Here Today, Gone Tamale (19 page)

“Come on in,” she called over her shoulder, heading off for the back room.

Elaine had inherited the oldest home in Broken Boot from her Aunt Louise and sold the lovely Texas Tudor home to Melanie after the birth of her second child for the price of one of her paintings.

As soon as we stepped inside, Patti set her photos on an antique sideboard by the door and began scoping out the place. She pointed to the gallery room on the right and headed that way. Melanie's gallery may have once belonged to her great aunt Louise, but she had lovingly blended the features of the house with her own style. She'd warmed the rooms by adding wide oak flooring. Mission-style arches drew the eye from one room to the next, and exposed wood ceiling beams brought the Southwest indoors.

“Let me check my messages,” Melanie called from the back.

Patti stuck her head back into the main room. “Lightfoot needs to run a magnet over this place,” she whispered. “There are built-in cabinets in this room, and their doors are all locked.”

“Shh.”

I picked up the closest painting,
Begonias at Twilight
, and lowered my head. “I can't imagine how you feel now that Dixie's dead,” I said in a loud voice, expecting Melanie to answer from the back. Though she was no Georgia O'Keefe, she had the smarts to display talented sculptors, photographers, and jewelry makers alongside her own work. As a result, the gallery did well when the tourists hit town with a notion to spend their hard-earned money.

“What are you going on about?” she asked, waltzing in and tossing her sunglasses atop the mountain of debris on her desk.

I cringed as if embarrassed. “Didn't I hear something about you and Dixie fighting over at Bubba's only a day or two before she died?”

She gestured as if waving away the gossip. “Oh, that. You know how Dixie was. She always thought people were out to steal her ideas. Where's Patti?”

“Patti,” I called, “come look.” I hurried over to a painting on display on the opposite side of the room. “I'd like to take this one with the guitars.”

With long graceful strides, Melanie joined me. “You must mean
Slave to Guava
,” she managed through clenched teeth.

Guava slices? Hells bells, I thought they were guitars.

From behind us, Patti laughed. “Don't mind Josie. She slept through humanities.”

“Obviously.” Melanie reached out a hand and removed the painting from its easel. She crossed to her desk, found her glasses, and checked the price marked on the bottom edge of the frame. “I need the other one back this afternoon.”

“I'll bring it over.”

Again, Melanie reserved her elegant manners for my friend. “Patti, I can't wait to see the photographs you brought me.”

“Do you mind if I look around?” I asked.

“Make yourself at home.”

That was the plan. I decided not to start in the same room as Patti so I veered off to the left. If I were Melanie, I would hide my most valuable items in the safe. I wasn't a safecracker, so that was out. On the other hand, if I didn't want the police to find Dixie's jewelry in the safe, I might find a hidey-hole in this big house.

The gallery to the left was a bust. I continued down the hall and found a back door that led out onto a small porch. In a flash, I had an idea.

“How much longer are you going to be?” I asked, walking through the room where Patti and Melanie stood discussing one of my friend's photos.

“I apologize,” Patti said. “Josie's really keyed up over the silent auction. I guess your mother told you the auction necklace is missing.”

Melanie's eyes grew wide. “How did you know that?”

Patti turned to me and waited.

“Uh, well, you see . . .” I said.

“Lightfoot mentioned it in passing,” Patti interrupted, proving to be a premiere liar when the occasion called for it. And to think I never knew that about her until today.

“And he's on his way over here to look for the necklace,” I added.

“He's what?” Melanie hurried to the window.

With a dramatic sigh, Patti laid it on thick. “It's true. When I saw him yesterday he said the only logical place to look would be here in your gallery where she sold her work.”

Melanie stamped the toe of her shoe. “That makes no sense. Why would I send P.J. to your store to buy some of Dixie's jewelry if I already had it?”

“Oh, so you do have it?” I asked, playing dumb.

“For pity's sake, I don't have the auction necklace, but Dixie did have things on consignment here.” She swallowed. “There's bound to be a stray piece or two in one of the cabinets.”

I glanced at Patti and she nodded. “Oh, hey,” I said, glancing at my watch. “We've got to be going or I'll be late to the talent show.”

Melanie's countenance cleared. “I completely understand.” She handed me the painting of guavas. “Take this for now and bring me one of the others when it's convenient.”

We said our good-byes and drove down the road, but only until the gallery was out of sight. “What do you think she'll do?” I asked.

Patti made a left and then another left until we could see the back of the gallery from a block away. She looked around, found a large sycamore that overhung the road, and parked underneath it. “Only one way to find out.”

“One cup of coffee isn't enough for espionage.”

“Stow it,” Patti said as she jumped from the jeep and headed down the road on foot.

The back side of the gallery was blocked by a low fence and neatly trimmed shrubs. From our viewpoint, we couldn't see any of the windows along the back of the building, which meant she couldn't see us either. We tried the gate and found it locked. “I'm a numbskull. I should have checked the gate.”

“Ssh,” Patti warned. She bit her lip and stared at the lock for at least thirty seconds.

“We should go.”

“Stand back,” she said, waving me behind her.

Before I could stop her, she raised her combat boot and kicked not the lock, but the wooden frame that held it.

“Hey,” I cried. “We're not supposed to damage the place.”

Before she could kick the frame again, the rusty lock sprang open and fell to the ground.

“Strange,” I said, giving it a little kick with my boot.

“Humph. She needs to beef up security around here.”

“Do you think she heard us?” I whispered.

“Ssh.” Patti peeked around the fence. “There's no sign of her.”

I expected my friend to scurry from bush to tree, like they do in the cartoons and action movies. That's not what happened. Instead, she walked straight to the back door and peered through the window. “Come on,” she hissed.

I hurried after her. “Wipe your feet,” I said, keeping my voice low. It would be a dead giveaway if we tracked dirt across Melanie's pristine wooden floors.

Once that was accomplished to my satisfaction, Patti turned the knob. “Snoop goddesses reign,” she whispered and stuck her head inside.

My heart was thumping so hard, it felt like a stampede of buffalo in my veins.

Patti waved me forward.

I swallowed my fear and followed her lead. We were inside the breakfast nook of the original house. In the corners of the room were stacks of stretched canvases on frames of varying sizes. Ahead of us was a kitchen, replete with old appliances, a modern microwave, and a one-cup coffeemaker.

Walking quietly, Patti made her way to a closed door on the right. With a look at me, she opened it. Inside we found a pantry filled with paint, paint thinner, cleaning supplies, and veggie chips.

I pointed to the kitchen cabinets and shrugged.

Patti shook her head.

In the background, Melanie was playing classical music, which would help cover any sounds we might make. A growing sense of extreme panic was settling in my chest. Why had we come back while she was still here? Oh, yeah. I had to go help with the confounded talent show and, more importantly, the committee needed the necklace by tonight.

Catching my attention, Patti raised a hand for me to wait. She tiptoed to the kitchen door and slowly peered around the corner. With two fingers, like an agent in an action movie full of spies, she motioned for us to leave the kitchen and go right.

I followed even though the buffalo were still stampeding through my bloodstream. Slowly we crept our way down a narrow hall. We found the bathroom, but no jewels. We found an empty bedroom with a treadmill, but no hidden safe. And finally, we stumbled into another bedroom being used to store paintings. A narrow path separated the large number of paintings leaning against the walls, fifteen and twenty paintings deep.

I glanced at my watch. “We've got to go.”

With a slight hesitation, Patti nodded.

We headed for the door, and then I knocked over a painting, which knocked over a second, a third, and five or six more.

“Ladies, can I help you find something?” A furious Melanie stood in the doorway, her arms full of plastic trays.

Like rats caught in a trap, we scrambled to free ourselves. “Inventory,” I offered helplessly.

“Inventory?” Melanie repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“That's right,” Patti proclaimed in a loud voice. “I wanted to check out your inventory.”

Melanie's gaze narrowed. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because . . .” Nodding several times, Patti tried to answer.

“Because,” I interrupted, “she wanted to decide whether or not to carry your paintings in her store without hurting your feelings.”

Melanie studied us down the length of her nose. “What did you decide?”

Patti glanced at me. “I haven't. I only just now found your inventory.”

I stepped closer to Melanie, hoping to see what she carried. “I felt guilty earlier for not telling you the whole truth.”

With a quick glance at the trays she was holding, she hugged them to her chest. “The truth about what?”

“Uh,” My mind was flipping through a file of possibilities at lightning speed, “the truth about why Deputy Lightfoot's coming to see you.”

“Go on.”

I prayed Patti would follow my lead. “To question you about Dixie's murder.”

“He is?” she squeaked, hugging the trays even tighter to her chest. “Why?”

“The truth is I don't think you had anything to do with Dixie's death, but . . .” I glanced at Patti, hoping she'd save my bacon.

“But you sent P.J. over to the store yesterday to buy up all of Dixie's jewelry, didn't you?”

“That's not a crime,” Melanie said.

“It's a crime if he tries to force the issue and scare my friend to death.”

The phone rang in the other room. “Come with me,” Melanie ordered.

We didn't hesitate.

I didn't think she could have us arrested for entering the gallery from the rear while it was open to the public. On the other hand, she didn't know that Patti had wrecked her fence.

As she led us through the main gallery room and into her office area, she continued, “Josie told P.J. that you can't sell
Dixie's work. It all belongs to Ty.” She hurried to the phone, but it stopped ringing before she picked it up.

“But,” Patti said, “the jewelry I have of hers isn't on consignment. I bought several small pieces outright. They're mine, and neither you nor your overbearing husband can force me to sell.”

With a sigh, she plopped into her office chair. “P.J. has the finesse of an elephant.”

I gestured to the jewelry she held. “Reorganizing?”

Melanie's face turned purple as her gaze darted around the room. She hurried behind her desk and opened drawer after drawer, but they must have been full for she held on to the trays. “Truth was Dixie was getting too big for her britches.”

A poor choice of words, considering the woman who was now pushing up daisies had been on the hefty side. “Is that what you two argued about at Bubba's?”

With a toss of her sleek, dark hair, Melanie studied me for a minute, like a queen deciding whether or not to confide in a lowly, less put-together handmaiden. “All I wanted was for her to sell her turquoise jewelry somewhere else for a while. She'd still draw customers with her other pieces, and we would both make a sale.” Her arms relaxed and the trays lowered, revealing silver and turquoise rings, agate necklaces, amethyst earrings, all in Dixie's distinctive style.

“Makes sense,” I said softly, not wanting to jolt her from her reverie.

“Of course it does. When I invited her to display her work, I didn't anticipate that once folks spent money on her jewelry, they'd have nothing left over for my paintings.”

I didn't state the obvious. If customers loved her paintings, her plan would have worked either way. “So you fought over the turquoise?”

Melanie hugged the cases to her chest once again. “We were waiting in line for ribs at Bubba's to-go window. I told
her I wanted her not to sell the turquoise stuff for a few months until I sold a few paintings to make my mortgage.”

“What'd she say?” I didn't dare take my notebook out of my bag, but I was taking mental notes in indelible ink.

“She said she didn't have to do anything unless she wanted, and it'd serve me right if she moved it all to another location!” Melanie's eyes narrowed. “Of course, she was a natural-born liar and a cheat, so who knows if she meant a word of it.”

She turned away, opened a nearby file cabinet, and crammed the cases in the bottom drawer, and then locked it with a small key she wore at her wrist. Turning back, she checked her watch and walked to the door. “Listen, she may have threatened to take all her merchandise to the Feed and Supply, but Josie Callahan, I didn't touch a hair on her head.” She pushed the door open and hesitated. “I wanted to spit in her face, but I controlled myself.” Time was up. Melanie was kicking us out.