STAGING WARS

by Grace Topping

  As we approached, Anne Williamson hoisted a large framed piece and started to hang it on a display board. Aunt Kit came over to join us.

  I rushed over to the older woman. “Here, let me help you with that.”

  “Don’t you worry, dear, I’ve got it.” With that, she dropped the frame into place and slapped her hands together to remove any dust that dared cling to the frame. “I’m stronger than I look.”

  When the others approached, Nita made the introductions. Anne beamed at our compliments about the artwork that was beginning to surround us. Her pride in the work of her members was obvious.

  “We’re very fortunate to have talented artists here in Louiston. We’re especially happy that Nita joined us. Nita, you’ll have to take your friends over and show them your photographs. They’ve all been hung. Now if you’ll please excuse me, we have an artist who is unhappy with where his work was hung, and I have to go deal with it.”

  We said our farewells to Anne and followed Nita to the photography area. The variety of images was amazing, but it was Nita’s two photos of Inky that immediately drew my attention.

  “Nita, they’re wonderful.” My friend didn’t realize how talented she was. The photos she had taken of my cat were truly imaginative. How she was able to get him to pose with such interesting expressions, I’d never know. He wouldn’t have done that for me.

  Not comfortable with the attention she was receiving, Nita blushed and pointed to another area. “Come on, let me show you around. Most of the works are up now, so you’ll get to see the exhibit before anyone else does.”

  “Maybe I’ll find some pieces we can add to our staging inventory.” I thought the original works were fabulous, but seeing the prices made me realize that for now, I would have to stick to shopping at resale shops or garage sales for artwork.

  When we walked into the room containing the two-dimensional pieces, a large painting of a woman dressed in shades of black, purple, and lavender immediately caught our attention. It was dramatic and breathtaking.

  “That’s Anne’s submission,” Nita said. “Stunning isn’t it?” That was an understatement.

  Mrs. Webster whistled at the price. “Did she set it that high to discourage buyers?”

  “No. That’s what her artwork sells for. You see why we don’t have to worry about her mishandling our little treasury.”

  “You could buy a small car with that kind of money,” Mrs. Webster said.

  Aunt Kit, who was really into art, stood looking at the piece. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t sell for even more than that if two or more people start bidding on it. I need to get to know Anne Williamson better.” With that, she left us in search of her.

  I looked up to see Tyrone weaving his way around the art boards. Mrs. Webster had said he’d be arriving soon to give her a ride home.

  “Laura. Glad you’re still here. I just came from Vocaro’s. Word is out the police are questioning Warren again.” Uh, oh. Would Nita be next?

  Chapter 10

  Attractive artwork can breathe new life into a room. Framed photos will make a room look more contemporary.

  Two days later, the art show opened, and a reception was being held that evening to honor the award winners. Damian Reynolds, the juror, had judged the artwork the day before and Anne Williamson had notified the winners. We were thrilled to learn that Nita had won an honorable mention for her photographs.

  “I can’t believe my simple photos of Inky got an honorable mention.” Nita accepted the flute of champagne her husband Guido handed her. He leaned over and kissed her gently. “Your photos are great.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Nita. It took skill in getting such terrific photos. Of course, using my gorgeous Inky as your subject might have helped.”

  Nita laughed. “Possibly. It’s hard to find a cat more beautiful than Inky.”

  The room was jammed, but the crowd parted when Monica Heller entered. She radiated superiority. A tall swarthy man with long dark hair tied at the back of his neck accompanied her. As they walked by, Monica paused in front of us, like Queen Elizabeth stopping to talk to well-wishers in the crowd.

  “Congratulations, Nita, on your little award,” Monica said.

  Little award. I forced myself not to shake my head in disgust. Or curtsy. Would Monica ever change? “We didn’t see you at the Small Business Fair over the weekend, Monica,” I said.

  She wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something bad. “Oh, my dear, no. I have more business than I can handle as it is. No need to drum up more.” She whisked a flute of champagne from a tray held by a passing waiter and walked away, never bothering to introduce the man with her.

  I turned to Nita. “Did Monica enter anything in the festival? She knew about your award.”

  Tyrone stopped chewing on the ice from his glass and pointed to the retreating figures. “She probably knows because of him.”

  At my puzzled look, Nita added, “That’s Damian Reynolds, the artist—and Monica’s latest client. He bought a mid-century modern house near the campus, and Monica is helping him decorate it.”

  “Is that what they call it now?” Mrs. Webster bit on an olive that was probably as sour as her feelings about Monica. “They looked a lot chummier than homeowner and decorator.”

  “According to word at Vocaro’s, they’re together.” Tyrone took another mouthful of ice.

  Between Tyrone and Nita’s hairdresser, we had the best sources of information in town.

  A short while later, Anne Williamson thanked everyone for coming and introduced Damian Reynolds. After the applause died down, she thanked him for serving as the juror and handed him a gift-wrapped box. “A small token of our appreciation.” He placed it on the table behind them and took his place next to Anne for the awards ceremony.

  Anne announced the winners in each category, and Damian presented envelopes containing cash awards to the recipients. With lots of Nita’s family present for the ceremony, the applause when she accepted her envelope was thunderous. I was thrilled for my friend, who deserved all the recognition she could get.

  Nita’s joy of winning the award was obvious from her broad smile. “Can you believe it? I get money as part of the award.”

  Later as everyone mingled, I bumped into Anne Williamson who was standing near her piece.

  “Congratulations on your best-in-show award. Your piece is fabulous.” I sounded like a gushing fan, but I admired anyone who could paint such a beautiful and dramatic piece.

  “Thank you. It’s one of my favorite pieces. It will be hard to part with it.”

  “Does that mean you’ve sold it?”

  “Let’s just say I’m entertaining offers.”

  Damian Reynolds, holding a champagne flute in his hand, walked up to the piece. He studied it for a long time and then moved closer as though memorizing every brushstroke. When he walked away, I turned to Anne. “I wonder what they look for in a piece when they judge the different categories? He certainly admired your piece, giving it best in show. High praise coming from a famous artist.”

  “Yes, it was quite an honor,” Anne said with a huge smile. “I think this deserves another glass of champagne.” With that, she went in search of a waiter.

  Mrs. Webster, who had been standing nearby, stared at the painting. “All that money for a painting.” She continued studying it.

  “You are so entranced by it, perhaps you should put in an offer for it.” I leaned over to take a close look.

  “If I had that much money, I could pay for Tyrone’s next year of college.” She shook her head. “There’s something about that painting.”

  “It’s definitely mesmerizing.”

  Nita came up from behind us and pointed toward Damian who was talking to Guido. “Quite a handsome guy. I predict every young woman at the college will become infatuated with him before the en
d of the summer semester.”

  “Too handsome for my taste.” I finished the remainder of my drink and looked around for a place to put my empty glass.

  “I know—you and your belief that handsome men are trouble. In this case, you may be right.”

  Chapter 11

  Ensure artwork and furniture are in scale and in proportion to the room size and other items around them.

  I searched the crowded reception room for Warren but didn’t see him. It was unusual for him to miss a function like this since he was a big supporter of anything related to the arts in Louiston. Could the police have detained him?

  Tyrone, biting into a cookie, approached and handed me a serving plate of cookies. It looked like he had eaten most of them already. “Laura, I need to leave. Got a date. Could you give Gran a ride home?”

  “I’m riding with Nita and Guido, but I’m sure they’d be happy to drive her home.” I looked around. “By the way, have you seen Warren? I thought he’d be here. Since the police wanted to question him again, I’m worried that he’s not here.”

  “He came into Vocaro’s this afternoon. Said the police had wanted to ask him about who else Ian Becker hung around with when he lived here. They didn’t detain him.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  Behind us, we heard raised voices and turned to see Monica and Damian. Her face was reddening and her hands curled into fists. Damian kept trying to quiet her, but as Monica became more agitated, her voice grew louder.

  “I can’t let you do that!” Monica screeched.

  Damian, noticing the crowd had turned toward them, took Monica by the arm and ushered her out a side door. The room remained silent for several seconds before the buzz of conversation started again. Monica always knew how to make an entrance—and now a dramatic exit.

  “Well, that was interesting.” I started picking up paper cups and plates from a nearby table and disposing of them in a trash bag. Nita had used her strong arm to find volunteers to help clean up after the reception—me among them. “That was one scene I could have done without.”

  Tyrone took the bag from me and held it open as I cleared another table. “I gather their decorating collaboration, or whatever they call their relationship, isn’t going well.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it. But Monica never has a smooth relationship with anyone. If nothing else, it makes life interesting for the rest of us.”

  At the end of the evening after Nita and I finished cleaning up, I noticed a box sitting on a side table. I held it up and motioned to Nita. “This got left behind.”

  “Agatha Christie!”

  “What?” I stared at Nita, wondering what had gotten into her.

  Guido laughed. “Since finding that body and being stressed, she’s started using a few expletives and wants to cut them out before the kids come home. Now when she’s upset, she uses the name of somebody famous. What’s wrong, Nita?

  Nita pointed to the box. “That’s the thank you gift Anne gave Damian for serving as the juror. In his haste to get Monica out of here, he probably forgot it.”

  I handed her the box. “He might come back for it.”

  “Yes, but we’re ready to close up, and if he doesn’t come back soon and we leave it, someone might take it. It’s too valuable to leave.”

  Nita turned to Guido. “It’s not too late. Do you mind if we drop this at his place when we take Mrs. Webster home? He doesn’t live far from her.”

  During the short drive to Damian’s house, I found my eyelids becoming heavy and noticed Mrs. Webster’s head bobbing and occasionally jerking upright. We’d all had a tiring day, and I was anxious to get home and curl up in bed with Inky, if he wasn’t deserting me again for Aunt Kit’s bed. Aunt Kit had joined old friends for dinner that evening, so I wasn’t sure what time she would be getting in.

  Damian’s mid-century modern house was set back from the road in a grove of pine trees. The large front windows typical of that style of home were dark and the place looked rather foreboding. Guido pulled into the long driveway and stopped the motor. We could see a dim light from a side window, which could mean Damian was still up.

  Nita hopped from the car with the box. “I’ll knock quickly, and if he doesn’t answer, I’ll leave it near the front door and send him a text letting him know it’s there.”

  The cool night air and the lovely fragrance of pine coming in from an open car window helped relax me. I rested my head on the seatback, planning to sleep the rest of the way home.

  A piercing scream jolted us fully awake.

  Looking toward the sound of the scream, we saw Nita by the front door frantically beckoning to us. We scrambled from the car, nearly stumbling over ourselves, and ran toward the house. Our relief at seeing she was okay was overwhelming.

  When we reached the front door, Guido entered first, with Mrs. Webster and me following. Not knowing what we’d find, I tried to push in front of her, but she wouldn’t have it.

  We gaped at the scene in front of us. There, wide-eyed and covered in blood, stood Monica Heller—a knife in her hands. At her feet lay Damian Reynolds.

  Chapter 12

  Arrange furniture to provide balance to a room.

  Guido grasped Nita to his chest, trying to soothe her and to assure himself that she was okay. Monica looked dazed and was keening like a sick animal.

  “Monica, drop the knife.” I attempted to keep my voice calm, feeling more like running away than trying to talk a crazed killer into giving up her weapon. If we didn’t get it away from her, would she come at one of us with it? Me in particular, given our history.

  Monica didn’t appear to absorb what I’d said. Finally, she focused on me with a questioning look, as though wondering why I was there.

  “Drop the knife,” I repeated. Monica looked down at the knife in her hands and abruptly thrust it away from her. It landed on the terrazzo floor with a clatter, splattering spots of blood as it skittered across the shiny stone surface.

  Mrs. Webster knelt on the floor next to Damian Reynolds and checked his pulse. She pushed aside his long ponytail, matted in blood, and exposed an expanding dark circle in the middle of his back. Not again.

  Assured that Nita was okay, Guido pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in 911. Behind me, I could hear him giving details to the dispatcher. Would it be Patty again?

  Monica stood as though rooted next to Damian’s body. Now that she was unarmed, I took her by the arm, gently led her to the sofa, and eased her into it. She rubbed her sticky hands together as though to rub away the blood on them. My instinct was to get some wet paper towels in the kitchen so I could wipe her hands clean, but on reflection, thought better of it. The police would need to see things the way they were before we entered.

  Monica’s eyes came back into focus and with a jerky voice asked, “Is he…going to be okay? I tried to save him.”

  Save him? “How, Monica? How did you try to save him?”

  “I found him…on the floor. He wasn’t moving…the knife.” She started to sob. “I pulled it out…trying to save him.”

  If Monica pulled the knife out, had she thrust it into his back to begin with? Regretted what she had done and then pulled it out? But if she hadn’t stabbed him, who had?

  If she hadn’t stabbed him, it was natural her first instinct had been to remove the knife. If she read mysteries, she’d have known not to do that. Now she was covered in blood, been seen holding the knife, and looked every bit as guilty of stabbing him. Oh, Monica, what have you done?

  Given all the evidence of what four people had seen, would the police be willing to believe her story about finding him and removing the knife to save him? Especially after they had argued so publicly?

  We could hear the wail of sirens in the distance and knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the emergency response team arrived. At this point, I di
dn’t know if Damian was alive or dead, but it didn’t look good for his chances of survival.

  When we heard the sound of vehicles screech to a halt nearby, Guido left Nita’s side and went outside. From the window, I saw him talking to the policemen who had arrived with the EMTs. I was grateful to have Guido running interference for us. The EMTs nodded their heads, and I assumed that Guido had apprised them it was a crime scene. That way they could take steps to attend to the victim and try their best to preserve any evidence.

  With the EMTs there to take over, Mrs. Webster stepped back from Damian’s body and came over to where Monica and I sat. The grim look on her face confirmed my fears that Damian was dead.

  Leaving us, Mrs. Webster poked her head into several doorways, and when I heard running water, I realized she had gone to wash her hands. I looked over and saw Monica rubbing her hands on her skirt, looking unaware of what she was doing. She stared anxiously at the EMTs as they went into action.

  Guido had taken Nita outside. I looked through the large front window and could see them sitting on a bench near the front door. I desperately wanted to join them and not be here, witnessing what was happening in front of me. But I didn’t want to leave Monica alone in the state she was in. Would there be any effect on the investigation if we removed her from the immediate scene of the crime? If we left through the front door or even a rear door, we could end up harming the crime scene. What a mess.

  It was times like this that I wished I’d read more true crime and police procedural novels instead of traditional mysteries. Perhaps then I would know how to handle the situation better.

  I looked up to see Detective Spangler coming through the doorway. He caught sight of me and shook his head. After conferring with the uniformed police officers and the EMTs, he came over to where Monica and I sat.

  “Am I going to find you near every body that’s found in town?” He flipped open the small notebook he was never without.