The Art of Love and Murder (16 page)

“Are you getting anywhere?” She jumped right to the point.

She’d gotten kissed, but that wasn’t what her daughter had in mind. “Today I see the professor who collects Muuyaw’s art and is rumored to have had an affair with your grandmother.”

“Oh, spicy!”

“According to her stepsister, your grandmother lived the life of the sixties.”

“I was born too late.” August laughed. “So, when are you headed back.”

“In the morning.” She opened the door of the Grand View, heading for the Rendezvous. Even if she skipped breakfast, she could take time for a chai before her shower.

“Call me when you get home, okay?”

“I will. How are you, August?”

“You’re talking about my divorce, and you can stop worrying. I told you. I’m very fine. Especially since we came to an agreement on the gallery.”

“What kind of agreement?” She stood in the doorway of the Rendezvous and leaned against the frame.

“The gallery’s mine, and in return, I won’t tarnish his good name all over town and the Internet.”

“August!”

She laughed. “Stop worrying, okay?”

“I’ll try. Call you tomorrow.”

She wondered if August was serious, not if she’d be okay. Her daughter had always been a tough cookie like her father. They could have a good talk when she got home. She stepped up to the counter and ordered a tea. Maybe she’d drive down to Tucson and spend a few days with her.

Lacy couldn’t help a glance around the café while waiting. She tucked thoughts of Chance away, saving them for when she could figure out what they meant. Tea in hand, she walked over to the empty lobby desk. She hit the old-fashioned ringer on the counter and waited. After a few moments, she hit the bell again. “Helloooo!”

“Coming.” The same clerk from earlier strolled out of the back room behind the counter. “Checking in?”

“No. I was here earlier...I left my bag with you to lock away, and I’d like it back.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” He disappeared, returning within moments, bag in hand.

“Thank you.” The Black Fairy could teach the daytime clerk a thing or two about customer service. She hefted the bag onto her shoulder and ascended the stairs to her room, thoughts returning to the professor.

In addition to revealing some information on Muuyaw’s art, he could probably paint a picture of her mother that she’d not gotten from a couple of old pictures and an unfriendly stepsister. Her mother’s lover? Her art professor? Whatever their relationship, she’d know another side of Kaya if he’d be inclined to reveal it. Faithful daughter, resented stepsister, budding artist and what? The pictures she possessed told the story of a loving mother and soon to be wife. She wanted to know what happened in between.

****

The neighborhood contrasted sharply to the area where Kaya’s stepsister, Carol, lived. Here, south of the college campus, these old homes had been well maintained. The yards were green; rows of evergreens and pines separated the properties and heavily dotted the landscapes.

Lacy set her car alarm, took a deep breath and stepped onto the stone walkway to the front door. The house had a stone façade with wood trim in deep green. The matching front door opened as her foot hit the first of three steps up to a small landing.

“Ms. Dahl, how nice to meet you at last.” The white-haired gentleman’s smooth voice greeted her, his hand extended.

“Hello, Professor Sheffield.” She took his hand. A distinguished face accompanied a warm, firm handshake. Cultured came to mind. He had to be at least seventy, perhaps a few years past, but he’d not lost his vitality or his good looks. Kaya had had good taste in men. His pale green shirt complemented his slightly tanned complexion, and the crisp dress slacks couldn’t hide the fit legs beneath the cloth. “Please, call me Lacy.”

He held her hand a moment beyond their greeting, his gaze drifting over her face. “You possess her fire, although you wear it with subtlety.” Two heartbeats and he released her hand. “Come in, Lacy. And most people simply call me Professor.”

A short entryway led into a living room that could be described no other way than masculine. The stone fireplace matched the front of the house, a dark wood mantel across the top. A brown leather couch faced two like chairs with a square coffee table between them made of the same wood as the mantel. The carpet swirled with brown, green and maroon in deep rich colors. Classical music played softly.

“Please have a seat. Do you like tea?”

“I do.”

“Good. I’ll get us a pot. I have a wonderful organic blend of chocolate mint Rooibliss.”

Lacy dropped onto the closest leather chair, plush and comfortable. She propped her khaki bag on the floor against the side. Left alone, she glanced around the room. Although warm, comfortable and finely furnished, there were no photographs. She scanned the mantel, the bookshelves on the far wall, craned around to see the corners of the room. None. If he’d ever married or shared this home with a woman, the evidence didn’t reveal it.

“Here we are.” He set a silver tray with teapot and cups on the coffee table. “I prefer mine with a dollop of cream. You?”

“I’ve never had Rooibliss, so I’ll trust your judgment.”

He nodded and poured the tea, added cream and handed her a cup before he sat on the couch across from her.

“You have a beautiful home.”

She scanned the décor as if for the first time and wondered if her mother had sat in this living room. He quirked a smile as if he read her mind. She sipped her tea to disguise her disconcertment.

“Thank you. I’ve always lived alone. Do you think it could use a woman’s touch?”

Her tea went down raggedly, and she coughed. “Why no, it’s lovely.”

His slight smile remained as he sipped. Inwardly laughing at herself at being caught off guard by his blunt manner, she cleared her throat. “I like older homes. So much more character.”

“I heartily agree. I’ve lived here for over forty years.” He glanced around the room. “Do you live in the valley?”

“Yes, in Scottsdale.” She adjusted her fingers on the cup handle.

“And what do you do in Scottsdale, Lacy?”

“I own a coffee café called the Lacy Latte.”

His white brows furrowed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you coffee.”

“Oh, no. I serve as many teas as coffees at the café. I’m a tea drinker and partial to chai, but this is marvelous.” She sipped again. “I’ll have to see if I can get this blend for my café.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He raised his cup to his lips. Piano music played softly. “So, you own the Lacy Latte. And are you married? Children?”

“I have two children. August lives in Tucson and owns an art gallery. My son, Dylan, is in Paris at culinary school. I lost my husband three years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” He set his cup down. “And now you run the café by yourself.”

“I bought the café after my husband died. Conrad was a chief surgeon. He died in a mountain climbing accident in Peru. Conrad had a passion for physical challenges.” She fought back a bitter taste when the uttered words meant more than she intended. “I’d been a pharmacist before the children came along and had no desire to go back to that. I wanted to do something very different. So I bought the café, renamed it Lacy Latte and have enjoyed it immensely.”

She took another sip of tea in an effort to shut up. The professor’s engaging manner had the effect of drawing out details she didn’t normally blurt out to strangers. Then again, maybe her willingness to dump information would inspire him to do the same about her mother and Muuyaw. A fair trade.

“Kaya would certainly be thrilled about her grandchildren’s chosen paths. The art connection you might already have guessed, but she was also an avid cook.” He chuckled. “I daresay you couldn’t get most of the dishes she concocted at a restaurant.”

Theirs was more than a student-professor relationship. Perhaps Carol wasn’t being merely snide with her tales. Hope spurred, she leaned forward, a nervous flutter in her chest.

“You knew my mother quite well?”

“I did.” He sipped his tea; a twitch of a smile showed at the corner of his mouth. He offered no more.

“And Muuyaw?”

He set his teacup down. “You had some sketches you wanted me to look at.”

“Oh, yes.” She set her cup next to his and lifted her bag from the floor. “Shall I spread them out here?”

“No, let’s go to the dining room table.”

She followed him out of the living room, through a low rounded arch to the next room. A modest sized mahogany table and chairs took up the middle of the room. A window looking out on his backyard let the sun stream across the table.

“Let’s see what you have.”

He stood quietly as she removed the roll of sketches and the carving wrapped in tissue. As the ribbon came free and the paper uncoiled on the table, he moved close beside her. His hip grazed her side, surprising her with his closeness—so close she heard him catch his breath at the first glimpse of the top sketch. His hands moved onto the paper beside hers, and she drew back. He turned each page, studying one sketch after another without hurry.

His fingers grazed the signature of the artist,
M/KM,
in a caress. When he’d seen the last page, he paused. The classical music, barely audible in this room, played lower than his breathing. He released the sketches, allowing them to roll together, and he sighed deeply.

“And in the tissue is what?” His eyes regarded her, misty with veiled emotion.

Momentarily struck dumb by his eye color, she stared back. Why hadn’t she noticed until now? Although not as light as hers or her father’s, the professor’s eyes were a startling green shade.

His hand nudged her arm. “Lacy?”

She jumped. “Oh, yes.” She slipped the tissue from the half-carved wolf. Another glance at his eyes and goose bumps riddled her arms.

He lifted the wood close to his face, using both hands as if handling a delicate hummingbird. His thumb traced the neck of the creature to the juncture of where it emerged from the wood. When he brought the piece to his nose, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, Lacy wanted to turn away from the oddly erotic gesture.

He swallowed, opened his eyes and set the wolf back on the tissue. His attention shifted to the photograph of the chest. He touched the photo, a smile on his lips. “Where is the chest?”

The chest. Like he knew it, had seen it before. “I’m having it sent. You’ve seen it before?”

He didn’t move, stared out the window as if deep in thought. “I’d like to show you something, Lacy.”

“All right.” She waited, watching his profile.

He turned and stared into her face a moment. “You’re so very lovely. A creation full of life and passion, surpassing any art form.”

His hypnotic voice floated on the classical strains drifting from the living room. She couldn’t speak. Didn’t know what to say. She’d been lifted upon a pedestal of admiration. With any other man, she might consider his words a means to a sexual end. The professor’s intentions, however, were crystal. He admired her like a work of art.

But he didn’t know her or her passions, and his words caused discomfort.

“I’ve embarrassed you. Forgive me.” He didn’t look like he wanted forgiveness. “Come with me.”

With a renewed sense of anticipation, she followed him back through the living room and down a short hall. The professor was odd to be sure, but she believed he had a story to share that would lead her closer to knowing her mother.

At the end of the hall, he stopped in front of a closed door. A moment ticked by, his back to her. Lacy’s pulse raced, waiting for what she hoped would be the answer to the mystery surrounding Muuyaw and her mother.

When he turned to face her, his brow wrinkled. “You’re looking for answers. I can give you everything you want, everything you need.”

“I haven’t asked the questions yet.”

“Oh, but you have. And you are the only one that will ever have the answers.” He turned, took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

Chapter Nine

Chance hung the dishtowel on the hook by the sink, grabbed his cell off the table with one hand, a cup of chai in his other and headed to the back patio. The sun shone unhindered by clouds, the hummingbird feeder fed two flittering creatures and his fence still stood only half-painted. If he had any hope of finishing it before the end of the day, he needed to get started.

He slid onto the picnic table bench. A sip of the chai reminded him of Lacy. The tea left a taste in his mouth like she’d left on his mind: exotic, multi-faceted, with soothing subtleties. He sipped slowly, let the liquid roll over his tongue while the memory of her lips rolled across his mind. What he’d rather do on this rare Monday off work didn’t include painting a fence.

The sudden ring of his cell startled him. Hopeful, he checked caller ID, and let out a moan.

“Morning, Kitty.”

“Good morning to you. I know you took the day off to finish painting, but thought just maybe I could interest you in a break.”

He swirled the remaining chai in his cup, and pushed aside pleasant thoughts of Lacy. He had to face the situation. As much as he’d enjoyed Kitty’s company over the last few months, nothing had changed for him. It was time she knew it never would.

“I’ve got burgers for the grill, and you could hop over later and help me get them on for lunch. I’ll light the fire.” Her whispery voice landed dead on his ears.

“I’m way behind on getting the fence finished, Kitty.” The weekend had been a loss, thanks to a distraction named Lacy. “I’d like to come by now, if you don’t mind. Like to talk to you.”

“What about, sugar?”

“I’d rather come see you than talk on the phone.” He owed her a personal touch.

“This sounds like a brush off visit.”

“Kitty—”

“Is it?”

He sighed and rubbed his jaw. With all the feeling he could muster, he reached for a friendly tone. “I like you Kitty, but we just aren’t on the same page.”

“Oh, yeah. And whose page are you on now? Lacy Dahl’s? You were on her page yesterday, weren’t you? Business meeting?” She practically spit the last two words.

Shit. She’d seen them.