He followed me inside and put the bowls on the kitchen counter, but he didn't look at me when I thanked him. He was out the door, still staring at his shoes, when I called after him.
“See you tomorrow.”
Finally, he looked at me, this time like a deer in the headlights.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, Belle and I will bring the painting you liked over, so you can see if it would look good in your living room.”
“Oh, right! OK,” he mumbled, walking away with an ungainly wave.
I closed the door, locked it, and stooped to unsnap Laddie's leash. I was glad he'd enjoyed a lot of play time during the evening, but now he was a tired dog. Mona Lisa, on the other hand, ran around in a kitty frenzy until I took out her favorite feather toy, flicking it back and forth while she tried to pounce on it.
While I played with Mona Lisa, I remembered that, when the topic of Ulysses's murder had come up during dinner, Dennis and Belle had both steered the conversation in another direction, probably not wanting to dwell on crime in Lonesome Valley, since Brian had mentioned that one of the reasons he'd decided to relocate here was that Lonesome Valley seemed like a nice small town.
Ulysses had certainly been a target; his murder hadn't been caused by a random attack, and I definitely didn't think the citizens of Lonesome Valley were in any danger from the killer, who had some reason for wanting the famous artist dead. I wondered what the motive could be—revenge, love, money? No obvious answer came to mind. I didn't envy Sergeant Martinez's task in investigating the crime. As far as I could tell, there were no cameras in the hospital rooms or hallways. I hadn't seen any in the stairwell, either. The perpetrator could have easily walked in and out of the hospital without anyone noticing, but if the police had videos of the fourth-floor hallway, they would be able to review them to find out who'd entered Ulysses's room, but without them, there was no way to tell. I wondered if they'd found any evidence in his room; if so, I doubted that they would share it.
With a yawn, I realized how tired I felt, so I headed to bed, not bothering to set the alarm clock. I could count on Laddie to wake me up at six since the piercing buzzing of the alarm clock wouldn't awaken us earlier.
Sure enough, promptly at six, I felt a wet nose nudging my arm. My canine companion wagged his tail happily, as I rolled out of bed and gave him a hug. Mona Lisa gazed at us. Turning her back, she curled up on her favorite pillow and stayed in bed.
Laddie and I took a leisurely walk in the park and returned home to an equally leisurely breakfast. I didn't feel as rushed as I had the day before. By the time I had a pot of strong tea, I was ready to get to work, but I remembered that I hadn't heard back yet from the couple who'd commissioned the portrait of the Siamese cats. I went into the studio and booted up my laptop, since I reserved it for business and used my phone for personal email.
Still, no response. I thought it unusual that I hadn't received any messages from them, nor had they paid the invoice I'd sent them. I decided to give it the rest of the day, and if I still hadn't heard from them, I'd contact them by phone in the morning. They'd always answered my previous emails promptly, and I began to fear that they hadn't liked the portrait and were delaying telling me. I hoped that wasn't the case, especially since I was counting on their final payment arriving soon. At least, I'd have Xena's check for the scarves tomorrow, but that alone wouldn't be enough to see me through.
Perhaps my neighbor would buy a print of the painting he liked. I should probably pitch some more boutiques and gift shops to purchase my scarves, too.
Thinking about my finances wasn't helping me get any work done, though, and I couldn't deliver any scarves to the hospital gift shop if I didn't finish preparing them.
It was important to steam set the dye on my silk scarves to make them colorfast and washable. They could be dry cleaned, too, as long as the dye was set properly, so it was an important step in finishing the scarves. Long ago, I'd decided the microwave steaming method was the way to go, especially since a professional steaming device cost well over a thousand dollars. I'd bought a second microwave for that very purpose. I stored it in the carport on a rolling cart, so I could move it easily to work on the patio.
It was time to get to work now, so I pushed the cart to the patio, plugged the microwave into an exterior outlet, and began wrapping each scarf in paper. It would take just a few minutes in the microwave with a cup of water to steam set each scarf, but they had to be done individually, rather than all together.
The morning flew, and I felt I'd accomplished a lot. After pressing all dozen scarves, I set aside six to take to the gift shop in the morning and printed an invoice to drop off at the same time for Xena's records.
Soon it was time to get ready for the showing. I shed my jeans and t-shirt and put on some tan cotton pants, which didn't wrinkle as badly as my linen slacks and a royal blue tunic top with an asymmetrical hem. I was looking for my paper samples when Belle came to the door, and my phone rang at the same time. She slipped inside while I looked at the display to see who was calling. It was Dawn Martinez, so I answered the call while Belle greeted Laddie and Mona Lisa showed up to rub against her ankles.
“Hi, Dawn.”
“Amanda, it's Dave. I borrowed Dawn's phone. I was wondering if you could come into the station this afternoon. I'm conducting interviews, but it shouldn't take long. Say two o'clock?”
“I don't think I can come in then, Sergeant. I'm on my way out to show a painting in a customer's home.”
“We can make it later this afternoon, if that works for you. I'd really like to wrap up the preliminary interviews today.”
“All right. I can probably be there sometime between three and four.”
“Police?” Belle asked after I put my phone down. “I heard you say 'Sergeant.'”
I nodded. “Yes, that was Dawn's husband, Sergeant Martinez. He wants to ask me a few questions about Olivia's kidnapping. They don't know whether it's related to Ulysses's murder or not.”
“I'm glad you didn't have to cancel again. I think Brian's serious about wanting to buy a print.”
“Let me find my paper samples.” I rummaged through my desk and located them tucked inside a cardboard sleeve.
“Do you need help carrying the painting?”
“No. I can get it if you'll take the paper samples.”
Brian must have been looking for us because he opened the door before we started up his front sidewalk. When he ushered us into his living room, I could see that he wasn't kidding about needing a painting to hang above his sofa. The living room walls, painted a neutral eggshell hue, were completely bare, and the earth-tone furniture all looked new. There weren't any decorative knick-knacks in evidence, although a few magazines and a book lay on the coffee table.
“It's hung on a wire, isn't it?” he asked, and when I answered him in the affirmative, he continued. “Good. I've installed a sturdy hook in the stud centered above the sofa. Shall we?”
He hoisted the painting up, securing the wire on the hook and stood back to determine whether the position needed to be fine-tuned.
“A little bit up on the left,” I suggested, and Brian nudged the canvas.
“That looks perfect now,” Belle commented. “It certainly brightens up the room. You could pick up some of the colors in the painting with pillows and other accent pieces, maybe a couple of vases.”
Brian scratched his head and flashed a lopsided grin. He looked at me for confirmation.
“I agree with Belle, but, of course, I'm biased since I painted it. What do you think?”
“I really like it and Belle's suggestions, too.”
“Great! We brought some paper samples.” Belle handed me the cardboard sleeve, and I took the samples out and fanned them, much like a pack of cards. “See: each one is a little different. You can feel the surface textures.” I handed most of them to Brian. “Those are all archival art papers. Here are three more, but these are different types of canvas.”
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Brian studied the samples. “They're all nice, but I like the original painting best. I think I'll go with that. What are the damages?” he asked, pulling a check and a pen out of his pocket.
I gasped. “Are you sure? The prints are a lot less expensive.”
“I'm sure.”
“The original is four thousand dollars.”
“OK,” Brian said without hesitation. He wrote the check and handed it to me.
“Anything wrong?”
I must have looked taken aback. “It's just that every time I sell a painting, I realize I can't afford to buy my own work.”
Brian burst out laughing.
Belle shook her head at my uncensored reaction.
“Thank you so much,” I stammered. “I really appreciate it.” Now who was acting flustered? I could have kicked myself. Sales skills had never been my strong suit, but I managed to muddle through, knowing that creating artwork would always be easier for me than selling it.
“Brian seemed a lot more relaxed in his own home,” Belle said, as we walked back to my house.
“I noticed. I still can't believe he bought the painting and not a print. It was so pricey.”
“I'm sure he can afford it. Dennis told me he'd been living in a small apartment in Phoenix for years before finally deciding to buy a house, and his job pays well. I wouldn't worry about it. He wouldn't have bought the original if he didn't want it.”
“It seemed impulsive, but I do think the painting makes a great focal point for his living room.”
“Yes, it does, so stop worrying about it. If his check bounces, we can always show up on his doorstep and repossess it.”
“You don't think—” I had a sudden moment of panic.
“I'm kidding, Amanda. I'm sure everything will be fine.”
As I drove to the police station later, I was still thinking in amazement about my unexpected high-dollar sale, which had immediately eased the pressure I'd felt over this month's finances. I still intended to follow up on the Siamese cats' pet portrait, but it was less urgent to collect my final payment for it now.
When I arrived at the station, I found Mike behind the desk, rather than Sergeant Martinez.
“Oh, hi, Amanda. Dave will be with you soon. He's finishing up an interview now, but it shouldn't be long. Have a seat.”
I did as he requested, sitting in one of the garish orange plastic chairs in the LVPD's reception area. I pulled my phone from my purse and idly began checking my messages, but there was nothing of consequence. I looked up when the door opened. Brooks came in, saw me, and pulled up a chair.
“I stepped out for a minute. I've already been interviewed, and Gabrielle's back there now, but she doesn't know anything, so it shouldn't take long.”
“How's Olivia holding up?” I asked.
“About as well as can be expected, I suppose. I feel terrible about everything. If they hadn't come here for the show, Olivia wouldn't have been kidnapped and Ulysses might still be alive. I've offered Olivia the use of the suite at the resort for as long as she needs it.”
“You can't blame yourself, Brooks. For all we know, the kidnappers and murderer followed them here. Maybe they thought it would be easier to get away with crime in a small town.”
“I suppose that's true, but I can't help feeling guilty. As if that weren't enough, an art critic in Los Angeles wrote a blog post implying that I might have had something to do with Ulysses's death since the prices of his artwork will be going up now that he's not around to produce any more paintings.”
“Really? That's awful.”
“He's right about one thing. The prices will be going up. This morning, I checked his work at three galleries, and they've all raised the prices for Ulysses's paintings. I'd be neglecting my fiduciary responsibility as a gallery owner not to do the same.”
When I didn't respond, he said, “Amanda, surely you don't think I had anything to do with Ulysses's death. He was my friend.”
“No. Of course not, It's just a little mind-blowing that the galleries have raised prices so fast.”
“Standard business practice—it's a matter of supply and demand.”
We heard the staccato click-click of high heels on the tile floor, and Gabrielle came into the reception area, followed by Sergeant Martinez. As usual, she ignored me completely. Brooks jumped to his feet and followed her out the door without another word. Sergeant Martinez watched as the couple left the building.
“He has his hands full being married to that one,” he said. “She acts like she's the queen bee. Come on back, Amanda. Would you like a cup of coffee or a soda?”
“No, thanks, Sergeant.”
“You don't need to keep calling me sergeant. It's Dave.”
“OK, Dave.” It felt a bit odd to call him by his first name, but since he'd asked me to, I complied.
Dave turned out to be a methodical questioner as he asked me to relate what I knew about the kidnapping and how I'd delivered the ransom. Then, he turned to Ulysses's stay in the hospital, but I really couldn't enlighten him about any of the events that had happened there. Although Ulysses had asked me to visit him twice, I'd never actually seen him during his hospital stay.
“That about wraps it up, Amanda. Just one more question. Do you happen to know anyone by the name of Jill?”
“Not personally, but I have heard of a Jill.”
“Go on.”
“Jill Durand was Ulysses's first wife. She left him during a plein air paint-out at Miners' Lookout twenty-eight years ago.”
“Do you know whether Ulysses was still in touch with her?”
“Not that I'm aware, but I really have no idea. Olivia would probably know.”
“I'll check with her. The name didn't come up until I talked to Brooks Miller a little while ago. He said that when Ulysses first came out of his coma, he insisted that he'd seen Jill, and he wanted Brooks to go find her so he could see her again.”
“Do you think she could be the murderer?”
“Stranger things have happened, but I suspect Durand was just confused. Could be he saw someone who looked like her or maybe he imagined it.”
“You might want to check with Lieutenant Belmont. He knew Jill back in the day.”
“He told you that?”
I nodded.
“Well, I'll be. Thanks for the tip, but I'd better not say anything that'll agitate him at the moment, even though Dawn and I plan on visiting him this evening. They've moved his surgery up. Now it's scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 26
I timed my arrival at the hospital's gift shop for a few minutes after opening. I didn't recognize either of the women on duty, but evidently they had been expecting me because they recognized my name as soon as I told them who I was. I exchanged my scarves for the check Xena had left for me, marked the invoice I'd prepared “paid,” and handed it to one of the women. When I left, they were busy arranging the new scarves on the rack Dennis had built.
As I tucked the check into my wallet next to the check Brian had given me, I thought about how nice it would be not to have to hustle for the small sales, but I was grateful for any sale I could make at this stage in my career as an emerging artist. I realized that it was unlikely I'd ever achieve the acclaim that Ulysses had, but I was happy being able to make a living from my artwork, although sometimes it did seem like a struggle.
My next stop was the bank, but since I was already at the hospital, I thought I should check on Lieutenant Belmont. He'd probably be in surgery right now, but maybe one of the nurses could give me an update.
I took the elevator to the fourth floor and went to his room at the end of the hallway. I'd expected it to be empty, but there he was, sitting up in bed with a scowl on his face.
He perked up when he saw me.
“Mrs. Trent, could you please get me a glass of water?”
I started to do as he'd asked, but there was no water in the pitcher or cup on his tray.
“Wait a minute.
You're not supposed to be drinking anything before surgery.”
He crossed his arms and muttered something I couldn't hear. It probably wasn't anything I wanted to hear, anyway, but a doctor came into the room before I had a chance to ask him to repeat himself.
A tall woman who towered over me introduced herself as the anesthesiologist. She explained what she'd be doing and asked the lieutenant to confirm that he hadn't eaten or drunk anything since midnight.
“How could I?” he groused. “They don't even feed me anything edible when they do let me eat.”
“So I take it that's a 'no,'” she said.
The lieutenant grunted his response.
“I see you haven't had any previous surgeries. Is that correct?”
“Yup.”
After a few more questions, which the lieutenant answered with the same monosyllabic responses, she said that she'd see him soon and assured him that she'd monitor him closely.
“Could I see you for a moment?” she asked with a bob of her head, indicating that I should join her in the hall.
“I'm afraid your husband isn't taking his condition very seriously. He's going to need to follow doctor's orders if he wants to recover.”
“He's not my husband,” I whispered. She hadn't been talking very quietly, and I thought the lieutenant had probably heard her, despite the fact that we'd left his room.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I just assumed.”
“Let's move away from the door,” I urged, as I took a few steps. “I think he's scared,” I told her in a quiet voice, “but he'd never admit it.”
“I see. Well, we have a good record of success with this type of surgery, as I'm sure his surgeon has told him, but it helps a lot if the patient cooperates.”
“I understand.” I doubted that the lieutenant would stick to any regimen that included a cardiac diet and exercise, but I could be wrong. Maybe he'd turn over a new leaf.
“If you have any influence on him, maybe you could get him to see the light.”
I nodded, but I knew that nothing that I or anyone else could say would make a bit of difference. The lieutenant would do exactly as he pleased.
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