Thirty-Three

Although Jack informed me that he had already questioned Fred Beauchamp yesterday regarding Silvia’s murder, and that Fred’s statement hadn’t set off any alarm bells, the discovery of the portrait demanded another visit. Jack was also curious about Silvia’s ledger. Peter hadn’t thought to bring it. Tay suggested they all go back to the inn and see what else they could dig up. It was a strategic move on her part, leaving me free to jump into the passenger seat of Jack’s police vehicle. Oddly enough, he didn’t complain.

Fred lived a little further north on the peninsula, near the quaint town of Ellison Bay. It was going to be at least a twenty-minute drive, and, since it had been a good long while since I’d spent any amount of time in a car with Jack, I was inexplicably nervous. I blamed it on the new understanding between us, that and the knowledge that Jack had liked me long before I ever realized it. Because of our easy friendship, conversation had never been lacking or forced. However, an unnatural silence had settled over the car, one we were both painfully aware of. We were heading north on Route 42 when Jack pulled his attention from the road and smiled at me.

“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for coming along. I know it’s not normal police procedure, driving a civilian to a suspect’s house and all, but you’re hardly an uninterested party. You’ve done some good work, Whit, but I’m going to ask you to let me handle Fred. Okay?”

“Of course,” I said, having every intention of doing so. “Unless he’s confessing, I’ll just stand in the background and keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Excellent.” He grinned. “Are you okay with some music while we drive?” As Jack spoke he pressed a button on the SUV’s touch screen, sending Mumford & Sons humming and thumping through the car speakers. “I know we’ve known each other a long time, but it’s just dawned on me how much we don’t know about each other. For instance, I can’t listen to country music. Mumford’s more my style.” This was punctuated with a thumbs-up and a sly wink. “And, full disclosure, I’m mildly addicted to video games.”

That much I already knew. I gave him a noncommittal nod. “Well, for the record,” I said, playing along, “I also have a soft spot for Mumford & Sons.” Which wasn’t a lie. I liked a lot of other music as well, but there was no need to go into that now. “Also, and I hope this isn’t a deal breaker for you, but I find video games pointless.”

Jack feigned a look of surprise as well as a mild seizure. He brought a hand over his heart.

I placed a finger on his gaping jaw and turned his head back to the road. “Thankfully,” I began, “I’m a firm believer that everybody has to have their hobbies. You enjoy gaming, and, full disclosure, I’m mildly addicted to online shopping. So many adorable things out there and all of it at my fingertips! I also share a surprising number of pointless things on social media.”

“Urgh. Sounds boring, and expensive.” He chanced a look my way.

“Well, I don’t really have the money or time to pursue my shopping addiction, so no need to worry about that just yet. My main focus, and I think you’ll agree with me here, is to find Silvia’s murderer. We could just have that between us for now.”

“Yeah. Okay,” he said. “It’s not very romantic, but it’s probably a good deal more than most relationships have these days.”

It wasn’t long before Jack turned down a gravel drive, marked by a large sign that read Beauchamp’s Pottery Studio. A moment later a rustic log cabin came into view. It was a charming little building, with a wide covered porch and a handful of overflowing flower boxes. Wildflowers filled the landscape requirements, somehow looking nearly perfect against the dark brown building. I was particularly fond of the giant wagon wheel casually propped against the front porch but thought Silvia might have found it too kitschy. This humble potter’s studio was a far cry from a penthouse apartment on Chicago’s Gold Coast.

As Jack parked I was pleased to see that Fred had other customers. There were a handful of cars in the parking lot, which had to bring a smile to any potter’s face. I hoped he was selling a lot of pottery, because the painting Jack was about to show him might cause him to snap. And in a shop full of breakables, that might get messy.

A bell tinkled as we opened the screen door. Inside, the building was larger than I expected, lined with rows and rows of shelves, each one showcasing a handcrafted, beautifully glazed piece of pottery thrown on Fred’s wheel. I was impressed and recalled seeing similar pieces in Tay’s shop. I vaguely remembered her telling me that she carried Fred’s pottery. As customers browsed the shelves, Jack, carrying the covered painting, walked over to the girl behind the register. There he inquired after Fred.

“He’s in the back,” she said and pointed to the studio door.

As Jack and I approached the studio we heard voices coming from inside, indicating that Fred wasn’t alone. There was a discussion going on, one that stopped the moment Jack knocked and opened the door.

Three heads turned, all familiar and none of them surprised.

“Officer MacLaren, Whitney,” Alexa Livingstone greeted us. She glanced at the painting in Jack’s arms and smiled. Although she looked the same as she had earlier, in Cheery Pickers, her aging Ralph Lauren style appeared out of place in Fred’s cluttered, mud-splattered workshop. She was standing between the potter and a younger man I recognized as Jeffery the knot-artist. “I drove out here to let Fred know that his pottery was flying off the shelves at your friend’s store. I thought I’d see if he wanted me to bring more over to her shop. When I saw that Jeffery was here helping Fred, I decided to tell them the exciting news.”

“Right,” Fred said, taking off his clay-splattered apron. He folded it neatly and placed it on his worktable. “We understand that there’s been a break in the case and that Ms. Bloom is no longer a suspect.”

Alexa looked at me and bestowed a kind smile. “I feel just terrible,” she continued, “having blamed you because the deed was done in your inn. As you can imagine, we’re all still shocked by the murder.”

“Still in mourning,” Fred added. “A talent like Silvia’s only comes along once in a lifetime.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jack said, setting the covered painting against the leg of the worktable. “She could have been kinder. Talent’s no excuse for rotten behavior. In my opinion, the woman’s left more casualties in her wake than masterpieces. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. Fred, I’d like to have a word with you.”

Fred, looking puzzled, forced a smile. “Sure. But I have nothing to hide. I told you everything yesterday. Silvia and I were on great terms. My friends can stay if they wish.”

“Fred, really.” Alexa placed a gentle hand on his sleeve. “We’ll go and leave you and Officer MacLaren to talk.”

“No,” he said. “By all means, stay. MacLaren’s brought a painting. It’s mine, isn’t it?” Jack nodded. “You were all invited to the unveiling yesterday. I closed the shop. I made drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I never dreamed Silvia wouldn’t be alive to host my event.” He turned to his friends. “I wanted the unveiling to be special, but now that Silvia’s gone it hardly matters.” He pointed to the black cloth. “I never imagined that this would be one of the last paintings she’d ever do. It’s her parting gift to me.” He turned to Alexa. “You were lucky to have her present you with yours. I only wish she was here to present me with mine.”

Not quite knowing what to say to that, Alexa smiled gently and nodded.

“I told you yesterday, MacLaren,” Fred continued, “that Silvia and I were good friends. But we were more than that. I’m not afraid to let the world know that we were lovers.”

At that bold announcement, my heart dropped into my stomach. Jack, unsmiling as well, stood back and cautioned me to do the same as Fred lifted the painting. We watched as he gingerly set it on a long counter that ran the length of the back wall. The potter turned to his friends.

“I’m glad you brought this, MacLaren.”

“Fred, I have to ask …” Jack looked at the potter with caution. “Have you seen this painting before?”

“What?” He looked shocked. “Of course not. I sat for this last year. As much as I begged her to let me see it, Silvia just laughed and told me to be patient. She didn’t know then that she wouldn’t be alive to deliver it to me herself.” A sullen look crossed the potter’s face.

“Fred, I’m cautioning you,” Jack said. “You might want to view this in private.”

“Nonsense.” Fred was staring at the black cloth as if the painter herself stood before him. The poor man had no idea what he was in for. With a grin and a flourish, he yanked the cloth away, revealing Silvia’s parting gift.

Alexa was the first to gasp. The shock on her face couldn’t have been manufactured.

Jeffery let out a supplicating “Dude” and stared open-mouthed.

Fred, poor Fred, stumbled backward and crashed into his potter’s wheel. “What the hell kind of sick joke is this, MacLaren?” he demanded. “That’s not what I sat for! That’s not Silvia’s work! She would never …”

Fred, although in a full state of shock and denial, still had eyes, and they were telling him what his brain was unwilling to comprehend. While he backed away, Alexa and Jeffery came forward to study the exquisitely painted mockery. All three artists appeared to have arrived at the same conclusion at the same time, but it was Alexa who spoke first.

“It’s her work, Fred. There are very few artists in the world who could replicate her style, and I highly doubt Officer MacLaren is one of them. This is an original.” She looked at her friend with palpable empathy. “Only I don’t understand why she did this.”

Silence enveloped the studio as all eyes turned to the painting. My eyes were on the arts council members as they struggled to understand its meaning, or why the artist had targeted Fred for such a humiliation. Their behavior told me that the painting was unusual. Alexa and Jeffery were certainly aghast by it, but I had to wonder again if Fred hadn’t caught wind of it beforehand. After all, it didn’t require a membership in the Actors’ Guild to master a look of shock and anger. My eyes wandered the room, soaking up every detail until they settled on something very odd indeed. That’s when Fred threw back his head and started laughing.

His laughter was loud and slightly unsteady. “The bitch,” he cried, still laughing so hard that his eyes were wet with tears. “The cruel old bitch. She meant to humiliate me in front of all my friends. But the joke’s on you, sweetheart. God love her,” he said, sobering up enough to stare at Alexa and Jeffery. “So haughty, so full of herself, so talented, so cruel, and yet it makes me love her even more.” And then Fred Beauchamp slumped onto his stool and burst into tears.