by Mary Maxwell
“What about you?” she added. “Are you going to do your PI thing again?”
I glanced up from my coffee. “My PI thing?”
Julia laughed softly. “Oh, don’t even think about playing coy. You know exactly what I’m talking about!”
I smiled. “Yeah. I do. And you’re right—I’ll probably do a little looking around. It always makes me feel better to try and help.”
“Okay, sure,” she said. “But if the police are already searching for Pia and Vito, what are you going to do?”
“Maybe a little of the same,” I answered. “And maybe I’ll see if I can help put some of the pieces together while they’re conducting the official investigation.”
Julia nodded. “Starting where?”
“A couple of places,” I said. “There was a fancy rental car left at Pia’s house, and there’s the gallery where Vito shows his art.”
She made a disapproving sound deep in her throat. “Yuck!” she groaned. “That junk isn’t art, Katie. It’s cow dung hanging on the wall with a big, fat price tag attached.”
I smiled at her authoritative assessment of Vito Marclay’s paintings. Then I glanced at the white board on the kitchen wall. And then I headed for a refill.
“We’ve got our work cut out for us today, Jules,” I said, splashing more steaming coffee into my cup. “I’ll start a double batch of pie dough if you want to make potato salad. If we concentrate and keep on task, we can get through the day without going completely bonkers!”
CHAPTER 22
The Bickerton Gallery occupied a two-story building on Tremont, a narrow street lined with Aspen trees a few blocks from the center of town. Originally built as the warehouse and offices for a small freight company, the expansive space was ideal for displaying paintings, photography and sculptures.
When I opened the door and stepped inside that afternoon, I immediately detected a trace of pungent cologne. It reminded me of something my father once wore, a robust blend of cardamom, lemon, musk and fir. I glanced around the room at the large canvases hanging on the stark white walls. Although they depicted a wide array of scenes, some with people and some without, the collection was nearly identical in tone and palette to the image Dina had shared with me at Pia’s. They featured bold, brash colors, dismembered bodies and jarring images of violence and mayhem.
“Aren’t they magnificent?”
I felt my heart lurch at the sound of the man’s voice. I hadn’t heard footsteps, a door opening or any other telltale signs that I wasn’t alone in the gallery. But when I whirled around, I saw him instantly: a short, slender man wearing a red plaid jacket, white shirt and faded jeans. He had a long, gauzy gray scarf looped around his neck and he was wearing scuffed black motorcycle boots.
“It’s new work by one of our favorite local artists,” he said, walking toward me with one hand outstretched. “I’m Oscar King. Welcome to Bickerton Gallery.”
“Thank you,” I said, noticing that his knuckles were red and bruised. “I’m Kate Reed.”
He quickly pulled away the hand, shrugging nonchalantly and concealing it in a pocket.
“Looks worse than it is,” he said. “My employee skipped his shift the other morning, so I had to open a bunch of crates in a hurry. I ended up doing a real number on my hands.”
I nodded. “Good people are hard to find.”
“Tell me about it,” he griped. “The kid’s dad owns the sporting goods store in town. He works there part of the time and is supposed to help me out a few hours a week.”
“Oh, Marty Garfunkel’s son?”
Oscar scowled. “Kid’s not quite as responsible as Marty. Didn’t show up for work the other day.”
“The imprudence of youth,” I said.
“I suppose.” He squinted and leaned closer. “Hey, are you from that pie place?”
“That’s me,” I said. “Sky High Pies.”
“I thought your name sounded familiar,” Oscar continued, his voice suddenly lighter and more easygoing. “I come in for Saturday lunch every so often with friends. We usually make pigs of ourselves with the Mountain Mud Pie. I think I had two and a half slices the last time we were there.”
I felt a warm bubble of something sweet deep inside. His demeanor had been slightly gruff and menacing when he first greeted me, but it was now warm and gracious.
“Are you in the market for something new?” he asked.
“That depends,” I said. “What do you have for a twenty?”
His right eye twitched. “Twenty thousand?” he said. “Is that the top end of your range?”
I resisted the urge to throw back my head and howl. Instead, I politely informed him that I wasn’t shopping for art.
“Oh, really?” he said, sounding strangely pleased. “What can I help you with then?”
“I have some questions about Vito Marclay.”
“Questions?” The instant he heard the name, Oscar’s mood flipped back to the ill-omened side of the street and his nostrils flared slightly. “What kind of questions?”
“Easy ones,” I said, still maintaining a light, feathery tone.
“Are you another journalist?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, I’m not. Has someone else been asking about Mr. Marclay?”
“Some guy called a couple of times,” he explained. “Said he was writing a magazine story about Vito. Wanted to know if I could give him the names of a few of Vito’s local friends so he could give readers a well-rounded portrait of the guy.”
“And did you?” I asked.
He scowled. “Do I look that gullible? I know that debt collectors use fibs like that all the time to try and locate somebody who doesn’t want to be found.”
“Is that the case with Mr. Marclay?”
“Huh?”
“Is he trying not to be found?” I said.
“Why are you asking about him?” Oscar said warily. “Sure you’re not a reporter?”
I shook my head. “I just discovered that Mr. Marclay moved to town late last year. I was curious to know more about his decision to come to Crescent Creek.”
The man’s expression remained fixed: suspicious gaze, faint sneer and a silent layer of haughty indifference.
“Oh, gosh,” I said, adding a dash of hayseed twang to my voice. “That probably came out wrong. You see, I also came to Crescent Creek from a large city, and I don’t really know anyone else who’s made the transition. When my friend Pia…” I let the name linger for a moment to see how he’d react. “…you know, Pia Lincoln, the amazing caterer? Well, when she told me that Mr. Marclay gave up the glitz and glamour of New York City for a dull, slow-motion pace, it made me want to look him up and invite him to Sky High for lunch so we can—”
“Excuse the interruption,” Oscar said, “but I don’t really understand what you’re getting at.”
“What I’m what?” I asked, feigning confusion.
He scoffed. “What you’re getting at. This is an art gallery, Miss Reed. And we—”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be a nuisance. I was just curious about Mr. Marclay and his decision to live in Crescent Creek.”
“I could take your number,” he said coldly. “Or if you have a card?”
He held out one pale hand. I slowly reached into my purse, found the sterling silver case that I used to carry my Sky High cards and removed one.
“Thank you,” I said, giving him the card. “I’d love to hear from Mr. Marclay so we can get together and talk about the culture shock of moving from a big city to this little bit of nowhere.”
“Of course,” he said, taking a step toward the front of the gallery. “I’ll make sure he gets your number.”
I followed behind, glancing at a few of the paintings. One canvas in particular caught my eye. It was a stylized portrait of a woman like the cubist works by Pablo Picasso, with a series of shaded geometric shapes representing her face, breasts, torso and limbs. Slender gold eyeglasses were perched on her nose and
an unlit cigarette, wedged between her angular lips, was adorned with a stylized thunderbird just beneath the filter. Three words were stenciled at the bottom of the canvas in chunky black letters: LOVE IN FLAMES.
“Have you seen Mr. Marclay recently?” I asked as we neared the door.
Oscar shook his head. “Sometime last week,” he said. “Vito came by to check on some personal matters that I’ve been helping him with.”
“And what about Phil Bickerton and his partner?”
His eyes tapered into a cold, hard glare. “What about them?” he asked.
“Have you seen either of them lately?”
Oscar smiled. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Bickerton and his partner are both in town this week.”
“Would it be possible to talk to either of them for a few moments?” I asked. “I could meet them here or we could do it by phone.”
The man sighed. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Mr. Bickerton is extremely busy this week.”
“I see. How about the other partner? Is he busy, too?”
Oscar scowled. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Bickerton’s partner is also busy. She’s in town on a pressing business concern, and there’s no time for trivial matters.”
I let the barb fly on by. Although I’d never met Oscar King before, I knew he had a reputation for being arrogant and ill-mannered. I also knew he was very interested in concluding our conversation as quickly as possible.
“One more thing,” I said as he opened the door. “If Mr. Bickerton happens to change his mind, do you think—”
“I highly doubt that will be the case,” King said. “His schedule is jam-packed with client events, meetings and a black tie dinner up in Boulder tomorrow evening.”
“How nice for him,” I said. “If he needs a plus-one, tell him I don’t have any plans at the moment, okay?”
CHAPTER 23
After finishing the conversation with Oscar King, I went outside, got in the car and called Trent while I was still parked in front of the gallery.
“This better be good, Katie,” he said after a muttered greeting. “I just reheated my crispy tacos from last night in the microwave.”
I winced at the thought of the greasy leftovers.
“Should I call back later?” I offered.
“Nah,” he said. “I’m good. I accidentally put them on the highest setting for twice as long, so they need to cool a little bit anyway.”
After more than a dozen years of friendship, I knew that Trent could be sarcastic, short-tempered and impatient. But I also knew that he was one of the most dedicated law enforcement officers that I’d ever met. The occasional disconcerting remark or boorish comment was definitely the exception rather than the rule. Besides, I knew all of his buttons along with how often and how firmly to push them.
“You’ve been eating a lot of Mexican lately,” I said. “Did you know that all of those chimichangas, gorditas and taquitos can be fairly fattening? You might want to try black bean soup or taco salad every so often.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath on his end.
“What was that?” he asked.
“It’s the fat and sodium,” I said. “And the lard in the refried beans.”
He moaned softly. “I love refried beans, Katie.”
“I know, big guy. I feel your pain.”
“Well, okay,” he said. “Now that you’ve totally ruined my appetite, what’s up? Did you call to ask me a question or share some info?”
“Maybe both.”
I waited to see if Trent would ask for clarification, but I heard the sound of him blowing on what I imagined was the first bite of reheated crispy tacos.
“I stopped at the art gallery that Phil Bickerton owns,” I began.
“Uh-hmmm,” Trent mumbled.
“What do you know about Oscar King?”
“Not much,” Trent admitted. “But I’ve heard he’s a tool.”
“That’s not very helpful.”
“It’s the best I can do, Katie. Like I said, I don’t know much about the guy. I’m not exactly an art lover. I’ve been in that gallery maybe three times for different fundraisers.”
“Well, his hands are in pretty bad shape,” I said. “Like maybe he’s been in a fight lately.”
“Okay,” Trent said. “What are you getting at?”
“Maybe Oscar had something to do with whatever happened at Vito’s,” I suggested.
Trent scoffed. “Because his knuckles are banged up?”
“Exactly. I mean, consider the evidence. Oscar’s got a reputation as a hothead. There was a lot of blood at Vito’s. Pia alluded to some kind of trouble brewing at the art gallery.”
“Circumstantial,” Trent muttered. “We can’t accuse Oscar King of kidnapping someone based on a couple of bruised knuckles.”
I knew he was right, but that wasn’t my point. I was simply trying to gather information by following the obvious connection between Vito Marclay and the art gallery. Since Oscar King ran the operation for the absentee owners, it seemed like the guy’s injured hands were at least worth a conversation with someone from the CCPD.
“Maybe Dina could stop by and have a chat with Oscar,” I suggested.
“A chat based on what?” Trent said. “Your hunch?”
“Yeah. Don’t you think it’s worth a few minutes of her time?”
“Possibly,” Trent said, crunching contentedly on the other end of the line. “Was that it?”
“No, I also learned a couple of interesting things from Oscar King,” I answered. “First, he told me that Phil Bickerton is in town for a few days to meet with Vito Marclay about something hush-hush.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but it might be something.”
“Everything is something,” Trent said. “You just never know if it’s that kind of something or not. What else did he tell you?”
“Oscar also said there’s a journalist in town from New York snooping into something controversial from Marclay’s past. I guess the guy has been calling the gallery repeatedly to get an official comment from Phil Bickerton.”
“What kind of something controversial?”
“I haven’t got that yet,” I said. “But I’ll keep snooping on my own.”
“As long as you don’t cross the line,” Trent said before I heard another loud crunch, crunch, crunch.
“Pretty tasty?” I asked.
“Huh?”
“Your leftover tacos?” I said. “Are they pretty tasty?”
“Alright, alright,” he groused. “I’ll wait until we’re done talking.”
“Thank you, Deputy Chief Walsh,” I said brightly. “I appreciate the courtesy.”
“Yeah, no doubt. What else did you learn from Oscar King?”
“That was it,” I said. “Bickerton is in town to meet with Marclay. And a journalist is working on a story about Vito and something controversial.”
“Maybe it’s the crap he calls art,” Trent said.
“Excuse me?”
“What for?” He chuckled in his usual robust way. “I’m the one eating the spicy beans.”
His laugh was loud and bouncy, like a toddler leaping around the room after consuming too much sugar.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to go there,” I said.
“Go where?” He laughed again. “You mean joking about flatulence? I’m just trying to keep you from being all serious and everything, Katie.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “But I don’t need the help. I’ve got things on an even keel.”
“Good for you,” he said. “Well, I suppose I should stop yakking and get some real work done.”
“I’m getting ready to drive down to the airport in Denver,” I said. “If I learn anything helpful, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Why the airport?” he asked.
“You probably know this already,” I began, “but the Aston Martin that was at both Vito Marclay’s and Pia’s house is a lease vehic
le from Luxury by Kenton. I did some research earlier and learned that’s a car rental agency at Denver International. It’s like Hertz or Avis for millionaires.”
“Well, look at you,” Trent said. “Never miss a beat. Never leave a stone unturned. And you never fail to impress.”
“What was that last part?”
Trent chuckled. “You never fail to impress,” he said again. “And I mean that, Katie. I know you sort of lend a hand now and then to help us out, and I appreciate the fact that you do it without violating my trust.”
In a few brief moments, the tone of his voice had changed from goofy and jocular to somber and earnest.
“You feeling okay, Trent?”
He grunted. “Heck, yeah. Why do you ask?”
“Because the last part of what you said sounded vaguely like a compliment.”
“Uh…” He hesitated. “Well, yeah, Katie. That’s because it was.”
“Thanks, big guy. I appreciate the kind words.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Me, too. Now, unless you have something more, I’d like to be left alone with my crispy tacos before they get cold.”
CHAPTER 24
As I drove away from the art gallery, I smiled and thought about Trent and his tacos—as well as his potato chips, cookies and candy bars. Since he was in his early thirties, he could still eat as much as he did when we met in high school and not gain a pound. But I hoped he would be wise enough to change those habits when another ten or fifteen years passed and his waistline expanded to become as large and unrestrained as his jovial laugh.
When the light turned red at Gilpin and Arapahoe, I glanced across the intersection, saw the busy CVS parking lot and remembered a couple of things that I needed at home. Although the purchases could wait until later, I quickly decided that a Twix bar and something to drink would make the drive to Denver more enjoyable.
After the light changed to green, I turned into the drug store lot, parked the car and headed for the entrance. As I approached the front door, I noticed Marjean Bixby standing on the sidewalk. She had a plastic shopping bag in one hand and her phone in the other.
