by Tessa Kelly
Then my eyes lighted on the fourth name and my fingers tightened around the phone.
John Edwards.
Chapter 7
John Edwards again.
Everywhere I turned lately, there he was.
What about the other three? Did they have alibis? These were the questions the police would ask, and my brother probably already knew the answer.
My fingers dialed his number before I could check myself. I stopped the call and put away the phone.
Will made it clear he didn’t want me anywhere near his investigation. I would have to act on my own to find the answers. But it was doubtful John Edwards or any of the people on the list would take kindly to me calling and asking for their alibis. I needed to approach them without rousing their suspicions, but no plan of action sprang to mind.
Since there was no way to pursue that angle, I would leave it alone for the moment and focus on my other lead.
One person I knew of benefited directly from Alexa’s death. He was at the gallery the night of the private viewing. He would most likely be there today as well. Despite it being the weekend, someone had to send out emails and smooth things over with the clients, and he was the sort of man the job would fall to.
I sprinted down the subway steps, onto the stuffy platform. The downtown train arrived ten minutes later and carried me back to the well-trodden neighborhoods. I got out in Dumbo but didn’t go straight to the gallery, stopping instead at Au Chocolat, the local chocolatier’s shop.
The friendly bell jingled pleasantly as I opened the door, and my nostrils filled with the warm aroma of chocolate, citrus, and spices. It was a small shop but stuffed to the brim with sweet delicacies, overwhelming the senses with the variety of choices. A rookie walking in off the street would be in real trouble here.
I discovered the shop a few months ago, after a day of hunting for jewelry supplies at an outdoor fair with Felisha. We were tired and famished, and the place, with its quaint blue door and the chipping paint looked innocent enough. Later, I suspected it was all by design.
It was Felisha, normally not one for bingeing, who took me by surprise. I'd had to stand by, helpless, as she ordered two large hot chocolates, a slice of chocolate cake, a stack of chocolate chip cookies, and an assortment of truffles, then insisted on splitting everything and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I would always remember that afternoon as "Death by chocolate". Since then, I made sure to remember two things: never let Felisha near Au Chocolat, and never to go in unprepared.
Today, I was prepared. I knew exactly what I wanted and why.
The salesgirl beamed at me from behind the counter. “Hi, there! Would you like to try our daily specials?”
She pointed to a tray full of chocolate-covered macadamia clusters that made my mouth water.
My hand reached for them automatically. I stopped and put it in my pocket, marshaling my self-restraint, then did my best to look dignified while salivating. It wasn’t easy.
“They look sumptuous,” I said, “but I'll have to pass. I just came to get some of your lovely macarons. A dozen should suffice.”
“Cool.” The girl didn’t skip a beat as she scooped up a pretty pink box from under the counter and bounced over to a glass display with stacks of macarons in a variety of colors, arranged on immaculate white trays.
“Any particular flavor you like, or just some of everything?”
“Make them raspberry and chocolate,” I told her. “They’re for a friend and I think those are his favorite.”
“Raspberry and chocolate?” She half-turned her head as she opened the display. “Those are a favorite with a lot of people right now. We had a big order just the other night. It was for some fancy event at the local art gallery.”
“Really?” I made sure to look surprised. “It wasn’t for the AGER by any chance, was it? They had a new exhibit opening. I think I read about it online... Wait!” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice in a conspiratorial way. “Wasn’t there a murder at that gallery last night?”
The girl nodded vigorously, her eyes growing big with excitement. “It's so scary, right? I don’t live in this neighborhood and my parents tried to talk me out of going to work today. They think it’s unsafe.”
She rolled her eyes and put in the last of the macarons, then came back to the counter to tie the box with a gold ribbon.
“A guy who works at that gallery is a big fan of these, comes in every day. He was the one who picked up the order the other night. Didn’t come in today, though. They must be going nuts over there at the gallery.”
Just as I had suspected. Mr. Dan Cobbs would be missing his daily fix by now.
“Not sure how he manages to stay in shape,” I joked to keep the conversation going, in case the girl had more information to spill. “These things come with a spare tire.”
She pressed her hands over her mouth to stifle the giggles. “It’s probably just stress eating,” she said in a lowered voice. “The guy looks like he seriously needs to chill.”
That confirmed it. She was talking about Dan Cobbs, the man passed over for a promotion and likely to harbor some serious resentment.
The bell above the front door tinkled again and a young couple burst in, their arms glued to each other’s waists. I paid for the macarons, thanked the girl, and left the shop.
The gallery was open, but the showing room was still taped off, a reminder that this was a crime scene. I walked around the narrow side corridor to the back offices where one of the doors stood slightly ajar. A man’s high-pitched voice came from within. I paused just outside the door and listened.
“No, no. The showing is most certainly going to resume... No, you’ve heard wrong, we’re not pulling the art pieces. Yes. Of course. Tomorrow or... Monday at the latest. We’re being assured by the police.”
It had to be a phone conversation. Dan Cobbs, putting out fires where he could. His voice sounded strained to the max as if one more tug would snap it into a million pieces. Mr. Cobbs was positively in a tizzy this afternoon.
I edged closer to the door and peeked in as I waited for him to hang up. Mr. Cobbs sat with his back to me, but I could still see part of his profile. The round spectacles slid down his nose and perspiration stood out on his temples. He wore the same tan suit he had on the night before, though it was rumpled and had visible armpit stains.
The person on the other end finally let him go. He hung up, leaned forward in his chair, and put his elbows on the desk. A sigh as heavy as an unpaid debt escaped his lips.
I stepped from behind the door and gave it a knock with my knuckles. I should’ve used a feather instead. Though soft, the knock made him jump a foot off the chair. His eyes bulged at me.
“What? Who? What are you doing here?”
Was it the effect of last night’s murder, or a guilty conscience that was making him a nervous wreck? Perhaps, Dan Cobbs have something to be scared of.
I cleared my throat and gave him a bright smile. “Hi! I’m so sorry I startled you. I was just looking for Josh. You know, Josh White? He’s a friend. Well, I mean...” I lowered my eyes a little and looked at him from under fluttering eyelashes. Added a twitter to my voice, making like a googly-eyed high school girl.
“You see, we had a date last week, so maybe we’re a little more than just friends. I hope we are. Anyway, I know he works here, and I heard on the news about the murder. I tried calling him like several times but he’s not picking up. I was really worried, so I thought I should come and check that he’s okay. Do you know if he is in today? I brought him some macarons to cheer him up. I know he likes them. I mean, who doesn’t. Right?”
I took a moment to catch my breath, then showed Mr. Cobbs the pretty pink box with the gold ribbon.
At the sight of it, his eyebrows rose and his eyes grew wider. His round jaw extended downward and the tip of his tongue showed between the full lips as if already tasting the sugar.
I was reminded of Marlowe, Dad’s Springer Spaniel,
and the way he looked anytime he caught a whiff of Shepherd’s Pie, his favorite treat. Perhaps, Mr. Cobbs would start salivating next.
He swallowed and straightened his collar, visibly trying to get a hold of himself and not stare at the box.
“He... Josh, that is, isn’t here today I’m afraid. He’s only a part-time employee.”
“Oh, no!” I slumped against the doorframe, looking stricken. “I came all the way here. I was so hoping to see him today. What am I going to do with this now?”
Leaning forward, I set the pastry box on the edge of Dan’s desk.
He swallowed again and took a shaky breath. “I believe you’ll find him at his other job, a little used book store in Carroll Gardens. I could look up the address for you.”
Evidently, those had to be magic macarons if even close proximity with them turned Dan Cobbs from Mr. Frazzled to Mr. Helpful. It was time to give him his reward.
Chapter 8
I grinned at Dan, extra-bright to show my appreciation. “Would you do that, give me the address? That’d be so cool of you! I don’t know how to thank you!”
I paused with my mouth slightly open, as if getting a new idea.
“Actually, do you like macarons?” Taking a step further into the office, I pushed the pink box toward him. “You can have one if you like. Josh tells me they’re really good.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.” His cheeks glowed pink, but his hand already reached for the box.
I nodded encouragement at him. “It's okay. Really. I can always get more on my way to the train station.”
“Well, if you insist...”
Dan untied the ribbon so carefully you’d think it was made of actual gold. Lifting the cover, he took a chocolate macaron and bit into it. A small sigh escaped his lips and for a moment, his eyes fluttered closed. There was something bordering on the indecent in the whole display that made me want to avert my eyes. Instead, I hitched up my smile, perched on a swivel chair opposite him, and leaned forward with my chin cupped in my palm.
“Brighten up your whole day, don’t they? You look like you could use some of that.”
“You have no idea.” His eyes went up to the ceiling in show of suffering.
“I get stressed out too when there’s a lot to do at work,” I said. “Don’t you have an assistant to help you?”
“Who, Caroline?” He sniffed. “Took a mental health day. As if she’s the only one around here who needs it.”
He swallowed and stared at the macarons.
“Have another one. Please,” I offered.
Dan’s hand hovered over the box, his pink tongue darting anxiously between his full lips. With a strange little gurgle in his throat, he took another one, then leaned back in the chair as he chewed.
He was getting warmed up now, letting down his guard. It was time to ask him some real questions.
I opened my eyes wider to look fascinated. “So are you the director of this gallery? Are you Josh’s boss?”
A snort escaped his lips. “Am I the boss?”
He reached for the box and slid it closer to him, then inhaled a third cookie. At the rate he was going, I had about five minutes before the box emptied. I needed to hurry up if I was going to get any information out of him.
“I’m just a lowly Associate curator around here,” Dan said. Staring at me, he nodded as if to say “can you believe it?”
“Fifty two years old.” With a soft crunch, the forth raspberry macaron disappeared into his mouth. “I’ve been at this position for eight years.”
“Eight years!” My voice rose in proper astonishment. “That’s a long time. I’ve never had a job for that long. I change them every few months, but that’s ‘cause I like to travel around. I go where the wind blows. You’re probably from around here, right?”
He shook his head and settled back, looking pleased with having an audience for a change.
“I’m from Boston originally. Worked in curatorial capacities all over the country before settling down here. Never imagined I’d still be at the same position eight years later, though.”
I nodded with sympathy, but kept my eyes wide open to assure him I still found him impressive.
“I bet it took a lot of studying to do what you do.”
Dan lifted his chin, self-satisfied superiority in his beady eyes. “Young lady, I completed my graduate work at Harvard University and The University of Chicago. I have a Ph.D. in art history.”
“Wow!”
I was about to unleash a sycophantic torrent of admiration on him when Dan's mood took an unexpected down slide. “Of course, none of that means a thing now. All these young hotshots these days, they keep getting promoted over me and I’m left in the dust.” The corners of his mouth drooped. His entire frame sagged like an ice sculpture left out too long in the sun.
“You mean, this Caroline you mentioned?” I said. “She was promoted over you?”
He passed his hand over his mouth and seemed to grow smaller somehow. “Well, no. It was the other one. She... she’s not with us anymore.”
“Did she get fired?”
“No.” He fidgeted in his chair. “She didn’t.”
I gave a dramatic gasp. “Wait! Are you talking about the lady who got killed last night?”
Dan blinked rapidly and stuffed another macaron in his mouth.
I waited for him to swallow before I spoke. “It’s still not fair, being overlooked like that.”
He gave a small shrug and his voice grew quiet. “It’s not fair maybe. But, honestly, Alexa deserved the promotion.”
I blinked, blindsided by this sudden reversal. I’d been expecting more blustering, not the quietly sad admission that Alexa was better than him at the job.
Dan clasped his hands in his lap, then changed his mind and wrapped them around his middle.
“Sure. Alexa was the more aggressive one, and that's always a plus in this trade. But she had something I could never aspire to, a real eye for quality. When it came to knowing art...” He sighed, looking wistful, and sent another macaron in his mouth. “That's just it. She was a cut above. I’ve always worked my tail off and done solid work for the gallery, but she was the real genius around here.”
He was silent for a moment, then added, almost as an afterthought. “She’ll be missed. A lot.”
Did I hear a note of genuine admiration in his voice? I stared at him, wondering how best to probe this further.
“I had no idea,” I said. “I mean, the papers just said an art curator was killed. If she was that good at her job, why would anyone want her dead?”
A silly question, but that didn't matter. All I needed was to keep him talking.
“I don’t know.” Dan’s fingers dug into his sides. “The police say she was killed the night of the private viewing we had two evenings ago. All the patrons left the gallery at a certain time, way before she was dead. But someone could’ve come back... The security camera had been turned at a weird angle so it’s impossible to tell who exactly left and when.”
The security camera? A useful piece of information, though the police no doubt already had it. But now, it was time to go for the bold move. Especially since the next to last macaron had just vanished in Dan’s mouth.
“Sounds like you really liked Alexa,” I said, then paused to take a deep breath before plunging into the deep end.
“Must’ve been difficult to work with someone you had feelings for, especially when they kept getting promoted over you. Deep down, it must've made you angry.”
There was a short pause during which Dan put down the pastry box. His face darkened and he stared at me over his spectacles as though seeing me for the first time. When he spoke, his voice had a new hardness in it that I hadn't expected in a man like him.
“Look, young lady. I don’t know who you are, or what you’re really doing here. But if you’re implying I had something to do with Alexa’s death you better take your freakin’ pastries and get out of here.”
I didn'
t need to be told twice as I scrambled to my feet.
“Sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding, I didn’t mean to offend you. My parents always tell me I shouldn’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.” I nodded at the pink box on the desk where one solitary raspberry macaron remained. “You can keep that. I hope you can accept it as an apology.”
His face didn't show any signs of softening. As I made my hasty exit, something crashed in the corridor behind me with a loud crack.
I whirled round. The man had hurled a chair after me.
It lay smashed near the wall, two of its legs broken. It must’ve missed me by mere inches.
My hands flew to my mouth as I stared. Sure, Mr. Cobbs was overworked and overstressed, but this was an extreme overreaction. My comments must’ve struck a real nerve.
A nerve that prompted Dan to reveal he had considerable strength for his small size. And a bad temper to boot. It was a heady combination, especially when you added professional jealousy to the cocktail.
Was it enough to drive him to murder?
I turned and hurried down the narrow corridor, hoping Dan wouldn’t follow me. But passing the showing room, my feet slowed down.
No one was around, and I didn't hear Dan approaching so I edged closer to the yellow tape.
Rising at the center of the large space, the giant Yggdrasil stood as a reminder of the gruesome picture Alexa had made inside the globe, now broken.
The night of the private viewing, Dan knew Marcel Bright asked Alexa to keep vigil for him. It would’ve been easy to linger behind after everyone else left. The sculpture clutched in his hand, he could’ve approached her from behind while she was blowing out the candles and hit her over the head, then stuffed the body into the installation, breaking several bones in the process...
I replayed the scene in my mind to see if it fit.
Did Dan Cobbs have what it takes to kill someone in cold blood?
