Josh closed the metal door behind us. As we walked back to the front entrance, he stopped. “While y’all are here, let me show you the paintings Damian Reynolds consigned with me.” He led us to a room with a closed door and pulled out a key.
“How can you sell them if you keep them locked up?” Tyrone asked.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know how I should handle them. They were valuable when he brought them in, but now that he’s dead, they’ll become even more valuable. And in all fairness to his family, they need the opportunity to decide whether they want to keep them.”
Josh opened the door and switched on a light. He’d hung the paintings on the walls, so we got a good view of them. “The ones on the left are his works, and on the right, works from other artists he’d collected.”
Tyrone and I stood stock still taking it all in. I had seen Damian’s paintings in magazines, but seeing them in person was quite different. They were impressive.
“Wow!” Tyrone had an excellent eye for color and design, and he was obviously impressed by the pieces in front of us. “These must be worth a fortune.”
“Yes, they are.” Poor Josh looked wistful, knowing what his share of the sale might have brought him. I’d always felt Josh was an honorable businessman, but this was proving it. He could have sold them and no one would ever have been the wiser.
“That’s why I’ve locked them up.” He closed the door behind us and locked it.
“You could always contact his agent. Since Damian was divorced, I don’t know whether his ex-wife has any right to them. I read Damian had a teenage daughter. She’ll more than likely inherit them.”
“I just want to make sure they go where they should and I get them off my hands, with a receipt showing that I turned them over. It makes me nervous having such valuable items here.”
“I’ll tell you what. I want to talk to his ex-wife and agent about something else. If I’m able to talk to them, would you like for me to get a sense of them and see who you might want to approach about the paintings?”
“If you would, that’d be great.” Josh visibly relaxed as though the worry of the paintings had been lifted from him. I just hoped that I’d not taken the worry on myself.
Chapter 26
Clear everything from kitchen countertops except for one or two tasteful accessories, remove magnets and other items from refrigerators, and reduce dishes to best pieces for display.
The next morning at Vocaro’s, I knew if we waited long enough, we would eventually cross paths with Warren. He usually came in for coffee, and if he had time, he would sit down and chat with us for a bit. That morning after he ordered breakfast at the counter, I waved at him, and he joined Nita and me at our table.
I moved the work plans Nita and I had been going over to make room for him. He put down a tray laden with an egg-and-sausage sandwich, a bowl of mixed fruit, a muffin, and a carton of banana yogurt. The stress of being a possible suspect in Ian Becker’s murder hadn’t dulled his appetite.
“How have you been, Warren?” The last time I saw him, he’d been convinced the police suspected him of Ian Becker’s murder because his body had been found at the funeral home Warren owned. They couldn’t have been serious in that belief because I knew from experience the police don’t wait around much before making an arrest.
“I’ve been better.” He took a huge bite from his sandwich and chewed slowly. Hours went by, or so it seemed, before he finally swallowed. “They haven’t found out who murdered Ian, so the police may still have me in their sights.”
I finished my last bite of croissant in record-breaking time compared to Warren. “Have you thought of anyone else in Louiston Ian might have wanted to see while he was here? What about his girlfriend that last summer? I heard his cell phone showed he’d made a call to her when he first arrived. Did he say anything about her when he called you?”
Warren paused as he peeled the cover off the carton of yoghurt. “Over the years, Ian dated a lot of girls. But that last summer, he’d spent most of his time with one girl—Emily somebody.”
“Emily Thompson?” Nita asked. “That was the name on his phone records.”
“I think that was her name,” Warren said. Even after all he had already eaten, he dug into the yogurt with gusto.
“Did Ian mention her when he talked to you?” I asked.
“No. I can’t imagine why he would. Why are you interested?” Warren asked.
Nita went on alert. “We are looking to see if there’s a link between Ian’s death and Damian’s murder.”
Warren looked perplexed. “Monica murdered Damian. You think she killed Ian too?”
I glared at Nita. “No. We’re looking at both murders to see if the same person could have murdered them—someone other than Monica.”
“But you caught Monica standing over Damian’s body with a knife in her hands.” Warren looked puzzled. “How could you two of all people expect to prove someone else did it? Besides, you and Monica have never gotten on. Why are you trying to help her?”
“Because of Sister Madeleine,” Nita said.
I sighed. It did sound impossible. “Not just that. Monica said she didn’t do it, and Sister Madeleine believes her. She’s convinced me to help Monica with her business while she’s in jail. You know Sister Madeleine.”
Warren laughed. “Yeah. How well I know Sister Madeleine. She’s a lot like Mrs. Webster—has an iron will and can convince you to do anything. And make you think it was your idea.”
“And since she believes Monica is innocent, I’m asking questions to see if she could be right. It may be hard to believe, but when I think about how awful it was for Tyrone to be in jail, and seeing Monica there now too, I’m beginning to feel sorry for her.”
Nita snorted. “You are being more considerate of Monica than she deserves.”
I ignored her. “Warren, is there anything you can tell us about Ian’s last summer here?” I watched as he thought about it, as though searching his memory banks.
“Honestly, I can’t remember much. I was working for my dad and getting ready to go back to school. That summer, Ian spent a lot of time with Emily. You might want to talk to her—if she’s still in town. I haven’t seen her since that summer. She lived somewhere in the outskirts of Louiston.”
Warren gathered his trash and got up to leave.
“One more thing, Warren,” I said. “Are you handling the funeral arrangements for Damian or Ian?”
“I’m handling them for Damian but not for Ian, especially since he was found at my place. It just wouldn’t seem right. His folks are dead, and since he has no other family, his arrangements are a bit up in the air right now. I understand he has an ex-wife, but she doesn’t want to get involved with making the decisions about his final arrangements. Probably afraid she would get billed for them.”
“She sounds like a nice woman,” Nita commented dryly.
“The Reynolds family hasn’t made it public yet, but they plan to hold a memorial service for Damian at my place in the chapel. They haven’t decided on a date yet.”
Good. When the service was held, that would give me the opportunity to possibly talk to Damian’s ex-wife.
“Sounds like Damian had a nicer ex-wife if she’s arranging the service.” Nita took our empty cups and tray over to the collection station.
“Mrs. Reynolds has her daughter to think about,” Warren said. “Most of the arrangements are being made by Damian’s agent, Garrett Fletcher.”
Garrett Fletcher. That was someone else I needed to talk to. Since he would be in town for the memorial service, I’d have to find a way to talk to him too, especially after hearing about his argument with Damian at the B&B.
Chapter 27
Remove excess or oversized furniture to make rooms look larger.
A few days later, Nita and I pulled into the Hendricks Fune
ral Home parking lot well before the memorial service for Damian was to begin. It would enable us to watch people going in to see who was attending and if anyone acted strangely. But how we would determine what was strange behavior would be anybody’s guess.
“Don’t you think people will think it’s a bit strange for us to be attending this service when we didn’t even know Damian Reynolds?” Nita never liked going into funeral homes, but after finding Ian Becker’s body in one, she was even more uncomfortable than before.
“He was famous, so there’ll be a big crowd there, including other people who didn’t know him. Nobody will notice us.”
Nita placed her hands over her chest. “My heart is beating fast. I’m feeling faint. Maybe you should take me to St. John’s Hospital in case I’m having a heart attack.”
“You’re not having a heart attack. It’s probably a panic attack. Breathe in slowly counting to seven, hold your breath, and then breathe out again. That’ll help calm you.”
“What’ll happen if I get inside and faint?” Nita’s eyes widened as though panicked at the idea of being rolled out of there on a stretcher with everyone watching.
“Don’t even think about it. We’ll sit in the back. If you start to faint, you’ll make a spectacle of yourself. We need to fade into the crowd. Drawing attention to ourselves to that degree won’t help us.”
A black Limousine pulled up and parked nearby. The driver got out and opened the car doors. A man and woman stepped from the car, followed by a young woman. Dressed all in black, they were probably members of the family.
“Please hand me that folder with the photos you downloaded from the Internet.” Nita handed it to me. I quickly pulled out the photos and studied them. “That’s Garrett Fletcher, Damian’s agent. That must be Mrs. Reynolds, but it’s hard to tell since her hair looks different. That’s Damian’s daughter. No mistaking that California beach girl look.” I watched as Mrs. Reynolds reached for her daughter’s arm and the daughter pulled away. Ah, some history there.
“I wonder how Damian’s daughter is adjusting to life in Central Pennsylvania?” Nita burst out laughing.
“Be nice. She just lost her father, and before that, her sister. Life has to be rough for her right now, regardless of where she’s living.”
“Sorry. You’re right. It’s just such a contrast in lifestyles.”
“We didn’t do too badly growing up here.”
We waited for several more people to go inside before we went to the front entrance ourselves. The flash of news cameras caught us by surprise. Several reporters and cameramen milled about the front entrance. I kept forgetting that Damian had been famous and that photos or live footage of the people going into the service would be on the next news program.
Nita ducked behind me. “If I’d known we were going to be photographed, I’d have worn a better outfit.”
“I think any photos or videos of us will end up on the cutting room floor.” I patted down my hair just in case they didn’t.
Warren Hendricks and an assistant in somber suits with black ties stood inside the main entrance greeting visitors and directing them to the funeral chapel. Seeing us, he quirked an eyebrow as though to ask why we were there. Nita had been right. But hopefully, we’d be lost in the crowd.
The chapel was filling up quickly and few empty seats remained in the pews. Nita and I sat in some folding chairs that had been placed in the back of the chapel in anticipation of a big crowd. Scanning the room, I recognized many people, including Detective Spangler, who looked at us speculatively and frowned. Seeing us there, he probably suspected I was up to something.
A young woman sat down next to Nita. I looked up and recognized her niece Jaime. It was only natural she would want to be there since she had worked with Damian at the college. She hugged Nita and waved at me. Pachelbel’s “Canon” played softly in the background, partially covering the murmured whispers around us. It always amazed me the piece was played at both funerals and weddings.
Jaime pointed out some of the people from the college as they came in. Finally, just before the service began, Garrett Fletcher, Mrs. Reynolds, her daughter, and some other people walked in and sat in the front pews.
The service itself was somewhat of a blur since my thoughts were filled with a jumble of images from the past few days. Several people spoke at length about Damian. A cousin recounted some of their adventures growing up, evoking some laughs from those gathered. A former classmate spoke about their college days, and Garrett Fletcher described Damian’s early struggles to gain recognition in the art world. Damian’s daughter gave a tearful eulogy, recounting some of her happiest memories of her father. How he had tried to teach her to paint and her view that she was hopeless at it. I admired the girl’s courage getting up to speak about her father and her ability to get through it.
I looked up to see bowed heads and realized they were saying some final prayers, and it was over. Such a short ceremony to mark the passing of someone who had died all too soon. Thankfully, no one said anything about the way he’d died or mentioned Monica in any way.
Jaime wiped her eyes and turned to us. “Are you going to stay for the reception?”
“I don’t think so—”
“Why not?” Nita asked. “It will give you a chance to meet and question Damian’s ex-wife and agent.”
“Because I don’t think it would be appropriate here, especially with so many people trying to talk to them. Besides, I called Ron earlier to see if they were staying at the B&B, and fortunately, they are. First thing tomorrow, I’ll take Ron and Geoff up on their invitation to join them for breakfast someday—and if I happen to be there at the same time as the guests are having breakfast, all the better.”
“I’m going along with you,” Nita said. “It won’t look as strange as you being there on your own.”
As we got up to leave, Jaime whispered. “See that tall man by the side door—the one with the pink shirt and plaid bowtie? That’s Professor Edward Albertson. From what I heard, he was really upset when the college hired Damian.”
“Why? Because he wanted the job?” Nita asked, her ears perking up at the idea of another possible suspect.
Jaime shook her head. “No. He’s a historian, not an artist. Someone said it was because Damian and Professor Albertson’s wife had some history.”
As people began spilling out of the chapel, I spotted Helen Reynolds heading to a corridor that led to the restrooms. Perhaps I could casually run into her there. As we both dried our hands at the sink, I could express my sympathy. Later when I questioned her, she might remember me as someone who attended Damian’s funeral and be a little more forthcoming.
“Nita, I’ll be right back.”
When I entered the long corridor leading to the restrooms, I stopped abruptly when in the distance I saw Helen Reynolds walk into the arms of Garrett Fletcher. Their embrace was much more intimate than two people consoling each other.
Chapter 28
Grimy bathroom tile is a turn-off to buyers. Thoroughly clean grout. Replace outdated tile or paint with a special ceramic epoxy covering.
After I arrived home from Damian’s memorial service, I thought about the embrace I’d witnessed between Helen Reynolds and Garrett Fletcher. Damian and Helen had divorced long before Damian’s murder, but it still made me wonder. Could she have been involved with Garrett while she was still married to Damian? Even now, could Helen or Garrett have had a motive to see Damian out of the picture—one besides Helen’s feelings toward him because of the death of their daughter?
I wondered if Detective Spangler had questioned Helen Reynolds. She lived within driving distance of Damian and could have easily gone to his house the night he was murdered and returned home again within a few hours.
Thinking of pictures, I remembered reading that candid photos can sometimes reveal things about people and relationships—children wh
o are always standing away from their parents in family photos, couples who shouldn’t be gazing at each other longingly, and individuals who aren’t smiling when everyone else in a photo is laughing. Photos sometimes tell a story. Perhaps if I could view photos of Damian, Helen, and Garrett together, they might tell me something. It was worth a try.
I reached for my laptop and searched on Google for photos showing the three of them together. Dozens of photos came up, but I didn’t see anything in them that was revealing. That is until I saw a captioned photo that included Edward and Phyllis Albertson. In the photo, Damian had been standing close to Phyllis, with his hand possessively on her shoulder. Her husband had been on the far end of the group.
According to Jaime, Professor Albertson had been upset when the college hired Damian—something about there being a history between Damian and Professor Albertson’s wife. Could there have been enough between Damian and Phyllis Albertson that could have driven Professor Albertson to murder? A stretch, but stranger things have happened.
Early the next morning, Nita and I arrived at the B&B, well before the time Geoff and Ron served breakfast. Fortunately, when I’d explained to Geoff and Ron my reason for wanting to be at the B&B that morning, they were more than willing to accommodate us.
The cool early morning air felt wonderful and helped soothe my frazzled nerves. I’d slept poorly the night before, dreading the session with Damian Reynolds’s ex-wife and his agent. But we needed to grab the opportunity to see them while they were still in town, and this could be our only opportunity to do so.
We parked in the back of the tall mansion. When we came around the corner of the house to the front entrance, we found Geoff standing on the porch, holding a cup of coffee. The smell of it hit me and reminded me how ready for breakfast I was.
“Good morning, ladies. Glad you got here early. I need to talk to you before our guests start coming down for breakfast.”
“Hi, Geoff. What’s going on?” Nita stretched her arms out wide and breathed in the fresh mountain air. A look of pure joy filled her face. It was good getting out of town occasionally. We needed to do it more often.
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