Southern Discomfort

by Caroline Fardig

  The phone rang, but Valerie again ignored it and continued to cry quietly. I began to fret that I’d end up being stuck here for a while. My legs were starting to go numb from kneeling on them, and I had a crick in my neck from crouching under the table. I couldn’t stay here for much longer if I wanted to be able to scurry away fast enough to not get caught. My phone vibrated in my pocket (thank goodness I’d had the good sense to put it on mute), and it was a series of frantic texts from Delilah: What is going on in there? Why isn’t she picking up the phone? And why are you STILL in there?

  I texted back, She’s crying. IDK why. Wait a minute and then try again.

  Valerie began sniffling, and I ventured a peek from under the table skirt. I could only see her from the waist down, but I noticed her take her cellphone out of her pocket. After a moment, she said in a strained voice, “Hi, Vivian. It’s Valerie Green. I’m ready to put Green on the market, and I need top dollar for it…No, he’s on board with selling…I can come in now if you’d like. I don’t want to waste any more time…All right. I’ll see you soon.”

  Whew. If Valerie was leaving, I could wait a few minutes and then slip out after she was long gone. As I let myself relax, a cold chill suddenly rushed up my spine. I remembered she’d had an alarm system put in after a break-in a few months ago. Drew had told me all about it. If she set that alarm, I was stuck here indefinitely. With shaking fingers, I texted Delilah, Call again! NOW!

  The shop’s phone rang instantly, and Valerie let out a frustrated groan. I heard footsteps stomping past me, so after another peek to make sure Valerie was headed away from me, I slithered out from under the table and skittered toward the front of the store. Not an easy task with my legs now fully asleep from the knee down. Valerie was still safely in the office when I reached the front door. The bell would make a noise when I opened it, but I had no choice. I hopped up, wrenched open the door, and sprinted through it, not slowing my pace until I was safely around the corner from the shop.

  As I let out a long sigh of relief, Delilah caught up with me. “I thought you were never going to get out of there.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You know, in my head, that whole escapade seemed like it would be a lot more fun.”

  “Right. I failed to find the fun that you’d promised.”

  She grinned at me and threw an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward her truck. “Maybe it wasn’t conventional fun, but you have to admit, pulling the wool over old Valerie’s eyes was pretty awesome. Now tell me everything you found out. There has to be a big takeaway from my grand plan. That’s how grand plans work.”

  * * *

  —

  I told Delilah what I’d found and showed her the two photos I took. We didn’t have much time to mull over the meaning of either the card on the flowers or the cryptic appointments on Valerie’s calendar, though, because we had to get home and do our afternoon chores plus all the chores we’d put off this morning. Once we were caught up, we were left with little time to primp before the big bash tonight at Oeuvre and even less time to decipher the meaning behind our clues.

  Between my sister and me, we had enough previously worn bridesmaid’s dresses to outfit a baseball team, so it was no stretch to come up with eveningwear. I borrowed a red one she’d worn in a fellow community theater actor’s wedding, and she wore a little black dress one of our New York cousins had made us bridesmaids wear to her ultra-chic black-and-white wedding last summer.

  Papa Sal stopped us on the way out the door with a catcall and a chuckle. “You girls clean up nice. Where in the world are you headed looking so fancy?”

  Delilah smiled. “A friend of mine invited us to a party at her art gallery. It’s just down the street. Oeuvre.”

  “Oh, a party at Oeuvre. Well, la-di-da.” After giving us a wink, he added, “You girls have fun. You’ve been spending way too much time on this investigation of yours, and I think it’s good that you’re giving yourselves a break.”

  We weren’t exactly taking a breather tonight—there were a few people we had our sights set on speaking to about the murder. But I didn’t bring that up.

  Instead, I said, “Thanks, Papa Sal. I have a gig after the party, so don’t wait up for me.”

  “Or me, either,” Delilah added, waving as we headed for the door.

  On the walk through the square, Delilah said, “I’ve been racking my brain all afternoon trying to figure out that weird code on Valerie’s calendar. I’m thinking these are acronyms…possibly the names of places. What if ROTR stands for Rocks on the Roof, that bar overlooking River Street? And OPH could be The Olde Pink House, minus the T. What do you think?”

  My jaw dropped. “I think my sister is a genius!”

  “Don’t order me my Mensa card just yet. I’m drawing a blank for AB and BW. Not enough letters—”

  “Wait. If these are restaurants…” I stopped in the middle of Pulaski Square and got out my phone. Once I pulled up the photo of Valerie’s calendar, it hit me. “AB is Abercorn Bistro. She was at Abercorn Bistro on the night Jason was murdered. The owner, Mark Potter, told me.”

  “So why is BW scratched out? Did she decide not to go to…Buffalo Wild Wings?” She wrinkled her nose. “Wait, that would be BWW.”

  “Then what restaurant is only BW?”

  She shrugged. “IDK.”

  “LOL.”

  Delilah groaned. “Okay, we need to cool it with the acronyms. It’s getting way too nerdy up in here.”

  “I think we’re spinning our wheels with this. We don’t need to waste our time worrying over Valerie’s dinner plans. Let’s focus on the note.”

  She pointed to the clock on my phone. “Let’s focus on getting to the party on time.”

  Chapter 22

  Stepping into Oeuvre was like stepping into some swanky art gallery in a trendy New York neighborhood. The stark white walls made the perfect backdrop for colorful, modern artwork. The wood floors gleamed in the beams of the perfectly positioned gallery lighting. A four-piece band played smooth, quiet jazz as guests mingled and tried to one-up one another with their knowledge of art. A smartly dressed waitstaff served champagne and canapés from silver trays. Delilah and I were slightly outclassed.

  Moments after we arrived, a tall, gorgeous blonde descended on Delilah. “Oh, Delilah, dear. I’m so happy you could make it.”

  Delilah traded air kisses with the woman (something I thought I’d never see, but whatever). “I wouldn’t miss it, Avery. Thank you for inviting us. This is my sister, Quinn Bellandini. Quinn, this is Avery Harper, the owner of Oeuvre.”

  Avery turned her magnetic smile on me. “Quinn. It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve heard only nice things about you from your sister.” Gripping my shoulders, she gave me some air kisses also. Both cheeks.

  I smiled. “I’m happy to meet you, too, Avery. I’ve heard wonderful things about you and your husband as well, especially your love and support of the theater.”

  “The arts truly make the world a better place. I believe that with my whole heart.” She glanced around the room. “I would introduce you to my darling husband, but I don’t know where he’s scampered off to.”

  Delilah said, “Oh, I’m sure we’ll bump into him sooner or later. No worries.”

  Avery leaned in conspiratorially. “So you two are looking into Jason Green’s murder? How exciting is that?”

  Delilah shrugged. “Exciting is maybe the wrong word. It’s been frustrating, that’s for sure.”

  “Have you made any progress?”

  “Sort of,” I replied. “We have a few leads, but nothing too solid just yet. That reminds me—on Monday night, did you happen to see or hear anything going on at Green between nine and ten?”

  Avery shook her head. “I didn’t. I was back in my studio until midnight. With my headphones on and my nose to the grindstone, I did
n’t see or hear anything. But I did manage to complete this…” She took our hands and led us over to a large canvas.

  The piece was abstract, but certainly striking. She’d used every color imaginable, and it seemed as though she’d thrown the paint at the canvas to make the streaks and splotches of color. It was mesmerizing and avant-garde. If I’d done it, it would have looked like I’d spilled some paint and not bothered to clean it up. Her work was truly art.

  “I didn’t realize you were an artist yourself, Avery. This is amazing,” I said, still marveling at her work.

  “Oh, go on,” she said, being unable to fight off a proud smile. “I have to admit, though, my artistic talents don’t hold a candle to my niece’s.” She walked us over to a nearby painting of a stunning landscape. “Sasha got the real talent in the family. She’s studying art at SCAD. Since she lives with us, sometimes I can rope her into whipping up a few originals if I’m low on works for a show, like I am tonight. Someone came in earlier in the week and bought several pieces I was going to spotlight at this event. Sasha and I had to scramble to come up with replacements.”

  I looked closely at the nameplate next to the canvas. It read SASHA CHAMBERS. The price was three thousand dollars. Yikes.

  “Oh, Sasha Chambers is your niece? I spoke with her a couple of days ago at Green. Lovely girl.” Now that I knew about it, I could see the family resemblance. Sasha and Avery could have passed for sisters.

  “She is lovely. So nice of you to say.” Avery furrowed her brow. “Unfortunately she’s quite distraught over the passing of her boss. Poor thing. She only worked at Green part-time, but they made her such a part of the family over there…well, it’s been rough on her.”

  I assumed that Sasha was more a “part of the family” than her aunt knew. I couldn’t imagine Avery would be too happy about her niece being the mistress of a married man—her employer, no less. But I also had to wonder why if Sasha’s paintings were on sale for thousands of dollars she needed a job in the first place. Did the gallery take a chunk of it in commission or what?

  Delilah said, “What is she going to do for a job now that Green is closed?”

  Avery shrugged. “Find something else, I suppose. She’s putting herself through school, bless her, so she needs to stay employed. It’s a pity. It’s not often you find such a nice place to work next door to where you live. I’m sad to see them closed for my own selfish reason—they always catered my events. But Abercorn Bistro was willing to step in at the last minute. They’ve outdone themselves with the food tonight.”

  At first, I’d thought this conversation might be going somewhere, but now I was pretty sure Avery had nothing to add to our investigation. The fact that Sasha was putting herself through school answered any questions I had about why she was working at Green in addition to “whipping up” three-thousand-dollar originals for her aunt’s gallery. And it didn’t surprise me one bit that Mark Potter had swooped in like a vulture and taken over one of Green’s catering customers.

  I was itching to get away and find Tucker’s parents, but Delilah and Avery were still chatting away, now having transitioned into the story of what Avery had had to go through to acquire the oil painting that was the centerpiece of the gallery event. It was a landscape called The Garden at Saint-Paul by the French painter Paul Signac, and there wasn’t even a price listed for it. I couldn’t imagine what Avery was asking for this one. I waited, nodding politely at the appropriate times, but my head was elsewhere. I was scanning the room for potential interviewees.

  My gaze landed on a tall man that might as well have been an older version of Tucker. I hadn’t seen Jed Heyward in fifteen years, but he hadn’t changed much besides his head full of gray hair. He was glad-handing with a few other men his age, laughing and clapping one of them on the back. I kept looking and found Tucker’s mother, Charlotte, only a few feet away from Jed, giggling with a couple of ladies over their champagne.

  I frowned. Delilah might have been right. These people did not strike me as murderers. I didn’t know Tucker’s parents well, except for his mother and her snooty attitude toward the neighborhood kids (which in all fairness was because we were forever hitting her vehicles or her prize flowers or her windows with various balls). And aside from my own personal grudge against Tucker, he seemed to be a nice enough guy. Two murderers couldn’t have raised a son like him.

  My sister elbowed me, bringing me back to the present conversation. “This is a great event, Avery. Thanks so much for inviting us.”

  I smiled. “Yes, it’s wonderful. Thank you.”

  “You’re so welcome,” Avery replied. “Make sure to get some of the food. I think I ate a dozen of the pimento cheese tartlets before any of the guests arrived. And remember, all the art you see is available for purchase.”

  Once she walked away, Delilah said, “You blanked out on a conversation with our hostess just now, Miss Manners. What’s up?”

  I pulled her toward an empty corner, away from any listening ears. “I was watching the Heywards. I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right about them. I don’t know that I can bring myself to believe one or both of them would have killed Jason. Especially over some dumb piece of property.”

  Delilah couldn’t keep the smile from her face. “So you’re saying I was right and you were wrong?”

  I sighed. “Yes, don’t make such a big deal out of it.”

  She danced a little jig and began singing, “I was right and you were wrong. I was right and you were wrong.”

  “Real classy, D.”

  * * *

  —

  Delilah and I mingled for a while, making pleasant chitchat with several other guests, including Dalton Harper, Avery’s husband. Dalton was much older than his wife, but made up for it with his charming, youthful demeanor. While we were speaking to him, Sasha, who wasn’t dressed for the event in her paint-splotched clothing, came up to us. Poor girl, she still looked haunted. The situation with Jason was much too adult for a young college girl to have to endure.

  “Uncle Dalton, I need—” She cut off when she saw me standing there. “Quinn? What are you doing here?”

  Dalton said, “Oh, do you two know each other?”

  I smiled. “Hi, Sasha.” To Dalton, I explained, “We met earlier this week.” In case he wasn’t up to speed on our murder investigation, which I doubted, I didn’t want to drag it all out in front of Sasha. “Sasha, I don’t know if you’ve met my sister, Delilah, though.”

  Delilah stuck out her hand to Sasha. “Nice to meet you. Your artwork is stunning.”

  Sasha nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Dalton,” Avery called from several feet away. “You simply must hear Jed’s story about the gator he nearly tripped over at the golf club last week.”

  “Coming dear,” Dalton replied, smiling. To us, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to go listen to a story I’ve heard ten times already and pretend to be amused.” With a wink, he headed over toward his wife.

  When he left, Sasha turned on her heel and fled toward the back of the room. I watched her go, feeling terrible for the girl. I didn’t know her at all, but the pain on her face broke my heart.

  “D, excuse me for a minute,” I said to my sister.

  I followed where Sasha had gone, entering a short hallway at the back of the gallery. It led to an office, a supply closet, and a closed door.

  I knocked and pushed the door open a couple of inches. “Sasha,” I called gently.

  When the only response was some quiet sobbing, I slipped into the room. It was a true artist’s studio. To one side, there were shelves of stretched canvases, some nearly finished, some barely started, and some still blank. On the other wall sat tall cabinets, bursting with paints, brushes, clay, tools, and assorted art supplies. The rustic wood floor was splattered with paint. In the center were three easels, each holding a par
tially finished painting. Sasha sat on a stool in front of one of the paintings, head in her paint-smeared hands.

  I came up next to her. “Sasha, I can’t help but notice you’re hurting. Is there anything I can do?”

  She snapped her head up, a horrified expression on her face. Hopping down from the stool, she grabbed a wadded-up sheet and threw it over her work in progress, but not before I noticed that it was another amazing landscape, but quite different from the painting of hers out in the gallery.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” she choked out.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that I saw you so upset and—”

  “I’m fine. You need to go back to the party.”

  I took a step back. “Okay. I apologize for bothering you.”

  Sasha turned and didn’t reply, so I let myself out of the room and shut the door behind me.

  When I returned to Delilah, she asked, “What were you doing?”

  “Trying to give Sasha a little moral support. She didn’t seem to want it.”

  She snorted. “You’ve talked to her a grand total of once, and during that time you interrogated her about her affair with a dead guy. I wonder why you weren’t her first choice of shoulder to cry on.”

  Frowning, I said, “The girl is hurting. I couldn’t help it.”

  Delilah waved her hand. “Let’s just have fun. On the investigation side, this party is a bust, but like Avery said, the food is awesome. I snagged a pimento tart from one of the waiters’ trays. It was to die for.”