Chapter 2

 

The two men worked their way around the small gallery, pausing at each painting, occasionally sharing a word or two.

Watching them, Amy stepped closer to Michael. “Business customers are so different from tourists.”

He shuffled his feet into a wider stance, but he still looked like a soldier standing inspection. “They make decisions faster.”

What did these two see, besides the art? Did they notice the wide, aqua-stained floorboards? The pebbled glass ice-water decanter? The subtle splash of the tabletop fountain?

Michael had designed his home gallery to complement the theme of his paintings. More than one tourist, after a glance at the paintings, had approached Amy with a whispered “Which way is the washroom?”

The trickling water likely didn’t penetrate the Middle Eastern men’s focus. Reza Zarin bought paintings each year for his string of hotels. Today was the first time Amy had met his son, Ross. The younger man’s dress was less formal than his father’s suit and tie, but both wore an air of understated elegance. Business must be going well.

The office phone rang.

“I’ll get it.” Amy walked into the adjoining room. Yes, that cut off Michael’s escape, but he needed to practice his sales skills. She picked up the handset from the desk. “Stratton Gallery, Amy Silver speaking. How may I help you?”

“Amy, this is Luc Renaud.”

As if she knew other Lucs. As if she’d forget Gilles’ father. “Could I phone you back? We have clients in the gallery, and Michael will want me to do up the paperwork.”

“If you answered your own phone earlier, I wouldn’t be using the business one.” He sounded weary.

Amy sighed. The man had never recovered from his son’s death. She should have kept in better touch. Except his wife hated her. “I’m sorry, Luc. I promise to call you as soon as these gentlemen leave.”

“You should never have done that interview.”

“What — oh, is it in today’s paper? He didn’t mention you or your family, did he? I asked him not to.”

“Honore is beside herself. Sabotage indeed! That reporter’s words are hurtful.”

Amy stepped around the desk and sank into the chair. “Luc, I need to—”

“Hurtful and untrue. It was an accident. Let it rest. Why bring back all our pain?”

Her forehead dropped into her free palm. “I’ll read what he wrote, and talk to you later. Of course it was an accident. They checked out the wreckage, and they know what to look for. Now, I do have to go.” Amy disconnected the call before he could start another round.

Troy’s visit had seemed so innocent, if his suspicions a bit far-fetched. Now she’d added to the grief of a kind man and given his wife another log for her fire. At least Amy didn’t see Honore anymore.

Amy pushed up from the chair and grabbed her cane on the way back to the gallery. She tried not to use it in front of the tourists, who were prone to pity and questions. The Zarins wouldn’t gush over her. If they even noticed.

They stood in the middle of the room now, turning to face each painting in turn. Some customers liked to see the effect from a distance as well as up close. A few more quiet words, then they stepped toward Michael. He met them half way.

As Amy approached, Zarin Sr. pointed out a peaceful duck scene and a heron, stick-legs in shallow water, head poised to strike its prey. “I wish the ducks in a more rustic frame, like the one beside them.”

Michael studied the two frames, then nodded. “I don’t have another frame that size, but I can have it for you by next week. Monday’s Labour Day, but we’ll be open.”

Zarin nodded. “My son will collect both paintings on Monday, then. He will settle the paperwork now.”

Ross Zarin matched his pace to Amy’s as she headed for the office. “You were in the crash with Gilles Renaud?”

Luc’s words welled up in Amy’s thoughts and she held back a sigh. “You read the interview too?”

Ross glanced at his father and Michael, still in conversation. “My father showed me the article today in the paper. That’s how I knew you. Gilles and I had mutual friends. I’m sorry for your loss. And your injury.” He passed Amy a business card. “If you ever need to talk about it with someone outside of the grieving process, please call me. Even just to have a change of scenery or a coffee. I understand grief.”

“Thank you.” What else could she say? No amount of sympathy could change the past.

Ross lowered his voice. “I was surprised by the sabotage angle.”

“Me too. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Sabotage implies enemies. Gilles had rivals, and — forgive me — ex-girlfriends, but I only heard good things about him. I wouldn’t worry about enemies.”

 

~~~

 

Amy brought up the Halifax Herald website on the office computer. She didn’t do this often enough to know her way around the site, and Troy’s story would hardly be a main headline. Eventually she found it. “Plane Crash Survivor’s Second Chance at Life.” Gag. Complete with photo.

She skimmed the article. No mention of the Renaud family. Good. And Troy had included the name of Michael’s studio as part of her new life. If this gave Michael’s business a bit of free advertising, she could live with the sabotage foolishness. Where was that part, anyway?

Troy had included it as an almost throwaway line near the end. “Experts investigating the recent crash of a light aircraft in Maryland confirmed that certain methods of sabotage are virtually untraceable. Given Gilles Renaud’s skill as a pilot and the clear flying conditions at the time of the crash that claimed his life and maimed his fiancée, one can’t help but wonder if this was truly a random accident.”

Maimed. Amy bristled at the word. Troy knew better than that. He must be playing the sympathy angle. She rubbed her hip. The surgeon and therapists had done a good job, and as long as she kept up with her exercises, it only hurt if she over-taxed herself.

Michael poked his head in the door. “Is Aunt Bay back yet?”

“Nope.”

“Great. I’ll see if she can pick up more wood stain for that frame. I forgot we were almost out of that shade.”

Amy glanced at the time. “Catch her fast. She’ll want to get out of the city before rush hour.”

Michael nodded. He pulled his phone from his pocket and headed back the way he’d come.

Phone. Amy should call Luc back. Try to calm him. She pushed back her chair and reached for her cane. Better listen to his messages first, and see if anyone else had called.

Before leaving the gallery, she checked the parking lot. No customers arriving. If someone came while she was upstairs, she’d hear the gallery door chime.

Amy climbed the stairs and went into her bedroom. Her phone lay charging on the bureau. She picked it up. Two voice messages from Luc, an hour apart. He was upset, but demanding an apology would only reinforce the suspicion of sabotage. Would a man used to getting his own way understand that sometimes the best solution was to do nothing?

No other phone messages. Just a text from three days ago. Honestly, she had to remember to check this thing nightly. Except it had been weeks since the last message. This was from Gilles’ sister Emilie. Weekend plans? Call me?

Amy set her phone back on the bureau and headed downstairs. She’d call from the office instead of using her pay-as-you-go cell.

Back in the office, she brought up Emilie’s number on the land-line and hit talk.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Emilie, it’s Amy. I just got your text.”

“Don’t you ever check your phone?”

Amy closed the newspaper web page and checked the studio email. Two new things to delete, and one to read after her call. “I kept putting it down around the studio and losing it, so I leave it in my room. It’s not like I’m in high demand.”

“Amy, it’s been long enough. You need to start living again. Find a new guy. You know Gilles wouldn’t want you to turn into a hermit.”

“Not everyone’s a social butterfly like you two. I’m more of a wallflower.”

Emilie’s snort sounded a lot like her brother. “You’re not even in the garden. You’re hiding on a shelf somewhere.”

“I’m not hiding! I have a job, friends… I’m happy.” When was the last time Amy’d gone out anywhere that wasn’t related to studio business?

“A job. With Michael. Friends. Michael and his aunt. It’s like he’s keeping you hostage or something.”

Amy twisted her ponytail around the fingers of her free hand. “He’s just protective.”

Emilie’s suggestion was even crazier than Troy’s sabotage theory. Which Amy was not going to think about. Gilles had no enemies, so it couldn’t be true.

Could it?