Paint Me Gone (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 3)

by Molly Greene

  Laura stood and regarded them without a shred of discomfort. If the conversation shook her in any way, this woman had mastered the art of concealment. She tilted her head and smiled again.

  “I was overwhelmed when I went to college. I hated being separated from this.” She waved her hand, indicating the garden and the house, and the village below. “So I ran away and came back here to the ocean. I needed to breathe in the smell and the feel of what I loved. That’s all. Nothing sinister.”

  She beckoned and they both stood, as if they were marionettes and she held the strings. She led them back to the front gate, then opened it and stood aside to let them pass.

  As if by way of explanation, she said, “Youth is filled with extremes. Love and hate, angst and calm. We think we know it all, yet we understand nothing. When we’re children it’s all about heart and feelings, and nothing about thinking things through and choosing what’s best.”

  She gave them one last look at her misery-filled eyes, then went into the cottage and shut the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “That was a bust,” Oliver said. They were headed back down the hill and the motel. It was nearly lunch time, and Gen’s pastry had evaporated on the downhill route. Her stomach was rumbling.

  “Nah,” she said. “This morning was about planting seeds. Seeding the clouds for rain might be a better description. Let’s just hope the end result is a nice soaking drizzle and not a hurricane.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Livvie asked.

  “I don’t want to be knocked over by a wall of water, that’s all.”

  “Explain.”

  “I hope everybody thinks about what I’ve thrown at them and bends my way a little,” Gen replied. “I’d prefer not to get bombarded by a pack of lawyers wielding umbrellas, and me with no mackintosh.”

  “You are speaking in tongues. Are you saying you think Laura will call an attorney?”

  “I don’t have a lot of theories right now, other than a whole bunch of people are withholding information about what’s really going on. You know how we feel about secrets.”

  “Their secrets might not have anything to do with Shannon Keene.”

  Gen gave Oliver a wry look. “True. But my gut says otherwise. I wouldn’t be surprised if at least a couple of things fit together. I just need a few more hints to figure out the riddle.”

  “Would a full stomach help?”

  “Sure. But you know what would be better?”

  “I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  Gen laughed. “A picnic near the ocean.”

  “And you have a certain place in mind.”

  “Yes, I do,” Gen replied. “I’d like to get a look at the Prentiss estate.”

  “I see. And just where is it?”

  “Why, coincidentally, it’s down the coast a ways.”

  “Laura’s special spot was down the coast.”

  “That’s right.” The thought renewed her energy, and Gen swung her arms as she walked. “And she said Shannon’s cliff reminded her of it.”

  “Oh come on, Genevieve, that’s a stretch.”

  “I know. But let’s go to the deli and assemble a tasty spread and then we’ll go for a drive.”

  “All right,” Livvie replied. “You know I’m going with you.”

  “Livvie, do you think we’re obsessed with food?”

  He laughed. “Almost everybody in this country eats three meals a day,” he replied. “We just seem to have a lot of fun doing it.”

  * * *

  Oliver headed down the Cabrillo Highway, driving like a little old lady through Point Lobos State Reserve. He said he wanted to take it all in. He didn’t want to miss anything. It grated on the newly-minted naturalist that they couldn’t see the shoreline from the two-lane road.

  Gen appeased him with a promise they’d explore the coast on the way back, all the while marveling that Oliver Weston had such a keen interest in playing the outdoorsman.

  They passed Carmel Highlands, then the sign for the Tickle Pink Inn. Here he insisted on a detour and was mollified at sight of the building perched on a hillside above the sea.

  “We have to stay here sometime,” he said.

  Nearly every inch of the area’s coastline was protected reserve, with few spits of private land. But just beyond Tickle they found what they were looking for, a gate across a driveway that led to Gregory Prentiss’s three-acre waterfront estate, tucked into a protected cove.

  Livvie pulled over.

  They climbed out of the SUV and hung on the iron fretwork, craning their necks every way possible to get a glimpse of the house. It wasn’t going to happen. They split up and walked in opposite directions, Oliver south and Gen north, to search the roadside fencing for a way in.

  Nothing.

  So they saddled up again and went down the street to search for beach access. They were soon rewarded. Not a mile ahead was a parking tarmac and a rough trail that switch-backed down to the sandy cove. They locked up the Rover and took off.

  Just before the path plunged downward, they left it and headed along the top of the hill, angling for the Prentiss property and hoping they’d be able to pass.

  The track proved tough going. The coastal sage was thick, and there was no trail. Apparently even the wildlife preferred an easier route.

  But luck was with them again; the fencing along this side of the parcel had not been kept up. They tucked through the loose strands of wire and continued on.

  Once in a while Gen would stop and scan their surroundings, hoping to ferret out the site where Shannon stood in the painting. But she realized soon enough that this was not the spot depicted in the scene. She’d hoped for a connection, but it wasn’t there. She was about to quit her lookout and give up when Oliver called from his position farther ahead.

  “I see it,” he said, in a textbook stage whisper.

  “The house?”

  “Yeah. Come here.”

  Gen eased through a patch of scrub and sidled up to Liv, who was stooped over and peering through the leaves. He pointed. It was there all right, an imposing wood-clad house that looked like a hunk of driftwood set amidst a copse of pines.

  The architect had built a masterpiece. The building was two stories high in some places, with a rounded turret room and a deck that stretched toward the sea like a child reaching for a sand dollar.

  Two outbuildings matched its lines, one no doubt a garage – although they were looking at the back of it – and the other a miniature of the main structure. A studio, perhaps, or a guest house. Its back wall was a field of glass, one great eyeball staring at the water.

  “Wow. I’m in love,” Oliver said, and again longing colored his words.

  “Yes indeed,” she replied. “Even I would leave the city for that. At least on the weekends.”

  His sigh said everything. She wondered if he was truly contemplating picking up stakes and moving. It couldn’t be in this house, of course, even if it was for sale. Her mind flipped at the mere idea of the price tag. But he seemed taken with the concept of living life at a slower pace, and Carmel would do that for him.

  She felt a stab of grief imagining Liv not there, her friend and neighbor. Her hand found his shoulder and she hugged him from the side, then released him. No sense holding someone else back. She was busy enough keeping herself in chains.

  “Let’s get closer.” She wanted to erase her glum thoughts and knew moving would do it.

  As they hiked, the shrubbery seamlessly changed from all native to plantings conceived by a skilled landscaper. They stopped when they ran out of cover and crouched behind a stand of cotoneaster to observe the grounds.

  A stretch of lawn ran from their vantage point to the buildings. Nothing moved. No one challenged them. There was no activity, and therefore nothing to see.

  “What do you want to do?” Oliver whispered.

  “I’m not sure.”

  At that, Oliver plunked down cross-legged in the heavy mulch. “I’m
content just to sit here and gawk for a while.”

  They could hear the waves crashing against a beach somewhere behind them, not far away. The sound was both soothing and worrisome; Gen would love to creep up and get a look in the studio – the main house was too much of a risk – but the action of the sea would hinder her ability to hear anyone approach.

  She weighed the angst of getting caught against the possible benefits, then leaned toward Oliver and whispered, “Stay put.” She was up and through the branches and running before he could protest.

  She kept the frame of the studio between her body and the main house, gambling that it would shield her dash across the grass from anyone who might choose that inopportune moment to glance outside.

  Gen gained the side without hearing a cry or a hail, and held her position, listening for a protest. None came. She inched forward toward the window.

  Every step was measured. Every movement came with a pause. She strained her ears and grasped for any errant noise, but heard nothing.

  She’d nearly made the wall of glass when a male voice resonated from behind.

  “You must be lost.”

  A spike of adrenaline crashed Gen’s heart against her chest. She struggled not to scream and barely managed to hold her tongue. When she’d overcome her fright, she turned. This time, she resolved to appear contrite. Bull would not save her.

  She’d been caught red-handed.

  The man was tall and slender and wore a shock of longish, thick, wavy brown hair that brought Heathcliff or some other romantic historical character to mind. He must have been in his late forties, but his face and body appeared more youthful and he was undeniably attractive. No, not attractive so much as charismatic. That was the word.

  Gen felt drawn to him.

  His expression was hooded but curious, as if he couldn’t get his head around the fact that someone would so blatantly trespass. He contemplated her with his arms crossed over his chest. His hip was canted against the house, his posture relaxed. Nothing about him said angry.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Gen had to do her best to keep it that way.

  She looked at her feet, then matched his mood and cut her eyes back to him without a smile. She decided not to offer any excuse other than the truth. “You’re right. I came from the path down to the beach.”

  She threw a thumb over her shoulder, back the way they’d come. She bet Oliver was in the bushes having a full-on conniption about her predicament. “I wanted to do a little exploring, and then I saw the house. It’s so gorgeous. I was intrigued and jealous. I just wanted a closer look.”

  He nodded slowly, then angled his head this way and that, probably trying to suss out if she was telling the truth. His eyes were like beacons that drove through her and wouldn’t let her move.

  “A bad decision on my part,” Gen continued. “I apologize.” She forced her feet to shift and they obeyed. She began to back away. “I’ll leave now.”

  “And you’ll never come back,” he said.

  She regarded him and nodded. His voice was soft and quiet and carried a tone she couldn’t place. He was like a hypnotist working her subconscious. He’d only spoken a handful of words, but she felt a tug that told her she wanted to do as he wished.

  “Say it.” His words were not in any way a demand, they were soothing. The sound was more like a father lulling a baby to sleep.

  “I’ll never come back,” Gen parroted.

  Her eyes were riveted on his. She forced herself to increase the distance between them, even though it was difficult to tear her gaze from his face. But finally, at fifty paces, his grip grew weaker.

  She whirled around and raced for the trees.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Gen sprinted through the brush and found Oliver hunkered down with his cell phone out and 911 keyed into the call queue. He looked like a deer in headlights, nearly scared out of his wits and probably not sure whether to scream bloody murder or dash out to help her or trust she’d be able to extract herself from the mess. He was right to wait. She galloped by and didn’t stop until her seatbelt was on and he was burning rubber back onto the highway.

  They were in the car and halfway to Carmel before anybody said a word. Gen loved that Oliver didn’t rattle off a string of questions. He let her be. She was, in fact, still processing what happened and hadn’t come to a conclusion.

  Not one that made sense, anyway.

  “I have no idea who that was,” she finally said. “He was astonishing. I can’t explain. He had this magnetic thing going on and I could barely speak.”

  “How do you mean? What did he say?”

  “He just came up behind me and said ‘you must be lost.’”

  “Was he totally irate?”

  “No. That’s the thing. I almost felt he was–” She stopped and gripped her head like she was holding a basketball and about to shoot.

  “What, Genny? Like he was what?”

  “I don’t know.” She dropped her hands and slung herself sideways in the seat so she could look Oliver full in the face. “It was like a mind meld. He was looking right through me, like if he burrowed in far enough he’d know what I was up to without me having to say a word.”

  “Holy shit.” Oliver gaped at her a second too long. When he glanced back at the road, he was forced to make a big correction to keep the car off the shoulder. They fishtailed for what seemed like half an hour before he regained control.

  “Get a grip, Oliver,” he said. “Good God, I’m losing it here.”

  “No kidding, Liv. My nerves are already shot. Steady as she goes, huh?”

  “I’m okay now. Go on.”

  “He was dead calm. It was eerie.”

  “Cripes, Genny, I almost peed my pants when he came around the end of the house. He stood there for thirty seconds before you turned around. Who was it?”

  She faced forward again and shook her head. “It wasn’t Prentiss, he must be close to seventy by now. This guy was maybe forty-five, maybe older, but he looked good.”

  “Like he had work done?”

  “No. More like Dorian Gray.”

  “Stop it, you’re frightening me.”

  “I was petrified.”

  “You’re never scared.”

  “Tell me about it. It doesn’t happen often. Look, I know I said we’d check out the marine reserve on the way home, but can we do it another time? I could use a glass of wine.”

  “Me too,” Livvie said. “I say we go home, pop a cork or two, and barbeque a big ‘ole steak. We can visit the otters another day. Maybe a slab of meat will make me feel manly again.”

  “Do you think that’ll work for me?”

  “I don’t really think it will work for me, but we’ll need something in our stomachs to soak up the alcohol.”

  They drove in silence for a while. When Gen spoke next, her voice sounded hollow, even to her. “His face,” she said. “I wanted to fall into it and never come up for air.”

  “You mean like Mack?”

  She glanced aside to check his expression. They hadn’t talked about Mack in a while, not in a I know you’re attracted to him way. But Liv was watching the road. No teasing intended.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “More like how I’d imagine Svengali would be. Hey, Livvie, have you made a date with Justin yet?”

  “We were supposed to go out tonight, but under the circumstances I’m going to re-schedule.”

  “No,” Gen replied. “You should go. It’s still early, we’ll both recover just fine. It’s not like anybody got hit over the head. We can grill steaks tomorrow.”

  She faced him again. “All of a sudden I’m itching to find out just who our friend back there is. Justin might be able to shed some light on that. What do you think?”

  “Sure, Genny. If that’s what you want.”

  She leaned back and put her feet up on the dash. “We’re made of tougher stock than this. We can’t let a little panic and a jog through the woods knock us out of
the game for an entire afternoon and evening.”

  “I guess,” Livvie replied. “It was probably just an excuse for me to ply myself with liquor.”

  “How about you see if you can get Justin boozed up instead?”

  He laughed. “You’re on.”

  “Be sure to inquire if Prentiss has a property manager or somebody who takes care of the place.”

  “You got it, Genny. You bet I’ll ask.”

  * * *

  By the time they got back to the motel and changed clothes, they’d recovered from the jolt of their encounter and were having a good laugh.

  Specifically, about how fast Gen screamed across the lawn and through the bushes. And the look on Oliver’s face as she passed. And how Livvie’s tires squealed when he jammed the car back onto the asphalt and hot-footed it for home.

  They were still giggling when they left the room and stopped on the street. Oliver was bound for Happy Hour with Justin. Gen was bound for Francie Stoddard’s to quiz her about the latest development. For some reason they hugged on the sidewalk, perhaps for mutual reassurance after the incident they’d shared on their excursion down the coast.

  “Be careful,” Oliver warned.

  “Of what, tourists?” Gen laughed. “I’m just going to pop in and see if I can catch Francie, then take a hike on the beach and watch the sunset. After that, I’ll head back to the room and have some wine while I indulge in mindless TV.”

  “Okay. I won’t be out late.”

  “Why not? Have fun. I’ll be fine, for goodness sake. We can talk in the morning.”

  “All right. Do you have your cell?”

  “Yes, mother. Now go.”

  Gen walked through the door to the Stoddard Gallery barely ten minutes later. Francie was in the back, chatting with a couple she assumed were customers; they had the look of money about them. Gen could smell Neiman Marcus from across the room.

  She wandered among the displays until she came to a group of Laura Ingburg’s work, and recognized the canvas Laura was babying when they’d first encountered her on the hill north of town.