“No, never. Is it some freaky voodoo–Egyptian–black magic kind of club?”
Gene snorted and reached for his coffee.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, I mean . . .” Jazmin gave Anna her I-can’t-believe-you-have-to-ask look and then softened it with a smile. “It’s you asking, isn’t it?”
Anna saw Gene attempting, and failing miserably, to hide his grin behind his coffee cup.
“Very funny, both of you. Last time I bring coffee.”
“Then I’d better shut up,” Jazmin said. “I want more of these.”
“One more thing. Have you ever heard of black metal?”
Jazmin grimaced. “Yeah, that’s some seriously sick music, but I don’t think bands play it much anymore. Not in this country, anyway.”
“Where would they still play it?”
“Scandinavia? Maybe they still do. That’s where it was biggest.”
“So it’s just a type of music?”
“Yeah, but the people who play it are into dark stuff. The darkest.”
“Great, okay.”
“That’s all?”
“Just idle curiosity.”
“Thanks again,” Jazmin said, lifting the cup in an almost-toast before heading back down the card aisle.
Two thank-yous? Something really was going on with the girl. Anna watched her until she disappeared behind a display rack then turned to Gene. “I left Riley at home with Jackson. Do you want me to drop him off at your house?”
“No, leave him there. Are you in the mood for pizza? I can pick some up after work.”
So the argument was over and forgotten. That was good news. Gene wasn’t angry, she wasn’t angry. Only it wasn’t that easy. The underlying problem—her job—remained.
“Sounds good to me.” She took a long sip of coffee, debating whether to dredge up an argument they’d both silently agreed to bury. But truth was, the subject would come up again. It had to be settled. “Does my work bother you? I mean, the turn it’s taken. Working with the police.”
“What? No.” Gene’s expression changed from surprise to confusion. “You think it bothers me?”
“Of course I do. Last night you—”
“Last night I was tired.”
“Which means your guard was down and you said what you really mean.”
“I always say what I mean. You know that.” Gene ran his finger and thumb along his chin, down his stubble of a beard. “I admit I’m not always happy about where your work takes you, figuratively and literally. It’s not the quiet mountain life I imagined.”
“Me either. But it’s work that matters.”
“Your work isn’t the problem. I haven’t told you everything that’s going on with the store. You were right about that.”
“Is it bad?”
“It’s not good.” Gene paused and took an overly long sip of coffee, just as she had a minute ago. The discussion was over, at least in Buckhorn’s.
“We’ll talk over pizza?”
He lowered his cup and let go with an ahh of satisfaction. “Good coffee. I’ll try to take off early, pick it up. Pineapple and pepperoni?”
“Yes.”
“So what’s this about black metal?”
“I met someone yesterday whose brother played in a black metal band.” And that, Anna thought, was a statement that left out so much information that it was quite nearly a lie. If she wanted Gene to be honest with her, she had to be honest as well. “Her name’s Soda Ashbrook, and she followed me in her car when I was driving downtown. I got her plate number, and Liz did the rest.”
“Is she into black metal?”
“I don’t think . . .” Anna hesitated. She had no idea what Soda was into. “I don’t really know. Her brother was.”
“Why did she follow you?”
“I don’t know that either. She didn’t admit to doing it.”
“Be careful. I know you hate me saying that, but—”
“I don’t mind.” Anna set down her coffee, leaned across the register counter, and kissed Gene softly on the lips. There was no need for discretion—their watchword. The whole time she’d been in the store, not a single customer had entered. “Better run,” she said, grabbing hold of her coffee cup. “I have to meet Liz back at the Buffalo. We’re going to take a tour of Rose and Dean Price’s inventory, see if any of it belongs to Henry Maxwell.”
“I don’t have any idea what that means,” Gene said with a grin. “But have a good time.”
“Rose and Dean Price, the gallery owners. Have you heard of them?”
“At the Columbine Galleria? Sure.”
“I need to ask you about them later. I’ll run home and let the dogs out this afternoon. See you tonight.” She exited the store to the chime of the bell, and before heading east on Summit, she pivoted back for a last look through Buckhorn’s window. Yes, he was watching her, smiling. Like always. Thank you, Lord.
Liz was outside the Buffalo when Anna arrived, leaning on Cody the stuffed buffalo and checking for messages on her phone. “Done,” she said, pocketing her phone. “Ready to go?”
“Where are these galleries?”
“The other side of the street, in that little indoor mall on the corner of Elk River,” Liz said, stepping off the curb. “You’ve never been inside?”
“I guess I’ve walked by it all these years,” Anna said, breaking into a jog as Liz darted across the street. “I could never afford what some people call art.”
Two blocks down they entered the Columbine Galleria, which was no more than a short and blandly tiled hall between four stores, all of them the Prices’ art galleries.
“Lily’s,” Anna said, observing the sign above the first door on the left. “That’s the name of the child the Prices lost.”
“Let’s start here,” Liz said. “Did you ever take photos in Curt’s house?”
“I meant to, but there never seemed to be a good time, and the only photos I have from Maxwell’s house are of the things he kept in that box.”
“Prices behind the counter at three o’clock,” Liz said, her hand resting on the door handle. “Let’s roll.”
Rose and Dean Price looked to the door when Anna and Liz entered the store, a wide grin filling Rose’s face and Dean, who was less demonstrative in his greeting, mouthing the words “Good morning.” Rose left the counter and threaded her way around glass display cases and pedestals, her heels clopping on the wood floor, her eyes beaming. Twenty feet away and still plunging forward, she cried out, “What a nice surprise!”
“Rose, hello!” Liz said, matching Rose volume for volume. “After we talked last night, I had to show Anna your galleries.”
“How lovely,” Rose said, squeezing her hands together as though Anna were about to embark on an adventure second to none. “This is our oddities gallery, as we like to call it. The treasures that don’t fit into a neat category.”
“My kind of place,” Liz said, glancing admiringly around her.
“Any Dala horses?” Anna said.
“Oh!” Rose flung out her arm, brushing Anna’s, then threw it to her right in a sweeping gesture. “Yes, of course, all along that wall.”
Anna nearly burst out laughing. Either this woman had found success imitating the mannerisms of used-car salesmen or she plain enjoyed life and breathed thoroughly every moment of it. “Thanks, I’ll take a look,” she said, leaving Rose behind as she moved toward the back wall of the gallery.
A large blue Dala horse atop a glass case, obviously the centerpiece of the gallery’s extensive Dala horse collection, instantly caught her attention. Most Dala horses were red, not blue, and most weren’t a foot high. She had seen this horse before—or something very much like it.
“My attorney friend looked through Henry Maxwell’s will first thing this morning,” Liz said as she perused the red Dala horses lined end on end on either side of the blue one. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Have you told Melinda?”
/>
“I texted her an hour ago. I haven’t heard back.”
“Look at this blue one,” Anna said.
Liz’s eyes settled on the horse. “It’s the only blue in a sea of red.”
“I saw this in Curt MacKenzie’s house the night Melinda took me. She said it was her father’s and he’d planned to give it to her.”
“Could this be a different one?”
“Not likely.” Anna picked up the horse and held it belly-up, looking for any personal markings. On the bottom of one hoof, scratched into the paint, were the initials “H.M.”
“Henry Maxwell,” Liz whispered.
“Melinda said it was at her father’s house when she arrived. Did he give it to the club while she was staying at his house? He calls her home from Iowa then starts giving away things he has to know his daughter wants? That doesn’t make sense.”
“What are you thinking?”
Anna set the horse back on top of the case, snapped a shot of it with her cell phone, and sent the photo to Melinda. “Henry Maxwell wouldn’t have donated this horse to the club while his daughter was staying at his house. They hadn’t seen each other in eleven years. That’s a strange time to start donating what he’d promised to give her.”
“Unless he was being vindictive.” Liz began lifting the horses one by one, examining their undersides. “This whole donation thing is suspicious. Giving away prized family possessions. It’s ridiculous. Granted, some of the things we saw were tourist junk, but some things were . . .” Liz paused and drew Anna’s attention to the “H.M.” carved on the bottom of another Dala horse’s hoof.
“Museum quality,” Anna finished. “And that horse is at least a hundred years old.” At the sound of her phone’s text tone, Anna dug into her jacket pocket. “It’s Melinda. She says, ‘Five minutes away, stay there.’ Cripes, I didn’t think she’d come.”
“There’s going to be a Dodge City shootout,” Liz said. “This should be interesting. Here’s another one with initials.” She held up the hoof of yet another Dala horse.
Anna stuffed her hands in her pockets and edged her way along the case, stopping where Dala horses met small bronze figures, bronze coins, and a few pieces of ancient-looking silver jewelry. “There are two problems here. First, this whole donation thing smells. These aren’t gifts, they’re payoffs.”
Crouching low, Liz studied the bottom shelf of a case. “Agreed. The second problem?”
Anna bent down for a closer look at a silver broach, one that by the looks of it could have come from a minor archaeological dig. “How do donations to the club end up in the Prices’ art gallery?”
“Interested in that, are you?”
Anna’s head snapped around and she jerked to attention. Dean Price was two feet behind her. His arms crossed, he was motionless except for his lower lip, which he gnawed at with such intensity that Anna thought he might draw blood.
“Not just that. Everything here is interesting.” Anna held herself still and spoke in an even voice that she hoped would cause Dean to wonder if he’d misunderstood what he had almost certainly just heard about payoffs.
“Uh-huh, yeah, everything,” Liz added. She had wheeled back too, and was now pointing at a set of bronze coins. “Look at those. Amazing.”
“And I was curious about the blue Dala,” Anna said, stepping back to the horse. Dean had heard her accusation, no sense trying to cover it up with verbal fluff. He might toss her and Liz out of the store, but in the meantime she could gauge his reaction to the one item she knew for a fact belonged to Henry Maxwell. “It used to be Henry Maxwell’s. I saw it at Curt’s house, and Melinda identified it.”
Dean chewed at his lip again. It seemed his only outlet for a current of rage he otherwise didn’t allow himself to express. He might pull up a chair, sit, and produce a teacup at any second, Anna thought. But men like Dean, men who seethed but took great care to appear contented, were dangerous.
“What’s your deal, Mrs. Denning?” Dean said, staring blankly at Anna.
“What do you mean?”
“You accept the club’s hospitality with no wish to join it, you bring a friend”—he glanced icily at Liz—“who has no wish to join it, and now you’re saying, well, what exactly? What is it you’re saying about that horse?”
In her peripheral vision Anna saw the store’s door whip open. Dodge City, indeed. Melinda Maxwell marched up one aisle then began a zigzag pattern toward the back of the store. Dean turned and followed Anna’s line of sight, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets, waiting.
“You thief,” Melinda said as she strode for Dean. Her eyes, at first fixed on him, shot to the large blue horse. She stopped dead in her tracks. “That’s mine,” she said with utter conviction. She moved for it, seized it, and held it to her chest. Her face twisted in anger and grief, she silently dared Dean to take the horse back.
Dean took a deep breath before speaking. “Miss Maxwell.”
“Oh it’s Melinda, please,” Melinda snarled. “We know each other so well.”
“Melinda, that belongs to this store. Your father gave it to the gallery.”
“I thought he gave it to the January Club,” Anna said. “It was in Curt MacKenzie’s house night before last.”
“There’s an overlap,” Dean said without hesitation.
Anna wanted to laugh. Overlap? It was a meaningless word. Dean knew he was trapped. This gallery wasn’t on the up-and-up, and she had a feeling Melinda was about to succeed in taking back her father’s Dala horse. A small victory, but a victory. All Dean needed was a little push and the opportunity to appear magnanimous. “Give her the horse, Dean,” she said. “Let her have something to remember her father by.”
Dean grunted—an odd, high-pitched grunt that sounded like steam venting from a pipe. “I don’t have time for this,” he snapped. “Take it and get out.”
Melinda wrapped her arms about the horse, cradling it like a child’s doll. “This isn’t the only thing I want back.”
“That’s all you’re getting.”
“How dare you paw through my things.”
“I haven’t pawed through anything, I’m giving you something. Show a little gratitude.”
“Melinda,” Anna said gently, “we’ll help you deal with this later. Why don’t you take the horse and wait for us outside?”
“You’re going to help her deal with this?” Dean said. “You mean deal with me?”
It was obvious that neither Dean nor Melinda wanted to end the conflict or save it for another place and time. Every time the dust began to settle, one or the other stirred it back up.
“I’m the one you have to worry about,” Melinda said. “Everyone’s going to know what a thief you are. You and your butter-wouldn’t-melt wife.” She turned, directing the last of her words at Rose, who had raced to the display case and now stood gaping at both Melinda and Dean while desperately drawing their attention to several customers who had entered the store.
Dean held up his hands. “You’re right, we’re done. Melinda, take the horse.”
“I’ll see you again,” Melinda said.
“And I’ll see you at eleven o’clock”—he leaned toward her—“when they read the will.” Having delivered the victory blow, Dean took off for the register.
Melinda’s face crumpled.
Rose stepped forward and said, “If you see another horse that belonged to your father, take it.”
Melinda reared back, looking as though she’d been slapped. “You think that makes up for what you’re doing?”
“Dear . . .” Rose reached out to put a hand on Melinda’s shoulder, but Melinda pulled away.
“Don’t touch me.”
“The will was your father’s choice. We didn’t force anything on him.”
“He was mentally ill, and you—all of you—took advantage of him.”
“It was more than a fair exchange.” Instantly Rose shut down. Her soft smile disappeared, her expression became vacant, her shoulders droo
ped. She had said too much.
“What was that?” Anna said. “What kind of exchange?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Melinda said.
“All of you have to leave now,” Rose answered, springing to life long enough to direct them toward the door. “We have customers.”
Melinda made a move for the door but quickly spun back and snatched another Dala horse before exiting the store. On the sidewalk outside the Columbine Galleria, Anna asked Melinda if she could stop by the Maxwell house after the will was read.
“I’d love for you to come. I’m sure I’ll want the company,” Melinda said before heading for her car across the street.
“Is there a reason you want to go there again?” Liz asked.
“Have you got your camera?”
“In my car.”
“Remember Melinda’s last nightmare?”
“She thought a man was in her bedroom and he looked like the Sorg painting. That’s about all she told me.”
“What if someone really was in her bedroom?”
“She had a nightmare.”
“She’s had three nightmares since she arrived. What if someone really was in house?”
“You’re not saying Johannes Sorg popped out of his grave.”
“No, not Sorg. Someone else.” Hearing the sound of her text tone, Anna reached for her cell phone and tapped on the incoming message. A moment later she slipped the phone back into her jacket pocket. “Schaeffer says I can talk to you about the Hetrick murder. I think he wants some information to leak out, and you’re the designated leaker.”
11
Finding no signs of a forced entry at the Maxwell front door, Anna turned her attention to the kitchen. “Liz, start taking photos of anything that might show up in the Prices’ galleries,” she said, parting the curtains on the aluminum sliding window over the sink. Maxwell had fixed two screw locks on the window, and both looked secure. More than that, he’d installed an exterior storm window.
“Right,” Liz said. “But first we need to stoke the boilers. Melinda, would you mind making some coffee?”
“Good idea,” Melinda said. “Anna, what are you looking for?”
Anna tried to jiggle the window locks, but their screws held fast. Henry Maxwell had been a security-conscious man. “For any signs of a break-in,” she said, running her eyes along the window frame’s track. She dropped the curtain and leaned back against the sink. “I have a theory about your nightmares.”
The Club (Anna Denning Mystery Book 4) Page 10
