I didn’t sleep very well. I dreamed I saw Wendall lying at the gallery door and all the members of the Art Guild stood around his body, laughing and pointing. Then they pointed at each other, exclaiming, “You did it! You did it!” until the chorus of shrill voices woke me. I shivered and snuggled closer to Jerry, who made his half-asleep grumbling sound and put his arm around me. The dream slid into a pageant where Honor Perkins was crowned Queen of the Con Artists, and I snatched the crown off her head and ran so fast she couldn’t catch me. Satisfied, I managed a few more hours’ rest before morning.
At breakfast, I thanked Jerry for holding off on another verse of “Camp Lakenwood.”
He handed me my coffee. “From all that thrashing around last night, I didn’t figure you’d be in the mood.”
“Thrashing’s all done. I’m ready to get started on this case.”
Cast members of Oklahoma called Jerry and asked if he could meet them at the theater to work on their songs. He also had a job interview today, but said he could catch a ride to Southern Foods, so I dropped him off at the Baker Auditorium. Before going to Larissa’s, I stopped by the crime scene. The gallery was closed, encircled with yellow police tape. I knew the police would’ve gone over the backyard and gathered every scrap of evidence, but I wanted to have a look for myself.
There were large footprints in the dirt and the sparse grass was flattened where Wendall’s body had fallen. The trash bags were still where Nell had left them. I could see the prints of her shoes and mine and Jerry’s and some other prints that may or may not have been Larissa’s. The rest of the yard was grass out to a fence of faded boards. This yard was bare. I figured any stray pieces of trash had been picked up by the crime scene team.
I didn’t want to cross the police tape at the gallery’s back door, so I walked around to the other side of the fence. A small parking lot backed up to the rear entrances of a shoe store and a gift shop. Beside piles of cardboard boxes there were large plastic trash cans and a few broken and discarded display racks. The trash cans were empty. The murderer could have easily parked his or her car in this lot, gone around the fence, killed Wendall, and driven away. But how did the murderer know Wendall would come to the back of the gallery around eight o’clock—unless he or she called him?
I went into the gift shop and asked the owner if she had seen any strange cars in the back lot yesterday evening.
“There was just one,” she said. “I left a little after six yesterday, and there was my car and Jan’s and a dark blue Honda. I figured it was someone at the gallery.”
“Jan runs the shoe store?”
“Yes, Jan and I usually walk out together. Celosia’s pretty safe, but no sense taking any chances. It’s kind of isolated back there. And just this morning I heard that somebody attacked Wendall Clarke on the other side of the fence. That doesn’t make me feel very good.”
“You’re right to be cautious. Did you see anyone get in the Honda?”
“No.”
“Had you noticed any strange cars this week?”
She thought for a few moments. “I guess that was the only one. Some people asked us if they could park there yesterday afternoon when they had that big meeting at the gallery. Of course we said yes. But when Jan and I are gone, anybody could come around and park there.”
I thanked her for her help and started out when something caught my eye. On the counter next to the cash register was a glass dish filled with odds and ends, a pair of sunglasses, a key ring, some small toys, a child’s sock, and a gold button.
“Is this your lost and found department?” I asked.
“Yes, I find things everywhere.”
“I lost a button just like this off my jacket. Do you mind if I take it and see if it’s the same one?”
She handed the button to me. “No problem. I found it out back yesterday when I left.”
“Thank you very much.” I put the button in my pocket. It wasn’t off my jacket, but I bet any amount of money it was off Flora’s fancy pink suit jacket. And why would she be wandering around a back parking lot? And who was driving the dark blue Honda?
***
Larissa Norton’s house was almost as elegant as Wendall Clarke’s in River Ridge, but Larissa’s was located on a quiet shady street closer to town.
She did not want to speak to me. She stood in her front doorway, arms folded. At first, I thought her arms were gripped tight out of anger. A closer look revealed she was trying to keep from shaking.
“I don’t know why you’re here, Madeline.”
“Nell and I saw you leave the gallery last night. I want to hear your side of the story.”
“No, you don’t. Like everyone else in this town, you think I killed Wendall.”
I didn’t miss that her voice caught on his name. “Did you?”
I thought her face couldn’t get any stonier, but it did. “You can’t talk to me like this! You have no idea what it’s like. Why are you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”
“Believe it or not, I want to help you.” She made a disbelieving sound. “Do you want to go to jail? Do you want to be accused of killing your ex-husband and spend the rest of your life in jail, or possibly get the death penalty?”
“No!”
“Then if you didn’t kill Wendall, why not tell me exactly what happened?” She didn’t answer, and for a moment, I thought she was going to go back into her house. “Larissa, I didn’t grow up in Celosia. I didn’t go to Celosia High. I don’t have any preconceived notions about you or your relationship with Wendall. I’ve been hired to find out who murdered him, and if you have information that will help bring that person to justice, then why not tell me?”
She stared at me as if I didn’t understand what had happened. “He’s dead, Madeline. Wendall’s dead! You don’t know what that means.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you. I want to know what it means. You’re obviously very upset, and I sympathize. At one time, he was your husband. You must have loved him very much.”
She took a deep breath and calmed down. “Yes. Yes, I did. At one time.”
“Then would you please help me find his killer?”
She still kept her arms folded tight. “Wendall called me and said he wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know! I found him lying on the ground.”
“Did he specifically want to meet you in the back of the gallery?”
“He said come around to the back. He wanted to talk in private. You’d better believe I wanted to talk to him! I wanted to know the real reason he decided to come back to Celosia. Opening an art gallery was a flimsy excuse. He could have his gallery anywhere. He had to know how much it would hurt me to see him with Flora. I couldn’t believe he hated me so.” She shuddered. “I could tell he was dead. I couldn’t comprehend that. I suppose I was in shock. I didn’t want to be there with him. That must have been when you saw me leave.”
“Did you see anyone else? Another car? Did you hear anything?”
“No, all I wanted to do was get away. And of course the police found my fingerprints on that piece of wood. I’d taken those stupid pictures apart.”
“Bea Ricter’s pictures? When was this?”
“Earlier that day. After the meeting, four-thirty, maybe. Do you know she had the nerve to approach me at the afternoon meeting and ask me what I thought about Wendall’s new wife? You heard how she was in the meeting. So when everyone was gone, I accidentally on purpose knocked over the stack of junk she’d hauled into the gallery and broke her frames.”
“You destroyed another artist’s work.”
“You can’t call Bea Ricter an artist. She’s an idiot. She doesn’t deserve to have anything in any gallery.”
“You’re mad at the whole world, aren’t you?”
She took another breath. “I suppose it looks that way.”
“I know you probably won’t believe me,” I said, “but my first husband and I went through some rocky times before we decided to call it quits. It wasn’t easy, and I still wonder about what I did wrong. But you can’t let this eat you up.”
She gave me a curious look. “You’ve been divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Someone left you? I find that hard to believe.”
“Bill decided to marry someone else.”
“Quietly? Discreetly?”
“Yes. We came to an amicable agreement.”
“At least your husband didn’t have the gall to flaunt his new relationship. I found out the hard way.” She held out her hands. “I’d always been ashamed of my large hands. But they were perfect for reaching difficult chords and playing intricate runs, so I told myself to stop being foolish about them.” Suddenly, words rushed out. “Then one day, I found a box in Wendall’s desk. Inside was the most beautiful pair of white lace gloves. For several wonderful moments, I thought they were a surprise gift for me, until I realized they were too small for these ugly fingers of mine. That started my suspicions. Why would he buy lace gloves? He didn’t have any young nieces or cousins to give them to. So that night, I followed him. He drove to another part of town and a young blonde came out of her house and got in his car.” She paused and tightened her lips as if holding back a curse or possibly a sob. “I followed them to a motel. I didn’t need to see anything else. The next day I confronted him. He confessed to the affair. I divorced him as fast as I could and took him for every penny I was entitled to. But I didn’t really want his money. It was never about his money.”
“Did you know who Flora was?”
“I’d never seen her before. I found out who she was, and I let her husband know what she was doing. She was married to Stan Bailey then, and he acted as if he didn’t care what she did. He wanted to get rid of her. He knew what kind of woman she was.” She fixed me with anguished eyes. “I hated Wendall for cheating on me. I hated him for bringing that woman to town and parading her around like some sort of prize. I hated him for setting up that gallery and making everyone love him. But I didn’t kill him. Yes, I panicked and I ran, but only because I knew what would happen. I knew I’d be accused of his murder.”
“And it happened anyway.”
“Somebody knew they could get away with murder because I’d be the perfect suspect, the scorned ex-wife with a grudge.”
But somebody else might have a grudge, I thought.
***
Bea’s house was huddled in the woods outside of town, a small dreary structure incongruously shaped like a Swiss chalet. Her car was a sad-looking gray Volkswagen Beetle. Pieces of wood lay scattered on the front yard and stacked in heaps beside the house. Bea also had a herd of fake deer and a wishing well. One interesting feature was that the well and all the bushes were circled with bricks. I took a closer look. Most of the bricks were wedged in the dirt. I could tell they hadn’t been moved in a long time. But in a row of bricks surrounding a boxwood it looked as if one brick had been removed and the others rearranged to fill the hole. The bricks were old with smooth edges. I’d have to ask Chief Brenner if I could have a look at the brick that had smashed the gallery window.
Something sparkled from a pile of leaves. I reached down and picked up a plastic bag filled with bits of silver. I shook a few out into my hand. The pieces were little ornate circles, the kind of spacers used in making bracelets and necklaces. Did Bea make jewelry, too? I put the bag in my pocket and went up the few steps to the house. A jumble of wind chimes on the porch made it hazardous to reach the front door. Bea opened the door on my first knock. She glared at me suspiciously.
“What do you want?” She stepped out on the narrow porch and shut the door behind her. “You get off my property right now.”
“Okay,” I said. “I was just admiring all your bricks.”
Bea’s little eyes darted for just a second to the bricks lining her bushes. “And what the hell’s so special about my bricks?”
“I think one of them smashed the gallery window.”
“And you think I threw it?”
“Possibly the same person took their anger a step further and killed Wendall. Whoever it was used a piece of one of your picture frames.”
She was so furious, I thought she might pick up a piece of wood and smack me. “You’ve got two seconds to explain what you’re talking about.”
“Imagine for a minute, if you can, that I’m on your side. Tell me why it wasn’t you.”
She hadn’t expected that and took a moment to readjust her thinking. “Chief Brenner’s already talked to me. I came by the gallery and left some of my work for that Sasha woman to see. I can’t help it if a crazy person tore up the frame and killed Wendall Clarke.”
“But you were angry with him.”
“Damn right! Everybody in town’s angry with him.”
“Even though he built this wonderful gallery and was giving everyone an opportunity to show their work?”
“By hiring some woman from Parkland who isn’t even an American? Sasha? All that about making an appointment and everyone would have a turn? That’s just bull. That was just his way of trying to smooth things over.”
I guess Bea thought Sasha was Russian. Following that line of reasoning, I’d be French. “You made an appointment, didn’t you? If you thought you didn’t have a chance, why bother?”
Bea fixed me with her fierce little eyes. “I was willing to play Wendall’s game. So why would I kill him? As much as I hated it, he was going to give me that show. I was going to make it happen. But I wasn’t going to murder anybody.”
“When did you drop off your work?”
“I brought it with me to the afternoon meeting. Sasha said she’d get back to me. Where is she, by the way? Did she go back to Parkland? Maybe she did it. Maybe she wanted the gallery for herself.”
I doubted that Sasha Gregory wanted the Celosia Gallery when she could return to the more prestigious gallery in Parkland. “I’ll ask her.”
“Ask that new wife of Wendall’s, too.”
“Mrs. Clarke has hired me to find her husband’s murderer.”
Bea gave a snort. “I knew you weren’t here to talk about the broken window.”
“What do you know about the window, Ms. Ricter?”
“Oh, shut up about the window! They got another window up. The gallery will close, and some other shop will go in that space.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “The members of the Art Guild could work together and find some way to run the gallery. Isn’t that what all of you wanted in the first place?”
“Some people did. It wasn’t what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
“None of your business! Go talk to Larissa Norton. She’s suspect number one, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Were you here at home last night?”
“I was playing cards with Ginger Alverez at her house.”
Since Bea’s house was surrounded by wood, I wondered if Ginger’s was full of ping-pong balls. “So you settled your differences?”
“Ha! I still think she’s a moron, but she plays a mean hand of canasta. We played till about eleven. You can call her. Now go away.”
She started to turn, and I took out the plastic bag. “Is this yours?”
She snatched the bag out of my hands. “Where did you find that?”
“In the yard. You must have dropped it.”
She didn’t say yes, or thank you. “Go away!” She went inside and shut the door. She didn’t slam it, but I could tell she wanted to. And before the door closed, I caught a glimpse of more shiny things, lots of them, all colors, as if Bea had her own magical cave of wonders inside her run-down little home. Did she have her own private jewelry store in there? I hadn’t seen her wearing any jewelry, and her artwork was as drab as mud, so she wasn’t using jewels to make it sparkle.
What was she hiding?
***
Ginger Alverez confirmed that she and Bea had had dinner at the Chicken House at six, went back to Ginger’s, and played cards until ten forty-five. Flora wasn’t home. Chief Brenner told me the brick his officers had found was an old brick with smooth edges. When I mentioned Bea Ricter had these bricks lining her shrubs, he said many people in Celosia had the same.
“When the old high school was torn down, the bricks were available to anyone who wanted them,” he said. “Right now, we’re concentrating on the murder investigation, so anything you discover pertaining to that would be appreciated.”
He spoke politely, but I knew what he was really saying was: Don’t withhold any important information, or you’ll be in trouble.
“Bea Ricter was with Ginger Alverez last night until ten forty-five,” I said. “She left her work at the gallery around two yesterday afternoon. Larissa Norton accidentally broke some of those picture frames after Bea left. She told me Wendall called her around eight o’clock and asked her to come to the gallery.”
“Thank you for confirming this information.”
But I didn’t say anything about the gold button. Not yet.
***
Back in my car, I called the Silver Gallery in Parkland and asked to speak with Sasha Gregory.
“Such an awful thing to happen!” she said. “Sasha can’t imagine who would do this.”
I still couldn’t imagine why she liked to refer to herself as “Sasha” all the time. “When was the last time you saw Wendall?”
“Sasha left the gallery around four. Sasha had scheduled appointments for all the local artists and showed him my calendar. He approved the list, and Sasha came back to Parkland.”
“Was there anyone who wanted to show his or her work and was turned down?”
“No, no one. Not at this stage of the process. Sasha will see everyone’s work. Then Wendall and Sasha will—Sasha supposes now she will determine whose work is appropriate. That is, if the gallery stays open. Do you know? Have you heard anything?”
“I don’t know the future of the gallery. Did anyone argue with Wendall? Did you notice if anyone left angry?”
“Sasha must confess her head was down practically the whole time, writing down appointments. Sasha didn’t hear any arguments. When everyone had gone, Sasha said good-bye to Wendall and left. He said good-bye and thank you. That’s all.”
***
I was anxious to share my findings with Jerry. When I called, he was on his way home from his interview.
“Unless you’d rather meet at Burger World.”
The thought of a cheeseburger and fries made me slightly nauseous. “I’ll see you at home, then.”
On my way, I drove by the medical park and hovered for a while outside the doctor’s office. I could easily make an appointment and find out for sure if I was pregnant. Well, what if you are? I asked myself. Let’s try the emotional test. What if the answer is no? How would you feel? I knew I’d feel relieved, but I was surprised to feel a bit disappointed. And what if the answer is yes? My feelings were still ambiguous, but somewhere in the mix of emotions was the slightest thrill of a challenge. It would be a challenge to raise a child, run my agency, and find time to paint. I was up for this challenge, wasn’t I? It wasn’t as if I’d have to look after the baby all by myself. Bill wouldn’t have been any help, but Jerry was ready and willing to do whatever I needed him to do.
My hand was on the door when my old caution took over.
No.
Not yet.