Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  As Jack considered this, I noticed the look on Tay’s face. I could see that she was grateful I’d asked such a thing. And why wouldn’t I? Had that painting been of me or the man I cared about, I’d have done anything I could to make sure it stayed a private matter.

  Noticing the tense looks on all our faces, Jack relented. “All right. It can stay here. I hardly doubt you’re about to hang that on the walls of Cheery Pickers. Just keep it safe for the time being. I’ll let you know if I need it again.”

  “Knock-knock!” A heartbeat later the door opened a crack and Char poked her head in. “Just thought I’d check in to see how you kids are doing.”

  “Fine, Mom,” Tay replied quickly.

  “Oh, is that our painting?” The door opened wider and Char stepped in, eyeing the gilded frame leaning against the wall. “Terrible about Silvia, but Todd and I were wondering when our painting—”

  Tay, moving quicker than I’d ever before seen her, jumped in front of Char. “Not yours, Mom!”

  “Oh?” Char forced a polite smile. “Well, then, whose is it?”

  While we all looked to one another, trying to come up with an answer as to why a strange, covered painting sat in Tay’s office, Lance jumped to the rescue.

  “It’s mine, Char. A little gift for Tay. Officer MacLaren, here, has kindly offered to keep it for her until she’s ready to … um … ready to …” Lance, having gotten that far, came to a sputtering stop.

  “Display it,” Jack added, and stood in front of the painting.

  Char’s eyes shot wide with intrigue. “Well, before you take it away, how about letting me take a peek?” Char reached for the cloth. Jack batted her hand away.

  “Sorry, ma’am. The painting’s been placed into my care.” Jack tossed a nod to Lance. Both men hoisted the painting and carried it out the door. For all my good intentions, apparently the safest place for Lance’s painting was, after all, in the police station vault.

  While Jack and Lance loaded the painting into the SUV, Tay had a quick word with her mom, putting her in charge of the store for the afternoon. We then climbed into the police cruiser with the guys and drove around the block to the police station.

  Although Jack wouldn’t report the discovery of the erotic painting, he would report the connection Lance had to the deceased. He and Tay would still need to make their official statements, but I, for one, was relieved that Lance Van Guilder had a lock-tight alibi. He was a good man. More importantly, he made my best friend very happy.

  The discovery of the painting had been a shock, but it seemed the deeper we dug into the affairs of Silvia Lumiere, the darker her secrets. And she had more secrets, of that I was certain. We were back to square one, but that didn’t mean we were out of options. Someone had killed the woman, someone with a link or a connection to her that we were yet unaware of. As Jack parked under the thick sod roof, I was struck with another thought.

  Silvia was a painter of extraordinary talent, but that talent, as I had witnessed, was often bastardized by the need to humiliate or mock. So why had she mocked Fred Beauchamp? The fact that the painting was still in her trailer meant that he hadn’t yet seen what she had done to it. I could only imagine the humiliation when that stunningly painted mockery was unveiled.

  “Whit, would you mind getting my kids off the roof while I take Lance and Tay’s statements?” The look Jack gave me as he asked this hadn’t escaped my dear friend. As Lance and Jack gingerly removed the covered painting and carried it into the police station Tay turned to me and grinned.

  “I thought that maybe all this was just a working relationship, you know, you and Jack putting aside your differences and putting your adorable little heads together to find the killer. But I don’t think that it is? So what’s happened?”

  I smiled sheepishly. “I came to him with a painting and an apology. He apologized as well. We then had a little heart-to-heart.” I shut the door to the SUV and beckoned for her to accompany me around to the back and through the garden gate. There I stopped. “He admitted to liking me ever since high school. Can you imagine that?”

  “Duh,” she replied with a grin. She then turned to the roof and whistled loudly. “And here I thought you had skills,” she teased. “Some sleuth you are. All the clues were right under your nose all along, and yet you’ve ignored them. Well, I’m glad you two are finally being honest about your feelings.”

  While Tay marveled at my new discovery, I walked inside the goat pen and opened the gate to the steep little ramp that led to the roof. Thing One and Thing Two, bleating with joy at the sight of us, came trotting down, no doubt believing we had treats for them. I would have to go inside and get some carrots. As I gave the little brothers a much-appreciated scratch between the horns, Tay turned to me.

  “It’s like we’re ushering in a new age here: The Age of Jack,” she proclaimed. “I only wonder how Tate’s going to handle the news.”

  By sailing off, I thought, but didn’t say so. Instead, pushing all thoughts of Tate aside, I said, “Really? You just saw a painting of that hunk of a knight you’re dating and you’re talking about this? What I want to know is if any artistic liberties were taken, because if not, damn, girl!”

  Tay flushed deep crimson, and we both burst out laughing. The little billy goats, for reasons all their own, joined in too.

  Thirty-Two

  W hile Tay and Lance sat in the police station giving their statements to Jack, I decided to stay out in the garden with the goats and do a little sleuthing of my own. I pulled out my phone. Giff answered on the first ring.

  “I smell a guilty conscience. You’ve finally remembered that you left me in a room with a hippie. I awoke this morning to a skunky-smelling, Squatchy-looking creature shaking me, and asking if I had any three-in-one he could borrow—as in shampoo, conditioner, and bodywash all in one bottle. Can you imagine the horror?”

  “Are you referring to Peter or the three-in-one?”

  “In this scenario, angel, it’s the three-in-one.” His voice was chiding, as if I should have known.

  “What’s wrong with three-in-one?” I asked, having used it on occasion myself. My post-advertising Chicago days were a little lean. I saved money any way I could.

  “What’s wrong with it? Everything. If it were my account, I’d rebrand it Self-Loathing in a Bottle.”

  “That would make a catchy jingle.”

  He ignored my remark, adding, “Anyhow, I told him I have seven-in-seven—seven products in seven bottles—and proceeded to instruct him on the proper way to get gorgeous hair. I don’t mean to pat myself on the back, but I’ve just made another convert.”

  “I hope you’re representing all those products you’re pushing, because no woman is going to thank you for coercing her man into tying up the bathroom any longer than needed. And I’ll remind you again, no man should ever use seven products on his hair. That’s, like, four more than your average woman.” He gasped. I pressed on. “Products aside, I’m happy to hear that you and Peter are both awake and properly groomed. I’m going to need a favor.”

  Jack had just finished with the statements and was in the middle of a finger-printing session with Lance when Giff and Peter knocked on the back door of the police station. Peter held the door as Giff marched through, carrying another painting draped in black cloth.

  “What’s this?” Jack asked, closing his kit.

  “Another curiosity we found last night,” I informed him.

  “Fred Beauchamp,” he remarked, remembering our earlier conversation. “Bring it here. Let me see it.”

  We all crowded around the canvas as Jack peeked beneath the black cloth. “What the …?” he cried, then flipped the material over the back of the painting. Stunned silence all around, and then Tay erupted in a fit of giggles. The giggles were, unfortunately, contagious.

  “No,” she said, holding a hand over her quaki
ng mouth. “This has to be some kind of a joke. He’s a potter. I know the temptation’s there, but this is … Oh, goodness. Fred’s going to flip when he sees this.”

  “Right? It’s not every day you see a potter ghosting his younger self.” Then, because he couldn’t help himself, Giff launched right in with the romantic ballad from the movie soundtrack, “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers. The only blessing there was that he could actually sing.

  Peter grinned. “Dude, like, that’s got to be the bane of every potter. But on this canvas Silvia’s managed to up the creep factor by, like, seven notches.”

  “Dear Lord,” Lance uttered. “Did that man actually pay for this?”

  Odd as it sounded, I believed he was relieved to see that he wasn’t the only one subjected to Silvia’s mocking brush. In all honestly, Lance’s portrait had been highly flattering. Fred’s was just plain wrong.

  “He, like, commissioned this last summer,” Peter explained. “Only I’m almost, like, a hundred percent certain he didn’t ask to be ghosting himself on a pottery wheel.” Peter stepped back, flipped his long hair and scratched his chin. “Silvia wanted the unveilings done in a certain order. Fred’s was up next. I checked the schedule last night. His was to be Sunday afternoon. Like, the very day Silvia died.”

  I looked at Jack. “Do you think he got wind of this? Is there some way he could have seen this painting before the unveiling?”

  Peter shook his head, sending a cascade of glossy brown waves tumbling over his shoulders and down his lean back. Giff might have been right to suggest so much product, I bleakly mused. Peter’s hair looked amazing, touchable even. I was certain that if Hannah was to see him so clean and conditioned, she’d forgive him last night’s little lapse in judgement.

  “Nope,” Peter continued. “The trailer’s locked. I’m the only one with the keys. Hey, dude.” He turned to Lance. “I saw your painting. You worked for her too.” There was an undeniable Jesus-like quality to him, I thought, watching as the brown eyes softened with compassion while a kind smile appeared on his lips. Peter slowly opened his arms to the battered knight. “Come on, bro. Bring it in.”

  Thirty-Three

  Although Jack informed me that he had already questioned Fred Beauchamp yesterday regarding Silvia’s murder, and that Fred’s statement hadn’t set off any alarm bells, the discovery of the portrait demanded another visit. Jack was also curious about Silvia’s ledger. Peter hadn’t thought to bring it. Tay suggested they all go back to the inn and see what else they could dig up. It was a strategic move on her part, leaving me free to jump into the passenger seat of Jack’s police vehicle. Oddly enough, he didn’t complain.

  Fred lived a little further north on the peninsula, near the quaint town of Ellison Bay. It was going to be at least a twenty-minute drive, and, since it had been a good long while since I’d spent any amount of time in a car with Jack, I was inexplicably nervous. I blamed it on the new understanding between us, that and the knowledge that Jack had liked me long before I ever realized it. Because of our easy friendship, conversation had never been lacking or forced. However, an unnatural silence had settled over the car, one we were both painfully aware of. We were heading north on Route 42 when Jack pulled his attention from the road and smiled at me.

  “Hey,” he said. “Thanks for coming along. I know it’s not normal police procedure, driving a civilian to a suspect’s house and all, but you’re hardly an uninterested party. You’ve done some good work, Whit, but I’m going to ask you to let me handle Fred. Okay?”

  “Of course,” I said, having every intention of doing so. “Unless he’s confessing, I’ll just stand in the background and keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “Excellent.” He grinned. “Are you okay with some music while we drive?” As Jack spoke he pressed a button on the SUV’s touch screen, sending Mumford & Sons humming and thumping through the car speakers. “I know we’ve known each other a long time, but it’s just dawned on me how much we don’t know about each other. For instance, I can’t listen to country music. Mumford’s more my style.” This was punctuated with a thumbs-up and a sly wink. “And, full disclosure, I’m mildly addicted to video games.”

  That much I already knew. I gave him a noncommittal nod. “Well, for the record,” I said, playing along, “I also have a soft spot for Mumford & Sons.” Which wasn’t a lie. I liked a lot of other music as well, but there was no need to go into that now. “Also, and I hope this isn’t a deal breaker for you, but I find video games pointless.”

  Jack feigned a look of surprise as well as a mild seizure. He brought a hand over his heart.

  I placed a finger on his gaping jaw and turned his head back to the road. “Thankfully,” I began, “I’m a firm believer that everybody has to have their hobbies. You enjoy gaming, and, full disclosure, I’m mildly addicted to online shopping. So many adorable things out there and all of it at my fingertips! I also share a surprising number of pointless things on social media.”

  “Urgh. Sounds boring, and expensive.” He chanced a look my way.

  “Well, I don’t really have the money or time to pursue my shopping addiction, so no need to worry about that just yet. My main focus, and I think you’ll agree with me here, is to find Silvia’s murderer. We could just have that between us for now.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” he said. “It’s not very romantic, but it’s probably a good deal more than most relationships have these days.”

  It wasn’t long before Jack turned down a gravel drive, marked by a large sign that read Beauchamp’s Pottery Studio. A moment later a rustic log cabin came into view. It was a charming little building, with a wide covered porch and a handful of overflowing flower boxes. Wildflowers filled the landscape requirements, somehow looking nearly perfect against the dark brown building. I was particularly fond of the giant wagon wheel casually propped against the front porch but thought Silvia might have found it too kitschy. This humble potter’s studio was a far cry from a penthouse apartment on Chicago’s Gold Coast.

  As Jack parked I was pleased to see that Fred had other customers. There were a handful of cars in the parking lot, which had to bring a smile to any potter’s face. I hoped he was selling a lot of pottery, because the painting Jack was about to show him might cause him to snap. And in a shop full of breakables, that might get messy.

  A bell tinkled as we opened the screen door. Inside, the building was larger than I expected, lined with rows and rows of shelves, each one showcasing a handcrafted, beautifully glazed piece of pottery thrown on Fred’s wheel. I was impressed and recalled seeing similar pieces in Tay’s shop. I vaguely remembered her telling me that she carried Fred’s pottery. As customers browsed the shelves, Jack, carrying the covered painting, walked over to the girl behind the register. There he inquired after Fred.

  “He’s in the back,” she said and pointed to the studio door.

  As Jack and I approached the studio we heard voices coming from inside, indicating that Fred wasn’t alone. There was a discussion going on, one that stopped the moment Jack knocked and opened the door.

  Three heads turned, all familiar and none of them surprised.

  “Officer MacLaren, Whitney,” Alexa Livingstone greeted us. She glanced at the painting in Jack’s arms and smiled. Although she looked the same as she had earlier, in Cheery Pickers, her aging Ralph Lauren style appeared out of place in Fred’s cluttered, mud-splattered workshop. She was standing between the potter and a younger man I recognized as Jeffery the knot-artist. “I drove out here to let Fred know that his pottery was flying off the shelves at your friend’s store. I thought I’d see if he wanted me to bring more over to her shop. When I saw that Jeffery was here helping Fred, I decided to tell them the exciting news.”

  “Right,” Fred said, taking off his clay-splattered apron. He folded it neatly and placed it on his worktable. “We understand that there’s been a break in the case and t
hat Ms. Bloom is no longer a suspect.”

  Alexa looked at me and bestowed a kind smile. “I feel just terrible,” she continued, “having blamed you because the deed was done in your inn. As you can imagine, we’re all still shocked by the murder.”

  “Still in mourning,” Fred added. “A talent like Silvia’s only comes along once in a lifetime.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jack said, setting the covered painting against the leg of the worktable. “She could have been kinder. Talent’s no excuse for rotten behavior. In my opinion, the woman’s left more casualties in her wake than masterpieces. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. Fred, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Fred, looking puzzled, forced a smile. “Sure. But I have nothing to hide. I told you everything yesterday. Silvia and I were on great terms. My friends can stay if they wish.”

  “Fred, really.” Alexa placed a gentle hand on his sleeve. “We’ll go and leave you and Officer MacLaren to talk.”

  “No,” he said. “By all means, stay. MacLaren’s brought a painting. It’s mine, isn’t it?” Jack nodded. “You were all invited to the unveiling yesterday. I closed the shop. I made drinks and hors d’oeuvres. I never dreamed Silvia wouldn’t be alive to host my event.” He turned to his friends. “I wanted the unveiling to be special, but now that Silvia’s gone it hardly matters.” He pointed to the black cloth. “I never imagined that this would be one of the last paintings she’d ever do. It’s her parting gift to me.” He turned to Alexa. “You were lucky to have her present you with yours. I only wish she was here to present me with mine.”