by Meg Tilly
She nodded.
“I don’t think the title suits.”
“Well, it’s what came with the painting.” He showed no inclination of moving of his own volition. “Excuse me,” Zelia said, moving forward, then stepping past. It was a tight squeeze. Her hip brushed his thigh, and she had to steel herself to hold back a shudder. She rounded the corner and opened the broom closet, then put the cleaning materials inside, all the while aware of him close behind her.
“Look, Tristan.” She turned and faced him. “If you’re going to work here, you need to know, I’d prefer to have a little more space.”
“Pardon?”
“You stand too close to me. It makes me uncomfortable.” Even though she’d said it nicely, she could see she had wounded him before his lashes swept down and shuttered his eyes. “It’s not you. It’s me. I just like to have . . .” She shrugged and smiled apologetically, even though she was lying. It was definitely him. “Space.”
He took an exaggerated step backward, his palms up. “Is this better?” he asked, his nostrils flaring, his face tight.
“Yes. Thank you,” she said, knowing that she’d made a gross miscalculation. As desperate as she was for help, Tristan was not the answer. The unease she felt around him seemed to be growing exponentially. She was grateful Gabe had insisted on shadowing her to work again today. It was a relief to know he was down one flight of stairs, unpacking the shipment that had arrived. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
He stepped in her path. “I’m not done.”
She settled back on her heels and exhaled, her hands on her hips, striving for patience. “Okay.”
“I was wondering how the Dattg painting came into your possession?”
“Alexus sent it.”
Surprise flickered across his face, followed by something else she couldn’t put her finger on. “She did?”
“Yes. She was a fierce champion of his. Working so closely with her, you must’ve known that. She hung three of his paintings in her last show.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s right. I forgot.”
“I understand why she was so blown away. Although”—she gestured to the artwork surrounding them—“as you can probably ascertain, Dattg’s not really my cup of tea.”
“But you hung him. You said he was gifted.” Tristan’s voice had switched into a slightly higher pitch. There was almost a childlike pleading tenor to it. What an odd little creature.
“And he is gifted. No doubt about it.” She turned and gazed at the Dattg painting, her stomach knotting up. “But his artwork’s just not for me is all. If Alexus hadn’t sent me this painting and then died, I would have returned it.”
“Returned it?”
“I find him a bit . . .” She shrugged.
“A bit what?” There was a sudden sharpness to his voice, which snapped her gaze back to him.
“Come on, Tristan,” she said, trying to joke her way out of the tension that was ricocheting around the gallery. “Look at it. You gotta confess it’s a little bit creepy.”
“Cr-creepy . . . ?” His face was rapidly turning puce, his fists clenching and unclenching.
“Zee?” Zelia had never been so happy to hear Gabe’s voice, because Tristan’s head and shoulders were thrust forward, almost as if he were about to launch himself at her. Which was weird behavior, even for a passionate art aficionado.
She turned, acting relaxed even though every cell was in fight-or-flight mode. Gabe had come up from the basement and was standing at the top of the stairs, framed by the arched doorway that led downstairs. His posture was casual, but she felt the coiled strength in him, could see the protective intent in his eyes. One wrong move by Tristan and she had no doubt that Gabe would rip Tristan’s head from his torso.
Apparently, Tristan felt the threat as well, because he gave her one last glare. “You. Know. Nothing.” He spit the words through clenched teeth and then did an abrupt about-face. Stalked into the office and slammed the door behind him.
“You okay?” Gabe asked.
“Yeah,” Zelia replied, even though she was shaking.
“Would you like to step outside for a second? Get a breath of fresh air?”
“Sounds good, but I need to do something first. If you could provide backup, it would be appreciated.”
“Absolutely.”
How amazing, Zelia thought as she headed toward the office with Gabe bringing up the flank. I don’t need words to tell this man what I want. He seems to intuit it.
She opened the office door. Tristan’s head snapped up, his eyes locking with hers, the feral expression in them stunning in its intensity.
“Tristan, I’m sorry,” she said, speaking carefully, politely. “While I appreciate you offering to help at the gallery, it’s clearly not working for either of us.”
“Are you . . . firing me?”
She shifted uncomfortably. She hated having to do this type of thing. “I’ll pay you for yesterday and for a full day today—”
“You are firing me after one day?” His face was white with rage.
“I’d like you to gather your things and leave now.”
Tristan shot to his feet, eyes like fire. “I don’t need your money, you sanctimonious bitch!”
She heard a warning growl deep in Gabe’s throat as he took a step to move in front of her. “It’s okay,” she said, placing a hand to the side. “Let me handle this.
“Nevertheless,” she said, keeping her tone even, “I’ll pay you. Either cash today, or I’ll send you a check.”
Tristan stormed toward the doorway. She stepped aside so he could pass. “You’re going to pay,” Tristan hissed as he passed her. The hatred on his face, the venom in his voice, caused the tiny hairs on the back of her neck and her arms to rise.
Gabe stood to her side, arms crossed, an immovable rock that forced Tristan to veer to his right in order to avoid crashing into him.
“Asshole,” Tristan muttered under his breath as he stalked to the coat closet. He yanked his overcoat on, the hangers clattering, grabbed his umbrella, and slammed through the door.
Zelia watched him storm across the square, overcoat undone and flapping in the wind. He hadn’t bothered to open his umbrella, even though the rain was still thundering down. He used it like a baseball bat to slash the hell out of the two pots of ornamental native grasses that flanked Twang and Pearl’s door. Zelia made a mental note to reimburse Sasha for the cost to repair the damage as Tristan turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
“Thank God,” Zelia murmured, feeling her fists unclench, grateful she was finally able to breathe deeply again.
“I know this might seem a little weird,” Zelia said as she reentered her office and removed the partially burnt smudge stick, abalone shell, and matches from the bottom desk drawer. “But waving this thing around really does help. So, no laughter allowed.”
“No laughter from this quarter. I’ve smudged on occasion. While you take care of that, I’m going to give my brother and Detective Mackelwayne a call. Ask them to look into Tristan Guillory as a possible person of interest.”
Sixty-one
GABE TOSSED THE last of the flattened cardboard boxes and packing material into the recycle dumpster and then shut the lid with a bang, his mind turning over the events of the morning. He was relieved Zelia had gotten rid of Tristan. There was no need for her to know that he’d come upstairs from the basement with the intention of sending the jackass packing. His alarm bells had been clanging overtime. Knew he’d be stepping on her toes and she’d be royally pissed off, but he was fully prepared to deal with the consequences if it kept her safe.
Luckily, his intervention hadn’t been required. She’d handled the situation magnificently on her own.
Tristan had left, but Gabe still felt uneasy, on guard.
He reentered the galle
ry and locked the back door behind him. Experienced a slight jolt of alarm when he saw Zelia wasn’t at the makeshift workstation.
“Zelia?”
“In here.”
She appeared in the office doorway. “I needed the bigger screen.” Ever since the Dropfile had arrived from Mitch containing the photographer’s photos of the Feinstein & Co. event, Zelia had been going over them obsessively.
She rolled her shoulders as if she’d been hunched over the keyboard for a while. “Thanks for doing the dumpster run.”
“No problem.”
She smiled at him wearily, then moved back to her desk and sat down. He followed her in. She looked pale.
“You sure you’re okay working in here?”
“Yeah. I’m used to this computer, and the bigger screen is better for zooming in. The energy in here is still jangly, but I’m pushing past it.”
He watched her click from one photo to the next, then back to the previous photo again.
“What are you looking for?”
She scrubbed her face with her hands. “I don’t know. I have a strong feeling that if I just look hard enough in the right place something important is going to pop out at me, but I don’t know where to look or what it is I’m trying to find.”
He wished he could scoop her up and take her far away from the source of her worry, wanted to eradicate the bruised look in her eyes, but he couldn’t. He was not God. “Sometimes, when I’m writing and I get stuck, I print out the manuscript. There’s something about seeing the words on paper that helps me see the flaws and what is missing better.”
“That’s it,” said Zelia, nodding her head. “That’s what I need to do.” She reached down, her hand fumbling for the missing drawer. “Damn. I forgot the paper drawer is with the cops. No worries.” She got to her feet and headed out of the office. “I’ve got a box of paper in the storage room downstairs.”
Sixty-two
TRISTAN WAS COLD and wet by the time he arrived at his dinky motel room. The place was a shithole with paper-thin walls. He could hear a brat squalling next door. If he weren’t on reconnaissance he’d have pounded his fist through the door and forced the mother to shut the kid up.
“The sacrifices I make for my art,” he muttered.
He removed the paper he’d scribbled Zelia’s home address on from his pocket. The rain had soaked through, but luckily the ink was only slightly smeared and the address was still legible. He gently laid the paper on the linoleum floor next to the baseboard heater to dry. Then he stripped off his wet clothes and stepped into the shower. There was mildew in the grout, but at least the water was hot and plentiful. He shut his eyes and pretended he was home in his pristine Calacatta marble shower with a thick stack of plush Egyptian cotton towels waiting to dry and caress his body. “Soon,” he murmured. “Once I have the materials I need to complete my masterpiece.”
In the meantime, he needed to make do. If that conniving bitch hadn’t leapt off his yacht, he would have been able to set his trap in luxury. Instead, he’d been forced to send the boat and crew back to Seattle. Her body might be found, and connections could be made. No sense tempting fate.
Fredrick had begged him to come away with them, tears in his eyes, but Tristan had refused. He was not a coward, scurrying off at the first hint of danger. No. The risk made it more exciting and would fuel the muse like high-octane propane.
He lathered his body, his mind turning over plans. Shower, sustenance, then swing by her place, gain access, bring tools and something to read, be prepared to wait.
Sixty-three
“GABE! COME LOOK at this.” The urgency in Zelia’s voice jerked Gabe’s focus from his laptop and the plethora of crime scene evidence that his brother had sent him concerning the Richard Rye case.
By the time he reached her she was on her feet, her face alight with excitement. “Okay, look at this.” She grabbed his arm. “Careful where you step. So, I used the photos and reconstructed the layout of Alexus’s gallery. I cross-referenced with the brochure and flyers from her show and matched the placement of the art. See!” She strode among the pattern of photos lying on the floor, a piece of cellophane tape holding them in place, but still the papers fluttered gently as she passed. “Now look closely.” She was practically vibrating with excitement.
What he saw were a lot of photos taped to the floor. In some he could see whole paintings and in some a partial view. He scanned the faces of the people in the photos, but nothing jumped out.
“What do you see?” she demanded, her face glowing.
“Photos of paintings and people.”
“And what else?” She was clutching his arm, nodding as if that would send the information through the air to him.
“I got nothing.”
“No Dattg!” she said triumphantly.
“No what?”
She started pacing again, her arms waving around excitedly, pointing at the layout of photos. “I re-created her entire gallery and there is not a single Dattg painting among the bunch! Now, she texted me the night she died, insisting that I hang his work. She sent me his CV and portfolio. Told me she had hung three of his paintings in that night’s exhibition. But not one is gracing her walls. Why?”
She looked at him expectantly.
“Why?”
“Because she wasn’t the one texting me! It must have been the artist. Dattg. We find the artist and I bet we find her killer—” She slammed to a halt. “Wait a minute . . .”
She turned to him, her eyes wide. “The painting . . .” she whispered. “Oh my God.” She grabbed his hand. “Come on.”
* * *
* * *
ZELIA STARED AT the painting, her arms crossed, her stomach feeling the familiar clench. “There’s something here. I know it. Maybe ‘Insurance’ isn’t the title, but instead it’s a message from her.”
“Could be,” Gabe replied. He gestured to the painting. “Do you mind if I look it over?”
“Be my guest.” Zelia was relieved not to touch the thing. She watched as Gabe removed it from the wall and examined it.
“I think I’d better . . .” he murmured, deep in thought. Then he pivoted, strode to the office, flipping on the bright overhead lights as he crossed the threshold.
He laid the painting facedown on the desktop, rocked back on his heels, and crossed his arms. She could see the wheels turning as she watched him step to the desk with a faint frown on his brow. He carefully ran his fingertips under the cross braces. “Nothing there.” He tipped the painting on its side and peered into the cracks between the inner and outer frame. “Ah . . .” He gestured her closer. “See there?”
“Uh-huh.” Zelia stared at the slip of folded paper that had been tucked between the two slats of wood, her lungs seeming to constrict around the base of her throat.
He turned the painting over and attempted to dislodge the paper to no avail.
“I’ll get my needle-nose pliers.” Zelia ran to the maintenance closet, opened the toolbox, and snagged the pliers, telling herself not to get her hopes up. It could be an accidental, inconsequential piece of paper that had fallen there. Her heart was thumping like a rat in a trap.
The pliers were too thick to fit all the way in the gap, but she managed to snag the corner of the paper with the tips and gently extricate it.
She offered the folded paper to Gabe since he’d been the one to discover it. “Your friend,” he said, shaking his head. “You do the honors.” Even though she could tell he was dying to open it.
She unfolded the paper, and tears flooded her eyes, blurring her vision. “It’s Alexus’s handwriting.” She blew out a breath long and slow, dragged her forearm across her eyes, and then began to read:
Zelia,
You know that new assistant I’d been raving about, Tristan? Turns out he’s an artist. Eye roll. He’s trying to pressure me into hangi
ng his paintings. Ha! Good luck with that. It’s looking like I’m going to have to let him go. It’s becoming uncomfortable, but I haven’t found someone to replace him yet, so I’m limping along.
It’s probably nothing but the midnight musings of my overly suspicious mind. However, just in case something untoward happens to me, I’ve sent this painting and letter as insurance.
I’m hoping we’ll have a good laugh about this when I see you next.
Love, Alexus xo
She felt his arm settle around her shoulders.
“You okay?”
She nodded. Words were too difficult.
“How about we drop this off at the police station on our way to dinner, so they can follow up?”
Sixty-four
THAT WAS THE beauty of a rustic island cottage, so damned easy to penetrate, he thought as he returned his neo-Gothic winged-demon dagger to the iron scabbard that was clipped to his belt. Fire me, will you? Tristan couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped. And you felt Dattg was a little disturbing before . . . Just you wait.
He lifted the screen he’d pried away from the window frame and tucked it behind a massive Douglas fir tree. The bathroom window had been left open a crack.
He slid his latex-clad fingers into the gap and hoisted up the window frame, his heart pounding. Within seconds he and his tools were safely inside. A triumphant sense of power surged through him as he shut the window and latched it behind him.
He relieved himself in her toilet. There was a ritualistic feeling about the act, hunkered down, voiding his bowels. Furthermore, he needed to be prepared for a long wait. Where shall I hide out—the broom cupboard, a closet, or perhaps under her bed? Once finished with his bodily housekeeping, he rose. For a split second he was tempted not to flush, to leave the mess as a calling card. “Could you run a dust mop around the gallery,” he mimicked in a high, mocking voice. But he didn’t give in to his baser desires. It was important not to leave any evidence behind. He fished a DNA wipe out of his briefcase, cleaned the seat, flushed, and then exited the bathroom. Adrenaline coursed through him as he began his hunt for the perfect spot to lie in wait for his prey.