Mom Zone Mysteries 02 Staying Home Is a Killer (21 page)

His gaze bored into Bree’s back. “Ecstatic.”

Wow!
“You don’t seem very happy.” Before he could reply Bree seemed to feel his gaze and broke away from her group to join us. I congratulated her being in the exhibit.

“Thanks. It’s great. You can’t imagine what it feels like.” At this Aaron seemed to swell, reminding me of a puffer fish.

Bree sensed my discomfort and patted my arm. The bracelets, most of them silver or clear plastic, jangled. “Don’t mind Aaron. He’s the tiniest bit jealous, aren’t you, honey? You see, he’s an artist, too. He’s striving to find his style,” she said.

Aaron’s face flushed. The words were innocent enough, but she emphasized the last sentence in a condescending tone. There was a nasty undercurrent between them that added tons of emotional baggage to the actual words.

Bree turned to me. “Excuse me. I see the photographer for the newspaper.”

Aaron took a step to move away as well, but I put my hand on his arm. “Wait. I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Bedford. Did you know her?”

“Who?”

“Clarissa Bedford. General Bedford’s wife.”

“No.” His face was blank and bland. He didn’t seem nervous or worried at the mention of her name. Either he didn’t know her or he was a great actor.

“Bree told me Clarissa wanted a painting, but then she wouldn’t pay for it.”

“Oh. That was Clarissa? I didn’t know. Bree handles all that.”

“Did it make you mad she wouldn’t pay for the painting after Bree painted it for her?” I pressed.

“I told you, Bree takes care of that, the business side,” he repeated.

“Did you see her the week before she died? At the community college?”

“No, why would I?”

“Someone saw her arguing with a man with blond hair who was wearing a flight suit the week before she died.”

“Listen, I didn’t know her and I really don’t care if she wanted the painting or not.” Aaron strode away through the crowd.

A broad shoulder bumped into me. “Excuse me,” said the man as several heads turned toward us to check out the melodious voice. He reached out to steady me with his hand like I was a teetering figurine about to fall off a shelf.

Even without his star insignia, I recognized his hooked nose and wide shoulders. “General Bedford, hello.” He left his hand on my shoulder.

“Are you all right?” he fussed. “Sorry about that.”

I shifted, stepped back, and he dropped his hand. “I’m fine. I’m sorry about Mrs. Bedford.”

“Yes.” His craggy face stilled and he clasped both hands behind his back, reminding me of an eagle on a high perch with its wings tucked back. “Thank you. I’m still trying to figure out what to do…” He scanned around the room. “I thought coming here would get my mind off things.”

Hetty joined us. She kissed Bedford’s cheek as she greeted him. “Not quite your style, I know,” she said to him. “But I’m so glad you came. It’ll be good for you to get out,” she said briskly.

Hetty turned to me. “Jackson has an excellent eye for Byzantine mosaics.”

“Not me,” Bedford amended and took a drink from a waiter. “My first wife. She managed to pick up a few nice things. I just brought back what she told me to.”

“A few nice things.” Hetty rolled her eyes. “Go on.” She turned to me. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes. Lovely party. Thank you for the invitation.”

Hetty saw someone and dragged Bedford away to introduce him to a friend. I watched Hetty pulling on his arm and saw his resigned look. It seemed Bedford wouldn’t have to stay single long, if Hetty had anything to do with it.

I made a circuit of the room, snagged some shrimp/cream cheese things, and followed a musky scent to a group where Mary, the disgruntled employee from the art gallery, was in an intense conversation with Victor Roth. His head poked up above most of the crowd and made him easy to spot. A fixed smile was attached to his face, but his eyes were narrow. Mary’s lush body was tense as she leaned toward him, her knuckles white as she gripped her cocktail.

Victor slid away to the other side of the room.

The bony-shouldered guy from the gallery merged into our group. Even a sport coat couldn’t disguise his pointy shoulder bones. He handed a small plate to Mary. She finished her drink with a gulp and set down the empty glass on a window ledge.

“Hi. I’m Ellie Avery. I talked with you at the gallery.”

“Yeah, I remember. I’m Carl. This is Mary.”

Mary nodded at me and picked up a cheese curl.

“So you both work at Victor’s gallery?”

“No,” Carl replied since Mary had bitten into her cheese curl with a snap. “We’re art students at Harris. We’re helping Ms. Sullivan set up the art show.”

“Are you in and out of the galleries a lot?”

Carl shrugged. His shoulder blade threatened to punch through the seam in his coat. “Yeah. More, now that it’s getting closer.”

“I’m trying to find out a little bit about Victor Roth.”

“Why?” Mary asked sharply and popped the rest of the cheese curl into her mouth.

“I’m thinking of buying something at his gallery,” I improvised.

“What? The walls or the desk in the office?” Mary sneered.

“Umm, I must have misunderstood.”

Carl took Mary’s empty plate. “I bet Victor told you he had something ‘astonishing’ that would look great in that ‘space’ and ‘make a statement.’” Carl’s voice slipped in and out of a British accent.

“Well…” I hedged.

Mary sighed and turned to me. “Listen. You’d better really check him out. Check him out good. He’s a user. Don’t trust him. And don’t trust his artwork either.”

“Why not?”

Mary waved a hand. “Questions, whispers. No one can nail down anything solid, but I wouldn’t buy anything from him.”

“So he doesn’t have anything in his gallery?”

“A few pieces. I’ve seen about three paintings and a few sculptures. But nothing stays long,” Carl said. “I’ve heard him talk to clients. He always says he’s got something in his New York or London gallery that will be perfect. He’ll have it sent over, but I’ve never seen anything delivered from London or New York. A box just appears in the back. No labels or anything.”

“If you want to know more, ask her,” Mary said and nodded to a person over my shoulder. I swung around and scanned the crowd. I stared at the profile of the dark-headed woman with the intentionally messy hairdo. Chelsea O’Mara, the reporter for Channel Two. I wondered if she’d chosen her hairstyle so she’d look great standing outside some city building reporting on a committee meeting as the wind ruffled her hair.

“She’s been asking a lot of questions, too,” Mary said.

“Thanks,” I said and moved through the crowd.

I didn’t want to talk to Chelsea O’Mara since she’d been trying to track me down and had reported on the crew flying naked. I’d bet she had some new questions for me about finding Clarissa’s body. But maybe I could keep an eye on her and overhear a conversation.

I edged up to her group, but kept my back turned so I’d look like I was studying the displayed artwork; I was the only one in the room actually looking at the artwork; everyone else mingled and talked. The swell of conversation grew as more people arrived and I moved over to a picture, closer to Chelsea’s group.

As the sounds swirled around me I tried to focus on Chelsea’s voice. A waiter swept past on one side and caused a brief lull as people grabbed food and drinks. I heard the end of Chelsea’s question, “…illegal goods and smuggling?”

“I can assure you, the Frost Fest planning committee has no connections with anything illegal.” It was Hetty’s scratchy voice, loud and angry, but it didn’t rise above the general din of conversation, so only my head turned toward her. “We have the utmost confidence in everyone associated with Frost Fest. Anything you have heard is a rumor. You should treat it as a rumor, not a fact.”

Hetty pushed away and Chelsea turned in my direction, so I snapped back toward the painting and focused on it, trying to appear so enthralled with it that everyone would leave me alone. Or maybe if I stood really still Chelsea wouldn’t notice me. I felt like I was six again and playing hide-and-seek. I’d always been lousy at the game. I remembered standing immobile, thinking,
Don’t look at them. Don’t move. If I don’t look and don’t move, then they won’t see me.
It rarely worked when I was a kid, but I couldn’t get through the crowd without walking right by Chelsea, so I was stuck.

I kept my gaze on the landscape in front of me and listened until I heard her voice move away to my left. I breathed a sigh of relief. I needed to find Abby and get out of here. The last thing I wanted was another report on me showing up on the morning news. I glanced around, but didn’t see Abby. I’d browse through the gallery and track Abby down. I turned back to the painting and for the first time, I really looked at it. It was the one I’d picked up from Bree’s studio. Her initials showed faintly in the corner, A.R. I glanced at the card beside the painting,
DILEMMA
.
A
.
REED
.

I studied the painting again and tilted my head to the side. The scene of a forest at either sunset or dawn reminded me of something. I took a step back and studied the dark pines that were back-lit. Sunlight glinted on the frosted branches. I felt someone watching me and glanced to the right and met Aaron’s intense gaze. Then I remembered. I’d looked at this scene, not as a painting, but in real life on the deck at Abby’s house.

And Aaron had commented on the colors of the sunset, the way the light sparkled off the ice on the pines. He closed the distance between us and gripped my arm above my elbow. “We need to talk,” he said and yanked me through the crowd to a little alcove in the back where the servers set up their trays.

I jerked my elbow away and took a step back. He was obviously upset, but I didn’t feel vulnerable with the activity of the servers bustling around me. They barely glanced at us, but their presence reassured me.

Aaron ran his hand over this thinning blond hair and I noticed again his chapped hands. I’d seen them the night of Jeff’s party, but thought they were red from the cold. Tonight they stood out, work-manlike, against the fine cloth of his dark suit jacket as he smoothed his lapel and slightly loosened the knot of his tie. I remembered Bree’s long red nails and perfect cuticles.

A few other odd things clicked into place: Bree saying, “Who does he think
we
are?” and Aaron’s strong reaction to Bree’s taunts about him being an artist.

“You’re the artist, aren’t you?” I asked.

An Everything In Its Place Tip for Organized Closets

Linen closet

• If you’re lucky enough to have a linen closet (some modern floor plans have eliminated this storage area), label shelves so you can put away and find the right linens in a snap.
  
• If you don’t have a linen closet you can store bedding for each room on shelves in individual rooms or store linens in trunks (except for cedar chests) or even in containers that fit under your bed.
  
• To prevent yellowing and streaking of your linens, don’t store them in plastic bags or cardboard boxes. Also, don’t let your linens come in direct contact with wood, even wooden shelves. Use acid-free tissue paper to protect linens and store in a dry, well-ventilated area.
  
• Lavender sachets discourage moths.
  

Chapter Twenty

B
ehind his glasses, anger flashed in his dark brown eyes, but he quickly suppressed it. He pushed his hands down into his pockets. It should have been a relaxed pose, but his gaze skittered around behind me as he checked to see if anyone else had overheard.

“What are you talking about?” He shrugged and gave a pitiful half laugh, but it sounded more like a squeak.

“It’s your hands. They’re red and chapped, but Bree’s always look like she just had a manicure. Washing the paint out of those brushes with, what is it, turpentine? It must be rough on the skin. And the signature. Bree said the
A
was for her full name, Aubree, but
A
is really for Aaron, isn’t it? And the way Bree dresses, with the beret, the flamboyant colors, her spiked, dyed hair. It’s all an act. She’s playing the part of an artist.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then pulled his hand away and scanned the crowd behind me. He seemed to have an internal debate going on. Finally, he focused back on me and sighed. “It’s not like we’re hurting anyone. People get their artwork. I get to paint.” His matter-of-fact tone turned bitter on the last statement. “Bree’s a natural at sales and people want to buy a painting from a flamboyant, beautiful woman, not a shy, conservative military guy.”

“What? You tried to sell your work as your own and it didn’t sell?”

“Are you kidding? I was stationed at Kemper, you know, in central California. At first it was great. I worked and flew, but when I wasn’t in the squad, I painted. The location was great. An hour to San Francisco with all the art festivals and people interested in art. And they had the money to buy it. I had a few dealers interested in my stuff. But you should have seen them the minute they found out what I did. It was like a door slammed in my face.”

A server bumped into me and I stepped farther away from the entrance to the alcove. “But they liked Bree?” I asked.

“No. They
loved
Bree. Bree’s always dressed like that, funky, you know. A customer at an art fair assumed she was the artist once. I was TDY. Bree thought it was a riot and she played along to get the sale. I was furious, but she said she’d sold it and bet me she could sell more before I could get back home.” He shrugged. “She did. Seven paintings in a weekend.”

He shifted his shoulders around and breathed deeply. “To tell you the truth, it doesn’t feel too bad to have it out in the open. I was ready to come clean, but Bree likes the attention.”

He looked through the crowd toward Bree. Their gazes connected and silent communication flowed across the room.

“Your dilemma,” I said, thinking of the painting’s name.

Bree broke off her conversation and pushed her way roughly through the crowd toward us.