Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) (24 page)

“Yes,” said Louise. “That’s Davy. He’s a CPA now, lives in Atlanta. And here’s Sarah. She’s a dancer in New York with Merce Cunningham.”

“Merce Cunningham! You must be so proud. Of the CPA, too, of course.”

“Very. Davy’s financially in better shape, though.”

“Well, a dancer in New York…”

Louise piped up. “Oh, I worry about her so much! I’m a bit traditional, I guess, but I wish she’d come back here, get married, and settle down.”

“With grandchildren, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“And your husband? What does he think?”
Louise paused, looking as if she were afraid to contradict him. “He believes in her … a little too much.”

“Is she good?”

“She’s good enough for Cunningham’s troupe, but she’s last in line there. I don’t believe she… stands out.”

“Well, it certainly takes all kinds, with varying levels of commitment. We can’t all be Merce Cunningham, after all. Some of us are needed to make up his troupe. That’s our place.”

Louise warmed to Grace’s words immensely. “Would you like more tea?” she asked, but Grace declined, her bladder already singing “Anchors Aweigh.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to visit the ladies’ room.”

Louise instructed her toward a guest bathroom in the hallway. But on her way back, Grace got a glimpse of Chester’s atrium studio. “Louise,” she called out, “Would you mind if I took a look at your husband’s latest work? I’ve always been an admirer.”

“Not at all! Go right on in.”

Grace coughed a bit in reaction to the smell of cigarette smoke, which she reasoned would be worse if the place weren’t filled with plants thriving anyway in the sunlight spilling into the atrium. Louise’s doing, no doubt.

But what drew Grace’s attention were the paintings.

She recognized them as coming from her generation. They were abstract expressionist, with echoes of the greats: Pollock, de Kooning, Rothko. What was startling to her was that Chester was not like Clive Smith, who was still painting today the same way he had forty years ago. No, Chester wasn’t like that. Rather, he was painting anew; this was fresh work; he had progressed in his artistic technique and style. But it still referenced another era. They gave Grace a feeling of the familiar, and a wistful sense of something lost to the past. It was the same way she’d felt when talking to Evelyn, both of them quoting Robert Frost.

There was a great mass of muddy brown caged in by a primitive line that was neither circle nor square but more organic. She touched it, the paint still wet and coming away from the canvas on her hand. She could see the ridge lines of her fingerprint in the painting now, and she felt terrible about it, so she looked around for a brush. There was one balanced on the edge of the easel, next to a cigarette stubbed out in the easel tray. She picked it up and began to brush out her fingerprint.

“So you’re a budding artist now, too?”

It was Chester.

Grace spun around, flustered. “Oh, what you must think of me,” she apologized.

“Indeed,” he said. His face grew red, and she felt a tirade coming on.

“Chester!” Louise exclaimed from behind him. “I thought you went for a drive.”

Chester turned on his wife. “Do you want me to be hauled off to jail, Louise? Is that it?You invite this snoop into our home, into my studio?”

“Why, Evelyn knows her!”

“Evelyn? What does our neighbor have to do with this?”

Grace broke in, setting her voice as calmly as she could. “I can explain—”

“—I don’t need any explanations,” bellowed Chester. “I need you to leave.”

“I will at once,” Grace said. She walked out as quickly as she could, Louise trailing after her, a look of utter confusion on her face. Grace took her hand. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Mrs. Canon.”

Chapter Seventeen

While Grace continued to pursue Chester Canon as suspect number one, Cat couldn’t shake the feeling they were missing something big. The whole time she and the others were standing there in Chester Canon’s foyer, she felt they were wasting time, that the real killer was off somewhere, slipping further away from them.

She kept coming back to the paintings that were destroyed in the fire. Over and over she looked at the ones that had surviving digital images, hoping something would trigger, but nothing did.

She’d gone as far as to make Mick review them with her, but that didn’t get her any further on the case although she enjoyed the time to bond with him. He taught her about the techniques he used over the years. He also taught her the meaning of words and phrases she then used when she interviewed the people who bought his art. Mixed media. Resin. Woodblock print versus lithograph. Latex versus oil.
 

She’d spent the better part of the past week, once they’d settled in Mick’s new building, interviewing buyers of his art. There was the Miami Dolphins quarterback who collected art as an investment and because he liked the look of real art in his manse. But he wasn’t a true appreciator of art. He wasn’t sure which of his paintings was Mick’s till he opened a document listing his possessions for insurance purposes, which noted where the piece was in his tremendous house, its dimensions, and its estimated value.
 

Then Cat met an architect, a woman, who said she’d once slept with Mick, which made Cat feel awkward, but at least the woman seemed age-appropriate for her great-uncle. There was a stockbroker who had Mick’s pieces in storage because he was getting ready for an extensive trip abroad; a commercial airline pilot who had Mick’s art in condos he owned throughout the world; and the head of an Internet startup who hung the art in his corporate offices.

None of them stood out to her as suspects, so perhaps it was a waste of time. But she didn’t want to sit around trying to poke holes in Canon’s alibi. The closer she stayed to Mick’s art, the closer she felt to the killer.
 

And she’d said nothing to anyone about this, but the closer she stayed to Mick’s art, the closer she felt to God.
 

He was talking to her again.

It had been a long time.

She was aware that this so-called voice of God could be a trick her mind played on itself. It was always a male voice, after all, for which she gave herself a bit of feminism-fueled grief. And she was aware that it was probably her intuition or inner wisdom or higher self or any number of other phenomena that were perfectly acceptable explanations for what was happening.

But none of that really mattered. For Cat, the “voice of God” worked as a label for the spirit or energy or whatever she felt in communion with during these moments. And right now, it—or he, as it were—was giving her a consistent message:
Follow the core of the passion.
She understood that the “core of the passion” was the art itself.

After Lee died, it was as if her connection to God had died with him, her line to the divine disconnected. In its place was an engulfing static noise of pain. But now the pain had receded some, like the tide in Seattle going out to reveal anemones and hermit crabs and bright green sea grass. And Cat felt an import to this case that she hadn’t felt since she followed that girl Ruthie back to St. Louis last year. She sensed that the fire was about something much larger than Mick and the petty jealousies of a few wannabe artists.
Follow the core of the passion.

But of course she knew she could be wrong, the voice of God notwithstanding, and Granny Grace’s theory that there was more to Canon’s guilt than they’d already uncovered held huge sway with Cat.

It was into this crossroads in the case that Jacob Reiner, her new friend in New York, intruded. Or rather, stumbled.

Cat was sitting on the balcony of Mick’s new building, an umbrella shading her laptop from the sun, when her cell phone rang. The number ID’d as Jacob’s, so she answered it, thinking maybe he had somehow come across more information about the letter Canon wrote.

After exchanging slightly awkward greetings, there was a pause as Cat waited for the purpose of the call. Sounding nervous, Jacob said, “So… I have too much vacation. I never take any, and they’re telling me I have to use it by the end of the year here or lose it. So I figure I’ll take a trip to Miami. I’ve never been.”

Cat closed her laptop and sat up. She didn’t know what to say, and she sensed that Jacob was hanging on her response. This was a bit of a shock to her, but then she traced back in her mind’s eye their interactions and could see the friendliness and attraction, even amidst her focus on the case and her Great-Uncle Mick.
 

Still, she felt fear at dating right now. She didn’t want him to distract her from the case, and she was still entertaining thoughts of a life free of romantic entanglement.

But the God voice in her head reverberated clearly:
Say yes
.

“Hey, that’s great, Jacob,” she replied. “I’m still here, working on the case. Maybe we can hang out.”

“I’d love that, Cat,” he said.
 

The word “love” gave her heart a shot of fearful adrenaline. They made plans to connect once he was set up at a hotel on South Beach, which was far enough away that she didn’t feel the pressure that he was flying down there to see her, but she wondered if he was anyway.

A bit later, Sergeant Alvarez called Cat to let her know that the guests at the Lowe had confirmed Canon’s attendance at the opening that night.
 

“Of course this confirms that he was in the vicinity of the crime and therefore could still have committed it once he left the party,” Cat said.

“Agreed. He was definitely at the party the whole time. Folks say he and his wife left early, though, around nine thirty. He could have started the fire afterward.”

“Or met up with someone he paid to do it.”

There was a pause, and then Cat asked, “What about the evidence confiscated from his home?”

“The Coleman fuel we found is the same as what was used to set the fire,” said Alvarez. “But it’s also incredibly common. I’ve got some myself at home.”

“But Canon’s not a camper.”

“He maintains it’s left over from his kids. That’s certainly plausible. We don’t have enough to charge him.”

“My grandmother’s looking into his background some more,” said Cat.

“Well, good luck to her. We’ve done all we can. Looks like we’ve hit another dead end.”

“I’m still looking at the art,” Cat said. “I’ve talked to more buyers.”

“Find anything?”
 

“Not really,” she said. “But I could use some help. I’ve got a database of some of the paintings that were lost in the fire. Mick didn’t keep the best records, so most of what was lost we don’t have images for, only names, dates, and descriptions. But hey, I’m surprised he has this much documented. I could send it to you and your team.”

Alvarez agreed, and they exchanged FTP information so that Cat could upload the hefty database of images to the Miami PD network. Then they signed off.

Cat sat on the balcony a moment, staring out at the water far in the distance. It was a nice perk that came with the old building, this view of the water. It was far away, and the beach itself wasn’t a short walk by any means, but Cat thought her great-uncle had made a sound financial decision in purchasing the building. It had good bones and loads of charm. That was the thing about Mick. For all the talk of his genius and great creativity, it could be that what led him to such a solid career was his practical business sense. He’d paid off his debt to Columbia University as quickly as he could, never lived extravagantly, and had a good reputation with gallery owners. He wasn’t very tech savvy nor was he the best recordkeeper, but for his time and age, he had done a better-than-all-right job of running what was essentially his own business.

>>>

Cat took Jacob to an outdoor restaurant set on a canal that Granny Grace had introduced her to. It was casual, the kind of place where they brought you a bucket of beer on ice and set it in the middle of the table. A man played an instrument that looked like a smaller version of an accordion, which Granny Grace called a “bandeón.” They ate chicken with rice and beans, or arroz con pollo, with plantains as an appetizer. As they dined, people drifted past the table selling their wares: a brightly feathered electronic bird in a cage, a single red rose. Cat was relieved when Jacob passed on the rose.

 
He was as interesting a date as he had been a research companion in New York. She learned that he had two siblings. As he told stories about his sister the nurse and his brother who was trying to break in as a fashion designer, Cat felt the old yearning for siblings she’d endured as a child.

“It sounds like you get along very well,” Cat observed.

“Oh, sure,” said Jacob. “I mean, there was rivalry when we were younger, especially between my brother and me. But we’re really good friends now.”

He shifted gears, putting the focus back on her. It was something he’d done smoothly throughout their interactions, so they felt like a give-and-take, with neither Jacob nor she dominating the conversation.
 

“But what about you?” he asked. “I used to envy only children when I was a kid. They never had to share their toys, and their parents had more money to spend on them.”