A Drunkard's Path (15 page)

While the group debated whether the circles should be added with invisible thread or a contrasting blanket stitch, I began to get restless. I went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee, but once there, I peered out the window. Watching Jesse and Chief Powell standing on the porch, deep in conversation, was too much to take. Was Jesse telling him that Kennette had time to commit the murder? Was he telling him about Oliver’s strange relationship with Sandra? I knew that if I walked outside the conversation would stop. But I couldn’t sew any longer. I was going crazy not knowing.

“I’m going to the shop,” I announced.

“That’s a good idea, dear,” Eleanor said. “I’m sure Kennette could use a break.”

“We’ll talk later,” Maggie said, then shot a glance at Eleanor, who appeared not to notice.

I nodded, and as I did, I caught a strange look from Bernie. Before she could say anything, I headed into the hallway and out the door. I knew I had ducked a conversation for the moment. But only for the moment.

Despite the cold, wind, and snow, I decided to walk to town. On a nice day it would take less than ten minutes, but by the time I arrived on Main Street more than twice that time had passed and I was freezing. Instead of going straight to the store, I went to Carrie’s soon-to-be coffee shop.

“Hey,” she said as she unbolted the door. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. Cold,” I said.

“Natalie called me about the girl at your grandmother’s. I would have gone over but I had so much work to do.”

“There’s really nothing to do there. They’re all sitting around eating cookies and—” I stopped myself. I had almost spilled the beans about her quilt.

“I’ll get you coffee. I just made some.” Carrie poured me a large mug. I took off my coat and dropped onto her couch. Even though it would be the fourth or fifth cup I’d have, I still felt like I needed the caffeine.

“I knew her,” I said. “She took art classes with me.”

“So Kennette and Oliver knew her as well.”

I nodded. “Better than me. At least Oliver did.”

“So you think it has something to do with Oliver?”

“I think it has to.”

Carrie studied me for a long time. “You think she came to see him and he killed her to stop her from talking to your grandmother.”

I sighed, relieved to be with a kindred spirit. “Finally someone who sees this the way I do,” I said excitedly. “I think he was having an affair with her and he didn’t want Eleanor to know. So when Sandra showed up at the house they had a fight and he killed her.”

“How did he know she was going to be there?” Carrie asked.

“He got a text. It said: ‘Too soon to talk. Needs more time.’ ”

“ ‘Needs more time,’ ” Carrie repeated, “
Needs
. Third person?”

I sat up. “Right. Third person. I need more time, but he
needs
more time.”

“Or she,” Carrie added.

“The person texting him was talking about someone or something else.”

“And the text was from Sandra?”

“Don’t know that. Maybe it was about Sandra.”

“Then why would she go over to Eleanor’s house, if she needed more time?” Carrie sipped her coffee. “If the text had said
needs to talk . . .”

I knew where Carrie was going with this. “But it didn’t,” I said excitedly. “So Sandra would have been coming over to see him. Confront him.”

“Or Eleanor. Maybe tell her something devastating about Oliver,” Carrie said.

“What? Is Eleanor the other woman?” I sat up. That was a role I’d never imagined for her. But there was something else. “If she was coming over to confront my grandmother and Oliver didn’t know, isn’t it a stroke of luck that Oliver went out to get a cigarette right when Sandra arrived?” I asked.

“Unless she was waiting for him.”

“But if she came over to confront Eleanor, why wait outside in the freezing cold? And why go to the back door?” I asked. “And why would Oliver kill someone because she was going to tell my grandmother a secret? This was their second date. If you can even call it that, considering Jesse, Kennette, and I were all there.”

“So maybe she wasn’t coming to see Oliver.”

There it was. Sandra could only have been coming to see Kennette. And she had the time to commit the murder, drag the body to the river, and clean up.

“But why would Sandra have come to the house to see Kennette?” I wondered out loud. “What could their connection be? I’ve never even seen them speak.”

“Well, you’re not around her 24-7. And you did just meet Kennette a few weeks ago.”

I knew she was right. “But what was so urgent that she had to meet Kennette at the house during a party on a Saturday night?”

“Maybe she wasn’t coming to see Kennette.” Carrie shrugged. “Maybe she was coming to see you.”

I hadn’t thought of that. Had Sandra changed her mind since the confrontation in the bathroom and decided to tell me what was going on with Oliver? And if she was, only Oliver would have reason to stop her.

I was getting whiplash from changing suspects so much.

We weren’t really getting anywhere, and across the street I could see a steady stream of customers going in and out of Someday Quilts. I let Carrie get back to unpacking coffee cups and I headed over to the shop.

Kennette was chatting with Bill Vogel, an artist who drove up from Spuyten Duyvil once a month to buy fabric. He made large-scale pieces that were part sculpture, part art quilt and, I was told, sold for thousands. He swore by my grandmother’s taste in fabric and would only buy from her.

“Heya, Nell.” He kissed my cheek. “I love Kennette. Where did you find her?”

“She sort of found us,” I said. “We take art classes together.”

“Another artist?” Bill smiled at Kennette. “What’s your medium?”

“We’re taking a drawing class from Oliver White,” she said. “He’s wonderful.”

“That’s one word for him,” Bill said. “How’s it going?”

“It’s interesting,” I said, but I had a question of my own. “You know him?”

Bill shook his head. “Not him. His reputation.”

“Which is?”

“He’s temperamental. He’s moody. He’s a pain.” He shrugged. “He’s an artist.”

“He’s brilliant,” Kennette added.

“That too,” Bill said. “And he’s worth a fortune. Or he was. I hear he’s giving it all away to some school.”

“Our school,” I said.

“What a surprisingly generous move.”

“Is it?” I asked. “I don’t think he has any family.”

Bill nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me. Rumor has it that he has a bit of a problem with women.”

“Meaning?”

“Love ’em and leave ’em. And not on the best of terms.”

“That’s not fair,” Kennette jumped in. “You said you don’t even know him.”

Bill patted her shoulder. “Absolutely right. The man’s work is amazing. Such emotion. Such depth,” he said. “What else matters?”

My grandmother matters, I thought.

“I’ll ring you up.” Kennette grabbed the fabric bolts Bill was holding.

“Two yards of each,” he called after her.

I grabbed Bill and pulled him toward the back of the shop.

“I need you to tell me something,” I said.

He leaned in, smiling. “What?”

“When you said ‘not on the best of terms,’ what did you mean?”

Bill stiffened. “A lot of old rumors. Don’t read too much into an old gossip like me.”

I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. “I don’t care if he was a womanizer. I pretty much figured he was. What I want to know is whether you’ve ever heard that he had been violent with a woman.”

I could see Bill squirm. “Oliver White is a very influential artist. And I have nothing but respect for him.” He moved away from me. “Give your grandmother my love.”

He walked to the front of the store, paid for his purchases, and left without looking back.

 

 

 

 

D
uring my Monday ceramics class I could barely concentrate. Several times the vase I was supposed to be forming spun off the wheel. When the teacher came over to help me, the clay splattered on her foot.

“I guess this isn’t my strongest medium,” I apologized.

“It could be if you focused,” she said.

I picked the clay up off the floor and tried again, but my eyes were on the clock.

As soon as I had wrapped up my clay at the end of class, I was focused. I pushed ahead of the rest of the students and practically sprinted to the registrar’s office, making it there just before they closed up for lunch.

“I’m a student here,” I said, out of breath and looking, I’m sure, quite alarming.

“What happened? Is there a problem?” A man jumped from his desk and came over.

“No. No problem.” I tried to calm down. I’d rehearsed what I would say and it was crucial that it sound relaxed. “I take a class with Oliver White. I just heard about the student who died.” I took a breath. “Sandra.”

The man nodded. “Terrible tragedy. I understand she drowned.”

“Who said that?” I had to ask, even though I knew it made me seem too curious.

“The officer who was here earlier.”

“Jesse Dewalt? About thirty, brown hair, glasses?”

“No. An older man. Looked military. I don’t remember his name.” He stiffened. “Why are you interested?”

“Oh.” I backed down a little. “The police have been asking a lot of us questions.”

“Us?”

“Those of us who knew Sandra.” I made a kind of sad face that I’m sure looked fake. “I didn’t get to know her as well as I would have liked, but I thought she was really talented.”

“That’s what Oliver said,” he agreed. “So sad.”

“We were thinking of sending a card and some flowers to her family, something for the funeral.” I paused. “Do you have contact information?”

He looked at me for a moment then nodded. “Under the circumstances I guess it would be okay. I think it would be very nice for her family to know that she was part of the community of artists.”

He walked into another room while I waited out front. Teachers and students were passing in the hallway, and I tried to keep one eye on the lookout for Chief Powell while not looking suspicious.

Several minutes passed and I started to worry. What if he came back with someone who questioned my intentions or wanted the whole thing to go through Oliver? But just as I considered leaving, he returned with a file.

“I’m sorry. I only have her home address. She left the in-case-of-emergency section blank.”

“That’s okay.” I was improvising now. “I think she had a roommate. If you give me the address, I can ask her roommate about the family.”

“Good idea.” He smiled and wrote the address on a piece of paper. “It’s very kind of you to do this.”

I nodded. I don’t think
kind
was the word Jesse, my grandmother, or the killer would have used.