Purr M for Murder

by T. C. LoTempio

  “I am so sorry,” Leila said after we’d exchanged good-mornings. “I can’t take that half day. Janet Harkinson called in sick, so my editor wants me to cover the luncheon event at the Archaeological Association.”

  “Really? I didn’t know Deer Park had an Archaeological Association?”

  “We don’t. It’s in Morganton.” She let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “That means I have a lovely three-hour drive up and back with Jim Wantrobski to look forward to.”

  “Wantrobski, huh? The guy from the funeral service who was giving you the goo-goo eyes?”

  “Stop, he wasn’t giving me goo-goo or any other kind of eyes. He’s going along as photographer.”

  “Well, isn’t he the talented fellow?” I chuckled. “I bet he didn’t protest this assignment too much.”

  “Of course not, since he’s the one who suggested my name as substitute. And before you say a word, it’s because he knows I’m a damn good reporter.”

  I winked at Toby. “Sure it is.”

  “I’ll gloss over that remark. Anyway, if you want to wait until tomorrow, I can take a half day for sure.”

  “No. I don’t want to wait. I’ll be fine going by myself.”

  “You’re so impatient, Nancy Drew. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. Just for kicks, I asked our arts editor if he’d ever heard of that Ian Kahn fellow. Turns out he has. He was surprised, though, to hear that The Brush and Canvas had gotten hold of some of his sculptures.”

  “He was? Why?”

  “He was under the impression that all the uncommissioned pieces of Kahn’s were handled through his own gallery in Winston-Salem. He wasn’t 100 percent certain, of course, but as long as you’re headed there, it’s worth checking out.”

  “It sure is. I might only charge you half a pizza and one bottle of wine now for bugging out on me. Oh, and my best to Jim.”

  “Smarty-pants.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at Toby. “It’s a sign,” I said.

  Toby looked at me, then at my phone, then back to me and raised a paw. “Ow-owr.”

  “Okay, okay. You’re right. I don’t believe in signs. But if I did . . . this would be a good one.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, I was on my way to Prady. Toby had whined and meowed when he saw me put the picnic basket into the back seat of the Jeep, but I’d given him a treat and told him he’d be much more comfortable waiting for me at home. I called Kat at the shelter to check in; she informed me that Petra had made good on her promise to stop by. They’d given her the royal tour and shown her all the puppies available for adoption. Petra had immediately bonded with Jonesy, a rescued bichon frise. “I waived all the paperwork, of course,” Kat added. “Petra sailed out of here a happy camper with Jonesy snuggled in her arms.” She let out a sigh. “I just hope that her favorable experience here might help to tip the scales in the shelter’s favor.”

  “I hope so too,” I said, thinking if today went the way I hoped, everything would be rosy and peachy-keen once again.

  I made the turn off of I-40 onto NC-86. Twenty minutes later, I turned off at the exit for Prady. Another fifteen minutes and I was in the heart of the small town, the shopping district. I programmed North Chatham Avenue into my GPS, and a few minutes later, I eased my car into a parking spot in front of what looked to be a rather quaint gift shop. I parked and went to peer in the window and ultimately could not resist going inside. The proprietor, a slender young woman with pink-tinted hair wearing a multicolored caftan, gave me a big smile as I came inside.

  “Good morning,” she called out in a singsong voice. “I’m Emmie Bowden. Your first visit to the Eclectic Butterfly?”

  “My first visit to Prady in general,” I admitted. “I recently relocated to this area from New York. I’m—ah—a big art lover, and I heard that Prady is the place for young artists.”

  “That we are.” Her head bobbed up and down, and her gelled pink spikes swayed slightly. She plucked at her caftan. “These are made by a young lady, Hilary Anderson. She tie-dyes the materials herself—all her own designs.” She made a wide sweep with her arm. “And my shelves are full of ceramics and figurines and jewelry made by local artisans. Got a big selection here.”

  I paused to finger a gaily painted ceramic elephant. “I’m interested in sculpture—glass, primarily.”

  Emmie frowned. “You mean like paperweights?” She motioned toward a glass case. “I’ve got lots of nice ones—some with flowers inside, others have etchings of animals. Here’s a nice one.” She reached into the case and pulled out a lavender-tinted sphere with a butterfly etched on it. “Only seventy dollars. A bargain.”

  “It is lovely, but I’m interested in work by two particular artists. Aamir Lee or Ian Kahn?”

  Emmie let out a low whistle. “Kahn, huh? Sorry, you won’t find anything by him here. The commission on one sale of his alone would pay my rent for a year. Who was the other artist again?”

  “Aamir Lee?”

  Emmie’s brows drew together, making a wrinkle in the middle of her forehead. “I’m not familiar with that name. What medium does he work in?”

  “Truthfully? I’m not sure. Glass or porcelain, I think.”

  “Hmm. Well then, I suggest you try the Chatsworth Studios. They’re just up the block. They deal with all the up-and-coming artists around here—if anyone knows, it’s them.”

  “Thanks.” And then, partly because I felt guilty for picking her brain and partly because I really liked it, I purchased a silver butterfly on a matching chain. Leila’s birthday was coming up, and I figured she’d love it. After a slight deliberation, I purchased a silver ladybug necklace for myself. After all, ladybugs were good luck symbols, right? And I could sure use some of that now. I clasped the chain around my neck, stowed Leila’s gift in my trunk, and headed in the direction of Chatsworth Studios. It was located two blocks down, in an old yellow brick edifice enhanced with dark-magenta awnings and wrought-iron décor. There was a wood-carved sign on the door that read,

  Chatsworth Studios

  Open 9–7 Sunday through Tuesday

  Open 9–8 Thursday through Saturday

  Private Showings by Appointment Only

  And then below, in much smaller lettering: closed Wednesdays.

  And today was Wednesday! Drat!

  I fingered the charm around my neck. So much for my “sign” and for ladybugs being portents of good luck. My stomach rumbled, but I was hardly in the mood for the crisp watermelon salad and cream cheese on date-nut bread I’d made and stowed away in my picnic basket. After my long drive and my disappointment (although it was my own fault—if I’d been a really good detective, I’d have called ahead), I craved something much more substantial. I looked around and saw a sign diagonally across that read: “The Pulled Pork.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I muttered, making my way across the street. The fragrant aroma of pork mixed with heady barbecue sauce hit me the moment I walked in the door. A young boy in jeans and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, white apron knotted loosely around his waist, hurried up to me.

  “Table or to go?” he asked.

  I glanced around. A few tables were filled, and the patrons at them were eating hungrily. My stomach rumbled again. “Table,” I said. He led me over to one in front of the large picture window and handed me a laminated menu. “The lunch special’s the best deal,” he said, inclining his head toward the blackboard. “It comes with your choice of cola or sweet tea.”

  I glanced at the blackboard, whose sign proclaimed: “Today’s Special: Pulled pork or pulled chicken on a kaiser roll, sweet potato fries, and coleslaw—jes’ like yer momma used to make.”

  “Sounds good,” I said. “I’ll have the pulled pork with sweet tea, please. Oh, and you can hold the coleslaw?”

  He scribbled my order down on a pad. “No problem. Would you like to substitute potato or macaroni salad for the slaw instead?”

  “Macaroni salad, please.”

  He smiled and withdrew, re
turning in a few seconds with a large glass of sweet tea, which he set in front of me. “Your order will be out in a few minutes.” He eased one hip against the edge of the table. “You a tourist?”

  I shook my head. “Oh, no. I live over in Deer Park.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “Whatcha doing out here?” As fast as the question came off his lips, he answered it. “Wait, don’t tell me. You must be interested in art.”

  “Yes. I came out hoping to have a look at the Chatsworth Studios. I didn’t realize they were closed today.”

  “Oh, Chatsworth, eh?” He seemed impressed. “Any artist in particular? They represent quite a few good ones and some new up-and-coming ones, too.”

  “Mm-hm. I was hoping to find something by Ian Kahn.”

  “Oh-ho, a Kahn fan, eh? Good luck with that,” he laughed.

  “How about Aamir Lee. Have you heard of him?”

  The woman at the opposite table said, “Her.”

  I swung my gaze to the woman. “It’s a woman? The notice said Aamir, so I assumed . . .”

  The woman licked barbecue from her fingers and smiled. “That name gets misprinted all the time. It’s Aamira.”

  “I stand corrected,” I said. “She’s a sculptor, correct? Or does she work in other mediums?”

  “An occasional painting, but mainly the sculptures—brass, plaster, bronze cast, glass.” She cocked her head at me. “You don’t seem to know too much about her.”

  I held up both hands. “Guilty,” I admitted. “I’m just starting to build a collection, and I’ve heard good things about Aamira Lee. I heard that Chatsworth Studios showcases her work, and I was hoping to take a look—maybe invest in a piece.”

  “Hmm. Well, I don’t usually make a practice of opening on Wednesday, but I’m also a firm believer in fostering a newbie’s art appreciation. So I’m going to make an exception.” She held out her hand. “Today’s your lucky day, Ms.—”

  “You can call me Sydney.”

  “Okay, Sydney. I’m Veronica Martin, the owner of Chatsworth Studios. Once you finish your barbecue, I’ll take you over to the studio. Give you a private showing. Sound good?”

  My hand reached up and fingered the ladybug around my neck. “I’d appreciate that, Ms. Martin. I’d appreciate that very much.”

  * * *

  I finished my barbecue, paid my bill, and then Veronica Martin and I walked back over to the gallery. Veronica fiddled with the alarm keypad and then unlocked the door and switched on the lights. The Chatsworth Studios had a similar setup to The Brush and Canvas. Beautiful paintings of all shapes and sizes dotted the cream-colored walls, and large Formica blocks in various colors showcased sculptures done in a variety of mediums.

  I turned to Veronica. “This is a lovely gallery.”

  “Thanks.” She gave a swift glance around the studio. “I won’t lie—this place could use a bit of an overhaul, though. We’ve been around a long time.” She dug her toe into the beige shag carpeting. “This carpet has seen better days. I’d love to replace it with something in a soft mauve, but thick shag carpeting is through the roof . . . oh well. Someday.” She inclined her head toward the far wall. “You were interested in Aamira Lee? That’s one of her latest, over there.”

  I walked over to the painting Veronica indicated. It was a portrait of a young mother with two small children. The colors were so vivid and the faces so lifelike, I half expected to hear the woman speak or the children giggle. “Beautiful,” I murmured. “She’s very talented.”

  Veronica gave me a wide smile. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Follow me.”

  I followed Veronica down a short hallway and through a curtained alcove into an even bigger room. Sculptures were everywhere—on the floor, on large ceramic blocks, on low glass counters, lit by soft overhead lights. She led me across the room to a small area cordoned off by a beautiful Chinese-style floor screen. I couldn’t help but admire the sculpture of two geisha girls that stood on a low table just to the screen’s left.

  “Wow. Aamira Lee?”

  “Yep. But the real beauty lies behind the screen.”

  Veronica motioned for me to follow her. I stepped behind the screen, and my breath caught in my throat. On different ceramic blocks and low tables rested every type of glass sculpture imaginable. Birds, dogs, cats, trees, flowers, people in various poses, all done in vibrant colors. Off to the far left was another table full of beautiful colored glass spheres. The overhead lights made them twinkle like so many jewels.

  “Wow!” was all I could say. “She did all these?”

  Veronica nodded. “Beautiful, no? Mark my words, she’s going to be famous someday. You’d be smart to get in on the ground floor—pick up something while it’s relatively cheap as an investment piece.” She picked up a small statue of a hummingbird poised over a flower. “This is a relatively inexpensive one—two hundred.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I leaned in closer to examine it. Near the base was a mark that looked like a tiny inverted comma—like the mark that had been on the note Toby had found. I pointed at it. “What’s that?”

  “Her signature. That’s how you know you have a genuine Lee.”

  “So you really think she’s going to be famous? As famous as Ian Kahn?”

  “No one’s that famous—except maybe Michelangelo or van Gogh,” laughed Veronica. “It’s a pity about that accident—Kahn had a bright future in front of him.”

  “You don’t have any of his pieces?”

  She shook her head. “If only. No, he’s handled exclusively at his own gallery, as far as I know.”

  “I imagine that you work with dealers from other galleries, right? Or auction houses?” I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out the photo of Littleton I’d clipped from the paper. “Have you ever seen him?”

  Veronica frowned at the picture. “He does look familiar, but I can’t quite place him . . .”

  At that moment, the bell above the door tinkled, and a few minutes later, a tall, thin man dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt poked his head inside the room. “Ronnie! I thought I saw a light on. Why is the gallery open?”

  “Prospective buyer. I couldn’t resist.” Veronica jerked her thumb in my direction. “This is my brother, Ronald Martin.” She grinned at my puzzled look. “Our parents were overly fond of the name.”

  “They called us both Ronnie—it got very confusing after a bit.” Ronald chuckled. “Folks around here refer to us as the Ronnies instead of the Martins.”

  Veronica smiled at her brother. “Sydney here is from Deer Park. She’s interested in acquiring something by Aamira Lee.”

  “You are?” He leaned in closer to me. “Good choice. Aamira’s one of our best. She’s going to be famous someday—and us too for discovering her.” Ronnie’s joyful expression sobered. “If she can get her head out of the clouds, that is.”

  “Now Ronnie,” Veronica chided her brother. She turned to me. “Aamira’s work is getting noticed, and she’s after having her head turned by some folks, but . . . in the end she’ll come around. She’ll realize she should stay loyal to the ones who discovered her in the first place.” Veronica waved Littleton’s photo under her brother’s nose. “He look familiar to you?”

  Ron leaned over, peered at the picture. “Oh yeah, I remember him. He was here a few weeks ago. Odd duck, but he knows his art.” He glanced over at me. “Friend of yours?”

  “Of sorts,” I said carefully. “You said he was in here?”

  “Yes, about two weeks ago. He was interested in a new painter of ours—Hayley Plumm. She does very avant-garde paintings. He wanted to discuss a possible joint showing.” His hand reached up and rubbed absently at the back of his neck. “He sure forgot about that fast enough once he saw . . .” Ronald stopped and snapped his fingers. “Maybe it’s better to just show you.”

  Ronnie vanished, returning in a few moments with a piece he set down on top of a glass case. I inhaled my breath sharply. The beautiful amber-and-green piece depict
ing a waterfall was an exact replica of the one by Ian Kahn I’d seen at The Brush and Canvas!

  I looked at both of them sharply. “I thought you said you didn’t carry Kahns?”

  Veronica drew herself up. “We don’t. This piece was done by Aamira Lee.” She cocked her head at me. “Why did you think it was a Kahn?”

  “I saw something similar to this in another gallery recently,” I said carefully. “The manager said it was a Kahn.” I pointed at the sculpture. “Trust me, this could be its twin.”

  Veronica frowned. “Hmm. Maybe that explains it. Your friend seemed to get a bit agitated when we told him that piece was the work of a local artist. He wanted—no, demanded—to know more about her. He got quite annoyed when we told him we have a strict ‘no information’ policy on the artists who are on exclusive contract with us. And when I mentioned that he was the second person to come in within the last three months to inquire about her work, well, he got so red in the face, I thought he might have a stroke in front of me.”

  My head snapped up. “The second? Who was the first?”

  “A woman. She was in here, oh, about two months ago and saw another piece Aamira had made, and she was quite taken with it. She wanted us to give out Aamira’s address as well, but we told her the same thing.”

  “I see. Do you still have the piece that the woman was interested in?”

  “No, she purchased it. But there’s a similar one, right here.” Veronica pointed to a low table in the corner. The paperweight was indeed ornate, and it depicted a silvery moon over a small town against a midnight-blue sky. The town buildings looked so lifelike, I half expected someone to exit one of them any second. As I stared at the paperweight, that niggling feeling came over me again. I’d seen this piece somewhere before—where?

  I tore my gaze away from the glass piece and asked, “Did this woman leave her name?”