by Mary Burton
“You’re a teenager. I think it’s written in your job description to drive your parents nuts. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
A heavy silence hung between them as Danni stared ahead, her fingers still rubbing Lincoln’s head. Lara liked the kid and wanted her to feel like they could talk, but Lara’s people skills were rusty at best.
“So you move around a lot?” Danni said.
“Yeah. You’d think after a childhood of being on the move, I’d find a place to settle, but I’ve been a rolling stone since college.”
Shifting the focus back on Lara relaxed the lines furrowing the kid’s forehead. “Should I ask why?”
“I just couldn’t stay still.”
Danni grinned. “And maybe one day you’ll tell me why, and I’ll share my sordid story.” She hesitated. “Or maybe we won’t.”
Lara tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Being closed off is safe, but it can be lonely.”
“I’ve always opted for safe.”
Lara nodded. “Me too.”
Traffic slowed, and they didn’t reach the right mile-marker until about a quarter to seven.
Lara checked her watch. “We’ve got a half hour before sunset. We’re gonna have to hustle to get set up in time.”
“I am here to serve.”
The two got out of the car. Danni hauled the developing table and Lara carried the camera along with the chemicals in a backpack. As they approached the scene Lara noticed that fresh yellow tape had been strung. The cops had been back to this location today. Was it because she’d been here today, or were they searching for new evidence?
“A crime scene, Lara?” Danni said. “Where’s the art?”
“I know it’s different. I shoot crime scenes.”
She blew a stray strand of hair from her eyes.
Danni stilled. “You shoot what?”
Her truthful answers put most on edge. “I shoot places where people have been murdered.”
Interest, not fear, sparked in Danni’s gaze. “So did someone get murdered here?”
“A woman. Just over that rise, about a month ago.”
Danni glanced around as if trying to find the spot. “How did she die?”
“Strangled.”
She shook her head. “What a way to go.”
“Yeah. It’s bad.” She offered a smile to Danni. “Are you still up for helping? If you feel weird about it, I understand.”
“It takes a lot to rattle me, Ms. Church,” Danni said. “This is low on my weird-o-meter.”
Relieved, Lara lowered her backpack to the ground and kicked out the three legs of the camera tripod, holding firmly onto the camera until the legs were firm and rooted into the ground.
Danni’s gaze scanned the horizon. “So why are you reshooting? Did the photos not work out?”
“No, they were great. I shot them at sunrise and now I want to see sunset. Death is an ending, not a beginning.” Plus, James Beck had told her not to return, so a repeat trip bumped up to the top of her priority list.
Danni shaded her gaze with her hand as she stared into the sun, which hovered above the horizon. “Light changes perspective.”
Lara grinned. “It does my heart good to know someone is listening in class. There are days when I feel like I’m talking to myself.”
“Most of the kids are about the easy A in art. They were expecting to snap a dozen pictures and be done. No one figured the teacher would be a ball buster.”
Lara laughed. “I’ve never been called a ball buster.”
Danni’s eyes twinkled with a humor Lara had never seen before. “I meant it in the nicest way.”
“Oh, I’m taking it as a compliment. Maybe I’ll have new cards made. Lara Church, Photographer, Teacher, Ball Buster.”
Both had a good laugh as they pulled out the four legs from under the table and together they set it up. She pulled the chemicals from her backpack and as she went along she explained the process to Danni.
When the table was set Danni shook her head. “God, and I thought thirty-five millimeter was a pain in the ass.”
“All a matter of degree, I guess. This was cutting-edge one hundred and fifty years ago.”
Danni watched as Lara prepared the glass negative.
In the next several minutes Lara and Danni barely spoke as she treated the negatives and then exposed them to light. By the time Lara replaced the cap on the last shot the sun was all but gone. The remaining ten minutes of light allowed them to pack up and get back to the car.
They hauled the equipment to the car, and she closed the back hatch. All the while she kept her gaze on the highway searching for a DPS car.
“So why do you keep looking in the rearview mirror?” Danni said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” Challenge underscored the two words. “You think the killer might come back.”
Lara shrugged, knowing she’d never win the girl’s trust if she wasn’t honest. “There’s a Texas Ranger who doesn’t appreciate me hovering around his crime scene. He’s threatened to arrest me. And I am prepared to take all responsibility, so you won’t get in trouble.”
Dark eyes sparked with interest. “Then why did you still come here?”
Lara shook her head. “I suppose I’m just a little hardheaded.”
“Join the club.”
Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” crooned from a CD player, greeting Beck as he walked into the service bay of his grandfather’s garage just after eight. The place smelled of oil and gasoline, two scents that reminded him of home.
He’d been working all afternoon and planned to return to the office after this quick visit to check in on his grandfather, Henry, who he found under the engine of a late-model red Honda cussing as he struggled to release a stubborn bolt. Tall, as wiry as rawhide, Henry Beck had skin leathered and lined by the sun and a stock of white hair still as thick as Beck’s. His gray coveralls were covered in grease stains no amount of washing could erase.
When Beck had been a kid, Henry had been a force larger than life. Big, bold, strong as an ox, and loyal to his grandsons, Henry could’ve tackled any challenge, Beck believed. In those days, hell even five years ago, Henry would have loosened that bolt without breaking a sweat.
Beck considered helping the old man but understood his pride went bone deep. “Kinda late to be working.”
“Couldn’t stand to watch another minute of television,” Henry said.
Henry gave the stubborn bolt one last jerk before turning away in frustration. He swiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What the hell are you doing here? Doesn’t a guy like you got better things to do than visit an old man?”
Beck wasn’t put off by Henry’s gruffness. The old man took pride that his oldest grandson was a Texas Ranger. “Just thought I’d check in.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.” The statement wasn’t friendly but didn’t bite.
When Beck had been on mandatory leave he’d spent most of his time here working on the infrequent repair job that still trickled into Beck’s Garage. And his presence had allowed Henry to kick back and rest more. Technically, Henry was retired and working only part-time, but the old man was having trouble adjusting to the slower pace that his aging heart demanded. Now that Beck was back with the Rangers, Henry was back under cars. Despite part-time, Henry didn’t appear to be faring well. He looked pale and drawn, and was sweating more than he should.
“Not here to babysit.” One whiff of patronizing and Henry would shut down. “Just wanted an ear to chew.”
The old man clenched the wrench in his hands. “The boss giving you more shit?”
Despite the checkup nature of the visit, Beck valued Henry’s open ears, sparse but sage advice, and discretion. “Penn and I both put the work before the personal.”
“It’s that murdered woman case.”
“The case is chewing on me.”
“Girl strangled, the papers said.” Henry, for as long as Be
ck could remember, had read the paper from cover to cover every day.
Beck sat on a stool by the workbench, hitched the heel of his boot on a rung, and removed his hat. “There might be a second victim, but we haven’t made a solid connection yet.”
Henry set his wrench on the bench. Instinctively, he understood Beck had more to say so he waited.
Beck’s hat dangled from his forefinger as he toyed with a concha on his leather hatband. “Got a woman who survived a brutal attack a while back. I think it’s the same killer. She says she doesn’t remember her attacker.”
Henry wiped grease from his hands with an old rag. “And you don’t believe her?”
“Says she wants to but can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I think whatever’s locked in her head is so bad she just can’t bring herself to retrieve it.”
“They got fancy doctors to help with that.”
“She says she’s seen ’em all. Nobody helped.” Challenge glistened from gray eyes. “Since when do you take no for an answer?”
Beck smiled. “Since never.”
Chapter 10
Friday, May 24, 10 AM
Most women relaxed when they walked into a beauty salon. It was their time to sit back and enjoy. But for reasons Lara could not explain, the shop set her nerves on edge. She wasn’t sure if it was the smell of the polishes, the searching eyes of the technicians, or the simple fact that this was a reminder of a world she’d left behind.
In Seattle, she’d adored being fussed over. She’d worried about her hair, her makeup, and her nails. She had looked good in those days and known men always gave her a second look, which had stoked her feminine pride. Maybe that was at the heart of her unease today. She didn’t want to be noticed by anyone, especially men, and primping would make her more noticeable.
Cassidy came through the door seconds after her and laid her hands on her shoulders. “You look ready to bolt.”
Lara glanced into the line of chairs and mirrors in the salon. “I am.”
“Good Lord, Lara,” Cassidy said, laughing. “This is supposed to be fun. You look like you are about to be shot.”
Lara dragged fingers through her hair. “It’s been a long time since I came to a salon.”
Cassidy arched a brow. “My point exactly. You need a cleanup before tonight.”
Lara huffed out a breath. “It’s not about me. It’s about the art.”
Cassidy laughed as she rolled her eyes. “You are the art. You are the brand. You need to be someone that people remember.”
“Please. You make me sound like a pair of jeans or a car.”
“Marketing is marketing.” Cassidy spoke to a redheaded receptionist wearing cat glasses and a sleek asymmetrical haircut and turned back to Lara. “They’ll take us in five minutes.” When Lara opened her mouth to argue, Cassidy shook her head. “Baby, just shut up, and let the ladies here do their magic.”
“Magic?”
Wooden bracelets jangled on Cassidy’s wrist as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “You know photography, and these girls know color and cut. And they are artists.”
Lara glanced toward the exit. “Will there be time for me to visit my studio before the show opening tonight?”
“No. If you go to that studio, you will pull out the nasty chemicals and mess up all the good work we are doing here today.” She grabbed a strand of Lara’s hair. “Maybe they can brighten up your hair as well. It still is a bit drab from that terrible dye job you attempted. Why you’d go brown is beyond me. It’s almost as if you didn’t want people to see you.”
That had been exactly the plan. “That’s not so bad.”
Cassidy cocked a brow. “You were such a show-off when we were kids and well into college. You craved attention and everyone knew your name. I’d get so sick of people asking me, ‘When is Lara coming home?’ or ‘Too bad Lara had to leave again.’ Everyone noticed when you were in town.”
“That’s not true.”
The light in Cassidy’s eyes never dimmed. “Of course it was. The house came alive when you arrived for your summer visit. I thought by now you’d be a fashion superstar, but then you dropped off the face of the earth.”
“I started traveling and taking pictures.” Which was true.
Cassidy caught the attention of her stylist and smiled. “I’ve never understood why. What changed? And do not tell me nothing.”
The truth danced on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t find the right words. “We’re here now. My show is about to open. Does it matter?”
Cassidy softened her voice. “Yeah, it matters. I always thought something pretty drastic must have happened to you.”
Lara glanced around at the receptionist, who was trying to get their attention. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Cassidy frowned. “It does if it’s still driving your life.”
“It’s not. It is not.” The conviction behind the words almost convinced Lara that she was just fine.
Cassidy hesitated. “Was it about your mom dying? I know when my mom died I didn’t feel like myself for a long time.”
“That was a little different. You were twelve when your mom died.” To the shock of everyone, Cassidy’s mom had committed suicide. “And I’ve long forgiven my mother for the demons that drove her to uproot us almost yearly.”
“Before Mom died, I used to be so jealous of you and all the cool places you lived. San Francisco. New York. Chicago. And then I was jealous because I couldn’t get out of Austin and away from the sadness.”
Lara glanced at her chipped nails. “San Francisco was a one-room efficiency that always smelled of garbage. The Chicago place was on the south side full of warring gangs. And New York, I think was a motel room. If anyone should be jealous, it was me who was envious of you and your mother.”
The light in Cassidy’s gaze dimmed for a moment. “Your mother left you for summers, my mother shot herself in the head and left me forever.”
For a moment neither woman spoke before Lara broke the silence. “How did this get so serious?”
Cassidy arched a brow. “Memory lane is not the smooth ride, is it?”
Lara shrugged. “The past is a done deal. It’s over. Time to move on.”
Cassidy leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “How can you move on when you’re not at peace with the past?”
Unease nibbled at the back of her neck. “What makes you think I’m not?”
Cassidy dug her BlackBerry out of her purse. “I know you. I know when you’re happy and when you are not. A dozen summers burned your moods into my brain. What’s eating you?”
Lara swallowed. “Maybe I’m just nervous about the opening. Maybe once I get that behind me I’ll be my old charming self.”
Cassidy looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead said, “After our morning of beauty, we have got an appointment at a dress shop and then a makeup artist.”
A groan rumbled in Lara’s throat. “Cassidy, does it have to be this involved?”
“Baby, your ass is mine until after the event.”
James Beck had never been to an art opening. Truth be told, he didn’t have much use for art. He appreciated the talent it took to create a painting, but art was about as interesting to him as watching paint dry.
The 101 Gallery wasn’t a good-sized piece of property in Austin. Three stories, the building had been around for sixty years, but it hadn’t always been a gallery. There’d been a time when it was a dress shop and before that a butcher shop. Henry said when he was a kid he and his dad had shopped here for steaks. And later when it was a dress shop his mother had shopped here, though he suspected she’d done more looking than buying in the high-end shop.
And now it was all cleaned up and painted white. Hanging in the window was a sign that read MARK OF DEATH.
The invitation had said the reception ran from six to nine, but he’d made a point to show up early, hoping to get a glimpse of the show and Ms. Church b
efore the crowds started to appear.
He removed his hat as he stepped into the gallery. Soft harp music greeted him. Small candles lined the center of a long, rectangular table in the center of the room. The table was filled with displays of dainty, well-garnished finger foods too pretty to eat. He supposed that was the kind of food the fans of art ate. Delicate and not nearly enough to stick to your ribs. Beyond the food were Ms. Church’s photographic images.
One more step into the gallery caught the attention of a woman at the food table. She had dark hair, lots of makeup, and she wore a blue ruffled dress that reminded him of a cartoon character. A plucked brow arched as she moved toward him.
“Now what brings a Texas Ranger to my doorstep? Are you a fan of the arts?”
“I met Ms. Church earlier this week. Thought I’d stop by and have a look. She here?”
The woman had assessed him in a blink. She’d be polite, but knowing he’d not buy one of the pieces shifted him into a different, less important category. “And your name?”
“James Beck. And you?”
A slightly pointed chin tilted up. “Cassidy Roberts. This is my gallery.”
“I don’t plan to stay too long. Mind telling me where Ms. Church can be found?” Though formed as a question, the words sounded like an order.
Ms. Roberts studied him, as if considering whether tangling with him was worth the trouble. “She’s in the back of the gallery getting herself centered before the show.”
Centered. Wasn’t the kind of word a gun-toting woman used. “Thank you, ma’am.”
As he started to move past her, she blocked his path. “This is not the best time. She’s got to be on tonight, all smiles, if you know what I mean. It would be nice if she’s not distracted in any way.”
“I’ve no intention of distracting her.” Though in fact that was exactly his plan. He wanted her to know he’d not forgotten about her or his need for her to remember.
Her gaze narrowed. “See that you don’t.”