Clairvoyant and Present Danger

by Lena Gregory

Hmm . . . She hadn’t thought of that. Leighton did say she stocked work by local artists.

  “No clue. He was very vague about everything, but he said the necklace wasn’t his, then he asked me not to tell Leighton he’d asked about it. Then he got spooked and took off.” She frowned. “I don’t know if he saw the ghost or—”

  “Stop right there, sweetheart. I am so done listening.”

  “Oh, Bee. Knock it off. You know you want to hear more.”

  “I definitely want to hear more, but if you want my help, leave out all the heebie-jeebie stuff.”

  She huffed out a breath. “All right, fine.”

  He motioned for her to continue.

  “Anyway . . .” After giving him an eye roll for good measure, she continued. “When he described the necklace, something seemed familiar about it. For some reason, I think it may have been in the painting I saw in the art gallery window.”

  “Didn’t you say the woman in the painting had on a blouse with a high collar?”

  “Yes.” She tried to think back. The woman’s face popped into her head quickly enough, but everything else was pretty much a blur. Closing her eyes, she tried to bring the image into focus. She could envision the high collar and sort of imagine the blouse’s shoulders, but that was it. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember if the necklace was there or not. She shook her head. “But something about the necklace seems familiar. I need to get another look at that painting, but the last time I asked Leighton about it, she was . . . snippy, so I don’t really want to ask again.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  She offered her best smile.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Don’t uh-oh me. You said you wanted to talk to her about a painting for Dreamweaver. All you have to do is go in there and ask about a few paintings. While you get her talking, I’ll look around.”

  Bee drew his bushy eyebrows together. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What if the painting’s not there?”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes. But I can’t bring Beast in there, so we have to go now. I’m supposed to pick him up at lunchtime.”

  Bee shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  “And whatever you do, don’t mention the painting. Or the necklace.”

  “Are you going to close the shop or see if Stephanie can come back and sit for a few minutes?”

  “Nah. Stephanie seems to be a little overwhelmed lately. I’ll just close up a little early for lunch, then I’ll go get Beast right after the gallery.” Cass looked out the back window at the growing crowd. “Seems like everyone’s more interested in whatever’s going on at the beach than coming in here, anyway.”

  Bee squeezed in beside her by the window. “Hmm . . . looks like that little nap on your back room floor is going to have to last me awhile.”

  “Don’t get any ideas about stopping out there, mister.” She grinned at him. “At least, not until we get back.”

  13

  Cass hurried down the boardwalk with Bee at her side. Considering the mob scene on the beach, the boardwalk was fairly deserted. A woman on a bike sped past them. An older man walking a golden retriever stopped to look in the window of the ice cream shop, then looked down at his dog and resumed his walk. Seagulls screamed, and she could picture them diving into the choppy waves of the bay, or more likely, scavenging bits of bread and french fries people in the crowd would inevitably drop.

  She slowed as she passed Dreamweaver. “The window looks stunning, Bee.” She gestured toward a black slip dress she couldn’t remember seeing before. “Is that a new piece? I didn’t notice it last time.”

  “I just finished it. You like?”

  “Are you kidding? I love it.” Thin double straps separated as they dipped over the mannequin’s shoulders. Bee’s dresses were known for their bare backs with elaborate strap designs. “What do those straps do in the back?”

  “Uh-uh. You’ll have to come in and see them.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, sweetie. Trust me, words don’t do them justice.” He started to turn away from the window.

  “Mr. Maxwell?”

  Cass turned toward the voice that had called from across the street.

  Tim Daughtry crossed the street and jogged up the few steps to the boardwalk. He extended a hand. “Hi, Cass.”

  She took his hand and shook. “Hi, Tim. How are you doing? Done with school already?”

  “Just finished for the summer.” He turned to Bee and held out his hand, twin spots of crimson flaming on his pale cheeks. “That’s actually what I was coming down here for, Mr. Maxwell. I was hoping to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”

  Bee took his hand and glanced at Cass, and she nodded. “Sure. What did you want to talk about?”

  “I was hoping to talk you into allowing me to do an internship with you this summer.” Tim had just finished his first year at a college in Philadelphia where he was studying fashion design, a program Bee had helped him get into. “I’m taking a few summer courses in the mornings, and I know you don’t usually open the shop before noon, so I thought maybe you’d let me work a few hours in the afternoon with you.”

  Bee studied him. Although Bee always opened in the summer months, when the beach and boardwalk were most crowded, he sometimes didn’t bother opening when there weren’t likely to be many shoppers stopping in. A good portion of his inventory went to buyers, and a large part of his business was done by appointment only.

  “I’ll do anything you need me to. I don’t even mind cleaning up and running errands.”

  Bee smiled. “Sure, Tim. I’d love to have you for the summer.”

  A huge smile spread across Tim’s face. “Thank you so much, Mr. Maxwell.”

  Sometimes Bee was such a sweetheart. While Bee and Tim started to work out a few of the details, Cass returned her attention to the black dress in the window. She wondered if it was a special order, or if it was available. Luke would be coming this weekend. Of course, she had to do the reading Saturday night, which would probably run late, but maybe they could still go somewhere nice for dinner on Sunday. She had a pair of killer red heels that would look amazing with that dress, and she was dying to see the back. She’d bet anything it dipped low, and she’d already been working on her tan.

  A flicker of movement reflected in the window pulled her focus from drooling over the dress. Goose bumps prickled the back of her neck. She turned slowly, keeping her gaze from landing directly on the figure standing against the alley side of the ice-cream shop.

  She watched from her peripheral vision as a beefy guy in a loose black T-shirt peered around the side of the newspaper he was holding discreetly—or so he probably thought, but did anyone even read papers anymore?—to block his face.

  It didn’t matter, anyway; she’d have recognized Artie Becker’s build from a block away, even if she couldn’t see his face. But what was he doing there? Obviously trying to keep an eye on something, but what? From where he stood, he’d have a clear view of the art gallery, but he’d also have Mystical Musings under surveillance.

  “Bye, Cass.”

  “Huh?” She turned and waved to Tim. “Oh. See ya, Tim.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Maxwell. I’ll stop in tomorrow afternoon.”

  Bee waved, but his attention had already turned to Cass. “Are you okay?”

  “Uh . . .” She tried to shake off her apprehension. “Yeah, why?”

  “’Cause you’re pale. You look like you just saw a gho— Oh . . .” Bee looked over his shoulder and whispered, “You didn’t, did you?”

  Cass laughed. She couldn’t help it. The fearful expression on his face was priceless. “Nope. No ghosts, but I did see something.”

  She angled herself to see Artie without letting him know she’d recognized him and was lookin
g at him. She needn’t have bothered. He was gone.

  “Well, are you going to tell me what it was you saw or leave me standing here in suspense all day?”

  “Oh, sorry.” She hooked her arm through his and started toward the art gallery. “Artie Becker was just standing across the street with a newspaper covering his face.”

  Bee looked at her and lifted a brow.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m sure it was him.”

  He looked across the street to the spot Cass had indicated and shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone.”

  Doubt started to creep in. Could she really be sure it was him? She’d been so sure when she’d first spotted him, but now . . . she couldn’t say a hundred percent it was him. The feeling someone was watching her followed her down to the art gallery, and she was glad to finally walk inside and close the door behind her.

  The sweet, piney scent of turpentine enveloped her. Paintings lined the walls and sat on easels and stands spread sporadically throughout the shop. She leaned close to Bee and whispered, “You know what to do, right?”

  “I got this.”

  Cass certainly hoped so. Discretion wasn’t one of Bee’s strong suits.

  Leighton rounded the counter and strode toward them. “Hi, Cass.”

  “Hi there.” She gestured toward Bee. “This is Bee Maxwell. He owns Dreamweaver Designs.”

  “Oh, hi. It’s nice to meet you, Bee. I was just admiring that black dress you have in the window on my way in this morning.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled, always thrilled when anyone complimented his designs.

  Uh-oh. No way was she getting that dress. “Don’t you love it? I’m picking it up tomorrow to wear out this weekend.”

  If Bee was surprised, he hid it well. Maybe he was getting better at being discreet. “I designed it specifically with Cass’s gorgeous red shoes in mind.”

  Or maybe he was telling the truth. It was hard to tell with Bee.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. I definitely had my eye on it.” She waved it off. As if a dress that stunning could be dismissed so easily. “Oh, well, maybe next time.”

  Together, they browsed through the shop. The paintings inside leaned more toward landscapes, especially beaches, lighthouses, and forests, mostly done in dark tones. Angry seas, run-down, abandoned-looking lighthouses and keeper’s cottages, gnarled, twisted tree trunks with leafless branches, skies filled with black and gray storm clouds casting a somber pall over everything they touched. The woman was obviously extremely talented, though her tastes ran a little too dark and brooding for Cass. You couldn’t help but feel the forlorn nature of her work, along with something else, as well. A sense of fear, foreboding. She lost herself in all the dark beauty.

  “I love it.” Bee’s voice pulled her back to reality.

  She shook off the weird melancholy that had gripped her and looked around. A quick scan of the gallery told Cass all she needed to know. The painting she was looking for wasn’t there.

  Bee honed in on a sunset painting, done in beautiful shades of blue, pink, and lavender, a bit brighter than most of the others. “Oh, that’s beautiful.” He studied the painting displayed on an easel beside the counter. “Do you take custom orders?”

  “Yes, actually, but I do charge more.”

  “That’s fine.” Bee waved it off. “Do you think you could do something similar to this, but with a little less lavender, a little deeper blue, and maybe brighten up the pink a little, so it really pops? Actually, you know what? Maybe it would be better if you walked down to the shop with me. Then I could show you the wall I want the painting for, and maybe you could give me a better idea for the colors.”

  Leighton hesitated, though whether it was from fear of going somewhere with an unknown man or reluctance to leave the shop, Cass couldn’t tell.

  “It’ll be fine. Cass can keep an eye on the shop in case anyone comes in.” Bee shot Cass a pointed warning glare. “It’ll just take a couple of minutes.”

  “Oh, sure. I don’t mind. I wanted to browse a little more, anyway, while I don’t have Beast with me. That doesn’t happen often.” She tried for a grin but figured it probably came off more like a grimace. She just wasn’t good at lying. Sweat trickled down her back. It didn’t seem right, snooping through Leighton’s things, but what else could she do? She’d already asked about the painting, and Leighton wouldn’t give her any information. And she had to get one more look at that painting, had to know for sure if it was the same woman who’d been appearing in her visions. She wasn’t sure exactly what she expected to gain from the knowledge, when she could very well have conjured the woman after seeing the painting in the window, but the need to know hammered her relentlessly.

  “I don’t know . . .” Leighton looked around the empty shop.

  “I’ll tell you what . . .” Bee started guiding her toward the counter. “Dreamweaver is only a few doors down. You could give Cass your cell phone number. If any customers come in, she can tell them you just stepped out for a moment, then call you.” He lifted a pad and pen from the counter beside the register and held them out to her. “Besides . . .” He looked around and lowered his voice. “I doubt anyone will be coming in right now anyway. They’re all gathered on the beach down by Mystical Musings. Cops, reporters, citizens, maybe even a killer.”

  Leighton glanced at Cass once more before writing her number on the top page and setting it on the counter.

  Bee led her toward the door, the promise of good dirt apparently all the bait she needed. “What do you mean, a killer?”

  He nodded knowingly. “Well, I’ve heard killers often return to the scene of the crime, sometimes even try to insert themselves into the investigation, so who’s to say whoever buried those skeletons out on the beach didn’t come back to witness his handiwork?”

  Leighton gasped. “You don’t really think—”

  The door fell shut behind them, and Cass forced herself to stay put and count to twenty before bolting for the back room and shoving open the door. When the door closed behind her, she propped it open with a chair. She had promised to keep an eye on the shop, and she didn’t want anyone coming in and making off with anything when Leighton had trusted her. A pang of guilt tried to surface, but she tamped it down. She didn’t have time for her conscience right now.

  She scanned the small back room, hoping to come across the painting quickly. No such luck. An assortment of canvases, some empty, others partially painted, were spread across the room. The smell of turpentine and paint were much thicker in the back room, almost gagging her. Spools of thick twine in every color imaginable hung on pegs suspended from one sidewall above an unfinished wood countertop, its surface stained with a variety of paint splotches and spills. Paintbrushes stood in mismatched containers on a shelf that ran along the back of the countertop, just beneath the twine. Cass cracked open a door at the side of the stockroom. Just a bathroom. Then she opened the cabinet doors beneath the center island. Blank canvases were lined neatly across the space. She returned to her search of the small stockroom, almost ready to accept defeat.

  Along the back wall stood a row of easels holding what looked like six or seven completed paintings. Maybe Leighton had left them there to dry? The last easel in line had been turned to face the wall. She glanced over her shoulder out into the shop. They’d already been gone at least five minutes. With Bee’s warning that they’d be back in a few minutes etched in her mind, she ran across the room and peeked over the top of the canvas. Disappointment surged. The entire top half of the canvas was white. Blank?

  She gripped the side of the canvas and turned it a little to get a better look, and gasped. The bottom half of the painting, depicting a woman’s shoulders, was the same as the one she’d seen in the display window. She was positive. Almost. But the woman’s face had been painted over with white. As had the top of the high collar she’d been wearing. But a bi
t of the dress between the woman’s shoulders was still visible, and there, dead center, hung a large opal surrounded by an intricate pattern of silver.

  Her cell phone beeped, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, quickly shoving the painting back into place. She pulled the phone from her pocket and went to swipe for her new message, then spotted the white mark on her thumb. Uh-oh. She checked the text from Bee.

  Coming.

  Ah jeez. She shoved the phone back into her pocket and stared at her thumb again as if the spot would have disappeared. She glanced frantically around the studio for something to wipe the paint off. Her gaze landed on the back of the painting. Oh. Oh no.

  She leaned around the side, careful not to touch the surface again. A perfect thumbprint, smack in the corner of the canvas. Sweat sprang out on her forehead and dripped into her eyes. She wiped it away and searched the room again, desperate for some way to clean up the mess she’d made. Dreamweaver was only a few doors down.

  She whipped out her cell phone and typed Stall, then hit send and prayed Bee would get it in time and be able to do something. Discreetly. Ugh . . .

  She yanked the bathroom door open, unrolled some toilet paper, and used it to wipe her thumb. It succeeded in smearing the paint. She ran toward the painting with the wad of toilet paper in hand. She had to do something. She might not be able to fix it so Leighton wouldn’t notice anything, but she definitely did not need to leave her thumbprint, for crying out loud. Her conscience chose that moment to start battering her. She didn’t need the reminder that her fingerprints were already on file thanks to the last crime she was accused of committing.

  There had to be some way to get out of this mess. On the verge of tears, Cass tried to focus. The paintbrushes grabbed her attention. “Okay, maybe I can fix this.”

  She yanked a brush from a holder and ran to the painting. Careful to only touch the bottom that hadn’t been painted over, she turned it enough to face the light. Using gentle strokes, her hand shaking wildly, she used the paintbrush to try to spread the surrounding paint over the incriminating print.