Vanished into Plein Air

by Paula Darnell

“Emma, that's great!”

  I'd hoped she'd want to spend the summer with me again next year, but we hadn't really talked about it.

  As I parked in my carport, I could hear my golden retriever Laddie barking inside the house. I knew he'd heard us coming before we turned into the driveway. Somehow, he was able to distinguish the difference between my SUV and every other vehicle that came up Canyon Drive.

  Laddie crowded the door as Emma and I entered, his feathery tail whipping back and forth. He wasn't satisfied until both Emma and I gave him a hug.

  “I guess Mona Lisa's in one of her moods,” Emma said. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” she called, but my persnickety calico cat didn't appear. She was probably hiding behind the sofa or under my bed, and she'd deign to grace us with her presence on her own schedule, not ours.

  She finally made her appearance shortly before we went to bed for the night, sneaking into my tiny living room and pouncing on Emma's feet. Emma picked her up for a cuddle, and Mona Lisa purred loudly. My cat had pretty much forsaken me in favor of my daughter since Emma had come to stay with us for the summer. Instead of curling up in my bed at night, she snuggled with Emma.

  Laddie seemed happy to have me all to himself; he didn't miss our feline companion when she deserted us for Emma.

  I was afraid that Mona Lisa was going to be a very sad kitty tomorrow, after Emma left.

  “Are you going to miss me when I go back to school?” Emma asked the little calico cat.

  Mona Lisa emitted a loud “meow” in response, and I knew that she wouldn't be the only one who'd miss Emma when she returned to college.

  Chapter 3

  Two days later I was thinking how much quieter my little house seemed without my daughter's lively presence when I heard my neighbor Belle's distinctive knock on my kitchen door.

  “Belle, you're back!” I exclaimed as I gave her a hug. Her little fluffy white dog Mr. Big shot into the kitchen where Laddie joyfully greeted his little buddy. They hadn't seen each other for almost three weeks while Belle and her husband Dennis had been visiting their family in Michigan.

  “Do you have time to take the dogs for a walk?” she asked. “I couldn't remember whether you were scheduled to work at the gallery today.”

  “Sure. Laddie's raring to go. I'm working in the gallery today, but not till this afternoon. I've decided to schedule four half days a month, rather than two full days. That way, I can get some painting done on my gallery work days if I want to. To tell you the truth, I wasn't even planning on doing that today. I don't know why I have such a hard time sticking to a schedule.”

  “You accomplish plenty, Amanda, schedule or no schedule. I have a feeling you may be missing Emma now that she's gone back to college.”

  “You're right. I was just thinking about how quiet the place is without her. A walk will do me good.”

  I grabbed Laddie's leash and snapped it onto his collar while Belle checked Mr. Big's collar and leash to make sure they were secure. The active little dog had backed out of his collar and run off toward another dog at the park the day before Belle and Dennis left on their trip. Although we'd been able to catch up with Mr. Big, Belle didn't want to have to deal with any more of his escape-artist antics.

  “All set,” she said, and we were off.

  “Let's take a little detour around the block before we go to the park,” Belle suggested. “I want to see what's going on at that house on the other side of yours. When Dennis and I got home last night, I thought I saw a light over there. It's been vacant since the first of the year.”

  “We might as well go out the studio door,” I said, and we all trooped through my studio to the side door, which normally I opened only on Friday evenings for studio tours. My studio had been a stop on the Lonesome Valley Artists' Studios Tour for several months. Although few lookers visited on some Fridays, I'd had enough business to make it worthwhile.

  My view of the vacant house next door was obstructed by a high hedge between the two properties, so the out-of-sight, out-of-mind residence hadn't captured my attention.

  “Looks like somebody's moving in,” Belle commented. “All the blinds have been raised. I guess we're about to have a new neighbor.”

  “I hope my studio tour won't disturb them on Friday nights. Sometimes people park in front of that house.”

  “I think it'll be fine,” Belle assured me. “It's only for three hours once a week.”

  We circled the next block and headed to the park. Laddie couldn't resist flopping down and rolling in the grass as soon as we arrived, and Mr. Big bounced around his pal until I coaxed my affable golden boy to continue on our way. The park was quieter than it had been a few days earlier. Like Emma, the local students had returned to school.

  Somehow, I'd have to force myself to get back into my routine, too. It helped that Belle and Dennis were back from their trip. We'd become fast friends early on after my move to Lonesome Valley, and hardly a day passed that Belle and I didn't walk the dogs together or meet for coffee. We both liked to cook, and we often exchanged casseroles or desserts we'd made. Belle's husband Dennis was quite the cook in his own right, and the three of us frequently ate dinner together with Dennis presiding over his barbecue grill on their patio while Laddie and Mr. Big romped in the backyard.

  After half an hour at the park, Belle reluctantly suggested that we should head for home since she had three weeks' worth of mail to sort and needed to make a run to the grocery store.

  “I won't say the larder's bare,” she declared, “but I definitely need some fresh veggies, fruit, and bread.”

  We didn't dawdle on our walk home. Mr. Big made sure he never let Laddie get ahead of him, even though it meant his taking four steps to every one of Laddie's.

  “Look there,” I pointed to a furniture delivery truck in front of the formerly vacant home next door. “You were right.”

  Two burly deliverymen exited the house and climbed into the truck, but we saw no sign of the new owner.

  No matter who they were—a family or a couple, a single or roommates—I couldn't imagine that they would ever become such good friends as Belle and Dennis were to me.

  Chapter 4

  “I've got it!”

  “Got what, Amanda?”

  “Oh, sorry, Pamela,” I said, as I signed in for my afternoon shift at the Roadrunner. “I guess I was thinking out loud. One of Ulysses's paintings at Brooks's gallery looked very familiar to me, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen it before. It just now came to me. One of my Mom's jigsaw puzzles—it's the exact same picture.”

  Pamela nodded. “Ulysses is quite the marketer, or, I should say, his wife is. She takes care of all his business arrangements, from what I understand. Ulysses's artwork has been plastered all over lots of products from t-shirts to mugs. Several companies sell the stuff, and he gets a cut of every sale.”

  “Sounds quite lucrative.”

  “I'm sure it is. He has a condo in Florida, a vacation retreat in Spain, and he lives on a ranch somewhere near Santa Fe. When I first met him, he was more of a starving artist than a tycoon. I knew him because we were both Ralph's students for a while.”

  The gallery door swung open, and Susan hurried in.

  “I hope I'm not late,” she said, a little out of breath. “There was some road construction on First Street, and traffic was at a standstill for fifteen minutes.”

  “You're right on the dot,” Pamela said, glancing at the big clock next to the cash register.

  “Oh, good. What's the scoop on the plein air event you mentioned the other evening?”

  “I'm writing an email to send out to all the members. Brooks didn't give me the details until this morning. He said there'd been a slight glitch with the arrangements—something about a permit, I believe—but everything's on track now.”

  “The plein air paint-out will take place next Saturday morning up at Miners' Lookout from eight until noon, and the public can watch. Ulysses will be the main attraction. All the rest will be
local artists, including any of our own members who want to participate.

  “Then, the paintings will all be auctioned off that evening with half the proceeds going to each individual artist and half to the artist's favorite charity. What do you think? Are you both in?”

  “I am,” Susan said. “It sounds like fun.”

  “So am I,” Pamela confirmed. “What about you, Amanda?”

  “I don't know.”

  Susan painted with watercolors, and Pamela used acrylic paints. Neither would face the problems I would have since my oil paints would still be wet at the end of the morning. Besides the wet paint issue, I tended to work very slowly. I wasn't sure I could complete a painting in four hours.

  “Oh, come on, Amanda,” Susan urged. “We can help carry your painting so it will be safe afterwards if you're worried about wet paint.”

  “Well, all right. I guess I'll do it. And thanks for your offer. That's exactly what I was worried about.” I didn't want to admit the other reason for my hesitation. Neither Susan nor Pamela seemed to have any such qualms.

  It wasn't unusual for me to spend forty or fifty hours on a painting. Now I'd have to finish one of my landscapes in a tenth of my usual time. I hoped I wasn't setting myself up for failure, but since I'd agreed to take part, I wasn't about to back out.

  The wheels turned as I tried to decide which charity I'd designate to receive half the proceeds from the sale of my painting. Then another thought popped into my head. I certainly hoped somebody would buy it. I'd be both embarrassed and disappointed if there were no takers.

  I tried to shake the negative thinking as I decided on the local pet rescue society as my charity of choice.

  “Looks like we have some customers coming,” Susan said, nodding toward the gallery door, where a group of women had gathered outside. A tall woman with long brown hair was speaking to the little cluster of ladies before they crowded inside.

  “That's Isobel McCafferty,” Pamela told us. “She came in last week to let me know she'd be giving her first tour of Lonesome Valley this week, but I thought she told me it would be tomorrow. I must have mixed up the dates.”

  Pamela hurried over to Isobel while Susan and I greeted the group.

  “How many of you have visited Lonesome Valley before?” I asked, and about half of the women raised their hands.

  “My husband and I used to come up here three or four times a year,” said a white-haired woman, “so I thought our Mothers' Club might enjoy the trip, and here we are.”

  The club's members branched out, meandering around the gallery, while we stood by to answer any questions they might have.

  “This place is every bit as nice as the galleries in Scottsdale,” one woman said, as she looked at Susan's floral watercolors. “Oh, I love this one! It would go perfectly above the console in my entryway.”

  Hearing her comment, Susan's ears perked up, and the two were soon engaged in conversation.

  Several other women gathered at the jewelry counter, so I headed there to assist them. Soon, I'd sold several pairs of earrings, a large turquoise pendant necklace, and half a dozen packets of note cards. A few minutes later, Susan successfully closed the sale of her cactus flower watercolor painting, too.

  As the group left, Isobel assured Pamela that the Roadrunner would definitely remain a stop on her tours.

  We'd barely recovered from the flurry of activity when Ulysses and a slender, dark-haired woman I assumed to be his wife entered the gallery. She held a phone to her ear, its case decorated with an abstract floral design, but she quickly dropped it into her purse.

  “Pamela,” Ulysses said, “I hardly saw you the other night.” He moved in closer to her, and it looked as though he was about to hug her, but she quickly stepped back. There was an awkward split second before Ulysses introduced his wife Olivia to Pamela.

  “It's nice to meet you,” Pamela said politely. “I must have missed you at Brooks's gallery the other evening.”

  “No. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to attend. I had an important business meeting in Los Angeles that day. If my flight had been on time, I would have been there.”

  “That's what happens when you cut it close,” Ulysses said.

  Olivia glared at him. “Somebody has to take care of business!”

  “Yes, yes. Of course, you're right, my dear.”

  An uncomfortable moment of silence followed Ulysses's attempt to mollify his wife, but Susan saved the day when she offered Olivia a tour of the gallery and led her around the divider wall, into the gallery's back area. I excused myself to return to the counter, saying I had some paperwork to catch up on, but I could still hear every word that passed between Ulysses and Pamela.

  Ulysses turned to her with a weak grin on his face. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled. “She gets a little over-sensitive sometimes.”

  Pamela shrugged.

  “It's been what—twenty-five years since I've seen you. You haven't changed a bit, Pam.”

  “Closer to thirty, and I go by Pamela now.”

  “The good old days. Ralph always kept us on our toes. He's a great guy, isn't he?”

  Pamela nodded. “He's one of the Roadrunner's founders. There are some of his recent paintings on the wall right behind you.”

  Ulysses turned around to look. “Wonderful! I hope he'll be able to come to the paint-out.”

  “I don't know. You saw that he was using his cane at the opening. His arthritis has really been bothering him the last week or so, and the path up to Miners' Lookout might be too much for him. But if he feels up to it, I think he'll make an effort to come.”

  “Well, I'm looking forward to it.”

  “Kind of an odd choice to hold the event at Miners' Lookout, isn't it?”

  “How so?”

  Pamela lowered her voice. “You know—Jill's disappearance. Surely, it can't be a pleasant memory.”

  Chapter 5

  Windless, cool, and sunny—the weather forecast for the day of the plein air paint-out couldn't have been more perfect. I'd stowed my easel, canvas, paints, and other supplies in my SUV the day before so that all I had to do was jump in the car and take off as soon as I dropped Laddie off at Belle's.

  Belle and I had scouted Miners' Lookout a few days earlier. We'd missed the turn to the winding mountain road leading to the Lookout, but now that I knew where to find it, I arrived at the gravel parking lot with time to spare. There were already several cars in the lot when I pulled in. I spotted Susan's blue Honda and parked next to her.

  “Beautiful day, isn't it?” Susan said as we removed our supplies from our trunks.

  “Yes, it's great. I was afraid it would be windy again today, and that would have been a disaster.”

  “We lucked out,” Susan agreed, as several other vehicles nosed into the lot. “It looks like we check in over there.” She pointed to a couple of long tables sitting next to the trailhead, the steep path that led to Miners' Lookout above.

  Brooks Miller stood behind one table, distributing laminated badges to the artists who were participating in the event. I slipped the long ribbon holding my badge over my head, and Susan did the same.

  Brooks had always worn a suit whenever I'd seen him. Now he looked different, but perfectly at ease, in a sweater, jeans, and sneakers. On the other hand, his wife Gabrielle, who stood behind the other table, which held bagels, bottles of water, and orange juice, definitely seemed out of her element. Although she, like Brooks, wore a sweater and jeans, her choice of footwear couldn't have been more inappropriate for the rugged terrain. Her strappy high platform sandals wouldn't have been easy to walk in anyplace, and they didn't look like they'd survive a trek up the trail, but perhaps she planned to stay at her post all morning, rather than going up to the Lookout to observe the painters.

  “You're welcome to go on up to the Lookout right away, pick a spot, and set up, but no painting until eight. We'll check right before to make sure nobody starts early.”

  “How will we know when we
can start?” Susan asked. “I don't want to jump the gun.”

  “The bell in this case,” Brooks said, smiling. “I'll announce the start and ring a bell promptly at eight.”

  “Sounds good,” I murmured.

  We moved to the table Gabrielle stood behind and each helped ourselves to a bottle of juice. I smiled at Gabrielle, and Susan nodded. She watched us but didn't say a word.

  “Real friendly, isn't she?” Susan whispered as we headed to the restroom, situated not far from the trailhead. “I suppose there's no restroom up at the Lookout.”

  “There isn't. Belle and I checked it out the other day.”

  “Figures. Good thing I'm a fast worker,” she said. “Coming down here and going back up to the Lookout will cut several minutes off our four hours.”

  “For sure.” I was still a bit worried that I wouldn't be able to complete my painting in the allotted time, so I'd selected a sixteen-inch by twenty-inch canvas to paint, although normally I preferred painting on a larger canvas.

  After our pit stop, we trudged up the path to the Lookout. I was glad I'd put my paints and supplies in a backpack so that I had to carry only the easel and canvas. Even so, it was slow going, and we were happy to reach the Lookout, which offered a wonderful view of nearby mountains and the valley below. The side of the Lookout where we could see the view had a sheer drop-off, and although a couple of warning signs were posted, no fence or other barrier prevented someone who wandered too close to the edge from tumbling over.

  “I'm staying well back from that,” Susan said, pointing to the drop-off. “Oh, look over here. Scarlet morning glory! I can't believe it! You don't see that too often around here.”

  Susan set up her easel near the bright red wildflower, while she explained to me that it was fairly rare, classified as a noxious weed, and thus illegal for nurseries to sell in Arizona.

  I settled on a spot nearby with a nice view of a stand of trees that I'd decided to make the focus of my painting. A few artists had already staked out their territories; others had followed us up the path and were scanning the area, deciding where they wanted to set up their easels.