Without Proof

by Janet Sketchley

“That was one time. But as it happens, I’m going with them.” Not that Michael would leave her home alone now, security system and special phone or not.

  Emilie’s carefully-shaped eyebrows pulled together. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Em, I want to go. They joke sometimes, but neither of them would really pressure me about it.”

  Emilie’s mouth turned down. “You don’t see how much Michael is influencing you.”

  This from the girl with the long-term crush on him. Amy kept her tone level. “I went with Aunt Bay during the week, and I want to go back. I’ve always wanted to know God better. I was... afraid.”

  “Of what? Being bored out of your mind? My parents dragged us to mass at Notre-Dame Cathedral once. It was painful.”

  “Never mind. How are classes?”

  “One of my profs looks like he died years ago and nobody noticed. But I’m learning some event management things that can kick Michael’s promotion up a few notches next year.” Instead of elaborating, Emilie switched to an animated description of a prank they’d pulled on the “dead” prof.

  Amy reclined her chair and settled in to enjoy the tale. Gilles’ sister shared his storytelling gene, although her accounts often had a more acidic edge.

  In mid-sentence, Emilie set her coffee on the floor beside her chair. With both hands free to gesture, her story spilled faster. Another bubbled out behind it.

  They were both laughing by the time Emilie stopped and picked up her cup for another drink. Again, her eyes pinned Amy. “Something is definitely wrong. You’re on guard, even when you laugh. You can tell me. It’s Michael, isn’t it?” She glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “You need to get out from under his control. While you still can.”

  Emilie’s guess couldn’t be more wrong, but her ominous tone stirred Amy’s uneasiness. Amy tucked her feet up on the chair and hugged herself. “It’s not Michael.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Amy picked at the hem of her shirt. “You’re not the only one who wants me to leave. I’ve had some nasty… messages this week.”

  “Hey, I never said I wanted you to leave! I’m concerned about your wellbeing if you stay in Michael’s protective bubble. It’s like you’re another display in his exhibit of life.”

  Could Miss Drama Queen be the one behind the messages? Amy shook her head. The first two, maybe, if Emilie considered her a rival for Michael’s affection. But not the death threat. Plus, Del and his team connected the threats to Gilles’ murder.

  Murder. Amy hadn’t thought of that starkly before, but whether they’d planned to kill him or simply scare him, Gilles had died. A wave of sorrow pressed her into her seat.

  She would not go there now. Not with Emilie, and not hours before Michael’s open house. He needed a poised, collected hostess, not a red-eyed wraith. Imagining how eager Emilie would be to take her place drove back the sadness and lit enough of a fire to enable Amy to smile and meet the girl’s appraising gaze. “You should be writing novels. Or plays. His exhibit of life?”

  “You know what I mean. But you said someone’s sending nasty messages. Who?”

  Amy lifted a shoulder. “No idea. Ever since I started asking questions about the plane crash, people have been upset. Your father’s right, I need to let it go.”

  Emilie peeled the lid from her take-out cup and drained the last drops. She stuffed the lid inside and bounced the empty cup on her leg. “It could be Michael.”

  “What?”

  “It sounds crazy, but listen. He wanted you to stop, didn’t he?”

  “Along with your parents, the flight club and who knows how many other people?”

  The cup tapped faster. “If he could scare you into stopping, he’d increase his hold on you. The next time you want to do something and he objects, he can remind you what happened. Send you another threat if you try anyway.”

  Amy stood. “I don’t have time for this.” Emilie adored Michael far too much to believe he’d behave this way, but now was not the time to call her on her unsubtle attempt to clear the field. Amy started for the door.

  Emilie gasped.

  The sound turned Amy without conscious thought. “What’s the matter?”

  Eyes wide, fingers pressed to her mouth, Emilie stared long enough that Amy glanced back at the doorway.

  It was empty. Amy released the new phone she hadn’t known she gripped. She slid her hand from her pocket and ran it over her hair. “You scared me.”

  Emilie blinked. “I just realized what it is. Michael took you in, but none of us expected you to stay so long. He can’t ask you to go, so he’s doing this weird passive-aggressive thing. Overprotecting you so you’ll feel trapped and want to leave. Using anonymous threats since he can’t speak it directly. Amy, you’re in the way and he’s too sweet to tell you.”

  The vibration of an approaching engine saved Amy the need to reply. The caterers’ van drove past the window. “Excuse me.” She hurried from the room.

  ~~~

  Amy stood for a few minutes looking out the kitchen window at the peaceful evergreens and the light glinting off the bay. Behind her, the catering duo bustled with the efficiency of a well-choreographed routine. Clothing rustled, plates clinked, and their light chatter never faltered.

  It wasn’t like her to be nervous about an exhibit. That was Michael’s turf. Hers was to smooth the waters, if she could allow herself that little pun. Today, with the week’s threats, meeting her father, and now Emilie’s blatant manipulation, Amy’s own “water” was choppy.

  Hello, God, my adopted Father? Thank You for caring. Please help today to go well for Michael, and keep us safe. Amen.

  She needed time to learn about prayer, and more about God’s love and plan for her life. A little shiver of anticipation zinged through Amy’s spirit at the thought of church tomorrow. To the people, she’d be a stranger, but to God, she was accepted.

  The thought lifted her shoulders and brought her back to what mattered now. Michael’s work. Supporting him and Aunt Bay. The troubling, extraneous influences would keep for another day.

  Except for Emilie, here in the midst of it all. Amy turned from the view and went back to the living room. Spotless. Emilie hadn’t forgotten her coffee cup. Amy plumped decorative pillows in the two chairs and slid a finger along the left edge of one of the wall paintings to straighten it. She’d be doing that all day, especially once patrons started touching the frames.

  She walked through the entryway into the gallery, assessing and making minute adjustments.

  Michael emerged from the office, Emilie chattering at his back. Amy flashed him a sympathetic grin. Poor guy, he didn’t need this, especially now that he knew the girl’s feelings. He wouldn’t want to hurt her, but the reddish tinge to his ears showed his frustration.

  Amy checked her watch. “Emilie, if you need a drink or a snack, now’s the time.”

  “I’m good, thanks.” Emilie caught Michael’s arm. “Wait a minute. Your hair.” Deft fingers straightened hair that had been less out of place than the pictures Amy’d been adjusting.

  Couldn’t Emilie see the way he tensed? Amy cringed for him. Michael might never love her, but he deserved someone who’d complete him. Emilie would only chip at him, marring what she tried to polish.

  Emilie reached for his collar, and Michael twitched visibly. She pouted. “Stand still. Don’t you want to look your best?”

  “This is about the art, not about me.” His eyes pleaded with Amy, but what could she do?

  Any perceived interference would only push Emilie to greater extremes. Amy lifted empty hands and mouthed Suffering for your art.

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Emilie, please. I can dress myself.”

  “I’m just trying to help.” Her voice throbbed with emotion. She turned away from him and took a few tentative steps toward the exit. As she passed Amy, the girl’s eyes shone with hope, not hurt.

  Michael opened his mouth but Amy shook her head in a quick n
o. He frowned for a second, then relaxed. “The caterers are ready?”

  “I just came from the kitchen. Everything looks great.”

  Aunt Bay called from the main part of the house. “Where is everyone?”

  Amy turned and nearly tripped over Emilie. The girl hadn’t fled far at all. “Sorry!”

  By one-thirty the happy buzz of conversation filled the house and gallery. The caterers wove among the guests, offering water in long-stemmed glasses and trays of cold finger food.

  Amy mingled, enjoying the ambiance. Ruth and Tony arrived mid-afternoon, and Amy felt herself glowing as she introduced them to Michael. Was she proud of him, or grateful to Ruth? Or both? He thanked them warmly. “We’ve been encouraging Amy for so long, but sometimes a person has to hear it from strangers.”

  A few minutes later, walking into the living room display, Amy noticed Del chatting with a woman in blue. Her smile felt suddenly brittle. How had she forgotten the danger?

  Chapter 25

  Amy tidied the note cards in the display rack. Seeing Del had brought back her anxiety. She paused in front of the nearest easel, pretending to adjust the picture. Her eyes drew on the stillness of the scene, and her lips slid into a more natural smile. Michael loved Hemlock Ravine Park in Halifax, but he said the hike to the actual ravine would be too much for her hip. Instead he’d taken her to the heart-shaped pond at the park’s entrance. They’d sat on a bench, watching ducks and dragonflies and a picnicking family. Once the family left, he’d taken some pictures.

  This painting highlighted a curve of the shallow rock wall, with gently-rippling water and a single, upturned feather. Amy’s breathing settled, and she slipped back into hostess mode, her spirit lighter. She circulated around the room, greeting those who weren’t in conversations, and made her way to the entrance as one of the caterers came in carrying a tray.

  On her rounds, she occasionally met Michael, Aunt Bay or Emilie. If Gilles’ sister seemed perpetually in the same room as Michael, at least she had fallen into a charming support role and dropped the coquette routine. All four knew how to process a sale, and by early evening about a third of the originals bore “sold” signs on their frames.

  Amy and Michael had re-stocked the framed and un-framed prints throughout the day, as well as the note cards and pads. Amy’s hip ached, and she’d retrieved her cane from the closet. She’d encountered Del several times, and she’d learned not to tense when they met. He fit the role of casual visitor — unless a person noticed his eyes.

  A stout woman in a bright-flowered dress advanced toward Amy. “You’re the one from that plane crash.”

  Amy nodded, the back of her neck prickling. Did the lady pack extra volume, or had the others in the room hushed?

  Shrewd eyes flicked her up and down. “Such a little thing, too. The paper made it sound like you were crippled.”

  Amy smiled. “Thankfully, no. I do need my cane when I’m on my feet too long.” She leaned on it now.

  The woman clucked her tongue. “Nasty world we live in. People taking down planes.”

  Amy’s grip tightened on her cane. “The investigators ruled it an accident. I’m told they were quite thorough.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.” The woman tapped the frame of the painting beside Amy. “He does good work.”

  “Yes, he does. People have said it’s almost healing.”

  “You’re in a good place here, dear. I hope you thrive.” She gave Amy’s hand a quick squeeze and moved to the next painting.

  Amy took a few slow breaths to steady herself. She hadn’t lied, but had she given the impression that she’d accepted the verdict? Not that anyone here was likely involved with the killers.

  “Well played.”

  Del’s voice in her ear kicked Amy’s heart into panic mode, and she couldn’t stop a gasp. She turned it into a run of light coughs. When she trusted herself, she turned to face him. “Thank you. For that, and for being here today.”

  He nodded, then strolled away.

  Amy ducked into the office for more notepads and found Emilie at the desk, writing up a sale. Amy stopped beside her. “Enjoying yourself? I think the day’s going well.”

  “Definitely.” Emilie looked up, eyes narrowing. “Who’s that guy? With the moustache. I just saw you talking to him. He’s been here all day.”

  What to say? Amy picked up a handful of pads from the shelf. “Michael asked him to come today for security. More subtle than a uniform.”

  “We’ve never needed security before.”

  As if it were Amy’s fault. Emilie was her mother’s daughter. “I told you someone wants me to leave. We didn’t think they’d disrupt the open house, but better safe than sorry.” She left the room.

  Michael came through the gallery entrance. He brightened when their eyes met, and he joined her outside the office door. “I was on my way for some of those pads, but you’re ahead of me, as usual. How’s the hip?”

  “Sore, but manageable.” Amy glanced around the room. “It’s been a great turnout. We have more customers each year, and they’re buying — even with the economy the way it is.”

  “That’s why I like the prints and these pads and cards. They’re less pricey. Struggling people need art more than the rich ones.”

  Amy checked to be sure Emilie was still in the office. “Emilie asked about Del. I’d told her someone wanted me to leave, so I said he was here in case they tried to cause trouble today. Naturally, she blamed me.”

  Michael’s brow crinkled. “Is it just me, or is she getting worse?”

  “Hush, or she’ll fix your hair again.”

  He flinched. “I need to do something about this. I don’t want to hurt her, though.”

  “I know.” Reluctantly, Amy left him under Emilie’s watchful eye and distributed the notepads around the displays.

  As she crossed the entryway, the front door opened. Troy stepped in, one hand wrapped in a bandage. Amy’s professional smile warmed to personal. “Hey, Troy, I’m glad to see you in one piece. How are you?” So she knew him better through phone calls and texts than their one meeting at the interview. He was on her side, and he cared — about her safety and about the truth. Caring had nearly cost his life.

  Troy waved his bundled hand. “Could have been worse.” None of the people around them seemed to pay any attention. “Where’s Michael?”

  Amy pointed back into the gallery. “He’ll be glad to see you. Grab a drink and snack from the caterers. They’ll be around again in a few minutes.”

  Troy ducked his head. “Catch you later. I see you’re on a mission.” He started for the gallery.

  The entryway displayed only paintings. Amy carried on to the living room. Only a handful of people lingered here, mostly those in need of a few minutes in a seat. Amy’s hip put her in that category, except she was beyond the point of a brief respite. Tonight she’d need a long, hot soak in the tub.

  Painkillers, too. Why hadn’t she taken one already? Amy placed the remaining notepads and exchanged pleasantries with the visitors, noting the caterers had them well-supplied, then made her exit and trudged up the stairs.

  She took the pill bottle from her dresser and manipulated the child-resistant cap, resolutely ignoring the soft bed. If she lay down, she’d never get up again. A quick glass of water from the bathroom, and Amy headed downstairs again.

  Her path crossed with Michael’s as she went back into the gallery. The guests wouldn’t notice, but his smile was thinning, and his eyes had a weary look. Amy touched his arm. “You poor introvert. It’ll be over soon. Did you see Troy?”

  “You’re the one in pain, and you’re worried about me? I got myself into this, remember. And yes, we talked. He has pictures of his car on his phone. It’s hard to believe he walked away from that.” Michael moved aside to allow a guest to pass, then stepped closer. “If anything happened to you—”

  “It won’t. It—” Amy closed her mouth. It could. Too easily. And she wouldn’t see it
coming. Her head darted side to side until she saw Del. She looked back at Michael. “We have to trust your friends to do their job. And trust God to look after us.”

  A measure of life returned to his smile. “That, we do.” He brushed his fingertips against hers and turned toward the entryway.

  Amy stood a moment to watch the activity before working her way through the gallery. Passing Del, she paused. “You’ll be so sick of these paintings after today.”

  “They’re restful, but I’m not paying too much attention to the inanimate parts of the event. Except the food. I’m attending to that.” He passed a hand across his stomach.

  “I’m glad it’s been quiet.”

  “Me too. Slow is better than exciting, for me.” Del winked.

  They carried on in opposite directions around the room. Amy spotted Emilie coming out of the office. Personal conflicts aside, Gilles’ sister seemed to be out-selling them all. Not that it was a competition. Getting Michael’s work out was what mattered.

  Emilie looked around, probably hunting Michael. The gallery door chimed, and Amy turned to welcome the newcomers.

  Newcomer. Ross Zarin pulled the door closed behind him. When he saw Amy, he smiled and threaded his way among the art and visitors. He took her hand. “You look lovely. I hope it’s been a good day.”

  “Thanks for coming. How’s your father?” Amy slid her hand free. What if Emilie saw the gesture and used it to goad Michael? Or would it diminish her perception of Amy as a threat?

  His dark eyes twinkled with a charm that should have had Amy melting to a puddle at his feet. “My father is fine, and he sends his best. He is very pleased with our latest paintings, and charged me to come home with another one.”

  Amy swept her hand to embrace the room. “Tonight it’s this area and through into the main house as well. Take your time to browse, and sample the caterers’ snacks as well. They’re delicious.”

  As if summoned, one of the black-garbed caterers approached with a tray of water and food. Ross selected a glass of water, cradling it expertly in long, brown fingers. “Thank you. The food is tempting, but I’ll pass.” He sipped, and turned searching eyes back to Amy. “How goes the closure?”