Dove in the Window (16 page)

“IT’S FOR YOU,” Gabe said, answering the phone the next morning. I was still in bed, peeking at the clock at five-minute intervals wondering just how close I could cut it and still make it to the museum by eight forty-five. The first docent tour started at nine, Greer’s lecture was at ten o‘clock, and Parker’s at eleven. We’d sold tickets andpromised a continental breakfast as part of the admission price. I still had to go by Stern’s Bakery and pick up the mini apricot coffee cakes, almond croissants, and chocolate muffins.

“Who is it?” I mumbled into my pillow.

He tossed the phone onto the bed next to me. “I didn’t ask, but they sound frantic.” I struggled up and through filmy eyes watched him pull on a white dress shirt. “This is my last shirt, by the way. Are you going by the cleaners today? I would, but I’m in meetings all day.”

“I’ll put it on my list of about a zillion things to do,” I said, picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s Parker.” Her voice was low and breathless and sounded very far away. “I just thought I’d tell you first thing because I know how you hate not knowing what’s going on.”

I shook my head, trying to completely wake up, and watched Gabe button his shirt. When he got to the top button, it popped off. He swore softly in Spanish.

“Just a minute, Parker.” I put my hand over the receiver. “Gabe, calm down. Get a needle and thread out of my sewing basket and come here.”

“Tell me what?” I said into the phone.

“About the trouble at Roland’s gallery last night.”

“What trouble?”

“It happened right after you left. Kip showed up drunk and on the warpath. He’d heard that Roland had tripled the prices on Shelby’s photographs and he accused Roland of killing her just to make himself more money in commission.”

“That’s ludicrous,” I exclaimed. Gabe walked back in the room holding a spool of white thread and a needle. He started taking off his shirt.

I shook my head and gestured for him to sit down on the bed. Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I threaded the needle, bit off the thread, then knotted it. Encircling his waist with my legs to get closer, I started sewing the button back on.

“Hmm,” he said and started nibbling my neck.

Stop it,
I mouthed, pushed him back, and continued to talk as I sewed. “So, what happened after that?”

“Luckily, the sheriff was there, and he managed, with the help of some other guys, to get Kip outside and calmed down. Then that other guy from your dad’s ranch, the one Olivia’s hanging out with ...”

“Bobby Sanchez?”

“That’s the one. He came out of The Steerhead Tavern across the street and told the sheriff he’d make sure Kip got home. While all this was happening, Roland locked himself in the bathroom.” She giggled softly.

I laughed along with her. “He is such a pathetic excuse of a man. Frankly, that was tacky to raise the prices so quickly. It’s disrespectful.”

“That’s the art world, Benni. It’s an old joke, but a true one—that death makes you a much more valuable commodity.”

“It’s still tacky.”

“Welcome to the real world. Well, I just wanted you to be up-to-date on all the information. How long’s it going to take you to solve this one, Detective Harper?”

I looked straight into the blue eyes of my husband. “Parker, this week I’m a chili judge, a tour guide, a parade entry, and who knows what else. I’m going to leave solving murders up to my brilliant and hard-working husband.”

“If you say so.” She giggled again. “See you at the museum.”

“Very well stated, Ms. Harper,” my husband said when I hung up the phone. I bent my head down, bit off the remaining thread, and placed a quick kiss on his chest.

He pulled me around so I was straddling his lap. “If I tear off the rest of my buttons, will you sew them all on like this?” He ran his beard up and down my neck.

“Would you quit that?” I said, pushing him away. “My neck is beginning to look like someone scrubbed it with steel wool.” I untangled myself from him and stood up. “You’re late, Chief, and so am I. Don’t forget the auction at the Forum tonight. Dinner has to be quick and easy.”

“I’ll try to get home early.” He started buttoning his shirt. “You meant what you said on the phone, didn’t you?”

“About you being brilliant and hard-working? Of course, dear.”

He gave me one of his unblinking, interrogating cop looks.

“You know that doesn’t work on me, Friday,” I said, pulling my tee shirt over my head. “I know your tricks. If it makes you feel better, what possible reason could I have to get involved with this? I liked Shelby, and yes, it bothers me that it happened at the ranch, but I’m taking you at your word that it was an accident and that the person responsible will eventually confess.”

“I didn’t say that exactly. A confession is what we
hope
for.”

“Nevertheless, I don’t think anyone’s in any real danger. Frankly, with the way Kip’s been acting, I still say he’s the prime candidate.” I told him what happened at the gallery after we left.

“He’s certainly
one
of the suspects.” I watched Gabe’s reflection in the long mirror as he straightened his tie, resisting the temptation to ask who else they suspected. The last thing I wanted to do this morning was get into a debate over Wade’s innocence or lack thereof.

“Have a good day,” I said, opening my lingerie drawer.

“Speaking of having a good day, what exactly are you planning to do with yours?”

I turned to face him, arranging my features in what I was sure was an innocent look. “Oh, stuff. You know, museum stuff. Heritage Days stuff.”

“Leave Dove and Mr. Lyons alone,” he warned. “She’s a grown woman and allowed to have her own friends.”

“He’s scoping her out! I have to warn her.”

“Benni, let her have a life. Don’t you think she deserves that after all the years of being alone?”

I turned back to my drawer and started digging through it. He came over and kissed my bare shoulder. “Think about it,” he said.

“I will.”
All the way out to the ranch.

After he left I finished dressing, putting on new tobacco-brown Wranglers, a tan long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of dangling boot-shaped moonstone and silver earrings I’d bought recently from one of our newest artists—a jewelry designer who was having difficulty maintaining enough product to sell because everyone at the co-op kept buying his new creations.

In the kitchen, Emory, wearing a rich, wine-colored velour robe, was reading the
San Celina Tribune
and drinking black coffee.

“So, what are you doing today?” I asked, pouring myself a half a cup and filling the rest with milk and two tea-spoons of sugar.

He looked up from his paper. “Still drinking your coffee like a child.”

“Eat dirt. Want to come help at the museum?”

“I think not. After slumming my way through your birdcage liner here, I thought I’d mosey on downtown and see what the natives are doing.”

I took two large gulps, then set the cup down in the sink. “You know, hovering around Elvia like some kind of weird stalker is not going to endear her to you.”

“Who said anything about Elvia?” he said, giving me an indifferent look. “I’m going to drop by the newspaper and say hey to one of the reporters there that I’ve made an acquaintance with on-line.”

“You’ve got connections at the
Tribune
?”

He smiled. “Sweetcakes, I’ve got connections in places that would straighten that curly hair of yours.”

I made a face at him. “By the way, Gabe’s stint as auctioneer starts at seven o‘clock in the Forum downtown. Gabe and I are meeting here at five to decide about dinner. We’ll probably go out. You’re welcome to join us.” I glanced at my watch. “Geez, I gotta go. A busload of hungry seniors from Santa Barbara County will be expecting chow, and I’ve still got to pick it up.”

I pulled into the museum parking lot a mere two minutes before the chartered bus did. Greeting the senior citizens cheerfully, I instructed the docent to start the forty-five minute tour while I helped arrange the food and coffee on the long tables my assistant, D-Daddy, had already set up on the long porch of the museum. Luckily the weather was clear and cool today with just enough sun to make the old Sinclair hacienda look its best.

“Running late, eh,
ange
?” D-Daddy said in his French-tinged Cajun accent. He hooked the banquet-sized coffee pot to a thick orange extension cord and set it on the long table.

“D-Daddy, I have a feeling the whole week is going to be like this,” I said, picking a few dead flowers out of the twin whiskey-barrel planters on both ends of the porch. We’d planted marigolds and daisies for a change of pace from the native wildflowers we normally rotated according to their blooming schedules.

Wiry white eyebrows bunched over his dark brown eyes. “See the newspaper yet?”

“No, I was in too much of a hurry this morning.”

“On your desk,” was all he said. By the narrowing of his eyes, I knew that there was most likely an article about Shelby’s death. I sighed deeply, trying not to dwell on the fact that times had indeed changed in San Celina County—that, like it or not, violence had become a more frequent occurrence here on the Central Coast.

The tour ended in the co-op’s large main studio, once the hacienda’s stables, with me giving a short history of the co-op, our goals, and our accomplishments. This last year we’d spent more time in community outreach with artists traveling to schools and retirement homes, giving free classes in everything from doll making to leather carving to watercolor painting. We were most proud of the fact that we’d started donating our artists’ time and talents to “Art for Kids”—a summer program, sponsored by our local YMCA, that opened the possibilities of art to underprivileged kids in hopes that it would keep some of them away from gangs, drugs, and alcohol.

While the sixty-some-odd seniors were enjoying their mini-brunch, I helped set up chairs for Greer’s lecture on women in western art. Parker was setting up some of Greer’s paintings, while Greer perused her notes.

“Do you want a podium?” I asked. “We have one in the storeroom.”

“No, I get too nervous standing behind something like that. I’ll just pace in front of my paintings here.”

“You look great.” She was dressed in an elegant black wool jacket with white western-style piping, a pair of starched black jeans, and what I knew had to be four-hundred-dollar boots. “Like the successful artist you are.”

“Thanks, but I still feel like an imposter. When I see a group of people gathered together like this waiting to hear me speak, I still have the strongest urge to join them, waiting for the ‘great artist’ to come out and give us incredible insights into her artistic vision. Then I realize it’s me they’re coming to hear and I want to head back to my cabin in the hills.”

“I guess it’s an unavoidable part of the game these days. People who love your work naturally want to meet you, see the person who brought them so much pleasure. You’ll dazzle them, and when prints are made of your paintings, they’ll fly off the shelves.”

“A mixed blessing for an artist,” she said ruefully, turning to inspect one of the paintings she had displayed. She straightened her spine and turned back to me. “Better hit the ladies’ room before I go on.” She headed back down the hall past my office.

“She enjoys it a lot more than she lets on,” Parker said softly.

I turned to look at Parker with surprise. I hadn’t even heard her walk up behind me. Was there an edge of bitterness in her voice, or was that just my imagination?

“Talking in front of groups is always hard,” I said diplomatically. “Especially when the subject is so personal.”

Parker shrugged, her brown eyes level and flat. When Greer came back into the room, Parker’s face softened into a smile, and I shook my head slightly, not certain about what I saw in her expression a minute ago. She and Greer were good friends ... or so I thought. Then again, I’d grown to understand how precarious friendships among artists could be. It was a difficult situation, your colleagues also being your competitors, especially in our media-obsessed world where your background and looks, whether they were manufactured or real, seemed to be almost as important as the work itself. Elvia’s visiting authors complained about it all the time. Could it be that same phenomenon was happening in the visual arts? If so, there was no doubt that Parker would have a problem with her shyness, her nondescript appearance, and her unexciting background.

After Greer’s presentation, which was amusing, lively, and informative, Parker gave a talk on her work. One-on-one, Parker’s gentle and sensitive nature was obvious and endearing, but before a crowd, her tone flattened and her enthusiasm became forced and artificial-sounding. It broke my heart when the audience started shuffling their programs and whispering among themselves. When she hurried through her finish, the bulk of the group gathered around Greer while I noticed Parker disappear down the hallway. I followed after her and found her in the back storage room, a small, stuffy enclosure that had only one small window high off the ground. She was leaning against the wall, staring at a stack of blank canvases.

I knocked on the doorframe to keep from startling her. “Are you all right?”

Two spots of powdery blush glared off her pale cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. She took a deep breath and swiped her hand across her left cheek to wipe away nonexistent tears. “I’m fine. Talking in front of groups just scares me. I’m sure I bored them silly.”

“No, you didn’t. You know people these days, their attention spans are about this long.” I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

“Thanks for the try, Benni, but I’m an artist, remember? Visual details are my life. I could see what was happening with those people. I’m just not good at explaining what I do or what I’m trying to do with my art. I’ve always felt that if I haven’t communicated my feelings in my paintings, then I’ve essentially failed as an artist. Why does the world insist on an artist explaining what she does? You know what Robert Frost told a person once who asked him what one of his poems meant? He said, ‘You want me to say it worse?’ That’s how I feel, that me talking about my art diminishes it somehow. Next to Greer, I look like a stupid thirteen-year-old.” She put her face in her hands in much the same way I remembered Shelby doing when she was agonizing over Kip’s infidelity. Love in its many forms causes the same kind of pain.