Kill Them with Canvas, page 9
At least dinner was a pleasant distraction, for the most part. I shoveled down the baked chicken with linguini and a huge portion of avocado salad Dad had prepared. However, conversation ventured into a discussion about Aunt Constance when Izzie asked how their trip to Mayville had gone.
“Oh, your aunt gave us the usual dramatic act she does when things aren’t going her way,” Dad said.
“Which in this case is justified.” Mom tempered the mood with a cheerful smile. “Wouldn’t you say, Joe?”
He forked some chicken and linguini and stuffed the bite into his mouth without comment.
“I hope you three took a sail on the lake together. The weather was perfect this morning.” I broke the awkward silence and steered the conversation far away from Viola’s death and whether Aunt Constance would be fitted for an orange jumpsuit anytime soon.
“We sat out by the lake and had brunch. The beautiful view from the shore was just as nice.” Mom folded her hands underneath her chin.
Dad washed down his dinner with the rest of his wine. “We’ll support her through this, no matter what happens. I promised David I’d watch out for her. I owe him.” He picked up his dishes and carried them to the sink.
Izzie and I glanced at one another, then at Mom, who heaved a sigh. The mood in the room became more somber as Dad and the rest of us remained quiet in our own thoughts. For all his bluster, he was loyal to family, and that included Aunt Constance.
I rolled the handle of my fork between my fingers. “I asked Aunt Constance if she’d talked to Spencer. She rambled on and boasted about Spencer’s job and how successful and busy she is, but never said she planned on returning home.”
“That would hurt any parent. I can’t imagine how awful I’d feel if I didn’t hear from either of you or see you for months at a time,” Mom said. “Of course, I don’t believe Spencer is acting intentionally. That would be spiteful.”
Dad returned to the table with a cup of coffee. “Constance accepts Spencer for who she is. Parents love their children unconditionally.”
“Well, I can’t think of anything worse than not getting to see or talk to you guys.” Izzie stacked dirty plates and utensils in the dishwasher.
“Absolutely.” I poured both of us coffee and held up the carafe to Mom, who shook her head. “I think I’ll head upstairs and do a bit of reading. It was a scrumptious dinner, Dad. Thank you.” I patted my thigh. “Come on, Max.” He trotted after me and up the steps.
I snuggled in bed with Max and opened the Agatha Christie novel I was reading. After an hour, I’d nearly dozed off, when my phone rang. Startled, I dropped the book. I waited a few beats, rubbed my eyes until the drowsy feeling lifted, then answered. “Hello?”
“Good evening. I hope I didn’t wake you. It’s late, but I just now got home and listened to your voicemail, which got me to thinking, and—maybe I should start over.” The nervous sound of laughter interrupted. “My name is Marilyn Pervis. I’m one of your aunt’s closest friends.”
“Oh.” I squirmed to a seated position and rubbed Max’s fur. I’d never heard Aunt Constance talk about anyone named Marilyn, but then again, she had plenty of people in her life, and I couldn’t possibly have heard about all of them. Even close ones, like a member of the Sisterhood. “No worries. I was just reading when you called.” I pulled the covers up and over my chest, as if Marilyn had physically come into my bedroom rather than interrupting by phone.
“That’s a relief. I probably should’ve waited until morning, but this is too important.”
“I see. You want your painting to be included in the display at the Hallows Eve celebration? Not a problem. We have plenty of space,” I said, making a stab at what she meant by “too important.”
“Oh no. I don’t care about the painting. In truth, I’m surprised you offered. Mine’s not very good. What I have to tell you shouldn’t be said over the phone. Someone might be listening to our conversation.” Her voice lowered. “Wiretapping, you know.”
I frowned and pulled the phone away from my ear, to stare at the screen. I was beginning to have my doubts about Marilyn Pervis and this conversation. The term conspiracy theorist came to mind, along with thoughts about the paranoid people who tended to fit that category. “It’s late. Maybe we can talk again tomorrow? I’ll call you.” I was ready to hang up.
“No! Wait. I’m sorry.” The nervous tittering came again. “My late husband warned me people wouldn’t understand my worries about things like wiretapping phones, computers, even your television, and—listen to me. I’m rambling again.”
“Marilyn,” I began, “what is this about?” I grew concerned. Whatever she had called about seemed less important in my mind than her odd behavior.
“Yes. Again, I’m sorry. I have something to say about Viola’s death. I know—well, that is, I believe I know how she ended up in the lake, which was no accident, I tell you.” She dragged out a rattled breath. “And I have a pretty good idea who pushed her in.”
Chapter Seven
For Sweet’s Sake sat on Main Street, near the Gazette and the courthouse. Across the street, boutique shops like Casually Done and La Chic lured visitors to Whisper Cove to find a unique outfit, since the shops carried clothing made by local designers. The bakery building’s retro fifties design carried from the exterior to the inside. Scalloped canopies shaded the windows and accented the white siding with a bright coral shade. Inside, the walls, tables, and countertop were painted a matching color. Checkered tablecloths and napkins completed the theme.
I sat at a table across from Claire, my arms folded and resting on the tabletop. I blushed as Claire’s warm brown eyes sparkled and a wide grin spread across her face.
“You’re wrong. I’m not romantically involved with anyone. This is just my natural look. Rosy cheeks and all.” I lifted my chin and straightened my posture to emphasize my point.
“You don’t fool me. And I have a pretty good idea who has your heart racing. Just mentioning his name makes you blush. I’ve seen it. Now, the next time he’s in town, you call me. I’ll see for myself if his reaction matches yours.” She laughed and waved her arm. “I swear, I can tell. Call it a curse or call it a blessing, but when it comes to matchmaking, the women in my family always get it right.”
“Then let me be the one to ruin your perfect record because I don’t have feelings for Hunter Barrett,” I argued.
Her brow arched up. “Who said I was talking about him?” She tapped her lip. “Now, I might have to rethink this. Two men complicate matters, don’t they?”
“Oh, for—please stop. I don’t have time to discuss or listen to your wild predictions about my personal life.” I checked my watch. “Marilyn will be here any minute.” I poured more coffee from the pot Claire had brought to the table.
Claire raised a palm and stood. “No need to tell me twice. I’ll let it be … for now.” She winked and laughed, then walked back to her kitchen. “Holler when you need to order.”
I slumped in my chair and moaned. I’d rather be like Izzie and put men out of the picture. However, I wasn’t like Izzie, not when it came to men. In the past, I’d enjoyed having a guy in my life. Just not one who brought all the problems I’d had with Ross. His all-work-and-no-play attitude had pushed me to leave that relationship. Otherwise, he’d been a great guy. Attractive, funny, considerate, but too often not around when I was lonely or needed a shoulder to cry on or simply someone to share a quiet evening with. Work was number one with him, and I came in as a distant second place—and maybe third when it was time for a guys’ night to play poker or watch a Giants game. Perhaps that’s why I was skittish about diving into another relationship, even if I wanted one.
The tinkling of the door chimes broke my train of thought. I glanced around to see a tall woman dressed in a wool sweater and knit pants, with a matching scarf draped around her neck and shoulders. Her hair was silver and cut in a neat bob. I waved. “Mrs. Pervis. Over here.”
She returned the gesture and hurried to take a seat across from me. “It’s Miss Pervis, but call me Marilyn. After my husband passed away, I took back my maiden name. Much simpler to say and spell than Koppalopski, don’t you think? Thank you for meeting so early this morning. I have a lot of business to do for the Sisterhood. The interim director asked me personally to help, as I’m the secretary of our group, you know.” Marilyn jutted her chin, punctuating her words with self-importance.
“So, I take it the plan to dissolve your chapter is still on schedule.” I turned her cup over and poured coffee into it.
“Well, I really can’t say.” She pulled a towelette out of her bag and wiped her hands and the spoon, then added a generous amount of creamer to her coffee and stirred. “That’s up to whoever is elected to replace Viola as director. Agnes is pleasant but doesn’t have what it takes to manage a whole district.”
“Seems to be a common opinion about directors.” I folded my hands around my cup.
“What was that?” Marilyn leaned forward. “My hearing isn’t as sharp as it used to be.”
“Nothing. Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about Viola’s death?”
“Would you ladies care to order breakfast? I have blueberry scones, bagels, and doughnuts, hot out of the oven. Made with blueberries from our local vendor.” Claire stood close, her height towering over us.
I caught the slight tilt of her chin and sideways shift in her eyes. “Would you like something, Marilyn? I’ll buy.” I asked the question but followed Claire’s gaze to the other side of the room. A tiny gasp escaped my lips, then quickly I covered my mouth and chin with a napkin. Hunter stood by the door, talking to someone waiting in line. He hadn’t looked my way, but I doubted that would last.
Claire must’ve read my startled expression because she moved sideways to block Hunter’s view, though she couldn’t stand here and handle customers at the same time.
“No thank you. I’m watching my weight nowadays. Is everything okay, Chloe? You look paler than Abigail Bellows’s ghost.” After a second, she giggled, like she had suddenly caught on to the humor in her comment.
Claire shrugged and mouthed the words that she had to go back to work. As she stepped away, I was left squarely in Hunter’s line of sight.
I squeezed my eyes shut for an instant, then leaned forward and spoke fast. “Marilyn, I don’t have much time. Tell me who you think pushed Viola into the lake, and please be brief.” I prayed she wasn’t offended. Making a last-second recovery, I added, “If we get the unpleasant part of our conversation over, then we can relax and have a nice visit. Right?”
“Oh, of course.” She shifted in her seat, cupped one hand around her mouth, and leaned in. “I think Sarah Gilley did it. She never liked Constance or Viola. In fact, she told me all about writing to the head of the Sisterhood to say she had proof that would get the director fired. She wouldn’t say what that proof was, but my guess is her claim was a whole lot of nonsense because nothing happened to Viola’s position. To make matters worse for herself, she wrote letters and emails to Viola about Constance. None of what she said was taken seriously.”
She pursed her lips. “Sarah is the gossipy sort and has a sour disposition, likes to boss everyone around. No one in our chapter really likes her. She even told several of our members, including me, that she’d do everything she could to replace Constance as president. Chloe, I’d bet my last nickel she had a fight with Viola and pushed her in the lake. Viola stood in the way of her plans. What frightens me is that she’ll try to frame Constance for the murder.”
Her spoon clanked against the table as she fiddled with it. “Of course, I don’t know if Sarah meant for Viola to die, but she’s the person the authorities should take a look at. Sarah should be the prime suspect, not Constance, who I’ve found to be the sweetest, dearest lady. She’d never hurt anyone.” Marilyn sniffed and dabbed her eyes with a napkin.
Sarah had certainly been keeping busy writing letters to get people fired. I wondered if Marilyn was right. Maybe Sarah had reason to harm Viola, but was it any more of a motive than Aunt Constance had? Or strong enough to convince Hunter to take a look? I wasn’t so sure.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Hunter approach. The steady gaze and set jawline hinted to me that he suspected something. Of course, he had a right, since I tended to take matters into my own hands, like snooping in this past summer’s murder investigation without letting him know. I slouched in my chair, wishing for the encounter to be over before it even started.
“Mind if I join you?” Hunter waited a few seconds, and when neither Marilyn nor I objected, he pulled a chair next to our table and sat down. “Good morning, ladies. I didn’t know you two were friends. What brings you here together?” He glanced only for a second at Marilyn before settling his attention on me.
I licked my bottom lip and worked my brain to think of some excuse that he’d believe. Nothing came to mind because I knew he’d suspect anything I said when he wore his “detective hat.” Desperate, I had to at least try. “Hunter. What a surprise. Marilyn is a friend of my aunt. She and I were having a friendly visit, just us ladies.” Brief, vague, and with a hint to say he was crashing our party of two, though I doubted it would make him leave.
“Detective, why don’t you join us for coffee? Chloe and I were discussing our favorite artists. We agree that Claude Monet was a pioneer of the Impressionist movement, but disagree as to who was the most popular. I believe it was Renoir, though Cezanne was quite talented. Chloe insists it was Monet. What’s your opinion, Detective?” Marilyn raised her chin and offered a questioning gaze that demanded an answer.
I grinned while Hunter scratched the back of his neck, clearly thrown off guard. Whether he was stumped by the topic of art or discouraged that his suspicion as to why we were meeting could be wrong, I wasn’t sure. “Maybe we should let him off the hook, Marilyn. I don’t think Hunter’s into art history.”
Hunter’s tongue poked the inside of one cheek. He nodded. “No, actually I do have an opinion. I’d say you’re both wrong. Vincent Van Gogh has my vote. He might’ve been a Postimpressionist, but you gotta admit, Starry Night is really something. Anyone who can work through insanity by painting the way he did has to be admired.”
I blinked. Where did that come from? In all the visits to our shop, even when attending one of the paint parties, he’d never talked about art.
He winked as his lips spread into a grin. “Surprised? My mom teaches art history at a local college. For as long as I can remember, conversations around our dinner table were usually about art. In fact, when I was a kid, Mom had to take me to some of her classes if there was no one to babysit. Not the idea of fun entertainment for a four-year-old.”
“You are a mysterious and complicated man, Hunter Barrett.” I shook my head. In one brief conversation, he’d become much more interesting to me. A man who knew so much about art history didn’t come along very often, if at all. Maybe in New York or Paris, but not in Whisper Cove.
He shrugged. “I guess you could say that, but I didn’t come over to discuss art.”
I couldn’t read the meaning of the gleam in his eyes or guess why he wanted to talk. I’d already made up my mind to tell him about the conversations I’d had with Sarah and Marilyn, but later, after I had a chance to mull over the information, and not before I talked to Aunt Constance about the two sister members. With any luck, I’d manage to figure out something in those details that could help her instead of hurting her case even more. Sarah’s opinion of her was too damaging, and Marilyn’s was too flattering. If I was a member of a jury, I wouldn’t put much faith in what either one of them said. I was sure Ross would agree. Bias in either direction didn’t help any defense. I imagined a detective gathering data for this case would feel the same.
He cleared his throat. “Do you think I could speak to you in private?”
I scowled. “Private? In the middle of a crowded bagel shop?”
He blushed. “Yes, well, … maybe outside? Away from the crowded bagel shop.”
Marilyn’s eyes lit up, as if she suddenly understood. She tucked her bag underneath one arm and scooted out of her chair to stand. “I can’t believe it’s already nine. Time for me to go if I want to make any headway in my workload. Nice visiting with you, Chloe. I’ll be in touch.” She primmed her mouth. “About that art exhibit, you know.”
“Ah, yes, the art exhibit. You have a productive day, Marilyn.” I shook her hand.
“Same to you. Good day, Detective. It’s been an enlightening experience. Tell your mother I’d love to meet sometime and talk about the Impressionists.” She waved and headed to the door.
Hunter took her chair. “Interesting lady.”
“She’s not what I expected.” I admired her quick wit and clever response to cover up our conversation. I had a hunch there were several layers to Marilyn’s personality. Dismissing her theory about Viola and Sarah so quickly and labeling it as the rant of a paranoid woman might not be such a wise move.
“Listen.” He cleared his throat again and tugged at his shirt collar. “I was thinking—that is, I was hoping—maybe you’d want to go to dinner with me this evening. It’s short notice, so I understand if the answer’s no, but I just thought …” His mouth lifted in a sheepish grin.
I took a sip of my coffee and motioned to Claire. My heart raced into a panicked state, and I scrambled to think of a response. “You mean we could talk about my aunt and Viola’s case, exchange theories and information? Yeah, sounds like a good idea.”
He tugged harder at his collar. “That’s not—”
“What can I get you?” Claire broke into the conversation as she stood at an angle with her face turned in my direction. Her mouth opened to form the word wow in silence.
“I’ll take two blueberry bagels to go.” Since Willow hadn’t been available, Izzie had generously offered to cover the shop while I met with Marilyn, though I knew from her look with those sad eyes and downturned mouth that she desperately would’ve liked to come along. A blueberry bagel should cheer her up—that and my account of Marilyn’s theory.
