“You were called ‘Choke’?”
He smirked. “They pronounced it ‘Jhoke,’ to make it closer to Joel. Stupid tradition. I don’t know why any of us went along with it.”
“How about Christian? What was his berry name?”
Joel nodded at a landscape filled with rain-swept trees and a dark sky glowering overhead. “That’s Christian’s. What do you feel when you look at it?”
The landscape vibrated with an uneasy energy. I could see why Christian’s paintings had disturbed Theo. I did think Christian was talented, and I admired the bold thickness of the brushstrokes, the fierce mounds of paint that stood a half inch from the surface, and the sense of doom imparted by the approaching storm.
“Sad.” I recalled how Theo had said Christian was blue when I first visited him at Crow Cottage. “He was nicknamed after the blueberry, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. Back then, we didn’t know Christian suffered from clinical depression.” Joel seemed disgusted. “There were a lot of things we didn’t know that summer.”
“Even as teens, you must have known Zack drank too much.”
“We all drank too much. But Zack was the worst. ‘Wino’ was his idiotic berry name.”
“After wineberry,” I murmured.
“He wasn’t half bad as a potter, at least when he was sober or not suffering from a hangover. That’s his work over there.” Joel led me to a pedestal around the corner where three pieces of pottery were displayed. One was a large raku platter, another a green pitcher, and the third a blue oblong bowl.
“The raku is Zack’s. Like I said, he was an okay potter. But Zack wasn’t as good as your strange little baker. You might be interested to know the blue bowl was made by Theo.”
I moved closer to examine the most polished piece of pottery in this section. The sapphire blue bowl had a sweeping, even daring, flow to it. And the feathery half-moon shapes decorating the bowl’s surface gave it a surprising elegance. I first assumed the shapes were an abstract design, but a closer look revealed the curves of white were actually birds gliding over the blue surface of the bowl as if soaring in a ceramic sky. Like Sienna’s painting, Theo’s bowl hummed with beauty, grace, and intention. It was the work of a true artist, and I felt saddened that neither of them had been able to use their talent beyond summer school.
“What a shame Theo stopped making pottery,” I said.
He snorted. “Sienna never stopped praising him. The girl was much too sweet.”
“Why was she kind to him? The rest of you take every opportunity to make insulting comments about Theo. Yet Sienna appears to have genuinely liked him.”
Joel ran a restless hand through his tangled shoulder-length hair. “Her younger brother was autistic. And Sienna adored her brother. Theo reminded her of him.”
The more I learned about Sienna Katsaros, the sadder her untimely death seemed. She had been a gifted, loving, kind young girl. How tragic such a promising life had been brutally cut short. “Do you know what berry inspired Theo’s nickname? Assuming he had one.”
“‘Cloudberry.’ Sienna gave him the nickname because his head always seemed to be in the clouds. We called him the ‘Cloud Boy.’ A polite way of saying he was simpleminded.”
“Please stop saying that. It isn’t true. Why are you determined to belittle him?”
“I’m being honest. If you don’t like what I have to say, then leave me alone.”
“You’re the one who approached me tonight.”
“Big mistake,” he said with a mocking smile. “Which I shall rectify by walking away.”
With a sense of relief, I watched Joel disappear into the crowd. Although part of me wished he had remained a bit longer. I hadn’t learned all I wanted to from him. And I still hadn’t caught sight of Kit Holt or Detective Trejo tonight. I doubted they had finished their investigative work at BAS. As I had told Theo, either one of Sienna’s Bramble had murdered her, or they were somehow complicit in her death, which could have been accidental. That latest theory seemed more likely. The only motive for killing Sienna would have been jealousy over her relationship with Gordon. But why kill her just as she and the rest of the BAS students were about to go their separate ways?
Since I was standing in the area devoted to the session Sienna had attended BAS, I searched for the pieces belonging to Dawn and Leah. After reading a dozen identifying tags, I found Dawn’s white and burgundy wall hanging, its woven surface decorated with a large mandala and a thin border of tiny stars. But no matter how long I stared at it, it didn’t give me any insight into Dawn’s character.
While searching for Leah’s artwork, I stumbled upon a mixed-media piece by Joel. It seemed a confusing jumble of Barbie dolls, gardening tools, newspaper print, and dried grasses. Yet there was a surprising wit to the decorated wooden box. Along with a touch of whimsy. I couldn’t imagine how the sour Joel of today ever created such a piece.
“Now where is Leah’s?” I murmured.
A moment later, my eyes fell on a wall tag with her name on it. Beside it hung a pretty watercolor of Adirondack chairs along the banks of a river. No people appeared in the painting, but several gorgeous Canada geese took center stage. When I bent to examine her signature in the corner of the piece, I noticed a small goose painted beside “L. Malek.” Thinking back to my discussion with Joel about the berry nicknames, I wondered if Leah had been nicknamed after the gooseberry. Perhaps she had a fondness for the birds, which were seen everywhere along the river and bayou in Oriole Point. After all, she did teach Theo bird calls. She was probably a bird lover like Theo and me.
If Joel was here, maybe the others were, too. As I scanned the crowd, I spotted Gordon Sanderling watching me from the other side of the exhibition space. Even though I was surrounded by dozens of chattering people, I grew tense when he walked toward me. If only Kit Holt would once again show up. He’d become my personal law enforcement genie.
“You can’t help yourself,” Gordon said when he reached me. I found him physically intimidating. Not surprising given that he was much taller than I was, and many pounds heavier. It was like a gargantuan boulder had rolled to a stop in my path.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s an entire barn filled with artwork from decades of BAS seasons. Yet here you are, paying close attention to the pieces made by Sienna and the rest of us.”
“I was curious.” I took a deep breath. “I wanted to see if what the seven of you produced twenty years ago held any clues as to the people you’ve all become.”
“Liar. You’re hoping to find clues as to how Sienna died. Did you? I’m betting you didn’t.” He shook his head. “That’s because all you’ll see are pieces of art created by teenagers during one long-ago summer. Nothing more. But you’ll keep digging up the past, hoping to find something incriminating. You’re worse than the police.”
The mention of the police reminded me of the badge and cap left at Theo’s. “Did you pay a visit to Theo’s cottage today to leave him a little gift?” I didn’t shrink from his hostile gaze. “Or should I refer to it as a threat?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Although I’m beginning to think you’re as out of touch with reality as Theo is.”
“Maybe you should call him ‘Cloud Boy,’ like all of you did twenty years ago.” I noticed Gordon seemed surprised I knew this. I jerked a thumb at Leah’s watercolor behind me. “And I’m guessing Leah’s berry nickname was taken from the gooseberry.”
Gordon looked as if he wanted to leave my presence as much as Joel did, but he was made of sterner stuff. “How astute. But then you went to BAS. You know about the berry nicknames. Yeah, Leah was called ‘Goosey’ because she loved to paint the geese on campus.”
“Since you were the oldest in your Bramble group, your nickname was probably derived from the elderberry.”
“Sorry, Sherlock. Dawn got the elderberry nickname.” He seemed pleased I’d gotten it wrong. “I may have been older than her, but Dawn was
the most mature of all of us. And I doubt even your wild guessing would be able to come up with the berry that inspired my nickname.”
I stared back at him. He had jowls, a double chin, and a hooded gaze. Yet now that I’d seen the photo of Gordon as he’d been two decades ago, I could glimpse echoes of the remarkable good looks he once possessed. “You were nicknamed after the beautyberry. They probably called you ‘Beauty.’”
I knew I was right by the shocked expression on Gordon’s face. “As for Sienna’s berry nickname, that’s easy,” I went on. “I’ve been told she was so talented that everyone at BAS called her ‘the bane of their existence.’ Her nickname came from the baneberry, didn’t it?”
Gordon’s face twisted with so much pain and hatred that I caught my breath. I fought the sudden urge to flee. “Stop talking about Sienna. You have no right.”
“I mentioned you, Leah, and Theo, not just Sienna. As for Christian, Dawn, Zack—”
“You’ve already worked your charm on Zack. He’s hitting the bottle again.”
“Zack’s drinking because he still hasn’t gotten over what happened to Sienna.”
“And what happened to her? Tell me.”
“I don’t know. Maybe she was murdered.”
“And who murdered her? Do you think it was me? Zack perhaps? Maybe Leah or Dawn? Then there’s Christian and Joel.” His expression turned even more bitter. “Let’s not forget Theo. Yes, his family swears he was with them the day she disappeared, but where’s the proof?”
“Theo did not kill Sienna. He had no reason to want her dead.”
“Really? And what’s the motive behind Sienna’s murder? Maybe that’s what you should be searching for, not imaginary clues left in the artwork of teenagers.”
I was about to reply when Gordon turned his attention to something over my shoulder.
“What’s wrong? What are you staring at?” I followed his gaze to a mixed-media installation near the piece made by Joel. “Is that yours?”
Gordon nodded, his face ashen.
The tag beside the large installation piece called it “The Faux Generation,” identifying Gordon Sanderling as the artist. I didn’t understand why he appeared troubled. Maybe he was embarrassed by what he’d produced as a twenty-year-old. While it didn’t seem to have any real thought behind it, it wasn’t that bad. A small kitchen faucet protruded from the top of a large wooden board decorated with felt trees, a ball of twine, deer antlers, rusted gears, old coins, empty wine bottles, and a stuffed pheasant. As if the work wasn’t odd enough, the stuffed bird was impaled with a large shiny knife.
“Why are you upset? Was this a piece you didn’t like?”
“My artwork never included a knife,” he said hoarsely. “Someone put it there.”
I frowned. “The BAS administrators should know someone is vandalizing the art.”
But Gordon didn’t seem to have heard me. Instead, he slowly backed up, his eyes never leaving the knife plunged into the bird.
“Gordon, are you all right?”
After a last stricken look, he rushed down the exhibit gallery stairs and disappeared. I turned to Gordon’s artwork again. Did the same person who left the badge and police cap at Theo’s door also place the knife in the stuffed bird? If so, the knife was as much a warning as the badge and cap had been.
And if Sienna had been murdered, the knife meant her killer was here.
Chapter 18
While Gordon had been frightened by the dagger in the stuffed pheasant, I was more disturbed at the sight of a shotgun lying on the truck’s backseat.
I turned to Ryan. “Since when do you carry a gun in your pickup?”
“Since you called earlier today asking me to come with you to this meeting.” He briefly took his eyes off the road to throw me a stern look. “A meeting with a stranger who may have had something to do with that girl’s death twenty years ago. You’re lucky I didn’t bring a shotgun for you to carry. Not that you’d know how to use one.”
“Of course I don’t. I’m not Annie Oakley. And I’m against hunting.”
He chuckled. “You do know me and my brothers go deer hunting every year.”
“Don’t expect me to eat any venison when you get back.”
“You will eventually. My family’s been cooking up venison for generations. We’ll wear you down. One day you might even want to come hunting with us. Beth joined us one weekend with her bow and arrow. She brought down a doe.”
“For the record, I am never shooting a doe. Or any other animal.”
“Well, I’d certainly prefer you hunt for game than hunt for killers.” His smile vanished. “This is a stupid thing we’re doing. Meeting up with this Zack guy. Although now that I’ve learned he shoved you last night, I might shove him around.”
“Please don’t. He didn’t know what he was doing. I told you, Zack’s an alcoholic. And he fell off the wagon.”
“No excuse for him to lay his hands on you. If I’d been there, I would have punched him. I don’t know why you didn’t come looking for me right after it happened.”
I saw no reason to explain that he had been gorging on pork ribs and Zellar family gossip at the time. At least for the moment, he had left his cousins back at the BAS fish fry, although I doubted he was happy about that. This evening was not turning out as planned. My conversations with Joel and Gordon hadn’t just left me troubled; there was something about the berry nicknames that nagged at me. I was repeating them to myself when my phone alerted me to a text.
“Let me guess,” Ryan said. “One of the Cabot boys is asking about the road rally.”
“Not this time. It’s the officer from the sheriff’s department I told you about.” I scrolled through Holt’s text message. “I called him about Gordon’s art piece being vandalized. He’s at the fish fry right now. Kit and Detective Trejo spoke with Gordon after we left.”
“Kit?”
“Captain Holt’s first name. Actually it’s Atticus, but his friends call him ‘Kit.’”
Ryan lifted an eyebrow at me. “Exactly how close are you with this guy?”
“Kit Holt is one of the lead officers on the Katsaros case. Along with Trejo.”
“I don’t notice you calling Trejo by his first name.”
“Believe me, Greg Trego isn’t the type you’d care to be on a first-name basis with. Anyway, I’ve spent a fair amount of time with both of them this past week. Whenever I learn something new, I call them.”
“I’m guessing you call ‘Kit’ first.”
I threw my phone back into my purse. “I’m helping Kit Holt and the other law enforcement officers with the case. And you know my tolerance for the jealous boyfriend act is low. So please stop before you say something you’ll regret.” Indeed, I spent a lurid and well-publicized year in court after being dragged into the Chaplin murder trial back in New York. A murder triggered by a jealous spouse. It left me skittish about any signs of jealous behavior.
Ryan surprised me with an affectionate smile. “Sorry, babe. But I can’t help myself. I know other guys are looking at you all the time. Why wouldn’t they? You’re beautiful.” He caressed my bare shoulder. “Even if you do have your mom’s Italian temper.”
“This is why you should be glad I don’t know how to shoot.”
We both laughed. I reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze.
As the first raindrops fell, I turned from Ryan to look out the truck’s window. The rapidly darkening sky was not only because of the approaching sunset. The rain that had been predicted seemed to be right on time. I hoped the storm held off until after my meeting with Zack. I also hoped Ryan didn’t make a habit of carrying shotguns in his truck whenever he felt threatened. Although I shouldn’t have been surprised Ryan brought a gun.
Oriole County was predominantly rural, filled with farms and orchards. And the state forest swarmed with hunters every autumn, as did some of the private hunting grounds in the area. Every family owned at least one shotgun, usually more. I’d gon
e to school with lots of boys who hunted and fished. And a fair number of girls as well. But once my parents and I moved to our house on the lake, most of my time was spent in a village populated by artists and free spirits. Then I went to live in New York City, where I’d grown accustomed to men who boasted degrees from Ivy League schools, along with an expert knowledge of the stock market and which bars made the best artisan cocktails. My urban romances had not ended well, however, and I wasn’t longing for a return to tailored business suits and big-city cynicism.
In fact, what had attracted me to Ryan was his sheer intoxicating maleness. Michigan didn’t have cowboys, but the Zellar brothers were the closest thing to it. All five of them were tall, handsome, muscular, and tanned. And although they were alpha males, none of them possessed a domineering or mean streak. Yes, Ryan’s tendency to be jealous was worrying. And he continued to assume I was in total agreement with the plans he was making for our future, despite my protestations. But he and I were in our thirties. Both of us wanted a long-term relationship, especially since he went through a bad divorce six years earlier. Now seemed the perfect time to take the next step. We loved each other, and there was definitely sexual chemistry between us. I’d be a fool not to marry him. At the moment, I was wondering if I’d been a fool to ask him to accompany me to my meeting with Zack.
“When we get to the farm market, let me do all the talking,” I said to Ryan. “Zack doesn’t know I’m bringing anyone and you might make him nervous.”
“We’re the ones who should be nervous. I’ll pull the truck up to him in the parking lot and you can talk to him from where you’re sitting. This way, I’ve got the gun at arm’s reach.”
“Ryan, we don’t need a shoot-out at the farm market. Besides, he isn’t going to kill us in front of everyone. And the sun hasn’t even set yet. It’s still light out.” But due to the approaching storm system, that was no longer true. We lived so far west in the state that sunset along Lake Michigan arrived later here than it did in the rest of the Eastern Time Zone. However, the thickening clouds had now put us into twilight.
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