Faceless

by Alexandra Ivy

  “To my dad’s house.”

  “Why?”

  “There’re boxes of my mom’s old belongings in the basement.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  She glanced away, her jaw so tense it was a wonder her teeth didn’t shatter from the pressure.

  “Anything.”

  * * *

  Wynter was silent on the drive into Larkin. It wasn’t just from the latest shock. She was still trying to process the thought that Drake Shelton was dead. No, she was psyching herself for the inevitable argument with her dad.

  When she was younger she’d begged to be allowed to open the boxes that were filled with her mother’s old clothes, painting supplies, picture albums, and her private letters. She’d ached for the tangible connection to the woman who’d been stolen from her when she’d needed her the most.

  But her dad had firmly refused her request, keeping them locked away in a closet. First he claimed she was too young, and later he gave vague excuses about having lost the key. It had been painfully obvious he didn’t want her to disturb the items.

  She’d always told herself that it was her dad’s grief that made him so unreasonable. And that he considered the basement closet a shrine to protect his dead wife’s possessions. Of course he didn’t want anyone pawing through them, not even his own daughter.

  As they drove through the nearly empty streets of Larkin, however, Wynter wasn’t nearly so convinced. She didn’t doubt that her dad had loved her mom. Or even that he was still mourning her. But their relationship hadn’t been the stuff of legends. And she doubted he considered the closet a shrine.

  So why hadn’t he wanted her going through the boxes?

  It was a question she intended to answer before the day was over.

  She clung to her fierce decision as they pulled into the driveway of the fifties-style ranch house. The place looked exactly as it had for as long as Wynter could remember. The one-time yellow siding had faded to a pale cream and the shutters had peeled until they were bare wood. A porch had been added to the front, but it sagged in the middle and the swing was broken. Even the roof was in need of repair.

  Her dad had many fine qualities. He was intelligent, impressively well-read, a successful professor, and a father who’d loved her to the best of his ability. But he had zero interest in his home. Just one of many bones of contention between him and her grandpa. She couldn’t remember how many times Sander would stop by with his toolbox to fix one thing or another. He’d complained bitterly about the incompetence of his son, but he’d done what was necessary to keep things running.

  Lost in her thoughts, it took Wynter a second to realize that her dad’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She didn’t bother looking in the garage. It had been overrun with containers of books for years. Only a miraculous intervention could have cleared out the space enough for a vehicle.

  So where was he at six o’clock on a Saturday night?

  Wynter considered the possibilities. He could be out for dinner. Or visiting his father in the hospital. Both reasonable guesses, but she knew they were wrong.

  If her dad wasn’t home, then he was at work. And since the car was gone, he must intend to stay a while. The only time he drove was when he was going to be late getting home.

  Noah turned to glance toward her. “I don’t suppose you want to go back to the cabin?”

  Wynter shook her head. “No, let’s try the college.”

  Noah didn’t point out that her mother’s boxes had been in the closet for twenty-five years and would no doubt be there for another few days. Instead he reversed out of the driveway and drove the short distance to the college, pulling into the guest parking lot.

  Wynter glanced around, surprised by the number of vehicles. There weren’t any evening classes on Saturday, and the frat and sorority houses were on the other side of campus. So why were so many people there?

  It wasn’t until they were walking toward the admin building and Wynter heard the unmistakable sound of a string quartet that she realized why there was so many visitors.

  “There’s an art show tonight,” she said, turning to follow the flagstone pathway that cut across the quad.

  A scattering of students were dotted around the open lawn, tossing a Frisbee in the light of the lamps that lined the walkway. And a few ambitious joggers breezed past them, but overall it was a quiet evening.

  Reaching the brownstone building that was too blocky and squat to claim architectural beauty, she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. Instantly they were surrounded by the sounds of Mozart that filled the air, luring them down the hallway to the glass conservatory at the far end.

  “Why are we interested in an art show?” Noah demanded, walking next to her with a faint frown.

  “There’s a chance that’s where my dad is,” she told him. “Besides, I want to talk to Dr. Peyton. I’m sure he’s in charge of the show.”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “I’ve heard from more than one person he had an ongoing affair with my mom.” She shrugged. “Plus, he received money for his summer art camp in my mom’s will. He would have as much reason to want her dead as anyone else.”

  They halted at the double glass doors, both peering in at the conservatory that had been converted into an art gallery. It was traditional, with sleek walls that were covered with various paintings and pedestals to hold the smaller statues and pottery. In the very center of the room was a circular staircase that led to a loft. And at the back was a dais where the quartet were playing. The lighting was subdued and carpeting covered the floor to stifle the sound of footsteps.

  Wynter wrinkled her nose as she caught sight of the guests drifting from one exhibit to another. They weren’t there to enjoy the artwork; they were there to see and be seen. Carrying fluted glasses of champagne, they moved from one small group to another, performing a graceful dance as they laughed and chitchatted with the pampered ease of the very wealthy.

  Obviously this wasn’t a regular student exhibit, but one of the fancy receptions that were held to attract money from the elite. Endowments were the lifeblood of a small college.

  Glancing down, she considered her loose sweatshirt and jeans. Noah was dressed just casually in a flannel shirt and jeans. Plus his face was still cut and bruised from his near-death experience.

  Not exactly suitable for a black-tie event, but hopefully they would be in and out before anyone could notice.

  “Let’s go,” she muttered, pulling open one of the glass doors. It wasn’t the best time to try and talk to Dr. Peyton, but she was afraid she would lose her nerve if she gave herself time to think about it.

  Besides, if they cornered him when they were surrounded by potential donors to the art department, he couldn’t throw them out.

  A cool, dry air draped around her like a shroud as they entered the gallery. The temperature and humidity were precisely controlled. She briskly passed the uniformed staff who sent her a forbidding frown, heading toward the large, silver-haired man wearing a burgundy jacket and white frilled shirt. The head of the art department was always dressed in a flamboyant style, as if he possessed a need to attract attention.

  Wynter had never taken a class with the man, but she’d had friends who’d told her that his teaching style was equally flamboyant.

  Intent on her objective, Wynter barely noticed her path was taking her directly past the spiral staircase. Not until she caught sight of it out of the corner of her eye. Her feet stumbled, and she would have fallen if Noah hadn’t reached out to grasp her arm.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “I haven’t been here for years.”

  Noah frowned. “Does it hold a special memory for you?”

  She nodded toward the nearby stairs. “The loft displays several of my mom’s paintings. I used to come here and stare at them for hours.”

  “Do you want to go up now?”

  A shockingly f
ierce yearning tugged at Wynter’s heart. Suddenly she was sixteen again, curled on the soft settee in the shadowed loft as she allowed her mom’s creations to fill the void inside her. The brilliant splotches of color, the scent of paint, the hushed silence ... It’d been the only tonic that could soothe the raw grief that would threaten to overwhelm her.

  She slowly shook her head. “No. I want to talk to Dr. Peyton.”

  Noah reached to grasp her hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. “Okay.”

  Together they continued through the crowd that milled around the gallery, reaching the professor just as he was turning away from a group of elegant women who were giggling, as if he’d made some naughty parting joke.

  Wynter moved to stand directly in his path. The man grudgingly halted, his expression tightening with annoyance as he gazed down at her.

  “If you want to discuss a class, you need to make an appointment during my office hours,” he rebuked her in low tones.

  Up close Wynter could see the self-indulgent bloat of the man’s face and the wrinkles that marred his tanned skin. Once he’d no doubt been a handsome man with bold features and brown eyes so dark they appeared to be black. She also assumed he possessed some sort of charm that would have bewitched her mom.

  Or maybe the attraction had been that he was the complete opposite of her dad.

  “I’m not a student,” she corrected him. “At least not anymore.”

  He allowed his impatient gaze to skim over her face. Then without warning he jerked, his face paling beneath his fake tan. “Laurel?” He stared down at her, as if he’d seen a ghost. Then, with a blink of his eyes, he released a slow, shaky breath. “No. You must be Laurel’s daughter. Wynter, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  Lifting his glass, the professor took a deep drink of his champagne. The sight of Wynter had clearly rattled him. Why? Because she looked so much like his old lover? Or because he had something to hide?

  “I haven’t seen you for years,” he muttered.

  Wynter shrugged. “I don’t come to the college that often since I graduated.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Would you like something to drink?” Dr. Peyton started to raise his hand toward a passing waiter.

  “No, thanks.”

  The older man lowered his arm and regarded her with a wary curiosity. “If you aren’t a student anymore, why are you here? Did you come to see your mother’s art collection?”

  Wynter hadn’t considered how she intended to get the information she wanted from her mom’s former lover. She didn’t even know what information she wanted. But she was tired of waiting and hoping the nightmare would end. This man had obviously been a part of her mom’s life. If he knew what happened to her, then she intended to find out.

  “No.” She closely watched his pudgy face. Although the air was cool, there was a sheen of sweat on his brow and his eyes were bloodshot. How much champagne had he had? “I recently discovered that she left you money in her will.”

  He seemed confused by her words. He glanced toward Noah before returning his attention to Wynter.

  “Not to me. It was put into a scholarship fund for local high school students to attend the college’s summer art camp.” He took another drink before lifting his empty glass in a gesture of a toast. “I’ll always be grateful for her generosity.”

  The toast scraped against Wynter’s nerves. Her mom was dead, murdered by some coldhearted bastard. And now Tillie was dead. Mona was dead. And even Drake. It wasn’t a joke.

  “Yes, over the past days I’ve also learned that she was generous with more than just her money,” she said in cold tones.

  The professor stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  “The two of you were having an affair, weren’t you?”

  “That’s . . .” Dr. Peyton turned a strange shade of puce as his glass dropped from his nerveless fingers. Thankfully the thick carpet kept it from shattering. “Come with me,” he rasped, turning to lead them toward a small office at the front of the gallery.

  Wynter ignored Noah’s warning gaze as they stepped into the small space that was crammed with a meeting table and several plastic chairs. At the back were racks that held the coats of the guests. Dr. Peyton closed the door and turned to glare at them.

  “Why are you asking about my relationship with Laurel?” he snapped.

  Noah squeezed her fingers, no doubt trying to halt her reckless approach, but she was too stressed for subtlety. Not to mention the fact that it was easy to be brave when they were surrounded by a dozen guests.

  “Her death is being investigated,” she bluntly informed him, not at all bothered by the fact she wasn’t being entirely honest. So what if the officials hadn’t officially reopened the case? She was investigating it.

  Dr. Peyton grabbed the back of a chair, the harsh fluorescent lights making him look old and tired. “Why? I thought she was shot during a mugging?” His voice was unsteady. “Or maybe it was a carjacking. I know it was a random crime.”

  “That was the original theory,” Wynter agreed.

  “And now?”

  “There’s new evidence.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “That the killer was intimately connected to my mom. And that the murder was personal.” Wynter’s bold claim reverberated through the small room like a challenge. “Maybe a jilted lover.”

  The dark eyes narrowed as the professor snapped his gaze toward the door, making sure it was closed. “Exactly what are you implying?” he at last demanded, returning his attention to Wynter. “Laurel and I had ended things months before she died.”

  Noah stepped forward, deliberately blocking any easy path to Wynter. Did he fear the professor might become violent? The older man certainly looked angry enough to throw a punch. His face had gone from ashen shock to puce to a dark red with veins popping out at his temples.

  “Who ended it?” Noah demanded.

  Dr. Peyton sent Noah a furious glare. “It was by mutual consent, if you must know.”

  Wynter didn’t believe him. He was a pompous blowhard. If it’d been mutual consent, he would have claimed he was the one to end it. Which meant he’d gotten dumped.

  “That’s not what I heard,” she taunted.

  His lips pressed to a thin, sour line. “I don’t know who’s been gossiping to you, but they need to get their facts straight.”

  “They knew about the affair,” Wynter pointed out. “And that you’d managed to convince my mom to name you in her will.”

  The professor’s heavy jowls tightened, as if he intended to continue with his lie. Then he abruptly released a sharp laugh. “Laurel was never discreet. She enjoyed flaunting her affairs. And she was never faithful.” He shook his head in disgust. “Not even to me.”

  “You sound bitter,” Noah said.

  Dr. Peyton squared his shoulders, his gaze locked on Wynter. “Look. The truth is that I was attracted to Laurel. She was a beautiful woman. But it was her talent that fascinated me. I’d never met anyone with such a natural gift. I used to sit for hours and watch her paint.” His lips twisted into a tight smile. “If I’d had the tiniest fraction of her ability I would never have wasted my time teaching a bunch of uncouth barbarians who wouldn’t know a Monet from a paint-by-numbers they saw on Instagram. I would have packed my bags and headed to New York.”

  “So you envied her?” Wynter demanded.

  “Of course,” the man admitted without hesitation. “She was blessed with the sort of talent that artists only dream of. But what did she do with it? Nothing.” He clenched his jaws, his nose flaring as if he was offended by the mere thought. “It should have been shared with the world, not hidden in some cramped little loft at a second-rate college.”

  There was no missing the edge in his voice. Wynter suspected that his affair with her mom had more to do with his obsession with her artwork than his desire for her as a woman.

  “Is that why you split up?” she asked. “Because you thought she was wasting
her talent?”

  “It had nothing to do with that. We had some fun and then it was time to move on. For both of us,” he told her. “Was my pride hurt? Yeah. I’m usually the one who walks away. But once it was over we managed to become friends.”

  “Friends?” Wynter didn’t bother to hide her disbelief.

  The professor shrugged. “She was the only one in this godforsaken town who appreciated art. And she most certainly was the only one who I could call to help when I needed a teacher during summer camp.” He paused, almost as if silently willing Wynter to believe his words. “Besides, if we’d had a nasty breakup, she would never have left money for my program.”

  “She might not have had time to change her will,” Wynter countered, although a part of her was already accepting this man wasn’t the killer. She was convinced he wasn’t upset by the breakup. There was a wistful regret in the dark eyes, but he struck her as a shallow man. However angered he might have been by Laurel’s rejection, he would never go to the effort of following her to Pike to kill her.

  He was much more likely to seduce a new, younger woman and flaunt her in front of his previous lover.

  “I don’t have any information about what happened to Laurel,” Dr. Peyton snapped. “So if that’s all—”

  “Where were you the night she was killed?” Noah abruptly demanded, catching both the professor and Wynter off guard.

  Expecting a blank stare, or a defensive refusal to answer the question, Wynter was surprised when Dr. Peyton offered his alibi without hesitation.

  “I was still in my office after teaching a night class on art history.”

  Wynter arched her brows at the smooth words. “You have a good memory.”

  Dr. Peyton shook his head. “Not really. I was just leaving when the phone in the main office rang. At the time the humanities department all shared one secretary. I thought it might be . . .” His words trailed away before he waved a dismissive hand. “A friend I was supposed to meet on campus. So I answered it.”

  Wynter hid her grimace. The professor looked discomfited. Was he meeting another employee of the college? Or a student?