The school had vacated for the summer, and the parking lot was empty except for a single car parked next to ours. The front door had been propped open about the length of my foot and was secured in place with a brown cinder block. Giovanni pulled the door all the way back and we walked in.
I cupped my hands around the outside of my mouth and shouted, “Hello?”
“Back here,” a female voice said.
I followed the sound into an office where an older woman was hunched over a pile of supplies. When she saw me she rubbed both of her hands together and brushed them off on her tweed pants and stood.
“Forgive the mess,” she said, “summer is just about the only time I get to organize this place.”
“I understand.”
“What can I do for you two? Do you have children you’d like to enroll?”
Giovanni’s eyes darted to me and softened, and a huge grin covered his face.
“Oh no,” I said. “We aren’t, well, what I mean to say is, we don’t have any—”
“Children together,” Giovanni said.
I looked at him and mouthed the words thank you. My face burned like it was on fire.
“No children?” the woman said.
Giovanni glanced at me and smiled and winked and then looked back at the woman.
“Not yet,” he said.
His comment startled me, and I wondered if it was his idea of a joke, but there was something about the way he said it that didn’t sound like one at all. He just continued to smile, and I realized he’d said it to get a rise out of me. He’d succeeded.
“Have you worked here long?” I said to the woman.
“Oh, about thirty years or so; why do you ask?”
“I wondered if you could take a look at a piece of paper and tell me if you recognize it.”
She held her hand out.
“Sure.”
“Before I show it to you though, I need you to understand the contents are personal in nature, and you can’t talk about what you read with anyone,” I said.
She giggled like a child in grade school.
“These days there aren’t too many people for me to talk to hun, but if it makes you feel any better, you have my promise, I won’t breathe a word.”
Her beady, curious eyes reminded me of my grandmother, and I believed what she said was true. I unzipped my bag and took out the pink parchment and showed it to her. She turned it around in her hand without much heed to the words written on the front.
The woman looked at Giovanni and then aimed her finger at a box in the corner.
“Would you mind getting my glasses?”
Giovanni grabbed them and opened them up and she put them on.
“Much better,” she said. She rubbed the parchment in between her fingers and then said, “I haven’t seen paper like this for ages.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“It looks like its intended use was for artists so you’re on the right track there, but we’ve never used this at our school. Not as long as I’ve been here.”
Her words gripped me like a noose around my neck. This was the oldest art school in town. Maybe my hunch had steered me in the wrong direction.
“Well,” I said, taking the paper back from her, “it was worth a try. It was nice to meet you. Thanks for your time.”
“You bet, dear.”
Giovanni headed for the door and I followed and then turned back to ask one final question.
“One more thing before I go,” I said. “I know it’s a long shot, but are there any other schools around here from a couple decades ago?”
She took some time to think about it and then said, “Well, yes. There is one. But it’s been closed for many years.”
“Can you tell me where it is?”
“Right behind the library. It’s an old yellow building. Hasn’t been used for much of anything since it shut down.”
“Do you know the name of the owner or why it closed?” I said.
She laughed. “You’re really testing my memory today. Seems like the woman’s name was Laurel or Lauren if I remember right. And as to why it closed, well…all I can tell you is the rumor back then was that the owner up and left town with her new beau.”
“She was married at the time?”
The woman nodded.
“Had a child too. Can’t tell you whether the rumor was true or not, but I do know this—she never came back.”
***
Ten minutes later Giovanni and I stood in front of an old wood house and one thing was clear—it hadn’t been occupied for some time. A white picket fence in desperate need of a splash of color surrounded the perimeter of the property. A couple of the double-pane windows had holes in the glass about the size of a golf ball, and the front walk was overrun with weeds. From a distance I could see the door knob had been broken off and was sealed shut by a couple rusty nails that had been drilled into the frame.
I turned to Giovanni. “Are you up to this, because I’d understand if you wanted to wait in the car.”
His response was swift. He walked in front of me and squared off with the front door. After he gripped it with his fingers and pulled back a few times he said, “The door is sealed shut. Let’s try this another way.”
The first two windows Giovanni yanked on wouldn’t budge, so we went around to the back of the house, but it was to no avail. The windows were sealed so tight it was like they’d become one with the walls surroundeding them. Giovanni grabbed a rock the size of his fist and looked at me.
“Do you object?”
“Not at all. Clearly this isn’t a place of business anymore.”
I pulled my zip-up sweater from around my waist and held it out. “Here, use this. I don’t want you to cut yourself.”
At first I thought he was going to tell me what a tough guy he was, but then he grabbed me and propelled me forward and the next thing I knew I was enveloped in his arms, and I had no desire to disengage anytime soon.
Several seconds later he released me, and within a minute we were inside the decrepit building. From the moment we entered the place I was overcome by two things: a sensation of sheer exhilaration and the overwhelming smell of a dingy, stuffy old house. I sheathed my nose with my hand and looked around. Papers were scattered across the floor, paintings had been overturned, and the desk in the corner of the room had been deprived of its three pull-out drawers.
The place had been ransacked—and I guessed on more than one occasion. Just the sight of the destruction filled me with sadness, and I thought about what it must have been like back in its heyday when it was filled with the hopes and dreams of aspiring young artists who lined the halls with their work.
Giovanni reached down and scooped up a pile of papers. “The old woman was right,” he said. “There was a Laurel here at one time.”
He handed the stack of papers over to me. The one on top of the pile looked like an enrollment agreement for one of the students, and at the bottom of the page was a box with typed letters that said administrator and above it the signature of Laurel Reids.
I set the papers on top of a thick layer of dust that had collected on the desk and scavenged around to see what else I could find. In the next room stacked against the wall, I noticed a row of several easels and a few wooden chairs. A few paintings remained, but they were ruined and haphazardly thrown to the floor. One rested with the painted side down. I scooped it up and turned it over, but it was too dirty to make out the picture at first. I brushed it off with the palm of my hand and then wiped my hands on my jeans. It wasn’t the most sanitary thing to do, but it was my only option. The oil painting was of a girl who couldn’t have been more than seven years old at the time. Her dark bangs felt in a loose manner along her forehead and into her eyes, but not so much that I couldn’t see them. She looked so young and innocent, but her eyes didn’t tell the story of a child filled with happiness, they reflected something else—a sadness of some kind, and I imagined tears welled up in those enorm
ous brown eyes of hers.
I rubbed the bottom of the corner of the picture with my thumb and read the signature of the artist: L. Reids.
From the other end of the room Giovanni shouted that he’d found a cabinet housed with supplies.
“Come take a look at this,” he said.
I made my way over to him and pulled the cabinet door back until it was all the way open. There, on the second shelf in the center of the cabinet, was a wire basket and inside, a ream of white parchment paper. I pulled the basket toward me and lifted up the paper and took a look at it, and then I noticed another type of paper on the bottom of the stack. It was pink.
CHAPTER 42
“What would you like to do now?” Giovanni said.
I shrugged and looked at the pink paper I’d taken from the art school.
“I suppose we need to let your brother know about this.”
He nodded.
“That would be wise.”
“I’d like to have some time first before I make the call—I want to dig around a little bit on the internet and see what I can find. I’m sure your brother wishes I wasn’t involved in this, but I am, and this is the only way I can stay a step ahead of everyone. Otherwise, they would leave me out, I’m sure of it.”
“No need to explain,” he said. “I understand.”
Was there anything about this guy that wasn’t perfect?
***
We stopped by my place so I could grab my laptop and some clothes and then drove back to Giovanni’s place for dinner.
My internet search proved profitable, and with a few keywords I was able to find some additional information on Laurel Reids. Ms. Reids was the wife of a wealthy oil tycoon by the name of Decklan Reids, until she bailed on their relationship. She left behind not only a thriving art institute, but her husband and son, and just like the old woman said earlier, I found no indication that she ever returned. I wondered why.
From what I could tell, Decklan Reids stayed in the area and still lived in the same house in Park Meadows. I jotted down the address. I wasn’t sure where all of this would lead, but something stirred inside me that had been unmoved since Gabrielle’s death, and I felt my whole body burn in unison at the prospect of one thing: achieving my goal.
After an unforgettable dinner with Giovanni and his sister which included Lord Berkeley eating out of a marble dog bowl that seemed to be purchased just for the occasion, I set out to see whether Decklan Reids still occupied the house on 3873 Pinedale Street. A part of me wanted to go it alone. I did my best PI work in solitary, but I knew even a person like Giovanni couldn’t grant me that, even with all the leniency I’d already been given.
***
The lights were on when we arrived at Decklan Reids’ house. We approached the front door and knocked. A thin woman with short white curly hair in a crisp sundress with an apron over the top that was tied in a bow opened the door.
“Can I help you?”
“Is this the home of Decklan Reids?” I said.
“It is.”
“I hoped I could speak with him,” I said. “Is he here?”
She wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Just a moment. Let me see if he is available.”
She left us at the doorway and a minute later a man arrived at the door. He was taller than most men I’d met and had the body of a runner. His hair was grey and it blended well with his sleek frame. He glanced at me and then Giovanni but did not speak—he just stood there, waiting for one of us to say something first. So I did.
“Mr. Reids, I hoped I could speak to you for a moment.”
“About?”
“Can we come in? I’d rather discuss it inside if you don’t mind,” I said.
“I don’t even know who you are.”
I brandished my card and gave it to him.
He held it about four inches away from his face and squashed his eyes together while he gazed at it.
“What are you investigating?”
Giovanni and I exchanged glances. I didn’t want to blurt out information about my investigation into the Sinnerman murders, but I had to compel him enough to let me through the front door.
“I’m looking for Laurel Reids. I believe she was your wife,” I said.
“Ex-wife.”
“I’m sorry, yes.”
“That was a long time ago. And I can’t see what use I would be. Why?”
“One of her art students is trying to reach her,” I said.
Oh what a tangled web we weave.
“After so long?”
I nodded.
“Any help you can give us would be appreciated.”
He pondered it for a bit and then backed away a few steps.
“Come in.”
We followed him through the parlor and into the living room. It was decorated in rich tones of navy blue and tan with deep brown accents. My first impression screamed bachelor. The furniture was rustic and reminded me of something I would see in a log cabin. In the center of the room a knotty log hearth was placed over an unlit fire and above it on the wall was the biggest moose head I’d ever seen in my life.
Decklan beamed and said to Giovanni, “Shot that one myself.” Giovanni didn’t seem the least bit interested, but he nodded and smiled.
“It’s umm…”
For once he couldn’t think of what to say and looked to me for some words of encouragement.
“Do you hunt often?” I said.
“Every chance I get. Been on every continent and hunted everything from elephants to javelinas. Care to see my trophy room?”
I was certain Giovanni lacked interest in a room full of stuffed dead animals, but he also seemed aware of the fact that I would seize any opportunity to snoop, so he nodded a reluctant yes.
“And you?” Decklan said, and turned to me.
“I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind.”
Decklan shrugged his shoulders.
“Suit yourself.”
Once they were out of sight, I made my move. Ever since we’d arrived I had my eye on a room down the hall. While we stood in the living room and chatted, I could see the entrance of what appeared to be a boy’s room, and my curiosity was piqued. With no one in sight, I booked it down the hall. I passed a bathroom on the left which I made note of; it could serve me well if Giovanni and Decklan decided to hike back up the stairs early, although I was certain Giovanni would keep him at bay. I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to flex his persuasive muscle if needed.
The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar when I reached it. I nudged it with my arm just enough that I could slide in and out with ease. Once inside, I glanced around. The blue and green plaid twin comforter had been made up to perfection, and it matched the tab-topped curtains that hung over the two oversized windows in the room. There was a single wood dresser that was brown with black metal circular knobs that lined the front, two on each drawer. The walls were sparse with little adornment, but there were holes to indicate things had been hung on them at some point in the past. Some of the holes were spaced apart in a square pattern, the exact size of a poster; it made me curious.
On top of the dresser there were several framed photos of a child at various stages of life. In one, he looked to be about four. He held up a giant fish attached to a long rod. A much younger Decklan stood next to him with the proud parent smile plastered across his face. And there had been a third person in the photo, but it had been ripped, and all that remained was a hand from the person on the boy’s arm. The boy’s eyes darted downward and fixed on the fish with an innate fascination, but he didn’t express a smile like his father. His face was stolid and emotionless.
In another photo the boy was older. He posed with a deer of some kind, or maybe it was an elk. I’d never been around a hunter before, so I couldn’t tell the difference. From the look of it, the animal was dead, and the boy was covered in blood. But something else stood out—the boy’s hands, his left one in particular. In the photo at four years of age, h
is hands were perfect. But something happened between the first photo and the second. A few of his fingers were bent over in such a way they appeared to have been mangled, almost like he’d contracted some sort of disease that caused them to degenerate. The only problem with that theory was, his other hand looked just fine.
Behind the photo of the boy and the animal was an album. I grabbed it and flipped through its pages. It was a timeline of photos at every age in school starting with Kindergarten. In the first three his hand was visible and looked fine, but once I got to his second grade picture it was obvious great effort had been made to conceal it. And there was something else. The boy no longer smiled as he had in the first couple of pictures. He looked solemn and detached. I turned a few more pages and immediately recognized the photo before me. I’d seen it at the art institute earlier that day. Thoughts flooded my mind, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. The girl in the painting hadn’t been a girl at all, it was a boy.
“What are you really doing here?” a voice said from behind me.
The woman who first greeted me at the front door stood in the doorway. She’d been so quiet, I hadn’t heard her approach.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just—”
She shook her head at me and entered the room.
“There’s no need for excuses, dear. But I would like to know the real reason you’re here.”
“What’s your relationship to Decklan?” I said. “I can tell you’re related in some way.”
“I’m his mother. And,” she said and pointed to the album I still clutched in my hand, “I’m that boy’s grandmother.”
CHAPTER 43
“He always hit every target he aimed at,” the old woman said about the photo of the boy with the dead animal. “Won his first award when he was ten. I’ve never seen anyone who could hit a bull’s eye the way he could.”
“What’s his name?” I said.
Sloane Monroe Series Boxed Set (Books 1-3) Page 33
