Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2)

by Lisa Brunette

  Speck and Santiago returned with a couple of boxes of evidence total, from both the garage and the rest of the house. They would take it in for further analysis. Mick peeked inside one of the boxes as they loaded it into the police cruiser and saw a canister of Coleman fuel. He didn’t figure Canon as the camping type.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At first, Grace thought Mick moved too quickly on the fourplex he’d found in Hollywood. But then she realized it wasn’t the speed with which he purchased the building; it was that he’d done so entirely without her input. She’d hoped their recent closeness would mean he’d at least show the place to her—and Cat—before he agreed to buy it. But no.

  And that hurt.

  She nursed the wound as they moved into the place, which did turn out to be a great buy. It was a mid-sized apartment building housing four units that had been converted into live/work lofts. Built in 1957, the structure still retained its original character, with many of the features Mick had admired in the Brickell Lofts. So he’d bought the entire building outright directly from the seller, paying cash. He moved into one unit himself, rented another out to Rose de la Crem, reserved a third for Cat and Grace, and was looking for a tenant for the fourth. He’d purchased it from an elderly woman who could no longer adequately take care of it and was moving herself into a retirement home in Boca. She’d apparently given Mick a deal, and in exchange, he agreed to help her sell off what she didn’t need and move into her place in Boca.

  Grace’s brother had done well, quite well, in fact, without her. She was proud of him for that, but she’d enjoyed how closely they’d been working on the case and had developed a notion that he might be persuaded to move to Seattle.

  His purchase of the building put the kibosh on that.

  So Grace turned to other concerns. For one, she was trying to figure out how she could sleep close enough to where Canon lived to slip into his dreams.

  Standing there in the foyer of his house, she’d had the strongest sense that he was guilty of more than the letter forty years ago, and she needed to find out if the wall of guilt included the fire that ended Donnie’s life. Canon was as bitter as a mustard root in winter, and she believed him capable of murder if pushed far enough. Mick’s Palm Beach show might have tipped the scales, as it were. While Canon might have written off Miami’s urban, Latin America-focused art crowd, Palm Beach was home to an older, more established clientele, the sort of people whose approval Canon undoubtedly craved. It had to have eaten Canon up inside to know that Mick was the toast of that crowd while Canon himself painted in relative obscurity in his studio an hour south of there.

  Cat thought differently, of course. She’d chalked up Canon as one of the frustrated “those who can’t do, teach” variety.

  “His type, I saw a lot of in college,” Cat said. “These were the teachers who’d never really made it in actual law enforcement.” She was open to the possibility of his guilt but had shifted her focus back to Mick’s paintings and was continuing down the list of his many patrons.

  Grace didn’t envy her the task, especially since it involved a bit more highway driving now that they were living in her brother’s building in Hollywood.

  Ernesto had protested the move, apparently loath to let Grace slip away so fast, but honestly, Grace was relieved to get a little distance from him. As much as she enjoyed his company, she was beginning to feel smothered. He’d taken to showing up at the cottage unannounced and assuming that her Friday nights would be spent with him. Furthermore, he was a bit too nosy about Mick’s case. She regretted letting him listen in the night they had Alvarez for dinner.

  Canon had produced an alibi the day after their ambush, claiming to have been at a gallery opening at the Lowe Art Museum on the campus of the University of Miami the night of the fire. The interesting thing about his alibi is that it actually put him nearly an hour closer in proximity to Mick’s studio than he would have been at home in Fort Lauderdale. The Brickell Lofts were minutes from the Lowe. Alvarez and her team were questioning Lowe attendees that night to verify Canon’s presence at the party and determine any gaps. Canon’s wife, of course, maintained he was with her the entire evening at the Lowe and that they drove home at nine thirty.

  Grace distrusted automatically any backed-up alibi—or destroyed alibi, for that matter—based on a spouse’s words. Either way, they were meaningless. A spouse could not be compelled by law to testify against his or her married partner. Of course, many of them volunteered to testify against their married partners, but this was usually out of spite or vengeance and couldn’t be trusted any more than a backed-up alibi could.

  If only she could get inside that man’s head and see what was there.

  A few nights after the revelation that both Cat and Mick could slip into other people’s dreams from a distance, Cat delicately asked Grace if she were jealous. After all, it was something they could both do, but she could not.

  “Not at all,” she’d replied, and she meant it. She had never found jealousy to be a useful emotion, so she learned to starve it years ago, and it had practically died of malnourishment. Besides, she had trained herself to make as much use of her dreamslipping ability as she could, to hone it and put guardrails around it so that she could call it a true gift instead of a liability. Of this she felt an earned pride, and she tried to pass on her knowledge, at least to Cat, since Mick wasn’t very interested in honing his. And of course her own daughter Mercy, Cat’s mother, didn’t have the gift, as it seemed to skip a generation. Grace’s own mother didn’t have it either, but Grace’s grandmother had.

  But now, with Canon living at least a good twelve miles away from any hotel or other place of lodging, Grace reasoned that having a traveling dreamslipping gift would definitely come in handy after all. She wondered how she could forge a connection with Canon across a distance.

  She sat cross-legged on a yoga mat she’d set in a patch of sunlight. “Ohm,” she intoned, letting her mind empty completely, or as completely as was humanly possible. Then she placed Chester Canon into the emptiness. She heard his sarcastic laughter, felt again that overwhelming sense of his layers of guilt. It wasn’t pleasant. But she got no further, and taking a nap didn’t help, either. She not only didn’t slip into Canon’s dream but failed to slip into anyone else’s.

  Of course, she was alone in the building. Rose was off with that man she called her boyfriend; Cat was interviewing someone who owned some of Mick’s art, lived in Miami, and had been in attendance at Art Basel; and Mick was meeting with a gallery owner.

  Grace realized she didn’t know Canon well enough. She was still calling him by his last name in her head, as if he were her teacher or someone she were citing in an academic paper. Now that she and her clan had moved up the coast to Hollywood, they were only twenty minutes away from Chester’s house. She decided to pay him a visit.

  This time his wife answered the door. Grace hadn’t met her before, since it had been Cat who interviewed Chester the first time, and the woman had been visiting family during the ambush. Mrs. Chester Canon was a treasure in her hand-knit crochet vest over a blouse that tied in a large bow at the neck, and of course the orthopedic shoes.

  “Can I help you?” The woman’s tone was polite but skeptical.

  “You must be Mrs. Canon,” Grace began. “I’d like to—”

  “Who is it, Louise?” Chester’s voice behind the door was gruff.

  “It’s an older lady.”

  Chester appeared behind his wife. “You again? I’m beginning to feel genuinely harassed.”

  “Please,” said Grace. She put her hand to the door to stop Chester from closing it on her face. “We’re all…of an age, aren’t we? I promise I’m not here to interrogate you. I’m here to visit. I’ve brought pastries.” She held up a basket of guava turnovers she’d picked up from the delightful Cuban coffee walk-up window down the street from Mick’s new building.

  The prospect of a visit lit a spark in Louise’s eye. “It seems
rather rude to turn her away.”

  “This woman wants to send me to the electric chair,” Chester bellowed, his face too close to his wife’s. “For murder, Louise.”

  “Now, Dr. Canon, I want nothing of the sort,” Grace said. He moved her hand aside and slammed the door.

  This was going to be harder than she thought.

  She took one of the guava pastries and bit into it, enjoying the ooze of cream cheese and sweet guava over the light, flaky crust. It was a lovely day, just right for a stroll, so she decided to check out the neighborhood. There were no sidewalks, but the streets were quiet, and she felt safe.

  “Good afternoon,” she said to Chester’s neighbor, an older woman with lovely white hair peeking out from under a wide sun hat. She was kneeling near a bed of goldenrod and adding bark mulch to the soil.

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said in return, flashing Grace a wide grin.

  “Would you like a pastry? They were meant for my hosts”—Grace gestured toward Chester’s house—“but it seems I’m an unwanted guest.”

  “Ha, that doesn’t surprise me,” the woman said, slowly moving to stand. She removed her gloves, stowing them in the pocket of her vest, which also showed a tiny shovel and a packet of slow-release fertilizer peeking out. “Don’t mind if I do.” She reached for a pastry.

  “Dr. Canon isn’t one for socializing?” Grace prompted.

  “That old cuss?” The woman replied between bites of pastry. “Keeps his poor wife locked up with him all day, waiting on him hand and foot while the undiscovered genius paints.”

  “How are they as neighbors?” Grace asked.

  “Oh, fine, I suppose.” She gestured toward a rather solid wooden fence between their properties. “‘Good fences make good neighbors,’ and all that.” The woman polished off her pastry and wiped the crumbs from her hands. “Of course,” she added, “Frost had something more to say about that, didn’t he?”

  Grace smiled and picked up the thread of the poem to which the woman was referring. “‘Before I built a wall I’d ask to know… what I was walling in or walling out.’”

  “‘And to whom I was like to give offense,’” the woman finished.

  “Yes,” Grace said, enjoying the camaraderie of speaking to someone of her own age and culture. As much as Grace loved her granddaughter, she knew Cat wouldn’t get the Frost reference. It came from a different time.

  “Do they still teach Frost these days? I’m Evelyn, by the way.” The woman offered her hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Evelyn. I’m Grace,” she said, giving her a warm handshake. “Oh, and Frost? Perhaps as period lit. But they don’t seem to value memorization any more. It’s a rare person under thirty who can quote anything that isn’t set to music.”

  “Boy, that’s the truth!” Evelyn swiped off her hat and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Would you like to come inside for some lemonade? I don’t use too much sugar. Like it tart.”

  “That’s the best way to have lemonade,” Grace said. “I’d love to.”

  Evelyn’s house was much homier than Chester’s, and it was filled with plants and cats. Evelyn invited Grace to perch on a stool in her kitchen and set a glass in front of her on the counter. Lemon rinds floated between the ice cubes, and the lemonade was perfectly tart, indeed. A plump tabby jumped up on the counter, and Evelyn picked him up and cuddled him.

  “Pitsel! You know you’re not supposed to do that!”

  She set him down on the floor and shot Grace a coy look. “I’m not very good at disciplining them.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize to me,” Grace said. “Felines don’t take it well anyway.”

  Evelyn sat on a stool opposite Grace in the kitchen nook. “How do you know Chester Canon? Or is it Louise you were here to see?”

  “I know them both,” explained Grace, quickly fabricating a cover story. “I… was an administrative assistant in Dr. Canon’s office at Columbia. I got to know him and his wife that way. I’m not sure why he’s so grumpy this morning, however. He said something about me disturbing his time to paint.”

  “That figures,” Evelyn said. “All that man does is paint and smoke. But who’s even heard of him? I think he sells one painting every five years or so. I like Louise, though. If you’re lucky, he’ll go out for a drive soon. He does do that, come to think of it. Drive around, he says, for inspiration. Judging by how blurry his paintings are, he should probably slow down. A walk would serve him better. Besides, he could use the exercise.”

  Grace laughed in spite of herself. She liked Evelyn’s frank manner.

  “Do their children ever visit?”

  “Children? Oh, yes. I guess they do have kids. There’s a young man, a lawyer, I think. CPA? Some sort of profession. And a girl, a dancer.”

  “A dancer?”

  “Yes. She’s the apple of that man’s eye. I mean no swipe against Louise, as he does love his wife, but he practically twinkles when his daughter’s around. She was a little princess growing up, you know, a ballerina with the pink tutu, the whole nine yards.”

  “And she’s still a dancer? It wasn’t a passing adolescent fantasy?”

  “Oh, no. She’s managed to turn it into somewhat of a career, though I’m not sure she has the hunger, you know?”

  Grace did know. It was the lack of hunger she saw in Chester as well. It was as if he wanted to be an artist more than he actually wanted to paint.

  “You’re in luck!” Evelyn pronounced. She was looking out the window. “Did you see that big boat of a car that passed by? That was Chester’s. He’s gone for a drive. Time to visit Louise. I’ll come along as a buffer.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to put you out,” Grace said. “You’ve been so gracious already.”

  “Don’t worry,” Evelyn said with a wink. “I’ll split as soon as she lets you in. Then you can have the private conversation with her you’re looking for.”

  Grace smiled. Ah, if only it were always this easy.

  The ruse worked, and thankfully, Evelyn didn’t mention the bit about Grace having worked as an administrative assistant at Columbia. Maybe she hadn’t believed that line, but no matter. In a few minutes, Grace was sitting in a sort of knitting room with Louise, who seemed nervous to have her there, but curious about Grace nonetheless.

  “You don’t really think my Chester’s a murderer, do you?” Louise fretted. “I mean, he can be a bit of a boor, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Grace said. “I meant what I said about a visit.”

  Louise relaxed.

  “Evelyn mentioned your children,” Grace said, motioning to a wall of photographs that seemed to track every year of their school pictures.

  “Yes,” said Louise. “That’s Davy. He’s a CPA now, lives in Atlanta. And here’s Sarah. She’s a dancer in New York with Merce Cunningham.”

  “Merce Cunningham! You must be so proud. Of the CPA, too, of course.”

  “Very. Davy’s financially in better shape, though.”

  “Well, a dancer in New York…”

  Louise piped up. “Oh, I worry about her so much! I’m a bit traditional, I guess, but I wish she’d come back here, get married, and settle down.”

  “With grandchildren, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your husband? What does he think?”

  Louise paused, looking as if she were afraid to contradict him. “He believes in her … a little too much.”

  “Is she good?”

  “She’s good enough for Cunningham’s troupe, but she’s last in line there. I don’t believe she… stands out.”

  “Well, it certainly takes all kinds, with varying levels of commitment. We can’t all be Merce Cunningham, after all. Some of us are needed to make up his troupe. That’s our place.”

  Louise warmed to Grace’s words immensely. “Would you like more tea?” she asked, but Grace declined, her bladder already singing “Anchors Aweigh.”

 
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to visit the ladies’ room.”

  Louise instructed her toward a guest bathroom in the hallway. But on her way back, Grace got a glimpse of Chester’s atrium studio. “Louise,” she called out, “Would you mind if I took a look at your husband’s latest work? I’ve always been an admirer.”

  “Not at all! Go right on in.”

  Grace coughed a bit in reaction to the smell of cigarette smoke, which she reasoned would be worse if the place weren’t filled with plants thriving anyway in the sunlight spilling into the atrium. Louise’s doing, no doubt.

  But what drew Grace’s attention were the paintings.

  She recognized them as coming from her generation. They were abstract expressionist, with echoes of the greats: Pollock, de Kooning, Rothko. What was startling to her was that Chester was not like Clive Smith, who was still painting today the same way he had forty years ago. No, Chester wasn’t like that. Rather, he was painting anew; this was fresh work; he had progressed in his artistic technique and style. But it still referenced another era. They gave Grace a feeling of the familiar, and a wistful sense of something lost to the past. It was the same way she’d felt when talking to Evelyn, both of them quoting Robert Frost.

  There was a great mass of muddy brown caged in by a primitive line that was neither circle nor square but more organic. She touched it, the paint still wet and coming away from the canvas on her hand. She could see the ridge lines of her fingerprint in the painting now, and she felt terrible about it, so she looked around for a brush. There was one balanced on the edge of the easel, next to a cigarette stubbed out in the easel tray. She picked it up and began to brush out her fingerprint.

  “So you’re a budding artist now, too?”

  It was Chester.

  Grace spun around, flustered. “Oh, what you must think of me,” she apologized.

  “Indeed,” he said. His face grew red, and she felt a tirade coming on.