He nodded. “Yes. He was a drinker, certainly, but too many other aspects don’t add up. For example, why did Linda contact you initially? Why would they want to leave London and come over here to a small museum – sorry, I don’t mean to be condescending in any way – when he most likely could have had plenty more shows in much larger venues? And why did his sister think that he would come alone, especially when he had just recently been married and, according to what you’ve told me, he couldn’t even make himself breakfast without someone else’s help.”
“I wonder if Linda just needed a break?” mused Dulcie. “And maybe she thought that if she kept Isabel away, the marriage would fall apart? She didn’t seem overjoyed to have a sister-in-law. Not that one, anyway.”
“I don’t like the fact that his wife has run off. She won’t get far, especially with a British passport. If she tries to fly back to London, the authorities will stop her,” Nick said.
“What about Canada?” asked Dulcie.
“We notified border crossings, just in case.” Nick shook his head. “People only run for one of two reasons. It’s either toward something or away from something. In this case I feel as though it’s the latter, but I don’t know why.”
“Because of her black eye?” asked Dulcie.
“Precisely. From what you’ve said, he didn’t seem like a wife beater. Arrogant, annoying, and even maybe overbearing but not the type to physically attack. Then again, when someone is provoked…”
“Or drunk,” Dulcie added.
“Or provoked and drunk,” said Nick.
They both looked down at the table, lost in thought. A foghorn sounded in the distance. The night had turned chilly and damp.
“Well, I should get going.” Nick stood up. “Won’t know anything else until the coroner’s report.”
“Unless Isabel turns up first,” added Dulcie.
“I’m not putting my money on that one yet. Meanwhile, I need to talk to this sister of his.”
“Yes, well good luck there,” said Dulcie, now standing as well. “Prickly and evasive would describe her pretty well.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I’d also like to talk to the students in his class. They might have some insight. Could you get me their names and contact info?”
“I’ll have it for you first thing tomorrow morning,” said Dulcie. “But I’ll warn you, none of them liked Logan Dumbarton.”
Nick had been walking toward the door. He stopped and faced her. “Really? That’s surprising. I would have thought that they signed up for the class because they admired his work on some level.”
“I’m sure they all did, and perhaps some still do. But our dear, departed friend had a way of making enemies. I’ve never seen anyone fling the insults with quite so much aplomb as Logan Dumbarton. He basically belittled every person in that class.”
“Enough for anyone to try and get even?” Nick asked.
“I wouldn’t think so, although you never know. When some people are insulted, they can carry a severe grudge.”
“Still, it seems pretty extreme to kill him if they’ve only known him for a week,” Nick said.
“Very true, although maybe someone had known him for much longer?” Dulcie conjectured. They had reached the door. She opened it for him. “Thanks for dinner,” she said.
“Any time,” Nick said. “I mean that.” He walked onto the porch. Dulcie turned on the outdoor light, although in the growing fog it only created an ethereal haze around them.
When Nick was half way down the front steps, he turned. “Dulcie, I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked beyond him into the dark, misty street. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” she replied, and closed the door firmly.
Art is never finished,
only abandoned.
― Leonardo da Vinci
CHAPTER 7
Willow woke up slowly. She knew that something was wrong. A feeling of dread had permeated her. In her groggy state she tried to remember if she had been in the midst of a bad dream. Then she opened her eyes and blinked several times.
Yes, now she remembered. It wasn’t a dream. The horrible scene from the day before slipped slowly into her consciousness. She remembered Logan just lying there, with Kimberly trying to revive him. Willow had also known it was futile. She had seen a dead man before.
While everyone seemed to be in chaos for those few moments, Willow had looked for Isabel. She had finally spotted her. First, Isabel was standing in the bedroom doorway, staring blankly at her husband. Then, she disappeared into the shadows of the bedroom. When Willow saw her again, she was quietly slipping out the back door with a bag in her hand.
Willow knew she should have said something about it. Wives don’t usually slip away when their husbands are dead. Yet, the look on Isabel’s face, and the black eye that Willow had glimpsed, kept her silent.
She turned over in bed, away from the bright sunshine coming through the window. Why had she kissed Isabel? She had never done that before – kissed a woman. Everything about her was intriguing, mesmerizing. Kissing her was exhilarating and scary at the same time. Willow wasn’t sure if she liked it, but it had been a thrill.
She picked up her head from the pillow and looked at the clock. Quarter past eight. Time to get up. She would have been out of the shower by now if she had been on her regular schedule and still attending the Logan Dumbarton Master Class. Now she assumed that the rest of the week would be free for her to do as she pleased. She had a job at a local warehouse tracking packages that were shipped in and out. They had given her time off for the class. At least she had a bit of a vacation now, although it certainly did not feel like one to her.
Her cell phone began buzzing. ‘Who calls at this hour?’ she thought. ‘And who calls me, anyway?’ She let it go to voicemail. Lifting herself from the bed, she padded barefoot into the kitchen to make coffee. She yawned widely and looked down at the phone on the counter. Two calls. She must have missed the first one. Maybe that’s what had woken her up. She pushed the button on the coffee maker and picked up the phone.
The first message was from Bryce. “Hey, Willow. Just wanted to give you a heads up. The cops are probably gonna call you. They just called me and said they need to talk to all of us. Just routine, though, they said. It kinda caught me off guard, so I wanted to let you know in case… well, you know.”
Willow knew. Everyone assumed from her rough exterior that she had some sort of unsavory, perhaps even criminal, background. They were wrong concerning the latter. Willow hated the interpretation, but when she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but admit that she would get that impression, too. The spike in her nose, the black lipstick, the tattoos… it was her wall that she had steadily built to keep everyone out. She had grown up in foster homes, none of which had been even remotely nurturing. Some were outright abusive. As soon as she was old enough, she had dropped out of school and supported herself.
Everyone kept their distance from her, which was exactly what she wanted. The only person who had ever shown her any caring was her mother, but she had died when Willow was only six years old. The memories were vague. Since then she had had no friends. No one that wanted her in their life. That was fine.
It was fine until the painting class. As an artist, Willow knew that she had some talent. She had entered juried shows and had her work displayed several times. She had even won a prize once. When she painted, she felt like a different person. After spotting the ad for the Logan Dumbarton Master Class she knew that she had to be a part of it. It was so expensive, but she had to do it. She thought that it could change her life.
It had, but not in ways that she had expected. Bryce had been kind to her, and even seemed interested in seeing her. She had bought that ridiculous outfit specifically for the reception at the museum, thinking that he would be more attracted to her if she looked a bit more feminine. Without her hard, exterior shell, however, she felt vulnerable. She was vulnerable. Maybe that�
��s why she let Isabel kiss her. Willow had been a little drunk and Bryce hadn’t paid much attention initially, so she assumed he wasn’t interested. Her mind had been set in the direction of receiving some kind of affection, and after several drinks it didn’t matter if it was Bryce or Isabel.
After the coatroom incident, Willow had begun to sober a bit. Bryce had made his way over to her and told her she looked pretty. He had talked with her about her painting. He seemed more interested in getting to know her than anyone had in the previous twenty years. She was flattered.
The coffee maker beeped that it was done. Willow poured coffee into her only mug and sat down in her ripped but comfortable armchair. Then she remembered the other call on the phone. She sighed, stood up, grabbed the phone, and sat back down again. Assuming it was the police as Bryce had said, she didn’t really want to listen to the message. She took another sip of coffee and tapped the voicemail button.
Silence. Then someone clearing their throat. It sounded like a woman. “Willow?” It was a woman’s voice. “Willow, it’s Isabel. I’m scared. I took off from the house. I don’t know what to do! I feel like I can trust you. Can you call me, please?” The message stopped.
Willow sat up quickly and spilled hot coffee on her bare leg. She inhaled sharply and wiped it off with her hand, then ran to the kitchen for a towel. While she dried off, she listened to the message again. Why would Isabel be scared? Was it that black eye? If Logan had done it, which Willow assumed was the case, why did Isabel run off? Why was Isabel calling her?
As she tried to decide what to do, the phone rang again. Willow froze, staring at it. The number was different from Isabel’s. Willow answered.
“Is this Willow James?” a stern voice asked.
“Who’s calling?” she said, not answering the question.
“Detective Adam Johnson, Portland Police,” the voice barked.
“Oh, right. Yes, I’m Willow. What do you want?”
Johnson smiled to himself. He’d been told she was prickly. He could handle that type. “A few routine questions, that’s all. We’re just looking into the death of Logan Dumbarton, and talking to everyone at the scene.”
Willow noticed that he hadn’t added the words “of the crime” to the end of the sentence. That was good. Must have been natural causes, if you can call drinking yourself to death natural. She answered, “Sure. What do you need to know?”
“We’d like to speak to you in person, as soon as it’s convenient. You can come to the station or I can meet you somewhere.”
Willow shuddered. She had no intention of going into a police station. “I can meet you at Vicki’s Diner. Would that work?”
“Absolutely. What time?”
Willow glanced at the clock again. Half-past eight. “How about ten o’clock?” That would give her some time to think, plus the diner would be fairly empty before the lunch rush.
“See you then,” he said and hung up.
Willow put down the phone. ‘He didn’t even ask what I look like. How will he know…?’ Then she realized that she wouldn’t be very difficult to find.
#
Linda had just been given permission to return to the rented house. She took a taxi from the hospital to Cape Elizabeth. ‘This will go on my expenses for sure,’ she thought absentmindedly. Then she realized that she might not be able to charge the museum for expenses. She might not be able to collect any money from them at all.
She thought about the will. Logan had specifically asked her to change it so that Isabel got everything after the marriage. He had even called the lawyer himself to make sure that it had been done. Linda was very surprised. She didn’t think that Logan even knew who his lawyer was.
What didn’t surprise her was that Logan left it all to Isabel. Logan had never really considered his sister family. She was an employee. When he made money, she made money. She had never spent much of it, and had managed to accumulate a sufficient reserve for herself. Still, she fumed a bit about Isabel inheriting. Especially now, so soon. That did not seem fair at all.
The taxi pulled into the driveway. Linda paid him and gave him an insufficient tip. The driver swore at her just as she was out of earshot. Linda wouldn’t have cared anyway. She went in the back door of the house and looked around her. They had been there, of course. The police. They would certainly have looked around. The death was still being investigated. The autopsy wasn’t complete.
Linda was ready to leave. She never wanted to see this place again. She never wanted to smell turpentine again. She went into the studio and threw the windows open. An ocean gust blasted in and knocked one of the paintings off the easel. It fell face-up. Linda picked it up and suddenly felt a flood of anger wash over her. This was the abstract nude of Isabel. No one else would have known, as there was no female form apparent at all, but Linda knew. She knew about all of his paintings.
She stomped toward the window and was about to hurl it through when she had a better idea. Wasn’t an artist’s work always more valuable after they were dead? She looked at the painting. It was unmistakably his work, although it wasn’t signed. No problem there. Linda found a small brush, squeezed out a bit of black paint, and carefully signed it as she had on many others.
When she had finished, Linda smiled at her work. Her reserve fund, she liked to call it. Logan had done many paintings that he deemed unacceptable. He would abandon them in his studio. Linda would then “clean up” for him. Then she would carefully sign them and store them away. Periodically she sold them without his knowledge. She thought about the stash that she had in a storage locker. Their value would probably be double now.
Linda went into the kitchen and picked up the large trash container. She brought it back into the studio and set it down with a thud. Then she proceeded to methodically pick up every item and toss it into the trash. When she got to the very expensive tubes of paint that Logan had insisted on having shipped overnight directly from France, she did not hesitate. Several had not even been opened, but in they went. Done. Over. Logan was gone. Goodbye to all of it.
She continued on through the house moving from one room to the next, picking up items, throwing away much more. She changed the bag in the trash can three times. When she reached the kitchen she went straight to the cabinet that held the gin. It contained three bottles of Bombay Sapphire, two of which were unopened. Linda dumped every last ounce into the sink. She turned on the water to wash it all down the drain and get rid of the smell. She hated gin. Then she threw the bottles into the trash and listened to them shatter.
Linda replaced the trash bag once again and went into the bedroom. That’s when she remembered Isabel. The police had asked about the rental car. They had said something about locating Logan’s wife. Linda looked in the closet and opened the dresser drawers. Logan’s clothes were there, but very few of Isabel’s. She looked in the bathroom. Isabel’s things were gone.
Linda slowly left the bathroom and sat down on the bed. All of her actions up until then had been automatic. Clean up, pick up, throw away. She hadn’t really thought about what came next. Isabel. What was she going to do about her? This was a problem.
She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting on the bed when she heard a car drive up. She pulled the curtain aside and saw Dulcie approaching the house. “Dammit,” Linda cursed softly. “Just what I don’t need right now.”
Dulcie approached slowly, not sure if anyone was in the house. She knocked on the door.
After several moments, Linda answered looking distraught. Tears were in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a wadded tissue, then snuffled into it.
“Linda, I’m so sorry to hear about this. Is there anything I can do?”
Linda appeared to choke back a sob, then shook her head. “No, no. I have everything under control. I always have done that for Logan. He’s relied on me, and…,” she blew her nose again.
“I know this is hard. I lost a very dear friend recently. It’s difficult to comprehend it. Can I get you anythin
g?”
“No, thank you. Really, I’ll be fine. I’m not sure where Isabel is, but I expect she’ll be back soon.”
Dulcie wasn’t sure what to say. Should she tell Linda that her sister-in-law had apparently run away? Did she ask Linda if she had any idea where Isabel could have gone? “Yes,” Dulcie replied. “I’m sure she will. Do you know where she went?” Dulcie asked. It was an innocent enough question. For all Linda knew, Dulcie could have been asking if Isabel went to the store.
“No, but as I said, I’m sure she’ll be back soon.” Linda attempted a smile while wiping her eyes. “I’ve just been cleaning up a bit here. We’ll be heading back to London as soon as the autopsy is…” she choked back another sob.
“Yes. Well, please call me if you need anything,” Dulcie said reassuringly. Linda didn’t seem as though she wanted company.
Linda went to the back door and opened it. She sniffed loudly. “The only thing I can think of right now is a check for Logan’s services. I’ll get an invoice to you. Thank you for coming by.” She wiped her nose again and held open the door.
Dulcie could not think of what to say. A check? At a time like this, Linda was thinking about a check? Dulcie simply nodded and left.
Linda closed the door behind her. She backed up several steps so that she could not be seen from the outside. She watched Dulcie pull her car out of the driveway and continue down the road. When she was gone Linda opened her balled up tissue and took out the small piece of raw onion that she’d managed to grab from the refrigerator before Dulcie had reached the house. Laughing out loud, Linda threw it in the trash can with everything else.
The Fragile Flower Page 9
