Kill Them with Canvas, page 13
As a couple of guests passed by me, I got a whiff of Bob’s special extra-spicy sauce. My eyes stung, but the mouthwatering smell also made my stomach growl. “I’m gonna grab a quick bite. You want some?”
“Yes, please. A box of those puffs, but with mild sauce, and a bottle of Fizzy Pumpkin,” Izzie said.
“Coming up.” I hurried to take my place in the line, which had dwindled down to three or four people.
Megan was keeping up her conversation with Bob while managing to pass out food. “I tell you, the sight of her standing in front of Sammy’s shop, Quaint Décor—or what used to be her shop, sadly to say—was strange. I mean, what could she be up to? I recognized the two men with her. They run Buell Brothers Construction.” Megan nodded.
I stepped out of the line and closer to the table since Rita Morgan, a Whisper Cove resident, was laughing and talking in a high-pitched, loud tone, making it difficult to hear Megan. Rumors had been circulating for several years that Rita had lost her hearing in a factory accident, but refused to believe anything was wrong with her.
I gasped and gripped the table as the word Spencer popped out of Megan’s mouth. “Spencer?” Maybe she’d had a change of heart and came home to help her mother, but it wasn’t easy wrapping my head around that possibility.
“Oh! Hi, Chloe.” Megan smiled. “That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier. Your cousin Spencer is in town. I spotted her in front of Sammy’s shop this morning, or what was her shop until it burned down and she moved away to live with her cousin, to partner up in a new business. Anyway, I thought I’d mention it in case you and Izzie didn’t know.” She shrugged with both palms up.
I filtered through all the backstory of Sammy, which I already knew, to what was important. “Spencer is here? In Whisper Cove?” I blinked. “Did you speak to her?”
My brain caught up and fired off more questions. Why come home now? Did Aunt Constance know? Most always, Spencer did what benefited Spencer. Did Sammy’s shop have something to do with all this? A queasy feeling rippled through my stomach, ruining my appetite.
“I didn’t have time to stop and talk, but I saw her and those construction guys. What do you think it means?” Megan sipped on her bottle of Fizzy Pumpkin, then bit into a barbecue puff. We were the only ones left at the table. Even Bob, after taking my order, had loaded boxes and was carrying them to his vehicle.
“I have no idea, but I plan to find out. Thanks, Megan.” I hurried back to Izzie with our food. “You will not believe what Megan told me.”
My chest heaved, and I forced myself to calm down while I told Izzie the news. The very thought of our cousin irritated me. I found her to be annoying, selfish, and manipulative. Even though I knew it was petty to hang on to them, those childhood memories flooded back. Whenever we’d spent time together as kids, Spencer had used just about every trick in the book to get her way—crying, cheating, tattling, bullying—you name it, she’d try it.
“Why are you so upset? That’s good news. Aunt Constance needs all the support she can get,” Izzie argued.
“Support? Since when has Spencer ever been supportive?” I scoffed and took a huge gulp of my drink. “I tell you, she’s up to something.”
“Like what?”
“Like, well, maybe she’s planning to build and open a business right where Sammy had her shop. That’s what.” I scowled. The thought of Spencer as one of our neighbors on Artisan Alley made me shudder.
“Don’t be silly. She has a great job, making lots of money in her business deals.” Izzie poked my arm. “I think you’ve never gotten over that time she locked you in the closet and told Mom you’d left the house.”
“I was eight, and I spent over an hour in that dark closet until Mom found me.” I sulked and planted my butt on a stool while Izzie moved on to get everyone’s attention.
“Okay, everyone. Let’s check your supplies. You should each have three kinds of brushes—a flat one that has wide bristles like this, a liner brush—that’s the pointy one, and a round brush.” Izzie listed all the other supplies, then started to draw on her canvas, the results projecting on the screen.
I shoved my worries about Spencer to the back of my mind and circulated to help the guests. The time went by quickly, and six o’clock approached. The paintings were impressive, and guests complimented each other on the results as they dumped their trash in the bag Willow passed around.
Dusk soon turned to dark, with the stars and moon casting a yellow glow. A few guests lingered to talk with friends. One or two helped Izzie and Willow carry chairs and easels back to the shop while I stayed behind to clean up. A burst of laughter echoed and filled the air but was cut short when a piercing scream interrupted.
“Look! Out on the lake.” With her arm trembling, Rita Morgan pointed toward the water.
Everyone’s gaze, including mine, turned to face that way. I squinted to see in the dim light. A small fishing boat floated by, and sitting inside was a figure in white.
“What the …?” I gave my head a firm shake, blinked, and studied the image again.
“It must be the ghost of Abigail Bellows,” Rita screeched. “She’s come to warn us.”
“Warn us of what?” Izzie ran up behind me, out of breath. “I heard the scream. What’s going on?”
I pointed out at the lake. “That.”
“It’s her ghost, I tell you. The Lady of Chautauqua Lake is coming for one of us.” Rita covered her face and turned away. “I’m going home and locking my doors. You all should do the same.” With that, she ran across the lawn to the parking area, leaving her painting behind.
“Oh wow.” Izzie wrapped her arm around my shoulders. “Who would be mean enough to play such a prank?”
“Yeah, I wonder.” I hugged her close and forced my imagination to shut down. Pranks and superstitious beliefs like Rita’s would only add to the already creepy mood of the Halloween season and make it worse.
Chapter Ten
Overnight, word had spread across town about the white figure in a boat floating along the lake at our painting event, and about Rita’s hysterical breakdown that followed. Most people who knew her figured she was not only deaf but a bit on the crazy side, which meant only a handful of people believed her hocus-pocus nonsense about a ghost coming to take another victim. Before last night, no one had claimed Viola Finnwinkle’s death had anything to do with ghosts. Sadly, now that Rita had planted the suggestion, plenty of people were thinking just that.
“Hey, look on the bright side. This takes the heat off of Aunt Constance.” Izzie popped a vitamin in her mouth and washed it down with juice.
“This whole idea is ridiculous.” Mom swiped a stray curl from her face and walked to stand next to me. “Chloe is right. Detective Barrett won’t let up. In fact, after hearing about Rita and her ghost story, he’ll most likely double down on his efforts to solve the case and at the same time squash those ghost rumors from spreading any further.”
I nodded. “He will. Hunter would think superstitions are for gullible people, and he’ll work hard to prove those folks are full of crazy nonsense. I just hope solving the case leads him anywhere but to Aunt Constance.” I picked up Max’s empty food dish and rinsed it out.
“Shortcake, your aunt can handle herself. Now that Spencer is in town, that will cheer her up.” Dad kissed my forehead, then walked to the coffee maker to pour another cup.
Spencer. My stomach soured at the mention of her name. “Yeah, let’s hope so.” I kept any surly comments locked inside my head. Mom and Dad shouldn’t have to deal with family drama. Besides, any gripe I had with Spencer should be between us and no one else. “Well, Max and I are heading out for our morning walk. I’ll be at the shop in an hour or less.” I glanced at Izzie.
“An hour’s fine. I should get to the shop around then. First, I’m helping Mom and Dad decorate their boat for Halloween. Willow promised to start on our window display. Later this morning we can carve our pumpkin for the contest.” She pulled her shoulders straight and smiled. “With our talent, we’re sure to win.”
I clipped on Max’s leash. “I don’t know. I hear Joanna Bixby has a secret weapon to decorate hers.” I winked at Mom.
“There are rules about that.” Izzie huffed. “No bedazzling or beading or painting. Only the carving can be judged.”
“Your sister is joking. I’m sure Joanna will follow the rules,” Mom said.
“Come on, Max. This is a tough crowd to please.” I tugged on the leash. “See you in an hour or two, or maybe three.” I waved.
“Chloe,” Izzie started.
“Kidding! Sheesh, humor has really gone out of style in this family.” I laughed and jogged down the hall. Grabbing my jacket, I skipped outside to the front walk, with Max trotting alongside me. The air was cool and crisp, with only tiny wisps of clouds in an otherwise blue sky. Sunlight sparkled on the water. I waved to one of our neighbors who was at his dock, tacking orange plastic streamers to the sides of his boat. A strand of orange lights lay close by his feet.
Halloween festivities in Whisper Cove rivaled our Christmas ones. Kids loved both holidays equally, but I suspected some adults favored Halloween fun more. It was a chance to tell scary ghost stories, dress up in frightening costumes, and hand out tons of candy to kids without feeling any guilt because, after all, it was Halloween. What I loved most was the Hallows Eve celebration. Merchants decorated their shops with all sorts of ghoulish items, and some played soundtracks of ghosts howling and witches cackling or songs like “Monster Mash” to please the children. We’d hand out candy, apple cider, caramel apples, apple dumplings, apple fritters, and any other treat you could make with apples, since Frank Dunlap’s orchard always donated bushels of them to whoever needed some for their holiday recipes. Families, as well as out-of-towners, came with their chairs and blankets to Artisan Alley and camped out in front of the lake. Some even set up night vision cameras in hopes of catching the ghost of Abigail on film. One of those ghost tales I knew Hunter would make fun of had been passed down through the years and carried on as part of our Halloween tradition. Why people had decided that the Lady of Chautauqua Lake should come to haunt us only on Hallows Eve, no one could explain. Abigail didn’t die on that day. She’d drowned during the summer. I guessed since the holiday was meant partly for hauntings and other scary stuff, Abigail was a perfect fit.
We took the walking path that skirted the lake and ran past the area where benches sat underneath several oak trees. I tugged at the leash as Max sniffed the sandy patch of ground near the shoreline, his paws sinking into the soft, wet surface. “Let’s not get too dirty, buddy. I don’t have time to give you a bath this morning.”
Up ahead, I spotted the ferry. A sudden thought stirred me into action, and I picked up speed. “Come on, Max. Let’s visit the ferry.”
With any luck, Dewey would be getting ready to open for business. I hoped to ask him a couple more questions; because a few days had passed, there was a chance he might recall more details about the night Viola died. Rather than getting closer to figuring out what had happened to her, it seemed like everything was becoming more complicated. First, Marilyn implied Sarah might be guilty of murder, then Sarah suggested Viola’s death may have been merely an accident. Meanwhile, Hunter had built his case against Aunt Constance, who had no alibi, plus her hat found at the scene was considered evidence. Hunter loved physical evidence. Of course, the painting left at the lodge that portrayed Viola’s body in the lake muddied the waters. On top of all that, the Sisterhood had shoved some frivolous lawsuit at us. I was desperate to learn anything that might help clear Aunt Constance’s name and uncover who killed Viola. No doubt, when the coroner finished his report, her death would be confirmed a homicide. My gut told me as much.
Stepping onto the deck, I scanned the area side to side, back to front. No sign of Dewey. My shoulders drooped, and I let out a sigh. “Well, maybe tomorrow. Right, Max?” Within seconds, he gave a hard tug at the leash, and I lost my grip. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” I hurried across the deck to follow him. He scurried toward Dewey’s shack enclosure.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Dewey admitted he sometimes spent the night and slept inside his shack where he kept a cot. Plus, his car wasn’t parked in the lot. I gave my head a mental slap. My brain was obviously not keeping up to speed. Maybe that extra cup of coffee would’ve helped.
I came within inches of the doorway when Max came trotting out, holding the strap of a large object in his mouth. My eyes widened as, all at once, I recognized the oversized crimson red bag Viola had been carrying the night of our painting event. I lowered my head when Max dropped the bag at my feet and wagged his tail. My mind raced toward the implication of what this meant. Not exactly the evidence I had expected to uncover, but selfishly, I was glad to find anything that put Aunt Constance in the clear. I liked Dewey. He was a kind man with a big heart, always helping others. Maybe he tipped the bottle too much on occasion, but I’d never heard a story about him getting into fights or acting out because of it.
I stared at the bag without picking it up. Sure, he could’ve found it after Viola’s death, the next morning. But if that was true, why hadn’t he told Hunter when questioned? Omission of the facts was still deceit, and some of the time, people lied to cover up a guilty act.
I glanced down once more and shooed Max away before he could pick up the bag and carry it off. Pulling my phone out of my jacket pocket, I punched in Hunter’s number. I listened to his voicemail pick up and cursed under my breath. I tugged Max along and reentered the tiny structure to see if anything else belonging to Viola was hidden inside. “Hi, it’s Chloe. You need to come to the ferry dock right away. I found evidence that could help Viola’s case.” I hung up and dug underneath a pile of papers, where I found a half-empty bag of Cheetos. “So, this is what you were after. Huh, Max?”
The sound of a car engine drew near. I peered out the window to see Hunter’s vehicle pull into the lot. “That was quick.” I snatched Max off the floor and carried him outside. We stepped next to Viola’s bag and waited while Hunter walked to meet us. A tiny rumble came from Max’s throat, but he stopped short of a growl or bark.
Hunter hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I was at Spill the Beans having a cup of coffee and chatting with the owner when you called. What’s the evidence?” He reached out to scratch the top of Max’s head. “Hey, little guy. How’s it going?”
I blinked. Max didn’t flinch or snap or bite. This was a first. Max usually took his time before letting anyone get close. What was it they said about a dog’s instinct? Maybe Hunter had passed the test and gained Max’s approval, which told me Hunter was one of the good guys. Regaining my composure, I pointed at my feet. “Viola’s bag.”
“How do you know it’s hers?” His brows knitted in an angry line. “You didn’t look inside, did you? Or touch it. That would be tampering with evidence.”
I huffed and shifted Max in my arms as he wiggled to escape. “No. Of course not. I have better sense than that.” Indignation burned through me. “She had that bag with her the evening of our painting event at the lodge. Crimson-red, oversized, designer bag. See?” I pointed. “The designer’s name is etched in gold letters at the top. I mean, is there really a chance someone else carried one just like this to the ferry and left it?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.” He returned to his car and brought back a large evidence bag.
“Maybe? Seriously?” My voice cracked.
He enclosed Viola’s bag safely, then stood. A grin spread across his face, and he winked. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I’ll get this back to the lab and have it tested. Was it lying on the deck when you found it?”
I opened my mouth to explain, when a car pulled up alongside Hunter’s. Dewey popped out of the driver’s side. I gulped to swallow the lump lodged in my throat. He was walking right into a Detective Barrett ambush and hadn’t a clue. I quickly recovered and, speaking out the side of mouth, I mumbled, “Max found the bag hidden inside Dewey’s shack, er, I mean that tiny building behind us.”
Hunter shifted his weight and held up one arm. “Hey, Dewey. Just in time.”
“Time?” Dewey’s attention turned from Hunter to me and back again. “For what?” His gaze now fixed on the evidence bag Hunter lifted.
I was surprised. Not a flicker, not even a flinch. Just a frown on his face as his forehead wrinkled. He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Do you know anything about this?” Hunter waved the bag.
With a wide-eyed stare Dewey slowly gave his head a shake. “No. Can’t say I do. Where’d you find it?”
I figured either Dewey must make a killing at playing card games with that poker face, or he was telling the truth. Before Hunter could say a word, I blurted out, “Max found it in there.” I pointed to Dewey’s shack.
Hunter scratched the back of his neck. “Are you saying you don’t know anything about this red bag or how it came to be in what you call your shack?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Yes, sir. I never seen that before, and somebody musta put it in my place, which they ought not to do because it’s private. Nobody but me goes in there. Nobody, no, sir.” He backed away, holding both palms out in front of him.
“Now, Mr. Sawyer—Dewey—I’m not accusing you of anything. What I’m trying to do is figure this out. Asking questions is how I get answers. Understand?” Hunter inched forward.
Thank goodness, Dewey dropped his arms and paused his steps because I felt sure Hunter would’ve run after him if he’d tried to flee.
“Well, then, are we finished? ’Cause I got a ferry to run. Been trying to get the back part of the deck floor cleaned in the morning before folks start rolling in, but now it’ll have to wait another day, thanks to all this jibber-jabber. Passengers dropping food without so much as a care is shameful. That’s what it is. Shameful. Leaving all sorts of things behind so’s I had to start a lost and found, you know.” He grumbled as he marched onto the deck and past us, with his chin down and eyes averted.
