Gone Gull

by Donna Andrews

  “Don’t believe in making my life easier, do you? Okay, Cordelia stays on the suspect list. Although I expect that, unlike your dad, she won’t enjoy being a suspect. So that’s the complete list of incidents last week?”

  “That we know of,” I said. “We didn’t make a big fuss about the incidents, at least not with the students—just tried to remind them that there are a lot of people walking in and out of the center all day, and they should keep their valuables secure. That kind of thing. So if something minor happened and the victim thought it was accidental or maybe knew someone they thought might be responsible, it’s always possible that they just didn’t report it.”

  “Possible. Unlikely, though. Something comes along to spoil my peaceful craft vacation in the mountains, I’m going to report it. They seem to have hit a fair cross-section of the crafts, too.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Whoever’s doing this wanted to spread the joy around. Every class didn’t get hit, but he—or she—was working on it. And no studio got hit twice.”

  “Except the art studio, I assume.” She was studying her list. “The red paint, and then you mentioned watercolors. Wouldn’t that also be in Prine’s studio?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Prine doesn’t—didn’t—do watercolor. He considered it a lesser, inferior medium, suitable only for women and weaklings who aren’t up to bold, virile, courageous media like oil and acrylic. That’s pretty close to a direct quote, by the way. We had two art studios last week, Prine’s and one downstairs where a very well-respected watercolor artist taught her class. Given how monumentally rude Prine was to her, I dearly hope she’s alibied for last night.”

  “She’ll be on your lists, I assume,” the chief said. “No incidents this week, then?”

  “One, yesterday morning.” I described the lingerie exhibit Michael had dismantled before the children entered their work room. “Of course it was more in the nature of a prank than actual vandalism,” I added. “But then so was substituting George Carlin for Tchaikovsky.”

  “Interesting.” Her frown seemed to suggest that the chief found this week’s prank even more distasteful than I did. Or did she see some more sinister meaning in it?

  “What did you do with the lingerie?” she asked.

  “My grandmother has it.”

  “Where?”

  “I haven’t seen it myself. Probably in her office.”

  “I need to see it.”

  So I called Cordelia’s cell phone—she was in the dining room, as I expected—and the chief and I met her in her office. The chief watched impassively as Cordelia opened a locked file cabinet drawer and pulled out a small armload of peculiar garments. Yes, there was the leopard-print corset with the froth of pink marabou feathers … a scrap of filmy red fabric that you could probably roll up and stuff into a lipstick tube … and enough black vinyl and leather, with or without chains, to outfit a coven of dominatrices

  “More strip joint than Victoria’s Secret.” The chief’s grimace told us what she thought of our collection. “Mind if I take possession of this collection for the time being?”

  “Be my guest.” Cordelia emptied the last two reams out of a copier paper box and swept the outré lingerie into it. “As part of your investigation of the vandalism? Or are you thinking that the murder could be related?”

  “Too soon to tell.” The chief picked up the box. “But after seeing this … come and take a look at something.”

  Chapter 10

  We followed her back to Prine’s studio, and she lifted up the yellow crime scene tape for us to enter.

  “Horace and Lesley Keech have gone over this room pretty thoroughly,” she said as she led us through the studio. “We want to keep it more or less intact for a little longer, to see if we can get some additional forensic muscle on it—there’s a blood spatter expert down in Richmond that Horace is hoping we can get in here, though I’m not entirely sure if he thinks she can learn more than he has or if he just wants to commune with a kindred spirit about viscosity, angle of impact, and points of convergence. But in the meantime—have you seen some of the paintings Mr. Prine keeps locked up in here?” She stopped beside one of the large built-in storage cabinets along the side wall and reached into her pocket to pull out a key ring that I recognized as Cordelia’s spare set.

  “If it’s the paintings I’m thinking of, I’m probably the one who made him lock them up,” Cordelia said as the chief unlocked the cabinet doors. “I have nothing against nudes as a general rule, but something about that man’s nudes made me want to run away and take a long, hot, soaking bath. Is there some reason you want us to look at them?”

  “It wasn’t the nudes I wanted to ask you about.” She surveyed the contents of the cabinet, which was six feet tall, three feet deep and nearly as wide, fitted inside with four sections in which you could store paintings on their sides, so all we could see was the end where the canvas wrapped around the frames. The chief flipped through the paintings and pulled out one.

  “Recognize this?” she asked.

  It was a buxom blond woman wearing the leopard-print and marabou corset, along with fishnet stockings and six-inch Plexiglas heels. The corset covered a lot less skin than I’d have expected, and to call the expression on the woman’s face suggestive was like calling King Kong tall.

  “I recognize the garment,” Cordelia said. “As for the model, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “What about this one?” The chief pulled out another painting, this one featuring a brunette woman wearing several small wisps of red lace.

  “Fascinating,” Cordelia said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown woman wearing a Barbie outfit before.”

  “And this?” The chief pulled out a painting of a redhead wearing a complicated tangle of leather straps and silver buckles that somehow failed to cover any areas that even bikinis were usually designed to protect.

  “If you’re asking if these appear to be the same garments with which our vandal decorated the children’s work room, then yes.” Cordelia’s face wore a disapproving look. “I can definitely recognize them.”

  “Not just the garments.” I pointed to the face of the woman wearing the bondage gear. “Look—that’s Misty.”

  Cordelia peered more closely at the painting.

  “You could be right,” she said. “I don’t think I ever saw her with quite that expression on her face.”

  “You didn’t see her drooling over Michael last week.” I tried to keep my tone calm, but my annoyance at Misty’s blatant flirtation with my husband probably leaked through. “Fortunately, he’s very good at fending off unwanted advances from fans, thanks to his years on Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle.”

  “His years on what?”

  “Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle,” I said. “A syndicated TV show on which Michael had a part for a couple of years. A while ago—pre-kids—but it’s still quite a cult favorite in some circles. You must not watch much late-night cable TV.”

  “Only the cooking channels. Who is this Misty person?”

  “A student from last week’s interpretive dance class,” Cordelia said. “Not enrolled in anything this week, thank goodness.”

  “I wondered what she found to do with herself after Michael succeeded in discouraging her,” I said. “Maybe now we know.”

  “Let’s see if you recognize any of the other women in these paintings.” The chief turned back to the cabinet.

  “I am definitely going to need that bath,” Cordelia said.

  We looked at twenty-three paintings, all either nudes or women clad in lingerie or fetish gear, but Cordelia didn’t recognize any more of the models and I only knew one—a slender blond potter who hadn’t been here last week and wasn’t here this week.

  “Although come to think of it, she used to be quite an item with Phil,” I said. “Phil Santiago, a jewelry-maker who taught here last week.”

  “His contact information will be on that list you’re going to forward me?” Chief Heedles aske
d.

  “Along with everybody else’s. Speaking of which…” I pulled out my phone and sent my lists to the chief, along with the information Kevin had sent so far. And then I e-mailed Kevin and asked him to share any future information with the chief. As I was tapping away, the chief gestured to the paintings now stacked against the walls.

  “You said you made Prine lock these paintings up,” the chief said. “Were they all out on display?”

  “Not all.” Cordelia pursed her lips slightly at the memory. “Only three of them. That was enough.”

  “Which three?”

  “One of these two—don’t ask me which.” She indicated two nudes of remarkably similar women, both blond and in the same come-hither pose. “And that one.” She pointed to the painting of the blond potter whose boyfriend had been at the center last week. “And this.” Misty.

  “Interesting.” The chief pointed to the blond potter. “He actually had this displayed in his studio while her former … significant other was a teacher here?”

  “Not for very long,” Cordelia said. “The faculty all arrived Sunday morning or even Saturday night, and worked with us to make sure their studios were set up the way they wanted them before the students arrived Sunday afternoon. I spotted the nudes and pinups when I was inspecting all the studios to make sure they were all ready for the orientation tour. Had to threaten to fire him on the spot if he didn’t take them down. I’m not easily shocked myself, but these craft classes attract a lot of retired people—I offer an AARP discount. I didn’t want to give any of the grannies a coronary.”

  I had to suppress a smile, and I could see that the chief was fighting to do the same. Cordelia was in her eighties, a decade or two older than most of the grannies whose frail sensibilities she was worrying about.

  “But do you know if Phil saw it?” the chief asked.

  “No idea.” Cordelia shrugged.

  “He could have,” I said. “A lot of us know each other from craft fairs or other craft class venues, so while we were setting up our studios there was a lot of visiting back and forth and catching up. Of course, I don’t remember Prine joining into the visiting or being visited. He was not well liked. Still, some of the folks could have made a brief visit, just to be polite.”

  “You’re thinking one of Prine’s paintings could have been the motive for his murder?” Cordelia asked.

  “No idea,” Chief Heedles said. “The man had no shortage of enemies, apparently, but there is something about the paintings. Along with a rather suggestive bit of bloodstain evidence Horace found.”

  She pointed to an area where we could see a little orange evidence cone with the number seven on it sitting on the floor beside some reddish brown stains. We moved closer to peer at the stains.

  “That’s not blood spatter,” Cordelia said, after a few moments. “Looks more as if someone dragged something through a small spot of blood.”

  “Something about the width of one of those canvases,” I added.

  “Very good,” the chief said. “Of course, we don’t know that whatever was dragged came from that locked cabinet. There were five overturned easels on the floor, and only two canvases. Could have been a painting from one of three empty easels.”

  “But the drag mark is pretty directly in the path you’d follow if you were taking a canvas from the cabinet to the door,” I pointed out.

  “Which could mean that somewhere in this building there’s a painting with a smear of Mr. Prine’s blood in the corner. I’m asking Judge Klein for a warrant to search the entire premises. As soon as he gets back to me—”

  “Jake Klein’s slow as molasses,” Cordelia said. “Why wait for him? I already told you that you have my permission to search from attic to cellar.”

  “And we’re already searching the public areas, since we have your permission,” the chief said. “But I’d rather wait for the guest spaces until I have that warrant, in case anyone gets huffy and calls in a lawyer to argue that he has a reasonable expectation of privacy in his pup tent.”

  “So I assume you’ll want to keep this studio sealed for a while,” Cordelia said. “Any chance we can get the rest of the studios back anytime soon?”

  “I’ll be releasing them in a few minutes,” she said. “So you can have your classes in the usual locations in the morning. Except for this one, of course. Oh, and that includes the one I’m using as my office so I’d appreciate it if you could find me another spot.”

  “How about a nice, empty storage room right down the hall from my office,” Cordelia said. “No view, but plenty of space.”

  “That should work.”

  “While we’re talking logistics, any idea when you’ll want to interview my blacksmithing students?” I asked. “They’re feeling a little left out.”

  “Shortly after the lunch break is over.” The chief chuckled slightly. “Reassure them that they’ll get their turn in the hot seat. And speaking of lunch—”

  “Let’s get you to the dining hall before all the good stuff runs out,” Cordelia said.

  So the chief accompanied us to the dining room. There was already an unofficial police table, with Horace and Dad and Officer Keech all eating with more speed and less attention than Marty’s food deserved. I hoped they were using their indoors voices—the tables near them were chock-full of people who didn’t seem to be talking as much as usual. I could almost imagine the would-be eavesdroppers’ ears swiveling the way a horse’s ears would, so eager did they look to catch every word. At least they weren’t staring—well, except for the Slacker, who’d actually turned his chair around and was gazing with a look of placid contentment on his face, as if watching an entertainment Cordelia had arranged especially for his enjoyment. I glanced over to see if the chief had noticed him, but she was already on her way to the buffet.

  I saw Grandfather and Caroline sitting at the other end of the room and went over to see them.

  “How did this morning’s expedition go?” I asked.

  “Disastrous!” Grandfather snarled.

  Chapter 11

  “Disastrous?” I echoed. “What happened?”

  “He’s exaggerating,” Caroline said. “As usual.”

  “It was a complete failure,” Grandfather muttered.

  “We saw deer, foxes, woodchucks, several kinds of woodpeckers, rabbits, weasels, otters, and I forget what else,” Caroline said. “So from the students’ point of view, it was a grand success. Even Baptiste was impressed. But just because we didn’t find his silly gulls, your grandfather is moping.”

  “If I get my hands on the wretch who killed that Prine fellow,” Grandfather muttered. “My only clue to the whereabouts of those gulls, gone forever. Our only chance is to search his belongings to see if we can find out where he spotted them, but that stupid police chief doesn’t seem to recognize the urgency.”

  “She’s got her priorities. She’s trying to solve a murder.”

  “Mixed up priorities, if you ask me,” Grandfather said. “Prine’s dead; finding his killer won’t bring him back—but time could be of the essence in finding the gulls.”

  “Just hold your horses for a day or two about your gulls,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about the gull problem during my class, and I’m pretty sure I know how we can find out where those photos were taken, but you have to be patient.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Grandfather actually pouted, and the petulant look on his face gave me a clue to what he’d have looked like as a toddler. “You’re just telling me that to shut me up.”

  “No, I’m not.” Well, only partly. But it occurred to me that perhaps I’d have a better chance of getting him to behave if I explained my plan. I reached into my tote and pulled out the sheets of paper with the gull photos on them. “Here, look at these.”

  “I was wondering where the devil those had gotten to.” He tried to snatch the papers out of my hand, but I pulled them back out of his reach. “Hey! Those are mine.”

  “I could argue that a
ctually they’re Prine’s,” I said. “But let’s forget about who owns them for the time being. I’m keeping them. I need them to find your gulls.”

  “How?”

  “As you can see, these aren’t printed on photo paper—just regular printer/copier paper.” I handed him the worst photo so he could see for himself.

  “That’s true.” Grandfather frowned at the photo. “Of course, he’s not exactly a brilliant photographer. I wouldn’t have wasted photo paper on these. In fact, if not for the subject matter, I wouldn’t consider them worth wasting any paper on.”

  “But the fact that they’re on printer/copier paper means Prine printed them from a computer,” I pointed out. “Probably his own computer, which means there’s a good chance it contains the original digital photos.”

  “How does that help us?” he asked. “Original or copy, they’re still lousy photos. And I assume he was showing us his best shots.”

  “He might have other photos that don’t show the gulls as well but do include more of the surroundings,” I explained. “That would give us a clue to where they were taken.”

  “Now that’s a useful idea.”

  “And unless he’s a lot more paranoid than most people, the photos’ locations may be embedded in the digital files,” I went on. “A lot of mobile phones and an increasing number of digital cameras tag your pictures with location coordinates. And from the look of these, I think it’s very likely he took them with his phone.”

  “How can you possibly tell?”

  “See that little pink thing in the top left corner of this photo?” I pointed to the photo he was holding.

  “Yes.” Grandfather squinted and peered at the photo over his glasses, then shook his head. “No idea what that is.”

  “Looks to me like a finger,” I said. “Happens a lot when you’re taking photos with a phone. Though it’s also something particularly inept photographers can do with a small camera.” I knew this from experience—at least twenty percent of the pictures Dad had ever taken of our family had those telltale pink sausage shapes lurking in one upper corner or the other, as if we’d been shadowed all our lives by small, furtive, camera-shy blimps.