by Sandi Scott
“I think you're probably right,” Mueller said. “I talked to Tim some more last night over dinner. He said it was hard for him to think someone would make that much of a mess of things on purpose. I'll have a talk with the district attorney. I expect he'll charge Mr. Fortune with involuntary manslaughter, not murder.”
They stepped outside and the sheriff pulled the door closed, signaling to a deputy stepping out of a patrol car. “Stay here and keep everyone out of the apartment until we can get a key to lock things up,” he instructed the young man. “Forensics should be here in a few. When they get here, find the complex manager and get a key.”
He walked Ashley to her car, asking if she wanted him to take her home. “One of the deputies can bring your van home later if you don't feel up to driving.”
“No, surprisingly enough, I'm okay,” she said. “I'm a little shaky, but it's not too bad.” She slipped behind the wheel and started the car.
“You know,” she looked up at the sheriff, “from what I know about Chance, he'll probably come out of this with a whole new television series.” They both laughed as she pulled out of the parking space and turned toward home.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“So, did you decide on a name?” Ashley asked Ryan as they watched Dizzy and the puppy run around the dog park.
“I was thinking about Dash because he's always dashing around,” Ryan replied. “Even with that cast, he runs everywhere.”
“Dizzy and Dash,” Ashley giggled. “It sounds like they should be in a movie with lots of car chases—maybe old-timey 'shine runners!”
“No movies and no more television shows for them, or for you, except from the safety of the couch or movie theater seat,” Ryan said, sobering. “Ashley, I still can't believe what happened yesterday—especially that you confronted a killer by yourself. Please, I'm not trying to tell you what to do; I'm not that crazy, but please don't do things like that. You're really important to me, and it scared me half to death to realize that you could have been seriously injured or even killed.”
Ashley laid her hand on his arm. “I promise—I'll be careful. I really didn't think Chance would react like that. I figured out that it was all an accident, that he didn't mean to hurt anyone so I had no thought that he would turn violent. Nevertheless, it's over now, and I'm fine.” Before Ryan could reply, a voice called out to them. Turning, they saw Patty approaching from the parking lot. Dizzy came running over with the puppy close behind.
“Hello, there, little one,” she said to the puppy as she gave Dizzy a hug. “We finally meet! What's your name? Did Daddy Ryan ever get around to finding one for you?
“Patty, meet Dash,” Ryan said, rolling his eyes at her teasing, “and he's no longer a foster dog. Dash is staying with me in what everyone keeps calling his 'forever home.'”
Ashley laughed. “I knew it. When you walked out of the shelter with that dog, I knew there was no way you were ever going to be able to give him up. You were a goner from the start.”
“Well, they make a cute little family,” Patty commented. Ryan caught Ashley's eye and smiled; but she sighed inwardly, knowing that the conversation she'd been avoiding was fast approaching. The three friends stood for a few minutes talking over the events of the week and the catering jobs Patty and Ashley had on the upcoming schedule while watching the canine friends romping on the doggie playground equipment. Finally, Patty said, “I need to deliver some meals to Mrs. Davis. She's decided she wants some 'home-cooked' meals in her freezer so her husband won't know when she comes home from shopping or playing canasta with her friends too late to cook herself. I will see you at the kitchen tomorrow, Ashley?”
Ashley nodded, sighing, “Yes, I need to get a head start on the wedding cake samples for Saturday's tasting. I'll be there, but it might not be too early.” After encouraging her friend to sleep in and get some well-earned rest, Patty called out a goodbye to Dizzy and Dash.
Ryan took Ashley's hand and led her to a bench under a shade tree. Looking at his face, she knew that there would be no more postponing the living-together discussion. “Ash, can we talk about something?” Ryan's words were tentative as he looked out over the puppy playground. “We don't talk much about our relationship or our feelings, but I really want to tell you—” he turned to face her, “you are my very best friend. I've loved you almost since the first time we met, but I realized when you came back that I'm also in love with you. I want to spend as much time with you as I can for the rest of my life. I want you and Dizzy and Dash and me to be that family that Patty mentioned. Ashley, I'd like for us to move in together, to share our home and our lives.”
Ashley felt her chest tighten around her heart. She knew she loved Ryan deeply as a friend, too, but was she in love with him? After what happened with Serge, she no longer felt confident trusting her own judgment or emotions. She didn't want to change the dynamics of their relationship too quickly out of fear that she'd lose everything if they went too fast. Before she could try to put her feelings into words, she felt a heavy thump on the back of her legs. “Dizzy!” she cried out as she began to fall. Ryan caught her just before she went down and drew her in for another warm hug. After a few seconds, she pushed back and looked up into Ryan's face. Placing her hand on his cheek and taking a deep breath, she said, “Ryan, I don't know about moving in together right now. I mean, I do love you, but . . . well, I'm a little gun-shy after all the Serge mess.” She saw the hurt on his face and hurried to reassure him. “I trust you—with my heart and everything else—but I am afraid. Can you give me a little time to think about it? I know it's a cliché, but it really isn't you—this really is about me being scared of what could happen.”
“Ash, as I said, I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he responded, brushing his lips against the top of her head. “Waiting to move to the next adventure in our relationship—and I think it will always be an adventure—isn't a problem. Take as much time as you want. I'm not going anywhere unless, and until, you tell me that's what you want, and maybe not even then!” He smiled down at her.
Somehow, Ashley knew things would work out just as they should.
THE END
Letter from the Author
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR reading. I hope you enjoyed this story and will consider writing a review on Amazon.com or lending it to a friend.
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Stay cozy,
Sandi
PREVIEW: Murder at the Art Gallery
The following is the first chapter of book 1 in Sandi Scott’s Pet Portraits series. Enjoy.
Chapter 1
The Kaye twins, in their mid-60s and still fighting over who was older, pulled up to the entrance of the Wyland Art Gallery for the opening of the gallery’s first international artist, and to meet with the owner. It was a cool fall evening in the Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago and Georgie, an artist and the older of the two, had insisted on driving.
The driver’s side door of her orange Volkswagen Bug opened with a spine- shivering squeal. Georgie saw her sister cringe and then looked at the crowd of people who had turned around to look at them.
“You know I love to make an entrance,” Georgie said. “Good ol’ Pablo always comes in handy for that.”
“Get Pablo some WD-40 for the door hinges.” Aleta Kaye scolded. “I don’t know why you didn’t let me drive. My Mercedes has air conditioning.” She opened her door on the passenger side, holding her breath in anticipation of another screech. She let out a slight sigh when there was just a burp of a squeak.
“This is so exciting!” Georgie ignored her sister’s in
structions as she usually did. “The one and only Nate Stephenson might just give me my own show. I hope I get enough time to talk to him tonight.”
Quickly Georgie checked her bright red lipstick in the side view mirror and while fumbling through her huge satchel purse, she gave her wrists a quick squirt of Jungle Gardenia perfume then rubbed them against her neck.
“Well, the crowd looks colorful,” said Aleta. “At least their tattoos and pink hair. I’ve never seen so many people wearing all black other than a funeral.”
“You act like you’ve never been to an art gallery show with me.” Georgie slipped her arm through her sister’s and began leading her toward the gallery entrance. “You wouldn’t come if you didn’t enjoy it. Heaven knows there is no such thing as forcing Aleta Kaye to do anything she doesn’t want to.”
Aleta looked at her sister and rolled her eyes.
“I know you secretly love it. This way you get to enjoy the freedom, the risk, the adventure of being an artist without getting your frock dirty.” Georgie gave her sister a playful bump with her hip.
Aleta hmphed, “I have to ask because my impressionable adult daughter seems to think her Aunt Georgie is a fashion icon. What do you call this ... this ensemble you’re wearing?”
“It’s called Lagenlook.” Georgie gushed as if she were wearing the Hope Diamond on her finger. “It means something like many layers. But the idea is free-flowing fabrics.”
“Lagenlook.” Aleta shook her head. Looking back at her sister, she began to giggle herself. “Well, it certainly looks comfortable.”
“It is. Besides, at sixty-six years old what do I care what anyone thinks of my clothes? I’m too old to care but young enough to still express myself. There aren’t many people who would wear black and hot pink at our age, yet here I am and loving every minute of it!” Georgie shimmied her shoulders making Aleta laugh aloud.
They took a few steps in silence before Georgie stopped, shaking her head.
“Don’t do it, Aleta,” she ordered.
“Do what?”
“I know what that sudden silence means and you need to stop. My cancer isn’t coming back.”
“I know but it was just three short years ago.” Aleta’s voice cracked.
Georgie stopped walking, turned toward her sister and held her at arm’s length. “If you are going to live life looking backward you can spend the evening with Pablo.” Georgie squeezed her sister’s arms. “Now, I’m the older of us two and...”
“I’m sorry, Georgie.” Aleta shook her head and took a deep breath. “I just don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Georgie smiled and pulled her sister into a tight hug. “I love you too, Aleta.”
Aleta pulled back, wiping away a tear, careful not to smudge her mascara. “Let’s talk about something else—like how amazing it will be when Nate Stephenson gives you your own exhibit here!”
Georgie blushed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Nate just said in the voicemail that he saw my pet portraits at Earwax Coffeehouse and wanted to connect tonight.”
Aleta dabbed at the corner of her eye and then put her arm around her sister’s waist, pulling her toward the gallery. “Then let’s go connect!”
WYLAND ART GALLERY was located on the second floor of a three-story loft building. The first floor was a privately-owned studio that rented spaces to local artists.
Otto Reinholt, an eccentric local philanthropist, rented the top floor. Georgie knew the gossip about the short man with gray hair and a handlebar mustache. Once or twice a month neighbors saw him letting himself in and out of the loft. He never had any visitors or let anyone see inside his place. Despite these eccentricities, people said he was pleasant enough.
“Is this building haunted?” Aleta asked as she followed her sister up a poorly lit flight of stairs.
“Wouldn’t that be great? I don’t know. But now I must ask.” Georgie looked around while carefully holding on to the handrail.
There was a mellow thump-thump-thump of some chill techno music coming from the second floor. A heavy door that looked like the entrance to a bank vault stood slightly ajar.
“Is that in violation of the fire code?” Aleta pointed to the impressive door.
“Would you quit nitpicking?” Georgie scolded. “Did you have anything even remotely this exciting to do tonight that you are missing? No. I didn’t think so.”
Carefully, the sisters reached the landing and peeked inside. The door swung open surprisingly easy and as they stepped inside an insanely tall receptionist stood behind the semi-circular desk and studied them with sleepy eyes.
“Name?” she purred. Her skin was the color of black coffee and her lips glowed a shimmery pink.
“Hello. I’m Georgie Kaye and this is my plus one.” Georgie reached up to adjust her hat. The receptionist scanned a clipboard of names, flipping to the very last page.
Without any expression on her face, she checked off their names and gave them each a black wristband.
“Enjoy.”
“Thank you.” Georgie smiled. “Could you tell me where I can find Nate Stephenson?”
The receptionist flung her long, straight, black hair behind her, looked over her shoulder and pointed to a tall, blond man wearing jeans with exceptionally pointy cowboy boots.
“That’s him with the red scarf?” Georgie confirmed.
The receptionist nodded.
“He looks fairly normal,” Aleta joked as she slipped her arm through Georgie’s. “That’s more than I can say for these sculptures.” She looked down her nose at a barstool with a mound of clay on it.
“I know modern art isn’t always easy to embrace.” Georgie patted her sister’s arm. “I’m certainly more of a fan of the Great Masters, myself. I’m sure the only person who could see fault in Michelangelo’s David is Michelangelo, himself. But that doesn’t mean these weird interpretations aren’t worth something.”
A young man with a goth dye job, wearing black pants and a black button-down shirt held a silver platter with tall champagne glasses up to Georgie and Aleta without saying a word. They thanked him as they each took a glass.
“I’m sorry, sis, but this looks like poop on a barstool,” Aleta whispered.
“Okay, I can’t argue with you about that one,” Georgie conceded. “Let’s look at the other works. I think there are two artists featured. If I remember right, the other one works in oils.”
They slowly meandered through the huge loft space. Displaced sections of wall broke up the room into a kind of maze leading the art-goers in different directions forcing them to mingle and make eye contact.
“Now, this I kind of like,” Aleta admitted as she stood in front of a huge canvas. “I like the colors and how the black splits them up.”
Just then, a tall man in an ivory linen suit came up and stood next to them. He smiled broadly and raised his champagne flute.
“Ladies, welcome.” He had short cut black curly hair and skin the color of caramel. “I hope you are having a good time.”
“Well, yes. My sister Aleta was just admiring the painting here.”
The man turned to look at the painting, gave it a cursory glance, and turned back to the sisters. “To be honest, I’m here mostly for the good company. The art is....artistic, but I wouldn’t know a great painting from one done by my 5-year-old nephew. I just don’t have the eye.”
“Well, what does this one make you think of?” Georgie asked, pointing to the painting.
The man looked again at the painting and really considered it for a few seconds.
“It reminds me of rush-hour traffic from God’s point of view.” He raised his champagne glass. “And makes me happy I’m not stuck in it.”
Both sisters laughed and raised their glasses.
“Even that thought gives this piece value. It made you see something from a completely new perspective.” Georgie tipped her champagne glass back to sip the tart, bubbly liquid. “That reminds me of something the worst teache
r I’d ever had in art school said about the purpose of art.”
“Oh, so you’re an artist?” asked the man.
“Yes, I paint portraits, mostly.”
“And you,” said the man, nodding in Aleta’s direction. “Are you an artist too?”
“Hardly,” said Aleta. “I’ll take a spreadsheet over a canvas any day.”
“Now that’s my kind of girl,” said the man. He was easily 30 years younger than the sisters were, but flirted with ease and charm. “I’m Jamal Landry.” He shook the sisters’ hands as they introduced themselves.
“Believe it or not, I own part of this place, but like you, Aleta, I’d rather look at the accounts than the art.”
“Well, we all have our passions, I suppose,” Georgie said.
“I’ll let you ladies enjoy your evening and get back to the art.” Jamal smiled broadly and walked past the sisters to mingle with others.
“Hey, where did Edward Scissorhands go with the champagne? I could use a fresh glass.” Aleta looked around but before she could spot the waiter she clutched Georgie’s arm. “Look over there,” she whispered and jerked her chin to the furthest corner of the room.
“How did we miss that?” Georgie gushed.
“I don’t know but I can now say I am glad we came tonight. For a while there I wasn’t quite sure but now I am.”
The Kaye sisters grew up calling them sweet tables, long tables stacked high and deep with dozens of miniature desserts. Over the years, as their children got married, both Georgie and Aleta let the brides-to-be plan their dream weddings. But there was no stopping them from ensuring the sweet tables would be intoxicating oases of epic sugary proportions.