Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) (17 page)

As she was sizing up O’Connell from across the room, Grace touched her arm.
 

“Cat,” she said. “I’d like to introduce you to the Langholms, Carrie and Kristoff. They’re clients of Ernesto’s.”

Cat shook the hands of a refined couple who seemed to exhibit the confidence and style that great wealth supplies. When Cat mentioned she was from St. Louis, Kristoff exclaimed, “I love doing business in the river city. So much brick! I believe every single thing in St. Louis built before 1960 was constructed out of that gorgeous red brick.”

“Except for the bridges,” Granny Grace added. “Brick wouldn’t do for those.”

“I stand corrected,” said Kristoff, a twinkle in his eye. Then he switched gears. “How is Mick holding up?”

“Oh, he’s doing quite well, considering,” said Grace. “He’s over there if you’d like to speak with him.” She motioned to where Mick stood near Donnie’s parents.

“I’ll introduce you to the parents of the deceased,” Cat said.

“‘The deceased’?” said Kristoff. “My word, girl. You sound like a cop.”

“I studied criminal just—” Cat began but then stopped herself, remembering that she didn’t want anyone at the wake to know she was a private investigator.
 

Carrie put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Now, Kristoff. You promised to be on your best behavior.”

“You’re right, love,” he said to his wife. And then to Cat: “We own one of Don Hines’s pieces. A real up-and-comer that one was. It’s a shame.”

“Did you know him well?”

“We talked with him often at gallery openings,” Carrie said. “We like to mingle with creatives, don’t we, Kristoff?”

“It gives our rather dull existence more luster,” said her husband.

They reached the other side of the room, and Cat introduced the Langholms to Donnie’s parents. Carrie and Kristoff graciously expressed condolences to them.

“Your son was an enormous talent,” said Kristoff. “Carrie and I own a few pieces, and we’re planning to purchase several more tonight.”

“Yes,” said Carrie. “It will help keep his memory alive.”

It was the perfect thing to say to the two grieving parents. Almost too perfect.

Cat felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find her Uncle Mick escorting a woman wearing two-inch patent leather heels under a dark Gucci suit. Her salon curls pointedly stayed put as she constantly turned her head, looking around the room as if noting who else might be in attendance.

Cat shook her French-manicured hand, and the two exchanged pleasantries, but it was clear that the woman had more important networking to do.

The woman dropped Cat and Mick as soon as she saw the Langholms, and Cat circled back around to her grandmother, whom she steered in the direction of Jerry O’Connell. She wanted her grandmother to size him up for her. Of course, she hadn’t exactly told Granny Grace that she was continuing to investigate the case. But she planned to, as soon as she had gathered more information.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. O’Connell,” Cat said as politely as she could muster. “May I introduce you to my grandmother, Mick Travers’s sister, Amazing Grace.”

He shook her grandmother’s hand. “And are you as devout as the name suggests?”

“If by devout, you mean deeply committed to matters of a spiritual nature, then yes. But if by devout you mean toeing the line according to patriarchal Judeo-Christian tradition, then no.”

“I see.” He began to pull on his whiskers.

“My granddaughter tells me you’re quite the collector.”

“That I am. And you? Do you collect art, or are you merely associated with it via familial tie?”

“Oh,” said Cat. “My grandmother is what you might call a long-time acquirer and appreciator of art.”

He followed up, asking about her most prized pieces, and Cat took the opportunity to leave them to their conversation.

She slipped across the room to where Rose de la Crem was flirting with one of the bartenders. Once Rose had a white wine in one black crocheted-gloved hand and had turned her back to the bartender, Cat asked her if she’d heard from Roy Roy.
 

“Yes. A text. He’s running late.”

“How are you holding up? I should have asked earlier. I mean, Donnie was such a good friend.”

Rose looked down at the glass in her hands. “Oh, nothing this drink won’t cure, once it’s multiplied by about eight more of them right after this one.”

Cat didn’t know what to say. She glanced over Rose’s shoulder at one of Donnie’s paintings. “It’s lovely to see his work here.”

“I know!” exclaimed Rose. “I wish Donnie himself were here to see it. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Most artists are more famous after they’re dead. Maybe I should up and die. It’s just what my career needs. Of course, my own boyfriend probably wouldn’t show up for my funeral.”

Cat didn’t know what to say to that, and probably sensing her discomfort, Rose said, “Forgive my morbid sensibility, Kitty Cat. I’m emotional tonight.”

Cat flinched at the nickname. “Kitty Cat” was what Lee used to call her.

“Did I say something else wrong? I’m so sorry. I should go stand in a corner and drink this thing.”
 

“It’s okay, really. It’s just—that’s what a friend used to call me.”

Ernesto appeared, gave them cheek kisses, and offered the red wine in his hand to Cat. “I noticed you weren’t drinking anything. Forgive my presumption, but I sensed you might need fortification.”

“You’re right, Ernesto,” said Rose. “I’m upsetting her.”

At that, Rose left them alone.

“Rose is a…troubled soul.” Ernesto sipped what appeared to be brandy. “Anyone who changes his sex must be.”

Cat bristled at the comment. “Well, that just isn’t true, Ernesto.”

He looked contrite. “Oh, I did not mean to give offense. My apologies.”
His response took the edge off her feeling toward him. She did not want to argue sexual politics at the wake, especially when she was supposed to be investigating. So she segued into teasing him instead. “I should ask you, Mr. Ruíz, what exactly are your intentions with my grandmother?”

“Oh, I intend to give her memories of her trip to Miami that will eclipse this sadness and tragedy.” He waved his drink at the crowd, indicating the wake.

“That’s a tall order,” Cat said. “But I’ll note my grandmother’s perfectly made bed this morning. As if she’d stayed out all night!”

“Scandalous,” said Ernesto, chuckling. “And also none of your business.”

“Sorry,” Cat said, taking an apologetic sip of the wine he’d given her. “I couldn’t resist.”

“That’s one of the differences between our generations, chica.” Ernesto winked. “We old ones always resist such things.” And then, changing topics, he said, “Will you return to Seattle soon, now that the case is solved?”

“Oh, we’re not in a hurry or anything,” she said. And glancing around to make sure the coast was clear, she added, “Besides, I’m not sure it is.”

“Excuse me?”

Cat regretted divulging her hunch. “Oh, I’m just kidding.”

“Well, if the investigation does go on, that means I am blessed with your grandmother’s presence a bit longer.”

Cat resisted telling him more. “I better check on my uncle,” she said, excusing herself from Ernesto’s company.

Mick was standing by himself in front of one of Donnie’s pieces. Cat caught herself looking at the painting deeply, really understanding it in a new way. And that surprised her. Gray crystal fractals emerged from the white canvas center and radiated outward and off the edges of the canvas as if to suggest that they would never end.
 

As she moved closer to her uncle, she realized tears were streaming down his face. She touched his shoulder. “It’s a stunning piece,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Mick said. “It really is.”

“He painted that the night of our first date,” said a voice behind Cat. She turned to find a middle-aged Goth with black lips and raccoon eyes. She looked as if she’d toned down a bit of the Goth appearance for the wake, the many holes in her ears empty of adornment.

“I was blown away by Donnie,” the woman continued, stepping on clunky platform heels closer to Mick. “Such a pure soul. His art—it was like things I’d only seen when I was…tripping.”

“I remember how excited Donnie was,” Mick said. Cat thought his voice sounded conciliatory. This must be Jenny Baines, she realized.
 

“He’d been going to that club hoping he’d run into you again. And there you were. And you liked him, too.”

“I told him my Goth name at first.”

Mick laughed, tears in his eyes. “Donnie came home bragging that he had a date with Dark Moon.”

Jenny held out her hand to Mick. “Thanks for inviting me. I would have understood if you hadn’t.”

Mick took her hand, and then, motioning toward Cat, he said, “Jenny, this is my grand-niece, Cat. Cat, this is Jenny.”

“Nice to meet you, Dark Moon.” Cat shook her hand.

Bryson asked those gathered to sit, motioning to rows of folding chairs in the middle of the gallery. Jenny floated toward the back. Cat noticed Mick quickly dried his tears on his shirtsleeve. She reached into her purse and fetched him a tissue, which he took. They remained in the rear, standing, and Granny Grace sidled up to Cat.
 

“See that glamour puss in the third row?” her grandmother whispered.
 

“Mick introduced me,” Cat whispered back, “but she had more important people to see.”

“I bet she did. That’s Serena Jones. She’s a neighbor to the Langholms, on Star Island.”

“Star Island!” It was the most exclusive island in South Florida. “Where’d she get that kind of dough?”
“You ever hear of La Luz beauty products?”

“Yes,” Cat said. “They’re everywhere down here.”

“That’s her. She’s someone else you might want to talk to, by the way.”

Cat did a double take in her grandmother’s direction. “What?”

“As you continue to investigate.”

Cat dragged her grandmother further away from the crowd. “What makes you think I’m investigating?”

“Oh, please. I wasn’t born in a barn, you know. Wait, I take that back. Actually, I guess you could say I was—”

“Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

“Yes. But that Jerry O’Connell—he’s not the one. You don’t like the sanctimonious types. But sanctimony is not a crime.”

“Will you help?”

“Of course. I was waiting for you to ask. But let’s not be rude. We’re at a wake, after all.”

Following her grandmother back to the cluster of chairs, she noticed Sergeant Luisa Alvarez, who must have just come in, sitting near the back row next to Ernesto and Rose de la Crem. Rose had saved a seat next to herself, likely hoping that Roy Roy would still make it.

“…Donnie had a vision that was informed by a love of science and nature,” Bryson was saying. He showed early examples of Donnie’s work on slides, and then he traced Donnie’s artistic path using the paintings hanging in the gallery around them.

It was Mick’s turn next, and Cat saw Granny Grace give his hand a squeeze before he walked to the front of the room. Mick told the story of how he met Donnie when the man applied to be his assistant.
 

“I was very lucky to have someone with his experience helping me,” Mick said. “I liked him right off, but I didn’t realize we’d end up becoming best friends.” Mick choked up a bit, and Cat felt the urge to hug him but stayed by Granny Grace’s side.

Rose spoke through tears. “I never once felt judged by Donnie,” she said. “Not as an artist, and not for being…who I really am.”
 

Donnie’s parents had not planned on speaking, but his father stood.
 

“Donnie and I weren’t very close here in his middle age, my old age,” he said. “But you have helped me know who he was, as an artist, and to feel closer to him. Thank you so much, for loving my son and for sharing your memory of him with us.” He choked up, and his wife rose to take his hand.

It was at that point that Roy Roy chose to make his entrance.
 

The door burst open, and in walked a white man, or more accurately, Cat thought, a white
boy
, wearing a black nylon track suit with neon green high-tops and a matching hat. Trailing after him were two similarly attired young men, also white.
 

“Yo yo yo yo yo,” said Roy Roy, presumably the ringleader. The entire room turned in his direction.

“What?” he said, as if he hadn’t just interrupted a wake. “Why you all looking at me like that?”

Cat glanced at Rose, whose gloved hand was poised over her mouth. She looked as if she either wanted to die, or kill her boyfriend. Probably both.

Chapter Twelve

Mick was sitting in a high chair, and he had a sense that the pink fuzzy boots on his feet were his favorite item of clothing, and quite possibly the most beautiful things he’d ever owned. His mama was standing above him, waving a fudge pudding Popsicle in front of his face. “What a pretty baby,” she cooed at him. “Now give mama a kiss, and she’ll give you a treat!”