Wining and Dying

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Yardley continued to search, opening drawers, pawing through papers. Coming up empty, she proceeded into the bedroom. It also consisted of build-it-yourself-style furniture. No bells and whistles, only Quade’s unique art on the walls. Man, he’d been prolific.

  Failing to discover the key in his bureau, closet, or adjoining bathroom, Yardley stood in the middle of the bedroom and ran a hand through her hair. “Upstairs is his workroom. He might have stowed it in his desk.”

  She climbed the stairs to the loft, her heels clicking on the hardwood steps. I padded after her.

  Upon arriving at the top of the stairs, I paused to take in the room. Bailey flanked me and whistled softly.

  The walls, like those in the foyer and living room, held a variety of darkly dramatic art that was rich with emotion. A desk with multiple drawers and a cabinet stood to the left. The area by the plate glass window was protected by a tarp splattered with paint and covered in metal shavings, clearly the spot designated as Quade’s work space. The remainder of the room was filled with metal sculptures like the ones in the living room, each set on a pedestal.

  “I didn’t know Quade was a sculptor,” I said.

  “I didn’t either until he invited me here. A year ago, he rented a warehouse so he could make these three-dimensional objects, but soon after, he gave it up. Too much overhead and too hard to market. Oh, how he’d loved including metal and other media in his work.” Her face radiated pride. “He’d wanted to experience the full spectrum of art. He’d—” Yardley’s voice caught. She didn’t continue and moved to the desk to resume her search.

  Bailey edged ahead of me to study the sculptures. “Wow,” she said under her breath. “They’re so unique. Each has a title. This one has a curious name, Ancient Household.”

  “Hold on, what?” In college, because I’d pursued a major in marketing as well as design, I’d taken a number of art history classes. One, titled “Cubism to Modernism,” focused on the talents of Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, and more. One section included the study of David Smith, an abstract expressionist known for creating huge metal sculptures. But he’d made smaller works, too, and Ancient Household, which resembled a harp of sorts, happened to be one of them. Smith had trained as a painter and draftsman, but he’d worked as a welder during World War II.

  I hurried to where Bailey was standing and examined the statue. If it wasn’t a David Smith sculpture, I’d be surprised. It even had his unique signature using the Greek letters delta and sigma to signify the initials of his name.

  “No way,” I whispered. “I saw this in the Hirshhorn Museum in D.C. a couple of years ago. Did they sell it?” I turned to Yardley, who was digging through one of the desk drawers. “Was Quade wealthy?”

  “No,” she said over her shoulder. “Like I said, even the warehouse was too much overhead. He sold a few paintings, and the town paid him handsomely for his murals, but he was by no means well-off. That’s why he was planning his own exhibit.”

  “You know, Yardley, I don’t know much about him. There were so many rumors about his past, including one about being the child of a drug lord who’d sent him to Crystal Cove to hide. Was he?”

  Yardley stopped her search. “That’s a good one. No, his adoptive family are farmers in upstate California, though he was at odds with them because he was an artist and his father had wanted him to go into the family business.” She clasped a hand to her chest. “The police have reached out to them.”

  Intrigued by Quade’s collection, I checked out another of the small sculptures that reminded me of the wiry inner workings of a television set with the basic name Title Unknown. Like David Smith’s comparative work from the 1940s, it was made of steel. Beyond that I found a piece that reminded me of a stick figure man doing a balancing act. Australia, it said on the plaque, as I’d expected.

  Standing in one spot, I spun in a circle. All of the sculptures in the room, at least a dozen, were David Smith’s work. Where had Quade gotten them?

  “Jenna, psst.” Bailey beckoned me. She was on the tarp studying some kind of paper on the floor.

  I crouched down. “What are you looking at?” I whispered.

  “Photographs.”

  “Of . . .”

  “All of these statues. But in other locations. Isn’t this Ancient Household?”

  “Yes. At the Hirshhorn, like I said. I recognize the room it was displayed in.”

  “Did he steal them?”

  I reflected on the sculptures again as a disturbing theory formed in my mind. “What if Quade had rented the warehouse so he could copy Smith’s works? Maybe he’d done so because he’d been a devotee or, like Yardley said, he’d wanted to experience the full spectrum of art. On the other hand, why add Smith’s unique initials?”

  I crossed the loft to where Yardley was searching. She’d emptied out the drawers, setting stacks of items on the desk, including notepads, yellow Post-its, scribbled notes, and miniature sketches. “Any luck?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “May I help?” I gestured to the pile on the right.

  “I’ve sorted through those.”

  “Perhaps you missed something.”

  “Be my guest.”

  I started skimming the pile, looking for some key or code list. “Yardley.” I hesitated. How could I broach the subject? “Was Quade a fan of David Smith’s work?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “An artist who made metal sculptures. He was very popular mid-twentieth century.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve never learned about sculptures. I was strictly a student of oils and acrylics.”

  As I explained the artist’s popularity, I landed upon a pink-colored receipt for Smith statue, value $50,000. The receipt was made out to a well-known billionaire in the Bay Area who had been in the news a month ago, having donated a wing to a museum. I spotted the edge of another pink receipt and pulled it free. It was for an additional sale to a wealthy dowager who happened to be friends with my aunt.

  “Jenna, you’re gaping.” Bailey drew alongside me. “What did you find?”

  “The key?” Yardley exclaimed, grabbing the receipts from me.

  “No, wait.” I tried to take them back, but she kept hold.

  “What are these?” she demanded.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news. I think Quade was forging David Smith’s work and selling the pieces to unwitting victims.” I gestured to the room. “I believe these are all forgeries.”

  “No.” Yardley wagged her head. “No, no, no. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t like him.”

  “Like who?” I asked.

  “Like his father. His birth father. A scam artist who’s been in and out of prison for fraud.” She started to sob. “Please tell me it’s not true. Please—”

  She clutched her chest and fainted.

  Chapter 12

  The EMTs, with Bucky Winston in charge, arrived within minutes. Not long after, they transported Yardley to Mercy Urgent Care. I drove Bailey back to work, and then I sped to the medical center. The emergency area was buzzing with activity. Many people had imbibed too much wine at the festival. A few had suffered minor scrapes or bruises. Yardley, given her condition, was whisked into a room for observation.

  Her heart hadn’t failed her, but she had suffered an anxiety attack. A half hour later, she was transferred to a private room, gently sedated.

  Informing the head nurse that her husband was out of town and I was a friend, I asked if I could accompany her in the room. The woman granted me access. I was sitting in the chair by the bed, checking messages on my cell phone, when Cinnamon entered.

  “Well, well, you’re at the center of it yet again, Jenna,” she chided. “Bucky touched base with me. So, why, pray tell, were you with Yardley at Quade’s townhouse when this all went down?”

  I had prepared a harmless fib. “Because I’d gone to the Art Institute to chat with Yardley about the poster competition, but right as I arrived—”

  “Wit
h Bailey Bird Martinez,” she stated.

  “Yes, with Bailey. We’d gone to Azure Park to have lunch and stopped by the Art Institute booth, and while there, it dawned on me that since Quade’s original poster competition art was recovered from Keller’s garage, perhaps that should be the official work under consideration and not his second submission. Yardley would have needed to make that determination.” My mouth went dry. I was not a good liar, but the answer did sound reasonable. And I didn’t want to mention my errant theory that Yardley and Quade had been lovers. “Anyway, Bailey and I went to the institute, and as we arrived, Yardley was ducking out. Believing her demeanor to be suspicious, Bailey and I followed her and discovered Yardley had a key to Quade’s place.”

  I filled her in on Yardley’s reveal about being Quade’s mother, which she’d claimed to have told Cinnamon. Then I told her about Yardley hoping to find the key to crack the code in Quade’s black book, and while we were there, we discovered that Quade had forged many of David Smith’s lesser-known works.

  “He forged them? You’re sure.”

  “Almost positive. There are some bills of sale. Needless to say, Yardley was quite shocked. He’d told her they were his works. On the way here, I was questioning whether the forgeries might have been the reason he was killed.”

  Cinnamon frowned. “Quade’s desire to keep his forgeries a secret would have given him motive to kill someone, not the other way around.”

  “Yes, but what if another artist wanted to take over his business? It could be lucrative. Ruling out Keller, of course,” I rushed to add. “I texted him. He had no idea Quade made statues.”

  Yardley stirred but didn’t wake.

  Cinnamon glanced at her and back at me.

  “I was wondering . . .” I began.

  “I hate when you do that,” Cinnamon ribbed.

  I twitched my nose with displeasure.

  “I was kidding. I do like the way your mind works.” She rotated her hand. “Go on.”

  “How did Quade get people to believe him? Unsuspecting wishful thinkers?” I raised my shoulders and let them drop. “How do scam artists pick their marks? You know better than I. FYI, Yardley said Quade’s birth father is a scam artist and he’s in and out of prison.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “On another note,” I continued, “have you touched base with Christopher George?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have. He didn’t know Quade.”

  “Easy to say, harder to prove,” I countered. “He’d hired detectives to look for Naomi.”

  “He told me they didn’t find her but he did, because he’d recognized her art on this year’s festival poster.”

  “What if that was a lie?” I asked. “What if his goons located her before now? What if Christopher George has been in town longer than he claims? What if he saw Quade hitting on Naomi earlier than this week and decided to have a chat with him to set ground rules, and things got out of hand?”

  Cinnamon pursed her lips. “Except there wasn’t a struggle.”

  “Which leads you to believe Quade knew his killer?”

  “Or the killer, as you theorized, laced something Quade ate or drank with arsenic, eliminating the possibility of a fight.” She rose to her feet.

  “Do you still suspect Naomi?”

  Cinnamon turned to leave without responding.

  “Before you go,” I said, “may I ask what was in Quade’s black book?”

  “We don’t know. Discovering a key would be useful.” She turned her gaze to Yardley. “If only she’d been successful.”

  • • •

  As I entered the Cookbook Nook, Keller swooped by me, leaving Katie, looking woeful dressed in her chef’s coat, toque in hand, sitting at the vintage table.

  “Sorry, Jenna, in a hurry,” Keller said. “I’ve got to help Mom at Taste of Heaven. There’s been a snafu. So long, Katie!” He waved goodbye as he walk-jogged out the door.

  I hurried to my friend. “What’s wrong?” I perched on the chair opposite her. Tigger sprinted to me and circled my ankles, mewing. I lifted him and nuzzled his nose, then set him back on the floor. He scampered away.

  “Keller.” Katie heaved a sigh. “He’s still neglecting his art.”

  “So you told me this morning.”

  “I thought he’d take my gentle nudging, cave in, and go home and paint.”

  “Instead, he went to sell ice cream,” I said. “That’s his job.”

  “Yes, but afterward, he could have gone home. He didn’t. He took a walk.”

  “Walking is good for clearing one’s head. And there’s plenty of art in town that might inspire him.”

  My friend puffed her cheeks and then released the air she’d gathered. “He went walking in the woods. To practice bird calls.”

  “Oka-ay.” I dragged out the word. I couldn’t see anything negative about taking a walk in the forest and communing with nature.

  “He doesn’t know any bird calls!” she cried. “He was stalling.”

  “Hey, pal,” I said in a reassuring tone. I clasped her hand. “Give him time to find his equilibrium. He was recently a suspect in an art theft as well as a murder. Let’s be glad that he was seen at the beach and the police bought the theory that Quade put his own piece of art in your garage as a prank.”

  She rose to her feet. “You’re right. You’re always right.”

  “I am not always right. Merely this time.” I rose to a stand and gave her a hug. “I’ve got a great idea. Go to the kitchen and make something super chocolaty and bring me back a piece.”

  She saluted half-heartedly and shambled down the breezeway, shoulders hunched.

  Bailey finished with a customer and skirted the sales counter, cutting me off before I could enter the storage room to stow my purse. “How’s Yardley?”

  “She woke up and is under observation. I texted Naomi and she promised she’d see to her when her stint was done at the Art Institute booth. She said she’d contact Yardley’s husband, too. By the way, Cinnamon showed up to ask me a few questions.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Get this.” I planted a fist on my hip sassily. “She didn’t like hearing that we’d been at Quade’s place.”

  “No way,” Bailey clowned.

  “Way!”

  “Doesn’t she know we’re doing all we can to help her?”

  “Oh, she knows,” I said with attitude.

  We shared a smirk.

  “Is my aunt here?”

  “She went to the bank. She’ll be back shortly. And Gran had to take one of her granddaughters to Azure Park for a school art project.” Before returning to the sales counter to ring up our next customer, Bailey added, “Put your purse away and then those two might need your help.”

  Two elderly women were showing each other pairs of salt and pepper shakers. One held giraffes necking. The other was partial to the cat and fishbowl set. Both sets were on consignment from local artists.

  I slipped into the storage room, tucked my purse into the desk, and came right out. As I headed for the customers, Pepper Pritchett steered a mini wooden pushcart with a purple-striped awning into the shop.

  “Ladies, step right up!” she cried like a circus barker. “Anyone in the mood for a beautiful necklace?”

  My customers abandoned the salt and pepper shakers and made a beeline to Pepper.

  I stopped in my tracks and grinned. “What’s going on, Pepper? You’re not getting enough foot traffic at Beaders? Now you have to hawk your wares in my shop?”

  “Ha-ha.” She slipped a hand under the exquisite sapphire-colored handblown glass necklace she was wearing. “I’m selling these for my friend, who happens to be an Etsy marvel. She couldn’t attend the festival. She has a sick child.” Like a display model, she flourished a hand in front of the pushcart vendor’s logo. “Each pendant from Purple Unicorn Crafts is scrolled with silver. Take a peek.”

  Moving closer to investigate, I noticed the top of the pushcart was divided
into a variety of labeled and colored slots, each holding a different-shaped necklace. The elven forest slot was painted green to match the color of the oblong pendant. The steampunk’s slot was black to match its bell-shaped necklace.

  I lifted one of the aqua blue mermaid’s tears pendants and oohed. “The shapes are quite pretty.”

  “Each pendant is filled with magic,” Pepper confided, pronouncing the word magic with an aura of mystery. “The pink are filled with crystal potions to boost confidence, the red to help with self-esteem. Some hold potions to invite love or wealth. They’re marked accordingly. I’ve sold quite a few. Hannah bought one. Flora and Faith, too. The young are loving them.”

  I didn’t regard the Fairchild twins as young, but I didn’t quibble.

  My aunt traipsed into the shop. “Pepper, what have you got there?”

  “Magic,” I said with Pepper’s breathy intonation.

  “Pfft.” My aunt made a dismissive gesture.

  Pepper scowled. “Oh, sure, Vera, you can tell people’s fortunes, but magic can’t be bottled?”

  “Magic isn’t in the potion, dear.” Aunt Vera placed a hand on her chest. “It’s in the heart. One must believe.”

  “True,” one of the elderly customers murmured.

  Gran scurried into the shop. “So true, Pepper.” My aunt was right. Gran did have elephant ears. “One must believe.” She whisked past me. “Sorry I’m late, Jenna. Vera, did you tell her?”

  “Tell me what?” My pulse kicked into high gear as I remembered my aunt had wanted to talk to me earlier. Oh, no. Was she sick?

  “I get to tell my news first!” Pepper announced. “After all, it’s the main reason I stopped in. I think Cinnamon might be pregnant again!”

  I blinked. “I just saw her at Mercy Urgent Care. She didn’t mention a thing.”

  “What were you doing there?” Gran asked. “Are you all right?”