by Wendy Tyson
“Oh? Someone from Winsome.”
“He used to be from Winsome. He brought the artist here, Thana Moore. The woman who was killed. Thana, Ray, and I were inseparable once.” Megan instantly regretted the statement. When she talked about her childhood, she felt like every utterance was an unintended rebuke.
Charlotte placed her linen napkin on her lap and took a sip of water. Megan appreciated her mother’s elegance, the way she made even simple acts seem graceful. “Did you meet with Elizabeth Yee at the Mission?” When Megan nodded, Charlotte said, “I hope she was able to give you some insight into what you were looking for.”
“She presented another side of Thana, for sure. A woman who wanted to give back—but was also looking for recognition and attention.”
“Aren’t many who make grand gestures? She was an artist. It’s a tough field.”
“True. And that’s why I wanted to talk with you. You mentioned editing Art magazine, and Sarah told me that you’re background is in art. I’m curious about how art is priced. Some of Thana’s work was going for tens of thousands of dollars. Isn’t that high for someone relatively new to the scene?”
“Not necessarily. Art has no intrinsic value. If you think about it, it’s just canvas and paint, or whatever the medium. The value comes in the form of people’s perception about the work—and their estimation of its future value. Perhaps Thana’s reputation was such that she could demand a higher price for her work.”
The waitress returned to take their order. Charlotte selected the quiche and salad special, and Megan asked for the salad with grilled chicken. When the waitress was gone, Megan said, “Mick, my late husband, bought me two of Thana’s paintings—the two you saw—for less than a hundred dollars at a craft fair less than ten years ago. Now her paintings are getting thousands. Does that seem odd?”
“It’s just hard to say. People pay millions for artwork, Megan. If she established a track record of sales, that would build her brand and make her work more desirable.”
“Her work is good. To my untrained eye? Really good. Critics pan it, though.”
“Lots of artists do good work; that’s not enough. Her work is unique and pleasing to the eye, but even that isn’t often enough. Somehow things came together for her. She became trendy. It’s kind of like acting or writing. You have to have talent, you need to be persistent, and then there’s that something extra—luck, fate, marketing savvy, networking, call it what you want—that generally comes into play.” Charlotte turned around so she was facing the door. “I saw a brochure advertising the art show for the opening weeks of the Center. Is her exhibit still here?”
“I don’t think so.”
Charlotte turned back around. She met Megan’s gaze with a ferocity that surprised her. “Don’t let the pretty pictures fool you. The art world is a cutthroat business. If this woman was murdered because of her art, whoever did it won’t stop there. If they think you’re on to them, you could be in danger too.”
“I understand,” Megan said.
Charlotte’s touch against Megan’s hand was electric. “Do you? I hope so.”
There would be irony in finding you only to lose you so soon, was the message broadcast by her mother’s eyes. Charlotte didn’t say it, though. She didn’t need to.
“Megan, what brings you back to the Center?” Ray Cruise met her back in the Welcome Center. He looked a little tired today. Fine lines around his eyes and mouth seemed to age him, and Megan wondered whether he’d heard about Elliot’s death. “I have a meeting in thirty, but I’m always happy to see you.”
Megan followed him back to his office. The offices around his had been fleshed out since she was last here. Windowed cubicles sported family photos and landscape paintings. His office had not changed.
When Megan sat, she said, “Tell me, Ray, now that Elliot is dead, who do you think killed Thana?”
“Right to the chase?” Ray smiled. “You’ve changed over the years.”
“Grief changes a person.”
Ray’s face darkened. “Indeed.”
Megan took a closer look at her companion. “You loved her. After all these years, you were in love with Thana.”
Ray smiled again, the smile of a man coming to terms with the unfairness of life. “It took me years to figure that out, but yes. I loved her.”
“Enough to kill her?”
“What a twisted thing to ask.” Ray stood. He walked slowly to a cabinet on the wall, opened it, and removed two glasses and a decanter of Scotch. He poured them both two fingers without asking Megan if she wanted any. She accepted the offering. “And no, I didn’t kill Thana. Nor did I kill that brute of a boyfriend, Elliot. Though I might have enjoyed doing so.”
Ray sat back down. “The Center is already under water. We didn’t expect to turn a profit this year, but we have investors watching our every move, and being associated with a murder doesn’t help the bottom line. You saw the restaurant. When we opened, I had waiting lists for tables. Now? Empty real estate.” He shook his head. “I lost a friend and I lost a business edge last week. You’ll have to forgive me for drinking so early in the day.”
Megan watched her old friend swirl the amber liquid around in his glass and swallow it down in one gulp. “That’s a lot to lose, Ray,” she said softly. “What are you doing about the business?”
“Damage control. Carly’s in major damage control mode. We’re going to do a fundraiser for a local charity, try to drum up some good will with the locals.”
“What charity?”
“Some mission church that helps runaways. Carly’s idea.” There was a sharp knock at the door and Ray said, “Speak of the devil. Come on in.”
Megan had seen pictures of Carly Stevenson online, but she wasn’t prepared for the woman in person. Tall—perhaps six feet or more—and slender, with a thick, glossy mop of cascading blonde curls and the kind of complexion you see on super models. She wore a body-hugging light gray suit with a deep teal blouse that brought out her blue eyes. Megan understood why this beacon of health and privilege was the face of the Center. Looking at Carly made her want to take up the lifestyle as well.
“New friend Carly meet old friend Megan Sawyer.” Ray didn’t bother to stand. “What do you want, Carly?”
“For you to do your job.”
Ray’s eyebrows shot up along with the corners of his mouth. “Pot, kettle.”
Megan wasn’t sure if they were teasing each other or serious. She stood. “I can let you two get back to business.” But Ray motioned for her to sit back down. “My lovely partner was just leaving.”
Carly pulled a chair up to Ray’s desk. “I’m not going anywhere, Ray. We need to talk.” She glanced at Megan. “I’m sorry to interrupt, I really am, but things are happening and I need Ray to focus.”
Megan nodded. “No problem. Do you mind if I take a walk on the grounds? I’d like to see the horses.”
“Suit yourself,” Carly said. “They’re all rescues. Spread that around.”
“Carly the opportunist. I think we donated to Sierra Club, want Megan to shout that from the rooftops as well?”
“If it helps, absolutely.”
Megan left, feeling like she was in the midst of a sparring match no one was going to win.
With the extreme heat pounding down on the Delaware Valley, Megan wasn’t surprised to find the horses inside the barn, where at least the sun couldn’t find them. She was pleased because it was really their handlers, Mark and Marcy, who she wanted. She found Marcy in a stall with one of the horses. She was cleaning its shoe with a metal gouge.
Without looking up, she said, “No rides until tonight. It’s too hot for the horses.”
“I’m not here for a ride,” Megan said. She stroked the head of a stately mare. The horse leaned into the affection. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about Thana Moore.”
“Yes. She was a friend of mine.”
Marcy finished her chore and left the stall. She wiped her hands on a damp towel before walking toward Megan. “And you are?”
Megan introduced herself. “I was just meeting with Carly and Ray. They said I could wander up.”
That seemed to put Marcy at ease. She was as cute as the Instagram photos Megan had seen, with long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail and jeans tight enough to be second skin, but worry lines marred her face.
“Thana was a regular up here. The horses will miss her.”
“You were talking with my friend, Clover, on Sunday. She said you mentioned a man following Thana when she was here.”
Marcy’s worry lines deepened.
“I thought maybe you’d recalled more details about him. Height. Build.”
Marcy shook her head. She seemed in a sudden rush to end this conversation. “Nothing I didn’t share with the cops.”
Megan persisted. “Look, two people have died. I have a contact at the Winsome PD who is investigating Elliot’s death. If you can help in any way, it could save more lives.”
“Are you a cop?”
“No, just a friend to some people whose lives are being impacted by this. And a friend to Thana—once.”
Marcy opened the gate to a small quarter horse with a white star on her head. She stroked the horse’s neck absentmindedly, clearly thinking about what to say next. Finally, she said, “Carly, she’s our boss, is trying to limit information sharing. She doesn’t want the Center associated in any way with these murders. You can’t tell anyone you even talked to me, or Mark and I will be out of a job. Please.”
Megan nodded. “Of course.”
The horse nudged Marcy’s side and Marcy resumed her stroking. “I did see a man following Thana. On more than one occasion. It wasn’t Elliot. I know, because once I saw Elliot watching the man who was watching Thana.”
“What did Elliot do?”
“Nothing. I got Mark so he could see too. Thana was heading down the path toward the Center. The guy stepped out of the trees and followed her. I thought maybe it was Elliot keeping an eye on her—really sweet guy, but he had a possessive streak—only it wasn’t because there was Elliot at the bottom of the hill watching Thana descend.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Yeah, I did. We keep binoculars in the barn in case we see a predator. Once in a while you get a bear or a coyote, or even a hunter with bad eyesight who thinks a horse is a deer.” Marcy scrunched her face up in a look of disgust. “So Mark grabbed the binoculars, but we couldn’t make out anything about the guy other than his height. Fairly tall and thin—nothing distinguishable. He disappeared back into the woods, just like he’d appeared. Elliot, though? He had this look of utter sadness on his face. Not anger, not surprise. Just sadness.”
“What did you make of that?”
“At the time, I thought maybe the guy following her was a lover, someone she was seeing on the side, and Elliot was confirming his suspicions. But Thana talked about personal stuff when she was with the horses and the only guy Thana was seeing on the side—and it wasn’t really the side because by then she and Elliot had broken up—was Ray.”
“Did Thana seem conflicted? Distraught?”
“Not really. Her paintings were starting to sell well, she’d done that mural for the church. She had the show here. She was never really satisfied—that was the kind of person she was, always restless—but I think she was looking forward to her future.”
“How about when it came to Ray?”
“They were hiding their affair, so she didn’t say much.”
“I don’t think it was a well-kept secret. I heard staff talking about it earlier this week.”
Marcy shrugged. “Gossips. We have lots of those here, which is why I prefer working with the horses. Anyway, I don’t think Ray would follow Thana around in the woods. It just doesn’t seem his style.”
No, Megan had to agree, it didn’t. But love could bring out the best in people, and the worst. What was the saying? There was a fine line between love and hate. But why would Ray Cruise kill Thana? It was her death that caused the Center financial issues, not her life.
Megan wasn’t sure what the connection was, but she was determined to find out.
Twenty-Eight
Megan left the Center feeling more confused than ever. So many potential leads; she wasn’t sure how the police managed—although they had surveillance and tools at their disposal. She decided to call King to let him know about her discussion with Marcy, but she realized she had very little to go by other than a hunch interpreting Elliot’s expression and the fact that a man was following Thana, which the Dartville police already knew.
She rolled down the truck window in an attempt to wake herself up, but the hot, soupy air felt suffocating, so she closed the window and opted for the air conditioner. While she drove back to the farm, she considered what she knew. Thana’s career was just taking off. She’d gone from starving artist selling paintings from a craft fair table to local sweetheart whose work was selling for thousands. A relationship with an old flame brought her to the Center, where she got even more exposure. She broke up with her boyfriend, a wannabe artist with a penchant for woodworking and business who seemed to see himself as her protector and her manager. She was having an affair with Ray Cruise, the Center owner who brought her in, possibly sparking jealousy by the ex-boyfriend. She had an unknown stalker. After arguments with several people at the Center, she was murdered in her own van.
Strangled with Sylvia’s scarf.
Sylvia. What did she have to do with any of this? Now seemed like as good a time as any to find out.
Megan’s tank was low so she pulled into the nearest station, a Wawa off Route 611. She was pumping gas when she spied two people who looked vaguely familiar. She was putting garbage in a receptacle and he was filling the car’s tank with gas.
Megan squinted in their direction, blocking the blinding sun. The woman had medium-length steel gray hair tied in pigtails on either side of her head. She wore patterned purple pants that looked like pajamas and a Native American print t-shirt. One headphone dangled down the left side of her neck. Her companion was a handsome bald man with a sandy beard. A glance at the car triggered her memory. A New Beginnings bumper sticker had been plastered to the rear end of the old Toyota Camry.
Joseph Muller. From the Mission. Perhaps the woman was one of the congregants Megan had seen when she visited. The pair got in the car and pulled out, deep in conversation. Off to do their charity work, perhaps. They seemed to be gaining some traction in the community.
Megan grabbed a bag of pretzels and climbed back in her truck. She was a quarter mile from Washington Acres when her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number but she answered anyway.
“Megan Sawyer?”
“This is she.”
“Dr. Oliver Craddock. You were looking for me yesterday? About my son, Elliot.”
He didn’t sound like someone who had just lost a son, and Megan wondered whether King’s officers had talked with him.
But then he said, “My son was killed, Ms. Sawyer. I don’t know if you knew that, but I have to wonder why you were at my house, asking about Elliot in the midst of all this.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Dr. Craddock.”
“Can you explain the connection?”
Megan pulled over to the side of the road. She gave Elliot’s father a brief summary of her dealings with Elliot. “Thana was my friend, and now several people I care about have been implicated in her murder. I was hoping, had been hoping, that Elliot could shed some light on what happened.”
“Whatever scum took Thana, took my son.” Oliver’s voice was a Long Island accented low growl. “Look, I don’t know how he could have helped, but I’m go
ing to do everything I can to find out who took his life and bring the bastard to justice.”
“I can understand that, Dr. Craddock.”
“Are you near Winsome?”
“Yes. I’m on my way there now.”
“Meet me at 1212 Juniper Lane. Across from the old bowling alley. That’s where Elliot’s shop is. I need to go now and pack up some of his stuff; I want to get there before his partners do and clean everything out.”
“Couldn’t that be evidence?”
“The police are meeting me there as well. Look, if you want to talk, that’s where I’ll be.”
Megan thanked him and hung up. It seemed Sylvia would have to wait while she headed to Juniper Street and the good Dr. Craddock.
Megan placed a quick phone call to Clover. She told her where she’d be and with whom—just in case. “I’m driving and can’t use my phone. Can you look up Dr. Craddock and let me know what kind of doctor I’m dealing with?”
“I don’t need to do that.” Clover was at the café and Megan could hear the muffle of voices behind her. “He’s a psychiatrist. I remember Alvaro rolling his eyes when his sister announced she was marrying a doctor.”
“A psychiatrist, huh?”
“Yeah. I think he’s partially retired. Hold on, I’ll check.” She returned a moment later. “Board certified. Specializes in childhood and adolescent anxiety disorders. Works a part-time schedule out of New Hope.” Clover made an “hmm” sound. “So Elliot’s dad is a shrink. Go figure.”
“Go figure is right. That explains the fancy house and expensive pool.”
“Wasn’t he an absentee dad?”
“Until recently. They found each other later in life, at least according to Alvaro’s sister.” Megan pulled up in front of a sign-less storefront, behind a brand new Infinity. No sign of police cars. “Okay, Clover, I’m here. I’ll call you in two hours. If you don’t hear from me, call Bobby. In the meantime, maybe Dr. Craddock can use his knowledge of human behavior to shed some light on what’s going on.”
