The Art of Love and Murder (27 page)

Although he stared into her eyes, his focus remained elsewhere. He breathed deep twice, held the air in for a count both times. She couldn’t quit staring at him. The faraway musing, the glint of the table candle dancing in his eyes, the pinking of his cheeks—he lost years as she stared at him. A handsome, happy man, looking younger than he was, stared back.

“Professor!” A stooped, white-haired gentleman shuffled to their table, his hand raised in greeting. “
Salve.
”

Myles stood to greet him. He opened his arms wide, the expression on his face sad rather than happy at seeing the old man.

“
Come sta?
” He wrapped his arms around Myles’ torso, patting him on the back. “
Come sta?
” Paolo pulled back and planted a kiss on each cheek. “Eh?”

“Good, Paolo.” Myles took him by his shoulders. “And you look very good, old friend.”

He grunted and shook off the professor’s hands. “Okay. Better than most.” His wrinkled, olive skin broke into a wide smile. “You met my granddaughter, Nina?”

“The lovely child that seated us?”

“
Si.
Lovely.”

Lacy leaned forward, elbows rested on the table, content with the warmth between the men. The somewhat stuffy, suave professor’s more common side showed and fascinated her. He’d let his guard down. She liked this person more. This must be closer to the man her mother had seen.

Her movement caught the attention of Paolo, and he jerked up a bit straighter, his stooped shoulders turning toward her.

“
Dio!
” He blinked and his shoulders relaxed. “I thought for a moment...but no.”

“Paolo, this is Kaya’s daughter, Lacy. Lacy, this is the most amazing chef, Paolo.”

The old man nodded as if in understanding of his initial reaction. She started to rise, but he waved her down.

“You’re fine.” He shuffled closer and held out a hand. “I am most honored. I loved your mother very much.” He cast a wry smile at Myles. “We all did. Everyone loved Kaya.”

An awkward silence fell over the men. Lacy had the strongest inclination to stand and do a group hug. The clank of a pan and shout from the kitchen ended the reverie.

“I will personally oversee your meal.” Paola clapped. “First caponata on crostini, and then osso bucco with a side of the...eh...white bean. Good?”

“A very large lunch.”

“Not so big for Italy. You both need the food. Relax.” He winked. “And a bottle of house Chianti.” He shuffled away.

Myles slid back into the booth. Gray shadows under his eyes and tightness on his mouth tugged on her heart. The youthfulness had vanished, age settled heavy across his face.

“Paolo is wonderful.” She added extra cheeriness to her voice.

The professor stared into the candle flame, one of his hands rubbed the other. The pronounced veins on the backs underscored his age.

The granddaughter set wine and bread on the table. “Enjoy!”

Myles didn’t acknowledge the arrival of the wine, lost in some thought Lacy could only imagine. Her nerves fluttered, she wet her lips and waited. If she gave him a moment to collect his thoughts, he might reveal more about her mother and their relationship. Laughter from another table jarred him.

“Try the bread. Kaya loved the caponato.”

He poured wine and she complied. “Mmm...oh my...this is wonderful,” she said around chewing. “However did you discover this place?”

“I think your mother found Paolo’s.” He tore a piece of bread and shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“What happened, Myles?” She sipped the wine and prayed for courage to pry.

“Happened?”

“To you and Kaya?”

The lines in his face hardened.

Nina arrived at the table with steaming, fragrant dishes on her arms. “Grandfather says he’ll not leave until you’ve finished.” She smiled broadly at Myles. “Enjoy.”

He nodded, but remained stoic.

“There’s just so much I don’t know about her, and you knew her so well.” Lacy’s palms grew sweaty. She gripped her wine glass, swallowed the smooth Chianti and forced a smile.

Kitchen noises and patrons’ low murmurs filled the space of their corner booth. She took a bite of the veal and waited. His face softened in the flickering candlelight, a devilish half-smile appeared and soft lines crinkled around his eyes.

“Why aren’t we talking about Muuyaw’s art, Lacy? That is why you came to Flagstaff, correct?” His mood turned casual. He took a healthy bite of the white beans.

“Well, yes...”

“You’ve not mentioned it.” He still concentrated on his food, chewing and lifting a forkful of the osso bucco. “I’m curious.”

“Myles, there’s something I should’ve told you.” She set down her fork, took a deep breath. “I no longer have the sketches. They were stolen last night.”

His reaction, a slight rise of his brows, gave her pause, but didn’t particularly surprise her. He’d raised his guard again, hiding his emotions beneath the proper, classy professor exterior.

“Stolen?”

“Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, but—”

“This must be quite distressing for you.” He patted her hand. His palm, soft and warm, brushed softly on her knuckles. “To lose all that you have from your mother.” He made a tsking noise.

His physical touch, the reaction less than what she expected, left her momentarily speechless. She opened her mouth to further explain, but he cut her off.

“I’m sure the police are investigating. Do they have any idea who would do such a thing?”

“Actually, they do. They have my sketches and the man in custody. In fact, he may have murdered the curator at the museum.”

The ring of his cell phone cracked the air as all color drained from his face.

****

Chance sat across the desk from Detective Ranclin. He’d switched his cell to vibrate and kept his hand resting on his jacket pocket. A second call to Lacy on his way to the station gave him voice mail again.

“We’re ready to dismiss Ms. Dahl as a suspect in the murder of John Archibald.”

“Then it’s been ruled a murder?”

“From his position on the floor and the wound he sustained, he couldn’t have fallen and hit his head. But nothing in the office matched the wound. We’re still combing the area around the museum in case the murderer discarded the weapon nearby. Although there was blood on the wooden chest, the fracture to the skull couldn’t have been made by the chest. And her fingerprints weren’t found at the scene, other than on the stone table and right beside the body where she knelt to check Archibald. That checks with Ms. Dahl’s story.”

“And Clark’s?”

“Everywhere.” The detective glanced down at some papers on his desk. “Katz rifled the place.”

“What’s his story?”

“Says the curator was alive when he left.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know. He’s a punk. If Archibald had fallen, hit his head, I could see Katz lying about it. He probably tried to bully the man, might even have pushed him. But the injury sustained wasn’t an accident. And what good would it do to hit him over the head and kill him? Doesn’t add up to me. Then again, Katz isn’t the brightest bulb on the tree.”

Chance leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the desk. Ranclin had that right. “Why?” Things weren’t making sense. “Why did he steal the sketches? Why ransack the curator’s office for the chest?”

“They’re worth something, right?”

“To who?”

The same question had haunted him eight years ago, once his mind had cleared enough to think about it. Long after they ruled it a cold case. When Lacy walked into his life, the old question surfaced again.

At the thought of her, he tensed. “You remember the Uptown Gallery theft and murder?”

He registered the brief flicker of shock on the detective’s face. Everyone avoided the subject when in the company of the sheriff. Ranclin nodded.

“The sculptures never surfaced and neither did any likely suspects behind the theft. The artist had some success, on a regional basis, but at the time of the theft, years after her death?” Only one collector even came up on the radar. As far as he knew, Professor Myles Sheffield was the sole collector of Muuyaw’s sculptures.

Ranclin flicked the ink pen with his thumb. Click. Click. “I didn’t work the case, but if I remember correctly, it went cold almost from the beginning. The thief...” He cleared his throat. “...murderer led us nowhere. He was from New Mexico, like he drifted into town, hit the gallery and headed out again. Only he made a bad stop for some pocket change at the mini-mart.”

And Officer Meadowlark, first on the scene, dealt out the punishment. Chance’s fingers drummed faster on the desk.

“You think the kid you shot had an accomplice?” Ranclin asked.

“He didn’t have the sculptures.”

“He could’ve already sold them.”

“Then he had a buyer before he stole them. You don’t move art, especially from a local celeb, that quick.”

“Too bad we didn’t get a chance to question him.” Ranclin’s pen went silent in his hand. He darted a guilty look at Chance.

His fingers stilled. “No, you’re right.”

“Sheriff—”

He held a hand up and shook his head. “It was a quick take down. I could’ve handled it better.” The detective’s words hadn’t surprised him, nor did they bother him. He expected as much from anyone within the law enforcement community.

“That’s never been an issue. You caught him in a dark alley; the punk had a gun. You did what any officer would’ve done.”

If only there’d been another officer with him to confirm that. There had been so much rage in his head—and his heart—he’d never be sure he acted the only way he could. And the trail went dead with the death of the thief.

He’d been so racked with grief over his wife’s murder; he’d not given much thought as to who could be behind the drifter. He’d had his revenge, and he’d sunk into a mire of remorse and sorrow. Respectable Professor Sheffield had been called on only for consultation. Chance slumped back in his chair. His stomach roiled at the thought of Lacy alone with the man. They had missed something.

He fingered the cell in his jacket. “What’s next?”

“He’s lawyered up.” He looked at his watch. “They should be in there right now charging him with murder. Maybe he’ll tell a different story when he knows this is real.”

A knock and another detective stuck his head in the door. “Hey, Ranclin, the kid is singing. You should hear this.”

Detective Ranclin rose from his desk, nodded at Chance and the two men strode down the hall.

****

Myles grabbed the ringing cell in his pocket. He would normally ignore the intrusion, silence it and not interrupt a dinner conversation. But Lacy’s words had left him grappling for a way to make sense of what she’d said. The phone call would cause a diversion long enough for him to think. What had gone wrong? The last time he’d spoken to Carol she had the canvas bag. He averted his gaze from Lacy and pressed the phone on without looking at caller ID.

“Hel—”

“They’ve got Clark, Myles!” Carol screamed in his ear. “They’ve got the sketches, they’ve got Clark, and they’re talking murder. It’s over.”

“Now, just a moment—”

“No! We don’t have a moment.”

“I’m at lunch.” There had to be some mistake. “I’ll call you when I get home.”

“You have to go down there and tell them he didn’t do it.”

“You know I can’t.” He watched Lacy fidget on the other side of the table. What in hell happened? “I don’t know if he—”

“Listen to me, Myles. Earlier, I told him to keep quiet about why he took the sketches. I thought you’d help. Why the hell haven’t you called me back?”

“I’ve been a bit busy, dear heart.” If he kept calm, this craziness would cease. Carol had always been easily excitable. He needed to think. “I’ll—”

“Don’t try your bullshit charm on me.” Her voice dropped to a low growl. “I got a call from John last night. And now he’s dead.”

The room spun.

“It’s over. Murder! I won’t keep him quiet now. We’ll both talk.”

“Let’s meet in an hour.” His words came slow, measured, as he forced his mouth to form them. “I’m sure we can—”

But she’d hung up.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, dropped his hand to his lap and stared into the candle’s flame. His face burned as hot as the wick. Stupid woman and her moron grandson could ruin everything. If only he’d taken her call last night, invited her into his bed to devise a plan. Justine had distracted him. That would be the last time she’d share his bed.

The flame’s heat spread to his chest. His breath labored. Somewhere in the ringing of his ears, a voice called to him.

“Professor?” His shoulders sagged. Someone touched him. “Are you going deaf like me, old friend?”

Myles turned his head toward the voice. He blinked. Paolo leaned into him. “Oh, Paolo. No, no. Sorry. I...was thinking.” His peripheral vision had gone black. Only Paolo stood in a circle of light.

“Thinking and not eating. Is the veal not done enough for you?”

Words were hard to come by. His throat rasped dry as he swallowed. “Everything...is...perfect.” He lifted his wine glass and drained the liquid.

“I must leave now. Will you visit me again, my friend?”

“Yes, soon.” Myles swung his legs, now lead weights, to the side, and using the table to lever himself upward, he returned the old man’s embrace.

“Good, good.” Paolo turned to Lacy. “Goodbye, lovely daughter of Kaya. I hope we meet again.”

“Yes, Paolo. Me too.”

Myles’ legs trembled, and he eased back onto his seat, consciously, deliberately to display a calm he didn’t possess. Paolo’s backside receded into the shadows of his vision.

“Myles?”

He turned toward Lacy, now the center of the circle of light. “My God, you’re lovely.”

“Thank you.” She cocked her head, her forehead wrinkled. “Are you okay? Was the phone call bad news?”

His chest ached. Her green eyes taunted him. “You know.”

“I know what?”

Her voice, so much like Kaya. The shadows inched back, the overwhelming heat the candle emitted cooled. Now the flame danced in her eyes as she leaned toward him, cared for him.

“Death.”