. “Could you check now? It’s important.”
Aunt Jackie started digging into her purse. “I don’t understand why this is so important. Obviously the artist is selling her stuff to a local dealer here as well as San Francisco. Most artists don’t give exclusive rights to galleries.” Her voice muddled coming from the large Coach bag. She sighed and pushed the purse away.
“What?”
“It’s not in here. I bought this bag on the cruise, so the card would have been in my other bag back at home.” Jackie reached for a muffin. “I think I remember the artist’s name, though it didn’t match the signature at all.”
“Who was the artist?”
Aunt Jackie reached for a plate from the cupboard so I couldn’t see her face when she answered. “The signature appeared to be an E-something.” She pointed over to my painting. “See, just like that. Large curvy E and then smaller letters.”
“How did you know the artist’s name was different?” I sat on the edge of my seat.
Jackie came back to the table and handed me a plate with half a blueberry muffin. “It’s on the tip of my tongue. Of course, the signature didn’t look like the name at all, but the gallery owner assured me that a lot of artists use a different name to sign their work. Didn’t make sense to me, though.”
Questions filled my mind. Had someone else been selling Miss Emily’s paintings? If so, was it with or without her knowledge? Could it be the same someone who wanted me out of the house? I felt hopeful for the first time in days. I pushed the question, again, “So, do you think you could remember which gallery it was?”
“I’m not senile. Of course I can remember the gallery.” Aunt Jackie took a bite of her muffin. “One of the new ones over on Market Street. Why are you so interested in another painting? The one you have is perfect for this room.”
“Miss Emily did the painting. And maybe whoever’s been selling the paintings killed her for them. Maybe she found out.” My logic wasn’t even convincing me.
“Someone could have been selling the paintings for Miss Emily. You never know, dear. This could all be a misunderstanding.”
“Then why wouldn’t they tell the gallery owner that she was the artist?”
The room went silent. Then Aunt Jackie spoke up. “Grab your laptop, and let’s see if we can find the gallery. I know I’ll remember the name as soon as I see it.”
I grabbed the lapto
p off the counter and powered it up. “Thanks.”
“No need to thank me yet. I haven’t told you the gallery name.”
But my aunt had given me another reason why someone might want Miss Emily dead. Maybe she’d caught the thief stealing paintings from the shed? And that was motive—if it panned out, Greg would have to investigate. I could stop fingers being pointed at me if we could find out who had been selling the paintings. It was a long shot, but right now, it was the only lead I had. I signed on to Google and keyed in Market Street Art Galleries. A list of ten pages filled the screen. Why so many? I was sure I must have done the search wrong, but then I saw the link to the article “Art’s New Mecca—Market Street Galleries Revive Neighborhood.”
It was going to be a long morning.
Three hours later Jackie stood and brushed muffin crumbs off her lap onto my just-swept floor. Buying a Swiffer went on my mental to-do list.
“I can’t believe there are so many galleries in that little stretch of town.”
“Me, either,” I groaned. This detecting stuff seemed a lot easier on the television shows I loved to watch. They would have found the body, the murderer, and had their trial all within an hour. I was still trying to find the name of the gallery selling Miss Emily’s art. Maybe I should tell Greg. He already knew that someone had been in my shed. “I guess we should just give in for the day.”
My aunt stared out the kitchen window, her eyes wide.
Was my prowler becoming more daring? Or was my caller showing up to do the deed? When did my life start including the bad guys I read about in my mystery novels? Jumping up, I grabbed my cell phone just in case and ran to her side. She put her hand up to slow me down. I flipped open the phone, dialed 911, and put my finger on the SEND button. Then I looked out the window.
Three deer grazed in my backyard. The male had a rack of antlers. A doe and a younger fawn walked close by. I closed my phone and let the adrenaline flow out of my body. Time to get a grip. Now I jumped at wildlife. As we were watching, my doorbell rang. The buck lifted his head at the sound and bounded out of the yard, toward the back shed. The others followed.
I headed to the door, Jackie following me like the doe had followed the buck.
I unlocked the dead bolt and swung open the door.
“What, you don’t check to see who’s out here before you open the door? I could have been your mystery stalker, sheesh.” Greg leaned against the doorway, a new padlock in his hand. “I stopped by the hardware store this morning and bought you a present.”
“You didn’t need to do that. I had it on my list to do today, I just got sidetracked.”
I felt hot. Looking in his eyes, all I could think of was how he’d kissed me in my dreams last night. His lips parting mine …
Aunt Jackie stepped out from behind me, breaking the lightning that must have been shooting out of my body toward Greg. “Detective King! I was just telling Jill what a pleasure your Toby is to work with. He’s such a nice boy.”
“Well, I’ve never heard him called a ‘nice boy’ before, but I’m glad he’s working out for you. Toby needed a hobby.” Greg’s glance stayed locked with mine. “I didn’t realize you had company. I can come back later.”
My stomach did a backflip. Oh my God—had he realized what I’d been thinking about? I broke eye contact first. “No, come in. I need you to hear something.”
He handed me the padlock. “And can I install the lock? I’d feel better if I knew it wasn’t just sitting on your kitchen counter tonight.”
Jackie poured Greg a cup of coffee and told him her story of seeing a similar painting in the city. I showed him the list of galleries we had been reviewing to jog Jackie’s memory. Greg stayed quiet while we talked, sipping on his coffee. After we had finished, Greg stood up, stretched, and walked over to the landscape he had helped hang yesterday.
“Well, this could explain your prowler.” He stared at the painting. “I don’t get why the thief would take such chances on a few paintings. They can’t be worth much.”
“Now there’s where you’re wrong. A local artist can bring in the low thousands for originals, especially if the gallery is smart at promotion,” Aunt Jackie responded to Greg’s comment. “The art isn’t just something to use in decorating your home, it’s marketed as an investment. That’s the hook that the gallery used to try to sell me, a new up-and-coming artist whose work hadn’t been discovered yet.”
“Well, that’s true, most of Miss Emily’s paintings are still under tarps in the shed.” I patted my aunt’s hand. “And if you hadn’t been tempted to buy a painting, we wouldn’t have known that someone had been stealing them in the first place.”
“Now don’t jump to conclusions here.” Greg used his cop voice again. “One, we don’t know that it is one of Miss Emily’s paintings.”
I glared at him. “If Aunt Jackie says it is—”
Greg interrupted me before I could finish. “And two, even if it is, she could have asked someone to try to sell the paintings for her. I’m sure a gallery owner would be more open to working with someone younger and less opinionated than Miss Emily. She would know that she wasn’t the best salesman.” He took out his cell and snapped a picture of the painting. Turning back to me, he said, “Let’s go see what else is in that shed.”
Another day with Greg. My heart beat faster. All I needed to keep him visiting was to keep getting death threats and have people stealing from my shed. And forget that he’s married, my rational side kicked in.
Well, there was that, too. I turned to Aunt Jackie. “Want to go with us? You could pick out a painting for your condo and avoid the gallery markup.”
“Maybe later, dear. I think I’m going to head back to the apartment and rest awhile. It’s been a busy morning.” Aunt Jackie grabbed her purse and gave me a kiss on the cheek. She whispered in my ear, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t …”
With an evil grin, she headed to the door. “So nice to see you again, Detective King.”
Greg grinned at me. “Are all the women in your life that fiery? No wonder you and Miss Emily got along so well.”
I considered showing him how fiery women in my family could get when I heard voices in the hallway.
“She’s right in here.” Jackie stood at the kitchen door. “Jill, you have another visitor.”
Eric Ammond walked through the door. Seeing Greg, he stopped short. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining, Miss Gardner. I can come back later.”
“I’m not entertaining. What do you want, Mr. Ammond?” Something must have come out in my voice because I could feel Greg’s body almost touching mine as he moved closer.
Eric’s gaze went from Greg to me. A slow smile crossed his face. A smile I didn’t appreciate in the least. “I see. I am interrupting. I will come back later.”
Crossing my arms in front of me, I asked again, “What do you want—I don’t want you to come back later. I’ve told you before, I’m not interested.”
“But you haven’t heard my new offer.” Eric pulled out a piece of stark white paper that contrasted against his dark silk suit jacket. On anyone else, the suit jacket with jeans would have made them look like an off-strip Vegas performer. Way off-strip. On Eric, it made him look hot, sexy, and dangerous all at once. Just the type of guy I would have fallen head over heels for just five years ago. And the fact I knew he had a girlfriend would have made him more of a challenge, not a detriment. Thank God I was past that now.
Yeah, now you’re hot for Mr. Married Cop standing next to you.
Sometimes I hated my inner voice.
He held the paper out in front of me. “Aren’t you even going to look at it?” His brown eyes danced with a joke I hadn’t heard. He focused on Greg. “You are the town police detective, correct?”
Greg appeared to pull up his shoulders and gain five inches in height. “Detective Greg King.” He didn’t hold out his hand to shake hands with Eric; instead, he put one hand on the small of my back.
&nb
sp; Eric seemed amused by Greg’s posturing. He turned his attention back to me. “So, you should feel safe enough to read my offer, correct?”
I ripped the sheet out of his hand. Glancing down at the paper, I gasped at the final offer, one point six million dollars. Half at signing and half in five years. “I don’t understand. I don’t have to sell for five years?”
“My attorneys inform me you are contractually bound by the terms of the will. I can wait. The deposit money just makes you more inclined to accept my offer. A carrot, if you will.” Eric pulled out a chair from the table and sat down. “Of course, if the amount is not to your liking, we can negotiate.”
He leaned back in the chair and waited.
“One point six for this place?” Jackie sat down in the chair next to Eric. I’d forgotten she was still here. “You could buy a chain of coffee shops for that kind of money. Maybe even a piece of Starbucks?”
“Mr. Ammond—”
He interrupted. “Eric, please call me Eric.”
“Eric,” I began again. “I told you I wasn’t interested in selling. I’m not sure what type of development you and Mayor Baylor are planning, but you’ll just have to build it somewhere else.”
I pushed the sheet of paper back toward him.
“Now, Jill, don’t be too hasty. I’m sure Mr. Ammond would want you to take some time to think about this generous offer.” Aunt Jackie grabbed the sheet of paper before Eric could take it back.
“Your aunt is an intelligent woman. That is exactly what we need to do.” Eric stood, brushing a piece of imaginary lint off his suit jacket. “Please take some time to think about my offer. I’ll be glad to answer any questions that may come up.”
He pulled out a business card from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Call me. I’ll find my way out.”
