CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Haven

It had taken some coaxing, but Maggie Reardon convinced Carlos to join her for a night out. He’d spent his life in the mini-mart long enough and his nephew was more than willing to hold down the fort in his absence. Gentleman that he was, Carlos had insisted on picking her up at her front door. They arrived at The Mosaic Gallery arm in arm. What better place for the public debut of her friend Carlos and his shiny new teeth? It was reception night.

And it was Barbara Atwell’s welcome home.

The gallery rooms were packed with familiar faces as well as new ones. Some came out of loyalty, others out of curiosity, but the results were the same. Sales were flying off the walls and an air of excitement filled the rooms. The first thing that caught her eye was a large abstract in shades of white on white. There was no mistaking that the artist was Misty Waters, the rape victim to whom she’d suggested contacting The Center Against Sexual Assault. But there was something different about her painting this time. In the upper right corner was a splash of color. A washed out soft blue, but it was color. Standing next to it, the normally introverted Misty was smiling and talking, wrapped in her usual monochromatic whites but with a pale blue flower in her hair and a touch of blue eye shadow. She had taken Maggie’s advice and the counseling already showed results. She was healing, one cautious color at a time. Their eyes met and Misty mouthed the words thank you. Maggie nodded, then ushered Carlos deeper into the room, introducing him to the artists and pointing out their works. He immediately focused on a bold collage. Calypso, the belly-dancing artist, shimmied her way across the room towards them smelling a potential sale. She wiggled up to them, standing out from the crowd in her usual gypsy costume of brightly clashing colors and clanking jewelry.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Yes, they are the happy colors of Mexico at fiesta time,” said Carlos.

The compliment made her shine. But as usual, her attention quickly faltered.

“Misty gave me the bird,” she said to Maggie.

“Well, that was certainly impolite,” said a voice from behind them.

“No, she didn’t flip me the bird. She gave me the bird. Baretta.”

“That foul-mouthed cockatoo?”

Maggie smelled the aroma of Blue Waltz perfume mixed with the faintest hint of stale marijuana smoke and knew who’d be standing there when she turned around.

“We really need to get together for another cup of tea,” said the elderly and beautiful Mary Rose, “but first you must introduce me to your friend.”

Carlos and Mary Rose couldn’t take their eyes off each other. The old romance magnets were pulling full force. She’d never thought of Carlos that way before. Never considered him in any light other than father and friend. It was looking as if the life his nephew had so subtly suggested was ready to burst into bloom.

“I thought you and Rocco were an item,” said Mary Rose.

“We are. Carlos and I are friends.”

“Good news in more ways than one.”

Carlos flashed his best smile.

“Where have you been hiding him, my dear? My God, he’s as handsome and dashing as the actor Gilbert Roland.”

Maggie left them to flirt with each other.

She congratulated Rocco and a glowing Adrian on their success. They stood next to the statuesque Barbara Atwell with her perfectly-coifed blonde hair as she held court with the well-wishers anxious to welcome her back. Her smile was as elegant as her classic dress. She leaned over and hugged Adrian, happy to be home where she belonged. After Montana’s suicide and putting together the tragic puzzle surrounding the corpse at the Desert Museum, Maggie was ready for a happy ending.

And this was it.

A Tucson cop and a group of eccentric artists made for strange bedfellows, yet The Mosaic Gallery had become her haven. Were it not for the unfortunate circumstance that had first brought her here, she would never have met Rocco La Crosse. Or Mary Rose. Or any of the other people that she now considered friends. Amazing how a dead man on a gallery floor could serve as a positive catalyst. And Barbara’s expression made it clear she held no animosity toward her for doing her job.

In the end, everything worked out for the best.

She wove her way through the crowd, studying the new art on the walls and shelves. Bold colors, muted tones, abstracts and landscapes. And naughty metal statues by Rocco La Crosse. There was jewelry, there were ceramics, and there was warmth mixed with an aura of optimism. It was breathing life and beauty and shining light onto a world that sometimes slipped into the darkness.

It was a place filled with hope.

Mary Rose walked up to her.

“It’s a good show.”

“It’s perfect,” said Maggie.

“Your friend is delicious. And such a gentleman. Too good of a gentleman, really.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“I asked him over for a cup of tea,” she said with a wink, “but he said that he was your escort and obligated to drive you home.”

From across the room Maggie could see Carlos looking at Mary Rose with the adoration of a leading man in a romantic movie. Or a cocker spaniel puppy. She couldn’t help but smile. One was never too old for love and tonight there was plenty to go around.

“Tell your Romeo I’ll find another way home,” she said, then added: “and don’t be corrupting him with those funny cigarettes.”

“Oh, I’ll take good care of him, my dear. I promise.”

Detective Maggie Reardon walked over to Rocco and whispered in his ear.

“Your place or mine?” he asked.

“They say one always returns to the scene of the crime.”

“Then my place it is.”