The Art of Love and Murder (13 page)

“No, no. That’s fine. I hate to have you take the time to get it sent, but I’ve got to follow up with the curator and find out what he knows.” Seeing the chest might get him talking. “Thanks, Phoebe.” She slowed as she came into more traffic, making the turn that would take her back to the Grand View.

“Keep me posted.”

“Talk to you soon.”

Lacy pulled alongside the curb and killed the engine. She opened a side pocket of her purse and tucked in her cell, catching her nail on something and poking the delicate skin underneath. She dug the offending paper out of the pocket. A business card. Chance’s card.

The sun caught the gold star on the corner as she brought the card to rest against the steering wheel. His copper eyes in a deliciously serious face came to mind, while the memory of his taste and warm embrace flooded her senses. Both recollections, the physical and the visual, had her yearning for his company. She took a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders, but the sensation wouldn’t leave her. He still pined for his wife, any fool could see, yet he didn’t spend his time alone. He hadn’t sworn off relationships, and she bet Kitty could attest to that. Lacy didn’t need to put herself out for more hurt, but she could satisfy her yearning. He said to call if she needed anything. She snickered to herself, doubting he meant it like that. And she didn’t have the nerve for that kind of phone call. But...

Professor Sheffield. The reason to call presented itself. She dug the phone from the side pocket and dialed the cell number on the card. Voice mail.

“Hi, Chance.” Why the hell did her voice waver?
It’s just voice mail
. “I’ve discovered the name of someone who collects Muuyaw’s art, Professor Myles Sheffield. Since your daughter is a student at the college, and you...you’re, the sheriff...I wondered if you knew anything about him. Just so...so I can prepare before I call him. Um, well, if you do, please give me a call. Bye.”

She punched the end call button and fell forward to rest her forehead on the steering wheel. “Slick.”

****

Professor Myles Sheffield spread the linen napkin across the legs of his pressed, khaki trousers and ignored the ringing phone on the end table in his living room that competed with the soft music. Lunchtime was a highly inappropriate time for a phone call. He poured pale lemonade from a crystal pitcher over round chunks of crystal ice in his glass. As the ringing stopped, he slipped his thumb and forefinger around the half cucumber sandwich, brought it to his mouth and paused as the ringing started again. When the fifth and final ring faded into the soothing strains of Pachelbel’s “Cannon,” he took a bite, savoring the flavor of his lunch with the harmony of the music.

The ringing renewed. He cursed under his breath. This rude person would not be ignored. He dropped his sandwich, mindless of a cucumber sliding onto the table, and pushed back his chair, clutching his napkin, then strode into the living room to answer the phone.

After a terse hello, a man’s voice spoke without identifying himself. It didn’t matter. He recognized the museum curator.

“Myles, I thought the third time might do it.”

“What the hell do you want, John?” Any remaining politeness reserved for his caller quickly evaporated.

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

His hand tightened around his napkin. Friend was not a word related to John Archibald. “You could have left voice mail.”

“There’s talk of cutting funding for the museum.”

“I’m not on the board anymore. You know that,” he snapped. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“I think there is something you can do.”

“John—”

“Or actually there’s something I can do. The Mystery of Muuyaw. Don’t you think that title for my new exhibit would be an attention grabber? With the renewed traffic and the local press I’d get, the board would be sure to leave my funding alone. In fact, I imagine I’d get a boost.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

With a confidence not normal for the weasel of a curator, John’s tone of voice, combined with the implied proposal, sent a tremor down the professor’s spine.

“Hmmm. There’s a woman in town, Lacy Dahl, who’s very interested in speaking to the professor who is the Muuyaw expert. You didn’t know—”

“I know.” Only a tinge of satisfaction at having the jump on Archibald brightened the gray mood his call inflicted.

“You can’t possibly already have spoken to her.”

“I have my sources.” He fingered his napkin and used it to brush at some dust on the phone table.

“I bet you do. Let’s hope your sources are better informed than they were forty years ago.”

“That’s not your concern.” He wanted to hang up on the damnable man. “You have your dream job, thanks to me, now leave it alone.”

“My dream job may be going away. Unless—”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

“Oh, please, Myles. We’ve never used that word, have we? Don’t be so dramatic. I just want to make a trade.”

“I’m not inclined to bargain.”

“Oh, I think you should be. You can keep all the pieces that mean something to you. You don’t need all of them. Plus, I can secure one piece that you never dreamed you’d have. All I need is the headline and a few pieces to back it up.”

“What are you talking about? What piece?”

“A piece far more intriguing and personal than anything you have. Probably her first work of sculpture. A lovely little chest that says...Kaya.” He said her name again, this time whispering. “Kaya.”

“You’ve seen this?”

“I’ve seen a picture. Ms. Dahl will be delivering it to me tomorrow. And if you cooperate, it will be yours.”

“I don’t care for your tone, John.” If he could reach through the cord, he’d wrap it around the man’s neck.

“And I don’t care. I’m on the verge of losing the museum, and you can help. Or I can do it my way. I thought I’d give you the opportunity for a compromise. If that’s not to your liking, then fine. See you around town sometime.”

“Now, don’t be so hasty.” Appeasing John left a bitter taste on his tongue. He wiped at his mouth with the napkin. “I only wanted to see if you were serious. I would, of course, like to see this purported valuable piece of pre-Muuyaw art.”

“Purported? You’re insulting my integrity, but I’m inclined to ignore that at this point. It will be in my possession tomorrow.”

“Call me when you have it. I’ll take a look—just to authenticate it—and we can come to some arrangement.”

“All right. I’ll give you that. You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”

The professor set the phone gently in the cradle, turned on the ball of his foot and took his abandoned seat at the table. Carefully placing the linen napkin in his lap, smoothing out the wrinkles, he frowned at his sandwich. He placed the stray cucumber between the bread and picked up his glass of lemonade, now dripping with condensation.

“An opportunity for a compromise.” He swirled the melting ice cubes in the pale liquid. “Like hell, John Archibald. Like hell.”

****

After stopping in the Rendezvous for a sandwich and a bottle of water, Lacy climbed the flight of stairs to her room. Preoccupied with thoughts of the curator’s fascination with her mother’s chest and the voice mail to Chance, she didn’t notice the door to her room ajar until she touched the key to the lock.

Her heart jumped high in her chest, and she froze.

“Hello, Ms. Dahl.”

“Ahhh!” Lacy twirled around, dropping her sandwich and water bottle.

Laura and Clark approached from the intersecting hall, stopping wide-eyed with her startled response, the bottle of water rolling to a stop at their feet.

“Are you okay?” Laura lurched toward her.

She shook her head, raising her free hand like a traffic cop to stop her.

Clark bent to pick up the bottle.

With her purse and khaki case clutched to her chest, she lowered her hand and glanced at the door. “My door isn’t locked.”

Laura and Clark turned toward the door. He strode forward, grabbing his wife’s forearm. “You cleaned her room, didn’t you? Did you forget to close the door?”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know for sure, do you? This could get you fired.”

The young woman’s forehead wrinkled and she bit her bottom lip.

“No one’s getting fired,” Lacy hissed, ignoring the callousness of her husband. “It could be a break-in.”

Laura’s hand went to her mouth, eyes wide with fear. Clark pushed past her, shoved the door open and stomped inside a few feet.

When no crazy thief conked the foolish young man over the head, Lacy entered and peered around him. The room presented a neat and tidy appearance except for the things she’d left out earlier. Her fear mellowed with a deep sigh.

“Well, woman, if you didn’t forget to close and lock the door, I guess the ghost did it.”

“I’ve never left a door unlocked.” She stepped beside Lacy. “Oh, Ms. Dahl, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, hon.” She patted her shoulder.

“Don’t worry?” The rude, young man barked. “Jesus Christ, all you need to do is lose your job for something stupid like this.”

“Clark, if you don’t shut your mouth, I’ll—”

“Don’t be bossin’ me in front of the guests, woman.” He brushed hair off his forehead and waved his hand with the bottle of water in his wife’s face.

Lacy’s hand flinched. She’d never been driven to strike someone, but felt seriously close to seeing if she could lay this abusive-mouthed punk flat on the floral pattern beneath her feet. She yanked her bottle of water from his grasp instead and scooped her sandwich from the floor while forcing calm to replace her anger.

Laura walked farther into the room and glanced around. Her shoulders sagged. “It must have been me. I’ve never left a room open before, but there’s no other explanation.”

Lacy patted her shoulder. “No harm done. Really.” She threw a quick scowl at the young woman’s husband. “It just scared me for a moment. I won’t say anything.”

“I’d really appreciate that.”

“That’s okay. Forget it.”

Clark had already retreated to the hall.

Laura glanced over her shoulder then came back as if she thought about saying something. She sighed and smiled. “I’ll get going now. Thanks, again.”

Lacy closed the door behind her, but not before she heard sweet Laura’s voice turn sharp. “You jerk.”

****

“Jenny, do you have a professor named Sheffield?” Chance asked his daughter between bites of his tuna sandwich.

“Art history. Why?” She dumped a mound of tuna salad in her bowl of lettuce.

“Is that all you’re eating?”

“Dad.” One word with her tone of voice said volumes.

He shook his head and took another bite of his sandwich. “What do you think of him?

She chewed a mouthful of lettuce and tuna before answering. “I think he’s a bit strange.”

“Strange? How?”

“Like there’s more going on below the surface that I don’t want to know.” She absently popped a potato chip in her mouth. “Some think he’s, like, charming or something because of the mystery.” She rolled her eyes.

“The mystery?”

“There are rumors. Mmm.” Another forkful went into her mouth.

“Are you going to make me use my forceful interrogation techniques to get you to spill?”

“No, please, Sheriff.” Her eyes grew round in mock-horrified fashion.

He waved a hand in the air for her to continue.

“In spite of the fact he’s an ancient, some students, female that is, find him hot. And rumor has it he’s more than willing to prove it.” A wrinkled nose revealed her opinion. “He’s one of the professors with a story.”

“A story?” He watched her add extra mayonnaise to her salad and smiled inwardly. He pushed the bag of potato chips toward her.

“Yeah, like Rumstadt has a Wiccan past and Dr. Stargate is an old hippie with a six foot hooka in her living room.” They laughed. “Professor Sheffield’s story is romantic, which is why some female students find him charming, even though he’s old enough to be their grandfather.”

“Does this romance have anything to do with Muuyaw?”

“Is that a name?” When he nodded, she continued between chews. “I’ve never heard the name Muuyaw, but if she’s a Hopi maiden, then she’s the one he never got over. Unrequited love...
sigh
.” She laid a hand over her heart. “There’s one story that says he had a duel over her with a rival for her love, and the maiden was accidentally killed when she tried to stop it.”

“You believe this stuff?”

“Of course not. It’s fun to speculate though. Ah, romance.” She batted her eyelashes. “You might know a little about that.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

She scooped the last bite of her salad and smiled before it disappeared into her mouth. “Whatever.” Without further comment, and after setting her bowl in the sink, she lifted a pile of books from the counter. She paused in the kitchen doorway. “I’m off to the library on campus. Find something fun to do this afternoon, okay?”

“Like finishing the fence?”

With a shake of her head and an eye roll, she walked from the kitchen.

He picked up his cell and set it down again. He needed to return Lacy’s call, tell her what he knew of Myles Sheffield. Could he do it professionally? He’d need to forget the green eyes and lips the color of peaches that tasted just as sweet. He rubbed his chin and pushed away the remainder of his lunch.

Professor Sheffield.

The name had slipped from his memory like many of the details he’d purposely banished from his life eight years ago, until Lacy’s call. Detectives had talked to the university professor when it came to their attention of his expertise on Muuyaw.

He shoved his chair back from the table with a deep-throated growl and carried his dishes to the sink. Lacy’s research now tangled with his past, and wariness crept over him. He rubbed his neck, shook his head and leaned against the counter, head bowed. He could return the call and exit out of her life with some simple information. Or he could get involved because his sixth sense told him he needed to keep an eye on her.
If
that was it.