by Darci Hannah
I studied the painting a minute longer. It was either going to delight or feel like a slap in the face. Silvia was ether paying homage to Fred and his craft, or she was making a mockery of him by depicting him ghosting himself on the pottery wheel, guiding his own hands lovingly on the wet clay. If Fred had in fact seen this portrait, or somehow had caught wind of it, it might have been enough to throw him over the edge. Silvia had been publicly toying with his emotions for years. Was this meant to be another costly humiliation? Then another thought struck me. Silvia had been a sly woman. Maybe this painting was meant to be a challenge to Fred’s devotion. By rejecting the painting Fred would be, in a sense, rejecting Silvia. And, as a member of the arts council, he’d surely catch flack for that.
If, however, Fred proclaimed to love the painting, the council would applaud him, but Silvia would be suspicious.
“What were you playing at, Silvia Lumiere?” I asked the portrait.
While I was mentally planning an unveiling and my inevitable talk with Fred Beauchamp, I was aware that Giff and Peter had wandered off. Giff, having an eye for antiques and oddities, couldn’t help himself. I had just replaced the cover on the painting when he called me to the back of the trailer.
“Whitney! Quick, come here.” Blond highlights poked through a press of luxurious fur coats hanging on a rack. The look of urgency on Giff’s face made me jump. “Another disturbing discovery. You’re going to want to take a look at this.”
I worked my way to the back of the trailer, weaving a path through Silvia’s personal belongings. To my annoyance, Peter and Giff were at the very back. I had just climbed over a large upholstered chair when Giff turned to me.
“I’ve found it,” he said, his dark eyes glittering with excitement. “It’s the legendary missing painting.” He stepped back and focused the beam of his phone light on the canvas. For the second time since climbing aboard the white beast, I inhaled sharply. It was another exquisite painting done by the hand of Silvia Lumiere, only the subject of this one was a handsome young man wearing nothing but a fierce grimace. As shocking as this was, it wasn’t what was causing my heart to pound away in my chest like a pack of greyhounds chasing a lure. No, that was caused by the unmistakable identity of the man himself, and even if I was in any doubt about that, the huge broadsword by his side should have given it away.
“It’s Lance Van Guilder,” Giff said, looking as shocked by the discovery as I was. “Dear Lord, Whitey. He’s the man who tried to sue Silvia but was unsuccessful. He must be. Here’s the proof.”
It was undeniable, and yet I was gripped by a sickening fear. “Poor Tay. She’s not going to like this one bit.”
Twenty-Six
The discovery of the painting in the back of Silvia’s trailer changed everything, and Giff, Peter and I were having a hard time trying to process what it meant. We decided to remove it from the trailer and bring it to my room for safe keeping. That might have been a mistake. Once there, the three of us couldn’t stop from gawking at it—for a myriad of reasons—while trying to figure out what to do with this new and startling piece of information.
I shook my head. “And Tay was wondering why Lance was acting so strange lately. Now we know.”
“It’s not a bad painting,” Giff remarked, assuming the attitude of an art critic. “In fact, it’s highly flattering. I would have never suspected the guy was so ripped.”
“Right?” Peter agreed with a bob of his head.
“It’s not about the painting,” I reprimanded. “And we really shouldn’t be looking at this. It’s … it’s indecent.”
“It’s art,” Giff challenged.
Knowing that there was only one way to regain their attention, I replaced the black cloth. “Giff, when we talked over the phone, you told me that Silvia had a young male apprentice who claimed he was coerced into posing in the nude in exchange for money. When Silvia didn’t pay him, he took it to court.”
“Wait,” Peter interrupted. “That dude used to work for Silvia too?”
“He must have,” Giff replied. “How else would she have had this in her private collection?”
“Tay’s only known Lance for about a year or so, but she’s crazy about him,” I told them. “He’s a Renaissance fair jouster, but Tay also told me that he’s a gifted metal artist as well. I nearly forgot about that, but that’s got to be his connection to Silvia. How many years ago was this painting supposedly done?” I looked at Giff, seeing if he remembered.
“At least five,” he answered. “That’s when this particular lawsuit was thrown out of court.” He turned to Peter and explained. “When Whitney asked me to look into Silvia’s background for her, one of my discoveries was that Silvia had been named in a sexual harassment lawsuit.”
“No doubt,” Peter said, his face reminding us both that he had firsthand knowledge of Silvia’s darker side.
“We found out that Silvia was having an affair with a young man named Jake Jones, but that was years ago. It led to her divorce. We also discovered that she’d been named in a sexual harassment lawsuit. The identity of the young man who brought the lawsuit against her had been protected. This man claimed to be Silvia’s apprentice. He also said that Silvia made overt sexual passes at him and at one point offered him a sum of money to pose in the nude for a painting. When Silvia refused to pay him, he took her to court. However, when Silvia took the stand she must have put on quite a show, because she managed to turn the whole thing around on this poor man. She claimed that she was the one enduring all the sexual harassment, and basically dragged the apprentice’s name through the mud. She also denied ever making such a painting, and since no one could prove that she had, the whole case was thrown out of court. The only concession to the whole ordeal was that this man’s identity was stricken from all court documents, allowing him to remain anonymous. Whitney and I had no idea who he was until now.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry to admit this, but it does makes sense. Tay told me that Lance had a client who owed him a substantial sum of money. That client must have been Silvia Lumiere. For some reason she’d decided to settle this debt, maybe because she got wind that Lance was in Cherry Cove. I really don’t know. What I do know is that Tay told me how Lance purchased an expensive suit of armor when he received the money owed to him, but soon after the armor arrived the check bounced. Tay said it sent him into a tailspin. The armor was repossessed, and Lance started losing in the jousting ring.”
“The soul-sucking devil,” Peter breathed. “She destroyed the poor man. No wonder he killed her.”
“Whoa, fella.” Giff shot Peter a cautioning look. “We don’t know that for sure. All we have is this painting and a hunch. As far as we know, the first time Lance set foot at the inn was at tonight’s dinner.”
I looked at Giff, my mind racing. “But Lance didn’t know about a murder at the inn, remember? Tay hadn’t gotten around to telling him.”
“True,” Giff concurred. “But when Jenn mentioned the name Silvia Lumiere, he got up and left. You saw her, angel. She looked right at him—as if she knew that name would illicit a response.”
“She did,” I said, vividly recalling the incident. “How did Gran know?”
Giff filled with admiration and shook his head. “I’ve told you, angel, that woman doesn’t miss a trick.”
“I’ve got to call Tay.” I pulled out my iPhone, but before I could press her number the phone was snatched from my hand.
“No,” Giff reprimanded. “It’s one in the morning. She’s sleeping, most likely next to that gorgeous hunk of a knight. And if we wake her to tell her about this, she’d just freak out. You know how in-your-face she can be when her back’s against the wall. Plus, and don’t forget, the man makes his money swinging a sword from the back of a horse, or so he says. We don’t want anything happening to Tay.”
“And that’s exactly why I should call her—so she can get the he
ck out of there.” My heart was racing just thinking about it. I made a grab for my phone, but Giff held it over his head, causing my swipe to fall short.
“No. We calm down and visit her in the morning.”
“Dudes.” It was Peter. His look of admonishment faded with a loud yawn. “Like, just let the police handle it. I’m going to bed.” He made for the door, then stopped. “Can I, like, crash here tonight? It’s spooky on the other side of the inn.”
Giff graciously agreed to let Peter sleep in his room on one of the inn’s roll-out cots. We were all tired and ready to turn in for the night, but not before agreeing that Peter’s suggestion was the correct choice. Tay was my best friend, but the painting was a matter for Jack. I had planned to make a trip to the police station anyhow tomorrow. Erik needed to revise his original statement, describing to Jack how he and Kenna had seen a black shadow sweeping up the stairs at two in the morning—right before Silvia was murdered. There was also the matter of the odd, undelivered portrait of Fred Beauchamp, still in the trailer. However, it was the erotic painting of Tay’s boyfriend that was really going to set his head spinning. There were so many new pieces of evidence to consider, so many people Silvia had toyed with and hurt. And yet as I climbed into bed all I could think about was Jack MacLaren, and how my heart and hurt pride were going to handle facing him again.
Twenty-Seven
I awoke at eight thirty, feeling remarkably refreshed under the circumstances, and stumbled downstairs in search of coffee. Mom was already in the family kitchen, dressed in navy capris and a cute floral top. She was humming along to Adele. Mom wasn’t overly adept with cell phone technology, although she could answer her smartphone, send a text (although she preferred to call), and ask Cortana for directions or to place a call from her list of important numbers. She also, thanks to me, knew how to sync her phone to her car stereo and stream her favorite Pandora station through the speakers. But apparently she’d just added a wireless speaker to her burgeoning techy skills. I smiled and joined in on the chorus of “Someone Like You.”
At the sound of my voice Mom turned off the music and spun around. “Good morning,” she said. Her smile was bright and cheerful, just the thing I needed before facing what was certain to be a troubling day. As if by magic, a cup of hot black coffee found its way into my hands. Mom turned back to the stove and continued working as she remarked, “You were up late last night. I heard you and Giff come in around one in the morning. Truthfully, I’m surprised you’re up this early.”
I watched Mom flip four perfectly round pancakes on her stove-top griddle before I replied. “I’ve been getting up so early to do the baking that I feel as if I’ve been lounging in bed all morning.”
Mom smiled. “But with the inn currently shut down,” she began, then stopped. Her face clouded and she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. Instead, she poured more batter on the griddle. I understood just how she felt. Cooking was second nature, and far easier than contemplating a recent murder and the temporary shutdown of the inn at the height of the tourist season. It was no secret that Mom found solace in the kitchen. Because of her cheerful demeanor and kind smile I used to think she was seldom troubled by anything, but then I grew older and learned to look for the signs. The moment she opened the oven I could tell she was more than on edge. The inn was shut down, but Mom had made enough pancakes to feed a small army.
“Mom,” I cried, my eyes nearly popping out of my head. “How long have you been up making pancakes?”
She immediately shut the oven, but not before removing a warmed plate with three perfectly stacked, cherry-bespeckled pancakes marinating in a drizzle of melted butter, and a side of thick-sliced, applewood-smoked bacon. Dammit, it smelled like heaven! I didn’t have time for breakfast, but Mom wasn’t one to take no for an answer. She set the plate down on the island counter, added a pitcher of warmed syrup and shoved a fork into my hand. “I’m used to getting up early too,” she said breezily. “Cherry pancakes are you father’s favorite. He wanted to get working early at the orchard today, so I thought I’d make him a good breakfast. He’s already eaten. So, while I was here, I thought I’d make some for you and the boys as well. This is a bed-and-breakfast, after all.”
The boys she was referring to were Giff and Peter, who weren’t likely to be out of bed before noon. Giff, as a rule, was generally opposed to mornings. Of course, that didn’t fly during the workweek, but on weekends and vacations it was a hard-and-fast rule he adhered to. Peter? I really didn’t know what his habits were but was nearly certain he was going to take advantage of his newfound freedom. I apprised Mom of the situation and suggested she put the remaining pancakes in ziplock bags and pop them in the freezer for later use. I then made her join me at the counter with her own plate of pancakes and told her about some of the new discoveries we’d made last night.
“You’d better call Erik and let him know that you’re coming to pick him up,” she advised the moment I told her about his latest confession, while strategically omitting the reason he and Kenna were in the elevator so late at night to begin with. Mom then set down her fork and took a sip of hot coffee. “Well, this is good news. I’d rather have a menacing black shadow haunting the inn than a daughter wrongly accused of murder.” Although that statement really made no sense, Mom shook her head, causing her long blonde braids to sway gently. “Bret always thought this old place was haunted. Anyhow,” she said, waving off the very scary mention of ghosts with a cheerful smile, “this new statement of Erik’s should certainly clear your name.” Was it wrong of me to feel slightly discouraged by the fact that she looked more hopeful than confident?
“Mom,” I softly chided. “Bret thinks everything’s haunted. That is, in effect, his entire career.” I rolled my eyes to better express just what I thought of my brother and his obsession with ghost-hunting. “Besides, Erik admitted that it could have been a person in a black cape, which, obviously, it was.”
Mom agreed, yet her smile was slightly disingenuous. “I honestly don’t know who’d do such a thing.”
“I don’t either. But believe me, Giff and I are looking into it. Last night he was convinced Peter was the culprit until Peter managed to convince us he wasn’t.”
“And do you believe him?” Although Mom had never been suspicious of Peter, she looked troubled.
“I do. And what’s more, he actually helped us last night. He let us in to Silvia’s trailer.
“Goodness, no! Silvia didn’t want anyone but Peter going near that beastly thing.”
“I know. But now she doesn’t really have any say about it, does she?” Mom agreed. That’s when I told her about the two paintings we discovered. “So, you see?” I said, getting up to refill our coffees. I filled both our mugs to the brim and returned the pot to the coffeemaker. “There’s now two people I’m focusing on: Fred Beauchamp, who commissioned a portrait last year but still hasn’t seen what Silvia has done to it, and Lance Van Guilder. However, I’m still not sure how the black cape Erik saw sweeping up the stairs fits into things.”
“You think that nice man Tay’s dating had something to do with this?” Mom was aghast. Although happily married to my dad for over thirty years, she definitely had a type, and that type was Vikingesque. She adored Tate, who was essentially a clean cut, modern day Viking. He was an expert sailor and not at all opposed to plundering things, like women. Lance Van Guilder had a similar build. The fact that he was an actual knight in a Renaissance fair was enough to make any woman swoon, even one in her mid-fifties. Mom shrugged. “Well, he is the Black Knight,” she offered. “But I don’t know if knights actually wear capes? I think any reference to color just comes with the title.”
“Swingin’ dingles!” I blurted as Mom mused over the puzzling facts of knights and capes. The thought of Lance being the Black Knight was stomach-churning. I suddenly felt very ill. “I almost forgot about that.” I looked at Mom.
“
The only way I know of it is because Tay mentioned it last night. Don’t you remember? Also …” Mom lowered her voice as if what she was about to say was scandalous. “Char told me that he was. She’s been talking about Lance for quite a while now and delights in telling us ladies in the women’s league how muscular he is and how he’s the famous Black Knight. She’s even been to see him joust. Char’s very fond of Lance and thinks he’s the perfect man for Tay. At the very least, Lance keeps Tay occupied so she’s not focusing all her energies on humiliating Todd. Char’s a little sensitive about the fact that she’s engaged to a man who could be her son. But who am I to judge? As Reverend Dahl says, ‘Love comes in all shapes and sizes, in all forms under the sun.’”
“Even a mother and son,” I quipped, only because I couldn’t help it. Mom looked at me, then burst into a fit of giggles. I did too.
“You’re terrible,” she admonished with a grin.
I admitted that I was, then thought of something else. “I hope to God Lance isn’t the murderer, especially for Tay’s sake, but I have to ask. Do you know if he’s ever been to the inn before last night? The portrait we found proves that he knew Silvia, but I’ve never seen him here.”
Mom thought about that. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him here either. But you and I are awfully busy. You might want to ask your grandmother. Now that you’ve taken over the baking she’s made it a point to mingle more with the guests. That woman’s got eyes and ears for the both of us. Also, the fact that she keeps company with Edna Baker and Cecilia Cushman means that she’s up on all the latest gossip.” Mom shook her head. “I swear, nothing happens in Cherry Cove that those three don’t know about. In fact,” she began, easing herself off the high stool and picking up both our plates, “why don’t you stop in and see her before you head out to the Larson place? She should be back from yoga by now.”
“Good thinking,” I said, and drained my coffee mug.