I felt reassured. Baptiste’s mild manner, his round caramel face, his wire-rimmed glasses, and his rather formal way of speaking gave him an academic air, but he was tall, broad-shouldered, and had survived a childhood in one of Haiti’s most dangerous communes. He was eminently capable of defending Grandfather against whatever two- or four-legged enemies they might encounter.
“And to think I passed up a chance to photograph the blue wildebeest in its native habitat to teach this course,” he added.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Were you really looking forward to the wildebeest?”
“The wildebeest, yes.” Baptiste laughed as he tipped his cup to get the last few drops of his coffee and rose from his seat. “The political unrest in its habitat, not so much, so when the good doctor promised me a quiet month in the country teaching a class, I leaped at the opportunity. Enfin, it will be much more quiet without the insufferable Monsieur Prine to annoy everyone.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“No one liked him.” Baptiste shrugged. “But I would not have thought anyone’s dislike was so great that they would feel obliged to kill him. He kept trying to commence a quarrel with me—saying that photography was merely a trade, not an art. I refused to rise to his bait. I have heard that sentiment often before, though seldom with such bellicose persistence. I confess, I asked your grandmother how much longer Prine would be here, and was relieved to hear that he would depart at the end of this week. I could contain my annoyance for a few more days. Evidently, someone could not. So yes, I will keep my eyes on your grandfather. And may le bon Dieu help anyone who tries to harm him.” He glanced at his watch and his eyebrows rose. “Your pardon—I must go and gather our students.”
He nodded at me, picked up the camera bag that was never more than a few feet from his side, and strode toward the door.
I dashed through the buffet line again—just the dessert end, because I decided that, given everything that was going on, the comfort value of one of Marty’s brownies was worth the calories. Then I headed for the barn. I still had almost half an hour before the afternoon session started, but the odds were that on the way I’d run into someone who wanted to talk to me.
Or someone I wanted to talk to. I found Gillian sitting in one of the white Adirondack chairs on the front porch, sipping lemonade and talking with some of her students. I hovered around the edges of the group for a few minutes. They were discussing raku, which I knew to be a kind of pottery, and the differences between traditional Japanese and modern Western techniques of making it. I understood about one word in ten.
I was just about to slip away when Gillian glanced up at me, smiled, and sat back in her chair in a way that suggested the conversation was over.
“But let’s continue this discussion later,” she said. “You only have twenty minutes until the afternoon session starts—and I want to talk to Meg for a few minutes before then.”
The students dispersed, and I sat down at the now-vacant Adirondack chair next to hers.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked.
“Actually, I deduced that you wanted to talk to me, so I thought I’d clear the way for you.”
She smiled. She had a curiously cool and self-contained smile, a smile that managed to suggest that while she kept the world at a distance, she’d let you in a little closer, just for the moment. Or maybe that she just wanted you to think that way.
“Tell me about the Dock Street Craft Collective,” I said.
She nodded as if she’d been expecting the question.
“You think it could have something to do with Edward’s murder?”
“You don’t?” I countered.
“I have no idea,” she said. “I suppose it could. It was a long time ago. Nine years? Maybe ten. A long time, at any rate. But some of the people who were involved are probably still furious with him. And it is rather curious that of those ten people, you had four here this week.”
“Who besides you and Prine?”
“Dante and Peggy.” Our woodworker and our jewelry artist. “It’s Dante I’d be worried about. He lost more than any of us. And he has that Italian temper.”
“Just what happened, anyway?”
She sighed, checked her watch, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a few seconds as if gathering her thoughts.
“You know the general idea behind the collective, I suppose,” she began, opening her eyes again. “A lot of us were looking for a way to have a more settled lifestyle. You can make a living on the craft fair circuit—maybe even a good living—but unless your spouse or partner travels with you, it’s hell on family life. That’s what ruined my marriage—my ex got tired of my never being around on weekends.”
“I hear you,” I said.
“So you start thinking it would be nice just to stay home in the studio and sell your work through a bunch of craft shops,” she went on. “But when you try to get into the shops, you find out what an uphill battle that is. There are so many of us and so few shops, and even when you get in, they take a big cut of the sales price—after all, they have to make a living, too. So we came up with the idea of starting our own shop. Not a new idea, but we actually went ahead and did it.”
“A lot of craftspeople think about doing that,” I said. “Most never get beyond the pipe dream stage.”
“Lucky them.” She took a sip of her lemonade. “We found a nice warehouse in the Shockoe Bottom district of Richmond and fixed it up to be our shop. Dante took out the lease, and the rest of us chipped in for the building supplies and fixtures. A couple of people didn’t have much cash, but they contributed significantly with elbow grease. In retrospect, we should have done it differently.”
“My first step would be to set up a limited liability corporation,” I said. “Take out the lease under that. And hire a lawyer to get everyone’s rights and responsibilities clearly stated to make sure every eventuality was covered.”
“Wish you’d been involved,” she said. “That’s just what our lawyer said we should have done—the lawyer we should have hired up front, rather than when things started going wrong. But no. We all agreed to keep it uncomplicated. Informal. Friendly. We’d settle everything by consensus.” She shook her head. “I bet you’re thinking to yourself ‘what idiots’—right?”
“You’re craftspeople,” I said. “Not lawyers or accountants.”
“You’re not a lawyer or an accountant, but you’d have seen that we needed them,” Gillian went on. “We definitely should have had someone like you involved. Someone practical and businesslike. None of us were, although most of us thought we were. The people who put in more money thought they should have more say and the people who’d contributed a great deal of their time thought that should count for more than money. We spent way too much time arguing over every little thing. Couldn’t get anything done. Well, to make a long story short, Edward got fed up and wanted out. Wanted his money back, and unfortunately he was the one who’d had the most money to put in. We didn’t have the money to give back, so he hired a lawyer, and we had to hire one, and it all got ugly. Thank God it’s all in the rearview mirror.”
“You sound rather philosophical about the whole thing,” I said.
“I consider that I learned a valuable lesson,” she said. “Paid dearly for it, but I’ve moved on. And I wasn’t one of the ones who blamed Edward for everything. The collective would have gone belly-up sooner or later. I see that now. He didn’t cause the failure. He made it happen a lot sooner than it would have otherwise. Maybe that was a good thing. If he hadn’t pulled out when he did, and demanded his money back, we’d probably have kept trying to make a go of it. Pouring every penny we could raise into it, throwing good money after bad, year after year.”
“So you’re grateful to Prine for giving the collective a quick, painless death.”
“There was nothing quick or painless about it.” Just for a moment I could hear the edge in her voice. “And I’m not gratef
ul. I hate that he was the one smart enough to cut the cord and get out. I wish I’d been smart enough—and ruthless enough—to do the same. But if you’re wondering if I’m still angry enough to kill him—no. I don’t blame him for being the first to see the writing on the wall. Especially since he tried very hard to talk me into leaving at the same time he did. I blame myself for not listening to him.”
“What about the others?”
“Who knows?” She shook her head and then stared into the distance for a few moments. “Dante lost more than any of us,” she said finally. “He had to declare bankruptcy, and the stress broke up his marriage. I think most of us have recovered, financially at least, but he’s still trying to claw his way back. But even so—I can’t believe that Dante did it. Not his style—stabbing someone in the back like a sneak. If Dante had killed him, it would have been at the tail end of a very noisy argument that escalated into violence.”
I agreed with her. And I couldn’t help thinking that if Gillian had decided Prine had to die, stabbing him in the back might be just the way she’d do it. After all, he was nearly a head taller than she was, and probably a lot stronger. I could see her coolly assessing the situation and deciding that a knife in the back was the rational, sensible approach to the problem.
If she decided he should die. But she’d need a good reason, and I couldn’t think of one.
“I suspect you think I should tell your police chief all this,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “Before someone else does. Have you talked to her yet?”
“Not yet.” She shook her head. “I gather I’m on her agenda for this afternoon, when she finishes with my students.” She closed her eyes for a moment, pressed her forefingers to her temples, and took a long, slow, deep breath. Then she opened her eyes and gave me the small, tight smile again.
“I suppose you wish you’d found some different teachers,” she said. “Ones who wouldn’t drag old feuds into your lovely new center.”
“A different painter, anyway. I was wishing that long before Prine was killed—my grandmother hired him before I got involved. And nothing he’s done since arriving has made me any fonder of him.”
“You know what the real irony is?” she asked. “About the Dock Street project, I mean?”
I shook my head.
“We started a bricks-and-mortar craft shop right about the time that selling crafts online really took off. You ever been to Etsy.com?”
“I’ve sold a few things there.”
“If we’d been smart, we’d have started a Web site like that instead of renting a big white elephant of a warehouse,” Gillian said. “Online is where it’s at these days. For that matter, it was already where it was at when we set up the wretched collective. We were idiots.”
“Online sales are easier for some craftspeople than others,” I said. “A lot easier—and cheaper—to ship earrings or belts than andirons. And some of those huge planters of yours would cost the earth to ship.”
“Yes,” she said. “But I’ve found anyone willing to pay what one of my big pots is worth doesn’t quibble about the shipping costs.”
She glanced at her watch.
“Yes,” I said. “Time we were in class.”
We strolled down to the barn together in what I suppose you could call companionable silence. I had a lot to think about and nothing else in particular to say, so it was rather pleasant to feel that Gillian didn’t much care whether or not I made small talk.
Though when we got to the barn, I did let her go in ahead of me. I walked a few paces away from the door, pulled out my phone, and called my nephew Kevin again.
Chapter 13
“You didn’t tell me you were having a murder,” Kevin said by way of a greeting.
“Sorry. It wasn’t a planned part of the festivities, and it hadn’t happened the last time I talked to you, and this is the first chance I’ve had all day to call you.”
“I had to find out from Eric.” Clearly his younger brother had gotten maximum mileage out of knowing about the murder before Kevin. “And before you ask, yes, I sent that stuff to the police chief.”
“Excellent,” I said. “I have no doubt that she is very grateful. You might want to remind her how helpful you’ve been when one of her officers stops you for speeding, which they’re very likely to do if your driving habits haven’t changed since the last time you gave me a ride. Would you like to increase her and my sense of indebtedness to you?”
“If I don’t, you’ll sic Gran on me, won’t you? So what now?”
“The Dock Street Craft Collective,” I said. “Located in the Shockoe Bottom district of Richmond, Virginia. Founded about ten years ago, now bankrupt. The murder victim was a member, and it’s possible his killer was, too. Let me know anything you can find out about it, including who was involved. There should be at least some legal trails out there.”
“I’m on it,” he said. “Anything else?”
“I’ll let you know if there is.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you will.” He hung up.
I pocketed my phone and went in to start my afternoon class.
Frankie, our new painting teacher, had already arrived.
“We need to catch up later!” She gave me a fierce hug. “But for now, I’m dragging my class away. Come on, everyone! We will paint en plein air, like the Impressionists!”
Maybe she really was a fan of open air painting. Or maybe she had already heard about the perils of trying to paint in a barn full of blacksmiths. I couldn’t blame her. Gillian’s potters continued doggedly patting and shaping their little pots, but out of the corner of my eye I spotted a couple of them passing around an aspirin bottle.
Probably not a good idea to ask them to share, since my class was the source of the headache-inducing noise. I almost dug into my tote to see if I had any. It wasn’t so much the hammering—although I’d already figured out, the first day of class last week, that listening to other, less proficient people hammering wasn’t as restful as the steady rhythm of my own working. No, it wasn’t the amateur hammering that was getting to me but the stress of watching as first the rest of the potters and then my own students were led off for their interviews with Chief Heedles.
“Chill,” I muttered to myself.
At six, the bell rang to notify us that the class session was over. But unlike grade school or high school, there was no mass stampede to vacate the room. The students tended to linger, talking with each other and with the instructors or maybe just working a few minutes longer on their projects. I tried not to be too impatient about having to wait around until they all left so I could lock up.
I ran into Amanda in the great room, and we strolled toward the dining room together.
“Any more … incidents?” she asked in a low voice.
“Not that I’ve heard,” I said. “And I think I’d have heard.”
“That’s good, then.”
I nodded.
“You think there’s any significance to the timing?” she asked.
“Significance to what timing?”
“Prine bites the dust, and suddenly no more vandalism.”
“Could be,” I said. “Then again, it could be more a case of the place is suddenly swarming with cops and the culprit decides to lie low for the time being. Give it a few days before we declare ourselves vandal-free.”
“I guess only time will tell.” She paused and frowned slightly, as if thinking. “Didn’t you tell me that he was one of the ones the vandal targeted?”
“Prine? Yes,” I said. “Pretty spectacularly. Red paint splashed all over his studio.”
“Cordelia’s studio that he was teaching in. Nasty cleanup job for you people—but did he actually lose any paintings?”
“He had to scrap the one he was working on,” I said. “I don’t think anything else of his was lying around.”
“One unfinished painting—a pretty small sacrifice in return for looking like one of the victims instead of a suspect. And may
be a painting that wasn’t going very well, one that he was going to scrap anyway.” She shook her head. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I think maybe the killer took care of your vandalism problem.”
“Leaving us with a murder problem,” I said. “It’s not an improvement.”
“There’s something else, but I’m not sure if I should mention it.”
I waited for a few moments, but she didn’t seem inclined to continue.
“You’re not going to tell me, then?” I said finally. “Just taunt me with the fact that you know something I don’t?”
“I’m feeling guilty about telling you,” she said. “Maybe I ought to tell the chief, but if it has nothing to do with the murder or the vandalism, I’ll feel like a heel for having invaded someone’s privacy.”
“Whereas if it turns out whatever you’re hesitating to tell me has something to do with one or both, you will be the heroine of the hour. So why not tell me and I’ll help you decide if you should tell the chief?”
“Fair enough,” she said. “You think the chief would want to hear about someone sneaking out at night?”
“Definitely. Who did you see sneaking out?”
“I didn’t see anyone.” She frowned. “It’s all gossip. One of the ladies in my class is rooming with a lady who’s taking Rose Noire’s herb class. According to the herb student, one of her classmates—a woman named Jenni something—has been seen sneaking out of the center after campfire the last few nights to meet someone. The whole class is abuzz with it.”
“The chief will want to hear about that,” I said. “The last few nights? She’s a returning student, then?”
“Yes—and either whoever she’s been meeting is also back this week or she’s found a replacement for him awfully quick.”
“How do they know she’s sneaking out to meet anyone?” I asked. “I can think of a lot of other reasons to sneak around.” Like committing acts of vandalism—though since all of those had taken place inside the center, someone sneaking out wasn’t necessarily going to be high on my suspect list.
Gone Gull Page 11
