twenty-three

I rushed down the driveway looking for my escape, not caring that it was pouring now. The rain obscured my view and propelled me further into 1692. Running blindly through the fields, then running desperately to escape.

I should have paid more attention. I slipped and went sprawling on the sloping concrete. I felt scrapes cutting across the palm of my hand and my knee, but a bit of broken skin and blood was nothing compared to the lightning bolt of pain that shot through my left ankle.

I had salves at home that would help. Now I just had to get there. I stood and limped toward my truck. With each passing step, a bigger stab of pain pulsed through my ankle.

I dropped my keys as I attempted to unlock the door of my truck. I finally got the door open, but it was a fruitless effort. I knew I couldn’t drive. The truck was a stick shift, and the old kind of manual transmission that required a lot of force. I needed my left foot. I closed my eyes and tried to think how to get out of there, but I couldn’t stop wondering about Isabella. If she was guilty of the crime as I now suspected, that would give her a good reason to accuse me of the crime, to turn suspicion away from herself.

I’d been assuming it was Isabella who had pushed Detective Vega to look into Logan’s suicide as murder—but what if it was the reverse? If Isabella’s plan to have her husband’s death written off as the suicide of a temperamental artist had been ruined by the detective’s suspicions because Logan’s death was similar to other murders, Isabella would need a scapegoat, and I had offered myself up as the perfect person to blame. I was new in town, without an established past, ran an online business, and had Logan’s phoenix pendant.

How did the painting of Nicolas fit in? Had it truly been sent away for authentication?

I sat in the bucket seat gripping the steering wheel. Rain streamed down the car windows. I didn’t want to stay on the Magnus property any longer than necessary, but I couldn’t drive. On the incline of the hill, I realized it might work to ease off the brake and coast down to the street. From there I could call someone to come and get me.

I kept my 1942 Chevy truck in good shape, and as close to its original condition as possible. But in Portland, modern windshield wipers were one thing I’d invested in. After a few more deep breaths, I started the engine and turned on the wipers.

And screamed.

A handsome man stood in front of the large green hood of the truck. He held an oversize black umbrella in his hand, which kept him dry. He walked up to the driver’s-side door and knocked on the window. The knuckles of his hand were swollen with what looked like arthritis. My fear evaporated as I thought about which salve might help him.

“I’m sorry to have frightened you,” he said with an English accent as I rolled down the window a few inches. “And I’m terribly sorry about Isabella,” he continued. “I heard her screaming and went to see what was amiss. That’s when she told me what had happened. Please forgive her. She’s grieving. I came after you and saw the nasty spill you took. I can’t leave you like this. Let me get you some ice for your injuries.”

I hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Isabella went to lie down. I promise she won’t scream at you anymore.”

It wasn’t the screaming I was worried about. With the poison on the grounds, someone else in that house was most likely a killer. But what choice did I have? Tobias and Dorian knew where I was, so they’d know where to look if something happened to me. I rolled up the squeaky window and opened the car door.

“I’m not sure I can make it back to the house.”

“Take my elbow. I’m Ward. Ward Talbot. We half-met at the gallery yesterday.”

“Zoe,” I said as I accepted his arm. “Zoe Faust.”

“Are you an artist?”

“No. Antiques dealer by day, herbalist and cook by night.”

“Shame. With your style and that name, I could sell your art in a heartbeat.”

“You’re an art dealer?”

“Your day job’s less-talented cousin.” The laugh that followed made him sound even more like an upper-class Brit. The wavy hair that fell to his shoulders was the one rebellious feature on his otherwise formal yet charming face. In the darkness of the gallery, I hadn’t gotten a good look at him.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry. Almost to the door now.”

Isabella’s daughter, Cleo, appeared in the doorway and took the umbrella from Ward. She held a bag of ice in her other hand. It was only as I stepped through the doorway that I noticed this wasn’t the Castle itself, but the smaller house off to the side where Logan had grown up.

“I apologize about Mom,” Cleo said. She was perfectly put together today, in black clothing cut at severe angles that felt incongruous with her quiet, tentative voice, like a dubbed movie gone wrong. “And it looks like I’ll need more than one bag of ice.”

“I should be well enough to get going in a few minutes,” I said as Ward helped me onto the couch. “I already texted my boyfriend to come get me.”

That didn’t get a reaction out of either of them. A good sign.

“Sorry Mom freaked you out so bad,” Cleo said.

“Isabella is an incredibly talented artist,” Ward said, “but like Logan, she’s … ” He looked at Cleo and lowered his eyes.

“It’s okay,” she said, squeezing his hand. “If you were going to say Mom isn’t especially stable, you’re right. And when she gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her. She told us you were lying to her about a portrait of your brother who passed away.”

“I came over to apologize for finding your father’s phoenix charm,” I said, “and all I did was make things worse.”

“Did you get her to show you the painting before she kicked you out?” Cleo asked.

“Wait … ” I said. “You mean you didn’t send it away for authentication?”

Cleo and Ward exchanged a glance. “Did you?” she asked Ward.

“Of course not.” He rushed from the room.

I gasped. “You mean the painting is missing?”

“Mom can be spacey,” Cleo said, “especially now. I’d better check.”

Before I could reply, she’d disappeared from the room, leaving me alone with my fear that I would never see the painting again.

While I waited for Cleo and Ward to return, I tried to ground myself by focusing on the pain of my swollen ankle. I looked around at the art that adorned the living room. Sculptures were placed among the books on the built-in bookshelves, and three six-foot paintings of birds adorned the walls, with smaller canvases between them. I didn’t recognize the pieces, but they were beautiful and fit together. The newest painting depicted roses. I could still smell the lingering scent of varnish.

One of Isabella’s sculptures had a place of honor in front of the fireplace. I wondered what animal shadow it would cast on the floor when the fire was lit. On the mantle above it was a photo of a smiling Ward and Cleo. He must have been at least twenty years older than she was, but they clearly loved each other. I could see the need for each other in their eyes.

Cleo was the first to return, with Ward a few steps behind her. She picked up a red throw pillow from a voluminous chair by the fireplace. The bright, comfy chair fit into the cozy room, which struck me as so unlike the modern interior of the main house. Ward stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, darling,” he said softly and kissed the top of her head. He stood there for a few moments, rocking back and forth, giving her the time she needed.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“My ex,” Cleo said. “Another ‘joke’ of his, I imagine.”

“Archer didn’t take our marriage well,” Ward said to me. “But this is ridiculous. We should tell the police—”

“No police.” Cleo’s shout echoed through the room.

Ward and I stared at her in stunned silence.

“Give him a chance to call me back,” Cleo continued, her voice nearly a whisper now.

“You can’t keep blaming yourself,” Ward said. “Who wouldn’t want to fight for you? But I wonder how much of his anger is ego.” Ward turned from Cleo to me. “He walks around with paint-blotched skin on purpose, so people will know he’s an artist.”

“Ward, don’t,” Cleo said.

“What? It’s true. He has red all over his fingers because it stands out the most and doesn’t make him look like he’s simply dirty, even though red rarely shows up in his paintings.”

“Archer … ” I said. The memory of the young man with paint-stained hands who’d asked if I was okay came back to me. “Is he in his twenties, with long blond hair?”

“You know him?” Cleo asked. “But you said—”

“I think I saw him at the gallery a few days ago. I didn’t know his name, but remember the paint on his hands.”

“I knew we should have gotten a better security presence,” Ward said.

“For all his faults,” Cleo said, “he’s not a thief.” She looked at her phone.

“Then why isn’t he calling you back?” Ward asked. “I’m telling you, we should call the police.”

“At least give him a few minutes,” she said.

Ward looked as if he wanted to press her, but held his tongue.

“That painting made Dad so happy,” Cleo said to me. “I was searching everywhere for a worthy fiftieth birthday present for him. He’d fallen in love with paintings that depicted alchemy and transformation, after seeing a local artist’s work last spring and buying one of her works.”

I wondered why Heather hadn’t mentioned this. But then I knew. Heather didn’t care about celebrity. She’d been giddy the first time a few of her pieces had sold, but the fame of the buyer wouldn’t have mattered to her.

“Where did you find this painting of—” I stopped myself before saying Nicolas’s name.

“An auction house. Listed as The Alchemist by an unknown painter. No provenance beyond that it had been in the California family’s care for generations. It—” Cleo broke off and answered her buzzing phone. “This isn’t funny, Archer,” she hissed. “Especially now, after what happened to Dad.”

Holding the phone, she walked into the other room. Ward followed. I heard raised voices, though I couldn’t make out what they were saying. But when the two came back into the room, the words on Cleo’s lips were clear. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like to report a stolen painting. A painting and the ownership papers that went with it.”