Caramel Canvas

by Jessica Beck

  “What happened?” I asked just before I wrapped a little pasta onto my fork.

  “She realized that she would never be better than pretty good, and she gave it up,” Angelica said, “but I’ve heard stories that ever since she opened Artie’s, she’s been more intense than ever. No wonder her business is failing.”

  “She might have mentioned something about having trouble keeping things afloat, but who isn’t these days,” I said. “The place was practically empty when we were there earlier.”

  “I don’t doubt it, and I understand she can be abrupt with her customers at times.”

  “Not all of them,” Grace said with a grin after finishing off some of her chicken alfredo.

  “You must be talking about Chris Langer,” Angelica said from the stove. “Christopho. Hah. When he asked me to call him that the first time, I couldn’t keep from grinning for a week. I’ve known him since he was a boy. Does Kerry still have feelings for him? Doesn’t she realize that his heart has always belonged to Annabeth?”

  “You seem to know a lot about the art world around here,” I said.

  “What can I say? I have a soft spot for artistic souls,” she admitted. “I’ve even been known to supply their meals on the house occasionally.”

  That was news to me. I wasn’t sure Angelica gave anyone else her friends-and-family discount but us, but then again, why wouldn’t she, if it meant that much to her? “So, what are your thoughts?” I asked her as I polished off another bite of linguini.

  “You’re asking me? You two must be really desperate,” she said with a grin.

  “We’re just getting started,” I admitted, “but any insights you have would be greatly appreciated as well as this wonderful food.”

  “You both should know that you’re welcome to anything and everything I have,” Angelica said in a grand gesture.

  “How about now?” Sophia asked plaintively, this time not daring to do more than stick her head into the kitchen.

  Angelica glanced at me, and I nodded that we were finished with the confidential part of our conversation. “Very well,” she told her youngest daughter. “By the way, your sauce is fine.”

  “I’ll see about that myself,” Sophia said as she took the wooden spoon from her mother and nudged her to one side.

  “Do you see how they treat me in my own kitchen?” Angelica asked us with a smile.

  “You love it, and you know it,” her youngest said. After tasting a bit of it with a clean spoon, she said, “It’s perfect.”

  “There was never any doubt in my mind,” Angelica said.

  We offered to pay, but we were refused, which didn’t really surprise me, given that kitchen meals were considered family time and not customer time. “I’ll walk you both out,” Angelica said, and after we said our good-byes to the daughters working at the moment, she hesitated at the door. “Suzanne, let me think about your question. May I call you later?”

  “Any time, day or night,” I said, “though if you can do it before seven at night, that would be great.”

  Angelica smiled as she patted my cheeks. “I’m well aware of your schedule. It’s so good to have you back, my dear.”

  “It’s good to be back, even given the circumstances,” I said.

  After she was gone, I turned to Grace. “Shall we head back to April Springs now?”

  “Not just yet,” Grace said.

  “We’re not going to go speak with Kerry Minter again, are we?” I asked her. “I think we’ve grilled her quite enough for one day.”

  “Perhaps, but she’s not the only person of interest in Union Square. I’d like a chance to speak with the great Christopho again before we head back, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I’m game if you are,” I said. “I’m not sure where to find him, though.”

  “I’ve got that covered. As soon as I found out he was involved in this case, I’ve been following him on social media, and he just posted that he’s working at his studio.”

  “That’s kind of dangerous telling people where he is at all times, isn’t it?”

  “You’d think so, but there are a quite a few people who seem to revel in it,” Grace said.

  “Then let’s go see him,” I agreed.

  The artist’s studio was in a section of Union Square I hadn’t had much opportunity to visit before. Once Momma had insisted I do the art crawl with her there, a special occasion where artists of all types opened their doors to the public in an effort to show off their wares, and hopefully sell something along the way. I’d bought a hook from a blacksmith and a small vase from a potter, but Momma had outdone herself, spending more that evening than I did on food for six months. If we’d seen Christopho’s studio, I didn’t remember it, but the area was certainly familiar. It had once housed several foundries and warehouses, and studios had been carved out of the spaces, no doubt because it was the cheapest rent the starving artists could find, but it gave the area an artsy feel that was undeniable. The short stretch of studios looked as though it belonged somewhere else, with interesting and colorful murals everywhere, sculptures created from car parts and old appliances on display, and other sundry items that would appeal to even the most bohemian of tastes.

  To my surprise, even though it was chilly outside, Christopho’s studio door was wide open, propped open by a distinctive rock the size of a baseball that had bits of quartz sticking out at the oddest angles from it. The artist was inside, painting in a short-sleeved shirt and jeans covered by a smock. The easel on the canvas was a mass of bright colors and shapes, and if there was a single recognizable thing represented there, I couldn’t spot it. It struck me how different his working conditions were than Annabeth’s. Whereas her workspace had been a mess with materials spread out everywhere, evidently Christopho had to work in a nearly sterile environment, with everything clearly having its own place.

  The heat from the place hit me the second we walked in.

  “Sorry about the temperature. The communal boiler for this building is on the fritz, and we can’t seem to get it regulated,” he explained. “Galen’s studio is upstairs, so she has to keep the windows open even in the dead of winter. She left ten minutes ago. She said it was too hot to work, and I don’t doubt it. What brings you two by? Are you still nosing around in Annabeth’s business?”

  “I just started following you on social media,” Grace said, which was strictly true. “We wanted to talk to you about something that happened at Artie’s.”

  “That scene with Kerry Minter earlier? She’s had a crush on me forever. Normally I don’t mind, but lately she’s been pushing me a bit too hard, and I thought it was time to put a stop to it. Frankly, it’s a little embarrassing.”

  “That’s because your heart belonged to Annabeth, didn’t it?” I asked him.

  He looked pained for a moment before he was able to hide it. “We’ve already talked about this, ladies. Sure, the two of us were close, but we were just friends. I thought I made that clear to you earlier. Now, if you’re not here shopping for art, I’m not sure that there’s anything else for us to discuss.”

  Ignoring his dismissal, I said, “We understand that some pretty heavy boxes just about crushed Annabeth at the art supply store, and that you were one of the people there at the time.”

  Christopho put his brush down. “I’m surprised Kerry told you about it since she could have been liable if anything had actually happened to Annabeth.”

  “What makes you think Kerry was the one who told us?” Grace asked.

  “Annabeth said something?” he asked. “I was the first one to get to her. She was a little shaken, but she wasn’t hurt. Galen popped out of nowhere a second after I did, and we both managed to calm her down before Kerry showed up.”

  “I thought she and Galen were blood enemies,” I said.

  “Most of that was just for show,” Christop
ho said. “Sure, she was jealous of Annabeth’s success, but deep down, we were all pulling for each other.”

  I had a hard time believing that, and I wasn’t at all sure if the man himself believed it. Was it possible that he was protecting Galen for some reason?

  “So, you didn’t have anything to do with those boxes falling, nor did you see who might have. Is that your story?” Grace asked him pointedly.

  “It’s not a story, it happens to be the truth,” he said strongly. There was a fire in his gaze that chilled me a bit. Though he was trying to project the sensitive artist vibe with us, it was obvious that there was a great deal of passion in the man as well.

  “Okay, if you say so,” Grace said, clearly conceding nothing. “Why Christopho, anyway? Angelica DeAngelis told us you were always Chris growing up. It’s a bit pretentious, isn’t it?”

  What was Grace doing? Was she intentionally trying to get a rise out of the man? If so, she failed to do it this time, though I saw him set his teeth on edge for a moment before he regained control of his temper. “Angelica can call me whatever she wants,” he said. “The woman is a saint. As to the name, Chris Langer could be your butcher, but Christopho is clearly an artist.” He paused a moment and almost seemed to smile. I hadn’t thought the artist was all that handsome until that moment, but there was something about his grin that made him endearing and desirable, at least to a certain type of woman, I supposed. I never cared for the bad-boy bohemian myself, at least not after my brief, tumultuous marriage to Max. When that had been finished, I’d vowed to avoid artistic types at all costs from there on out, and Jake was the antithesis of that, something that I cherished in him. The artist continued, “If it helps sell paintings, I’m all for it. Was that it? If so, I need to get back to work.” I studied the painting, trying to think of something to say about it, but failing miserably. He must have caught my anxiety. “I know what I do isn’t to everyone’s taste, but I try to capture emotions, not images that could be reproduced with the camera on a cell phone.”

  “And what emotion does that portray?” I asked as I looked at the swirling masses of dark colors.

  “Anger, sadness, and most importantly, loss,” he said softly as he stared at his own work.

  “So, it’s about Annabeth,” Grace said softly. “Do I see a touch of regret in there as well?”

  He stared straight ahead so long that I thought he might have forgotten us, but after a long and awkward silence, he finally pulled himself out of it. “I’ve got to get back to work now. Good-bye.”

  After we left his studio, I said, “Wow, you were on fire in there.”

  “I’m sorry, but I had to push him,” Grace explained.

  “I’m not criticizing. That’s why we’re such a good team. I tend to worry about offending people, but you are absolutely reckless at times,” I said. “Don’t get me wrong; that’s a good thing.”

  “Did you see the way he reacted when I goaded him? The man might seem all airy and light on the outside, but there’s a dark temper running under the surface. Not a lot of women could resist that kind of dangerous magnetism.”

  “Evidently Annabeth and I were in the minority, then,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Given different circumstances, I could see having a tryst with him,” she admitted. “That painting he’s working on is almost like a confession, isn’t it?”

  I hadn’t seen it that way at all. “What do you mean?”

  “If, and at this point I’m saying that all it could be considered is speculation, if he killed Annabeth in a fit of passion, his soul is clearly tortured because of it.”

  I looked at her steadily as we got back into my Jeep. “Did you really see all of that on the canvas? It just looked like one big mess to me.”

  “I don’t know why, but for some reason it spoke to me,” she admitted. “He’s tortured about her death. There’s no doubt about that. But why? Was it from the loss of a love he never attained, or was there something more sinister on the canvas?”

  “I have no earthly idea,” I admitted. “What did you think about his story about the boxes collapsing at the art supply shop?”

  “Wow, he just about lost it when I implied that he might have had something to do with it. I’m not sure if he was responsible or not, but he surely didn’t want to talk about it.”

  As we started back to April Springs, I asked her, “Where did that statement of his that they were all pulling for each other come from?”

  “I have no idea, but I don’t believe it any more than he does. Maybe he was trying to muddy the waters,” Grace asked.

  “Why would he want to do that, though? If he was the one who killed Annabeth, wouldn’t he want us to believe that someone else might have done it instead?”

  “I honestly don’t know what’s going on in that man’s mind,” Grace admitted.

  A few minutes later, I said, “There’s another possibility. What if he didn’t realize that we’re investigating what happened and not just some of Annabeth’s friends who miss her? Do you think it’s possible that our suspects don’t know what we’re doing?”

  “I’m not sure, but if they don’t know by now, they will soon enough.”

  “Why is that?” I asked her.

  “Because we’ve just about gone beyond what normal people would do, given the situation. They are going to start to suspect that there’s a reason we’re hanging around asking these probing questions all of a sudden.”

  “And what happens then?”

  “We have to be careful, and at the same time, we need to keep pushing them.”

  “I agree,” I said. “I could be wrong, but I have a strong hunch that we’ve already spoken with Annabeth’s killer today. I’m just not sure which one it was.”

  “Knowing would certainly make the rest of this easier,” Grace said with a nod. “Do you think I pushed Christopho a little bit too hard?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have seen the anger in him. Because of that, I can see him lashing out at Annabeth for rejecting him, can’t you?”

  “Too vividly in my mind,” Grace agreed. “Okay, we have a strong motive for Christopho. If Galen killed Annabeth, it may or may not have been jealousy. If Bonnie Small killed her, it could have been because she was leaving her and causing an insurrection on her way out.”

  “If it was Martin Lancaster, it might have been strictly for a profit on artwork he thought he’d secured, which seems a bit mercenary to me.”

  “Unless there is more to their story,” Grace agreed. “What about Kerry?”

  “That one’s fairly easy. She’s clearly in love with Christopho, but he wanted only Annabeth. With her competition out of the way, she might have thought she was in position to step in and take Annabeth’s place.”

  “Wow, it’s kind of unnerving how many different reasons folks might have wanted to see our friend dead, isn’t it?” Grace asked.

  “Yes, it is. So, where do we go from here?” I asked after stifling a yawn.

  “Suzanne, you’ve had a big day, and we both have a lot to think about. Let’s go home and try to forget about it all for tonight,” she suggested. “Do you have any interest in a sleepover?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but all I want to do is curl up in front of my fireplace, read a bit, and fall asleep. Today has been a huge day, and tomorrow might be even busier.”

  “I’ll accept a rain check, then,” Grace said. “Just drop me off at the house on your way.”

  “It may be my bedtime, but I know it’s much too early for you. What are you going to do?”

  “I may be on vacation, but that doesn’t mean I can just ignore the paperwork that seems to pile up in my job more and more every day. I’ll slog through some of that. Nothing is more certain to knock me out than that.”

  “You still love what you do though, right?” I as
ked her.

  “Nearly as much as you love Donut Hearts,” she said with a smile.

  Chapter 14

  When I walked through the front door of the cottage, my cell phone started to ring. If it was Jake, it was perfect timing.

  Too bad it wasn’t.

  “Hello, Suzanne. It’s Alyssa.”

  “Hi, Alyssa. What’s up? I know I said I was going to check in with you, but I thought Grace and I would come by tomorrow after I finish up at the donut shop. Would that be okay?” I understood her desire for updates on our progress, but I was flat worn out, and I didn’t really want to rehash everything we’d learned that afternoon without getting a chance to mull it all over or, better yet, talk to Jake about it. I’d been going back and forth about telling him my suspicions about what had really happened to Annabeth, but I had a hunch that the second I heard his voice, I was going to spill it all.

  “That’s not why I’m phoning you,” Alyssa said. “Oh, my goodness! I just realized the time! You must go to work at the donut shop awfully early.”

  “I get there at three a.m. every day,” I explained.

  “I’m so sorry. Please forget I even called. This can wait,” she said as she started to hang up.

  “Hold on. I have a few minutes before I have to go to bed.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” I replied. It was clear that she wasn’t all that eager to tell me what was on her mind, which was just one more reason to press her while she was interested in talking to me about whatever it was that was clearly troubling her.

  “I thought of something you might misinterpret if you discover it first yourself, and I wanted to get out in front of it, so I could explain it to you,” she said.

  This sounded bad. What on earth was the woman talking about? “Go on. I’m listening,” I said.

  “Annabeth loaned me a rather large sum of money a few days before she died,” Alyssa said as the words seemed to gush out of her.