The Art of Love and Murder (3 page)

“Then keep an eye on the place for me over the next couple of days, will you? Hazel is great, and I probably won’t be needed, but I’m only a couple hours drive away. I could trek home easy enough.” She ran a hand through the side of her hair and twirled a lock around her finger.

“I’d be happy to. Hazel takes good care of me.” A cupboard door closed and the rattle of dishes clinked. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your lawyer on the Austrian deed you found in the chest.”

“No. Mark said it might take some digging to find out about something dated 1847.” She brushed the lock of hair along her chin like a paintbrush. “I’d have to assume Lenhard Luschin is an ancestor of my father, Hartmut, but there may be no value to the deed anymore.”

“Or there is.” Phoebe giggled. “Maybe you’re an Austrian princess and it’s the deed to your castle.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised about anything now, Phoebe.”

“Have you called August yet?”

“No, too late. And besides, nothing to tell her yet. If she hadn’t had to return to Tucson right after the funeral, I’d have brought her along on this Flagstaff mystery tour.”

“So, are you going to meet with the wicked stepsister tomorrow?”

Lacy rose, swung her feet to the floor and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Yep, that’s on the agenda.” The overhead light glinted off her red painted toenails. She absentmindedly checked her fingernails to see how her French manicure looked. “I want to go by the art gallery, too.”

“That all sounds nice, but no real action yet. I’m sorely disappointed.”

“I didn’t say there hadn’t been any action. In fact, I got more action than I wanted after dinner.”

“Now you’re talking. What?”

She opened her small suitcase on the floor next to her bed as she talked. “I left the restaurant from the back patio and walked down a sort of alley way. Only it’s not like a real alley because it’s paved and clean.” She dug into her cosmetics bag for her makeup remover. “Anyway, it was rather dark, and I swore I heard someone following me. If I walked faster, the footsteps behind me walked faster. I was more than a little scared.” She took off her eye makeup, balancing the cell between her chin and neck. “And when I reached the street, I ran smack dab into this Paul Bunyan hulk of a man who seemed...seemed... protective or something. But he scared the shit out of me being right there at that precise moment.” A residual shiver drifted over her with the memory, like the aftershock of an earthquake. “I clobbered the guy with my purse.”

“And then what?”

“And then I came back to the hotel and—”

“No, Lacy. Judas Priest! Tell me about this guy. What kind of hulk?”

“As in strong looking, you know. What’s to tell? He’s a local, I would assume. He looked down the alley, and I went on my way.”

“Was he good looking or sexy or what?”

Lacy sighed and smiled, partly from her friend’s comment and partly from the memory of her rescuer. “We had all of five minutes at the most together, under a dim, old fashioned street lamp.” A gorgeous, rugged face and strong arms hadn’t gone totally unnoticed, but the vision faded with a blink and a shrug.

“Did you get his name or anything?”

The writer in her friend needed details. “Phoebe, you’re hopeless. I’m not here to meet men, certainly not strangers I encounter on dark streets.”

She doubted she still knew how to meet interesting men. Conrad had been dead three years, but she’d not had the inclination or desire, especially when, in the middle of her grief, she’d discovered what a sham her marriage had been.

“I’m damn tired and going to sleep now. Go write a mystery about a dark alley that isn’t an alley.”

“Oh, all right. Sleep tight and don’t let the ghosts keep you up.”

“Thanks. That helps a lot. Bye, Phoebe.”

She ended the call and reluctantly rose to turn off the chandelier, but walked over to the desk instead. A picture lying on top of the pile held her attention—her birth mother holding an infant. The glossy finish of the photo had cracked along the top and one side, and fingerprint smudges rimmed the edges. The seated woman held Lacy’s baby-self swaddled in blankets. She guessed the woman’s rust colored, full skirt and silver belt to be Indian-style clothing. She wore moccasins the color of doeskin, and two braids framed her face and fell over her breasts to disappear beneath the child. She smiled at the camera, her face lit with happiness.

Another older photo, scalloped edges and in black and white, had the name Mansi Mockta written on the back—her Hopi grandmother. She pushed it aside as she picked up the next photo of Hartmut Luschin, the Austrian man with startling green eyes, her father. A slight tremor traveled along her spine. She knew this face if only because it mirrored her own eyes. She turned the photo over and read the inscription yet again.
My Hartmut, 1966,
written in a feminine script.

Why hadn’t they married? Where were they going when the small plane crashed, killing them?

Only Lacy had survived.

Not news. She’d known all her life that her blood parents were dead. The past she would dig up might seem like it belonged to someone else, but it didn’t. Phoebe may have sensed this trip turning into more than an art treasure hunt. Lacy had always been so anchored in Phoenix, but something tugged at her, as if her anchor had been in soft sand all along.

Below the photos lay sketches, signed with the mysterious initials M/KM. She’d left the carved chest at home, inscribed with her birth mother’s signature on the bottom—Kaya. The chest had held the pictures and the art for over forty years, including a half-carved wolf, unsigned, but a match to one of the sketches. She ran her fingers over the front half, the head and forelegs of the wolf in a frozen state of escape from the wood. Nothing identified the artist on the unfinished sculpture. Had Kaya and M/KM been friends, partners, rivals? Hopefully, she’d have her answers by the end of the weekend.

She flicked the wall switch, dousing the chandelier, and glanced at her unopened suitcase sitting on the stand. Too tired to even dig out her pajamas, she slid out of her jeans. Yanking back the cream-colored brocade bedcover, she crawled between the crisp matching sheets and sank her head into a most magnificently plush pillow.

Lots to do tomorrow.
She pulled the chain on the ornate, red glass lamp, leaving the room in near darkness. Dim light filtered through the curtains on the window overlooking the street below. She’d start with the art gallery. And reluctantly see the stepsister. The lady might be willing to help her once they met face to face.

She sighed, and her lids closed as she started her descent into sleep. The face of her would-be rescuer came to mind, momentarily puzzling her at the thought, but sleep tugged, and she let it go. If she ran into him again, she’d get his name. For Phoebe.

Chapter Two

After four laps around Pinetop Park, Lacy jogged east for three blocks before heading south. She switched to a brisk walk for the last block. Activity along her route had been minimal; a few cars pulled into what looked like a city building across from the park and the library on the west end. The shops along San Francisco Street hadn’t opened for business yet. She stopped at the far end of the Grand View and stretched. The air snapped with crispness while the San Francisco Peaks offered a breathtaking view.

The run through pine-scented, chilly air had cleared the cobwebs left from sleep better than the caffeine offered at the Lacy Latte. She thought of Hazel opening the café this morning without her and hoped the Rendezvous, a bright, fifties era restaurant in the hotel, had chai as good as the tea offered at her café in Scottsdale.

She waved to the morning desk clerk, mundanely dressed compared to his nighttime counterpart, before she veered out of the subdued lighting of the lobby and into the bright lighting of the Rendezvous. The coffee café by day and martini bar by night extended off the lobby and contrasted with the 1920 hotel decor. A pudgy-faced barista greeted her when she approached the counter.

She scanned the menu, pleasantly surprised. “Let me have a large vanilla chai with skim and...” She looked into the glass-covered shelves of pastries. “...a low-fat berry muffin.”

“For here or to go?”

“To go, but...” She glanced over the area around her until spotting a shelf of mugs and accessories. She couldn’t stand drinking from paper. “I need to buy a mug.” She chose the largest one with a lid, a blue silhouette of the peaks and the Rendezvous name emblazoned below. “Could you rinse this out for me and put my chai in it?” She dug in her hoodie pocket for money.

“Are you eating on the run, or running while you eat?”

She glanced up into striking, coppery-brown eyes that had gone unnoticed in the dim light of the street lamp last night. “Oh, hello.”

“There’s that startled look again. Am I so scary, even in the light?”

Scary, no. Heart-stopping, maybe.
If she’d seen him clearly last night, she might have been startled from attraction instead of from fear he could be the bad guy. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t know anyone here, and I was, you know, concentrating on the money, so, um, I, um...” She hastily turned to the pudgy-faced young man. “How much did you say?” She handed over the money. “Keep the change.” With tea and paper bag in hand, she retreated away from the counter. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“I don’t mind at all.” A hint of tease sparkled in his eyes before he turned his head toward the barista. “Coffee, black.”

“Which blend, sir?”

“Blend?” Her rescuer glanced at the menu over his head. “Hell, if I know. What’s good and strong in the morning?”

Inwardly, she smiled. In the early morning light without the threat of a dark alley, he presented a much friendlier side. And yet, he still made her nervous, but in a good way.

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “I like Sumatra.”

“Okay, Sumatra.” He turned his gaze on her. “So, which is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Eating on the run or running while you eat?” The side of his mouth twitched and he shrugged. “Lame joke.”

A part of her relaxed. Her gorgeous, stoic rescuer had a vulnerable side perhaps. She snickered. “I’ve had my morning run. I’m taking my chai and muffin to my room.”

“Chai?”

“Tea.”

“Here you go, sir.” The barista set his coffee on the counter while her rescuer dug money from his pocket.

She took in his broad shoulders beneath the navy T-shirt and his defined profile. Today, his hair hung loose and thick around his neck. A few strands fell forward onto his forehead. A scar marred his chin. Not a perfect face, but perfectly, ruggedly handsome. Her peripheral vision admired the way he filled out his jeans. Her reaction surprised her; it had been a long time since she’d noticed a man.

Another customer edged in behind him. Lacy moved toward the exit, and he followed.

“You don’t like the atmosphere of the Rendezvous?” He didn’t exactly smile, but his face invited.

“It’s lovely, but, I, uh, well, I’m not exactly dressed for café lounging.” Did he have to look at her so hard? Not usually so easily unnerved, this man got in the way of simple verbal responses.

“Have you looked around? It’s kind of a come as you are place, like Flagstaff in general.” He tilted his head toward her and lowered his voice. “I think that young lady over there has on her pajama bottoms.”

Without looking, she chuckled. “It’s the style.”

He held a hand out. “Chance Meadowlark.”

She switched her muffin sack to the other hand, her thumb holding it against her tea, and shook his hand. “Lacy Dahl.”

His grip wrapped around hers, warm and firm. The feeling migrated up her arm, across her chest and puckered her nipples. She dropped her chin with embarrassment. When next she looked up, he flicked a glance across her hand.

“Is your fiancée, or maybe husband, not up for early morning runs?”

The odd question gave her pause until she realized what he’d seen. “My...oh, no, I’m not engaged.” She wiggled her left fingers on the mug handle. Her wedding band now resided somewhere in the Scottsdale sewer system, but the diamond had been her adopted mother’s and she’d left it on her finger. “I’m widowed, actually. Three years. I suppose I should move it to another finger, but...”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” His voice took on a formal tone. The easy to look at lips lost their invitation.

“That’s okay.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and pulled her ponytail to the front of her shoulder.

“It’s not okay.” He cleared his throat, clearly ill at ease. “I lost my wife a while back, too, and... a total stranger shouldn’t be asking.”

“You’re not a
total
stranger.” She wanted to bring back the friendliness she’d heard in his voice, put him at ease again. “You know my name, and you did come to my rescue last night.” She sectioned a length of hair from her ponytail and brushed it along her chin.

He nodded his head and took a sip of his coffee. “Scared the hell out of you, too. Or something to that effect, if I remember your words.”

The slightest hint of a smile graced his mouth, yet the wall of reserve remained intact. Only the warmth of his eyes drew her in, touched a nerve, had her wanting to know more and wanting to run at the same time.

“I probably scared you, too, the way I reacted. Hope you didn’t have a bruise on your thigh this morning.” Damn. Referring to his thigh sent a quiver between
her
thighs.
What the hell?

“Didn’t notice. Since you’re up early for a run, I guess you got over your fright and slept okay.”

“I did, thank you. And thank you for, um, assisting me last night. I was so tired after dinner and after one little margarita, the short cut down the alley seemed like a good idea.”

“You must’ve eaten at the Kachina. Margaritas as good as they used to be?”

“I don’t know how good they used to be, but they were certainly good last night.” She chuckled. “Have you given up margaritas, or don’t you eat at the Kachina anymore?”

She swore a shadow of a cloud passed over his head.

“I haven’t been there in a few years.” He did a slow blink, glanced around the café.