Artistic License to Kill

by Paula Darnell

  “How adorable!” Susan said when she placed the portraits of Laddie and Mona Lisa side by side on the grid. “They're so lifelike. I didn't know you painted pet portraits, too.”

  “Just for myself and to give as gifts, usually.”

  More members arrived with their paintings, and I noticed that although most of them greeted Susan and interacted with her as they normally would, a few snubbed her. By the time Susan had placed all the paintings on the grids in an attractive display and I'd set up the boxes of prints and displays of note cards on our draped table, Susan was teary-eyed.

  “Just ignore those people, Susan,” I advised her.

  “I've known most of our members for several years. It's hard to take; that's all. Do they really think I'm a murderer?”

  “Come on, Aunt Susan. Amanda's right. Don't pay any attention to them. They'll come around, and if they don't, they're not worth knowing, anyway.”

  Susan pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket and dabbed her eyes. “Thank you for believing in me, both of you.”

  A few customers had begun to arrive, but the fair was hardly crowded yet.

  “Why don't you and Amanda go look at some of the other booths while I stay here to man our space? It'll take your mind off those jerks.”

  “Ok, sure,” Susan agreed, and I nodded my assent. “I'd like to look around a bit, but call us if it starts to get busy.”

  Most of the sellers offered craft items, although there were a few artists in attendance. We passed booths featuring wooden birdhouses, yard signs, candles, soaps, and wreaths, before encountering a familiar face. The high school student I'd spoken with when her class visited the gallery was busily arranging a necklace on a bust while her mother was setting out business cards and brochures.

  “Oh, hi,” the student greeted me. “You're the lady from the art gallery.”

  “You have a beautiful display,” I told her. “Are all your beads and pendants handmade?”

  Both mother and daughter enthusiastically began explaining how they made their ceramic beads and pendants. It was fun to listen to them finishing each others' sentences. They were definitely on the same wavelength, and their obvious closeness touched my heart and made me long to see my own daughter. I'd have to be patient, though, and wait until her summer break at college before I'd have the chance to spend some time with Emma.

  “I'd like to buy this one,” Susan said, pointing to a necklace that featured a large iridescent blue-green ceramic dragonfly. I don't need a bag. I'm going to wear it right now.”

  Susan paid cash for her purchase, and the student removed the price tag and handed her the necklace along with a receipt. I bought a pair of beaded earrings and a brooch shaped like a bear. I pinned the brooch to my scarf and tucked the earrings away in my purse before we moved on.

  We hadn't gone far before Susan's cell phone buzzed.

  “We need to get back,” she told me. “Chip says a crowd has gathered.”

  We hurried back to the Roadrunner's tent. Chip was processing a transaction on our mobile credit card device, and there were two customers waiting in line to pay for prints they'd selected.

  “Excuse me,” a woman wearing a bright red maxi dress said. “Could you tell me about the artist who painted this golden retriever?”

  While Susan rushed to the table to help Chip, I turned to the woman.

  “I sure can. You're speaking to her.”

  “Oh, great! Is he your dog?”

  “Yes, he's my golden boy.”

  “I'm guessing the calico cat is yours, too. She looks like she's kind of smiling but not quite.”

  “That's why I named her Mona Lisa.”

  For an instant, the woman looked confused, but then she said, “I get it now. She has a Mona-Lisa smile.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I was wondering whether you ever do commission work. I'd love to have a portrait of Buster. He's my springer spaniel.”

  Although I'd painted only one commissioned piece in my life and never one of a pet, I felt confident in telling her that I did, indeed, accept commissions. She didn't register any shock when I quoted her the price, so I took that as a good sign. When we exchanged business cards, I saw that she was a local real estate agent.

  “My schedule is flexible,” she told me when I asked her if I could meet Buster in person. That would help give me an idea of his personality, which I hoped to portray in my painting of him.

  “Great. We can set up a time next week, and I'll also take several photos of him for reference. You're welcome to text or email me pictures of him that you have, too.”

  She said she'd be in touch and insisted on giving me a hefty deposit to “reserve our spot,” before she moved on to the next booth.

  “She didn't buy anything?” Susan asked. “She seemed so interested.”

  “She did, actually,” I told Susan about my new commission, and she squealed with excitement.

  “That's wonderful, Amanda! All Chip and I have sold are some note cards and a few prints.”

  “Bravo, Amanda,” Chip said. I noticed he'd dialed his flirtatious ways back, whether because he was still a bit peeved at having to provide an alibi to the police or because his aunt was present.

  Now that I'd seen the mural he'd painted for Janice and learned that she considered Chip her protégé, I'd been wondering whether he recognized the woman pretending to be Judith as his mentor, but it was obvious from the way he was talking about the gallery with Susan that he didn't know she was Janice, not Judith.

  A few more lookers drifted into the booth, and I answered their questions about the paintings on display, but they didn't buy anything. Susan advised me not to spend too much time with the “tire kickers,” as she called them, but, unlike the high school student who sold jewelry with her mom, I still hadn't developed the ability to discern when a potential customer was serious. Maybe that skill would come after I'd worked in the gallery longer and hosted more studio tours. I hoped so, anyway.

  Around noon, we took turns visiting the food vendors for lunch. By the time the Lonesome Valley Pioneers gathered on the pavilion's risers for their performance, we hadn't sold a single painting, only several prints and note cards. Customers were interested in the lower-priced items; they hadn't come to the fair to buy pricey art, but their buying preferences came as no surprise since Susan had warned me that most of the shoppers would be looking for craft items.

  A crowd began gathering in front of the pavilion where benches had been placed for people to sit while they watched the singers. To see the performance, all I had to do was step outside our tent, since we were close by. The singers, all dressed in Western garb, filed in and took their places, kicking off their program with “America, the Beautiful.” After the crowd applauded enthusiastically, Rebecca stepped forward to sing the first verse of the next number.

  You got to visit Lonesome Valley.

  You got to see it for yourself.

  Bring somebody else to visit with you.

  Don't got to see it by yourself.

  The altered lyrics of the mournful old tune turned it into something of a Chamber of Commerce advertisement for Lonesome Valley and its attractions as the song continued with three more verses, each sung by a different choir member, and then wrapped up with a repetition of the first verse, sung by the entire choir.

  “That's a new one,” Susan commented. “I've never heard them sing that before. I guess it's meant for the tourists.”

  She'd joined me outside the tent. We had no customers at all. Now that the program had started, everyone who'd been in the vicinity had taken a seat on one of the benches to listen to the choir.

  The Western-themed show continued with familiar tunes such as “Red River Valley,” “Don't Fence Me In,” Home on the Range,” and “Oh, Shenandoah.” After several more numbers, Greg came to the front. I'd been surprised earlier to see that he was part of the choir because Rebecca hadn't mentioned it when she'd told me she was a member. I noticed that Greg
looked a lot more rested than I did, despite his midnight foray to my house.

  Greg's rousing rendition of “Ghost Riders in the Sky” rivaled Johnny Cash's version, sending a chill up my spine, and was followed by a thunderous round of applause from the audience. The singers all bowed, and each soloist came to the front to take a bow. Greg was last, and the clapping increased when he took his final bow.

  As the crowd dispersed, I managed to catch Rebecca's eye and wave to her. She grabbed Greg's hand, and they threaded their way through the people who drifted back towards the booths.

  “Wonderful performance!” I greeted them. “Congratulations!”

  I introduced them to Susan who had watched the entire show with me. I knew Greg recognized her name because, as soon as I said it, he lifted his eyebrows. I was glad he didn't mention her arrest. Susan and Rebecca chatted about the choir's costumes for a few minutes before Susan returned to the tent to help a customer.

  “I didn't realize you sang, too, Greg,” I said.

  “Oh, sure. Rebecca and I were in the choir together in high school.”

  “Really? High school sweethearts, then?”

  “Not quite,” Rebecca said. “Greg was a couple of years ahead of me, and we hung around with different crowds. We didn't start dating until we were both in college.”

  “You must have known Janice and Judith in high school,” I said to Greg.

  “I knew who they were. It's a small high school, but, like Rebecca said, they were all younger.”

  He looked past me into the Roadrunner's booth.

  “That looks like Laddie,” he said, pointing to my painting.

  “It is.”

  “I'm going to take a closer look,” he said, leaving Rebecca and me alone.

  “Have you heard anything yet?” Rebecca whispered. “Janice should be going to the police today.”

  “So she said, but I'm not sure she'll do it. Since Lieutenant Belmont refused to believe me, I tried to contact the chief of police, but he hasn't called me back. I understand he's out of town for the weekend.”

  “Well, something has to give. I can't keep the news from Greg much longer, and I'd rather he hear all about it from Channel 2 than from me. He seems to suspect something's up. He keeps asking me about our coffee date, and he freaked out when he heard the police call last night. He's convinced you're in danger, and he could be right. Promise me you'll be careful, Amanda.”

  Greg was heading our way, so I just nodded.

  “That's some great picture, Amanda,” he said. “I don't know how you do it.”

  “And I don't know how you two do it, either—singing the way you do. I can't even carry a tune.”

  We all laughed.

  “Take care of yourself, Amanda,” Greg said, echoing his wife, when Chip called me back to the booth. “And don't forget to keep your house locked up tight, whether you're home or not.”

  “I won't forget.” I assured him. His hyper-vigilance could get a little much sometimes, but he had a point, so I didn't ignore him. If I'd forgotten to lock the door to the studio last night, the prowler could have walked right in, and who knew what would have happened. I shuddered to think about it.

  Chapter 30

  We enjoyed a steady, but small, stream of lookers, so Susan and I decided to take turns seeing the rest of the fair. We hadn't gotten very far before Chip had called us to return to the Roadrunner's booth in the morning.

  “Let me know if it gets busy,” I told Susan as I left. “I won't be long.”

  “Take your time,” she suggested. “We can handle it.”

  I wandered off in the direction of the food vendors. My lack of sleep was catching up with me, and I couldn't wait to drink a strong cup of coffee. I didn't like to carry a drink into any vendors' booths. Even if I had a cap secure on the cup, an accident could happen. I remembered all too well the little boy who'd decided he wanted to improve my painting with a streak of cookie frosting.

  Of course, I had no such intention, but a bumped arm or a careless movement could easily result in an accident that could ruin a vendor's item, so I sat at a picnic table near the food booths and drank my coffee there. When I finished, I pitched my paper cup into a large trash can.

  “Hi, Amanda.”

  For a split second, I didn't recognize him without his uniform.

  “Oh, hi, Mike. Off duty, I see.”

  “Yep. By the way, we questioned Travis Baxter, and he isn't the one who tried to break into your studio.”

  “I know. We're both working at our Roadrunner booth today. Chip told me the police had paid him a visit. He wasn't too happy about it.”

  “We had to check, but he was our only lead. The door handle and window sill had been wiped clean, so there were no fingerprints.”

  “I didn't realize you'd checked for fingerprints.”

  “Yep. Sorry we couldn't come up with anything. Take care, Amanda. Don't hesitate to call if you need help.”

  “Don't worry; I won't. Thanks, Mike.”

  I walked down the nearest aisle, enjoying the warm, sunny day and the vendors' displays. I stopped to buy some cute decorated treats for Laddie and Mona Lisa at a pet bakery's stall. They looked like cookies, which appealed to pet parents, although the treats certainly wouldn't taste like them. I hoped finicky Mona Lisa would take to her snack, and I had no doubt that Laddie would love his. He'd never been a picky eater.

  I tucked the plastic bags of treats into my purse and continued browsing, but I didn't stop until I came to a booth filled with small sculptures of animals. From a distance, I couldn't tell what the artist had used to make her sculptures, so I entered the tent to take a closer look.

  “They're all made of wool,” a white-haired lady who looked to be in her mid-seventies explained. “I use wool roving and sculpt them by needle felting. Whenever I need a certain color, I hand dye the roving.”

  “They're marvelous,” I said. “You ought to join the Roadrunner Gallery and sell them there.” Too late, I remembered that Pamela had told me an artist who worked with wool roving had been turned down for membership. One glance at the woman's face confirmed my fear that she was that artist. Now, I'd really put my foot in it.

  “I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to upset you,” I apologized.

  “There's no way you could know, but I applied for membership, and they turned me down. That gallery director—that Janice woman—acted as though I had no right to apply for membership. Then she gave me the brush-off when I tried to talk to her about it. My grandson tried to intervene on my behalf, but she wouldn't talk to him, either. I know she's a murder victim and all, but I can't say I'll miss her. She wasn't a very nice woman.”

  I was about to say that she should re-apply, but I thought better of making that suggestion since Janice was indeed alive and would undoubtedly continue as gallery director. Instead, I turned the conversation back to her artwork, and she gave me a quick demonstration of her technique.

  “I admit I didn't know what needle felting entailed before you showed me,” I told her. “It's amazing the way you shape the wool using just a needle. It must take a long time.”

  “Yes, it's quite time consuming, but I enjoy it. This is the first time I've displayed my critters at a show, but I've sold several of them already.”

  I noticed that her prices were quite low, considering her artistry and time spent on each sculpture, but she seemed happy with her sales, so I hesitated to suggest that she raise her prices.

  She stared past me and waved. “Here comes my grandson,” she said proudly. “He went to get me some iced tea.”

  I turned around to look at him and was surprised to see a familiar face.

  It was Mike.

  Mike Dyson was her grandson.

  “Here you go, Grandma,” Mike said, handing her a cup.

  He nodded at me. “We meet again.”

  “I never could have set up my booth today if Mike hadn't helped me. I had no idea how to put up a tent.”

  She glanced at h
im proudly, and he blushed at her praise.

  “You know I'm always happy to help, Grandma.”

  “So that's why you're here at the fair—to help your grandmother. I thought your family lived in Phoenix.”

  “All except Grandma,” he said, looking at her fondly.

  “There's too much hustle and bustle in the big city for me. I like Lonesome Valley just fine, but I'm afraid it's a little too sleepy for Mikey.”

  “It's like they roll the sidewalks up at sundown. Lonesome Valley's not a bad place, but there's not much going on.”

  It seemed to me there was quite a bit going on, including an unsolved murder, but I understood what he meant. For a young man his age, the local attractions probably weren't nearly as exciting as a trendy nightclub or a Suns' basketball game.

  “I'd better get back to our booth, so my friend has a chance to look around,” I said. “I'm glad you're having a good day today. Best of luck tomorrow.”

  As I walked back toward our booth, I realized that Mike had a motive for the murder, and since he was the first responder to arrive, if there was any evidence on or around the body, he could have easily removed it. Even though Susan and I had both been there, too, we were so shocked and upset that we probably wouldn't have noticed a thing.

  I tried to tell myself that my imagination was running wild, but all the pieces of the puzzle fit.

  It was entirely possible that Mike had murdered Judith.

  Chapter 31

  Not that I thought he'd planned it. It seemed much more likely that his temper had flared when Judith denied knowing anything about his grandmother's rejection. Maybe he'd flung the bronze bear at her in the heat of the moment. Stunned, perhaps she'd stumbled into the hallway where she collapsed.

  He'd been on patrol in the downtown area that morning, and Judith, seeing a uniformed officer at the gallery door, must have let him in herself.

  I didn't want to believe it of Mike. He seemed like such a nice young man, and he'd always been perfectly polite to me, but I couldn't get away from the facts that not only did he have the means to commit the murder, but he'd also been in a perfect position to have the opportunity. It had never dawned on me that he might have a motive, too, until I found out about his grandmother's rejected application to the Roadrunner.