STAGING WARS

by Grace Topping

  “You could start with the other people named in Doris Becker’s will,” I said.

  He leaned his head back and expelled a long, drawn-out breath. “Are you trying to tell me again how to do my job?”

  “If it would help solve two murders, yes.”

  He shook his head as though in disbelief, tucked the bag under his arm, and walked away.

  I thought about the sixty-five dollars I’d paid for the evidence. With my tight budget, I started to pull the receipt from my purse and chase after him but decided against it. I couldn’t ask him to reimburse me for the cost of the evidence. That might look suspicious. Once Monica was set free, I’d collect it from her.

  I felt in my bones that we were getting close to discovering something—at least about Ian’s death. But when it came to Damian’s death, would we discover something that would help free Monica or confirm her guilt?

  Chapter 43

  Make minor repairs. Buyers noticing small things that need to be repaired will wonder how well the house has been maintained.

  The rest of the week passed quickly. I worked with Monica’s assistant on several projects, while Nita helped a homeowner with an occupied staging, using the homeowner’s furnishings. Unfortunately, the homeowner’s living room furniture was well-worn and outdated. Prospective buyers seeing tattered upholstery would wonder what else in the house needed attention. Evidence of deferred maintenance caused more lost sales than anything else. Nita solved the problem by convincing the homeowner to purchase inexpensive covers, which made a huge difference.

  At the end of a particularly busy day, Nita dropped me at my house. I looked forward to a relaxing weekend.

  “I hate to remind you of this, considering how exhausted you must be, but we promised to help take down the art exhibit at the Arts Center tomorrow. We have to have everything out by tomorrow afternoon.”

  I groaned. There went my restful Saturday. “Okay, what time do you want me to be there?”

  We made arrangements to meet the next morning bright and early so we could finish and still have part of the day to rest. “I’m picking up Mrs. Webster, so you won’t need to get her. She wants to come. Tyrone has classes tomorrow and won’t be able to give her a ride.”

  The next morning, the Arts Center hummed with activity with artists retrieving their artwork, patrons claiming the pieces they’d purchased, and volunteers dismantling display boards. The various exhibit rooms were filled with everyone taking a final look at the exhibit.

  We all had our assignments, and for a while, it seemed like controlled chaos.

  “Anyone seen Anne Williamson?” someone called from across the room.

  “She’s back in the room where they did the dance exhibits,” another volunteer responded. “If you need to talk to her, better catch her right away because she’s leaving today to go on vacation. Otherwise, talk to Nita. She’s handling the takedown.”

  With responsibility for the takedown resting with Nita, she was dashing from room to room responding to questions and directing volunteers who needed guidance on what they should be doing. I was impressed with how well she was handling it.

  A few minutes later, we took a break and walked into the room devoted to photography to admire the Sold signs on her photographs.

  “Stand in front of your photo,” I motioned to Nita. “I want to get a snap of you with your award-winning photos.”

  “It was only an honorable mention.” Nita stood between her two photos.

  “Still award-winning.” I pulled my iPhone from my bag and looked for the camera option.

  The small room was filled with people trying to get a last look, so it took me a few seconds to be able to step back enough to fit Nita and her framed photos into the camera view. When I finally snapped the photo, I froze. A spicy scent floated across the room, paralyzing me. For a brief second, darkness descended over me and I was back in a closet, wondering about my fate.

  “Laura? Are you okay?” Nita was staring at me, her face creased with concern.

  Dizziness overcame me, but I forced myself to look behind me to see who was wearing a scent I would never forget. But the small room had cleared of everyone except for a young mother with a baby in a stroller and a toddler who was holding her hand. I ignored Nita’s question and moved closer to the woman and sniffed several times, hoping she wouldn’t notice me. Unfortunately, she did. She leaned over the baby in the stroller and sniffed. Glaring at me she pointed the stroller to the door and dragged the toddler from the room.

  “Laura, what’s gotten into you?” Nita came up behind me.

  “I smelled it. The fragrance worn by whoever locked me in that closet.”

  “Someone who was here?” Nita looked around her at the empty room.

  “Either that or someone who walked by the entrance. Did you recognize anyone in here?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I was focused on my photos and then posing for you.”

  “Hurry. Let’s go into the main hall so I can see who’s out there.” I grabbed Nita by the arm and raced through the doorway.

  The room was filled with people. I rushed through the crowd, sniffing so much I was getting lightheaded. I couldn’t find the now-familiar fragrance and felt deflated.

  Mrs. Webster grabbed my arm as I walked by. “Calm down, girl. You look frantic. What’s going on?”

  I explained about catching a whiff of the aftershave or cologne worn by the person who had attacked me.

  Nita came up behind us. “Even if you find someone here wearing that scent, it wouldn’t prove that was the person who attacked you. Lots of men, or women, could be wearing it.”

  “I don’t think so. It seemed distinctive, as in expensive, and I don’t recall smelling it before the other day.”

  “So now you’re an expert on aftershaves and colognes?” Nita said.

  “Of course not. But smells evoke memories more so than anything else. I don’t think I would’ve reacted as I did to a different scent.”

  Mrs. Webster scanned the main display room, which was slowly emptying of people. “Short of lining everyone up and you sniffing each one, which they probably would object to, I don’t think there is anything you can do. Besides, lots of folks have already gone.”

  Nita and Mrs. Webster were right. It would be a wasted effort trying to find my cologne-wearing attacker here. My head began to pound. I was certain if I ever smelled the fragrance again, it would make me ill.

  Mrs. Webster scrutinized me as though wondering if she should push my head between my knees to revive me. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Then I need to get back to the front desk. I’m helping to check off the names of the artists as they take their works out.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.”

  Mrs. Webster headed to the front desk but kept looking back at me as though to make sure I hadn’t collapsed on the floor.

  Nita handed me a glass of water. “Here, drink this. It’s hot in here, and it’s easy to get dehydrated.”

  “And you’re thinking dehydration sent me a bit crazy?” I took the glass from her.

  “No. I believe you. It’s too bad you didn’t see whoever it was wearing the scent.”

  I didn’t know what I would’ve done if I’d found that person. Make a citizen’s arrest? It was too late to worry about it now. “Come on,” I urged Nita. “Let’s get back to work. We still have plenty to do.”

  Later, most of the artwork had been taken down except for some large pieces. We found Mrs. Webster staring at the piece painted by Anne Williamson, which had been sold and was waiting to be claimed by the buyer. It was a brilliant piece of art. A young woman, dressed in a flowing gown with slashes of black, purple, and lavender, stood in front of a portrait of a haggard old woman in the same dress. It reminded me of Oscar Wil
de’s book A Portrait of Dorian Gray, which told the story of a young man who sold his soul to the devil to stay eternally young, while a painting of him aged in the attic.

  “That’s a fabulous painting,” Nita remarked to Mrs. Webster.

  Absorbed in studying the painting, she didn’t respond.

  Her eyes widened, and she reached out and took my arm to steady herself. “Remember I said there was something about this painting? It was something I couldn’t put my finger on. Although it seemed familiar, I couldn’t remember why. I kept thinking about it, wondering where I could have seen it before. You know how you get something in your head and it won’t let go.”

  I nodded. It was the same with trying to solve these murders. The details kept churning around in my thoughts, and I had little peace of mind.

  “It’s taken me a while, but now that I’ve seen it again, I know where I saw it before.”

  “Where?”

  “At Doris Becker’s home. It was years and years ago when I first started doing home nursing. I cared for her when she recovered from surgery.”

  I blinked and looked at the painting again studying it closer.

  Nita looked puzzled. “But I heard Doris never let anyone see her paintings. She didn’t think they were any good. How did you get to view any of them?”

  “Seeing it again today, it finally clicked, and I remembered where I saw it. While caring for Doris, I went into a room adjoining her bedroom looking for extra blankets. She must have used the room as an art studio, and it was there.”

  “In the turret room?” I asked.

  “Yes. The room was round with lots of windows.”

  When I saw her house, I’d wondered if she’d used that room to paint in.

  “The painting rested on an easel in the center of the room, so I couldn’t miss it. But afterward, I got busy caring for Doris and didn’t think about it again, until now.”

  I was puzzled. “Why would Anne’s painting be at Doris Becker’s home?”

  “That’s just it. Anne Williamson couldn’t have painted it. She didn’t move to Louiston until years later. Doris must have painted it.”

  “What?” I was confused, trying to absorb what she said. “But Anne said Doris’s work was simplistic. There is nothing simple about this painting.”

  Nita shook her head. “We only have Anne’s word about Doris’s work. From what I heard, Doris was extremely private about her painting. She didn’t think her work was good enough to display, so no one ever saw it.”

  I couldn’t understand it. “She must have had high expectations if she didn’t think this was any good. Look how much it sold for.”

  “And sold by Anne Williamson as her work. She must have taken this painting from Doris. And perhaps all the other ones she sold. Did anyone ever see Anne working on a piece—perhaps at a group painting session to know what her work looked like? To compare?”

  “I don’t think so. But don’t forget I haven’t been a member of the arts group for long,” Nita said.

  “What about Doris? Did anyone ever mention seeing her paint, perhaps in a group session?” Mrs. Webster continued to stare at the painting.

  “As I understand it, Doris enjoyed being a member of the group,” Nita said. “When she could no longer attend the meetings, the members tried to keep her involved. She was getting very forgetful. Anne befriended her and used to visit her often.”

  “But how did Anne see Doris’s paintings?” I asked.

  “Probably when she visited Doris,” Nita said. “If Doris was developing dementia, I bet it was easy for Anne to see what paintings Doris had in her house.”

  “Used to visit her and took her paintings, a few at a time,” I said indignantly. “Her neighbor said he saw Anne loading her car with some of Doris’s things. She told him she was taking things Doris wanted to donate to the Salvation Army.”

  Mrs. Webster grunted. “I always wondered about that woman.”

  “But if no one saw Doris’s paintings, how do we prove she painted them and not Anne?”

  I gasped. “Aunt Kit was a genius.”

  “What’s this got to do with Aunt Kit?” Nita asked.

  “She said art might have been the link between Ian’s and Damian’s deaths.” I turned to Nita and Mrs. Webster, who looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “I thought Aunt Kit was totally off the mark, but she was right. Don’t you see? The only person possibly familiar with Doris’s paintings had been gone for over twenty years and didn’t seem like a threat. That is until he showed up to settle his aunt’s estate. One of the calls on his phone, when he arrived, had been to Anne. Ian would have been in a position to question what had happened to his aunt’s paintings.”

  Mrs. Webster walked up to the painting and studied the price tag on it. “If what you say is true and Anne has been selling Doris’s paintings as her own, she’s made a tidy sum from her ill-gotten gains.”

  I nodded. “And we don’t know how many more paintings she smuggled out of Doris’s house and may still have. She couldn’t afford to have Ian raise the alarm about them.”

  “So she stabbed poor Ian to keep him quiet?” Nita asked.

  “I think that’s the only explanation.” I hoped I was right.

  “How is this linked to Damian?” Nita asked. “He didn’t know Doris and hadn’t lived in Louiston for very long. He wouldn’t have known anything about Doris’s paintings.” Nita, trying to take it all in, looked puzzled.

  I looked at the painting as though trying to absorb its role in two murders. “The night of the awards ceremony, I was standing next to Anne and we both watched Damian studying her painting. He stood there for some time and even got up close to it as though studying the brushstrokes. I think Anne wondered about his scrutiny of the painting and was worried he was suspicious of her. I’m guessing she couldn’t take a chance and decided to get rid of him just in case. She killed once to cover her trail, so it probably didn’t take much for her to kill again.”

  Nita looked somber. “Doris must have seen Damian and Ian as threats to her reputation and income flow.”

  I peered up at the large painting and shook my head, remembering Damian’s close examination of the painting that night. “After Anne saw him inspecting her painting, or I should say Doris’s painting, she must have gone home and decided she needed to act right away—before Damian had a chance to say something to anyone else about the painting. If Monica hadn’t been arrested, Anne might have gone after her too, guessing that Damian had said something to her on the way home.”

  “Being in jail could have saved her life,” Mrs. Webster said.

  “If nothing else, Anne needed to go home to grab a knife. After she stabbed Damian, she got away just before Monica arrived.” I shook my head. “She cut it pretty close.”

  “Wicked woman,” Mrs. Webster said. “The world gets worse every day.”

  “How do we prove any of it?” Nita asked.

  “I don’t know. We need to give this some thought. If we rush into it, we could blow the whole thing.”

  Chapter 44

  Make sure all locks and doorbells work.

  Nita drove Mrs. Webster home and planned to join me at my house so we could grab something to eat quickly and plan our next steps. It was never good to make important decisions when starving.

  Entering the house, I called out to Aunt Kit but didn’t get an answer. Instead, Inky came running to greet me. After the shock I’d received that morning, it was comforting to have his affectionate greeting.

  I made a pot of tea and quickly pulled leftover Chinese from the refrigerator to heat in the microwave. What did we ever do before microwaves were invented?

  While waiting for Nita, I opened the notebook I’d left on the kitchen table and recorded our recent findings with a notation to possibly scout out Anne’s house.

  I had just finis
hed recording my notes when Nita tapped on the door and I let her in.

  “That smells wonderful. I thought we’d be having something fast like cheese sandwiches. What is that?”

  “Leftover Chinese. Even faster than making sandwiches.”

  We dug into the selection of dishes from the night before, both of us deep in thought about what we could do next.

  I reached down and fed Inky a piece of chicken, something I didn’t usually do from the table. “If we could find some of Doris’s paintings at Anne’s house, it would be evidence pointing to a motive for the murders.”

  “What if all the paintings have Anne’s signature on them?” Nita dug into the bag of chocolate chip cookies I set on the table.

  “Anne probably painted over Doris’s signature and signed her own name. If so, I’m sure there’s a way an art expert could get below Anne’s signature to find Doris’s signature. That is if Doris wasn’t too modest to sign her paintings. If that’s the case, I don’t know if there is any way to prove Doris painted them.”

  “With any luck, some are still there with Doris’s signature. Then we’d have something concrete to report to the police.” Nita took our dishes over to the sink. “All we have now are guesses. We need to find some of those paintings.”

  “What excuse can we use to get into Anne’s house?” I asked.

  “Bring your vacuum cleaner and we can offer to clean her house.” From the twinkle in her eye, I knew Nita was kidding.

  “Whatever we do, we need to get there soon. If Anne is leaving on vacation, we just may catch her. I wish Aunt Kit were here. She and Anne have become chummy, and if she were with us, it wouldn’t look as strange as our showing up on her doorstep alone.”

  Why don’t you call Aunt Kit and suggest she meet us there?” Nita picked up her purse, ready to leave.

  “It wouldn’t do any good trying to call her. She never turns her phone on except to make a call. Says it saves the battery.” It annoyed me to no end and made me wonder how I would get in touch with her in an emergency—like now.