by Sherry Lewis
“From one of their guests.”
“Who? I was the first to arrive and the last to leave, and I never heard an argument between them—especially not one that concerned me. In fact, the only person who was upset all night was Logan Ramsey and he was only there for a few minutes.”
Fred exchanged a glance with Kate.
“What was he upset about?” Kate asked.
“Logan? Who knows? He came down the stairs just before dinner, mad as hell at Brandon about something, and then out the door he went. He never came back.”
“He was angry with Brandon?” Fred asked. “Are you sure? Could he have been upset with Joan instead?”
Winona looked thoughtful for a heartbeat then shook her head decisively. “No, I’m sure. He was shouting at Brandon. He didn’t start shouting until he came downstairs. Joan might have made him angry, but it was Brandon he argued with. He said it was all Brandon’s fault—whatever ‘it’ was. He told Brandon to find a way to fix it or Logan would.”
Funny, but Logan had completely forgotten to tell them about that.
“You don’t know what he was upset about?” Kate asked.
“I was busy with some of the other guests so I didn’t hear the whole thing, and it all happened so quickly . . . I was just glad he left when he did. Brandon had some very influential people there, and I was afraid Logan would be an embarrassment if he stayed.”
Kate jumped on that like a duck on a bug. “Why were you concerned about Brandon’s dinner guests?”
Winona’s pretty face clouded, but Fred suspected it took concentration to bring the pout to her lips. “Joan hadn’t been herself lately and Brandon asked me if I would be there to help him. He thought it might be too demanding for Joan.”
Before either of them could ask her to explain, the bell over the front door tinkled again and Winona excused herself.
When they were alone, Kate whispered, “Well, it looks like Logan was right about one thing. They were having an affair.”
“Maybe,” Fred said. And maybe Joan had been so emotionally fragile Brandon had chosen another hostess for his dinner party. Was this proof that Joan wasn’t herself before she died?
He crossed to the far side of the room where several unframed canvases leaned against the wall and flipped through a few of them idly. Some were pretty good; he found two landscapes he liked, but some were hideous. He found three that were utterly atrocious. They were, in fact, the ugliest paintings he’d ever seen. No form. Nothing but heavy splotches of browns and blacks with occasional bright colors flicked across the darker paint.
If he lived to be a thousand, Fred would never understand that kind of “art.” He thought it odd that amid all the quite beautiful paintings, Winona had three that looked like that.
Leaning the stack against the wall again, he returned to his seat just as Winona pulled aside the curtain. “I’m sorry for the interruption. I hope I’ve been able to answer your questions, Kate. It’s a terrible situation. I wish I could help.”
“You were saying that Ramsey might be an embarrassment to Brandon,” Kate prompted. “How?”
Again Winona gave them that pouty look, but Fred sensed tension beneath her well-cultivated exterior. “Some of Brandon’s guests were very important people,” she said reluctantly. “Powerful people. I’m afraid that Logan suffers from delusions of grandeur. He thinks he’s one of them, but he doesn’t know enough about investments or real estate to even carry on a decent conversation. I was afraid he would try to act like an insider, get in on the money talk, and that would make Brandon—and Joan, of course—look foolish.”
“Then why did they invite Ramsey in the first place?” Fred asked.
A funny look twisted across Winona’s delicate features. She waved one hand at him and then lifted it to her brow. “Enough about that night. The whole subject is morbid.”
But Fred wasn’t willing to drop the subject so easily. “Do you believe Joan killed herself?”
Winona’s eyebrows arched. “Of course.”
“Then maybe you can tell me why,” Kate said.
Winona stood and folded her arms across her chest. “Why does anybody ever do it? She was so odd at the end. So distracted. She could hardly carry on a conversation. Brandon finally asked me to stick by her—to make sure she was all right. Not that he had any idea she’d actually kill herself, but because he didn’t want her to ruin anything for him.”
“Ruin what?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know, just . . . things. Impressions people might have gotten, that sort of thing.”
Standing to face Winona, Kate pressed on. “Why did Brandon have the dinner party in the first place? Who were these people he was so concerned about?”
“You’d have to ask him that.”
“I’m asking you,” Kate said.
Winona’s refusal to answer seemed odd to Fred. What had been so special about that dad-blasted party? What could have brought Brandon and Joan together with Logan Ramsey and some mysterious folks from Denver? He remembered the file on Logan’s desk and thought he knew the answer. “Did it have something to do with Shadow Mountain?”
Winona’s eyes flickered and her shoulders grew rigid. Fred knew he’d caught her off guard. “Shadow Mountain? That old abandoned mine north of town? Why would Brandon’s dinner party have anything to do with that?”
“Why don’t you tell us?” Kate demanded.
Winona tossed her head and threw in a laugh. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”
Oh, but she did know. Fred would have bet on it. “I think you know what’s going on with Shadow Mountain and I think Brandon is somehow involved in it. I think he’s trying to keep it quiet, but word is getting out. You might as well just tell us what’s going on.”
Winona’s eyes looked flat and blank. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And I’m afraid I’ve spent far too long chatting with you anyway. I’ve got a big shipment of paintings going to a gallery in Dallas at the end of the week.” She crossed to the doorway and pulled back the connecting curtain, waiting for them to leave.
Kate didn’t move. “Local artists? Is that where you get your art work?”
“For the most part. We have a number of talented people around the area whose work we exhibit regularly in larger galleries around the country.”
“Is Summer Dey one of them?” Fred asked.
Winona’s lips pursed slightly. “She’s brought us one or two things, but I think she works mostly with a gallery in Granby. She’s not one of our big sellers, anyway. Are you interested in her work? I could probably arrange a showing.”
“No.” He held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t know anything about art.”
“You know what you like, don’t you? I could show you one or two pieces you’d probably like. A good painting in the home can do wonders with the atmosphere.”
“No. Thanks. I’m …” He cleared his throat and said again, “No. Thanks.” He stepped through the door into the showroom, but Kate still refused to budge.
Her face was set in those stubborn lines Fred already recognized. “One more thing if you don’t mind,” she said. “I’d like to see the documents in which Joan assigned her interest in the store to you.”
A tiny flicker of a smile passed over Winona’s lips. “But I do mind, Kate. I mind very much. I don’t believe my business arrangements could possibly be of interest to you.”
“Anything connected to Joan is of interest to me.”
Winona smirked. “Obviously. Everyone knows how close the two of you were.”
Tension filled the air, but Kate held her ground, barely reacting. Winona clearly had no intention of telling them anything more. “Show me now, or show my lawyer,” Kate said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Winona’s lips curved. “Good. Then if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Kate wasn’t happy, but she followed Fred to the front of the store, stopping at the desk and looking over the
clutter once again. She fingered the elaborate carving on one leg almost reverently. “This table was my grandmother’s. It’s been in the family for as long as I can remember. Joan and I had to wax it twice a week when we were small so we’d learn to appreciate fine things. We were never allowed to put anything on it. Now look at it.” She shook her head in disgust. “I don’t believe Joan left this table here.”
Fred held his breath. If it took a table to make Kate see that something odd was going on around here, so be it. Fred didn’t care what it took, if she realized the truth in the end.
Kate raised her eyes and stared Winona down. “I do hope you have a good attorney.”
Winona didn’t look even slightly apprehensive. Instead, she looked almost triumphant as she claimed the seat behind the table. “You want to take me to court over this table? Let me save you the trouble. It belongs to me—every inch of it.”
“I never had any sentimental attachment to the damn thing, but Joan did. I don’t want the table, I want answers.”
“That’s rich. After all these years, I’m supposed to believe you cared about Joan? That now you’re suddenly burning with concern? I cared more about her than you ever did.”
“I don’t care what you believe,” Kate said, starting toward the door.
“It’s kind of funny, really,” Winona called after her. “You don’t recognize me, do you? Not my name, my face—nothing. Think about it a minute, Kate. Winona Fox. Or does Winona Sullivan sound more familiar? Or Deirdre Sullivan?”
Kate’s step faltered. She looked back, her face white, her fingers trembling as she touched them to her mouth. Her lips moved, but made no sound. “Deirdre?”
Winona nodded. “My mother.”
And just like that, Kate was through. She fled through the front door before Fred even realized she was on the move.
After only a moment’s hesitation, he scrambled after her but she was moving fast. She’d already passed Lombard’s insurance office before he made it out of the art store.
He called to her but she didn’t slow down. Muttering under his breath, he kicked himself into high gear. When she had to wait at the corner while Grandpa Jones drove past in his dilapidated Ford truck, Fred finally caught her. Determined not to let her escape him again, he took her arm.
“Kate? What happened? Who’s Deirdre Sullivan?”
Kate turned toward him, her eyes opaque. She stared for a moment, almost as if she didn’t see him, then gave a small shudder and relaxed slightly.
“Tell me! What was that all about?” Fred demanded. “Who’s Deirdre Sullivan?”
She buried her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. You’d think I would have realized it immediately!”
She tried to pull her arm out of Fred’s grasp, but he held on and shook her gently as he asked again, “Who in the Sam Hill is Deirdre Sullivan? Talk to me!”
Kate raised her eyes to his. Fred recoiled at the level of pain he saw there. She smiled weakly. “You wanted to know all the skeletons? Well, here’s one for you. Deirdre Sullivan. I’ve hated her since I was eight years old.” She paused and looked down at her feet. When she spoke again, her voice shook. “Deirdre Sullivan was my father’s mistress.”
ten
Obviously, Winona’s revelation had upset Kate. She huddled into his old fishing coat and stared at the ground. Fred didn’t know what to do for her, so he did the only thing that came to mind. Whenever he needed to pull himself together, he went to the Bluebird Café. If it was good enough for him, it should be good enough for Kate. Besides, he could do with a hot cup of strong coffee. As long as Doc wasn’t at the counter, he intended to have one.
To his surprise, Kate didn’t argue with him, didn’t ask where they were going. In fact, she didn’t say a word. Which meant they walked to the Bluebird in fewer than five minutes. It wasn’t yet noon, but several cars were scattered around the parking lot. He hoped they’d be able to find a table far enough away from the counter to have a private conversation.
What the Bluebird lacked in privacy, it made up for in friendly atmosphere. Liz Hatch ran the place with a soft hand. Fred often saw customers nursing one cup of coffee, refilled endlessly, for hours. Liz didn’t seem to mind. She liked having people around, but she rarely spoke to anyone.
Every stool at the counter had someone perched on it when Fred and Kate entered. Every head in the place turned to see who’d just arrived. Fred called out greetings and passed around vague answers to questions about his health while Kate stood silently beside him.
Liz, a tall woman of about sixty, spotted them and waved a coffee pot in their direction. That was a clear sign that Doc had been and gone and Fred could have a cup. Perfect. He chose a booth near the window as far away from the restrooms as he could get. Kate lowered herself onto one Naugahyde bench while Fred slid in across from her.
The Bluebird had been here long as Fred could remember, but when Liz took it over, she’d changed the decor. She’d ripped down the wallpaper covered with the twining green vines, bluebirds and giant morning glory blossoms Fred remembered from his youth and replaced it with wood paneling and posters of Elvis Presley in various stages of his career. Faded now and peeling in spots, the King looked out over a clientele grown so used to his image they scarcely gave him a glance these days.
Someone put money in the jukebox and the opening bars of “Jailhouse Rock” blared into the dining room. Fred had been listening to these same songs for two decades and he knew everyone of them by heart. In all these years, Liz had never allowed anyone to remove an Elvis record from the jukebox. In fact, other than the five records she allowed the teenagers, every selection must have been at least thirty years old. Patsy Cline, Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, the Beatles . . . but Elvis would always be King in the Bluebird as long as Liz Hatch wrote the checks.
Liz gave them a few seconds to adjust before arriving with the coffee pot. She arched an eyebrow at them and Fred nodded, turning over their cups and sitting them on the cracked saucers. Liz poured silently, then stepped back and looked at them expectantly.
“Hungry?” Fred asked.
Kate shook her head.
“You ought to eat. Keep your strength up.”
“I’m fine. The coffee’s a good idea, but I couldn’t eat a bite.”
“Liz’s got a good little salad bar here. Peas, corn, mushrooms most of the time. . .”
Kate cut a sharp glance at him. “I’m not hungry.”
Fred glanced up at Liz, then leaned toward Kate and whispered, “If you don’t eat, she’ll be insulted. Just order something.”
Kate sighed elaborately. “All right. I’ll have the salad bar.”
“Two,” Fred smiled up at Liz.
Satisfied, Liz nodded and walked away.
Now that they were alone, Fred hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject he wanted to discuss with Kate. They needed to talk about Winona and about Brandon, but he didn’t know how to bring up either subject without upsetting her further. If he upset her, she might leave. If she left, he’d lose the inside track into the case. If he lost that, Joan’s death might go down on the record as a suicide and somebody would get away with murder.
A burst of laughter floated toward them from the counter. Kate spooned sugar into her coffee and stirred, her eyes riveted on her cup. The front door opened and Enos strolled inside. He stomped his feet on the mat by the door and looked around. After nodding at Fred, he greeted the crowd at the counter then crossed the dining room and came to a stop in front of their booth.
Much as Fred liked the man, he didn’t want him to join them, but that’s exactly what he did. Dragging a chair from a nearby table, he straddled it and leaned his chest against the chair back. “I just had a visitor the two of you might be interested in. Brandon Cavanaugh came to see me.”
Fred added sugar to his coffee and stirred vigorously. “Oh?”
“Yeah. He wanted to file a complaint against you two.”
Surp
rised, Fred slopped a little of his coffee over the side, scalding his fingers. Swearing under his breath, he shook of the coffee and wiped his fingers with a napkin.
Kate sipped delicately from her cup. “A complaint? I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
Neither did Fred.
Enos motioned to Liz to bring him coffee. “He says you’re going around town asking all sorts of questions and that you’re sticking your noses where they don’t belong. Now, I don’t know about you, Miss Talbot, but I know Fred, and I know how he can be when he decides he wants something.”
Fred scowled. “Didn’t know it was against the law to have conversations with friends and neighbors.”
“Conversation is one thing,” Enos said as he dug a piece of Juicy Fruit from the pack in his pocket. “But you know as well as I do that you’re not having conversations. You want to tell me what you think you’re doing?”
Fred nodded toward Kate. “I’m just helping the lady find answers to a few questions about her sister’s death. That’s not against the law, is it?”
“What kinds of questions?”
Kate smiled sweetly, the distress she’d shown when they left the Frame-Up well hidden. “I need to clear up a few details concerning my father’s trust fund. Fred was kind enough to introduce me to Logan Ramsey.”
Enos narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but she met his gaze without blinking. He hesitated for a moment then turned to Fred. “Where else did you go?”
“We stopped by Lacey’s for some aspirin,” Fred said. “And then we stopped by the Frame-Up, you know—the art store Joan and Winona Fox owned?”
“That’s right,” Kate agreed. “I wanted to see whether I could be of assistance in disposing of Joan’s personal property. Apparently there’s no problem on that end, either.”
“That’s it?”
Fred smiled. “That’s it. So how’d Cavanaugh know what we were doing?”
Enos rocked forward on the chair and shook his head. “He didn’t say. Somebody you talked to must have told him.”
