Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2)

by Lisa Brunette

  “I’m not wearing anything under this,” she whispered, and he moaned, reached down for the hem of her dress, and bringing it up over her head. Then Cat turned around and took him in, pushing back against him as her hands gripped the dresser in his hotel room.

  They stayed in his room all day, ordering room service when they were hungry. When it was time for them to sleep, Cat left.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mick understood Cat’s need to keep working other angles in the case, but taking her around to see his best patrons was not something he relished doing.

  Two lived on Star Island, an entirely private island accessible off the causeway but gated to all but residents and their guests. It was a place he’d been to several times before, but he never felt as if he belonged there. On the contrary, it was a game he played, in order to sell his art. But Cat wanted to talk to Serena Jones and the Langholms, and Mick was her only way in.

  The drive out on the causeway was lovely, though. The gorgeous water would appear to be the shade of a green glass bottle if there was sea grass beneath the shallow waves or run bright turquoise if there was not.

  You couldn’t even drive onto the island unless a resident called you in, which is what Jones did for them when they stopped at the guard booth. They parked in a large circle drive, and Mick explained to Cat that the mansion next door, which dwarfed this one considerably, belonged to the Langholms.

  Jones’s house was faux Mediterranean style, like a lot of houses in Miami, probably built when the island was first constructed in 1922. But it had apparently been gutted and rebuilt inside, as it was now a large open-concept white palace filled with art. Mick was flattered to see she’d hung his paintings in a prominent place, in the dining room above a fireplace that must be completely unnecessary there in the tropics. Jones’s housekeeper, a stout Hispanic woman wearing a cap and apron, a sight that always struck Mick as an Old World gesture there in Miami, led them to where Serena Jones was exercising with a trainer. They worked out in a bright, sunny room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the water and South Beach beyond. Serena wore boxing gloves and hit her trainer’s focus mitts at his urging: “Jab left. Right hook. Uppercut.”

  Mick and Cat waited for them to finish the sequence. Serena was firmly out of her twenties and into her thirties but appeared to be maintaining pretty good ground, Mick thought. With the time to work out in the middle of the afternoon, a personal trainer at her disposal, and possibly a personal chef as well, the only thing she had to fight was the aging process itself.

  Her trainer threw her a towel and politely exited out a back door as Serena guzzled a bottle of Perrier and walked toward them.

  “Hola, Mick,” she gushed, allowing him to kiss both cheeks, Miami-style.

  “And this is your grandniece, I understand,” Serena held out her hand to Cat as if meeting her for the first time, but Mick distinctly remembered introducing them at Donnie’s wake. Ah, well. It wasn’t like Serena to remember the little people.

  As was customary in Miami, Serena asked Cat, “Prefiére hablar Español o Inglés?”

  “Inglés, por favor,” Cat replied. “Y gracias.”

  “De nada,” Serena said and then slipped into English. “You wanted to see Mick’s art?”

  “Yes,” said Cat, sounding to Mick as if she weren’t sure where to start, or perhaps Serena’s wealth was making her nervous.

  “Come this way,” Serena said, and they followed her back into the dining room, where he’d seen a glimpse of the pieces on the way in.

  Meanwhile, Cat found her footing. “How did you come across his work, initially?”

  “Let me see… it was at a party, here on Star Island.” Serena glanced at Mick. “You remember, right?” He nodded. To Cat, she explained, “My neighbor has a very boring life in large-scale commercial real estate, you know, development projects? So when he plays, he likes to surround himself with creatives. He throws these big parties and invites artists, writers, film people—all sorts, really—to stay the weekend.”

  “The guests stay overnight?”

  “Yes, it is safer that way, with the drinking that goes on.” Serena laughed.

  Cat nodded.

  “Anyway, so I was admiring this really great piece that Kristoff had—”

  “Kristoff?”

  “My neighbor, the one throwing the party.”

  “Got it.” Cat remembered Carrie and Kristoff Langholm from the wake and was hoping to get to see them as well but wanted to play it cool around Serena.

  “So I was admiring this painting that was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I mean, your uncle! His work, it grabs you, you know? It nearly knocked me off my heels. And I was wearing like four-inch heels that night, you know what I’m saying? And then Kristoff says, ‘Well, if you want to meet the man who painted it, he’s right here.’ And there you were, Mick.” She squeezed his arm. “Such a funny guy!” She turned back to Cat. “Your uncle said, ‘Hello, ma’am. I’ll be your artist for the evening.’ Like he was part of the hired entertainment or something. So meta!” Serena nearly choked on her Perrier, she was laughing so hard. Mick felt his face grow red from embarrassment.

  They waited for her to take a recovery sip of water and calm down. “Ah…” Serena said. “I just love artists.”

  “Where did you end up buying his work?” asked Cat.

  “Right here,” Mick said. He’d forgotten to tell Cat.

  “Yes, he came to my house to show me a few pieces,” Serena said. “I wouldn’t have minded going to his studio, but Kristoff insisted he could get Mick to make a house call. That Kristoff, he’s so persuasive.”

  “The fire that killed Donnie happened in Mick’s studio,” Cat said.

  “I’ve lost most of my life’s work,” Mick added.

  Serena slumped down in a nearby chair as if the news took a personal toll on her.

  “Qué terrible!” She shook her head. “I mean, I was so sorry about Donnie. I bought one piece before he died, because I was told it would be a good investment some day. At the wake, I bought several more, of course… But Mick, I did not realize you lost so much that night. Your paintings!” She clasped her hand over her mouth. “Most of them are gone?”

  “Yes,” said Mick.

  “What hap—” Serena began to ask, but then she stopped. “Are you here because of the fire? Because I need my lawyer present if so.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” said Cat. “They’ve already charged someone with the murder. I’m helping Mick file a claim on his lost art. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Damn, that must be a huge loss, Mick.”

  “It is. But I’d give it up to get Donnie back.” He was thinking about Serena buying up his friend’s art after his death. A cold chill ran up his spine as he wondered if he’d be worth more dead than alive as well.

  “Of course,” Serena said, her face solemn.

  “Serena, can you get us over to see Kristoff?” Cat asked. She was following Mick’s script, which was to start with Serena, the more accessible of the two, and then use her to get in to see Kristoff. Even though Mick had been at a party at the Langholms’ before, he didn’t feel he had the kind of relationship with them that would allow him to pick up the phone and propose a visit. The Langholms were the type who got in touch with you, and only if they needed you for something, such as serving as creative entertainment for a party.

  “My neighbor? I guess…” Serena gazed out the window as if in the direction of the Langholms’ much larger house, but her grounds were landscaped in order to block the neighbors and afford sweeping views of the water. “If he’s not traveling. He travels a lot. If not, Carrie might be home.”

  “It’ll help Mick put a price on his collection,” Cat assured her.

  Kristoff Langholm was not traveling, as it turned out—they’d caught him between business trips, as he’d just come back from a small town near Baton Rouge and was headed somewhere in the Northwoods of Wisconsin next. And he agreed to h
ave them over.

  He greeted them warmly, kissing Serena on both cheeks and taking Cat’s hand to his lips. He grasped Mick’s hand, holding it a little longer and pressing it with his other hand.

  “It was a lovely wake you gave at Bryson’s gallery,” he said.

  Mick thanked him with a nod.

  Kristoff wore a linen suit, just right for the tropics, and slip-on driving moccasins. Likely easing up around Pris’s age, he had grown old in a distinguished manner, with a good shock of thick gray hair and the barest sign of a wattle. His eyes reflected the blue of the water in the bay and his voice had a reedy quality Mick always liked.

  Cat seemed to respond to the man’s charms. Well versed in the ways of the world and well traveled, Kristoff smoothly dominated any gathering. His work was mainly domestic, but he traveled abroad for pleasure. His wife soon joined them for coffee, which a servant also in uniform poured in the least intrusive manner possible.

  “Serena tells us you’re fond of entertaining,” Cat said, sipping her coffee.

  “We have been in the past,” his wife, Carrie, said. “But Kristoff here seems to have lost interest.”

  Serena added, “Yes, that’s right. You haven’t hosted in a long time.”

  “Oh, we’ve been so busy.” Kristoff shrugged it off. “It’s these development projects in small towns these days. Everyone’s rediscovering their Main Streets.”

  “Ever think about retiring?” asked Cat. “Forgive me for saying it, but you seem to be nearing retirement age.”

  Carrie laughed delightedly at this. “Yes, Kristoff. Tell us about your plans to retire. You are of the age. And then some, I’d say.”

  “Now, now, ladies,” he said, setting down his tea. “A man who loves what he does never retires.”

  “You sound like Mick here,” Cat said. “I’m sure my great-uncle will die with a brush in one hand.”

  Mick bristled a bit at Cat’s cavalier manner, tossing around the idea of his death so soon after Donnie’s. He felt that chill up his spine again.

  “How have you been, Mick?” asked Carrie. “We’ve been thinking about you. The wake for Don Hines was lovely, memorable. What a way to honor him.”

  Mick had barely uttered a thank-you when she continued.

  “Oh, but that rude intrusion at the end! Who were those men? How did they get invited?”

  Mick felt a flash of protectiveness for Rose. “Friends of friends,” he said, shrugging it off.

  “You just can’t be too careful these days, can you? Donnie’s death itself is evidence of that. Some wonder why we live on Star Island, behind the security wall. But I feel safer here than I have anywhere.” She motioned for the maid to take the trays away.

  “You’ve had a terrible run of luck, Mick,” added Kristoff. “I was horrified to hear of the studio fire. And then the beach house! What a shame.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Mick said. “All things considered.” He realized he wasn’t doing a great job of holding up his end of the conversation, but he wished he were anywhere else in the world right now. He noticed through an open archway that the Langholms had also purchased some of Donnie’s art at the wake.

  “You’re probably still in shock,” Kristoff said. “It was a terrible tragedy.”

  “It was,” said Cat, saving Mick from a reply. “And the arsonist—Mick knew her personally. So that’s hard to take.”

  “Indeed,” said Kristoff. “You must feel so betrayed.”

  “They hadn’t been close in many years,” Cat explained. “I’m not sure that makes it any better, though.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” said Kristoff, reaching over to touch Mick on the shoulder. “You aren’t responsible for what happened to Don Hines.”

  “Yes,” added Carrie. “It’s so easy to blame yourself for things you can’t control. But you mustn’t. You’ve got to resist that.”

  Mick didn’t like where this conversation was going. It felt too personal for his relationship with the Langholms.

  Thankfully, Cat turned to Kristoff, steering the conversation in a direction that better served their mission. “Serena says you’re the one who introduced her to Mick, and I know you also collect his art. Did you know that most of his work was destroyed in the first fire?”

  “That’s right, old boy,” Kristoff said. “I’ve toured your studio. You kept so much there.”

  “That’s why we’re here, to get a better idea which pieces might be in private collections. But maybe we’re trying to get back what Mick lost, you know?” Cat broke down, and Mick for a second didn’t know if she were faking it or not. She gave a pretty convincing performance. “My poor uncle…” Cat put her hand on Mick’s arm. “He hasn’t painted since the fire.”

  “You poor thing,” said Carrie, offering her a handkerchief.

  Serena reached over and touched Cat’s arm sympathetically.

  Kristoff cleared his throat. “Carrie and I are proud to think of ourselves as stewards of your work, Mick. That will never change. And please, know that your work is in good hands.”

  At that, he stood up. “Paint, Mick. Whatever you lost, it’s in you, not on the canvas. It’ll come back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Conditioning, Grace called it. The spirit becomes fringed around the edges sometimes, if you’re not paying attention, if you’re not taking moments to recenter. But if properly oiled, massaged, cared for, there was no limit to what the spirit could do.

  She had an inkling that connecting with Chester Canon even across a comparatively short distance was going to be as grueling spiritually as running a marathon would be physically. So she prepared accordingly.

  After that day when Grace met Evelyn, talked with Chester’s wife Louise, and then was thrown out of the professor emeritus’s house, she’d been working to tune her spiritual vibration to his. She was absolutely certain that there was more there, some great guilt, and she needed to know if it had to do with the fire that killed Donnie. The guilt seemed raw to Grace, either a fresh wound on the psyche, or freshly peeled open again after years of scarring.

  She’d found a new Buddhist temple there in Hollywood, and she liked it better than the one she’d been attending down in Coral Gables near Ernesto’s cottage. This one was bright and gay inside, and they welcomed her warmly, allowing her in to meditate whenever she wanted, and for however long she wanted. Grace helped out in the kitchen a few mornings to return the good karma. The meditation there had been good. She remained open to whatever would come, unbidden, and just like she had on the beach that night during Midnight Moonlight Yoga, she felt the dark, red energy at the core of this case, heard the beating wings. But at the Buddhist temple she’d been able to contain it in space, visually speaking. She’d watched it vibrate red and anguished without having to feel it as pain in her heart chakra. The wings, though, kept beating.

  Grace had also stepped up her yoga practice, twice daily. Cat joined her a few times, and Grace could feel her energy as they quietly moved through their poses. Cat had progressed well in her own practice; it delighted Grace to see Cat’s foot finally rise up above her head like a crown in standing bow. Grace was drawing on the energy of both Mick and Cat in her life, meditating on the strings—or ley lines, whatever you wanted to call them—connecting her to these two people she loved. These two people who, through some miracle of light and magic or maybe even genetics, shared her gift. She was counting on their energy to magnify hers, to allow her to slip into Chester’s dream the way they had with Candace and Lee, across a distance. Grace’s would be targeted and deliberate, and with a particular end in mind.

  Grace was aware that it could take several nights of such dreamslipping before she gleaned any information about Chester’s guilt. But in this, she could be patient.

  The first night, Grace placed sage on her pillow to cleanse her mind of anything that might interfere. As she went to sleep, she imagined her own energy being made stronger by Cat, who slept behind a bamboo screen on her side
of the studio, and Mick, next door in his own studio. She went through a series of breathing exercises, and then lay down to sleep, tuning her mind to that man in his big house twenty minutes away.

  At first she slipped briefly into Mick’s dream, which seemed to take place on a boat that looked like his beach house. Candace was swimming past a porthole outside. Candace smiled and waved before turning into a pelican and flying up into the sky.

  Then Grace bounced into Cat’s dream. Anita, the woman who killed Lee, was calling Cat a liar, but Cat was fighting back in this dream, telling Anita she was the one who had missed the truth.

  Grace was so pleased with the content of these dreams that she nearly forgot her objective. But Cat’s dream came to an end, and Grace concentrated all three of their dream energies on Chester. Slowly, she began to perceive the shadows of something from him.

  They were distorted, angled, without concrete form. Voices. Many, many voices. Women, some of them so young they sounded like girls. Men, both boyish and practically middle-aged. And then colors. Like paint, in splotches and streaks and swirls. Drips of color. Shapes, abstract, formless. Grace had the sense of Chester turning off lights, making things dark. Squeezing, stamping down. She couldn’t breathe; it was too much. She was cast out; she woke up.

  Lying there in the moonlit room, Grace felt only this: That she had been a bright-hot spark of creativity that Chester had somehow extinguished.

  She relinquished the dream’s hold on her while hanging onto enough of it to ponder its meaning. Grace was one of those rare individuals whose buoyant spirit persisted even in the presence of sad, depressing realities. It was a quality for which she was thankful, especially when she saw how much others, like Cat and Mick, struggled to dispel dark feelings.

  She thought back to that lunch with Donnie’s parents, a sweet couple but relatively limited in the wide spectrum of life’s experiences. But now that she reflected on the conversation, she realized Donnie’s mother, Mary Ellen, had given a rare insight that day, one that was relevant to the case against Chester.