by Sandi Scott
“I’m not saying it was the greatest exhibit I’ve ever seen,” Georgie chuckled. “I’m just saying it was different and refreshing to see something new.”
“Right.” Adele parked the car in almost the same place they’d parked Pablo the night before. “If you find poop on a barstool refreshing.” She was nearly doubled over laughing as she climbed out, her sister wiping her eyes as she laughed with her.
“Okay, now we’re going inside,” Georgie instructed. “Pull yourself together. I want to make a good impression.”
“I promise. I’ll be good. But answer me one question first. Would that particular piece of sculpture be called, ‘Stool on Stool?’”
Georgie let out a whoop but quickly caught herself and shook her head as she bumped her artistically impaired sister with her hip. They climbed back up the same two flights of stairs and commented on how different the building looked in the morning. Not haunted at all.
“Too bad,” Georgie mumbled. “That would have been great for business.” She stepped up to the vault-like door that now, it was clear to see, had just been designed to look that way. In the dark with sparse lighting, it could fool the most experienced safe-cracker.
With black, manicured nails Georgie pressed the buzzer. Looking at her watch she was happy she was right on time. Both women were quiet as they listened for footsteps approaching the door from the other side. All they got was silence.
“Oh, you don’t think he forgot, do you?” Georgie looked sadly at Aleta.
“He remembered you last night.” Aleta looked at her watch.
“Yeah, but what if he’d had too much to drink or was just being nice to an up-there-in-age-woman who likes to draw pictures of pets.”
“Absolutely not.” Aleta’s face became stern and she stepped up to the door. With her fist closed, she pounded loudly enough to wake the dead. As she pounded, the door slowly eased open.
“Look here, it’s not even locked. That’s probably because he’s expecting you.” Aleta pushed the door all the way open and motioned for Georgie to enter.
“Yoo-hoo. Nate?” Georgie called, looking to the left. She saw a small kitchenette that was stacked with stray champagne glasses and a few lonely little plates. The receptionist’s desk was clear of all paperwork, but there were a couple crumpled cocktail napkins strewn across the top.
Georgie carefully walked in further and came to the sculpture Aleta was making such a fuss over. She pointed at it as she looked at her sister and they both stifled giggles.
Spotting an office door to the right, Georgie headed in that direction only to be surprised by what was blocking her path. Her mind did not register the scene in front of her. At first, she thought it was a sculpture she had missed the night before. Right in the middle of the gallery, it was possible she’d circled and circled but never made it to the center. But logic told her that wasn’t right. This wasn’t here last night when all the art enthusiasts and critics and buyers were gathered. This was something new. This was something surreal.
“Aleta?” she called. “We have a problem.” It had taken her a minute to register what was lying in front of her.
“What?” Aleta came up behind her sister, her footsteps self-assured and steady until they stopped short. “My God!”
There, motionless on the hardwood floor, was a body.
“Is he…” Aleta asked before she covered her mouth and turned her back. Georgie heard her sister dry heave. Georgie had a bit thicker skin and stronger
stomach. Chemo had done that, as had being so close to death for so long.
“Dead? Looks that way.” Georgie wasn’t scared or grossed out, but she did feel her chest tighten with a sadness.
“It’s Jamal Landry, he’s still in the clothes he was wearing last night,” Georgie said.
Aleta sheepishly turned halfway around
to glance at the body, and then quickly turned away again. “Is he breathing?” she asked.
“Sweetie, he’s dead.”
“Yeah, right. I just…I…” Aleta started dry heaving again.
Georgie looked around and noticed a few more empty champagne glasses standing in a couple of random corners; Xio’s work was still standing where it had been staged. She walked toward the back of the gallery.
“Hello? Anybody here?” She went to the back and called out again, louder so that anyone in the back rooms could hear. When she was convinced they were alone in the gallery, she walked back over to Aleta.
“I’m calling 911.” Georgie pulled out her cell and was quickly connected with the emergency operator.
Aleta nodded while Georgie answered the questions from the dispatcher. She told him they would not touch anything and would wait for the police.“Police are on their way. They said for us to wait outside.”
It was no surprise when the squad cars showed up that an all-too-familiar face emerged from the only unmarked police car.
“Hello, Georgie.”
“Hi, Stan. Weird seeing you under these circumstances.” Georgie smiled at her ex-husband Stan Toon. “I sometimes forget you’re a detective in these parts. Especially when it seems like just yesterday you left me for a life out west prospectin’ and nursing that gold rush fever.”
“You see, Georgie. It’s that kind of sarcasm that has given our relationship real spice.” His blue eyes twinkled as he kissed his ex-wife on the cheek.
It was true that Stan had left Georgie during a mid-life crisis of sorts. Instead of getting a gym membership, buying a sports car, and dating women who waitress at Hooters, he bought a small boat and hauled it out west to a tiny town on the border of California and Oregon where he fished and gold-panned. Georgie never understood why he felt the need to wander and blamed most of it on Willie Nelson songs. But she let him go without much of a fuss. The kids were grown. The bungalow was paid for. The thing she missed the most while he was gone was their morning cups of coffee together at their kitchen table. Aleta helped nurse that wound.
Now that he had caught enough fish to last from now until the Rapture and hadn’t found so much as a pea-sized nugget of gold, he was back at his old job. Police detective. In addition, he was always trying to get back into Georgie’s life.
“How did you guys end up finding the body?” Stan asked as he let his partner, Leto Murphy, make a few calls and inspect the scene.
“Looks like a single gunshot wound to the neck.” Leto advised Stan who nodded and looked back to his ex-wife. “Probably bled to death.”
Georgie told Stan why she and Aleta were there. As usual, Stan had a way of making Georgie smile when that was the last thing she wanted to do.
“A showing of all your drawings?” he gasped. “Georgie, that’s great. You should be proud of yourself. I hope you’d send me an invitation to come and take a look.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” Georgie replied while casually adjusting her blouse and tugging at the rim of her cowboy hat.
“You know I love that hat. What do you say? How ‘bout later on I come around and take you to the watering hole for a shot and a dance?”
“I say you’ve been watching too many John Wayne movies.”
“Now, Georgie,” Stan purred. “I don’t know how long you intend on making me beg. Let me stop by tonight and just see Bodhi. I promise I won’t stay more than fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe. I’ll have to check my date book and let you know.” She narrowed her eyes at him but couldn’t hide how she secretly loved the attention. It really wasn’t a secret at all.
Before Stan could try and sweet-talk her anymore, Nate came bursting into the gallery. His eyes were wide and when he rushed past the police at the door and was stopped by Leto, his eyes fell to Jamal’s body on the floor.
Georgie watched his face and her heart broke. Stan went to him and quietly questioned him.
From what Georgie and Aleta could hear, Nate told Stan about his relationship with Jamal. They’d known each other since college being in the same grade and frate
rnity. Jamal had an appreciation for art and Nate had an eye for talent. Together they built up the gallery.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Stephenson. Unfortunately, the gallery is now a crime scene. You’ll have to cancel any further showings until we can get a grip on what we’re dealing with.”
“I understand.” Nate’s eyes began to water. It looked like he wanted to say something else but the words just wouldn’t come. Instead, his shoulders slumped and he began to cry.
Aleta took Georgie by the hand and pulled her off to the side.
“Did you hear what I heard?” she whispered.
“About the gallery being closed indefinitely?” She nodded her head at Aleta. “That’s why we are going to get to the bottom of this. I didn’t work hard to get this close and have a murder, of all things, ruin my shot at a gallery showing. If it were Ed’s House of Drawings I’d be okay with it. But this is the Wyland Art Gallery.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. So, what should we do?”
“Scones.” Georgie uttered the word with such seriousness anyone would have thought it were the code to launch the U.S. nuclear warheads.
4
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Georgie and Aleta each held a plate in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other as they took a seat in the window of the Edge Café just a block down from the Wyland Art Gallery.
“Well, if I had to guess, that drunk guy would be my first choice.”
“Right.” Georgie slathered a generous helping of butter over her blueberry scone as her sister bit into her cranberry and orange scone after adding just a dip of whipped cream. “He certainly didn’t hide his feelings.”
“But where would we find him? I mean Stan could track him down easily. How are we going to know where to look?” Aleta asked before taking a sip of hot coffee.
Georgie chewed seriously, as she looked back in the files of her mind, trying to recollect if she had read something about where Ronan Wells lived. She came up with a big, fat nothing. After taking another bite, she looked around the café. It was a cozy place with mismatched furniture and brightly colored abstract paintings on the walls. It smelled of Nag Champa incense and strong coffee.
On the wall, just past Aleta’s head was a community bulletin board covered with handmade postcards advertising upcoming gallery shows, fashion shows, dance parties, DJs for hire as well as live-in-artist studios.
“He did say he literally lived and breathed his art last night, didn’t he?” Georgie squinted her eyes to read the address on one of the flyers.
“Yes, except I think he pronounced it more like olive-n-breathe my yart. Lirrally,” Aleta slurred, rolling her eyes.
Both women laughed as they finished their scones. Georgie bought a box to take home and hurriedly stowed them in Aleta’s car before they walked two blocks to the Live-in-Artist Studios.
“This really is a shot in the dark,” Georgie said as she studied the bright red building. It was five floors, very rustic looking with bronze pinwheels and mosaic tiled flowerpots in the front. “It would be like finding a needle in a haystack to…”
“Wells, R.,” Aleta said as she looked at the names on the mailboxes. “I think we’re getting closer.”
They pressed the buzzer a couple of times just to hear a grumble of some kind and the sharp click-buzz of the lobby door unlocking. It opened to a black-and-white-tiled floor that led to a set of stairs and a suspicious-looking elevator that neither woman thought should be trusted.
As they ascended the stairs, they heard a loud cough and a dead bolt unlock. As they reached the landing of the third floor, they saw a door yanked open to the four-inch space the security chain would allow and a squinty-eyed Ronan Wells peeking out.
“Ronan?” Georgie quickly pulled herself up off the last step and stared into Ronan’s field of vision. “Ronan Wells?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. It was obvious that he was wearing a hangover that was about three sizes too tight. It pushed his eyelids down as well as the corners of his mouth. His hair sprouted up at unnatural angles and his body gave off an odor that would offend Lucifer.
“Hi, Ronan.” Georgie used her best soothing voice. The same one she would use on her children when they came home from school with the sniffles. “My name is Georgie Kaye. This is my sister, Aleta. Jamal Landry was just found dead at Wyland Art Gallery.”
She half expected him to tell her to bugger off but when he shut the door, she heard the safety chain slip from its slot. With a squeal worthy of Georgie’s old VW, the wooden door opened.
“What did you say?”
“We don’t really have a lot of time, Mr. Wells,” Aleta piped up. She loved playing the ‘bad cop’ role. “The police will surely be looking to talk to you since Nate Stephenson is currently being questioned and he will no doubt mention your name.”
“Uh, and the little performance you put on at the gallery last night,” Georgie added.
“What performance?” he stepped aside and let the women in. The studio looked exactly like a person would imagine an artist’s studio would look. He had obviously just rolled out of the disheveled bed over in the corner. There were canvases covered with weird, round images that weren’t quite smiley faces or emojis but they were just as campy. There were scraps of sketch paper scattered all around with black, charcoal scribbles on them. Mason jars of dirty paint water and paintbrushes sat on almost every flat surface. The kitchenette looked as if it hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned since the Carter Administration and was stacked with dirty dishes. A few rumpled bits of clothing lay strewn across the floor.
“You don’t remember?” Georgie put her hand to her chest.
“Uhm, well, no. I was a little drunk last night.”
“A little?” Aleta snapped, earning her a slight elbow to the ribs from Georgie.
“You came in threatening to burn the place down. With everyone inside it. You don’t remember saying any of that?”
“No. No, I don’t. My gosh.” He ran a paint-splattered hand through his hair.
“Do you have anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts after you threatened everyone at Wyland? Did you pick up a girl or go out somewhere else?”
“Look. I might have been drunk but I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Do you own a gun, Mr. Wells?” Aleta asked coldly.
“Are you serious?”
“Doesn’t really matter,” Georgie spoke gently to her sister. “Anyone can get their hands on a gun if they really want to. The police know that.”
Aleta nodded her head knowingly.
“This is crazy. I need a drink,” Ronan groaned.
“That’s probably the last thing you need,” Aleta said in a snarky tone.
Ronan stumbled to the kitchenette. Like Jamal he was still in the clothes he was wearing from last night but minus a bullet hole to the neck.
He poured himself what looked like day-old coffee from a burned pot and added a shot of Jack Daniels to it. Without a word he gulped it down, winced, and let out a breath.
The front entrance buzzer cut through the room. Georgie and Aleta looked at each other and froze.
“Stan,” they both said at the same time.
“Mr. Wells, I’d suggest you get your story straight before you speak to the detective who will be coming up the stairs in just a few minutes.”
“Yes, just a few minutes,” Aleta urged as she opened the front door and peered over the banister.
“Let them come,” Ronan barked, puffing out his chest as if he were already facing a firing squad. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“No. But we do.” Aleta tugged her sister’s sleeve and jerked her head toward the door. Before they had a chance to make their move and slip away unseen, Ronan stomped to the intercom and buzzed his visitors in.
“Brilliant,” Georgie hissed. If Stan caught her here, she’d get more than an earful. Not to mention a ride to the station to get a lesson on interfering with a crime investigation. Murder, no
less.
“Come on.” Aleta pulled her out the door. With their backs pressed against the walls, they pushed themselves along the hallway to the back set of stairs.
“Wait,” Ronan whispered. “Where are you going?”
“We didn’t shoot anyone. We’re getting out of here,” Aleta jeered back at him.
They slipped through a doorway marked “EXIT” just as Stan was reaching the top of the landing, and while holding their breath, Georgie and Aleta gently closed the door with an almost silent click.
“Whew. That was a close one,” Georgie said as she started to descend the stairs. She held on to the railing as she took her steps carefully. “Stan would have had a fit if he’d found us there.
“That guy is a weirdo,” Aleta added.
“Stan? Yes, I know.”
“No. Ronan Wells. Although Stan’s a little off kilter.”
“Yes. Ronan is quite eccentric,” Georgie concurred. “I’m not sure what to think of him. From the look of it, I’m confident in my assumption that he’s still thoroughly intoxicated at this late hour of the morning. He probably won’t remember us by the time Stan gets done with him.”
“An angry drunk with no alibi? Book‘em, Danno is all I have to say,” Aleta joked. “It doesn’t look too good for him. But I hear they have art classes in some of the prisons. That might be….uh, oh.”
As they reached the bottom of the stairwell, they saw the final door that led to the lobby. Unfortunately, the red bar keeping it firmly shut said: Emergency Exit Only: Alarm Will Sound.
Aleta hurried up to the second floor to try the door.
“Locked from the other side. I’ll bet they all are.” She slumped down the stairs, her eyes shifting nervously. “We’ve been in some jams together. But nothing like this one.”
“Yeah, we have been.” Georgie shifted back and forth on her feet as if she were waiting for a bus.
“How fast can you run in those cowboy boots?”