Distant Obsession (8 page)

Within the hidden shadows of his injured pride, the closet where he’d tucked away the mental anguish of a small boy’s tears; a distant voice declared,
you’ve been gone too long.

Reece followed the signs to the festival, turned into the grass field designated for thousands of patrons, then took the five-minute shuttle ride to the gate. He searched through three dozen exhibitors, the hand-woven baskets, the scented candles and soap molded from animal fat, stopped by the metal smith forging and hammering knife ware until finally arriving at his destination;
Dreamscapes by Carmen
.

As before at the wine festival last week, patrons filled the booth, but the artist was absent from her table. He scanned the numerous portraits displayed against the metal lattice lining the exhibit to discover the hand painted likeness of himself gone.

Damn, must have sold it. Not sure if I like that or not.

To have a stranger copy your image, steal one’s soul without permission and paste it on a canvas for all to see, was invasive as hell. Especially in the virtually nude profile he was depicted, with all the real and imagined bulges pigmented by the painter. Yet, when he perused the three new creations of the artist’s favorite subject, the offense of her intrusion morphed into softer tones; pride, admiration, and an affinity for an unknown human with a remarkable gift to capture beauty and form using a mere cluster of camel hair and oil. Perhaps to the artist, he and she weren’t strangers after all. To capture the outer and inner secrets of another implied a familiarity beyond casual, even if the root cause stemmed from a distant obsession.

“Look, Sarabeth, it’s the model.” A middle aged woman tugged another patron toward Reece. “You look real nice in these paintings, Mister. Doesn’t he, Sarabeth?”

Reece warmed at the sudden attention his presence generated as the female’s loud comment alerted others milling about the booth. He waved them off with a chuckle. “Though there is a resemblance, it’s not me in that portrait. I’ve never intentionally posed for an artist.” Not quite the truth but not really a lie either.

The woman backed away clearly disappointed.

Reece felt a driving motivation to meet this phantom admirer, but how? He focused on a new piece at the center of her display. His heartstring,
the Jenny May
, was captured directly across from the cell tower at Pelican point. Assuming she recorded the image on a camera from her cabin, he could triangulate her position using simple geometry.

Reece removed his cell phone, insured no one’s attention was directed his way, and snapped his own stolen copy of another’s visual property. He backed out of the booth, turned right, and stopped. Across the isle of human traffic, three booths up stood a familiar face.

Damn, it’s her again, Ms. Blue Jeans.

He partially raised his right arm to wave before realizing her attention was drawn past his position.

Must be looking at someone else.

Reece calculated a visual line between her eyes and a point thirty yards along the line of canopies before identifying the object of her attention.

That guy, she’s studying his features.

As if he were a face noted from a past encounter, vague, but recognizable enough to motivate interest.

No, concern. Like she’s afraid of whom it might be.

He advanced toward her, but just as quickly she merged backward within the mass of people crawling upright through the thick cluster of bodies.

A familiarity beyond the casual encounter at the donut shop stood on the edge of the fog clouding his brain, just out of reach. Reece closed his eyes, struggled to pull her image forward from all the stored snapshots in his mind.

Damn it, I’ve seen that face before she spilled the coffee.

A book, a TV program, some media outlet. Perhaps there was an article in the local newspaper about regional artists. The newspaper article flashed in his mind.

It can’t be. Why would she hide here, of all places?

Then again, why not?
The strong resemblance between his mystery woman and the late Ben Randall’s wife could be mere coincidence, or something deeper. The flair of emotions toward the remote admirer and the senator’s wife stimulated more than his curiosity. Reece sensed a hint of distant admiration himself for such an enigma, an unexplained anomaly that piqued both his physical and intellectual elements.

Something about this woman – I can’t get her out of my mind.

~ * ~

She packed her artwork in a hurry, all the while looking over her shoulder. How could her pilot-slash-sailor man be here? At the festival?

Her favorite from the series of paintings she’d done of the man caught her eye. The portrait stared at Lilah, accusing her of some heinous crime. Damn. All she’d done was find a worthy subject for her imagination, so why all the guilt?

Because you were caught.

The subject of her infatuation had stood in front of this very canvas and peered at the composition. His stormy blue gaze had reflected frustration, anger, and admiration.

How in the world would she ever explain herself to the man? First she used his image without permission for artwork that earned her a modest yet growing income. Then, after colliding with him, she offered no word of apology for her rude behavior. If they ever met, he’d likely think her deranged.

She hefted the heavy framed canvas from the hook when her cell rang. Slipping the painting to the floor and leaning it against the wire mesh display board, she pulled the phone from her pocket. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Randall?”

Lilah had long forgotten she once was branded by that label.“This is she.”

“This is Detective Ames. You might remember me.”

She glanced around and seeing others tearing down their booths, she moved to a more private location under the shade of a Bradford pear tree. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I have some new information on your husband’s murder case. Can you come into the office?” The expectation in his gravelly voice made her feel like a child.

“No. I’m nowhere near DC at the moment. Can you just tell me over the phone?”

Silence, quickly followed by an audible sigh. “I’d rather tell you in person, but the graveness of the matter forces me to comply. A witness came forward recently who places a known hit man in the area where Ben Randall died.”

“A hit man? And you think he might have been contracted to kill my husband?”

“It’s looking more and more like that might be the case.”

“You think his death is related to work?”

“We don’t know, but we’re considering the possibility. Might be best if you had a protective detail assigned to you until we can sort out the reason for the hit.”

“No!” She gripped the phone with sweaty palms. Her life had already been turned upside down by the tragic incident. Lilah refused to allow any more drama to invade her quiet sanctuary. “Thanks for your concern, but I’ll be fine. It’s been a year, and the only dangerous rodents are the ones in my basement. I know you mean well, but really, I’m quite safe in my current location.”

“All right, but let me give a description of the man.”

“If you think it’s necessary, go ahead.”

“It’s necessary,” he said, his voice holding a ring of exasperation. “The hit man goes by the name Jason Holdrich, but he’s probably using an alias. He’s tall with an average build, dirty blond hair, and a scar on his left temple. If any stranger fitting this description approaches, call the police.”

“I will, but I doubt he’ll find me here. The area is pretty secluded.”

“I appreciate that, but I want to fax you a photo of the man we suspect, anyway. Do you have a fax machine at your disposal?”

“Yes,” she said and gave them the library’s number. “Can you wait to send it until late Sunday evening?”

“How ‘bout early Monday morning?”

“Before eight?”

“I can do that.” Papers rustled on the other end. “Mrs. Randall, seriously, if you see the man, call immediately. He’s armed, dangerous, and he just might be hunting you this time.”

The phone went dead, and Lilah stared at the blank screen for a full minute before slipping it into her pocket. She snorted her disbelief. What could a killer possibly want with her?

She’d have to go in early Monday to make sure she  

retrieved the photo well before the other employees arrived. A shiver ran the length of her spine. The detective’s phone call had stirred memories of that fateful night, thoughts and feelings she’d tried with little success to bury.

A hit man had been seen in the vicinity of their brownstone, but that didn’t necessarily mean Ben had been killed by the man. On the other hand, the known killer’s presence was too coincidental to be ignored, and Ben’s hand had been in all sorts of under-the-table deals. One transaction gone bad was all it would take for someone to contract his death.

She concentrated on the events of that evening, vaguely remembering the man who’d flown out the door, almost knocking her to the ground. Could he have been Ben’s murderer? Could he have been the hit man?

What had he looked like? Lilah closed her eyes in frustration, unable to bring forth details. Irritated at her lack of memory, she sauntered back to her exhibition and threw another cautionary glance about to make sure the sailor remained absent.

“There you are,” Rose Wentworth stated as she approached, her straw hat sitting crookedly on top her head. “Ready to finish packing?”

“Oh goodness, I thought you’d already left.”

“No, dear heart. I wouldn’t run out on you like that. I just needed a break. So – what’s left to do?” She surveyed the few leftover paintings, hands on generous hips.

“Just need to slip these last three framed works into the boxes, dismantle the display units, and we’re done.”

Rose picked up one of the paintings of the pilot and his boat. “I just love your work. I think he liked it also.”

“What?”

“The man in this piece. He was here. Stood in front of the work for almost half an hour. Who is he?”

Lilah swallowed hard, not wanting to lie but not willing to tell her friend and mentor he was a complete stranger. “Someone who lives near my lake house.”

She studied her favorite of the
Jenny May
paintings. Her sailor man had turned many an eye today. She smiled. When had she begun to think of him as
her
sailor man? But Lilah knew the answer. He’d become real the moment she’d bumped into the flesh and blood specimen.

A wayward curl fell across her brow, and she pushed it aside. Somehow, some way, she needed to meet the man and not because Ashley had thrown the gauntlet with their old game of
I spy
. No, she owed the source of her artistic imagination an apology for encroaching on his personal space.

Well, there was that, but the real truth? She wanted to meet her obsession. She craved finding out if there was more to her infatuation than pure idolization and an appreciation of the male form.

Was her sailor and pilot a man worth getting to know?

She threw her friend a skeptical frown but didn’t comment. Instead, she slipped the oil into its box and put it on the cart. Once they had them all stacked on the dolly, they took it to the trailer hitched on the back of her jeep.

The show had resulted in only two sales this go around, but she couldn’t complain. At least she’d sold something, which made all the work of hanging and tearing down a viable proposition. And fun. She enjoyed meeting the various patrons who frequented the surrounding festivals. The weekend treat forced Lilah to be sociable and kept her from withering away in that self-imposed prison.