So what had I accomplished so far? As I stared out the kitchen window, trying to wake up, I thought about the past couple of days.
Antoine Rousseau, a man who knew Stacey Jordan in only a professional capacity, had an airtight alibi for the night she was killed. The man who initially found her body had passed a polygraph test. I agreed with Nathan that Mike DeGroot and his girlfriend had just been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Besides, the guy had no connection to Stacey at all, which almost always meant that he had no reason to murder her. The list of workers who’d been going in and out of the mansion for weeks was long. Could Stacey have been having an affair with one of them? Lust has always been one of the most common motives for murder. Guess it was time to start going down the list of carpenters, painters, and gardeners Lizzie had given me. But would I be wasting my time?
Randolph Pierce still headed my list of suspects. He’d known Stacey and was seen fighting with her by several people. That day in the gallery, I’d gotten the feeling he hated her. What could she have possibly done to get him so angry? She’d told me that she could write a book about the Pierce family secrets. Was she blackmailing Randolph?
“TGIF!” Chloe startled me as she blew into the room. Her tattoo had washed off, finally, and she stood in front of me all smiles. Spinning around, she held her arms open. “How do you like my new outfit, Grandma? This is the exact same blouse that was on the cover of last month’s Seventeen. Isn’t it hashtag amazing?”
Her blouse was a white eyelet tunic with red ribbons woven through the long sleeves. She looked like a flower child from the sixties. In fact, I think I’d worn something very similar when I was her age. I smiled remembering how very cool I felt back then. Love beads around my neck, my hair in a perfect flip. That was all it took when I was thirteen to make my world groovy.
“Totally amazing. You look so pretty, Chloe.”
For the moment, she was happy with herself—and me. After a few more spins, she gave me a quick kiss. “See ya later, Grandma.” And she ran off to get her jacket.
Cameron came next. Slowly walking into the room, he held his art project in front of him like it was made of glass instead of wood and metal. Then, ever so carefully, he laid it down on the table in front of me.
“What do you think?” he asked. His expression was so serious; I knew my opinion meant a lot to him.
“From what I can see, it’s great, Cam. Is the glue dry so I can pick it up and get a closer look?”
“Sure. You can study it while I get dressed.” As he walked away from me, I watched his focus go from the blocks to his feet. Each step was so measured, his head down, causing him to almost bump into his mother as he left the room.
“We’ll be out of your hair soon,” Lizzie said, adjusting her earring. “How are things coming with the murder investigation? Randolph’s going out of his mind in jail. Do you have any good news I can pass on? Anything?”
I thought a moment. Letting him know that another suspect had been proven innocent wouldn’t exactly make him jump for joy. “Tell him that I’m working with a crew of experts and we’ll let him know the minute we come up with something.” I smiled and drank my coffee.
“Guess that’s all he can ask. Oh, by the way, there’s a walkathon tomorrow, if you want to come walk . . . or watch. It’s a fund raiser for autistic research. I’m on the committee; my office is one of the sponsors. Should be a beautiful day for it.”
“I like walking; it’s one of my favorite modes of transportation,” I joked. “Can I let you know later?”
“Sure,” she said. “And don’t worry about the kids or dinner tonight. I usually work a half day on Fridays and we eat leftovers or sandwiches when we get home. No lessons for the kids, no running around for me. Nice and simple.”
“I might go see Nathan; I’ll let you know.”
Lizzie came closer to make eye contact. “I’m really glad you’re here, Mother. Have I told you that enough? And thanks for helping with this case. Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed with the kids and work. There’s always so much to do I feel like I can’t . . .”
“Hey,” I stood up and smoothed down her collar, “stop looking at the big picture—it’s way too scary. And listen to your mother when she tells you that everything you’re afraid will happen very rarely does. And things you wish for come even more rarely. It’s the unexpected you can always count on to mess with you. And you can’t prepare for the unknown, so what’s the point of worrying?”
Lizzie hugged me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Right in the middle of our mother-daughter moment, Lizzie’s cell phone went off. “Sorry,” she said, “I gotta get that.”
“I know.”
Alone again, I sat back down to study Cam’s art.
Five blocks had been arranged horizontally and six diagonally. They’d all been glued into an ebony frame. The effect was interesting, and I picked up the piece to touch each square.
Right in the middle was a block that had been painted a glossy silver and then brushed over lightly with black. Next to it was an alphabet block that looked brand new. The letter C embossed in the center was painted dark blue. A pink one, scuffed and old, was next to it, making their juxtaposition seem familiar to me in some strange way. There was a chipped block painted red next to one with a duck sticker on top of gold. As I held the piece and turned it, I felt as though I could almost see into Cam’s creative soul. All the shapes and colors represented emotions he was unable to express in a conventional way. The end result was glorious and unique, just like he was.
I put the frame down and got up to scrounge for some breakfast. Cam ran back into the kitchen.
“Mom says she’ll call you; she’s out in the car with Chloe.” He picked up his project, turning it to what he intended to be right side up.
“Your art is awesome, Cam. I love it. No doubt you’ll get an A.”
“Will you be here when I get home?” he asked. “’Cause Lewis’s mom said she’d take us to a movie—if she has time. But I’ll see you after that. Okay?”
“I’m sticking around; we’ve got plenty of time. Not to worry.” I hugged him.
He smiled and started toward the door. Then, unexpectedly, he turned around and held the frame up over his head. “Maybe later we can hang this on the wall, next to your painting, Grammy.”
“Our own little art gallery. That would be perfect.”
As Cam stood there, in that light, at that distance, I suddenly saw the blocks differently. Now I knew why they had seemed familiar and yet unsettling. They had all reminded me of Jacqueline Bannister-Pierce.
The silver triggered the memory of her tattered old gown. Her wrinkled face was represented by the scuffed block. Pink was the silly little girl color she’d worn the last time I’d seen her. The blocks—a child’s toy, painted and set in a frame trying to appear sophisticated—were just like Jackie. The old and new blocks next to each other were like Jackie and her boy toy, side by side. And the blocks themselves were pieces in a mosaic like the stones in her bracelet—a modern bracelet hanging on her sagging wrist. I must have filed the image away in my subconscious. Now as I thought about it, that sleek jeweled cuff seemed out of place.