Spirits and Sourdough, page 15
His gaze hardened.
“I’m just saying,” I said. “Not trying to be mean or anything, but you have.”
He started to rise.
“Have you looked into the other book club members? What about Jo?”
Sinking back into the chair, he sighed. “Jo Sterling doesn’t have a motive. Neither do the other two women who attended the book club—they were new members and barely knew the other three women.”
“Do they all have alibis?” I insisted.
“Not really. Including Calista. But I don’t see how anyone would kill their own sister over shower caps.”
“Not shower caps per se. Starting her own business. Her family never took her seriously.”
He rolled his eyes and stood. “Listen, strangling someone takes strength. Calista Markes couldn’t strangle a mouse.”
I heard a gasp and looked over to see that a woman at another table had overheard what he’d said. “Quinn,” I warned.
He leaned down and lowered his voice. “We have our murder suspect, and now we build the case. That’s how it works. You know that.”
I pressed my lips together but didn’t say anything.
“Go back to baking and witching or whatever you call it. I understand you knew the victim and saw her the same day she was killed, so you might have felt obligated to help. But there was nothing paranormal about this case, and no reason for you to get involved.”
Unable to argue that there was a paranormal element to the case, I rose and walked him to the door. He turned before going out.
“You sure did gather a lot of information in a short amount of time, Katie. You’d make a good detective.” He leaned his head forward for emphasis. “With some experience and training. The amateur investigator stuff has to stop, though. It’s dangerous.”
Smiling and nodding, I closed the door behind him.
Halfway back to the kitchen, I remembered something. Turning, I ran back and out to the street. Quinn was already in front of the Fox and Hound Bookshop. I called to him, and he stopped.
When I reached him, I said, “I forgot to tell you—there were rumors that Leigh was having a secret relationship.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Oh? With whom?”
“No one seems to know. But it sounds like he’s married.”
“No one knows who he is, but they know that he’s married?”
“That’s what it sounds like. Maybe Leigh let it slip when she was talking about him?”
“Well, thanks for that nugget of non-information. I’ll make a note of it.”
He didn’t, though. As he turned and walked away, his little notebook stayed right in his pocket.
I sure hoped he was right about Walker Stokes.
Leigh’s ghost wouldn’t care whether it was me or the police who found her killer, and if Quinn could prove it was Walker, it would sure let me off the hook.
* * *
* * *
Later that morning, Declan drove us to the Markes Gallery in his truck.
“What is this thing we’re going to see?” He turned onto the side street I’d directed him to.
“We’re going to see if Walker Stokes is at the gallery.” I’d filled him in on my conversation with Peter Quinn on the way. “I’m especially interested in meeting the guy now that Quinn is so sure he killed Leigh.”
“Well, I’m glad I’m with you, then.”
“It’s not like he’s going to randomly murder someone at the gallery—” I began.
He interrupted. “You never know.”
Half smiling, I said, “Anyway, the thing we’re going to see is a rather fabulous sculpture by an artist named Hanta.”
“As in hantavirus?”
I rolled my eyes. “You are such a guy.”
He parked and turned off the engine.
“Yes, yes, I am. But that’s not why I ask. Artists can be unusual people. There could actually be a connection.”
“Oh, brother. Look.” I held out my phone so he could see the pictures I’d taken of Compassion.
He pursed his lips appreciatively. “Hey, that’s pretty cool.”
“Wait ’til you see it in person.”
The sign was still on the door of the gallery, but the door swung open easily. Inside, Juliette sat at the desk between the gift shop and the rest of the gallery. The chair was swiveled so her back was to us. She pointed a manicured nail and flicked her finger upward.
“Move it up about four inches,” she demanded of someone in the other room. “No, a little more. Can’t you see? It needs to be farther away from the other one. No, not like that!” She rose and went into the gallery, her skirt swishing behind her, completely unaware that we’d walked in.
“That’s Juliette, Zoe’s stepmother,” I said in a low voice. I’d been keeping Declan up to speed on what had been happening—or not happening—on the case, so he knew who Zoe was even though he’d never met her.
“No, no, no! Don’t be stupid. Here—give it to me.”
My husband and I exchanged a wary look and then moved toward Juliette’s voice. We rounded the corner to find her on a stepstool adjusting a piece of framed art on the wall. Paisley Long stood beside her, looking down at the floor, arms crossed and shoulders hunched.
A man I’d never seen before—but whose identity I could easily guess—was on her other side. Walker’s eyes were brown beneath thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. His hairline had receded, but the hair he had was thick and curling down around his ears. He wore tan slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. As he smiled at his wife, I instinctively reached toward him with my intuition. Declan gave me a questioning look when I suddenly took a step backward. I returned it with an infinitesimal shake of my head.
Beneath his mild exterior, Walker Stokes reeked of a seething anger.
Directed at whom? About what?
Aldo Bracket stood behind the stepstool and helped Juliette down when she had arranged the piece where she wanted it. I saw it was one of his collages—one I hadn’t seen on my previous visit to the gallery with Bianca. This one was a mass of screws and washers and nuts arranged in clumps around a rusty screwdriver with a chip in the handle. The others I’d seen, along with a half dozen I hadn’t, were already on the wall. Honestly, of all of them, the one with the screwdriver was probably the best.
Paisley’s head came up, and she saw us. At the same time, I saw her eyes were wet with tears. She blinked and took a breath, then smiled at us brightly.
“Katie Lightfoot, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. “And this is my husband, Declan McCarthy. I brought him by to look at Compassion, as you suggested. Declan, this is Paisley Long. She was Leigh Markes’ assistant.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Walker Stokes’ head swivel toward us.
“Is the piece still here?” I asked
“Oh, yes!” Paisley said. “I’ll take you over to it.”
Obviously, I could have located the statue again, but I got the feeling Paisley wanted to be as far away from bossy Juliette as was possible. She led us to the back of the gallery and stopped in front of the sculpture.
“This one has an effect, doesn’t it?” she asked.
I murmured agreement.
“Wow,” Declan said, and I could tell he meant it. “It is more powerful in person.”
A smile bloomed on her face. “It’s a wonderful piece. Inspiring. There are times that I’ve stood and simply looked at it for the longest time. So calming. Her other pieces are like that as well.”
“How many were there?” I asked.
“Only three. She works quite slowly. Carefully. The others in this display were Passion and Serenity. They were stunning as a group.”
“Did you think about buying one of them?” I asked.
She snorted a little laugh. “Oh, I thought about it. No way could I afford one, though.”
“Hey! I know you!” Juliette came barreling over and pointed at me. “Walker! This is the woman who took Zoe away.”
I felt Declan tense beside me, and I put my hand on his arm.
Walker came over, looking at me with a combination of suspicion and curiosity.
“You must be Zoe’s dad,” I said, pasting a smile on my face.
“I must be.” His tone was flat. “Who the heck are you?”
“Katie Lightfoot,” I said and stuck out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He shook it without thinking, then seemed to think better of it and dropped my hand.
“It’s true that I brought Zoe to your house,” I said. “She’s friends with Iris Grant, and she asked Iris for a ride from the airport. You know, since you apparently couldn’t make it.” My mouth was still smiling, but my eyes weren’t.
He flushed. “I had an appointment.”
“Yes. Juliette here told us all about it.” I dropped the smile altogether and held his gaze. “That’s why Zoe decided she’d rather stay with her aunt than in Juliette’s guest room.”
Walker stiffened.
I hadn’t intended to confront him, but I also hadn’t realized how angry I was with this guy. He’d treated his daughter horribly, and I didn’t feel one whit of guilt for letting him know that I knew their house really belonged to his wife.
“Oh, it’s just as well, honey,” Juliette said, oblivious once again. “We don’t really have room for Zoe.”
“Be quiet,” he said in a low, grating voice.
She blinked.
“And stop telling our business to strangers.”
Her mouth opened and closed a few times; then her nostrils flared. “Well!” She stomped back to where Aldo was watching the drama unfold from across the room.
Walker looked back at me. “Interesting coincidence that you gave Zoe a ride and then showed up at my gallery, Ms. Lightfoot.”
“Oh, she came in with Bianca Devereaux,” Paisley said. “A couple of days ago.”
“The gallery was closed two days ago,” he said, turning on her.
Her eyes widened. “I opened it for them when Ms. Devereaux asked me to, you see. She’s such a good customer, and such a patron of the—”
“You had no right to do that,” Walker said. “I don’t know who the hell this Devereaux woman is, but this is my gallery now. I make the decisions.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stokes,” Paisley whispered.
I found myself really hoping Peter Quinn was right. I would pay to see this guy behind bars for the rest of his life.
Declan sensed my outrage at Stokes’ behavior and put his arm around my shoulders. “Well, I’m sure glad Paisley let my wife in to see this sculpture.”
Walker smiled. “Well, then. Let me wrap it up for you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “Oh, I don’t think—”
“We need to discuss a purchase like this,” Declan said smoothly. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Stokes.”
“Sure you will,” Walker said.
I gave Declan a quick squeeze, then slipped away from his arm and walked over to where Aldo was fussing with one of his compositions.
“I noticed these when Bianca and I were here the other day,” I said.
“I remember,” he said.
“They’re very interesting. Tell me, what is your inspiration?” I asked.
“Oh, um, I, you know, gather inspiration from—” He waved his hand in the air.
“From?” I leaned forward.
“Just everything, I guess.”
“Ah,” I said.
“You should come to my show,” he said. “It starts next week. The opening is next Tuesday evening. Everyone who’s anyone will be here.” He was warming up his sales pitch at lightning speed.
Walker came over and interrupted him. “I get the feeling Mr. McCarthy and Ms. Lightfoot are not so much buyers as browsers, Aldo.”
“You never know,” I said in a light tone. “Goodbye, Alessandro.”
Mr. Outsider Artist was frowning mightily as Declan and I started for the exit. I caught Paisley’s eye.
“I’ll walk you out,” she said.
Chapter 19
Paisley hurried to join us, then led us to the door, pushed it open, and followed us out to the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry about all that.”
“Don’t worry,” I said.
“I’m going to go get the truck,” Declan said. We’d had to park down the block, but I was pretty sure he was giving me the opportunity to talk with Paisley alone.
I nodded, and we watched him stride away. “You sure have your hands full with your new boss,” I said.
She sighed. “I don’t know how long he’ll be my boss. That wife of his has threatened to fire me twice already today.”
“Do you really want to stay?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“That’s a very good question,” she said. “I loved working with Leigh. She was passionate about art and expert at finding unknown talent and nurturing it. I learned so much from her.” She looked back toward the gallery. “I think perhaps it’s time to move on to a new mentor. One day I’d like to start my own gallery.”
“Is Aldo Bracket one of her finds?” I knew he wasn’t, of course, but I wanted to know what she’d say.
“God, no. He fooled me for a little while, I guess. Not Leigh. Of course, I think she knew who he really is. I heard you call him Alessandro, so I guess you know, too. I don’t run in those social circles, though, so I had no idea.” She leaned close. “I think he’s planning to have someone buy all his work, so his show will look like a big success.” An undercurrent of disgust ran beneath the words.
“And Stokes is just fine with that,” a voice said behind us.
We whirled to see Aldo had silently slipped outside. Remembering how easily and quietly Bianca and I opened the door two days earlier, I could see how.
He glared at both of us. “Leigh Markes should have known better than to cross me. I always win.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Is that a confession to murder?”
His lips parted in surprise. “A . . . Of course not! I’m just saying that if I’d had to, I had a little something on your sainted Ms. Markes. She was no angel, though. She was having an affair with a married man, and if she’d stood in the way of my show much longer, I was going to tell the world.”
Paisley’s lip curled. “Or threaten to tell the world.”
“You have just confessed,” I said, “to blackmail.”
He smiled. “To potential blackmail. That’s not the same.”
“Who was she having the affair with?” I asked.
Paisley looked intrigued. She didn’t like the idea of blackmail any more than I did, but she was curious.
Aldo’s response was a smirk.
“Leigh’s beyond caring.” At least I thought so. Teddy might disagree. “And it might be pertinent to her murder investigation,” I added.
He looked taken aback, then thoughtful. “Nah. I don’t think so.”
Not very convincing. Maybe I could talk Quinn into questioning this guy in between his attempts to nail Walker Stokes.
I changed the subject. “Why do you want a show so badly?”
Aldo’s chin came up. “Because I’m an artist, and I deserve one.”
Spoiled little brat.
“No, you’re not,” Paisley said. “If you really wanted to be an artist, why not go to art school, learn your craft, do the work?”
He fell silent for several seconds and then said, “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I just have to convince my father to allow it. And the only way I’m going to do that is if he thinks I can make money at it. Otherwise, he’ll refuse to pay.”
Paisley and I looked at each other, and I could see she felt a little sorry for him. Goddess help me, so did I. Which was ridiculous, wasn’t it?
“By the way, no one will believe you if you spill the beans that I’ve rigged this show to sell out,” he said, and my pity vanished. “I’ve got it all figured out.” He turned and went back inside without another word.
Paisley took a deep breath. “Well, I guess I’d better get back in there. I haven’t been yelled at enough yet today.” But she said it lightly. She’d be okay.
Declan drove up then, and I said goodbye to Leigh’s assistant.
“Say, Ms. Lightfoot?” she called as I walked away.
I stopped and looked over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Is there any chance you might buy the Hanta piece? I’d get a nice commission, and it might be my last one.”
“We’ll talk about it,” I said. Lied, really. After paying for our wedding and before that the renovation of the carriage house, we wouldn’t be buying a piece of art that expensive anytime soon.
She nodded. “My commission aside, I hope you do. It deserves a good home, and I can tell you’d give it one.”
* * *
* * *
For the rest of the afternoon, my aunt and uncle and I busied ourselves getting things ready for the Halloween party at the Honeybee. Iris had worked the morning shift and had classes in the afternoon, so we were on our own. The city had closed two blocks of Broughton Street to traffic, and from four to five o’clock, a procession of the youngest trick-or-treaters had straggled past the bakery. Some were in child carriers or pushed in strollers, and all were dressed in adorable costumes and cute as heck. Many of their parents made a side trip into the bakery for a bit of sustenance or caffeine—or both—before moving on.
Halloween was always good for bakery business, despite all the goodies we gave away.
By seven o’clock, two hours after our usual closing time, Lucy and Ben were standing in the open doorway of the bakery and inviting passersby of all ages to come in and get a treat. We planned to stay open a couple more hours but would play it by ear according to how many customers were still coming in as the evening progressed. The sun had set outside, and the lights inside were down low. Foggy “smoke” swirled up from the chunk of dry ice in Lucy’s cast-iron cauldron, lazily drifting to the floor and flowing around the ankles of those closest to the register.
