Accessory to Murder (16 page)

You can do this, Josie told herself. You should have done it years ago. Her heart was pounding as she eased her gray Honda onto Kingshighway.

Josie was going back to the Central West End for the first time in nearly a decade.

Kingshighway lived up to its grand name. Hanging baskets of greenery in ornate holders paraded down the center. The boulevard hadn't looked this good the last time she'd been in the West End.

That was almost ten years ago, when she and Nate were wildly in love. They'd had champagne brunches at Café Balaban and late-night drinks at Llywelyn's Pub. They'd dined at the fashionable restaurants, shopped for antiques, stopped at Big Sleep Books for the latest mysteries.

The West End belonged to St. Louis's old money. The inhabitants lived in massive mansions on private streets guarded by iron gates. She'd met some of these privileged people at Nate's parties. Josie felt sorry for them. They were prisoners of their great wealth and family expectations. They had everything but their freedom.

Nate had had loads of new money and limitless freedom. Now he was behind bars, too, and Josie would never see him again. She thought about him almost every day. How could she avoid it? Amelia looked so much like her father.

Josie had faced the loss of her lover, single motherhood, and her angry, disappointed parent. But she couldn't summon the courage to return to the scene of her extravagant happiness. Josie couldn't bear to go back to the neighborhood where she and Nate had been in love.

Mercifully, mystery-shopping kept her mostly in the county malls.

Now she was returning with Alyce. This is no time to whine about my past, Josie told herself. My friend has real problems, right now.

Alyce was fighting off her fears with chatter. “I haven't been in the city in ages,” she said. “I love these fabulous old robber-baron castles. Look at the carved fleur-de-lis on that doorway.”

“They're amazing,” Josie said.

I was at a cocktail party at that house years ago, she thought. The furniture belonged in a museum. The host had served jug wine, deviled eggs, and yellow cheese on Ritz crackers. Nate had laughed about the cheap hors d'oeuvres and taken her out for caviar afterward.

“I wonder what people will make of Wood Winds in a hundred years?” Alyce said. “Will they laugh at our turrets and towers and make fun of my half-timber garage?”

They already do, Josie wanted to say, but that would be cruel. “Your citrus trumpet will be the highlight of the house tour. That red wig is growing on me.”

“I hope it's not growing on me,” Alyce said. “I feel like a hooker.”

“You're not far from work. The Stroll's only a few blocks away,” Josie said. “Weird, isn't it? The city's richest people live within spitting distance of the poor.”

“Stop! There's a parking space, and it doesn't have a meter,” Alyce said. “Grab it.”

“Spoken like a true suburban woman,” Josie said. “You'll spend a hundred dollars on gas, but not a nickel on parking.”

“We have principles,” Alyce said as Josie eased her gray car into the spot. “We're starting with the novelist Ramsey, right? Which bar do you want to try first? Drinks are on me, as well as bribes and tips.”

“I could learn to like this investigating,” Josie said.

Three hours later, she wasn't so sure. “If I have another club soda, I'll explode,” Josie said. They were in the dark, wood-paneled depths of Llywelyn's, munching warm, salty potato chips.

“These chips are terrific,” Alyce said. “I can't stop eating them.”

“Crispy grease is my favorite food,” Josie said.

“Do you ever eat anything healthy?” Alyce said.

“If broccoli was so great, Bissinger's would cover it in chocolate. Just don't tell my daughter.”

“I think she knows,” Alyce said. “I've been passing out twenties like yard-sale flyers, but there's no sign of Ramsey.”

Josie pulled out a small notebook. “This is bar number six. You've dropped two hundred dollars so far, but no one has seen the successful failed novelist. I don't think they're covering for him. You're offering a cash reward and he has too many unpaid bar tabs.”

“You've been calling Ramsey every fifteen minutes from a different pay phone,” Alyce said. “He's not answering his phone.”

“It's my patented Josie Marcus speed-dial assault.”

“Have you left any messages?” Alyce said.

“Are you kidding?” Josie crunched a chip. “What could I say that wouldn't drive him deeper into hiding?”

“Let's give it up and track down Evelyn.” Alyce ate the last chip.

“That should be easier.” Josie checked her notebook again. “His Gallerie Evelyn is around the corner.”

Josie didn't know much about modern art, but she liked most of what she saw at Gallerie Evelyn. The man had an eye for color and form. She spotted only six duds: a group of muddy oils near the entrance.

A skinny man barely larger than a boy met them at the gallery door. Josie couldn't believe anyone would wear a black turtleneck and a beret. He even had a cigarette holder in one hand. In the other was a wineglass that never seemed empty.

“May I help you, ladies?” the man said, with a blast of wine fumes. He was wasted.

“Are you Evelyn?” Josie said.

“EVE-a-lyn,” he said. “EV-alyn sounds like a waitress. Can no one in this benighted city pronounce my name right?” His accent wavered between BBC and Brooklyn.

“We certainly admire your lovely art,” Josie said.

“Lovely is for calendars,” he said. “My work is powerful. Thought-provoking. It's supposed to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I'm definitely uncomfortable,” Josie said.

Alyce shot her a look. “We understand you have some early works by a St. Louis artist,” Alyce said. “Halley Hardwicke.”

“They're gone,” he said. “So is Halley. She's dead.” Evelyn gave a dramatic sigh and took a long drink. “She was dead to me long before that.”

“You knew her before she was famous?” Alyce said.

“I discovered her,” Evelyn said. “I awakened her from her bourgeois existence. Before she met me, she thought a painting had to match the living room couch.”

“I thought you carried her early works,” Josie said.

“Sold them all.” Evelyn took another gulp. “There was quite a run on them after her death. Even her minor sketches. I sold all twenty-one pieces.”

The artist could be as bourgeois as any stockbroker, Josie thought. She didn't like the portrait of this man at all. He was a cliché, and greedy, besides.

“But I have works that are related to her.” He pointed the cigarette holder at the group of muddy paintings on the wall. “If you want works of great personal meaning, may I suggest these? I call them
Halley, One Through Six
. They show the six stages of love, from the springtime budding”—he flicked the cigarette holder at a bilious green canvas—“to its inevitable death.” The flat gray canvas looked like a basement wall.

Josie peeked at the price tag on the gray one. Eight thousand dollars. No matter what color he used, Evelyn liked green.

He skittered across the floor and made a sweeping gesture that took in all six canvases. He didn't spill a drop of wine. “This is the story of our love. Alas, there was no happy ending.”

Alas? Josie thought. Did he really say “alas”?

“I brought her up from nowhere,” Evelyn said. “I believed in her. I made her a New York success. Then, suddenly, she didn't know me. Still, it's better to love, even if I was betrayed. I've put my suffering on canvas. I've painted out my pain. It's made me a better artist.”

Josie couldn't imagine how Evelyn could be worse. The six paintings looked stale and derivative, even to her untrained eye.

The artist waved his cigarette holder at a white canvas with a rusty red slash down the middle.

“That is my love, engulfed by my loneliness,” he said. “White is the color of mourning. Red is for our passion.”

Josie thought it had the passion of a paint sample at Home Depot.

“I can see your feelings,” Alyce said.

“Of course you can,” Evelyn said, throwing his arms wide. “But are you capable of feeling them?”

“I think you're still angry at her,” Josie said.

“I am, dear girl.” Evelyn smiled at her as if she were a prize pupil. “Halley threw her talent away on silk scarves. Trifles for the rich. I would have never let her enter that contest if I thought she'd abandon her art for commercial success.”

Especially when she didn't cut you in, Josie thought.

“We'd like to find someone who knew her in the early days,” Alyce said. “Before you, I mean. We're willing to pay.”

Josie was startled by Alyce's blunt statement.

“How much?” Evelyn said.

Alyce understood the man. Josie had underestimated his crassness.

“Two hundred dollars,” Alyce said. “We're trying to locate the novelist Ramsey.”

“Forget it,” Evelyn said. “He's in deep hiding. An unhappy papa is chasing Ramsey with a shotgun.”

“Is the daughter pregnant?” Josie asked.

“Worse,” Evelyn said. “Crazy. Ramsey romanced her, promised to marry her, then skipped. Poor girl tried to slash her wrists. She'll miss at least a semester at Smith. Very sad. Her parents are positively homicidal. Ramsey took off after the father shot out his car windows—while he was sitting inside. He didn't tell a soul where he's hiding. Ramsey dare not show his face until she's out of the loony bin. He won't be back for months.”

Evelyn sounded gleeful. He took another gulp of wine. “I'd like to take your money, dear lady, but I have no information to give you. Are you sure you won't consider my Halley series?”

“Sorry,” Josie said. “But here's my card if you spot Ramsey.”

“And there's another hundred dollars if you can find him in a week,” Alyce said.

Evelyn stared at her. “I know who you are,” he said. “That wig may fool some, but I have an artist's eye. You're the wife of Halley's killer.”

“He's innocent,” Alyce said.

“Your secret is safe with me, dear lady. I admire your faith. I'll do my best to find Ramsey,” Evelyn said. “You will remember that bonus, won't you?”

“How could I forget?” Alyce said.

On the walk back to the car, Josie said, “Did you see what Evelyn was charging for his awful paintings? Eight thou apiece.”

“Charging is one thing,” Alyce said. “Getting it is another.”

Josie stumbled over an uneven sidewalk. “Do you really think he'll call us for three hundred dollars?”

“He'd sell his grandmother for fifty cents,” Alyce said. “If he finds out where Ramsey is, he'll call. We've got to find Ramsey. He spends so much time on the city's seamy side, he's bound to know something useful.”

“I have a plan,” Josie said, unlocking the car doors. “Watch this.”

She waited until Alyce was in the car, then pulled out her cell phone. Josie speed-dialed Ramsey's number.

“Congratulations, sir,” she said. “This is Marcus Marketing Services. We are inviting qualified adults to mystery-shop hotels and cruise lines. Your name was given to us by Mrs. Renata Livermore.”

Alyce's eyebrows shot up, but she stayed quiet.

“If you are willing to take a free twenty-one-day Caribbean cruise on the Rolland-Canada Line to rate the food and service, we will provide you with airfare from St. Louis to Fort Lauderdale. All your expenses will be paid, but you must fill out our thirty-page evaluation form. If you do not fill out the form, you will be responsible for payment in full for the seven-thousand-dollar cruise.

“If you are interested, we must hear from you within forty-eight hours.” Josie gave her cell phone number, then snapped her phone shut with a satisfied smile.

“Think he'll call back?” Alyce said.

“I'm betting this guy is broke and desperate to get out of town. I give him fifteen minutes. Let's head home.”

Ramsey called back half an hour later. Josie pulled off the road to take the call.

“Marcus Marketing Services,” she said.

“Did you call and offer me a free cruise?” Ramsey said.

“It's not free, sir,” Josie said, “unless you are willing to do the thirty-page evaluation. And there is an eleven-dollar port tax.”

“Yes, yes, I understand that. When can I leave?” Ramsey said.

“We have cruises open in six weeks,” Josie said. “Also, four weeks, two weeks, and if you are able to leave in two days—”

“I'll take that one.”

“Fine,” Josie said. “We'll send a courier to your home with the paperwork and tickets. What's your address?”