“No. When we refused to give out any information about the artist, she stormed out. She hasn’t been back since, thank God.” Veronica waved her hand in front of her face. “We don’t need her type around here.”
“I don’t suppose you could describe her?”
Veronica’s mouth puckered as she thought. “About five-seven, dark hair, in her fifties but well preserved—you know, the type that looks forty? She had on a black pantsuit with a teal blouse. Oh—and a Dooney and Bourke handbag. I never forget a Dooney and Bourke.” She paused. “And a killer ring on her pinky finger. I thought it was a diamond, but she said it was her birthstone. White topaz.”
“I see.” I glanced at my watch and started edging toward the door. “I’ve got to get going. I just remembered I have another appointment I can’t miss.”
Out on the street, I exhaled a deep breath. The pieces were falling into place now, even more so after Veronica’s spot-on description, right down to the distinctive pinky ring. Now I was certain I knew who the mysterious third party was. Natalie Helms.
Chapter Twenty-One
I stood for a moment in front of the studio, debating my next move. Littleton had come here to inquire about one artist and had ended up with questions about another. The Lee sculpture had been a twin to the one I’d seen at The Brush and Canvas, the one that Trey touted was a Kahn original. I pressed a hand to my forehead, reviewing all the facts in my mind. Natalie Helms had worked as an art historian for a large museum; she visited galleries and shows quite frequently and took on small pieces on consignment for her bookshop. She knew her art—that was certain. By her own admission, she’d been friendly with Bridge at one time, but that relationship seemed to nose-dive after his marriage to Petra. She’d also known Colin Murphy and had recommended him to Littleton as a partner in his gallery. And she’d been spending money like crazy lately. I wasn’t buying her story of inheriting a small stipend.
If the idea germinating in the back of my mind was true, Natalie’s sudden wealth went a lot deeper than that. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, intending to call Will, but my fingers hesitated over the keypad.
All I had right now was a theory. A good one, but just a theory. I really had no proof. I couldn’t call Will out here on what might end up as a wild-goose chase. I had to be sure.
But how to get proof?
I pulled the phone back out and dialed Leila’s number. The call went straight to her voice mail. I left a message, asking her if she could ask her art editor if he had any contact information for Aamira Lee. After a brief hesitation, I asked if she could find out if Natalie Helms had ever displayed any of Lee’s pieces in her shop. I hung up, still feeling unsettled. There was no telling when Leila might be able to get back to me.
I caught sight of a small café nestled in between a bookstore and a jewelry store. I crossed over to the café, pushed open the door, stepped inside, and was immediately assailed by about five different fragrant aromas of coffee. The line was pretty long. I got on the end of it and watched as the people came away from the counter with their food: regular coffees, iced coffees, cappuccinos, and an array of tempting baked goods. I ordered a caramel cappuccino and an apple popover, and once I was served, took my tray to a small table all the way in the back of the store. I took a long, fortifying sip of coffee, a bite of the popover (which was excellent, by the way), and then whipped out my smartphone. I called up Google, typed Aamira Lee into the search engine, and hit Enter.
Aamira did have a small website, but the information on it was sketchy at best. There were a few photos of glass pieces, more of bronze ones. There was no photograph of the artist, and the only contact information to arrange a viewing of the pieces or a showing was for Chatsworth Studios.
Undaunted, I called up Whitepages and plugged in “Aamira Lee—Prady, North Carolina” and hit enter. No exact match came up, but there were two possibles: an Imerie Lee in Douglastown and an Amiera Lee in Raleigh. I tried again, this time typing in “A Lee.” This time the amount of hits was staggering—several hundred in the entire state! I let out a moan of frustration.
The old man seated across from me glanced up. “You sound pretty disgusted,” he remarked.
“I guess I do. I’m trying to locate an artist, and I’m not having much luck.”
“An artist, eh? Local?”
“As far as I know. She’s supposed to live in Prady.”
He pushed his glasses up on his beak-shaped nose and leaned forward. “Did you check over at Chatsworth Studios? They handle most of the local artists around here.”
“I did that already. They told me they don’t give out information on artists who are under contract to them.”
“Humph,” he snorted. “Then you must have been asking about that Aamira Lee.”
I stared at him. “Yes, I was. How did you know?”
“Because that girl’s got more talent than the law allows. She’s going places, and the Ronnies are bound and determined to go along for the ride.” He held out his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Bud Granville. I’ve lived here all my life, so there’s very little about this town I don’t know.”
“You know the artist, then?”
He nodded. “Charley’s lived here all her life.”
“Charley?”
“Her name’s Charlotte Potts, but everyone calls her Charley. Aamira Lee, that’s a name the Ronnies made up. They thought she’d sell more paintings and sculptures if her name sounded more exotic.” He reached up to scratch at his sideburns. “Can you imagine that?”
Having a marketing background, I certainly could. “It’s all perception,” I said. I typed in “Charlotte Potts,” hit the Enter key. “How many people around here know Charlotte is Aamira?”
“Most all the old-timers. Not many others. The Ronnies are rabid to keep her identity secret from other art dealers who might steal her away, and customers who want to approach her direct and cut out their commission. Can you say paranoid?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Was anyone else here recently inquiring about her?”
He shrugged. “Not as I know of, but of course that’s not to say there couldn’t have been.” He leaned forward. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about Charley. She’s been acting kinda weird lately. I think her new friends are putting ideas in her head.”
“Her new friends?”
“Last time I saw her, she said that she’d gotten in with some broker on the sly, and she was gonna make a pile of money and blow this town. I told her she’d better be careful. If the Ronnies got wind of that, heck, they’d dump her, and there would go any chance she had at an art career, not to mention they’d probably sue her for everything she has—not that Charley has a heck of a lot. Her parents died when she was ten, and her aunt who raised her died last year. All Charley has is her chicken farm and her art. She doesn’t have much schooling, and at times she can be a bit slow, to put it kindly. She has no parental figure to advise her. Like I said, I’d hate to see her get in trouble.”
“So would I,” I said, and I meant it. “I think you might be onto something, Bud. I think this person is taking advantage of Charley, and she could be setting her up for a big fall. I’d sure like to help her—if I could find her.”
He regarded me thoughtfully. “Just what’s your interest in all this, might I ask? I have the feeling it’s not entirely fueled by a passion for art.”
“It’s not,” I admitted. I had the feeling Bud would settle for nothing less than the truth, so I told him all about Littleton’s death, and about his hatred of the shelter, and about Kat being pegged as a potential suspect. “So you see,” I finished, “I want to help clear my sister’s name and find the real killer. If it’s who I suspect, then Charley might have bitten off a bit more than she can chew, and she could be in real danger.”
Bud gave me a hard look, almost as if he were trying to determine if I were sincere or not. At last, he gave a quick nod. “I believe you,” he said. “You
seem like a square shooter to me, little lady. I think you do have Charley’s best interest at heart, and who could blame you for wantin’ to clear your sister? Got a pad or a pen?”
I held up my phone. “Better than that. I’ve got the notes feature on my smartphone.”
He chuckled. “I got to get me one of those one day,” he said. “Okay, Charley’s chicken farm is out in the sticks, a little shack set back in the woods. It’s about an hour and a half from here. Take I-10 all the way to the Douganville exit, and when you get off, make a left. About a mile up, you’ll see a dirt road. The marker still says Alvin’s Alley, but they renamed the road about two years ago. Follow that as far as you can go.”
I slid my phone back into my jacket pocket. “Thank you so much, Mr. Granville.”
“You come back, let me know how you make out, you hear?” Bud glanced down at my kitten-heeled shoes. “And if I were you, I’d stop over at the Kmart and get a pair of good sneakers. Lots of mud out there.”
* * *
Twenty minutes and a new pair of sneakers later, I was driving down I-10. A large sign read “Douganville: 5 miles,” so I figured it wouldn’t be long now. There was no denying the jazzed-up feeling pulsing through my veins. I was onto something, all right. Something I hadn’t expected when I’d started out on this quest. And if I was right . . .
I got off the exit and in my haste made a right instead of the left Bud Granville had told me. I looped back, made the correction, and then leaned forward, my eyes peeled for Alvin’s Alley. About a quarter of the way down, I heard a soft scratching sound. It seemed to be coming from the picnic basket that I’d forgotten all about.
“Fudge,” I cried. I pulled over to the side of the road and twisted around in my seat. It was possible some small animal might have gotten inside and eaten the lunch I’d prepared for myself. I reached out, grasped the basket by the handle, and lifted. Wow, was that heavy! What had gotten in here, a raccoon? I set the basket back on the seat with a thunk and heard a soft “Merow.”
“Oh no. Don’t tell me . . .”
The basket top suddenly opened, and up popped Toby’s head! He swiveled around, looking left to right, and then his green gaze settled on me. With one fluid motion, he was out of the basket and hopped into the passenger seat, where he turned around twice before settling back, forepaws extended in front of him. He cocked his head. “Merow.”
“You rascal! You snuck in the basket.” I reached out and gave his head a pat. “I guess you really didn’t want to be alone, huh? Okay, pal. You get to go on this adventure with me. Who knows, we might be calling Will and giving him the solution to Littleton’s murder before dinnertime. Wouldn’t that be nice? We could have Bennington eating crow.”
Toby’s ears flicked forward at the words “dinner” and “crow.” Then he settled himself on the seat, laid his head on his paws, and closed his eyes, probably to dream of a nice fish dinner. I started up the car again and pulled back onto the dirt road. Truthfully, the area appeared so deserted, I was glad of the company—even if it was of the four-footed variety.
* * *
The tiny sign for Alvin’s Alley loomed up out of nowhere; if it hadn’t been for Toby’s sharp meow, I surely would have missed the turnoff. “You’re a good copilot,” I told the cat as I braked fast and then swung onto the rutted dirt road. For a good fifteen minutes, I felt as if I were driving through the enchanted forest in Disney’s Snow White. All I saw were trees, shrubs, and low-hanging branches. A few birds skittered past, and Toby immediately put his paws on the dash and made chittering noises in his throat. I took one hand from the steering wheel and gently nudged him back onto the seat.
“If you want to ride up here,” I said in a stern tone, “you have to obey the rules.”
Toby cast me a somewhat baleful look, then stretched out on the seat and put his head on his paws, casting a wary eye toward the sky.
Another five miles or so down the road, I could see a small clearing. A wooden house squatted there, its paint worn off by years of rain, heat, and humidity. A few of the roof shingles dangled precariously, and I could see that a few of the steps leading up to the front door were broken. Adjoining the house were two smaller, equally rundown buildings. I noticed a large clump of bushes off to the left. I pulled in behind it, and then, after making sure to crack my window, I switched off the motor, pocketed the keys, and looked at Toby.
“You stay here, okay. I shouldn’t be long . . . I hope.”
I exited the car and stood for a moment. Everything was quiet—maybe a bit too quiet. There was no sign of another vehicle parked anywhere, so it was possible Charley was out somewhere. I walked slowly up the pathway and up the short flight of steps to the front porch. I walked over to the grimy window and peered inside. I could see a sofa, two chairs, a table with a lamp, and an old-style television set. No signs of life, though. I walked over to the door. There was no bell, so I made a fist and knocked. “Hello,” I called. “Charlotte Potts? Anyone home?”
No answer. I tried the doorknob. Locked. Damn.
I stood for a minute, debating. My eye fell on the two adjacent buildings, and I ambled over that way. As I approached the smaller one, a faint sound reached my ears. Chickens clucking. I walked up to the door and pushed it open a crack, then stepped back as the smell hit my nostrils. A quick glance inside revealed row upon row of chickens in cages. I shut the door and turned toward the larger building. As I approached, I saw that the door was slightly ajar. I walked over and gave it a tentative push. It creaked inward on rusty hinges, and I stepped over the threshold. It took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the lower level of light, and then I gazed about, biting back a gasp of astonishment.
The shed was full of floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with all different types of sculptures. They were all delicate, exquisite, beautiful . . . and they all looked amazingly like the photos of ones done by Kahn I’d seen on his website. I doubted Kahn himself, if he were alive, would be able to tell the difference. I felt a sudden surge of anger. The girl was truly talented, and Natalie was exploiting that talent. I whipped out my phone, took a few pictures. A low table in the far corner was covered with a white sheet. I moved closer and was just about to lift the edge for a peek when I heard voices. I looked around for a hiding place, saw a small table off to the far side. It had a white tablecloth across it that reached down to the floor. Without any hesitation, I curled myself into a tight ball and rolled underneath the table, not a moment too soon. I peeped out from around the corner of the tablecloth and saw two figures framed in the doorway. They were both women: The first was tall and angular, with a mass of stick-straight red-gold hair and black-rimmed glasses perched atop an aquiline nose. This, I assumed, was Charley Potts. The other figure was a familiar one I recognized almost instantly. Natalie Helms.
“Don’t argue with me, Charlotte,” Natalie snapped. “I’m telling you, we need all the sculptures and glass paperweights—everything you have ready—today.”
“You told me I had another month,” Charley protested. Her voice was a high, nasal tone, one that would surely grate on someone’s nerves if they had to listen to it for too long. “I don’t have half of what you want ready.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Natalie said in a gruff tone. “We—ah—our plans have changed. We don’t have as much time here as originally planned. We’ll just have to make do with what you have.”
“Okay.” A note of suspicion crept into her voice. “You got my money?”
“Of course.” I saw Natalie’s hand dip into her tote and remove a long white envelope. “Just as we promised. Five thousand dollars, payment in full.”
The girl’s face lit up. “Five thousand! Golly! That’s two thousand more than you originally said!”
“Yes, well . . . you’ve done such a good job. We thought you deserved a bonus.” Natalie patted her bag. “There are some papers you need to sign, dear. Papers of authenticity. Make sure you put that pen name on them, as we discussed.”
Her tone turned pouty. “I still don’t see why I can’t put my own name on ’em. Or the name the Ronnies made up for me.”
“I told you why, dear,” Natalie said smoothly. “It’s unfortunate, but art is still mostly a man’s domain. And Ian Kahn is a good, strong name.”
“Well . . . okay. I guess you know best.” Charley let out a sigh. “We might as well go on over to the house and settle things.”
“Excellent. The van will be here shortly.”
I heard footsteps slowly shuffle off, but I waited a good ten minutes before I emerged from my hiding place. I shook my head. Bud Granville had said Charley was a bit on the “slow” side. I had an idea that Charley Potts had no clue she was committing forgery, although if it had been me, the idea of “commissioned copies” would have raised a huge red flag. I was also pretty sure five thousand dollars wasn’t even 0.1 percent of what Natalie was actually getting for them. And she wasn’t alone in her slick scheme, either. I’d have been willing to bet every cent in my bank account that her partner in crime was none other than her “friend” Colin Murphy.
I exited the barn and made my way slowly forward, hugging the building. I wanted to remain in the shadows just in case Charley or Natalie happened to look out the window. I was about to make a break toward the area where I’d hidden my car when I stole a glance over at the house. There was an open window facing me, and I could see two figures moving around inside. I could hear both Kat and Will citing my inner curiosity as my inner Nancy Drew kicked in. Throwing any last vestiges of caution I possessed to the proverbial wind, I crept up onto the porch and flattened myself against the side of the house. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled over to the window, then slowly raised myself so I could peep in. The first thing I saw was a small refrigerator and then a gas stove—the kitchen, no doubt. Charley was seated at a long table, Natalie right next to her. There was a stack of papers in front of Charley. She had a pen in her hand, and she appeared to be reading one. I heard Natalie say in a sharp tone, “You know what it says, Charlotte. Just sign.”
Purr M for Murder Page 21