Gina Cresse - Devonie Lace 05 - A Deadly Change of Luck (12 page)

“There are dozens of galleries near here.  Why don’t you pick out two or three of your favorites to show some of them?”

“You think they’d like them?”

How could anyone so talented be so insecure?  She must never have received any encouragement or praise as a child.  It seemed funny, because she was more than willing to boast about her bowling-alley mural and her decorated bus, but those weren’t considered serious art.  What I’d seen in her little studio could put her on the road to a promising career in the art world.

“I’d like to have this painting.  I’ll have a brand new washer and dryer delivered and set up for you.  How does that sound?”

Raven’s eyes welled up with tears. 
“Oh my God.
  You know how much those cost?”

“You need them and I don’t want to see your poor baby’s clothes stolen anymore.  And I want you to get these paintings in a gallery.  You’re way too talented to keep them locked away where no one can enjoy them.”

I called Jason at his appliance shop and asked him to deliver the new washer and dryer as soon as he could.  I knew he had several in stock, and I promised to buy him lunch if he could deliver them within the hour.  He balked, as usual, but I have a way of getting on his nerves to the point where he’ll do anything to get me to leave him alone.

While we waited for Jason, Raven offered me some sort of mango strawberry tea.  I sat in her wicker rocking chair and gazed around at the safari décor.

“Do you ever mix your own paints?  You know, with dry pigment?” I asked as Raven poured the iced tea.

“Oh, no.
  That’s for the real picky artists.  I had a teacher who made us do it for one of his classes, but it seemed like a lot of work when I could just buy them already mixed.”

“You took art classes?”

“At the university.
  I was an art major, but I had to drop out.  Money, you know.”

“When were you in school?” I asked.

“I quit a couple years ago.”

I recalled that Lou’s ex-daughter-in-law was attending the university.

“What was the tea
cher’s name—
the one who made you mix your own paint?” I asked.

Raven thought for a moment. 
“Champion.
  He was a good teacher.”  She grinned like a schoolgirl.  “And boy was he cute.”

Jason finally arrived with the washer and dryer and hooked them up.  I wrote him a check and asked him to wait for me by his truck.

Raven wrapped my new painting in heavy brown paper and handed it to me.  “Thank you so much,” she said, with sincere gratitude.

“Thank you.  And I want to see your paintings in a gallery soon.  I’ll be asking around for your work, so don’t disappoint me.”

Jason saw me coming with the painting and helped me get it in my car.  “What was that all about?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you over lunch.”

“We’ll have to do lunch next week.  I have more deliveries to make,” he said.

“Okay.  Just let me know when.”

I didn’t expect to like Raven Covina before I met her.  After all, she was a self-serving, greedy, home-wrecker, and I wouldn’t normally have any use for someone like that.  Maybe as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more tolerant, or maybe Raven just needed a lucky break in life.  It’s possible she didn’t know Joey
Winnomore
was married when she got involved with him.  Men have been known to lie about such things.

Since I had the afternoon free, I drove over to the mall and bought a basket full of baby clothes for Raven’s baby.  I had the store box it up and sent it to her address.

She wasn’t on my suspect list anymore, and I decided the information she gave me about her old art teacher, Mr. Champion, could prove to be very helpful.        

Chapter Eleven

I
hung my new
Banjo in a Garden
painting in our breakfast nook area and stood back to admire it.  Somehow, banjos and sunflowers send out a happy, carefree message.  I thought it would be a good way
to start each day—
eating breakfast while gazing at the cheery scene.

When Craig came home from work, I led him through the kitchen to show him my new art purchase.

“How do you like it?” I asked.

He studied it for a moment,
then
gave a nod of approval.  “I like it.  Like I always say, you can never go wrong with banjos.  Where’d you get it?”

“Check out the signature,” I said.

He stepped up to the painting and squinted to read the tiny print in the lower right corner. 
“R
aven Covina?
  Isn’t she the one
—
?“

“Yep.
  She’s the mistress who caused all the delays on the sale of Rancho Costa Little.”

Craig scratched his head and stood back again to look at the painting from a distance.  “She’s an artist?”

“Yes, and she’s very good,” I replied.

“I’d have to agree.  How’d you get the painting?”

“I went to see her today.  She’s quite a unique character.”  I could see Craig’s face fill with concern.

“I thought you were going to drop this,” he said.

“I can’t.  You know how I am.”

He smiled and wrapped his arms around me.  “I know.  So, you think Raven’s the murderer?  Did she paint the purple landscape?”

“I don’t think so.  But she told me about a teacher she had at college who made all his students mix their own paints for one of his classes.  I thought I’d go talk to him tomorrow.  Maybe he can give me some clues.”

Craig stepped back and pulled an apple from the fruit basket on the table.  “What does Sam think about you doing all this investigative work?” he asked, wiping the apple on his shirt.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” I said.

“Are you sure?  I don’t want you spending any more nights in jail because you made him mad,” Craig reminded me.

“He won’t.  We’re buddies now.  He even suggested I get my private investigator’s license so he could cut me
more slack
.”

“More slack?  He al
ready puts up with more of your
—“

I shot him my “be careful where you’re going with this statement” look.  He started over.

“He already gives you a lot of leeway.  You’re not considering getting your license, are you?”

I shook my head.  “No.  I have no desire to become a private investigator,” I assured him.

He gave me his “Oh, really?” look, and we both broke into laughter.

I decided I’d try to talk to Bridgett
Winnomore
before I went to see Mr. Champion.  She was the only person I hadn’t talked to, yet, involving the sale of Lou’s house.  I drove by the address Chuck gave me to scope it out,
then
I parked at the curb.

She lived in a duplex in an area mostly populated with college students.  A boy about the age of twelve played by himself in the front yard.  He had a baseball and glove and one of those big nets that
return
s
the ball to you when you throw one at it.  He threw the ball hard, as though he were angry.  I figured the boy was Bridgett’s son, and he probably had every right to be angry, considering the bad things that had happened in his family in the past year.

I’d spent hours trying to come up with a role to play in order to talk to Bridgett and get information from her.  I figured that Sam had already questioned her, so I decided I’d just be honest and straightforward.  She’d either talk to me, or she wouldn’t.

I got out of my car and stood for a moment on the sidewalk, watching the boy try to rip apart the throwback net with his fastball.  He noticed me looking, but ignored my stare.  If anything, he seemed even more determined to destroy the net with each throw.

Finally, I took a step up the walk toward the duplex and spoke to him.  “Hi.  Is this your house?”

He threw the ball one more time,
then
held it in his glove.  He glared at me through angry eyes,
then
nodded slightly.

“Is that a yes or a signal for a curve ball?” I asked, smiling.

He softened his glare.  I think I might even have detected a grin. 
“Yeah.
  I live here.”

“Is your mom home?”

He looked me up and down before he answered.  He wasn’t a very trusting soul, for good reason.  “She’s inside,” he finally said, then returned to his game.

Bridgett
Winnomore
answered the door with a phone stuck between her ear and shoulder, and a textbook held open against her hip, which seemed to be acting as her bookmark.  She was pleading into the phone as she signaled for me to wait.

“I need the night off because I have a big test tomorrow and I have to study,” she explained to whoever was on the other end of the phone line.

“But if I fail this test, I have to take the class over again next semester,” she pleaded.  “I won’t be able to graduate.”

I watched her eyes swell up with tears as she listened to the reply.  Then I saw the same anger in her face that I saw in the little boy throwing ball in the yard.  “I’m not coming to work tonight, Abbey.  Fire me if you have to, but becoming a nurse is more important to me than waiting tables in your lousy restaurant.”  She held the phone out in front of her face and used her thumb to press the button to end the call.  Then she looked at me, a total stranger standing on her front porch.  “What?” she blurted.

I could tell her morning was not going well at all.  I didn’t want to make it any worse.  “Are you Bridgett
Winnomore
?” I asked.

She gave me the same suspicious glare that Uncle Rupert used to give me after he found out I hid behind the garage to watch him hide Easter eggs before our annual family picnic.  I was only five at the time, but even to this day, he makes one of the little kids guard me while he performs his yearly egg hiding task.

Bridgett’s face turned from angry to
concerned
.  “Are you from Scott’s school?” she asked.

“No.  I bought your father-in-law’s house, and I just wondered if you had time to talk?”

She let out a sigh of relief.  I got the feeling Scott was the boy in the yard, and he must be having trouble at school.

She transferred the heavy textbook to her other hip.  “I real
ly have to study for this test—
“

“I won’t take up much of your time,” I assured her.

She peered around me at her son playing in the yard.  “Scotty!  Ten more minutes, then I want you in the house to finish your homework,” she called to him.

He barely acknowledged her request, and I wondered if he’d obey her or defiantly throw that ball until midnight.

“Ten minutes,” she finally said to me as she pushed open the screen door to let me in.

Her living space was small and there were books and papers stacked everywhere.  A sink full of dishes piled higher than the faucet threatened to tip over at the slightest movement.  A line of ants had made a trail across the kitchen floor to a glob of what looked like strawberry jam.  She grimaced as she stepped over the busy line of insects. 

“Darn that boy.  I told him to wipe up his mess,” she complained as she searched for a roll of paper towels buried under a collection of shabby old dishrags.  She rummaged under the sink for a bottle of spray cleaner as she talked.  “What did you want to talk about?  Is there a problem with the house? 
Because if there is, you’re asking the wrong person.”

“No, no.  There’s no problem with the house.  Has Detective Wright been here to talk to you yet?” I asked.

She sprayed the entire line of ants with 409 cleaner,
then
wiped them up, along with the jam.  “Are you from the police?” she asked.

“No.  Detective Wright is a friend of mine, and he’s working on this investigation at my request.”

“You mean about Lou being murdered?”

“So he was here?”

She cleared a spot on the kitchen table and motioned for me to sit down.  She took the seat opposite me.  “He came by last night.  I feel just awful about poor Lou.  I always liked him.  I felt so bad after my mother-in-law died that I told Joey we ought to have him move in with us.  He was so lonely.”

I studied her face.  She seemed sincere.  “You don’t know who gave him the painting he had hanging in his living room, do you? 
The purple one?”

“Detective Wright asked me the same question.  I’ve racked my brain, but I don’t think he ever told us where he got it,” she said.

I frowned and stared at the big textbook she’d been carrying around with her.  “Are you a nursing student?”

“Yes.  It’s a lot tougher than I thought it’d be.  I’m trying to pass my classes, work a lousy job that barely earns enough to make ends meet, and keep my kid from becoming a juvenile delinquent.  I’ll be lucky if I don’t commit…”

I waited for her to finish. 
Murder?
 
Suicide?
  What
was she capable of
, I wondered.  She never did finish the sentence.  I finally broke the silence.  “You don’t think your boss would actually fire you for not working tonight, would she?”

Bridgett let out a cynical laugh.  “Don’t ever work for a spoiled, self-centered woman,” she said.  “I’ve never been exposed to a more inconsiderate, back-biting, evil person in my entire life, and that includes my two-timing husband.  Late husband,” she added.

“So you think she really might fire you?” I asked.

“Abbey?
  Oh, without a doubt.  But you know what?  I don’t care.  I’ll find another lousy job that doesn’t pay enough, and probably hate it as much as this one, but I’m graduating soon, and then things are going to change.  Scotty and
me
will move out to the country, and I’ll have more time to spend with him.  And I’ll finally make enough money to buy a decent car that doesn’t break down every other week.”

I could see Bridgett was determined to reach her goal, and I had no doubt that she’d make it.  Like her son, she’d been through a lot and was toughened by her experiences.  “When do you graduate?” I asked.

“This is my last semester—if I pass all my classes, that is.  I’m getting it done faster than most of the others.  A friend of mine in the program took a bunch of silly electives the first year, so she has another semester before she can graduate.  Of course, she’s still living at home, so there’s no pressure for her to hurry.”

“Electives?
  Like art?” I asked.

“Yeah.
  You know.  Musi
c appreciation, pottery making—
classes you take
after
you’re burnt out from twenty years of nursing and want something to relax you.”

“Did you ever take any classes from Mr. Champion?” I asked.

“The art teacher?
  Yeah, I think I took one back when I was trying to get all my prerequisites in.  I needed to round out my units, and I couldn’t take anything heavy.  Basket weaving or some silly thing like that,” she said.

“No painting classes?”

She gave me that suspicious look again.  “You’re wondering if I killed my father-in-law.”

“I’m wondering
who
killed your father-in-law.  Maybe somebody you know from school who also knew Lou.  Can you think of anyone like that?”

Bridgett pushed her chair away from the table and peered out the window at Scott, who was still throwing the ball, only now he had a friend to catch it instead of the net.  She pushed the screen door open and called him into the house.  “Come on, Scotty.  Time’s up.”

She turned to me.  “I don’t know anyone who would have killed Lou.  If you don’t mind, I have to study,” she said, holding the screen door open for me to leave.

On my way out, I stopped on the porch and rummaged through my purse for a pen and a scrap of paper.  I scrawled some information on it and handed it to Bridgett.  “This is my name and the number for the King Rooster Bar and Grille, over by the marina.  Gary’s the manager,” I said, pointing to his name and number.  “He’s a great guy to work for, and I heard he’s looking for a waitress.  Tell him I sent you.  He pays okay, and the tips are great.”

Bridgett stared at the paper in her hand, then at me.  “Thanks,” she said, a little sheepishly.

I walked out the door and passed Scotty on his way in the house. 

Bridgett called to me when I was halfway to my car.  “I would help if I could.  I really don’t know any more than I already told you,” she said.