“Neither do I,” said Cat. “This is ramping up into something else. We need to be more careful.”
“You’re right, Cat,” said Pris. “You know it’s not my nature to say this, but I’m not sure whom we can trust.”
Mick felt his hands grow clammy, the pen slipping where he was still writing the names of the people who were at the party that night. “What about Rose?” he asked.
Pris put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell her no more than she already knows.”
“The same goes for Ernesto,” Cat said to Pris, pointedly.
“I suppose you’re right.” Her voice was reluctant.
“He was at the party that night,” Mick said, eliciting surprised looks from both of them. He wrote Ernesto Ruíz on the paper in front of him.
“Well, they are his clients,” said Pris, as if to explain.
“Was Jerry O’Connell there?” Cat asked.
“Who’s that?” replied Mick.
“He bought several of your paintings,” said Cat.
The name still wasn’t ringing a bell.
Cat cleared her throat. “He talked you down in price for them.”
“Oh, that guy.” Mick remembered Jerry, a sly piece of work, that one. “I can’t recall if he was there or not. It doesn’t seem like it would have been his crowd, but you never know.”
“What about Chester Canon?” Cat said. Mick figured she was running through the suspects.
“Nope.”
“Clive Smith?”
“No, although with his recent meteoric rise, he’ll probably be on the next invite list.”
“Annie Lin?”
“Negative.”
“Norris Grayson?”
“Nein.”
“Maysie Ray Duncan?” Pris put in, her tone light.
Mick cracked a smile. “Hardly.”
“I should think Ms. Duncan would be a delight at a house party,” Pris countered.
“Tell that to Langholm,” said Mick.
There was a long break in their conversation as Cat typed notes in her laptop, Pris gazed at the triptych projected on-screen, and Mick wrote down more names. Pennington James, he scrawled. That was the name of a friend he sometimes met for drinks and to shoot the shit. He was there that night, too, as were a few other artists. We were the cheap entertainment for the evening, Mick thought somewhat bitterly, although he’d swallowed his aversion to such things years ago, and that’s how he stayed in business, as it were. But would any of these artists be twisted enough to hurt the girl? His imagination was already running through the kinds of trouble a young girl could find herself in. He couldn’t imagine any of his artist friends capable of such things, but then people like that hid their crimes well. What a bloody awful thing he’d somehow got mixed up in, and all he’d ever wanted to do was paint.
Tina Wright came next. Samantha Forrester. Those were the artists he knew, but there were other people, Langholm’s wealthy set, who were also there. The main guests. Not entertainment, but people there to be entertained. He closed his eyes, pushing himself to remember. A judge wearing a bolo tie, as if South Florida were Texas hill country. He couldn’t remember his name. An owner of an educational software company who used to teach back in his “poor” days, he’d said. Philip Peters. Mick remembered that because he called him “the man with two first names.” A few women, maybe friends of Carrie’s. One hit on Mick; she’d seemed to be the type to pour money into a male gigolo. Not his speed, so he’d avoided her. Danielle something.
And so it went. He filled the page with names, half names, and descriptions when he couldn’t come up with anything else. Then he turned it over to Cat, who was busy texting the triptych image to Sergeant Alvarez.
>>>
“Let me know if you need any help with the investigation,” Rose said. She was sprawled underneath the sink in his studio, trying to fix it. “I mean, not that I have any idea how to do that.”
“Well, at least you know your plumbing,” he said.
Rose laughed. “That’s a funny thing to say to me, considering.”
Mick had been referring to the fact that Rose learned the plumbing trade from her father. But then he got her meaning.
“You can really snake a pipe,” he said, keeping the joke going.
“You’re a real wit, Travers. Now get down here and give me a hand.”
Mick crouched down beside Rose, who lay on her back, her face underneath the pipes.
“Grab the sealant,” she instructed.
Mick looked around on the floor beside them, feeling dumb.
“White canister,” she said. “Green lid.”
He found it and handed it to her.
He watched her hands, somehow both delicate and strong, dab an applicator wand into the sealant, stroke it around the mouth of both pipes, and then firmly connect them.
“Now hold this for me,” she said, taking his hands and sliding them into the place where the pipes connected.
She relaxed backward and smiled up at him, his face inches from hers.
“That’s it?” he asked. “Just hold it?”
“Yep.”
“How long?”
She put her hands behind her head and laughed. “As long as it takes.” She closed her eyes.
He liked the way her chin dimpled below her bottom lip, as it was at that moment. What would it be like to kiss her there? He sighed, and her eyes opened again.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
Mick felt the air change, felt himself lean in to kiss her.
But then he realized what he was doing.
And he pulled back.
“Isn’t this long enough?” he asked.
It was clear that his pulling back was like a slap in the face for Rose. She closed her eyes again, but this time her lids were crinkled in pain. “Yes,” she said. “You can let go.”
Mick scrambled to his feet. He helped her get out from under the sink.
“You need to keep the goosenecks clear,” Rose said. Mick thought she was returning to their earlier line of jokes, but then he realized she was talking about something under the sink.
“And don’t skimp on the fixtures,” she said, her voice noticeably strained. He saw there were tears in the corners of her eyes. “If you ever have to replace these vintage sinks, go upscale.”
She turned to the sink to test it, running the tap. “There you go. Good as new.”
“Rose,” he said. “I—”
“Don’t go there, Mick.” She washed her hands in the running water. “Because we both know you wouldn’t”—she grabbed a towel to dry her hands—“go there.”
“Rose.”
She turned to face him, still holding the towel.
“Would you.” She said it like a statement, but to Mick it felt like a question. One he couldn’t answer.
“I don’t know.” He met her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She tossed the towel onto the countertop. “I’m used to it. How do you think I ended up with Roy Roy?”
That one hit Mick in the gut. He didn’t know what to say. There was a long, awkward pause, and then he said, “You’re a genius with these household repairs, Rose. How much do I owe you?”
“Oh, more than you can imagine,” Rose said. “But for the sink, don’t worry about it. Just remember this if I’m ever late on rent.” She sniffed. “Not that I ever plan to be late, but you know, the best-laid plans…”
Mick shook his head. “I’m not worried about it. You’ve already helped me out a ton fixing this place. And thanks for showing it yesterday.” He was trying to get a renter in the other unit, and she had shown it to a prospect while he was busy at the marathon projector session with Cat and Pris.
“Don’t mention it,” Rose said, adjusting the strap on her overalls. “But seriously, what’s happening on this case? Are we ever going to get justice?”
Mick sighed. “I don’t know. It’s taken a weird turn.”
“
Really? What’s going on?”
He stopped himself, remembering his pact with Pris and Cat that they would keep the details to themselves.
Rose got the meaning in his silence. “Fine. So, what am I now, a suspect? Please. I just fixed your damn sink, Mick.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, feeling that nothing he said would be right.
“Whatever.” She picked up her toolbox and left, shutting the door hard behind her. In the quiet of his studio, Mick walked over to the unfinished painting that was inspired by that dream of Cat’s. He remembered the shock on her face when she saw it. So much trouble, he thought. He reprimanded himself for what suddenly amounted to cheating, taking others’ ideas and making them his own in his art. Was it ethical? He thought about Candace telling him basically to butt out of her dreams. And he thought of the haunting look in the girl’s eyes in the triptych. And of his own limitations, just now with Rose.
Mick picked up a large brush, dipped it into a can of black paint, and crossed out the painting. Then he began to fill in with black everywhere the cross lines weren’t. Soon, he’d covered the canvas in nothing but black. The painting was gone.
This gave Mick an idea, an even better idea, he suddenly saw, than what had been there before.
And he went to work.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“We’ll be sticking together on the case from now on, not splitting lists of suspects,” Grace told Cat.
Her granddaughter groaned. “Everything will take us twice as long.”
Grace would not be moved. The signs were telling her they needed to be together from now on. “I feel strongly about this,” she said.
“All right,” Cat said. “But if you want to be cautious, let’s dig up as much as we can about these suspects before talking with them.”
Grace went along with that plan, although it cut against her instincts. She preferred to meet them face-to-face first without an impression pre-formed by public profile. Then she’d fill in any blanks afterward.
First on the list were the Langholms, of course, since they were the hosts of the party that night. Grace had liked Kristoff, finding him to be a witty and intelligent collector with a wry sensibility. She remembered how warm he was with Mick at the wake and couldn’t imagine Kristoff capable of arson and murder. Then again, many a guilty party in her experience had seemed unlikely at first. So she would have to reserve judgment about him. Cat went to work digging up what she could on the couple.
Then there was Serena Jones. Grace took that one on herself, curious as she was about the woman’s rise to fortune. The official story on her web site claimed she was second-generation Cuban, so Grace started there.
Mick wanted to help, so Cat showed him some public-access databases and a few other research tools and told him to snoop into the backgrounds of the other artists at the party. After some choice complaints from Cat about Mick’s dinosaur of a laptop, they left him to his research.
Grace’s laptop was sleek and relatively new, and she had it even before Cat came into her life with her constantly wired techie attitudes. She knew more about how to dig for information than her granddaughter gave her credit for, and in a day or so, plus a visit to the Miami Public Library, she’d discovered that Serena Jones wasn’t who she pretended to be.
Luckily, Grace had spent some time at Donnie’s wake talking with Serena, and the woman took her call and agreed to a visit.
This time, three of Donnie Hines’s pieces graced the space above the fireplace in the dining room where previously Mick’s paintings had hung. Grace and Cat were admiring again Donnie’s fantastic crystals when Grace heard Serena’s heels clicking on the terrazzo floor behind her.
“I couldn’t resist,” Serena said, gesturing toward the paintings. “It was so emotional, the wake. I know better than to get out my credit card at a time like that, but no matter. It’s a good investment nonetheless.”
“These might have already increased in value,” said Cat. “Did you see the write-up in Art in Our Time?” There had been an obituary and favorable remarks about his work in the January issue, which had hit stands in advance of the New Year.
“No, I did not,” Serena said, looking pleased. Then she affected a slightly more businesslike demeanor. “Have a seat.” She motioned to a grouping of armchairs to one side of the dining room, in front of a window through which Grace could see a stone fountain spurting water dyed fuchsia, the color of the La Luz logo. To Grace it looked as if the fountain were spouting a sports drink. They sat, and then Serena asked, “So what can I do for you ladies today?”
Grace cleared her throat. “Well,” she said. “We’ve actually come to speak with you about a highly delicate matter.” She looked pointedly at the maid, who brought them two tall glasses of water with lemon and sprigs of mint. “I was hoping for a private conversation.”
Serena looked surprised. “Very well… Mariana, please, leave us for a few moments. Close the door on your way out.”
The maid did as instructed, Serena took a sip of her water, and Grace again cleared her throat. A few minutes after the door to the dining room clicked shut, Grace said, “Angie Ramirez.”
Serena dropped her water glass, which shattered when it hit the floor. “Miss Jones, are you okay?” called the maid from behind the door.
Serena recovered, leaned toward the door, and said, “I’m fine, Mariana. We’ll leave the mess for later.” She kicked a few pieces of glass with her designer heels, Christian Louboutins, Grace noted.
“Where,” she said slowly, leveling her gaze at Grace, “did you hear that name?”
“I understand the desire to remake yourself,” Grace said. “You know, I wasn’t born ‘Amazing Grace.’ But to this day, I can’t get my own brother to stop calling me Priscilla. I guess the past can never be fully excised.”
Serena sat back in her chair and stared out the window at the fuchsia fountain. “You have no idea how hard it is to make it as a Mexican-American woman,” she said quietly. “Still. With Hispanic politicians and everything.”
“So you moved to Miami and reinvented yourself as Cuban, which as I understand it, is as good as white. Here, anyway.”
Something seemed to break in Serena. “Fucking racists,” she spit out, kicking a piece of glass across the room for emphasis. “The whole lot of them, with their constant claims to European ancestry. They do everything they can to separate themselves from Mexicans. Which means natives. Indians. Mestizas, like me.”
“Yes,” said Grace.
“Luckily, my father was white. So I pass.”
“You’re practically a pillar in the Cuban-American community here. That’s impressive, considering you grew up poor in a small border town.”
“Like you, I do my research.”
“Touché.”
There was a pause, and then Grace pressed a bit further. “Who else knows your real story?”
“No one.”
“Not anyone back in Del Rio?”
“No.”
“But now we know. It’s not hard to find out the truth, if you know where to look.”
Serena bent over and picked up a piece of glass, and Grace tensed. “I don’t know why either of you would want to blow my cover.” She looked at the shard of glass as if it were a precious work of art.
“Think of what it would mean to those Mexican-American girls like you if they knew you came from the same place they did.”
Serena clasped the glass in her hand angrily. “It’s my job to pave the way? Bullshit. I don’t owe anybody anything.”
“She’s right,” Cat broke in. “She doesn’t. It’s not her job to be a trailblazing member of her ethnic group.” It had been their agreement that Cat play the good cop in this scenario, should things get out of hand.
At Cat’s words, Serena relaxed her grip on the glass, but Grace could see blood beginning to drip from her hand.
“I’m not Angie Ramirez anymore,” Serena said. “I stopped being her long ago. It’s like I�
��ve created a fictional story for myself, and it has become non-fiction.” Her laugh was bitter. “You know, when I was a girl, I thought they had the labels backward. I thought the word ‘fiction’ sounded like it meant truth, reality, and that the books that were full of stories should be the ones called non-fiction.”
“I understand the logic,” said Cat.
Then Serena thought of something. “Why are you here? To out sad little Angie Ramirez? I don’t think so.”
“Someone tried to kill my brother,” said Grace. “And I’m trying to find out who. Lies usually come in batches, and I discovered that you had a tremendous one.”
“I hadn’t realized his killer was still on the loose. Well, you can’t think I had anything to do with it. Really.”
“We’re following our leads,” said Grace. “But maybe you’d be willing to help us out with a few things.”
Serena looked to Grace like she wanted to turn them both out of her home, but of course now she couldn’t do that. “So you want to blackmail me now? Hold this Angie Ramirez thing over my head?”
“We wouldn’t dream of doing that,” added Cat. “It’s not our way. But we need some information, as well as your discretion.”
“Fine,” Serena said. She took a napkin off the tray beside her and pressed it into her bleeding palm.
Cat continued. “That party at Kristoff Langholm’s house in September. We need to know who else was there. And anything you can tell us about them. Including the Langholms themselves.”
“The party was a while ago. I don’t really remember. And the Langholms… You’ve met them. They’re a wealthy couple who collect art. They’re my neighbors. That’s all there is to tell.”
“Take your time,” said Cat, offering her card. “Something might come up.”
“Why do you want to know about that party?” asked Serena, taking the card in the hand that wasn’t wounded.
“It’s part of our investigation,” Grace said. “We can’t say more.”
“Are we finished here?”
Grace and Cat nodded, and Serena rang a bell on the tray. Her maid appeared at once.
“Show these ladies out,” she commanded. “And then clean up this mess.” At that, she rose and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Framed and Burning (Dreamslippers Book 2) Page 22