The Blue Virgin (18 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

“Once, I remember, in an entirely different world, I interviewed that East Coast photographer who made a good living taking pictures of people as they jumped.”

—
Carolyn See,
Golden Days

3:30 PM

On the way to their interview with Miles Belcher, Simon was surprised when Nora insisted they stop at an art store.

  “You deserve this,” she said. “You’ve been so patient with me. And you can pick up supplies to take back to Bowness.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. Anything to delay this interview. He would enjoy the foray into the real art world for a change, instead of ordering from a distance over the Internet.

  The art shop was redolent with scents of oil paints and turpentine. The aisles were crowded with racks of pigments in different forms, thick pallets of paper in different weights and thicknesses, and instruction books from beginner to advanced. Stretched canvases in different sizes hung from racks on the walls, their emptiness a blatant demand for bold strokes of color. Running his hand over the soft brushes, he examined a few and added them to his basket. “It’s so different being able to touch and see these things,” he explained to Nora. “And these,” he said, pointing to a gaudy display of paints, “their hues often get distorted on the Web. Unless you know the name of a pigment you’ve used before, they can be difficult to order.”

  Nora asked him about the different kinds of media he used and seemed to soak up his discourse. He pointed out tubes of
oils and fat oil sticks, watercolours, bright logs of pastels, and muted charcoals. “I can see your fingers aching to try some of this stuff out,” she said.

  Maybe he could convince Nora to take a nap, and he could slip away to make some sketches. He mulled this plan over as he loaded the carton into the back of the wagon. Nora sat in the passenger seat, flipping pages in her notebook. Not yet then, he thought, sliding in beside her.

  “Where to now, Sherlock?”

  She looked at him fondly. “You really are being gracious today.”

  “I have to admit the idea of someone else coming to see Bryn after Val had gone home seems to be the only explanation. But don’t you think you should impress Inspector Barnes with this notion?”

  Nora’s answer was ready. “It’s only supposition at this point; we don’t have any real evidence. And he’s already had his shot at Althea Isaacs. Too bad if he didn’t listen carefully.”

  “Oh, so now you’re in competition with a detective inspector who does this for a living?” Simon watched the blush creep over her face.

  “Absolutely not,” she declared. “I just think he can’t see the forest for the trees, and I’m very good at picking up twigs. We need to see Bryn’s boss next.”

  Simon started up the Volvo. Nora put her hand on his arm to keep him from putting the car into gear. The touch of her fingers on his bare forearm startled him, causing a ripple of desire to spread through him. He shifted in his seat; he was like a bloody teenager around her.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “We won’t get parking on Little Clarendon. Let’s leave the car here and walk.”

  “Sounds good to me, but how do you know he’ll talk to us?” Simon asked as he opened the door.

  “I can’t imagine how he could not,” Nora serenely answered, leaving Simon with the impression she had a line for Miles Belcher he had yet to hear.

*

Simon and Nora waited at the bottom of the stairs to the Miles Belcher Studio as a string of men and women, chatting happily, left the office, crimson choir robes thrown over their arms. Following Nora up the staircase, Simon said, “I still don’t see how you plan to get this man to talk to you.”

  She stopped mid-staircase and turned to look at him, which brought them almost level in height. She had never looked lovelier. The air and the brief walk had brought rosiness to her cheeks; her green eyes flickered with amusement in the dim hallway. “Want to bet on that?” she asked archly, putting one hand on her hip.

  “I never bet with Yankees, especially ones who obviously have the deck stacked against me. Get going.” He shooed her up the last few stairs, and they entered the world of Miles Belcher.

  Belcher was easy to spot after Val’s description of him. As Simon and Nora looked around the clubby interior, Miles noted their presence with the flicker of a glance, not acknowledging them at first, talking to a younger man as he handed over an order slip. “Show them my card and tell them to put that order on my account—oh, and bring me back a double latte like a good lad, would you? Cinnamon on top.”

  The young man rolled his eyes at Simon, and as he slipped away, Miles Belcher finally gave them his attention. “Yes, and how can we be of help today?” He smirked and looked at Nora’s belly. “A family portrait, perhaps?”

  Belcher would say the one thing destined to get Nora an
noyed. The man’s smile was like treacle. Simon hoped they needn’t stay here too long. Nora was not put off easily and gave him a charming smile, holding her hand out in introduction. “My name is Nora Tierney, Mr. Belcher, and this is my assistant, Simon. I’m an editor at
People and Places
magazine. My superior, Harold Jenkins, is interested in doing an article on you and your studio and the tragedy you have recently suffered.”

  Simon couldn’t believe Nora was pretending to still work at the magazine and had added him so smoothly to her deception. He still didn’t see how this would get Belcher’s confidence. Apparently Belcher didn’t, either.

  “I don’t think murder should be capitalized on, do you, Miss, er—” He swept his bangs off his forehead.

  “Tierney,” Nora answered, continuing as though Belcher had indicated interest. “We’re interested in the angle of a popular and important Oxford photographer, someone who has the ear of academics and influential people, losing his assistant at the height of his busy career, and how the sudden loss affects him.”

  Oh, Nora was smart, Simon thought, going right to Belcher’s vanity by slanting the imagined article his way, making him the center of attention. Belcher hesitated; Nora quickly continued. “Mr. Jenkins is an Exeter alumnus, and he noticed in the paper they’re looking for a new college photographer. He’s been an admirer of yours for some time and is hoping you get that contract. This article might help that happen.”

  Belcher was hooked. “Jenkins is an Exeter grad?”

  Nora nodded solemnly. “Yes, and he’s always complaining about the stiff portraits the college produces for its board. ‘Now if we only had Miles Belcher doing the shots, they would be perfect,’ he has commented on more than one occasion. I’m not going to lie to you, Mr. Belcher—” she said glibly.

  No, not too much. Simon studied a stuffed pheasant Belcher kept under glass as Nora continued to fabricate.

  “—it would be a great coup for the magazine to have an exclusive article from you on this tragedy, and it would also give you wonderful exposure.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “And then at his next college meeting, Mr. Jenkins would be certain to use his, well, I hesitate to use the word ‘influence,’ but a well-placed whisper in the right ear—you know how these things are done in academic circles.”

  That should settle it, Simon decided, watching Belcher’s head nod as Nora spoke, wondering if Old Jenks ever went to any college meetings, Exeter included.

  “Of course, under those circumstances I might reconsider,” Belcher said with a smarmy smile. “Would you like to come into my office?”

  Would she ever, Simon thought, shaking his head at Nora as they trooped down the hallway single file. In front of him, Nora reached a hand behind her back and waggled her fingers at him.

*

Nora was relieved Miles Belcher had responded to her story and not bothered to verify her credentials. After complimenting Miles on the view from his office, she handed Simon her notebook, who accepted it with a sly look. He refused her offer of a pen and withdrew a pencil from his pocket, making a show of preparing to take notes. Nora had the feeling there would be several sketches of either Miles or the stunning scene outside his window when they were ready to take their leave.

  It was simpler than she thought to get the man to talk about himself, but then Nora had found most people were easy tellers of their own tales once you showed an interest. The photographer was at the top of this list, preening like a spread peacock as he described what he termed “the early years.”

They finally reached the present. She wanted to address Bryn’s tragic death and how he had been left scrambling for a new assistant. This was where Nora knew she had to be delicate in her questioning, maintaining the focus on Miles while trying to elicit the information she sought, even as the interview wound down.

  “And how have you managed to handle your huge success alone without becoming stressed out?” she asked. “Have you ever considered taking in a partner?”

  Horror ran across Miles’ face at the contemplation of sharing. “I really couldn’t do that, could I, and still maintain the high level I’m known for? I decided to take on an assistant I could mentor instead, and Bryn Wallace was doing an excellent job at that.”

  Because she was bright, interested, and you could order her around while paying her peanuts, you old toady, Nora thought. Aloud she said: “Miss Wallace was eager to learn at the foot of the master, as it were?”

  “Oh, quite. She really wanted to see how I worked. A great asset and help to me, I admit. And the clients liked Bryn, so that was all right.”

  Nora put on her most poignant expression. “It must have come as a terrible shock to hear she had been murdered.”

  Miles raised one hand in front of his face as if to block out the thought, shaking his head dramatically and dropping the hand. “It was a nightmare,” he said hoarsely.

  Nora believed the woman’s death had moved him. She leaned in closer to the desk, adopting a more intimate tone. “I imagine you’ve had to be interviewed by the murder squad and everything,” she said sympathetically, ignoring Simon’s small cough.

  “They call themselves violent crimes units these days and all sorts of titles, but it still boils down to sniffing around people’s lives. Very distasteful work I should think.” Miles pursed his lips in a moue of distaste.

  “It couldn’t have been a pleasant experience,” Nora commiserated. “Have they any idea who might have wanted to kill her?” She heard a scratching sound and knew that Simon, carefully positioned so Miles couldn’t see his pad, was happily sketching.

  Miles leaned in, too. “My dear, it sounds as if they are totally in a fog. It was apparently a bright criminal, no clues left at the scene from what I’ve heard. Although there must be suspects from her life to consider.”

  “Who would that be, Mr. Belcher?” Nora asked.

  He shook one finger at her as though he could not reveal his information.

  “Strictly off the record, of course,” Nora hastened to add. Simon obediently stopped moving his pencil momentarily.

  “Oh, I couldn’t implicate someone. That would be heinous. But she did live in a rather suspect part of town, all sorts of loonies around her. She had a string of former boyfriends I would think would have to be considered as well. But that’s for the police to divine, not me.” He sat back primly.

  “Of course not,” Nora soothed, then turned her head to one side as though a new thought had come to her. “I remember hearing she used to date that model, Cameron Wilson. He has a reputation as a ladies’ man, doesn’t he?” This was a shot in the dark for Nora, but it had the desired effect.

  “Cam Wilson?” Miles dismissed him with a snort. “Good-looking lad. Fancies himself a bit too much, but most of them do. The only reputation he’s getting is for a snow lover, and it’s going to cost him his career if he isn’t careful.” He closed one nostril with his index finger and sniffed delicately up the other.

  Cocaine, Nora understood, nodding sagely. “Was Bryn Wallace also a … partaker?”

  “Not that I ever saw, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors?” Miles’ shrug was wide open to suggestion. He really is a smarmy bastard, Nora decided, trying to figure out a way she could introduce a new name without raising his suspicions. Miles consulted his watch and Nora knew her time was short.

  “This is definitely off the record,” she cautioned Simon, who closed the notebook promptly. “Actually, Mr. Belcher, I heard a rumor Bryn was seeing a married man, someone named Wheeler?”

  Miles’ face blanched, but he recovered quickly, sitting upright in his chair. “That’s absurd! Dr. Wheeler is a highly respected don at Exeter—I shot his daughter’s wedding recently. I can’t imagine how that rumor got started. Where did you hear that?”

  “Just a name dropped, nothing important I’m sure. You know how people love to gossip.” Nora stood hastily before his questions continued. “We really can’t take up more of your time.  You’ve been so generous. I appreciate the interview. Very stimulating.”

  As Miles Belcher escorted them back to the door he asked, “Any idea when the article will come out?”

  Nora shooed Simon down the stairs and paused at the top, ready to follow. “I never know with these editors, but you’ll be the first to know.”