A Whisker of a Doubt

by Cate Conte

  I did see Whitney’s “physical therapist,” though. He stood alone over by a painting, drink in hand, back to the crowd, either lost in thought or lost in the piece of art. It was too perfect. I went up behind him and stared at the picture too. It was one of those modern pieces that didn’t really seem to have an actual point of focus—rather it was a swirl of colors and designs that kind of exploded together in an unexplainably soothing way. There were bright reds, oranges, and yellows and the whole thing reminded me of a sun rising on a blazing hot summer day full of the promise of memories made.

  “Gorgeous, right?” Whitney’s guy commented.

  I’d almost forgotten he was standing there, I’d been so mesmerized by the painting.

  “It really is,” I said.

  “He was quite the artist.”

  I turned toward him. “Who?”

  The guy looked at me like I was dense. “Virgil.”

  I frowned. “Virgil Proust? He painted this?”

  “Sure did.” The guy nodded proudly, like he’d just told me his kid had painted it. “And many more.”

  I remembered Virgil’s son during the eulogy, mentioning how Virgil loved to paint. “I didn’t know.”

  Now he turned to face me, giving me his full attention. “Yeah, you didn’t seem like you were part of this crowd. I’m Paul Durant.” Then he squinted at me and his face reddened. “Didn’t I meet you—”

  “At Blue Heaven. Maddie James.”

  “Yeah.” He blew out a breath. “Sorry about that. Whitney panicked. My name really is Paul,” he added, “not Dominic. Thank God because I hate that stupid Christmas song about the donkey.”

  I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh, and once I did I couldn’t stop. Even when I realized people were staring at me. Including my dad, which was what sobered me enough to get it together. Paul Durant watched me with an amused look.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Sorry.”

  “No problem. I get the sense laughter isn’t easy to come by in this house. How did you come to be acquainted with Virgil?”

  “Oh. Um. Well, my dad.” I waved vaguely in the direction of where I’d left my parents. “He knows everyone in town. He runs the hospital. And I’m actually helping out with the neighborhood feral cat problem.”

  “That’s right!” Paul snapped his fingers, then he glanced around and lowered his voice. “Whitney mentioned that the night we, ah, saw you.” He looked sufficiently embarrassed about that. “Listen, she’s a wonderful woman. She didn’t want to lie about her leg. But her ex is a truly terrible human and was going to cut her insurance once she recovered…”

  “It’s fine,” I said, holding up a hand. “You certainly don’t owe me an explanation.” Not to mention, I didn’t want to be party to insurance fraud along with everything else. “So, what about you?” I asked. “How do you know Virgil? And, is Whitney here? I didn’t think she was that … friendly with the Prousts.” I made a show of looking around, although I wouldn’t have been able to miss her if she had been.

  He seemed very interested in the painting again. “Ah, no. She isn’t.” He sighed. “You’re right. She had a huge issue with June Proust. That’s why she didn’t come.”

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. I pondered my choices here. I could be polite and let it go, which to me wasn’t much of an option. I had a limited window of time to help Katrina, and getting the opportunity to talk to this guy seemed like the Universe trying to help me out. Also he had kind of opened the door by acknowledging he did not, in fact, share a name with an Italian Christmas donkey.

  I decided the heck with it and pressed on. “So then you knew Virgil outside of Whitney’s neighborhood? Are you from the island?” I was pretty sure he wasn’t. I’d never seen him before the night at Blue Heaven.

  He shook his head again. “No, I’m not. And yes, I know Virgil outside of Whitney. Through work.”

  He lapsed into silence again, but now we were getting somewhere.

  “Through teaching? Wasn’t Virgil a professor?”

  Something crossed his face, but it was so quick I couldn’t be sure. “He was, but that’s not how I know him.” He gestured toward the painting. “I’m Virgil’s agent.”

  My mouth dropped. It took a minute for me to make the connection between what he was saying and the painting. “Agent? Like, art agent?”

  He nodded.

  “He actually sold paintings?”

  Paul smiled. “A few.”

  “Wow.” I turned back to the painting and studied it again. This piece of art was quite good. I’d put it in my house. “So are any of these other paintings his too?” I waved around at the various art pieces in the room.

  “A couple of them, yeah,” Paul said. He pointed at a painting of the sea in some kind of tumultuous storm. “He was a tremendous talent. The art world has suffered a loss for sure.” He sounded sad.

  I stepped up to the picture and studied it. It was a common-enough concept, but the way Virgil had used grays and blues and greens together and even the depiction of the waves was different. Stunning. And somehow slightly familiar. Had I seen some of his pieces before and simply not known it?

  “So did Whitney introduce you as Dominic because it’s a secret that you represented Virgil? Or because she was hiding the leg thing?”

  “I don’t think that had anything to do with Virgil,” Paul said dryly.

  “I’m guessing you aren’t a physical therapist, then,” I said. “But I can imagine that it must be difficult representing him when your … girlfriend?” I looked to him for confirmation. When he nodded, I went on. “When your girlfriend feels the way she does.”

  He clearly didn’t want to talk about this, and as luck would have it for him, June Proust saved him. She barreled toward us and grabbed his arm with that claw-like hand, pulling him away from me into a corner where she started talking a mile a minute. Probably about how he shouldn’t speak to me.

  Ugh. I didn’t want to be anywhere near that woman. I turned to find my parents but they were engrossed in conversation with another couple I didn’t recognize. For a small, private affair, there were a lot of people in this room. It hadn’t seemed like that many at church. It was starting to get hot in here, even though the house was ginormous and there was probably a ton of other places in which to congregate. I grabbed a sparkling water from the bar and went to go find one.

  Weaving through the people, I stepped into the next room, which was another living-room type space. This one had a deck, so I made my way over there, opened the door, and stepped outside. I didn’t notice Virgil Junior was out there until I’d turned to shut the door behind me and he’d scared the crap out of me.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

  “No problem.” He barely met my eyes.

  “Hot in there,” I said.

  He muttered something I didn’t quite catch. Up close, I saw how much he looked like his mother. That same slight build, the small eyes, the dour face with the lips pulling down in a permanent disapproving look. I felt sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine growing up with her as my mom.

  That sympathy made me try a little harder. Plus he’d just lost his dad. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.

  Now he looked at me. I saw that his eyes weren’t as beady and dull as June’s, now that we’d actually made eye contact. They were curious, and a tiny bit sad. “Who are you again?”

  “My name is Maddie James. My dad is the CEO of the hospital.” I left out the bit about the cats, as I figured June would’ve already told him my friend had killed his father.

  “I see,” Virgil Jr. said. “So you knew my dad?”

  “A little,” I said. It was only a tiny white lie. I did know him a little. “It’s really tragic what happened. It seems so crazy. I mean, this is such a beautiful neighborhood…” I trailed off, realizing I was babbling now.

  Virgil Junior acknowledged all of this w
ith a slight incline of his chin. “Beautiful neighborhoods can be ugly too,” he said, his gaze going out to the backyard.

  It missed the mark a little bit as far as poetic sentiment, but I knew where he was going. I followed his gaze. I could see into the woods from here, and even caught a glimpse of one of the cat shelters. I wondered if June would wait out here, trying to see if we were straying too close to her property line.

  I turned my attention back to Virgil Junior, who was lost in thought. “I didn’t know your dad was an artist,” I said. “He did beautiful work.”

  “He did,” Virgil Junior said, then lapsed back into silence.

  Talkative, this one. I tried again. “So was it more of a side hustle? I didn’t know you could get an agent to sell a few paintings if you did it as a hobby. But then again, I don’t know anything about the art world, so that’s not surprising, right?” I laughed at my own joke, but Virgil Junior was now watching me with a look I couldn’t quite read.

  “Side hustle,” he said, with a wry smile. “Yeah, my dad was pretty good at those. Excuse me, would you?”

  He got up and walked back into the house, leaving his drink on the table.

  Chapter 33

  Wednesday, December 30: eight days after the murder

  6:15 p.m.

  Since no one but Paul Durant seemed interested in speaking to me, and even he didn’t want to talk about his client or his girlfriend, I busied myself looking at paintings and trying to figure out which ones were Virgil’s until my mother came over to tell me we were leaving and handed me my coat. I guess that meant I was going too, even though I had my own car. My dad was probably afraid what I would do without a chaperone. I didn’t fight it though. I didn’t think there was anyone else in here who would talk to me, and being this close to June creeped me out.

  Out on the porch, when I stopped to pull my scarf around my neck, I spotted Harvey Hackett. He’d just gotten out of his car and was heading toward his front door.

  “You guys go ahead,” I said to my parents. “I need to chat with Harvey for a minute. Thanks for bringing me. I’ll call you guys later!” I turned away before they could protest and hurried next door.

  “Hi, Harvey!” I waved, catching his attention just as he slid his key into the lock.

  “Hi, Maddie. How are you?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I went with my parents to pay my respects to the Prousts.”

  He looked puzzled by that, but nodded. “I understand. I would’ve gone, but…” he trailed off.

  “Yeah, I imagine it’s not fun having neighbors you don’t really get along with,” I said. “I’m sorry about that. It must be hard to look at people who can be so mean to animals. Especially the way you and your wife feel about cats.” I watched him closely.

  He reddened a little and glanced down at the driveway before he shrugged. “We got along fine.” His tone wasn’t convincing, and he must have realized it.

  My mind was racing frantically on how to get him to talk about Virgil and the board without sounding like I was fishing. I should’ve been more prepared, but I’d seen an opportunity and grabbed it without really knowing my next move. “I just met his art agent, actually. I had no idea Virgil was an artist.”

  Harvey squinted at me in a way that made me think he had no use for artists. “Yes, I heard that too. Anyway, it was nice to see you—”

  “Harvey. I know you and Virgil were on the Audubon board together,” I burst out, then cringed as soon as the words came out of my mouth. So much for smooth.

  He gave me an odd look, his hand dropping from his doorknob. “We were,” he said. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  He shrugged. “Virgil was really not that involved. I think he only did it for his résumé. He wasn’t very reliable.”

  “I had no idea you were part of that organization,” I said. “Don’t they hate cats?” I blinked innocently at him.

  Harvey’s face turned even more red. “No! I mean, birds are the priority of course, but the group has nothing against cats. Why are you asking about the board anyway?”

  “I’m really curious about it,” I said. “I get that Virgil and his wife didn’t want the cats here. But I heard there was a lot of controversy about whether the board should get involved with the situation here. Since you and Virgil were the two residents on the board…” I let my sentence trail off.

  “Where on earth did you hear that?” Harvey’s laugh was forced. “Listen, the only controversy was me telling Virgil a few times that if he wanted to be on the board he should probably show up more, but that’s it. The topic of feral cats always comes up in one way or another at Audubon meetings all over the country. It’s because there are definitely some people who blame the cats for bird populations declining. But here, we did our best to turn people’s attention elsewhere. We have a new report on how many birds we’ve lost in this part of the country in the past fifty years under review, for instance, and I wanted to make sure we didn’t lose focus on that.”

  I nodded, pretending to understand. “So Virgil wasn’t really into this whole thing. You think it was June making him do it?”

  He nodded. “I do.” He glanced behind him as if he thought June might be listening. “In Virgil’s defense, June … she’s bats, you know. Well, I don’t have to tell you. You’ve seen it.”

  “I have,” I said sympathetically. “She gave you a hard time too, I heard.”

  Harvey nodded again, emphatically, seemingly happy to point out June’s shortcomings. “She’s at my door all the time, telling me how awful my children are and how they’re in her yard doing hideous things. I can only imagine what it was like to live with her. Almost felt sorry for him.” He looked like he wanted to go on, but caught himself and shut his mouth. “Why so many questions about Virgil, though?”

  “I’m sure you know my friend is their number-one suspect in his murder,” I said.

  He nodded. Opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

  “She didn’t do it,” I said.

  “And you’re trying to find out if someone else did? That’s a big job, Maddie. And possibly a dangerous one.”

  Was it me, or was there something threatening to his tone? I shrugged. “I’m helping my grandfather. He’s doing some private investigating.”

  Harvey frowned. “Into Virgil’s murder?”

  I hesitated for dramatic effect, then nodded. “Yes. And honestly, I’m really worried about June.” I leaned closer, conspiratorially. “I saw her take his phone and smash it. I can’t help but wonder if she was disturbed enough to … well.”

  “Oh, she’s got some problems, alright,” Harvey said. “I wouldn’t doubt that she’d be capable of something like that. I said as much to Monica.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You’re serious?”

  He nodded. “She had a temper.”

  I didn’t disagree, but he’d thrown her under the bus pretty quickly. “Thanks, Harvey. Hey, one more question,” I said, as if I’d just remembered. “Was Virgil the one who brought up the feral cat issue to the Audubon board? And the poison petition?”

  He frowned, then glanced around again as if he thought someone was eavesdropping. “I shouldn’t be talking about this, but yes, he was.”

  I made a sympathetic noise. “I know you and Monica care so much about the cats. It must’ve really bothered you.”

  “Oh, it certainly did,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I just remember being so shocked about him introducing the petition to poison them. I was the first to vote against it.”

  He was a liar. A bald-faced liar. What else was he capable of?

  “Daddy!”

  Harvey whipped around at the sound of his son’s voice. One of the kids stood inside the front door, waving madly.

  “Daddy, I need to talk to you!”

  Harvey glanced back at me, clearly relieved. “I have to run, Maddie. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” He pulled the door open and stepped inside. He turned to
look at me one last time before he ushered his son through the door, pausing, then closing it firmly behind him.

  I walked to my car, trying to put this information together in my mind. Harvey had argued with Virgil in the middle of the street because neither of them wanted their wives to know what they were really up to. He’d lied about his stance regarding the cats and tried to make it look like Virgil was the bad guy at the Audubon board. And now he was flat-out lying to me about all of it.

  Could he have also lied about where he was that night? Could he have left his house, parked out of sight, then snuck back to the neighborhood to bash Virgil over the head with a Christmas gnome?

  Chapter 34

  Thursday, December 31: nine days after the murder

  7:30 a.m.

  I couldn’t wait to debrief Grandpa on what I’d learned at the funeral. He’d been asleep when I got home the previous night, but I figured we’d connect first thing this morning. While I waited for him to come downstairs, I poured myself coffee and used the time to google Virgil Proust, artist.

  No hits.

  I frowned. “Guess he wasn’t that famous after all,” I said to myself.

  “Who?”

  I turned to see Katrina standing in the kitchen doorway. She had her cat carrier with Fred and Ethel in one hand and her duffel bag in the other. I frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my place. It’s so sweet of you guys to have me here but I need to get back into my routine.” She smiled a half smile. “For as long as I have it.”

  “Katrina, no. I don’t want you to be alone.” I put my mug down and crossed the room to her. “Is there something else we can do for you here? Do you want more privacy?”

  “No, Mads, please. You guys have been amazing. I just need to spend some time alone. Honest, I’ll be fine. Now”—she smiled, a little too brightly—“who’s not famous?”

  “Uh.” I frantically tried to think of an answer that didn’t involve the guy she was accused of murdering, but in the end I couldn’t come up with one. “I was looking up Virgil,” I said. “They were talking about his art yesterday. And I met his agent.”