“Can you point him out?” I ask.
Brook turns and inspects the beach. After a few seconds, he tips his chin toward a man sitting to the right of a woman sporting tight black lace and exaggeratedly curved bangs—Madame Babanina. “If he talks to you, you come straight to me, okay?”
I nod.
“On another note…”
“Yes?”
“Would you consider selling me your web?”
“You want to buy my web?”
“Yes. I’d like to buy it.”
“Can you?”
“I have money.” He gives me a big smile.
“No, I mean, doesn’t that break some show rule?”
“There’s no rule against purchasing art from an artist. Didn’t you see the Zara Mach accordion over my bed?”
My heart’s vaulting against the walls of my chest at being called an artist by a real connoisseur. I take a deep breath and try to think of something to say besides yelling, hell, yes. “I wasn’t going to sell it…” My voice shakes. I suddenly wish Chase were here. He’d get me a hell of a price.
“Okay, but now that I’m offering, how much would you find fair?”
I pretend to think about it. When enough time has passed, I say, “Thirty thousand.”
“That’s reasonable,” he says.
Reasonable? It’s outrageous! I made the piece out of twigs and grass. I keep my cool and fold my arms. “Cash.”
“No. I need to write you a check. For tax and insurance reasons.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to get acquainted with the IRS.”
I run through mental calculations of how much I’ll be left with.
“Don’t worry, you’re still going to make a bunch of money, Ivy.”
He’s right, but it probably won’t be enough to cover the amount of Aster’s bail now that she’s being charged with first-degree murder. If she can even make bail. I shiver and look down at my bare feet. They replaced the Band-Aid with a sturdier one, so that I can go into the sea, but the inky darkness doesn’t inspire me.
“So do we have a deal?” he asks.
I crane my neck to look at Brook. “Yes.”
He extends his hand. I lift mine and feed my fingers around his.
“What are we shaking hands to?” the photographer asks.
I yank my hand away.
“I’ve just bought my first Ivy Redd piece,” Brook says with a smile.
Patrick’s brown eyes grow rounder. He snaps a picture of my face, and then finally lowers his camera. “The web?”
“The Web,” Brook says, grinning. He glances at me, the smile growing on his lips. “Shall we call it that?”
“Sure.”
I spot Kevin a few feet away, hard to miss considering how sunburnt his large forehead has become. He’s talking with his lawyer and another man sporting a wool suit and a cherry-red tie. Something about him strikes me as familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen him before, but where?
“I might not be the first owner of a Redd original, but I’m certainly the luckiest because I saw it come to life under my very own eyes. How many collectors can claim that?” Brook is telling the photographer. Suddenly, his hand closes over my arm. “Excuse us, Patrick. I have someone I’d like to introduce to my contestant.” We walk straight toward Kevin and the two men. “Ivy, I’d like you to meet Dean Kane, my dear friend and the lawyer who will be defending your sister.”
Frowning, I shake hands with the man with the bright tie. And then it hits me where I saw him. After the performance art test.
“And this is Mister Kelley,” Brook says, gesturing to Kevin’s lawyer.
I shake his hand too, even though I really don’t want to.
“I should get back to Madame Babanina. She doesn’t like to be left alone,” he says. “Mister Martin, I am deeply sor—”
Kevin, whose chin is tucked into his neck, doesn’t wait for him to finish his sentence before traipsing away.
“Brook, may I speak to Ivy privately? I’d like to discuss her sister’s case,” Dean says.
“Sure, but don’t bore her with too many details.”
He nods and we set out along the beach, toward the obscurity beyond the big top.
Once we cross over into the darkness, I ask, “What were you talking about with Kevin and his lawyer?”
“His press release. I told him to cancel it.”
“Did he agree?”
“He did.”
“Really?”
Dean nods.
“How? Why?”
“I have proof that your sister didn’t doctor those photos.”
“Who did, then?”
“I can’t disclose that information.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, Ivy, but you’ll find out if Kevin decides to go public with it. Now, about your sister’s case. I’m unclear about something. How well did you know Troy Mann?”
“Me?”
He nods.
“I sold him a quilt, but that’s it.”
“Your sister told me you spent a long time in the apartment with him.”
“What? How would she know? She was at work.”
“No. She was leaving for work. Got in late. I checked with the receptionist at the ad agency.”
“She was spying on me?”
“What did you talk about with Mister Mann when he came to your place?”
“I just showed him the different quilts I’d made, and then we discussed prices.”
“Which one did he purchase?”
“A quilt depicting a city skyline.”
“I’d appreciate if you told me the truth, Ivy. I might be your sister’s lawyer, but I’m also working on your behalf.”
“I-I am.”
He cocks his head to the side. His hair is so slick with gel that it reflects the moonlight. “Aster sent the quilt he bought to the show, so I assume it’s the one you auctioned off.”
I freeze and look beyond him, at the lavish, prattling crowd. “Fine…yes…that’s the one. Did she tell you why she sent it?”
“No.”
“Could you ask her?”
My gaze drifts to the red tie hooked around Dean’s collar that’s held tight against his dress shirt by a large gold bar. He fingers it. “Sure, but that wouldn’t do much for her case.”
“It would do a lot for my state of mind.”
“Apparently, the quilt was torn,” he says, obviously not caring much about my morale.
“Did she tell you that?”
“No. Brook did. Would you know why?”
“Either Aster ripped it because she was angry with me or it was damaged in transit,” I mutter.
He narrows his eyes, and I bristle. I don’t like him. I bet Aster doesn’t either.
“What? You have another theory?” I ask.
“We’re dealing with a mobster, so yes, I do have another theory. I think he was using the quilt to transport something.”
I blink.
“Any thoughts as to what that might be?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper.
“Well, if you think of anything, let Brook know and he’ll convey your message to me. Now, about your sister’s case. The DA upgraded it to first-degree murder, which means that she’s facing forty years to life.”
“I heard, but it was self-defense.”
“Your sister followed Troy Mann back to the motel he was staying in, thus instigating the threatening situation, so pleading self-defense would work as well as an apology.”
“But she didn’t mean to.”
“I beg to differ. From the coroner’s transcript, she hit him a first time, then backed up and rolled over him. I’m building my defense upon the fact that she’s schizophrenic.”
“She what?”
He repeats what he’s just said, padding the account with such vivid details that I think I’m going to throw up.
“So I’ll have her plead insan
ity,” he tells me.
“She’s going to hate that,” I say in a small voice that’s almost swallowed by the sound of the waves lapping at my feet.
“It’s her only hope of getting out.”
After a long moment, I nod.
“You’ll have to testify—”
“No.”
“Do you want to save your sister or not?”
“I do.”
“Then you’ll have to give a testimony.”
“I have a paper.”
“What sort of paper?”
“One she signed to give me power of attorney over her. If you show it to the judge, then I won’t need to testify, right?”
The ocean fills the night with its briny, wild scent.
“I’ll need that paper.”
“You won’t tell her about it, will you?”
“She signed it, didn’t she?” he asks.
“She didn’t read it.”
“Oh.” Dean tips his head to the side and observe me. “To use it in court, she’ll have to swear she signed it of her own free will.”
I dig my feet into the cold, wet sand. “There’s no way around Aster finding out what I think about her?”
“If I were you, I’d be less worried about offending your sister and more worried about convincing a judge that her actions stemmed solely from her…how should I put it? Bewildered mind.”
“Where else would they stem from?”
“Did you ever think that perhaps your sister knew there was something in the quilt…something extremely valuable? And that’s why she killed Troy Mann.”
My jaw slackens because I hadn’t considered that. And suddenly it all makes sense. And I understand how my sister—who barely can afford food and gas—managed to give me a diamond as big as one of my nails. She found it inside the quilt.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Aster
When my burger arrives, my appetite vanishes. Or maybe it vanished when the nurse confirmed the warden owned one of my sister’s works. It’s not so much the fact that he possesses one that bothers me, but the fact that he hid it from me. I’ve been trying to come up with reasons. I have two. My sister sold it to him, and then asked him to keep quiet about it so that I wouldn’t know she’d made money and ask her for some. Not that I would ever grovel. Or, she gave it to him so that he would treat me well.
If she gave it to him, then I should be ashamed of all the bad thoughts I’ve been harboring about my sister. If she sold it to him, then my bad thoughts are founded.
“I have some fresh clothes for you to change into,” the nurse says, handing me a folded gray jumpsuit, a white T-shirt, a white bra, and a pair of cotton panties.
I loosen the towel, but keep it over me as I pull on the underwear. The nurse surely has seen me naked, but that was when I was unconscious.
“I’m going to head home, but I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning. I’ve organized for Officer Landry to move you to a cell in the medical unit. Another nurse will come in for the night shift. If you feel ill or anything, just let her know.”
“Okay.”
She slings her roomy handbag over her shoulder. Her laptop peeps out of it. “I hope you have a good night.”
“Nurse—”
“Celia,” she finishes.
“Nurse Celia, thank you.”
“Just doing my job.” She smiles and draws open the door, and her yellow bifocals that hang on a chain around her neck bounce against her double Ds. “Sweet dreams, Miss Redd.” Miss Redd…not Inmate Redd or Redd…Miss. Never thought I’d appreciate the title as much.
The young officer—the one Driscoll bosses around—is standing right outside. She clicks off the light and leaves me with him.
“Can you walk?” he asks.
“I think so. Is it far?”
“No.”
I lower myself off the exam table and take wobbly steps to the open doorway and past the guard. He leads me to a cell two doors down and unlocks a gate. The windowless room is entirely padded and contains a single iron bed. No toilet. No sink. A chill races over my skin because it looks fit for a crazy person. He waits until I’m inside, then bolts the gate shut behind me. I sit on the bed. The springs creak and the mattress feels like a slab of wood.
“You sleep now,” he says, settling on a chair outside.
“I’m not tired.”
“Well, you have to sleep. The nurse—”
“Okay. Okay.” I lean back and close my eyes just to please him.
I hear paper rustle. I crack one lid up. He’s pulled out a small paperback from his jacket pocket. From the cover, I can tell it’s a spy novel. Spy novels always look the same: dark woods with just a faint source of light. His gaze lifts toward me and I snap my lids shut again.
I try to sleep, but I just can’t. “Actually, I’m hungry,” I say, sitting up. “My dinner’s on Nurse Celia’s desk. You mind bringing it over?”
He looks perplexed, as though I’ve asked him to fetch me the moon.
“I promise I’ll sleep right after.”
“Fine.” He stuffs the book back into his pocket, leaves and returns seconds later with my tray. He unbolts the gate, slides the tray in, and locks it up again. Then he just stands there, arms crossed.
I hope he’s not planning on staring at me while I eat. “You mind?”
“Unwrap the foil and open the bun.”
“Are you serious?”
“Very. I need to check for weapons.”
I grumble, but do as I’m told. The beef patty is squashed and overcooked, the single leaf of salad wilted and wet with ketchup, and the bun mushy from having stayed wrapped in the foil. “No razorblade. Happy?”
He nods and sits back down while I reassemble my burger and take a bite. It turns out to be the best thing I’ve eaten since getting sent to prison. My mouth literally waters as I shove bite after bite down my throat. Too soon, not a crumb remains, yet my stomach rumbles for more.
I ball up the foil and place it on the tray. “How old are you?” I ask him.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Geez, it’s just a question.”
“Nineteen,” he says.
“Shouldn’t you be in college?”
“I’m trying to earn some money to pay for college.”
“And then what?”
“I’d like to become a lawyer.”
“A lawyer?”
“I’m studying already.”
“Let me guess…you’re going to specialize in criminal law.”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”
“What does yobwoc mean?” I ask him.
“It’s cowboy spelled backwards. That’s what Driscoll calls the new officers.”
I stretch out on the hard mattress and turn on my side, but I can’t get comfortable, so I turn on the other. I stare at the cream-colored padding that’s ochre in places and try to even out my breathing. There’s a particularly gross spot on one of the seams that’s more brown than orange. I stare at it until my vision blurs and I see double, and then triple. But still, I don’t sleep.
“Can you read the story out loud?” I ask the nineteen-year-old officer.
Surprisingly, he does. And even more surprising, the story’s enthralling. It’s about a detective who unscrambles a prostitution ring. And, lo and behold, discovers his wife belongs to it. At some point, the brown stain fades, and the officer’s voice lulls, and I finally fall asleep. And I dream.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ivy
“Who was that?” Lincoln asks me after I’ve returned from my stroll down the beach with Dean.
“My sister’s lawyer,” I say.
“He’s hot.”
I shrug as I roam around the buffet, my plate still empty.
“Is he single?”
“Don’t know. He’s Brook’s friend. Ask him,” I say, just as I spot the two of them in conversation.
“Are you going to eat anything?”
“Yeah.
But I don’t know what.”
“The smoked salmon’s really good.”
“Okay.” I scoop some onto my plate, ladle a dollop of cream, and select some bread that looks like a pancake, which I assume goes with it since it’s on the same platter. “Where are we sitting?”
“Over there.” She pokes her chin to the table closest to the water. “I’m going to get a refill and be right over. I got the bartender to add some rum inside. Want one?”
I’m about to say no, but end up saying yes. I want alcohol. I want to cloud my brain so I can stop thinking about Aster deliberately flattening a man’s skull with her car to steal his diamonds. There are two empty seats: one next to Kevin and one next to Chase. It’s a no-brainer. I’m sitting next to Kevin. I want to know why he canceled his press release.
“Can I get an apology?” I ask, sliding in next to him.
He’s staring at the bouquet of lavender in front of him. His neck is larger than my thigh and marked with thin white lines as though he repeatedly cut himself with his razor blade. “For what?”
“For wrongfully accusing my sister.”
He turns toward me and I notice that his eyes are red-rimmed.
“Have you been crying?”
“It’s none of your business,” he mumbles.
“I didn’t know sergeants were such sensitive beings.”
His eyes taper dangerously close to his crooked nose. “Shut up,” he murmurs.
“I’ll shut up if you stop lurking in the hallway at night.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lincoln told me all about it.”
“All about what?” he asks.
“About Chase finding you just outside my tent,” I say.
“What?”
“Are you going to deny it?”
He shakes his head and gives a mean laugh. “I wasn’t stalking you.”
“I heard you! Just outside—”
He presses his chair back and shoots up.
“Is the big, mean soldier angry?” I tease as he hurries away.
I must have said it louder than I intended because both Herrick and Chase glare at me like I’m the callous one.
“What?” I say.
“You’re a bitch, Ivy,” Herrick says.
I frown. Lincoln’s on her way back from the bar. When she walks, her hips roll from side to side. “Hey, kiddies,” she says, and swoops down next to Chase. She places a glass in front of me and winks. “What did I miss?”
The Masterpiecers (Masterful #1) Page 20
