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

It was all Grace could do to get Cat to attend the party tonight. Her granddaughter had wanted to stay in the hotel, reading statutes and case law.
 

“You’re worried about her, I can see,” said a voice at Grace’s elbow.
 

She turned to find Ernesto Ruíz, an old Miami flame of hers she’d bumped into a few days ago. He’d been hovering around her ever since, trying to get her alone for a bit of the nostalgic, trade-wind-fueled romance they once enjoyed. At seventy-eight, Grace commanded as much attention from men as she had in her twenties. Even more, in fact. She was self-possessed, and she understood that this quality radiated from her, drawing men like Ernesto to her despite the wrinkles, the gray hair, the natural aging of her physique. A smart man like Ernesto knew he would find Grace a much more satisfying partner than any of the young, inexperienced, waifish artists in line for the bar.

Ernesto cut a dashing figure, his hair perfectly trimmed, his fresh face giving off a musky aftershave scent. His impeccable suit appeared tailor-made. His shoes reflected the light of the crystal chandeliers as if they were a source of illumination themselves. Grace had to hand it to Miami men. No matter how hot the weather, they turned out as if every event were red-carpet.

But she knew she was too distracted to take full advantage of Ernesto’s charms this time. Grace allowed his arm to nestle her waist, drawing her toward a nearby alcove. But Grace’s gaze returned over his shoulder to Cat, who was slumped against a balcony railing opposite them, a plump Miami full moon hanging overhead.

“It is simple.” Ernesto’s speech was correct but inflected with Cuban rhythm. “She still thinks the shooting was her fault. That’s what we do. Blame ourselves for that which we cannot control.”

The truth in Ernesto’s statement singed her. And Ernesto didn’t even know the half of it. He had no idea that Grace and her granddaughter were both dreamslippers, and that a good deal of Cat’s depression had to do with her gift. Dreamslipping was, in Grace’s estimation, a rare gift, something to cultivate and hone. But Cat regarded it as a curse and blamed it—and herself—for Lee’s death.

Ernesto took her hand. “But she is young, my Grace.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “She will survive this. It will pass. In time.”

“You’re right.” Grace shifted her gaze at last from Cat to Ernesto. “But it’s been a year. She needs to move on. And you know it’s never been my style to wait around for time to take care of things.”

Ernesto laughed, revealing unnaturally white teeth. The band, which had been on a break, picked up again. “Care to dance?”
 

She accepted his hand with a nod. The two slow-danced across the room, Ernesto a gentle but firm lead.
 

A commotion at the entrance to the ballroom stopped them. A group of uniformed police appeared, a woman officer and two wingmen. “We’re looking for an artist,” she said, and the crowd chuckled at that.
 

“Almost everyone in this room is an artist,” someone called out. “This is Art Basel. One of the biggest art shows in the world.”

“The one we’re looking for is Mick Travers.”

Grace felt alarm at the sound of her brother’s name. Where was Mick, anyway? She scanned the room but didn’t see him anywhere.

Someone in the crowd near the door motioned toward Grace, and the police approached her. Grace caught Cat’s eye, and her granddaughter drifted over.

The officer asked Grace, “You know where we can find Mick Travers? There’s been a fire at his studio.”
 

The gin and tonic in Grace’s hand slipped to the floor, where it shattered, shards of glass prickling her exposed toes and ankles.

“He-he’s supposed to be here,” she muttered, reaching out to Cat. She felt uncharacteristically wobbly in her heels, and it wasn’t just from the glass underfoot. “I’m his sister.”

“What happened?” Cat directed her question to the police officer. And then, as if it had just dawned on her: “Was anyone hurt?”

 
The look on the officer’s face caused Grace to fall further into Cat’s arms. “Oh, God…”

“We need to talk to Mick Travers. If you two are his family, please tell us where to find him.”

Cat pulled out her cell phone, and Grace watched as she tried to call Mick. He did not answer.

The officer turned to her crew. “Ask around, find out if anyone’s seen him here tonight.”

The wingmen broke formation. The officer stayed with Grace and Cat, introducing herself as Sergeant Alvarez. She asked them who they were and what they were doing at the party.

“The two of you are from out of town then.” She said this not as a question but as if noting its suspicious nature.

“That’s correct, Sergeant Alvarez. We’re visiting from Seattle.”

Alvarez shook her head. “Such a long way to come for an art show.” Grace bristled at the way she said it, as if the distance in itself suggested guilt.
 

Fifteen minutes later one of the officers returned with Mick, whose eyes were watery. He swayed, obviously unable to stand straight. “We found him in the lounge downstairs, drinking. By the looks of him, he’s had more than a few.”

“Wh-what happened? This guy says there was a fire.” Mick rubbed his chin. And then, as if it had just dawned on him: “Donnie.”
 

“We need to speak to you in private.” Alvarez’s hands dropped to her belt, which supported a sidearm and nightstick.

She led the way, with Mick following. “Is Donnie all right?”

Alvarez took Mick by the elbow and steered him into a side room. Grace followed, and when Alvarez held up a hand as if to keep Grace out, she set her voice hard. “I’m Mick’s older sister. I should stay with him.”

Mick looked surprised. “Oh, I’m okay by myself.”

Grace shot her brother a reprimanding look, and he shifted gears. “Uh, yeah, Pris should be there. She’s a PI. She gets this police stuff.”
 

Grace ignored Mick’s use of her birth name and spotted Cat. She slung an arm around her granddaughter. “This is my partner. And she’s Mick’s great-niece.”

“A family of PIs,” said Alvarez. “That’s all we need.” Her voice softened. “This is a shock, I realize. So I suppose you can be present. But please, don’t interrupt. We need to talk to Mr. Travers now.”

Then Alvarez’s gaze settled on Ernesto Ruíz, who politely hung back. “Don’t tell me you’re somebody’s third cousin twice removed. And that you’re a PI as well.”

Ernesto chuckled. “No, no. Just a friend…who’s perfectly content to wait out here.”

The officer nodded for her staff to close the doors to the room.

“Now then, Mr. Travers,” Alvarez said, motioning for Mick to sit. She introduced herself and her deputies, Speck and Santiago. Santiago sat near them and began to take notes.
 

“I know this is hard,” Alvarez continued, “but I need to ask: How long have you been here?”

“You mean at the hotel?” he asked.

Alvarez sighed, and Grace detected a weariness in her bearing that suggested the sergeant was at the end of a long shift. “Yes. In the lounge downstairs.”

“I don’t know. What time is it now?”

Alvarez checked her cell phone. “It’s nearly two in the morning.”

“A couple hours, I guess…”

“I know this is a lot to take in. But you’re going to have to be more specific with us here, Travers.”

Grace’s feeling of alarm worsened. Come to think of it, where
had
Mick been? He was supposed to meet them at the hotel, but he’d called and told them to go ahead, that he would be at the party later. And then he never showed up.

“Why? You think I torched my own studio?”

“When was the last time you were there?”

“Not since this morning.”

Grace broke in, “He was busy entertaining us for most of the day. Cat’s never been to Miami before….” She glanced at her brother for assistance.
 

“Say, why don’t you tell us what this is about,” said Mick. “Where’s Donnie?”

Alvarez sighed again, this time with genuine feeling, not weariness. “I’m very sorry to inform you of this, Mr. Travers, but Don Hines is dead.”

“No,” Mick said, running a hand through his hair. “He can’t be. He didn’t want to go to the party. He hates parties. He wanted to paint. His own stuff, not mine. He said he was onto something big.”

Mick covered his face with his hands.
 

Grace wobbled a bit on her heels and went to embrace her brother, as much to steady herself as to comfort him. Mick’s body felt tense, as if rejecting the news in a physical way. Grace hadn’t known Donnie well, but she found him to be a charming character, always ready with a smile. And she was a great admirer of his art.
What a loss for the world
, she thought. And Mick was so fond of him, too.

Over Mick’s shoulder, Grace tried to catch Cat’s eye across the room, but her granddaughter looked away. Cat didn’t know her great-uncle very well, so even if she hadn’t already been lost in a cloud of her own grief, it was understandable that she didn’t seem drawn to comfort him. Grace felt the heaviness of their double losses, and her own inability to ease their pain.

Mick’s grief seemed to take more of the edge off Alvarez’s questioning. She waited a few beats for him to regain his composure, and when she spoke again, her tone had softened further.
 

“I’m sorry to ask this, Mr. Travers, but I’m going to need a full account of your timeline for the evening.”

“Where is Donnie?” Mick stood. “I want to see him.”

Grace touched her brother’s arm. “Mick, wait,” she said. “The fire marshal, forensics—they’re probably still on the scene.” She glanced at Alvarez, who nodded. Grace lowered her voice. “And he might be unrecognizable.”

Mick sat down again. “Jesus.”

Alvarez touched Mick’s hand. “Take it easy tonight, Mr. Travers. We’ll deal with the details in the morning.”

She nodded a good-bye to Grace, who did the same.

Cat fetched a cup of coffee for Mick, who took it in both hands as if it were the only thing he had left in the world.

“She’s right, Mick,” Grace said. “Let’s head back to the hotel. I don’t think you should go home tonight. You can stay in my room. I have an extra bed.”

Mick gulped the coffee and set it down. He wiped his eyes. “I don’t know how I could sleep.”

There was nothing Grace could say to that, so she squeezed her brother’s shoulder instead. She and Cat watched him finish his coffee. When he was done, he let the cup clatter onto the tabletop. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

The three went back into the ballroom. Grace saw Speck and Santiago talking to people. She overheard Alvarez on her phone with a member of the forensics team, which was most likely crawling over the wreck that was her brother’s art studio.

They left the scene behind, Grace leading them through the corridors of the convention complex to the hotel adjoining it, where she and Cat had rooms. The hotel had seemed so impersonal at first—Grace would have preferred rooms in a boutique hotel or a bed-and-breakfast, were it not for the convenience. But now it seemed like a refuge.

Grace let them into her room. She slipped off her heels and sat on the bed, wondering vaguely where Ernesto had gone, realizing she hadn’t said good-bye to him. Cat slumped into a chair by the window, the lights of South Beach garish behind her. Mick went straight for Grace’s laptop, which was sitting on a desk.

“What are you doing, Mickey?”

“I’ve got to get his parents’ phone number. I need to call them.”

“That can wait till tomorrow.”

“I don’t want them to find out from the news.” Mick pecked away at the keyboard.

Grace put her hand on his shoulder again. “It’s two in the morning,” she said softly. “You don’t want to wake them, tell them like that.”

Mick slowed down, his face crumpling again. “Here’s their phone number and address.”
 

“That’s great,” she said. “We can give it to Alvarez in the morning.”

Grace motioned to Cat to hand her a pad of hotel stationery and a pen. Then Grace copied down the information.

“I’m not going to sleep,” Mick announced. “How can I?”

They were quiet a minute, and then Grace said, “All right then. Let’s talk about your timeline for the evening, before you forget the details.” She slid the pad of paper and pen in front of him.

Mick crossed his arms over his chest. “What am I supposed to write?”

“Write down where you were every hour today, and who you were with.”

He stared at the paper. “No.”

Cat finally spoke up. “But Uncle Mick, the police are going to make you do this anyway. It’s better to be cooperative.”

Mick glared at Cat. “Did they teach you that in cop school?”

“It was a bachelor’s program in criminal justice,” Cat said. “And yes.”
 

Grace winced a bit at Cat’s defensive tone. If Grace weren’t glad to see her granddaughter finally exhibiting something other than passivity, she would have lightly reprimanded her. Instead, she turned to her brother.