Twenty-Two

Charley needed to know more about Andrew. What had Alex said? Find out how a person lived, and you’ll find out how they died.

Lost in thought, she strolled toward the Oakcrest Mews. Leash slack, Cocoa wandered ahead, crossing from one side to the other — although Charley made wide circles around any flower beds.

Soon racks of clothing would be wheeled out onto the sidewalk in front of The Blast From The Past Boutique, and Wicks ’N’ More would set up their chalkboard sign. But for now, most of the storefronts were still shuttered. In the window of the Oakcrest Pantry, early morning sunlight shone off a colourful display of London Pottery teapots.

Nose down, Cocoa roamed over the wooden deck as they walked toward the gallery.

Thomas’s motive was connected to Clarkston Engineering. But David’s motive was personal. Had he fallen in love with Kayla? If Eric was right about the chemistry between them, maybe David murdered Andrew to protect her. Or eliminate the competition.

Out of the corner of her eye, Charley caught something dark streaking toward her, arcing through the air. Straight at her head.

She sidestepped and the breeze brushed her cheek as the object hurtled past. Cocoa bolted, straining on the leash.

Thwack! Something landed on the deck in front of them.

“Hey!” Furious, she whirled around.

There was no one in sight.

A book lay on the ground. Gilded edges sparking in the sunlight.

Cocoa pulled toward the hardcover book and sniffed at the corners. On the cover, pastel blossoms contrasted with a black background.

Charley bent to pick the book up. Twisting branches, delicate as lace, pressed against her fingertips. The design was raised, embossed onto the cover. The pages creamy, the binding stitched.

Wuthering Heights. She turned it over in her hand and felt a dent where the spine hit the ground.

Cocoa looked up at her, as though asking, what next? Good question.

Straightening, she scanned the area.

The book had come — no, been hurled — from her right. From the gazebo. The sun reached fingers beneath the roof but hadn’t gotten hold of the bench yet. And the planter of day lilies blocked most of her view.

“Come on.” She’d like to meet the person who threw books at people. By one of the Brontë sisters, no less. She strode toward the shadows, Cocoa prancing at her heels.

“Fixating on the past.”

The words, filled with disgust, had her step faltering. But Cocoa strained forward, tail wagging. It took a second longer for Charley to see the figure on the bench.

She should have guessed.

She let Cocoa take the lead, the dog’s tail whipping in recognition.

The woman raised her head as they entered the gazebo. The straw brim of her fedora cast crosshatched shadows over sharp cheekbones, the curve of a smile. Her binoculars lay beside her, along with a small plastic bag of chocolates. Cocoa nosed forward to be petted.

“You found my book.” Sarah held out one hand, fine-boned but far from delicate, palm up.

“It found us,” she replied dryly, as she passed it over.

Sarah looked startled, then laughed. “Oh no. Before stores open, the Mews are normally deserted. And it’s quite safe for me to throw books.” She winked, a green glint of conspiracy.

“Next time, I’ll be more prepared.” She’d know to duck, anyway.

“It’s best to expect the unexpected.” Sarah scratched Cocoa behind the ear one more time, then leaned back. “Have you never been tempted to throw a book?”

She sat down on the bench beside her. Cocoa sprawled at their feet and rolled onto her back, in case anyone felt like rubbing her belly. “Not one that looked like that.”

“The flowers of a briar bush.” Sarah stroked her palm over the design. “But it’s the content that matters. Though, I suppose, you’d disagree.” She nodded at the gallery.

“Cover design, that’s a separate form of art.”

“To writing, you mean? And yet, the cover wouldn’t exist without the story.” Sarah let the book fall open. The pages riffled, the text a blur of black on white. “Emily’s words are branded on my memory, the way Catherine’s were on Heathcliff’s.”

Maybe that explained why no bookmark had fallen out, why there was no slip of paper marking her place. “How many times have you read it?” Her own paperback of Wuthering Heights was tattered and well-loved. And stored on her bookshelf in Toronto.

“Too many to count.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “But I haven’t managed to unlock it’s secrets yet.”

Charley thought of Hamadryads. “I suppose every story holds secrets.”

Sarah raised a brow. “This one” — she tapped the cover — “raises more questions than answers. Is Heathcliff a romantic character or evil? Villains go unpunished. There are unresolved puzzles, unexplained dreams and unquiet ghosts. Love is corrupted by a lust for revenge, and revenge leads to downfall. There is no happy ever after, but still the story withstands the test of time. Why?” she demanded.

“Passion.” She didn’t need to think about that one.

Sarah laughed. “Oh, there is that.” She shot a keen glance at her. “Did you visit Chocoholic’s?”

Amused at the transition, she replied, “I did.”

“And?” It was imperious.

She smiled. “The chocolate is wonderful.”

“Hmm.” Impatience radiated off of her.

How many matchmaking schemes did Sarah have in the works? She watched and assessed. Manipulated, if need be. “Can I ask you something?” The question burned on the tip of her tongue.

“You can.” She folded her hands on the cover of the book. Her skin was paper thin, but those laced fingers were strong and capable and unadorned by rings. “I might even answer it.”

The question had to be worthy. Get it wrong, and she might not get the chance to ask another. And Sarah knew things, that much she could tell. Best to acknowledge that and play on it. “What did you think of Andrew?”

“Ah.” She glanced down at the book on her lap. “Another love story built on loss and secrets.” A moment passed and Charley thought she wouldn’t continue, that she’d somehow gotten it wrong, after all. But then Sarah drew a breath and said, “I doubt that Kayla believes her soul is buried in Andrew’s grave.”

A shiver ran down her spine. “Why do you say that?”

Picking up on the change in her tone, Cocoa rolled over and shook, tags jangling on her collar.

Sarah sighed. “Do you know what mistake Catherine made?”

The moment of revelation. Her heart raced. “Tell me.”

“She pictured Edgar as a hero of romance, and then was disillusioned.” Sarah’s eyes met hers, her glance quick and sharp.

“Are you saying the same thing happened to Kayla?” She thought of the last email she’d gotten, before those years of silence. Let’s just say, I’m starting the next twenty-six years of my life with a bang! I’ve never met anyone so hardworking, caring, and generous.

Sarah looked at the picturesque street spread before them. But instead of enjoying the yellow awnings and the promise that life was better on the lake, it seemed like she saw and counted the flaws that needed fixing. “Catherine resorted to self-destruction, breaking their hearts by breaking her own. I think Kayla’s heart was broken, too.”

“By Andrew?”

“On many occasions.”

Pieced together at the fault line. At what point did self-destruction become a way out? “And you think she broke someone else’s heart?” Did she mean David’s?

Instead of answering, Sarah picked up the bag of chocolates. Charley spotted the by now familiar label. Chocoholic’s. The plastic rustled and Cocoa stood, attention all on her.

Sarah took her time, choosing one. She finally plucked out a round chocolate, milky brown and shiny. She held it up, trapped between thumb and finger, and smiled. “It’s a vice. But what would life be, without our wrongdoings to guide us?” The chocolate disappeared with a lick of her fingers.

Charley grinned. “Not half as much fun, I guess.”

“Although there is something to be said for the suspense created by anticipation.” The bag of chocolate rested on the gold-lettered title. “I do wish that Catherine and Heathcliff’s story didn’t depend on separation. That’s why I threw the book,” she confided. “Of course, it’s economically inevitable that Catherine marries Edgar, not Heathcliff.” A darker inflection crept into her voice.

“He had nothing to offer her.” Was she implying Kayla married Andrew for his money?

“Only a love that defies death. Sadly, Heathcliff’s fixation on the past, his determination for revenge, is his downfall.”

And revenge could be a powerful motive. So could betrayal. “When we first met, you called Andrew a traitor.”

“Did I?” she asked, her tone noncommittal.

“What did you mean by that?” She looked at the woman’s profile. Merciless and intelligent.

“Well, now. If there’s one thing we can learn from Emily, it’s that it’s up to the observer to provide the narrative framework.” She let that linger. “To make sense of it all.”

The challenge was clear. “To uncover the secrets?” She planned to.

“Exactly.” Sarah leaned back. “I’ve always enjoyed fixing a story. Often, it’s simply a matter of removing elements that don’t serve the greater good. All it takes is courage, really.” She tilted the bag of chocolates, shaking one the colour of caramel to the surface. “The courage to kill your darlings.” The words echoed in the gazebo, ominous and ruthless and heavy with meaning.

Was that what Sarah had done? Taken the plot into her own hands and removed the element that didn’t serve the greater good? “Without Andrew, Kayla’s story has the hope of a happy ending.” And maybe she had helped it along.

“I’m looking forward to the opening of the gallery,” Sarah said. “I’m so glad you and Kayla are pursuing your dreams.”

---

Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the bay window on the second floor of the gallery. Without music playing, without the thud of a hammer driving a nail into drywall, and empty of other people, the space was quiet. Hushed.

No ghosts. No squirrels. Fingers crossed they’d actually managed to seal all the entry points in the attic.

Charley cast a glance at Cocoa, who stood beside her, tail wagging. Soon people would walk through those rooms, looking at their art. At her paintings.

Not much to do now. Together, they’d pulled through a lot of the work. They’d have to check through once more before the opening, to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. Add the title cards, discreet beneath each piece. But, for today, they were finished. Kayla had left already, and so had Thomas. She’d lingered, to have this moment to herself.

On a heart-skip, she breathed in the faint Linseed Oil–scent of paint and fixative and turned in a slow circle. Taking in the colours, the vibrance, brighter even than the light pouring in through the window. The abstract, painted instruments. A saxophone. A trumpet. Stark, frigid landscapes. The soles of her sneakers squeaked on the hardwood floor as she turned. Water-washed rocks and oval faces. A chin raised with courage and defiance. Each brushstroke of that woman’s determined expression a memory she still felt in her fingers.

The room glowed. It looked like a real gallery. Charley let that thought soak in.

God, it felt good.

Except, she was starving. The slapdash ham and cheese sandwich she’d had for lunch — eaten between hanging paintings — was a long time ago.

“Okay, Cocoa, time to head —” She caught herself. She’d almost said home. “— to the cottage.”

She went down the creaking steps. Clipped the dog’s leash on and grabbed her tote bag off the bench. Checked for her keys. Right at the bottom of the bag.

But a shadow on the floor had her fingers tightening on the keyring. A rectangle, charcoal-dark on whitewashed wood and wrong.

Maybe she was trying too hard to make everything perfect, was too in tune to the tiniest details, that even a shadow jarred. But what cast it?

She glanced up and spotted it.

The door. Dark against the sun, something covered the centre of one panel, where there should have been nothing but glass.

Cocoa trotted beside her as she walked closer. The glare out of her eyes, Charley saw the white cardstock.

The back of a postcard. Taped to the glass.

Letters pasted on in a diagonal line, spaced wide — black and white newsprint, carefully cut out, the edges neat. All capital letters, probably taken from headlines. M-Y-O-B. Like an acrostic poem, only at an angle. Printed at the bottom of the card was the name of an artist. Peter Claesz.

An art print?

The picture on the postcard faced out and could be seen from the street. Had Kayla or Thomas put it there?

She pushed the door open and stepped outside for a better look, Cocoa right behind her.

There on the glass, at eye level, was a skull. Bone white against a black background.

The keys slipped from her fingers, hit the pavement.

It was a postcard replica of a painting. A Dutch vanitas still life.

The skull rested on a book with yellowed pages. An overturned wine glass glinted, struck by light from an unseen window. In the foreground, an ink-stained quill pen lay forgotten. In the background, smoke rose from a burned-out match, tip still glowing red.

A collection of objects symbolizing the inevitability of death.

And it was — she brushed her fingers over a corner of the image, over cold, smooth glass — taped to the inside of the door.

Someone had been in the gallery. After Kayla left, otherwise she would have noticed the postcard and said something. Whoever put it there had waited just long enough. They wanted her to see it. To react to it.

Her hand tightened on the leash. Cocoa’s body leaned warm against her leg. Focus on that. She took a deep breath. Think.

The postcard was a threat. That much was obvious. But why? Cocoa bumped her knee with her shoulder.

A reflection shifted in the glass door panel. Growing larger, it took on human shape.

“Still Life with a Skull and a Writing Quill,” a male voice said behind her.

Charley whirled, heart hammering against her ribs.

The man smiled. “From the Dutch Golden Age. It’s a wonderful work of art.” He studied the postcard with the intensity of someone who viewed the world with equal parts wide-eyed curiosity and boyish enthusiasm.

“Yes, it is.”

Maybe a few years older than her, he had the lanky build of a swimmer and a tan that implied he did most of his swimming in the lake. Probably at first dawn in frigid waters. He was handsome in a wholesome sort of way. But she knew enough not to let appearances fool her.

He recognized the painting. Knew the title, the artist. Not many would.

With a tug on the leash, Cocoa shot forward and investigated the hem of his jeans. He bent down, holding out his hand for her to sniff.

“Hey, Mr. Nadeau!”

At the bright shout, he turned and waved to the three boys, leaving the kitchen shop with ice cream cones in their hands. The kid who’d shouted the greeting got jostled by the others. Although he almost fumbled his ice cream, he shrugged it off with a laugh and kept his cool.

So, this was David Nadeau. Speak of the devil. Had his clean-cut, casual intelligence caught Kayla’s eye?

“I thought you might be gone already.” His expression alive with mischief, he said, “I have to admit, I was hoping to catch a peek through the window.”

A few people had tried that already, but the angles weren’t right. They might see the corners of canvases, the side of the partition wall, but not much else. “We open on Friday. Come back then and you’ll be able to explore the entire gallery.”

“I’m planning on it.” He hesitated.

Charley bent to pick up her keys. “Kayla left earlier, if you’re looking for her.” If she hadn’t been watching for it, she might have missed that flicker of surprise, that shift of awareness.

“Actually, I was —” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “Look, you might not know this about teachers, but we love to give advice. A hazard of the job.”

Would she want to hear it? “If you managed to catch a glimpse through the window, I can tell you right now, I’m not rearranging those paintings.”

“I guess you could call it more of a warning, actually.”

About the gallery? “That sounds ominous.”

“Be careful around Thomas.”

Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t that. “Why?” She thought of the recipe she’d handed over to Alex. The air crackled with tension.

Cocoa sat on her feet and stared at David.

“Years of playground duty.” He made it sound like a war zone.

“Excuse me?”

“Experience. Teachers develop a sixth sense for this sort of thing.”

“Murder?” she asked wryly. Though her heart was pounding.

He smiled. “For preventing it. It’s none of my business, really, except Thomas’s granddaughter is in my class. His arrival in town has caused stress at home.”

The leather leash dug into the palm of her hand, and she loosened her grip a little. “In what way?”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say, when Thomas moved to Oakcrest, his family didn’t welcome him back with open arms.”

Sarah had implied there was tension between father and daughter. A history of it. “What does that have to do with Andrew?”

“Finishing his house has become all-consuming for Thomas. Andrew made achieving that goal ... difficult.”

She’d figured that out already. “You think Thomas killed him?”

He shrugged. Feet apart, hands in his pockets. A crossbeam of sun bleached his blue-gray eyes to steel. “Sometimes feeling unimportant, feeling left out, can lead to defensive, threatening behavior. And anxiety can turn into violence.”

“You think he’s dangerous.” Cryptic threats and poison. Whoever was behind it all preferred solving problems from a distance. No clues pointed to violence.

“Best to avoid confrontation, if you can. That’s what I always tell the kids.” David nodded at the door behind her. “Course, I’m sure Alex is looking into it and the case will be solved soon. Until then” — he squinted up at the angles of the roof — “I’d concentrate on the gallery.”

And leave the questions to Alex? Yeah, right. “Thanks for the advice.” And the thinly veiled threat.

He smiled. “Anytime. Say hi to Alex for me.” Whistling a bright tune, he strolled away, the clear notes echoing off the wooden deck.

Cocoa watched him leave.

Had David put the postcard there, then followed it up with a warning? But why? Had he wanted to witness her reaction? The thought chilled her.

Yanking the gallery door open, she peeled the tape off the glass. The four strips, one on each corner, left a sticky residue behind. Looking at the marks on the glass, a fresh surge of anger rose within her.

The postcard was sneaky, creative. Subtle. And a mistake.

Using a vanitas painting to reference death and mortality showed a knowledge of art history. David had it, that much was obvious, but so did Thomas.

Holding the postcard by one corner, she slipped it into her purse. She locked the door and double-checked that the latch caught.

Most people wouldn’t risk planting the postcard here in broad daylight. But no one would question Thomas.

The postcard showed fear. Desperation. Something she’d done or said had triggered it. Which meant that, whatever Alex might think, she was on the right track.

But whoever left the postcard here had underestimated her.

It would take more than a replica of a still life painting to scare her.