Wynn in the Willows (22 page)

Just as Wynn lifted her camera to take a shot of the first painting, she stepped back onto someone's foot. It wasn't Doug's; he was at the opposite end of Willow Inn's very small gallery. She turned to apologize.

Chef Frank's beefy face was flushed red. His cheeks were covered with sweat. “I saw you get out of the landscaper's truck and thought I might be of assistance.”

“Hi Frank. Nice to see you again.” Wynn's heart sank. They had a ferry to catch and she hoped Frank wasn't chatty.

Frank nodded and removed his chef's hat. “We are running wonderful lunch specials today.”

“And there's no one who enjoys a lunch special more than me, but today I'm here enjoying paintings, and then I'm off to the mainland.”

“Is there more information I can provide you with?”

“Yes, please.” She moved back to the first painting.

The picture was of the front of the Inn during a storm. The colors were dark and grim, not as bright and colorful as the others. Mustering up her memory from Art Appreciation 101, she asked, “Can you explain why Anna painted this one in this manner? In some ways, it doesn't seem in keeping with her style.”

“Many think she didn't even paint this one.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Look at the strokes. These are long and wild. Many are curled and thick. If you note the painting right next to this one has lines that are thin, quick, and patient.”

Wynn spared a glance at Doug, who had a curious look on his face, as if many things were crossing his mind. “But her husband died in a storm. Wouldn't it naturally denote anguish? And the strokes are more about the storm than a lovely day on her veranda would be.”

Frank's gaze followed as Doug sauntered past without a word. “Looks like your ride might be ready to leave.”

“He can wait. Is there anything else you can tell me about the other five paintings? Like this next one?” Wynn put her arm through his and walked him to the painting of Anna playing with her children. Her left hand was raised in the air and there, on her finger, was the ruby ring. The sight of it made her heart beat faster. She desperately wanted a close-up shot of it without being conspicuous. “Oh, my throat is very dry. I would love some water. Please.”

“How about lemonade? Fresh squeezed with a touch of real raspberry juice.”

“Even better.”

Frank obviously thought she was flirting with him—she could see it in his eyes. A twinge of guilt fought with her need to look at the painting. Wynn dismissed it, hoping she could apologize later. The moment he disappeared into the kitchen, she studied the ring in the picture.

In the middle was an oval shaped ruby surrounded by what appeared to be emeralds. That descriptive detail had been left out by Jackie—that is if the artist hadn't taken liberty.

Wynn held up her camera, focused, and began snapping shots. Then she hurried down the line of paintings taking multiple shots of each one, glancing back over her shoulder towards the kitchen. With Frank lurking about, she didn't have the luxury of taking her time. Just as she slid her camera into her backpack, Frank returned with a silver tray.

Not only was there a crystal goblet with lemonade the color of raspberries, but there were a half dozen pastry cookies in various shapes and flavors.

“Ah—do you happen to have a to-go-box?” She pointed over her shoulder. “I need to go.”

When she climbed back into the truck, she smiled at Doug, balancing the large to-go- box along with two covered cups of raspberry lemonade. “This drink is mine. The one with the red straw is yours.”

“Didn't I tell you that I have conquered my intense desire for straws?”

“Just in case you have a relapse, I'm here for you.”

“Thanks, and by that expression, I'll bet you have a story to tell.” There was a light in his eyes.

“That I do. Treats!” She opened the box lid and held it under his nose. “We have fresh corned beef sandwiches on rye bread along with all kinds of pastries for dessert.”

“Chef Frank?”

“Chef Frank.”

“I believe he's trying to impress you.”

“I'm impressed.”

Doug passed over the sandwiches and went right for the chocolate dipped meringue. “Wow!”

“There's a painting on the wall that is accredited to Anna,” Wynn helped herself to a wafer-like buttery sugar cookie. “But I'm thinking someone else painted it during the same time period. The fine age lines running through it are the same as in the others. But the strokes and personal expression are all totally off. But, I know very little about art.”

“Who could have painted it?”

“No idea.”

“In some of the paintings Anna wore the now infamous, and well sought after, ruby ring. And I have pictures!” She scrolled through the pictures to show Doug.

“A little blurry, don't you think?”

“Blurry? Really?” She furrowed her brow swiping through them. “Wait, this one is good. See?”

Doug selected another cookie and nodded his head in agreement.

“Have you ever seen the ring in person?”

Doug considered it for a moment and nodded. “Yep. It's the one in the one un-blurred picture. That's it.”

“I didn't know it also had emeralds. No one ever mentioned that fact.”

“It has emeralds. It's now been officially mentioned. Anything else?”

“Yes. I was asked out on a date.” She lifted a brow.

“Ah, don't tell me. Chef Frank?”

“Chef Frank.”

“You going?”

“Nah. My immediate inclination was to turn him down flat and that is exactly what I did.”

“Maybe you should reconsider.” His face was composed.

Wynn felt a stab of pain. Had his feelings changed? Certainly she hadn't misread him. Or had she? Suddenly her day seemed bleak. A lump formed in her throat. “Ok.” She lost her smile and turned to the window. “You want me to go out with him?”

“Well, not in the manner you're inferring. If you take advantage of his offer, it'd be a good time to ask questions about the Inn. Catch him off guard.”

“The Inn?” She turned to face him again.

“He knows all the nooks and crannies of the place. The history.”

“And that would have to do with the case…how?” Her emotions lifted.

“Just a feeling. I hear he wants to buy it.”

“Why not? It's popular—thanks to Frank, the cuisine is nearly a destination in itself. Chefs always want their own restaurant.”

“It could be a motive.”

Wynn eyed Doug over his comment, thinking the ring could be a motive for him, as well. “Do you think Boone was killed for the ring?”

“I certainly do.”

The art gallery was located in the center of town. Doug paid the twenty dollars admittance fee for both of them. They ignored the other exhibits and went straight to find Anna Reed's.

“There must be twenty of her paintings in here.”

“With long, lonely winter nights, you need something to fill your time. And remember, her husband was dead.”

Wynn playfully punched him in the arm. Then she saw it: A painting of a large, shaped key hole that allowed the lavishly furnished room on the other side to be viewed by the patron. “Wow, look at this neat concept.”

Doug walked across the room and gazed at it for several minutes. “Hey, I have something to show you now.”

Wynn followed Doug to the opposite wall and pointed. “In this painting Anna is wearing the skeleton key hanging from a bracelet around her wrist. One son is looking at what she's pointing to, while the other is fixated on the key. There's a bit of mystery here.”

“Interesting. She's pointing to a wallpapered wall.”

“Any idea of what it means?”

Wynn leaned in to look more closely at the wallpaper. “It's blue toile of a pasture scene.”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing to us, but to her it could mean everything.”

“Would you please step back from the painting?”

They turned to see a jacketed curator standing behind them. “You are way too close to the painting. You must remain behind this line.” She pointed to blue masking tape on the floor eighteen inches away from the wall.

“So sorry. Can you tell us anything about Anna Reed's paintings?” Wynn asked.

The curator nodded and explained aspects of each painting, but added nothing to what they already knew. She also totally missed the skeleton key and the door latch.

After the tour they headed for the parking lot.

“We have a newly missing ring dating back to the 1800s, the found corpse of Joseph Reed—which leads me to ask—”where have you been all this time, Joseph?” Wynn counted off the clues. “We now have Boone's fresh corpse, but who killed him? And why?”

 

 

 

 

27

 

For the next several days, Wynn worked feverishly to finish her grant to the University. On the final day, weariness hit her hard. What possessed her to work all day without taking a break? At least her research was complete, but her shoulders and neck had paid the price for her diligence. She'd gone too long with not enough sleep.

The sky was just darkening, but she needed a good run to work the aches out before bed, or there'd be another sleepless night; nights Sailor enjoyed because they'd end up playing on the wooden floor with cat toys and getting to know each other better, which Wynn loved. Lately, either her brain or body kept her awake in the long dark hours from midnight to dawn. Tonight, nothing would hold her back.

She pulled on shorts with a loose t-shirt and sneakers. Then she kissed Sailor at the top of his head, and dragged herself down the steps. The cool air gave her goose bumps.

Just as she passed the mailbox, something caught her eye. The lid was pulled half way down. She peeked inside to see something at the back of the box. The slip of paper was neatly creased into fours. No envelope. She unfurled it. It wasn't written by computer, but by hand in script.

 

When I turn my boat to shore

When the wind is behind me,

When the day is waning

I think of you

I see your hair on your shoulders

I imagine the softness of your skin

Your throat where it meets your chest

Your quiet voice calls me home

Your eyes light my way.

You are mine, Wynn in the Willows.

 

Though she had read Doug's words just once, she remembered each one. Did he actually consider her to be his home? She wanted to be. Home. She had been searching for so long. Maybe it wasn't really a location marked by latitude and longitude lines on a map, but a place with another person. Gladly she'd sit in the rocking chair of his arms forever. Feel the sea breeze from his embrace. Know the touch of heaven from his lips.

She held the paper to her heart. The words rolled into her heart, and then poured out into the fresh air once again. She wouldn't, couldn't fight her feelings for him any longer. It was time to go to him.

But first, she had to change her clothes. His poem had made an imprint on her soul; she wanted to make an imprint on his.

She scrambled out of her jogging clothes. After running a hot shower, she blew her hair dry until it dropped below her shoulders in curls. She applied just a bit of blush and eyeliner; a touch of lip stain, and then stepped into a white gauzy dress. She skipped to the car, only wanting to see him—Doug.

Windows down, her dark tendrils whirled in the wind. She swiped them back behind her ears but it did no good. The hem of her dress flew up from time to time, revealing her well-muscled thighs. By the time she parked along the shoreline near the lighthouse, her hair was a wild mess. After smoothing it with a brush, she stood at his door, knocking; breathless, heart pounding like a fist in her chest.

There was his silhouette through the glass.

The door opened and he stood in front of her. His cheeks were rough with a five o'clock shadow. There was an awkward moment while they simply studied one another. He smelled of fresh soap and his hair was still wet from the shower. His pants fit loosely and he didn't wear a belt. His shirt was unbuttoned down the front as though he was just sliding into it when he heard the knock.

Her gaze became locked on his steely gray eyes.

He gave her a pointed look, his gaze questioning. “What, Wynn? What is it?”

She held up the paper. “The poem you wrote to me. It's beautiful. I wish I knew how to put words together like that. Yet, I feel them.” The sound came out of her like a flutter and transformed into breathing.

“It's just a poem.” Doug's face warmed.

“It's more than a poem. How could you know me in ways I don't even know myself?” Wynn wanted to reach for him, but suddenly she felt shy. “I know it's late. May I come in, anyway?”

He pulled her close.

The rise and fall of his chest against her cheek was reassuring.

Doug lifted her chin and looked down at her lips, his face filled with tenderness.

She was consumed by his touch. Her senses came to life.

He smelled of air and earth and sea. “You feel good.” His voice was soft and grainy as he lowered his face. His lashes scraped against her cheek as he kissed her.

There came a restlessness in her nature—a hunger for something she had yet to find. The air became electric with possibilities of what could happen between them. Could this moment of new beginnings and sweetness someday morph into memories? She pushed those thoughts away and floated until the kiss finished, and she pulled away.

Slowly, she walked around the living room, trying to get a sense of how he lived. Worn, brown leather furniture; a couch and two armchairs with a hassock, and a large square coffee table absent of anything other than a large conch shell held the center of the room together. The TV hung above the stone fireplace. There was no overhead lighting, but several lamps were lit, giving the place a warm welcoming glow.