by Mary Bowers
Frane joined me, signaling to the Rastafarian for the usual. He studied my plate and said, “Vegetarian?”
I nodded.
“Me too.”
I stared at him. There was probably no unwritten code that cops had to eat red meat, but it would have seemed more natural, for some reason. When his food came, his plate was a virtual copy of my own.
I began to reassess Detective Marty Frane.
While I did, he asked me if I’d been playing detective.
“Well, I can’t help thinking things over, can I?” I said.
“When you begin to go around conducting interviews, you’re doing more than thinking things over.”
“Oh, all right,” I frumped. I was finished with my caprese sandwich by then, and I shoved my plate aside. “And it wasn’t an interview. I wanted to give the man some fishing lures that have been sitting on a shelf – oh, hell.” I looked down, shook my head and told my guardian angel to stop nagging. “I wanted to know if he’d seen any men hanging around Maida Rosewood’s house very late at night.”
“And he said . . . ?”
“The same thing he told you, I’m sure. The answer was no. Blast the man, he sleeps like a rock. He’s got no right to at his age. The fact is, he doesn’t sit up at night making himself useful by staring out a window, so he couldn’t tell me anything useful. But there had to have been a man with Maida that night. We know that because of the fancy get-up she was in when she died. So I got to thinking, if the boyfriend couldn’t be seen going into her house, maybe that explains the odd time they chose for their rendezvous. OR,” I said, getting excited, “she usually went to his house. But why?”
“Maybe he had a wife, but she was out of town a lot?”
“Or he didn’t even have a house. Maybe he just had a hotel room.”
“You’re thinking of her brother-in-law, Hank.”
“It would explain why nobody knows who the boyfriend was. Hank acted like he hated her, but a self-righteous prig like him would have been ashamed of coveting his brother’s wife. The neighbor, Jerry, never saw anybody like Hank at Maida’s house, and that could be the reason why. Hank was ashamed of what he was feeling, but Maida was ready to get it on. Grant and Hank Rosewood resembled one another. If she fell for one, she might have fallen for the other, especially if Hank was more attentive than his absent-minded brother. Hank might not have been able to resist Maida, if she decided to seduce him. Then, horrified at his own lack of restraint, maybe he blamed her.”
“Let me save you some time and effort. That situation would have had her going to Hank’s hotel room to seduce him, and the hotel staff never saw Maida there. Also, she doesn’t appear on any of the footage from the hotel’s security cameras.”
I nodded, disappointed. “All right. Then the only man Jerry ever saw at Maida’s house was somebody who could have been either Jesse Mantrell or Adam Cody. And whichever one it was, he was brought to the house by Carmen. That doesn’t scream love affair.”
“Jesse was loose in the area, but he had other fish to fry that night.”
“Well, let’s turn it around, then. Instead of looking for who was going to her house, let’s look for who she could have been going to. Adam has a house of his own. Was she ever seen at his house?”
“Neighbors say that she went over there when he first started to move in, but she hadn’t been back since. The word on Locust Street is that she even avoided the gallery, though she was only two doors down from it most mornings, working at your resale shop.”
I stared at the detective and willed him to give me an answer to my next question, even though I knew he shouldn’t. “You’ve got the records from Maida’s cellphone by now. Were there a lot of calls between her and Adam?”
He took a sip of coffee before answering, “None.”
“Rats. I was afraid of that.”
“Why?”
“I just hate the thought of what Grant Rosewood’s suicide did to all the people around him. The wreckage.”
“I think I see what you mean. From what I’ve been able to find out, Adam was doing his best to avoid Maida lately. He admits they had a nasty fight not long before she died – and before you go nosing around the neighborhood again, I may as well tell you that Carmen did bring Adam over to her mother’s house, shortly after the reading of the will. That’s when the fight happened.”
“They both wanted to get at Grant’s final, unfinished works.”
“So you know all this.”
“Maida told me. And Adam told me. And Carmen told me. It was a big thing between the three of them. Even Carmen’s roommate, Joy, was asking me about it, as if I’d know. It was driving everybody to distraction. And driving everybody apart. Was Adam’s cellphone number in Maida’s Contacts list?”
“No.”
“Not even there.”
“Not even, but she could have reached him through Carmen. Carmen had his number, and in fact, the two of them have been calling one another a lot. You’ve got an idea, Ms. Verone. I can tell. Why don’t you talk to me about it?”
“It’s a little deep,” I said. “You might find it a tad implausible.”
“Try me.”
“Well, let me start here: did your forensics people manage to get any DNA or prints off the handle of the paintbrush that was used to twist the . . . you know, to strangle Maida?”
“No.”
“What do you make of that? Premeditation? The killer wore gloves?”
“The handle was wiped. The killer must not have been in the house long, because there’s no evidence of his or her presence anywhere. The killer wiped the front door handle on the way out. The slider to the back patio was locked from the inside. There’s no DNA on the scarf that was used to strangle her, no footprints inside or outside, no evidence of sexual activity. That’s why I’m talking to you right now, Ms. Verone. We don’t have any evidence that’s going to help us, so we’re doing a lot of talking, to you and everybody else. Anything else you have to tell me would be much appreciated.”
I thought about it. “The killer went out the front door. Have you been able to look at any home security cameras from houses on Palmetto Street?”
“It’s not a neighborhood that runs to security cameras. Mostly retired folks or young people who are just starting out.”
“So that’s a no?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s a no.”
“Darn. It would have been so simple if you just had a recording of the murderer going in and out the front door.”
“If we did, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it right now. So what’s your next idea?”
“Maida was needy that night. She was worried about something, and both Carmen and I failed to give her whatever it was she needed. Something very specific was on her mind, but she didn’t want to say what it was. And . . . this is just a vague impression, but I had the feeling that while she was talking to me, she was hoping I’d talk her out of something.”
“Something specific? Like keeping a date, or going ahead with a decision?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
He pondered that. “So your theory is she decided to tell somebody something, and she was nervous about it. And for whatever reason, she was resolving the matter at an ungodly hour between 3:45 a.m., when Carmen says she left, and 8:45 in the morning when her neighbor found her dead. Actually, the medical examiner thinks she died sometime between 3 and 5 a.m., if that’s any good to you. Which would include the time her daughter was there. Sunrise isn’t until just before 7 this time of year, so it was dark out and there are no street lamps on Palmetto. Does that clear the boards for you any?”
“Yes. A lot.”
He stared and said, “You lost me.”
“I know,” I said in a small voice, rubbing my forehead.
The server came to clear the table. With the dishes in his hands, he looked at me, gently concerned, and seemed to want to ask if I were all right. After a moment’s hesitation, he turne
d and went away with the dishes, and Frane went back to staring at me.
“You’re not going to tell me,” he said at last.
“I don’t really know. And I don’t know how to put it so you’ll take me seriously. Listen, I’m about to do something you’re not going to like, but I’m going to tell you about it ahead of time, just in case.”
“Just in case what? In case you go off and get yourself killed? You’re right, I don’t like it. I don’t enjoy fencing with you, but I haven’t gotten to the point where I want you dead yet.”
“Gee, it’s nice to know you care.”
“You didn’t let me finish: I’d never be able to write up your case file in a way that wouldn’t get me fired.”
“Nice. I’m trying to save a life, all right, but not my own. I promise, I’m not in any danger, but I’m going out to Carmen’s studio now, and I wanted you to know.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you can’t. This isn’t going to work if you’re there. She’s hard enough to understand when she’s only talking to one person. With a cop in the room, she’ll be incomprehensible.”
“I found Carmen pretty straightforward. Wait, who are you going there to talk to, Carmen or Joy?”
“Both, actually.”
He gave it some thought, then said, “Joy was in way too deep with that teacher of hers, but she didn’t kill him. I told you, that was definitely suicide. Are you thinking Joy knows something that might prove that Carmen killed her mother? She’s screwy enough to know something obvious and not realize it’s important.”
“Joy has probably witnessed a lot of things that’s she’s too self-centered to give a second thought to.”
“You think she knows who the loverboy was?”
“Probably not, but I don’t think the murder was about love. I think it was about raw need, and a willingness to do anything to have that need fulfilled, even something dangerous.”
I didn’t want to be any more specific than that yet, but I could tell I’d lost him for good this time. He grunted, but he didn’t quite roll his eyes.
Before I paid my check and got up to go, I told Frane, “I’ll admit I’m thinking outside the box, but I still think Maida’s murder goes back to her husband’s death. And before you say it again, I accept that that was suicide.”
“Well, at least we agree about something.”
As I walked around the table, I paused beside him and rested my hand on his shoulder. “You wanted to know what I learned this morning, and this is what it was: It’s not what Jerry saw, it’s what he didn’t see. Why would a woman like Maida keep her love affairs secret? In my experience, women like her always bore their friends to death with their love affairs because it’s all they can think about. And Maida was a widow. Why should she care if people knew she had a lover? She wouldn’t have been cheating on her husband. Not anymore, anyway.”
“Is that a hint?” he asked me in a level voice.
“Actually,” I said, “it is. The big clue of the day is this: Maida wasn’t having an affair.”
“So she was dressing up like that for the fun of it? Somebody was coming over to paint a boudoir portrait of her and decided to strangle her instead? Am I getting warm?”
“No. You’re making me sad.” I squeezed his shoulder good-bye. “I’ll call you.”
As I made for the door, he said, “You do that now,” in a very weary voice.
Chapter 22 – Souls in Ecstasy
However you view what came later, I was lucky in finding both Joy and Carmen at the beach house when I got there. They were just finishing lunch together, and when Carmen let me in, she offered to make a sandwich for me.
“No thanks. I just came from the Karma Café.”
“Oh, I love that place! I go there all the time. I know everybody who works there by name. Who was your server?”
“A guy with his Rasta braids bundled up in a crocheted hat.”
“Calvin? He’s my favorite. Such a nice guy, and he’s got such gorgeous eyes.”
“Oh? I didn’t notice. He seems like a gentle soul.”
“He is. And he’s so sweet.” She took a moment to think about Calvin, looking a little unhappy. Then she switched gears. “You’ll have some coffee with us, won’t you? Or iced tea?” she asked as she was walking me back to the little table next to the kitchen.
I’d had iced tea with lunch, and before that, cappuccino with Joy, so I just asked for a glass of water.
Once settled at the table, I needed an excuse for dropping by, so I said, “I saw Joy in town earlier in the day, and she mentioned the new piece she was working on. I was just driving by and decided on impulse to take a chance on seeing it. Or are you one of those artists who doesn’t want people to see their work while it’s still in the embryonic stage?”
When I’d mentioned seeing Joy earlier in the day, she had stiffened up, but when all I said about it was that we’d talked about her new sculpture, she relaxed again.
“I don’t mind if you see it, but it really is just an embryo just now. I’ve got a model, but it’s too small to have any visual impact. You’ll probably get a better idea of the finished piece from my sketches. I’ll go get them.”
Before I could stop her, she got up and went off quickly. While she was away, Carmen told me, “She’s actually got something with this new work of hers. It’s a whole new direction, away from the big installations. She may finally be finding her direction, now that . . . .” She stopped because Joy was coming back within earshot, and turning to her she said, “I was just telling Taylor I think you’re moving in the right direction with this new work. You’ve had a breakthrough.”
“Oh, do you really think so?” Joy gushed.
“I’m sure of it.”
“I wish Grant could have seen it.”
Carmen held herself still for a moment, then carefully said, “You should have more confidence in your own decisions, Joy. You’re ready to stand on your own two feet as an artist, and I think this new piece proves that. Maybe what my father was trying to say was that you were ready.”
Joy seemed taken aback, and not entirely pleased. But after a moment, she looked at Carmen and nodded. “It’s just that I’m so used to having his guidance, and now I have so much doubt. It’s that over-the-falls feeling.”
“That’s just part of being an artist. I get the same feeling, when I’m facing a blank canvas. I just have to go in and attack it. You have to learn to trust yourself.”
Joy scattered a few willow-stick drawings on the table in front of me and told me not to touch them. “I’ve sprayed them with a fixative, but you might still get black on your clothing.”
The drawings were deeply affecting, with jagged edges tearing into beautiful, sensuous lines, and a suggestion of reaching hands. I gasped in surprise, and she heard me.
“This is . . . .” I shook my head, not able to get the words. Then I looked up at Joy, who was watching me with both hope and fear. “I agree with Carmen. You’ve found yourself. Go with this. Can I see the real thing?”
“Sure.”
We got up, left the house and walked past the iron monster in the yard. Nobody looked at or commented on The Armor Plating of Our Peace. Large works of art usually get nicknames, like Kapoor’s Cloud Gate in Chicago, which is commonly called The Bean. I wondered if Peace wasn’t going to end up being called The Scrapheap, or something worse.
A Soul in Agony was no coffee table decoration, but it was going to be considerably smaller than Peace. It would stand comfortably in the foyer of a mansion, or even a memorial garden. Due to its smaller size, she was creating it inside the studio rather than outdoors.
The model-in-miniature stood on a worktable under a skylight. Now she was working on the main section of the actual piece, using a rough wooden platform as a pedestal. The central mass, rendered in metal, had a presence that was missing from the little model. The thing had life. On the model, sensuous curves were punctured by shards and teeth that didn�
�t appear on the work-in-progress yet. They would add suggestions of cruelty, but also of beauty and poignancy, and all the terrors of living.
I found myself nodding, gazing at it, and finally I said, “This is where you belong.” Knowing that didn’t quite make sense, I added, “As an artist.”
“I understood,” Joy said quickly.
“As long as she gets it,” Carmen said to Joy, “we may as well tell her. I mean, it’s not like it’s going to be a secret for much longer.”
Almost shyly, Joy said, “If you’d like to.”
“No, you go ahead and tell her.”
I looked from one to the other, waiting for somebody to tell me the big secret.
Finally, Joy said, “Carmen and I are going to work together on finishing my master’s last works.” At the word master, she began to break, and when she’d finished, she actually began to tear up. She turned and walked stiffly out of the studio, and we didn’t follow her.
“When did you come to this decision?” I asked Carmen.
“Today. Just a little while ago. She brought it up, and that’s when I finally admitted I was being unfair to her. Because of this,” she added, gesturing toward the miniature. “I had my reasons for not liking her personally, and I let that affect my opinion of her work. And, to be fair to myself, she was always veering off in the wrong direction then, trying to impress Grant. I think she thought she was being brave by going big. But he must have understood that she was nearing a breakthrough. For the time she was with him, she was much closer to him than I could ever get. That hurt, so I put the worst spin on things that I could. But seeing this new piece has forced me to change my mind.”
“But you really trust her with something as personal as your father’s works?”
She inhaled and exhaled audibly. “She’s a sculptor. I’m not. I tried. Whatever I inherited from my father, it went sideways and got into paint instead. It was the reason that the last thing he said to me was that I would never be a true artist.” She paused and turned to look at me. “He said that at best, what I was producing was craft, not art. That time I told you about, when he saw my studio work. It was the last time I saw him.”