Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 03 - Paint Me a Murder (7 page)

I already had my own phone out, calling our lawyer.

10

Bob and Mary Grace almost disinherited Louella when she married Louis Hardy. But they only had two children, and they were loath to cut ties with their only daughter.

At the time of her marriage, she was working the
Grace Gulch Herald,
the daily that her father had founded. The paper developed a strong readership across Lincoln County.

In the end, the Graces divided their worldly goods between their two children. Roland inherited the ranch and the working oil properties. Louella Grace Hardy took over the reins at the
Herald
and the Orpheum. The paper stayed in the family until the death of Penn Hardy (Louella’s grandson) during the tragic reenactment of the original gunfight between Bob Grace and Dick Gaynor.

From
A History of Grace Gulch

Friday, September 15

Georgia agreed to represent Jenna, but too many customers came in during the afternoon for me to worry about their visit with the police. By the time I closed up shop, over half of my formal wear from the ’60s had sold. Several of the girls asked if I carried menswear from the decade as well. I spent a few minutes at the computer, ordering more stock.

Jenna called on my way out the door. “Meet you at the MGM?”

I didn’t ask about her little chat with the police. “See you in a few.”

Jenna and I arrived at the same time. We heard Dina and Audie discussing her script for the
Grace Gulch Gold
production on stage.

“What do you think—should we go with vignettes about the different cultures that make up our town? I think it might be fun to do something about the Sac-Fox nation.”

“I don’t know. People might like to see some of the more colorful moments in Grace Gulch History. Like the legend of Larry Grace’s lost treasure and the Romeo and Juliet story of Louella Grace and Louis Hardy.”

I wished they would make up their minds. I was running out of time to provide costumes for the play.

“We’re here!” I called out.

“Jenna!” Dina ran and hugged her. “What did they say?”

Jenna sank into one of the plush seats at the front of the auditorium. “They weren’t asking me about the murder. I guess that’s good.”

“But?” I prompted.

“They seem to think I should know something about the recent increase in drug traffic.”

I sputtered, and Audie laughed. “Why would they think that?” He managed.

“You should have seen the chief.”

I could picture the scene. Reiner’s Roosevelt-mustache quivering while he paced the floor in a menacing manner.

“He said drugs started flooding in—his words, I swear—about the time I arrived in town. And surely I have connections to some drug organization south of the border after all those years in New Mexico. All artists are a drug-happy lot, at least in his opinion. If only he knew.” She managed a weak smile. “I made a point of only working with sober artists. Drugs destroy talent faster than anything. But of course, Reiner threw my history with drugs back in high school in my face.”

I could almost hear her thoughts.
Will I ever live that down?

“Well, if he ever tries to talk like that around me, I’ll—” Dina gritted her teeth. “I don’t know what I’d do, but I’d give him a piece of my mind.”

“My sweet girl, I don’t need you to defend me. Georgia did a good job of that.”

“I suppose.” Dina’s phone trilled at that point, and she brightened. “It’s Noah!” She left the office for a moment of private conversation.

“She’s been waiting for that call all morning.” Jenna scowled. “She hangs on his every word.”

Dina returned, a smile on her face. “I learned something else this morning. There’s a chance Finella’s death wasn’t murder after all.”

“What’s that?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Well, I got a little out of Frances about the investigation.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I needed an excuse to be at the station while the Chief was grilling Jenna.”

“What did she say?” Get to the point.

“‘This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.’” Audie grinned at Wilde’s wit. “All right, spill the beans. They’re not sure what caused the fire, are they?”

“They’re pretty sure it started with a turpentine-soaked cloth. What you would expect in an artist’s studio? They don’t know whether it was accident or arson. But there’s more.”

I swear she counted to ten before she continued. She had a good sense of drama.

“Dr. Barber isn’t sure what killed Finella. She did inhale smoke from the fire. But she also had received a blow to her head that could have been fatal. If someone had found her in time. . .who knows? I suspect they know more but you know the police. They always hold back something.”

I ran my fingers through my hair—never a good idea, with its tendency to stand on ends like dandelion stalks—and thought through the implications. “So she could have died accidentally. Fallen and hit her head and maybe knocked over something that started the fire.”

We stewed over that. Audie spoke up. “Or someone might have knocked her on the head and left her to die. That’s murder. The same person could have started a fire on purpose to hide what happened.”

“Or someone else could have started the fire.” Jenna offered another opinion.

I groaned. “It’s just like what happened when Vic Spencer was murdered. We weren’t sure if the blackmailer and thief and murderer were all the same person or different people.”

“That’s why we need
you.”
Dina grinned. “You did such a good job of figuring things out last time.”

Junior chose that moment to press on my bladder. “Be right back.” I dashed for the bathroom.

“You can run but you can’t hide.” Dina’s voice trailed after me. A trill announced a phone call. “It’s Noah!”

I spent an extra minute in the restroom, tugging a comb through my hair and pulling it back into a bushy ponytail. The puzzle of recent events intrigued me, yes, but I had more important things to think about. “Like you,” I spoke to the elbow that rippled along my belly. I needed what little energy I possessed these days to continue working and not much of anything else. But I had promised Jenna and Dina to do what I could, and whatever else, the Wilde sisters stuck together.
The Lord is my strength.

Jenna was holding court when I returned. “If the attack on Finella and the fire are two separate events, could Brad have been the intended victim of the fire? We’ve focused on who had a motive to kill Finella. What if we’re looking in the wrong place?”

“Let me play the devil’s advocate for a moment.” I rejoined the circle. “The police might think Brad killed Finella and then set the fire to hide the evidence.”

Both Audie and Jenna shook their heads. “An artist wouldn’t destroy his own work. No artist I know would do that.” Jenna spoke from experience.

“I agree.” Audie leaned forward. “And specifically not Brad, not on this project. He had invested too much of himself into making it succeed.”

Three pair of eyes trained on me, demanding action on my part. I asked the question that occurred to me in the bathroom. “What are you asking me to do? To look for Finella’s murderer? Or to figure out where Brad has disappeared to?”

“Why stop there?” Audie grinned at me. “Why not look for the arsonist and people with grudges against Brad while you’re at it?”

I shook a mock fist at him.

“My priority is to find Brad and get his side of the story,” Jenna said.

Dina nodded in agreement.

“Okay. I need a steno pad.” I tried to get up but only collapsed back in the seat.

“I’ve got an extra. I’ll even give you one of the
Herald’s
super-duper pens.” Dina pulled the items out of her purse.

Audie stood and offered me a hand to help me up. “I hate to bring this brilliant brainstorming session to an end, but Mother is expecting us home for supper.”

“At least give us an assignment,” Dina begged. “I want to do
something
.”

“Let me think.” Brilliance escaped me for the moment, and I grasped at straws. “When will you see Noah again?”

She blushed. “This evening, for supper.”

“I expect he would tell you more than he would to the rest of us. He and Finella were two of the three Musketeers. See if he has any ideas on who might hold a grudge.”

“Besides me, you mean?” Jenna laughed. “Okay, Miss Marple, what do you have in mind for me?”

I was glad I had anticipated the request. “Check your contacts. See if there’s any jealousy floating around about Brad, or if anyone from the art world was near Grace Gulch on Tuesday.” A successful artist must have rivals, but I didn’t expect much to come from that line of questioning. The odds that an outsider would sneak into Grace Gulch and set fire to Brad’s studio at the exact moment Finella lay there unconscious were slim to none. But I couldn’t think of anything else for now.

“Madame General, what are my orders?” Laughter brimmed in Audie’s beautiful eyes.

“Mr. Director of the Center for the Arts, the police might let
you
get into the studio.”

“You can out-investigate the police at the crime scene?”

“Not me.
You
. You might notice something out of place.”

“Am I looking for something in particular?”

“Yes.” I explained what I hoped to find. “Although we might as well all look. If Audie gets permission, how about in the morning, before I open the store?”

Everyone agreed.

Audie’s comments stayed with me as we drove to the house. Why had he called me Madame General? Had Audie married a woman just like dear old mom?

That scared me even more than chasing down another murderer.

11

During the Great Depression, Bob Grace not only kept the Circle G going but bought a lot of the land around it. Between his increased land holdings and oil rights, he amassed a modest fortune. His son Roland took to ranching as Louella did to the arts. Like his father, he didn’t have a lazy bone in his body. The Second World War interrupted his courtship of Gwennie Kirkendall. He fought in the Pacific theater and hurried home as soon as peace was signed with Japan. Roland and Gwennie made their contribution to the post-war baby boom with the arrival of three children a year apart: Magda, Ron, and Curtis.

Neither Magda nor Ron expressed any interest in running the family ranch. Curtis managed it for years after his father’s death, before he and his bride of twenty years died in a tragic airplane accident. Their young son Cord took over the ranch as soon as he finished college. The Circle G is currently still in operation, handled by Cord Grace and his bride, Frances Waller.

From
A History of Grace Gulch

Saturday, September 16

I wasn’t sure if Audie could get permission to enter the burned-out studio, let alone on a weekend, but Frances came through for us. We decided to go by on the way to work on Saturday.

Gilda surprised me by volunteering to fill in at the store while Audie and I sifted through the ashes. She even offered to stop by and pick up some of Jessie’s sticky buns, more popular than ever with Dustin’s honey.

My goodwill toward my mother-in-law lasted until she studied my black mock turtleneck sweater and maternity jeans. Her comment of ‘At least soot won’t show. I just hope being around all that fire won’t hurt the baby’ reignited my resentment. I didn’t need her to echo my own fears. Then again, if we shared the same thought patterns, maybe we were more alike than I had realized at first. Scary.

Audie and I stared without speaking at the blackened structure that had once held Brad’s studio. The gleaming walls of the Center for the Arts, white except for those portions of the mural he had already completed, formed a dramatic backdrop to the ruins. The black-on-white setting made it difficult to envision the myriad colors Brad planned for the mural.

“I wonder what will happen to the mural now.” The stark reality pushed the question to the front of my mind.

Audie stuck his hands in his jeans pockets as if he didn’t know what else to do. “Of course we have Brad’s proposal. But. . .”

Without the artist, what good was it? Like any creative work in progress, the final product would have differed to some degree from the original concept. “He kept coming up with new ideas. Every time we talked about costumes, he’d make a sketch or a note and mumble something about how to incorporate it into the mural.”

I heard a car door slam behind us. High heels clacked across the pavement. Jenna.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me your plans.” Her voice rose higher than usual as she came up behind me. “I didn’t find out until I called the store and
Gilda
said you were coming—”

The sight of the burned-out shell of the studio stopped her in mid-sentence, and she turned as pale as the walls of the Center for the Arts. I hadn’t prohibited Jenna from coming to the crime scene with us, but I’d thought she might prefer to stay away. I imagined the same video played in all our minds: murder and arson, a story that got uglier every time it replayed.

“I’m sorry.” I rubbed my stomach as much to calm myself down as Junior. “We might as well get started.”

“I don’t see how you expect to find anything.” Audie stared at the ashes as if the wind might stir them into an image of the murderer. “After all, the police have already been through everything.”

“The police were looking for evidence of arson and murder.”

Before I could continue, Jenna spoke up. “Whereas we are looking for clues as to why Brad disappeared. Or where to.”

“And of course, to see if we can salvage anything about the mural.” I pulled a white scarf with black polka dots from my jeans pocket and tied my hair back. “Let’s get to it.”

“Put this on first.” Audie handed me a medical mask that probably had been used as a play prop at some time or other. He also offered gloves. “To avoid smudging things any more than necessary.” I started to object, but then I decided he was right. I didn’t want to breathe in ashes anymore than I liked to breathe dust at home.

He had brought two extra masks, so he must have expected Jenna’s presence. Where was the fourth member of our party? No doubt she’d arrive any second, camera in hand to record our efforts for the
Herald
.

“And I brought these.” Jenna flourished a couple pairs of black rubber boots. “They should fit you, Cici. Sorry, Audie, you’ll have to make do.”

Shame on me. The supposed fearless leader of our team, I hadn’t thought about either precaution. I dangled my legs out the side of the car and let Audie tug the boots over my swollen feet. My comfortable slip-ons, they were not.

The sky had darkened from yesterday’s sunshine to overcast and cloudy, an appropriate backdrop for the task ahead. Maybe the morning mist would prevent the ashes from stirring quite so much. Junior didn’t waste any time informing me that he didn’t appreciate all this bending and stooping. He sent a rippling wave across my abdomen and I grunted.

Audie ran to my side. His expression would have made me laugh if I wasn’t so uncomfortable. “Cici?” He gave my name an entire world of meaning.

“I’m okay.” Well, as okay as a woman in her last trimester of pregnancy was ever going to be. I bent over again and Junior immediately protested. “Maybe I will sit down for a minute.”

I took a seat in the car, and Junior settled down. “So you just want to avoid work, is that it, fella?” Audie and Jenna continued poking and prodding in no clear pattern. I wrestled with finding a better approach to the problem. We hoped some remnant of old Larry’s journal had survived the conflagration. The question was, where had Brad kept his great-grandpa’s diary? Was there any chance it had survived? Think, Cici, think
.

When Brad had a question, he brought a copy of a journal page with him, never showing me the original volume. On a few occasions, I had come to the studio. I squeezed my eyes shut to remember what I had seen. He kept his supplies neat. That had surprised me. I guess I expected an artist to be disorganized—the whole right brain/left brain thing. He had tacked four panels of art paper to the wall, creating a four-by-six foot surface, a scale version of the mural. Details had been added and enlarged from the original, smaller proposal, incorporating scenes we had discussed. He had an uncanny ability to make pictures come to life. When I saw Bob Grace’s mad dash for the Gulch on his faithful horse Patches, I could almost hear hoof beats on the hard-packed earth and smell the dirt stirring in the air.

I knew the scale version of the mural was gone without looking a second time. To my purely amateur eye, I would guess that the fire might have started there.

Where was Brad? That question bugged me the most. He took a father’s pride in his creation; he wouldn’t treat its destruction lightly. He should have been here, mourning the loss. Except he wasn’t. Five days had passed since the studio, and the mural with it, had gone up in smoke, and no one had caught sight of the artist.

I wiggled in my seat. Flight screamed guilt. No wonder the police wanted to talk with him. But I had given my sisters my word that I would seek out the truth. I prayed it wouldn’t lead straight to Brad’s—uh, missing—door.

Jenna’s occasional murmurs and Audie’s louder comments let me know their search hadn’t produced anything.

If Brad wasn’t the murderer, then where was he? Had something happened to him? Had he been threatened by someone else and gone into hiding for safety?

That line of thinking wouldn’t help me find the journal. Concentrate. What else did you notice in the studio?
What else had I seen besides the mural in progress? A sketchbook with small vignettes of Black Hawk, fighting against the removal of the Sac-Fox Nation from their original homeland in Wisconsin; Maisie Mallory working her claim in her bloomers; even my great-grandfather, Wallace Wilde, returning home from the First World War. I yanked my mind away from those memories as irrelevant to the journal. I lifted my inner eye to the space above his work table. Bookshelves
.
He had assembled a wide variety of volumes about the flora and fauna of our part of Oklahoma, as well as other research documents. Had I spotted a worn leather volume without a title among those books? Yes, I thought I had. Bingo
.

I opened my eyes. Even better, that part of the wall had received the least damage. I could see book-sized shapes along the wall. I scrambled to my feet and trudged around the perimeter to the remaining shelves. Careful,
I warned myself. Water could well have finished what fire hadn’t destroyed.

“Glad you decided to rejoin the work force.” Jenna’s white teeth gleamed in her soot-streaked face. Smile or grimace? I wasn’t sure until a tear slid down her cheek and made the mess worse.

“Oh, Jenna.” I didn’t dare put my arms around her given the current state of our apparel.

She rubbed at the offending tear with her hand, creating a dark spot by her eye. “Seeing it up close like this makes it more real. And it brings it all back. For years just the smell of turpentine or fresh paint reminded me of Brad. I thought I had gotten over all that.” She sniffed.

Now I remembered why I hadn’t wanted Jenna along this morning. She hadn’t been there when Penn Hardy was shot or when we discovered Vic Spencer’s body in my store. I knew that seeing it made the truth all too real. I couldn’t imagine the impact when you cared about the victim.

“Then after all these years, our paths crossed again.” Jenna’s eyes turned the smoky brown of singed wood. “Except I made a point of staying as far away from Brad as possible. And now I may never see him again.”

Of all the words have ever been, the saddest were what might have been. Wasn’t that a famous quote? I shook it off. Jenna needed a pep talk.

“You can’t think that way.” I found myself imitating Gilda’s best no-nonsense voice. “I’m sure he’ll show up and all this will be cleared away in no time. That’s why we’re here. And I have an idea.” I reached for the first book on the shelf—too tall and wide to be the journal—and the corner broke off in my hand. “Oops.” Junior got in the way when I attempted to lean closer.

“What are you looking for?” Audie, taller than I was and without a baby in the way, extracted the book easily. “
Flora and Fauna of North Central Oklahoma
? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Not that one. But I think the journal was on that shelf. It might have survived the fire.”

“Of course!”

“Wait a sec.” Jenna trudged over to where we stood. Her eyes had returned to their normal bright hazel color. She pulled a box of large baggies from her jacket pocket. “I thought these might come in handy.”

“Have you found something?” A familiar voice asked. Dina had at last shown up, camera in hand.

“Not yet.” I explained what we were looking for.

Dina snapped pictures as Audie pulled out three more books. On the fifth try, brown leather appeared beneath the ash. “Careful.” I held my breath.

A single page had fallen out of the binding. Jenna took the sheet between gloved fingers and dropped it into a baggie. Dina adjusted the camera to take a picture through the plastic without creating a gleam.

I slipped a finger into the journal but stopped when I felt the pages ripping apart. “The pages need to dry out before we do anything further with it.” Foiled for the day.

“I’ll work on that.” Jenna studied the soggy journal before placing it in another baggie. “It’s not too bad, shouldn’t take much more than a day or two to fix.” We turned our attention to what we had.

“Why don’t we go to my office?” Jenna cocked her head in the direction of the nearby Center for the Arts. “We can examine it there.”

As we walked across the street, I took in the aspects of the mural Brad had already completed. The ribbon of Route 66 streamed from the lower left to the upper right. The famous highway didn’t actually pass through Grace Gulch but it had affected our history. To the left, he had begun painting the Gulch as it appeared before settlement: lush, green, grassland nestled between two hills. The rest of the mural remained blank.

Once inside, the four of us crowded around Jenna’s drafting table. The powerful lights didn’t improve the legibility of the single page that had fallen out. One corner was singed, and water streaked through Black Sheep Larry’s already loopy handwriting.

One remarkably clear word jumped out. The others noticed it the same time I did. Riches.

Jenna leaned in first. “Ooh, he’s talking about treasure.”

Dina pressed in beside her. “Piecrust?” She scrunched her face. “No, wait. That’s an ‘r,’ not an ‘i.’ Precust. . .”

“There’s no ‘t’. Precious, maybe?” I suggested. I squinted at the words sideways. Junior kept me from approaching too closely. “But that doesn’t make much sense either. Not the word you expect a robber to use to describe the loot.”

“Let’s keep our minds open,” Audie reminded us. “It looks like ‘precious’ to me too.”