I set Slinky Dog on the front seat of the BMW then crossed the parking lot connecting the Entronque building to the lower outdoor mall area that made up the rest of the sprawling Navajo Junction complex. I’d decided to go see Mrs Higgins before heading back to the café. I wanted to confirm what Blake Sherwood had said, and what Markie had said, too, while I was at it.
I checked the big map attached to a lamp post in the center of the parking lot while the September sun washed over me. The hand-carved and painted map – that’s what you get when you order a map from a bunch of artist types – included a directory of every shop in Navajo Junction.
Her swanky gallery, Higgins Fine Art, was located in the old train station, redone now to house fine art galleries and high-end boutiques. You probably needed to be a millionaire just to get in the place. I hoped they didn’t notice my lack of credentials. The vaulted ceilings of the grandiose station were accented with rows of stained-glass windows along the edges. Builders believed in making things look sharp back in the eighteen hundreds.
Mrs Higgins was posing near a large canvas hung on the wall in the middle of her gallery. The focal point of the painting was a bent and twisted ancient juniper that stood at the edge of a cliff as if struggling to maintain its balance, against a blazing red rock background. The artist’s keen eye and a bold hand had captured every detail vividly.
I smelled perfume and money. The gallery itself oozed quiet luxury. So did the elderly couple she was speaking to – a silver-haired gentleman in light brown trousers and a tweed jacket, despite the heat, and a small woman with wispy blonde hair who lightly held his left arm. She wore a more appropriate sleeveless navy-blue linen-stripe shift with a thin red belt.
I nodded to Mrs Higgins who looked quite slinky herself in a black A-line frock with a jewel neck. She returned my look with a blink, never losing step with her clients. I walked over to a fat leather-bound portfolio spread open on a pale gray marble plinth beside a pecan wood desk.
It was a catalog of the gallery’s work. I began flipping through it. Not that I could afford to buy any art but it didn’t hurt to look. The only original art I owned was taped up on my fridge and created by my two nephews when they were still in elementary school.
The portfolio was divided alphabetically by artist name. I spotted a number of photographs of pieces by Blake Sherwood. The woman was no slouch when it came to painting. Toward the back of the book I came to a section headed with Lisa Willoughby’s name. She wasn’t bad but she was no Rembrandt. Lisa Willoughby’s subject matter included landscapes, cakes – no surprise, and men – again, no surprise. After that there was nothing but empty plastic sleeves.
I heard the sound of gentle chimes. Mrs Higgins came around to her desk. Her customers were gone.
‘No sale?’ I said. ‘Too bad.’
‘We’ll see.’ Samantha Higgins flashed a business card from her customers and placed it in a neat Rolodex atop her desk. ‘Not everyone wants to spend twenty thousand dollars without thinking it over.’ She smiled. ‘It may take a day or two but I believe they’ll be back.’
‘Did you say twenty thousand?’
Mrs Higgins nodded. ‘It’s called Among the Red Rocks, by a local artist, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ I repeated, my mouth drying up. Twenty thousand dollars. I could buy a ton of real red rocks for that amount of cash. A whole dump truck full, I’d bet. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘They’ve got money.’ She smiled knowingly.
My brow went up. ‘How can you tell?’ I mean, they didn’t look like bums or anything but that didn’t mean they had twenty grand to drop on a picture of a tree and some rocks.
‘Oh, I can tell.’ Her eyes sparkled with confidence. She settled into her chair and adjusted her scarf. ‘So what can I do for you, Ms Miller?’ She waved her arms around the store. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in buying something? For your home or your place of business, perhaps?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t suppose so, no.’ Not without robbing a bank first.
She leaned in, folding her hands under her chin. ‘Are you certain? I have a piece or two here that would look simply delightful in your café. Trust me, they could really add a certain ambience …’ she waved her right hand in a circle, ‘… a charm, if you will, to your place.’
I shook my head again. ‘Trust me, I couldn’t begin to afford any of these pieces. Any one of them probably costs more than I spent building out my entire café.’
Mrs Higgins snickered with amusement. She motioned for me to sit and I did. ‘So why are you here?’
I cleared my throat. ‘I was speaking with Blake Sherwood this morning.’
Mrs Higgins smiled benevolently. ‘I know Ms Sherwood.’ She pointed to a large framed canvas on the wall over my shoulder. ‘That’s one of her pieces there.’
I nodded. I recognized the style instantly. It was a masterful rendition of Montezuma’s Castle, one of the area’s most famous Sinagua Indian ruins. The national monument is located in the Verde Valley about fifty miles south of Flagstaff. ‘Nice.’ I turned back to Mrs Higgins. ‘She mentioned that you were at her studio the morning of Lisa’s murder.’
Mrs Higgins sighed. ‘Yes, earlier.’ That jibed with what the artist had told me. ‘Isn’t it sad?’ She shivered. ‘And kind of spooky.’
Her hands clasped a gold ballpoint pen. ‘I mean, one minute a person is alive and the next …’ Her shoulders rose and fell. ‘What if the killer had seen me? I could have been next.’ Her hand went to her throat.
I agreed and said so. ‘So you didn’t see or hear anything unusual either?’
She appeared to give this some thought. ‘Not a thing, I’m afraid. I wish I could help. I told the police the same thing.’
‘I understand.’ I nodded toward the portfolio. ‘I see Lisa was a client of yours.’
Mrs Higgins nodded somberly. ‘She was going to be. We were just pulling together some pieces for an exhibition. Who knew she’d be lying dead beneath some frivolous bird cake a few days later.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted Lisa dead? Did she confide in you at all?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Mrs Higgins stood as the chimes announced another visitor to the gallery. ‘Be right with you!’ she called, then turned to me. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Was Lisa any good?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Her paintings. Could she get twenty thousand dollars?’
Mrs Higgins chuckled softly. ‘Oh, dear, no. A few thousand, perhaps. More once she became established – if she caught on.’ Mrs Higgins patted me on the shoulder. ‘The art-buying public is a fickle and undecipherable one.’
Tell me about it.
‘One more thing!’ I called, my feet already out the door.
‘Yes?’ Mrs Higgins stood beside a young man whose shirt bore the Ferrari logo. I feared he was about to part with some money. But that was his problem.
‘Did you speak to Markie Gravelle the morning of—’ I hesitated. No point wrecking a potential sale and a big one at that. ‘You know.’
Mrs Higgins ran a finely sculpted fingernail along the underside of her chin. ‘Yes, you were there, remember?’
I bobbed my head. ‘I mean before.’
She thought another moment. Apparently Mrs Higgins’ wheels didn’t turn too quickly. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier about Sabrina’s cake.’
That was all I needed to know.
And I was back to square one.