The Sinister Touch

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Guinevere smiled at him, liking his aquiline features and the large, dark eyes. It struck her that he looked exactly like a struggling young artist should look. He was taller than she had thought, towering over her as she stood in line beside him. His height coupled with his leanness made him appear aesthetically gaunt. He was also younger than she had imagined. Probably about thirty. His paint-stained jeans, plaid shirt, and heavy leather sandals fit the image, too.

  “I’m Guinevere Jones. Want a roll?”

  “What? Oh, sure. Sounds good. I haven’t had a chance to eat yet.”

  “Neither have I.” Guinevere picked up the tray.

  “Here, I’ll take that.” Mason Adair scooped the tray out of her hands and started toward a seat in front of the fire. A few drops of the coffee in Guinevere’s cup slopped over the side as he set the tray down on the wooden table. “Sorry. I’m a little clumsy by nature. Finding that canvas slashed this morning isn’t improving my coordination. Shit.”

  Guinevere smiled serenely and unobtrusively used a napkin to wipe the cup as she sat down on one of the short wooden benches. The fire felt good even though it was produced by fake logs. Mason Adair dropped down onto the opposite bench and reached for a roll.

  “I was shocked when I glanced out my window and saw that huge black square on your beautiful painting. At first I thought maybe you’d gotten disgusted with your work and had deliberately marked it up.” Guinevere stirred her coffee.

  “I’ve got a certain amount of artistic temperament, but I’d never do anything like that to one of my own paintings. Hell, I liked that one. Really liked it. I think it might have been inspired by your kitchen, by the way.”

  “My kitchen?”

  “Yeah, you know. All that yellow. Every morning I look in your window, and it’s like looking into a little box of sunlight.”

  Guinevere smiled with pleasure at the unexpected compliment. “I’m flattered.”

  “Yeah, well, somebody wasn’t.” Morosely Mason chewed a huge bite of his roll. His appetite was apparently unaffected by his depression. “It isn’t just the vandalism that got me. It was the fact that someone was actually inside my apartment, messing with my stuff. I know now why people who’ve been burgled say they feel as if they’ve been personally violated. It’s a strange sensation. It gets to you.”

  Guinevere sighed in sympathy. “I’m terribly sorry, Mason. I know it’s a terrible feeling. Have you any idea who would do a thing like that?”

  Adair hesitated. “No, not really. I asked you to meet me here because I wondered if you’d seen anything or anyone. I never pull the shade, and you usually have your kitchen window blinds open. I thought that maybe you’d noticed something out of the ordinary last night. It must have happened last night. I was out all evening, and I didn’t look at the painting before I went to bed.”

  “Mason, I’m really very sorry, but I didn’t see a thing. I worked on some papers in my living room. I do remember going into my kitchen around nine o’clock for a snack, but your window was dark.”

  “No lights on?”

  She shook her head. “Not then.”

  “Whoever did that would have needed some light, don’t you think?” he asked broodingly.

  “It would depend on what time during the evening he did it. It’s not getting really dark until after eight o’clock now. I suppose someone could have gone into your studio and defaced your painting sometime before then and not needed any light.”

  Mason took another huge bite of his roll, dark eyes focusing blankly on her concerned face. Guinevere had the impression that he was trying very hard to sort out some very private thoughts. She let him chew in solitude for a moment, and then she asked, “That square that the vandal drew in black. It looked a little odd. Of course, I couldn’t see it very well from my window, but there was something about the shape of it that looked awkward. Was it a child’s work, do you think? Youngsters into mischief?”

  “This isn’t exactly suburbia. We haven’t got a lot of children running around Pioneer Square. Just an assortment of street people, artists, and upwardly mobile types. All adults. At least physically. Mentally, who knows?” Mason chewed for another moment. “And it wasn’t a square. It was a pentagram.”

  “A what?”

  “A five-sided star.”

  Guinevere blinked. “I know what a pentagram is. What was the mark in the middle?”

  “Just a zigzag slash.” Mason looked down at his plate, still half absorbed in his own thoughts. “Whoever slashed the canvas must have brought along his own knife. None of my tools appeared to have been touched.”

  Guinevere frowned, leaning forward. “Mason, don’t you find it rather odd that whoever did that to your painting chose to draw a pentagram?”

  “Odd? The whole damn thing is odd. Spooky, too, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Yes, but a pentagram? With a bolt of lightning in the center?”

  He raised dark eyes to meet her intent gaze. “I said it was a zigzag shape, not a bolt of lightning.”

  Guinevere hesitated. “I always think of pentagrams as being symbols of magic.”

  Mason didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Yes,” he finally admitted. “I believe they are.”

  There was another lengthy pause. Finally Guinevere asked, “Was anything taken?”

  Mason shook his head. “No. Nothing. Didn’t touch the stereo or the paints or the cash I keep in the drawer of my workbench.” He sighed. “Look, this isn’t your problem, Guinevere. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

  “I don’t mind. We’re neighbors. Going to call the cops?”

  “I’ll report it, but I don’t think it’s going to do much good. What’s a little malicious mischief these days when the cops have their hands full with real live murders?”

  “Real live murders,” Guinevere repeated with a trace of a smile. “I think that may be a contradiction in terms.”

  Mason stared at her for a second, and then he laughed. “I think you may be right.”

  “Has anything like this ever happened before, Mason?”

  His brief humor faded. “No.”

  “What about the possibility of jealousy? Are any of your friends resentful of your success?”

  “What success? I’ve got my first major showing tonight, down the street at the Midnight Light gallery. I’ll be lucky if someone offers me more than a hundred bucks for one of my pictures. That doesn’t qualify as sudden success.”

  “Your first showing?”

  Mason nodded. “Yeah. I just hope I live through it. I’ve been kind of jumpy lately, waiting for it. Whoever did that hatchet job on my painting last night couldn’t have picked a worse time to rattle me. It’s all I needed.”

  Guinevere drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. “You know, if there’s anything more to this than a fluke case of malicious mischief, maybe you should do something besides just reporting it to the cops.”

  “What more can I do?”

  “Hire a private investigator to look into the matter?” Guinevere suggested.

  Mason stared at her. “Are you kidding? When I can barely pay my rent? I don’t have that kind of money. Forget it. There isn’t much an investigator could discover anyway. How’s he going to locate a vandal?”

  “How about the little matter of how the vandal got into your studio? Was the door forced?”

  Mason’s brows came together in a solid line. “Not in any major way, or I would have noticed. I didn’t see any pry marks, and none of the locks were broken. But my apartment isn’t exactly Fort Knox. It wouldn’t have taken a lot of expertise to get inside. You sound like you’ve been watching a lot of TV lately.”

  “Not exactly. But I have been keeping some questionable company,” Guinevere said blandly.

  Mason’s b
rows shot upward as he put two and two together. “Let me guess. That solid-looking guy with the dark hair and the super-conservative business suits?”

  “Zac is trying to dress for success. He’s learning the fine points of making a forceful statement in the business world while upholding the image of his firm.”

  “I see.” Mason’s dark eyes lightened with amusement. “Unlike me. How’s he doing?”

  “At maintaining his image? Rather well, as a matter of fact. He’s just landed a very nice contract with a local firm.”

  Mason nodded. “So he’s doing okay maintaining the image. How about in the category of making a forceful statement?”

  “Oh, Zac has always had a knack for making a forceful statement when he wants to do so,” Guinevere said cheerfully. Memories of Zac hunting human game on a cold and windy island in the San Juans several weeks previously flickered briefly in her head. She had to suppress a small shiver. Zac was very, very good at making forceful statements on occasion.

  “I’m not surprised,” Mason murmured. “I think he’s made one or two forceful statements in my direction recently. The last time he closed your kitchen blinds I got the distinct impression that he would have preferred to have his hands around my throat rather than the mini blind rod. So he’s the questionable company you keep? What does he do in the business world that necessitates all this forceful-personality and image-building stuff?”

  “He runs a company called Free Enterprise Security, Inc. He does security consultations for business firms.”

  “How big is Free Enterprise Security?”

  Guinevere swallowed a scrap of her cinnamon roll. “To date there is only one employee.”

  “Zac?”

  “Uh-huh.” She grinned. “But he manages to get things done. You know, this isn’t exactly his line of work, but I might mention your situation to him and see if he’s got any advice. He’s terribly discreet. He has to be. Businesses don’t like their security problems publicized. That’s why they consult outfits such as Free Enterprise Security.”

  Mason looked at her askance. “I have a funny feeling he’s not going to be overly sympathetic.”

  “He has no reason to be jealous and he knows it. I’ve already told him that you and I have never met.”

  Mason chuckled. “You won’t be able to tell him that anymore, will you? I can’t wait to hear his reaction when you tell him you’ve taken to meeting me for breakfast.”

  ***

  Zac’s reaction was forthright and to the point. He looked up in astonishment from the plastic bucket of steamed clams from which he was eating and stared at Guinevere as if she had just announced that she had made a brief trip to Mars. “The hell you did.” He went back to his bucket of clams.

  Guinevere pushed her own lunch aside, leaning forward to get his attention. The lunchtime crowd was heavy down here on the waterfront. She and Zac were sitting in the corner of a small sidewalk café that enjoyed an excellent view of the harbor and the tourists who were strolling the broad sidewalk that linked the boutique-lined piers.

  “Zac, you’re not listening to me.”

  “I heard every word you said.” He scooped another clam out of its shell. “You claimed you had breakfast with that artist you’ve been ogling for the past few months. There are laws against that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Having breakfast with an artist?” She was getting annoyed. Deep down inside, Guinevere wondered if she’d hoped to see at least a spark of romantic jealousy inflame Zac’s smoke-gray eyes. All she was detecting was irritation.

  “No, ogling artists.” Zac forked up another clam. “Stop trying to bait me, Gwen. I’ve had a hard morning. You’re just mad because I had to cancel our date last night.”

  Guinevere set her back teeth very firmly together. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I am not indulging in a fit of pique. I really did have breakfast with Mason.”

  “Mason?”

  The name brought his head up again. This time there was something besides irritation in the steady gray gaze, and Guinevere wasn’t sure she liked the too-quiet way Zac said the other man’s name. She shifted uncomfortably on the chair.

  “Mason Adair is his name. He’s very nice, Zac, and he’s got a problem.”

  Zac stopped eating clams. “Is that a fact?”

  “Zac, I’m serious. This morning, when I looked out my window, I could see that the painting he’s been working on had been terribly defaced overnight. Someone had drawn a huge black pentagram on it and then taken a knife to the canvas. Mason was shocked. He saw me looking just as shocked and held up a sign suggesting we meet for coffee. You know, that place with the cinnamon rolls just around the corner from my building?”

  “I know it,” Zac said grimly.

  “Well, he was rather shaken up, as you can imagine. Has absolutely no idea who could have done such a thing. He asked me to meet him on the outside chance that I might have seen something from my kitchen window. He hoped I might have spotted someone moving around in his studio last night.” Zac’s gaze could have frozen nitrogen. “Did you?”

  “No.” Guinevere sighed in exasperation.

  “Good.” Zac went back to eating clams. “That’s the end of it, then. No more breakfast meetings with naked artists. Hell, Gwen, I credited you with more common sense than that. You’ve lived in the city long enough to know better than to agree to meet absolute strangers. What got into you? Were you really that upset because I had to cancel our date?”

  “I hate to break this to you, Zac, but I did not rush out to buy cinnamon rolls for a starving artist this morning just because you broke our date last night.”

  “He made you pay for the rolls?”

  “Speaking of broken dates,” Guinevere continued stoutly, “how was your little business meeting last night?”

  “All business. Elizabeth is a very impressive executive. She focuses completely on the problem at hand and deals with it. Great business mind.”

  “Does she know how much you admire her, uh, mind?”

  Zac looked at her steadily. “Are you by any chance jealous, Gwen?”

  She lifted her chin with royal disdain. “Do I have cause?”

  “No.”

  Guinevere went back to the fish and chips she had been nibbling earlier. “Then I’m not jealous.” The thing about Zac was that he had a way of dishing out the truth that made it impossible to doubt him. She couldn’t ignore that tingle of relief she was feeling, though. It annoyed her. “Now that we’ve disposed of the personal side of this discussion, perhaps we could get back to business.”

  “What business?”

  “Well, I told Mason I’d mention his little problem to you.”

  “Guinevere.” He rarely used her full name. When he did, especially in that soft, gravelly voice, it usually meant trouble. “What exactly did you tell Mason Adair?”

  She concentrated on sprinkling vinegar on the French fries. “I just said I’d mention to you the incident in his studio last night. He’s going to report it to the police, of course. But, as he said, they won’t be able to do much. Just another small case of vandalism as far as they’re concerned. They might even write it off as a case of professional jealousy. Mason’s going to have his first show tonight. It could be that not everyone wishes him well. At any rate, Mason’s fairly sure it isn’t something one of his acquaintances would do. And there was something odd about that particular kind of vandalism, Zac. I mean, that business with the pentagram and the bolt of lightning in the center. It wasn’t just malicious or nasty. It was weird. Pentagrams are associated with the occult.”

  “You’re rambling, Gwen. Get to the point. What exactly did you tell Mason Adair?”

  “I told you,” she said with exaggerated patience. “I said I’d mention the matter to you.”

  “And?” Za
c prompted ominously.

  “And maybe see if you had any advice for him,” she concluded in a mumbled rush as she munched a French fry.

  “Advice?” Zac ate the last of his clams and pushed the plastic bucket out of the way. He leaned forward, his elbows folded on the table, his hard, blunt face set in a ruthless, unrelenting expression that seemed to slip all too easily into place. His dark, rough voice was softer than ever. “No, Gwen, I don’t have any free advice for your starving artist. But I do have some for you.”

  “Now, Zac—”

  “You will stay clear of him, Guinevere. You will not get involved with pentagrams, slashed canvases, or artists who run around wearing only a towel while they wave good morning to their female neighbors. Understood?”

  Guinevere drew a deep breath. “Zac, I was asking for advice, not a lecture. If you’re not willing to help—”

  “But I am willing to help, Gwen. I’m helping you stay out of trouble. Or have you already forgotten what happened the last time you tried to involve me in a case I wasn’t interested in handling?”

  “Now, Zac, you collected a nice fee for that business in the San Juans. You can hardly complain about my involving you.”

  “Hah. I can complain and I will complain. Furthermore . . .”

  Zac was warming to his topic now. The lecture might have continued unabated for the remainder of the lunch hour if a small toddler dressed in a designer-emblazoned polo shirt and shorts hadn’t come screeching down the aisle between tables and made a lunge for Zac’s empty plastic clam container. The child, giggling dementedly, scrambled up onto Zac’s lap, grabbed for the container, and spilled the contents across Zac’s trouser leg. Empty clam shells and the accompanying juice ran every which way, splattering the restrained tie and the white shirt Zac was wearing with the trousers. There was a shriek of delight from the toddler, and then the child was racing off to wreak more havoc and destruction.

  Zac sat looking after the small boy, a stunned expression replacing the hard one with which he had been favoring Guinevere. In the distance two distinctly yuppie parents ran after their errant offspring. They had the same designer emblems on their polo shirts that their son had on his. A coordinated family.