Nineteen
No wonder Thomas was mad. Despite the solid foundation, his house was still just a skeleton.
His argument with Andrew put him at the top of Charley’s suspect list. And the interview for the gallery’s blog gave her the perfect excuse to ask questions.
She slammed the door of the Jeep, inhaling the scents of timber and lake water and torn-up earth. Although it was early yet, the sun on her shoulders promised another blistering day ahead.
In comparison to their own busy cottage road, this part of the lake seemed untouched. The land on either side of his property untamed and wild. In the distance, the soil, swampy and studded with cattails, transitioned into open water. Iridescent green heads bobbed between lily pads — a brood of mallard ducks paddling, one after the other.
There were no neighbours, no reason for anyone else to venture down that road at all. Just a finished shed, a bare-bones house, and a camper trailer. Had Thomas chosen isolation on purpose?
Thomas sat at the picnic table, the lake behind him. Instead of facing the water, he had his back to the view. His gaze aimed her way, or maybe toward the house, as he nursed a cup of coffee. Waiting for her. Despite the shabby shirt, his carefully combed grey hair emphasized that sense of urban polish that even hours of work outdoors couldn’t dull.
He raised a hand in greeting.
A surge of adrenaline shot through her. Show time.
Charley waved back but didn’t head over, not right away. She wanted to take a look at the place first. Get a sense for the cause of so much anger.
The roof was covered, with enclosed eave overhangs, but they hadn’t started on the siding yet. Sunbeams cut angles through the framework. Some sections had been covered with plywood, but others were exposed to the elements.
She pushed her sunglasses on the top of her head.
Oh, there was work to be done. Even she saw that, and she had no idea how a house was built. There’d been some progress, but not much.
Still, there was promise. She might not know much about construction, but she knew art. And this house, when finished, would be a work of art. The careful composition worked with the landscape, not against it, following the path already created by rocks and spruce. The two-story house had character, atmosphere, and a view of the water from almost every room.
But it was the wooden shed that stood out, caught her eye. Someone had taken their time over the details. Stained the siding ochre, installed barn sash windows to let the light in. The slanted roof hinted at loft space, and the overhang shielded the door from rain and snow. Maybe a glorified toolshed or a bunkie — a single mattress might fit but barely. Everything finished down to the solid door and deadbolt. High security for a shed in an isolated place like this.
Making her way toward Thomas, she was glad she’d swiped Meghan’s boots for the visit. Tires had carved thick ruts into the ground, the churned-up earth baked solid in the heat.
“What do you think?” He raised his enamel mug at the house.
She sat on the bench across from him. “It’s got potential.”
He choked on his coffee and she grinned. “Potential,” he spluttered. “It’s damned brilliant.” He set the mug down and gestured, illustrating his point. “Clean lines. A rustic simplicity I pilfered from the Arts and Crafts movement. Vaulted windows. Open-plan spaces, exposed beams, and a semi-floating staircase leading up to the loft. See that?” He stabbed a finger at the house. “That is an architectural haven.”
“It does look inviting.” Or it would, once it had walls.
He leaned forward, eyes bright and intense. “Landscape architect Andrew Downing once said that a cottage without a porch is like a book without a title page. Strangers plunge in medias res into the house without a single word in preparation. My house will have a porch.”
“Cover art,” she murmured. She would have to work that into the blog post.
“Right.” He smiled. “An ornamental transition from outside to inside, from garden to home.” Gaze on the house, his voice softer, he added, “And that is going to be a fine home.”
And a great quote for her. “Will there be a delay before Clarkston Engineering can finish the project, now that Andrew has passed away?”
She glanced at the cramped RV parked by the water. Weeds bristled, tall as the tires.
“‘Finish the project?’“ He roared with laughter. “That’s a good one. No.” He chuckled. “I’m happy to say I’ve seen the last of that team, and good riddance to them. I figured I’d be waiting on Clarkston Engineering to finish the job until the end of my days, but Andrew’s death — may he rest in peace — finally gave me the out I needed.”
Keep it casual. Don’t react. Her heart raced. Thomas had motive. Relief rushed through her. Better him than Kayla. All she needed was the evidence. “You couldn’t terminate the contract before?”
A frown knit his brows. “Tried my best to, but everyone’s covering their asses these days — pardon my language.” As though she hadn’t heard it all before and more. “In order to terminate a construction contract, there has to be legal grounds for it. Failure to perform according to schedule seemed like a good enough reason to me, but hey, what do I know?” Anger there, still. “Andrew always did just the right amount to scrape by.” No attempt to hide the grudge, the bitterness.
“What are you going to do now?”
He took a swig of his coffee, grimaced, and upended the mug over the ground, pouring the rest onto the dandelions. “I asked Jeffrey to step in. I wasn’t sure if he’d have the time or the manpower to take the project on, but he seems confident he can do it.”
“That sounds perfect.” Too perfect.
He stood. “You didn’t come here for a lecture on architecture, and I’ve already prattled your ear off. Come on. I’ll show you the studio.” Humour caught on that last word.
He led the way to the shed. She wished he’d just gotten a portfolio from the RV and brought it to her.
The padlock glinted in his hand as he fit the key in the lock. The pins aligned with a sharp metallic click.
He pushed the door open and something rustled within. A dry scrabble of sound. Like something alive.
Pausing on the threshold, he said, “I built this myself, and faster than anything Andrew’s people got done.” Pride filled his voice. “Watertight, sturdy, and ideal for the job.” He rapped a knuckle against the wall so the wood echoed.
She followed him inside. Instead of stepping onto solid ground, something slid beneath the sole of her shoe and she caught her hand on the wall to keep her balance. She glanced down.
A sheet of paper? Awash with colour and fluid lines.
A watercolour sketch, one she recognized as a rough version of a painting hanging in the gallery.
There was something living and breathing in that shed, after all. Art.
Paper was everywhere. Spread over the table, tacked to the walls, lying on the floor, set adrift by the open door. Softly rustling. Whispering.
Charley bent to pick up the watercolour as she looked around. A ladder led up to a narrow loft filled with canvasses. Light cascaded through paneled windows, falling over an easel and the worktable lining the back wall. And the sketches. All those sketches.
Endless variations of one subject. The house.
“Well, this is it,” he said. “Organized chaos, if you can believe it. Browse. Make yourself at home.”
She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone. “Mind if I take some photos?”
He shrugged. “So long as I give the final okay on the ones you use in the post.”
“Deal.” If only she knew where to start.
“I’m going to head to the trailer, put another pot of coffee on,” he said. “Want a cup?”
Yes. But from a potential poisoner? Not a chance. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be right back.” The door slammed shut.
She listened for the chink of the padlock, heard only the blood pounding in her ears.
She was on her own. Alone in a space that unsettled her. But why?
Blueprints shared wall space with charcoal illustrations. Half-squeezed and mangled tubes of oil paint lay on a stack of sketchbooks. The rough outlines of Thomas’s jazz series were few and far between. The focus was on the house.
The finished house.
She walked along the wall, studying the drawings. The house in darkness, lights glowing within frosted windows. Snow-swept, footprints leading up to the front door. That bright hot glow of summer in another. Then a heap of autumn leaves on the lawn, swirling to form a border, as though caught by a fall wind.
She ran a finger over the rent pencil had made in paper and shivered.
Obsession. The proof was here.
Raising her phone, she zoomed in on the sketches, snapping pictures of the easel, of a jar of old brushes that caught her eye.
Turning to the table, Charley flipped the first sketchbook open, thumbed through designs that showed the blend of architect and artist. A paper was tucked inside the book. A recipe.
She froze. The world centred, crystal sharp.
Don’t touch anything. Tell Alex.
She hesitated. The weight of the moment pressed in on her. Leave the evidence here and she’d risk it disappearing. They’d never make it back in time. Or something might tip him off, along the way.
She had to act, now.
Outside, boot steps crunched closer over hard-packed earth. She shot a glance over her shoulder. Any second, he’d walk through that door. What should she do?
The only thing she could think of. She shoved the loose-leaf sheet of paper into her purse and spun around to greet Thomas with a smile, heart hammering in her chest a mile a minute.
He stood there, a backlit silhouette, steam curling from the mug in his hand. He nudged the door closed behind him. The heavy wood slipped into the latch, sealing shut. “You’ve probably figured it out by now.”
Trapped, with no way out. Heart in her throat, she held her ground. “Figured what out?”
“My secret.” He nodded at the walls. “One hobby bleeding into the other.”
What did he mean? “I don’t —”
“You caught me at the right time when you asked if I’d join the Cover Art exhibit.” He stepped forward into a patch of light that stripped the years off his face, turning it younger and leaner. Skin on bones. “I’d just finished the jazz paintings. Now, I’m onto houses. No mystery, why.” He waved his mug at the worktable. “I’m working on some new ideas.” His hand hovered over the sketchbook. The one she’d stolen from.
She had to distract him. But how?
“The piece you’re working on,” she said, “I’d love to find out more about it.” Drawing his attention to the half-started painting on the easel, far away from the table and the sketchbook.
The canvas glared white, but the structural points had been mapped out, the details started. She focused on the horizon line that split the sky and ground in two.
His eyes lit up and she breathed a sigh of relief. Give an artist the chance to talk about their latest piece...
“A house is a symbol of permanence.” Launching into a description of his creative process, he took her through the stages from inspiration to finished piece, pointing out the delicate dimensions of the building, and how he would layer the paint.
Still just a ghost of graphite pencil, the porch wound around the house like a vine, like something organic.
But a vine strangled the tree it covered, trapping disease and decay in the roots. Was there disease and decay here?
Charley thought of the paper tucked away in her purse. A typed-out recipe for nougat-filled Belgian chocolates, with hand-written annotations done in soft graphite pencil.
“You stole it?” On the phone, Alex’s voice rose, cracked in disbelief.
Not the reaction she’d hoped for.
Charley frowned, concentrating on the road. She was on her way back to the cottage to take Cocoa for a walk before meeting Meghan at the Blast From the Past Boutique. The Jeep juddered over loose gravel and potholes, haphazardly filled.
She said, “I was holding it when Thomas came back. What was I supposed to do?”
“You should have left it where it was, then told me about it. If this turns out to be evidence, we won’t be able to use it.”
“You’d need more to convict anyway.”
“Oh, so you’re the expert now?” he asked.
“Thomas took the class, and he made notes. The recipe isn’t exactly a smoking gun.” Still, the thrill of the find sang through her veins.
She slowed for the single lane bridge ahead, keeping a careful eye on the kids, dripping and jostling to cannonball next into the water below. A boy balanced on top of the guardrail, wet hair gleaming, coiled to jump. Knees bent, he launched himself into the air, one arm outstretched to the sun, fingers splayed and reaching. Frozen mid-air, legs kicked out in a parkour leap, he hung suspended. She framed the image in her mind, held onto it. He broke the tranquil water with a splash that rippled toward shore.
The Jeep’s tires rumbled over the wooden boards, then bumped back onto gravel on the other side.
“But” — she followed the winding lane — “Andrew’s death allowed Thomas to get out of his contract with Clarkston Engineering.”
“Maybe he wasn’t hiding the recipe. Maybe he just tucked it into the sketchbook and forgot about it.”
Possible, but unlikely. She gritted her teeth. “He’s hired Jeffrey to finish the house. A house he happens to be obsessed with. I’ll show you the photographs I took of his sketches.” If that didn’t convince Alex, she didn’t know what would.
“Yes, he has motive. And I’ll look into it. But we still have a problem. You were in that shed. You stole the recipe. What if he notices it’s missing?”
Hindsight was always 20/20. “I wish I’d just asked him what it meant,” she muttered. She might have caught him in a lie, had more to go on than a guess.
“I’m glad you didn’t,” he said, his tone grim. “You and Meghan both ask too many questions.”
He was right. Odds were good Meghan had more intel than he did. And she knew just how to get her to spill. “Don’t tell me curiosity killed the cat.”
Sun-dappled light poured through the leaves above. Everything stippled deep green and blue, a medley of broken colours and hanging branches. It felt like driving down Renoir’s wooded forest path.
“What if this was a recipe to murder?” he asked, exasperated now. “How do you think Thomas would have reacted, if you’d asked him about it?”
“That’s why I didn’t.”
Alex groaned. “My life used to be stress-free.”
“You’re a cop,” she pointed out. “How stress-free could it have been?”
“More than now.”
Charley grinned. “That’s because you’re emotionally attached. It ups the pressure.”
“You’re telling me.”