by Gina Cresse
“He won’t. We’re buddies now. He even suggested I get my private investigator’s license so he could cut me more slack.”
“More slack? He already puts up with more of your—“
I shot him my “be careful where you’re going with this statement” look. He started over.
“He already gives you a lot of leeway. You’re not considering getting your license, are you?”
I shook my head. “No. I have no desire to become a private investigator,” I assured him.
He gave me his “Oh, really?” look, and we both broke into laughter.
I decided I’d try to talk to Bridgett Winnomore before I went to see Mr. Champion. She was the only person I hadn’t talked to, yet, involving the sale of Lou’s house. I drove by the address Chuck gave me to scope it out, then I parked at the curb.
She lived in a duplex in an area mostly populated with college students. A boy about the age of twelve played by himself in the front yard. He had a baseball and glove and one of those big nets that returns the ball to you when you throw one at it. He threw the ball hard, as though he were angry. I figured the boy was Bridgett’s son, and he probably had every right to be angry, considering the bad things that had happened in his family in the past year.
I’d spent hours trying to come up with a role to play in order to talk to Bridgett and get information from her. I figured that Sam had already questioned her, so I decided I’d just be honest and straightforward. She’d either talk to me, or she wouldn’t.
I got out of my car and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, watching the boy try to rip apart the throwback net with his fastball. He noticed me looking, but ignored my stare. If anything, he seemed even more determined to destroy the net with each throw.
Finally, I took a step up the walk toward the duplex and spoke to him. “Hi. Is this your house?”
He threw the ball one more time, then held it in his glove. He glared at me through angry eyes, then nodded slightly.
“Is that a yes or a signal for a curve ball?” I asked, smiling.
He softened his glare. I think I might even have detected a grin. “Yeah. I live here.”
“Is your mom home?”
He looked me up and down before he answered. He wasn’t a very trusting soul, for good reason. “She’s inside,” he finally said, then returned to his game.
Bridgett Winnomore answered the door with a phone stuck between her ear and shoulder, and a textbook held open against her hip, which seemed to be acting as her bookmark. She was pleading into the phone as she signaled for me to wait.
“I need the night off because I have a big test tomorrow and I have to study,” she explained to whoever was on the other end of the phone line.
“But if I fail this test, I have to take the class over again next semester,” she pleaded. “I won’t be able to graduate.”
I watched her eyes swell up with tears as she listened to the reply. Then I saw the same anger in her face that I saw in the little boy throwing ball in the yard. “I’m not coming to work tonight, Abbey. Fire me if you have to, but becoming a nurse is more important to me than waiting tables in your lousy restaurant.” She held the phone out in front of her face and used her thumb to press the button to end the call. Then she looked at me, a total stranger standing on her front porch. “What?” she blurted.
I could tell her morning was not going well at all. I didn’t want to make it any worse. “Are you Bridgett Winnomore?” I asked.
She gave me the same suspicious glare that Uncle Rupert used to give me after he found out I hid behind the garage to watch him hide Easter eggs before our annual family picnic. I was only five at the time, but even to this day, he makes one of the little kids guard me while he performs his yearly egg hiding task.
Bridgett’s face turned from angry to concerned. “Are you from Scott’s school?” she asked.
“No. I bought your father-in-law’s house, and I just wondered if you had time to talk?”
She let out a sigh of relief. I got the feeling Scott was the boy in the yard, and he must be having trouble at school.
She transferred the heavy textbook to her other hip. “I really have to study for this test—“
“I won’t take up much of your time,” I assured her.
She peered around me at her son playing in the yard. “Scotty! Ten more minutes, then I want you in the house to finish your homework,” she called to him.
He barely acknowledged her request, and I wondered if he’d obey her or defiantly throw that ball until midnight.
“Ten minutes,” she finally said to me as she pushed open the screen door to let me in.
Her living space was small and there were books and papers stacked everywhere. A sink full of dishes piled higher than the faucet threatened to tip over at the slightest movement. A line of ants had made a trail across the kitchen floor to a glob of what looked like strawberry jam. She grimaced as she stepped over the busy line of insects.
“Darn that boy. I told him to wipe up his mess,” she complained as she searched for a roll of paper towels buried under a collection of shabby old dishrags. She rummaged under the sink for a bottle of spray cleaner as she talked. “What did you want to talk about? Is there a problem with the house? Because if there is, you’re asking the wrong person.”
“No, no. There’s no problem with the house. Has Detective Wright been here to talk to you yet?” I asked.
She sprayed the entire line of ants with 409 cleaner, then wiped them up, along with the jam. “Are you from the police?” she asked.
“No. Detective Wright is a friend of mine, and he’s working on this investigation at my request.”
“You mean about Lou being murdered?”
“So he was here?”
She cleared a spot on the kitchen table and motioned for me to sit down. She took the seat opposite me. “He came by last night. I feel just awful about poor Lou. I always liked him. I felt so bad after my mother-in-law died that I told Joey we ought to have him move in with us. He was so lonely.”
I studied her face. She seemed sincere. “You don’t know who gave him the painting he had hanging in his living room, do you? The purple one?”
“Detective Wright asked me the same question. I’ve racked my brain, but I don’t think he ever told us where he got it,” she said.
I frowned and stared at the big textbook she’d been carrying around with her. “Are you a nursing student?”
“Yes. It’s a lot tougher than I thought it’d be. I’m trying to pass my classes, work a lousy job that barely earns enough to make ends meet, and keep my kid from becoming a juvenile delinquent. I’ll be lucky if I don’t commit…”
I waited for her to finish. Murder? Suicide? What was she capable of, I wondered. She never did finish the sentence. I finally broke the silence. “You don’t think your boss would actually fire you for not working tonight, would she?”
Bridgett let out a cynical laugh. “Don’t ever work for a spoiled, self-centered woman,” she said. “I’ve never been exposed to a more inconsiderate, back-biting, evil person in my entire life, and that includes my two-timing husband. Late husband,” she added.
“So you think she really might fire you?” I asked.
“Abbey? Oh, without a doubt. But you know what? I don’t care. I’ll find another lousy job that doesn’t pay enough, and probably hate it as much as this one, but I’m graduating soon, and then things are going to change. Scotty and me will move out to the country, and I’ll have more time to spend with him. And I’ll finally make enough money to buy a decent car that doesn’t break down every other week.”
I could see Bridgett was determined to reach her goal, and I had no doubt that she’d make it. Like her son, she’d been through a lot and was toughened by her experiences. “When do you graduate?” I asked.
“This is my last semester—if I pass all my classes, that is. I’m getting it done faster than most of the others. A friend of mine in the program took a bunc
h of silly electives the first year, so she has another semester before she can graduate. Of course, she’s still living at home, so there’s no pressure for her to hurry.”
“Electives? Like art?” I asked.
“Yeah. You know. Music appreciation, pottery making—classes you take after you’re burnt out from twenty years of nursing and want something to relax you.”
“Did you ever take any classes from Mr. Champion?” I asked.
“The art teacher? Yeah, I think I took one back when I was trying to get all my prerequisites in. I needed to round out my units, and I couldn’t take anything heavy. Basket weaving or some silly thing like that,” she said.
“No painting classes?”
She gave me that suspicious look again. “You’re wondering if I killed my father-in-law.”
“I’m wondering who killed your father-in-law. Maybe somebody you know from school who also knew Lou. Can you think of anyone like that?”
Bridgett pushed her chair away from the table and peered out the window at Scott, who was still throwing the ball, only now he had a friend to catch it instead of the net. She pushed the screen door open and called him into the house. “Come on, Scotty. Time’s up.”
She turned to me. “I don’t know anyone who would have killed Lou. If you don’t mind, I have to study,” she said, holding the screen door open for me to leave.
On my way out, I stopped on the porch and rummaged through my purse for a pen and a scrap of paper. I scrawled some information on it and handed it to Bridgett. “This is my name and the number for the King Rooster Bar and Grille, over by the marina. Gary’s the manager,” I said, pointing to his name and number. “He’s a great guy to work for, and I heard he’s looking for a waitress. Tell him I sent you. He pays okay, and the tips are great.”
Bridgett stared at the paper in her hand, then at me. “Thanks,” she said, a little sheepishly.
I walked out the door and passed Scotty on his way in the house.
Bridgett called to me when I was halfway to my car. “I would help if I could. I really don’t know any more than I already told you,” she said.
I smiled and nodded, then walked to my car. If Bridgett had a million dollars in cash, I doubt she’d still be here, slaving to get through school and working for the wicked witch so she could pay her bills.
Chapter Twelve
When I walked into Mr. Champion’s classroom, my chin nearly hit the floor. Thirty art students each stood in front of their easels, working on the same image: a purple, monotone landscape—exactly the same one I’d taken off of Lou Winnomore’s wall. A framed print hung on the wall in the front of the class to serve as a guide. That must have been one of the prints that Eric at the police lab told me about.
I wandered around the classroom, searching for the man in charge. I found him helping a young woman who seemed to be having a difficult time with her paintbrush.
“You’ve got enough paint on your brush to cover my entire house. That’s your problem,” he explained. The young girl blushed with embarrassment, then helplessly handed him the brush.
“Can you show me?” she drawled, with a southern accent so thick I halfway expected to see a crate of Georgia peaches under her hoop skirt—if she were wearing one, that is.
I remembered Raven’s comment that Mr. Champion was cute. I watched him charm her as he took young Scarlett’s hand and moved it back and forth across her pallet to remove the excess paint. I fully expected her to swoon. He had deep-set brown eyes and a strong jaw. When he smiled, a dimple formed in his cheek and I swear I saw a sparkle from his teeth, like one of those toothpaste commercials. He stood six-foot-four, easily, and was built like an Olympic swimmer. He wore faded jeans, a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and leather boots. My first impression was that he belonged on the front porch of a rustic, Rocky Mountain log cabin, with a guitar in his lap and a good dog at his feet.
When he finally had his helpless student’s overloaded paintbrush crisis under control, he looked up to see me, a stranger, in his classroom.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
I cleared my throat and offered my hand. “Hello, Mr. Champion. My name is Devonie. I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time?”
At that very moment, a voice from a distant corner cried out in a pathetic whine. “Mr. Champion. I need your help. Please?”
He gave me the look of a fireman being summoned to rescue a woman from a burning building. “Be right back,” he said, flashing me a movie-star grin that I’m sure kept many women waiting for his return.
I waved my hand. “That’s okay. I’ll wait till your class is over. I’m sure they need you more than me.”
He smiled and checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, then rushed off to save his young pupil.
I strolled around the classroom, admiring the work of the fledgling artists. Some definitely had more talent than others. Most of the students were young women, and if I had to guess, were only there because Mr. Champion was teaching the class. He could have been teaching primitive spear making and they’d have signed up.
After the class ended, and Mr. Champion helped the last of the needy students with their heavy easels, he offered me a chair near his desk.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t really know where to begin,” I started.
“Did you want to sign up for a class? I don’t know if I have room, but let me check my—“
“No. I’m here because I understand you teach a class that requires the students to mix their own dry pigments into specific mediums.”
“Right. That’s this class. You sure you don’t want to sign up?”
“No, at least not this semester. I’m curious about this landscape you use,” I said, pointing to the framed print hanging on the wall. “I noticed all your students were copying it.”
He gazed at the picture. “Right. It’s the first assignment for the class. I like the simplicity of the lines and the use of one base color. It gives the students a feel for mixing tones without having to worry about complex lines or keeping proportions accurate,” he explained.
“So you use this same assignment to start the class each time it’s offered?”
“Yes. It’s a very effective teaching tool,” he said.
“For how long?”
“How long have I been teaching?” he asked.
“How long have you used that print to teach this class?”
Mr. Champion’s smile turned to a frown. He eyed me with suspicion. “You’re not a lawyer, are you? Because I only use this as a tool. None of my students ever sign their work on this assignment. I make sure they don’t. Like I say, it’s just an exercise.”
I shook my head and waved my hands in a motion to tell him to relax. “No. I’m not a lawyer. I’m not worried about any copyright infringements. I just found one of these paintings in a house I bought, and I wondered who painted it.”
Mr. Champion relaxed. “Good. You had me worried for a minute. You found an unsigned original?”
“Yes. It had to have been one of your students’ work, now that I see what you’re doing here.”
“Most likely. But I’ve been using that print for years, and this class is always full. I don’t know how you’d ever be able to tell which student painted it.”
“How many years?” I asked.
“Gosh, it must be fifteen years. And I teach it every quarter. At least thirty students in each class. If you do the math, that’s a lot of possibilities.”
I cringed as I tried to calculate the number in my head.
“That’s about eighteen hundred,” he announced.
I gave him my most pleading expression. “I don’t suppose if I showed it to you, you could remember who painted it?”
He laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Besides the fact that most of them look almost exactly the same, I can barely remember who was in my class tonight, let alone fifteen years ag
o.”
I’m sure several dozen hearts would break if they’d heard him admit he doesn’t remember them.
“Why do you want to know who the artist is? I’m sure any one of these students would be happy to give you another, if that’s what you’re after. Most of them give the assignment away after it’s complete and graded anyway.”
Part of me felt I’d just stumbled onto a huge clue that should put me infinitely closer to finding out who killed Lou Winnomore. Only problem was I didn’t have the resources to track down nearly two thousand alumni, even if I thought I could get their names.
“You don’t happen to recall a student named Raven Covina, do you?” I asked.
“Ah, young Miss Raven. Now there’s a student that’s hard to forget,” he replied, gazing into space as though he were reliving a pleasant experience.
“She took this class?” I continued.
“She certainly did,” he said.
“Then she would have painted this assignment?”
“Yes, but she’s not the artist you’re looking for,” he said.
“She’s not? How could you know that?”
“Because she gave the painting to me,” he explained, still wearing the silly grin of a schoolboy in love.
I noticed the gold wedding band on Mr. Champion’s left hand. A married man—just Raven’s type, if she really was the home wrecker everyone said she was. He must have noticed me staring at his hand.
“Raven was the most talented artist I’d seen come through here in my entire career. I tried to encourage her to pursue her art with more seriousness. She’s a funny girl. You know her?”
I nodded. “We just met. I bought one of her paintings, as a matter of fact.”
A broad smile spread across his face. “That’s great. So she’s finally selling her work?”
“At least one. I tried to prod her in that direction, too. Such a waste to let those paintings sit, unseen, in her spare room.”
Mr. Champion nodded in agreement.
“So you still have her purple painting?” I asked.
“No. I gave it to a friend who moved into a new apartment and needed something to cover a big hole he put in the wall.”
