by Rain Trueax
“Do you have more questions for me?” Nick said, anxious to get into fresh air and away from the feeling of death—though he knew it had to be imaginary as her body hadn’t been there long enough for death’s stench.
“We know where to find you,” Myers said with a small smile.
“Good.” He glanced again at the blonde. She was studying him with a contemplative look. He knew if he’d met her under other circumstances, he’d have asked her out for a drink. This wasn’t one of those.
Outside he ducked under the police tape, ignored the curious expressions, and took a deep breath of fresh air as he headed down the sidewalk. He was maybe a block away when a BMW pulled alongside. “Want a ride home?” It was the blonde, and she had opened the passenger window as she leaned across the seat toward him.
“Aren’t you afraid I’m a murderer?”
“If I was, would I offer you a ride?”
He saw then the look in her eyes, that glint. He knew… she was the dangerous one—at least to him. He opened the door and got in. “How do you know where I live?”
“You walked; so not too far.”
“You aren’t giving away much.” Smoothly, she pulled away from the curb. “You know my name. What’s yours?” he asked. “Other than Hemstreet.”
“Denali.”
“Like the mountain?”
She smiled. “We are all named after mountains, my sisters and I. My mother too for that matter.”
“Elementals?”
She gave him a strange look. “And that meant?”
“The elements of nature.”
“Oh.” She smiled again. “Do you want to go home or would having an early lunch somewhere suit you?”
“Are you going to be pumping me for information? I do recall your mother runs a detective agency. So maybe this is just doing the police’s job for them.”
“You know a lot for an artist.”
“I wasn’t always one and yes to lunch. How about 5 Points-- it’s close.”
“All right… and then I can grill you while we eat grilled.” She smiled.
He knew he was in trouble. The police were bound to look into his record. While he didn’t have a criminal one, he had been in an organization known for its ability to deal out violence. If he had changed his name, it might’ve taken them longer to find his past. He had too much pride for that. Maybe he shouldn’t-- given all he’d done. He had nothing to do with Jane Elm’s death, and they would eventually figure it out—he hoped. At least he had no criminal record.
On the other hand, a beautiful blonde, who had picked him up for her own motives, she was more of a risk. It was one he had avoided in the past. It had been easier than this time. Maybe she’d enchanted him. He’d certainly known plenty of beautiful women and generally steered clear for his own reasons. This time, he’d gotten in the car. Maybe all she wanted was information for her mother’s agency. Maybe…
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Denali had been knocked over from the moment she’d seen the tall, virtually Greek god walk into the gallery. Maybe she’d been knocked over before she saw him, actually from the time she’d seen his paintings. If she had been a normal woman, she’d have let it go until she had a chance to look him up on the computer. As a witch, there were warning flags raised, when she’d been unable to penetrate his memories of the argument with Jane. That was unusual and made her curious as to the reason.
She glanced over at him as she drove, amazed again at the rugged profile. He was about as perfect a specimen of a male as she had ever seen. Looks alone wouldn’t have led her to pursue a connection. Of course, just giving him a ride and then asking him to lunch wasn’t a relationship. She was doing this for her mother. She smiled at her justifying something she had every right to do… Or did she?
She parked on the street a block from the restaurant. It seemed to have a lot of customers for this early. Maybe a conference. “We might have problems getting a table,” she said as she got out of the car, not waiting to see if he would have opened her door.
“It won’t be a problem.” And when they entered, the greeter smiled at him and showed them right to a booth.
“May I get you something to drink before you order?” the server said again quickly at their table. Evidently being handsome had its pluses or was it that he tipped well?
“What would you like?” he asked her and she shrugged.
“Anything red.”
“Two pinot noir,” he said. “Do you have any Eola Hills?”
“We do.” The server left with a smile.
“You know wines,” she said as she played with her napkin, delaying the moment she needed to get more serious.
“Some. Now tell me the real reason we are here.”
She smiled. Sitting across from a man so handsome, what led to that question? Surely, women came onto him all the time. “Perhaps,” she said when their wine was set in front of them, “I am jealous of your ability to paint.”
She saw she surprised him. “Are you?”
“Cross my heart. I am. You are so free with it, like you just let it happen. Where did you study?”
“Would you believe Iraq.” His smile was barely there before he sipped his wine.
Now she was the one surprised. “You didn’t take formal lessons?”
She thought of all the ones she’d taken and how little it had gotten her.
“Nope. You will find my history easily enough whether I tell you or not.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s all public information for anybody with the right computer apps. The police are doubtless going through it right now. I was born in Cody, Wyoming December 2, 1976 in a snowstorm according to my grandmother. The last is not public.” He took a sip of his wine. “I had little interest in school, preferred to work on the ranches in the area. My mother divorced my father. He drifted away. I had zero for me there and enlisted in the Navy as soon as I got out of high school. Eventually, being a SEAL seemed the right thing to do. Now, when I think about it, I don’t know why. Maybe the adventure. Traveling around the world. 9/11. Being a hero.” His laugh was cynical. “Whatever the case, when my brother, Adam, was killed in Iraq in 2007, I knew I wouldn’t be reenlisting.”
“And you became a painter just by wanting to do it as you did with becoming a SEAL?”
“More or less. I was interested in seeing if I could make beauty instead of death. It turned out I had the knack or at least people wanted what I could do. So far it’s worked for me.”
“Are your parents still in Wyoming?”
“I have no idea where my father is, haven’t heard from him in years. My mother’s still there. She married a big rancher.”
“And you didn’t want to live there when you got out?”
He let out a breath. “To be honest, I wasn’t wanted there. Mom blamed me for Adam enlisting. He was the younger and admired me. I don’t know. Maybe it was my fault.”
“We all make our own choices.”
“I suppose.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“How did you end up in Tucson?”
“I was traveling around, painting, living too many places and not belonging to any. I came here and it fit—for now.”
“You walked to the gallery so I guess you live in Barrio Viejo.”
“You looked it up?”
She smiled and took a sip of her wine. “Didn’t need to. I live in it too.”
“It has something. I like the desert, get out there with my bike as often as I can.”
“You bicycle?” Somehow it didn’t fit.
He grinned. “Harley.”
That fit. “Jane Elm must have really liked your work to give you a show.”
“Apparently.”
“This will make for a lean time if it’s your only gallery.”
“There are others. I have paintings in Scottsdale, Carmel, Mendocino, Jackson Hole. A few places I’ve probably forgotten, but have written in a ledger.”
“So you won’t g
o broke if her gallery closes?”
“I might. The art business is up and down. I am in it for the ride—either way.”
The server came for their order, and she realized she’d given the menu little thought. “You order first,” she said as she glanced down it quickly and decided on the Cobb salad. He ordered a grilled tempeh sandwich and two more glasses of wine.
“So, did you know Jane?” he asked after they were again alone.
“My mother did, and I hadn’t realized they were friends. We tend to be a rather independent family.”
“A big one? Your mother is the only one I ever saw when she asked to meet me before buying one of my paintings.”
“She has three, and I have three sisters.”
He smiled. “I might need her to buy some more. If there were sales, no telling how long before I get my percentage. The work hanging there may be hard to retrieve also. Not to mention, she owed me a check that hadn’t come when it was supposed to. I thought her gallery was doing well, but she wasn’t quick to pay me. I suppose to talk materially, at this time, sounds crass.” His smile said he didn’t much care.
“No, it’s a normal concern. I imagine many artists are wondering about it right now. Incidentally, do you know the sculptor who created the shaman figure in the atrium?”
“Not really. Odd piece.”
“Was it?”
“Antlers coming out of a woman’s head. I never liked it. Occult.”
“Oh my… Are you a Christian?”
He laughed. “I am nothing. Just I don’t go for the religious stuff when it’s New Age either.”
“You thought it was New Age?”
“Certainly a deer woman figure wasn’t real.” He gave a snort and finished his wine in one swallow.
“And you would know.”
“I take it you liked it before it became part of a woman’s death anyway.”
“I hadn’t seen it before. I hadn’t been in the gallery in years.’
“And you liked that weird sculpture?”
She liked it when she questioned him but was less fond of being questioned. She wasn’t about to tell him how she had seen her sister looking exactly like the sculpture under a full moon with a huge bonfire and all of them having taken on other shapes to enact a ceremony. She supposed there was no avoiding answering.
“It is about something. You don’t have to like everything in art.”
“Do you like art?”
“I do.”
“Then why so long since you’d been in one of Tucson’s major galleries?”
She debated not telling him. “The last time, I had tried to Jane to put some of my paintings in the gallery. She turned me down and it was humiliating.” To say the least.
He smiled but didn’t laugh at least. “So when you said you were envious of my work, you meant it.”
“I did. I was from the moment I saw it in my mother’s office.”
“Which one had she hung there?”
“It was a couple about to kiss. The colors were intense, brilliant reds, some purple and deep blue. You painted it with palette knife. The couple seemed to flow together yet there was the feeling that they yet to touch.”
He smiled. “Potential.”
“It had that. I guess you painted your lover.”
“It was imaginary… at the time.”
She looked away unable to meet his gaze, when the moment itself had such potential. She needed to distract herself from what she was thinking. “Had you told Jane what you felt about her sculpture?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t my business, unless she hung one of my paintings near it.”
“You said she hung one she hadn’t had permission. Which one was it?”
“The big one as you came in the door. It’s of a storm. It didn’t fit the others. She lied to me to get it for the show. She claimed it had a buyer. Clearly, it had not.”
“It has power also. What made you not want it shown?”
“Did you see it belonging in the show?”
Now he was probing her artistic judgment. She stopped to think. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose not.”
“Style, subject, none of it fit. It stood out like a sore thumb. I was asked by several guests if it was part of a new series.”
“Was it?”
“Maybe, but that was undecided, which was why it didn’t belong there. An artist does not need pressure to create what isn’t right for them. It is stifling.”
“I do understand.” Her thoughts went back to the sculpture. It had power of some sort as it had effectively blocked her ability to see who created it and what had happened there. Objects did sometimes acquire power. Was that sculpture or the murderer why she hadn’t been able to see who had placed Jane Elm’s body on it? She would think on it when she had time to put this together. It wouldn’t happen while sitting across from the distracting Mr. Beringer.
When they finished eating, he demanded he cover the bill, and she didn’t argue—only hoping it wasn’t going to take money he didn’t have. Outside, the air was growing warmer. May in Tucson had a way of moving between the heat of summer and the cool of spring. The fragrances were intense in the air. She liked it better than June when it was so hot the world melted, the air heavy to breathe with the portent of the storms yet to come and still withheld. In June, flowers fought to exist, and she took vacations to Central Arizona whenever possible.
When he didn’t follow her to her car, she stopped and looked at him. “You don’t want a ride home?”
“Not necessary and not smart.”
“I can find out where you live, you know.”
“It’s 57 West Simpson, but if you come, expect to get all you’ve been asking for every time you look at me.”
“What did that mean?”
“You know.” He walked off.
She did know-- that was the problem.
Chapter Three
Nick’s studio was a bungalow recessed from Simpson to allow for a small front garden, just enough space to keep his Harley off the street, and reduce the noise of passing traffic. He had discovered Barrio Viejo on his first trip to Tucson, looked around for something he could afford. Lo and behold a fixer-upper came on the market. It was perfect as he could work on the house, while creating a studio home blend. What had been a second bedroom had perfect north light for his work. The small living room stored finished paintings in slotted shelving. Whenever he could, he painted in the courtyard, depending on the light.
The appealing aspect of the Barrio for him was the mix of those who lived there. While some were trying to turn it into an upscale neighborhood, there remained the old ones, who held on and refused to remodel or move. It blended history with mysticism given the wishing shrine, el Tiradito at its center. The community had banded together to stop large apartment buildings and an extension of the convention center. It remained a neighborhood where he could eat at the El Minuto Café, with delicious Sonoran food, stop at the small grocery store, and still wasn’t far from the desert for a run with his Harley.
As he opened a beer, he wondered exactly how long before the detectives would be making a visit. He didn’t expect to get arrested but that was dependent on a lot of things. Once they studied his record, they’d know, as a one-time SEAL, he had the capability of murdering someone. He had done it. But he’d done it when it was an order by officers, when it was an assignment. Those deaths, those missions would not show up on his record—quickly anyway. The Navy protected their own—unless they got out of hand, which Nick had never done.
He lit one of the cigarettes he had picked up when he stopped at the grocery store on his way home. Out on the patio, he sat on the chair and let out the smoke. It wasn’t relaxing him as he remembered it doing.
He smiled as he heard Harvey jump over the fence and down into the garden. “What have you been up to?” he asked as the cat came over to his chair and rubbed around his legs. Harvey was feral by all the definitions. Nobody better try to pick h
im up. A beautiful, satiny black, he was supposed to mean bad luck, but he’d been nothing but good luck to Nick, since he’d bought the bungalow and found it had another resident… now and again.
He put out dry food and Harvey quickly went over to check it out. If Nick had felt it was possible, he’d have kept Harvey inside for his safety. It wasn’t. This cat was born to be wild—but didn’t mind regular meals.
What Nick had done, irritated the tom enough that he’d disappeared for a few days, after the trap and procedure. Nick had known if Harvey wasn’t neutered, he would drive himself to an early death, with trying to find likely mates. The veterinarian had said he was in great shape for a feral cat, had given him the needed shots, and then notched his ear-- to notify anyone who cared that Harvey was legal to be feral.
Nick walked into his studio, stared blankly at the canvas he had only begun to cover with washes. That morning he had thought his world was all right, and he could talk to Jane to see what had upset her so badly. That morning, he had thought he had a future.
Pessimism was his old friend. It quickly could be followed by depression. He knew the signs to watch for, to avoid it becoming a full-blown episode of PTSD where he’d suffer flashbacks, see himself where… He stopped the train of thought. Before that could happen, he would head out on the desert to take it away. The desert healed what nothing else could for him.
Harvey had followed him into the studio and was watching from the chair. He seemed to understand when Nick was in trouble emotionally. Were cats psychics? He chuckled at the thought, since he didn’t believe humans were—so how could cats be.
The knock at the door was one he thought about ignoring, but they’d just be back, maybe with a warrant. Better to get it over with. He opened it and wasn’t surprised it was Detective Whorley with two uniformed officers. Were they about to arrest him?
“May I help you?” he asked meeting Whorley’s gaze and unable to read what was behind it.
“Just some questions.”
“Are you here to arrest me?”
“No.” He smiled and added, “At least not yet. Do you mind if we come in?”
He held out his arm in a sweeping motion. “Come on ahead.” In the patio, he was not surprised Harvey had made himself scarce. “So what can I do for you?” he asked after they all sat.
