The Chilling Deception

by Jayne Castle

  How long she stood like that Guinevere wasn’t sure. It was the artist who broke the still, silent exchange. Swinging around with an abruptness that conveyed his tension, he picked up a huge sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. Hastily he scrawled a brief message in fat letters.

  The Oven. 10 Minutes. Please.

  Guinevere nodded at once, then turned away to find her shoes, hurriedly finishing her coffee. She was already dressed for work in a gray pin-striped suit with a narrow skirt, and a yellow silk blouse. Her coffee-brown hair was in its usual neat braided coil at the nape of her neck. She slid her stockinged feet into a pair of gray pumps and slung a leather purse over her shoulder.

  Quickly Guinevere made her way through the red, black, and yellow living room with its red-bordered gray rugs and high vaulted windows. The old brick buildings here in the Pioneer Square section of Seattle had wonderfully high ceilings and beautiful windows. When they had been gutted and refurbished, they made great apartments for the new upwardly mobile urbanites. The busy harbor of Elliott Bay was only a couple of blocks away, and although Guinevere didn’t actually have a view of the water, just knowing it was close gave her a certain satisfaction. Many mornings she walked along the waterfront on her way to her First Avenue office.

  Closing and locking her door behind her, Guinevere hurried down the two short flights of stairs to the security door entrance of her apartment building and stepped out into the crispness of a pleasantly sunny late spring morning. On mornings like this, one knew for certain that summer really was just around the corner. Another sure sign was the fact that several restaurants and taverns in the area had started moving tables and chairs out onto the sidewalks. The rain was due late this afternoon and would probably last awhile, but this morning the air was full of promise.

  The missions, which were one of Pioneer Square’s more picturesque features as far as Guinevere was concerned, had already released the crowd of transients, derelicts, and assorted street people they sheltered overnight. Without much enthusiasm the ragtag assortment of scruffy mission clients were slowly drifting out onto the sidewalk, blinking awkwardly in the sunlight as they prepared for the day’s work. Soon, either under their own power or aboard one of the free city buses that plied the short route, they would make their way toward the Pike Place Market, where the tourists would be swarming by mid-morning. One particularly ambitious soul decided to practice on Guinevere. She smiled vaguely and shook her head, ignoring his outstretched palm and request for cash as she hurried toward the restaurant known as the Oven.

  As soon as she opened the high doors the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls assailed her, reminding her that she hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast. A fire burning on the huge hearth on one side of the enormous old brick room took the chill off the morning.

  Guinevere glanced around. She didn’t see her neighbor anywhere, so she decided to throw caution to the winds and order one of the cinnamon rolls. It arrived with butter dripping over the sides. Of course, you couldn’t eat a cinnamon roll without a cup of coffee. Something was required to dilute the butter. She was paying for both when the artist slid into line behind her.

  “Hi.” His voice was pleasantly deep, edged with a trace of the East Coast and laced with a certain grimness. “What a way to meet. Thanks for coming. I’m Mason Adair, by the way. I feel as if I already know you.”

  Guinevere smiled at him, liking his aquiline features and the large dark eyes. It struck her that he looked exactly like a struggling young artist should look. He was taller than she had thought, towering over her as she stood in line beside him. His height coupled with his leanness made him appear aesthetically gaunt. He was also younger than she had imagined. Probably about thirty. His paint-stained jeans, plaid shirt, and heavy leather sandals fit the image too.

  “I’m Guinevere Jones. Want a roll?”

  “What? Oh, sure. Sounds good. I haven’t had a chance to eat yet.”

  “Neither have I.” Guinevere picked up her tray.

  “Here, I’ll take that.” Mason Adair took the tray out of her hands and started toward a table in front of the fire. A little of the coffee in Guinevere’s cup slopped over the side as he set the tray down on the wooden table. “Sorry. I’m a little clumsy by nature. Finding that canvas slashed this morning isn’t improving my coordination. Shit.”

  Guinevere smiled serenely and unobtrusively used a napkin to wipe the cup as she sat down on one of the short wooden benches. The fire felt good, even if it was produced by fake logs. Mason Adair sank down onto the opposite bench and reached for his roll.

  “I was shocked when I glanced out my window and saw that huge black square on your beautiful painting. At first I thought maybe you’d gotten disgusted with your work and had deliberately marked it up.” Guinevere stirred her coffee.

  “I’ve got a certain amount of artistic temperament, but I’d never do anything like that to one of my own paintings. Hell, I liked that one. Really liked it. I think it might have been inspired by your kitchen, by the way.”

  “My kitchen!”

  “Yeah, you know. All that yellow. Every morning I look in your window and it’s like looking into a little box of sunlight.”

  Guinevere smiled with pleasure at the unexpected compliment. “I’m flattered.”

  “Yeah, well, somebody wasn’t.” Morosely Mason chewed a huge bite of his roll.

  Her pleasure disappearing as she recalled the reason she was finally meeting Mason Adair, Guinevere sighed. “I’m terribly sorry. Have you any idea who would do a thing like that, and how someone could have gotten into your loft?”

  Adair hesitated. “No, not really. I asked you to meet me here because I wondered if you’d seen anything, or anyone. I never pull that shade and you usually have your kitchen window blinds open. I thought maybe you’d noticed something out of the ordinary last night. It must have happened last night. I was out all evening and I didn’t look at the painting before I went to bed.”

  “Mason, I’m really very sorry, but I didn’t see a thing. I did some paperwork in my living room. I do remember going into my kitchen for a snack around nine o’clock, but your window was dark.”

  “No lights on?”

  She shook her head. “Not then.”

  “Whoever did that would have needed some light, don’t you think?” he asked broodingly.

  “It would depend on what time during the evening he did it. It doesn’t get really dark until after eight o’clock now. I suppose someone could have gone into your studio and defaced your painting sometime before then without needing to turn on a light.”

  Mason took another huge bite of his roll, dark eyes focusing blankly on her concerned face. Guinevere had the impression he was trying hard to sort out some very private thoughts. She let him chew in solitude for a moment before she said, “That square that the vandal drew in black. It looked a little odd. Of course, I couldn’t see it very well from my window, but there was something about the shape of it that looked awkward. Was it a child’s work, do you think? Youngsters getting into mischief?”

  “This isn’t exactly suburbia. We haven’t got a lot of children running around Pioneer Square. Just an assortment of street people, artists, and upwardly mobile types. All adults. At least physically. Mentally, who knows?” Mason chewed for another moment. “And it wasn’t a square. It was a pentagram.”

  “A what?”

  “A five-sided star.”

  Guinevere blinked. “I know what a pentagram is. What was the mark in the middle?”

  “Just a zigzag slash.” Mason looked down at his plate, still half absorbed in his own thoughts. “I think whoever slashed the canvas might have brought along his own knife. None of my tools appeared to have been touched.”

  Guinevere frowned, leaning forward. “Mason, don’t you find it rather odd that whoever did that to your painting chose to
draw a pentagram?”

  “Odd? The whole damn thing is odd. Spooky, too, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Yes, but a pentagram? With a bolt of lightning in the center?”

  He raised dark eyes to meet her intent gaze. “I said it was a zigzag shape, not a bolt of lightning.”

  Guinevere hesitated. “I always think of pentagrams as being symbols of magic.”

  Mason didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Yes,” he finally admitted. “I believe they are.”

  There was another lengthy pause. Finally Guinevere asked, “Was anything taken?”

  Mason shook his head. “No. Nothing. Didn’t touch the stereo or the paints or the cash I keep in the drawer of my workbench.” He sighed. “Look, this isn’t your problem, Guinevere. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

  “I don’t mind—we’re neighbors. Going to call the cops?”

  “I’ll report it, but I don’t think it’s going to do much good. What’s a little malicious mischief these days, when the cops have their hands full with real live murders?”

  “Real live murders,” Guinevere repeated with a trace of a smile. “I think that may be a contradiction in terms.”

  Mason stared at her for a second. He laughed. “I think you may be right.”

  “Has anything like this ever happened before, Mason?”

  The brief flash of humor faded. “No.”

  “What about the possibility of jealousy? Are any of your friends resentful of your success?”

  “What success? I’ve got my first major show tonight down the street at the Midnight Light Gallery. I’ll be lucky if someone offers me more than a hundred bucks for one of my pictures. That doesn’t qualify as sudden success.”

  “Your first show?”

  Mason nodded. “Yeah. I just hope I live through it. I’ve been kind of jumpy lately, waiting for it. Whoever did that hatchet job on my painting last night couldn’t have picked a better time to rattle me. It’s all I needed.”

  Guinevere drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “You know, if there’s anything more to this than a fluke case of malicious mischief, maybe you should do something besides just reporting it to the cops.”

  “What more can I do?”

  “Hire a private investigator to look into the matter,” Guinevere suggested.

  Mason stared at her. “Are you kidding? When I can barely pay my rent? I don’t have that kind of money. Forget it. There isn’t much an investigator could discover, anyway. How’s he going to locate a vandal?”

  “How about the little matter of how the vandal got into your studio? Was the door forced?”

  Mason’s brows came together in a solid line. “No major damage was done—I would have noticed. I didn’t see any pry marks and none of the locks were broken, but my apartment isn’t exactly Fort Knox. It wouldn’t have taken a lot of expertise to get inside. You sound like you’ve been watching a lot of TV lately.”

  “Not exactly. But I have been keeping some questionable company,” Guinevere said blandly.

  Mason’s brows shot upward as he put two and two together. “Let me guess. That solid-looking guy with the dark hair and the superconservative business suits.”

  “Zac is trying to dress for success. He’s learning the fine points of making a forceful statement in the business world while upholding the image of his firm.”

  “I see.” Mason’s dark eyes lit with amusement. “Unlike me. How’s he doing?”

  “At maintaining his image? Rather well, as a matter of fact. He’s just landed a very nice contract with a local firm.”

  Mason nodded. “So he’s doing okay maintaining the image. How about in the category of making a forceful statement?”

  “Oh, Zac has always had a knack for making a forceful statement when he wants to,” Guinevere said cheerfully. Memories of Zac hunting human game on a cold and windy island in the San Juans several weeks previously flickered briefly in her head. She had to suppress a small shiver. Zac was very, very good at making forceful statements on occasion.

  “I’m not surprised,” Mason murmured. “I think he’s made one or two forceful statements in my direction recently. The last time he closed your kitchen window blinds I got the distinct impression he would have preferred to have his hands around my throat than the blind rod. So he’s the questionable company you keep? What does he do in the business world that necessitates all this forceful personality and image-building stuff?”

  “He runs a company called Free Enterprise Security, Incorporated. He does security consultations for business firms.”

  “How big is Free Enterprise Security?”

  Guinevere swallowed a scrap of her cinnamon roll. “To date there is only one employee.”

  “Zac?”

  “Uh-huh.” She grinned. “But he manages to get things done. You know, this isn’t exactly his line of work, but I might mention your situation to him and see if he’s got any advice. He’s terribly discreet. He has to be. Businesses don’t like their security problems publicized. That’s why they consult outfits such as Free Enterprise Security.”

  Mason looked at her askance. “I have a funny feeling he’s not going to be overly sympathetic.”

  “He has no reason to be jealous and he knows it. I’ve already told him that you and I have never met.”

  Mason chuckled. “You won’t be able to tell him that anymore, will you? I can’t wait to hear his reaction when you tell him you’ve taken to meeting me for breakfast.”

  ***

  Zac’s reaction was forthright and to the point. He looked up in astonishment from the plastic bucket of steamed clams from which he was eating and stared at Guinevere as if she had just announced she had made a brief trip to Mars. “The hell you did,” he said, and went back to his bucket of clams.

  Guinevere pushed her own lunch aside, leaning forward to get his attention. The lunchtime crowd was heavy down here on the waterfront. She and Zac were sitting in the corner of a small sidewalk café that enjoyed an excellent view of the harbor and the tourists strolling the broad sidewalk that linked the boutique-lined piers.

  “Zac, you’re not listening to me.”

  “I heard every word you said.” He scooped another clam out of its shell. “You claimed you had breakfast with that artist you’ve been ogling for the past few months. There are laws against that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Having breakfast with an artist?” She was getting annoyed. Deep down inside Guinevere wondered if she’d hoped to see at least a spark of romantic jealousy inflame Zac’s smoke-gray eyes. All she was detecting was irritation.

  “No, ogling artists.” Zac forked up another clam. “Stop trying to bait me, Gwen. I’ve had a hard morning. You’re just mad because I had to cancel our date last night.”

  Guinevere set her teeth very firmly together and spoke through them. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I am not indulging in a fit of pique. I really did have breakfast with Mason.”

  “Mason?”

  The name brought his head up again. This time there was something besides irritation in the steady gray gaze, and Guinevere wasn’t sure she liked the too-quiet way Zac said the other man’s name. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “Mason Adair is his name. He’s very nice, Zac, and he’s got a problem.”

  Zac stopped eating clams. “Is that a fact?”

  “Zac, I’m serious. This morning when I looked out my window I could see that the painting he’s been working on had been terribly defaced overnight. Someone had drawn a huge black pentagram on it and then taken a knife to the canvas. Mason was shocked. He saw me looking just as shocked and held up a sign suggesting we meet at the Oven. You know, that place with the cinnamon rolls just around the corner from my building?”

  “I know it
,” Zac said grimly.

  “Well, he was rather shaken up, as you can imagine. Has absolutely no idea who could have done such a thing. He asked me to meet him on the outside chance I might have seen something from my kitchen window last night. He hoped I might have spotted someone moving around in his studio.”

  Zac’s gaze could have frozen nitrogen. “Did you?”

  “No.” Guinevere sighed in exasperation.

  “Good.” Zac went back to eating clams. “That’s the end of it, then. No more breakfast meetings with naked artists. Hell, Gwen, I credited you with more common sense than that. You’ve lived in the city long enough to know better than to agree to meet absolute strangers. What got into you? Were you really that upset because I had to cancel our date?”

  “I hate to break this to you, Zac, but I did not rush out to buy cinnamon rolls for a starving artist this morning just because you broke our date last night.”

  “He made you pay for the rolls?”

  “Speaking of broken dates,” Guinevere continued stoutly, “how was your little business meeting last night?”

  “All business. Elizabeth is a very impressive executive. She focuses completely on the problem at hand and deals with it. Great business mind.”

  “Does she know how much you admire her . . . uh, mind?”

  Zac looked at her steadily. “Are you by any chance jealous, Gwen?”

  She lifted her chin with royal disdain. “Do I have cause?”

  “No.”

  Guinevere went back to the fish and chips she had been nibbling earlier. “Then I’m not jealous.” The thing about Zac was that he had a way of dishing out the truth that made it impossible to doubt him. She couldn’t ignore that tingle of relief she was feeling, though. It annoyed her. “Now that we’ve disposed of the personal side of this discussion, perhaps we could get back to business.”

  “What business?”

  “Well, I told Mason I’d mention his little problem to you.”

  “Guinevere.” He rarely used her full name. When he did, especially in that soft gravelly voice, it usually meant trouble. “What exactly did you tell Mason Adair?”