“How about a trade?” I said in a coaxing tone. “These treats for your prize?”
Toby’s eyes narrowed, and his ears flicked, as if he were trying to decide. In the end, liver and chicken won out over paper. He released the scrap and nudged his nose into my palm. I set the treats down on the rug near the bed, and he trotted happily over to them while I dived under the desk to retrieve the soggy slip of paper. I held it gingerly by its edges. It looked as if it would crumble into dust at any second.
Toby glanced up from his nosh to look at me.
“You led me to this, didn’t you,” I murmured. “You must have had some reason. This is a clue, isn’t it? A clue to the identity of Littleton’s killer?”
Toby looked at me, blinked again, and then returned to scarfing down his treat.
I turned back to the paper and looked at it. Toby had certainly had fun with it; the paper was torn almost halfway down the middle. I picked it up, and the paper split into two pieces. I bent to snatch them up and laid them side by side on the desk. One piece said Kahn, the other Lee.
“Ow-owrr,” said Toby.
“Yes, thank you, now I’ve got two pieces . . .” I stopped as a sudden thought occurred to me. I pulled my laptop over and turned it on. When Leila had typed Kahn Lee into the search engine, she’d gotten over nine hundred thousand results. But . . . what if it wasn’t one person’s name but two separate names? I called up Google and typed in “Kahn” and hit Enter.
Over forty-four million hits. Great. Obviously some narrowing down—check that, a great deal of narrowing down—had to be done. I typed in “Kahn—North Carolina—art gallery” and then hit Enter again. Most of the hits were for a sculptor, Ian Kahn, who had a studio in Winston-Salem. I clicked on his main website and read the bio. Kahn was reputed to be one of the leading sculptors in the world, his specialty being porcelain. His works were featured in over forty international museums, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City and the Vatican Museum. I clicked on the tab that said “Gallery” and spent several minutes looking at photographs of some of his works, which were undeniably beautiful. One of an Indian woman kneeling before a waterfall in a rock was especially beautiful, with its tones of amber and green. He specialized in porcelain works, but there were a few glass ones as well, some statues and paperweights. Precious few photos of those, though.
A bit farther down the page was a link for the North Carolina Arts Council. I clicked on that and got a listing of everything you wanted to know about the arts in North Carolina but were afraid to ask. There were groupings of various arts councils, galleries, and individual artists. I scrolled down the listing slowly. Some of the larger galleries I was familiar with, but there were a ton of small ones I’d never heard of. The Brush and Canvas was listed in the middle of the pack, naming both Trowbridge Littleton and Colin Murphy as “Managing Directors.” I scrolled down a few more, hoping that something would just jump out at me—and then one did.
Chatsworth Studios
Aamir Lee
Artist
130 N Chatham Ave
Prady, NC
chatsworthstudios.com
Hmm. Prady was a small town known primarily for being an artists’ community, about five minutes away from Winston-Salem. Coincidence? Or something more? I peered again at the paper. There was a slightly curved mark after Lee—I’d initially thought it might just have been a careless mark, but it could be a C. C for Chatsworth Studios?
I sighed. “I’m grabbing at straws, right? But . . . I can’t help but feel there might be something there. I think the first thing I should do tomorrow is get over to The Brush and Canvas, see if they know anything about either Ian Kahn or this Aamir Lee, or if they’ve heard of the Chatsworth Studios and then take it from there.” I glanced down at Toby. “What do you think?”
Toby looked at me solemnly. “Yowl,” he said.
I smiled. “I’m glad we agree.”
* * *
“Okay, so . . . tell me again what we’re supposed to be doing here?”
It was lunchtime, and I’d talked Leila into meeting me in front of The Brush and Canvas for, as I had put it, some undercover work. I had also, of course, brought bribery: Kona-blend cappuccinos for both of us and one of Dayna’s delicious caramel scones for Leila. I sipped my coffee as Leila bit hungrily into the scone.
“I’m on a fishing expedition, and I thought it might be easier to find out the information if you did it on the pretext of writing an article.”
Leila eyed me over the rim of her Styrofoam cup. “You did, huh? What sort of article?”
“I don’t know . . . a tribute to Littleton and his contributions to the Deer Park community? After all, this is your bailiwick, not mine.” I motioned to the camera I had slung around my neck. “I’m just your humble assistant, after all.”
She shook her head. “An article on Littleton is actually not a half-bad idea. I’m on freelance this week, and I need something to turn in. Am I supposed to be asking about anything in particular?”
“The types of exhibits, the artists, if there are any North Carolina artists featured, you know . . . like that.”
Leila’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh. Am I supposed to be asking about any North Carolina artist in particular?”
I chuckled. “That would be too obvious. But asking if they’ve ever featured sculptors wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
Leila finished her scone, wiped her fingers on a napkin, and then we entered the gallery. I’d never been in the showroom before, so I took a minute to just survey my surroundings. Colorful paintings of all types hung on the walls, along with some framed black-and-white photos. There were pinpoint spotlights set into the ceiling at different vantage points to ensure the artwork took center stage. White Formica blocks showcased bronze sculptures and a few pieces of ceramic art. A few glass pieces were scattered about, but I didn’t see any porcelain, Kahn’s preferred medium, anywhere. Over against the far wall sat a large wooden counter that looked to double as a desk. A young man sat behind it, twirling a pencil between his fingers. Kevin “Trey” Devine looked more bored than anything else. His head was bent, studying some sort of ledger, but as we approached, he snapped it shut, rose from his chair, and extended a hand.
“Welcome to The Brush and Canvas,” he said. “Are you ladies looking for anything in particular?”
Leila reached into her tote and removed her press ID. Trey’s expression, formerly friendly, now morphed into one of puzzlement. “You’re a reporter?”
“Yes. I’d hoped to speak with either Mrs. Littleton or Mr. Colin Murphy, if either of them is around.”
“My mother is in Durham visiting my aunt, and Mr. Murphy is in South Carolina on a buying trip.”
“I see. So you must be Petra Littleton’s son?”
“Yes. Kevin Devine, but most everyone calls me Trey.” The frown deepened, cutting a sharp V in the middle of his smooth forehead. “Why exactly did you want to speak with them?”
“I’m doing an article on Trowbridge Littleton’s contribution to the Deer Park business community,” Leila said with a wide smile. “So of course we want to focus on the gallery. I take it you’re in charge while they’re away?”
“For the moment,” he said, not without a trace of bitterness. “I imagine that will change shortly, though. You are aware that Mr. Murphy is in full charge now?”
Leila nodded. “We’d heard something along those lines. Does that mean you won’t be staying on?”
He cleared his throat. “When my stepfather ran the gallery, I had a good reason for working here. That died along with him, and frankly this sort of work isn’t my cup of tea, although I admit it hasn’t been half as bad as I thought it would be. To tell the truth, I ended up enjoying it.”
“Of course, and why wouldn’t you?” Leila spread her arms wide. “Look at all this beautiful art! I can’t imagine a more perfect job than to be surrounded by this beauty all day.”
Trey glanced around, and his
nose wrinkled slightly. “I used to think my stepfather had a cakewalk here, but I’m finding out that this business isn’t as easy as it looks. It’s a tricky thing to come up with just the right artists to showcase as well as the perfect blend of pieces. My stepfather tried to appeal to several different markets, as you can tell. There’s something to appeal to the true connoisseur as well as the person on a budget—you know, the one who just wants something nice to hang over their sofa.”
“Like us,” Leila laughed.
“Exactly. My stepfather had many contacts in the art world. There are some beautiful pieces on display here and for sale. They appeal to every budget, every type of taste. For example . . .” He pointed toward a painting on a far wall that to me just looked like blobs of color all mashed together. “That’s an Engledrumm. He’s a new Impressionist painter who’s been taking the art world by storm. Some of his paintings sell upwards of two hundred thousand.”
We both let out a collective gasp. “Two hundred thousand dollars?” I asked.
“Oh yes. I saw one go for almost a million once at an auction.”
I decided that an Engledrumm was definitely out of my price range. I raised the camera, snapped a picture of it. “I don’t suppose you have anything more moderately priced?”
“Not of his. But we do carry some landscapes by North Carolina painters just starting out that are quite good and sell for far less.” He pointed to one of a waterfall carved into a rock, with two eagles soaring overhead. “That was done by Nancy Lampman. She operates out of a small studio in Raleigh, and she’s quite good. You can get that one for one hundred fifty.”
I dutifully snapped a photo while Trey described some other paintings. When he paused for a breath, I asked, “I understand that the gallery also showcases sculptures?”
He nodded. “Oh yes, we have quite a few.” He pointed to a small pedestal on which stood a bust of a woman. “That’s a likeness of Diana, goddess of the hunt. It was done by Milo Titzman. He’s another local artist, out of Durham.” He walked over and tapped a finger against Diana’s nose. “Black marble, very durable.”
“You sound so knowledgeable,” I remarked. “I can’t believe you wouldn’t want to make a career out of this.”
“I might have, if circumstances were different,” he murmured. He glanced around. The only other customer in the shop was an elderly woman at the far end, so he leaned into us and said in a low tone, “Off the record? I believe Mr. Murphy is going to close up the gallery shortly. He’s expressed a definite interest in moving on.”
Leila and I exchanged a quick glance, and I looked at Trey with what I hoped came off as wide-eyed astonishment. “You’re kidding! I thought he loved this place.”
Trey shrugged. “He used to, and then he and my stepfather got to arguing. I guess it stopped being fun for Colin, and the gallery must hold bad memories for him. He wants to make a fresh start.”
“I had no idea.” I leaned my elbow on the counter and propped my chin in my hand. “What on earth did they argue about?”
He gave another swift glance around before answering. “You didn’t hear this from me, but . . . Colin managed to connect with a famous artist—a really famous one—and got exclusive commissions.”
“And that annoyed your stepfather?”
“Not at first.”
He waggled his finger, indicating we were to follow him. We walked over to a small case covered with a black sheet. Trey lifted the covering, and we both gasped. Inside was a beautiful sculpture of an Indian woman kneeling in front of a waterfall. It was so lifelike, you could almost hear the water running, and I recognized it instantly. I looked at Trey. “It—is this a Kahn sculpture?”
He fairly beamed with pride. “Yes, it is. One of several sculptures we obtained the exclusive rights to show and sell, right before Kahn’s untimely death.”
Now we were getting somewhere! I leaned in for a closer look. The sculpture certainly was exquisite. I raised the camera and took a picture. “Are you certain it’s a genuine Kahn?”
“Oh yes. There aren’t many artists who could duplicate that lifelike style. And besides . . .” He pointed to the sculpture. “See that small mark there?”
We both leaned in and squinted. The mark he indicated was barely visible. “Looks like an inverted K,” I said.
“That’s Kahn’s signature. We wouldn’t touch it unless it was genuine.”
“I see.” I glanced around the room. “There are others, you say?”
“We had three in all. Two have been sold. I believe a few more might be coming in, but I don’t have all the details.”
My heart was hammering so loudly, I was certain it could be heard back in New York. “Is this what your stepfather and Colin Murphy argued over? Selling Kahn’s artwork?”
He nodded. “I’m not quite sure what set Bridge off, but he came in one day and he was livid. Made me take all the Kahns and put them in the storeroom. Of course, once he passed, Murphy made me drag ’em out again.”
“What a shame.” I glanced around. “What about an artist named Lee? Do you carry any of his works?”
He pointed to a small framed painting on the far wall. “I do have an Annie Lee. She does animals and still life.”
“Actually, I meant Aamir Lee. He’s a relatively new artist, out of Prady. The Chatsworth Studios, I believe.”
“Definitely nothing by Aamir Lee.” He tapped his chin with his finger. “That studio name seems familiar. Just one second.”
He moved off toward the desk, and Leila and I followed. There was a ledger open, and he was running his finger down a list. “Ah, here it is,” he cried. “Chatsworth Studios. Veronica Martin, proprietor. I think perhaps either my stepfather or Colin might have dealt with this place, but as to what they picked up, I couldn’t say. If you’d like to leave your name and number, I can check with Colin when he returns.” He pushed a pad and a pen toward me. I scribbled quickly on it and pushed it back, then looked over at Leila. “Are we done here?”
“Oh yes,” Leila said brightly. “I think I’ve gotten everything I need.”
“Excellent,” Trey said with a wide smile. “When will this article appear? I’d like to tell my mother about it.”
“I’ll write it up when I get back to the office, and once my editor schedules a date, I’ll let you know,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “Sorry, we’ve got to run. It was a pleasure.”
“Same here. Come back anytime.”
Once we were out on the street, I turned to my friend. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I’m supposed to be off.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing much. Maybe a little field trip to Prady.”
“Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad. I wouldn’t mind checking out some of those craft shops there. One of the girls in the office got a beautiful hand-painted scarf that’s just divine.” She shifted her tote bag on her arm. “What did you think of Junior?”
“He wasn’t as bad as I thought he’d be,” I confessed. “But I’m still not completely ruling him out, in spite of his alibi.”
“Then why’d you leave your name and number with him?”
I gave her a wide smile. “I didn’t. I wrote down Mildred Hanratty’s. She never wears her hearing aid, so if he calls, she won’t understand a word he says anyway.”
Chapter Twenty
I was walking down a street, shrouded in fog. In one hand I held a glass paperweight, in the other, the note that I’d found in Littleton’s office—or rather the note that Toby had found. Suddenly, a dark figure in a cape jumped out at me from the mist—Trey Littleton! He loomed before me, then threw back his head and let out a loud laugh.
“Hah—you’ll never pin that murder on me. I’ve got a good alibi. I was out on the golf course with dozens of witnesses.”
“Nor me.” A slim figure came at me from the left—Petra, dressed in a blood-red dress with a matching cape that swirled around her ankles. She pointed a finger at me. “I
was on the phone when my husband was killed. I’m totally innocent.”
“And I wasn’t in the area either.” I whirled around to face Colin Murphy. The edge of one lip curled sardonically. “Best alibi in the world—in an airplane, twenty thousand feet above the ground. Virtually impossible for me to kill him.”
“Or me,” said Trey.
“Or me,” chimed in Petra. Then they all joined hands and chorused, “But it’s not impossible for a third party to have killed Bridge. Not at all.”
Trey suddenly turned toward me and stared right into my eyes. “But try to prove it,” he whispered. Then he leaned over, stuck out his tongue, and licked my cheek!
“What the . . . ?” My eyes flew open, and I stared right into Toby’s green eyes.
“Merow,” he said. Then his tongue darted out and scraped across the bottom of my chin.
I reached up to pet him on the head. “You rascal. Thank God that was only a dream—or should I say nightmare?” But one fact I definitely agreed with. It would certainly have been possible for a third person to have killed Littleton. But how to find that out?
I propped myself up on one elbow and looked at Toby.
I tapped at my gut. “There’s some connection between Kahn and that artist Lee from the Chatsworth Studios—I feel it right here.”
Toby cocked his head and blinked.
I laughed and pulled him onto my lap. I rubbed him behind his ears. “Well, today I’ve got the day off, so Leila and I are going to Prady to do a little digging. I’m not exactly sure what we’re digging for, but maybe we’ll get to the bottom of everything—wouldn’t that be great! It would certainly take that Bennington down a peg—and show Will just how helpful I can be at the same time, right?”
Toby sat up and gave his head a vigorous shake.
I ran a hand through my hair. “I just feel like there’s something I’m missing, some little detail that will help me put these puzzle pieces together. I’m hoping that this little field trip might clear my muddled brain.”
My cell jangled, and we both jumped. Toby teetered on my lap like a leaf in a windstorm and dug his claws into my comforter. I placed one hand on his back to steady him, reached for my phone, and glanced at the caller ID. “Relax, it’s Leila,” I told the cat. “She said she’d call this morning to let me know what time to pick her up.”
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