by B R Snow
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But she was really filthy before we got her cleaned up. I guess she could have had some cuts on her. Why?”
“Because I found two different blood types at the scene,” Freddie said, holding up the two small plastic bags. “Buggy’s blood type was AB negative.”
Freddie paused and raised an eyebrow at me. When I didn’t respond, he gave me a coy smile that annoyed me.
“What? Am I supposed to say something?” I said, frowning.
“Are you sure you were even awake in health class?” he said, laughing. “AB negative is the rarest blood type.”
“Sure, sure,” I said, nodding sagely. “What percentage of the population has it? It’s slipped my mind for the moment.”
“About one percent,” he said, chuckling at my bluff.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. What was the second blood type you found at the scene?” I said.
“O positive.”
He stared at me, then noticed the blank expression on my face and laughed.
“You want some help?”
“No, I don’t want any help,” I said, wracking my brain. “O-positive is the most common blood type, right?”
“Very good,” Freddie said.
“Well, that doesn’t help narrow the suspect list much does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” he said, beaming. “But it sure does tell us a lot about the Winters family.”
I stared at him dumbfounded. He was right about my attention level during high school health class. Once we’d gotten through the sex education portion of the curriculum, I’d conducted a few experiments designed to supplement my classroom lessons with some real life learning. While I did learn some valuable lessons, those experiments weren’t eligible for extra credit, and since I had pretty much zoned out in class from that point forward, I ended up getting a C.
“Our blood type is inherited from our parents,” Freddie said.
“Sure, sure.”
“And a child’s blood type is limited to only certain combinations based on what their parent’s type is.”
“Are you going to explain what the point is, or are you going to slow-walk me until the lightbulb goes on?”
“I love moments like this,” Freddie said, laughing.
“Yes, so I see,” I see, making a face at him but unable to do anything but wait it out.
“After I discovered that Buggy’s blood type was AB negative, I asked Detective Abrams to see if he could pull the medical records for the Winters family.”
“And?”
“And he did,” Freddie said. “I hate to say it since Jackson is such a good friend, but Abrams is really going to improve the level of police work in this town. But please don’t tell Jackson I said that.”
“I won’t,” I said. “What do the medical records show?”
“The old man who passed away recently was type O. And the mother, the one you had such a wonderful experience at dinner with, is an A.”
I stared at him, baffled about what conclusion I should be drawing.
“Tell me you need some help, Suzy,” Freddie said, smiling and enjoying the way the conversation was going way too much.
“I need your help, Freddie,” I snapped. “How’s that?”
“Perfect,” he said, leaning forward. “Okay, here we go. Since the father was an O, and the mother is an A, there is no way Buggy could have ended up with an AB negative blood type.”
Stunned, I sat back in my chair.
“Buggy had a different father?”
“He certainly did.”
“What about all the other kids?”
“They’re all O positive,” Freddie said, sitting back in his chair. “Except for one.”
Now Freddie had my complete and undivided attention.
“Let me guess, that sibling has AB negative,” I said.
“Very good,” Freddie said, nodding. “You want to guess which kid it is?”
I stared off into the distance and thought hard. I rehashed our recent dinner with the Winters then nodded.
“It’s Lucinda, isn’t it?”
“Geez,” he said, shaking his head. “I was sure you wouldn’t get it. How the heck did you figure that out?”
“She’s the most normal one in the family and seems to share some of the same qualities I’ve learned that Buggy had. Primarily, that he had a big heart. And she was the only one at the table showing the slightest concern for her mother. Maybe that’s because she saw what happened to Buggy and decided not to make the same mistakes he did. You know, do everything she could to stay in her parent’s good graces and not get written out of the will. And if Lucinda does share some of the same opinions Buggy had about the family and how they conduct themselves, she probably decided a long time ago to keep it to herself.”
“That’s not a bad theory, Suzy,” Freddie said, nodding.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to get some control over the speed my mind was racing.
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” I said, unable to process the news and all the associated implications. “You got any aspirin? I’m getting a headache.”
Freddie reached into his desk and handed me an enormous bottle of Advil. I stared at the size of it, then glanced at him.
“In this business, I’ve learned to buy it in bulk,” he said, shrugging. “You said the girlfriend is staying at Johnson’s place?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’ll need to get a blood sample from her,” Freddie said.
“If she’s not type O, will that clear her?” I said.
“I doubt it,” he said, sliding the bottle of Advil back in a drawer. “But it sure couldn’t hurt her chances.”
“When you go, do me a favor. Make sure you tell Claudine that we’ve spoken about it. And I’ll call Mr. Johnson and ask him to give her a message. If you and Jackson show up unannounced, it might freak her out.”
“Will do,” Freddie said. “So, what are you going to do now?”
“Well, I guess I should figure out a way to have a little chat with some of the Winters family. I’m not sure how I’m going to do that without drawing a lot of attention.”
“I’d start by buying a painting,” Freddie said.
“A painting? From who?”
“The one who looks like she’s on loan from the Kabuki theater.”
“Caspian’s an artist?” I said, frowning.
“Apparently, she’s pretty famous and sells a lot of her stuff in New York and L.A.”
“I did not know that,” I said.
“Wonders never cease,” he said, chuckling.
“Funny. I guess that makes sense. Caspian certainly looks the part.”
“If whiteface and dressing head to toe in black looks the part, I agree. But what’s the deal with that bun she wears on top of her head?”
“It’s pretty odd isn’t it?” I said, laughing.
“I was trying to think of the right word to describe her the other day,” Freddie said.
“The word you’re looking for is severe.”
“Hey, that’s good. So are you going to grab Josie and head over to her gallery? Caspian apparently has a log cabin in the woods about twenty miles out of town she stays in whenever she wants to get away from it all.”
“You’re a wealth of information today, Freddie. I’m glad I stopped by. But I’ll be going by myself. As soon as Josie finishes work today, she’s taking the boat and spending the night at Summerman’s place.”
“They’re getting serious, aren’t they?”
“Very,” I said, nodding. “I haven’t seen Josie this happy in a long time.”
“What are you going to do if she decides to ride off into the sunset with Summerman?” he said, casually.
I recoiled when I heard the question and felt my stomach drop.
“What are you talking about?” I said, staring at him.
“Well, by now you must have certainly considered that possibil
ity.”
“Not for a second,” I said, shaking my head.
“Maybe you should start,” he said, softly. “Think about it, Suzy. The guy’s a rock star and is worth a fortune. He’s even got his own Gulfstream. Summerman’s the sort of guy who can wake up in the morning with a jones for Belgian waffles and fly to Brussels.”
“So?”
“You don’t think that’s something that might appeal to Josie? I know she loves being here, and she’s completely devoted to you and all your dogs, but is that enough to make her turn down a lifestyle like that? Especially since she’d be living that life with a guy she’s totally in love with.”
I sat across from Freddie stunned. I was speechless. It was a rare phenomenon, but given the depth and breadth of the subject along with all the possible implications intertwined with the impact Josie’s decision could have on me and the Inn, my inability to respond seemed completely understandable.
“I need to go,” I said, fighting back a wide range of emotions.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, you’re right, Freddie,” I said, getting up out of my chair. “It’s definitely something I need to start thinking about.”
“It was just a question, Suzy,” he said, shaking his head. “Try not to let it ruin the rest of your day, okay?
“Too late,” I said, waving goodbye as I headed out the door.
Chapter 12
The rain had stopped, and I drove to Caspian’s gallery in bright sunshine. It hadn’t been hard to locate the address on my phone, but finding the place had proven a lot more difficult. It was about twenty miles outside of Clay Bay and tucked away in a heavily wooded area. Several of the dirt roads weren’t named and wound back on themselves, a fact I came to realize when I found myself in the same spot for the third time having arrived there from a completely new direction. I hoped the galleries in New York and L.A. that exhibited Caspian’s work were a bit easier to find because I was sure she wasn’t selling many paintings out of wherever the heck her local gallery was. By the time I finally found the right dirt road, I had no idea why Caspian called this hidden cabin in the woods a gallery since it was obvious the last thing she wanted was anyone popping in, regardless of whether they were major collectors or total philistines.
I thought about the dogs playing poker portrait that hung in my office and was quite sure which category Caspian would put me in.
I parked on a patch of crushed stone next to the two-car garage and climbed out of the car. Not bothering to lock it, I headed toward the modest A-frame that was tucked between the pines then stopped to look at the well-tended garden that included a nice display of seasonal flowers and a fenced area where a variety of vegetables were growing.
Freddie’s comment about the murder weapon possibly being a gardening tool popped into my head and I stood, hands on hips, staring at the garden and waiting for inspiration. Nothing came, so I walked up the steps and knocked on the door. As I waited on the doorstep, I noticed a tiny sign bearing a logo and the tagline, The Art of Caspian.
For her sake, I hope Caspian had people who handled her marketing because, apart from a woodpecker that had made its presence known on the sign, I doubted if many others had ever seen it.
I knocked again, this time a bit louder, and I heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, and a surprised Caspian blinked several times as she stared at me. Apparently, her dinner attire was the norm, and she was dressed head to toe in a long-sleeve black leotard that even had feet. She wore a pair of paint-spattered black lace gloves and whatever skin was showing was pure white. The bun on top of her head was held in place by two crossed metal skewers that seemed out of place. Given the fact that the only time I’d ever seen skewers like that before was when they were inserted into chunks of meat and vegetables, I decided out of place was a solid observation.
“Ms. Chandler?”
Even though her wrinkle-free face gave nothing away, the tone of her voice confirmed she was very surprised to see me.
“Hi, Caspian. Please, call me Suzy.”
She nodded, but continued to stare at me and seemed to be waiting for an explanation.
“Boy, you sure don’t make it easy to find your gallery,” I said, forcing a small laugh.
“Gallery is actually a bit of a misnomer I’m afraid,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“So you don’t sell paintings here?”
“I rarely sell any paintings here. But I do make them available for sale. When I’m here during the summer, this is where I live and work,” she said, still keeping a firm grip on the half-open door.
“I see.”
“But the government and I finally have come to an understanding, so as long as I continue to offer my work for sale at this address, they’ve agreed to leave those deductions alone.”
“Which is exactly what you want them to do,” I said, smiling.
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“Well, sure. I guess. But that’s what I pay my accountant for, right?” I said, going for a joke and failing miserably.
“What can I do for you, Suzy?”
“I’m thinking about buying a painting,” I said. “A real big one for over the fireplace.”
“You buy your artwork based on square footage?”
She gave me a small smile I was pretty sure was the best she could manage, and I think she had also tried to raise an eyebrow at me.
“No, of course not,” I said, nervously rocking back and forth on my feet. “But this one will need to cover a fairly large area. It’s a big fireplace.”
“I see,” she said, opening the door wide. “Then do come in. Please excuse the mess. I’ve been working non-stop since our dinner the other night.”
I followed her inside the A-frame that was similar in design to the loft an artist friend of mine had in Montreal. In fact, the interiors of the lofts were almost identical. As I looked around, about the only discernible difference between the two was that my friend’s loft was centrally located perched high above the downtown of a major metropolitan city while Caspian’s was tucked away in the middle of the woods.
Caspian nodded for me to follow her to the back of the loft where an easel was holding an almost completed abstract oil painting. Actually, whether it was almost finished was a total guess on my part, but the entire canvas was covered with paint, so I figured she had to be close to being done. The painting was big, about four by six, and I had absolutely no idea what it was. But it had a lot of colors, and the range of vibrant reds and yellows reminded me of October in the Thousand Islands during the peak of fall foliage.
“It’s pretty,” I said, staring at the painting. “I like all the colors.”
“I call it At the Gates of Hell,” she said, grabbing a brush and touching up a small section that was still wet.
“The gates of hell, huh?” I said, nodding sagely. “Sure, sure. I get that. What will it sell for?”
“When it’s done, it will sell in the neighborhood of forty-five thousand. Putting in it terms you might appreciate, just under two thousand a square foot.”
“Funny,” I said, glancing over at her. “Forty-five grand. Nice neighborhood.”
“It’s a living,” she said, setting the brush down. “I have a lot of paintings stacked along the wall over there. Feel free to go through them. I was about to have a glass of wine. Can I bring you one?”
“That sounds good,” I said.
She wandered into the kitchen area, and I heard the pop of a cork and clinking of glasses as I flipped through dozens of paintings that were neatly stacked against a wall. She was prolific, and I decided that her choice to work out here in the woods free from distractions had been a good one from a productivity standpoint. And at forty-five grand a pop, it had also been a wise financial decision.
I stepped back from the wall and looked around at the paintings that were hung around the loft. They were all signed by her and seemed to trace Caspian’s development as an art
ist from a young age to this point in time. One painting, in particular, caught my attention. It portrayed a family of mallards on a wind-blown lake. The adult male and female were looking straight ahead, and three baby ducklings were following close behind. Two other ducklings trailed behind, and one of them was desperately trying to keep up, while the other seemed more than comfortable being left behind and was staring off in a different direction. The duck painting had obviously been done when Caspian was much younger, and it was vastly different from the abstract style she had gravitated to several years ago.
I liked the painting because it displayed many of the same colors as the Gates of Hell one did. And I could actually tell that they were ducks. For some reason, that made me feel better, my philistine tendencies notwithstanding.
Then a lightbulb went off, and I took another long look at the painting. I was still staring at it when Caspian returned carrying two glasses of white wine.
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip and nodding at the duck painting. “Tell me about this one.”
“That painting isn’t for sale,” she snapped, then immediately softened. “I’m sorry. It’s just that one holds some very special memories for me.”
“Family memories?” I said, going for casual.
Caspian gave me a cold stare, then shrugged and sat down on a couch in front of the fireplace. She pointed at an overstuffed chair adjacent to the couch, and I sat down.
“I painted that when I was a young girl,” she whispered. “In fact, it was the first painting I ever did that helped me believe I actually had some talent.”
“It’s pretty obvious how talented you are, Caspian.”
“Thank you,” she said, raising her wine glass in my direction. “I appreciate that.”
“Even coming from a philistine like me?”
“Yes,” she said, a smile actually breaking through the white mask. “Even coming from a philistine like you.”
“Your family must have encouraged you, right?”
“You just spent an evening with my family, Suzy. Did you see much going on at the table that was even in the neighborhood of encouragement?”
“Well, in between her attempts at seducing Summerman, I did notice Roxanne giving Brock a few signals at one point,” I said, laughing.
